by Chris LeGrow
Daily he watched Clubba play chess with his fellow trustees. That was unusual. Younger inmates didn’t pay them much attention and could care less if they overheard their schemes or not. Everyone, especially the old guys, knew and kept the time-honored prison code: keep your mouth shut.
After chess, Clubba strolled the grounds and commons like he owned it. He’d talk to the leadership of one faction, seeming to take a keen interest in what they said. Then came the handshakes and thug hugs, a quick embrace around the shoulders typical among gangs. It was like he’d just delivered something to them…but what? It drove Earnest crazy.
But there was more, something else about this Clubba. No matter where he was, whether in the commons, speaking to someone on the stairwells or in the hallways, whenever he was asked how he got caught, he always punched his fist into his thigh. Repeatedly. A distinct thudding sound accompanied the action especially when they called him Clubba-Pee. It was enough to silence everyone within earshot, and no one ever laughed. Some inmates thought he had a mental condition, and no one wanted to push the issue.
Earnest observed Clubba daily as he intricately worked with gangs who hated each other. One day he was with the Bloods, the next day with the Crips. Earnest shook his head at the thought. Nobody—nobody—did that! He received similar treatment from each group: thug hugs, smiles, and laughter.
And then he’d leave. Earnest watched him speak over and over to the prison gang leaders—all of them. He couldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t giving them anything, so he must be doing an errand for them. Maybe he gave some items to the lower bangers before meeting up with the leadership. But no.
Again Earnest came up with nothing. He knew what to look for: a handshake where pills got exchanged, a hug with items dropped into the collar of the person being hugged. But there was none of that with Clubba. Earnest watched as the younger man left the area. Maybe he left something on his seat. No sign of it. Maybe he left it by the window or under the table. Again, zip, nada. Earnest frowned and shook his head. Nobody got access like that for free! Nobody! Not ever!
When other prisoners saw the tall, thin Sudanese guy walk by and they started messing with him, they quickly learned that one word to the gang leadership earned a beating to remember. Not dirty looks, not threats, an immediate and thorough beating. Nobody in the joint, it seemed, messed with Clubba.
After two months of surveillance, Earnest was getting nowhere fast. The usual ways and means of learning about another inmate weren’t working for him. Earnest’s surveillance needed to be closer, needed more intimate details. One thing was immediately apparent. Clubba was rarely written up for any violations. That slight English accent gained him differential treatment from the guards. For them, it seemed, talking to Clubba was fun. Totally different than conversations with the usual population. Just by sounding different, he became interesting. Guards went out of their way to talk to him. Unbelievable!
By staying out of trouble, Clubba had quickly gained trustee status. It wasn’t so much that Clubba stayed out of trouble. He actually had the bangers handle his trouble for him. Clever kid, Earnest thought begrudgingly. If Clubba was providing shanks or any metal tools or equipment to the bangers, he had to be doing it through his work detail in the kitchen. It would be an easy delivery from there. That had to be it.
Through his own behavior and status, Earnest easily attached himself to Clubba’s assignments. As he watched from a discreet distance, his trained eye could spot what Clubba might steal whether equipment or other items. Yep, Earnest would know in a heartbeat. After all, he’d been doing it himself for years.
After two weeks, he had the same thing as when he’d started: zero! Clubba put on quite the show as a model prisoner. The guards were duly impressed, and as a result, he gained even more trust. Earnest clenched his teeth in frustration. Clever kid, he silently acknowledged. But Earnest knew how to get good treatment and access to all the details with the guards too. What he couldn’t figure out was what Clubba was doing for the bangers.
On kitchen detail one afternoon, Earnest silently watched in wide-eyed fascination. While cleaning the massive, stainless steel prep table, Clubba slowly but with obvious intention worked his way over to a gigantic white man standing by the sinks. He stood six feet eight and weighed around three hundred and fifty pounds. Earnest immediately knew who he was and what he thought of blacks. Everyone knew. The man advertised it in swastikas tattooed on his huge bald head.
