Little's new novel, SteelToes,
is out this month, published by LAWeeklyBooks/StMartin'sPress. This piece has
nothing to do with that, but Little thought it might be worth a few laughs, and
a few bucks.
oct.1999
When I first roll in to SuperMax, I cut a deal with
Pirate. Having been down for a while, he already had commissary. He fronts me
the items (candybars, soups, etc.) I need to start gambling. I win, I pay him
back with interest. I lose, he gets my meal for three days. Not a bad risk
because I'm too sick to hold down food. The shit they give you to kick with
leaves a lot to be desired.
SuperMax is theNorthCountyCorrectionalFacility at
thePitchessDetentionCenter, the part of theLACountysystem at Castaic for major
felons and violent offenders. I was arrested for possession of heroin, barely
enough to get loaded a couple of times. I'm not real violent and not a member
of one of the cartels. But here I am in SuperMax. Go figure. It's not written
anywhere, but SuperMax is also where you end up if the powers that be want you
to be miserable, or if you're just plain unlucky.
Three days later, evening sometime, around 7, TV
blaring in one of the pilldorms here at SuperMax, 100 and some guys are
yelling, screaming. Others are fighting. It's kind of ugly, but there's no
knife handy for anyone to use. I'm playing poker and downing candybars. The sugar makes the sick of my drugwithdrawal let up for a
minute. Occasionally, I walk over to Pirate's bunk between hands to see
if he's dead yet. Got him propped up as much as possible so the fluid draining
out of his mouth and nose won't drown him.
Pirate weighs in at over 400 pounds, skin covered
with bad shopink, flying greasy hair down to the middle of his back. Has an old
lady and kids. He was out of the pen for a few years, holding a decent job
doing something in aerospace, when he gets busted on a charge of
havingaccesstofirearms. The police come to his home looking for drugs. None are
found, but his wife owns a hunting rifle, so he ends up getting charged as an
excon with a gun, which is good for five years if it sticks. Bad break. Pirate
is a crankstergangster. A hope-to-die speedfreak. But it isn't speed that's
killing him right now. Pirate has been sick the whole time I've been here.
Coughing, hacking, and burning up with fever. Hitting sick call every morning, where
you line up to be told you aren't that ill, and to get the two Tylenol they
give you for anything short of a knifewound. The medical attention here leaves
a bit to be desired. He collapses after evening chow, sounding like his lungs
are full of water, bubbling noises coming from his chest and throat. With his
lips bright blue and eyes rolled back into his head, Pirate is not looking too
swell. Me and a couple of southsiders carry him to his bunk. Yell through the
bars that we have a man down and he needs medical attention.
That was a lot of poker hands ago. Maybe a couple of
hours in real time. In here, time has its own rhythm, never good but slowing
and speeding as tension rises, punctuated by violence and visiting. The guys
already sentenced want to get to the pen, where you can at least establish a
routine. Then there are the guys trying to beat cases, figuring the angles. I
fall into the latter category. I've done time before for offenses ranging from
robbery to mayhem. That was before my career as a writer. This round I'm in
because of a regular, aggravating character flaw of mine. Despite a
bookcontract, a moviedeal and a sweet girlfriend, I couldn't stay off mamaheroin.
Even though I had been off the junk. So here I am, hooked like a laboratorymonkey
and kicking like a dog, trying to accept the fact that I fucked up.
I'm also wondering if Pirate will be dead before the
cops crack the door to check him out. And I'm wondering if I'll get years or
love. I wonder if I'll get the fifth club I need to make the flush. The door is
finally racked. I see Pirate go out on a stretcher, still breathing. I figure
that's the last time I'll ever see him. I miss the flush. Lost to two pair.
Nov.
Going to court is a joy. 3 a.m.
they yell your name and number, and put you in chains of three or four in a bus
with 30, 40 guys, most of whom would like to kill each other. And, when you get
to court, they slam you into a holding cell. The stench is overpowering: fear
and piss and adrenalineloaded sweat. Count on a couple of fistfights. And if
real enemycrews end up in the same holding cell, it goes off like Vietnam.
I keep my back to the wall, pray,
and wait to see the judge. Another dry run, no reason to be in court today. We
get back to SuperMax and strip all the way down, then bend over one after
another and cough, so the cops can see if anyone's got a shank keistered. This safetyprocedure comes with the added pleasure of routine
verbal abuse from the cops. I actually breathe a sigh of relief when I
walk back into my dorm and can hit the rack. Close my eyes and escape for a few
hours.
Early dec.
Another court trip, and I'm held over for a few days
at MainCounty. I'm in a four man cell, stuck there around the clock. There's no
freeway time because of all the stabbings. The food is wheeled to the cell,
which holds me and three paisas, none of whom speaks english. One of them has
made pruno (wine) out of the garbage available to us and offers me some. It
smells great, but I pass. I stare at the bars and do pushups.
The dudes in the next cell got some ice, a crystalclear
form of meth. They stay up all night babbling insanely. Fucking speed freaks
going a million miles an hour in a 6by12 cell.
