Hard Time (7 page)

I thanked him, and gave him my aunt Ann’s number. He dialled it, spoke his name into the phone a few times and passed it to me. Desperate to hear how my parents had reacted to the news of my arrest, I listened to her phone ring. When she answered it, a computerised female voice told her it was a collect call from the jail and asked her to press 0 to accept the charges.

‘Shaun, are you OK?’ Ann said.

‘Yes. Did you get through to England?’

‘I spoke to your mum. As you can imagine, she’s pretty devastated. Your dad was at work. Fortunately, Karen was there with your mum,’ she said, referring to my 28-year-old sister, a trainee journalist living with my parents. ‘I think she was in a state of shock ’cause after I told her, she started talking to me as if nothing had happened. She said “How’re your lot?”, which I thought was strange.’

Oh my God, I thought. What have I done to my mum?

‘She said for you to call them as soon as you can, any time day or night.’

‘I’d better do it right away. Look, I don’t know how much these calls are costing, so I’m going to hang up and try to call England.’

‘OK. They’ll be glad to hear your voice.’

Trembling, I put the phone down. The African American put me through to England. Ashamed of where I was, I prayed they’d be supportive. Karen answered and accepted the collect call.

‘Shaun’s on the phone!’ Karen yelled, then in a lower voice said, ‘What have you done? Mum and Dad are in a proper state. They’re worried sick.’

‘Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds,’ I said.

‘God, I hope not. For Mum and Dad’s sake. They don’t deserve this, Shaun.’

‘You’d better let me speak to them,’ I said, bracing myself.

‘Anyway, I hope you’re OK in there. It must be a nightmare. Here’s Dad. Bye! Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ Speaking to Karen reinforced my guilt. She was right. My parents didn’t deserve any of this.

‘Are you OK?’ Dad asked.

Hearing the strain in his voice, I felt awful. I imagined my mum taking it the worst. ‘I’m in trouble, but I’m fine,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring.

‘Well, we’ll do whatever it takes to help you.’

I was relieved. ‘They’ve given me a list of charges, but I haven’t a clue what they mean. My bond’s $750,000, and I know none of us has that kind of money.’

‘I know about the bond. I rang the jail.’

‘What did you find out?’

‘It sounds pretty serious. I was on that daft automated line for about 45 minutes, going around in a loop – press 1, press 2, press 3 – putting your booking number in at different stages, and all of a sudden a voice popped up. I explained the situation to her. As soon as I said, “I’m calling from England about my son who has been arrested,” she immediately wanted to help me. The English accent has its advantages.’

‘It does. It’s helping me in here. What did she say?’

‘I said, “I can’t understand what’s happened. I can’t believe what’s going on or why he’s been arrested.” She said, “Give me his booking number, and I’ll find out what I can for you.” She gave me the charges – which I didn’t really understand – and then she said, “The bond is $750,000. This looks pretty serious.”’

I felt panic setting in again. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Mum must be worried sick.’

‘She’s bearing up.’

‘I’d better speak to her then.’

‘OK, here she is.’

‘Shaun, are you safe in there?’ Mum was crying.

I felt ill. ‘Yes, I’m all right, Mum,’ I said, not wanting to add to her worries.

‘What’s all this about?’

‘I can’t really say much on these phones, Mum. I was raided, but no drugs were found. My bond’s so big, it doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.’

‘I can’t believe this has happened,’ she said.

‘I know. I’m so sorry. I’ve got money in some accounts, and I’m going to have to get a lawyer.’ I didn’t know it at the time, but the police had hacked my computer with a NetBus Trojan horse and were in the process of seizing the stock-market investments I’d made in the names of British citizens I’d flown over.

Her voice calmed somewhat as she told me firmly, ‘We’ll do what we can to help you.’ I knew then my parents would be there for me no matter what. ‘Is Claudia OK?’

‘She was arrested, but they released her. You should give her a call.’

