Corruption Officer

by Gary L. Heyward

  Junie again responds, agitated, “Muthafucka, I don’t care about the bitch. It’s the fact that my homeys who are supposed to be friends, that I am riding for, are now fucking her. Where’s the loyalty? When you’re out there hustling and busting your gun doing all types of stupid shit for these niggas it’s all good, but as soon as you get knocked three months later they forget about you like you never did shit for them.”

  Chris is now pissed. He says, “Man up and quit your bitching.” Junie yells back, “Man up? Man up? I know you just didn’t say that stupid shit to me. Yo dumb ass in here for the same reason I’m in here, for following some dumb muthafucka ordering you to commit crimes that they ain’t going to take the heat for. I bet you was the dolja nigga, the stupid nigga that was carrying the guns and the drugs for niggas. You was the first one to pop when they gave the order, the first one to make a move, and then when the heat came down you’re the one that’s locked up in here just like me. You sitting here singing that I am in love with a stripper shit to the CO like you don’t have a sentence of fifty to life sitting on your chest.”

  He stops and shakes his head. I give a look of shock at the numbers he just threw out there. Then he continues. “You’re cheesing around here talking about being a rapper when you get out, thinking that appeal of yours will happen overnight. Those shits don’t work like that and especially if your family doesn’t have money like that. They take years.”

  He laughs at Chris, whose attitude has turned serious, then says, “If your appeal works it will still be about ten years for them to even reduce your charges because you’re not getting off scot-free and if it doesn’t work you’re talking fifty years before you’re eligible for parole.”

  He pauses and acts like he’s counting on his fingers, then says, “Ya nineteen and by the time you get out, granted they let you get parole at your first board, you will be damn near seventy something. Tah, and you think that bitch of yours ain’t fucking? Let me school you, El Stupido, when you’re in jail and doing a lot of time, the best thing that you can hope for out of a woman is for her to have enough respect for you to lie to you. If you got a woman who is accepting your collect calls, bringing you packages, visiting and writing you and still telling you that she loves you even though she’s out there getting her rocks off, then you have a good woman. What woman in her right mind is going to wait fifty years? Shit, they ain’t waiting fifty minutes. As soon as that hammer drops so do those panties.”

  He chuckles, because earlier Chris was getting at him, but he knows he has now successfully fucked up Chris’s whole day. After that we continued to lie there on the floor in our cells, thinking about what happens next.

  CHAPTER 55

  TONNIE

  The weekend arrives and I’m called for a visit. I’m escorted throughout the jail by two COs everywhere I go. I arrive at the visitors’ floor looking for either my mother or my sister. Instead, I see a good friend of mine, Tonnie, sitting at a table with a pile of White Castle hamburgers in front of her. I’m happy and sad at the same time. Happy to see her, but sad she sees me like this. We hug and she smiles. I can sense an I-can’t-believe-you’re-in-prison vibe coming from her. I jump right in and explain to her why I did what I did. As I’m talking I’m also thinking that I will have this same conversation with others who care for me and expected more of me. Tonnie was beautiful, smart, and the type of woman who held her own. None of the big booty freaks that I rocked with came to see me. They didn’t do the jail thing. Tonnie was different. She was a true friend. Though I didn’t want anybody to come see me, I am glad she made the trip.

  I am quiet at times while we are chatting. I find myself reflecting on how I was living as a CO and how blinded I became. Tonnie was a good woman and I never treated her properly because I was always chasing less deserving women. Her visit is humbling because I know she is here because she genuinely loves and cares for me, and that people come to visit an inmate because they want to. I know I can’t just say to her, “Hey, I didn’t want you when I was the high-and-mighty CO but now that I’ve ruined my life and lost everything let’s be together.” That would sound real stupid. But she tells me that she will stand by me as a friend for now and that we will see how everything works out. Before my visit is over, she says that she believes that I can overcome this and still make it when I get out. Hearing her say that to me gives me more inspiration to do whatever I need to do to get out of here. When she gets up to leave we hug and she feels so good that I don’t want to let her go. But I have to. I realize the only bad thing about getting visits is when it is time for the visitor to leave. Tonnie’s visit leaves me in good spirits. She is in my corner, and for the first time I think about how I need to do right by her when I get out.

  —

  The escort officer comes and picks me up and we begin to walk back to my housing area. He orders me to stop at the beginning of a long corridor. He radios ahead to another officer at the other end that I am coming. From the radio I hear the officer say, “Send him.” Then the officer tells me to go. The officer stays behind as I begin to walk toward the other end. I’m high off my visit and I’m paying no attention to the other inmate that’s walking toward me from the other end of the corridor. I can’t take my mind off the smell of perfume on my hand. I’m halfway down the corridor when, Wham!

