Secrets

Walking from my housing unit to my work assignment in the Program office just before 2pm, Tear Drop tried to short stop me. If I broke stride, I’d be lost, prisoners would surround, firing questions about personal concerns, so I gestured Tear Drop to walk with me.

“Why is Two Guns locked in the cages?”

“No clue,” I shrugged.

“You’re the Lieutenant’s clerk. You got to know!”

“I haven’t been to work yet,” I answered placidly; any hint of irritation would be considered disrespect and might lead to violence.

“Find out and let me know.”

No way. If the word got out I was leaking info, and it would get out, I’d be fired.

“I’ll check the lockup orders, but if it’s squad, it won’t be on the board.” I gaffed him off.

Looking unhappy, Tear Drop nodded. My thought was Two Guns owed him; payment now looked elusive. 

A dozen or so steps from Program, Tear Drop peeled off avoiding the cluster of guards posted nearby. 

Continuing on, I murmured to myself, “Today is the day I’m fired.” This was a mantra I’d repeated over and over the past two years as I approached the office door.

Four clerks are assigned to days, three to nights; perhaps two dozen clerks had been fired during my tenure for reasons sometime apparent but often obscure. Normally, the guards would stop the clerk at the office door, tell him he’s not needed that day and instruct him not to return until summoned, a call that never came.

A guard motioned for me to come to him. Is this it? I’m out?

“What did Tear Drop want?”

“Really wasn’t listening.”

The guards laughed, I pulled open the door still employed.

Just as anything I said to Tear Drop would get back to the guards, anything I said to the guards about Tear Drop would get back to Tear Drop. Secrets staying secret are rare, nearly extinct. The closest I’d come to being fired was due to a secret.

The Edge had got at me about Danny, a member of his crew. Danny had been found guilty of two serious rules violations in the past 180 days, so the hearing lieutenant had referred him to Classification for C-Status where Danny would be confined to his cell for twenty-two hours a day and lose his TV, radio, all his appliances.

“Don’t want you to mess with his finding of guilty,” The Edge said softly. “Just don’t refer him to Classification.”

If kept quiet, I could easily pull the referral.

My thought was no. One person can keep a secret, two is problematic.

“Let me think about it. Don’t tell Danny.”

“Danny won’t say anything.”

If Danny didn’t know, he couldn’t say anything. Does he know? This is bad.

I found Danny’s hearing folder, processed the hearing disposition including the referral to Classification. I turned in the folder but left the referral on my desk to leave my options open. My head said no but . . .

Heading back to my housing unit for Count and then dinner in the dining room, Danny popped up.

“Did you pull it?”

Danny won’t say anything, The Edge’s words bounced furiously around inside my head. He just did! 

Two with a secret is problematic, three impossible.

After dinner, I was met at the Program door by a guard and escorted to the Lieutenant.

“The word is you pulled a Committee referral. It’s not on the Classification board.”

“Didn’t have time to turn it in before Count, it’s on my desk.”

“Once could be an accident,” the Lieutenant advised me, “twice is a habit, three times is a lifestyle. Three won’t happen because you’re fired at twice.”

By breakfast, everyone on the facility had heard and multiple prisoners applied for my job. 

The Edge found me, apologized, and we were good.

I had met The Edge years ago. On the way to the evening meal about a dozen white and Hispanic prisoners started fighting. I walked away and sat down against a wall well out of the way.

A medium sized white guy about 5’8″, slightly built, maybe 150 pounds, was standing dead center amidst the violence, but he wasn’t fighting. Arms crossed, he seemed relaxed, almost contemplative. A Hispanic prisoner with MS-13 tatts tagged the white guy from behind. Spinning around, the white guy raised his hands, palms out, clearly communicating he wanted no problems. The MS-13 threw another punch, his victim easily evaded, and then seemingly reluctantly, stepped forward unleashing a series of counter blows knocking the MS-13 to the ground where he lay still. The white guy ambled over to me, sat down and casually introduced himself as The Edge.

Alarms sounded, guards pepper sprayed combatants, locked on cuffs, and gaffled prisoners away.

While awaiting the all clear, resume movement, The Edge and I conducted the where you been, who do you know conversation. We both knew Baron, a San Francisco Bay Area biker. The Edge knew him from the streets; I had met him inside San Quentin. The Edge was easy, affable, but you knew he was dangerous.

The facility was about to resume movement, but a sergeant decided to do one last sweep, instructing guards to check the hands of anyone near the melee. I was fine, The Edge’s scuffed knuckles gave him away. Cuffed, he was locked in the hole.

