Part 5 (1/2)

My lawyer and the DA rushed the bench together. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but it looked bad-the judge was getting all red in the face.

When my lawyer came back, he whispered to me, ”The deal was, no allocution. We'll have to straighten him out in chambers.”

They called a recess. I went back to the holding cell. They probably had a long lunch.

When they brought me back in, my lawyer told me, ”Just say 'yes' every time they ask you a question.”

After that, it didn't take long. Then they were all finished with me.

The papers said I got five years. They always report the max, never the minimum.

But, this time, they weren't lying. I knew the Board was never going to cut me loose early. It's easier to do time when you don't get yourself all f.u.c.ked up hoping for something. Hoping for anything, that's a mistake.

I didn't last long in the s.e.x Offender Treatment Unit. Once they finally figured out I was never going to talk about some rape I never did, they kicked me out. That's when I knew I wasn't getting any of that ”good time” off my sentence for sure.

If you wanted to be in treatment, you had to talk about what you did. They called it ”owning your behavior.” I thought that was pretty funny, considering that the only reason you were there was that the State owned your body.

Some stooge-greasy little slob, a real veteran of what they called ”group”-he decided to confront me.

”Confront” is what they call it when you get to spit on a guy and he can't make you pay for doing it. Like calling a man a p.u.s.s.y from the other side of the bars.

”You have to take responsibility, Tim,” he said. ”That's when the healing can begin.”

”The a.s.sholes of those little kids you f.u.c.ked, think they they healed up by now, ChiMo?” healed up by now, ChiMo?”

”We're not talking about me.”

”Who's 'we,' ChiMo? I'm I'm talking about you. What's talking about you. What's your your problem? Too much f.u.c.king 'stress'? You don't like it, go back to your cell and jack off some more, you baby-raping sack of puke.” problem? Too much f.u.c.king 'stress'? You don't like it, go back to your cell and jack off some more, you baby-raping sack of puke.”

”No personal attacks,” the whiny little shrink who came in twice a week to run the group said, not looking at me. ”And we don't use terms like 'ChiMo' in here.”

”Look in one of those books of yours,” I told the shrink. ”See if it tells you what it means, you call a guy 'ChiMo' like it's his name.”

”I know what it means,” he told me, all snotty and superior.

”No, you don't. You think all it means is 'child molester'? Maybe in this room. But outside this little 'group' of yours, it's another world. And it's got different rules.”

”We all agreed-”

”'All'? Me, I didn't agree to s.h.i.+t.”

I turned in my chair so I could look at all of them, one at a time. ”How many of you skinners walk the yard? You, the greasy punk with the beard, you think f.u.c.king your own kid makes you special? Yeah, I know, you're all all special, right?” special, right?”

None of them said a word.

”What's that that tell you?” I asked the shrink. tell you?” I asked the shrink.

He looked everywhere but my eyes, rubbed the patch on the elbow of his sport jacket, like it would give him strength. ”Societal att.i.tudes-”

”Man, I can see why they all love you. Gonna write a lot of sweet letters to the Parole Board for them, huh? You f.u.c.king chump-all that college and you still get played for a r.e.t.a.r.d? Or maybe you just get your rocks off listening to their stories, is that it?”

I crossed my arms. Not to make the biceps pop, the way some of those iron freaks do. Just to wall me off from them...and make them see it. ”Me, I'm not in PC,” I said. ”I can walk the yard.” I turned to look at the shrink. ”You think that's because of your f.a.ggot 'societal att.i.tudes,' you don't know s.h.i.+t. I can walk the yard because the people out there don't care about what you did to someone else-they only care about what you can do to them them.”

When I got back from Yard later, I found the paper in my cell. I knew it had to be from the people who run the place-who else's got enough juice to get a kite put right on your bunk?

It said I was ”found to be a poor candidate for treatment” because...ah, the rest was a bunch of words I didn't give a d.a.m.n about. Just another reason for the Parole Board to hit me when I came up. Like they needed another another one. one.

