Prison Time Page 12

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, then begins her story. ‘The first time was a gang rape. The Aryan Brotherhood beat the shit out of me. It was definitely motivated by anger. They stuffed things inside my body, beat me until I was unconscious, raped me while I was unconscious.’

  ‘Stuffed things inside your body!’ I say, grimacing.

  ‘Yes, a broomstick,’ She-Ra says, retracting her feet to lock her ankles.

  I press my legs together. ‘If you were unconscious, how did you know they were raping and sticking things inside you?’ I ask, my heels jerking up and down.

  ‘When I had to excrete afterwards, I could tell by what came out.’

  I gag. Stunned, I exhale loudly, shake my head and search She-Ra’s eyes. Horrified, I’m thankful that nothing like that has happened to me.

  She-Ra nods, her face grey.

  ‘Should we continue?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do after being raped?’ I almost whisper.

  ‘I sat in my cell for two weeks waiting for the physical scars to go,’ She-Ra says, clasping her thighs. ‘I got moved to another yard, where the same thing happened. They beat the shit out of me, raped me and used me afterwards as a sex toy, a prostitute, a punk. There was no recourse, no one to talk to. Someone who’s raped can’t go to Admin or they’ll throw you in the hole for months or years, in a dungeon, and they’ll say it’s for your own protection. A person can do absolutely nothing other than kill the perpetrators. There’s no way to have someone prosecuted. The victim is labelled a rat and a punk and considered less than a human being.’

  ‘The guards won’t help you?’

  ‘You can’t snitch. If you snitch, you get killed. Besides, who would believe you? Even Admin won’t believe you. They think you’re playing games.’

  ‘Did you think about killing the people who did this to you?’ I ask, imagining I would at least die trying.

  Staring at the floor, rubbing her neck, She-Ra says, ‘I thought about killing myself first. I wanted to. I still do sometimes.’ She-Ra raises a hand and wipes away tears. She presses her eyelids shut. Her head and shoulders collapse. She sobs.

  With tears welling, I join and hug She-Ra tightly. She puts her arms around me and rests her head on my shoulder. We sit in silence. Feeling her pain, I never imagined I would ever share such a tender moment with anyone in prison. I appreciate She-Ra telling me something so personal. It speaks volumes about how much she values our friendship. I’m starting to believe that I was meant to meet certain people, such as She-Ra and Two Tonys, but I don’t know where it’s heading. I want to alleviate their suffering, but all I can do in here is offer my friendship and write their stories. When I get out, I’ll be able to help them in other ways.

  Unable to talk, She-Ra leaves but returns an hour later. ‘I’ve got more to tell you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I’m OK now.’ She sits on the bottom bunk. ‘When prisoners are being used for sexual purposes, they’re told to appear like men – to grow moustaches, to shave their heads or to be clean cut – so nobody believes that so-and-so is using them for sex. The belief that we’re treated like females is a false one. Looking how you’re told to look is denying who you are and what you are.’

  ‘Does this happen mostly to youngsters?’

  ‘Yes, it does. But it can happen to anybody. I’ve seen it happen to big bad dudes, skinny ones, even the ugliest in the world. People who come to prison who aren’t street smart, who don’t understand the mentality of the ghetto life, they get preyed on the most.’

  ‘How did you stop it?’

  ‘I took the abuse for as long as I could and then I started fighting. I won most of the fights. When I stood up and told them that I didn’t care about getting killed, it stopped. You’ve got to be ruthless. People who don’t stand up for themselves get killed.’

  ‘You knew people who got killed?’

  ‘Yes, I had a friend, a youngster on drug charges who had no one looking out for him and no family support. The Aryan Brotherhood held him down, took turns raping him, then cut his head off with a shovel, which isn’t easy and takes some time.’

  ‘Are you fucking serious?’ I ask, clasping my head.

  ‘When his head was finally off, they picked it up and positioned it in an area of the prison where the rival gangs would see it, to make the point that they were the most violent and ruthless of all of the gangs. I also had a friend who was gang-raped – they took a light bulb, shoved it in his ass and smashed it while it was in there.’

