by Alan Lee
“That’s right. No one else finds out.”
“What if something happens?”
“Treat him like a normal prisoner. He breaks the rules, move him to solitary. He’s being threatened, ring the multidisciplinary team.”
Detention officer Norris asked, “But what if it’s a bad something?”
“Bad enough, come get me,” said Johnston.
“What if you ain’t here, sir?”
Manny, though possessing nerves of steel and a heart that pumped red, white, and blue, quietly wished the prison staff would quit vocalizing the very real possibility something bad was going to happen.
“Bad enough, get him out. He dies, wake me at home. Other than that, he’s a regular inmate until he calls,” said Johnston.
Norris lowered the iPad he’d been scanning and he grabbed Manny’s elbow. They stopped near the entrance to Cell Block B. It loomed like a monstrous tombstone. Norris indicated it with his chin. “That’s my cell block. I’m the superintendent. Get it? And even I don’t know everything what goes on. You get it, Sinatra?”
“I get it, Norris.”
“You know the convict code? The subset of rules the inmates live by? It’s their code. The gist of it, it’s inmates against correctional officers. Them versus us. They live and die by it. You know what happens they find out who you are?”
“I know.”
“Do you? Cause they won’t kill you. Not immediately. Most likely, I won’t know about it for hours. And when I do, might take a while to locate you. At least parts of you. Get it, Sinatra?”
Manny nodded. Cleared his throat. “Sounds like a tight ship you run.”
“It’s prison. You don’t like it, turn around.” Norris pointed at Manny’s face. “You need medical attention? Looks fresh. Got burn marks on the back of your neck, too.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Norris said, “Gawd almighty, this is nuts, sir.”
“Got that right.” At the door to Cell Block B, Allan Johnston stopped. Said, “I’ll have my phone on, Sinatra. You’re on your own until you call.” A final nod and he marched back the way he came.
Norris picked up another detention officer and they led Manny through two sets of heavy doors with small security windows. Inside, inmates mopped the floors. Cleaned the bathrooms. Performed duties which earned them as much as four dollars a day. Guards stood at all points of egress and along the walkways—they carried mace and tasers, no firearms. Loud voices banged hard off the painted cinderblock walls. Doors were blue, walls white.
They led him to the third floor to B-305. Norris spoke into a radio on his shoulder and the door unlocked. The man inside, Manny’s cell mate, rolled off his bunk and backed to the wall out of habit.
“Ignacio, meet your new life partner,” said Norris in an unnaturally hard voice. Ignacio stayed at the wall, didn’t reply. “This here’s…” Norris checked his iPad. “…Sinatra. Ain’t that a riot, Ignacio? Sinatra, this here’s your new home.”
The PA system blared to life, instructing inmates inside Cell Block B onto their bunks. Doors rammed open. Manny knew the drill—the prison physically counted inmates four times a day. This was likely the second.
Norris gave Manny a shove.
“Nine o’clock count. Get on your bunk and stay there, Sinatra. And welcome to the Rock.”
Ignacio, a heavier Hispanic man, maybe sixty, swollen dark eyes, lowered himself back to the bottom bunk with a grunt. Manny hopped onto the top. Slid out his cell phone and shoved it into his pillow case.
He stuck his head over the side.
“Habla Inglés?”
“Sí,” said Ignacio.
“The white guard, Norris. He called this place the Rock.”
“Nickname. For our cell block. What happened to your face?”
Manny slipped into Spanish. “They transferred me from Red Onion. My cell mate, he went through my things, messed with my bed, so in the kitchen I burned him with a propane tank and match. I got burned too. My lawyer moved me here until the trial.”
Ignacio looked as though he had questions but remained quiet. Manny’s message was delivered—don’t mess with my stuff. Especially the pillow case.
Two guards walked past, performing the count. They stopped at B-305, had a discussion about the new guy, and went on.
Manny leaned forward, ready to be taken to the kitchen. To Rafael.
25
No one came for inmate Sinatra.
He waited an hour before walking to the rail and scanning the cell block’s interior. Half the inmates were resting in their bunk, half were busy working. A couple of the guards eyed him but said nothing.
