Little Boy Blue (23 page)

“Well?” the judge said, his
eyeglass-swollen eyes staring. “What do you think?”

“I… I dunno, sir.” Alex
twitched a shoulder as children do in confusion.

“You don’t know how you feel
about what you’ve done?” The rising note of incredulousness cut
through fear as cleanly as a boning knife through beef.

“Oh, I know I’m sorry,” he
said hastily. “But I didn’t mean to do it, not shoot him. I’d
give anything not to have done it. But I didn’t mean to… I was
scared and it just went off.”

“Mmmmm.”
Some judicial rigidity faded. To all present, most of
whom
were disinterested, thinking about lunch and a
distant siren, the judge said, “This is one of the tragic cases where we
don’t have the means to do what is right. It’s a classic
institutional treadmill: the broken home and now no family whatsoever, the
foster homes and military schools, chronic runaway but not criminal, not yet,
eventually committing a crime and coming into the criminal- justice system. And
what can we do? Our options won’t protect society in the long run. The
best protection would be to make this boy a member of society, a citizen. We
don’t know how. We don’t know what will come out the other end of
the system, someone better or someone worse. Statistics say he’ll
probably be worse. But what can I decide? Society demands he be punished. He
shot a man. But if they didn’t, where could I send him? To another foster
home, boys’ home? He’d run away.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Alex
interrupted. “I wouldn’t.”

“I believe you’re sincere. But,
yes, you’d run away. I’m sure you would. But how else can I help
you?”

Alex’s mind screamed silently, Let me
go home, which didn’t mean home, for he had none, but was the euphemism
of the imprisoned for going free. But that was equally impossible. At his
age society didn’t allow freedom, even without such a crime as shooting a
man during a burglary. Not knowing what to reply, Alex shrugged. His circuits
were overloaded.

“Do you think going back to a hospital
would help?”

“No! Please! Please don’t…
back there.” The choked fervency was heard, and the jurist frowned,
lowered his head so he could peer over his eyeglasses, his eyes suddenly small
and myopic—and very, very human.

“Is it that bad? I’ve heard
different stories.”

Alex was suddenly afraid; it shot through
him. He knew it was dangerous to criticize one authority to another. They were
all together when it came right down to it.
“I
just… not for me.
I hated it and…”

“Don’t worry. Everyone agrees
that you need treatment for emotional problems, but you’re not mentally
ill. I’m going to commit you to the California Youth Authority. The
commitment is until you’re twenty-one. You’ll probably go to the
state school out in Whittier because of your age. They could keep you until
you’re twenty-one, but that never happens.” The judge stopped for a
wan smile. “Those who need confinement until they reach twenty-one
usually manage to get into enough trouble so that San Quentin gets them at
eighteen or nineteen. Most boys are released in a year to eighteen months. You
might get out even sooner, considering the time you have already been in
custody. I’m going to order them to consider it.

“I’m not certain that sending you
to the Youth Authority is the best thing. I’m never sure, or even
half-sure, except when…” He trailed off, paused,
shook
his head. “Off the record, I somehow feel like Pontius Pilate in this
case.”

Somehow, the
judge’s tone made Alex feel momentarily sorry for the man across the
table. Then the judge threw off his personal involvement. “So
that’s the Order of the Court.
Commitment to the
California Youth Authority.
They will make the decisions of what to do
with you. I hope you manage to make something of your life. I’d hate to
see your good mind go to waste.”

When Alex followed the bailiff back to the
bullpen, he felt relieved that he wasn’t going to the hospital, but he
also felt tension. Whittier State School was the end of the line for boys
between ten and fifteen. The toughest kids from the entire state were there. He
would have to measure up or get walked on—or get sodomized and become a
“punk,” which was the absolute degradation. Punks suffered
every sadism
that young rage could conceive. Whittier
wouldn’t be
so
savagely brutal as what
he’d seen, at least not where punishments were concerned, but he knew
there would be more conflicts among the boys. He would be younger than most,
and he vowed to prove his mettle. If most were bigger and tougher, nobody would
have any more guts. That he promised himself as the bailiff opened the heavy
door and locked it behind him.