  I’m hit on the side of my forehead. I stumble against the wall and quickly try to regain my bearings. I come out of my daze in time to see No-Joke, the inmate that Flocko cut for me. He has a scar on his face. He’s squatting down with his hands in the back of his pants, and shits out a banger, which is a sharp object like an icepick. He lunges at me, but I catch his wrist. He’s a little taller than me but luckily for me I outweigh him. As I continue to hold his arm, I hit him in the face a few times. We fall on the floor and begin to roll around. He’s hell-bent on trying to wiggle his arm free so he can cut me. Now I hear footsteps of the officers coming down the corridor. I’m still wrestling with him, holding his arm tight, when he says, “You thought I wasn’t going to remember your ass.” The officers arrive and see that I have his wrist and that he has the weapon in a tight grip. They grab the banger from him and wrestle us apart. We are handcuffed and ordered to face the wall on our knees and not move. I’m breathing hard. All I keep thinking is that this muthafucka just tried to kill me! Officers order me to take off my shirt and part of my greens so they can see if I have been poked. They don’t find anything, so they escort me to the clinic anyway because the hole could be real small and I could be bleeding internally and no one would know it.

  While I’m in the clinic I keep replaying No-Joke saying that he remembered me. Protective custody don’t mean shit if people really want to get to you. I’m deep in thought when a sergeant walks in and asks me if I’m okay. I tell him I’m fine.

  “Listen,” he says, “I am not going to write you up for fighting because of who you used to be but I need you to let this go.” I look at him confused, because I know that this guy came at me and that they recovered the weapon from his hand, so why would I be in trouble? He says, “I know you know that Officer Stanton dropped the ball and that you were not supposed to be in that corridor by yourself. He was supposed to walk you all the way back to your area—the lazy fuck.” I nod in acknowledgment but really I didn’t know. He says, “So, we got a deal? I don’t write you up and ruin what chances you may have at early release and you keep quiet about this.”

  I agree because I feel that I don’t really have a choice. I don’t want anything interfering with my going home early. The sergeant tells me that they will take care of No-Joke because they don’t tolerate slashings and stabbings up here.

  After I’m treated, I’m properly escorted to my area. When I get inside my cell I just sit up on the edge of my bed, with my hands clasped in front of my face, thinking about this whole jail situation. I’m thinking about this fool No-Joke who had the balls to attack me right there out in the open.
Did he want to kill me that bad that he didn’t care where we were or who was around? I come to the conclusion that this is going to happen everywhere I go, because I can’t even begin to count the number of inmates that I put hands on for the sake of the job or for the sake of hustling. All the shit that I did can come back to me while I’m incarcerated. And what about my mother, my kids, my family, and now possibly Tonnie? I know I have to get through this. It’s nobody’s fault that I’m here but mine. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. So I do just that. I lie down and go to sleep.

  —

  A few weeks later . . .

  I’m told to pack up. I’m on the move again and I haven’t received a word from my counselor. I have no idea where I’m going. Is it the Shock Program? Or maybe it’s a minimum-security camp farther upstate. They have me in a cell in the intake area waiting to be transported. Across from me in another cell I see Chris. He’s there with a bunch of other inmates eating off trays of food. Chris is not eating, though. He just has his food on his lap, staring out into space, looking dazed. I call out to him. He turns and looks at me. I ask him how his appeal is coming along. He doesn’t say a word, just shakes his head. He has a look on his face that I’ve seen many times before. Reality has set in. He’s never going home.

  CHAPTER 56

  ONEIDA

  “Johnson, Peterson, Jones.” A CO calls out inmates who will be getting off at this particular jail. The bus pulls off and we’re on the road again.

  I’ve been riding on the prison bus for a few hours, still with no clue as to where I’m going. Finally I hear my name called. I get up and shuffle my feet to the front of the bus. At this stop, I’m the only one getting off. I’m escorted into a van. Then it pulls off.

  As we near the destination I survey the surroundings. It looks like a large college campus, a lot of grass and a lot of buildings and gates. We pull up to a building that looks real old but clean. The grass has been cut and the hedges trimmed. There’s a porch in front where two COs are standing. I’m taken out of the van and made to stand in front of the two officers so they can inspect me as they go over my paperwork. One of them looks at me, leans his head to the side, and spits. Some of it hits the ground but some is still hanging off his lip. He says to me, “You’re a big boy. Welcome to Oneida. Am I going to have any trouble out of you?” I say, “No.” He then says, “You heard of Rick Jacobs, the guy that is in the papers for a hate crime against blacks?” I say, “Yes, I was just with him downstate.” Then he asks, “Did you have a problem with him?” I answer, “No.” He continues, “Good, because his codefendant is here and we don’t want any problems.”

  They escort me up some steps and into a cell. When they ask me if I have any questions for them I ask about when I can see a counselor. One of them answers, “He will be here first thing in the morning.”

  They allow me a phone call so that I can tell my family where I am. I call Moms and she has a million questions for me. “Are you at Shock? Are they sending you to Work Release?” She’s just as excited as I am. I tell her I’ve just arrived here and that I won’t find out anything until tomorrow. She keeps talking and asking questions but I tell her that I have to go. That night back in my cell I can’t sleep. I’m anxious and I can’t stop thinking that I’ve finally arrived at a place where I can get some answers.

  Early the next day, my cell opens and I’m called out to see the counselor. I walk into a room with a white gentleman sitting on one side of a table with a folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He motions for me to sit down. He says, “I’m going to talk and tell you everything you need to know. Please don’t interrupt me. This won’t take but a second.” I nod. He then says, “You have been sentenced to two years and have been sent here to Oneida Correctional Facility’s Protective Custody Unit due to your high-profile case and the position of corrections officer that you held.”

