by David R. Dow
He said, What?
I said, Nothing. Thanks for the advice.
* * *
• • •
Once I realized the routine, I stopped being worried about Taylor. They keep us in solitary confinement. Even if you don’t like your neighbor, you’re not going to have a chance to kill him. Sometimes the guards will put two inmates who don’t get along in adjacent dayrooms, or march them past one another on the way to or from the shower, just to amuse themselves and laugh at our impotence, but our hands are cuffed or we’re separated by bars. The worst that happens is someone spits on you.
The only real crime on death row is committed by the guards. Every few days or weeks, teams of three COs, wearing helmets and face masks and carrying Mace and shields, burst unannounced into our cells. They say they are looking for contraband—maybe a toothbrush handle whittled down to a point, or a piece of jagged plastic broken off the corner of a food tray. But the contraband they find is usually a transistor radio jury-rigged to pull in a jazz station from Houston, or a gallon of home-brewed moonshine distilled from a carton of lemonade and a box of raisins. If they find drugs, they’re finding something we bought from a peddling CO.
During week two, my house got tossed for the first time. The sergeant said my copy of Sports Illustrated could be used to start a fire. He took it and stood outside my cell reading an article about motorcycle racing while his minions poked their fat fingers down into a jar of instant coffee and emptied into the commode a box of stale saltines. On their way out, one of the COs said, Get this mess cleaned by dinner, za-heater, or I’ll write your ass up. Next they went into Taylor’s house. He greeted them by flinging at his cell door feces he’d mixed with urine in an empty bottle of juice. The COs left him to sit there in squalor for four hours, and they put the rest of the pod on lockdown for a week. I heard a guy from the Muslim Brotherhood called the COs a bunch of pinhead fascists. There’s nothing like communal punishment to make prisoners who hate each other into loyal allies.
Day 23: Lockdown officially ended this morning. When the trustee came for my lunch tray, he said guards would be taking me to rec this afternoon and to the shower tomorrow. The written regs say we’re supposed to get an hour a day outside our sixty-square-foot cell and four showers a week. We get maybe half that, but most guys don’t complain. They’d rather sleep.
A little past three, the transport team came for me. It was Lilac, Forester, and McKenzie. I turned and squatted and offered my wrists before they could ask, and Forester laughed. Eager beaver, he said. We walked down the hall, turned left at a sign reading C-pod—All inmates must be in restraints, and turned left again. Directly in front of me was another cage. It was a disco-size dance floor of concrete enclosed by a double-layered floor-to-ceiling fence. It was completely empty.
I said, This is rec?
McKenzie said, Is it just me, Forester, or are the inmates getting dumber?
I looked at Lilac. She looked away.
I spent my exercise time walking around the perimeter of the cage, changing directions every five laps. After every ten laps I did push-ups. I hadn’t done a push-up since high school gym class. I managed two sets of ten, then seven on the third set, and five on the last. My arms were shaking after three. When they came back for me I said, Has it already been an hour? McKenzie said, It’s been twenty-five minutes, macho man. Time to go. That night I slept in my sweaty shirt. I was too sore to take it off.
I was scheduled for a shower the next day. Lots of guys skip them because the water is either scalding hot or freezing cold, and the guards can leave you in the cubicle for a couple of hours before they take you back to your cell. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about how good it would feel to have hot water melting the knots out of my back. Plus, since the day they blasted me with soapy disinfectant on my arrival, my hygiene had consisted of bathing in my sink. I desperately needed a shower. So when the team came to get me, I squatted next to the door before they asked to offer my wrists. The guard looking through the beanhole said, Inmate za-heater, you might want to grab ahold of your towel and soap first, ’cause we ain’t your fucking butlers.
The water dripped from the head, and the temperature veered from hot to cold and back again. I leaned forward and lifted my arms and placed my palms flat against the tile. I had been all by myself in the world since the day Tieresse died, but at that moment, in the moldy cubicle with lukewarm water trickling from the pipe and temporarily muffling the inmates’ din, I felt entirely alone for the very first time. I turned off the water and sat down on the concrete bench. I think the guards sensed my despair. They left me there for only forty-five minutes before shackling me back up and walking me home.
