Twelve
____________
Rat-a-tat-tat
Renie’s second attorney room
visit contained surprises he was not prepared for.
“An aid in our office actually
made a clerical error on your appeal documents, Renwick, so,” Gerald
Braithwaite informed the youth, “we had the opportunity to refile those papers.
Your appeal was not rejected in and of itself, son, but due to clerical error.
We’ve been given a second chance at this.”
Thoughts and feelings of hope
rushed through Renie faster than river rapids, but he managed to harness
control of them before they took him on a fanciful mystical journey through the
mountains of false expectations.
The second news item sent Renie
for a walk through the valley of dire straits; his mother had been shot.
Renie squirmed inside with an
uneasy hyper tense desire to act, but feeling the stress of his inability to do
anything about it at all, not even visit his dear mother, Renie almost cried.
This emotion, too, was one he had learned to have mastery over. He knew that
tears do not line the walls of a prison in daylight, but that they do flood the
pillows of the inmates’ cells at night.
Mr. Braithwaite continued, “Now
as to your sister--”
Renie interrupted, “What about
her? Is she alright?”
“Yes, she is fine,” he assured.
The lawyer informed his client about the details surrounding the shooting.
Renie’s mother and sister had just departed a corner grocery store when shots
rang out. “A stray bullet hit your mother in the calf of her left leg. She and
your sister do not appear to have been primary targets.”
“Do not appear?”
“Police are investigating the
matter,” the attorney assured. “Your mother spent one night in the hospital.
The hospital allowed your sister to be there with her and released your mother
yesterday. She’s doing fine, son.”
Renie wondered if this had
anything to do with the others involved in the crime he was imprisoned for. Retaliation? he considered, But what for? Do they think I’m a
rat?
“I have notified the Warden and
requested that you receive an emergency phone call to talk with your mother,
unfortunately, that is not the policy of this prison. Warden Clean said he
would consider it, though, and he appears to be a man of principle.”
Principle, Renie bounced that word around his mind like a
pinball. What’s that mean?
Renie’s escort back to J-Wing
felt as though it lasted for ever. Rushes of emotion overcame him with every
step and rattle of his restraints. He felt bound emotionally and physically.
“Here you go, Stone,” the
escorting officer said, removing the restraints. Dazed, Renie had not even
noticed who had escorted him.
Floor Officer D.D. Brady greeted
the youth with more disheartening news, “Your cell’s been tossed by IIS and
Joey was rolled up and is gone.” He added, “Sorry to hear about your mom,
Renie.”
Inmate Renwick Stone, S2-53373,
J-Wing, 2-217-U, twenty-five years to life, resounded through his thoughts like an echo in the wind.
Helpless, alone, empty and
bitter, Renie asked the C/O, “What did you say happened?”
Escorting the youth into his
office Brady closed the door and replied, “ISS found numerous items of
contraband in your two’s cell, including a tattoo gun and one inmate
manufactured weapon, a shank.”
Thinking he’d be rolled up with
his celly, Renie said, “When do I go?”
“Oh, you aren’t going anywhere
Renie. Joey was ratted out by someone. ISS was informed that only he was
involved and Joey confirmed that accusation. He said you weren’t involved at
all and that none of the contraband items belonged to you. Is that correct?”
The C/O knew what the standard inmate answer would be.
Wondering how he could not to
lie and still be truthful, Renie responded selectively, “Yes, none of that
stuff was mine.”
“ISS will still interview you, I
assume, so stay ready for ‘em, son.”
Back in his lonely cell, Renie
hashed over the events of the day, over and over, until he felt exhausted. He
laid down, prayed a quick prayer, and then fell asleep...
“Welcome to Abaddon Prison you bunch of worthless pieces of dirt,” the
tough looking prison guard exclaimed as the group of lowlifes climbed out of
the boat onto the island’s dock. “I’ll read your name and new inmate
identification numbers and you WILL form a line and you WILL remain in that
formation until I tell you otherwise.”
The group shouted back, “Yes, sir!”
Renie stood on a dock in chains, cold, numb and fearful. He stared
across some sort of bay toward a beautiful city in the distance wondering how
he had arrived at this place.
The guard read from his list and one-by-one the loathsome prisoners
formed a line down the dock. “Stone, Renwick, number S-2-5-3-3-7-3,” Renie
stepped forward into line.
“Pssst,” the man in front of Renie addressed him. “What’s a kid like you
doin’ here?”
“Silence,” commanded the guard. “No talking.”
The group of inmates entered inside the facility’s bleak walls and was
coldly greeted by its warden, the prison’s patriarchal emblem of criminal
justice. The inmates were immediately escorted to a waiting room and instructed
to sit around a circular table. The guard left them alone.
“Kid,” One evil looking man addressed Renie with his piercing eyes, “Why
are you here? You wanna be a tough guy, is that it?”
One by one the group questioned Renie and encouraged him to, “Act like a
man, be tough, harden that weak little baby sucking heart of yours.”
One grey-haired man, however, did not join in with the others’ plaguing
Renie. He whispered into Renie’s ear that he should look at the birds. They
don’t work or worry about anything. “God provides for them. They just live one
day at a time, kid. They’re free spirits.”
“Kid, c’mon,” another old mobster encouraged, “Join us as the toughest
criminals in history. You gotta go down in the history books. Forget about that
mama and sister of yours. They don’t need you.”
“Don’t listen to ‘em, kid,” the grey-haired man whispered.
Renie questioned the group about their lives and why they had chosen the
criminal paths they did in life.
“What other choice was there, kid, are you kiddin’ us?” one replied.
Another looked at Renie with bewilderment in his eyes, “We like this
life. It’s a grand life. We’re famous, don’t ya get it?”
The old mobster responded, “If you’d heard the rat-a-tat-tat of a
machine gun and bullets bouncing off of a concrete wall, you wouldn’t be askin’
questions like that, kid.”
“You gotta make a choice,” one man commanded the youth, “a choice.”
“Birds, birds, birds…” the sound of the grey-haired man’s voice
gradually faded away.
The scene suddenly changed and Renie found himself in a barred cell on
the second tier of Abaddon’s cellblock sitting alone in the dark. He lit a
match and faintly saw what looked like Satan standing outside of his cell’s
barred doorway. The creature whispered Renie’s name slowly. He felt a wave of
filth rush over and through his body; an evil, uncontrollable plethora of emotions
flooded his being. Sitting on a small table top to Renie’s left lay his Bible;
he chose to reach for his Bible.
“Count time,” announced Control, abruptly awakening
Inmate Stone from his dream. “Stand for count!”
Next Chapter: Nickel & Dime
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