The female computerised voice said, ‘You have 30 seconds remaining.’

‘It’s going to hang up, Mum.’

‘We love you very, very much. We’ll do what we can.’

‘Love you too. So sorry about all—’

The line went dead. They were later billed £50 for the call – part of the collect-call exploitation of prisoners’ families.

As soon as I hung up, the African American started asking me questions about England. I sat with him at a vacant table, but the hurt I’d caused my family made it hard for me to concentrate on answering him.

About five minutes later, the African American grew uneasy and said in a loud voice, ‘You’d better go talk to your people.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, wondering what was going on.

‘You stick with your own kind in here,’ he said. ‘Your people might not like you talking to me. Now go on now.’ He nodded at a corner of the pod, stood up and walked away.

Lingering in the doorway of the corner cell were three skinheads. Young. Tattooed. Waiting.

Forcing a smile they failed to return, I joined them. ‘I just got here,’ I said, conscious of the fear in my voice.

‘You need to come inside the cell, dawg, so we can have a little chat.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Go in there, dawg.’

I walked into the cell, stopped by the window and turned around. Looking at them, I could feel my left eyelid twitching. One of them blocked the doorway. Another leaned an arm adorned with a Valknut – three interconnected triangles found in early-medieval Germanic inscriptions – against the wall, forming a barrier.

‘Where you from, dawg?’

‘England.’

‘What the fuck you doing out here?’

‘I was a stockbroker, then I threw raves.’

‘So what they arrest you doing, dawg?’

‘I’m not quite sure. They didn’t actually arrest me doing anything. I was just—’

Raising his forearms, the biggest skinhead stepped forward, fists clenched. ‘What the fuck you mean, you’re not quite sure?’

I braced to be attacked.

‘How the fuck don’t you know what your charges are?’

I’ll try to push my way through them and escape.

‘I do but—’

‘Every motherfucker knows his charges! Whatchoo hiding from us?’

Got to push through them. If I fight against the wall, they’ll just close in on me.

‘He’s bullshitting us!’ The third closed the door but not so it was locked.

I’m screwed. Charge and hope for the best.

‘If you got sex offences, you’d better tell us now ’cause we will find out!’

‘I don’t have sex offences. What I mean is, I don’t understand my charges: conspiracy, crime syndicate. I’m new to this. The cops just raided me, and nobody’s explained what evidence they have. I thought they’d let me go when they didn’t find any drugs at my apartment. I don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Where’s your paperwork at?’

‘Right here,’ I said, fishing it out of my top pocket.

‘Lemme see.’ The biggest skinhead snatched the charge sheet. Reading it, he said, ‘Goddam, dawg! $750,000 cash-only bond! You some kinda Mafia dude or what?’

‘No. I threw raves. We did drugs. Everyone had a good time.’ I wondered if my charges were acceptable to them.

‘I shot someone in the chest at a rave,’ the mid-sized one said in a scary matter-of-fact tone. ‘He was on GHB. I’m getting 10 for attempted murder.’

A raver, or doesn’t like ravers?

‘I’m here for drugs too, dawg. Name’s Rob,’ the biggest one said. ‘Stand up and hold your fist out, man.’

Heart check?
I thought. I raised both fists, dropped my chin and tried to squint like Lee Van Cleef.

They laughed at me. ‘Not like that! Just hold a fist out like this, dawg.’ Rob held his right fist out as if he’d just lost at the card game raps. I copied him, and he bumped his fist into mine. ‘That’s how we shake hands in here, dawg.’

I laughed, and they joined in. My tension fell like a firework returning to earth.

‘It’s to avoid catching diseases from people’s fingers. There’s a lotta sick motherfuckers up in this joint.’

‘My mouth’s killing me. How do I get a toothbrush?’ I asked.

‘I’ll grab you one, dawg,’ Rob said. ‘I’m the head of the whites for this pod. Used to be in the Marines.’ He held out a tiny toothbrush. Splayed and stained.