“Big Whitey” took no notice of the dark-skinned Sudanese man who drew close enough to be within talking distance. Earnest stood over a pot of chicken noodle soup and pretended to work. Truth was if it had boiled over, Earnest wouldn’t have noticed. The strange affair unfolding in the room held him fast, mesmerized by the audacity of the younger man and the sheer brute force simmering from the older one.
“You know,” Clubba began in a stronger, more demonstrative English accent, “I simply can’t stand these bloody black African-Americans.”
Big Whitey stopped rubbing the cleaning solution onto the surface in front of him and slowly raised his head to meet the younger man’s gaze, then quickly did a double take and stepped back. “Wha’d you say t’ me?” Big Whitey asked in a low, threatening tone.
Either oblivious to the mounting tension in the room or purposely ignoring it, Clubba continued as though it was simply a pause in their ongoing conversation. “I mean their manners. Despicable. They gallivant about in an absurd manner, constantly claiming to be some kind of brotha’, trousers pulled down below their bums, and what on earth are they even saying? I mean honestly, what they’ve done to the Queen’s English is positively dreadful.”
Big Whitey stared dumbly and stood transfixed. He even managed a nod of agreement.
Clubba inched a few millimeters closer, continuing his one-sided conversation to the massive man. “If we were back where I came from, we would not put up with such shenanigans. I cannot wait to conclude my stay in this ghastly hellhole and,” he took a breath before delivering his brilliant finish, “return to Africa where I belong.”
Earnest rolled his eyes and stirred the simmering pot. The kid had simply walked up to the biggest, meanest Aryan in the place and started a conversation—a conversation! Not an argument. Not a fight. A conversation. What was more, Big Whitey was talking back to him. Earnest sneaked a quick glance at the two, and he was smiling.
“You…you want to go back? To Africa?” Big Whitey asked. “Where you belong?”
Clubba beamed and nodded his agreement.
“Ain’t that somethin’?” he asked with a wide grin. “We been saying that for years!” Big Whitey threw back his head and let out a big laugh.
Earnest had never—not once in a decade and a half—seen Big Whitey laugh. Ever. Earnest shook his head. He couldn’t believe his eyes and ears.
“Te’quan Koak, right?” Big Whitey asked. “I’d shake yer hand if mine weren’t covered in crap.”
“Yes,” Clubba agreed. “Quite nasty.”
CLANG! Earnest’s huge stirring spoon slid from his hand to the floor. The noise snapped him back from his dumbfounded staring.
Big Whitey and Te’quan focused their attention toward the sound and stared at Earnest who was no fool. He wanted in on this, wanted more information on Clubba. “What make you think we want yo’ uppity black African self here anyway?” Earnest shouted in his best street attitude.
Big Whitey’s gaze narrowed into a warning glower. “Want som’ma me?”
The threat to fight received, Earnest turned his gaze to the floor and shook his head, “No.”
Big Whitey pointed toward the door. The game over, Earnest quickened his pace and walked out. He threw Clubba a glance from the corner of his eye signaling we’ll talk later.
“Shocking insolence,” Clubba said to Big Whitey as Earnest passed. “Absolutely preposterous! In my country that behavior would get his tongue cut out or a hundred lashes minimum. People know their place over there and act accordingly
, but here? I mean really.”
Big Whitey seemed fascinated by everything the African said. “Never agreed on nothin’ with a black man.”
“I understand the racial nature of American prisons,” Clubba said, “and from the reaction of that particular person, I’d have a rough time of it if not for the services I provide each gang.”
Big Whitey caught the gaze of a several Aryan brothers. With a jerk of his head, he signaled for them to come over. Three tattoo-laden Aryans surrounded Clubba. Two of them glanced at Big Whitey as though looking for instruction.
He shook his head as in we ain’t gonna hurt this guy. Pointing to Clubba, he asked, “What kind of services?”
