by Joe Shine
“I know, Ram-Jam,” I replied, holding out my hands without protest.
His face was grim. As soon as the cuffs were on, he steered me to the car. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
After booking they brought me to the juvenile detention section of the building. It was an area I knew all too well. It was practically a second home. I reckon I’d spent more time in juvie than school at this point. I’d stayed silent the whole ride there and throughout the booking process—not to exercise my right to remain silent, but to keep my emotions in check. It sorta worked until now.
“You take care of yourself,” Officer Willis told me once he dropped me off in my personal holding cell. He gave me a friendly nod before walking off.
I grunted in response.
A few minutes later, Officer Ramirez stopped in to check on me. I know he believed in me and had higher expectations of me than I did. He and Officer Willis commonly referred to me as the dumbest smart kid they knew. They’d tried to convince me that I could probably get a full academic ride to most colleges if I only applied myself.
It had never occurred to either of them that I didn’t have the money to take SAT prep classes. I was out in the real world, where my experiences happened to be sharpening my skills as a baby criminal. A life of crime wasn’t my first choice, but it was what this life seemed to have in store for me.
Hell, maybe I’d get to see my dad.
No doubt he was on the officers’ minds, too. With me in here he was definitely on my mom’s.
When I was eight, my dad had been sentenced to twenty years at the Huntsville State Pen for drug smuggling. It was a raw deal. A friend of his had been trying to pay off a loan my dad had given him for a car with two hundred pounds of pot instead of cash, when the cops showed up and busted both of them. My dad had been labeled a drug kingpin, and his arrest had been the cornerstone of a local sheriff’s re-election. The shock and humiliation of it all had destroyed my mother. I’d had to grow up in a hurry after that and do what I could to help make ends meet. A long and winding road had led me here.
Now I was fully alone with my thoughts and wished my brain had a sleep mode. Depending on what they charged me with, I was looking at anything from a slap on the wrist to, who knows, years? I had managed to hold my emotions back and fight them off, but I finally lost the battle and teared up. I may have acted and seemed older, but I was still only fourteen.
Alone, I allowed myself to drop my guard and loosen my armor. I’d dreamed of getting out of this town, of making something for myself. Now I was trapped in a cage. I wish I could say it was a metaphor, but it wasn’t, and I’m also not entirely sure what metaphor is.
So I sang.
“Deck my cell with bars so gnarly,
Falala-la-la-la-laaaaa,
It’s my life, come join the party,
Falala-la-la-la-laaaaa . . .”
This sucks.
Chapter 3
Peace Out
The judge I got had zero sense of humor, absolutely none, and sentenced me to nine months in juvie.
It would have been the longest stretch of time I’d ever seen. Would have seen.
A few weeks into my stay, while in Biology—yes, you still have to go to school in juvie—the clicking of heels coming down the hallway announced the arrival of an unknown guest.
“Do you have Robert Hutchinson back there?”
A woman was talking to the guard outside the classroom door. Her voice was crisp, authoritative. Hearing my name woke me up a bit. I had zoned out since the teacher had started talking about genetics. I didn’t get it and I didn’t understand how it would help me in life, given I wasn’t going to be a scientist. Look at who you’re talking to, dude. Do we look like the future-doctor types?
“Maybe,” the guard responded. By the tone of his voice, I could tell she wasn’t someone he knew. Yes, this was a prison, but this was our prison. We were sort of a dysfunctional family, in that we all distrusted outsiders.
“Bring him to interview room D, please,” the woman replied.
There was a pause. Suddenly the officer stammered, “Oh, uh, yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am. Room D.”
Officer Limpy, overweight and limping, appeared at the door. Yeah, we called him Limpy because he had a bad hip. We were uncreative, terrible, horrible, no-good delinquents, remember? He didn’t know we called him that, of course.
“Let’s go, Hutch. On your feet,” he commanded.
I stayed in my chair. “Who wants to see me?”
“On your feet, Hutch, let’s go,” Limpy ordered seriously.
I looked around the room. All eyes were on me. For the briefest of moments I thought about refusing to move, but all that would do was buy me a good manhandling. If I’d needed to up my cred, it would have been worth it. But I had plenty of cred here. The long-termers knew me and we were cool, and any fish looking to make a name for themselves took one look at my size and thought otherwise. No, if I cooperated, it might help me later on. This place ran on favors.
I got up and followed him out into the dull, gray hallway.
I knew it wasn’t my mother. Was it my lawyer maybe? Seemed out of character for a court-appointed lawyer to come visit. They represent you, get the verdict, and move on. This was not my first rodeo; I knew the routine.
Then the panic hit. Oh no. They had found out about . . . no, no way. Never. But . . .
“Who wants to see me?” I tried asking as Limpy led me down the hallway.
“Does it matter?” Limpy responded.
“I think so. Am I in trouble?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Who wants to see me?” I repeated.
“No more questions.”
“Come on, man, who—”
“Silence, inmate,” Limpy said with menacing finality. He even went so far as to reach for his baton.
