The Free Page 2

I keep backing away, inch by inch, but he stays on me, then grabs the tray from the bottom and smashes it all over my scrubs. One swift push and I’m on my ass, covered in shit.

  “The fuck?” some kid at a nearby table says.

  White, scrawny, buzz cut, he’s got a roll stuffed into his mouth. Some of the sauce from my fettuccine has splattered his arm and he’s pissed off about it. He breaks off the roll he’s chewing and tries to throw it at me, but his aim is pathetic. It hits the Disciple instead. Right in the face.

  Now you do not throw bread at a Disciple of Vice unless you’ve got a death wish. But I want to kiss the guy’s dumb white face, because now the Disciple is on him instead of me—wasting no time, just punching the crap out of him. Two seconds of this and the kid’s white buddies are up on their feet, going after the Disciple. I’m still on the f loor, so I start crabwalking away, put two tables between me and the shit. If I can make it out on my ass, that’s f ine by me. I’ll just crabwalk back to my cell.

  Cardo and a few others hang back, but it’s a rumble now. Fast and vicious, f ists and feet f lying. I can’t see any weapons, but that won’t mean much to the kid who started it. That dumbass cracker is at the bottom of a pile of Disciples, and they will not sleep tonight unless they’ve jackhammered him. I can feel the tension in the room, the ugly energy. It’s fear, excitement. Some of the guys want to jump in, settle their own scores, take a shot at the Disciples or this band of white kids, whoever the hell they are. Everyone else just wants to stay clear. I’m in their camp, trying to make myself as small as possible, invisible if I can.

  I played this whole thing wrong. I’ve got to be smarter. Got to learn how to act here or I’ll end up like that cracker. If things had gone differently, if he didn’t have the worst fucking aim in the universe, that could have been me down there smearing the f loor with blood.

  The guards are there all at once, at least eight in total. Batons out, tasers at the ready. They have the table surrounded. When they start peeling the top layer of Disciples off it’s like a magic spell. The Disciples put their hands up, let the guards take them away. Heads down, limp. It’s like they know the drill, know exactly how much damage they can get away with. I guess it makes sense though. You beat up a kid, that’s one thing. You hit a guard, that’s another. The guards leave the white kid bleeding on the f loor for a while so everyone can have a good look at him. He’s not moving, but his stomach’s going up and down, which means at least he’s breathing. The guards come back in with a stretcher, scrape the kid onto it, and take him away too.

  “You take a hit?” one of the guards says to me. “You need to be seen?”

  I take my time getting up, make sure I don’t draw attention to the pain in my stomach, even though it’s screaming. “Naw, I’m good,” I say.

  Around the cafeteria it’s like nothing’s even happened. Just another day at lunch.

  Cardo motions with his head for me to come over and join him. “There’s plenty of room now, ese. Thanks for clearing some space for us. Used to be all crowded and shit.” He sticks out his elbows as he digs into his pile of fettuccine. “Come on, man,” he says. “You ain’t want to be standing there on your own, waiting for somebody else to beat your ass.”

  Most people don’t even see me. But a few do. And they’re taking note, making judgments, wondering who the hell I am, being at the center of a rumble. I don’t know what kind of impression I’ve just made. Pussy, I’m guessing. That can’t be great. Cardo and the dregs of his crew aren’t my idea of great lunchtime company, but it’s not like I have other options.

  “Come on,” Cardo says. “You can have my dessert. Shit’s disgusting.”

  I sit on the corner, across from Cardo, as far away from the other guy on my bench as possible. The other guys start arguing with each other in Spanish. I can’t follow much of it, except the part about somebody being “too hot.” I assume they’re talking about the guy who picked the f ight with me. Flavio’s his name. Flavio Pendon. I don’t want them to know I’m eavesdropping, so I get busy with Cardo’s dessert, some kind of green Jell-O with chunks in it, something hard and salty. It might actually be Chex Mix, which makes no sense at all. Cardo’s friends keep shooting me evil looks, so I keep my eyes on the next table over. It’s one of the few mixed tables in the cafeteria. A tall, stringy Asian kid holds court with a mixed back of whites, Asians, a few Mexicans, and a black dude.

