Deep Cover (4 page)

Leverick
began to gather up the papers and photos.

"One
of the guards is going to stage an altercation with you in front of the biker so you can make an impression. This guard will have instructions to protect you the whole time you're inside. Are you ready?"

"I'm
ready." For something like this, I had no idea what "ready" was supposed to look like.

Chapter
3

I found the handcuffs uncomfortable as I was led through the gates of Boldero Prison by two burly state marshals. The marshals, arranged for by Richard Atwood through the Department of Corrections, stared straight ahead as they led me through the first checkpoint. Seemingly just two obedient employees, transporting another transferred prisoner, ignorant as to my true identity and wary of potential violent behavior.

We
stopped in front of the guard's post, and I could see my reflection in the window of his booth. The vigorous workouts with weights during my training had made my six-foot-two frame more physically imposing than I had thought it could be. That, combined with my long, unkempt brown hair and beard, gave me the appearance of a cross between a healthy (and perhaps a little less crazy) Charlie Manson and some pro wrestler.

"Prisoner
35288990 from Sacramento," the raspy-voiced marshal stated, as he handed the guard a clipboard with my transfer sheet on it.

"Just
what we need, another troublemaker," the guard said with disgust as he initialled the sheet. He handed it back and motioned with his head. "Straight ahead through Checkpoint B."

"Thanks,
chief. Let's go."

The
marshals escorted me to the second checkpoint. We passed through a metal-detector, were cleared by another guard, and proceeded inside. The cuffs and shackles were removed and I was released to the custody of a third guard.

"Cell
Block A...er...Randall," said the guard, as he glanced at the paperwork. As we walked through the corridor I noticed that the cells were all empty. Three tiers of human cages awaiting their inhabitants' return from the prison yard, mess hall, or showers.

"In
here," the guard instructed. "Don't leave the cell. Yard time will be over in a few minutes. Everyone'll be back for lock 'n' count." As he turned and walked away he mumbled something like "Enjoy your stay." A little prison-guard humor, I supposed.

The
cell contained only an upper and lower bunk, a seatless toilet with a single faucet sink attached to it, and a small stool and table. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined myself inside a prison cell, planning a charade which, if it failed, could cost me my life. My thoughts flew to Amy and Alex. I wondered what they were doing right that very moment. Maybe Alex was throwing one of his famous tantrums over not wanting to eat lunch. Amy would eventually triumph, with that special blend of love and reasoning she so expertly mixed together.
Man
,
do
I
miss
them
! I shook the thought from my mind.
Got
to
stay
alert
.
Can't
get
melancholy
thinking
about
home
. I forced myself to concentrate on the business at hand and continued to scope out the cell.

The
lower bunk had pictures of naked women taped to the wall. Half were of girls straddling motorcycles. It was obvious this was my target's bunk, so I decided not to invade his space. I removed my shirt, climbed onto the upper bunk, and waited, listening to the distant sounds of radios and the occasional shouting of profanities echoing through the halls.

I
was startled by the sudden appearance of a tall, muscular prisoner who looked to be a well-preserved fifty. He stood at the entrance to the cell, silent and imposing, scoping out the new guy on the block. I stared straight into his eyes. I wondered if he'd behave like one of those monkeys in the zoo the teachers had always told us not to stare at because they would find it threatening. Of course all the kids in the eighth-grade class immediately began to stare away, causing the small creatures to flip out and scream and dance—to our endless delight.

Fortunately
for me, after about thirty seconds the inmate, seemingly satisfied, started to walk away. It was then I noticed the other figure, who had previously been out of view. I was shocked to see what I first thought was a woman, her finger through his belt-loop, following along closely. The young prisoner was dressed in halter top, short pants that exposed part of his butt cheeks, and high heels, which he seemed to have little trouble walking in. His face was soft, and he wore eyeliner and lipstick. He shot me a coy look as he passed the cell.

I
closed my eyes for a moment, thinking about the unfortunate individual I'd just seen. He'd probably been sent up on some bullshit possession charge and, not being rich enough, got sent to the big house for two years. He would have been lucky to just do his two years and get out. They probably turned that kid before he'd been here a week. Poor little bastard.

My
thoughts of pity were abruptly interrupted by the growl of a six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-or-so-pound inmate inquiring about my identity.

"Who
the fuck are you?"

I
turned slightly on one shoulder and gave him a hard, cold look. I knew that to answer him quickly would be a sign of weakness.

"Who
the fuck's askin'?" I replied. I was scared, but couldn't let him know it.

"Look,
scumbag, I fu—" He stopped in mid-curse, his eyes widening as he saw the Satan's Saints tattoo on my chest. "Son of a bitch! You're a fuckin' Saint! No shit?"

"No
shit," I said unkindly. I had to concentrate, keep the act going.

"I
thought all you guys were dead. Killed, after you chilled about three thousand cops."

I
hopped down from the bunk to greet my inquiring friend face-to-face.

"Obviously
not all of us... and not quite three thousand cops." The lies came to my lips with an ease I found surprising. The fear was quickly turning to excitement. I would have no trouble winning this gullible oaf's confidence. "I'm Jimmy," I said as I extended my hand. No need for last names.

"My
friends call me Dog."

"Okay,
Dog, good to meet ya. Looks like we'll be sharing this house."

"Not
for long, my man. I'll be getting out of this hole in two weeks. Then I'm gonna grab my old lady and ride for two days. Only gonna stop to eat, drink, and fuck. How long you got?"

