CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

First wake up of the day. Eat breakfast. Put spoon away. Get back on bunk, put earplugs-

As I'm putting in my other earplug, the speaker on the wall yells at me. “Knight, you have court this morning.”

“K.” Is all I say.

I already know this is going to be a long day, so I pull out my pink houses. It seems like forever ago when JJ showed me how to take the pill and use my I.D. to crush the anti depressant into powder, to make a line to snort out of it.

I roll up my heavily used ace of spades playing card to snort up the legal drugs in one motion, plug my nose, hold my breath while the sting hits, then release after a few moments.

Whew! Okay, I’m awake! I quickly make up a cup of coffee and pound the whole thing before heading over to the programming room.

Three other people are already in the room waiting to go downtown to the courthouse. It just so happens that Tad, one of the gang-members I’ve been playing Pinochle with for weeks, is one of them.

“What up dude?” I ask, as I pull up my plastic chair to sit next to him.

“Hopin this bitch of a judge gives me some good news today, but it’s Judge Shwellie and she’s been layin everyone down lately,” He says, shaking his head.

“I don’t even know who my judge is yet. Today’s my first day actaully going to court.”

“That’s right, you said you still haven’t done your prelims yet right?”

I nod my head up and down.

“Your case is crazy man, I can’t believe you called the cops!” He does that one-hand-over-the-mouth laugh, a normal gesture for a guy who’s always over-exaggerating expressions through his hands. Hands that don’t stop moving when he has cards in them either, fanning them open then closed, tapping them on the table, fanning them open and spreading every card evenly so just the number and suit of the card are showing. If he has a free hand, with no item to play around with, it looks as if he’s trying to make alien sign language.

He gets up to knock on the door. The CO hears the knock, then answers by unlocking the door. Scrappy opens it half way and asks the copper to change the channel to channel four so we can watch the news. The copper does so, without a single word.

“Last night we watched Gone in Sixty Seconds! Woooo, that show gets me going!” he says, while shifting invisible gears in his seat.

He’s talking about watching a movie while folding laundry. Our section hosts the four clothing trustees who work clothing exchanges every night.

Clothing exchange is one of the worst things about this large county jail. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the trustees go around to every section at night after the final CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK and offer up replacement socks or underwear. It doesn't take too long and the coppers don’t enter our cells.

However, it’s very different on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays. On those nights, when the clothing trustees bring in the bins of shirts, pants, socks, underwear, and towels, they are accompanied by four to six coppers. We all take our uniforms off and wrap our lower selves in a skirt made of the sheet we use to cover the mattress and sleep on. When the CO pops our cell door, there is a copper standing there checking our bundle of clothing to throw into the dirty laundry bin.

Then they go into the cell and shake it down. Some are chill. Some are complete dicks. They make sure you don’t have more than six books, that you’re not saving state food in bowls, that your pill packs are the right count, and that you don’t have any contraband hidden. Some of the most petty pigs will literally check your jail number and match it up with the number written on your pillow, if you paid for a pillow. It seems way over-the-top, and makes me wonder how different this jail is compared to others I’ve been told about.

While the coppers are swinging their dicks around in our cell, we walk single file to throw our stuff into the laundry bin, then tell the laundry trustees behind the bins of clothing what size we need of each. After which, we go back to our cell to rack in. And of course, clean up the mess the pigs made.

Sundays are sheet exchange, which work the same as socks and underwear.

“Did you get to choose the movie?” I ask

“Yeah, it was between that and Transformers.”

“Laundry trustee is where it’s at, how do you get into that?”

“Well, ya see, I know a guy,” he says, in a thick Italian accent and hand gesture.

I laugh. “No really.”

“Really.”

“Okay Al Capone.” I roll my eyes.

He snorts. “I lied, I don’t know A guy, I know the guys.” He points his thumb behind him towards the section. “When one of us leaves, we get to choose who we bring in as the replacement.”

“Oh that’s fuckin cool,” I say, surprised they let inmates control anything in here.

