sounded scared, then he’d be nice. Tell me
what a bad place the prison was if you didn’t have a friend. Maybe offer
to protect me from certain people in there, pat my arm to make me feel better.
Then he’d ask me to go someplace with him. Someplace where we could
talk.
But if I didn’t answer him, he’d pretend to get mad.
He’d say I had disrespected him, or something like that.
It
didn’t matter how he was going to get it started, it was always going to
end the same way.
I knew I’d have to try and hurt him bad, if I
ever wanted to be left alone. My best bet was to jump him first, but I was,
like, paralyzed, trying to make myself move.
There was only one guard
in the rec room. He was watching the TV.
I was looking at the floor,
trying to see if there was anything I could use on the black guy. I wished I
had a knife. I didn’t know how to use one—I mean, sure I knew how
to use one, but I’m not a pro at it, like some guys you hear about when
you’re locked up—but I know, some people, if you just show them a
blade, they’ll back off.
I didn’t think that black guy
would back off, even if I had a knife. I could tell he’d done this
before.
I wished Toby hadn’t done what he did.
The black
guy was talking to me. I couldn’t make out any words—just the
sound, like my ears were full of water.
I knew it had to happen
soon.
And then another black guy came up to us. He was older than the
one who was trying to bulldog me; he even had gray in his hair.
I snuck
a peek around the room, but everybody was looking away from us.
The
older guy didn’t say anything. He just shook his head at the one sitting
next to me—side to side, like he was saying no.
The guy with all
the muscles got up, like he just remembered something he forgot to do.
The two black guys walked off together. Nobody else came over. I sat by
myself for the whole rest of TV time.
A couple of
days later, J.C. and his men found me again. They stood around me, but I
didn’t feel all hemmed in; I felt safe.
“At the trial,
Tim took all the weight, didn’t he?” J.C. said. “Told the
jury you didn’t even know what was going on. Just a dumb kid he and his
brother talked into driving them to the bank. That’s why you’re
only doing a nickel, not sitting up in the death house with Tim.”
“I never said anything,” I told him.
“At the
trial? Why should you? Tim was putting it all on him and his brother. And his
brother, he didn’t make it. All you had to do was sit there.”
“I didn’t say anything even before that. When the cops had
me.”
“Why not? They must have wanted you to roll over,
testify against the others. Offered you a deal.”
“I would
never do that,” I said.
He looked at the guys with him again. But
it was a different look, that time.
A fter that, I was with J.C.
Everybody knew it.
J.C. was short—near the end of his
sentence—when I met him. He got out almost two years before me. But, by
that time, it was okay—I could live there by myself. It was like J.C. had
left his protection on me.
One night, before he left, J.C. told me I
didn’t want a parole.
I nodded okay.
“That
doesn’t sound crazy to you, Eddie? What I just said?”
“Not if you say it,” I told him.
Then J.C. explained:
If I was going to be a getaway man, I couldn’t have some parole officer
checking on me all the time. A good getaway man is responsible for everyone who
goes out on the job. He has to get them home safe.
“What if your
P.O. just dropped in the same day you were working?” J.C. said.
“You’re not home, that isn’t going to stop him. Those
motherfuckers don’t need a warrant to search your house if you’re
on parole. You see what that could do?”
“Yeah,” I
said.
“For you, parole is a chump play,” J.C. said.
“With good time and all, you’ll max out only a few months later,
anyway. If you were doing thirty years, and they offered
what a bad place the prison was if you didn’t have a friend. Maybe offer
to protect me from certain people in there, pat my arm to make me feel better.
Then he’d ask me to go someplace with him. Someplace where we could
talk.
But if I didn’t answer him, he’d pretend to get mad.
He’d say I had disrespected him, or something like that.
It
didn’t matter how he was going to get it started, it was always going to
end the same way.
I knew I’d have to try and hurt him bad, if I
ever wanted to be left alone. My best bet was to jump him first, but I was,
like, paralyzed, trying to make myself move.
There was only one guard
in the rec room. He was watching the TV.
I was looking at the floor,
trying to see if there was anything I could use on the black guy. I wished I
had a knife. I didn’t know how to use one—I mean, sure I knew how
to use one, but I’m not a pro at it, like some guys you hear about when
you’re locked up—but I know, some people, if you just show them a
blade, they’ll back off.
I didn’t think that black guy
would back off, even if I had a knife. I could tell he’d done this
before.
I wished Toby hadn’t done what he did.
The black
guy was talking to me. I couldn’t make out any words—just the
sound, like my ears were full of water.
I knew it had to happen
soon.
And then another black guy came up to us. He was older than the
one who was trying to bulldog me; he even had gray in his hair.
I snuck
a peek around the room, but everybody was looking away from us.
The
older guy didn’t say anything. He just shook his head at the one sitting
next to me—side to side, like he was saying no.
The guy with all
the muscles got up, like he just remembered something he forgot to do.
The two black guys walked off together. Nobody else came over. I sat by
myself for the whole rest of TV time.
A couple of
days later, J.C. and his men found me again. They stood around me, but I
didn’t feel all hemmed in; I felt safe.
“At the trial,
Tim took all the weight, didn’t he?” J.C. said. “Told the
jury you didn’t even know what was going on. Just a dumb kid he and his
brother talked into driving them to the bank. That’s why you’re
only doing a nickel, not sitting up in the death house with Tim.”
“I never said anything,” I told him.
“At the
trial? Why should you? Tim was putting it all on him and his brother. And his
brother, he didn’t make it. All you had to do was sit there.”
“I didn’t say anything even before that. When the cops had
me.”
“Why not? They must have wanted you to roll over,
testify against the others. Offered you a deal.”
“I would
never do that,” I said.
He looked at the guys with him again. But
it was a different look, that time.
A fter that, I was with J.C.
Everybody knew it.
J.C. was short—near the end of his
sentence—when I met him. He got out almost two years before me. But, by
that time, it was okay—I could live there by myself. It was like J.C. had
left his protection on me.
One night, before he left, J.C. told me I
didn’t want a parole.
I nodded okay.
“That
doesn’t sound crazy to you, Eddie? What I just said?”
“Not if you say it,” I told him.
Then J.C. explained:
If I was going to be a getaway man, I couldn’t have some parole officer
checking on me all the time. A good getaway man is responsible for everyone who
goes out on the job. He has to get them home safe.
“What if your
P.O. just dropped in the same day you were working?” J.C. said.
“You’re not home, that isn’t going to stop him. Those
motherfuckers don’t need a warrant to search your house if you’re
on parole. You see what that could do?”
“Yeah,” I
said.
“For you, parole is a chump play,” J.C. said.
“With good time and all, you’ll max out only a few months later,
anyway. If you were doing thirty years, and they offered
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