"Already
put in fifteen of a sixteen-month clip. They pulled me from Sacramento 'cause we were 'bout to get it on with the niggers there in a big way. They must have figured if they transferred out the gang leaders from both sides, the rumble wouldn't take place. The shit's gonna blow there no matter what they do." Again the lies flowed easily, and Fen-way bought it all the way. He didn't comment, just nodded as if he'd heard it all before. After about thirty seconds of silence he added, "When you get out, man, look us up. I ride with The Henchmen." He rolled up his sleeve and showed me The Henchmen insignia tattooed on his right forearm. "You can prospect for me if you want."

"Dr.
Death doesn't fucking prospect for nobody," I asserted abruptly. Fenway smiled. My instincts had served me well. An outlaw like Randall would never lower himself to prospect status. Fenway's eyes widened. "Dr. Fucking Death! Holy shit! You come look up me and my friends. I'll hook you up."

"House
check!" shouted an inmate from about three cells away.

"Here
we go again," said Fenway.

"How
often do they toss you here?" I asked.

"Depends.
Sometimes once a week. More, if somebody gets shivved in the yard."

A
guard walked into our cell and ordered, "Okay, you know the routine, turn around." Fenway was facing the back of the cell. I could see the guard from the corner of my eye as he searched under the mattress of the top bunk. The guard abruptly turned toward me. "Hey, Mack, wise up! You face the fucking wall during house check! Got it?" The guard smiled slightly, pulled a homemade knife from his pants pocket, and proceeded to slip it under Fen-way's mattress.

This
was it. I was supposed to say something and get in tight with the biker by exposing the guard's attempt to plant the blade. My mind was screaming
No
,
no
,
you
stupid
idiot
,
we
don't
need
to
do
this
!
I'm
in
!
I'm
in
tight
already
! but there was nothing I could do. I felt I had to proceed with what had been planned lest they try something too obvious and screw me up completely.

I
turned toward the guard and shouted, "Hey, hack, you pulled that shit from your pocket! No fucking way, man!"

Fenway
turned around in time to see the guard holding the mattress up with one hand, the blade in the other.

"Shut
the fuck up, asshole!" the guard ordered as he drove his club into my gut, just hard enough to look authentic. He turned toward Fenway.

"Don't
move, motherfucker!" he ordered. I had doubled over, as if the blow to my stomach had been effective, but I could still see two more guards come rushing into the cell. My head exploded in pain. Darkness. Silence.

I woke up about four hours later in the prison infirmary. As I opened my eyes I recognized Dalton Leverick standing at the foot of the bed. He was dressed as a doctor—white coat, stethoscope, the whole bit.

"Oh
shit, I died and went to hell," I said with some irritation in my voice.

"How
are you, Martin?" Dalton asked with concern.

"Great.
Just great. I had it made with the guy. He bought everything I had to say. He practically invited me to join the goddamn club. There was no reason to pull that house-check bullshit. What the hell went wrong, anyway?"

"When
two of the other guards heard the commotion they thought you and Fenway were attacking the guard in your cell. It wasn't meant to be that way, Martin. I'm sorry."

"Those
stupid pricks could have killed me."

"It
could have been worse."

"How's
that?"

"The
biker could have smelled a rat and cut your throat while you slept."

"I'd
rather take my chances with the bikers. No more setups with assholes who are going to get me hurt. I'm better off alone than with help like that. I don't know if this prison thing was such a great idea, Dalton. I'd like a little more say from now on in what affects my life during this assignment." I rubbed my head as if for emphasis.

"Sure,
sure, Martin, don't get so excited. Nothing like this will ever happen again. Guaranteed." Leverick picked up a chart and pretended to write as one of the inmates passed us with a bucket and mop on his way to the toilets. After he was clear, Leverick returned the clipboard to the front of the bed. "I'll personally make sure of it," he added.

"So
what's next, Dalton?" I asked, with a touch of eagerness in my voice. In spite of a splitting headache my adrenaline was pumping. I wanted to get right back in action.

"You
spend a week here in this room. You'll need that time for your head to heal. The story among the general population is that a stand-up guy from up north got hurt during lock and count. Next week, about a week before Fenway gets paroled, a story will be circulated that you got transferred out. That isn't uncommon. Troublemakers from other penitentiaries are often bounced around until they finally end up in solitary confinement, or get killed. In a few weeks, you make contact with Fenway. Then the real game begins. Clear?"

"Yeah,
real clear. Christ, Dalton, what the hell am I supposed to do here for a week?"

"Just
keep your ears open. Remember, the prisoners have elaborate networks. Some of them run huge operations from inside the prison. Usually they give instructions through visitors, ordering murders or setting up major drug deals. Many of those situations may involve The Henchmen on the outside. You've got a name here now. During the next week any prisoners brought to the infirmary will know about James Randall, a.k.a. Dr. Death, the righteous brother who took on three guards his first day inside. If anyone takes you into their confidence, make it known that you plan to hook up with The Henchmen when you get out."

"I
guess I'll see you when I get out."

Leverick
came closer to me and pretended to examine my head wound.

"One
more thing. There's a nurse here. His name is Freddy. He's one of ours. If there's any emergency or any message you need to get to me, go through him."

Two days passed without any contact with other prisoners. Freddy came by my bed a few times to see if I needed anything. There was never a mention of who he really was. He treated me like any other patient. His manner was professional and distant. On the third day they put a prisoner in the bed next to mine. He was of Mexican descent, probably second-or third-generation, thirtyish. His name was Rafael Mendez. His street name was Poppi.