Max Dembo was stretched on his back on a
bench bolted to the wall. He swung his feet to the floor at the sound of Alex
coming in. He jerked his head, silently asking,
What
happened?

“C.Y.A.
How long before we go?”

“I’ll go
quick
because they already have my records and stuff. You’ll stay in Juvie for
a month or so while the papers get processed in Sacramento. I’ll wave
hello when you get there.” He grinned, the wizened face turning boyish.
“It’s gonna make you tough or break you.”

“Well, it’s not gonna break
me.”

Max grinned even wider, then winked. “I
think you’ll make it.”

“Can’t do
nothing
else.” It was another philosophic phrase he’d heard from First
Choice Floyd.

During a long rainstorm, the worst to strike
southern California since 1933, a counselor came to the classroom to fetch him.
If it had been someone in Juvenile Hall calling him for an interview, a monitor
would have come with the pass; the counselor meant that transportation to
Whittier was waiting.

A pair of men in cheap
business suits were
waiting for
him and two others. The men were from Whittier. The other two boys were
Chicano; they were brothers who had inflicted multiple slices on a youth from a
different street gang. These two brothers were from “White Fence,”
a barrio with a block-long white fence in it. They were also afraid of
Whittier; White Fence was a gang at war with nearly all other Chicano gangs. It
was without allies. And its members, unless unusually tough, were given a rough
time in the youth institutions. They’d been pointed out to Alex by
another Chicano, a friend of Lulu’s from Temple Street. Lulu was already in
Whittier.

The Chicano brothers were already in civilian
clothes and being handcuffed together when Alex entered; one of them was
holding a shoebox letters and snapshots. A rain-pelted tree was wind-lashed so
it scratched a window; it was the loudest sound as Alex changed into his own
clothes, now musty from hanging unwashed for so long. The men from the reform
school watched him, and when he was through one of them patted him down and
brought out another pair of handcuffs.

“Should we put this one in the
middle?” he asked his partner. “He’s the jackrabbit in the
bunch.”

“Naw, he’ll be okay on the
outside.”

The steel was fastened around Alex’s
right wrist, binding it to the left wrist of one Chicano. The trio was
shepherded through the electronically controlled doors and hurried with heads
down through the rain gusts—one man leading, the other following—to
a station wagon with State of California on its side.

The drive took an hour. Whittier was a
suburban community east of Los Angeles, and at first Alex had a terrifying thought
that they were really going back to Pacific Colony, which was also east.
Whittier, however, was ten miles to the south.

Elsewhere the storm was hitting the southern
California coast with wicked backhand slaps, and causing canyon houses to slide
off their perches; but here it was merely shivering trees and overflowing
gutters and empty sidewalks.
Once the driver had to slam a
heel into the brake pedal to avoid plowing into a stalled car.
Everyone
in the station wagon lurched forward. Alex was shot through with a
moment’s fear as the car slid on the wet street, but as it straightened
out and they gained momentum, he wished that they’d been wrecked—a
bad wreck in which the prisoners had a chance to run. In later years, whenever
he was transported anywhere he would beg fate for such an accident. This was
just the first time.

The tires hissed on the wet asphalt as they
passed beyond the barrios of East Los Angeles to the stucco suburbs and citrus
groves. Trees leaned and writhed. The few vehicles moving around traveled
slowly, their headlights turned on.

Whittier State School had its name on the
front gate. The gate was open and no fence ran along the front. It faced a busy
boulevard. The rear, however, had tall fences with rolled concertina. The
buildings spread were brick Tudor. The grounds were twenty acres of manicured
lawns and trim lodges. It looked more like a small college than a reform
school. It took close inspection to see the chains welded across the
windowframes, making sure they wouldn’t open wide enough for a body.

Receiving Company was what its name
indicated, a place where newcomers were processed and indoctrinated. The first
day was spent at the institution hospital; he was examined, vaccinated, inoculated,
and, because of his history, interviewed by a psychologist. Half of the next
day was spent with a social worker, who had the court records but wanted to
know what schools and institutions he’d been in, what social service
agencies had handled him. Whittier would write for more information about him.
Such things were immaterial to Alex; he was concerned solely with learning the
reform school routine, the mores and styles, in learning his role and being
accepted. The routine was basically military school discipline, enforced
by civilians. The main civilian in each company was called a housefather; he
and his wife lived in the cottage with the boys. Two other men worked the
morning and graveyard shifts; they were counselors. Aiding the civilians were
“officers,” three boys, one of each race; they called the cadence,
gave orders, and were quick to kick the slow-witted in the buttocks for dozens
of infractions.

