Enemy in Blue

by Derek Blass

  She went to put the package down and Shaver made his move. He ripped one of the tazer's prongs from his neck and jabbed it into her arm. He simultaneously grabbed the tazer and activated the electric current. This time both of their bodies stiffened. Her crotch pushed down on his jaw and her knees slammed into the sides of his head. Her face was locked in a grimace. A row of white teeth about to burst from her jaw's own pressure. She collapsed to his side, both of them bouncing on the ground. Some horrific, above-ground synchronized swimming. Shaver felt an acidic foam form in his mouth and then spill out onto the floor. He was completely paralyzed.

  “Hey, yous, whud th' fuck id goin' on down ther'?” Pick started to shake the bars of his cell. “Hey, hey...guards!! Guuuuuarrrds!” Red lights began to flash in the cell block. A group of five guards in helmets with plastic visors, Kevlar body vests and various weapons moved in unison towards Shaver's cell. Shaver was close to losing consciousness. He heard one of the guards mutter, “What the fuck?”

  They pulled Melinda out of the cell and one of the guards screamed for medical personnel. Shaver still had the occasional convulsion as his muscles tensed and then released. His jaw felt like it had been repeatedly punched. Mobility stated to return. One of the guards grabbed the tazer and pulled the prong out of Shaver's neck. Two of the other guards secured his hands and legs with plastic ties.

  Shaver managed to mutter, “She did it.”

  “Sure, sure, guy. I'm sure she did all of this to you for no reason. You're never gonna leave here after this.”

  “That bitch is crazy!” Pick screamed. “She shot his ass from outsid' the cell!”

  “You'll be able to tell your story to the Warden, Pick.”

  “Oh, hell no!” Pick pushed away from the cell door and kicked his bed. The Warden was a damn nightmare. “Look, can'cha jus' take my statement down here?”

  “Nope. Warden visit for you, Pick. I appreciate you opening that flap and letting us know you are a witness though.”

  “Wouldn'a fuckin' mattered. I was gonna see him anyways.” Pick sat down on his bed, dejected. He watched as they wheeled Shaver by him on a gurney. “Damn Warden. Damn yous, Shaver.”

  T H I R T Y-N I N E

  __________________________________________________

  Carmen?” Raul opened his eyes and looked at the room around him. It was a hospital room, pock-marked bricks painted glossy white. The room had a single window with a view out to the campo. Raul turned back to Carmen, who radiated a warm smile. She rubbed his forehead and adjusted the covers.

  “Where am I?”

  “In the hospital, brother.”

  “You came from the United States to see me?”

  “Of course. When the doctors contacted me and let me know you were recovering, of course I came.”

  “Recovering from what, Carmen?” He looked down at his arms which were covered with bandages. His left arm ached and he saw a PICC line. His chest was sore and he found it difficult to breath deeply.

  “You don't remember anything?”

  He shook his head, dismayed. “I feel like I've lost so much weight. Look at my brazos hermana.”

  “Raul, what do you remember?”

  “Honestly, the last thing I remember clearly is being at Shaver's house. Things go dark there. I thought I was dead. Stuck somewhere.”

  She shook her head and wondered what he could take at this point. Then, she recalled how strong he always was, never fearful, always confident. “You've been in a coma for five weeks, Raul. About a week ago you started showing signs of coming out. I've been here since then.”

  He tried to move his legs but they wouldn't respond. “I can't feel my legs, Carmen. Am I on some sort of medication that does that to me?” She walked to a little cart by the side of his bed and poured him a glass of water. He took the glass with an appreciative smile. Tears began to run down her face and she quickly turned away. Raul started to lift his blanket but Carmen spun back around and held his hand.

  “Don't look now, Raul.”

  “What are you talking about, Carmen? De que hablas?!”

  “They couldn't do anything else, Raul. The doctors...they had no choice. They called me and told me that one leg was irrecoverable from the damage it took...”

  “Irrecoverable?”

  “...and the other got too infected to keep. They couldn't do anything.”

