30
DAYS STARTED early at Rikers: breakfast was usually served in Rafael’s cell block around six a.m. Rafael had gotten used to falling asleep by ten o’clock at night; when he’d been free he’d routinely stayed up until two in the morning or later. He’d usually worked in the restaurant until at least eleven, then often hung out with people from the kitchen after his shift, so it hadn’t been unusual for it to be past one by the time he got home on a typical workday, even if he wasn’t partying.
He was woken at around five thirty by noise outside his cell. Yawning and barely awake, Rafael dutifully got out of bed, assuming it was the breakfast crew coming a little early. But instead it was the tactical unit, charging in full force for a spot search.
Surprise cell searches were a part of life at Rikers, but that didn’t make them any less jarring. It was like some sort of military invasion; the tactical guards came in full gear: helmets with protective visors down, shields that could deliver an electric jolt severe enough to temporarily incapacitate a prisoner.
They searched the cells a dozen at a time, the prisoners lining up for a body-cavity search while their cells were gone through. This was done through a special chair that was wheeled in, the BOSS. It was a clunky device, gunmetal gray, with a scanner that could detect metal or other contraband that was hidden in the body.
When his cell door was opened Rafael stepped out, getting into line for his turn on the BOSS. He was standing there, still mostly asleep, when he heard raised voices from behind him. Rafael glanced over his shoulder, knowing the guards wouldn’t like it if he actually turned around. An inmate a few cells down from his was refusing to come out, though Rafael couldn’t hear why. It was a newbie on the cell block, a middle-aged white guy with stringy long hair and missing front teeth. Everyone had given him a wide berth: the guy was jittery, talked to himself, seemed to be seeing things the rest of them weren’t. A crackhead, Rafael was pretty certain, though it also seemed like the miswiring of the guy’s mind was more fundamental than that.
A half dozen of the tactical guards had quickly flanked out around the cell door, their electric shields at the ready. Another guard turned on a video camera to film the forced extraction. The prisoner was yelling something from inside his cell, but Rafael couldn’t make out the words. There was an edge to everybody now, prisoners who’d been sound asleep five minutes ago tensing up. The tang of imminent violence was in the air, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. “Stay in line, stay cool,” a guard next to Rafael said, his voice sharp.
Then the tactical unit moved into the cell, which hardly seemed big enough to contain them all. There was a loud scream, then nothing but the sound of moving feet in heavy boots as the guards carried the prisoner, who even from a distance was clearly unconscious, out of the cell. He’d been hit with an electric shield; Rafael could smell it, like burning plastic. There was muttering from other prisoners, vague noises of protest at seeing one of them treated this way, but Rafael thought it a little halfhearted. This was a white guy, a crazy dude: he had no allies on the block; nobody really wanted to stand up for him. Rafael guessed the man’s refusal to leave his cell hadn’t even been because he had something to hide, but was just a reflection of his crumbled mental state.
Once the unconscious prisoner had been taken out of the block, the guards began moving back into cells while prisoners were placed on the BOSS. There was still tension in the air, the energy flowing from the proximity to violence, but it felt contained.
Rafael made his way to the front of the line. Once there, he first had to place his chin on the back of the BOSS, the machine working its magic on his mouth. Then he sat in the chair, the scanner looking for something hidden up his ass. That was the most common hiding place on the body in Rikers, and Rafael had heard some pretty unbelievable stories about things that had gotten smuggled in that way—cell phones and the like. He couldn’t even think about it without squirming.
Once cleared through the BOSS, Rafael went to stand in front of his cell, which a corrections officer was still inside of. His bedding had been removed and was being scanned by another CO with a wand like those used at airports.
He noticed that a guard was waving a scanner around the common areas. Rafael felt his nerves tighten as the guard held the scanner up to the air-conditioning vent that ran above the top of the cells and then began walking in his direction. Rafael knew something was in that vent right above his cell, but he didn’t know what, or if the scanner would detect it.
A few days ago he had seen Luis Gutierrez fiddling with the vent. Rafael had been fifteen feet away, watching TV. He hadn’t been able to tell what exactly Luis was doing, but had assumed he was hiding something. Rafael had wanted to tell Luis to put whatever it was somewhere else, but hadn’t had the nerve.
The CO with the scanner was now waving it right above Rafael’s cell. There was a high-pitched whine as the device reacted to something. A couple of other guards came over, and one started unscrewing the vent’s grille.
Rafael watched nervously as the guard gingerly reached up into the opened vent. The CO pulled out a homemade shiv, a thin piece of metal that had been sharpened at one end, the other end wrapped in duct tape. Other guards quickly gathered around. Rafael could sense movement behind him, and he tensed, trying to keep himself still, not wanting to give the guards any excuse to take out their leftover adrenaline from the forced extraction on him.
“What you got?” a CO called out as he approached. His uniform had officer’s stripes on the sleeve; Rafael assumed he was in charge.
“We found a shank hidden in the vent right above this cell,” the guard holding the scanner said.
The head guy nodded brusquely, then turned to the gathered prisoners. “Who’s cell is this?”
There wasn’t any point in denying it, so Rafael stepped forward. “That blade’s not mine,” he said.
“Never heard that one,” the CO holding the shiv said.
The head guy’s eyes were locked onto Rafael. He had the hood of his visor lifted, the rest of him cloaked in the riot gear the entire tactical team was wearing. All Rafael could tell was that he was a middle-aged white guy with a graying mustache. “I’m Deputy Warden Ward. You’re who?”
“Rafael Nazario.”
“Nazario—you’re that kid who killed a cop?”
Rafael was surprised that Ward knew who he was. “I didn’t kill nobody,” he replied. “And he wasn’t a cop anymore.”
“You mouthing off to me?” Ward barked, taking two quick steps forward, so that he was fully in Rafael’s face. They were about the same height, but Rafael reckoned Ward had nearly fifty pounds on him.
Rafael hadn’t been mouthing off, didn’t think Ward really thought otherwise. The CO was just trying to provoke him. “No, sir,” Rafael said, casting his eyes down, trying to appear subservient, just get through this.
“You affiliated, Nazario?”
Rafael shook his head, keeping his gaze on the floor. “I’m not in no gang,” he said.
“You going to fess up that this is your blade?”
Rafael shook his head. “I never seen that before.”
“What’s it doing in the vent right above your cell? If you didn’t put it there, you must’ve seen who did.”
Ward was staring at him, awaiting a response, but Rafael knew that fingering Luis would lead to far worse problems than taking the blame himself. Whatever the guards could do to him was nothing compared to what prisoners would do if they considered him a snitch. Especially if he crossed Luis, who was with a gang. “I didn’t see nobody messing around with that vent,” he said.
“You planning to take out a guard here like you did that cop?”
“I never seen that blade before,” Rafael said again, trying to keep his voice calm.
Ward sneered at him, moving still closer, their faces just inches apart. Rafael forced himself to meet the man’s stare, his whole body braced for a blow. “Cuff him,” Ward said to the COs behind Rafael. “We’ll write him up for the shank.”
“It’s not mine,” Rafael protested.
“You going to tell me whose it is, then?” Ward said. When Rafael didn’t respond, Ward nodded to the guards. “Then looks like it’s yours now.”