* * *
A violent pounding on the cell door. The nerve-jangling steel snap of the food slot, and another plastic airline tray hurtles across the concrete, collides with the far wall, releasing a spray of Rice Krispies. The fuzzy white orange rolls like a tennis ball under the toilet.
"Ten minutes for chow, convict, then roll it the fuck up! Train's coming for all you fish!" The deputy's voice recedes down the corridor, then repeats the instructions to another reluctant guest in another cell. I'm so hungry I collect every errant bit of cereal from the floor and wolf it down with the help of a handful of suspiciously cloudy cold water from the rusted sink. I manage to wipe most of the white sludge from the orange onto my paper pants leg before peeling it. Devour the distinctly unjuicy fruit, seeds and all, in three bites.
Not yummy.
The cell door slides open and the same beefy young deputy flings a bright orange coverall against my chest.
"Lerner! Get the fuck out of your J-Cat costume! A new fish like you is gonna get eaten in the joint anyway— no need to advertise you been locked down with the nutcases." At that moment I had no idea what a huge favor the cop was doing for me. A fish with a "J-Cat jacket" in the joint does not inspire much respect on the yard.
I'm out of the paper J-Cat suit and into the orange jumpsuit in seconds. PROPERTY OF THE LAS VEGAS COUNTY JAIL is inscribed in black letters on the back. Like somebody would actually want to steal one of these things?
The deputy stands at the cell door, smoking an unfiltered cigarette, watching me dress. I haven't had a cigarette since being taken into custody, and I suddenly want one more than anything, except maybe some bacon and eggs and an English muffin dripping warm with butter. I have always suspected that high cholesterol is one of those made-up medical scares designed to keep us from life's small pleasures.
"Deputy, can I have a cigarette?" With the enhanced status conferred by the cloth jumpsuit, I can feel the old confidence surging through me. The deputy, who looks like he started shaving this morning, removes a Camel from the pack, hands it to me.
"Sure, why not? By tonight in the joint, you'll probably be married to the convict with the most cigarettes."
"Thanks, Deputy, but I hope to remain celibate in prison." This witticism provokes a puzzled scowl from the cop as he nevertheless lights my cigarette.
"Celebrate? Ha! A skinny fish like you, never been down, never even been arrested before, fuck!— the cons in the joint will be celebrating around your asshole. Now roll it up!"
"Roll it up," I have come to learn, means the same thing to all convicts in all jails and prisons: you are moving! Gather up your state issue— sheets, towel, blanket, mattress— and personal belongings, if any, and go somewhere and wait. And wait.
Since I was not burdened with any of these state amenities (unless my toilet paper roll could be considered a towel), I proceeded directly to the cuff-and-chain exercise. Hands on head, facing the wall, while the deputy trussed me up like a Christmas turkey.
The cop a few feet behind me, I marched down a long corridor past other cells, then finally into an open rotunda area where a long steel bench was bolted to a wall beside a door marked PROPERTY. A red line painted on the floor separated the bench from an administrative area bustling with cops and clerks at desks. Behind the clerical area a short hallway led to the world of light and freedom— the parking lot.
Seven other inmates, six in orange jumpsuits, belly chains linked to ankle shackles and cuffed hands, are chattering away on the bench, clearly excited to be getting on the prison "train." Six young white guys, one skinny black teenager in a yellow jumpsuit. With the exception of the black kid, who leans back against the wall, languid and aloof as a cool breeze, they all seem desperately anxious to catch up on old times. Like they're at some high school reunion from hell or Old Home Week at Convict U., these white boys are all shouting at once.
"What's up, dawg? Whatchu down for this time?"
"Caught a new case outta Reno, dawg, looking at a fucking nickel. Pure bullshit— know what I'm sayin'?"
"Yeah, dawg, caught a P.V. myself."
"Parole in Nevada is a trick bag, bro! They violating motherfuckers from the jump, all bogus shit, dawg, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"
"It's scandalous, dawg!"
"It's outta line!"
"Way outta line!"
"That's what I'm talking about, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?"
"This bitch back in Kansas musta dropped a fucking dime on my convict ass— y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin'?" This reference to the apparent treachery of a woman triggers a fresh outcry from the convict choir on the Group W bench.
"That's outta line, dawg, falling behind some bitch snitch!"
"That ain't right, Kansas, know what I'm sayin'?"
I'm starting to figure out that all this "know what I'm sayin' " stuff is not really a question, or even a rhetorical device— it's just white noise designed to fill in conversational gaps.
The chorus of convict righteous indignation swells and washes over me as I lean back against the wall, crushed between the black teen and the huge white boy they call Kansas. I'm definitely a stranger in a strange land and they all know it, studiously ignoring me while secretly sizing me up.
