In My Blood

One – A Hopeless Place

The words rang out through the dry, still air of the hushed courtroom, like a clock tower chiming through the dead still of night.

"We, the jury and the above entitled action, find the defendant, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, guilty of the crime of drug possession with intent to distribute, in breach of Penal Code #841 under Federal and State Law."

The gasps were audible throughout the silent court, Karen Mendes' small wail of anguish as the only sound. But the pain was far from over.

"We also find the defendant, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, guilty of the crime of attempted murder upon Cameron Alexander Dallas, a human being, in breach of Penal Code #41.9, actionable under both Federal and State Law."

The defendant sat impassive, as the hot, searing pain sliced through his body. He felt disjointed from reality, that he wasn't here. They couldn't be talking about him.

I'm going to jail.

The realization struck him like the lash of a hunting crop and settled deep in his groin. He felt sick. His big, brown eyes blinked rapidly to avoid tears.

The Honorable Judge Marcia Clark, who had presided over the four long months' proceedings, sighed.

"Mr. Mendes, please rise before the court."

Shawn wasn't sure that he could, a guttural sickness deep in his body made him queasy and his head spun. Rising shakily, Harvey tried to help him to his feet. Finally standing, Marcia Clark flicked her black bob from her face and looked Shawn dead in the eyes.

"Mr. Mendes, you strike me as a very bright young man, with a very bright future ahead of him. It saddens me to see the young, intelligent likes of yourself before this court. But I have to stand by the facts of this case. The jury have found you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, of two very serious charges. The files here before me tell me that you are a 20-year-old man, and a very bright one, with no doubt a good future ahead of you. It would be wrong of this court to deprive you of that future, but it would be remiss to forget that you have been found guilty of trafficking $12,000 worth of cocaine toward the Mexican border, and then upon being trapped by law enforcement, pulled a gun on your good friend Mr. Dallas. These are serious crimes for which there must be serious repercussions. These are charges for which you could face up to 25 years in prison. However, this is your very first run-in with the law, you do not seem like an overall threat to society, you seem like a good kid who has got lost in his own head, and obviously began to form bad associations. You have been tried as an adult, as the law supposes, and therefore must be punished as one. Many other judges would not be so lenient with you as I am, and you will not be granted the same leniency a second time.

Shawn Peter Raul Mendes, you have been tried and found guilty before this court. I therefore sentence you to spend between 8 and 10 years at the Men's Central Jail in Los Angeles County, with the possibility of parole yearly. You need some time, Mr. Mendes, to truly think about what you've done. Court is adjourned, we stand in recess."

The bang of Marcia Clark's gavel was a prophetic sound. Like the ushering in of a new era, and the abrupt ending of another. The life of Shawn Mendes would never be the same. Feeling 10 feet underwater, he couldn't hear Harvey Gettleman, his lawyer, babble something about "fair trials" and "appeal the process", all Shawn could see was the emptying jury box and two stocky bailiffs marching his way. The wind had been knocked from his body, and he couldn't get a breath. His chest tight and throat closing, he tried helplessly for breath. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip, he felt clammy and cold.

"Shawn, you're ok."

His Mother's voice.

"It's gonna be ok, Shawn. Control your breathing, remember your breathing, baby."

One gasp. One long gasp of air into his lungs, and out again in a long exhale.

"Just keep breathing, baby. It's ok."

The panic attack subsided as quickly as it had come on, leaving Shawn standing in an almost empty courtroom, with two bailiffs waiting patiently to cuff him.

Karen Mendes stood behind the gate, not permitted through to touch her son, or even to look him in the eye and see he was alright. The bailiffs moved in.

"Come on, fella, hands behind your back."

The cold steel of the handcuffs shook Shawn back into the real world as they snapped tight around his wrists. For the first time in her life, Karen Mendes could not help her son. Tears streamed involuntarily from her eyes as he was marched away.

"I'll see you soon, baby!" she called after him.

Shawn looked back at his Mother, something he instantly regretted. He couldn't even pretend to smile. Seeing his Mother upset, his heart broke instantly. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears gushing from his big brown eyes, but to no avail. Tears fell down his face, hot, stinging his cheeks as his eyes burned. He coughed and spluttered, trying to suppress sobs, which hiccupped his shallow breathing.

The dingy corridor with the strip lighting above felt miles long. Shawn could see the door at the end and knew that the prison van would be waiting. His heart thundered in his chest and the floor felt like it was giving way beneath him.

