Most prisoners segregated themselves according to racial allegiance. There was power in numbers. If you were in a gang, you were protected. People thought twice about getting in your face, so you picked a camp and stuck with it. Damian made out three distinct groups in the yard: BMW. Black, Mexican, and White. There was always someone who didn’t fit, and some of them splintered into smaller factions. There were those who ran with God, mostly Christians and Muslims, those who were homosexuals and transgenders, and those who stood out as loners: lifers, career criminals, and roughened, toughened old men. No matter what group they belonged to, they were all men who had committed major felonies—murder, robbery, kidnapping, treason. There was another section, separate and removed, for prisoners who couldn’t be put in with the general population: the Sensitive Needs Yard. This was where they fenced off high notoriety inmates (ex-cops, celebrities, serial killers), sex offenders (rapists and pedophiles), and men with mental health issues.
The Robert Dailey Correctional Facility, east of San Diego, was not a place that housed white-collar criminals or those who committed minor misdemeanors. It was a desolate prison outpost, ringed by curtains of wire and thickets of dusty wildflowers, a stone’s throw from the colonias and maquilidoras of Tijuana. It was the place Damian had been sent to, to serve out his sentence.
When the bell for supper rang at 4 pm, Damian shuffled out in a single line with the other inmates in his housing unit. The chow hall was a cavernous rectangular room with a dozen stainless steel tables, each of which sat eight people. On both sides of the hall were armed guards, monitoring the prisoners from behind glass cubicles. A row of six convict kitchen workers moved trays along, assembly style, behind a cafeteria-like glass barrier. That day, they were serving chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes, gravy, a thin slice of cornbread, and Jell-O.
Damian got his tray, filled his state-issued plastic mug with cold water, and joined the gay prisoners. Monique, the six-foot-four burly, black inmate, raised a razor thin eyebrow when Damian took the seat across from him. For a moment, Damian wavered, wondering if Monique was his best option to establish a reputation. Monique was a lifer and the shot caller for the group, an ex-boxer with biceps as thick and corded as tree trunks. The correctional officers required a representative from every group. If there was trouble between different affiliations, the guards locked everyone down and got the shot callers together to resolve the situation. This allowed the prisoners to police themselves, and the system ran better for everyone. In return, the shot callers won favors or ‘juice cards’ from the guards. Monique obviously held a lot of those, from his purple lipstick to his black nail polish, to the New Orleans style beads around his neck. He was the biggest, most powerful, most flamboyant character in the room. So, when Damian reached across the table, speared Monique’s chicken patty and ripped off a big bite, everything came to a faltering halt. The kitchen staff stopped mid-ladle, gravy dripping from their spoons. Chatter ceased. All eyes focused on Monique and Damian.
Monique blinked. Had this piece of fresh meat, this newcomer, just swiped the food off his plate? Only a fool would disrespect another prisoner so blatantly, and this fool had chosen to tangle with him?
Damian needed a reaction. Fast. Before the guards got involved. He picked up his mug and splashed icy, cold water in Monique’s face. Monique let the water drip off his nose and down his chin. He wiped his face without breaking eye contact with Damian. And then all hell broke loose.
If you’re going to get in a prison fight, be the first to strike, thought Damian, as he slammed his elbow into Monique’s throat, getting him in the voice box. It took the bigger guy a second to recover. By then, they were surrounded by a circle of convicts, keeping the guards at bay.
Monique lunged across the table, toppling Damian off his chair. The two men crashed to the floor, grappling with each other. Damian took heavy blows to his chin, his jaw, his chest. Each hit felt like he was being pounded by a hammer. Monique powered over him, stomping on his instep to keep him pinned down, so he couldn’t fight his way back on top. He grabbed Damian’s neck, clamping down on his windpipe, choking him with an iron grip, before bashing his head against the floor. All the air in Damian’s lungs left him in a sharp whoosh. Damian felt like his face was going to explode, like all the blood had collected in his head and Monique was tightening the wrench, cutting it off from the rest of his body. Monique was dodging his punches, punches that were quickly losing force as Damian’s vision started to fade. The inmates looking down on them turned blurry, one blue uniform melding into another. The noise, the chaos, the chants turned distant. Skye’s face floated before him, haunting and frozen, the moment before he’d pulled the trigger, her eyes stricken, the silent ‘no’ she’d mouthed.
What do you do, Damian? He heard her voice in his head.
I fight back and I fight hard.
Damian’s eyes shot open. He grabbed hold of the beads around Monique’s neck and pulled. When Monique’s face was close enough, Damian head-butted his nose. Monique let go of Damian and clutched his nose. Blood spewed over his blue chambray shirt. Damian punched Monique in the jaw and got on top of him. By the time the guards got through, Monique’s face was raw and purple from smeared lipstick and Damian’s blows.
As they dragged Damian and Monique away, the sea of prisoners parted. Both men were unsteady on their feet, bloodied and battered, but one thing was clear: Damian Caballero was not a man anyone wanted to mess with.