"How long've you been in?" I asked.
"Five years."
I'd have figured five days, maybe. "How'd you manage to—?"
"Killed my cellie."
"You?" An unintentional laugh erupted from my belly. "Good thing I wasn't eating, I might have choked."
"All right, all right, all right. Show a little respect, will ya?"
"Sorry."
"It was an accident," he whispered, looking over my shoulder. "My cellie in A-block was trying to shank me. I ducked, he slipped on one of my Accounting Times magazine covers, fell and landed with the shank in his neck. Sliced himself in the jugular."
"So how'd you convince everyone that you did it?"
"Before anyone saw anything, I jumped on his body, grabbed his shiv and started slashing him, shouting all kinds of crap. They were all too surprised to question whether I'd actually done it." Possum explained that it had been the most horrible thing he'd ever done, but it probably saved his life. He now had a reputation for being unpredictable and a surprisingly skillful killer.
He couldn't kill a germ with Lysol.
But I wouldn't betray his secret. The prevailing wisdom in Gen-Pop was that, despite his appearance, Artie the Possum was dangerous. And because his dead cell mate had been a lieutenant in La Fraternidad, Salton Sea's most violent prison gang of Northern Mexicans—whose tendrils of crime reached far beyond the confines of the supermax—there were no charges brought upon Artie. It had been recorded as self-defense.
"Five years and still kicking," Artie said as he spread out his belongings. He stopped at a photo of an attractive young woman holding up a baby. "That's Jack," he said, handing me the picture. "He'll be five in November."
Right away, my thoughts went to Aaron who was about the same age. It had been such a long time. I missed him terribly and wondered if I'd ever see him again. "Lovely family," I said, returning his picture.
Possum stared at me and swallowed. "Don't worry, I ain't telling anyone," he said, softly. "Promise."
"Telling anyone what?"
"Look, that columnist—what was his name, Brent Stringer...?"
My stomach clenched. "Yeah."
"He wrote some pretty nasty crap about you in the Tribune that biased the jury. And I don't care if he's a bestselling author, he screwed you."
"The jury agreed with him. So what are you not going to tell anyone about me?"
"That you're innocent."
My brow tightened. "Far as you know, I'm not."
"Oh, you're innocent all right. I see it in your eyes. Couldn'ta done it."
I didn't like the fact that I was so transparent to a person I'd known for less than ten minutes. "Doesn't matter," I said. "I'm a condemned man, in case you've forgotten."
"Eh. You make do. Just look at that Tookie Williams guy up in San Quentin. He's been on the row since '81." Possum spread his arms wide with open palms as if he were about to offer a benediction. "Twenty-one years later, they haven't even set an execution date."
"The appeals system might keep me alive just as long, eh?"
"Unless the cons or the C.O's get you first." With his formidable front teeth, Possum nibbled on his lower lip and wagged his eyebrows. "Me? I plan on living forever."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
For the next several months I had just about forgotten about C.O. Butch Hurley. Aside from the occasional scrape with a couple of Crips and a La Fraternidad freshman, I managed to keep to myself without serious injury. Of course I'd engaged in the occasional fist fight, that was a matter of survival. To lay down and take a beating was inviting much more and much worse. For good measure, I always landed a few good punches before getting taken down.
Now in my second year at Salton, everyone knew who Sam "Silk" Hudson was, and what he was in for. Playing into that image was distasteful. But again, a matter of survival.
Visiting privileges for a Gen-Pop inmates were far better than those in the SHU. The only people who came to see me were Rachel, Pastor Dave and on the rare occasion, Alan and Samantha, from Jenn's Bible Study group. Just a few months back, their baby girl entered the world via emergency C-section. With my blessings, they named her Elizabeth, though I'm not sure they'll ever call her Bethie. They never failed to show up with albums full of photos. Beautiful little thing.
