Noble Warrior (10 page)

Six months after Johannsen stepped away from his desk, Deputy Warden Steven Elliot found himself indicted for stealing from the prison employee fund. Next in line would have been the associate
warden, but the state of Michigan, in its infinite wisdom, decided to eliminate the position of associate warden from all of the correctional facilities, in order to trim the budget and cut down on
bureaucracy. Major Krewls, a man with nineteen years under his belt at the time, turned up next in line in the chain of command.

“Eight thousand,” Krewls said. “That's it? I deserve a bonus.”

“Go hump a turtle,” Puwolsky answered.

Krewls soured his face. Clearly, this was not a negotiation.

“All right,” Krewls said stuffing the cash inside his jacket. “What we got?”

“This prisoner's name is”—Puwolsky passed the file over to the major—“Lester Alfred Rawlins. Story is he was sentenced to forty-five to life but escaped from
Longacre Penitentiary upstate, and is now being transferred here.”

“Forty-five years?
Whew-weee
,” Krewls said. “That's a long time for a young buck like you to do a bid up in here.”

“It's just three days,” Puwolsky said with a glare in Krewls's direction. “We're starting there.”

“Oh yeah, right.” Krewls took the forged paperwork from Puwolsky's hands. “Three days, gotcha.”

The seamless way in which everything went down between the two men made M.D. wonder just how many other people had been sneaked in through the back door and railroaded into the prison, without
ever having seen a trial, a judge, or a jury. Certainly, the scheme ran far too smoothly for it to be the first time Krewls and Puwolsky had ever pulled it off. No nerves. No anxiety. No signs of
concern about being caught or discovered.

Too much assurance M.D. thought. Too much arrogance. All signs of weakness, he knew. The overconfident were always vulnerable. McCutcheon filed this knowledge away in case he needed it
later.

“Anything else I need to know?” Krewls asked.

“Yeah, read that.”

Krewls scanned the materials.

“Hmmm, I'm thinking Think Tank.”

“Don't fuck around with this, Krewls. You know why he's here.”

“I'm just saying,” Krewls answered. “You'd bet on him, right?”

“I'm warning you, don't mess around.”

“Come on, Puwolsky,” Krewls says. “With the chump change you're paying, I could use the extra cash.”

“Why are you always bitching about money?”

“'Cause money rules the world,” Krewls said. “Just tell me, would you bet on him?”

While the eight grand was supposed to get M.D. into a position whereby he could execute his mission, Puwolsky knew that dirty officers like Krewls always liked to make a little extra
something-something for themselves whenever the chance presented itself. Smuggling in phones, looking the other way during a beat down, there were scores of ways that prison guards could puff their
pockets. Besides, once M.D. exited the car and entered the D.T., Puwolsky knew that Krewls was going to do what Krewls was going to do anyway; he was lord of the realm, so the colonel figured it
was better to simply tell the truth in order to try to move things along as quickly as possible.

“I'd bet the fucking farm on him,” Puwolsky said. “Just make sure a certain someone has an encounter and ends up in the morgue truck sooner rather than later.”

Krewls smiled, his crooked teeth ready to take a big bite out of this new opportunity. “Nothing to worry about.” Krewls tapped the cash in his pocket. “You, son, are
fixin' to triple this for me, ain't ya?”

McCutcheon didn't answer. He hadn't come to Jentles make crooked prison guards smile. He was here for other reasons and he knew he had to keep those reasons front and center in his
mind.

Puwolsky reached over, opened the passenger door, and McCutcheon climbed out of the car and into the rain.

“So you're a little soldier, huh?” Krewls stepped nose-to-nose with McCutcheon. “Just remember who the general is and we'll get along just fine.”

Even though Puwolsky had always suspected Krewls might put M.D. through a few extra challenges before he'd be placed in a position to take out the High Priest, the colonel hadn't
mentioned any of this to McCutcheon. In fact there were many things Puwolsky hadn't mentioned to McCutcheon about this mission.

Of course, there were a few things M.D. hadn't mentioned to the colonel, either. Like the fact that he had absolutely zero intention of murdering D'Marcus Rose.

“I'll see you in about three days,” Puwolsky said.

“Yep,” M.D. answered. Krewls grabbed McCutcheon by the elbow and began leading him inside.

“Right this way, son,” Krewls said. “Let's go get you set up all nice and cozy.”

Puwolsky turned the key, the Cadillac roared to life, and all three men took the next step forward in their lives, thinking about their own individual schemes.

Each just having lied, lied, lied to the others.

“M
ove it, ass breath!”

Major Krewls hauled McCutcheon into a gray-and-white intake room that smelled of piss and fear and slammed him into a chair with four other cuffed felons.

“Now, wait!”

McCutcheon understood Krewls's show of roughness. In prison, eyes are everywhere, and if even a sniff of the idea surfaced that M.D. was anything other than a convict, he'd be
shanked before dinner, and Krewls himself would burn. Sure, the major wanted the envelope full of money that came with backdooring M.D. into his institution, but Krewls also knew it could cost him
his badge, his pension, and maybe even his freedom.

For all parties involved, the stakes were high.

Krewls popped a roasted sunflower seed into his mouth, separated the shell from the nut using only his teeth, and then spit the gnawed husk onto the floor. A moment later he locked M.D. to a
hard steel seat and then bashed him with a baton.

“Uunnnnggghh!”
M.D. groaned as the shot drilled him in the ribs.

“Just a reminder, fucko,” Krewls said, making sure every other prisoner in the room heard him. “You're cookin' in my kitchen now.”

