Chapter 2
The day went smoothly for Skeeter, following Ackabee and the prisoners from function to function. From recreation they went to their morning jobs. The prisoner Huck was assigned to the laundry room with a half-dozen others, including the leader of the Chicano band.
"That one is Orlando. He's not bad. Takes care of his guys. Does some smuggling from time to time through his conjugal visits, but nothing hard. He keeps all the Mexicans in the joint happy, so we let him. A couple years back one of his guys got into it with one of the blacks. A minor thing, but it turned into a major war. That's why none of them have recreation together." Ackabee explained. "No, we keep the Chicanos with the skinheads, and the crazies. The blacks with the whites, it all works out."
"You make 'em sound like Siamese fighting fish."
"What are those?"
"They're small fish that you can't put in the same tank together because they'll kill each other."
"Same thing." Ackabee said.
"Most of these guys are in for federal crimes, but not all of them are violent. Where are the white collar guys?"
"You answered your own question. Whites equals white collar guys. Unless they're the skinheads here."
Skeeter blinked a moment, looking painfully confused. "So this is all about...stick them in with their own kind and keep the peace. I mean..that's how you do it."
Ackabee gave Skeeter a squinty eyed look then shook his head. "I keep forgetting you're new to the prison system."
"I'm just trying to figure out how a black prisoner, a Chicano prisoner and a white prisoner could all escape together from the same prison...if they never see each other."
Ackabee turned a hard glare on Skeeter, then put his hand in the air waiting for the guards on the other side of the laundry to acknowledge. One of them picked up a radio and said, "Ackabee and Newbie, taking five."
"Get out there." Ackabee said, seething under a thin mask of control until Skeeter stepped out into the vacated hallway between the laundry and the infirmary ward.
Ackabee checked both ends of the hall, then slammed Skeeter back against the concrete with surprising strength. "Listen kid, if you're some kind of high-brow, adventuring, bleeding-heart reporter here on assignment, this is the time to say so and get the hell out."
"I'm not. I'm not..I'm-"
"Don't go there. Don't touch it. Even the warden doesn't know how word of those escapes got to the press. And the more the public knows the harder it is to find them. We've got more local yutzes parading through the woods with shotguns than at the height of hunting season and they want to shoot at anything on two legs that moves. Including our guys."
"I read about it in the newspaper, like anybody else." Skeeter said, then shoved the old man away from him with equal force. Ackabee stumbled back but caught himself, eyeing the kid with different respect. "Move to a new town, work in a prison you've never heard of before, who wouldn't read the local newspaper?" Skeeter asked, straightening his jacket.
"Yeah...I guess." The old man said, finally, calming himself. Skeeter had stayed close to the wall and Ackabee let out a sigh and waved his hand apologetically. "Look, kid, I'm sorry. The whole prison has been uptight since those escapes. It's been four months of hell and not knowing who you can trust around here. The new kid comes in and starts asking questions about the escapes right off the bat...I mean…"
Skeeter offered a grimace that might have been a smile. "I get it, Ackabee, trust me. I get it. No harm." Pulling away from the wall Skeeter rubbed his shoulder and rolled it in the socket. "My arm may fall off, but...no harm."
Ackabee chuckled and turned back toward the laundry. Skeeter caught the tremor in the old man's hand as he moved down the hall, but kept his mouth shut. "You're stronger than you look, I'll give you that." Skeeter muttered.
Ackabee flashed him a look then opened the door, and the two men waded back into the sauna-like room. Walking behind Ackabee, Skeeter made eye contact with Huck, rolled his eyes then followed the older guard back to their station.
After a few minutes the blonde prisoner walked up to the station and asked, "Get a smoke break?"
Ackabee narrowed his eyes at the prisoner and said, "You don't smoke, Huckleberry."
"I still get a smoke break, though." The blonde said, staring the old man down through half-lidded eyes.
"I'll walk him out for five minutes. Feeling a little warm as it is." Skeeter said.
Ackabee nodded and pointed Skeeter toward the staircase that would lead out to the balcony.
The promenade, a barbed wire fence covered walkway that surrounded the whole building, provided a convenient place for prisoners or guards to take a smoke break or just leave the stuffy air of the prison for five minutes. The interior pentagon of the five sided prison provided the recreation area, and every major gathering space of the prison had access to the promenade. The ground beyond the promenade was the deadman's zone, bordered by the catwalk and the guard towers.