Mr. Morris, the Receiving Company
housefather, still had traces of an English accent. In his fifties, he was a
balding physical-fitness zealot. So was his petite-framed wife. In addition to
the perforated paddle (“Bend over and grab your ankles”), Mr.
Morris enforced discipline by liberal calisthenics. Minor infractions, such as
audibly cutting wind in the dayroom or whispering in line, brought thirty- five
situps or twenty pushups. Serious matters could bring an ear- ringing cuff on
the head, a kick in the rump, or swats with the paddle, depending on
circumstances and mood. Then, in the evening, the miscreants (there were
several every day) did one hundred pushups in five sets of twenty, fifty deep
knee bends, and fifty situps, which Mr. Morris did with them. Often his wife
did them too. Despite being forty years old, she’d kept a taut figure,
and the boys watched her brown legs and tried to sneak glances up her dress.
The most adventuresome attached tiny bits of mirror to their
shoes,
then stood close to her, swearing later that they saw hair via the mirror.

Three hours a day were spent learning how to
march. Alex already knew how from his sojourns in military schools, but he was
a rarity. For the first three days, a newcomer was taught by a boy officer away
from the rest of the company. After that, he was put with the others to learn
or suffer. Being out of step brought a boot in the butt, as did any other
drilling error. At the end of each drill period, the company did half an hour
of strenuous exercises; they also did them before breakfast. When they went to
a regular company they were in top condition, the thin arms of boyhood growing
a ridge of muscle at the tricep, an unusual thing in young boys; and instead of
boyhood’s usual tummy, they developed rippling stomach muscles. Mr.
Morris worked hard to create healthy bodies; he didn’t think they had
minds, so he didn’t bother with that. In weeks they marched like a
military drill team.

Because Alex knew how to march and had had
the experience of other institutions, he avoided conflict with the officers.
But he had a small, hard nugget of resentment for what they
did,
meanwhile recognizing that any of them could make mincemeat of him.
Nevertheless, he knew that any kick or punch on the shoulder would make him
fight whoever did it. He must have radiated his preparedness, for he
wasn’t kicked when he whispered during silent periods. The officers just
signaled him to be quiet. They were obviously picked first because they
were among the toughest in the company, and secondly because they would do so
for extra prerogatives; few thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds understood
the underworld “code” to the extent where this behavior
violated it. They did know that outright “snitching” was wrong, but
doing the Man’s work of enforcing order was different. Alex seemed to be
the only one who had misgivings when an officer beat up another boy for breaking
the rules. A big, tough white officer (he weighed one seventy and shaved
regularly at fifteen) nicknamed Skull kicked a smaller Mexican for horseplay in
the shower line. The Mexican was snatching a towel from the waist of another
Mexican in front of him. When kicked, he turned and punched—and the fight
was on. The Mexican lost, but it was a hard, vicious brawl where the two boys
stood toe to toe and the much larger Skull had a black eye and bumps on his
face. When the Mexican officer went to a regular company, the fighting Mexican
was promoted to the vacated position. He began kicking those who started the
horseplay in line, those who talked,
those
who did
anything, and joyfully pummelled any who fought back. A few boys were immune
from the officers because they were too tough; they, themselves, would have
been promoted except that they were just too much trouble—too rebellious.
Mr. Morris took care of them. Another category received kicks, but
“pulled,” delivered at half-force with the flat side of the shoe;
the culprit could arch his back and take it painlessly. The majority, however,
learned to march and follow the rules by bruising kicks. They learned quickly,
too; and any sign of protest brought a fist in the mouth.

