After decades in custody, I don’t do birthdays, Christmas, any holidays. I celebrate championship football. That did include college New Year’s bowl games, but college has gone to a playoff system no longer broadcasted free over the air, so now it’s only NFL. For sure Super Bowl, but I also eagerly anticipate and tune in two weeks prior to the AFC/NFC Championships, winners go on to Super Sunday.
Chopping onions in early morning, preparing a feast. I play softly Alternative Rock, drowning out Jeff, my cellie’s snores.
No doubt Jeff’s a bit of a knucklehead. Quit school in the tenth grade, he lived in his mother’s garage for years delivering pizza. Nightly, he turned over his tips to the local drug dealer, so he could fade ’til time to chauffeur more pizzas.
When my last cellie transferred, Jeff got at me right away wanting to move in, desperate to move in. Jeff’s former cellie, a biker, punched Jeff whenever he snored.
Now living in a bruise-free environment, Jeff was mostly on his best behavior. Initially, he irritated me with constant criticism of my assignment as the Third Watch Lieutenant’s clerk.
“There’s no way I’d work for The Man!” Jeff declared early and too often.
I shrugged it off a time or two or three, but finally went caustic. “No real risk, Jeff. No high school diploma or GED. The illiterate are rarely asked to write reports”
Jeff was offended, but on balance bruised feelings are preferable to bruises from being punched while snoring. Jeff got over it and started to keep his opinion about my job to himself.
“Ten minutes to breakfast,” the housing unit speakers announced. I covered the food and woke up Jeff.
Cell door slid open, we walked down the stairs and out of the housing unit to Dining. We ended up at tables in different rows. I exited on the first unlock, Jeff had to wait ’til the next release.
Grabbing a bag lunch just outside the Dining door, I walked through a gauntlet of guards randomly searching prisoners seeking smuggled fruit, the essential ingredient to ferment prison wine. Scattered across asphalt were confiscated oranges.
Circling the walk track back to my housing unit, I paused outside my cell awaiting the control booth officer to push a button and unlock my door. Alarm. I sat down on the tier.
Minutes later, alarm clear, my door slid open. I went inside leaving the door open for Jeff and resumed food prep.
“The alarm was Jeff.” Turning, I saw Speedy at my open door.
“No way. We’re watching football and eating today, Jeff wouldn’t mess that up.”
“Officer Romo took Jeff down.”
“Hope he’s out of the cages by kickoff.” I turned back to preparing food.
“Don’t think Jeff’s coming back soon.”
This caught my full attention. “What happened exactly?”
“Romo ordered Jeff to pull over for a pat down. Jeff tried to ignore him and walk on by, so Romo ordered him a second time. Jeff called him homo instead of Romo and didn’t stop. Romo grabbed Jeff from behind and bounced him off the ground. The back of Jeff’s head cracked Romo’s mouth. Lots of blood. The rest of the cops swarmed Jeff, pinned him, cuffed him, and frog marched him to the cages.”
Battery on a peace officer with serious bodily injury. Year in the hole or more and probably a transfer to higher security.
Jeff loves football, eating, but today knucklehead hate trumped love.
Midmorning, Officer Martin brought me cardboard boxes to pack Jeff’s belongings. I filled them, dropped them outside the housing unit office and went back to football.
Later, an alarm sounded in the housing unit, but I ignored it while munching burritos and watching the game.
Not long past noon, James, the housing unit clerk appeared at my door as it slid open.
“Do you know Primo? He’s a paisano housed in C-section.”
I shook my head.
“The alarm was a cell fight. Two paisanos jumping on each other over some politics important to them but incomprehensible to me or you,” James dismissively waved his hands. “We got to split them up. You got the only empty bunk in the housing unit, so Martin told me to house Primo with you.”
“Jeff has a Captain’s review tomorrow,” I protested. “If he’s kicked out, I’ll need the bunk for him. Put Primo in another building.”
James tilted his head in disbelief. “Think Jeff is coming back tomorrow?”
No, I did not. I just wanted to be left alone today to celebrate football and feasting. For weeks I’d made plans, now God was laughing at them.
“Let me get at Martin.”
James waved skeptically and told me to go ahead.
Officer Martin was well aware I worked for the lieutenant, but on a different watch. There’s always a lot of finger-pointing and assignment of blame between second and third watch creating a lot of tension. Officer Martin heard me out and replied vaguely to come back another day and we’d address my housing situation, but today Primo was moving in with me.
If I wanted anything done, I’d have to get it done on my watch, third watch. This was problematic. I knew I was only as valuable as the last task I’d performed. Now any impressions of me were tied to Jeff, my cellie, who had just battered a guard. Not exactly the perfect ambiance to engender favors.
Primo was released from the cages where he’d been since the cell fight. Short about five feet four, stocky, maybe one hundred thirty, he was dark with a pencil thin mustache below unfocussed eyes that almost seemed dead. Packing, he moved multiple boxes to my cell, so many boxes, far too many boxes. Primo was a hoarder. One box was chocked full of pastries so far past their sell by date, black mold blanketed the sweets.
