Corruption Officer

by Gary L. Heyward

  “Boy, go and wash your hands,” she yells from the back of the apartment.

  I know not to stop at a fast-food joint, ’cause my momma cooks. If I slipped up and brought home some sautéed cat soufflé from the local Chinese joint, I would definitely get the beat-down like Willie.

  “Don’t do it, Willie. Don’t do it!” Just a little thing we used to say.

  “You got some mail,” she said.

  I went over to the table to see which bill collector was requesting my attention, and that’s when shit started to change. I got a letter from Corrections stating that I was to start at the Academy on July 10. That was 1997. After I read the letter, I was hyped. Things were finally changing for the better.

  My situation now: I had about three thousand dollars in my pocket. I only had three hundred dollars and change from my paycheck before the g-spot. Now I had ten times that amount. That’s the way it was at the g-spot, you could either be a thousandaire or you could end up hanging yourself in a matter of fifteen minutes. So here I was with my three stacks and the batteries I copped from Junebug. I’d already wrapped them and put them in the freezer behind the smoked neckbones.

  So I ran to my momma and sat on her lap—all 260 pounds of me. She screamed, “Boy, if you don’t get off of me!” All I could do was show her the letter from the Department of Corrections, and when she read it she jumped up, screaming out loud, “You did it!” I mean me and my momma hugged and danced around the living room. We did the robot, the snake, the Patty Duke, and then she went and did the Watusi (she lost me there). Then she came back with the roach stomper. We both did this very well because we had a lot of practice.

  After we danced I went to take a shower to go hang out with C. After I got out I went to my closet, which consisted of my brother’s military uniforms (he was a marine, God bless him) and a whole bunch of other stuff that wasn’t mine. There was only a small space for my clothes. You know at twenty-nine you ain’t supposed to be staying at your mom’s. You’re supposed to be there just long enough to get on your feet and then get your own place. Well, my small space had all my outfits for partying. I had a Chinese mock neck and a pair of those slacks with the checkered design, the ice-cubed slacks. Seriously, I had thirty different shirts and one pair of black pants. When I went out I would switch my shirts up and wear the same black pants. In the dark, who’s going to notice? So I grabbed the one and only Versace shirt, which took me three paychecks to purchase, but I got it. Yeah, nigga what? My Versace shirt and my never-let-me-down black pants.

  I was getting dressed, thinking about my new job as a corrections officer. I looked in the mirror and at this time my mother came to the door of the bathroom and we started discussing what this meant. My mother broke it down to me that Corrections was a good job and there were so many things that I could accomplish with it. I could find an apartment and really give my marriage a try. And though my wife and I hadn’t really been together in a while and the feelings weren’t there anymore, the idea sounded nice. My mother went on to say that the benefits were good for my kids, Gary Junior and Porsha. They could grow up in a better environment once I saved up to get a house. She went on to say how she was proud that I stayed out of trouble, went into the marines, served in the Gulf War, and now landed this job. She hugged me and I saw her eyes swell up in tears because she just wanted the best for me and to see me do good. Ain’t nothing like Mom Dukes.

  If you are reading this book and right now you and your moms is beefing . . . make up with her, because you only get one. (Message.)

  After I got dressed I called C and told him I’d meet him downstairs. I had yet to tell him about my made-man status. Yes, made man. In the ghetto everybody knows that if you land a city or state job you hold on to that job, you do your twenty years and retire young, depending on your age when you start. The made status goes as follows: 1) consistent money, never worrying when or where your next check is coming from; 2) consistent coochie, the chicks that would not give the “one step up from a summer job” brother a look, are now constantly dropping the draws because of BEN-O-FITS; and 3) the perks, everybody in the hood will now know that nigga got a gun and a muthafucking badge. Traffic stops—whip out the badge—BAM. Bouncer at the club—stop—BAM! Subway and bus—BAM! Chicks putting up a coochie stop sign—BAM! BAM! HA HA! I felt like Master P in the projects because the badge sometimes had NO LIMITS.

