Tate

If a man had spent so much as one day in prison, he lived every moment of freedom that followed with the lingering fear that one day he’d return. Everyone I knew that had done time, me included, felt that way.

The thought of going back to prison haunted me for five years. Then, my fear became reality when I was arrested for the firearms charge. Being released after the charges were dropped was truly a miracle. Volunteering to go back to prison weeks later would seem ridiculous to most.

It seemed ridiculous to me, too. Yet. There I was, gazing through the thick glass of my cell door’s window, wondering which cell Gravy was in.

The sound of jingling keys gave warning of a guard walking his post. As Officer Turner marched past, I pounded my clenched fist against the door twice. “Turner!”

He paused, turned around, and then peered through the window. “Hell, I almost didn’t recognize you. Didn’t stay gone long, did ya?”

“Missed the scenery,” I said. “And the oatmeal.”

“Bullshit.” He stepped away from the window. “What do you need?”

“Can I get a couple pencils? Tooth brush? Tooth paste? Soap. And some paper?”

He folded his arms over his chest and looked me over. “You didn’t get that shit in admissions?”

I shook my head. “Wouldn’t be asking if I had.”

Truth be told, I’d received all the items. But if they searched my cell, and I was sure they eventually would, I wanted them to find everything they’d given me. What he was going to bring me would be used, and later entered into the prison’s evidence room.

If the issued toiletry items were missing from my cell, I’d be a suspect. If they were accounted for, I wouldn’t.

“Who’d you see in admissions?” he asked.

I shrugged. “All you guys look alike.”

“Lazy bastards. Half the time they forget to give new admissions their fucking pillows.”

“I got shower shoes, a pillow, sheets and blanket.” I waved my hand toward the bunk. “That’s it.”

“I’ll drop it off on my next round.”

“Appreciate it, Boss.”

Having been transported from a county jail through the institutions receiving center once before, I knew they didn’t X-ray the inmates prior to admissions. They were required to go through a metal detector, but the device only alerted them of large pieces of metal, not miniscule ones.

So, while the cop that wasn’t a cop waited, I bought a package of disposable razors, removed the foil blades, and wrapped them in masking tape. Then, I put them in the only place I knew they wouldn’t look. Writing a few dozen biker romance books caused me to do tremendous research on crimes and prisons, this was an opportunity for me to put all the research to work.

An hour later, I had everything I needed to prepare myself for the following day.

First, I needed to start a fire. Then, I would use the fire to melt the toothbrush handle. The molten plastic would allow me to insert the flimsy razor blade into it. Once cooled, the plastic would harden. In doing so, it would cause the razor blade to be as rigid as the plastic.

The makeshift knife would be as sharp as Becker Wallace’s straight razor, and much easier to hide.

I unrolled ten feet of toilet paper, and then rolled it into a tight length of toilet paper rope. Two other squares of the tissue were torn and then fashioned into a loose ball.

Then, I carefully split two of my pencils lengthwise with one of my razor blades. After removing the graphite strips of ‘lead’, I poked one in each side of the electrical wall outlet. Using the scraps of wood, I positioned the two pieces together until the tips of lead touched each other.

The spark created each time the two pieces contacted one another was used to ignite the loose wad of toilet paper. Using that piece of flaming toilet paper, I lit the end of the rope I’d fashioned.

With the flaming toilet paper acting as a rudimentary candle, I melted the toothbrush handle until it was pliable. After inserting the two razor blades into the molten plastic, I carried it to my sink and cooled it with running water.

A quick check of the instrument proved it was sturdy enough to do the job. I then carefully fashioned another just like the first. When I was done, I flushed all the remaining evidence down the toilet.

I placed the two razor knives under my bunk’s rubber mat, and then searched the cell one last time for any clue as to what I’d done. Convinced everything was in order, I climbed into my bunk and fell asleep.

* * *

The sound of bean slots being banged against the cell doors filled me with apprehension. My guess was that I’d have one opportunity to take care of Gravy. If I didn’t succeed during our first visit to the yard, the Savages would recognize me, and any further opportunity would be lost.

The banging sound moved closer. Nervously, I stood a few feet from the door with my hands in my pockets.

My bean slot opened with a bang, and a tray of food was shoved through the opening.

My heart raced at the sight of her. I pounded my hand on the door twice. “Madden!”

