Blackjack (22 page)

Accompanying the bus was a helicopter, a view from which emphasized the sheer size of the receiving institution. A key feature was that there were
no
freestanding buildings inside the walls—they were all connected in one way or another.

However, this particular helicopter was not prison-issue, bearing markings indicating it was a Coast Guard airship. Percy was at the controls. The blond man was in the passenger seat, binoculars to his eyes, scanning. He gestured with his left hand. In response, Percy gently banked the chopper.

On the front console was a grid map of the institution, with certain buildings outlined in bright red. A closer look revealed that some of the tunnels which connected the buildings were actually underground.

“He should be
here
in a few minutes,” the blond man said, pointing to one of the red-marked buildings. As he spoke, the bus pulled into a sally port, waited for the gate behind it to close and the one in front to open, then chugged its inexorable way into a small reception area. Men were off-loaded like the cattle the penal system considered them to be. Not 4-H prizewinners, but slaughterhouse beef.

Percy maintained his watch, as talkative as ever. The blond man consulted a number of coded printouts.

CROSS WENT
through the Intake procedure with the bored-to-dullness face of a man walking a too-familiar road. What would
not
be familiar to a man whose life had always walked the same circle?

The euphemistically named “Shower Room” offered nothing but a delousing spray. Cross waited as those possessions he
was allowed to retain were scanned, standing under a gallows-humor sign which read:

Next was a routine “interview” with a serious-looking young man equipped with a clipboard, who asked his questions as a male inmate nurse drew blood from each man seated across from him. Cross simply shook his head no at each question.

“You have to speak up,” the serious young man said. “Otherwise, I would have to
look
up to watch each answer. That would make this take a lot longer. Do you understand?”

“It’s not complicated,” Cross said, softly, but in a meant-to-be-insulting tone. “If I ever have to answer ‘yes,’ I’ll say it. Otherwise, just assume it’s ‘no.’ So you won’t have to strain yourself to look up. Do
you
understand?”

The young man’s flushed face revealed his reaction quite clearly.

Cross was walked to a bank of individual cells, flanked by a pair of guards.

“You stay in Iso for forty-eight hours,” one told him. “If you test out medically, you go into Gen Pop. You can get some of your stuff back then, too.”

“Swell,” Cross said.

“You gonna be a problem?” the other guard asked, tightening his hold on Cross’s cuffed wrists.

“You treat a white man like this, who knows?”

The guards exchanged a look, but said nothing.

CROSS WAS
lying on his bunk, hands behind his head, eyes apparently closed. From behind his slitted eyelids he saw the approach of a white man in a cut-off T-shirt, his bare arms covered in dark ink. The man watched Cross closely, seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. He reached inside his shirt, tossed something on the floor of the cell, and moved along.

Cross didn’t stir for a long time, watching as a traffic pattern was established: a porter, moving his mop at jailhouse speed; runners with carts full of reading material; mace-equipped guards, always in pairs.

Finally, Cross picked up the package from the floor of his cell. It was wrapped in a sheet of newspaper—one with the RACE KILLING headline. Inside, he found a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. And, on a small piece of paper, the hand-printed words: “Your Brothers Are Here.”

Cross opened the pack, shook out every single cigarette, lined them all up on his bunk. He carefully disassembled the cigarette pack, then split the individual paper matches. Precautions completed, he lit a smoke and kicked back on his bunk again, watching the smoke drift to the ceiling.

NIGHT IN
the Isolation Wing was no different from day. The range of occupants was staggering, but the hardcore thugs were sleeping as peacefully as they would at home.
Back
at home.

Whining, frightened first-timers tried to deal with their anxiety by pacing nervously, nail-chewing, smoking. Some shrieked for help, others just shrieked.

An NFL-sized black man sat quietly with his arms folded, deep in thought. Not pretty thoughts.

A self-described “peckerwood” with a fifties haircut gripped the bars with his hands in the classic pose.