The door opened, and the harsh gleam of sunlight burned Shawn's eyes, until he realized it was the flashing of cameras.

"Shawn, do you plan to appeal?"

"Shawn, when will you appeal?"

"How are you feeling, Shawn?"

The faces clamoring over one another, looking at him so expectantly terrified him. The cameras flashed some more to capture the tears on his face. This would be the picture everyone would see in tonight's late bulletin. Shawn could hear it now.

Serves him right.

He wants to act like a big boy, he can suffer the consequences like one.

Sobbing little twerp isn't so tough now.

I hope he gets fucked in the ass daily.

The van door opened, and Shawn was escorted inside. The door was slammed on him, and he was alone, listening only to the muffled bustle outside the van door. The engine roared to life, and they began to move toward Shawn's new life. The sound of the press got further and further away, and Shawn Mendes was resigned to silence.

Delphine LaLaurie stood behind a steel gate, waiting for the new prisoner. Checking her wristwatch, she was anticipating him coming any minute. They were often disarmed when they saw a woman waiting to book them in, a weapon in her arsenal she had no problem using to its full advantage.

"They're arriving now, Delphine."

Deputy Chief of Security Henry Cavill stood to her right, gun cocked over his shoulder and a small smile on his lips. Delphine smiled;

"I love newbies." She said in her thick Southern accent.

The door of the police van opened, and Shawn Mendes was escorted from both sides. In a cavernous underground tunnel, he was led from the van into what looked like a service door. The smell hit him instantly. Cheap disinfectant bleach barely masking the smell of sweat, feces and urine, all combined with the smell of human decay to create a heady, sickening mix. Led into a steel cage, the officers then left, and he stood cuffed, staring into the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.

Her face showed no emotion, and her eyes bored into Shawn's very soul. A small, rotund woman with dark brown hair scraped back into a bun, she seemed a formidable force, despite her diminutive size.

"Morning." She said in a husky Southern accent, a smile barely tracing on her lips; "I am Delphine LaLaurie, Chief of Security here. This is Mr. Cavill, my Deputy."

A colossal man with a strong, demanding stare looked at him through the bars.

"We're gonna treat you just as good as you treat us," LaLaurie continued; "You give us no trouble, and we'll have no reason to give you any. Do you understand?"

Shawn nodded. Her eyes widened.

"Do you understand me?" she growled. Shawn nodded;

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Open the gates!"

The door to the cage opened, and Cavill took two steps forward.

"Stand over there." Delphine demanded, and Shawn obeyed. Another officer seemed to appear from nowhere and undid the cuffs behind Shawn's back. Shawn could hear Cavill's gun in his hands and knew not to make any sudden movements.

Delphine stood behind a long, steel table and threw a plastic tray on the table with a clatter.

"Undress," she said, "and place everything in this tray."

Shawn, exercising his new freedom, began to remove his grey suit jacket slowly, cautiously.

"In your own fucking time, sweetheart!" she barked, making Shawn jump. He put the jacket in the tray.

"Everything off?" he asked nervously, referring to the obvious fact that Delphine was a woman. She scoffed.

"Sonny," she said, her steel-blue eyes cold and her lips pursed; "You better stop playing with me right now, I've seen more crown jewels in here than the Queen of England, one more won't send me into a fit of hysteria. Now un. Dress." Her quiet voice chilled Shawn to the bone, and he took off his pink shirt. Quivering, he almost tripped as he took off his leather Cuban-heeled boots.

Henry Cavill stood to Shawn's right, gun-cocked in his direction.

"YSL?" he said. Shawn turned to look at the man; "Your boots?" he said. Shawn nodded;

"Yes, Sir."

"Nice." Cavill said; "Eyes front, keep going."

Standing in his underwear, his young, pale body was shivering. Tears welling at his eyes, he removed his socks, the cold tiles freezing to his bare feet.

"And the rest, we ain't got all day." Delphine snapped.

Shawn pulled his white CK's off and tossed them into the tray. Standing there, completely naked in front of three strangers, Shawn had never felt more humiliated in his life. Face burning hot, his throat tight and tears stabbing at his eyes, he could already see them stripping him, not only of his clothes, but of his dignity and personality.

"Turn around, hands on your head."

"Raise your feet."

"Now squat."

