The Four Stages Of Cruelty Part 9

I walked the aisle at a slow pace, doing a mental count on each cell. When I got to Fenton's drum, I saw that he was already sitting up on his cot, waiting.

"Officer Williams," the voice in the dim interior said, "are those your catlike steps I hear?"

Don Juan in all his glory.

"Now, how'd you know it was me?" I asked, dry and sarcastic.

"Oh, you know how word gets around." A slow, relaxed tone, like he had all the time in the world. "The boys are jealous I caught a break. They always want my Christmas presents."

Christmas is over, a.s.shole, I wanted to say. I tapped the green b.u.t.ton on my shoulder radio twice and requested the open cell. It always took a few more seconds than expected. Then the click I'd been waiting for, and I stood back to allow Fenton s.p.a.ce to step out.

Well-groomed hair, a little wet from some kind of product, an easygoing smile on a splendidly handsome face, like a movie star in some romantic comedy. He gave me a cheerful nod and slid by me gracefully, a scent of clean in the air behind him, so unlike the sour griminess of most of the inmates. Fenton was one of those occasional inmates in love with being a con. Early forties, but weathered well, wide shoulders, smooth skin with only a few tattoos. Self-a.s.sured and short-tempered. He had gotten into the pants of three females-three who had been found out, anyway-a secretary married to the head of maintenance, a nineteen-year-old volunteer religious counselor, and a CO named Julie Denly. I knew, without any understanding of the phenomenon, that plenty of women were irresistibly drawn to inmates. Even so, the sordid, awkward physicality of actually engaging in illicit s.e.x inside a maximum security inst.i.tution was utterly unfathomable to me. When Julie got caught-because someone on the cellblock jealous of Fenton had flown a kite to the Keeper-I had been astonished beyond belief. It was my first year on the job, and Julie seemed just like me, ex-military, hard-core, capable, so we got along, even spent some time together outside work, though I knew nothing of her relations with Fenton. I had no doubt Fenton could work his charms, but even then, before my jadedness got so keen, I knew that an inmate was a pathological liar, someone who told you relentlessly what you wanted to hear in order to get what he wanted and then threw all of those emotions away without remorse once you gave in. It didn't matter if it was an extra piece of toast or a career-ending affair-the level of emotional engagement was the same. After the scandal I met with Julie at a cheap restaurant off the highway. She wore a blue turtleneck sweater with plain hoop earrings, and she gripped her daiquiri like a vase of flowers that could tumble over. She told me about the letters and the secret messages and the words of love, and the level at which Fenton understood her, how he antic.i.p.ated her moods and connected with her more completely than anyone she'd ever known. I could barely keep the running criticism out of my head. You poor, stupid, humiliated fool, you've ruined it for all of us. A few months later Julie moved away, and I never heard from her again. Fenton, on the other hand, was still serving eighteen to twenty for armed robbery and hostage taking.

From a dark cell near the front of the range an inmate mentioned that he had an erection to lend Fenton if needed. To his credit, Fenton ignored the comment. We clanked our way down to the ground floor, stood at the door, and waited for release into the hall, an endless, echo-filled corridor that was sloped, paint-chipped, and damp.

"You been double shifting?" Fenton asked. He seemed oddly unsure of himself when he spoke up, as though nervous about trying to make a connection.

"Almost every day. 'Tis the season."

We walked at a relaxed pace. Some inmates were always in a hurry, wired with ADD energy, but Fenton was all leisure.

"Between you and me-" he said.

Here it comes, I thought.

"Ninety-five percent of the boys aren't looking for this." He meant the disruptions and lockdowns-self-appointed emissary of the poor, misunderstood silent majority.

I said nothing at first, debated whether to ignore him, and finally spoke up.

"Fenton, why are you telling me this?" I asked.

And he laid it on thick.

"You, Officer Williams, are unusual in that you treat people with respect. That's a clean rep, no bulls.h.i.t. The problem with the way things are run here is not enough communication. Most of the hard-a.s.s COs just want to bust heads. But if you sat down and talked to us, there would be a lot less trouble."

"Give peace a chance, huh?" I said. Only part of me meant it ironically.

