Episode Twelve (Part 2)
Welcome to Hell City
Lieutenant’s Office
1130 Hours
Lieutenant Rourke looked up as Whitaker stopped just inside the doorway.
The inmate’s shoulders hung under the weight of his faded prison blues. His scalp was freshly shaved, and the overhead light caught the pale shine of his head and threw it back at Rourke. Purple shadows ringed the skin beneath Whitaker’s eyes, the kind that came from too many nights without sleep and too much fear to call it anything else.
He couldn’t keep still. His weight shifted from one foot to the other, and his eyes kept sliding across the office until they locked on the narrow window in the door.
He looked like a man waiting for somebody to come through it.
Rourke tipped his chin toward the chair.
“Have a seat,” Rourke ordered, drawing in a slow breath. “Heard you’ve got something to say about your friends.”
Whitaker lowered himself into the chair as carefully as he could, still eyeing the door. Cade stayed by the frame, a faint smirk pulling at her mouth.
“You need me to stay?” she asked. “I got rounds to make on my end. Caught this scared little bastard wandering the corridor like he lost his damn mama.”
Whitaker looked at her, then back at Rourke.
“Nah. I’ve got it from here, Cade.”
Cade gave a short nod and stepped out. The door shut behind her with a heavy metal clank.
Rourke let the silence settle for a beat. He’d learned long ago that silence usually made men talk faster than questions ever did. Whitaker cleared his throat, and Rourke could see the words turning over in his head before they ever left his mouth.
“I need…” Whitaker fumbled finally. “I need protective custody,”
Rourke folded his hands together across the desk.
“From who?” he asked.
“Cutter, man. The Aryans. I know they want me dead. I just fuckin’ know it.” Whitaker practically spilled the words out of his mouth, his voice thin and shaking, and hands trembling so hard they almost wouldn’t stay still. He kept looking around the room like a pack of skinheads might come spilling out of the mop closet.
“You think Cutter’s coming after you?”
Whitaker nodded so fast it looked like desperation. His face had gone pale, his eyes wide and wet with panic.
“Lieutenant,” he said, swallowing hard, “I know he is.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“’Cause I fucked up.” Whitaker swallowed hard. His throat worked once, twice, before he could push the rest out. “The kind of fucked up you don’t get a second chance at.”
“You gotta give me more than that if you want PC, Whitaker.”
The words hit him hard. Twenty-three years inside those walls had taught Rourke that fear came in a lot of flavors. Some men hollered. Some men blustered. Some men cried. Whitaker looked like a man trying real hard not to piss himself in the chair.
“I killed the wrong man.”
Rourke leaned back in his chair, pulled out a crumbled pack of cigarettes and drew one to his lips.
“I’m listening,” Rourke said, lighting the cigarette and taking a drag.
“Ray on the yard,” Whitaker said, and his voice started to crack around the edges. “I killed him. Was supposed to hit Cap. I didn’t know who he was… I was just lookin’ for the hat, you know? Ray was well liked. Paid the Brothers, kept things smooth. I put a stop to that. That kind of shit doesn’t go unpunished. I’ve seen men killed for less.”
“If I’m going to move you into protective custody,” Rourke said, “I need more than that. Right now all I’m hearing is a confession and a man trying to shift the guilt.”
“LT, I’ll tell everything! I got fuckin’ dirt on ‘em!” Whitaker blurted. “I’m willing to say the orders came down from the Brotherhood!”
Rourke’s expression didn’t change. “Give me more. What else?”
Whitaker swallowed hard and shook his head.
“No,” he said, voice rough. He thought for a moment, Whitaker knew what Rourke would listen to but it meant a death warrant for sure. Whitaker leaned forward in the chair, elbows tight to his knees, like the story was physically weighing him down.
“Alright, I’m willing to uncover everything I know.”
Rourke gave him a flat look. “Then say it.”
“All the way back with Officer Cox, I can tell you why he was killed…” The air left the room. Whitaker leaned over the desk, voice becoming a frightening whisper. “Lieutenant... Officer Burke wasn’t the victim in Cell 113, either. That I know.”
Rourke’s cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth.
“What the hell did you just say?”
Whitaker looked him dead in the eye.
“Burke… he, he was dirty.”
Rourke’s expression hardened a fraction. “—Wait one goddamn minute, Whitaker. You better not be fucking with me!”
“I swear… this runs deeper than you can imagine, man…” Tears welled up Whitaker’s eyes. “I swear on my baby at home, believe me. C Block, cell 113 was just the end of it, man…”
CUT TO:
H Block
The air in Towers Valley always felt stagnant, as if the building had been exhaling the same stale air for years without ever pausing. The fluorescent lights above hummed with a low, oppressive buzz.