A Latino was busily scratching a heart into the cell wall with a tiny scrap of metal.

Some were crying, as silently as they were able. One paced, clearly contemplating suicide. Another was obviously blissed out on some kind of chemical.

And some were doing a land-office business selling wolf tickets: “You messed with the wrong man
this
time, punk. When they rack the bars tomorrow, you’re dead!”

One man screamed, “I’m not him!” Over and over.

“Disciples!”
a scrawny black youth shouted, more to bolster his courage than to claim his gang, none of whom were anywhere close.

Outside the cells, a guard watched a bank of small-screen TVs, an earplug in his ear. Most of the screens showed various shots of the Isolation Wing, but only the one displaying some TV “reality” show had his full attention.

TWO DAYS
later, Cross was walked through a long corridor, now dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit. For reasons he didn’t bother to inquire into, his street clothing had not been returned as promised.

Cross wasn’t the only convict in the line. An airlock door slammed behind each of them as one opened in front. This procedure was repeated until all the inmates had been moved to another section of the institution.

“Welcome to Population, gentlemen,” a black guard clearly proud of his popping biceps called out, reading from a memo book. “Listen up for your cell assignments. Jones: 7-Down, Cell 12; Rodriguez: 6-Center, Cell 9; Arden: 4-Up, Cell 19: Maxwell; 3-Center …”

The discharge area where the guard stood was shaped like the hub of a wheel. The eight spokes, each clearly marked with large numbers over its opening, were the various tiers to which the guard referred. Each spoke had 3 tiers: Up, Center, and Down.

Guards ringed the perimeter. A hexagonal booth was set into the center of the hub, constructed entirely of bulletproof glass. Inside sat four guards, facing out, each wearing a communications headset.

A mass of inmates had gathered to watch the new arrivals. The “mass” was actually several clumps, divided along racial lines, with an electrically charged space of hatred separating them. As the new arrivals were released to their various cell assignments, they almost magnetically gravitated toward their own racial groups, which absorbed them all until their faces were no longer visible from the center guard-booth. Then all the new arrivals were silently escorted back into the tiers.

Walking next to Cross was a young white male, slender, with a short, once-styled blond haircut. As they entered the tier, a voice floated out:

“Hey, pretty boy! Guess what, baby? You just got yourself a new daddy … starting tonight!”

The kid next to Cross flinched involuntarily. Cross suddenly stopped in his tracks and slowly walked over to the convict who had yelled out the kid’s future.

“You trying to say something to me?” Cross asked.

“Why you asking?” the convict challenged, surprised at a response from anyone other than the young man he had been working on.

“Why? Because, if you are, you’re in the wrong place.”

“What?”

“The Suicide Watch is over on the other side,” Cross said, deliberately locking eyes with the other man.

That man started toward Cross, fists clenched. But he was intercepted by another white male—older, shorter, but with an air of authority. “Ice it, Tank,” the older man said. “He’s one of us.”

Stepping between them, the older man whispered to Cross through the bars: “You’re the guy who blew up that nigger in D.C., right?”

“That’s the charge,” was all Cross said.

“RAHOWA!”
the older man replied. “I’m Banner. Commander of the Brotherhood in this joint. This here’s Tank.”

Cross held out his hand. “About time,” he said.

The slender white kid slipped along the corridor to his cell; none of the gangs were watching anyone but Cross and Banner.

“
THIS YOUR
house,” Banner said to Cross, gesturing with his hand as if ushering an honored guest into a reception room. The tier had been closed, so the individual cell doors were standing open.

In fact, it was a cell. But, unlike the others, this one was not barren: a full set of toiletries sat on a handmade shelf below the mirror inset above the sink. The toilet itself had a seat made of some sort of thick woven material. The wall featured a couple of centerfold-style pinups. There was a knitted cover on the bed, with a fresh carton of cigarettes sitting on the pillow. The cell gave every sign of having been meticulously cleaned.