by Tom Barber
However, he hadn’t been given that opportunity; he’d spent the rest of Friday and all day Saturday in the Precinct. Then late last night, officers had come to his cell, saying he was being transferred until his hearing on Monday due to overcrowding at the East Village Precinct.
Instead of another police station, they’d brought him here.
The moment Archer realised where he was headed, he’d understood just how badly he’d screwed up and why other detectives had warned him to watch his back after his suspension. As punishment for getting Rach to access the case-file and then speaking to Karen Casey, let alone the humiliation of getting flattened by Archer in front of his subordinates, the fat Lieutenant had pulled some strings and arranged for Archer to be admitted to Rikers for a weekend stay.
And this place wasn’t exactly a country retreat.
As the gate locked behind him, Archer continued to walk forward, keeping his shoulders back and staring straight ahead, ignoring some cat-calls and wolf-whistles. From the moment a fresh inmate arrives in any prison, the cycle begins; existing inmates look for ink, ask about background, assess the newcomer physically to judge where he’d fit into the pecking order. Until now, Archer had only ever seen it from the other side.
As he moved forward into the heart of the yard, he realised word hadn’t got out yet that he was an NYPD detective. If it had, he’d have known about it already. Putting a cop inside a jail for the weekend was like throwing meat to a pack of starving wolves and Archer had realised last night when he’d been locked in his single-man SHU cell that because he was suspended, Royston could dump him in here with no real consequences. Whether this was teaching him a lesson or exacting the ultimate revenge was irrelevant.
The reality was he was here until tomorrow morning and he knew he’d be lucky to make it that long.
Straight ahead of him were some empty bleachers which he made a bee-line for, avoiding eye contact with anyone and maintaining a totally blank expression despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Arriving at the wooden slats, he stepped up and took a seat on the second row, relieved to have his back to the fence and his eyes covering the yard.
It was sunny but chilly, the DOJ overalls providing scant protection against the cold wind and he shivered, goose-bumps appearing on his forearms as he rested them on his knees. The yard in front of him was about the size of half a football field, all concrete with razor wire on the high walls, a basketball court and two free weights sets. The ball game was shirts against skins, the torsos of the men not wearing vests or overalls adorned with scars and tattoos, all thickly muscled and all intimidating.
Taking a quick glance around, Archer was relieved to see most of the activities had resumed but he was aware of several pairs of eyes still fixed on him. He’d already noticed the different races were keeping to themselves, the white boys over on the left with a load of weights, the black guys playing ball, the Latinos using another set of weights on the right. One particularly large and intimidating Mexican guy over there was sitting on a bench staring straight at Archer, so many plates on the barbell racked behind him they were bending the bar.
A guy next to him leaned down and whispered something, the larger man nodding as he studied Archer sitting alone on the bleachers opposite.
Keeping his face blank, Archer felt a jolt of nerves run through him. If one whisper about who he really was spread around this place it would be a feeding frenzy, outnumbered hundreds to one; he’d get torn apart. Luckily he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and his hair was overdue a trip to the barber so he didn’t stand out quite as much as he normally would, but time was running out and he knew it.
As he glanced around the prison yard, the sun going down behind him, he pictured Shepherd, Marquez and Josh out there enjoying their weekends with no idea that he was in here.
C’mon, guys, he silently willed, feeling eyes upon him and sensing danger building with every second.
Get me the hell out of here.
‘Answer, goddammit!’ Marquez shouted, swearing as she waited for her call to Rikers to be answered. She’d been put on hold, the clock ticking as Josh burned it uptown.
‘Hello?’
‘This is Detective Lisa Marquez, NYPD, acting on Department orders,’ she said quickly. ‘I need you to pull one of your overnighters right now. I don’t know which facility he’s in but he’s on site.’
‘Name?’
‘Detective Sam Archer, Counter-Terrorism Bureau.’
As Archer sat on the bleachers, a whistle suddenly echoed around the yard. It immediately ended the activities, the inmates trudging back towards the gate, guards shouting orders as the men formed an orderly line, the ball abandoned on the concrete, slowly rolling to a stop. Archer had only just caught the end of rec time and he smiled; he’d survived.
Staying by the bleachers and ignoring the shouts of several guards for him to move, he waited until most of the other men had gone, joining the back of the line to avoid the possibility of someone getting the drop on him. As he edged slowly forward towards the door, he noticed several of the Latinos looking back at him. He certainly seemed to have caught their attention
‘Move it!’ a guard ordered, the gates ahead buzzing and the inmates walking slowly into the building. As Archer moved into the prison, looking forward to heading towards the safety of his one-man SHU block cell, the line ahead deviated to the left instead, down another cleanly-scrubbed corridor with grills covering the windows.
As the inmates in front of him walked on, Archer suddenly stopped, one of the guards bringing up the rear bumping into him from behind.
‘I thought we were going back to cells.’
‘It’s 6 o’clock, princess. Shower time.’
‘I’m good, but thanks.’
The guard’s hand moved to the baton, pulling it out, the metal making a quiet whish as it slid out of the leather. ‘This isn’t a hotel, asshole. And that wasn’t a request.’