  “That’s the geek squad,” Cardo says. “You sign up for computer class or something?”

  I laugh at this ridiculous suggestion. I haven’t signed up for anything. When it comes to school, I am a bare minimum kind of guy.

  “Well that’s the computer class,” Cardo explains. “Case you change your mind. So anyway, looks like you’ll be getting a new cell mate soon. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Wanted to break the news to you face to face. Don’t be crying or nothing though.”

  “You’re getting out?”

  “Got my court date. This Friday.”

  The kid sitting next to him snorts. He looks older. He’s got a curved scar on his cheek that looks like it’s been hardening for years.

  But Cardo is only too happy to get a rise out of him. “You see, Isaac.” He puts his arm around the guy’s shoulder. “Mis amigos don’t understand how I could leave all this behind. They be down with the Disciples. They love they barrios. That shit be like family to them. But I don’t need that family no more. I got me a real family now. I got a woman on the outside and a baby girl on the way. No lo necesito mi barrio. Mi barrio can besa my ass. Shit, I’m moving to Miami when I get out of here.”

  Everyone goes quiet for a second. Then the kid with the scar offers up something in Spanish, and I don’t have to speak the language to know it’s a threat.

  “Mig, my man,” Cardo says. “I didn’t see you in there catching Flavio’s back. Or any of you guys either.” He casts an accusing glance at the other two Disciples.

  “Flavio’s too hot,” Mig says. “I’ll be taking that up with him later. But you don’t be sitting with the Disciples if you disrespecting us.”

  “Yo, I ain’t disrespecting nobody,” Cardo says. “You know I got nothing but ’preciation for the Disciples and what they done for me. But there ain’t no Disciples in Miami, no’m saying? And I ain’t down with nobody else. ’Sides, I’m tired of this shit. Banging and pumping. Shit’s too hard. My woman got an uncle down there who’s setting me up. Got a pressure cleaning business, gonna teach me the ropes. Look out, man, I’ll be running the show in no time.”

  Mig laughs.

  “What?” Cardo says. “You don’t believe me?”

  “You think that judge gonna let you out early ’coz of that role-play shit you do? ’Coz your program?”

  “I’m telling you, man, I been working it. Passed my drug test too.”

  Mig smushes his lips together in a way only Latinos ever do. “Ain’t gonna happen, ese. Early release is for snowf lakes and pussies. Spics like us they like to keep around.”

  “Or send to Walpers,” another guy adds.

  Walpers is the adult penitentiary where a lot of these guys will end up. Rumor has it the Disciples basically run the place.

  “No way,” Cardo says. “I ain’t being tried as no adult. Lawyer says I got that shit locked down. Only one judge in town got a hard on for that and he ain’t sittin’ on my case. I’m telling you, I got a good feeling about this one. I been working my program, living clean, staying out of shit in here. You’ll see. I’ll be enjoying the delights of my woman on the beach in Miami while you be wearing out your wrists in here.” He turns to me now. “Ain’t that right, cuz?”

  Cuz is a dangerous word. I knew a kid once, some wannabe banger, who lost his life over it. You call the wrong guy cuz, you could be starting a war you don’t even know about. And if someone calls you cuz, could be he’s saying he likes you. Could be he’s marking you out.


  “Sure, Cardo,” I say. “I hope it all works out just like you got planned.”

  Chapter 4

  Later that day I f inally learn what Cardo meant by “team assignment.” I’m a few minutes early. No way am I blowing it in juvie by showing up late to anything. Whoever’s in charge here, you can’t give them any reason to mess you up, because in my experience they will take you up on it. There are no windows in the room, and no desks either, just six white plastic folding chairs arranged in a circle. The rug is this sick orange that makes the room feel even stuff ier, like it’s made of f ire. In the corner there’s a dented cardboard box with three foam baseball bats sticking out of it.

  “You must be Isaac.”

  This tall, lanky black guy holds out his hand. I can’t tell how old he is—north of thirty, south of sixty.

  “Yes sir,” I say, shaking his hand.

  “You’re not in the army, Isaac. You don’t have to call me sir. My name’s Dr. Horton. Have you read the rules of engagement?”

