Eureka Man: A Novel (26 page)

“Based on a recent survey conducted by the
Pennsylvania Lifers Association, all but 107 of the 403 lifers here
at Riverview Penitentiary concede that we are going to die in
prison. Of those, 42 are still grasping at appellate court straws,
despite the fact that the Chief Justice of the State Supreme Court
has publicly proclaimed that due process has become too subjective
of a term to allow for any more reversible errors. Still, we want
to wish you Brothers well, all of you. The remaining sixty-five,
all of whom are Young Bucks under the age of twenty-one, angry and
strong, like 'sores in the city that do not want to heal'--still
believe the laws can be reversed and amenities regained through
acts of INSURRECTION and ANARCHY, by, in the words of one gang of
Young Bucks, the RANDOM SLAUGHTERING of prison officials on a daily
basis. While we do not encourage such action, we wish you God's
speed in your endeavors.”

Oliver underscored the words insurrection and
anarchy, then wrote empowerment and hope in the margin, drew a line
under them, and continued:

“For many hours I have turned my thoughts
upon this dilemma of living without HOPE that we all share. For
those of us who have come to realize we are going to spend the rest
of our lives behind these walls and do not wish to continue day
after day, month after month, year after year, in a perpetual state
of living without hope, I wish to offer this proposal of HOPE and
EMPOWERMENT to you.

“I have been assured by a very high ranking
member of the PSPCP (Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Prisoners) that SELF-DELIVERANCE is a viable and
acceptable option for situations and circumstances where HOPE has
'spoiled like rotten meat.' Although obvious and many, the most
important advantages of instituting a SELF-DELIVERANCE program are
as follows:

“First, our family and friends who have
unselfishly and lovingly endured years of humiliation coming behind
these walls to visit us, often to be patted down and fondled by the
Jackboots who resent their coming in the first place, would
certainly view our SELF-DELIVERANCE as an act of love. Our
unselfishness could finally place them in a position where they
could live out their lives without having to worry every day they
wake up whether we are safe and well.

“Second, creating an acceptable EUTHANASIA
program would eliminate the horrifying failed attempts at
SELF-DELIVERANCE we so frequently see, such as, slashing one's
wrists across the arm as opposed to down the arm and through the
veins; overdosing on all-too-mild sedatives only to wind up in a
self-induced coma; jumping from the fifth tier of the cell block
only to survive as a quadriplegic.

“Third, providing a permanent way out for
those without HOPE would greatly lessen the burden on this
Commonwealth. In view of the fact that at present, it costs the
state about eighteen thousand dollars a year to incarcerate one of
us, and considering that the average age of our LIFER population is
forty and the LIFE expectancy is seventy, even if only a fourth of
our current LIFER population takes advantage of the
SELF-DELIVERANCE program, the state would save two million, five
hundred dollars in the first year, and a total of seventy-five
million, six hundred thousand dollars during the remaining thirty
years that these LIFERS would be expected to LIVE. These
conservative estimates do not include what the state would save in
medical costs as we LIFERS age and become ill.”

Oliver stopped, put down his pen and,
covering his eyes with his hand, rearranged the details in his head
before he went on.

“With the PSPCP's support, I have taken the
initiative to study the feasibility of providing EUTHANASIA kits
for sale in the prison commissary. A very respectable entrepreneur
I know, who also happens to be sympathetic to our plight, recently
provided me with a description of four dignified EUTHANASIA kits he
has designed and packaged for demonstration purposes. This
gentleman, who is a lawyer and member in good standing of the
American Hemlock Society, has agreed to meet with a powerful member
of the state senate in the near future to discuss the
practicalities and feasibility of instituting a SELF-DELIVERANCE
program for LIFERS across the state. This distinguished senator is,
I have been assured, most supportive of the idea of EUTHANASIA for
those of us without HOPE. I will keep you informed of the outcome
of that meeting. Meanwhile, I wish to describe here the four
EUTHANASIA kits our sympathetic entrepreneur has already designed
and packaged for us:

“DEATH HOLLYWOOD-STYLE KIT: This kit comes
with a syringe filled with 150 ml of air to be injected directly
into the vein causing an embolism and rapid death. This kit would
be most suitable for drug addicts and former addicts. It would not
be recommended for someone with little or no knowledge of how to
inject a needle directly into one's vein. This kit includes a
sealed syringe filled with air, an instruction manual, and a Last
Will and Testament. It would sell for $10.95.

