Every year, if an inmate didn’t get written up for a violation, he could earn credit for good behavior. This lowered the number of points he entered prison with, depending on the level of crime he’d been convicted of. The lower the points, the less dangerous the inmate was considered.
Roger had fifteen years of good behavior even though his “crime” was a violent one: he’d been found guilty of murdering his wife without premeditation. Murder two. Ironically, although convicted of a violent act, he enjoyed the privilege of being incarcerated with criminals who were much less violent than society viewed him.
Access to a lower-level yard made it possible for Roger to gather all kinds of information. Inside the walls of a prison, information was currency. He’d learned to use his currency wisely. Listen and learn. Learn and pass on – or withhold – as the situation called for.
As a member of the Lords of Death, Roger had access to careless chatter dropped among all of the white inmates who hung out together in the prison yard and ate at the same tables in the cafeteria. Gangs were divided along racial lines scrupulously adhered to. The 187 Crew, a white supremacy gang, ruled at Folsom, unlike at Pelican Bay where Anson Stark’s LODs had set up a tight network that dominated not only the incarcerated whites, but all gangs.
But white was white, and as long as Roger didn’t get up in some other guy’s business, the 187’s and the Lords managed a kind of truce.
In fact, Roger played chess with a 187 member, the only inmate good enough to beat him. Check that. The only player better than him in chess was a black dude.
But playing with a black was out, of course, since black and white didn’t play chess together. Black, white, brown or yellow didn’t do anything together, even watch television on the same unit. Riots had begun and blood had been shed over this hard and fast rule.
As much as racism played out in silent, subtle threads in the real world, within the system where Roger lived, the rules of segregation were raw and immutable. Race lines were clearly drawn in California prisons.
Sam Houston, with the unlikely name of the famous Texan, was a member of the 187 Crew and a close second to the black chess player who was good enough to beat Roger. Although Roger usually won, Sam sometimes sneaked a new play in on him, crowing with delight when this happened.
Sam was an inveterate talker. Other inmates said he had diarrhea of the mouth disease, but often he was a good source of information. Whenever something went down in the yard, he knew ahead of time. Not only was he a reasonably good chess player, he was a good source of prison gossip.
Doing life without parole on an enhanced murder one charge, he looked about seventy with a shocking mane of white scraggly hair and an untrimmed beard which he continually stroked like a woman’s soft flesh.
“Fuckin’ maniacs!” Sam complained after making a good opening gambit in their current chess game. “No offense, my man, but they’re whacked half the time.”
“Oh? Who?” Roger feigned concentration on the chess board and his next move.
Sam rattled on the most when you pretended disinterest in what he had to say. Almost nobody put much store in his ramblings and spurious claims – like he really was a descendant of Sam Houston, the governor of Texas. He was always trying to prove he knew something no one else did, but sometimes there was a nugget of truth in his verbal wanderings.
“Yeah, fuckin’ vampires,” Sam continued. “Not here a’ course, but I heard up at Pelican Bay they’re getting new recruits to – ” He stopped suddenly, bobbed his head around like a yoyo.
Roger responded irritably. “Why are you always blathering on about weird shit like vampires and – ”
Sam looked offended, put his hand on a chess piece and leaned closer. “Not real vampires, scumbag. I said the Lords are acting like vamps, losing turf blood.”
“Turf blood? What the hell does that mean?” Roger growled.
“You know how the Sure?os and Norte?os say ‘blood in, blood out’?”
Roger nodded slowly. “Sure, most gangs do.”
“Well, Lords are upping the price.” He stroked his beard, looked uncomfortable. “It’s blood in. And – and something more.”
“Hell, Sam Houston, you make about as much sense as a politician.”
“You’ll see.” Sam bobbed his head and cackled, but Roger heard the underlying fear in his words. “You’ll see. Surprised you haven’t heard. Blood in – and something more.”
Back in his bunk, Roger considered Sam’s words, trying to decipher them. Blood in, and something more, he’d said. Most of the time the old man spouted a bunch of idiocy, but something rang true this time.
What were the Lords at Pelican Bay up to that Roger and the Lords of Death here in Folsom knew nothing about? Did it have anything to do with the prison doctor?
Did it have something to do with the old score surrounding her mother?
Chapter 33