We passed in front of Taylor’s cell. His radio was playing country music and the air was thick with the smell of raw sewage. Bela said, What the fuck? McKenzie lifted the beanhole and slammed it shut almost right away. Taylor had tried to fling excrement again. McKenzie said to Bela, If my reflexes had been slower I would have killed him. Bela said, You’d of had plenty of help, sir. Taylor screamed, You people better listen. There ain’t gonna be no peace until the neighborhood gets clean. Then I heard him muttering to himself, but I could not make out the words. McKenzie said, You are one slow learner, inmate, an embarrassment to your people. I’ll be back. Taylor said, Fuck you, McKenzie, and get fucking Che Guevara off this pod. I ain’t gonna put up with no more goddamn harassment. Despite the solid steel door separating us, I felt fear. He said, You laughing, Che Guevara? Then fuck you too. Move him the hell out of here, McKenzie, or get me up to level.
We have three levels here. Level 1 is where I was. Level 2 is where guys who commit a minor infraction get sent. Level 3 is the hole. Inmates on level 3 lose their radios, if they have them, and they don’t get to exercise or shower or buy anything from the commissary. Eventually I would experience those consequences firsthand, but at the time, I simply wondered whether I should tell Taylor I hadn’t been laughing. As we waited for Lilac to open my cell door, McKenzie told Bela to call an extraction team. It was the first time I’d heard that expression, but it didn’t seem the right time to ask them what they meant. Bela closed and locked my door and took his hardware without saying another word.
Laughter was coming from behind the cell door directly across from mine. Apparently I had a new neighbor. He must have moved in while I was in the shower. He was too comfortable to be a new guy. He probably came from another pod. A high-pitched voice with what sounded like a fake lisp said, I missed you up on level, amor, and he made a kissing sound. He said, Did you miss me too, Adolf?
Taylor said, Fuck you, asshole.
The other inmate laughed and said, ’Spite the fact you’re the dumbest guy in all of TDC, Adolf, I’m still gonna be muy triste when they fry your Nazi ass. That means really sad, moron. I mean it. In the meantime, though, I’m gonna sit here and munch on my popcorn and watch ’em gas you ’til you cry like a bitch.
Taylor said, Bastards know I’m ready to rumble. They ain’t gonna mess with me today.
The new inmate said, Goddamn you’re a dumb-ass, Taylor. Then he said, What about you, new guy? You ready to watch?
Moments later, four COs appeared outside Taylor’s cell. I watched through the slit above the beanhole. Three were wearing black ninja outfits and helmets and carrying Mylar shields. A fourth held a video camera in one hand and an aerosol can in the other. One of the ninjas shouted Now, then lifted the beanhole and tossed something inside. I heard a muffled explosion and smelled cordite. Taylor screamed, Hey, hey, chill motherfuckers. The guy in the cell across the corridor said, Olé, Adolf, stun grenades. Otra vez, comandante. The guard with the can counted to ten, then a ninja opened the beanhole and the guard shot in a stream of spray. Taylor said, It’s enough. I can’t see. This is excessive force. I wanna see the captain. I heard him coughing. The guard with the can said, Sure, I’ll get right on it, inmate, then h
e nodded at a ninja, who opened the beanhole again, and the guard sprayed Taylor one more time. He stood to the side and held the video camera up to his eye, and the three ninjas rushed in. One was saying, Get down, get down, get down, and I heard a brief commotion, and then I saw Taylor, naked, lying on his belly on the run, with his hands cuffed behind him, and the foot of a ninja planted in the small of his back. It all happened in seconds. Two trustees appeared from the other direction and removed the mattress, towel, and clothes from Taylor’s cell. Taylor said, Nigger collaborators is all y’all are. One of the ninjas kicked him in the head. The guard with the video camera told the trustees to take all the possessions to the burn area and set it all on fire. The ninjas pushed Taylor back into his cell. The guard with the video camera said, You can sleep on the floor ’til your house is clean. Here’s a mop. He pointed the camera at a watch and announced the time, and then the four of them were gone.