Receiving Company was especially strict.
Everything was done in silence. Every process, from wakeup, through washup,
breakfast, drill and even showers, was done by the numbers. For example, they
filed into their narrow lockers preparatory to showers. The officer gave them a
left face, so they stood at attention facing each locker. At the command of
“one” they put their hands on the locker; at “two” they
opened it; at “three” they took out the towel and put their shoes inside…

So it went for months and months. Alex knew
he’d been marked as a troublemaker from things Mr. Morris said. Word had
come from the front office, based on the files. “We’ll break
you,” Mr. Morris said once. “You’re not so tough,” he
said another time. But Alex didn’t get into any trouble; the extreme
discipline somehow made him patient and watchful. It was a challenge. He
didn’t know anyone in this company, which
was newcomers
from the whole state of California. Receiving wasn’t allowed to mingle
with other companies, but Alex saw faces he knew in church. Everyone had to
attend either Catholic Mass or Protestant services. He went for the Mass
because many boys wore the rosary as jewelry; he liked how it looked, and he
got one from the priest. At Mass he saw Lulu, who grinned and nodded a greeting.
It made Alex warm inside. He also saw Max Dembo, who waved a greeting. A few
others from Juvenile Hall waved recognition and greeting. Some newcomers knew
nobody, but others, especially blacks and Chicanos, saw a score or more of
friends from their neighborhoods. It was old-home week to them.

The youngest boys at Whittier, from eight to
ten years old, were in Wrigley Cottage; their “dress” clothes were
Cub Scout uniforms. Wrigley Cottage was famous for its marches. Wrigley not
only won close-order drill competition from the rest of Whittier, it had also
beaten the U.S. Marine drill team from Camp Pendleton. Hoover Cottage was for
slightly older boys, eleven or even twelve. Then
came
Scouts and Washington. The oldest and toughest boys were in Roosevelt and
Lincoln. Most were fifteen and some were sixteen.

Alex was later transferred to Scouts, and he
had mixed feelings about it. By comparison to the other cottages, Scouts was
less regimented. It was the only cottage with private rooms instead of
dormitories. On Sundays, it provided escorts for visitors from the front
gate to the picnic area or auditorium; the weather dictated which. The boys
thus had a chance to ask the visitors for cigarettes, the most valuable
commodity in the institution. Running a distant second was Dixie Peach hair
pomade; it was also contraband, as were all pomade and hair oil, because the
boys drenched themselves and grossly stained the bedding. Their intricate
hairdos, all with fancy ducktails, required lots of grease to stay in place.
Access to the visitors allowed boys from Scouts to smuggle in cigarettes and
pomade for others. The boys were searched, but the escorts could hide things in
bushes en route here and there. They were too young, at least in this era, for
marijuana, though a few had experience with it, and many claimed experience.

Scouts Cottage also went on more “town
trips” than the others: the Boy Scout jamborees, parades, and an
occasional movie. Such things were all to the good. To the bad—what
caused Alex’s misgivings—was that boys too soft for
Washington, Lincoln, or Roosevelt were also sent to Scouts. Not all were thus.
Most were average delinquents and a few were “crazier” than
average. But the twenty percent in Scouts because of being weak gave a stigma
to the others; the question was always raised if a newcomer was assigned
there—until he proved himself, anyway. So, despite the comparatively
easier living—and it was entirely by comparison—it
rankled
Alex that anyone might assume him too weak for a
different cottage. He was ready to fight a grizzly to prove himself.

Scouts had faces that Alex recalled from
Juvenile Hall, but he couldn’t put names to them and didn’t know
them. The white boy officer got him bedding and linen and showed him the room
he was assigned on the second floor. All the rooms were there, down two
hallways at right angles. Where the hallways joined was the stairwell and a
heavy door, the only exit. Here sat the night man’s desk, too.

The room was nicer than any Alex had had in a
foster home or military school. The small space was used efficiently. The bunk
was built in against a wall, and its bottom had large drawers for extra clothes
and property. A tiny wardrobe cabinet was fitted at the foot of the bed to the
wall beside the door. The room door was never locked because the showers,
washroom, and toilets were down the corridor. Writing desk and chair faced the
room’s small window, which had curtains and no bars. But he
couldn’t climb out because a short chain had been welded to the windowframe
so it wouldn’t open far enough.