Beyond Justice (25 page)

She quickly wiped her eye before turning to face me.  "I know what you mean.  I never got to say good-bye to Brandon."

"Your son?"

She nodded.  "Died of leukemia last year."

"I'm sorry."

"His father... that damned—!"

I set my fork down and pushed my plate aside.  "What happened?"

"Pathological bastard had weekend custody.  Took Brandon one Saturday and dropped off the face of the Earth.  After two weeks of the FBI hot on his trail, he calls to turn himself in.  Brandon died in a hospital three days before he called!"  She slapped the table and all the trays rattled.  "I didn't even get to say good-bye." Covering her eyes, she said, "I never saw my baby again!"  She sobbed quietly and said, "Wanna know the worst part?  The last time I saw Brandon, I scolded him for arguing with me about going to visit his dad!  He knew something was wrong.  He knew."

Uncertain of whether I should hold her hand or not, I thought,
How do you comfort your C.O.?
  "Sargeant Grace..."

"It's okay, Sam."  She sniffed, recomposed herself.  "Call me Sonja."

"I can't imagine how I'd feel if Aaron were to die."

"Believe me, you don't want this regret hanging over your head."

With my elbows on the table, I rested my head in both hands and sighed.  "I know."

"I read about your case.  The D.A.’s sloppy but lucky."  Nice to know not everyone judged me by Brent Stringer's scathing editorials. "You need to work hard with your attorney and get the hell out of here."

"Easier said."  Leaning in close, I said, "But that's exactly why I've got to speak with Louie Guzman.  I think he might know something about Walker's outside connection.  Something he said connected with me, I'm just not sure what.  Guzman might know."

She stood up and pointed to the exit.  "Walk with me."

___________________

Armed with a physical description given by Sonja, I went out to the yard to look for Louie Guzman.  The problem was that he stood ensconced between four or five members of
La Fraternidad,
embroiled in a heated discussion.  In Spanish.  To come within twenty feet of him meant crossing to the west side of B-Yard, past three battalions of Northern Mexicans.

I once saw a recently freshly incarcerated black guy march through the lines to confront one of the
Frat
lieutenants who had looked at him the wrong way while he was playing basketball.  The black guy walked right into the middle of the gang.  Ten minutes later, he was carried out on a stretcher, a sheet over his face, his throat slashed.

Regardless, I had to know the facts surrounding Walker's death.  Louie might hold the only clue to Walker's God-character who contacted him with the same instant messenger screen name as the person who contacted me shortly before my family had been attacked.  And though Walker had only spent a few days in Gen-Pop as Guzman's cellmate, Louie must have known something about his suicide.  Or murder.  It was stupid to confront him, but I was desperate.

Possum had an appointment in the infirmary for chronic irritable bowel syndrome.  Had he been there in the yard with me, he would surely have stopped me from entering the lion's den.  I almost wished he was.

Swallowing the tumor in my throat, I stood tall and walked across B-yard.  At first I passed by members of the Fourth Reich.  Some of them called out, asking me when I was going to join them.  I ignored them.

The skin heads all turned as I walk right past them and towards the blacks.  Some of them swore and clicked their tongues as I marched towards my doom.  "Dead man walking."

Within seconds I was surrounded.  All around me, all I could see were blue jackets and shirts, some with the letters CDC printed on them.  The sun vanished behind the crowd of black inmates surrounding me.  I was enveloped in aggression.

"You tired of living, boy?"  One of them said.

"I just need to get over there," I said, pointing to the
Frats
.

"He tired 'a livin'," another said and grabbed me by the shirt.   I'd rehearsed scenarios like this over and over in my mind.  Without giving it a second thought, I grabbed the guy by the wrist, used his resistance to pull myself towards him and smashed my fist right into his nose.

The nauseating crunch might have been my hand.  Or his nose, I wasn't sure.  He fell back and groaned, blood oozing down his mouth.  I flexed my fingers.  It was his nose.

