My Name Is River Blue

by Noah James Adams

  Since the staff didn't want me with the other prisoners, I couldn't go to the day room to watch TV like the others who watched sports, usually baseball or football. The jail had a large office and control room with monitors that showed camera views of the halls, cells, cafeteria, day room, and yard. It also had an excellent TV for the staff to watch sports during their down time between tasks. I never complained, but I remember thinking how much it sucked that I was the only one who couldn't watch a game.

  One Sunday, Dunc came to my cell again when I wasn't expecting him. He cuffed my wrists and shackled my ankles, but it wasn't to see a visitor. I was surprised when he steered me into the office, and I saw what the guards had on the floor. In a corner out of the way of foot traffic, they had placed a single bunk mattress with several pillows stacked on one end, and before I could speculate any longer about why I was there, they told me that I was watching baseball with them. I was glad to relax my back on the mattress and enjoy the ballgame that afternoon.

  I became a regular weekend guest of the staff to watch whatever games were on, and often, Uncle Manny would drop off enough burgers or pizzas for all of the staff on duty at the jail. I enjoyed the games and the time out of my cell, and sometimes I would get lost in the moment and forget where I was. It would only take trying to change my position on the mattress for me to remember that I was the only one in the room in chains.

  ***

  After Big Bill's visit, I was not surprised to learn that the community leaders, who witnessed the shooting at the restaurant, were supporting me. Big Bill advised Mr. Stark that the men in the dining room had been in shock when they made their original statements, and after time to clear their heads, they saw a few things differently. The point was that they would be sympathetic witnesses for the defense, and there was no way a jury was going to hear their testimony and convict me of first-degree murder.

  As spokesperson for the group, Big Bill urged Mr. Stark, the solicitor, to drop the murder charge and offer me a deal on the manslaughter charge only. It was a difficult situation for Mr. Stark because he could not win reelection without Bill Summers' backing, but he didn't want to look soft on crime to all the conservative voters.

  Mr. Stark held firm until a week before the trial was to begin and made my attorney an offer of voluntary manslaughter and ten years. Mr. Lee and I rejected the offer. After some negotiating, we agreed to a sentence of five years with credit for the year I had served in county jail. It meant that I would have to serve four years in state prison. It was a much better outcome than I had expected, and unbelievably, I owed the reduced sentence to Bill Summers.

  As I accepted the fact that I would spend the next four years of my life in prison, I didn't feel the same resentment I did when the judge sent me to Stockwell for something I didn't do. Still, I think any man would be lying if he said that he wasn't frightened to go to prison, and I certainly was. I knew it would not be like the county jail in my hometown where the guards kept me away from the older, hardened inmates. In state prison, I would be interacting daily with the state's worst criminals, some serving life sentences without the possibility of parole. They had nothing to lose if they picked up another charge.

  I had heard that state budget cuts to the prison meant that there were fewer guards, and many of those were overworked and apathetic about their jobs. Even if all the guards cared, it was not possible for them to protect every young prisoner, and in my physical condition, I was limited in what I could do to defend myself. One blow to my back or knee, one sudden twist or bend, one quick move to avoid a fist or shank, and I could crumble painfully and helplessly to the floor. So yeah, I was scared, and my nerves grew worse the closer I came to the time the state would transport me to prison.

  The night before my transfer, I sat alone in my cell with my knees bouncing. I was almost as afraid as I was when I was eleven years old and riding in the cop car that took me to Stockwell. I hated to feel so vulnerable. If only I had not been hurt so badly in the accident, I knew I could at least stand my ground in a one on one fight. I could gain a little respect that way. As it was, I would be an easy target, and I grew nauseous thinking about the life I might have.

  I was dressed only in my boxers, and they were soaked from nervous sweat until they were barely clinging to my hips. I had already thrown up dinner, and the feeling was hitting me again when I heard Dunc's friendly voice, one I would surely miss.

  "Want some company?" Dunc unlocked my cell and came in to sit next to me on my bunk. "If you don't mind."

  "Sure, I don't mind but I probably stink." I tried to laugh.

  "Nerves, huh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I don't blame you. I told you I worked down there a few years, but it was too much stress. I had to get the hell out of there."

  "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

  "No, but I do have some advice. River, you have to decide how much life means to you. How bad do you want to live to see the day when you walk out those prison gates as a free man? You're still just a kid. Twenty-one, right? You'll only be twenty-five when you get out, so you'll just have to decide if you want to live long enough to see parole."

  I thought about that. Papa left me all the money I would need, and I had a family and a home with Uncle Manny, Tyler, and the rest of the people at Deer Lake Farm. I had family in Mexico. I even had a few friends. After losing as much as I had, I still had reasons to live.

  "And if I do?" I said.

  "Then just tell yourself you will do whatever it takes to survive for four years. Don't fight battles that you can't win and stay strong in your head no matter what happens. Don't fall into a trap with a gang that might make you shank a guy to test you. Some of those inmates are lifers with nothing to lose. Some of them would like to see you draw another charge. Remember, misery loves company. Your goal is surviving and making your release date."