“Yeah we all have to work together so they just want us to get along. Hey, by the way, Brock is getting out soon and you’re gonna be here for a while. I’ll talk to the boys and see what they think about putting you on.”

I have not even considered a job. I don’t want to be a house mouse because I like my sleep in the morning. Plus there’s always a guy who take the job way too seriously. Also, I don’t want to go to the kitchen because I do not want to be around that nasty “food” all day. But a laundry trustee would actually fit my schedule nicely—I’m a night owl and up until two in the morning most nights anyways. Plus, Scrappy, Brock, Old man Jimbo, and Tad are already my buddies.

“Oh hell yeah, I would definitely be down for that!”

The news channel is already onto the weather portion and off the brief headlines, so I don’t have to hear my case come up this time. If they even air it at all. I truly hope the news forgot about my story already.

Eventually a transport copper, dressed in black, comes to handcuff our feet together, then our wrists. They are the kind of cuffs with a foot long chain linking the cuffs. At least have some sort of movement.

Once cuffed, he takes us out of the section and into the long hallways. We walk single file down the hall to go pick up inmates from other sections in the C portion of the jail. We finally make it to a room full of holding cells where they cram us in like sardines. The holding cells are the same size of our regular cells, but there is no bunk, instead there are two cement benches built into either side of the wall, with a toilet in the back.

Once inside the packed space, I count how many of us there are. Holy hell, there’s sixteen of us crammed in like sardines. Not a second goes by without the sound of a cough, a sniff, or some audible human function. Not a fart though, if anyone has to fart, they make sure to go to the toilet and flush it.

Minutes clump together, spanning into a galaxy that’s longer than an hour and a half. Finally a copper comes to our cell, calling us by last name. When they call, we give our ID and walk single file into another room, before finally walking onto a transport bus. A mobile jail with barred windows that are frosted.

The bus ride sucks. It starts getting warmer and warmer, worsening the motion sickness I feel. Closing my eyes, I try to keep my focus on something to distract myself from the overstimulation. I think about the fact that this is the first time I’ve left the jail since I got here over four months ago. I try to picture where we might be and what road we’re taking to get there. All the while, I’m trying to tune out the sounds of three “homies” who have not seen each other in a while. Their way of catching up is through yelling back and fourth.

“Ah Dawg, did you say Bianca? The big titted one whose brother just got popped with three kilos? What’s that dude's name?”

“Yeah, the Feds are picking up his case without question bro. Tawny or Trawny or something weird like that”

The rest of the ride continues with a non-stop of "do you know so and so" and talking about which girls are hood rats. When we finally make it to the garage underneath the courthouse, I’m more than ready to be done with all this.

However, the day has just begun.

We shuffle off the bus single file, get searched once we get into the building, then cram into a big triangle shaped room similar to the holding cells, but three times bigger, with two toilets behind a pony wall. Once inside, I take a seat on the concrete bench lining the wall and exhale a big breath. There is so much going on around me. Conversations, coughing, toilets whooshing, chains shifting, humans shuffling, and of course hard-working officers outside our cell trying to keep the public safe by preventing our escape.

Once again, I look around and count to see how many of us are in here. Forty-two I count on my first time. Forty-three I count on my second time. I get to thirty something before I stop counting and ask myself what am I even doing? Who cares how many of us there are in here?

There is no clock on the wall. I can feel the passage of seconds. Over ten-thousand of them pass, and over the course of that three hours, only one inmate at a time is taken away by a transport officer every five to fifteen minutes. When they finally call my name, the officer escorts me to an elevator, where I’m placed into one of the two 8X10 holding cells.

Talking to the other inmates, I find out that these are the holding cells to see Judge Shwannahsee. I guess that’s who my judge is. Many minutes pass while I chop it up with the other inmates and hear their unsolicited thoughts on how Judge Shwannahsee is going to treat me, and my case.

I also learn more about crime in general, because their stories are full of detailed examples about their past experiences with judgments and rulings. Of course, everyone knows someone else’s story, which they share like it earns them some kind of street cred.