The guy across the way said, Now that’s entertainment.
* * *
• • •
Two hours later a piece of lined notebook paper folded into a tight isosceles triangle skidded under the solid steel door and into my cell, coming to rest when it rebounded off the metal commode. I opened it carefully. Written in pencil, in a third-grade scrawl, was a message: Welcome to hell, new guy. I’m el águila. Your neighbor is a skinhead, probably ’cause he’s ugly, got a tat of that Nazi symbol on his face. Name’s Taylor. Don’t worry ’bout him though. He just talks. Rumor is you’re the rich dude killed his old lady. Do you play chess? If so, my opening move is e4. Where you from? It was signed with a happy face.
My first instinct was to ignore it. I did not want to make any friends here, and I definitely did not want to make the wrong friends. But unlike Taylor, this guy did not appear to be insane, and I liked the challenge of trying to play chess without a board. I turned the paper over and wrote on the back. It’s been a long time. Go easy on me. I’m Zhettah. I’m from Houston. Also, I thought guys didn’t ask why other guys are here. e5. I refolded it, lay down on the ground, trying to see under the door, and flicked it across the floor with my middle finger. I heard Águila say, Nice shot, new guy. For a moment, I felt proud.
It came back in less than two minutes. Águila had written: I didn’t ask you nothin’ new guy. And what kind a name is that? I’ll call you Cazador, cool? I like King’s Gambit. f4.
I wrote back, You’re right, you didn’t. But in case you are interested, I’m innocent. Where are you from? exf4.
He said, OK, whatever, jefe. I ain’t really from no place. Moved around a lot. Born in Laredo though. Nf3.
My stomach sank. In the county jail, they had a cop in the cell next to mine pretending to be an inmate, hoping I’d spill my guts to him. I recognized all the tricks, the fast camaraderie, the evasions and non sequiturs. But I couldn’t figure out why they’d still be trying to get me to confess now. I was already convicted. I was already sentenced. I was already here. It didn’t make any sense. I wrote, You all have been trying for a year to get me to say I did something I didn’t. It isn’t going to happen. I loved my wife. I underlined the last sentence. I added, d6. p.s. I ain’t a rich guy.
He wrote back immediately, Long time my ass. That’s the Fischer Defense. You might actually know the game. I got to think on it ’til tomorrow. Been a while since I seen that opening. And you got to chill, cazador. What you didn’t do don’t mean shit to me. Buenas noches, Inocente.
Immediately I realized I had misread him. I’d apologize in the morning. I glanced at my watch. Hours had somehow passed. It was almost midnight. Through my plexiglass window I saw a pure white glow, and for the briefest moment I marveled at the brightness of the moon, until I remembered I was seeing the security lights atop the prison wall. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and lay back down. I closed my eyes. When the beanhole banged open at four fifteen and a trustee slid me my breakfast of powdered eggs, lukewarm instant coffee, and an untoasted slice of packaged white bread, I’d been sound asleep for four solid hours, and I felt more rested than I had in nearly two years.
* * *
• • •
In the county jail, the TVs in the common area were always tuned in the afternoons to shows of judges presiding over disputes about somebody’s dog who pissed too often on the neighbor’s lawn or a teenager whose garage band played hip-hop in a suburb where bluegrass was king. The inmates would laugh at the feigned toughness of these bogus jurists, recognizing them as the bullies they are, mocking weaker people who are not allowed to answer them and dismissing these plebeian grievances as unworthy of their wisdom. I hated those shows. Now I missed them. Death row doesn’t have TVs.
The morning after Taylor got gassed, Lilac came by at eight and told me I had a visitor, to gather up my things and put on my shoes. I did not have any things, and I did not expect any visitors.
I said, Are you sure? For me?
She said, Grab your materials or we’ll take you out there without them.
I said, I do not have any materials.
She said, Hands.