The tears came on the last command, squatting toward the floor, completely nude, he lost it.

"Are we finished yet?" he said softly.

Delphine scoffed; "We're finished when we're finished, Sonny."

Naked, and stripped bare of his humanity and all worldly goods, Shawn stood shivering while his clothes were X-Rayed and booked in. Delphine turned to him.

"You are rewarded with personal effects for good behavior, so you can wear your own clothes once you've earned them. Until then, you'll have the Men's Central Jail range, in orange."

Another guard appeared, a middle-aged black man with a piercing stare, who handed Shaun a bright orange jumpsuit and a white T-Shirt which reeked of stale sweat, and a pair of white soft soled Velcro sneakers.

"Get dressed." Delphine ordered. "Mr. Cavill, you go do your rounds. Bastien and I will take the prisoner from here."

In cuffs, Shawn was booked in by a desk sergeant, who gave him the title Prisoner X8998. Shawn knew that this was an effort to de-personalize him. In this place, he would be nothing more than a number.

Led through the labyrinthine corridors, with heavy steel doors slamming behind him and flanked by the two armed security personnel, he felt more and more like he was being swallowed into the belly of the beast. The whole place reeked of decay and bodily fluid, thinly masked by cheap, nose-stinging disinfectant which made Shawn sick to his stomach.

Finally, one door slammed behind him and he found himself in a large concrete room, with powder blue paint chipping off the walls and natural light poking in through the barred skylight windows. A decrepit vending machine stood at one end of the room, and seven or eight metal tables with chairs were bolted to the floor.

"Sit down." Delphine said, pointing to a table in the corner. Shawn did as directed, and abruptly, she left the room, leaving Shawn with the black guard, obviously "Bastien".

Moments later, the heavy steel door opened and Delphine re-appeared, followed by a tall, blond woman, dressed entirely in black. She strode into the room, a cool air of confidence, and her long, wavy hair bouncing. She gave a wry smile as she saw Shawn. Her black patent Manolo Blahniks striking off the floor, she approached.

Sitting opposite him, Shawn could smell her rich, obviously expensive perfume.

"I'm Fiona Goode." She said; "I'm the warden here at Men's Central Jail."

Shawn nodded; "It's nice to meet you, Ma'am." He whimpered.

She raised her eyebrows, unused to courteous prisoners.

"This," she said gesturing to the room; "Is the visitation center. Visitors are allowed every second Tuesday to the maximum of an hour. This will be increased to weekly for good behavior, for bad behavior, they will stop altogether. Is that clear?"

Shawn nodded; "Yes, Ma'am."

Wagging a red polished finger at him, she looked stern; "In my prison, I will not tolerate violence, impertinence, laziness or disobedience. You've been sent to me, and your ass will belong to me. My guards will not hesitate to enforce the rules I have set forth, and it's in your own best interests to adhere to them. For good behavior, you will be rewarded with your set privileges, and for bad behavior…well, we won't go there yet, shall we?"

Shawn shook his head. Fiona Goode smiled.

"You won't have many dealings with me, I should hope." She said, "But in dealings with my guards and staff, let's make something clear. You do whatever they tell you needs done, make your bed, scrub your toilet. I don't give a shit. In this prison, regardless of the crime you've committed, you will do hard time. If you misbehave, you will only make that time harder. Do you understand?"

Shawn nodded again; "Yes, Ma'am."

Fiona checked her watch. "Well," she said in her raspy voice; "I'm afraid you've missed lunch, but it'll give you ample time to meet your cell-mates before dinner. Good day to you, X8998."

With a turn on her designer heels, and a waft of her distinctive perfume, Fiona Goode was gone, and Shawn ordered to his feet.

It's nothing like you see in the movies.

Shawn had seen enough prison movies to expect open cell doors, people playing cards, mingling with one another, into each other's cells. Men's Central was nothing like that. Going into the East Tower Block, where Shawn learned he'd be staying for his sentence, it was four levels of closed cell doors, with people peering out from the small food hatches, eyes boring into the "newbie".

"New boy in the house!" came one voice. Delphine smacked her baton off the steel door, a sound which echoed throughout the gargantuan space.

"Quiet down in there!" she barked.

On the second floor, Delphine administered three sharp "raps" on the door of Cell #221.

"Prepare for entry!" she called. Two hands emerged through the food hatch, and she cuffed them, before the door swung open.