Abandoning all thoughts of football, I pulled on my state blues.
Walking down the stairs and across the day room, I exited the housing unit heading for work.
As I went across exercise yard, I was shortstopped by Oscar, the paisano shotcaller, who hit me with a clatter of machine gun Spanish incomprehensible to me. I could see he was agitated, so looking around I motioned over Termite to translate,
“Oscar wants to know,” translated Termite, “why you pulled Primo into your house?”
“Cell fight. Officer Martin threw him in with me for a minute. Is there a problem?”
“Yeah,” Termite explained. “Oscar had Primo jumped on.”
“Why?” I wondered how bad this was going to be for me. Just me. Didn’t really care much about any consequences to Primo.
“Primo’s a labor contractor,” Termite continued to translate.
“Hires Paisanos to work the Harvest and then tips off immigration to round them up and send them South. Primo keeps most of the harvest money for himself. The Paisanos aren’t cool with that.”
James was wrong, I reflected, this wasn’t hard to understand. Primo’s a really bad guy.
My day just keeps getting better and better.
“Are the Paisanos going to stab him?”
“No, but he’s got more beat downs coming.”
“Tell Oscar not to send anyone into my house. If they come in to get Primo, I will be offended. I promise Primo will be out of my cell in a day or two at the most.”
Oscar agreed and we shook hands.
I needed to speak with the sergeant. My boss the lieutenant handled alarms and the disciplinary process, but sergeants run the facility.
“What the hell, Hunter?!” Sergeant V barked. “Your cellie jumped my officer.”
Speedy clearly told me Romo jumped Jeff, but Jeff needed to comply with an order or make a strong stand. Jeff chose not to comply, talked weak smack, and ended up bounced off asphalt. I could not and would not defend Jeff’s knucklehead conduct.
“Romo okay?”
“Got some stitches,” Sergeant V visibly relaxed with my soft words. “He’ll be fine.”
This was not the time to address the Primo issue. Needed to give Jeff’s takedown some time/space. Checked my box in the Lieutenant’s office, settled in front of my computer and wrote reports.
Just about four, I went home for Count and then dinner.
Didn’t appear Primo had shed any property. What he had done was move my mattress from the lower to the upper bunk, and my property from the lower locker to upper.
No doubt Jeff was a bit of a knucklehead, Primo was one all the way through.
I took a deep breath and then another before I quietly instructed Primo to return my property where it belonged.
Seems while I was at work, Primo had not shed his property but had lost his English and did not understand me.
I had not survived eighteen years on San Quentin’s death row followed by more decades in maximum security prison through sheer dumb luck. Primo was starting down a path that led only to an abyss.
On one side of the conflict equation, Primo was twenty years younger, quicker, and more agile, but I was six inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and the close confines of the cell negated all of his advantages. I’d step in close, lock my arms around him, lean, make him deal with my weight. Relentless gravity would eventually break him down, ground and pound would crush his spirit, his will, and I’d toss his limp body out the door.
Steadily staring, a heartbeat away from the step that would commit both of us to violence, I said quietly, “You knew enough English to take monies from the growers and inform on the Paisanos to La Migra,” I let him know I’d heard his story. “I know you understand me. Move your stuff or it’s going to get real bad, right now.”
After a long moment, Primo silently, sullenly moved from the lower locker and bunk.
Intently watching him move his belongings, watching for any sign of violence, I wondered about Primo’s real story not the short version that defined him for Oscar. What harsh circumstances pushed him from Mexico and pulled him north? No doubt he lived a tough life, but what internal or external factors led him to brutally exploit men from similar circumstances? What led him to steal their hard-earned wages and send them back to poverty, a dreary life I could only imagine, but Primo had experienced firsthand. Primo’s choices, his actions had made him unacceptable to the Paisanos who would have otherwise had his back in prison.
I did not hate Primo, but I knew I did not have the tools or desire to fix him. At this point my only thought was I would not be his victim, and he had to go away, right away with as few negative consequences to me as possible.
At dinner, I caught up with Paul, his cellie was endorsed for transfer to a lower security facility and would be leaving within a week.
Paul did want to move in with me as long as I wouldn’t kick him out if Jeff came out of the hole.
After dinner, I went to work planning to ask Sergeant V to swap Primo and Paul, but the cages were full due to a dozen prisoner melee. Pepper spray was deployed and 40mm sponge rounds were fired to quell the violence. The staff use of force required an incident package. The lieutenant and I finished the reports at midnight, Sergeant V had left at ten.
My floor officers were long gone when I went home. The control booth officer opened my door, and Primo ran out, going cell to cell apparently pleading his case to Paisanos.
While I was in the shower, the control booth cop ordered Primo back to the cell. Primo ignored him. Finally, the guard summoned a rover officer to escort Primo home.
No way I was going to sleep with Primo in the cell, I listened to music on my headphones and waited for the day.