A professionally dressed man and woman get off the elevator and come into the room outside my holding cell. I recognize them, after a moment, as my public appointed attorneys.

Brad, my male attorney asks. “Hey Cillian, it’s been a little while. You look good, how are you holding up?”

I haven’t seen either of them since sometime after video court but before Thanksgiving.

I grin without showing my skeleton. Oh, you know, livin the dream.”

I glance Melissa's way, my other attorney, and they both put on a sympathetic smile reacting to my fib.

Melissa picks up the next line. “So let me give you a little run down for today.”

As she speaks I come to find out that I’ll be silent the entire time and that I’m really just there as a legal requirement of the court. So I start to tune out what I’m about to experience first hand, instead I focus on keeping my face from revealing what I’m really thinking about.

What I’m really thinking about is how sensual her lips look with the subtle lipstick she's wearing. Her words sound like a sweet rhythm playing in my ears and I love how her syllables slither in without the broken English and macho pounding I’ve been bombarded with for the past few months. Overall, she is very attractive, but for some reason I hear Officer Parker's fun country girl voice in my head. Images of the woman I fantasize about often keep popping into my mind, and I feel shame for thinking sensual thoughts about my attorney in front of me.

“Do you have any questions?” Melissa asks.

Yeah, will you be able to prevent me from going to prison? “How long do you think it will take?”

Brad answers. “No more than a half hour I’m sure. They should be just about ready, so we’re going to go into the courtroom now. Just remember when the officer brings you in, don’t look at the spectators behind you, and don’t say anything unless you’re responding to the judge himself.

Okay, Mr. Fancy tie, are you going to persuade the judge to rule in my favor? “Got it,” is all I say.

The whole thing took twenty three minutes. I know this because I watched the clock the entire time. It was an incredibly uncomfortable feeling to say the least, but it went over exactly as I was told. Both the prosecutors and my attorneys presented evidence that will be referenced in the court proceedings moving forward. In the end, the court agrees the next court date will be the end of April.

Blah, I feel numb. After going down the elevator and being pushed into one of the triangle rooms again, I just sit and stare at the floor.

The longer I sit here the more I don’t care anymore about what’s going on around me. I’m no longer bothered by all the sweaty bodies or not being able to stretch my arms out. I’m not even thinking about the four months until I come back here again. I’m just a vessel of meat, void of all the expansion packs evolution played with to make mammals after sponges.

A sponge, that’s exactly what I am. Just a goofy little sponge-bob-blue-pants that’s been squeezed of life and left out in the sun to die.

Wait in holding cell.

Get back on bus.

Wait in next holding cell.

Get strip searched.

Wait in holding cell.

Get escorted back to section.

CLACK CLACK

I’m back.

This is the second time I’m returning to the section, and as the door opens I look into my living quarters from a whole different angle. Again.

I look towards the tables but see familiar faces looking back this time. Someone asks if it went well with a thumbs up thumbs down motion. I respond with a sideways thumb, which gets a scoff of recognition.

After the copper searches me I go back to my cell. I don’t bother making up a cup of coffee, just hop right up on my bunk and hold a book in front of my face.

I’m not reading, it’s just all I can do to feel like I’m hiding. But there is no fucking hiding in here. My closest pal at the pinochle table, Old man Jimbo, comes to my cell and tries to convince me to come out and play.

Request denied, I’m not in the mood.

I don't have to “argue” with him for very long because the CO yells at Jimbo, “No loitering!” Which gets me my alone time back.

No less than five minutes go by before Darrell comes waltzing in and immediately starts talking with questions. Over the past couple months I’ve gotten used to his personality and incessant speaking, but I just cannot handle his shit right now.

“-is that why the cuffs are so close together? They need to-”

“DUDE! DO YOU EVER SHUT UP!?” I demand, sharp as a razor.

“Wuss up? I know you ain’t talking to me like that homie!” he says, sharpening his own blade.

“The fuck I’m not. I just got done with the longest day of my life only to be told I have to come back to this shithole for four more months before I have the privilege of doing it again. I’m not in the fucking mood to hear your machine gun mouth pop off non-stop,” I rant from my bunk, book still in hand.