She bent down and gazed through the window. Her eyes thinned. Upon realizing who I was, they shot wide. “Reynolds? I didn’t recognize you.”

I was relieved that she didn’t realize who I was. While the cop waited, I shaved my head with a pair of battery-powered clippers in the CVS parking lot. I still wore the beard I’d grown while I wrote my book, which was an oddity for me. I hoped the change in appearance would allow me to sneak up on the Savages without being identified as a Filthy Fucker.

I rubbed my beard. “I haven’t shaved since I left here. It’s a ritual when I write. And, I cut my hair yesterday.”

“It looks different.” Her face washed with worry. “What happened, though? Why are you back?”

“Bullshit charge,” I said. “Hopefully I’ll be out of here as soon as my attorney meets with the DA.”

“What happened?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Rode to Chula Vista to clear my head yesterday morning. After I got done eating, I went to a little independent coffee shop. Their tea was awesome, so I bought a big bag of it. You know, the loose-leaf stuff. On the way home, I got pulled over for an illegal lane change, and the cop said he ‘smelled something funny’. He searched my saddle bags, found the tea, and thought it was pot. Because of my association with a motorcycle gang, and the amount of ‘dope’ he found, it’s a fed charge. As soon as they have the lab test it, it’ll prove it’s nothing more than tea. So, I’m in here for being a tea-drinking hippy.”

She laughed, revealing the same smile that brightened each of the shit days I had during my first round of imprisonment in the same shit-hole. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Afraid so.”

“That’s worse than Becker Wallace’s charges.”

I was excited that she’d at least started reading it. “You got it already?”

“Finished it last night.”

I wondered if she enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. “What did you think?”

“Best book I’ve ever read. Ever.”

“It’s good, but it’s not that good.”

“It seems everyone disagrees with you on that.”

“How so?”

“It’s number one.”

I chuckled. “Best smut out there.”

“Best book out there,” she said. “It’s number one out of all books. It was number one last night, and it was still number one when I got here. I keep checking.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Number one?”

She smiled and nodded. “Number one.”

I gawked. “Holy shit.”

“I know, right?”

“Where’s my fucking breakfast!” someone screamed. “What the fuck, bitch?”

Bitch?

She lowered her face even with the bottom of the window. “There’s a bunch of other bikers in here. That one is an asshole.”

“What’s his name?”

“Darin Wheatland.”

Darin ‘Gravy’ Wheatland. Him calling Madden a bitch was enough reason for me to do what I had planned.

“Never heard of him,” I said.

“Well, he’s a jerk.” She grinned. “Becker Wallace would give him what he deserves.”

I’d modeled Becker’s character with myself in mind. She was right. Becker would do just that.

“Too bad Becker’s nothing but a character in a book.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It is. I really liked that guy.”

“Me too.”

“Glad you’re back,” she said with a sly grin.

I didn’t want to keep her any longer, but she hadn’t mentioned the dedication. I wondered if she’d read it. “Did you see the dedication?”

Her smile rose into the middle of her cheeks. “I did. I left you a message.”

“You fat bitch.” Gravy beat his hands against his cell door. “Where’s my fucking food?”

My blood pressure shot through the roof. “Don’t listen to him. He’s--”

“I better go,” she said.

I clenched my jaw and gave a nod. If everything worked the way I had it planned, Gravy would get what he had coming to him soon enough. For now, I needed to play it cool.

“Thank you for the meal.”

She nodded in return. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

The sound of keys unlocking cell doors gave warning that the time had come. I remained in my bunk, nonetheless.

My cell door opened. “Time to go play outside, inmate,” the guard said in a sarcastic tone.

For one hour each day, we were free to go to the yard or wander the cellblock. In no order, we filtered out of the cellblock and through the door that led to the outside. After an hour of wandering around and exercising, we were brought inside, returned to our cells, and counted.

Gravy, a man of less than average height with graying hair and a lengthy full beard, walked past with his three rapist friends. Telling a story as he sauntered toward the door, he made no note of me sprawled out on my bunk as he passed by my cell.

I lifted my bedding, picked up the makeshift knives, and slipped them into the pockets of my khakis.

Once on the yard, I made note of the cliques of inmates. A group of blacks gathered just outside the door. The Hispanic population was spread out along the fence that separated the yard from the field behind the prison. Non-affiliated whites were loosely scattered in the center of the yard. The handful of Savages stood beside them on the left, and much larger group of Arian Brotherhood’s men stood on the right. I recognized the leader of the AB group as being the same man who was in charge when I paid my last visit.