At breakfast, the second watch control booth officer ordered Primo back into the cell. Primo was on confined to quarters status due to the fight and refusing to stay in the cell at midnight. A breakfast tray and lunch would be delivered later. Primo ignored the cop and went down the stairs, but came right back when two guards and a sergeant started towards him.
I went to the yard after breakfast to get away from Primo and lock things in with Paul. I told him I’d get the move done on third watch. I did not tell him if I couldn’t get Sergeant V to move Primo, I’d initiate a cell fight that would mandate the move. I wasn’t going another night with no sleep, Primo was leaving today one way or another.
“My cellie, Reuben, is a good guy,” Paul said thoughtfully. “What kind of guy is Primo?”
“A nightmare.”
“What?!”
“I have to move him out now. If you won’t do the swap, I need to find someone else.”
“Can you wait ’til Reuben leaves in just a few days?”
“No. I’m moving Primo out today. Look, if you wait ’til Reuben transfers, you’re rolling the dice. No telling what monster will come through your door.”
Reluctantly, worried for Reuben, Paul agreed to move.
Sergeant V greeted me with the same words, same tone as the previous day. “What the hell, Hunter?!”
“What’s going on now, Sarge?”
“Your cellie is confined and awaiting two rules violation reports for fighting and running around at midnight!”
I came back strong. “Primo is not my cellie. Martin threw him in with me, he’s supposed to be temporary. I want to swap him out today for someone else.”
“We’ll do a convenience move on Saturday. Until then, he has to understand you will be in and out of the cell at odd hours depending on alarms. He has to stay in the cell.”
Sleep deprived, annoyed, I muttered, “Good luck with that.”
“Communication is the key,” Sergeant V said with the confidence of someone unlike me got a good night’s sleep. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”
On the way across the yard, I saw Primo. Somehow he’d slipped out of the cell while confined. I didn’t say anything, but looked around for Paisanos hoping they’d jump on Primo and solve my problem. I didn’t see any.
Inside my housing unit, Sergeant V ordered my door open and was surprised to see no Primo.
Sergeant V radioed for officers to locate and escort Primo to the housing unit.
“You’re confined.” Sergeant V pointed at Primo when two guards delivered him.
“I have bizness.”
“Do not leave your cell while confined,” Sergeant V ordered. “When you’re off CTQ, do not leave your cell when there’s no program. Hunter will come and go anytime depending on alarms, you have to remain in your cell.”
“I have bizness. I be quick.”
“No, no, you have to remain in the cell.”
“I be quick,” Primo said stubbornly.
“This will not work,” Sergeant V barked. “I need you housed with someone who will obey orders. Who did you want?”
“Paul Garcia.”
“Is he a Mexican that will obey orders?!”
Paul’s Portuguese and had never been to Mexico, but I answered yes.
Sergeant V ordered the cell moves. While Primo and Paul swapped houses, I went back to work.
After eating dinner that night with Paul, Reuben popped up on our walk back from Dining. I could see bruises growing on his face.
“Primo,” Reuben said uncertainly, “demanded my lower bunk. I said no and he beat me up.”
“I can see that,” I answered carefully.
“Can you do something?”
“What do you want me to do?”
Reuben simply repeated what he had already told me.
“What do you want me to do?” I said again firmly.
Looking confused, Reuben told me his story another time.
As we entered the housing unit, I cut him off and said softly, seriously, “Last chance, Reuben. What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Can you tell someone?” Reuben said timidly.
“Yes.”
While changing my shirt, getting ready to return to work, Paul said sharply, angrily, “What the hell, Mike! You knew what Reuben wanted.”
“Yes, but he had to ask me right out loud. I’m not going to rat out Primo and have Reuben claim later he had nothing to do with it. Reuben had to ask and accept responsibility.”
Thinking for a moment, Paul nodded agreement.
“Are you sure you got this, Mike? If you don’t, I’ll go down to their cell and toss up Primo right now.”
“I’m sure.”
At work, I told Sergeant V that Reuben and Primo needed 7219 medical evaluations.
Without asking anything, Sergeant V keyed his radio microphone and ordered Reuben and Primo escorted to Medical.
I went to my office and prepared a lockup order for Primo.
The medical evaluation showed injuries to Reuben’s face and Primo’s knuckles.
Primo was locked up
A few days after Primo went to the hole for fighting, disobeying orders, and battery on an inmate, Reuben transferred.
The Super Bowl arrived; Paul and I feasted and celebrated the game.
Walking to work some months later, Primo popped up in front of me on the yard.
“Know you told on me,” he was clearly angry, livid, looking for get back.
“What are you going to do about it?” I said conversationally not really worried.
“Mess you up, mess you up. Bad!”
Primo seemed so focused, so intent, I figured he must be strapped and prepared to cut me.
“No, you’re not,” I said with easy confidence.
Primo had been so lasered on me, he hadn’t seen Oscar’s crew coming up behind him.
I got about a dozen steps away from the bone breaking beat down before the alarm sounded and I sat down.
-The End-
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