by Zoey Parker
“We've got some Dogs who are already doing time up there, including Bear, our former Sergeant-at-Arms,” Ron said. “But we've been thinking about having someone who's loyal to us apply for a job as a guard, just to help watch our guys' backs. With this whole Kurt thing going on, you seem like the perfect person for the job. You'll be able to see him whenever you want, bring in stuff he needs, and report back to us on how he's doing in there. That's why I haven't wanted you to go visit him—so no one will know you've got any prior connection to him.”
Sarah considered this. She had to admit that it sounded like a solid plan, and she loved the idea of being able to see Kurt regularly and support him while he was serving his time. And if she could make his sentence easier by doing special favors for him, well, why not?
“Okay,” she said. “But what does it take to become a guard?”
Ron smiled. “Not a lot, as it turns out. You've already got your GED. Since River Oak's not a federal joint, you won't need any college credits or special experience. You just apply online, and they'll interview you a couple of times. From what I understand, as long as you don't insult the interviewer's mother or accidentally set the office on fire, you'll get the job—they're desperate for corrections officers. Then you pass a drug test, take a three-week course which includes physical training, and boom, you're in.”
“Wouldn't it be scary, though?”
Her uncle shrugged. “What's to be scared of? The inmates are behind bars. You're the one with the badge and baton, so you've got all the power. Pretty much all the bad shit that happens inside is between cons. The last time a CO got seriously injured up in River Oak was over fifteen years ago, and that was because of a riot, which almost never happens.”
The more Sarah thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. She wanted to be kissed and held by Kurt again without waiting two years, and this seemed like her only chance. Tripling her current income was a nice thought, too. She'd be twenty-five before she knew it, and that felt a little old to still be wearing an apron to work and slicing lunch meats for minimum wage.
“But don't they run a background check on applicants? You and I are related, so connecting me to the MC wouldn't exactly be difficult.”
Ron grinned, reaching into the desk drawer and producing some paperwork. “Their background checks are half-assed. And you'll have these.”
Sarah scanned the fake ID, birth certificate, Social Security card, and GED. The name on all of them was “Tina Martin.”
She took a deep breath and nodded.
“Okay. Go to the application website on your computer, and let's do this.”
Hang in there, Kurt, she thought. We'll be together again soon.
Chapter 5
Kurt
The newly-convicted men stood in a line behind the courthouse. Their wrists were cuffed, their ankles were all chained together, and they were wearing the same clothes they'd had on during their trials and sentencing hearings—mostly cheap, rumpled, ill-fitting suits that looked about as natural on them as party hats and red clown noses.
Kurt was no different. He hadn't owned a suit or tie at the time of his arrest, so Ron had bought them for him. Even though Kurt had provided his measurements, the suit still felt tight on him in all the wrong places and the dress shoes pinched.
Given the predictable outcome of the case, Kurt wished he hadn't bothered with the damn suit after all. If he was going to do time anyway, he would have preferred to face the judge wearing his MC patches and standing in his own two boots.
A repurposed school bus with flaking gray paint slowly backed up in front of the men, beeping. “Department of Corrections” was stenciled in black on the sides and back. The beeping stopped and the courthouse guards opened the back door of the bus, hustling the men into it. The individual seats had been replaced with long metal benches welded to the sides of the bus. The convicts sat in rows facing each other and the guards shackled their ankle-chains to bars running under the benches.
Then the guards withdrew, the door slammed shut behind them, the bus lurched forward, and Kurt was on his way to prison.
He looked around to see if any of his traveling companions might be dangerous, but the other men mostly kept their heads down, staring pointedly at the floor. One of the only exceptions was a boy sitting across from Kurt, who couldn't have been older than sixteen. He stared out the windows of the bus with wide, frightened eyes, as though he was fervently trying to memorize every tree and building they passed. His jaw was slack, and his hands kept fidgeting in his lap.
Well, we've got at least an hour ahead of us before we get to River Oak, Kurt thought. If all I do is stare at the dirt and boot prints on the floor of the bus, I'll be dead from boredom long before we arrive.
“What's your name, kid?” he asked.
The boy looked at Kurt with a stunned expression, as though a boulder had suddenly started speaking to him. “Kareem. Kareem Thomas.”
Kurt nodded. “Nice to meet you, Kareem. My name's Kurt. What did a kid like you do to get sent to River Oak?”
“Oh, I didn't do nothin',” Kareem answered, shaking his head vigorously. “I'm innocent. They said I robbed Mr. Taylor's store an' shot him, just 'cause I was wearin' the same shirt as the guy who did it. I ain't never even fired no gun before. My lawyer said I hadda tell people I did it anyway, though, or I'd go to prison for longer. Maybe even life.”
“Didn't they do a powder residue test to see if you'd fired the gun?” Kurt asked. “Seems like that'd clear things up pretty quick.”