  I met C downstairs and we went back to the liquor store, you know, to preflight before we got to the club. It was after twelve when we arrived, so the store was closing and the Indian dude would not let me in.

  If I had my badge, BAM! He’d let me in.

  C and I went to the Chinese restaurant/number-hole spot or place where people play illegal numbers, the ghetto OTB, and I don’t mean Old Tenement Building. It was a place where you could get liquor after-hours. What? Don’t act like there are no bootleggers in your hood. After I got the McFinister aka Hennessy we jetted to the club. On the way there I told C about me becoming a CO and he was like, “Ooooh shit! These chicks better lock their coochies up!”

  “Ya know that’s right. Do they still make chastity belts?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Now they are more up to date. They have combination locks on them,” he said.

  We both laughed. As C and I drove to the club I thought to myself that this job wasn’t about chicks or perks, it was about survival. It was about me doing whatever I had to do to take care of my family.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE ACADEMY

  “Eighteen hundred dollars! Eighteen hundred dollars! Boy, I know you’re out of your mind! Coming here asking me for that kind of money! You might as well walk back out that door and, here, take my garbage out while you at it!”

  I needed the money to buy uniforms for the Academy. I knew it was a long shot coming here to my uncle Robert’s house asking for his help. I mean, this was my uncle Robert, the closest thing to a father figure I had. I am not saying that I did not know my real father, it’s just that my uncle was always there for my family, ever since I was little. He did whatever he could for my moms and us and she’d do the same for him.

  Uncle Robert was my last resort. I had already exhausted all my other options.

  Everything else I’d needed to do to get into the Academy had been smooth sailing. Well, almost everything. I’d just finished filling out all my background investigation paperwork for the second time. The Application Unit called me a day before I was supposed to report for duty informing me that the investigator assigned to me hadn’t done the investigation. They said that if I wanted the job I had to come down there and fill out all the paperwork all over again. A day before I was supposed to report. Some investigation.

  I reported for my first two days at the Academy in proper business attire for orientation. Now I’m back standing here in front of Uncle Robert in his blazer, his white shirt, his tie (I had my own black slacks that I used for clubbing—ya know, the old reliable), and his shoes, asking for his help once again for uniform money. I had already spent my check at the gambling spot, hoping I could pull another miracle and come up with the money on my own like I did the other night. Unfortunately, the gambling gods were not with me. I lost almost all my money, except for train fare to get me back and forth to the Academy. I didn’t even have lunch money, which is why I was at my uncle Robert’s house.

  My uncle was standing there looking like himself with his sweat pants, no socks, no shirt, and his penny loafers. He always told me that his loafers, nobody else’s, only his, were official because they had real pennies in them. So I really needed Uncle Robert to look out for me.

  Standing there I’m thinking to myself, With this job I can finally get my grown man on again.

  “Boy, let me tell you . . .” my uncle began.

  I knew the speech was coming. I had only heard it a million times and here comes a million and one.

  “You need to get
your shit together,” he said. “I know you’ve been trying to get a better job since you got out of the military, so if you land this you’d better make the best of it.”

  Then he said, like a father would say to his son, “When do you need it by?”

  “Yesterday,” I said.

  After my uncle and I made arrangements on how I was going to pay him back he said for me to make sure I paid him on time, because if I didn’t somebody was going to come up missing.

  Then, just before I left him, he said, “Put my clothes in the cleaner’s before you return them and, boy, take this garbage out.”

  The next day my uncle and I went to get my uniforms. Yes, he came with me. He wasn’t going to spend all that money if he did not have to. We bought only what I needed to start the Academy and that’s all.

  CHAPTER 5

  FIRST DAY AT THE ACADEMY

  At 5:00 a.m. I was on the M train taking it to the last stop, Metropolitan Avenue. That’s where the Academy was located. It was a ninety-degree day in July. I was sweating because I was in full uniform with a jacket on for cover. It was an Academy rule that corrections recruits are not supposed to wear their uniforms in the streets without covering them up. Why? Because yo fool ass is not a cop. If you are seen and somebody asks you for help, what are you going to do then, mister corrections officer? Nothing. Because ya ass is just a recruit!