As he spoke, the man suddenly hit him hard in the gut with the baton, causing Archer to gasp with pain and double over.
‘You don’t move right now, I’ll put you in Gen-Pop after chow and let feeding time commence,’ the guard said. ‘You’ve already made some fans.’
Straightening and looking at the man, Archer waited for a moment then walked forward, his heart beginning to thump overtime with adrenaline. In that moment all thoughts of his police team, Isabel and Vargas vanished.
His sole focus was on staying alive for the next ten minutes.
NINE
When in a hostile environment, a human being is hard-wired to seek protection. If the threat is because of the elements, they search for a way to ward off the cold or heat; if the threat is physical, they seek cover or a weapon to fend off an attack.
But as he stripped down outside those prison showers, his heartbeat going like a rock-band’s drum solo at the end of a world tour, Archer knew that he’d have none of those things in the block next door. He’d been in extreme levels of danger before; falling out of a plane without a chute, jumping off a twenty two storey balcony onto another, dumping a body sewn up with explosives down a manhole seconds before detonation.
But he was about to be a completely naked, unarmed cop in a room surrounded by some of the toughest, most aggressive criminals in the State, men who didn’t need a weapon to kill someone.
He’d never experienced anything like this.
As he peeled off his orange DOJ overalls and white t-shirt underneath, he glanced at the guard who’d hit him and saw the man’s eyes flick to the scars on Archer’s body, the result of previous altercations. His hand was also resting on the grip of his night-stick, Archer guessed in case he was going to raise any more objections about taking a shower. As he took his time undressing, using every moment to think, he considered telling this guy he was a cop but decided against it, not knowing whether he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut or if he’d even care. His instinct told him he already knew and he didn’t give a s
hit.
Pulling off the remainder of his clothing, Archer stepped out of his white prison-issue boxers and stood for a moment.
Focus, he told himself, adrenaline spiking through his veins and pumping him up.
Breathe.
Watching him, the guard drew his baton again, silently indicating what would happen if Archer didn’t move.
Turning, the blond NYPD detective rounded the corner and walked into the shower block.
The place was rectangular, four separate lines of shower heads, eight on each row; it was three quarters full, some men finishing up and moving off, about fifteen or so still in there, inmates from other blocks presumably showering in adjacent areas. Most of them were focusing on what they were doing and didn’t pay Archer any attention, low conversations taking place between some of the men whilst others washed in silence.
He saw their bodies were adorned with tattoos, most also criss-crossed with scars; big, threatening men. The older inmates were thinner but like their younger counterparts were covered in ink and scars, with that wizened toughness of men who’d spent their entire lives in and out of jail.
As he walked under a shower head on the far left side, every muscle in his body primed to fight but his face blank, Archer noticed something else.
None of the inmates were showering facing the wall.
Standing under the cascading water and feeling eyes upon him, he took a piece of soap and pretended to start cleaning himself, in reality scanning the room as subtly as he could for anything he could use as a weapon. Choke-holds or joint locks wouldn’t work in here. As well as being slippery with soap and water, it took more than several seconds to put someone out and in here, by that point he’d already be dead.
He stood under the jet-stream, never taking his eyes off the stall around him as more inmates finished their showers and walked off.
Water cascading off his head and shoulders, he watched and waited.
Focus.
Breathe.
He noticed a few other inmates glancing over but no-one looked as if they were about to make a move. Archer’s guard didn’t drop but he realised all his concern might have been for nothing. No-one in here seemed to know who he was.
He started to lather himself up properly, remaining alert, working fast but never taking his eyes off the showers around him.
Then suddenly, he heard a commotion next door, shouting and what sounded like some kind of altercation, the guards turning and running out to handle the situation.
Watching them go, Archer cleaned himself even faster, wanting to get the hell out of here.
But then the room around him went quiet.
At the front gate to the facility, a Counter-Terrorism Bureau Ford was buzzed in and pulled to an abrupt halt in an empty space near the doors. A moment later, a member of the Department stepped out and moved swiftly towards the front entrance, pulling open the front door and walking towards the desk.
‘I need to pull someone right now,’ the newcomer said, showing his badge. ‘You’ve got a suspended police detective in here and you’d better pray to God he’s still in one piece.’
‘Wait a minute. You can’t just walk in here giving orders.’
‘Waste any more time and you’ll need a new haircut by the time you wake up,’ the detective said. ‘Get him out now!’
All conversation in the block stopped. Archer hadn’t seen any kind of a signal but it must have been pre-arranged. The inmates showering around him suddenly withdrew like the tide pulling back, turning and leaving the block without so much as a backward glance.
Three remained behind. They were all Latino, big guys, members of the gang who’d been using the weights in the yard. They were all holding a bar of soap.
And they were staring straight at Archer.
Glancing to his right, standing against the wall and out of the direct flow of water, Archer looked for the guards but they were nowhere to be seen, no doubt still handling the situation next door. In front of him he watched as the Mexicans used their large hands to push through the white soap, a shiv becoming visible inside each bar.
Each one was crude but wickedly sharp, soap clinging to the tips and blades.