“Don’t like it, don’t come to jail. I don’t give a fuck about-”

A bomb goes off in my head and I jump off the bunk, right in his face. A face that completely changed expression the moment I hit the ground.

He stops talking for a second and I feel his timidity, so I press the attack. “What? You don’t give a fuck about what? Cause I ain’t got nothing to lose right now, so if you say one more fucking word, were throwing hands.”

The silence is deafening as he understands the stakes. After a few moments I say “good, now get the fuck out of here, I need some privacy.”

He leaves the cell and I drape my sheet over the back of the bunk, take one leg out of my pants, sit down on the toilet, and pretend like I’m taking a shit.

After about ten minutes of pretend pooping, I’m able to calm down. After the adrenaline burst, I’m not numb or wallowing anymore. I decide it’s better to go be around buddies right now than to be alone.

“There he is!” Tad exclaims as I approach the table.

“I remember my first day at court,” Old man Jimbo starts to say.

“Bullshit, you can’t even remember to tie your flip flops!” Tad pokes.

“You’re an idiot Tad.” Jimbo says. “Flip flops don’t even have laces!”

Old Man Jimbo was definitely born somewhere on the spectrum, or maybe he’s done too much bath salt. Either way, he has a limited comprehension of literal language. Super compassionate guy though. He also has plenty of money to supply the bulk of profits won at any card table he sits down at.

Tad snickers and Scrappy joins the banter by saying “Jimbo, you’re always the life of the party, you know that?”

“People tell me that all the time, yep. Killian, you want in next game? You can have my spot.”

He pronounces my name like Kill ian, not Sssill ian. Everyone does now, either because of my crime or they heard someone else say it that way. No one calls me Knight anymore, except for the coppers and judge.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

We play until shift change. During rack-in, Darell doesn't say a word and I start to feel a little bad for snapping. Upon reflection, I realize I started things.

I hop off my bunk and extend an olive branch his way. “Sorry I snapped earlier, I just got back and was in my head.”

“No worries G.” He doesn’t even look at me when he says it.

“We good?” I ask.

“No sweat.” Is all he says.

A bit more icy than I expected after trying to make amends. I walk to the cell door and look out into the section, scanning the same areas I’ve scanned thousands of times. I walk a cell-lap to the table and back to the door to look out. I do it again and still, I’ve not heard a peep from Darell who’d normally start yapping by now. Whatever. I tried. If he wants to be a snowflake, that’s on him. I climb back on my bunk to stare at the ceiling for the rest of shift change.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

I’m at the Pinochle table and Old man Jimbo can’t help but bring our attention to my celly Darell who keeps looking our way while watching T.V.

“Yo Killian, what’s up with your girl dawg?” Tad asks.

The rest of the table doesn’t really like my celly to begin with because, number one he never gambles, number two he comes across as a know it all, and number three he talks too much. They also clown on him for his more-or-less dainty ways. Both Darell and I have a trim frame but a completely different version of trim. I carry myself in a confident manner with a straight back, made comfortable by the toned muscles I’ve spent my whole life sculpting. He has his back and head slightly bowed while giving off a sense that he’d start shaking after ten push-ups.

“Maybe lay off him a bit, I had to get in his face earlier cause he wouldn’t shut up.”

“Look at you go killer,” Brock says.

“Oh watch out, we got a new enforcer in the section, big bad Cillian is layin down the law!” chimes in Tad.

“Fuck youuu, and Fuck youuu,” I point to Brock and Tad

At that very moment we see Darrell turn his head and look over at us again. After seeing us all looking at him, his scowl deepens.

“Oh, he’s mean muggin you Killer, better watch out!” Brock does not keep his voice quiet and a few people around start chuckling.

Tad blows a kiss his way, and Darrell quickly turns his head back to the T.V.

“You just love to stir the pot dontcha guys? I already kind of apologized to him, now he’s gonna be extra butthurt.”

“You what?” Tad swings his head to stare me down.

“You’re joking right?” Brock adds.