  "Oh, yeah. Sounds simple." If he caught my sarcasm, he ignored it.

  Dunc pulled out a ragged piece of paper, which he handed to me. "River, there are two names on that paper. Leroy Timmons is an inmate and Lloyd Lawson is a senior correctional officer. They're both friends of mine and they both owe me. Leroy has about six years left, but if I hadn't helped him, he would be there a lot longer. I saved Lloyd from an attack by a gang of inmates with shanks. If I hadn't caught wind of the hit, they would have killed him. I have given both of them your name, and asked them to look out for you, but there is a price."

  "Thank you, I think." I was hopeful, but I wanted to know about the price.

  "If all goes well, you will be Leroy's new cellmate. He's close to forty and a huge black guy obsessed with his workouts. He's about six feet five. Two eighty-five. No one with any sense messes with him. He's earned mad respect, and when word gets out that you're his boy, there are very few guys that will challenge you."

  "I don't like the sound of 'his boy.'"

  "Don't worry. It doesn't mean anything except that you're under his wing. Your uncle will deposit money in his prison account each month for canteen goodies. It's not that much money, but Leroy doesn't have any family at all, so it will mean the world to him."

  "Okay, that's no problem at all." I was relieved.

  "Your uncle will keep Leroy's account full, and Leroy will teach you how things work and do his best to take care of you. You just have to listen to him."

  "How about the officer? What's that deal?"

  "It's a bad thing for you to be blatantly close to a guard. If the other inmates know, you're going to get hurt. Lloyd will keep a check on you, but he will handle things in a quiet way. He may even jump your ass about something for show. If you need his help, tell Leroy and let him pass it. I'm giving your uncle an account number, and he' going to make a $5000 deposit in that account by next week and another each year until you're free."

  "Okay, that's no problem as long as you're sure this Lloyd guy is for real."

  "You need to trust me, River."

  "Speaking of you,
I don't mean to insult you, but why are you doing this stuff for me?"

  Dunc grinned. "Isn't it enough that you're a good kid and I like you?"

  "Probably not, so what are you getting out of me?"

  "First of all, you really are a good kid, and the guys like you, but your uncle has also been taking care of you the whole time you been here. It's true that we didn't want you to get hurt and have the media on our asses, but two of us old guys did plenty we didn't have to do. You really think we would have gone to the trouble of making a bed for you to watch football with us if we weren't getting something?"

  "I guess not. Was Kirby getting a share?"

  "No, Kirby's just a good guy. There are a few of those."

  When Officer Duncan left my cell that night, I was relieved enough about my transfer to state prison that I slept a few hours. I felt better knowing that two men on the inside would be properly motivated to help me, and that some things worked the same no matter where I was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  March 2012

  Almost four years later

  When a prison inmate's time grows short, he fears that something will happen that will add additional time to his sentence or worse, that some inmate with a grudge will kill him before he can taste freedom. He does his best to become invisible and to avoid any situation that could lead to trouble. If he's smart, he doesn't brag about his release date so that a spiteful inmate sets him up for a charge that adds to his time. I have seen correctional officers do the same thing to an inmate they didn't like.

  I have served almost four years in Rockville State Prison. As of today, I have eleven days left before my Uncle Manny and Tyler Long will meet me at the front gate and take me home to Deer Lake Farm. I don't believe that I could handle the disappointment if my discharge was delayed even one day, and I sure as hell don't want to die in here of all places. I only discuss it with Carlos, my cellmate, and he gives me positive encouragement, but his words do little to alleviate my fear and paranoia for more than a few hours at a time.

  While I have been in prison, Uncle Manny and Tyler have faithfully taken a day each week to make the four-hour round trip to see me, and the same people who visited me in the county jail have made the drive several times. Howie Spearman has also visited me most weeks with the hope that his visits and our project have helped me focus on something besides the hell of living in prison. Between visits, I also call Manny and Tyler once a week. I am grateful that I have regularly received letters from Jenny Mackey, Amy Martin, and Grammy. All of them write me a couple of letters a month. No one understands how much the visits and letters mean to an inmate except another inmate.

  As we planned when I was in the Bergeron County Jail, I have collaborated with Howie Spearman to write this book as if anyone is interested in reading crap about my life. Howie says there are plenty of people who will want to read the book, but I still don't get it. I guess some folks in Bergeron County will be anxious to see what I may have said about them, and a few will be worried that I may have depicted them in an unflattering way. I changed some names to protect a few people, but they were mostly inmates or staff members of Rockville State Prison or Bergeron County Jail. Anyway, as Howie said it would, writing has been good therapy for me, and it has certainly helped me pass time that would have crawled by much more slowly.

  I hand Howie a few pages of jumbled garbage each week. He edits what I write, which must be a huge pain in the ass. If I were he, I would probably rather write something in my own words from the beginning instead of rewriting someone else's mess. The book has been a hell of a project for us since we have never written or edited a book, but I'm always amazed at what Howie does with what I give him. When I apologize, he politely says that we are both learning.