“Okay, chill out.” I waited a few moments before saying, “You know, I’ve been working on a new one. Wanna hear it?”
A faint smile crossed his face. He rolled his eyes, and his hand dropped away from the baton. “Sure, kid.”
“Still a little rough, work in progress, so, you know . . . Okay.” I took a deep breath. “On the first day of Christmas the po-po gave to me, nine months of life in juvie.”
Limpy’s smile reappeared.
“On the second day of Christmas the po-po gave to me, two pairs of slip-ons and nine months of life in juvie. On the third day of Christmas the po-po gave to me, three squares a day, two pairs of slip-ons, and nine months of life in juvie . . .” I stopped singing and shrugged. “That’s where I’m stuck. Got any ideas for four?” I asked him.
“I’m not that creative, kid. That’s your department.” He turned and led me around a corner to a blue metal door painted with a white block letter d.
Limpy knocked. There wasn’t an answer. He pushed the door open. The room was empty.
“In,” he instructed. Then he slammed the door behind me.
The room was sad and barren except for a rectangular table. It was lit by a single gloomy light in the middle of the ceiling. Two chairs sat on either side of the table—one normal, the other with places to shackle someone. Pretty obvious where I was supposed to sit, but I just paced and worked on my newest jingle.
“On the fourth day of Christmas the po-po gave to me, four daily beatings . . .”
No . . .
“Four-minute showers . . .”
No . . .
“Four . . . four . . . four . . .”
“Four hours’ yard time . . .
Fiiiiiiive BATHROOM BREAKS!!!!”
I started laughing. I used to crack myself up. Sometimes.
The laughter stopped when the door opened. In walked a stocky, thirtysomething woman. She had on a snug, off-the-rack navy pantsuit and her
thick, curly black hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. Strands of it had come free and poked up around her head.
“Please, have a seat,” the woman said politely, shutting the door again.
I sat across from her, confused. She had a sparkle in her eye. Maybe even a small smile. It was a bit off-putting, to be honest. I hadn’t seen a look like that since I’d been inside.
“Robert Hutchinson?”
I nodded.
“And you like to sing?”
I shrugged. “Helps pass the time as good as anything.”
“You’re not bad.”
I shrugged again. “Okay.” What was the point of all this?
“You only do goofy holiday songs, or you take requests?”
“Both. Whatever.”
“It embarrasses you?”
“No.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out what looked like a small tape recorder.
“Watch this,” she said, nodding at the camera in the upper corner of the ceiling. A red power light was glowing underneath it. She pushed a button on the side of the small tape recorder device. The device began to hum quietly, and at the same time the red light on the camera flipped off.
“Scrambler,” she said with a wink. She pocketed it as she continued, “Just in case. Don’t want anyone watching or listening.”
“Because . . . ?” I began. But really my mind was more focused on how I could steal that scrambler from her and sell it.
“Because the people in charge here don’t need to know what we’re going to talk about.”
“What are we going to talk about?”
“What indeed,” she replied playfully.
“Are you my lawyer?”
“Heavens, no. Do I look like a lawyer?”
I shrugged. The cheap suit, the hair—I didn’t want to offend her. “Yeah, sorta.”
The woman waved me off.
“Leslie Tanner,” she said, standing up to shake my hand.
I stood up and took it. She had a grip like a vise. I winced and she let go. Having completed the formal, adult-style introductions, Leslie sat back down. I did, too.
“If you’re not my lawyer, then why are you here?” I asked, massaging my fingers under the table.
“I’m here on behalf of the government.”
“City?”
“The secret kind.”
There was a hefty silence.
“Ooooookay, so is this like where you tell me I was genetically made in a CIA lab and I’m sorta like a super spy?” I asked snidely.
“No, and I’m not with the CIA,” she said. “I’m from an agency you’ve never heard of, and I’m here because you die tomorrow.”
She didn’t even blink. Her smile was gone. I wasn’t sure how to react.
“Uh,” was all I could muster as I stared at her for a few seconds, waiting for her to break character and laugh.
“Is this a joke? It is, isn’t it?” I asked, grinning. “They put you up to this?” I fully expected Limpy or another officer to burst in. Like I said, we had our differences in here, but we could still have some fun with each other. Something like this was pretty elaborate . . . but I wouldn’t have put it past them.
“I promise you this is not a joke.” Not a hint of a smirk, smile, or grin. Helluva poker face on this one.
“Riiiiiiiight,” I answered.
“What if I told you that tomorrow a young boy, trying to prove his toughness to a gang, will stab and kill you.”
“Bummer? Oh, but then I’d remember that no one can see the future and ask if you’d forgotten to take your anti-crazy pills this morning.”
Again, no response. This wasn’t even a good lie. How much longer would they keep this going?
“If you can see the future, what am I about to do next?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I can’t see the future, not like that.”
“‘Not like that’? So you’re admitting you can in some other way?”
She sighed and shrugged. Then she muttered, as if to someone else, “This is why I don’t have kids.”