“Services?” This was Clubba’s game, and he played it with gleeful anticipation. “Where should I begin? Oh, my manners, gentlemen.” He glanced between two Aryans. “Te’quan Koak, at your service. A pleasure to meet you.”
They frowned and exchanged a confused glance before looking at Big Whitey.
Again the almost imperceptible shake of the head to signal no, don’t hurt him. “Services.”
“My family is from the Sudan. I’m sure you’re aware of the war with those horrible Muslims,” he said, referring to the most recent minority for American scorn.
Big Whitey nodded
“After we escaped,” Clubba continued, “I was educated in England and my family sent me to America for additional education and to see about moving here.”
The Aryans set their jaws in steely unison as though they didn’t like the idea of yet another immigrant, let alone black, family moving in.
Clubba sensed the brewing agitation. “After being here for a year, I realized, who do we think we are to just move to this country?”
Three shaved heads bobbed in agreement.
“I mean it’s a wonderful country, but realistically it’s a white man’s land, especially after they conquered the aboriginals and all. We have no more right to move here than white men—no offense,” he swept his hand in an arc in front of the Aryans “have moving to Africa. Don’t you agree?”
The trio of tattooed heads nodded full-fledged assent.
“After getting pissed one night, I got into a spat with a bloke on the street and hit him with a bat. That’s why I’m here. After that, they called me Clubba and the nickname stuck.” Clubba doubted the white gangs talked to the black ones at all, and that played into his best interests. They didn’t need to know he was an actual associate of all the major black gangs in Omaha. Unless and until he wanted it known.
Big Whitey looked directly at Clubba. “What do you provide the blacks?”
The Aryans exchanged a glance as though their patience was being tried. Clubba took the clue. “It seems,” he said quietly, “that no one here speaks Sudanese—not the guards or the administration. I have a cousin who visits several times a week. I pass information in Sudanese, and he takes it back to their crews in Omaha. Faster, easier, and more secure than sending coded messages or paper that’s going to be seized. Harder to catch as well.”
A moment of silence passed while they digested what had been offered. The Aryans glanced from one to another eventually settling on Big Whitey. “And you’d do the same for us?”
Clubba pressed his palm over his heart. “Exactly. Mister?”
The two Aryans snickered because he didn’t know that he was talking to the leader of the Aryan Brotherhood. Let ’em laugh, Clubba thought. As long as he got what he wanted, let ’em laugh.
“They call me Big Whitey.”
“Apropos,” Clubba said. “Let me know what you want sent and when.”
Big Whitey grunted and turned back to his cleaning.
His covert work successfully concluded, Clubba went back to scrubbing stainless steel. A self-satisfied smile turned up the corners of his mouth. With the Brotherhood in his pocket, he’d woven his influence everywhere. Life was good. They were all his for the taking.
“BUT WE WERE HERE LAST MONTH!”
“Yes, Chief, we were,” Lt. Thorp said, as she drove the Chief and Jake, “but that was for the initial phase of the retired officer program. This is like their grand opening. Everyone who’s anyone in local government will be there—including you. These days we need your face in the media for as many positive stories as we can get.”
Lt. Thorp drove the car through the main gate.
“It’s awesome,” Jake said. “They’ve got like fifty retired officers living there now that it’s up and running. When it was first mentioned in the news, I thought it was a great idea. Now it’s a great facility. Did they actually rebuild an old precinct?”
Lt. Thorp nodded. “Down to the minute details. It’s the coolest thing you’ll ever see.”
The trio drove up to the imposing brick building, and the Chief surveyed the lawn and outer areas. Beautifully manicured with walking trails on the periphery and benches dotting the well-sculpted lawn, it was a place a golf lover would envy. News crews flitted through the area filming outdoor clips and preparing for the tour inside. Community representatives, neighborhood watch groups, and civic leaders rubbed elbows with state officials and an antigang group.