"This will be your new home for the time being." She said to Shawn. "Get used to it, you don't like it then go tell someone who gives a shit."

By the shoulder, Bastien put Shawn into the room, undid his cuffs, then the green steel door was slammed behind him. Terrified, he could hardly turn around to face whoever was in this cell with him.

"Hi!" came a chirpy voice from behind him. Shawn turned to see a small, thin white boy, with a mop of sandy blond hair smiling at him. He looked like the least threatening person Shawn had ever seen.

"Hey," Shawn attempted to smile back.

"My name's Tom." The boy said, in a lilting British accent which Shawn was not expecting; "Tom Holland's the name." He extended a hand, which Shawn accepted; "Shawn Mendes." He said in a hushed voice. Tom leapt up onto the top bunk.

"Sorry, mate." He said, "I've got top bunk."

Shawn nodded; "That's ok."

On the bottom steel bunk, Shawn saw two blankets and a rolled mattress waiting for him. As he began to try and make himself at home, Tom chatted. Unusually, Shawn welcomed the inane chatter, it was helping to keep him from an anxiety attack. This still didn't feel real.

"I'm so glad it's someone nice they've got me in with," he said, "Last cellmate I had was this terrifying Mexican who grunted at me all the time. I thought he was gonna murder me, man! So what you in for?"

Shawn tried to downplay it; "Erm…drugs."

Tom cocked an eyebrow; "You don't look much like a junkie? Pardon the expression, sorry that was rude, I didn't mean…"

"No, no. It's ok." Shawn said demurely; "I'm not a junkie. I was selling it."

"Ahhh," Tom said, "Rough ride, man. I'm in a similar predicament. Done three years of a seven year stretch, lawyer says I'll likely be out in another one."

Shawn nodded, trying not to think about the 8 to 10 stretch he was in for, which made him feel sicker than he already did.

Looking around him, the situation was bleak. One rusty sink below the barred, frosted window. One toilet with not a hint of privacy and an untrustworthy looking roll of paper, a bunk bed and one shelf on the wall. The whole room was white brick, with that fluorescent strip light which was already giving Shawn a migraine.

"So, where you from?" Tom asked; "If I'm prying, tell me to mind my own fucking business, mate."

On a normal day, Shawn would have, but today, at this vulnerable stage, it was just nice to have someone to talk to.

"Nah, it's cool. I'm from Toronto, in Canada. You?"

"I'm from London originally, family moved to LA five years ago, so now I'm a citizen."

"Same." Shawn said.

Rolling out his tiny mattress, Shawn could see the stains of tenants' past. It made him queasy, and it was tipping him over the edge. He felt the bile rise in his throat, the sweat pouring from him. He bolted to the toilet moments before a line of hot, yellow bile erupted from his mouth, clattering against the metal pot, which smelt unholy, further compounding Shawn's sickness. His roaring gags made his stomach hurt as he spluttered into the pan.

Dragging himself away from the pot, he leaned against the wall, groaning and grunting. Tom handed him the toilet paper; "Here you go, man. I know the feeling."

Shawn wiped his mouth and his forehead; "Thank you."

Suppressing his urge to cry again, Shawn coughed; "It just doesn't feel real. Is this really happening?"

Tom smiled a sideways "life is tough" smile. "I'm afraid so, cookie. It's not that bad in here, really." He said; "It takes some getting used to, but you'll see in time. I'll show you everything you need to know, you don't need to be afraid! This is gonna be just like Shawshank Redemption but a lot more fun!"

Shawn didn't get the reference.

Two – Things Go Bump in the Night

The soda tasted like home. Tom had offered Shawn a soda as they sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk, discussing the politics of prison. It was funny how something to simple as a Diet Coke could make him feel slightly better.

"Obviously," Tom said; "The food is fucking vile, but you learn not to say anything, or they'll starve you. Meals are served communally in the mess hall. Everyone works during the day. Best jobs are kitchen and floors, you don't wanna be in the workshop or laundry. Cell tosses are totally random and arbitrary, don't try to look for a pattern to them, there isn't one. I don't wanna get my privileges taken away, so please don't have contraband."

Shawn nodded; "What about gangs?"

Tom looked puzzled; "I don't know how to put it to you, man. They're fucking scary sometimes. Just try to keep your head down and blend in. I'm lucky, they don't want me, because I'm a little weak runt who has no defense except sarcasm, movie and pop culture references. They might want you, so try and stick with me, they might leave you alone."