Krewls marched out of the room, and three of the four handcuffed inmates awaiting processing into the facility eyed the new fish in the tank. The fourth, bound in a restraining jacket made of
unchewable cloth and fitted with leg irons and a waist chain, gazed at the walls as if there was an animated cartoon playing on them. M.D. noted a hint of drool dribbling from the guy's
bottom lip, and a zoned-out daze in his eyes. Behind this prisoner's head, McCutcheon spied some graffiti scribbled on the wall.

Really inspirational, M.D. thought.

“Y'all know we're fucked, right?” said a skinny guy with big teeth making herky-jerky twitches. “Fucked like rabbits about to be stew. Screwed like turkeys about to
be dumplings. Cooked like cows about to be hamburger pie.”

“I ain't fucked,” came the booming voice of the bald-headed convict sitting next to the motor mouth. “Night Train is the guy who does the fucking. The fuckin' up of
people that is.” Night Train kissed his left bicep then his right, each arm a boulder. “Ain't nobody want a piece of Smith and Wesson.”

“Too true,” Motor Mouth said. “Ain't no one want a piece of Night Train.”

Suddenly the eyes of the restrained prisoner turned wide and crazy and he began smashing his head against the wall and screaming.

“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.

“Aw, shit, we gotta a banger,” Motor Mouth said. “Yo, guard! Get this boy some meds.”

“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.

No one came.

Then as abruptly as he started, Banger stopped. No rhyme, no reason, no explanation. He simply returned to staring at the walls.

“Just a damn shame how there be so many peoples with mental unhealthiness in our prisons,” Motor Mouth said. “A damn shame.” Motor Mouth twitched two more times and then
turned his attention to the guy on his left. “Hey, Timmy, what you in for?”

A twenty-three-year-old white kid, no tattoos, no facial hair, looked up with a
Who me?
expression.

“Yeah you,” Motor Mouth said. “What you done?”

“My name's not Timmy.”

“Well, you look like a Timmy to me. Lemme guess. Drugs?”

The guy not named Timmy didn't answer.

“I knew it!” Motor Mouth exclaimed. “What you slangin', X? Shrooms? Young fella like you might be pushing a little blow but definitely not the Big H.”

The guy not named Timmy kept his mouth shut. He'd taken a course on
How to Survive in Prison
paid for by his father before heading out to the D.T., so he'd been coached on
all the rules of how to act in order to make it through his bid.

Keep your eyes in your own head. Don't take any favors from anyone cause nothing is free in lockup. Since many attacks happen when you are using the toilet, always piss while sitting on
the shitter with your pants all the way off, so in case you're targeted, you can defend yourself without having your prison chinos trip you up at the ankles while you fight.

“And remember,” his coach told him. “One rule trumps all others: Show no fear. Poop your pants on the inside but on the outside you gotta wear the mask of a stone cold
killer.” Weak prisoners would be exploited.

The guy not named Timmy practiced his cold, dispassionate, “Don't mess with me” face for two solid weeks before entering the D.T., yet less than three hours into a
twenty-two-month sentence, his hands trembled, his mouth dried, and his eyes blinked at more than twice the normal rate.

“Aw, wouldya look at this,” Motor Mouth said. “Young buck here about to dookie in his pants. Just please don't tell me you in for
mareee-juana
? A damn shame the
way society'll take minor little trafficker like you and toss 'em in a place like this. Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Motor Mouth said, smacking his lips. “The D.T. ain't no place
for a dude like you, in here with murderers and armed robbers and sickos who'll take your manhood quick as they'll take a muffin off your breakfast tray.”

Motor Mouth leaned forward and looked compassionately at the guy not named Timmy. “Baby, you wanna know what's gonna help you survive in here? Do ya?”

Motor Mouth leaned gently forward and spoke slowly, making sure to clearly pronounce each of his words one at a time.

“Not. A. Damn. Thing.”

A grin, big and wide, grew across Motor Mouth's face. “You need to abandon all hope, motherfucker, 'cause baby, you about to enter a place from where you ain't never
gonna return. Haaa-haaa-haaaaa!”

“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.

Motor Mouth cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West, Banger smashed his head against the wall, and McCutcheon watched as a new wave of whiteness washed over the face of the guy not named
Timmy.

“And what's your deal?” Motor Mouth asked, turning his attention to M.D.

McCutcheon didn't reply.

“Oh, the strong, silent type, huh? I bet you're one of those bitches who thinks he ain't even did nothing wrong to be in here.”

M.D. glared, wordless and fierce.

“
Ooh-weee
, you got a mean mad-dog stare on you, don't ya now?” Motor Mouth said, practically feeling the energy ooze from McCutcheon's chest. “Well,
that'll help you some in here, but ain't nothing gonna save you from the food. They be serving toes in here for lunch.”

“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.
“Aaaeerrgggh!”
Thud.

Krewls stomped back into the room and smashed Banger in the gut with his baton. “Cut it out. You're giving me a headache.” Banger doubled over from the blow. It was abusive but
it worked, and Banger stopped banging.

“Can I just say how much I hate these lawyer paper jockeys always sweating us for overcrowding? Okay, listen up,” Krewls announced. “I only have four beds right now and
one's in the infirmary. But my problem is ain't a one of you need the infirmary.”

Krewls looked up from his chart. “Yet,” he added, as a sinister smile crept across his face.

The major looked around at his five charges. “Okay, which one of you wants to send another to the hospital for me?” he asked. “Come on, come on, I ain't got all
day.”