The likelihood of a prisoner getting through the fence, down the two stories to the deadman's zone, and over the second barbed wire fence without being spotted or shot by a guard was very little.
Skeeter and Huckleberry stepped onto the windy promenade and leaned against the foggy windows of the laundry for a few seconds, breathing.
"What was that all about?" Hutch finally asked, staring at the wide snow scattered plain beyond the prison.
"Ackabee didn't like my questions. Thought I was a reporter. He's jumpy, but he's clean. Just doesn't want to lose his job before his retirement comes through."
"Think we can count on him?" Hutch asked.
Starsky shrugged. "Maybe. He's scared of somebody, but I haven't figured out who. Scared enough to nearly break my shoulder slamming me against a wall."
"Yeah?"
"Hey...you know he had you spotted as fresh meat up until an hour ago. Why did it take you and Orlando so long to become pals?"
Hutch shrugged, glancing at the shadow of a guard pacing in the nearest guard tower. "We become buddies too soon, his gang would doubt his judgement. I had to..prove myself."
"That's something else they didn't tell us." Starsky said, dropping his voice. "Your kind shouldn't even be with the Chicanos. Most of the whites are in the other rotation."
"That sounds like its going to be a problem."
"Not if you dye your hair black, and speak with an accent."
Hutch gave Starsky a perturbed look and rolled his eyes.
"You think I'm kidding?" Starsky said with a tiny smirk.
"You gonna be able to handle yourself with that mean old guard?"
"Shut up and get back inside, law breaking criminal."
"Keep that up, you're going to hurt my feelings, copper." Hutch said, then waited for Starsky to open the door and walked back into the laundry.
Ten minutes later the air horn sounded and Ackabee said, "We search, then on to their second jobs. You and me will be taking half the group to the motorpool."
The search went without incident and the groups split. Huck went with another group to the license plate shop, and Skeeter took six of the twelve to the motorpool.
"So this job here…" Skeeter shouted over the whine of an air compressor, and power tools against steel. "Do the prisoners choose their own jobs, or do they get assigned?"
"They're assigned first. Partly to keep them from choosing what they think might be easy work, and partly to see what they're good at. Let a prisoner do a job he's good at and he'll stick to it. Once the prisoners have apprenticeships they don't rotate with the regulars. They stay at their job during all working hours."
"Who awards apprenticeships?"
"The warden." Ackabee shouted, then put a hand up watching a prisoner. Skeeter caught sight of a man standing back up after retrieving a tool. "Keep an eye on that one. We'll do a stricter search before he leaves."
"So the warden comes down here to observe them?" Skeeter asked.
Ackabee shook his head, his attention fully focused on the man who had dropped a tool. "We guards, or the shop bosses, tell the warden who deserves an apprenticeship and he grants them."
Skeeter watched the prisoner, catching the shifting gaze, the itchy behavior. He would've guessed the prisoner was coming down from a high, off whatever cheap or manufactured drugs he could get on the inside. "Does the warden control anything around here?"
Ackabee snapped a warning glance toward the new guard and said, "Pay checks. Go around that way. Let's find out what Mr. Tuttle is up to today."
As they moved away from the guard station Skeeter noticed Ackabee slipping the radio into his belt. Skeeter tightened his hand on the grip of the pistol at his side, but kept the gun where it was. He and Ackabee arrived either side of the jumpy inmate at the same time.
"Mr. Tuttle!" Ackabee shouted. "This is one of our new guards. His name is Skeeter."
"Uh. N-n-n-nice to m-m-meet you, S-s-s-skeeter."
"You too, Mr. Tuttle. Having trouble with that carburetor?" Skeeter asked, pointing at the grease covered blob of machinery on the workbench.
"Um...i-i-i-i-its um…"
"I'll tell you what your problem is, Mr. Tuttle." Skeeter said, then slapped a hand against Tuttle's trouser pockets, and pulled a flat head screwdriver from one of them. "I've never seen a mechanic use a flat head on a carburetor."
Ackabee had a smug smile on his face as Tuttle squirmed. Skeeter leaned a little closer and asked, "Am I gonna find anything else in your pockets when you leave the shop today, Tuttle?"