  “Um . . .”

  He puts his brown leather briefcase on a chair to open it. “For such a bureaucratic institution, these people have no feel for paperwork. Here.” He hands me a photocopy with a list of rules on it. First up: Be Rigorously Honest.

  “Memorize it later,” he tells me. “Today, we’re just going to have you listen. We’re doing Sandra’s crime story. You know what a crime story is, right? You have yours written out?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “All right, well don’t take too much time. You see, how it works is you read us your crime story, then we role-play it.”

  He turns and waves to a white girl who’s just come in. She’s around sixteen with stringy hair the color of dust. Without even glancing at me, she sits in one of the chairs and clutches her notebook to her chest. Her f ingers have been nibbled down to nubs.

  Two guys come in next, one black with short dreads, one Hispanic. The black guy gives me a head bob. Not hostile but not friendly either. The Hispanic guy comes over and introduces himself as Javier, shakes my hand, then sits down, real professional-like. I take a seat as far away from them as possible.

  Next to arrive is this smoking hot Latina with orange-blond hair and thick black roots. “We got new blood in here?” she says. “Nobody told me ’bout this.” She sits next to the white girl, tips her chair back on two legs, and sizes me up like I’m a dish of pudding in the dessert line. She is one deadly package. All curves and angles that meet up in ways that are just confusing. But when she smiles this dirty crooked half smile, I catch the one ugly thing about her—a gold tooth front and center. So she’s a big-time drug dealer or the girlfriend of one. Good for her.

  A white kid enters next, chubby, with an auburn Jew-fro. He notices me but he doesn’t say anything.

  Dr. Horton puts his briefcase under one of the chairs and joins us in the circle. “This is Isaac West, everyone. Please say hello.”

  All together they say, “Hello, Isaac.” The voice of the smoking hot Latina is louder than the rest. The girl likes to make her presence known.

  “We’re going to role-play Sandra’s crime story today,” Dr. Horton says. “But f irst I want to introduce everyone to our new team member, so let’s go around the room. Tell him your name and . . .” He stops to think for a second. “Your favorite animal.” He turns to his left, where the Jew-fro kid sits.

  “Hi, Isaac. I’m Riley and my favorite animal is the crebain.”

  “The fuck’s a crebain?” the smoking hot Latina spits out.

  Riley doesn’t f linch. “They’re like these giant crows from Middle-earth. Saruman uses them as spies.”

  “You talking that Lord of the Rings shit again?” she asks.

  “No one said they had to be real.”

  “No, yeah. It’s just I was gonna choose that too.”

  Dr. Horton allows everyone to chuckle at this, then he turns to the black guy with dreads.

  “Hi, Isaac. My name’s Wayne and my favorite animal is . . .” His eyes shoot up to the low ceiling. “The rat, ’coz it knows how to survive on the street.” He turns to the Hispanic guy on his left.

  “Hi, Isaac. I’m Javier and my favorite animal is the coyote because it always be outrunning that dude on YouTube.”

  “You mean the Road Runner,” Wayne says. “Coyote’s the fool with a anvil fallin’ on his head.”

  Javier shrugs. “That’s what I meant. I meant the Road Runner. He one speedy MF.”

  “That he is,” Dr. Horton says. He turns to the smoking hot Latina.

  She takes her time, shifts in her seat. When she adjusts the bottom of her red scrub shirt, I catch a f lash of creamy beige stomach and the blue ink of a tattoo. It might be a sun, which would put her in Sol Dominicano. Or it might be an upside-down crown, which could mean anything.

  “Hi Isaac,” she says. “My name’s Barbie Santiago, and my favorite animal is the ponketo I iced to get in here. ’Coz he dead now.”

  So this is the famous Barbie Santiago. It takes no imagination at all to picture her beating down another girl. She has trouble written all over her. The kind of trouble that likes to spread itself around, invite folks in, make them feel at home. I remember reading in one of the helpful pamphlets Ms. Jomolca gave me at intake that inmates at Haverland are prohibited from “fraternizing” or engaging in any “romantic or physical relationships” with each other. I f igure that type of thing must go on, but I for one do not need some pamphlet telling me to keep my hands to myself. There is no part of Isaac West that is getting near any part of these girls. They’re as damaged as goods can get.