Rachel continued her monthly visits and updated me on all the appeals motions and filings, a couple of possible leads by Mack, who I met a couple of times behind the glass wall. More than the updates, I looked forward to the company. Rachel, Dave and the others were my only connection to life outside. Every now and then, they would ask my permission to pray for me. Sometimes I agreed, other times I declined. Thankfully, in all the times since I'd met them, they'd never tried to proselytize. By far, the best thing that came of these visits were the personal items which Rachel brought me.
My cell was now lined with exactly fifteen photos of my family. Not one more than regulations allowed. These pictures came along with Jenn's family Bible, which was perhaps the most personal of all her earthly possessions. Within its memory pages, she kept notes of family milestones. Aaron's first spoken word, a program from Bethie's first recital.
With her many scribbled-in notes and highlighted verses, reading her Bible was like discovering a side to Jenn I hadn't previously known. The passages which mattered to her most were underlined as well as highlighted. Seemed like her spirit inhabited the pages.
One crisp January morning, I brought Jenn's Bible with me to B-Yard. There I read it while the sun warmed my shoulders. Whenever we were let out, I tried to keep a distance from Artie the Possum, but he stuck to me like a puppy with a tennis ball.
I turned around. Walking backwards I said, "Quit following me."
"I ain't following you, I'm just going to the same place you are."
"Right."
He was looking at my Bible as our feet touched the soft grass strip that led to the concrete picnic table—my favorite reading spot. The lawn had just been cut. Still walking backwards, I shut my eyes, took in the sweet scent. For a moment I imagined that I was back home, or in Maui. Anywhere but a maximum security prison.
"Uh, Silk?" Possum said. I kept walking backwards, letting the sun warm my face. Wasn't going to let him ruin the moment.
"Silk!" Before I could do anything about it, I backed straight into a cement wall.
Only, it wasn't a wall.
I turned around and there was that hulk I literally bumped into several months ago. His muscular arms were folded over his chest, his bald pate shining in the sun and his eye twitching. I dropped Jenn's Bible. Holding up a hand, I backed up slightly. "Hey, man. Sorry, I wasn't looking."
"What are you, stupid?" He pronounced it stoo-pid. There was that unforgettable tattoo on his arm again, a thorn-crowned Christ, with blood dripping down his face.
Not again. My throat went dry. "I didn't see you."
"What's this?" he said, bending down and reaching for the Bible. Great.
He flipped through the pages and scowled. "You believe this stuff?"
"I... well...No, of course—" He looked up and glared at me through the one eye that wasn't twitching and squinting. "I mean, maybe some of it," I said. "Kind of."
For the past year, I'd managed to maintain the air of a dangerous inmate. Tough talk, tough fists. All it took was one look from this guy and my knees turned to jello. "Make up your mind!" He slammed the Bible shut and tossed it back at me. I caught it in my chest and held on as if it might somehow shield me—like garlic from a vampire.
He trudged away, bumped his shoulder into Possum, who fell consequently on his rear. When he was gone, Possum got up and started waving his hands around and cussing. Under his breath of course. The big guy turned around and glowered, Possum gasped and ducked behind me.
Still shaken, my mouth still bitter, I asked Possum, "Any idea who that was?" This was the second time I'd seen this guy and lived to tell.
"You're kidding, right?" he said, still behind me.
"Seriously."
Coming out from hiding, Possum looked to the left, then the right, over my shoulder, behind his back, left and right again. Then he said in a furtive tone, "That was The Bishop."
"Bishop?" Odd tag. "I've run into him before."
"So what'd he break, your nose, your arm?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, right," Possum said and clicked his tongue. "You ran into him before." He started pacing. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was nervous. He was just being Possum.
I planted my butt onto the cold concrete bench. "Any idea why he's called Bishop?" I asked. But before he could answer, my Bible slipped out of my hand. It fell open to a random page. I reached for it and the words seemed to leap out at me. Reading the first few verses, a chill crept up my spine. My scalp tingled.