The mainline is not separated by gang or colour.
Different crews of Crips have their own tank somewhere, as do the bloods. Gays and
transsexuals are kept together. Then you got theNaziLowriders and theAryanBrotherhood,
who aren't getting along right now, and a couple of neighborhoods that fucked
up with the mob, like theVinelandBoys and MaraVilla. All these different groups
have their own tanks; some because they're killers and some so they won't get
killed, like the straight PC cases who are scared to hit the mainline at all.
PC stands for Protective Custody; supposedly it helps keep known enemies apart
and protects the weak. But seeing some of the obvious victims makes you wonder.
On the mainline, you got SouthSiders, Paisas, Blacks
and Woods. Asians don't walk the mainline at all
because they got a complete green light, whack on sight, which means it's okay
to beat them to death or stab them, with no questions asked from theSouthSiders.
Everyone else is going off so hard they may segregate the whole little city
that makes up theLACountyJailsystem. After my four days at county, I get called
to catch the chain back toSuperMax.
mid.dec.
Now it's time to make a decision: try and get
classified as a head case and get psych.meds and relatively easy time, or say
fuck it and hit the mainline. I decide to avoid the withdrawaldrugs. If I can
pass on drinking pruno, which I like, I may as well stay clean. Headdrugs
aren't clean, even if you're taking them to break your addiction.
Hit the 700 dorms at SuperMax, which are overpacked with
120 men by my count, though I'm told the county says the number has never been
higher than 75. Whatever. This kind of crowding increases the politicking.
SouthSiders and Blacks are waiting to kill each other; the Paisas stay low-key.
SouthSiders are gang members or riders from anywhere south of Bakersfield,
mainly latino, second- and third-generation mexicanamericans, and a few whiteboys
from the barrio. Paisas are nongangaffiliated latinos: mexicans, salvadorans, puerto
ricans, etc.
I'm a wood, short for peckerwood. Once upon a time,
to be considered wood you had to be about something. Willing to stand up. Now
that's what all whiteboys are called, regardless of how they carry themselves.
Addressed by inmates and guards alike as Wood. I shave my head and start
letting my chin long mustache grow back. Hardwood.
Since I'm staying mainline, I'm going to play the
role as taught in ToughGuy101, doing pushups and dips off a bunk and getting
ready for the next riot. The rules for woods are very simple, hang mostly with
your own. The colourlines inside are harder than the steel that surrounds us.
SouthSiders and Paisas are all right. If shit kicks off, we roll with the SSers.
You're fair game if you fuck up, like say you run away during a riot, hang out
with Blacks, back down from a confrontation, whatever. I'm old school; I follow
the rules. I gamble, keep my personal commissary together and hope to get out
someday.
dec., a few days later.
Excons play pinochle. The new guys who haven't done
much time, called fish, play spades. Gamblers play poker. I'm making my living
in here from poker, playing pinochle for fun. Got a good knuckle partner, Mr.
Mouse from SM (SantaMonica). A youngster with oldschool attitude, he's the
righthand man in this dorm for theSouthSiders. Chili is the shot caller. My
back is covered. That's a real good thing because there are only two other whiteguys
in this dorm. One's a SanFernandoValley banger and a straight maniac. The other
one's scared to get off his bunk.
It's been a couple of months since I was arrested and
thrown into jail. And it's almost time for my case to come to trial. Court line
again. First thing in the morning, and my public defender comes with a deal. We
both know I'm looking at time. He tells me I can get a county lid: oneyear in
county. I can do the last part in rehab, some place called WarmSprings.
I have to think about this. Under the threestrikesLaw,
theStateOfCalifornia is giving time away like candy. You fight and lose, and
they will wash you up. Hang you out to dry. All through SuperMax are guys with
lightgreen wristbands, which means they got a-milliondollarbail on a possessioncharge
and are probably facing life for a nickel rock of coke or a dime of smack. Then
you got guys with the light-purple wristbands, facing 25toLife for heinous
crimes like shoplifting.
Guess what? Three strikes
scares the guts right out of me, the idea of getting struck out for what I did
over 20 years ago. I tell my public defender to rush the time, to make the deal,
and he does.
Latedec., Merry Christmas.
Now I got a goal. Get this bullet done and get out.
See if I have a life left. One thing I can tell you: Anything beats doing all
day behind the walls. So I'm looking ahead to Warm Springs rehab.
But right now, I'm in a work dorm. Some guys will
tell you ODR (OfficersDiningRoom) is what's up, the best job in the joint. But
if you work there, cooking for and waiting on the cops, they are gonna fuck
with you a lot. You do get to eat their food, which counts for something,
because mainline food is inedible. But the added aggravation isn't worth a
decent hamburger. So the best job at overall is dormporter, work a couple of
hours a day, kick back the rest. Gamble, read, tell lies. Mind your own
business, and it's not too bad.
I'm the dorm porter for 527. Mouse is in here, got
transferred just before I did. This is a small world. This dorm is kickback. If
you're playing poker, or gambling, there's a truce in force. No colourlines.
