American Criminal

by Shawn William Davis

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  And then is heard no more: it is a tale

  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

  Signifying nothing.

  Burnside thought the phrase “creeps in this petty pace” was an accurate description of doing time in prison. Endless days that “lighted fools the way to dusty death” was also relevant. Counting the days was probably just a wasteful prelude to his own destruction when he was eventually loosed on his enemies. Life in prison was truly like “a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.” All the inmates’ posturing and power plays meant nothing to those on the outside. Prison was like a shadow world that only palely reflected the real world. It was certainly full of sound and fury, and to those on the outside, it signified nothing.

  Six weeks after the bloody massacre in the exercise yard, Burnside was approached by a messenger from the Goodfellas. He was working out at the bench press in the weightlifting area when one of the Bloods escorted a Goodfellas enforcer over to him. A Blood enforcer remained standing behind the mob guy, eyeing him with suspicion.

  “The Boss wants to meet with you,” the enforcer, a muscular, six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound monster, said to Burnside.

  “Okay. When?” Ray asked, wiping his forehead with a towel as he sat on the end of the bench.

  “He said any time that’s convenient,” the Italian said.

  Things certainly have changed. These guys are actually showing me some respect. Burnside thought.

  “How about right now?” Burnside asked.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Okay then. Let’s go,” Ray said, standing and throwing his towel on the bench. “Lead the way,” he added, gesturing for the enforcer to walk ahead of him.

  The mob guy silently led the way across the Bloods’ turf. They entered the yard’s common area and waded through the stragglers toward the bleachers in the back left corner. They reached the bleachers and the other enforcers moved out of their way as they ascended. The Capo sat alone in the center, like before, and Burnside’s guide hung back while he approached the boss.

  “Have a seat,” the obese, balding Capo said in his deep, scratchy voice, gesturing to the open bleacher beside him.

  Ray sat down.

  “You’ve been keeping a low profile since all the excitement of your first month here,” the mob boss said.

  “I’m just trying to keep out of trouble,” Burnside said, smiling.

  “Well, you’re doing a good job,” the Capo said, smiling back. “I must admit I expected a lot more entertainment out of you after all the chaos you caused with the Nazis.”

  “I’m just trying to do my time quietly without attracting any more attention,” Ray said, turning serious.

  “That’s fine. I’m not going to interfere. That’s why I’ve been letting you do your thing. I understand you’ve become quite a bookworm; you’re practically living in the library.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Ray said. “But, yeah, I’m trying to stay out of trouble.”

  “It’s interesting that you didn’t have the same philosophy when you arrived here. You surprised a lot of people with all the destruction you caused.”

  “I got pretty lucky.”

  “It was more than luck,” the fat Capo said, taking out a pack of cigarettes, shaking one out, and lighting up. “You obviously have friends in very high places. Exactly how high they are is a mystery for someone far above my pay grade to solve. I just wanted to let you know you made an impression on my superiors. They would like to offer you a job.”

  Burnside remained silent while he contemplated the statement. The obese Capo took the opportunity to take a few drags off his cigarette and blow out small clouds of smoke, which hovered around them in curling tendrils.

  “At this point I just want to stay out of trouble. I’ve made a…..deal that will hopefully get me out of here soon if I keep my nose clean. I appreciate the offer, but…..”

  “I don’t think you understand me,” the Capo said, pausing to inhale and blow out another stream of smoke. “You don’t have to start right away. Do what you have to do to get out of here, but keep in touch. We’ll have a job for you if you get transferred or get out.”

  “Are you serious?” Burnside asked.

  “As serious as Price’s death,” the Capo said, grinning as he crushed his cigarette out on the metal bleacher seat beside him. “I’m not sure if you realize the full implications of what you did by taking out Price and the rest of the Nazis. With them gone, business is booming. And when business is booming, my bosses are happy, and when they’re happy, I’m happy. You get me?”

  “I think so,” Ray said.

  “Good, because we’re interested in hiring your services when you’re ready. You can make a lot of money working for us. More than you’ll ever see doing anything else.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Burnside said, wondering how he had become so lucky.

  A mob connection might eventually help him to get revenge on the people who put him here.

  Who knows, maybe it could even contribute to reducing my prison sentence? These guys are connected up the ass. They might be able to assist with an escape.

  “All I’m saying is keep us in mind when you’re looking for work. Here’s my number,” the Capo said, handing him a small folded piece of paper. “Don’t lose it.”

  “I’m guessing that your organization has a long reach,” Burnside said, considering. “I’m thinking maybe it even exists in other prisons.”

  “Maybe it does,” the Capo said, smirking.

  “So, theoretically, if I get transferred out of here to a different prison, say a medium security facility somewhere, I might be able to meet up with some of your people and get some work.”

  “You never know what could happen,” the Capo said, turning serious. “That’s it. We’re done. You can go now,” he added, with an ominous finality as he lit another cigarette.

  “I appreciate the opportunity,” Burnside said, standing and nodding at the Capo.

  “Keep in touch,” the Capo said, blowing out a stream of smoke at him.