"Why not?" he asked. "I'm getting too old for this c.r.a.p. You think I like twenty guys a day asking me what's going on and why? I'd rather be watching the soaps. Look at Elgin, not even a whole man anymore. That's where bulls.h.i.t gets you."

I was tempted to stop talking with him altogether, just let the train run on down the tracks, but I couldn't resist. "What's Elgin got to do with anything? Are you claiming a CO had anything to do with his injury?"

"s.h.i.t, you think that one-armed painter messed up a hard-a.s.s like Elgin that bad? No doubt he deserved whatever he got, but it's an insult seeing him hang on like a piece of meat. Tell your Keeper we give up. All we want is a fair shake, a normal routine, and a bit of tender loving respect. We'll be putty in your hands."

For whatever reason, some ease Fenton inspired in me, I made a confession.

"Wish I could help you, Fenton, but I don't exactly have the Keeper's ear."

"Really?" he asked, surprised. "That's not what I hear."

"Not so much."

"Ah," he said, and I regretted it instantly. They were data miners, collectors of random information. Somewhere, on a hospital bed with tubes up his nose, Ray MacKay was laughing his a.s.s off.

We entered the hub, then took the hallway between the education wing and the gym. The lights were still dimmed.

Fenton stopped suddenly and turned, and my forward momentum actually pressed me into his shoulder. "Well, if there's ever any favor I can do for you," he said quietly, "you just have to ask."

Jesus f.u.c.king Christ, I thought, and pushed him forward with the heel of my hand. Oh, Julie, you stupid fool.

The lights were dim in the cafeteria, too, as though we were in a store after hours, and that surprised me. I was expecting a small crew of inmates and COs working together on the annual New Year's Eve hot chocolate run. I got nervous next to Fenton and kept one hand on the baton and the other at my shoulder radio. The eating area looked like a highway McDonald's, each table and chair unit growing by a single thick stem from the floor, like a field of bright pastel flowers.

Then we heard voices, a laugh, and a mop or broom handle hitting the ground. I decided to walk around the metallic counter and into the kitchen.

"Ahoy, Billy! About time you got here."

Roy Duckett stood before a steel counter wearing kitchen whites and an ap.r.o.n that started at his shoulders. He held the biggest wooden paddle I had ever seen, and he stirred a vat of hot chocolate like he was rowing a boat. Another inmate was sprawled across the counter-an easygoing lifer with mutton-chop sideburns and a beer gut, named Eric Jackson, a.k.a. Jacko.

"And a happy New Year to you, Officer Williams," Roy added.

A small TV was set up on a counter, sports news recounting the football games. I saw an enormous punch bowl filled with cheese-covered nachos, a platter of buffalo wings, and another of baby back ribs dripping in sauce.

Roy and Jacko were without CO supervision. In my early days I would have a.s.sumed the worst-that the COs were hostaged, stuffed into the cabinets and meat lockers, a trap set for me-and reacted appropriately. But with experience I had come to understand that there were moments of laxness, moments of audacious inmate independence tacitly permitted under the contract of barters and deals I did not follow or condone. I had also learned that I should not interfere. It made me feel twice the fool-out of the loop and humiliated by my submission to those rotten unwritten rules.

I could see they wanted nothing more than to laugh at me. A voice within urged the crackdown, the negation of promises, and the cancellation of the hot chocolate run, throwing the entire inst.i.tution into order and discipline, even as I knew that such heroic and reckless prudishness would be the end of me, or at least the end of my job, which felt about the same.

So I swallowed the bitter pride I could taste in my mouth and said nothing.

Then I noticed Josh Riff off to the side.

He looked caught out at something, seeing me there.

I met his eyes, but I did not want the other inmates to see the contact, so I kept it briefer than brief, the indifferent harshness glazing over me like a lizard's blink.

If he'd wanted out, he would have communicated something in that look other than deer in the headlights.

So I left, knowing I had an hour to go on my shift, three hours to go on the year, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from Ditmarsh as possible when the calendar flipped over another digit.

17.

