I was being escorted by a man who had a swastika tattooed on the back of his shaved head. I followed him toward a prison cell at the end of the cellblock. The door was flanked by two men whose faces, arms, and legs were covered with tattoos. Upon entering the crowded space, the foul odor of hatred enveloped me like a sickness.

Each of the inmates who lined the cell’s walls were covered from head to toe in various tattoos, all of which appeared to be the product of a prison-fashioned tattoo gun. Swastikas, Schutzstaffel lightning bolts, and the numbers fourteen and eighty-eight seemed to be the common theme amongst the men who were greeting me with clenched jaws and side-eyed stares.

My presence wasn’t a matter of choice. I was brought there at the request of the shot caller for the prison’s Skin Head gang.

Wearing nothing more than a pair of cut-off sweats and black lace-up boots, a man stood at the far end of the twelve-foot-long cell. In case anyone was uncertain of his loyalties, he had the words Skin and Head tattooed across his forehead. A swastika centered above the bridge of his nose separated the two words.

His bulging biceps and washboard abs gave indication as to how he’d spent his prison sentence. In prison, men took on one of three body structures. Skin and bones, from not eating entirely. Obese, from eating everything in sight, or they were covered in muscles from head to toe from spending all their idle time exercising.

After sizing me up, his sinister blue eyes met mine.

I held his gaze, knowing if I looked away that it would be perceived as a sign of weakness.

He stroked his six-inch long goatee with the web of his hand. “Ever done time before?” he asked, his voice raspy and dry.

“I have.”

He walked half the short distance that separated us, which was just enough to give me a demonstration of his exaggerated prison swagger.

He looked me up and down. “Where’d you do time?”

“I did state time in Kansas twenty years ago. Drugs.”

“Ever done Federal time?”

“Not until now.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve been here three days, and you about popped off a riot in the chow hall. You’ve got a lot to learn about doing time here.”

In the seventy-two hours that I’d been incarcerated, someone had taken it upon himself to call me a snitch. The instant the words passed his lips, I unleashed a flurry of punches, stopping only when he was lying in a pile at my feet.

In prison, having the label of a snitch was comparable to being a child molester or a rapist. I was victim of an undercover ATF sting operation for firearms violations. I had never spoken a word to an ATF investigator short of a fuck you in passing.

I was the polar opposite of a snitch.

“He got his ass beat because he was a disrespectful prick,” I said dryly. “I don’t see the problem.”

He lifted his chin slightly. “Might have been different in a state joint, but in here you can’t go busting every black in the head that pisses you off. If you do, it’ll pop off a riot. A riot puts all of us on lockdown. When we’re on lockdown, I’m out of business. When I’m out of business, I get ugly.”

I didn’t bother telling him that there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the ugly that oozed from his every pore.

I stood within arm’s reach of him, considering my response in silence. I was raised to believe that all men were created equal. Neither religion, race, nor creed were grounds for segregation. Witnessing a man’s actions was the only way of knowing who he truly was. In my forty-three years on earth, I’d learned that there was good and bad in all religions and races.

I’d fought the man in question because he was disrespectful toward me. Skin color had nothing to do with it. His actions alone earned him the ass whipping.

“It wasn’t a black-white thing,” I explained. “He was disrespectful. I didn’t know I needed to get permission to stand up for myself.”

His eyes thinned. “There’s a hierarchy here. Following it is critical to this joint’s success. If a white treats you with disrespect, bust him up. If a black or Mexican does it, come tell me. I’ll have a sit-down with their shot caller. Depending on the circumstances, you might get permission to take care of him. That permission comes from me, and me only.”

The prison had a set of unwritten rules that, if followed, allowed it to function in a manner that minimized arguments and fights amongst the inmates. The men were separated into cliques, with each group sharing the belief that they were superior. In the absence of threat or argument, they were left to believe their opinions of themselves were true and correct.

Raining on the man’s parade who stood before me wasn’t going to do either of us any good. So, without necessarily agreeing, I agreed.