“HANGMAN'S KIT: This kit consists of a
heavy-duty ten foot rope tied in an efficient, professional noose,
an instruction manual, and a Last Will and Testament. The kit would
sell for $9.95.

“SUPPOSITORY KIT: This kit consists of three
rectal suppositories containing 1 g of sodium Phenobarbital in each
suppository, an instruction manual, and a Last Will and Testament.
This kit would sell for $29.95.

“GAY PRISONER'S KIT: For you homosexual
prisoners who wish to die with a good feeling, this kit comes with
a nine-inch vibrator that time-releases a lethal dose of
barbiturates deep inside the rectum, like warm semen. The kit
includes the vibrator loaded with a lethal barbiturate drip, an
instruction annual, and a Last Will and Testament. This kit would
sell for $39.99. Batteries are not included.

“Other kits are currently being tested for
their efficacy, including a self-asphyxiation kit, which I have
been assured shows great promise.

“While many among us continue to argue that
condemning a man to LIFE WITHOUT HOPE is just as cruel and unusual
as condemning him to death by lethal injection, our legal
representatives have warned us that the issue is a moral one, not a
constitutional one. And therein lies our dilemma. Since a moral
appeal is out of the question, our only recourse is to appeal to
the logic of practicality. With the shrinking of the state treasury
due to the enormous costs incurred in building five new prisons,
there is but little doubt that the legislators will agree to draft
and unanimously pass the necessary legislation to make legal a
EUTHANASIA Program for LIFERS who have otherwise lost all HOPE.

“In conclusion, I ask you all, LIFERS
everywhere, to exercise patience and whatever iota of HOPE you have
left. EMPOWERMENT is on the way.

“'Or does it explode?'”

Oliver stopped and rubbed the blister on his
middle finger. His elbow and shoulder were numb, too, from gripping
the pen so hard. He gulped down the last of his coffee, sat back in
the chair and, feeling he had crafted a provocative essay,
carefully read the final draft.

THE NEXT EVENING B.J. Dallet's high-heels clicked
along the main corridor and when the clicking stopped, the high
lilt in her laughter echoed throughout the building as she stood
talking to a group of students. The prisoners were enjoying the
crease in her behind, which was so clearly defined in the bright
fluorescent lights. They looked at her body with outright
admiration as she told them about her recent travels, one offering,
“I was in D.C. once,” and another, “My aunt, she stay in Atlanta.”
They did not ask her what they really wanted to know: What did she
do to stay so beautiful and how much did her perfume cost? B.J.
smiled, drank from the water fountain, and the worshipful stares of
these men made her long to be in Oliver's presence.

She excused herself and clicked her
high-heels all the way into Oliver's classroom. He was sitting at
the table looking more beautiful than when he had stood in front of
her the first time and she saw genius and mischief commingling in
his face, more beautiful than that day in the classroom when his
calf kissed hers for the first time, than when he had almost cried
telling her about his mother June and how he had protected her. She
wanted to sit in his lap and wrap her arms around him, but Chuckie
Redshaw and Jimmy Rawls, two of Oliver's students, followed her
into the room and sat down at the table, too, so she just walked
over and shook Oliver's hand in a friendly, professional manner. He
beamed at her with the same adoration as they did, but he did not
compete. Chuckie and Jimmy sat back and enjoyed her presence. They
looked at Oliver with awe and appraised her like she was a Corvette
he had stolen.

Oliver stood up to leave and B.J. picked up
her bags to follow him. When Oliver said, “You fellows are going to
have to excuse us. I have an essay I need Dr. Dallet to read,”
Chuckie said, “Yeah, we were leaving anyway. We just wanted to say
hello. Nice seeing you again, Dr. Dallet.” Chuckie and Jimmy
breathed in her scent one last time before walking out the
door.

B.J. Dallet followed Oliver into his office
and said, “Why didn't you tell me about what's going on with the
lifers, Oliver?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Sommers said they've changed the entire
pardons process making it almost impossible to get you out of
here.”