While he leaned against the rail, debating whether or not to find a guard and explain he was new and needed to report to the kitchen, Bill Wolfe strolled through the common area of the cell block, three levels below. Bill was a white supremacist and possessed the tattoos on his scalp to prove it. Wolfe had alopecia—no body hair. None. He’d gotten more muscular since Manny’d seen him last, eighteen months ago, when Manny ran the man’s Harley Davidson off Route 11 in Pulaski, Virginia, and found ten pounds of crystal meth in his possession. Bill Wolfe was a repeat offender—he ran crank and had been wanted for assaulting a minor, for hate crimes, skipping court dates, child support, and a slew of other things Manny couldn’t remember.
Here he was, directly below, serving thirty years because Manny brought him in with a broken arm, an orbital fracture, and severe burns on his legs.
Two other hulking white men with shaved heads mingled with Wolfe until guards shouted to disperse them. Wolfe’s face twisted in a mocking smile and he returned to his mop, his gaze traveling upwards.
Manny swiveled away to his cell, keeping his face hidden. Better to remain unseen by Bill Wolfe. He hopped onto his bunk and laid on the scratchy gray wool blanket.
Ay! This was an unexpected hurdle. He needed to meet Rafael García without getting killed by prisoners he put here. Hopefully his injuries would be sufficient camouflage, otherwise they’d cut out his eyes and tongue with a shiv. He’d seen it happen.
Ignacio and a third of the inmates left before lunch for various jobs. Manny, bored and frustrated, rolled to his side and powered on his phone. The screen lit up with accumulated notifications.
Special Agent Weaver sent irate texts and a voice mail, which he deleted without listening to.
Marshal Warren also left a voicemail. Manny kept it for later.
Most texts were from Noelle Beck, angry and concerned.
Had the shootout in Harlan happened only twelve hours ago? Felt like a month.
He scanned the texts again. The marshals wanted to question him about the massacre in Kentucky; the FBI needed his input on the Appalachian Palace; Weaver demanded a final report on El Gato; and who knew what Marshal Warren wanted.
So. Much. Bureaucracy.
So. Many. Meetings.
And too much paperwork.
Didn’t they see? Didn’t they realize this whole thing hinged on Catalina García and she was gone? Los tontos y los idiotas! Manny was the only one with a lead, was the only one sticking his neck out, and his squadron of bosses wanted reports.
He knew this stunt would most likely result in his termination. He cared not.
Well, he cared not much. They wanted a Yes Man, they should’ve asked someone else. Someone weaker.
He typed a message to Beck. Sent it. Copied it and sent it to Weaver too.
Chasing a lead on El Gato. Will surface again on Friday. Should have more intel then. Hasta luego.
Then he powered down his phone to conserve battery.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember if Ethan Hunt or James Bond ever got themselves purposefully thrown into prison.
26
Cell Block B, or the Rock, has lunch at 12:30pm.
The buzzer rang to begin the controlled mass movement. For the first time in his life, Manny wished he was shorter. Easier to blend in, walk unseen.
He hunched his shoulders, head down, and moved with the mob of orange and yellow. He scanned everywhere—no Rafael.
Bill Wolfe fell in not ten steps ahead.
And to Manny’s left, he spotted Chilly the Kid. Small-time muscle for hire out of Roanoke, worked with Marcus Morgan and Big Will, known for breaking teeth. Manny’d beaten him within an inch of his life.
He slowed, letting the hungry crowd surge past. He couldn’t go to the chow hall and eat with the general population. Too many familiar faces. Faces that hated him.
One of the new guards saw him lingering. The guard who’d walked with Norris. He shouted, “Hey Sinatra, you going for food?”
“Think I’ll skip it. Head to the yard for air. That cause you any problems?”
“Suit yourself.”
Soon the Rock was empty. Manny wandered upstairs to the second floor and peered into B-212. Catalina’s brother’s room. No one home.
The cell of Rafael García was immaculate. The toilet/sink combo gleamed. The desktop was clean and the books in the shelves underneath neatly organized. Beds made with hospital corners.
