‘Something wrong, Doctor Devlin?’
Devlin turned. She let the tears stay in her eyes. She didn’t often exploit her gender, at least not as far as she was aware, but nothing was more important than that she get the journal to Klein and Coley. If the tears of a woman were what it took then so be it. She walked urgently towards Galindez. She added some medical authority to the tears.
‘Sergeant, I need to go back to the infirmary,’ she said. ‘I’ve forgotten something of great importance.’
Galindez glanced at the window behind her. ‘You’ve checked out I see.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s too bad. What is it that’s so important?’
A number of invented excuses flashed through her mind. Most guards couldn’t have cared less about Coley and Klein and their research. They wouldn’t consider it important at all. Galindez wasn’t like the rest. Devlin didn’t want to lie to him. She looked into Galindez’s face and made her choice. She took out the journal, opened it at the title page of their paper and held it out to Galindez to see.
Galindez took the journal. He absorbed the heading, then read the introduction and abstract without speaking. He lowered the journal and looked up at her.
‘Congratulations,’ he said.
‘Klein and Coley haven’t seen it yet. There was a death on the ward and I left without showing them.’
‘It’s no problem. I’ll deliver it for you,’ said Galindez.
Devlin’s guts sank. It wasn’t enough. She wanted to be there to see their faces. To see Klein.
‘Klein’s leaving tomorrow,’ she blurted.
Galindez raised an eyebrow. Perhaps her face revealed too much. She calmed her voice.
‘It’s a year’s work, unique work. I just wanted to show them together, so we could celebrate the achievement . . .’
Galindez held up his hand. ‘I understand,’ he said.
He glanced down again at the journal. Prison work demanded of its practitioner – correctional officer, screw, guard, hack – that in the service of society he abandon most of his gentler human impulses. Some found that sacrifice easier than others. Devlin could see Galindez struggling between the letter of the law – each visit to be scheduled, processed and cleared at least a day in advance – and the temptation to be generous. Such opportunities didn’t often arise. She could see that Galindez knew how much the journal would mean to Coley and Klein. Perhaps it stirred some memory of his own imprisonment in Salvador. As he handed the journal back he looked at her and she willed her eyes to melt his heart.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Devlin beamed at him. ‘I won’t forget this,’ she said. ‘Do I check in again?’
Galindez glanced at his watch and shook his head. ‘I have to be on D block for third lock and count. I’ll fake the paperwork later, as long as you don’t tell anyone. Come along.’
Galindez took her arm and led her back out into the yard. They started down the path under the main wall towards the infirmary. Galindez set a brisk pace.
‘You don’t have to accompany me,’ said Devlin.
‘Yes I do,’ said Galindez. ‘Now you’ve signed out you’re not officially in here. I’ll hand you over to Officer Sung. When you’ve finished get him to call me and I’ll walk you to the gate again.’
‘I really appreciate this,’ said Devlin.
Galindez nodded and they walked on. Galindez asked her several questions about her research with an insight that surprised her. She wondered what subject he had taught in Salvador. As they approached the infirmary Galindez, without altering his pace, suddenly glanced over his shoulder towards the prison blocks. His eyes narrowed and he frowned. He lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. Devlin followed his gaze. There were a few guys pumping iron behind the high wire fences, a few others trailing back from the workshops towards the General Purposes Wing. Directly opposite the infirmary doors the giant granite spoke of B block pointed towards them, the steel door of its rear gate sally closed. She could not see or hear anything unusual but the tension in Galindez’s face made her anxious. Galindez glanced up at the nearest gun tower. The guard within stood mute, apparently unperturbed. Galindez looked ahead to the infirmary. They had fifty metres to go. The main gate was now over four hundred metres behind them.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Devlin.
Galindez shrugged. ‘I thought I heard something. Did you?’
She shook her head. They walked on in a tense silence, Galindez preoccupied, alert. A few seconds later Galindez stopped and strained his ears in concentration. Devlin listened too. Nothing. Then, very faintly, she became aware of a shuffling, rumbling sound. The machine shop, she thought. But no, Galindez was right: it was coming from the prison itself. It reminded her of something but she didn’t know what. She glanced at Galindez. His complexion was several shades paler. He looked back towards reception and the main gates. All seemed quiet. Galindez turned to her.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said calmly, ‘but I think we should go back.’
