Chapter 1
"Tey-hah-chap-pee State Prison."
"Tey-hah-choppee. The accent is on the second syllable, and you call the prison "Tehachapi" anywhere in town, the locals will rip you to pieces."
"Real touchy about that, are they?"
"What was your name again?"
"Skeeter, David Skeeter, new transfer."
"From back east, right?"
The brown-haired man lifted his brows in surprise then shrugged, "Originally, spent quite a few years out here though."
Both men wore the same uniform, but one was older than the other by about twenty years.
"What'd you do before this job?" The old man asked.
"Worked as private security for a transport company, managed to get out before they went under. Figured I'd hook up with the state, end up with a more secure retirement fund." Skeeter said.
The old man shrugged, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, pulling the smoke in and holding it til the breeze blew from behind him. "I stopped thinking about retirement five years ago. The wife left me, took everything she felt she was entitled to. Now all I got left is this job. Measly paycheck. And that view."
Skeeter looked out beyond the barbed wire at the mountain, still capped with early spring snow. "I try to avoid that kinda long term attachment."
"Smart kid." The old man said, before turning back to the catwalk he traversed every morning. "Tehachapi is a nice place, the locals ignore the prison when they can, the prison ignores the town. But for the occasional forest fire or avalanche, not much happens around here."
"Avalanche? Really? With that little snow?" Skeeter asked, pointing vaguely at the mountain.
"All it takes is the feet of one crow to leave a mark." The old man said, resisting the urge to cackle at his own mysticism until he saw the serious look on the new guard's face.
"It's a joke, son."
"Yeah…"
The two walked on in silence, watching both sides of the wall they traversed. Most of the prisoners were at breakfast, or starting their morning work schedule. None would be out on the grounds until after nine, yet the old man walked his post.
"You can't really say nothing's been happening around here...I mean...that's why they hired me isn't it?" Skeeter said.
"We had a few escapes, that happens. But where can they go? You've got nothing but mountain and forest on all sides. Most of these yuck-ups come from the city. They wouldn't know a poison oak from a cactus."
"You're still looking for three men, aren't ya?" Skeeter asked.
"Whose side are you on, kid?"
Skeeter gave a disarming smile and put a hand up, "I'm sorry. I'm just getting the lay of the land here. I like to know the kind of guys I'm working with."
"Poke a bear enough times, he'll react to ya." The old man said.
"You've never lived in a city, have you?" Skeeter asked.
"How'd you know?" The old man asked sarcastically, then turned and opened the door to one of the guard towers. The room they stepped into was greenhouse warm compared to the whip of the wind on the catwalk. There were two revolving chairs in the small room, and another door connecting to the catwalk that ran west to southwest.
A console spanned half the room at waist height containing a radio, siren controls, the switches for the search light on the top of the tower and a gun locker. From the waist up, every wall was a window that ran to the ceiling.
Pulling a chair up to the console the old man flipped a switch and said, "Control this is Tower 2, Jack Ackabee, all clear. Time is 0830."
"Ackabee, in Tower 2, this is control. Roger. Patrol interior and report at 0900 hours."
"Roger, and out."
The old man spun in his chair and eyed the young, curly haired kid that had been handed to him. He seemed comfortable enough on the job, if a little touchy inside the walls. "Ready to go back in, hot shot?" Ackabee asked.
"That's what the big bucks are for, isn't it?" Skeeter asked, setting the shotgun in its rack.
When he straightened the old man tossed a handgun, stuffed in a holster, into his hands.
"I thought we weren't supposed to be armed on the floor." Skeeter asked, opening the breech of the weapon, then checking the rounds in the clip.
"Rubber bullets." The old man said, not hiding his disgust for them. "Something the English invented to put down the Irish a few years back. The warden wanted some kind of deterrent inside the prison, but nothing that could kill his own men."
"Anybody been shot by one of these yet?"
"Sure.." Ackabee said, opening a hatch in the middle of the tower floor. A metal grate staircase sat beneath the hatch and the old man descended carefully.
"And..?"
"They went down. Same as they would with a regular bullet."
"But it didn't kill 'em."
Ackabee waited at the base of the first flight for the rookie to join him. "It killed him alright. Doesn't matter what the bullet's made of. You get shot in the head, you're dead."
The two men continued their descent, reaching the ground floor where two locked doors greeted them. One of them would lead directly to the outside, the other down a corridor to the commissary. As they walked the noise of the prison, awake and alive, grew louder around them. The main dining hall was a giant room with school-cafeteria-style tables covering the floor. Once the meal was over most of those tables would be raised and moved so that the prisoners assigned to kitchen duty could sweep the floor quickly, then set up for the next meal.
Every prisoner in the room had on a blue jumper. This marked them as minimum security prisoners, and they would move in groups of five or ten from job, to recreation, to classes, to meals, never mingling with any prisoners of higher security.
"Now these guys are gonna finish up in about ten minutes. While they're sitting at their tables they're ok. Getting a meal in their bellies, working out rotations with their pals, setting up whatever under the table nonsense they're planning on getting up to."