  Chapter 30

  Perdition’s Flames

  Time went by and Burnside continued reading to stay out of trouble. He hadn’t heard from the Warden in six months since they had their last conversation. The Mob left him alone. The Bloods left him alone. In fact, everyone left him alone, which was the way he liked it. The only remotely interesting thing that happened in the past half-year was that many of the inmates from the disbanded Skins gang had met with mysterious and unfortunate accidents in prison. Apparently, some interested parties were getting payback for all the abuse the Skins inflicted when they were in power. The body count so far was eight and would probably rise.

  Burnside maintained a positive relationship with his cellmate, Frank. He still hadn’t learned the full story of how or why Frank was working undercover for the Warden, but he had some clues from various conversations. Like him, Frank had made a deal for a transfer to a medium-security prison if he cooperated. But why was Frank chosen for the deal in the first place? Ray was chosen because he used to be a cop and he was in a desperate situation that almost guaranteed cooperation. Was Frank also a cop before he was a prisoner? If that was the case, Frank stayed silent on the issue. Ray didn’t blame him. If anyone knew he was a cop, he wouldn’t last a day in this place.

  Ray and Frank ate every meal together in the cafeteria. This was done for mutual protection, as well as friendship. They watched each other’s backs in the food line and sat at a table in the corner against the wall for increased protection. Walls covered two directions, so that left only two areas to cover; right and straight ahead. Their table also acted as a natural barrier to potential attack. Despite his reprieve and new status, Ray was still paranoid after what happened during his first month in prison.

  Burnside realized his paranoia wasn’t comp
letely unfounded when he and Frank caught several ex-Skin members giving them the evil eye in the cafeteria food line. There were five of them. They no longer had shaved heads because that would have been an invitation for violent payback from other inmates. Their lengthier haircuts allowed them to blend in, but Frank recognized them right away and pointed them out.

  “They think they’re being slick by hanging back,” Frank said, watching the Skins in his peripheral vision while a cafeteria worker slopped food onto his plate.

  “It’s too bad the inmate population didn’t finish the job they started,” Ray said, also watching them discreetly as he carried his tray down the line.

  Ray didn’t have to be an old-timer to interpret the glaring, predatory expressions of the ex-Skin members. He could almost see the wheels turning in their heads as they tried to figure out how to kill him. He caught the same group checking out his semi-secure eating location against the back wall the next day. The ex-Skins tried to appear nonchalant as they brought their trays to the table directly opposite them, but Ray caught them shooting him furtive glances between conversations.

  Inevitably, the day came when the ex-Skins decided to try their luck. Ray noticed a change in their demeanor and warned Frank.

  “Today’s the day, partner,” Ray said, as they carried their trays toward the back table.

  “Day for what?” Frank asked.

  “The day our buddies finally get up the guts to make their move.”

  Frank glanced to the right and saw two of the ex-Skins taking seats at the far end of the adjacent table. The other three were still in the tray line, awaiting their food, but he caught one of them glancing at him over his shoulder.

  “They’re going to try to box us in,” Ray said. “Those two at the table will come at us from that side and the other three will cut us off there.” Ray pointed down the aisle between the table and the back wall.

  “That would make sense,” Frank said, setting his tray down on the table, but remaining standing. “What’s our plan?”

  Ray set his tray down next to Frank’s and stood beside him, eyeing the three Skins in line.

  “Those three are probably going to move to the end of our table, cutting us off from that direction. They’ll put their trays down, as if they’re going to eat, and instead they’ll rush us. The other two will cut us off from the other side to make sure we don’t try to escape by vaulting the table and sprinting down the aisle.”

  “And how do you know all this?” Frank asked.

  “That’s how I would do it,” Ray said, flashing Frank a half-grin.

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” Frank said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ve seen inmates boxed in and killed before in this place.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising,” Ray said.

  “It’s not. If we fight them head-on, we’re going to lose. At least some of them are going to have shanks. If they get us in this corner, one of them will hit their mark. We have to climb up on the table and make a run for it.”

  “Oh shit, here they come,” Ray said, watching the three would-be assassins moving toward the end of their table from the line.

  “Let’s sit down and start eating as if we don’t have a care in the world,” Frank said. “I’ll keep an eye on them, but they won’t know it. When they make their move, we’ll go over the table.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Ray said.

  They sat down and began nibbling at their food, keeping an eye on the ex-Skins as they arrived at the end of their table.

  “I can take those two on the other side,” Ray whispered. “There’s more room to maneuver over there. Why don’t you make a run for it over the table and draw off the other three.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “I’ll draw them off into that line of guards on the other side of the cafeteria. Get ready.”

  Burnside tried to appear casual as he stabbed a tiny piece of mystery meat and shoved it in his mouth. He had trouble swallowing because his mouth had suddenly become very dry. Their opponents sat down at the end of the table and began eating. Ray pretended to stare across the cafeteria, but watched them in his peripheral vision.

  “Any second now and they’ll get up the guts to make their move,” he said.

  “Here they come!” Frank whispered, harshly, as the ex-Skins rushed them, the one at the vanguard carrying a shank.