Suddenly Devlin felt frightened. ‘Whatever you say.’
From the north wall on the far side of the prison, a half a mile distant, came a stuttering flurry of crackles and pops. Galindez snapped his radio from his belt.
Devlin realised that the crackles were rifle fire.
And then she remembered what the noise from the prison reminded her of: a football crowd urging a running back towards the end zone – the sound of a roar arising from many throats.
Two hundred metres across the yard the rear gate of B block started to roll open on its electric motor and the human roar became abruptly louder and no longer like that of a football crowd: these throats were clamouring with raw terror. Hundreds of men were screaming for their lives. Devlin tried to make out what was going on inside.
As the steel door crashed open a huge black and orange fireball exploded from the entrance and sent an oily cloud of flame billowing across the tarmac towards them.
Galindez uttered something in Spanish that Devlin could not make out. Suddenly the fenced-in walkway leading from the General Purposes Wing was alive with khaki-clad figures sprinting for the main gate. More rifle fire. Khaki-clad. Officers.
The guards were fleeing the prison.
Devlin stood numbed. Behind the fleeing guards appeared men in denim, running in all directions with wild shouts and shaking fists and crazy dancing jumps. The radio in Galindez’s hand squawked with static and a babble of fuzzy competing voices she couldn’t understand.
The oily cloud issuing from the rear of B block cleared. Amidst the coils of smoke – reeling, staggering, screaming, his upper body wreathed in flame – was a man on fire. Beneath the flames Devlin saw that he wore regulation khaki pants.
Galindez grabbed her arms and squeezed, he spoke urgently but calmly, his eyes boring into her.
‘You mustn’t be seen. The infirmary is safe. Go inside and stay there until we come and get you.’
He turned her and shoved her towards the infirmary doors, twenty metres away.
‘Run!’ he said. ‘Get inside and stay there. Run!’
Galindez started running towards the burning man.
Devlin jammed her briefcase under her arm and sprinted towards the infirmary.
THIRTEEN
CLAUDE TOUSSAINT SAT quietly at one end of the formicatopped mess-hall table eating lima beans, creamed carrots and breaded fish sticks. Around the table sat four other guys listening to Stokely Johnson running down some heavy lines on the current hot topic: how to get a protest petition about the lockdown past Hobbes to the State Governor. Since returning to B block Claude had adopted a policy of not speaking unless spoken to. This had spared him a certain amount of humiliation, but not much. Whenever D block, the whites, or ‘that Agry faggot’ cropped up in conversation, dark looks were cast in Claude’s direction. Claude kept his eyes down on his plate.
‘Fuck the state gov’nor man,’ said Stokely. ‘That cocksucker spends half
his day signing death warrants on any brother that hasn’t paid his parking tickets on time. Even if he do get a petition from us he just use it to wipe his fat white ass. Motherfucka, you know what happened to those pig-cocksuckers tried to kill King in LA. Almost gave them medals. You think they give you a better hearin’?’
‘Then what we s’posed to do, Stoke? Send smoke signals to Mr Farrakhan? The Reverend Jackson? Go to church ever Sunday and pray?’ Myers was a weary three-time loser from Brownsville. Armed robbery and assault. He rolled his thick shoulders and shovelled carrot mush into his mouth.
‘We should burn those fuckers down, that’s what we should do,’ said Stokely. ‘Show them who the fuck we are.’
‘Stoke is right. Shit, we outnumber the screws fifty to one.’ Reed was one of Stokely’s radicals.
‘Bullshit,’ said Myers. ‘They send in the National Guard, shoot ten or twenty of you yardbirds down and we all crawl back to our cells on our chickenshit knees.’
‘You not talkin’ to no chickenshit.’ Stokely’s voice was quiet with threat.