  For the rest of the day – haunted by She-Ra’s story – I feel sick. Wondering how she deals with it overwhelms my mind. I write a blog in the hope of raising awareness of prison rape. Perhaps sharing such a terrible experience in the hope of helping others will be therapeutic for She-Ra.

  The next day, walking to the chow hall, I’m grabbed from behind. I spin around to Bud.

  ‘What’re you doing messing around with She-Ra in your cell?’ he asks.

  Why’s Bud spying on me? ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘I saw you hugging her. You’d better be careful. Your new best friend’s an extremely dangerous homosexual. She-Ra’s served 20 years for kidnapping and violent crimes. They won’t let her out ’cause she’s classed as a sociopath.’

  That’s rich coming from you. ‘She-Ra’s been one of the nicest to me in here. We’re writing about prison rape.’

  ‘I bet she didn’t tell you how she stopped it,’ he replies in a ‘superior knowledge’ tone.

  ‘Yes, she did. She started fighting back.’

  Bud rolls his eyes. ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If I tell you, and you tell She-Ra, I’m gonna have to smash you, 007.’

  ‘Look, Bud, I don’t want any problems with you. I won’t say shit to anyone.’

  ‘OK. If you don’t think She-Ra’s dangerous, check this out. She-Ra was reading a medical book back then. Them queens all study that shit, so they can slice their nuts off without killing themselves, so they can be more like women. Anyway, studying anatomy gave She-Ra an idea.’ Scrutinising my face, Bud steps closer and zaps me with a high-voltage gaze. ‘The next two times the Aryan Brotherhood came to rape She-Ra, the first one to put his hand on her, She-Ra plucked his eyeball out, so it was dangling from the socket by the optic nerve.’

  Slamming my eyes shut, I almost fall over with shock.

  29

  ‘What the fuck’s your problem, you old motherfucker, telling me I can’t move in with England?’ The question, swung like a battle-axe by Ken, halts the conversation on the yard between Two Tonys and some Mexican-Americans, including Frankie, to whom I’m talking.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ Two Tonys says, shifting to face Ken. ‘I kill Californians, motherfucker.’

  ‘Why don’t you find someone else to move in with?’ I ask, strengthened by the presence of Two Tonys and Frankie.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, England!’ Ken swaggers from a gang of whites towards me.

  My heart bounces. I brace, resolved to follow Two Tonys’ advice – retaliate to whatever he does. If I don’t respond – ‘show heart’ – then I’ll lose all respect from the prisoners. Ken closes in, raises his hands and shoves me. I push him back. He punches my body. With my chest absorbing the blow, I reel backwards. Rather than repeat my earlier mistake of remaining too close to him, I spring forward, roundhouse-kick him in the thigh and back off. He looks amused and surprised.

  ‘Hey, Ken,’ Two Tonys says casually. ‘Have you looked under your nose lately?’

  ‘No. Why?’ Ken asks, touching his mouth, as if something is wrong.

  Grateful for Two Tonys’ interruption, I study Ken.

  ‘Your moustache looks like a broom that you haven’t washed since you’ve been down. I can see nits in it and lice crawling round your fucking head.’

  Everyone laughs.

/>   Ken marches past me, snatches the ID off Two Tonys’ chest – a piece of plastic we must wear to the chow hall, clipped to our shirts showing our photo, name and DOC number – and squeezes it in his hand.

  Enraged by the sight of his ID getting bent in half, Two Tonys steps forward, hitches a leg behind Ken and pushes Ken’s shoulders. Ken, caught off guard, standing on a kerb, loses his footing. He falls. His heavy body slams against the ground. He stays down. Too startled to speak. Too stunned to rise.

  Amazed, we gaze in disbelief at Ken.

  ‘Why’d you grab my ID? I warned you never to lay hands on me, motherfucker!’ Two Tonys snatches his glasses from his face, throws them down and raises his fists. ‘I’ll kill you, motherfucker!’

  ‘I told you a long time ago that I’d never hurt you,’ Ken says, getting up. ‘Well, fuck all that. Come on, motherfucker! Get some of this, old man!’