Approaching the main entrance and parking lot, Lt. Thorp pointed to a group of reporters approximately thirty yards south of the main doors.
“I’ll handle it,” Jake said. “I’ve got a brief statement about the Chief recognizing that these retired officers have a great deal of experience to impart through community outreach.”
“That ought to play well with the citizen organizations here,” she replied.
“Right,” Jake said. “I’ll also mention the officers’ wealth of knowledge about crime and the city in general. Hopefully we’ll get a good shot of the Chief and his staff entering the main doors. That should avoid any awkward front door cramming with cameras in our faces and five reporters shouting questions at him simultaneously. You agree?”
“Completely,” the Chief said. “And I’ll give a brief statement afterward.” The Chief liked the way Jake caught onto difficult situations before they happened and always seemed to have a quick solution for them. “We’ll let you off here,” the Chief said.
Jake opened his door and hopped out. The car moved toward the portico, and the Chief turned around. His PIO hollered to the press who immediately called to their camera crews and sound people who gathered around for his prepared statement. Jake spoke directly to the cameras and pointed toward the doors where the Chief and Lt. Thorp would exit.
“Wow,” Lt. Thorp said. “He’s handling the media better than I ever thought he would or could. Looks like he’s got knack for this stuff.”
“That he does,” responded the Chief. “I’m glad he’s with us. That was a good call.”
Lt. Thorp flashed a cheeky grin.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” In full uniform, the Chief stepped out when the driver stopped. Once Thorp joined him, they walked side-by-side to the main doors. Several facility supervisors met them. True to Jake’s prediction, the media didn’t crowd the entryway, and they got a nice camera shot of the procession.
Jake finished his statement and joined them.
“This is absolutely the most impressive teaching and medical treatment facility in the region,” said Dr. Wicker, director of the physicians, nursing, and medical training unit. “With the State of Nebraska Health and Human Services in the adjacent wing, we can quickly resolve any medical or social service needs for the, ah…” Dr. Wicker pointed to the closed doors of the Ol’ Blues precinct, “patients.”
The Chief noted his pause and stifled a chuckle at the particular challenges of having such an unusual population of clientele. If there was anything he knew, it was the cop personality. This collection of hard-nosed ex-officers was like nothing these doctors and nurses had ever seen. “I take it these Ol’ Blues aren’t the easiest group of people to work with?” the Chief asked with a smile.
“You could say that,” Dr. Wicker said. “The hardest part is convincing the
m that they’re actually patients.”
The Chief exchanged a glance with Lt. Thorp who raised a brow in obvious agreement.
Before Dr. Wicker could say more, a reporter caught up with them. “Chief, we need a good shot of you entering the precinct.”
He plastered on a well-practiced smile and turned to the reporter. “No problem,” he said. Catching Jake’s gaze, he motioned him forward. “Now that you’re here, we can go.”
Jake stood behind the Chief, and they turned toward the Ol’ Blue Precinct.
“Oh, dear,” the doctor said in a low, worried tone.
It hit Jake that there might be a problem with bursting directly into the precinct without knowing exactly what was happening on the other side of the entry doors thirty feet away.
The Chief started forward, and the media readied their cameras. “I understand that you let them wear specially designed uniforms.”
“Well…ah…y-yes, Chief,” Dr. Wicker said.
Something about the way the doc diverted his gaze and kept glancing out the corner of his eye toward the media cameras didn’t sit right with Jake. There was more going on here than any of them knew.
The doctor cleared his throat. “There were…well, there still are some disagreements about how to allow that and still maintain correct medical procedures.”
Jake focused on the doctor’s face instead of his words. There was definitely a problem here, and whatever it might be, the doctor was stalling. The media, the Chief, and the entire entourage edged closer to the precinct doors. An entire room full of retired cops who didn’t like being told what to do by civilians met modern medical protocols. If anyone knew how to make the medical staff sorry, it would be the Ol’ Blues. A definite recipe for disaster.