The men looked at him silently, Archer standing there outnumbered three to one.
The only sound was water splashing onto the tiled floor.
At six foot and a hundred and eighty five pounds Archer was well-built but he knew he wasn’t a physical match for these men. He never went looking for trouble, although well able to take care of himself; he was also a man who’d spent the last few years of his life forced to make split-second decisions to kill or be killed. That was the reality of what he did for a living.
And as he stared back at the three gang members intent on ending his life, he knew that if he was going to have any chance of surviving this he would have to match these guys for violence and brutality.
His back against the wall, he focused on the Latino standing in the middle, who appeared to be the ringleader. As Archer watched him, the man glanced towards the fat, tattooed guy on his right.
That was all it took.
The inmate who’d been given the signal suddenly rushed forward and stabbed upward viciously, aiming the shiv for Archer’s gut with his considerable strength behind it. Reacting fast, Archer stepped forward before the arm could gain momentum, tucking his stomach back as far as he could and using his left forearm to block the man’s arm before it could make contact, the two bones thudding painfully on impact.
The guy was far stronger than Archer but in that enclosed space, technique could even the odds. As he stopped the arm, Archer immediately bent and then twisted the man’s elbow around, using him as a human shield from the others, but as he glanced at the other two he knew that wouldn’t make any difference.
Pushing the man’s arm up hard, the guy yelled and his grip on his weapon loosened. Archer grabbed the shiv from the man’s opened palm and thumped it into the guy’s shoulder blade just as the other pair rushed him.
As the man shouted in pain, Archer pushed his bulk directly at one of the two men, keeping his grip on the shiv and withdrawing it from the guy’s shoulder, blood running down the handle and onto his fist. His attacker collided with one of his friends, both of them losing their balance on the slippery surface.
But the other was moving in fast. He was right-handed and swinging his arm in an upward arcing motion, but this time Archer had a weapon too. He desperately tried to block the forearm again but slipped, the man’s shiv slicing across his arm. Shouting in anger from the hot pain, Archer buried his own soapy, blood-stained shiv in the guy’s chest as hard as he could.
However, the handle was slippery and he lost his grip. As the man dropped his shiv and clutched the weapon buried in his pectoral, Archer grabbed his wet hair and slammed his face into the wall, the man’s forehead thumping off as it made contact. The impact cracked part of the old shower wall, small pieces of tile falling to the floor as the guy crumpled and went down.
Shouting with rage, the remaining pair attacked simultaneously, over four hundred pounds of murderous fury bearing down on him. Unarmed, cornered and outnumbered, Archer scooped up a shard of broken tile and rose just as the nearest guy took a swing; he was built like a barn door but not as fast as Archer, who jerked out of the way as the shiv in the man’s hand missed his gut by an inch, the blade continuing on its arc. As momentum caught the guy off-balance Archer brought his left hand up and sliced the shard across the man’s face, starting at his lower cheek and continuing across his nose and forehead, the porcelain cutting him diagonally lip to brow.
The man screamed, dropping his shiv and clutched his face as blood started to flow into his eyes, blinding him. However, by that point the other inmate had already moved in. Turning to face him, Archer twisted at the last second and felt hot pain across his chest as the shiv sliced him, the guy going for his heart.
Caught in the water pumping from the shower, his attacker lost his grip on
the small blade and went to grab Archer but the blond detective was still lathered up with soap and rolled out of the man’s grip, hammering an elbow into his face and then pushing him back into the first man he’d stabbed, who’d just got back to his feet.
Panting, soaking wet and with blood leaking down his arm, chest and hand, Archer kept tight hold of the piece of tile and braced himself.
Suddenly a gunshot echoed around the tiled room, deafeningly loud inside the stall, the sounds of the fight attracting the attention from the guards next door. His back against the far wall, Archer straightened and put his hands up as the officers ran inside, their boots splashing on the wet tiles.
Slamming him into the wall and pulling the piece of ceramic from his hand, the two men dragged him out. As they did so, Archer looked back at the aftermath of the fight.
One of the gang members was down with a stab wound to the shoulder, the second had the savage cut across his face and the third had a broken nose and stab wound to his chest. The white-walled block was lined with red which flowed and swirled into the water.
‘You’re dead, ese!’ the third guy screamed as more guards poured into the room, blood flowing from his broken nose and wounded chest. ‘You hear me? You’re dead!’
Archer didn’t reply as he was hustled around the corner and down the corridor towards the SHU block, naked and soaking wet. His forearm felt as if it could be broken and he was in serious pain from the two cuts to his chest and his arm.
But despite all that, he grinned. The Latino was wrong.
He was still alive.
TEN
Pushed into the single man SHU cell, Archer turned just in time to catch his orange overalls, t-shirt and boxers as they were thrown at him, the door slammed and locked behind him.
Tossing the clothes onto the bed, he ripped the pillowcase off and wiped himself down before pulling on his boxers and slacks, his hair wet and clinging to his head, his body shaking from the cold and plummeting adrenaline. Picking up the pillowcase again, he rubbed it through his hair to dry it off as best he could, then held it to the cut across the left side of his chest.