Shawn didn't like that "might".

A deafening electronic buzz sounded for dinner, and Shawn could hear cell doors opening. Filing out, Shawn and Tom joined the sea of prisoners heading toward the dining hall.

"newbieindahouse!" Shawn heard, turning around, he could see himself as an orange blip in a sea of blue. He gasped. Tom smiled; "Yeah, mate. You don't half stick out like a sore thumb."

"I thought people got to wear their own clothes?" Shawn asked.

"Only for good behavior." Tom said; "Do this lot look like good boys?"

Shawn's stomach dropped again.

The Dining Hall was an enormous, high-ceilinged room painted gunmetal grey. Rows of benches sat bolted to the floor, and fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

"There's an order to this," Tom said; "Main Block go to dinner first, then West Block, then South, and we go last."

Shawn nodded.

If Shawn had had any appetite, it would have been vanquished at the mere sight of Men's Central Jail food. On a bleak yellow plastic tray, a few spoons of slop were placed haphazardly in each section, and a bread roll on top.

He swore he saw the food move.

Lights out was 10pm every night. Tom and Shawn were back in their cells after dinner by 8:30. It had been the first glimpse of Shawn's other neighbors. Most people had hardly looked his way, but there were a few hard stares in his direction on account of his "newbie" jumpsuit. He'd never felt more on edge.

"Fancy a game of cards?" Tom asked. Shawn nodded;

"Sounds great!"

Playing cards made Shawn feel normal, and according to Tom's advice, that was the best thing possible.

"Do what you'd normally do, be as normal as you can. If you allow yourself to think like a prisoner, you'll become institutionalized. I read about it once, it's called self-fulfilling prophecy. What you think you are, you become."

When the lights shut off and Shawn climbed into his bunk, it began to feel real. There was no soft cotton bedding, just hard starched, scratchy blankets, cold oppressive steel under the thin mattress. There was no sound of his Mother watching Conan to help her fall asleep, no soft moonlight peeking through his window; just the inky blackness of nothing, with a pale orange light creeping under the steel door, and the occasional shadow of boots passing.

That's when Shawn knew it was real. He was in jail. And there was no way out. The tears came, and this time he didn't bother to suppress them.

Just this morning he was a free man, shaving his face at the bathroom mirror. His Mother was by his side, her eyes wide. "It's gonna be ok." She reassured him; "Harvey will get you a non-custodial deal, he promised he would. You'll be back here by nightfall, warm in your own bed, and all this will be over."

It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Now, Shawn Mendes lay in prison, sobbing himself to sleep.

Shawn awoke to a stirring just beyond the door. In that dreamy realm between consciousness and sleep, he thought it was his Mother coming to check on him. The voice whispered.

"Tom?"

That's when Shawn remembered where he was.

"No, please. Not tonight." He heard Tom groan from the top bunk. Shawn remained still, pretending to be asleep.

"Move it." The voice sternly commanded. It was a man's voice.

"Please…" Tom begged from his bed; "I'm exhausted."

There was a sigh, but certainly not of resignation. "You wanna see Mommy this week? Or shall we tell her you're in the infirmary with a fractured fucking skull?! Now, I'm gonna give you 'til the count of five…"

"Ok, Ok, Ok." Tom beseeched, clambering noisily from his bed; "I'm coming, Sir."

"Good boy."

With that, the cell door closed, and Shawn was alone again.

He awoke to the door closing with a thunderous bang. His heart raced with the fright. Having to re-remember where he was, was a crushing blow to the young man, making his stomach lurch. He lay silent, eyes trying to accustom to the darkness.

A peculiar sound disturbed him. It was like a sharp intake of breath. It happened again and was followed by two sharp exhales. Shawn dared to turn around, to try and find the source, but his eyes would not get used to the inky blackness. He could make out the toilet, and a large shadow next to it. The shadow moved, and he knew it was Tom. Tom was crying.

"Hey," Shawn croaked; "You ok?"

Tom's voice was small; "Y-yeah…it's f-fine. G-g-go b-back to sl-sleep." He whimpered.

Shawn didn't want to pry any more.

"Let's go! Up and at 'em! Get outta those beds, you bunch of lazy fucks! Move it!"

It was 6am. Nothing like an early start. For the third time, Shawn Mendes had to remind himself where he was, and it hurt like hell.