“Hey, you’d be lucky to have a kid like me.”
“Really?”
“I’m an acquired taste,” I admitted.
“Riiiiight,” she said, mimicking me from earlier.
Now I was pissed. “Look, no offense, Leslie, but I don’t know you. I’ve had more realistic conversations with drunk hobos at two in the morning than I’m having with you.”
She shrugged again and said, “I told them this wouldn’t work, and that they should just do the extraction like always, but no . . .”
“Them? Extraction?”
She either didn’t hear me or ignored me. “Look, I read your file. I know you have trust issues.” She pulled out a light blue folder from a leather carrier bag on the floor, then flipped it open. Lo and behold, my picture was looking up. “But generally I liked what I saw in here, trust issues aside, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed.
“You’re rebellious, but not without cause. You’re intelligent, charming, athletic, but above all else when you see something wrong, you try to stop it. You don’t look around for someone else to do it, or simply move on, shaking your head. You act, which very, very few do. It’s a trait we hold in high regard, and we want you to come work for us.”
The file was an interesting development, but I still didn’t buy this story. If it was a prank, though, it was pretty damn elaborate.
“Work for you . . . at . . . the . . . crazy . . . farm?” I asked.
“All right, kid,” she snapped. She shoved the file back into her bag. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m sweaty, and this is going nowhere fast. I’m leaving. You coming with me or what?”
“Or what,” I snapped back. I was tired, too.
“The alternative is that I beat the piss out of you for being a stubborn, stupid child, and drag you out of here by your disgusting, greasy hair.”
Now that was a threat and the way she stared at me made me believe she was serious about doing it.
“Try me,” she added menacingly.
Um, where had fun Leslie gone? I wanted to call her bluff, but something about her made me rethink that. Gone was the cheery, I-can-see-the-future crazy lady. Now a suddenly dangerous woman sat across from me.
“Come with me right now and all of this goes away.”
She flashed a badge of some kind, but the motion was too quick for me to read it. “This means no one will stop us.”
“Then I’m in,” I said. At least I’d get an answer.
“You don’t think I’m crazy anymore?”
“Oh, you’re certifiable. But I’d follow the Hamburglar out of here if he could set me free.” I stood up and asked, “So we’re just gonna walk out of here and into the sunset now?”
“Like Butch and Sundance.”
“Butch and who?”
She stood, too, and shook her head. “Your generation depresses me,” she said sadly. “Come on.” She moved past me and walked out of the room.
I followed but hesitated at the door. Limpy was long gone. The hall was deserted. Was this really happening? Was I actually buying into this? When Leslie reached the intersection down the hall, she paused and looked back at me.
“Let’s move, Hutch,” she barked.
My heart began to pound as I followed her. We strode through the prison like we owned the place. Or she did. I only followed her lead. Around every corner I fully expected to run into a group of guards laughing hysterically, but never did. We never even slowed down. Every locked door buzzed and swung open for us in advance. All eyes turned away as we passed. Nobody tried to stop us.
When I passed my prison-appointed therapist, he waved at me.
I had to ask.
“Is this a joke?”
He exhaled. “Hutch, whoever that lady is, become her friend. She’s got some serious connections.”
“For real?”
“Hutch!” Leslie cried out before my therapist could answer. “Move it!”
“I would get moving,” my therapist offered.
“That your professional opinion?” I joked.
“Stay out of trouble, Hutch,” he said with a wry smile, knowing full well that would never happen.
Before I knew it, we were through the visitors’ area and headed straight for the exit. I paused. This was really happening. What was going on?
“What about my stuff?” I asked, remembering my clothes, wallet, keys, and phone that they’d tossed in a bag when I got here. You were supposed to get those things back when you left.
“Won’t need them,” she called from outside.
I hurried through the final door.
The prison had a yard, and I got to spend a couple hours out there every day, but there’s something about free air that tastes better. I took a deep breath.
“Now what?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw something rapidly approaching down the driveway. A van with darkened windows screeched to a halt in front of us. The door swung open.
“Now comes the fun part,” she said, grinning.
In a move faster than I thought possible, Leslie reached out and used that crazy strong viselike grip of hers to snag my right wrist. I jerked my arm. I was big enough and strong enough that I should have been able to shake myself free, but her grip didn’t give; it somehow got tighter. She took a quick step toward me. An instant later I was soaring through the air over her hip. I landed hard on the concrete sidewalk. Before I could even say “Ow,” her knee jabbed right into my rib cage, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Leslie grabbed my wrist again, folding it in half like origami. The pain was excruciating.
“Up,” she instructed.
My wrist felt like it would snap in half if I didn’t obey. I looked around for help as she dragged me to my feet, but none was offered from the guards in the parking lot. What the hell, prison family?!
She shoved me into the van and the door was closed before I’d even crumpled to the floorboards, clutching my wrist. While I tried to catch my breath, I barely heard her shout out, “Deputy US Marshals, we’re all good here.”
