Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

Jackson State Prison (Jackson, Michigan)

Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Bo Carr, I’m a serial killer. Not just any serial killer, but the best one. Oh yes, I’m bragging, and I am not a dictator of a foreign country or even a depraved lunatic doing it for sexual thrills. Does that surprise you? Does it offend your delicate sensibilities? How many have I killed? One hundred and ninety-eight men. Each one of them deserved it. You don’t believe me? I’ll let you be the judge.

Who was the first? Nepo Shyler. I can still see his face clearly: his bald, shaven head, his untouchable, smug attitude! What did he do wrong? Are you serious? Did you not hear who I said? Nepo Shyler ? Murderer extraordinaire? He was locked up for the first time when he was thirteen years old for burning his grandmother to death because she wouldn’t give him money to buy ice cream. He was found in the basement playing with her eyeballs like they were marbles, with a gallon of melting Neapolitan ice cream dripping between his fat legs. He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals, juvenile homes, and prison all his life. He is a true product of his surroundings. I saw him come in and out of Jackson Quarantine five times during my stay there.

Jackson Quarantine, as you probably know, is where all the circuit courts in Michigan send their prisoners after sentencing. It is here, at Jackson Prison, that each inmate is screened for security classification before being sent to his primary prison. It could be anywhere in Michigan, from a prison camp in the U.P. or even to Gladiator School in Ionia. It all depends on what the paperwork tells the prison officials here in Jackson. It’s why I loved being there. I got to see everyone as they came through the bubble. We called it the “bubble” because the scene, as it unfolds before your eyes, bursts your bubble when you enter 7 block and hundreds of men whistle at you and the other fresh fish walking across the gallery floor in your underwear, holding your bedroll tight against your fragile chest, as if that will protect you from the predators salivating from their psychopathic lips with every step you take. For the seasoned prisoners who are returning, it’s like homecoming week: seeing the same sissies who sucked their dicks in the shower, the drug dealer who gave them their fix of brown heroin, the female guard who smuggled them a cell phone up her snatch. These are the men I cannot stand, and Shyler was my final straw.

Whenever a prisoner leaves on parole, he always says, I’m never coming back , or, If I do, it’ll be in a body bag , or some other ridiculous remark to sound tough. The fact is, the recidivism rate is over 50 percent, so for every two people who leave, one of them is coming back. It is sound mathematics, not personal. Honestly, how many chances does a person need before we finally say, Enough is enough! I’m doing the public a great service.

The system is what should be placed on trial, from the judges who hand down pathetic, soft sentences, to the parole board that buys into every social-reform excuse. I grew up poor, my father beat me, I was sexually abused as a child, whaaaa, whaaaa, whaaaa!! Do you really think these same things haven’t plagued other people since the beginning of time? How is it that other people can get on with their lives and not commit crimes, but people like Shyler can’t? Why should the public be saddled with the taxes to let prisoners lie on their lazy asses and watch TV for twenty years? It’s an unfathomable system that I could not tolerate any longer. So I did what any good citizen would do: I threw Shyler’s fat ass from the fourth gallery on the Fourth of July and watched his head splatter like a watermelon. I swear, the spray went so high you can still spot the pinkish stains on the ceiling. To anyone who asked, though, I didn’t see a thing; the official story was that Shyler jumped from depression at finding himself back in prison again.

It’s a devastating concept for most people to grasp, but the sound of that cold, iron cell door shutting behind you each and every night is gut-wrenching, like the finality of a coffin lid being closed. The clanking of hundreds of doors closing at the same time, echoing off the porous cement block walls, is eerie, to say the least. It is a sound I will promise myself to never hear again if I ever get out of here — but still I stay behind, as others get to leave time and time again. How would you feel to experience that every single day for twenty-three years?

Of course, I chose to be here. I will not excuse my own actions, not like the rest of these conspiracy theorists, crying that they are here because “I’m black” or “someone snitched on me,” “my judge is a bitch,” “they lied on me,” etc. It’s never “I got caught because someone snitched on me, but I did the crime.” It is so rare for a person to come in and say, “I did it, and this is why.” Or if they do say that, they don’t change their lives while they’re here. It’s sad, to be honest, to watch these prisoners lie to themselves and the families who wait for them.

I did what I did not only for the people of Michigan, but out of a sense of compassion for the families these prisoners use each and every day. What do you mean, how did I get away with it? Do you know how many prisoners try to kill themselves every year? Thousands, and half are successful on their own. I’m just tipping the scales a little heavier on my side. Ever since they initially expanded Jackson Prison’s quarantine to 1, 2, and 3 block, to go with 7 block, the number of suicides has risen, enough that no one asks any questions. And to be honest, who really cares if a prisoner offs himself? It’s usually the sick pedophiles who fear retribution from other prisoners, or the husband who can’t live with the guilt of having brutally murdered his wife. There is always some ghost haunting every one of these inmates. Jackson Prison is filled with ghosts. I’ve only added a very small percentage to that: the ones who refuse to stop coming back to prison after they are released.

I’ve given the willing bedsheets already torn up, slid razor blades into cells, and thrown at least twenty-five men off the top gallery. It has never been an easy decision to make. Even without a family to return home to, I was still very aware that I would never leave these walls if they caught me. As my months turned to years, it became well worth it, and I like my chances of a jury finding me guilty for doing what they think of every day when someone they love is victimized by a repeat offender. Tell me it doesn’t bother you to see a young girl raped and murdered by some scumbag who has been released from prison with prior offenses? I couldn’t take the guilt anymore when I laid my head down to sleep at night. It’s not that I think I’m better than them or that I have a God complex, because neither of those things is true. I care very deeply about those outside these prison walls — and those inside them as well.

I’d be lying to you, though, if I didn’t say that I have a morbid fascination and I get an intense satisfaction from seeing the face of a prisoner after he has hanged himself. It’s almost like watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory , where Veruca Salt turns blue and blows up like a balloon. It’s the same effect: their faces get all puffy, eyes bulging out of their sockets, blood leaking from where tears once flowed, and they turn a wonderful blue color, at least in the beginning, while the body temperature is still warm. It’s better than someone who simply slits his wrists. That’s boring, and it takes so long for them to die. (It’s fulfilling in its own right, though. I get to hear them babbling their apologies and then beg God for forgiveness as the Devil’s own hand reaches up to snag them into Hell.)