In an instant, I found myself surrounded by flaring nostrils, wild eyes and gritting teeth.  I was dead.  But then, to my surprise, they all started howling with laughter, slapping their thighs and pointing at the guy I nailed.

Nosebleed got up really quick and really hot, made a fist and threw a punch at my face.  But a hefty guy caught his arm and pulled him away.

"'Yo!  'Sup with that?" Nosebleed shouted, surprised as I was.

"Respect, my niggah, respect," said the hulking black man, pointing at me.  "Silk here earned himself a little just now."  Though he was wearing a white tank top, muscles popping at the seams, he carried himself with the air of aristocracy.  His voice was profound and commanding.  Everyone gave him a wide berth whenever he took a step or turned in their direction.  I expected them to start genuflecting.

"This between me and him, Luther," Nosebleed snarled.  He backed away and his lips fluttered when he tried to smile.  "Why you all up in my soup?"

Luther grabbed him by the throat and slammed him up against the wall.  "Up in yo soup?  Niggah, I say kill, you kill.  I say back off, you back off.  Ain't no soup here but mine!"

Nosebleed's eyes were about to pop out of his head.  With whatever slack that remained in his neck, he nodded.  When Luther let him go, the poor guy gasped and wheezed.

"I don't gotta explain myself to no one," Luther said and glowered at the crowd.  "No one touches Silk.  You feel me?"

The crowd grunted.

"Yo Luther," another inmate who was just as big and scary as him said.  "I seen him kickin' it with them Nazi's."

Luther turned slowly and said.  "He ain't with no Nazi's, a'ight?"  A tentative murmur arose from the crowd.  It was sliced off when Luther looked up with razor blade eyes.

Nosebleed looked around for support.  Then stepped forward.  "How do you—?"

"Cuz Bishop said so," Luther proclaimed.  From where I was standing, I could see a tiny space between two of the guys on my left.  If I ran quickly, I could squeeze through.  Not only was I all up in their soup, I was drowning in it.

"Bishop!  Nosebleed scoffed.  "Man, why you gotta be so tight with that cracker?" An unsettling stillness ensued.  It seemed as if the entire gang had taken a step back.  Luther glared at Nosebleed.   Then he smiled.

Relieved, Nosebleed smiled back, a gold tooth glinting in the sun.  "Aw man. Sorry, yo," he said, "I shouldn'ta—"

"Hey, no sweat, son." Luther walked over, leaning from one foot to the other, and draped his arm around his shoulders.  Buddy-buddy.  "I know how you feel about Bishop."

"Nah, man.  He cool.  Anyone you—"

"A'ight."  The nods and smiles grew wider.  Luther laughed.

Nosebleed did too.   Still fixed on my escape route, I noticed a change in
La Fraternidad'
s formation.  They eyed our assembly with suspicion.  A handful of them started pointing at us.  I quickly wiped the sweat from my brow and looked around.

Luther and Nosebleed were yucking it up now, as if it had all been a big joke.  Too weird.  One look back over the gang's shoulders and I would ask to be excused.   

Then I heard a swift thud-padded, cracking sound.  I turned around and saw the entire crowd ebbing like water from the shores of Torrey Pines.  Down on the ground lay Nosebleed, hands over his face and groaning.  If I hadn't completely broken his nose earlier, Luther surely finished the job.

The last thing I heard Luther say before they all left was, "Respect, my niggah, respect."

___________________

My Spanish wasn't good enough to know exactly what they were all saying, as I crossed into the Frat quadrant of B-Yard.  The few phrases I did understand went along the lines of "crazy mutha," and "stupid idiot," roughly translated.  The list of pejoratives probably ran a lot longer than I realized.

Several shoulder bumps later, I finally reached Guzman.  Most of
La Fraternidad
seemed interested in what was going on back on the other side of B-Yard.  Talk seemed the last thing on "Louie" Guzman's mind. 

"What do you want?" he said, his eyes and attention clearly elsewhere.

"I need to ask you about your cellie."