  ‘Come on, motherfucker!’ Two Tonys says, rotating his fists, as if deciding which one to throw. ‘Let’s do this. I ain’t scared of going to the hole. I’ve been in every hole in Arizona’s state prisons.’

  The whites pull Ken away. I help the Mexican-Americans extract Two Tonys.

  I go with Two Tonys to his cell. ‘I’m gonna get a shank and kill that motherfucker. I know what he’s up to. He wants to get close to me so he can give me a sucker punch …’ It takes a while for Two Tonys to calm down. ‘You know what, though? Putting him down like that made me think about the sweetness of life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s people my age driving around Sun City in fucking golf carts right now and here I am – 65 years old – putting down a 35 year old, a big motherfucker. That makes me feel fucking great.’

  ‘I’m glad you put him in check.’

  ‘The motherfucker had it coming.’

  Reading the latest blog printouts, Two Tonys smiles at the record number of comments and questions about his Mafia life, which we discuss at length. With a contemplative sparkle in his eyes, he dictates his responses. I read them aloud and he adjusts them until satisfied. Although impressed with blogging, he wants me to start writing his life story. I feel honoured and tell him that I’d love to do it. We go over the logistics. It’ll take months. I’ll have to sneak into his cell on a daily basis and write for hours. Cell visiting isn’t allowed, but we generally get away with short visits as there are too few guards to enforce the rule. Prisoners can stand at cell doorways and talk, but setting up shop in Two Tonys’ cell might earn me a disciplinary ticket, which could affect my release. Two Tonys says he’ll station prisoners outside who’ll warn us about approaching guards.

  The next day, I take a pad and pen to his cell. He says his biography is going to include some unsolved murders. With no statute of limitations on murder, he doesn’t want anything I write that could be used against him legally to come to the attention of the guards. He’s not worried about getting time added to his 112-year sentence but about being moved from Arizona for a murder trial. I agree to write in a scrawl that no one except me can understand and to mail the manuscript to England via the British Embassy, so it’s classified as legal mail, which the guards can’t open. I show him my scrawl and he seems satisfied by it. As an added precaution for certain murders, he requests that I write down that someone other than him did it, but verbally he’ll tell me the truth and I can add that in later on. I sit fascinated, writing rapidly, while he tells me about his upbringing in Detroit and how his first dealings with the Mafia involved shining their shoes. Every time a guard does a security walk, I have to rush outside. I get caught in the cell a few times, but we manage to schmooze my way out of a ticket.

  Two Tonys gets a stream of visitors throughout the day, all paying respect, during which times the writing halts. Being present while they chat gives me a clearer picture of how popular he is. He tells his visitors that I’m his official biographer, a role I’m proud to concede. I feel some of the respect they harbour for Two Tonys rubbing off on me in my new role. I appreciate him sharing his friends and raising my stature on the yard. I don’t judge him for what he’s done; rather I see it through the lens of his kindness to me.

  Even though he has the court paperwork to prove it, it’s difficult for me to imagine him murdering someone. I trust him so much, in fact, I ask him how he’d murder me right now, if he had to. Without hesitating, he grabs a heating filament, wraps the electrical cord around my neck and squeezes it. I was expecting a verbal response, so I’m stunned. Confident he’s not going to kill me, I don’t resist. My breath is cut off. After holding it in for a bit, I gasp and start to panic. He keeps the squeeze on just long enough for me to regret asking the question. He releases it as expertly as he applied it and grins. Shook up, panting, massaging my throat, I manage to smile back. He reveals that there are people he’s murdered in Arizona who have associates in the prison system, so he’s in a perpetual state of readiness to kill anyone who attempts to murder him in his cell.

  Spending so much time with him and listening to things that I imagine he’s never shared before brings us even closer together.

  30

  In my room, I’m in a headstand, eyes closed, when I sense a presence at the doorway. Used to people sneaking up on me in headstand – Ken has managed to push me over a few times and Booga once almost pulled my trousers off – I open my eyes and find Slingblade a few feet away, breathing heavily, his nostrils dilating, his eyes roaming for food. The sharp stink I grew familiar with living next door to Slingblade saturates the cell; I can only describe it as sweat laced with chemicals from high dosages of psychiatric medication.