So far, everything was going as I had hoped.

If there was one man that no one respected within the walls of a prison, it was a rapist. A rapist had two choices once he got behind the walls. He could either ‘check in’, which would mean that he asked the guards to lock him in the SHU for his entire sentence. Doing so would all but ensure his safety, but he’d spend twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes a day locked in his cell, alone.

Or, he could take his chances in general population.

In general population, he would be shanked, set afire, or beaten to death.

The problem with the Savages was that they hadn’t been tried or convicted. No one knew what their actual charges were. When asked, they probably lied, and said their crimes were either meth or murder, both being socially acceptable in prison.

With my head hung low, I sauntered toward the group of Arians. Once beside the group, I looked up and made eye contact with their leader, Tink. In his latter forties with a shaved head, prison-made Arian tattoos, and a goatee, he looked the part he played.

The vast majority of bikers weren’t white supremacists, but they received respect from the men who were. Personally, I didn’t believe any race was superior, but for the time being, my only ally was the group of men who stood before me.

I tilted my head to the side. “Got a minute?”

He and his next in command stepped away from the group.

“Shit.” He looked me over. “Didn’t even recognize you, Meat. Catch some more charges?”

I stepped as close to him as I could, hoping to hide from the Savages, but not so close that it made him uncomfortable. “I’m here to do a job,” I said. “Got a bullshit charge, and ought to be out of here tomorrow. I need to take care of someone first.”

“Not one of mine,” he said flatly. “Can’t let you do that.”

“Nope. One of those four bikers on the other side of the Peckerwoods.”

He lifted his chin a peered down his nose at me. “What do you need from me?”

“Need a jigger. And, I need two men to block for me.”

He glanced beyond me. “Ought to be easy. Turner’s off-duty. The girl pulled a double. It’s her and Whitley.”

I swallowed heavily.

Shit.

“The girl’s still here?”

He nodded. “Behind you fifty yards.”

I found the thought of killing Gravy in Madden’s presence unsettling. But. I had one opportunity to do what I needed to. If I didn’t get it done before I was recognized, the MC – and all my brethren – would perish.

“I need three men between me and her. And a jigger keeping an eye on both guards.”

“You gonna do him?”

“Plannin’ on it.”

He stroked his goatee. “What’s the beef?”

“Him and those three he’s with gang raped a girl. He’s trying to cut a deal with the DA by snitching out my MC.”

“Which fucking one?” he growled.

“The leader. The one with the white beard.”

He glanced toward the Savages and then met my gaze. “The short one? He’s a fucking snitch?”

“And a rapist,” I said.

His eyes thinned. “Got a shank?”

“Two of ‘em.”

“Shit,” he said, drawing the word along much longer than needed. His southern accent became apparent. “Give me one of those motherfuckers. I’m getting ready to do me a little ol’ life sentence. I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll enjoy it.” He chuckled. “What are they gonna do if they catch me? Lock me up?”

For a fleeting moment, I considered it. My pride soon caught up with me. “Appreciate it, Tink. But, I can’t let you do that. I need to take care of this.”

He glanced at the Savages. His eyes thinned to slits. Worried that he was going to give hint as to what we were planning, I cleared my throat.

“Can you help me out?”

“Killing a rapist?” He stroked his beard and then chuckled. “Sure can. What’s the plan?”

I scanned the yard, and then looked at him. “Three men beside me, between me and the girl. I’m going to cut that prick’s throat, drop the shank at his feet, and try to get the second one in one of his brother’s pockets. They’ll find it when they search us.”

“Not a bad plan.” He folded his arms over his chest and let out a breath. “Give me one of the shanks. I’ll have Deuce take it inside and put it under the red-headed fucker’s bunk. When they shake us down after you do that fucker, they’ll find it.”

It aggravated me that I hadn’t thought of simply placing the second shank under someone’s bunk. I pulled the shank from my pocket and then casually reached toward Tink.

“Here.”

He took the shank and gave it to one of his men. After spending considerable time talking to them, he turned to face me.

“The cameras are too far away to get much.” He shifted his eyes toward the building. “All of them are on that building wall. Problem is that him and his men are facing ‘em. I’ll get Little Matt to get the four of ‘em turned around. When he gets halfway to ‘em, you and me will walk the other direction. Four of the fellas will go between them and the cameras, and four will go between us and the girl. As long as you don’t take a swing at him, nobody’ll see nothing.”