  “Thank you, Barbie,” Dr. Horton says. Then he turns to the stringy-haired white girl.

  “Hi, Isaac,” she mutters. “I’m-Sandra-my-favorite-animal-is-the-cat-no-reason.”

  “Well done, Sandra,” Dr. Horton says. “Okay, so now—”

  “Wait a minute,” Barbie says. “What about Isaac? Don’t he got a favorite animal?”

  “Isaac’s going to be listening today. We start slow, remember?”

  “Oh yeah. I remember my f irst time. You never forget your f irst time.”

  Wayne rolls his eyes.

  “Sandra?” Dr. Horton says. “Are you ready?”

  “Not really. Doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

  “We’re all here to support you, Sandra.”

  “That’s right,” Wayne says.

  “We got your back,” Javier adds.

  “It’s true, Sandra,” Riley says. “We’re in this together now.”

  The weird thing is, they aren’t even being sarcastic. They actually mean what they’re saying. I have never heard anyone talk like that before. No kid has ever had my back.

  Barbie reaches over and grabs the girl’s knee. “It’s okay to be scared, Sandra. You be a warrior later. Right now you just give those words to us and we take care of them for you.”

  Nobody looks less like a warrior than this girl, Sandra. She looks like she’s already taken a beating and is just waiting around to die.

  For the next few minutes they all discuss who’s going to play which part in Sandra’s crime story. I stay out of it and read a copy of the notebook pages it’s based on. Sandra was hitting a string of convenience stores around Saugus and Revere with this real piece of work named Jared, some twenty-four-year-old scumhole doing double duty as her boyfriend and pimp.

  The scam worked like this: Sandra would go in f irst and pretend she was buying something in the back of the store; then Jared would barge in and stick his gun in the store clerk’s face. When Sandra came out from the back and acted all surprised, Jared would grab her, put the gun to her head and tell the store clerk to give him the money or he’d shoot her. They hit about six stores this way, basically playing on people’s concern for Sandra. It was a decent scam. There’s something s
o pathetic about Sandra. She’s like one of those wounded pigeons you see on the sidewalk hobbling around on one foot. You feel sorry for it, you want to help it, but, at the same time, you don’t want to get too close.

  Wayne and Barbie are arguing about how to “block the scene.” Dr. Horton lets them work it out on their own while I help him move the chairs to the side. After a few minutes, they settle the argument and sit down to watch.

  Javier plays Jared, Riley plays the store clerk, and Sandra plays herself. Even before the scene starts she’s shaking. She walks across the room, past Riley and pretends to be shopping for something in the store. Then Javier enters, carrying a lime-green water pistol he’s gotten from that dented cardboard box.

  “Hands in the air, motherfucker!” he says to Riley.

  Riley throws his hands up.

  Sandra walks over and pretends to be shocked by what she’s seeing. She’s a terrible actress. I hope, for her sake, she was more convincing in real life.

  Javier grabs her by the head, probably much more gently than Jared ever did. I f igure Jared would have had to be rough with her, just to be convincing. But also just to be a dick. I don’t know the guy but I know the type. They get a charge out of what they can get over on girls, like it makes them bigger somehow. Sandra pretends to resist, but not that hard. If she was this bad at acting out in the free, no wonder she got busted.

  “Give me all the money or I shoot this girl,” Javier says. He’s a great actor. He turns on this cruel streak like he can’t wait to shoot Sandra and is secretly hoping the store clerk will make him do it.

  Riley pretends to reach into the cash register and hand Javier the money. Javier stuffs the invisible cash in his pants then backs away with that plastic gun at Sandra’s head. “Try anything and I shoot this girl.”

  I haven’t read any farther into the story. I f igure they must have got caught somewhere down the road, maybe on account of the surveillance cameras or something. But that’s not how it went down at all.

  When Javier and Sandra put their backs to Riley, Riley pulls out a pink water pistol from the waistband of his red scrubs and points it at Javier’s legs.