Some weeks later, The Edge was kicked out of security housing, and we started hanging out a bit. The Edge was sentenced to more than four hundred years due to a difference of opinion about who controlled the distribution of illegal substances to the Western United States. This is how he knew Baron. The confusion led to a score of dead bodies.

I became aware the white guys fighting that night were part of The Edge’s crew. The Edge shielded me from their activities, but it seemed they were filing fraudulent state and federal government claims using electronics not allowed inside prison.

The Edge was assigned to the kitchen, and I knew his crew stole more than one thousand slices of pizza one night, sold and consumed before the theft was noticed or the guards conducted a search. 

“Considering everything you got going, pizza theft seems kind of petty,” I prodded The Edge. “Why’d you do it?”

“Amused me,” The Edge answered with a grin.

When I met The Edge, I was a law library clerk. A shotcaller, Diablo, came into the library and told me if I wanted to walk safely to and from the library each day, I’d need to steal for him among other tasks.

I got at The Edge and clued him. I was unsure what he might do if anything. I did not expect him to walk me directly to Diablo. The two of us all alone surrounded by a gaggle of Diablo’s gangsters, The Edge said easily, “Diablo, Mike tells me there’s a difference in views between the two of you about how he’s to perform his duties in the law library. I have no opinion either way. I’m only here to tell the two of you to resolve your issues right now. If anyone else gets involved in this discussion,” The Edge motioned at Diablo’s crew, “I’m going to be offended, and then you and I are going to have a problem. Do we understand each other?”

Diablo asserted I must have misunderstood him, and I acknowledged that I often become confused. Everything was good.

The Edge and I started spending more time together, spinning endless laps on the yard. We talked about celling together. The Edge thought I’d be considered for positions of trust such as Program; turned out he was correct, and I wouldn’t get them if I was celling with him. Truthfully, I had anxiety about living with The Edge. He was fine with me, but the black widow spiders he kept as pets gave me pause.

Poking my head into the sergeant’s office, I saw Two Guns in a cage.

“You need any paperwork for him?” I asked Sergeant V.

“No. Squad case.”

Settling at my desk, I started writing reports.

“Mr. K in the law library wants you,” Sergeant V informed me.

I nodded.

“Looking for a new job?”  

“My two years are almost up. Do I need a new job?”

Clerk assignments are two years and out to minimize over familiarity between staff and prisoners. One-year extensions are granted if the clerk is exceptional.

“It’s not exclusively my call. The lieutenant and captain have input.”

Apparently, I was not considered exceptional.

Why do I even want to stay? I wondered on my way to the library. Working seven days a week, constant stress, considered only as good as the last task performed, daily chance of getting fired. Why? Why? The pay was good but not crazy good. The lieutenant’s clerk could go anywhere, anytime and never had to stand in line. I always knew what was going on because I wrote or reviewed the reports and curiosity was my nature.

Mr. K told me he was retiring and asked me to come back and help with the transition. I accepted and was reassigned the next day to the library.

I liked Mr. K a lot. He had attended seminary and been a priest before leaving the clergy and earning a Master’s degree in Library Science. We had many interesting conversations about history and philosophy, but never about anything more contemporary than the monk Martin Luther. The last five hundred or so years didn’t seem to have any significance to Mr. K. Retaining a spiritual aura, he seemed untouched by the harsh realities of maximum-security prison.

I tried and failed to prod Mr. K into making changes in the library. We had eight boxes of novels for prisoners in security housing, but Mr. K would not part with them, so they sat in a back room gathering dust. I tried to trash cardboard boxes some typewriters came in, but Mr. K refused even though the typewriters were long gone.

Mr. K’s last week, another library clerk transferred, so we requested Assignments to ducat Mayer, a Chapel clerk, to work in the library. Assignments ducated Meyer, a white guy with tatts blasted across his shaved skull; he went by the nickname Loki.

Mr. K wanted to give Loki a chance.

At first Loki didn’t steal, but he made no attempt to learn his job and wasn’t an asset.

Mr. S, a twenty-something son of the captain of the squad at another prison, replaced Mr. K.

After just a glance, Mr. S instructed us to fill a dumpster with Mr. K’s trash. The boxes of books were sent to security housing, order started emerging from chaos, the changes were good.

Mr. S had a meeting with his three clerks; his inventory was way short. Boxes of pens, markers, bottles of glue, reams of paper had vanished. Looking directly at Loki, he said he didn’t want to report or fire anyone, but someone needed to come speak with him.

There are no secrets.

At the end of the day, I asked Mr. S if anyone had spoken up.

“No. I get it you’re not paid much. Don’t mind if my clerks take home supplies, but I need to be in the loop.”

