Hard Time by Anthony Papa Anne Mini Shaun Attwood Page B
Authors: Anthony Papa Anne Mini Shaun Attwood
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imagine what it must be like to be stuck in this hellhole for a year,’ I said, clinging tighter to the hope I’d be released somehow. ‘I’d go insane.’
‘Last year, they offered me five years, and I refused to sign the plea bargain. I’m from Cali. You have to kill someone there to get five years. So what did they offer me the next time? Eighteen fucking years! This state’s the worst to get caught in. Arizona ain’t nuthin’ nice, dawg.’ He dropped his chin onto his palms and stared at the concrete as if at a funeral.
‘So now what?’
His eyes met mine, and sparkled irrationally. ‘I’m fighting back, dawg! I’ve filed a Rule 11.’
‘Rule 11?’
‘It means you’re not competent to stand trial. If you file a Rule 11 and they determine you’re crazy, they send you to the nuthouse and let you go after a few years.’
‘A lot of people must be filing Rule 11s then.’ I added filing a Rule 11 to my list of legal options.
‘They are. But not many get it. It can take them years to run all the tests while you sit rotting in here. I’ve got to act like I’m nuts every time I see the doctors. That’s why I don’t shave or take care of myself and I look like a troll. Some guys go in to see the doctors and eat their own shit. Would you eat your own shit if they’d let you go tomorrow?’
‘I don’t want to think about it.’
Troll grinned like a juvenile. ‘If they said all you had to do was suck off the judge and he’d let you go, would you?’
‘You are a Rule 11!’
Cackling, Troll slid a brown paper bag out from under his bunk. ‘Hey, wanna candy bar or something?’
‘I’m bloody starving,’ I said, salivating.
‘Snickers?’
‘Hell, yeah!’ I demolished the Snickers in record time, appreciating it more than anything I’d ever eaten.
‘In here, he who controls the food, controls the prisoners. And I’m talking about store food, not state food like red death. I used to get $500 worth of store a week. They had to bring two trolleys with store on them: one for the rest of the pod and one just for me. Then they decided I must be getting extorted for the money on my books, so they changed the rules and now the limit you can spend on store is $100 a week.’ His eyes latched onto the control tower. ‘Looks like swing shift’s here. The whole atmosphere changes when Mordhorst goes home. We’ve got Mendoza and Noble.’
‘What’re they like?’
‘Mendoza’s the Chicano with the glasses on. Stutters a lot. Seems friendly enough, but I’ve seen him slam motherfuckers to the ground. The youngster’s Noble. Some kind of cage fighter. A military reservist, too. We’ve got way more play with these than the other two.’
‘Play?’
‘Yeah, we can get away with more shit.’
Hours later, I was on my bunk reading Troll’s Spanish dictionary when Officer Mendoza announced. ‘Chow’s in the house! L . . . L . . . Line up at the slider! Fully dressed and with y . . . your IDs or you will not be s . . . s . . . served!’
Troll sprung up. ‘Come on, let’s get in line, so we don’t have to wait around.’
We dashed downstairs. The men awaiting red death had the dissatisfied look of Russians in a bread queue. The first in line presented his ID to Officer Noble and took a tray from the trusty. Noble ticked each name off his clipboard, so no one could claim a second tray.
When Troll received his, he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t eat red death. I donate it.’ He gave his tray to a gaunt man who’d been hovering to one side of us and hurried up the stairs.
A trusty handed me a large brown plastic tray. The slop – red death – looked like carroty vomit blended with blood. Meat and gristle in assorted shapes, shades and sizes were protruding from it. Gagging on the gamy smell, I placed the tray on the nearest table and sat down. Because I was one of the first to get served, the races hadn’t mobbed the tables yet, so I’d forgotten about the
‘Last year, they offered me five years, and I refused to sign the plea bargain. I’m from Cali. You have to kill someone there to get five years. So what did they offer me the next time? Eighteen fucking years! This state’s the worst to get caught in. Arizona ain’t nuthin’ nice, dawg.’ He dropped his chin onto his palms and stared at the concrete as if at a funeral.
‘So now what?’
His eyes met mine, and sparkled irrationally. ‘I’m fighting back, dawg! I’ve filed a Rule 11.’
‘Rule 11?’
‘It means you’re not competent to stand trial. If you file a Rule 11 and they determine you’re crazy, they send you to the nuthouse and let you go after a few years.’
‘A lot of people must be filing Rule 11s then.’ I added filing a Rule 11 to my list of legal options.
‘They are. But not many get it. It can take them years to run all the tests while you sit rotting in here. I’ve got to act like I’m nuts every time I see the doctors. That’s why I don’t shave or take care of myself and I look like a troll. Some guys go in to see the doctors and eat their own shit. Would you eat your own shit if they’d let you go tomorrow?’
‘I don’t want to think about it.’
Troll grinned like a juvenile. ‘If they said all you had to do was suck off the judge and he’d let you go, would you?’
‘You are a Rule 11!’
Cackling, Troll slid a brown paper bag out from under his bunk. ‘Hey, wanna candy bar or something?’
‘I’m bloody starving,’ I said, salivating.
‘Snickers?’
‘Hell, yeah!’ I demolished the Snickers in record time, appreciating it more than anything I’d ever eaten.
‘In here, he who controls the food, controls the prisoners. And I’m talking about store food, not state food like red death. I used to get $500 worth of store a week. They had to bring two trolleys with store on them: one for the rest of the pod and one just for me. Then they decided I must be getting extorted for the money on my books, so they changed the rules and now the limit you can spend on store is $100 a week.’ His eyes latched onto the control tower. ‘Looks like swing shift’s here. The whole atmosphere changes when Mordhorst goes home. We’ve got Mendoza and Noble.’
‘What’re they like?’
‘Mendoza’s the Chicano with the glasses on. Stutters a lot. Seems friendly enough, but I’ve seen him slam motherfuckers to the ground. The youngster’s Noble. Some kind of cage fighter. A military reservist, too. We’ve got way more play with these than the other two.’
‘Play?’
‘Yeah, we can get away with more shit.’
Hours later, I was on my bunk reading Troll’s Spanish dictionary when Officer Mendoza announced. ‘Chow’s in the house! L . . . L . . . Line up at the slider! Fully dressed and with y . . . your IDs or you will not be s . . . s . . . served!’
Troll sprung up. ‘Come on, let’s get in line, so we don’t have to wait around.’
We dashed downstairs. The men awaiting red death had the dissatisfied look of Russians in a bread queue. The first in line presented his ID to Officer Noble and took a tray from the trusty. Noble ticked each name off his clipboard, so no one could claim a second tray.
When Troll received his, he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t eat red death. I donate it.’ He gave his tray to a gaunt man who’d been hovering to one side of us and hurried up the stairs.
A trusty handed me a large brown plastic tray. The slop – red death – looked like carroty vomit blended with blood. Meat and gristle in assorted shapes, shades and sizes were protruding from it. Gagging on the gamy smell, I placed the tray on the nearest table and sat down. Because I was one of the first to get served, the races hadn’t mobbed the tables yet, so I’d forgotten about the
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