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

the wall." Nine of us were being taken upstairs to single cells. The guy standing next to me said, "They don't be releasin' nobody on Saturday and Sundays, so there wasn't no reason we had to stay in that fuckin' bullpen all weekend."

"You're right," the deputy said. He placed the inmate back inside the pen. "Close up Five," he yelled behind.

"What?" the inmate pleaded. "I didn't mean nothin' by it."

"You can just wait," the deputy said, "and maybe by next Sunday we'll have a cell for you."

A few minutes later, as we got on the elevator, we could still hear him screaming. "Aw, c'mon Dep, I was just kiddin' around. OK, OK, but can I please have a plunger?"

I didn't remember it being so dark upstairs, but then everything from my first time through felt hazy to me. I was terrified when I first got here, not knowing what to expect-so I went in with blinders on-trying to block out as much as I could and hoping I'd come out the other side OK. But I was lucky back then, because the deputies had placed me inside a cellblock with other nonviolent, first-time offenders.

This time, they put me in a cellblock for inmates who had been found guilty and were either awaiting sentencing or being transferred to the state prison system. There were twelve cells along the right, with a set of showers on the far end. The open area, to the left, was about fifteen feet wide and spanned the length of the cellblock. Two built-in tables with a metal bench were situated on each end. Because of the layout, the deputies weren't able to see inside a cell unless they stood in front of it. We were locked into our cells at night, but were let out during the day and free to move about within the confines of the common area.

Four inmates looked up from a card came as I walked past carrying my bedroll. I noticed three more talking in a cell. I was also carrying the carton of cigarettes I brought in with me.

"Hey, Slim, got a smoke?"

Several jumped up optimistically.

"Sure," I said. "Just let me get settled in my house, first."

The racial mix wasn't as lopsided as it had been in the bullpen. I spotted at least three other whites and two of them were young like me.

"Good lookin' out," one of the blacks said, as I handed out a few cigarettes. "The commissary doesn't come till Tuesday, so its tighter than a motherfucker in here."

I had to be careful, because I couldn't replace them when the commissary cart came around. I should have asked Rick to put money in my account, but he probably would've whined to me about being broke again.

The others seemed friendly, except for one-a black guy, who kept staring as if sizing me up. He slid off the bench and swaggered over, carrying his stocky frame with an edge that said he was almost too comfortable in there. Since everyone had a cigarette, the air was clouded with smoke.

He was in his mid-twenties or so, and older than most of us there. I was in my cell, making my bed, as he watched from the doorway. "Are you back on a writ?" he asked.

A writ of'habeas corpus was the legal term for bringing an inmate from prison back to Court. In Latin, it means "you are to have the body."

I guessed he could tell by my state shoes, that I was coming from the prison system. "Riverside," I said.

"They got a lot of fags there?"

"I wouldn't know." I shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. He was making me nervous, especially the way he glared at me with his steady gaze. There was scar just below his right eye that extended diagonally across his cheek, and another on the left of his neck. My bed was almost finished, but I continued messing with it nervously. "You?"

He reached in the cell and handed me his prisoner ID card.

I looked at it and handed it back. It was from the Michigan Reformatory. His name was Nate.

"Did you notice where it's from?"

"Yeah." I looked at him. I wasn't' sure what he expected me to do. He thought I should be impressed because he was at Gladiator School. Or perhaps intimidated.

"You back on writ too?"

"Yeah, I've got a murder charge pending," he said. "And you?"

"Armed robbery," I said. My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, pretending like I had something stuck in it. "I go for sentencing tomorrow."

"You had your PSI done yet?"

"PSI?"

"Pre-sentence Investigation," he said. "The Probation Department has to do the PSI before the judge can sentence you."

"They did one the first time," I said, "when I was sentenced on my other case."

"I don't think so." He shook his head. "They need to do one for each case."

For a second, I felt a little dizzy. "How long does that take?"

"It depends, the motherfuckers are all backed up. But then there's the hundred and eighty day rule. How long has it been since you got busted?"

The hundred and eighty day rule was a well-known law. It referred to your right for a fair and speedy trial. In Michigan, it meant they had to have you to court by 180 days. If not, theoretically, your case could be thrown out. "But if you cop a plea," he said, "they'll rarely do that. So chances arc, what will happen to you tomorrow is they'll go for a postponement until your PSI is complete." I wondered why he was being so talkative, and I started to notice a few more nicks and scars on his body. He seemed to enjoy the uncomfortable look on my face. He looked as if he'd been through quite a few fights. He was muscular, so I doubt he lost very many. "I've been here for three and half weeks," he said, "and I'm still waiting."

Three weeks! I'd go mad. There was no fucking way I could stay in there for