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Authors: Anthony Papa Anne Mini Shaun Attwood
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size of a bus-stop shelter. The floor was concrete, greasy black with grime. The walls were stained brown. On one side of the cell were our three bunks separated from a steel combination toilet and sink by a thin wall. The other side consisted of just enough floor space to do push-ups on and a tiny steel table and stool bolted to the wall. The toilet at the front of the cell reeked of sewage. The front wall was metal grid – the guards and prisoners outside could see right in – so there was no privacy for the toilet. At the far end of the cell, a tiny barred window granted a view of the desert, chain-link fences and razor wire. On the top bunk, there was hardly enough room to raise my head without it hitting the ceiling, which it did as I arranged my mattress and bedding.
‘I can’t believe they put three people in these,’ I said.
‘They were originally designed for one man,’ Boyd said. ‘Rather than build more cells, they double-bunked them. Then, when they got away with that, they triple-bunked them. So now you’ve got 45 men living in a pod designed for 15.’
‘When’re they going to start putting four in a cell?’ I asked.
‘They already do,’ Boyd said. ‘There’s just enough floor space for a mattress, so the fourth guy sleeps on the floor.’
My cellmates both urinated. They were soon snoring, shrouded in white sheets like corpses awaiting burial.
For a few hours, I tried to sleep, but my heart refused to settle down, and my mind was all over the place. Afflicted by the shock of the newly incarcerated, I began hallucinating. I heard my name whispered in the day room – English Shaun. Yeah, him. English Shaun. That’s him. Let’s get him. I saw men line up on the balcony, preparing to give me a heart check.
I knew about heart checks from Rossetti – one of the few members of my security team who’d been to prison. He’d told me gang members usually attack new arrivals to see if they show heart by fighting back. Fighting back earns respect. Those who don’t fight back are considered weak and open to getting extorted and punked (raped).
I knew I had to fight back or, better yet, attack them first to show heart. I visualised some of the moves I’d learned in kickboxing. I saw myself punching, kicking, mowing my attackers down like Kwai Chang Caine in Kung Fu . No problem. In theory. I was psyched up until my mind swerved to concern for my teeth. I had invested a lot in American dentistry. Fighting multiple assailants would expose my investment to unnecessary risk. I might even have to write off a tooth or two. But if I didn’t fight now, I would lose more teeth in the long run fending off extortionists and rapists.
‘If you don’t stand up for yourself during a heart check, everyone’ll punk you,’ Rossetti had said.
Teeth be damned! I jumped off the top bunk and charged from the cell. ‘Come on, motherfuckers!’ I was slapped in the face by silence. There was no one on the balcony. I almost laughed out loud.
The day room had emptied except for four African Americans slamming dominoes down on a table with excessive force. They frowned at me in a way that said, Just another crazy white boy wigging out on drugs again.
Out of the cell now, I figured I’d best do something appropriate. Radiating purpose, I marched down the stairs. I tried one of the phones bolted to the wall, but it didn’t accept telephone numbers. I needed instructions on how to work it. The African Americans were really hurting their dominoes, and I had to think twice before interrupting their game. ‘Any of you guys know how these phones work?’
One of them took me to one side, and said, ‘Are you on drugs, man?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You look paranoid.’
‘I’ve been up for days in The Horseshoe.’
‘Where you from, man?’
‘England.’
‘No shit. That’s cool. Look, man, I’ll give you a heads-up ’cause you’re new here. You be running round all paranoid and shit, motherfuckers’ll
‘I can’t believe they put three people in these,’ I said.
‘They were originally designed for one man,’ Boyd said. ‘Rather than build more cells, they double-bunked them. Then, when they got away with that, they triple-bunked them. So now you’ve got 45 men living in a pod designed for 15.’
‘When’re they going to start putting four in a cell?’ I asked.
‘They already do,’ Boyd said. ‘There’s just enough floor space for a mattress, so the fourth guy sleeps on the floor.’
My cellmates both urinated. They were soon snoring, shrouded in white sheets like corpses awaiting burial.
For a few hours, I tried to sleep, but my heart refused to settle down, and my mind was all over the place. Afflicted by the shock of the newly incarcerated, I began hallucinating. I heard my name whispered in the day room – English Shaun. Yeah, him. English Shaun. That’s him. Let’s get him. I saw men line up on the balcony, preparing to give me a heart check.
I knew about heart checks from Rossetti – one of the few members of my security team who’d been to prison. He’d told me gang members usually attack new arrivals to see if they show heart by fighting back. Fighting back earns respect. Those who don’t fight back are considered weak and open to getting extorted and punked (raped).
I knew I had to fight back or, better yet, attack them first to show heart. I visualised some of the moves I’d learned in kickboxing. I saw myself punching, kicking, mowing my attackers down like Kwai Chang Caine in Kung Fu . No problem. In theory. I was psyched up until my mind swerved to concern for my teeth. I had invested a lot in American dentistry. Fighting multiple assailants would expose my investment to unnecessary risk. I might even have to write off a tooth or two. But if I didn’t fight now, I would lose more teeth in the long run fending off extortionists and rapists.
‘If you don’t stand up for yourself during a heart check, everyone’ll punk you,’ Rossetti had said.
Teeth be damned! I jumped off the top bunk and charged from the cell. ‘Come on, motherfuckers!’ I was slapped in the face by silence. There was no one on the balcony. I almost laughed out loud.
The day room had emptied except for four African Americans slamming dominoes down on a table with excessive force. They frowned at me in a way that said, Just another crazy white boy wigging out on drugs again.
Out of the cell now, I figured I’d best do something appropriate. Radiating purpose, I marched down the stairs. I tried one of the phones bolted to the wall, but it didn’t accept telephone numbers. I needed instructions on how to work it. The African Americans were really hurting their dominoes, and I had to think twice before interrupting their game. ‘Any of you guys know how these phones work?’
One of them took me to one side, and said, ‘Are you on drugs, man?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You look paranoid.’
‘I’ve been up for days in The Horseshoe.’
‘Where you from, man?’
‘England.’
‘No shit. That’s cool. Look, man, I’ll give you a heads-up ’cause you’re new here. You be running round all paranoid and shit, motherfuckers’ll
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