  Raul pushed her hand away and lifted the cover. There was nothing below his waist.

  He scrutinized the emptiness for a moment. Then he put the cover down and squinted at Carmen. “It is the strangest thing, because I swore they were there a minute ago. I figured I just couldn't move them. But...they're gone. My legs are gone.” He started to break down. He wept on Carmen's arm while she rubbed his back. “Que voy a hacer?”

  “The doctors have been talking about prosthetics. They didn't want to do anything until they knew how this was going to turn out.”

  “I go to sleep a man and wake up a cripple. What am I going to do Carmen? They won't let a cripple on television.”

  “You don't know that, Raul. Let's worry about other things first, like getting you healthy again.”

  “Healthy?! You mean getting my torso healthy?” He tried to roll over but couldn't. “I can't even move, Carmen! Chingado!”

  A doctor and nurse came into the room. “Hola, cómo están?”

  Carmen flashed a fake smile and greeted the doctor. “Mister Solis, it's fantastic to see you are awake. Do you feel alert?”

  “Yes doctor, I feel very alert. I feel like I've awoken from siesta to a damn nightmare.”

  “Your legs. There was nothing we could do, Señor.”

  Raul moaned and threw his head back onto the stiff, hospital pillow.

  The doctor went around Raul's body checking measurements, levels, temperatures. Analyzing beats, sounds, and pressing cold medical instruments onto Raul's brown skin. Methodical. The doctor put his clipboard down onto Raul's bed and clasped his hands together. “Rehabilitation, Mr. Solis. That will be our goal here. You can start...”

  “Mira, fucking doctor. I don't care about rehabilitation,” Raul growled, mocking the doctor's stiffness. “I only want one thing,” he said while directing his gaze at Carmen. “Find me Shaver.”

  * * * *

  Shaver sat in the cafeteria pushing orange and green bits of vegetables around a corner of his tray. The food depressed him. He looked up and saw Mills staring at him. Then Mills beckoned. He pushed his tray aside and walked over to the group. It was always a group.

  “You can't shun us, Shaver,” Mills said. “Everyone's always watchin'”.

  “I know that, but I've met my end of the bargain.” Shaver looked around and caught glances from the nearby rival gangs. “If I need help again, then we'll talk.”

  Mills smiled a yellow-toothed grin and pulled back his stringy brown hair with one hand. “It dun work thad way Shaver. Yous our bitch. We ain't yours.” Mills stood up and gestured to Pick. Pick slid down the cafeteria table and handed a package to Shaver.

  “Consider id protection.”

  Two guards approached the table and Shaver quickly shoved the package into his pants. “Shaver, you're coming with us.”

  “What for? I'm just eating.” One of the guards looked at him suspiciously.

  “The Warden wants to see you.” Pick quietly moved away from the table, joining Mills and the rest as they walked out of the cafeteria. Shaver put his hands out and the guards handcuffed him.

  “All of this even though I'm a cop?”

  “Shhh. That's liable to get you fucked around here Shaver.”

  “They all know already. Only reason they haven't touched me is because they know I'll probably kill them first.”

  “Anyway,” the other guard started, “the Warden don't know you yet. He ain't about to take chances.” The guards stood on either side of Shaver and grabbed onto his arms. They led him through the cafeteria and into the main corridor. He shuffled his feet even though he d
idn't have to. The guards yanked at him from time to time.

  The corridor seemed to stretch on forever. It was a dilapidated prison. The paint on the walls was faded and the plaster underneath was starting to fall apart in places. The bottom half of the walls were barely green. The upper portions of the walls were grimy, full of hand prints and stains.

  “Don't you guys ever clean this place?”

  “For what? Y'alls comfort? Nah. This ain't a resort Shaver. Too many resort prisons around the country. Where television is expected, three-course meals like y'all got.” They continued to drag Shaver through the corridors. “The Warden don't believe in all that shit. He always says that his primary concern is the taxpayers. They's the ones payin' for all this.”

  “What's his name?”

