Soon he’d be entering the general population. Worse yet, he’d been assigned to D-pod, where the most dangerous inmates were held, since he was accused of committing a violent crime. Nick wasn’t the only not-yet-convicted killer being held behind bars here.
Innocent until proven guilty was pure fiction.
He’d spent all afternoon going through the intake process. He’d been strip-searched, deloused, and showered. The delousing powder had gotten in his eye, turned it red, and made it tear. The process had been the most humiliating and frightening experience of his entire life. His humanity had been stripped away. He’d say he felt like an animal, but zoo animals were treated with greater respect.
He hurried to the steel bench bolted to the wall, set down the orange uniform he’d been issued, and dressed. He was grateful he’d worn white boxers. All other colors were confiscated. If he’d chosen plaid this morning, he’d be going commando. Somehow he knew the lack of underwear would have made him feel even more vulnerable.
Instead of the jumpsuit he’d expected, the uniform was more like scratchy hospital scrubs. He stepped into the pants and shoved his feet into the rubber sandals he’d been issued. They were like the soccer slides he’d worn in middle school. The shirt was several sizes too big. Cold seeped through the thin fabric.
Sitting on the chilly, hard bench, he concentrated on breathing. Every thought that ran through his head terrified him. He needed to calm down. This was no place to show fear. He pictured a chess match in his head, calculated move after move—order instead of chaos.
The door behind him opened, the metallic clack sending a bolt of fear right into his bowels. A big white man walked in, carrying his own orange uniform. Everything about him was huge, from his head-size fists to his giant, tattooed chest and arms. His beard was thick and blond, as was the hair on his chest. He dressed in a calm, unhurried, and resigned manner that suggested this experience was not new to him. Nick tried not to look scared, but from the amused expression on the newcomer’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.
“I’m The Man.” He pronounced the word like a royal title. Then he sat down on the bench across from Nick and gave him a casual glance. “Your first time?”
Nick didn’t know whether to admit it or not. He was so far out of his element, he could have been on Mars or some other hostile planet. All he could think about was trying to make his hands stop shaking. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that showing weakness in jail would be like bleeding in shark-infested waters.
“You don’t have to answer. I know you’re a fish.” The Man snickered. “Quiet can be a smart play, but don’t let them think you’re afraid to talk. Ignore the pod boss and you’ll get your ass kicked too. Same goes for not standing up for yourself.”
Nick nodded as if he understood, not that he did. He only had one thing figured out. He was so far over his head, there was no way he could reach the surface before he drowned.
The Man stretched his massive legs out in front of him. “This is my third time in here. I’m going to give you some advice. Inside, we stick together. Whites hang with other whites. We’re outnumbered, and there ain’t no such thing as fucking political correctness in here. It’s all about survival. You stick to your own kind.”
Nick listened without speaking.
“You keep your head down, and your mouth shut. You don’t ask questions. You don’t repeat anything anyone tells you. Snitches end up with stitches.” The Man turned his arm over. A series of blue tattoos covered the white underside of his forearm. “You see these?”
“Yeah.” Nick wasn’t sure about the meanings of the twin lightning bolts or the number 88, but it was impossible to misconstrue a swastika.
The Man was a white supremacist.
“A young fish like you needs protection in here or you’ll end up as somebody’s boy.” He tapped the swastika. “This is how you get it.”
Shit.
Nick hadn’t thought about gangs. His lack of knowledge of jail life was one more element to his fear. Joining a gang felt like a commitment, a decision that couldn’t be changed once it was made.
A serious undertaking that could have permanent consequences.
“Some of the other cons have a thing against rapists. Me? Doesn’t bother me one bit.”
Nick’s spine snapped straight, a wave of coldness sweeping over him. “You know who I am?”
“Everyone will know who you are. Ain’t nothing to do in jail but talk. Word spreads fast.” The Man shrugged. “Like I was saying, I ain’t got nothing against you. Women need to learn their place, and some seem to need harder lessons than others. But some dudes might want to kill you just because of what you done. Then again, some dudes might want to kill you for the sheer entertainment factor. Always remember, once they’re convicted, some of these guys ain’t never getting out, and they know it. They’ve got nothing to lose.”
The words slipped out of Nick’s mouth. “I didn’t do it.”
“Sure. Everybody in here is innocent. We all got a bum rap.” The Man chuckled. “You got one chance to survive.” He tapped the swastika.
“What are you in here for?” Nick asked. If the fact that he was being charged with rape and murder didn’t faze The Man, he must be up on serious charges too.
“Manslaughter, but it goes without saying that I’m innocent too.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “If I were you, I’d play the bum-rap card for all it’s worth. Every man can empathize with being railroaded by the pigs. And if that don’t work . . .” The Man pointed to his tattoos. “Because the guards don’t give a fuck.”
The door opened and two more naked men entered. The black guy was about twenty-five and big and beefy. His entire back was covered in tattoos. The white kid was maybe nineteen, tall but skinny as a toothpick. Nick could count his vertebrae from across the room. The Man snorted as the kid put on pants three sizes too big. He looked scared enough to piss himself.
Nick wondered if he had the same scared-rabbit gleam in his eyes. He’d better not. He was silently grateful that he was too lazy to shave daily—his thick four-day stubble aged him—and for the physical labor that had muscled his body since he’d graduated high school. The skinny kid looked like a walking target.
Like prey.
The Man went silent. Eventually, the other door opened. The guards barked some orders, and the four inmates were escorted down the hall. They were each handed a thin, folded plastic mattress and a threadbare blanket to carry into the pod.
Nick followed The Man’s example and hoisted it up on one shoulder. If nothing else, it provided him with what felt like a partial screen. Only half of the pod residents could see his face. The skinny kid clutched the mattress to his chest like a shield, and as they entered the pod, he went whiter than bleached bones, his eyes shining with terror.