Chavo

Lazily soaking up the early morning sun on the exercise yard, I awaited my boss to show and unlock the Canteen.

Prisoners drifted from housing units. Ricardo, a few feet away, rolled a tractor tire the coach had placed on the yard for workouts.

Over twenty years ago, Ricardo and I both had been housed on San Quentin’s Death Row. I had been resentenced to life in 2002 and transferred. Ricardo is still condemned, but a few years ago, California had closed Death Row and scattered condemned prisoners throughout the state.

A gangster, alcoholic, addict, and thief, Ricardo hadn’t changed much, so I recognized him right away. I no longer had dark hair flowing halfway down my back or a bushy beard, so Ricardo had not recognized me. Over seven hundred prisoners were on California’s Death Row when I left, and I can’t remember ever speaking with Ricardo, so I saw no reason to start now.

Chavo, a muscled gangster with head and face blasted with tattoos, got at Ricardo aggressively. “I’m using that tire!”

“You kicking it with that guy not working out,” Ricardo snapped, his voice edgy, dangerous.

Slowly, I eased away.

“Gimme the tire,” Chavo answered with warning in his tone.

With substantial effort, Ricardo shrugged and said, “I’ll do bar work. Let me have the tire when you’re done.”

“Using the bar, too.”

Ricardo cracked Chavo’s chin.

Chavo rocked back from the blow, turned and jogged across the yard to the sergeant. Chavo and the sergeant disappeared into the office.

I’ve worked as a clerk for sergeants, lieutenants, and captains. I knew they were reviewing the yard surveillance camera footage.

Guards came, handcuffed and gaffled away Ricardo.

In the past, I had gone to work out and ended up, much to my surprise, in Security Housing. Hate when that happens. Now it was Ricardo’s turn in the box.

My boss showed, and I went to work.

“When is Five building shopping?” Chavo asked me a few days later as I left work for the day.

“Thursday.” I kept walking.

“Are you sure?”

If you’re not going to believe me, why ask me? I walked on without responding.

“What did Chavo want from you?” Ricardo’s homies got at me halfway across the softball field.

“What’s your interest?”

“The sergeant wanted Ricardo off the facility, so he got Chavo to make it happen and gave him his own cell as a reward.”

“How do you know? Maybe no one wants to live with a rat, maybe that’s why Chavo has his own cell.”

“Chavo’s cellie wanted to move out, but the sergeant made it happen before he requested a move. It’s a flat-out reward for screwing Ricardo. Chavo’s loving life.”

Could be true, I’d seen a lot worse when I worked for sergeants. Ricardo wasn’t exactly an asset to the facility. I could see why a sergeant would want him gone.

“What’s this got to do with me?”

“This could really mess up Ricardo if they start executions again. We want you to freeze on Chavo.”

These guys didn’t know I had spent eighteen years on Death Row, and I wasn’t going to clue them. Against all odds, they had stumbled into some truth. A battery on an inmate would not look good on an application to the governor for mercy. On the other hand, Chavo’s incitement to violence did not justify Ricardo’s violence. Ricardo should have spent a whole lot less time acting like a hoodlum, chasing alcohol and mind-altering substances and enrolled in anger management.

“This has nothing to do with me. Your problem is with Chavo, he’s right over there.” I gestured and walked.

On Thursday, Chavo asked me if I could get him in the front of the line for Canteen.

“Who’s asking? You or the sergeant?”

“Both,” Chavo answered with a confident smile.

“No,” I shook my head.

Chavo’s smile went away as I walked on.