Manny debated going in. The door stood wide open, after all. He knew he’d find nothing of value. But usually the best stuff was found where it shouldn’t be. His fingers drummed on the door.
Ay dios mio, how quickly roles change. He was an officer of the law, hesitant to enter an empty cell. For fear of upsetting the inmates and prison guards.
“Hey. Sinatra.” It was Norris, the only man in Cell Block B who knew the truth. He crossed his arms and watched. “You’re an inmate. You gotta follow the rules.”
Manny said, “Yeah, that’s weird. Not used to it.”
“You know who lives there?”
“One of them.”
“The two men in B-212, they don’t play. You don’t sit in their seats. You don’t look at them. You don’t watch television if they already are. They walk into the bathroom, you step out. They sit at a table, you get up. And you don’t look into their room.”
Manny’s fists reflexively balled. These were men he liked to chase. Serious gangsters with pride the size of Escalades. These were men he enjoyed collaring, hauling in before a judge. The bigger they are…
“You’re in Wallens Ridge, now, Sinatra. Best learn the rules real fast,” said Norris, full of meaning.
Manny nodded. Two days. He could play meek for two days. “Yes sir. Maybe I’ll walk the yard.”
“You do that, Sinatra. And stay out of the crowd. That’s a mighty fine place to get butchered.”
The guards didn’t look at Manny as he went outside. A handful of inmates were in the yard—the smaller ones who didn’t trust the chow hall. They jogged or did pull-ups on the bars. No one touched the basketball or went on the court. Little guys not allowed.
Manny walked the track, hands in his pockets, thinking over Rafael’s reputation. In Los Angeles, Rafael hadn’t been a renowned tough guy, not someone to personally enforce the rules. Most likely he was using his finances to buy muscle at Wallens Ridge—purchasing phone cards so guys could call their mommas, supplying the pot, getting favors with his influence over the black market. The man with the money makes the rules.
Lunch ended for Cell Block A and Cell Block B and the inmates flooded outdoors—each block had its own yard. Manny stayed near the fence, watching.
Rafael Garcia, or Fidel Arroyo, came out near the end. He walked with a coterie of five guys. His posse. They didn’t speak and they remained with him until he began walking the track. With no words spoken, two of the guys walked by his side while the rest filtered away.
A hundred and fifty inmates were in the yard, Manny estimated. Twenty of them played basketball on the two courts, while others watched and shouted. The bigger guys worked on exercise bars. Quieter inmates watched the mountains, staying out of trouble.
Rafael came Manny’s way with his security detail, both Latinos. Manny stepped off the track to let him pass. He was still a handsome guy. Thick black hair, sharp cheekbones. He’d grown circles under his eyes since Manny’d seen him in Los Angeles and a new scar ran from his ear down his neck.
Manny watched him pass and waited. His pulse increased, being this close. Rafael kept walking, hands clasped behind his back. He alternated between looking at the path and watching clouds.
You get out in two days, Rafael. Where you going?
Rafael completed the circuit and started another. He was watched by inmates he passed, the way powerful men often were.
This time, thought Manny, we talk.
The group of three reached him and Manny said, “Arroyo. You remember me?”
The skin around the man’s eyes tightened and he made a “Hm-um,” noise. That was all, didn’t break stride.
“Arroyo,” said Manny again, now talking to his back.
One of his guards gave Manny a shove. “Hey, pretty little fishy. Hell you think you are?”
“I want to talk with—”
“Shame, that pretty face of yours gets shoved in the disposal, little fishy.”
Well.
I didn’t come here to play nice.
Manny took a step, fist balled at his side.
He said, “Maybe you and me—”
Behind them, sudden chaos. Sounded like a herd of howler monkeys throwing a parade. A man was dragged into the center of the basketball court, a big white guy. The mob descended on him, kicking and punching. The white guy tried to roll away, but he was surrounded by twenty. He was attacked by every ethnicity. His resistance didn’t last long under the brutal assault.
Manny jogged toward the mob. Instincts kicking in—he had to stop it.
