“This nigger’s slow as molasses,” the driver chuckles, followed by a chorus of giggles from the prisoners – some of them black – gathered at the top of the ramp as I finally reach the incline.

Now the real task – a Herculean one – figuring out how to walk up the incline while leaning back and carrying the heavy box, which now feels like its weight has doubled.

I cannot see the edge of the ramp, so I raise one foot slightly and feel for it with the toe of my shoe. The last thing I want is to clip the edge and tumble face first. With each movement, aided by the pressure I am forced to apply by pushing my hands upward from the bottom and chin downward from the top, the box burrows the handcuffs deeper into my wrists. I can feel the blood begin to trickle.

Please God, what did I do to deserve this? Please, help me.

I manage to get both feet on the ramp and begin the slow, arduous assent. The higher I climb, the more I must strain to maintain my equilibrium and steady the box, every muscle on fire. My mouth feels like it’s coated with sawdust, and I’m starting to feel faint, but I press on.

“Almost home, ain’t cha, boy?”

The misery I feel is what I would presume gave life to the phrase ‘Hell on Earth’.  It is not just the physical agony, though it’s all I can focus on, the mental pain is lying beneath the inferno, awaiting its return to the surface.

By the grace of God, I make it to the top, only to peer into what appears to be a black hole – a corridor so long I can not see the end. This can’t be real. God, tell me it’s not real.

“Stay in the middle of the hallway,” commands Bob.

The prisoners who had climbed the ramp ahead of me stood in the back of the line for the chow hall, eyeing me as I try to adjust the box.

No longer can I conceal the pain wracking my body. Grimacing, I hobble down the hallway, handcuffed and defenseless, only a couple feet away from some of the most violent and dangerous men in the world. It would be like any other day if one of them produces a shank and stabs me.  The guards won’t protect me, they’ll be first to run.

About a quarter of the way down the hallway, I lose my grip, and the box slips out of my hands, hitting the floor with a tremendous thud. Everything instantly halts, as if we’re suspended in time. I feel every eye on me as I stare down at the box and my pride that lay crushed beneath it, not daring to look up.  Please! Somebody just stab me now. Let’s get it over with. Death, I welcome you. Right now!

Neither of the guards escorting me make a move to pick it up, but in my peripheral vision I see movement. Now I’m looking down at a prisoner as he picks up the box. Moving quickly, afraid the guards might chastise him or even worse, he places the box in my arms and returns to the line.

“Thank you.”

He nods acknowledgment.

“Come on, sweetheart. We ain’t got all day.”

I start forward, and I can already feel the box begin to slip. Because he had rushed to put it in my arms, I’m unable to get a better grip, and still have quite a ways to go.  I know I won’t make it without losing hold.

Again, I drop it, but this time it was not so dramatic. Seeing that the other prisoner suffered no repercussions, someone immediately steps out of line and retrieves the box, taking his time to make sure I have a good grip.

“Got it?”

I adjust my hands, “Yeah. Thank you.”

He nods and steps back in line.

The kind acts of two prisoners assuages my trepidation, and with renewed vigor, I lug the box without further incident to ‘Times Square’, four intersecting hallways that serve as the prison’s main arteries.

When the escort guards approach the main control room, the driver says, “I heard ya’ll had a vacancy.”

The female guard looks up from her paperwork, then at me. Realizing I have on a death row uniform and that the guard was referring to the execution that had taken place the day before while I was being sentenced to die, she looks back at him and bursts into laughter.  “Yeah, I guess we do,” then over her shoulder, “Vinny, we gotta gain.”

A guard enters the control room and unlocks the door of a tiny holding cage that sits directly across the hallway.  “Come on. Step inside and have a seat.” He takes my box and drops it to the floor.

As instructed, I step inside and sit on a narrow bench. The guard bends down, raising my pant leg, and inserting a key in the shackle, causing me to tense up and wince in pain, before removing the manacle stained with my blood.  Now the other one.  Again, I tense and wince as he frees my ankle from the bloody contraption. He stands and backs out, slamming the door closed.  “Stand up,” he orders, handing the leg irons to the transport guard.  “Turn to the side.”

I comply. He reaches through a hole cut into the mesh and removes the lock that is holding the chain around my waist. Once that is done, I slowly turn back towards him so he can unhook the chain from the black box, a torturous device designed by an ex-prisoner, placed over the handcuffs to lock the wrists and hands in one position, preventing any movement.

He unhooks the chain and removes the black box. The transport guard takes them from him. “Stick your hands out the hole.”

I do so, tentatively, anticipating the agonizing pain that never comes – my wrists and hands are still quite numb. I watch as he peels the cuffs from the gashes in my wrists, slivers of my skin and blood cling to the metal.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

I turn, and he clamps another pair of handcuffs over the bloodied gashes. Grimacing, I throw my head back towards the heavens as the pain flashes red behind my eyelids.  Argh!!  Fuck! Man, are you serious?

“Have a seat,” he says.

As I open my eyes and turn to sit, the driver says, “Have fun,” laughing as he walks away.

I sit with my hands behind my back, wrists searing hot with pain, for almost three hours before the property room Sergeant rolls a dolly to the cage and throws my box on it.  Opening the cage door he says, “Follow me.”