Skeeter nodded. "The trouble time is transition."
"You got it. That's why we count silver ware, run the guys through the metal detector there. Give 'em a bit of back talk to keep them thinking about us as the threat in this prison..not each other." Ackabee said.
Skeeter pointed at a blonde prisoner with a mustache, sitting essentially by himself. "What about that guy?"
Ackabee craned his neck. "Must be new. He's pretty, but big enough he can maybe keep himself out of trouble. He'll want to gang up as quickly as possible. Fresh face like that won't last long in a place like this."
"What do you mean, pretty?"
"Look at him. He's looking around too much. He's casing the place. The guys that've been here for years don't have to do that. They've got cronies to do it for 'em. Anybody watchin' their back like that guy, it broadcasts "victim" louder than an air raid siren."
Skeeter's blue eyes narrowed on the white man barely touching his food. "Well..s-shouldn't we be helping him? Protect him? I mean...isn't that our job?"
Ackabee looked between Skeeter and the new prisoner, then shook his head with a snort. "Sure kid, that's our job. But we aren't going to be in the right place at the right time every hour of the day."
Skeeter nodded agreement, but seemed too distracted by the conversation. Ackabee slapped the back of his hand against the new guy's chest and said, "Relax. They're alright now. It's dinner time you gotta really watch 'em. The special ones get restless right before bed."
Ackabee let out an ugly laugh and Skeeter tried not to grimace visibly. Instead he watched the blonde haired prisoner finish his tray of food and walk with it to the depository. Far too many eyes watched the man walk, for Skeeter's liking.
A long, bellowing air horn sounded and Ackabee stepped away from the wall, jerking his hand for Skeeter to follow. Almost as one the entire prisoner population of the room got to their feet and walked by the conveyor belt that would take the silverware, trays and plates back to the dish room.
Skeeter ended up on one end of the belt, and Ackabee the other, counting utensils, cups, saucers, etc. By the time the last prisoner left the room the only thing missing was a tray.
The prisoner in the kitchen shouted, "That's been missin' a few days, Boss Ackabee. Warden took it, I think."
"You best have it back by dinner." Ackabee shouted back, winking at Skeeter.
The two guards followed the last of the prisoners through the metal detector and down a narrow hall that led straight for the recreation yard.
As the day outside was chilly each man was handed a cloth cap and gloves by a security guard, and the prisoners were released into the morning's dim light. A basketball game started up in the westernmost corner of the yard almost immediately, men choosing sides as they played. Another group wandered over to the weight lifting equipment, not making much effort to build muscle on a full stomach. Skeeter watched the blonde man, but kept his distance.
The prisoner wandered over to the weight bench, but was ignored, and none of the prisoners made an effort to vacate the bench. He headed for a group kicking a soccer ball around the yard, but was ignored by them until the ball flew beyond into his path.
"Hey, Blondie. Toss us the ball." One of the players cried, and the blonde man popped the ball onto the toes of his shoes, flipped it up to his knee, kicked it into the air and head butted it back into the game. The men playing gave the effort semi-genuine sounds of approval.
"Joo want to play, Blondie?"
"Not if you keep calling me "Blondie"." The blonde prisoner said. His voice was kept low but it carried all the same.
The men playing soccer had stopped moving altogether, the new game of testing the fresh fish was far more interesting.
"What should we call you then? How about Daisy?" Said the mustachioed, Texican clearly leading the group.
"No, Sunflower, for his beautiful countenance." Said another, splitting his lips to reveal rotting and missing teeth.
"How about Ken. Like the guy that goes with Barbie?" The blonde prisoner said, a smirk appearing in the corner of his mouth.
Skeeter and Ackabee noticed the change in the blonde man's stance at the same time, a second or two before the leader of the group did. "Okay, you don't like our names, we don't like yours. How about a compromise...what does the state of California call you, uh?"
"Huckleberry."
"Huckleberry." The Texican chuckled, his group falling into titters. "Like with that crazy white boy painting the fence?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever…" Huckleberry said through a smile that meant nothing.
"Joo going to play soccer with us, jefe?"
The prisoner took a moment to scan the yard again, the same all consuming stare that he'd had in the commissary. For a split second he met Skeeter's eyes, then continued on as if the new guard meant nothing to him.
"Give me the ball." Huckleberry said finally, holding his left hand out, fingers splayed. The ball flew at him, hard, and he caught it with his forehead and knocked it into play, starting the game.
As the ball became the focus, the tension in the yard eased.
Ackabee sidled toward Skeeter, watching "Huck" slip into the gang of Chicanos. They watched in silence as the language went from English to Spanish, and the new prisoner made the transition without a snag.
"Might have judged him wrong." Ackabee said. He glanced up to the face of the new guard and asked, "What are you grinnin' at?"
"Nothin'. Just glad I didn't have to use this." Skeeter said, recovering, his hand still resting on the gun clipped to his belt.
"You know I'm more worried about you now, than I am him." The old man said.