He got close and someone grabbed him by the arm. Ignacio, his cell mate.
“Stay here,” the man said in Spanish.
“They’ll kill him.”
“Stay here. The man will live. Do not interfere with the code.”
The noise and the beating intensified, mob mentality feeding on itself. Savage mankind without restraint.
The PA system erupted. A horn blaring. Guards ran into the yard with tasers and tear gas canisters ready.
Quick as a switchblade, the assault was over. The roaring and bloodthirsty crowd turned innocent and obedient in a snap. Men turned and milled into the dispersing crowd.
The guards put on gloves and picked up the bloody and broken body. His jumpsuit was torn, his face shattered. He could barely see or stand.
Without having to ask, Manny knew—there’d be no punishment for the attackers. Guards tended to trust the judgment of the group. If the community decided discipline was needed, often it was. And by siding with the group the guards maintained the delicate balance of order.
He asked, “A racial thing, you think?”
Ignacio shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s territory or property.”
“What’ll they do with him?”
“Put him in solitary a few days. Maybe a week or two.”
Manny’s eyes widened. “Punish the guy who got his ass beat?”
“He deserved it. And solitary keeps him safe. By the way. I see you talking with Arroyo,” said Ignacio. He pressed his finger into Manny’s chest. “Do it again and you are next. Trust me.”
27
Manny skipped dinner that night. He had a job to do, which didn’t involve fighting Bill Wolfe or Chilly the Kid or anyone else in here who might recognize him. One of the prison staff came by at seven, told him he’d be woken for kitchen duty tomorrow at 4:30am.
Ignacio took him to a locker and shared out of his stash of Ramen noodles. They waited in line to heat it in the microwave and then ate in their cell.
Manny Martinez, proud practitioner of a ketogenic lifestyle, hungrily devoured the entire bowl, carbs and all. He wiped his mouth and said, “Que susto! Delicioso, gracias.”
“That’s the only one you get. Cost me half a day’s work.”
“When is light’s out?”
“Gotta be in bunks at nine.” Ignacio looke
d out of their cell at the large clock, near the ceiling. “Fifteen minutes.”
Manny moved quickly down the raised walkway, overlooking the common area. Bill Wolfe and his gang of white supremacists played cards at the far table. No sign of Chilly. He jogged down the stairs and moved to B-212.
Next door to Rafael, a group had gathered to watch television. The early NBA game, Sixers versus Lakers. Rafael’s cell was quiet.
Manny knocked on the open door.
Rafael, reading at the desk, tilted his head for a better view of the intruder.
The big man from earlier in the yard, Rafael’s body guard, emerged from the cell and blocked Manny’s view.
“Ugh, you again,” said Manny. “What, the guy needs a babysitter?”
Manny’s arms were grabbed from behind. The big man hit Manny in the stomach, a movement so quick and violent he had no time to brace. All the air left his lungs. Another punch came close to breaking his cheekbone.
The vice grip released.
Manny fell to his knees. That happened so fast. He tried to gasp but nothing came. It would be a long painful moment before he could breath again. He felt dizzy and his ears rang.
The big man crouched near him. “Little fishy ain’t learning. You think with that pretty face you get to break the rules. Learn the code, bitch. Guy don’t want to talk with you? Don’t talk with the guy.”
Manny was picked up and thrown back the way he came. He kept his feet as oxygen trickled back into his lungs.
He returned to his cell, face aching and confidence wobbling. He held his stomach and gingerly climbed the bunk.
Ignacio, eying the purpling mark on his cheek said, “You were only gone two minutes.”
“Well, hombre,” groaned Manny. “I work quick.”
That night, after the count and lights out, Ignacio snored and Manny powered on his phone. He turned off the vibration for notifications, coming through in a rush.
More messages from Special Agent Weaver and Marshal Warren. None from Beck.
He experienced a stab of guilt. Beck had a right to feel betrayed and hurt and ignored. By now she’d told Weaver about Catalina García’s brother in prison and they’d guessed that’s where he was. Agents would be monitoring the prison Friday, with the intention of nabbing Catalina or tailing Rafael.