The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me,
Because the Lord has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
And release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor
and the day of vengeance of our God...
I slammed the book shut and began to breath rapidly. Possum was too busy standing guard like a meerkat on its hind legs to notice. Since I started reading Jenn's Bible, there had been a few times the scriptures seemed to come alive, as it had once in Dave Pendelton's house. Words appeared to lift right out of the pages. Specific words. The last thing I needed was to have another one of those weird experiences out in B-Yard.
"Yo Silk. What's up?"
I shook my head, tried to get my bearings. "Nothing. I'm feeling a bit light-headed." At that very moment, the ground began to tremble. Another tremor, typical to this part of California.
Possum's agitated shuffling accelerated. But my head was spinning and I didn't want to get up too quickly. "Silk, we gotta go."
"What? Why? It's just a little tremor. It'll pass." This wasn't the first time this had happened since I arrived here at Salton, what was his problem? Sure enough, within seconds it was over.
He grabbed my arm and started pulling. "It's not the quake, trust me," he said, his tone rising in pitch and anxiety. "We need to go. Pronto."
I got to my feet and I saw why. Four white guys wearing dark blue CDC sweats were approaching with purpose. Possum swore in triplicate and whimpered. We were surrounded. These guys were the kind that would slash our throats and walk away laughing.
"Don't mess with Silk!" Possum shouted. From behind my back, helpfully.
The leader of the pack approached, picking breakfast bits from between his teeth with his pinky. The only hair on his buzz-cut skinhead was the goatee on his face. He got right into mine. "Hudson, right?"
"Who wants to know?" I said, affecting a stone cold mien.
"Don't matter who I am," said Buzz-head, with a distinct southern drawl. "What matters is who you is...Silk." It was then that I saw the swastika emblazoned on the leader's collarbone. The Fourth Reich.
"You going to stand around yapping all day?" I said. "Get with it!"
"I'll make it simple. It's all going down real soon. We're taking down La Fraternidad. It's time for you to declare your allegiance."
"And here, I thought you had something intelligent to say."
The guy who was next to Buzz-head's leaned forward and said, "Where you gonna stand, son?"
"I'm not standing anywhere. I'm just going to sit in my cell while you idiots kill each other."
Buzz grabbed me by the shirt and shoved me against the chain link fence. "Don't be a smartass, motherf—"
"Get it through your thick skull," I said. "I am not going to fight!" He had me pinned, but I was not about to betray even an ounce of fear.
"Oh, you gonna fight all right," Buzz said. "Time comes, you gonna fight or be killed." He let go and rubbed his whiskery chin. The sandpapery sound made my skin crawl.
"What is this, a public service announcement?" I said.
"Call it a warning, call it an inquiry. When them shanks start flyin', I wanna know if you's a friend or foe." A malevolent grin cracked his features. "Wouldn't want to slash the wrong person out there."
"Silk...!" Possum was now trapped between the other Reich members. They were laughing and pushing him around, watching him cower. I took a step towards him, but Buzz blocked my way.
"See them Mexicans over there?" He pointed to the far side of the yard. A row of them were exercising, doing martial arts moves, perfectly synchronized.
"What about them?"
"Every day, lined up there, drilling, working out. Looks like freakin' boot camp. Think they're doing all that to get into some kinda Feng Shui zone or something?"
"I don't really care what they're doing."
"You'd better. There gon' be a war."
I looked him straight in the eye. "Over what?"
"Territory, respect, control of the yard—how long you been in here, anyway?"
"It's got nothing to do with me."
"So, you with us or not?"
"We'll see." No way I was going to get involved. I just wanted to get away, and quickly.
"Where's your shank?"
"Like I'd tell you."
Buzz shoved me back, rattling the fence again. My stomach tightened in anticipation of a stab wound. "Watch yourself," he said. "You so much as fart in the wrong direction, I'll gut and filet you myself."