I turned around and squatted, and she reached into the cell and clicked on the cuffs. She said, Stand back.
When the cell door swung open, there were three other guards, the transport team. As soon as they pulled me out, Águila shouted, Be nice to the new guy. He’s innocent. I heard him laugh. One guard led the way, the other two followed behind with their hands on my shoulders. We walked down the corridor and through two electronic doors, and then we were outside. I could see the sky. We were in a narrow space, perhaps four feet wide, with twelve-foot cyclone fences topped with rolls of razor wire on either side. The guard ahead of me held his ID up to a small video camera, and another electronic door slid open. A blast of cold air rushed out. We entered another hall, with single-person visiting cells to my left. They opened a door marked 3B and waited for me to enter. The door was not electronic. One of the guards closed it and padlocked it shut from the outside. I squatted, and one of the guards reached through the slot and took off my cuffs.
On the other side of thick, wire-laced glass, three people were waiting for me: a woman with thick auburn hair who appeared to be in her thirties, a black guy with a shaved head, and a woman in her early twenties with an earring piercing her purple-glossed lower lip. Behind them I could see two female guards wearing jackets and observing the visitors. Auburn hair pointed to a phone on my side of the glass, and I held it to my ear.
She said, My name is Olvido. I wrote you a letter two weeks ago introducing myself. I am your habeas lawyer.
I said, I got your letter. I didn’t hire you.
She said, I know. Inmates sentenced to death have an automatic appeal. The judge appointed me and my team to handle it. If you would prefer to hire someone of your own choosing, you may do so.
I said, I’m in here because I used my own judgment to hire lawyers once before.
She said, Okay, then.
She introduced her two colleagues, Luther and Laura. They simultaneously said, Nice to meet you. I said, Likewise. Olvido told me they would file an appeal within nine months, that the district attorney would respond within six months, and that the court would decide in another year.
I said, You’re telling me I will be here for two and a half or three years even if I win.
She said, Yes.
I said, And what if I lose?
Olvido explained I would have another appeal in federal court, and that if we got to that point, I could decide whether I wanted her to continue as my lawyer or replace her with somebody else.
Luther said, Of course, we might not get to that point.
Laura said, Luther is the optimist on the team.
She and Olvido smiled. I just nodded. They had caught me by surprise. Nobody told me my lawyer would just show up one day.
I said, Sorry, I was not expecting any visitors.
Behind them, one of the guards took a picture of an attractive woman standing in front of the glass separating her from the young black man she was visiting. He was leaning forward, close enough to touch her, except for the shield between them. The guard handed the photo to the woman, and I could read the woman’s lips. She said, Thank you. The guard smiled.
I said to Olvido, How long have you been doing this?
Olvido said, I look younger than I am. I’ve been doing death penalty work a long time. Luther and Laura not so long. But they are both terrific, which is why I hired them.
I said, Okay.
A trick I used when hiring a new chef was to say, Cook me an omelet, and once she had the eggs in the pan, I’d walk away from the fish I was grilling and the sauce I was making and say, And take care of my things too. Some cooks panic in the face of unexpected chaos. It’s better to learn that during an interview than at service on a busy Saturday night. I was meeting in an area of the prison I’d never been before with lawyers I was not expecting and whom I didn’t even know I had, and I was failing the test. What were we talking about? I looked again over Luther’s shoulder. Some of the inmates were visiting with older people, who might have been their parents, and others with much younger people, who might have been their kids. One black inmate was talking to a Hispanic man wearing a cross and reading from a leather-bound Bible, and an obese white guy with green tattoos covering his arms was sitting across from a tiny nun being swallowed by her habit.
Luther turned around, seeing what I was. He said, America’s melting pot, just like the NFL.
I think he was kidding, but I couldn’t be sure, so I just said, Yeah, I guess. Behind him I saw vending machines holding soda, candy, sandwiches, and chips. Laura asked me if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I told her thank you, but I wasn’t hungry. Olvido said, If you’d rather we come back another day, that’s fine, but at some point I want to hear about your life before the trial.