“That law they just passed isn't even legal.
They can't make something like that retroactive. We've got lawyers
from the ACLU on the case already. It's going to get overturned.
Watch.”

They were quiet for a moment, thinking about
it. Then Oliver walked around the desk and pulled open the center
drawer. She stood beside him and rubbed the nape of his neck.
“Here's my essay,” Oliver said. “I'm dying for you to read it.”

She sat at his desk reading his satire while
he gazed out the window. After tweaking a sentence here, a phrase
there, she said, “This is excellent, baby. I'm very proud of you,
Oliver. I'll enter this in the literary contest and I also want a
journalist I know to read it. Before I forget, put this away.” She
unzipped a hidden pocket in her tote bag and pulled out a wad of
bills and, curling them into his hand, asked if there was any word
yet on you-know-who. He stroked her hand and, soaking in joy,
folded the five C-notes she handed him into an envelope, then
stashed it in the baseboard behind his desk. “Soon, baby. Real soon
I've been told,” he said. She crossed her legs, swinging the top
one, being girlish. She was being girlish for him.

Across the hall, through the half open door,
they could hear Victor LeJeune's high-pitched laugh. For the moment
Oliver wished him happiness-something to assuage the unhappiness he
would reap in the days to come, exchanging the prosperous ten year
run he had had at Riverview for a whole new environment somewhere
upstate. If revenge was a dish best served cold, Victor was about
to be served up a frozen entrée. Oliver had never waited this long
in his life to get even.

_

BOLTS OF LIGHTNING LIT UP
a purple and black
sky and the rain fell like buckshot as residents poured out of the
St. Regises, heading for the auditorium or the gymnasium or the
second floor school building. Each time the thunder clapped and
exploded, the prisoners picked up their pace, jumping over or
dodging around the puddles and potholes in the pitch-black
darkness. Interspersed among these pedestrians were Champ and six
other men who were on their way to a clandestine meeting in the
hospital basement. One by one they entered the lobby where Early
Greer stood holding a mop in his hands. To the first man and the
six who followed, Early nodded and said, “Down the stairwell. Last
door on the right.”

The air in the last room on the right was
chilly and smelled like fresh rain and formaldehyde. The light
bulbs overhead dimmed and flicked in sync with the thunderstorm
outside. Each time the lights went off, the men could see dust
particles dancing in the thin gray light that seeped through the
opaque window overhead.

Champ, who was the last of the secret seven
to enter, closed the door behind him and settled himself in a chair
in front of the white porcelain autopsy table. He looked around at
the others: Luis “Suave” Rodriguez; James “LaMumba” Hutch; E.J.
“Queenie” Jackson; Alex “Doza” Love; Jackie “Sonny Corleone” Boyd;
and Leroy “Key-su” Hopkins.

“We all know why we're here, brothers,”
Key-su said. “After everything's said and done, I believe there's
only one real solution to this situation.” He paused and looked
around the room at each man, and then said, “Whatever we decide to
do, I hope we'll be in one accord. Now who wants to go first?”

Suave, the undisputed leader of the Latino
community, said, “Yo, every time one of my peoples steps on the
sidewalk the po-leece is snatching us up, shaking us down, and
confiscating our bandannas. We want to give them a reason to leave
us the fuck alone.” Broad shouldered with short wavy black hair and
a puffy, thick-lipped face plagued by fresh wet acne, Suave waved
his pudgy hands in front of him. “We ready to tear the roof off
this bitch, you hear me?”

Doza went next. “Dig, man, I can relate to
that. We asked that little security captain a hundred times to move
all of my squad on one tier so we can be out of everyone's way, but
he keeps splitting us up. He's got us spread out all over the block
in cells next to niggahs they know we got issues with. Those punks
just want to see something happen. They eggin' it on. Let's create
some drama for they asses. We're tired of this shit.” The tall,
lanky leader of the Bloods looked like a choir boy when he smiled
at Key-su and said, “I'm through.”

“What I have to say will be brief,” said the
one they called Sonny Corleone. “Everybody's frustrated. Some of
the white guys want to organize a demonstration. Whether it's a
work stoppage or a food strike, I don't know. Some of them want to
tear the place apart, too. They all agree we need to do something
about all these changes they're making.”