"He's dead."

"I know.  But did you happen to notice anything strange before Walker's death?"

"Before?" Guzman hacked and spat out a clam.  "
Coño!
  That boy was nuts, man.  They should have kept him in PSU."

"Do you know if he had any outside contact, in the days leading up to his death?" I leaned back against the chain link fence, keeping the rest of Louie's buddies in my periphery.  They were staring at the blacks.

Louie's eyes kept jumping back and forth from our little deposition to his Frat brothers, who were now huddling.  He shifted from foot to foot.  Looked like he had to use the bathroom.  "You mind?  I'm a little busy here."

"Come on, Louie."

Giving me the once over, his brow twisted.  He tilted his head and squinted.  Then he slapped his hand on my chest, grabbed my shirt, pulled me forward and snarled.  "I said, I'm busy."

"Just tell me about Walker, and I'm out of here."

He swore in Spanish, shoved me back, and started walking away.   I heaved a defeated sigh.  But he turned around, midstride and shouted, "Lenny was getting postcards from God!"  Spinning his index finger around the side of his head, Louie added, "Friggin' whacko said that God told him to hang himself!"

"What?  Wait!"  Just one or two more questions, that's all I wanted.  But Louie was already jogging into a large crowd of Frats, who swarmed like sharks and stalked B-yard with malice.

The blacks were busy playing basketball, talking, playing cards, and generally looking tough.  On the East side of the yard, The Fourth Reich stared back at the Frats, in my general direction.  I tried to swallow but my throat had gone dry.  The Frats ignored me as I made my way back to the gate.  Rec time was just about over anyway and the safety of my cell beckoned.  Only, I never made it back in time to avoid the oncoming storm.

Chapter Forty-Two

The attack came swiftly.  An army of Mexican inmates rushed towards me as I jogged across the yard.  For a moment, I thought I was the target.  But when I noticed the motion on the East side of B-Yard— Buzz, The
Furor,
and the Fourth Reich converging—I realized that the war he warned me about was about to break out.

  Not knowing which way to turn, I stopped dead in my tracks.  Along with the blacks, I was caught between two colliding forces.  The blacks seemed confused too.  A sea of blue, gray and white engulfed me in seconds.  To my amazement the Reichs and the Frats attacked the blacks rather than each other.

All around me fists flew.  Inmates assaulted each other with punches, kicks, and all manner of shank and shiv.  A loud buzzer sounded and over the P.A. the guards shouted, "Get down!  Get down!"

Both Nazis and Frats assaulted the blacks who, despite their furious efforts, were outnumbered and taken by surprise.  I could hardly breathe and tried in vain to squeeze my way through the melee.  All the shouting, the smell of sweat and halitosis threatened to overwhelm me.  I was moving, but like a tiny boat without a sail, tossed by waves of murderous inmates.

The guards continued shouting for us to get down.  But there were only six of them versus more than a hundred brawling inmates.  Shots fired into the air had little effect.   Then came the moment I had dreaded since Butch dumped me in Gen-Pop.

Two Reich members grabbed me by the arms.  I thrashed about and kicked but could not make contact.  They threw me on the ground.  My back smacked against the pavement.  Pinned down, there was nothing to do but shut my eyes as the two struck me repeatedly in the face, the gut.

Blood filled my mouth.  I nearly choked on it.  Butch was finally getting his revenge.  It wouldn't have surprised me if he had orchestrated the riot for this very purpose.   I finally coughed out words of desperation. "You don't have to do this!"

"Shut up!" Another blow to the face.

"You let Butch call the shots?  Run your life?" The Nazi standing over me reached into his waistband and pulled out something sharp.  He knelt down and held my throat with his free hand. "Don't do this!" I said.

The edge of a razor sharp shiv pressed into my neck.  The Nazi bore down and began to break my skin. 
Oh God, help me
!  The Nazi tightened his hands around my throat.  Pressed the shiv in harder.  I shut my eyes.  This was the end.