Myers had seen too much to care. ‘So what? So we not chickenshits. So we burn them down and some of us die on our feet ’stead of on our knees. Like Wilson says it just give them th’ excuse to kick us back down and tell the world we just the kind of animals they already think we are. I agree with him.’
‘Wilson ain’t here. He ain’t sweatin’ it on the block like we are.’
They all looked at him silently for a moment. Then Myers said, ‘They hurt him pretty bad, Stoke.’
Stokely lowered his head and blew out a long breath. He blinked hard twice. He said, ‘I just wanna send ’em a message they won’t forget.’
Myers spoke softly, the bitterness contained in his eyes. ‘Niggers On The Rampage. That’s th’ only message they’d get. Only one they’d print. No one gives a shit, Stoke. Not really.’
Stokely banged his fists on the table. ‘I give a shit,’ he said. He closed his eyes. The muscles in his neck were corded. He opened his eyes and stared without seeing at his plate, at the soggy beans and fish sticks. After a moment Myers reached out, put his hand on top of Stokely’s clenched fist.
‘Man, we know you do. That’s why we need you in one piece, to hold the centre fo’us, not shot full of fucken holes or rottin’ down in seg.’
The men at the table fell silent. No one was much interested in the slop in front of them. Claude put his plastic fork down in solidarity. He couldn’t afford to look at things the way they did. Maybe he should’ve had more soul, but all that mattered now was getting out of here, and Hobbes, motherfucker or not, had given him a chance. A chance to sit in Alfonso’s and sip One Hundred Pipers through a straw. Claude remained profoundly confused by the racial hatred that permeated the prison. It was like the heat they all learned to live with: a background tension so constant and pervasive that you took it for granted and almost forgot about it until some violent incident threw the divisions into grim relief. Claude was more confused than most because he’d lived on both sides of the divide. He wasn’t interested in politics. By definition there were a lot of bad eggs in the River but most of them were just guys. Sure you didn’t hear much Waylon Jennings on B block or much rap on D but most times shooting the shit over lunch was the same whoever you were with: basketball, women, backache, legal appeals, news from home, tales of sex and violence lavishly embellished by the imagination of time. Claude couldn’t see much difference until on those days you stepped out into the yard and found Mexicans on one side and Bloods on the other and suddenly there was only one place you could stand.
According to Ray Klein, by whose friendship Claude, as Claudine, had been immensely flattered, it was a tribal deal. Klein said it was primitive and mysterious but deep. It was, like, an animal thing, a survival mechanism or something. Men were tribal animals by nature and instinct. When everyone was comfortable and civilised and safe it was easy enough to sing that ‘We Are The World’ shit. But when the shit hit the fan your guts told you to go stand with your own kind or risk getting your balls cut off or worse. It wasn’t even necessarily a race thing, Klein had pointed out, or a religious thing. Look at the Middle East, Moslem against Moslem, or South Africa, black against black. Look at the American Civil War for Chrissakes. Tribes. Old tribes and new tribes; in theory whatever was most likely to keep you alive. Except that it caused a hell of a lot of death.
Claude glanced at his fellow diners and didn’t feel especially tribal or safe at all. Half-black, half-white, half-woman, half-man, no wonder he was fucked up. They were sitting six tables down from the canteen entrance and the hall was half empty. Since the lockdown started the screws had been feeding the cons from B in two shifts, one side of the block at a time. The hacks were afraid of the pressure building up in men like Johnson. Most of the screws hated the lockdown too. More pain in the ass work, more resentment, more chance of trouble. Claude reckoned that as far as your average screw was concerned the best prison to work in would be one that was totally fucking empty. Or maybe with just a few rich junkies to sell drugs to. A con from ground tier called Green came up to Stokely and handed him a scrap of paper. Stokely read it slowly. Straining his eyes sideways without turning his head Claude glanced over Stokely’s shoulder and made out the words.
Stoke,
The Doc’s a right guy.
Give him what he wants.
Wilson.
Stokely caught Claude reading it and crammed the paper into the breast pocket of his shirt. He looked to the front of the mess hall. Klein was standing there, empty-handed, waiting. Stokely turned to Green.
‘What’s he want?’
‘Says he wants to talk to Claude,’ said Green.