Kareem blinked. “No, they didn't do nothin' like that. They just showed me to Mr. Taylor, an' he said 'Yeah, that sure was him,' an' that was pretty much it. Mr. Taylor, see, he's white, an' he always had trouble tellin' black folks apart. Most times I went into his store, he thought I was my cousin Deshaun.”
Jesus, kid, Kurt thought ruefully. When they were handing out public defenders, you sure did get the shitty end of the stick. No GSR tests, no proper lineup—nothing but a pat on the ass on your way to the slammer.
“Well, I damn sure ain't innocent, ha,” the man beside Kurt piped up cheerfully. He was an overweight white guy in his late thirties with rosy cheeks and thinning blonde hair. He offered a pudgy hand to Kurt. “Carl Davies. Pleased to meet you.”
Kurt shook the man's hand, grimacing at how sweaty his palm was. “What are you in for, Carl?”
Carl grinned like a jack-o-lantern. “I'm a con artist, ha. Swindled a bunch of retired folks out of their savings. One of them got wise to it at the end, though, so I had to crack the old bitch upside the head. Put her in a coma for a couple weeks, ha. They gave me ten years, but my shyster said if I play my cards right, I can be out in three.”
Several of the other men sitting around Carl were starting to steal sideways glances at him. If he noticed, he gave no sign.
“You don't seem that worried about heading up to River Oak,” Kurt observed. “You been there before? Got anyone there to watch your back?”
Carl chuckled. “No and no, ha. But ain't you been listening, pal? I told you, I'm a con artist. Emphasis on the 'artist.' I can see all the angles, figure out all the right moves. Just give me a day or two, and I'll own the fucking place, ha.”
The guard in the passenger's seat slammed his baton against the metal grate that separated the drivers from the prisoners. “All right, that's enough of the gettin'-to-know-you bullshit! You men can keep your mouths shut for the rest of the ride.”
“Why?” Kurt asked mildly. “Talking isn't against the rules, is it?”
The guard glared at him. “First of all, convict, you're in my bus on the way to my prison, which means 'Y' ain't a letter in your fuckin' alphabet no more. You'll do what you're goddamn told if you know what's good for you. And second, you want to keep flappin' your lips an' pissin' me off, go right ahead. But you're gonna look pretty fuckin' funny tryin' to talk with all your teeth busted out.”
Kurt lowered his head and stayed silent for the rest
of the ride. He found his mind drifting to thoughts of Sarah. He wished he'd been more sober that night, so he could have retained clearer memories of fucking her—as it was, he was only left with a series of vague impressions of the way she'd looked at him, how she'd smelled and felt and tasted.
He'd been disappointed that she hadn't visited him in jail, but not surprised. How could she still have feelings for him after seeing what he'd done to that yahoo?
Had she had genuine feelings for him that night? Or had it just been a childish crush, mixed with booze and pity?
And what about his feelings for her? Were they real, or...?
Kurt shook his head, trying to clear it. Playing tug-of-war with himself over this was a waste of time. Whether they'd had feelings for each other was a moot point now. He was going to prison for two years, and by the time he got out, she'd be with someone new. They probably wouldn't even bring up the thing in the bathroom ever again—it'd be just another experience for both of them, something to carry around without dwelling on it.
Just focus on keeping your head down and doing your time, Kurt told himself. Let go of everything else.
Especially her.
Chapter 6
Kurt
The dusty chain link gates of the River Oak Maximum Security Correctional Facility squealed as they slid open, allowing the bus into the courtyard. The guard in the passenger's seat—whose name tag identified him as Officer Rodriguez—walked around to the back of the bus, opened the door, and unchained the men from the metal bar under the seat. Kurt and the others shuffled out, still chained together at the ankles.
Rodriguez led them into a large room where two more huge, broad-shouldered guards stood waiting. Another bored-looking older guard sat behind a long desk. There were pairs of thick red and blue lines denoting narrow paths on the squeaky gray linoleum floor, and they led to a row of yellow squares in front of the desk.
“Okay, shitbirds, this is how it's going to work,” Rodriguez bellowed. He enunciated every word as though he was speaking to a room full of slow children. “I'm going to unchain you one at a time. Once I have removed the cuffs from your wrists and ankles, you will walk between the red lines to one of the yellow squares. If you say a goddamn word or put so much as a toe outside of those red lines, Officers Douglas and Miles are going to beat you 'til you shit blood, and then you can spend your first month at River Oak in the fuckin' hole.”
Kurt sighed inwardly. He was already sick of this asshole's attitude, and he couldn't imagine how many more there were in River Oak who were just like him.
“Once you reach one of the yellow squares, you will strip down to your bare ass and hand your clothes and personal possessions to Officer Morton behind the desk. This will include watches, earrings, wedding rings, cock rings, anything you've got that isn't permanently attached to your body. No holding out, no exceptions. He will catalogue these items, place them into storage, provide you with prison uniforms and bedding, and assign you a number. You will memorize this number, and you will by God answer to it when it's called, or you will be one sorry motherfucker. When you have your clothes, bedding, and number, you will put on your uniform, step back and walk between the blue lines to the area on the other side of the room.”