  I drop down and stand up. ‘How can I help you?’ I ask, trying to sound calm even though I’m scared.

  ‘Peanut butter?’ Slingblade grunts.

  Feeding Slingblade will guarantee his return, so I reply, ‘Sorry, I’m all out.’ However, wanting to understand and open dialogue with him, I add, ‘I’ve got crackers, though.’

  Anticipation flickers in his eyes.

  I crouch and rummage under the bottom bunk. Slingblade draws near – his spherical physique monopolises the limited space – until I can feel breath first walking up my back, neck and head, then enveloping my body. He’s close enough to crush the life from me. Tension fans out from my solar plexus. My lower regions churn. My scalp rings with sweat. Trembling, I grab the crackers and stand. His face is blank. Gazing at his big, brown, bloodshot eyes, I sense his trauma. I try to imagine what he went through in Vietnam, then 25 years in prison, and how it’s affected him.

  Although I want to help him, his proximity is overwhelming. Knowing he could have a flashback at any second and lash out, I want him at a safe distance – and for my heartbeat to slow down and things to return to normal. I hold out the crackers. For a few seconds, his face twitches. He stares as if trying to communicate, but no words emerge. He snatches the crackers, grunts and leaves. Exhaling loudly, I towel sweat from my face. I rush to the doorway and watch him shoving crackers in his mouth, the inmates on the balcony bailing out of his way, as if a rhino is charging at them.

  As expected, Slingblade returns every few days. I grow slightly less afraid with each visit. Before giving him food, I ask him questions. Most of his answers are senseless, but over time I learn that he’s eligible for parole but has no one to help him process his release. Weird Al tells me that Slingblade needs an address to be released to, so I put a request on the internet for help from an organisation that could facilitate his release. No one responds.

  31

  George enters my cell, topless, the grey hair on his chest receding towards his gut. ‘I still think you’re bisexual.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, resting a book on my bunk.

  ‘’Cause in the past you willingly experimented with drugs, which leads you down the same path as experimenting with sex.’

  ‘Drugs just made me hornier in a heterosexual way.’ Wearing boxers, I drop down from the top bunk face forward, so he can’t
grab my rear. I put shower sandals on and sit on a chair.

  She-Ra walks in, frowning at George.

  ‘You’re experimental,’ George says, ‘but you’re afraid your bisexuality will diminish your manhood.’

  ‘Being experimental doesn’t make him bisexual,’ She-Ra says, rolling her eyes.

  ‘George is trying to convince me that I’m bisexual and that receiving oral sex from him is in my best interest.’

  ‘Huh! I know Shaun’s not bisexual ’cause he doesn’t hit on me,’ She-Ra says. ‘Everyone else hits on me. George hit on me once. He offered to buy my penis.’

  ‘George, is that true?’ I ask in a stern tone.

  Silence.

  ‘She-Ra, how much did he offer you?’

  ‘Four hundred dollars.’

  ‘Four hundred! George, that’s twice what you offered me!’ I yell. ‘You’ve gone and made me feel all cheap now!’

  George cringes. ‘I know, but I wouldn’t have paid that. I was only trying to get She-Ra enticed.’

  ‘You dirty dog!’ I yell.

  ‘Slut!’ She-Ra shouts.

  George sweeps his eyes up and down She-Ra, who squints, folds her arms and thins her lips as if George isn’t worth a second thought. George lunges and tries to wrap his arms around She-Ra, whose long limbs spring open and entangle him like a spider grabbing a fly. George strains to free himself, but She-Ra shoves him towards the doorway and ejects him onto the balcony. ‘Get out of here and never come back, you hairy-ass human tarantula!’

  George scurries across the yard.

  ‘What’s George in here for, She-Ra?’ I ask.

  ‘A fruit shake,’ She-Ra says, sitting on the bottom bunk.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘To get out of trouble with the cops, an underage male prostitute turned him in. It’s a strategy the cops use to target homosexuals. He’s serving decades.’