When she was gone, Roy introduced Josh to Fenton with a flourish, describing Fenton as "the finest hot chocolate pourer it's ever been my pleasure to know."

"He's the one, huh?" Fenton said.

"He is the one," Roy repeated.

Until then, Josh had felt lulled into a rare camaraderie. Roy had convinced the CO in the infirmary that strong-backed, ever-eager Josh would be of a.s.sistance on the rounds, and so he'd been led along on this holiday excursion. Then came the surprise. The television and the food had been a revelation to him, a glimpse of some other kind of inmate life. They'd even pa.s.sed around a thick spliff. After Fenton showed up, the illusion of easy pleasure got tugged roughly away, and Josh felt as though he'd been handed over by Roy as a kind of sacrifice. Fenton had a smooth and pleasing face, a relaxed manner, but that was the surface. Josh had heard things from Crowley about Fenton's activities, and the vibe of respect and even fear the others felt for him was obvious. All except Roy, who seemed more powerful than usual, some kind of change come over him, a different Roy, who told people what to do.

The party, just as quickly as it had been interrupted, resumed. Josh looked at Roy for some kind of understanding. Roy merely winked.

"Eat, eat," Jacko commanded, jowly in his baseball cap and his unshaven chin. They reapplied themselves to the ribs and chicken.

Jacko said, "s.h.i.t. Wait. Everyone get a mug of swill. f.u.c.k a duck. We need a toast."

Josh received a mug of frothy, foul-smelling juice, like a rotten orange stuck in the moist toe end of an old sock.

"Here's wishing you a happy d.i.c.k-sucking New Year."

The men, as if in chorus, lifted mugs and cheered.

Josh took a sip and coughed, the taste more effervescent and vile than expected.

Jacko looked wronged. "Hey, that's quality brew."

"Last week was a fine year," Roy noted. "Drink it down, Josh, or we'll feel f.u.c.king offended." So Josh took another, bigger sip and fought the sick feeling as it went down his throat.

"How many years you been working the hot chocolate, Fenton?" Roy asked.

Fenton, the least cheery and lubricated of them all, chewed the meat off a large, veiny rib. "That'd be nine, Wobbles. Same number of times I f.u.c.ked your wife when she visited."

"Well, that's nine times I didn't have to," Roy said. "Thanks for being a sport."

Roy moved nimbly among the pots and the food, swinging almost like a monkey between counters, more light-footed and eager than Josh had ever seen him, scolding Fenton for leaving lumps in the hot chocolate, taking a rib from Jacko's hand before he could eat it. The drinking and the eating and the stirring continued. Josh wondered if the hot chocolate duty was ever going to begin. But it was all good. They didn't pay him undue attention, but they didn't ignore him either. As long as he kept his mouth more or less shut, drank from the mug when it got filled up, and laughed when the others laughed, they seemed to think he was one of the boys.

He felt warm in his bones. Whatever he'd drunk crystallized the room around him, so that he saw little details that much sharper. He noticed the cutting rack, for example, where all the knives were kept behind a long cage, the shape of each one drawn in marker. He wondered why and then noticed an outline in the s.p.a.ce where the butcher knife had been, like an empty shadow.

"All right, party's over," Roy said. "Get on out there and start delivering, or we'll never get to bed."

Jacko poured hot chocolate from the pots into two red jugs and loaded the jugs on a wheel cart with boxes of doughnuts underneath. Then he pa.s.sed Josh a smaller Tupperware pitcher. "This here's for dispensing on the upper tiers. Fill up the pitcher, then you don't need to carry the jugs up."

"That's a technological innovation we came up with about two years ago," Roy added.

"Me?" Josh asked, surprised to be sent out.

"Fenton will show you the ropes," Roy said. "He's an expert. A f.u.c.king doughnut artist."

"f.u.c.k you, Wobbles."

And then they were beyond the doors of the cafeteria and in the hall.

"You push the cart," Fenton said. "I deal the doughnuts."

Josh was nervous about Fenton taking him around, but high or drunk, he felt a little thrilled, too, given their new and easy acquaintance. Josh pushed the gurney down the hall, and they left the cafeteria behind them, moving as fast as the misaligned wheels would allow.