  Ray vaulted over the table into the next aisle, while Frank climbed onto the table and ran straight down it toward the attackers. The advancing inmates appeared stunned for a moment and hesitated, but the one at the front must have figured out what was happening because he climbed onto the table to intercept Frank.

  “Don’t worry about him!” Ray shouted as he ran down the aisle toward the other two inmates, who were also making their move.

  Ray caught a gleam of metal in one of their hands. Frank froze in position as the assassin with the shank advanced on him across the table, kicking food trays out of his way. The other two Skins were also heading toward Frank from the aisle.

  Ray rushed the two assassins in the next aisle, head-on, and reached out with his extended right arm as he ran by the one standing on the table. Ray seized the man’s ankle in an iron grip and pulled hard before barreling into his foremost attacker. Frank rushed the collapsing inmate. The other two Skins tried to grab Frank, but he leaped over their outstretched arms like a gazelle. Frank kicked the collapsed inmate in the face and shoved him off the table. He turned toward Ray and saw him grappling with an inmate in the next aisle. He saw the ex-Skin attempt to stab Ray with a shank, but Ray seized his wrist and held him back. Meanwhile, the other inmate came up on Ray’s right side, pummeling him in the ribs. Ray gasped for breath and tried to fend off the blows with his free arm, while retaining his grip on his attacker’s shank-hand.

  Frank took a few short steps across the table to reach the struggling combatants and dove headfirst into the inmate who was punching Ray. Frank’s momentum sent the stunned inmate into his buddy with the shank, knocking them both to the ground. Ray released the guy’s wrist and turned toward two more inmates vaulting over the table. Frank took the opportunity to begin kicking the fallen Skins in the head. The inmates coming at Ray weren’t armed, so he had little trouble taking them out. He dropped them both with a flurry of well-placed punches and turned to see how Frank was doing.

  At that moment, the inmate with the shank, who Frank shoved off the table earlier, lunged across the table at Ray. Ray dodged aside and punched the inmate in the left temple as he stabbed at him. The inmate collapsed and Ray turned to see Frank incapacitating the other two with fierce kicks. As if on cue, a line of baton-wielding guards arrived at the end of the aisle.

  “Place your hands in the air and drop to your knees!” the one at the vanguard commanded.

  Ray and Frank complied with the order and were quickly tackled and cuffed. They couldn’t see what happened to their attackers as the guards dragged them, none-too-gently, across the cafeteria. When they reached the outer corridor, Ray spoke up.

  “Hey, we didn’t start the fight! They came after us!”

  “It don’t matter, pal,” one of the guards said, shoving Ray roughly from behind. “You’re still going to the hole.”

  Solitary again, Ray thought. I thought I had shaken that habit.

  Ray thought for sure he was going back to the hole when suddenly a familiar figure stepped across their path. It was the IA Chief.

  “Where are you taking them, sergeant?” the Chief asked.

  “To solitary. They’ve been in a fight.”

  “Negative,” the Chief countered, with authority. “The Warden wants them brought back to their cells.”

  “You can’t be serious,” the sergeant said.

  “Don’t test me, sergeant. Just do it. Or find another job. Your choice.”

  “What the fuck,” the sergeant muttered under his breath as he turned his back on the IA Chief and dragged Burnside roughly down a side corridor. The other guards di
d the same with Frank. They reached the cell, the handcuffs were removed, and the prisoners shoved inside. The sergeant glared at them as he walked away and Ray grinned back at him.

  “It ain’t like the old days when those guys could push us around,” Frank said, taking his customary seat at the back of the cell and opening a magazine, Road and Track.

  “Hell, no. Not with our new guardian angels looking over us,” Burnside said, lying on his bunk and placing his hands behind his head.

  They found out later the ex-Skins had been thrown into solitary for two weeks; more than twice as long as Ray had spent there before. Ray never saw them in the cafeteria again, so he assumed they had been assigned a different time slot to eat.

  Burnside continued to visit the prison library whenever possible. Eleven months into his stay, he found an unexpected treasure in the classic novel, Moby Dick, by the famous American author, Herman Melville. Ray was surprised when he found he could identify with the novel’s monomaniacal Captain Ahab. When he read the book in high school, Ahab had seemed like a complete lunatic to him. However, now, in light of his current situation, Ahab’s obsessive pursuit of the whale that bit off his leg seemed perfectly reasonable. Burnside felt the same way about his desire to confront Pierce, Devlin, and the rest of the conspirators who put him here.

  Ray felt a rush of empathy when he came to Ahab’s impassioned speech to his men: “Aye, aye! And I’ll chase him round Good Hope, and round the horn, and round the Norway maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up.”

  Aye. Round perdition’s flames then. So be it, Burnside thought. Devlin, Pierce, and the rest will die when I get out of here.

  Ray decided he needed a survival plan in case he ever escaped from the minimum security prison he was being transferred to. The mob Capo told Ray he could call him if he ever got out and needed work outside the prison. Ray still had the tiny crinkled piece of paper with the Capo’s contact number on it that he obtained almost a year ago. Ray needed something more permanent, so he sought the expertise of the local prison tattoo artist. In exchange for a pack of cigarettes, the artist tattooed the Capo’s number in tiny black print on the palm of his left hand.