“Fair enough,” I said.

He looked me up and down. “It’s tough finding a man willing to fight for what he believes in. We can always make a place for another stand up white boy.”

“I’ve got three years to do,” I said. “I’ll just stay out of everyone’s way and do my time alone.”

“Fair enough,” he said mockingly.

I turned toward the door and peered into the cell block. Four televisions were mounted high on the ceiling with the screens angled toward the men who were gathered beneath them.

One was surrounded by whites, one by blacks, and one by Hispanics. The last was being watched by various other races who were in the minority. The segregation of the men wasn’t by choice. A television was assigned to each race by the prison’s warden.

He was of the opinion it solved problems.

I was of the opinion it was the first step in creating them.

* * *

With a mesh laundry bag draped over my shoulder, I gazed through the glass door and into the prison’s courtyard. No differently than the other eighteen hundred prisoners housed inside the brick walls of the institution, I’d spent every waking hour locked inside. I hadn’t seen sunlight or stood beneath the open sky for almost three years. I was anxious to gulp the fresh air and feel the warm summer sun on my face.

The door’s bolt shot open with a metallic clank. I glanced over my shoulder. Four sets of doors separated me from the cell block to my rear. I turned toward the one door that separated me from freedom and took a few hesitant steps.

Nothing happened.

I took a few more.

Still nothing. Apparently, they were truly going to let me walk out of there.

I inhaled a deep breath and walked through the door with authority, pushing it open as if I’d earned my place on the free side of the three-inch thick steel-reinforced glass.

The sweet smell of freshly-cut grass hit me like a clenched fist. Immediately behind it, the scent of various flowers tickled my nostrils. I closed my eyes and grinned.

It was over. I was free.

“Hildreth,” a familiar voice said from beside me.

I opened my eyes and turned toward the voice. Dressed in full uniform, one of the prison’s guards stood at the edge of the steps.

Cambridge was an intimidating figure. Physically fit to a point that it disguised his age of fifty-five, he loomed over most of the inmates, standing six-foot-eight in boots. He wore his gray hair in a buzz cut, despite being out of the military for twenty years.

I’d worked under his watch for my entire prison stint. We were far from friends, but we’d become as friendly toward one another as an inmate and corrections officer could.

“Cambridge?” I asked. “What’s going on? You’re not taking me back in there, are you?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets, looked me over, and then shook his head lightly. “I’ve worked here for eighteen years. In those eighteen years, I’ve never encountered anyone like you. Hell, I’ve never met anyone like you, anywhere.”

A look of confusion washed over me. “You waited out here to tell me that?”

“I waited out here to ask you to do me a favor,” he explained.

Despite my newfound freedom, it seemed odd having a prison guard ask a favor of me. I set my bag on the ground at my side. “You want a favor from me?”

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Don’t kill that guy that testified against you, and don’t kill that ATF agent, either. Just get back to living life. A man like you can make a difference on this earth, but not if he’s in here.”

Early in my incarceration, I’d expressed anger toward the two men he’d mentioned. Eventually, however, I forgave them for what they’d done. I found it troubling that he’d learned of conversations I had in private, but quickly remembered that nothing was truly private in prison.

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” I assured him. “At least not either of those two idiots.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “For work?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged dismissively. “Maybe I’ll write a book.”

“A book?” His mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk. “What kind of book?”

“Something heartwarming,” I responded jokingly. “Infused with my opinions and beliefs, of course. Maybe a little sex.”

“If anyone could do it and succeed at it, it’d be you.” He extended his hand. “Take care of yourself, Hildreth.”

I didn’t simply shake a man’s hand when it was offered. I’d offended many by not shaking their hands, and looked at doing so as an endorsement, of sorts. An agreement that the man attached to the hand I was shaking was morally equal to me. It was a habit that I developed from twenty-five years of being a biker.

I accepted his outstretched hand, shook it, and grinned. “Do the same, Cambridge.”