The tunnel took forever. They pa.s.sed through the octagonal s.p.a.ce of the hub.

"So where do we start?" He could think of nothing better to say.

Fenton had gone internal, whistling to himself, looking about. He rapped the cage of the bubble as they pa.s.sed by. "Hey, you boys want some hot chocolate and doughnuts?" he called out in a louder than necessary voice. Two COs were inside, sitting in chairs, hard to see in the dimness until you stood right before them. They gave Fenton an indifferent glance.

"Ha ha," he said to Josh as they pushed on. "Every year I love giving those f.u.c.kers the hot chocolate middle finger. They can't leave the bubble before the end of their shift any more than you and I can leave the prison. Imagine being stuck in that little room watching us yard apes walking by like we're on vacation. Armed to the f.u.c.king teeth, though. That's the one cool thing about that job. Other than being a sniper in the sentry tower, I can't see anything else worth doing here, unless you like telling grown men to bend over and hold their a.s.s cheeks apart."

"Open Sesame!" Fenton yelled as he stood before the hall to C block and waved at the camera.

Five long seconds went by before the gate opened, the clunky automatic mechanics of it giving Josh the feeling that Ditmarsh itself was alive.

When they reached the gate at the end of the tunnel, a CO stood inside the block in front of the secure watch booth, what they called the jack nest. He must have been stretching his legs or doing rounds.

"Evening, Fenton. You fellows are a little late this year," the CO said through the bars, and buzzed them in, pulling back the cage.

"You can't rush quality," Fenton answered. "This is fine hot chocolate we're talking about."

"I bet it is."

As soon as they stepped into the block, Fenton howled skyward and tore up the quiet.

"Happy New Year, motherf.u.c.kers! Stick your d.i.c.ks back in your pants and your mugs out your cages if you want to join the party. Your kids are tucked into their beds. Your wife's getting drilled up the a.s.s by her new boyfriend. You might as well cut loose. Anyone slips me the good stuff gets two doughnuts, and his neighbor gets none. Pay up before your neighbor does, especially if you hate the rat f.u.c.k like you know he hates you."

"Easy, Fenton," the CO said. "I'd like to start the new year riot-free." But his voice was almost drowned out by the reaction from within. The inmates boomed and roared in response, cheering and cursing Fenton's presence. Josh had never heard such chaotic noise before, vibrating his bones like a single angry voice. His heart bounced off the walls of his chest, fright mixed with a kind of stadium excitement. It was his first time on a general population range. Two apartment-like complexes faced each other across s.p.a.ce. Each level jutted out over the one below. The stacks of cells were smaller than he'd expected, but the number of cells was greater. They left the CO and started down the open hall, Fenton leading, Josh pushing the cart carefully behind him, nervous about the b.u.mps that threatened to overturn it.

"We'll work bottom up," Fenton said. "Stick below the overhang or someone will douse you."

The drums had bars, not doors like in the howler range, and Josh could easily see into each man's crib. The lights were dimmed but not out. There were TVs on in every third or fourth drum, headphones muting the sound, little campfires flickering blue flame. Amazingly, the din of noise did not seem to come from any of the individual cells they pa.s.sed, but from everywhere else at once. A few jokes, a few nods, but most of the men looked worn-out, without cheer, only half alive. To Josh's surprise, Fenton was intent on getting the work done. He filled the pitcher with hot chocolate and pa.s.sed it to Josh, who poured it the into mugs that were thrust out through the narrow s.p.a.ces between the bars.

"Where's Sonny?" one man asked.

"Sonny's taking the year off. Josh is twice the man Sonny is."

"You guys come around so late I was almost asleep."

"f.u.c.k yourself and take a doughnut."

And to a weeping younger inmate: "Stop crying, buddy. You're dead to her."

As Fenton skipped a cell: "Where's mine?"

"You're a box thief and a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'd rather choke you to death with it than let you eat it."

"Hey, Fenton. The best wishes to you and your family."

"Give him an extra doughnut, Josh. No, not the jelly filled, that sugar one. It's not like he's letting me f.u.c.k his sister."