  “The Warden?” The guard chuckled. “Just Warden to you—and the rest of us. Ain't like we're pals with the man, know what I mean.” They arrived at a lonely set of double doors. One of the guards knocked.

  “Yes?” a voice responded from inside.

  “We got Shaver here, Warden.”

  “Bring him on in then.” One guard pushed the double doors open while the other led Shaver into the room. Light streamed in from three windows around the Warden's office. The window directly behind him was the largest, and the setting sun shone right into it. The Warden was an older man, perhaps early sixties. Sun and wind-glazed face. A pair of penetrating brown eyes set into his rectangular head. His gray hair was partially covered by a tilted back cowboy hat, on the verge of falling off but always under the Warden's control. He had a toothpick in his mouth which he rolled from side to side with his tongue. His hands were busy cutting a cigar. He spit the toothpick out to light the cigar.

  “That's all, gentlemen,” the Warden said out of the side of his mouth.

  “You sure, Warden?”

  He looked up from his cigar. “A cuffed man. A fellow officer of the law. Not much to worry about here.” The guards hesitated, but they left when the Warden gave them one more cross look.

  “You like Sinatra?” the Warden asked Shaver.

  “Not a fan.”

  The Warden went over to an old record player and picked out a record from a shelf loaded with them. He placed the record on the player and laid the stylus down onto the record with exquisite care. Familiar notes of New York, New York played in that wavy and old-time-comforting sound only record players could create. “When I go to your house, you can pick the music.”

  The Warden's office was outdated. Wood panels, an old shag carpet. He had signs everywhere. Some from his own campaigns. Others were apparently signs meant for the benefit of inmates that had to meet him. The Warden adjusted his big glasses and walked to the window overlooking the yard.

  “You know, before I became the Warden, this was the third worst prison in the United States in terms of violence and drugs. In the sixteen years since I've been here, we've turned around to become the second best.”

  “Who's the best?” Shaver asked.

  “Eh, some prison out in Tallahassee. But the point is that with the right person and the right agenda, even the biggest problem can be turned around.” The Warden returned to his chair and leaned back. The cigar was pressed deep and into the side of his mouth. “The problem I'm talking about is all the goddamn immigrants coming 'cross our border. Now, I used to call them all Mexicans but apparently that ain't fucking accurate. I guess some come from Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and on and on. I couldn't give two shits less. To me, they're all brown and they ain't here the right way.”

  Shaver shrugged his shoulders. “I think we've both seen this problem in action.”

  “You bet I have! This jail is sixty-five percent...brown.” The Warden twisted the cigar in his mouth and continued, “I've had to change my staff to employ people that speak their damn language. In my country, no less, I have to accommodate them! I sit here and read the paper. I see these parasites taking jobs, causing violence, bringing drugs into the country, using our health care and finally, ending up in my fucking jail. So not only are they infesting our country—I mean look at the southwest—but we're paying for them to do it! It blows my mind.”

  “Like I said, Warden, I'm on your side. But, what's your point here?”

  “Well, first, I had to drag you in here because of what you did to one of my guards.” The Warden pulled something out from his desk drawer and before Shaver could react, he had the prongs of a tazer in him again.

  “Goddammit, not again.”

  “You pull some shit like that in my prison again and I'll tazer you for an hour straight. If you don't die you'll be so fried that no one will ever get through to you again. See, the beauty of these tazers is that you can do whatever you like with 'em. If people ain't around, I could tazer you for two minutes and they wouldn't be able to tell if it was two minutes or two seconds.”

  “I've done it. Plenty of times.”

  “See what I mean? So you know. Fuck around, and I'll kill ya. But, I don't want that. What I want is for you to serve your time here until your trial is over, and then get your ass out.” The Warden tapped his cigar on an ash tray and then leaned over the desk. “We need more warriors like you out there. You're never going to single-handedly eradicate that problem we're talking about. But, if you strike fear into the hearts of these immigrants, if you let them know that they ain't-fuckin'-welcome, well then, that should take care of some of the problem.”