  The train was funky because a bum was on it straight stinking it up. I covered my nose and sat there thinking of all the trains that I had to take to get to the Academy. The D to the J to the M. Shiiiiit! I gots to get me a ride, because a nigga ain’t going to be getting up crazy early to take fifty trains from Harlem just to get here on time. Negro ain’t been on the job a hot week and already complaining about what he ain’t going to do.

  As I sat there a fat woman was sitting across from the bum eating a bagel. The bum stared at her as she took her time eating and licking her fingers. She looked at him, rolled her eyes, and continued to eat. Then out of nowhere the bum jumped up and grabbed what was left of the fat chick’s bagel right out of her hand. She leaned back away from him in shock. He leaned forward close to her face and proceeded to stuff the food in his mouth, cream cheese and all. The train came to a stop, the doors opened, and he strolled out looking at her with a smile of satisfaction. She then looked around, eyes wide in search for somebody, anybody that could possibly help her. Her eyes locked on me. I gave her a look like, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Ain’t you going to the Academy?” she asked me.

  I guess she saw the dark blue uniform pants and my uncle’s patent-leather shoes that I shined up with Vaseline.

  “Nope, I’m a security guard,” I said.

  Academy rule number one, no police contact of any kind while you are on probation. Humph. Just my luck I play superhero and jam myself right out of a job. No, sir, not me, not I, said the cat. Fuck outta here. Besides, bums gotta eat, too.

  When I arrived at the Academy, I was placed in an area somewhat like a gymnasium. All kinds of equipment were lined up on the side, helmets, stab-proof vests, and floor mats. We were broken up into groups called squads. As I stood there among the other recruits, I noticed that we all had the same look on our faces. I need this job, man! The first day there we were put in classrooms and briefed on rules and regulations. They told us stuff like when we graduated and went to work in the jails we would be put on a schedule called “the wheel.” This meant that our work hours would rotate from week to week. “The end of the world as you know it,” they’d tell us. You’re not going to know whether you’re coming or going, and your sleeping patterns are going to be all fucked up, 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m., 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., then flip mode, 11:00 in the morning until 7:00 p.m. and shit. All sorts of fucked-up hours. I don’t even want to begin with the four o’ clock in the morning tours. You can forget partying every weekend. Little did I know at the time, but COs party Monday to Monday. Female recruits were warned to get a backup babysitter for the backup babysitter. Lack of a babysitter is no reason to miss work. In my CO career, there were several female officers reprimanded by Child Welfare for leaving underaged children at home alone. Some female recruits frowned with attitudes, and the instructor kindly gave them the look like, “Do you want this job? You can always go back to the supermarket.”

  We were also warned not to fraternize with our coworkers. Tah! The instructor might as well have been Charlie Brown’s teacher, “Wa-womp wa-womp womp wooommp,” because muthafuckas exchanged numbers with those chicks faster than you can say “Booty!” Then the instructor ended the day’s lessons by announcing that tomorrow we were going to Rikers Island! That’s when everybody got quiet and deep in thought.

  The looks on some recruits’ faces told it all:

  Do I really want to do this shit?

  I am a female.

  Are they really going to put me in there with Big Luke and Murder and them?

  Dang, this is our first week. Are they going to really throw us to the wolves like that?

  One female recruit was staring into space chewing her gum and licking her lips. Then she stuck her tongue out and touched the bottom of her chin. I knew then that she was going to be alright in a jail full of men, or a jail full of women for that matter.

  After the announcement all the horror stories started to circulate, like the one about the female officer who fell asleep on post in a dorm area and the inmates took turns jerking off and nutting on her face. She woke up and all her acne was gone. Or the inmate who filled up a tube of toothpaste with his own shit and squirted it into an officer’s face. That one shook the shit out of me. I thought to myself, Yeah, I would definitely lose my job. Damn the getting out of the projects and the better life for my kids. If a nigga splash, squirt, shoot anything in my muthafuckin’ face . . . I don’t even want to talk about it. Then we heard the story of these famous Chinese brothers that kicked everybody’s ass, including the warden’s. I thought about how many people I was going to see over there from the streets. I just hoped that I didn’t see Junebug, because I threw away the batteries that I bought from him and I knew that he would ask me how they were working.