The prisoner looked like he would shake apart. He shook his head at Skeeter, then at Ackabee, stuttering, no longer able to form actual words.
"Do you smoke, Tuttle?" Skeeter asked.
The man nodded, vigorously.
"Let's take a smoke break. Talk about that carburetor, car guy to car guy." Skeeter said.
Ackabee gave him a surprised look but swept his hand toward the metal staircase, and toggled the radio to announce the transfer of the prisoner.
Once they were outside Tuttle slipped half a cigarette from behind his ear and waited, cupping his hand around the smoke. When Skeeter didn't respond, Tuttle said, "W-w-we can't c-c-c-carry l-light-"
"Oh, sorry about that, guy." Skeeter said, then dug into his pockets and lit the man's cigarette. "How about we play some yes or no questions for a while, so you can smoke your cigarette, eh?" The guard asked, his tone friendly.
Tuttle gave him a wary look, but nodded, eyeing the gun.
"Are you scared, Mr. Tuttle?"
The prisoner shook his head no, sucking tobacco into his lungs and breathing a sigh of relief that seemed to go to his toes and back.
"I think you were scared. I think you were so scared that you did something stupid, like trying to sneak a screw driver out of the shop. No? The reason I think that, Mr. Tuttle, is because you put that screwdriver in the dumbest place possible. A place where you knew it would be found once you were searched. And uh...you would be punished for it. Maybe forced to stay in your cell for a while?"
Tuttle had stopped responding, staring at the brand new guard like he had encountered a mystic, or a mind reader.
"Now...is that because you don't like the people around here? Or is it because you know there's something coming down, and you want to be safely out of reach before it gets here?"
"B-b-b-but y-y-y-got...b-bu-"
"I'm sorry, I forgot. Yes or no questions. Is there something coming down in the prison tonight?" Skeeter asked.
Tuttle stared him in the eyes with watering, black pupils, then finally looked away.
"Is it gonna happen at dinner?" Skeeter asked.
Tuttle was staring at the metal grate at his feet, smoking his cigarette down to his fingertips, then past them, unaware of the pain.
"You want to be locked into your cell tonight, before dinner?"
Tuttle's eyes shot back up, welling with desperate tears, pushing the word, "Please." through a constricted throat.
"Alright…" Skeeter said, matching the inmate's volume. "You done with your cigarette? Yeah. Just put it down. Just drop it right there and-HEY!"
His shout caused the inmate to cringe and stumble back. "You just practically burned a hole in my shoe! What the hell's the matter with you!" Skeeter screamed, then grabbed the inmate by the shoulder of his tunic and forced him back into the shop.
"Skeeter, what happened?"
"This man just tossed a lit cigarette at my pants. Practically burned a hole in my new shoes. He needs some time to himself, I think. With a book about manners." Skeeter pushed the quaking prisoner down the stairs and let him stumble on the main floor, keeping a hand on his tunic.
"Tuttle, picking on the new man. That's no way to make friends." Ackabee said, loudly tut tutting while he got on the radio to announce the transfer of a prisoner. "Hey Skeeter, you handle that by yourself or you want help?"
"Which block is he in?"
"A-block, Cell 10."
"I got it." Skeeter said, then dragged the prisoner to the door, waited for it to buzz open, and shoved him through.
In the hall, some of the bluster left the new guard, and he walked the silent and quaking prisoner through the corridors, scanning the emergency exit plans near each doorway to make sure he was going in the right direction. Before they reached the final hallway Skeeter checked behind them then leaned in to the prisoner's ear.
"Tuttle, this is me, Skeeter, doing you a favor, yeah?"
The prisoner nodded his head vigorously.
"Which means, someday, if I ask you for a favor. You're going to give it, yeah?" Another violent nod. "Good. Glad to have this understanding with you, Tuttle."
The transfer to the cell block happened without a hitch and Tuttle collapsed into a quietly quaking ball at the back of his bunk the moment the door locked.
Skeeter stood watching the prisoner for a long moment, feeling his own source of terror starting in his gut. Whatever was coming down, whatever Tuttle was so afraid of, the rest of them needed to fear just as much. The problem was, other than one man, Skeeter didn't know who he could trust enough to warn.