‘Thanks, Rob. Why’s the toothbrush so small?’

‘So we can’t make shanks out of them.’

‘Shanks?’

‘Jailhouse knives. You’ve gotta lot to learn, dawg.’

‘Got any toothpaste?’

‘Here you go.’ Rob smeared the toothbrush with AmerFresh, a brand made in China that Sheriff Joe Arpaio provided the inmates – five years later, the FDA found AmerFresh to be contaminated with diethylene glycol (DEG), a toxic chemical used in antifreeze and as a solvent.

‘Do you mind if I brush my teeth at your sink?’

‘Nah, go ahead, dawg,’ Rob said.

I shuffled past them to the sink. The AmerFresh put out the fire in my mouth.

‘You need to take a shower, too,’ Rob said.

I thought of all the shower scenes I’d seen in prison movies.

‘Everyone coming from The Horseshoe fucking stinks. You’re making our race look bad going around smelling like that. We don’t wanna have to smash you for bad hygiene.’

‘No problem. Where’s the showers at?’ I asked, still brushing my teeth.

‘In the corner, next to this cell,’ Rob said, pointing at the wall.

‘Better get in there before they call lockdown,’ the mid-sized one said.

‘What time’s that at?’ I asked.

‘Ten-thirty.’

‘All right, I’m off to the shower then.’ I cupped water in my hand a few times to rinse my mouth with, then stepped towards the door.

Rob blocked me. I flinched. ‘Not so fast. We ain’t finished with you yet.’

His last sentence crushed me. ‘What is it?’ I asked, afraid of what he might say.

Rob cocked his head back, narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you know about your cellies?’ Accusation had returned to his voice.

‘Cellies?’

‘Cellmates.’

‘Not much. I guess Boyd’s here a lot, but the other one, David, has barely spoken a word.’

‘Yeah, we know all about crackhead Boyd. What about the other one? Any idea what his charges are?’

Rob trained such a gaze on me, I gulped. ‘No idea.’

‘We think he’s a mo.’

‘Mo?’

‘A chomo. A child molester.’

‘Uh oh.’

‘You can get smashed in here for having a celly who’s a chomo.’

My tension escalated again. ‘What should I do?’

‘Usually, we’d tell you to tell him to roll up, but we’re gonna handle it for you.’

‘OK. Thanks,’ I said, unsure why I’d thanked them. ‘I’d better go and get my shower then.’

‘You do that. And don’t go in the shower barefoot. Towers’ foot rot ain’t nuthin’ nice, dawg.’

I returned to A12 for my towel. In the day room, I stripped to my boxers, and placed my clothes on one of the vacant tables. I was relieved the shower area was tiny and not one of those big communal affairs. Out of the two showers barely separated by a small divide I chose the one furthest in, as it provided more reaction time if I were attacked. Tiny black flies bothered my face as I balanced my boxers and towel on the showerhead. I stepped into a puddle of scum and pubic hair that swirled around my shower sandals when I turned the water on. I found a piece of soap in the puddle, rinsed it off and applied it to my armpits and genitals. Feeling vulnerable, I showered fast and got dressed in the day room.

Figuring the skinheads had told David to leave by now, I was surprised to see I still had two cellmates. I climbed up to my bunk, mindful not to bump my head. There were no pillows, and the thin mattress was uncomfortable. Trying to sleep with my head so close to the ceiling and my nose to the wall was like being in a coffin. My body ached, and rotating through various sleep positions only relieved it temporarily. My pulse remained fast, but I eventually passed out from exhaustion.

High-pitched static ringing in my ears roused me from a nightmare. I felt something rough itching my skin: an old blanket.
Where am I?
Inches from my face was a cement-block wall. Raising myself in a hurry, I hit my head on the ceiling.
Ouch!
Sweeping my vision across the room, the shock of the environment hit me all over again. My heart was beating so fast I doubted it had ever slowed down. There was a roar as toilets flushed all over the place.