“What the fuck you do that for?” Tad follows up with.

“Oh come on guys, it’s not like I got on my knees and begged forgiveness. I just said sorry for snapping earlier.” I can feel the tempo ramping up from playful to serious, and I don’t like it at all.

“Sounds a lot like getting on your knees to me. You wanna apologize to someone who insulted you? That’s some pussy ass shit right there boy.” Brock sounds like he’s talking from prison right now.

“He didn’t really insult me he-” I get cut off before I can finish.

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking understand what’s going on right now. It’s you who’s not getting it.” Brock continues. “The way he’s looking over here, means that you guys still have shit to handle. And this ain’t the female pod where everything just goes away with a few nice words and some scissoring.

“I get it. Tonight I’ll handle it after rack-in.”

I think about what they’re saying and I’m scrambling to buy some time to think about how I can get out of this. But for the first time in months, I have no time.

“Nah, this gets handled now. We’re not gonna let one of our boys get got.” Brock looks at Tad, and he nods. “This is what’s gonna happen. You go back to your cell, and when little miss Darrell comes in, you piece his ass up good and proper. Don’t worry about the CO, we'll distract him. Remember, throw punches in bunches.”

This is happening, and there is nothing I can do about it.

“I know how to fight,” I say defensively.

“Everyone thinks they know how to fight.” Tad retorts. “But I’ve got your back and will be right outside your cell ready to jump in if he pulls a blade.”

A blade!? No way he has a shank. Or does he? Shit! This is no boxing ring.

“Go.”

I stand up and walk to my cell, keeping Darrell in my peripherals the whole time. After a minute I hear Brock upstairs shout to the CO something about the shower door not closing all the way. I walk to the doorway of the cell and see the CO leave his station to start heading upstairs. I also notice Tad over at the T.V. talking sternly to Darrell. I leave the doorway and head to the back of the cell.

He must be getting Darrell to come over right now.

BMM BMMM, BMM BMMM, BMM BMMM

I feel my heartbeat in my eardrums. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. And again. The fog and fear clear out of my head, I already know what to do. I visualize the whole scene in my head like Sherlock Holmes. He comes in ready to start swinging, I dodge his wild hook and hit him with a body shot, then follow up with a hook to the jaw. Nice, clean, and quick.

With Adrienne heightening my senses I think I can hear the footsteps of Darrell approaching. As I’m exhaling another big breath, my eyes focus on the front of the cell when Darrell walks right into my vision. He stops just inside, with Tads large frame right behind him.

He's not mean muggin anymore, instead, he resembles a deer in headlights. “So wuss up?” He asks with half his voice. I don’t have time to respond because Tad pushes him from behind with a force that makes me react quicker than I can think. I step in and try and meet his nose with a straight jab, but I miss and glance his cheek instead.

The fight is on. His first move, he tries to kick me in the nuts, but I’m too quick and grab his leg and lift. He’s hoping up and down on one foot until his hand grabs the bunk for stability. I try and sweep his stable leg with my own leg, and as I do, his other hand grabs the bunk. We dance awkwardly with me shoving one of his legs in the air still while keeping the other foot from planting. He’s got both hands gripping the top bunk for dear life. I’m not going to win the fight by just holding his leg, so I let go and swing as hard as I can at his ribs. But the momentum from getting his leg back makes his body twist away from me, so my fist connects with his back instead. He let’s out a little grunt and I grab him from behind by the shirt and pull him down to the ground. He lands mostly on his side where I see an opening to his face. My left fist raises and falls with both muscle and gravity. The first strike lands true. Same with the second. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth.

But not a sixth. Because there is no sixth punch thrown. His defensible arm, as well as the rest of his body has gone limp. For just a moment, I think I’ve killed another man. Then he starts to move, moaning in pain.

Tads voice enters the cell in a loud whisper. “Get him up, the COs coming back downstairs!”