I follow him for about a half a football field to the property room. Thank God! I’m not carrying that box.

We enter and he dumps the box’s contents on a large table. Combing through my belongings, he documents the items I’m allowed to keep and places them back into the box.  He throws the items I’m not allowed to keep into a large trashcan that sits next to the table.

After about twenty minutes, he places the box and a bedroll on the dolly. “Let’s go,” he demands, leading the way.

Back in the hallway we continue until we reach the end. There is a door in front of us that leads to the electric chair and a door to the left that leads to the death row housing unit.  The Sergeant taps it with his keys, and a guard who looks like he should be just entering high school opens the door.

“A death row gain,” the Sergeant tells him, retrieving the box and sliding it inside the door. Before turning to leave, he hands the bedroll and paperwork to the guard.

Standing, frozen, outside of death’s door, I try to sort my emotions – fear, anger, confusion, doubt. I no longer feel the burning, ephemeral pain in my ankles and wrists. The hurt girding me now eclipses the physical. There is no lotion or ointment to soothe it.

“I think you’re goin’ to cell 7,” the young guard says, snapping me out of a daze. Then he steps aside, beckoning me to enter.

I turn and peer down the long corridor, swallow hard, and hesitantly cross the threshold. Once I enter, he closes and locks the door.

Another uniform appears, “Sarg, we got a gain. I believe he’s goin’ in 7.”

“You got his things?”

“Yes. Over there.”

“Okay. Grab ‘em and let’s go.”  Then to me, “Follow me.”

I follow him to a door made of steel bars. He unlocks and opens it, and we step into a long, narrow hallway that has bars on the left and cells on the right.  When we reach the seventh cell, the young guard steps into the darkness and deposits the box and bed roll.  He exits, however, I don’t enter immediately.

“Well, wacha waitin’ for?  Go on in.”

Reluctantly, I step inside. When the door slams behind me, it startles me, causing me to flinch.

“Back up a bit, so I can take them cuffs off.”

My wrists are raw and tender.  At least this part of the agony will be over. Thank God.

After they leave, I look around for a light and spot a string in the corner dangling from the ceiling. I pull it, and a dim, 40-watt bulb comes to life.  Roaches scurry everywhere.

I look around the filthy cage. Paint is peeling off the walls which are so close that I can stand in the middle of the floor, extend my arms, and touch both of them – and the ceiling.  Dirt and dust bunnies cover the floor, mold and brown crud occupy the sink and toilet.

I flop down on the narrow steel bunk and look around at my new surroundings, trying to process everything – my innocence, conviction, sentence.  How the hell did this happen, and where do I go from here?

Then I hear a voice.  “Hi, neighbor. How’s it goin’?”  I didn’t even consider that there were others – I didn’t look into any cells while walking down the hallway.  “Name’s Locke. I’m over here, next to you, in six.”

“How’s it going, Locke?  Just trying to get settled in.”

“Well, if you need anything, just give me a holler. You want some smokes?”

“Yeah, I would appreciate it,” I reply, even though I don’t smoke.

I don’t have the strength to clean, so I sit smoking until it turns dark outside. Tired of sitting, I turn off the light and lay in the dark, smoking and listening to critters scurry about, until I doze off to sleep.

I have a dream… unfettered, head held high, retracing my steps down the long corridors – I walk to freedom.

Epilogue

Still – 26 years later – sleep is my only freedom.

©Reshi Yenot

The van stops near a long concrete ramp.  Peering through wire mesh covered windows, I marvel at a group of general population prisoners trudging – like herding animals – towards the dilapidated, century old state prison, the sole surviving beast of an extinct species.  The bodies merge into a single line as they approach the stone incline.  They all have the same mechanized movements – listless gaits that suggest they are subjects of an indoctrination designed to discourage hope, promote subjugation, and dissuade betterment of self.  Scowling at the spectacle, I shake my head in disgust, loathing those heartless enough to support such dehumanization.  My mind wanders back to yesterday…

I was standing in the same courtroom where, just a month earlier a jury of my ‘peers’ – if, by any stretch of the imagination, one could find even a modicum of socio-economical or cultural parallels between a group of middle to upper class white suburbanites and a poor, black urbanite – had convicted me of murder and recommended that I be executed.

More than happy to oblige my ‘peers’, the Judge took all of sixty seconds to pronounce my fate.  I already knew the sentence would be death, just as I had known the verdict would be guilty.  “May God have mercy on your soul,” he concluded, before banging his gavel in an authoritatively dismissive manner, almost god-like himself.

Thus, my ill-fated journey began.

Arriving at my final destination on earth, carrying a box filled with my sole possessions, I am now to enter the belly of the beast, a condemned soul, to someday exit its bowels a lifeless configuration of justice, solace and closure.

The passenger side guard, a plump, red-faced ‘good ole boy’ spits a stream of brown tobacco juice as he exits the van, removes a padlock from the door, and slides it open.

“Get out,” he says – no, maybe he yells.  I have difficulty gauging the volume because my heart is pounding so hard, my pulse thumping thunderously in my ears, drowning out external sounds.  It is the kind of tumult only fear can produce.