  Then he drops the bomb. “Although this is your first offense and you qualify for many early-release programs, you will not be afforded any of them here because they require you to have a certain number of points. In order to get the points you have to be programming here first and we don’t have any programs for you to take in the Protective Custody Unit.” He then grabs my folder, gets up, and leaves.

  “Wait a minute. I have some questions.”

  He turns and looks at me. “I just told you everything that you need to know.” I’m panicked, because it was like he wasn’t going to answer any of my questions. I ask him, “What about the Shock Program or the Work Release Program?” He looks at me like I am stupid and says, “Did you not just hear what I said? You’re not getting any of them. You’re going to do the rest of your time right here in PC.”

  “But the judge said that I could get Shock if it’s available for me.”

  He looks puzzled, then turns to walk out of the room. He yells back at me, “I didn’t see that in your folder. I have to look into it.” And like that he was gone.

  “Uh-oh, here comes trouble.” I haven’t done anything but the CO feels the need to say something when I return to my cell because he can tell that I’m angry. For the first time since I’ve been in jail, I want to be locked in. I want to be isolated. All I can feel is pain and rage. I have enough points to get Work Release and the judge recommended the Shock Program for me, but somehow, some way, I have to do the full two years.

  I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and my eyes begin to swell up. I vow that I am not going to cry. I’m not going to crumble again. I take a deep breath and lie down thinking about my family, about how my mother is going to feel this. I have to convince her that I’ll be alright and that everything is still okay. I decide I won’t tell her right away, that we’re still trying to figure out the whole thing. Technically, the counselor did say that he would check on the Shock Program.

  A few days pass and I slowly begin to open up and talk to a few inmates. I know all about protective custody and the type of inmate that gets placed in it. I know that you have your rapists, your pedophiles, and ex–gang members that have dropped their flags. I make it my business to try not to find out anybody’s charges, but in this place everybody talks. Many of them were COs like me, some state, some federal; some raped little girls, some raped little boys. I have to be mentally strong if I have to sit down and eat at the same table with some of these dudes. In the past, when I was a CO and I found out why they were here, I would’ve been judge, jury, and executioner. But now we’re all incarcerated together.

  I meet an older Muslim inmate named Paul who tells me about the procedures in the jail. He explains to me that they say that no one can sign out of Oneida’s Protective Custody Unit once they’re here, but he’s seen different. He tells me that I’m not the right color. Paul is here for murder. He tried to rob somebody and when he showed his weapon, the victim fainted, hit his head on the curb, and died. Jason, Rick’s hate crime codefendant, disagrees with Paul. He says he’s seen several inmates get programming and go home. I just sit there absorbing everything that’s being said.

  The next day I ask to speak to the counselor, and when he comes I question him about finding the Shock Program. His response is “By the time you get the paperwork from the judge proving that he gave you the Shock Program, your two years will be up and you’ll be home.” He continues, “You have a Work Release board coming up. Maybe they will send you there.”

  There was still a glimmer of hope. Maybe I can still get out of here early.

  More days pass and I finally receive notification that I’m to go before a board to determine whether I will be allowed to go to Work Release. I did my research and I know that I have more than enough points to go to this program.

  On the morning of my board, I shave my head and I put on my cleanest green uniform. I psych myself up, thinking that if I look well kempt, they will see that I’m fit for the Work Release Program. I get escorted to an office building. I’m told to go in
and sit outside an office in the hallway until they call for me. I say the Lord’s Prayer as I wait.

  “We’re ready for you now.”

  Inside the office I’m instructed to sit in a chair facing three people, two white ladies and one white gentleman. One of the ladies reads my charges out loud and then they start asking me a series of questions like “Why did you do it? Do you have any regrets or remorse for doing it? If you had the chance, what would you do differently?”

  I answer them as professionally and as humbly as I can. The two ladies tell me that I’m a prime candidate for Work Release and that they will recommend me to the superintendent. I’m feeling good. I have a Kool-Aid smile on my face and everything. Finally, someone will have some sympathy for me and see that I really just made a mistake. Then one of the ladies asks the man who had been sitting there quietly throughout the whole interview does he have any questions for me. He says, “Yes, just one. How long were you doing it before you got caught?”

  CHAPTER 57

  LESSON LEARNED

  I was told that the board normally takes two or three days before they make a decision. When I got back to my cell after the hearing a letter was waiting for me. My decision had already been made. It was as if the board already knew they weren’t going to give me Work Release before they decided to question me. And still no answers from the counselor about the Shock Program. I’m frustrated. I dig deep and convince myself that this is just how things work when you’ve lost your rights. And I know that I’m expected to handle it the right way because I’m a former law enforcement officer. No matter who you are, when you break the law you’re treated the same as everybody else. This is showing me that if you break the law as a law enforcer they’re going to make sure you serve all the time that you were given. I know that the sergeant from the parole board probably felt that I should have gotten more time for this crime, so he was not going to let me just slide out of prison that easily.