“Hey, get up,” I say to Darrell, grabbing his upper torso and trying to pull him into a sitting position. He doesn’t fight it and seems to be getting his wits about him again, albeit rather slowly. I stand up and extend my hand which he takes, and help him up. Then I steady him with a hand on his shoulder while he takes a seat on his bunk. He starts touching the left side of his face tenderly and speaks like he's got a mouthful of food “I think you broke my jaw.”

“Good, now maybe you'll shut up. Plus, you’re the one who tried to kick me in the nuts.”

He snorts through his nose, and we both half-chuckle at our stupidity. The laugh makes him wince in pain.

Tads voice once again enters the cell with a warning, “CO is doing his rounds, don’t look sus!"

Tads back is to us, so I tap Darrell’s knee to get his attention. Once I’ve got it, I point to Tad, make two punching motions in the air and shake my head trying to tell him in charades that this was not my idea. He understands immediately by nodding his head.

With a mouth full of rocks Darrell says to me, “get outta here, I’m gonna pretend to take a dump.”

“K, you know where the coffee is, help yourself.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, grabbing his sheet.

I walk out of my cell trying to keep my breathing under control after feeling like I just ran a mile. Tad’s, whose been hanging out as close to the cell as he could be without drawing suspicion, comes up next to me and we walk back to the card table together. Once we arrive, there is a sense that we just pulled off a great heist. I endure the exaggerated compliments that mask their genuine pride in me for “doing the right thing.” Thankfully they drop the topic and revert back to typical table talk. The rest of the night I keep an eye on my cell, waiting to see if Darrell comes out.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

It’s final rack-in for the night, and still no sign of Darrell. At least he didn't press the button and snitch on me. The boys give me a little extra dose of encouraging words, making sure I’m good before heading to our respective cells. I really hope this bad blood is squashed between us, because I really don’t want to have to deal with any more bullshit. From Darrell, from my buddies, or from the jail.

I walk into the house and find Darrell on his bunk flipping through a magazine.

“What up?” I ask

“Yo.” He looks up and says.

“How’s your jaw?”

“You’re right, I don’t think it’s broken. But it hurts like hell and my head is pounding. You don’t have an IB Prophin do you?”

“I don’t keep any in here, but Jimbo has one he’s been keeping for me. After sock and underwear exchange, I’ll see if he can fish it to me. In the meantime I do have a Seroquel I’ve been saving, you interested?”

“You know I am. What do you want for it?”

I know he’d pay a couple of soups for it, but I honestly feel bad for him.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll call it a thank you for not pushing the button.”

“I may not be the toughest mother fucker, but I ain’t no bitch.”

“Word,” I say as I extend my fist for him to punch.

He punches it like he's all of a sudden a boxer.

“You’re stronger than you look.” He says to me.

“Yeah, and you're dumber than you look.”

The rest of the night I breathe easy knowing that things are gonna be just fine. Before I pick up my book, I reflect on everything that happened in the day. Somehow, I’m not really bothered about my next court date being four months away. This is just life and if I have to be patient, then so be it. I can’t believe I got in my first fight in jail, and not only did I win, but I dominated, with nothing but a bruised knuckle. But one thing grabs my mind and won’t let go. I did not want to fight in the first place, it was almost forced on me. Today, I think I may have gotten a small glimpse of what prison will be like. I can’t see how someone could make or even keep a shank in here, but in prison doesn’t everyone carry one on them in case shit goes down?

There is still hope though, even though it’s a flicker of hope, that there is still a chance that my new judge, Shwannahsee, will choose to give me a light sentence.

End of Chapter 8

The Scalpel is The Knife of knowledge.

Sewing The Knife write into my back,

I’m using The Knife to dissect syllables.

Grasping The Knife with the tip of my tongue,

I’m using The Knife to speak in tongues.

Gluing The Knife to the bottom of my boot,

I’m using The Knife to protect my soul.

Squeezing The Knife with all four digits,

I’m using The Knife to finger out life.

Taping The Knife to either knee,

I’m using The Knife to mince my needs.

Watching The Knife with my third eye,

I’m using The Knife to see behind me.

Running The Knife right through my hair,

I’m using The Knife with time to spare.