Although I’ve never been to prison, I have lived vicariously through quite a few prison tales – gory, vile stories of rapes, maimings and murders – crimes perpetrated by both prisoners and guards.  I know what to expect; still, it does nothing to assuage the amount of trepidation sweeping over me.

I am certain that the ominous orifice gobbling up GP prisoners as they reach the top of the ramp, serves a duplicitous and gluttonous beast, an unrelenting savage that devours individuals, strips them of any remaining dignity and replaces it with hatred, wickedness, and rapacity, while dragging them – some kicking and screaming, others, willingly – deeper into the viscera of nothingness.

“Let’s go,” the driver says impatiently, turning to stare me down, his gaze malicious.  Then he exits the van and walks to the rear to fetch my box, which he drops next to his partner.  Both now wait for me to exit.

I try to move.  Nothing.  What the – something is wrong. I feel numb – paralyzed.  I close my eyes and swallow hard.  Shit!  Come on. This can’t be happening.  And to make matters worse, the intemperate July heat and humidity – thick, fiery, brazen – envelopes me, white hot against my skin and unapologetic for their suffocating affects.

I’m immobilized by the reality of the situation that awaits me – from which the sweltering van provides my only refuge – and by the shackles and handcuffs that have been deliberately clasped to cut off my circulation.  I take a deep breath.  I wiggle my toes.  Ohhhh…  Shit!  A million tiny needles poke my feet.  I move my right foot and the shackles dig further into my ankles, shooting a bolt of pain up my leg.  Ugh.  Come on, please. 

“Bob, ya may have to gittin ‘er an yank ‘is black ass out,” the driver twangs.

On cue I slowly inch sideways, sliding along the bench seat, moving closer to the door, the tiny needles poking me everywhere.  This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll feel if they decide to drag me out.   I use it as motivation to reach the edge of the seat and the open door.  There I struggle to get to my feet.  My body is waking up.  The pain.  Stooping, I slide one foot forward, then the other, until I’m at the edge of the floorboard.  I twist my left hip, turning my right hip outward and extending my right leg towards the ground, but the chain that connects the manacles is too short for me to reach the ground.  I retract my leg, returning to my original stooped position, and look up at the guards.  They watch with foreknowledge – they’ve seen this dilemma play out repeatedly – but make no attempt to help me.

“Don’t look at us,” expelling another stream of brown goo toward the ground.

With limited exit strategies, I steady my nerves and prepare for what I believe is my best option. I put my feet together, take a deep breath and a leap of faith. Thank God, I stick the landing, a small but pleasing victory.

“Grab yo shit, and let’s go, asshole,” spews the driver pointing a finger at the box, visibly disappointed that I didn’t fall flat on my face, never mind that my hands are cuffed, tethered to a chain, wrapped and padlocked around my waist, preventing me from reaching to grab anything.

Dammit! This heat!  Sweat pours. The prison uniform I’m in is soaked. Sweat drops into my eyes, stinging me further. I squint and try to collect myself, so I can focus on the task at hand.

“You goin’ pick up yo’ shit,” bitterly stated, rather than asked.

I looked down at my hands, separate them, turn my palms up, and gaze with one eye at the guards.

“Well, would ya look there, Bob. We got us a smart ass,” turning to look at his partner, before taking a step towards me.

“It’s too hot for this cockamamie bullshit,” Bob retorts, snatching up the box, stepping in front of the driver and nudging him aside.  “Here,” he growls, shoving the box into my chest.

The restraints make it impossible to grab in a normal manner, with a hand underneath each end.  All I can do is lean back as far as possible, center both hands beneath and press my chin against the top.  That’s when I notice a vulgar, rank glob of tobacco spit splattered on top  and slowly oozing towards my face.

Just as my eyes are clearing, more sweat. This time, both eyes.  I squeeze them shut as the brown blob creeps towards me. This can’t be real.  Fluttering my eyes, I attempt to clear them.

Everything hurts – ankles, legs, arms, back, and pride not far behind.

“We ain’t got all day, boy.”

Through fluttering eyes, I see both guards turn and head for the ramp. I take a tentative step.  Aargh! The shackle bites into my ankle, the pain red-hot. Trying not to grimace, I inch my rear foot forward, and the same searing pain attacks that ankle. I try to ignore it by focusing on a positive.  The sweat has cleared from my eyes. And not a moment too soon as I see the driver turn his head back towards me and spit his venom. I feel it splat on my shoe. Because I know he’s trying to bait me into giving him an excuse to pounce, I concentrate on holding the box.

Besides, I won the first contest when I successfully exited the van. Giving them the pleasure of seeing me drop the box ties the series and reverts home court advantage – even though I’m a one-man team with no home or real advantage – back in their favor. Neither of us would have much interest in this little ‘game’ I’m being forced to play if not for the predators – masters at detecting mental and physical weaknesses they will exploit without hesitation – lurking amongst the nearby prisoners. While the guards’ interests are purely sadistic, my interest is quite vested – my manhood could be at stake.

TO BE CONTINUED…

©Reshi Yenot