With the exception of Kansas, all the white boys look like they emerged from the same sad inbred trailer park community where breakfast is an intravenous injection of methamphetamine followed by a Hostess Twinkie. Five speed-thin, heavily tattooed young guys with a total of maybe twenty-five teeth among them. Greasy, matted shoulder-length hair (secured by filthy rubber bands) and five identical goatees scraggily aspiring to a bad-ass look. The goatees, in addition to lending a certain satanic aura, serve the aesthetic purpose of concealing the almost total absence of chins.
Kansas is decidedly different. A skinheaded giant with a three-inch blue swastika tattooed on his neck, his massive head and shoulders dwarf everyone else on the bench. His dark brown goatee is razor-trimmed, and there appears to be an actual jawline with teeth and a chin beneath it. Handsome in a bald Arnold Schwarzenegger kind of way.
And undisputedly the leader.
"Dawgs, we got nothin' comin' now." Kansas sums up the collective woe with this observation, which rouses the heretofore stuporous black kid to speech.
"Y'all be tripping, muthafuckin' white boys acting like dey going to a punk-ass par-tay! Only party y'all fittin' to be at, be the par-tay up yo white asses, and all yo friends be comin', know what I'm sayin'? That's right, all yo frens is comin'!"
And all the white boys lean forward on the bench, chains rattling in outraged solidarity. They shoot Murder One stares at the solitary black face, while glancing at Kansas as if for guidance. Kansas, hey, dawg— you gonna let this punk-ass nigger dis us, bro?
Kansas unleashes a roar of laughter that's so violent the swastika on his neck starts to vibrate.
"Fucking T-Bone! Whassup, Bone? I heard they caught your black ass in some crack house. Whatchu down for, Bone?" For the first time I notice that T-Bone's yellow jumpsuit is stenciled, front and back, with large black letters: CAPTURED ESCAPEE. This designation, along with the yellow color, is the jailhouse equivalent of a designer label, demanding special status for the wearer.
"Aiiight now, Kansas! What up! I hear you talking shit 'bout catching a pee-vee! Like a pa-role violation be some kind of muthafuckin' cold! You white boys be something else! When Mighty Whitey falls, it's always behind some bogus bullshit, know what I'm sayin'? Yo, Kansas, this time they're fittin' to strain me up and put me in a muthafuckin' cross behind an ax-cape charge! Shee-it! Cain't a muthafucka walk up out of a fire conservation camp to get hisself some pussy? There's no muthafuckin' fences, no walls at a fire camp! How the fuck they tryin' to call that an ax-cape? I call it a muthafuckin' conspiracy against the black man!"
Kansas just takes in this little speech, leaning forward, looking directly at T-Bone as if he empathizes with every word. I recognized this active listening technique from a corporat
e seminar last year titled "Enhancing Interpersonal Communication Skill Sets." They also lectured about how important it is to be able to "pick up minimal environmental cues." I don't remember any giant Nazi skinheads in the audience, but I may have been hung over that day.
"That's right, Bone, a straight-up conspiracy! That's fucking scandalous, bro!" Kansas's validation of the Bone's pain is apparently a signal to the other white boys to start their echoing routine.
"…straight-up conspiracy, dawg, that's outta line!"
"Way the fuck outta line!"
"That ain't right, dawg. The Bone didn't even climb no fences, no fucking walls— just walked outta the camp. That ain't no escape!"
"It ain't right— Bone got nothin' comin' now, dawgs."
"The motherfucker just went out to get some pussy and now he's all strained up!"
The Bone, delighted by this unexpected flood of sympathy, shakes his bushy head mournfully.
"Well, it ain't nothin' nice, know what I'm sayin'?"
All these dawgs seem to know what the Bone is saying, so he now gives a dismissive wave of his hand. "Hey, but it's all good— it's all good in the hood, wood!"
At the mention of "wood," the white boys tense up, swiveling their badass goatees in the direction of Kansas again. Will this wood (short for "peckerwood"?) insult go unpunished?
Kansas, Chairman of the Convict Board, just laughs again.
And all the white boys laugh with him.
* * *
The cops were in a big hurry to get everybody rolled up. Now that they have collected the precious blankets and sheets and towels (from those deemed nonsuicidal enough to have them), they seem content to busy themselves at their desks with paperwork while we wait in cuffs and leg shackles on the bench for a couple of hours. Hurry up and wait seems to be the standard operating jailhouse philosophy. We're ostensibly waiting for the property sergeant to collect our jumpsuits and give us back the clothing we were wearing when arrested or sentenced.
I recall the same philosophy from my army days, a lifetime ago, except we had spiffier uniforms and really cool boots.
And guns.
Speaking of boots, or shoes, I seem to be the only one on the Group W bench without any. All of my new colleagues are wearing blue canvas slip-ons. Of course, the dawgs eventually focus on my bare feet— once they finish analyzing a recent Jerry Springer Show and then debate the realism of WWF violence and finally swap heated opinions about the future of NASCAR (bright).
Kansas leans his monstrous bulk forward on the bench, his left shoulder crushing my ear in the process. I manage to push my glasses back on before they slip off.