  “I'm doing my part,” the Warden went on. “Since this wave of shit started to come over the border I've been as anti-immigration as an elected official can be. I've reallocated nearly fifty percent of my budget to tackle issues related to the immigrants. I work with the feds to make sure every possible illegal bastard, and bitch, and kid and grandparent and whatever the else they throw at us is reported and deported.” The Warden stopped for a moment. “You know, I really like that,” he said while taking out a pad and pen of paper. “Report 'em and Deport 'em.”

  “I'm for the cause, Warden,” Shaver said. “There's not much I can do while I'm stuck in here though.”

  “I understand that. And as much pull as I've got, all the pull in the world ain't gonna get you out scot-free. You're gonna to have to submit yourself to the mercy of twelve members of our community. Just hope none of 'em are those pansy liberals that support the immigrants! Or immigrant rights, or human rights, or any of that other shit they throw in our faces.”

  “Like I said, I get all this. Why'd you bring me here though?”

  “Lots of reasons. To put a face to the name. To give you a warning about what you did to my guard.” The Warden put his hand on his crotch and adjusted his pants. “There's one more thing.”

  “Oh yeah? What's that, because this has been a waste of my time so far.”

  The Warden leaned over his desk and grabbed Shaver by the shirt, “You be careful, Shaver! One fucking slip in here and I'll feed ya to the brown or black scum. I know you've got those brain-dead, drug-dealing Nazis on your side now, but that don't mean shit if it's up to me.” He shoved Shaver back into the chair and adjusted his own collar. “You want to hear what I've got, or not?”

  “Sure,” Shaver said as he raised his handcuffed hands to his head and scratched.

  “The grapevine tells me that your case has one big snag.”

  “The video.”

  “Yeah, the video. If they show that video during your trial, you're as good as in here with me for-fuckin'-ever.”

  “Ain't that hell,” Shaver said while baring his teeth.

  “I can keep it out.”

  Shaver grunted. “How the hell you going to keep a piece of evidence like that out of the trial? Give it a rest.”

  “The judge, he and I went to law school together. He's a connoisseur of certain...objects. I used my connections in enforcement to get him off a long time ago. Been under my thumb since then.”

  “Why would you use up a favor like that on me?”

  The Warden pushed back toward his creden
za and spun around in his chair. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a bottle of liquor. “Whiskey?”

  Shaver shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.” The Warden poured some into two tumblers and handed one to Shaver. The setting sun burned the clouds outside of the office. Shaver held the glass up to his mouth and took a sip of the liquor. It set his stomach on fire. A rich, comforting tear.

  “I hate the gangs in this place Shaver. They keep sendin' them to me though. I'll never be able to get rid of them. They call shots from in here to the outside, just as harmful as if they were out. I want you to get rid of them.”

  “Get rid of the prison gangs? I've got five weeks until my trial date. You want me to get rid of the prison gangs in five weeks?”

  “Probably before that, if you want that evidence excluded.”

  “Man, you've got to be joking. How do you expect me to do something like that?”

  “Shaver, you've been in a gang unit before. You know how these animals work.”

  “And you've been watching over these animals for years. What makes me any better?”

  “You've got access to the inner belly, Shaver. That's somewhere I'll never be able to go. You plant a bomb there, take them all out.”

  “It's suicide.”

  “So is staying in this place. Your luck will run out, Shaver. Most of the inmates don't even know your history yet. Soon as they do, you and the pedophiles will be like a fresh slab of meat to a pack of wolves.” The Warden took down his whole glass of whiskey in a gulp. “You got a choice. You can try to make it out of here, or you can guarantee your fate.”

  Shaver shot the rest of his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the Warden's desk. There were two paths in front of him, both fraught with danger. The first, staying in the prison, had a one percent chance of survival. The other, trying to start an all-out gang war in less than five weeks, maybe three percent. There wasn't really anything to ponder. A person would take any risk to get out of hell on earth. “Pretty easy fuckin' choice,” he said with a whiskey-warm smile.