And we got some oldtimers who know what's up, that the only ones getting hurt
is us when we're waging war. So the games are decent size and the betting good.
In other words, my income is high and stresslevel relatively low.
Got a huge bag of commissary, since all commerce,
gambling, etc., is done by items: There is no cash, but some guys have accounts
from money they had when arrested or money someone sent. You order items at the
inflated prices charged by the jailcommissary. A cup of soup costs 75 cents.
The money is deducted from your account.
There's also the unofficial store. A hand rolled
cigarette will cost about three items (a cup of soup, a candybar, potatochips
or jalapeños). A real cigarette costs as much as 10 items. A chunk of ice, the
most prevalent drug, the size of a match head will cost 10 to 20 items,
depending on how connected you are. A match of ice will keep a clean person awake
for 24 hours. For a speedfreak, a match is nothing. A nickel bag of heroin, you're
looking at 20 to 40 items.
Because the game of poker is grand, I got a huge bag
of commissary items. That means me and my dogs don't have to eat the crap they
call chow; my diet is almost nothing but candy bars and cup of soups, straight
gourmet. All I have to do is keep a low profile, and on march 5 I'm on my way
to WarmSprings. The rumor is they have real eggs there, yolks and everything.
But today, even here, the food's not so bad:
Christmas Day, turkey for lunch. Had a spread later and made it gourmet. What's
a spread? You take those cup of soups, whatever meattype product is available,
add Doritos, cornchips, jalapeños, hot sauce, mayonnaise, mix it all up in a
garbagebag, and you and the fellas dig in. Spread. Mmmm-mmmm good. Me, Mr.
Mouse, Danny W., the worldfamous tattoo artist, Possum and a couple of other
dudes have our Yuletide celebration.
Jan2000. Happy New Year.
Got a guy in here known as RickyTheRat. He's from
PicoRivera, claims SS status and works as decktrustee. Basically a decktrustee
is a gofer for the cops. He owes me money (commissary items).
The protocol is simple. In order to collect a debt,
you get clearance from the head of whatever car the debtor belongs to. I go
through the correct channels and then explain to Ricky that he's got to pay. He
says, "No problem, homes. Yeah, man. No problems, man."
Chow time. The same day. Sitting down to the daily
noon meal of compressed mystery meat, I look up and there's Ricky pointing me
out to the guard. Ten minutes later, they call me to roll it up. Roll your
blanket and personal belongings into a bundle and get ready for transfer to
another dorm. No reason why, no explanation. Out of the work dorm and back to
the war zone. Motherfucker.
The guys had seen Ricky's move, which would mean a
thorough assbeating, but knowing Ricky was going to get "regulated"
didn't help my frame of mind. I'm headed back to a straight mainline dorm. While
I'm digesting this unwelcome news, I am treated to a reunion. Remember Pirate?
He is not only not dead, but turns up in the same holding pen while I wait for
my transfer. It is not the happiest moment for either of us. He'd gotten out,
hit the bricks for a week or two, then picked up a new case and is back again. I
have problems of my own. Upstairs in the 600s, the violencelevel is plenty high
enough. No poker players in this dorm. Reading material is beyond scarce, and I
don't watch TV.
I think I mentioned that medical care leaves a lot to
be desired. That certainly goes for the dental. The Paisas are known for
pulling teeth for each other when they go bad. I like to let a dentist do the
work, thank you, and I have a job for him, an abscess on my tooth that looks
like a softball stuck in my cheek. I go to sick call day after day. I write up
a request to see the dentist. Doesn't age count for something? I'm by far the
oldest dude in this dorm. So try and understand when I say I'm VeryGrumpy.
One of the Paisas, called Diablo (got it inked across
his stomach), shows me a razorblade. I think that he might not have my best
interest at heart. As I step back, and keep my focus on the hand holding the blade,
he makes a motion at his mouth and lifts his lip. (Diablo speaks no english.)
One of the SSers tells me, "Lift your lip, homes. He says maybe he can cut
the abscess out." God bless Diablo, wherever he is.
mid.jan.2000
It's in the paper, pictures of thePelicanBayFouryard
and WhiteBoys and SouthSiders making like gladiators with theBlacks. Kill or be
killed. It kicks off immediately, dorm after dorm, inside county, all through
the system. I'm almost out and I have to put up with this? Three riots later,
it's march 5. And I don't get called. After a dry run to court, I process back
into 4700 in MainCounty, cockroaches all over. I wake up and they're running
all over me. In the food so thick it squirms. Nice.
mar.19
Two weeks late. Called for
release, sitting in the tank with other dudes, waiting, hoping. You bet I'm
ready for WarmSprings or ColdSprings or fucking watch springs, any kind of
springs. My paperwork is lost. I'm sweating. The last guy called is me. I step
outside and breathe that LAsmog, bum a smoke and light it. Wow. Good stuff. Tobacco.
I get in the van for WarmSprings, where they have real fucking eggs. Sounds
like heaven to me.
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