I nodded and went to the yard.

“What do you know about Loki?” I asked The Edge.

“Loki has bad habits, he drinks, steals, uses substances, and runs up gambling debts.”

“How much backup does Loki have?”

“Loki hangs with three losers. Want me to get at them?”

“I’m getting at Loki tomorrow about his thieving ways. You think his boys will rat pack me?”

“They’re pretty stupid,” The Edge said reflectively. “When you’re at work, I’ll make sure they know Loki has to fly solo with you.”

I got at Loki.

“If you don’t slow your roll, you’re going to get all our cells tossed. If you just talk to Mr. S, he’ll let you peel a bit. You just can’t snatch everything in sight to feed your bad habits.”

“Not going to be schooled by a secret agent!” snapped Loki.

“What the hell?”

“Says in the prison regs, all Program clerks are secret agents.”

Puzzled, then the light flashed on. 

“Special agent not secret agent. All clerks with access to confidential information are special agents, just means we have an obligation not to disclose. Law library clerks are special agents including you.”

Pulling the regs from a shelf, I flipped to the section and handed it to Loki.

Reading painfully slowly, Loki looked confused.

“Can’t be much of a secret agent if you know, Loki,” I added. “Slow down or you’re going to wreck.”

Loki slowed just a bit, but he didn’t speak with Mr. S. I was trying to decide what to do about him, if anything, when I was ordered to report to Sergeant V in Program, Lieutenant M, and Captain H were there as well.

“Do you want to come back?” Sergeant V asked.

“A year extension?”

“No,” the Captain responded. “A new hire, so two more years. After the two years, you can move to days for two more years as the Captain’s clerk. You want it?”

“Yes.”

Received my assignment ducat that night. As I approached Program, I saw Johnson, the clerk who had replaced me, turned away by the guards.

“You just fired Johnson?” I asked Sergeant V.

“What’s your interest? “

“Thought he got a new job or transferred. Didn’t know you were firing him. Have to talk to him.”

“He didn’t work out. Leave it alone.”

Sounds good, he won’t stab you.

Caught up to Johnson on the yard. He was angry. Guess he didn’t get the memo that Program clerks are hired to be fired. Need to prepare for it daily.

“Didn’t even want this job!” he semi-shouted. “I was good in the Chapel. Pulled me into Program just to push me out.”

“If they don’t want you there, you don’t want to be there.”

“Need a pay number.”

“Stay here.”

Sergeant V was not inclined to help; guess Johnson really didn’t fit.

It’s not that I’m so good, I reminded myself, everyone else is so damn bad! I’m the lowest common denominator. Need to embrace humble.

Finally, Sergeant V phoned Assignments, I found Johnson and let him know he was reassigned to the Chapel, we shook hands. All good. 

Time went by. On the way to work I was startled to see The Edge on his knees vomiting on the yard. Going over, I found the whole crew drunk but The Edge was smashed. A celebratory birthday drink for The Edge had gone all wrong.

I let the sergeant know I’d be late and went to do damage control.

As I walked out of Program, the guards ordered me to take The Edge to his cell.

“In-line isn’t ‘til three, almost an hour, I’ll sit with him and take him home.”

“We’ll radio his housing unit; Control will let you in.”

“The Edge won’t accept favors from you.”

“Take him to Medical.”

“Medical will do a 7250 sobriety report, and he’ll end up in a cage. You want this to go down like that?”

I was getting impatient to get back to the Edge.

“Okay,” they relented. “Don’t let him lie down. If he goes prone, we have to go get him.”

The Edge’s inebriated crew helped me prop up The Edge. It was a nice day, I would have enjoyed myself if The Edge hadn’t thrown up about twenty times before the in-line. Finally, we guided him home.

I went to work, and the guards talked smack to me about babysitting. No report was filed.

The Edge hugged me and thanked me the next day. 

We’re friends, and friends help each other.

An alarm sounded one night, and a chained, pepper-sprayed Loki was locked in a cage. Apparently, he thought someone cheated him at poker and he stabbed him from behind in the neck.

I wrote the Notice of Unusual Occurrence report, the lieutenant signed, and I was making copies for distribution in the sergeant’s office.

“Mike, Mike, can you help me?” Loki asked softly almost sobbing.

“You want out of that cage?”

“Can you do that?!” Loki sounded stunned but hopeful.

“Sure. Right away.”

“Never liked you, Mike, but I guess you are an authentic white boy after all.”

I wrote a lockup order, The lieutenant signed it, and right away Loki was out of the cage and transported to an intake cell in the hole.

Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.

-The End-