I gave him a confused look.

His gaze met mine. “You cut a man’s throat before?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Not tellin’ you how to run your business, but if you roll by and make a swipe at him, it’ll stand out like a turd in a fucking punch bowl when they look at the film.” He raised his clenched fist to his chin, holding his forearm tight against his chest. “Step up to him like you’re going to kiss the prick, hold your arm like this, and flick your wrist. Press hard and make it quick, so you’re not covered in blood.”

He reached into his pocket and then offered his hand. It was a typical prison hand-off. I slapped my palm against his as if we were on the street.

The ‘handshake’ transferred the piece of cloth he was holding to my hand. I slipped it into my pocket and gave him a look.

He nodded toward my hand. “Wipe that shank down with that handkerchief, then use it to hold it when you cut that son-of-a-snitchin’-bitch. Drop everything at his feet. We’ll keep walkin’ past. Cops will find that shank, and then they’ll find one in Red’s bunk. It’ll look like an inside job on their club’s part.”

I let out a long breath.

“Ready?” he asked.

I swallowed nervously and gave a slight nod. “Let’s do it.”

He made a clicking noise with his tongue. One of his men began walking in a loop around the crowd. When he was half the distance to the Savages, Tink turned away.

“Let’s roll,” he whispered.

Walking side by side as if we were old friends, we sauntered toward where we hoped the group of men would eventually be. As if choreographed, the Savages turned away from the cameras and faced the fence.

Four of Tink’s men walked between the Savage’s backs and the cameras. Four more were between us and Officer Madden. Sandwiched Tink’s men and the Savages, we calmly walked past as if we were on a Sunday stroll.

“Keep walking toward the girl when you’re done,” Tink whispered through his clenched teeth.

Gravy’s eyes met mine as soon as we came into his vision. At that instant, he knew nothing. When the razor blades pressed against his throat, severing his carotid artery, he realized who I was.

I could see the recognition in his eyes.

I flicked my wrist just as Tink suggested. Blood didn’t spray everywhere like I’d written in the scenes of my books. At first glance, it seemed I’d done nothing but scratch him. Hoping my actions were enough to end his miserable life, I dropped the handkerchief and shank at his feet and continued walking.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him reach for his throat.

“What the fuck,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak.

Blood cascaded over his fingers, and then ran down his arm.

We walked toward Officer Madden. I gazed beyond her, choosing to focus on the fence, and not her. If Gravy died from his wounds, he wouldn’t be the first man I’d killed. The manner in which I did it, however, was much more personal than anything I’d done in the past. The brutality of my actions encompassed me, making my legs feel like rubber.

My ears began to ring.

“Turn around,” Tink said. “Act surprised.”

I managed to do as he’d asked.

Gravy was on the ground, motionless. The dirt around him was black, not red like I expected. Beside him, the Santa Ana winds caused the white handkerchief to dance atop the surface of the ground like a fluttering leaf.

His chest heaved up and down as he struggled to stay alive. There was screaming, commotion, and then sirens. At some point, I was pushed to the ground by a guard.

I locked eyes with Gravy. Lying twenty feet from him, I stared into his eyes, hoping that he could understand what it was that happened, and why. I decided he could and that he did. When he drew his last breath, it was as if he wanted to savor it. He took it in slowly, and then gasped one last time, all but choking on its sweetness.

His eyes remained open, gazing at me blankly, but they were now void of any life. Satisfied that he got what he deserved – if not for what he was going to do to my family, for what he had already done to the girl – I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes.

In groups of four, we were led to the cellblock. After being locked down for thirty minutes or so, our cells were searched.

After putting up quite a fight, Red was led away by the goon squad, professing his innocence as they dragged him off. My guess was that they found the other shank under his bunk. I felt no remorse for what happened to Gravy, or for what was sure to happen to Red.

A numbness washed over me, leaving me incapable of doing much other than simply thinking about what had happened, and how I would handle my future if things went awry.

I had no idea how long it would take them to view the surveillance footage, or to interview the ‘witnesses’. I knew if I was identified as the killer that my remaining days would be spent behind the walls of a Federal Penitentiary.

It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what I was willing to give to save my family from the evidence that sealed their fate.