  ***

  My first day at Rockville State Prison, the correctional officers led my group of new inmates from the bus into the prison's unnerving atmosphere, so thick with aggression that my senses were on high alert to everything around me. I was overwhelmed by the size, the noise, the smells, and the constant activity of alien creatures of every size, shape, and shade. Many of the resident inmates' bodies were covered with insane ink designs, and just as many of them were obviously into serious weight lifting. I guessed correctly that some of them had help from smuggled steroids.

  It wasn't just a feeling. I knew that hundreds of eyes on either side of us were scanning us from head to toe as my group walked single file behind the lead CO. I discovered that the tension I felt that first day was the norm, and eventually, my blood pressure and heart rate adapted along with the rest of me. The awareness of my surroundings, which an old inmate called my "360," became second nature to me as it did all prisoners who survived.

  There were fifteen of us fresh "fish," who endured the intake and processing procedures that day. Although the experience was similar to Stockwell and the county jail, it was worse in that there was a larger group of us taking part in a longer, more detailed process in a bigger, more threatening environment. I believe that many of the orders that correctional officers gave us were purposely designed to be intimidating, dehumanizing, and humiliating.

  It was clear to me that by the time they assigned us a cell, the COs wanted us to understand that neither our opinions nor our lives meant shit to them. They wanted us to be so afraid of their absolute power that we would not even think of breaking a rule or disobeying a command. They convinced us that they could do anything they wanted to us, and that we had no recourse, because an inmate had no more rights than any other piece of state property.

  Through the process, I focused on taking care of me, but I felt sorry for a few of the young guys whose backgrounds left them unprepared for the experience. There were inmates, who were always close to breaking as they found each experience in their new reality worse than anything they imagined. A few of them appeared to go into wide-eyed shock when the COs ordered us to strip naked out in the open in front of prison staff, some of whom were female, and others who were resident inmates just passing by us. We remained naked while the staff herded us like ponies through all the stations of processing. Stockwell and the Bergeron County Jail were not as bad as Rockville, but I was still more prepared than some of the other guys were.

  As we moved through processing, the COs and the staff members photographed us, fingerprinted us, and performed a physical search of our bodies. The staff buzzed our hair, treated us for lice, and watched us take showers. When we showered, the COs ordered us to scrub every inch of our bodies with some liquid crap that burned like hell. The COs enjoyed laughing at our reactions, and I'm sure they looked forward to watching the same scene every week with each new batch of fish.

  After our showers, we lined up as they examined us for current injuries and identifying scars or marks. It took them quite a long time to make notes of all my scars. I wasn't surprised when one of them was amused by my birthmark and had to show other staff members how it resembled the state of Florida. A doctor, with the help of a female nurse, did the most general of physicals, such as checking vital signs and listening to our hearts. We all gave a few tubes of blood and a urine sample.

  Before we were issued clothes, the COs ordered our butt naked group into this small room that was bare except for two long benches. They told us to take a seat on the benches and stay there until they returned. One of the new inmates pointed out that there was not enough room for all of us to sit without touching each other and asked if he could stand. Then several more fish idiots agreed with him and soon they were talking aloud as if none of them had understood our first instruction of the day, which was to do as the COs and staff told us immediately without question or comment. They absolutely did not permit us to talk without permission.

  From where I sat on the bench, I saw the two COs look at each other, and I knew it would be bad. One of the COs answered the first young inmate by slamming his baton in the inmate's gut, and then cracking him across his face, breaking his nose, which splattered blood on several of
us. When the inmate fell unconscious to the floor at his feet, the CO looked at the rest of us to see if anyone still wanted to complain. No one did. It was crowded, but everyone crammed together on the benches as ordered. Eventually, two trustee inmates arrived to drag the injured inmate out of the room and supposedly to the infirmary. I thought he might have been dead because I never saw him again.

  A skinny, nervous kid of about eighteen sat down on the bench next to me. He immediately whispered to me that he was sorry for crowding me. He desperately wanted me to understand that it wasn't his choice as if I hadn't heard the COs instructions. He was the type of kid who was always sorry for everything he did and lived in fear that someone would take offense and hurt him. I had seen guys like him whose self-esteem was so low that they would apologize for using too much oxygen. I told him to forget about it and shut his mouth before a CO shut it for him. I found out later that his name was Scott, and we had something in common besides being new inmates. He was a mixed-race kid. His father was white and his mother black.

  The COs might have been waiting for the medical people to clear us on some test results before they could issue our clothes, assign us cells, and allow us to mix with the general population. It was also likely that there was no reason for us to sit there uncomfortably pressing against the inmates on each side of us except for the enjoyment of the COs who obviously knew that we hated it. I couldn't see a clock, but I thought we sat there for more than an hour before we moved on to the new inmate supply area.

  The staff issued us clothing, bedding, and basic toiletry items. The clothes were lightweight, burnt orange scrub shirts and matching pants, such as hospital employees might wear. My pants had a tendency to slip down and show the plain white boxers they gave me, but it was futile to ask for something that fit better. For shoes, they gave out dull, black slip-ons similar to house slippers and a pair of cheap flip-flops that they recommended we wear in the nasty showers.