"Hey, dawg, didn't they give you no fucking shoes?" And everyone on the bench leans forward, chains clattering, to study my feet, as if for some precious clues. Here it comes, I thought. The deputy remembered the paper SW suit but forgot about giving me shoes.
"No," I answer. Keep my answer short. Never complain, never explain, another mantra I picked up somewhere in the army, or maybe at the phone company. Or wherever it was I received training in cover-ups.
"Whatchu mean 'no,' dawg?" The giant leans back against the wall so that his big blue swastika is now level with the top of my head. My initial (and possibly suicidal) impulse is to provide the same response I used to delight in giving my little girls when they questioned a parental "no": What don't you understand, the "n" or the "o"?
I wisely decide to stifle this impulse.
"They said I had to wait to get them from the property sergeant."
This was technically true, but the Kansas Nazi isn't buying it. He stares down at my feet with the intensity of a cat contemplating a baby bird that has just fallen out of its nest. "The jail gotta give ya shoes, dawg! It's like a fucking rule or something. Except for the J-Cats. J-Cats got nothin' coming. You a fucking J-Cat? What cell they been keeping you in? We ain't seen you out for chow or nothing."
My wife, before she elected to become my former wife, once observed that relationships that begin with a lie tend to not flourish. So I opt for an honest answer.
"SW3." And all the dawgs on the Group W bench (I just can't seem to shake Alice's Restaurant) fall silent, again awaiting the reaction of the Kansas Nazi.
It is T-Bone, the Captured Escapee, who mercifully breaks the ominous silence.
"They ain't just putting J-Cats up in there. Suicide Watch also be for muthafuckas with capital crimes and shit, like cold-ass killers. I ain't trying to put nobody on front street, but my homeboy, C-Note, was locked up in there. The state ain't fittin' to be cheated out of killing a muthafucka, know what I'm saying? C-Note said they had his ass strained up tight in that SW muthafucka. Cain't even come out the cell to eat. Ain't nothin' nice about it."
Kansas and the choir dawgs greet this outburst from the Bone with wide-eyed wonder. The Bone apparently knows something about jail that even Kansas doesn't. Kansas studies me with a new respect.
"That's scandalous, dawg! Fuck, they still gotta give you shoes, though. Just because a man fucking wastes someone don't mean his feet don't get cold. That ain't right!" The tension broken, all the dawgs erupt in outrage.
"That's fucking outta line, bro. They got to give you shoes. You oughta file a fucking grievance or something!"
"Sue their state asses!"
"Way the fuck outta line!"
"Man's a righteous con!"
"Fo sho!" adds the Bone, proud to have instigated this rich level of sharing.
The chorus probably would have regaled me for an hour had the Camel-smoking deputy not interrupted.
"LISTEN UP, DICKWADS!" Clipboard in hand, the cop surveys the bench like a drill sergeant disgustedly appraising a busload of new recruits. Satisfied the dawgs have ceased their howling, the cop starts issuing orders:
"I want all you cum-sucking maggot convicts down on your fucking knees, right now!" Chains rock and roll as we drop.
"FACE THE FUCKING WALL— HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" We somehow manage this without smashing into each other.
"All right, jerkoffs! After I uncuff you, you still don't move, you keep your hands on top of your heads until your name is called— then you proceed to the property counter, pick up your civvies, and change in the holding cell to your left. There will be a cavity check in the holding cell for the benefit of any ignorant motherfucker that thinks he can ass-keister a hypo or crack pipe or even a naked photo of his sister Kate doing the shimmy."
This last advisory completely lost the dawgs. "Po-lease best not be disrespectin' my sister," the Bone mutters.
"Shut the fuck up! Any of you retards even think of bolting, or even moving too fast, well, we got something for your convict ass."
Behind the cop there is the sickening sharp crack of a shotgun snapping into a killing position. The muzzle pokes down at us from a Plexiglas enclosure built into the opposite wall about fifteen feet above the floor. We all peek. From my position by the bench it seems the barrel is trained directly on my head. All the muscles in my stomach and parts south cramp as the copper taste of fear rises to my mouth.
Satisfied with the efficacy of the sound effects, Deputy Camel continues. "Any motherfucker tries to slow-play me or the property sergeant, I'll lock your ass down all day and fuck your train! Face the fucking wall, I said!"
Behind me I hear the familiar jangling of keys as the deputy moves down the kneeling row to uncuff and unchain us, one by one. My hands on top of my head, knees on the hard concrete floor, I stare at the wall, careful not to move. I'm the first one called.
"LERNER… JIMMY! Pick up your shit and get in the holding cell." I stand slowly and take four steps to the Property Office counter. The property sergeant, a pudgy little cop in military-style khakis, hands me a clear plastic bag containing the suit, shirt, tie, underwear, socks, and shoes I wore to court for my sentencing.
You Got Nothing Coming Page 2
