“During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture.”

— Frankenstein

Out of the mouths of babes, my father used to say — when he described unexpected kernels of truth. Of course, Truth was what fucked me and my old man would have recoiled in horror that speaking truth to power could get you a few years in the slammer. But, truth be told, I learned a lot bout truth, justice and retribution. No one ever forgets in prison. Just like George Washington II, according to Sly Stallone, is well known for remembering vendettas. So here’s a little tidbit about truth, justice, retribution and prison life should you ever accumulate too many parking tickets or, maybe as things become testy in the New Fascistic environment you curse at a cop or a Republican. Here’s a little True Crime for sadists out there.

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January  18, 2014

I awakened at 5:30 am after a fitful sleep. They had been doing the Rec room floors all night. First removing wax, washing, then applying wax, using the cheapest and most toxic version available — and this process had been going on for 4 days. Since they’d been doing it since just before the weekend, Late Night was canceled. No games and T.V. for days. Martin Luther King’s holiday would be eaten up by this inconvenience. For me it was a matter of fearing that when I got up to use the toilet in the middle of the night, the bright white lights like Times Square would hit me with machines whirring. In the night I had made the trip among the wires and machines and was hit with a mop as I moved past the workers on the way to the urinals. Despite this I got most of a night’s sleep. But, of course the guys were still up at 2:00 a.m. chatting since Late Night was canceled.

It was morning and I awaited the arrival of the CO and expected that there would be some respite from the fluorescent lights since it was Saturday. Especially, after having been deprived of Late Night.

“ON THE COUNT!” blasted Benweird. Louder than normal into the P.A. mike.

The fluorescents went on full blast and he walked around chewing his gum. After rounding the dorm in silence he got up into the Bubble and continued.

“Since the dorm is not being cleaned properly, WE WILL ALL GET UP AT 9:00 AND HELP THE PORTERS CLEAN — that is all.”

The lights went off and he sat at his desk and started singing a version of “Yesterday” by the Beatles, which was where he was apparently stuck in time. “SHHH” is heard from a cube where someone was trying to sleep. Then he started rattling a small bottle as if he were trying to mix paint.

A continuous round of annoying sounds of rattling, singing, and movement came from the Bubble.

I went out into the REC room and saw Cuba getting ready to go to Mess Hall.

“What is wrong with him?” I asked.

He laughed. “Now you see what I mean about this guy. Remember Martin talking about the Secret Squirrel Society?”

“These guys are on a torture trip. They pull this shit just to drive inmates to doing something. Not too long ago one of them snapped and he seriously beat the shit out of one of the Sergeants and a couple of the COs.”

“I mean really, you leave the lights off for people to sleep then you lecture them and rattle and sing so they can’t? What the fuck do they expect?”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why Benweird’s wife left him. She couldn’t take the shit either. Fucking asshole.”

I was happy I had a job that I could go to on weekends.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll be happy to get out of here. Maybe if my 2 year preference transfer comes up.”

“No kidding. My friend had told me that I was going to one of those ‘Ticketron’ places — where they give out tickets for anything. Well, this is it. Anyplace you go to after this will be a vacation spot.”

I went back to my cube and sat in the darkness drinking coffee and thinking about being tortured by assholes and living with people who had a low tolerance for frustration. A bad combination. And, he bemoaned having to put up with this at 70 years of age.

Then he thought about Brake, his neighbor — who described his year in the Box for having had a weapon.

“So, I’m laying down in my cell, at Wende, a Max about 10 years ago.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d just come back from the Law Library where I worked at that time,” said Brake.

“Uh-huh.”

“And, this Sergeant comes and raps on my cell and opens the gate and I say ‘Hi Sarge, what’s up?’ — cause I knew everyone and was on good terms with the COs — and he starts sticking his fingers into the chain mechanism above the cell gate that comes across to close it.”

“And, what happened?”

“He puts his hands up as if to say, ‘Wait.’ so I wait as he thinks and looks away for a second.”

“You’ll see,” said the Sergeant, as he continued  to play with the gate mechanism. And, then two other COs arrive and he says, ‘Step out here, Brake’ and I say, ‘Okay Sarge’ and I move out of the cell and then he says, ‘Okay, now put your hands behind your back’ and I say, ‘Okay, but what’s going on?’ — and he says, ‘You’ll see in a minute, So, they take me away and I have no idea why.'”

“What the fuck?” I had looked at him, as both of us stood facing each other over the locker in my cube, the ‘wall’ of their cubes coming up to my waist as they talked quietly, almost in whispers so the CO didn’t notice.

“Yeah, really,” he says. 

“Next thing I know, I’m in the Box and all of my shit is dumped in with me and I’m finally taken to a Tier 3 hearing.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“So, the Sergeant produces a broken off blade from a hack saw that had been lodged in the sliding mechanism above my cell where the gate moves across.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly,” he said, “it had been made into a shiv that was long and slender and was able to be  slipped into the space above the gate sliding mechanism. And, not by me. How they came to know that it was there and found it is beyond me. But, all I knew is, it was NOT mine.”

“So what did you do?”

“I told them I worked in the Law Library. I filed grievances and appeals for 43 straight days.” 

“And … ?”

“Nothing, nada, zilch,” he said. “Could not fucking get anywhere.”

“So, what finally happened?”

“I did a year in the Box for having a weapon.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish,” he said. 

“A couple of years later I saw the guy who’d  been in my cell before me.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

He shook his head. “I looked at him in the Yard and said, ‘You know that shiv you left in your cell?’ — and he looked at me and I could see the light come on in his head and he said ‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.’ and I said, ‘Yes, you do.’ and then said, ‘At least you could admit it and remember what you did to someone else. You know I’m here for murdering someone,’ and the guy looked at me with a little fear in his eyes. ‘I did a year in the  box for your little mistake, man. You got that? You’re lucky I’m in  a forgiving mood,’ and I walked away. He shit a little over that.”

“I would think he would.”

“Yeah, but you know, later on — when he wasn’t expecting it. I had one of my guys return the blade.”

“That was nice of you.” 

“Yeah. Put it in his neck so he wouldn’t misplace it again.”

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