Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. Parsell (ready to read books TXT) 📕

for Classification. I thought about Brett and how Slide Step had set me up with him before I left. It was pretty brave of Slide Step to do that-given all the checks and challenges that go on with "manhood" in prison. Inmates viewed kindness as a weakness-so for Slide Step to be that generous with me could have brought unnecessary heat on him. Yet even still, he wielded a lot of power and since most inmates viewed two "boys" getting together as lesbian sex-it wasn't a threat to Slide Step's manhood.

I'm not sure if Slide Step knew about Scatter and me, because he didn't mention it. And neither did I. Never trust a guy who'll tell on himself. I couldn't wait to get back there, now, especially after what Slide Step had done for me. I wanted to write him and thank him again. But that was Slide Step. He always seemed to look out for me, and he took as much joy in seeing me happy, as I took in having sex with Brett. And I couldn't wait to do something with Brett again, but I'd have to wait for a pre-sentence investigation report, before the judge could sentence me for the Photo Mat.

The pre-sentence investigations were completed by the Probation Department, and I would be stuck in the county jail until it was completed.

Inmates loved to talk about how they knew the system inside and out. Even when they didn't know, they talked like they did-so you had to be careful about what and who you listened to. "Fuck all that nu mbo jumbo you hear when you first get there," I said to a con in the bullpen. "However much time you've got-that's where they're sending you."

"Were you in Gladiator School?" a young white inmate asked.

For the moment, I was the only one in the bullpen who had been to prison, so having all this knowledge made me feel important. I enjoyed the power it gave nee.

"Not at M-R," I said, "but I was at Riverside."

"Is it better?"

"I heard they have a lot of fags there," another con said.

"I wouldn't know." I looked at him. "They never bothered me."

"I'm supposed to go to a camp," the young white inmate said. He had just been sentenced and was on his way to Jackson. "But I still have a couple of cases pending."

"What for?" I asked.

"Burglary."

"You'll be all right," I lied. Burglary carried up to fifteen years, which meant they would have to treat him like lie had been given the maximum sentence, until lie went back to court. That's what happened to me. Though I didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. He looked younger than me and a lot greener. "Just don't take no shit from nobody, that's all. And whatever you do, don't listen to what that psychologist might tell you in Quarantine." I wished there was more I could have told him, but given my experience-he was in for a rough ride.

I was glad there was nobody there from Riverside, who could pull my ho' card. And so far, at least, I had been kept in relatively tame bullpens.

When they called me in for classification, the deputy asked if I was a homosexual. I was expecting the question, because the other cons told me it would be coming. I was quick to say no. I didn't want it on my record, and I damn sure didn't want to be placed in isolation. The cellblock where they kept the queens was locked down twenty-three hours a day. At least in the other wings, you were let out of your cell during the day into the common area in front of the cells, and some wings had TVs. It helped pass the time.

The deputy said that because I was coming from the state system, I was no longer eligible for the Romper Room-where they kept the nonviolent, first-time offenders.

"Have a seat in the next pen," the deputy said. "We'll take you up in a little bit."

When I entered the bullpen, it was quieter than usual. I could sense tension in the air. I sat on the bench, along the sidewall, and then I noticed it. It was a small pool of blood, in the middle of the floor, with a broken tooth. The smell hit at about the same time, causing my stomach to turn.

"What happened," I said to the guy next to me.

"Some motherfucker came in here for killing his momma."

"His momma?"

"Can you imagine? It's Mother's Day weekend, and this stupid motherfucker comes in here and tells us he just killed his momma."

"I wondered what she did to him," I said.

"Boy! Are you crazy?" The black con looked at me. "It don't matter what she did. You don't cone up in here and tell a motherfucker you just killed your momma."

"And it's Mother's Day," another inmate repeated.

"They would've killed that motherfucker if the deputies hadn't dragged his punk ass out of here."

Looking at the blood and broken tooth, I wondered if I'd made the right choice.

21

What's My Lie?

Televisiongame show host Bob Barker had already moved on to The Price Is Right. I remembered him from a few years earlier on Truth or Consequences. It was a program where the contestants were asked a difficult or sometimes even a trick question. If they answered incorrectly, or didn't respond quickly enough Beulah the Bell would buzz, and Bob Barker would say, "Oh, I'm sorry, you failed to answer the question truthfully and now you must face the consequences."

In 1978, Detroit Recorders Court had a backlog of over 5,000 criminal cases. The Michigan Supreme Court appointed a receiver who instructed judges to plea-bargain their caseloads. But Judge Geraldine Bledsoe Ford didn't believe in bargaining with criminals. She stuck with the old format of doling out justice that seemed to "fit the crime." Mean Geraldine, the newspapers called her, Short on Bail/Long on Time.

The inmates had other names for her, but