On the outside, with the Dogs at his back, Kurt would never let anyone talk to him like this, uniform or no. He'd stomp some respect into them, then hop on his bike and ride off—anywhere, nowhere, whatever he pleased.
But now there was no one to back him up, and nowhere to ride to. Blue skies and free air had been replaced with cement blocks on all sides and the stink of rusty iron, dirty concrete, and body odor.
Rodriguez approached the row of men with his keys, starting at one end. There were three men before Kurt, including Carl. As Carl pulled off his clothes, some of the other convicts whistled and catcalled at him. Carl looked back at them, startled, then put on a shit-eating grin and tried to laugh along. Still, Kurt could see the first glimmer of fear at the corners of Carl's eyes.
Instead of yelling for the prisoners to quiet down, the guards just smirked to each other knowingly.
When Rodriguez reached Kurt, he gave him another hard glare, as though daring Kurt to defy him in any way. Kurt forced himself to stare straight ahead blankly until Rodriguez unlocked his wrists and ankles. Then he walked between the red lines to the yellow square and stripped naked, tossing his clothes onto the desk.
“One pair of dress shoes, brown, size 12,” Officer Morton droned. He noted each item on a clipboard before tossing it into a cardboard box. “One pair of socks, black. One pair of trousers, black. One leather belt, brown. One button-up shirt, white. One suit jacket, black. One tie, red and white stripes. One pair of underwear, boxers, gray.”
Morton removed the form from his clipboard and added it to the box. Then he put a lid on it and taped it down before throwing it on top of a stack of identical boxes. He produced a magic marker, writing a series of letters and numbers on the side.
“Your prison number is 17H404,” he said, handing Kurt a folded uniform, socks, slippers, and a set of sheets. “You'll be reporting to cell block G. Please get dressed and follow the blue lines.”
That's all I fucking am in here, Kurt thought. Just a number and a box full of clothes I won't see again for two years.
A suffocating wave of claustrophobia enveloped him, and his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins. He'd been through so much in his life, and he thought he'd be able to take incarceration in stride—just an inconvenience, something unpleasant to get through and forget about. But now that he was inside the prison, he could feel it pressing down on him, as though he'd been buried alive. His head started to throb and his mind jittered crazily, insisting on his individuality even as it was methodically stripped from him.
Kurt put on the uniform. The fabric was cheap, and it felt stiff and itchy against his skin. He walked between the blue lines, joining Carl and the others against the wall. He saw Kareem putting on his uniform, and noted that it looked about three sizes too big for him.
When all of the convicts had taken their places against the wall, Rodriguez hit a button next to the inner door. An alarm honked, and the door opened from the inside.
A huge guard stepped through the door. He had a shaved head and a black handlebar mustache, he stood at least six and a half feet tall, and he was built like a professional wrestler—Kurt could see the man's uniform straining against his enormous pecs and biceps. There was a deep scar extending from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin, giving him a permanent snarl of disapproval.
He stood in front of the prisoners, addressing them in a booming voice.
“My name is Officer Gable, and I am the captain of the guards. Welcome to River Oak. Life can be uncertain in this place, but I can promise all of you one simple thing: Your time here with me will be exactly as difficult as you make it. The rules are easy to follow. No buying, selling, using, or hiding drugs. No weapons or contraband items. No fucking or fighting. You do what the guards say, when they say it, without cussing them out or horsing around. You abide by these rules, you and I won't have any problems. You break these rules, I will make sure that all of your nightmares come true, and I will have fun doing it.”
How many times has this hack practiced this little speech in front of a mirror? Kurt thought.
“Those of you who have been assigned to cell block B will be escorted there by Officer Rodriguez,” Gable continued. “Block C, you'll go with Officer Miles. Block F, Officer Douglas. Those of you going to block G will be escorted by me personally. Line up by cell blocks and follow the appropriate officer, and do not dawdle.”
Kurt, Carl, and several other men lined up behind Gable as the others formed ranks behind their respective guards. They were led through the inner door, which slammed shut seconds after the last convict passed through it. The sound echoed with a grim finality, and Kurt felt a shudder pass through him.
If it didn't seem real enough before, he thought,
it damn sure does now.
Chapter 7
Kurt
Gable led Kurt to his cell, a ten-by-ten box that was concrete walls on three sides and a sliding barred door on the fourth. There was a combination toilet and sink in the back corner, and a narrow set of bunk beds.
“Enjoy your new home, maggot,” Gable sneered.
Once Gable moved on with the rest of his charges, Kurt stepped inside, setting his bedding down on the lower bunk. The upper bunk was occupied by a lithe, athletic-looking white man in his late thirties. He had close-cropped brown hair, and he wore glasses and a pair of boxers as he flipped through a dog-eared paperback. An armband with a swastika was tattooed around his left bicep, and a pair of jagged S.S. lightning bolts was inked on both sides of his neck, where a shirt collar would be.
Just what I need, Kurt thought sourly. A fucking Nazi cellmate.