Stokely turned to Claude, his lip curling. ‘What is this shit?’
Claude spread his hands, palm up. ‘I don’t know.’
He felt exposed. He wanted to see Klein but not here in front of the guys. But with the lockdown maybe this was the best he could expect. And shit, he had the right to talk to whoever he wanted didn’t he? When he couldn’t bring himself to say so out loud he knew that he didn’t have the right after all.
‘I heard Klein saved Wilson’s life in seg,’ said Myers.
‘I believe that when I hear it from Wilson his self,’ said Stokely. He shrugged and turned to Green. ‘He got the balls to ask, I guess he can come on through.’
Green went and told Klein, and Klein walked over. He looked wary but not scared and Claude envied him. Respectful of the formalities, Klein spoke to Johnson before anyone else.
‘Johnson,’ said Klein.
‘Klein,’ said Stokely. ‘What can I do you?’
‘I’d like a minute with Claude,’ said Klein. ‘That’s okay with you.’
Stokely, respect satisfied, nodded to the next table a yard away. ‘Take a seat.’
The plastic seats were bolted to the floor so Klein couldn’t pull one over. He sat on the edge of the chair nearest Claude. Claude stood up and moved to the other table and sat down opposite Klein. As he did so he realised Stokely didn’t like it. Claude felt pleased. It was just about the first move he’d made without Stokely’s say so since moving back to B. Klein smiled at him with genuine pleasure.
‘How’s it going, Claude?’
‘Good,’ said Claude. He was aware that Stokely, picking at his food while the others argued about tonight’s game between the Lakers and the Knicks, was listening in. ‘I mean real good. The lockdown’s a bitch but, you know. Back on the block it’s good for me. You know, back with the brothers. Like, where I belong.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Klein.
Claude was suddenly afraid that Klein would take all this back to Agry. Agry would have his lips cut off. He calmed himself. Klein wasn’t that kind of guy. He was cool. Claude wanted to say, ‘If Agry asks ’bout me . . .’ but he couldn’t afford to, not with Stokely in earshot. He felt like he was walking a tightrope between two tanks, one filled with sharks, the other with piranha. No one knew
the whole truth except him and Hobbes. He wanted to tell Klein. About how Grierson had waylaid him on the way to group therapy and taken him down to the lumber room to see Hobbes in secret. And how Hobbes had told him he was coming up for a parole hearing and if he cut out this transvestite shit and moved back to B he’d have a chance. A good chance. A chance to make it to Alfonso’s and get his cock sucked. Claude wanted to hear Klein say yeah, go for it, man, and maybe give him some advice on how to deal with the board and shit. But Stokely was listening.
Klein said, ‘Hobbes is really putting it to you guys.’
Stokely butted in. ‘We can take everything that cocksucker’s got to give and then some.’
Klein turned to look at him. ‘I don’t doubt it. But I think Hobbes is up to something weird, I don’t know what. He’s sick. In the head.’
Claude suddenly felt queasy. Stokely snorted.
‘Shit, Klein, we don’t need no doctor to tell us that. Hobbes just need wastin’.’
‘Maybe,’ said Klein.
Claude sensed a fight and the talk about Hobbes was making him nervous. He said, ‘Like Stoke says, we gettin’ by. How ’bout you anyway?’
‘My parole came through,’ said Klein. ‘I’m out of here tomorrow.’
For a second Claude felt sick with fear. Abandoned. Klein was the only guy in the place he could talk to when he was down, when the pressure of pretending to be a woman and the strain of living under the hammer of Agry’s unpredictable rages got too much for him. Often, as Claudine, he’d wept in the sanctuary of Klein’s cell. Agry had not objected. If anything it had helped root Claudine’s femininity more deeply in his mind. Bitching and crying at the doctor’s was the kind of thing Agry imagined women did all the time. To a similar effect Claude had regularly made the effort to nag Agry about keeping his cell tidy, though in reality he didn’t give a shit. Even living on B block, knowing Klein was around had made him feel that bit safer. Now he was leaving. Claude swallowed his disappointment but not before Klein saw it in his face.