You never count the days unless your sentence is in in days, like that county-jail slap I got before. Ninety days, that's a number you can count. Felony time, the faster you move, the slower it goes. days, like that county-jail slap I got before. Ninety days, that's a number you can count. Felony time, the faster you move, the slower it goes.

They sent me to the joint I wanted. Not because I asked or anything. Probably because they figured it would be the last place I'd want.

Dannemora. ”Little Siberia” is what everybody called it. Just a few miles from the Canadian border. n.o.body wants to jail there, because it means your family has to travel a whole day just to get a visit. Most of them, they come up the day before, stay at some motel. So it's really a three-day trip. That all costs money, makes it even harder.

Black guys really really hate the place. They're all city boys. Not only do their people have to come all that distance to see them, but the town where they have to stay, everyone knows why they're there. The Latinos don't like it much, either. hate the place. They're all city boys. Not only do their people have to come all that distance to see them, but the town where they have to stay, everyone knows why they're there. The Latinos don't like it much, either.

But it's a good place for a guy like me. Everyone wants to transfer out, so the race-war thing is dialed way down. And if you don't try to go into business for yourself-like getting your girlfriend to mule in some dope, or opening a gambling book-you don't make anybody mad at you, either.

Lots of notorious guys were there when I was. I mean, guys you would have read about in the paper. Like that ”Preppie Killer.” When the jury hung on his first murder trial, they let him plead to manslaughter, and threw in a bunch of burglaries, no charge. Another one had killed hookers. Lots of them.

For most cons, the more of those kind, the better. They were always getting money sent in, and you could usually muscle them off a piece of their haul when they drew commissary.

I never did that. The best way to do your own time is to stay out of the rackets-even the little ones, like trading your phone time.

You never take favors. Like when a con offers to get a girl to visit you. His girlfriend, she's got a friend. All it's supposed to cost you is a slice of whatever you manage to work the girl for.

No use telling the other guy you've already got a girl, since anyone can see you're not getting visits. So you have to say no and make sure he never asks you again.

The first time I hit the yard, I was a little surprised that I didn't know one single guy out there. Eddie was gone, but I figured, my life, the odds were pretty good I'd know someone someone. I guess any decent outlaw would have managed to work himself into a joint where there was more action.

Action was what you needed if you were pulling a long piece of time. Me, I was probably the shortest guy in the whole pen. They used to keep this place reserved for the hardcores: double-lifers, cons who had stuck a guard, top-shelf gangsters. Then the dumb f.u.c.ks who run the system figured out that a joint full of men with nothing to lose wasn't such a bright idea. I think it might have been the guards' union that tipped them off.

My account was always kept full, so I could get what I needed without going on the arm, or putting in work for one of the crews.

I paid paid for smokes, never borrowed any. After a while, I just quit. Whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned place was supposed to be smoke-free, so you couldn't walk around with a pack, much less a crate. You had to do one at a time, and you'd catch a ticket if you got caught, too. f.u.c.k all that. for smokes, never borrowed any. After a while, I just quit. Whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned place was supposed to be smoke-free, so you couldn't walk around with a pack, much less a crate. You had to do one at a time, and you'd catch a ticket if you got caught, too. f.u.c.k all that.

You'd think prison, it'd be the last place to change. From the outside, it might look that way, but things had really s.h.i.+fted since I'd been away the last time. Even what the cons called the guards: it was ”hacks” my first time, now it was ”COs” or ”cops.”

Changing what you call things doesn't make them different.

There's two kinds of contraband: the kind that gives you power inside the prison, and the kind that you could use to get out.

The first kind mostly comes from drugs. Which means they have to be muled in. The gang that has the best traffic system could buy a lot more power with the profits. More fancy sneakers, more color TVs-stuff you could buy, that was how you showed off.

My first time, everyone knew the mob guys didn't use mules. They got their supply direct from the prison pharmacy. It was the best connection of all, until the blacks started jumping them, right out in the open. That wasn't about black against white; it was about gang against gang. The black gang might have been nothing on the street, but Inside, they way outnumbered the mob guys.