Stephen Hunter - Dirty White Boys

Most of the last months had been passed in the confines of a friendly institution, the Kingsville Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where loving doctors had tended him and cared for him, but something had changed. He was remote and unresponsive and they'd tried so hard to reach him, but he just looked at them. They seemed from another planet somehow. And in the last months, when he was ambulatory, they'd urged him to draw again. But he just stared at the pencils and the paper and saw blankness.

The adjudication was simple. Sparing the state the expense of trying him, his lawyer pled him guilty to first degree murder on the proviso that he not be given the death penalty. His lawyer told him he couldn't be considered for parole for seventeen years. He wasn't charged in the escape, because his lawyer convinced the court that Lamar had forced him to go along, and he wasn't charged in the murder of the guard or the delivery man or any of the citizens or policemen in the robbery of the Wichita Falls Denny's. His greatest character witness was old John Stepford, who told prosecutors, "He didn't do a thing. He just sat there and cried while Lamar and O’Dell did the terrible things to my poor wife and I. Richard was a damned coward. Couldn't hurt a flea.”

If Richard had an opinion, he kept it to himself. He had become a near mute, a sullen watcher, slow to move, his face sealed off from human expression. Who knew what danced behind his eyes, for they, too, had become dull and hooded.

“There it is, Richard,” said the head of the guard detail, "just like you left it.”

It hadn't changed a bit.

Mcalester State Penitentiary loomed above him, its high, white walls blazing in the sun, giving it the aspect of a Camelot, a fabled Moorish city, a walled fortress in Tibet.

The Mac. The Big Mac. It would have him back at last.

He blinked again: from here he could only see the walls, and just the briefest half a top story of the cellblock that had been his world for four months before Lamar had taken him on that mad, crazed dash. He looked around, but there was nothing to see except walls.

The Mac, he thought. I am back.

Now I have to pay.

He knew he would probably die.

The blacks would get him. Probably it would be the blacks. His whiteness would inflame them; they'd be on him in a second, fuck his ass and kill him and laugh about it. He could try and punk for a big con but… seventeen years of blow jobs?

Maybe the Mexicans, the cholos. They loved to cut up gringos in the showers. They would get him fast. Or the red guys, those impassive mongol savages with their elaborate tattooed biceps bracelet, nd-nz.

But he knew: It would be the blacks.

The doors clanked open.

A lieutenant he recognized waited.

“Well, howdy there, Richard. Known you'd come back, sooner or later.

They all do.”

Richard said nothing.

“Hell, Lamar and O’Dell are back. They're over there, in the goddamned prison cemetery. Who else'd have ’em?

Ain't going into a graveyard with quality folks, that's for sure.”

Richard remembered the cemetery vaguely. A nondescript parcel of junk land off to the west, beyond the agriculture center, where members of the prison community, bull and con alike, were interred.

“I'd like to see them sometime,” Richard said.

“Well, we'll have to see about that, Richard,” said the guard.

“Some things are more possible than others. They ain't going anywheres, that's for sure.”

Richard just nodded bitterly, wondering how it would happen.

Processing was indifferent and efficient; he had no belongings, really, to confiscate, and just gave himself over to the institution.

Now, with an armful of clothes and in new prison dungarees, he entered the cellblock and walked along the catwalk to where he would spend the rest of his life.

Again, the immensity of it. It towered over him; he thought of a cobra's flared hood, the sense of darkness enveloping. There was no daylight. Out on the yard, things were progressing as normal. He heard the shouts from the basketball and handball courts, the clunk of heavy iron being pumped by inmate body builders Other rogue sounds:

Latino music, cheesy and loud; soul music; country; and the yammer, the gibber of many men talking, seething, bucking, clawing for space and individuality and… survival in the most primeval of places. Smells: farts, sweat, bile, vomit, shit. Iron and stone everywhere, the slight vibration of the grid of the catwalk beneath him, the cells slipping by on the right, each festooned with pictures of various saints and sluts.

Until at last… home.

“Here you go, Richard. D-fifty-eight. Sorry, there ain't no doubles.

You in with a rapist, a road captain of a cycle gang and a guy who likes to cut people. Not your average Sunday school choir.”

Richard knew where they'd put him, too. Back bunk, upper, where the farts coalesced in the air and in hot weather the atmosphere was most like the inside of a sub, while in the winter it was the coldest.

Every square inch of wall would be taken up with pictures from the inner lives of other men, and he'd have no say in anything. His own cellmates might even kill him, just for the shit of it, when they got tired of jacking off or butt slamming each other.

Richard slipped in.

Hmmmmm.

It must be some mistake.

He didn't get it.

“Don't ask me, Richard. We let you boys work out who sleeps where.”

There was an open bunk, but it wasn't the rear upper but the front lower.

Hmmmmmmm.

The best bunk in the cell.

And all the pictures had been scraped off the wall; he could hang anything he wanted.

He looked at it dully. Nothing showed on his face.

“Okay, Richard. You on your own. You be a good boy now, and if you git in trouble, you call us.”

“Sure.”

The detail left and Richard was alone.

He sat on the bunk.

Then he looked at the two desks and again was astounded.

Normally the desks belonged to the two strongest men and fuck the two weakest. Sometimes a deal could be worked out where all four shared, if all four were of equal power. But… both desks stood vacant, the materials they had previously contained stacked neatly over to one side of the room, as if it was up to him to choose the best one.

Richard sat for a number of hours trying to work out the puzzle. He had one little task to perform. He carefully un folded a print he'd ordered, and then hung it, Scotch-taping it precisely centered above the desk.

Then, in time, he had to go to the bathroom.

It used to terrify him. In the stall-less bathrooms, naked to the world, you were at maximum vulnerability. He'd trained himself only to go when Lamar or O’Dell went. But there was no Lamar and O’Dell. They were in the ground a mile away.

Yet once again, he was amazed at his own torpor. The trip to the bathrooms didn't particularly frighten him. He just got up and went.

What would happen would happen, and maybe sooner was better than later.

He stood, left his cell, and walked along the catwalk until he reached the John. He ducked in. A scrawny black man looked at him, said nothing, and departed.

Richard sat and shat. Then he rose, buckled his pants, and took his time washing his hands.

He walked out and then he saw them.

There were four of them, big and black.

They came from nowhere—or actually, out of a cell.

Suddenly they blocked off the catwalk ahead of him.

He looked about. Far above, a guard with a Mini-14 patrolled on the shooting walk, but he was looking in another direction.

And so, he thought: Here it is. At last. My fate.

One of them was immensely puffed up from working out; his ebony muscles, sculpted and glowing, stood out on his body like haunches of beef or inflated sausages. He wore a red bandanna. Another was lanky and sullen, with Michael Jackson's pretty hair, a gold necklace, and ropey, veiny arms. His eyes were deader than coal. The third was just a kid, eager to impress, his face drawn in tight and impassive to broadcast the word tough to the world. He looked at Richard with haughty eyes. And the fourth was the famous head-boss nigger, Rodney Smalls. Rodney looked at him through narrow eyes.