"Great," I said, with a defiant sneer. "I like seafood." His boys started laughing. He fired a warning shot with his eyes. They stopped.
"Let's go," he growled. As they left, I was sweating so profusely my shirt stuck to my back. And yet, at the same time, confidence rose up from within.
"Hey, I've got a question for you," I said. Buzz turned around and returned. Possum cringed. "Is Butch Hurley behind this?"
Buzz nodded like a bobble-head dog in the rear window of a pimp's car. He flashed a wide smile, regarded me through the side of his eye. "Butch, eh?"
"Is he?"
The answer came in the form of a right hook to my jaw.
Chapter Forty
I had heard about the prison riots in Pelican Bay, how the fighting continued until inmates were finally shot dead with live rounds. The shadow of such terrifying events hung over me for the following months. Was this part of Butch's plan—to have me shanked during a riot? Or to have me shot by a guard when it all went down?
Every time I saw Buzz, the Fourth Reich leader, who I later learned was called The Furor by his followers, I tried to learn more about the impending war. He would only reply with a question of his own, "You with us?"
Neither of us got our answers.
In the bowels of Salton, the sounds of furtive, yet incessant scraping in the gloom of night kept me awake. All around me, inmates sharpened pieces of metal, plastic and wood against the concrete walls. Shanks, shivs—didn't matter what you called them, everyone had them. Except me. Even Possum had a couple which I didn't want to know about.
More disturbing was the sound of heavy breathing, grunting and groaning. Some mutually consensual, others, clearly not. This sent my head under my pillow and made me thankful that my cell mate was timid. And straight.
Every morning, I'd wake up exhausted, lying in sheets soaked with cold perspiration. The only way I felt secure was to get up around 5:00 AM, before anyone else. I would read magazines, legal journals or Jenn's Bible. One of the inmates thought it would be funny to give me a copy of Brent Stringer's recent novel, Cast The First Stone. It remained on the bottom of my slush pile.
The more I read the scriptures Jenn had highlighted in bright yellow, the more questions arose about her faith. One verse stated, "No greater love has this than a man lay down his life for another." I figured this referred to Jesus Christ. But what did that mean to a believer? Were they supposed to become a bunch of self-sacrificing martyrs? Perhaps I could ask Dave the next time I saw
him. More important matters always came up during the visits and I would forget to ask.
Out of sheer curiosity, and for lack of a better way to find peace and quiet, I began attending religious services. Though the chaplain had worked at Salton for three years, he still seemed anxious around convicts. He never stayed long enough after service to talk to any of us. After delivering his message, he always rushed off and left us to meditate. Under guard, of course.
One September morning, I decided to linger in the chapel to meditate upon the homily he'd just delivered—a quaint message about doing good for no other reason than pleasing God. Easy for him to say—he got to go home to his wife and kids every night. The truth was, I felt depressed, resigned to the idea that my wife and daughter's killer would never be caught and brought to justice, that I would never see Aaron again.
I put my head down, as if I were praying. Actually, I just wanted to rest quietly, away from all the blustering inmates in B-yard. Only one other inmate remained in the chapel. He sat way in the front of the chapel, his head bowed.
There came a sound that at first gave the impression of air hissing out of a punctured tire. Ssssssssssssssss… Not paying it any mind, I yawned and shut my eyes again.
SSSSamuel.
I opened my eyes wide, noticed the inmate sitting in a chair three rows in front of me—just the back of his head, couldn't make out his features. Something about him seemed familiar, though, as if I already knew him. I walked over to him and cleared my throat.
Without turning around he said, "What do you want?"
"You called me. What do you want?"
"Huh?"
"Do I know you?" I said.
He turned to face me and his jaw fell open. "Who—? Holy—!" He slid across the row of chairs, knocking one over. Anger flared up in my chest. I couldn't believe it was him, couldn't believe he was here right before my eyes.
BEYOND JUSTICE Page 16