  CHAPTER 6

  RIKERS

  The next day I arrived at Rikers Island for the very first time in my life. I always heard about it but never visited. It was just that, too, an island, right next to LaGuardia Airport. There’s only one way on and one way off. There’s a long bridge leading to the island that connects to a large officers’ parking lot. An officer has to park his vehicle, then take what they call a route bus to his assigned jail. Visitors have to take a public bus over to the island, then go to the main visitors’ building. Then they take the various route buses to the jail they’re visiting. The first jail I went to was called HDM.

  HDM or House of Detention for Men was the first jail ever to be built on Rikers Island. This is back when the commissary was called the trade post. It had the Alcatraz look, the old worn-out metal, the rusty bars, and then there was the smell. Guuaad damn! It’s a combination of funky sweat, funky asses, and three-day-old cabbage that’s been sitting out.

  I reported for roll call, where a supervisor ran off officers’ names, checked attendance, and made announcements. You could tell who the new officers were because we were standing at the end of the line with our Academy uniforms and black patent-leather wedding cake shoes. We were standing there, eyes bright, hearts pumping with anticipation of what was in store for us that day. Senior officers who had been on the job a while looked and chuckled at us. Some just leaned against the wall half-ass listening to what was being said with a look of Hurry the fuck up with this bullshit. The new officers were assigned to certain posts for training. We walked through long corridors looking stupid, searching for signs and certain numbers that might tell us where the fuck we were supposed to be going. As we walked by, officers looked at us like we were lam
bs going to the slaughter. Others took the time out to help us with directions, or so we thought.

  “You got to go down this hall to cell block 37. Then make a right until you come to a door. Knock on the door three times and ask for Officer Cocks. He’ll show you where to go.” Yeah, they had their fun with us.

  I got to the gate where I was supposed to work and a female officer let me in the first gate, then gestured for me to enter another gate. Then, boom! The gate slammed behind me and I shitted on myself. Great, now I have to walk around here all day with soiled underwear, squishing with every step I take. Damn! When I went inside, there was a long galleyway that seemed to go on forever. There were inmates on the second and third tier looking down on me, laughing at my shoes.

  This is about the time that reality sets in. All the stories you’ve heard about jail, all the fear of getting punched in your face or worse, seem all too real. It’s like some people’s first day of high school. That level of anxiety comes right back in a moment. And I ask myself, “Do I really want this job?” Since I was six-foot-two and 260 pounds of Hennessy and oxtails, I tried to swell my chest out to impress them. The inmates were not impressed. One inmate said, “Look at this doofy muthafucka!” They laughed. Then another inmate said, “Ain’t you glad you don’t have to flip burgers no more?” I just continued to walk down the galley looking for the officer that I was assigned to work with. Inmates were everywhere doing push-ups, hanging on the bars doing pull-ups, each either laughing at me or ice grilling me. Either way, I was starting to get the feeling that all I wanted to do was get the fuck out of there.

  Inmates were all around me as I continued to walk. A huge inmate about six-four, maybe four hundred pounds, approached me and gave me a folded piece of paper. He stated that I would need these because I did not have any. Confused, I opened the paper and it was a drawing of a man’s balls. Again they laughed. That was it. I had had enough. Fuck this job! With my heart pumping, sweat and Jheri curl juice dripping down my forehead, I was about to make a beeline toward the gate to get the fuck out of there! Then my conscience came into play: Negro, you need this job. Man up! What about your family, your kids? As I held that note in my hand looking up at this towering inmate, I thought, Fuck the kids! I am out. Then I thought, You’re going to let this big nigga stop you from getting all that pussy this job has to offer? Oh, hell no!