In the corner, a television blared a game show that no one was truly paying attention to. Further back, two inmates on laundry duty maneuvered a cart laden with whites along the wall, folding shirts with the vacant expression of men who’d rather be anywhere but there.
Lost in memories.
Remembering their crime.
Unit orderlies were cleaning around the floors while most of the block was out at rec, a broom scratched over the concrete. A mop bucket rattled by.
Kyle was making his rounds when the radio snapped alive on his hip.
“Rourke to Briggs. Give me a TX in my office when you can.”
Kyle briefly held the lapel to his ear, trying to process the radio traffic. The fans were incredibly noisy on the ranges, so much so that even with the microphones turned up to their max were hard to heard at times.
“Copy.” Briggs came over on the other end.
Briggs, coffee mug in hand, was in the office, peering through the Plexiglas as if observing suspicious activity on the entire block.
Down on the dayroom floor, the cards kept moving. Paper slapped steel.
Cutter sat at the table like he owned the air around it. The other men read him just fine, anyway. He tossed a card into the pile and watched it land.
“Kyle’s one of them straight-laced ones,” he said.
Sly snorted from across the table. “Ain’t many left.”
“Most of the hacks on duty ain’t dirty,” Chino said, watching the next hand get dealt. “Gotta respect that.”
Cutter gave the smallest shrug, eyes still on the table.
“Respect it. Don’t mean I gotta like it.”
That was Cutter in a nutshell. He kept the peace the way some men kept a knife tucked in their boot—not because they trusted the world—but because they didn’t.
Whitaker came back into the unit a minute later with Koss walking him in.
“Found this fucker wandering around,” Koss hollered to Kyle before turning and buzzing the door out.
Nobody made a big deal out of it. Cutter glanced up once, not even enough to call it a look, then went right back to the cards.
Sly noticed anyway.
Sly always noticed.
He lay a card down and said, almost like he was talking about the weather, “Your new boy been cuttin’ up the wrong guy? What was up with—”
The table went still for a beat.
Cutter’s eyes slid to him. “What’d you say?”
Sly raised one shoulder. Innocent as a prayer.
“Just askin’ if he’s learnin’ fast.”
Chino looked away. He knew better than to grin at either side of that. He liked Sly. He liked Prophet. Cutter he respected the way a man respects a hungry dog that’s kept put with a rusted chain.
Cutter turned his head and popped it, almost like a warning. He took offense to Sly asking questions like that, and Sly knew it.
“The Brotherhood is in check, Sly,” Cutter said, soft and firm. “You don’t worry bout my people. No offence.”
That was all. Just a simple reminder.
A reminder that the Brotherhood was still the biggest thing in the building right now, and Cutter was the one keeping it from tipping over into open war. That was the deal. That was the play. Peace was never peace in a joint like this. It was just two or three groups deciding they could make more money breathing the same air than spilling each other’s blood for the time being.
The cards, the meetings, the coffee times here and there—all for show with the troops. But Cutter let his people know it was business. Nothing else.
He didn’t care if the Mob was bigger on the outside and brought in the shit.
Prophet leaned back in his chair and watched the officer’s station through the Plexiglas. He had the kind of face that looked carved out of weather and bad memories. Vietnam had taken something permanent out of him, too.
He decided to change the subject. That’s what he did best. Prophet wasn’t a stupid man, he was a firm believer in keeping your enemies close. Buying time. Searching for weaknesses.
That’s all this treaty was to him.
“Briggs is one of them old-school types,” Prophet said. “Hard ass. But he’s solid.”
“Hard ass how?” Cutter asked, not looking away from the cards.
Prophet took a slow drag off his cigarette. “Vietnam hard ass.”
That got a few quiet looks.
Sly gave a crooked smile. “Heard he been stabbed nine times.”
“Heard he been shot five, homie,” Chino nodded once.
Cutter snorted and slapped a card down hard enough to make the table jump. “Heard he got hit by a truck and still made it back to work.”
Prophet didn’t even smile. The others giggled. Cutter was just being a smart ass.
“Briggs was in country,” he said. “That’s enough. Some men come back meaner. Some come back quieter. Some come back both. To that man up there, this is just another war-zone. Remember that shit.”
Sly shuffled the deck, tapping it loud against the steele table.
“Big package comin’ in through food service tomorrow.” Sly smiled, getting their attention. “The Don gonna get us all fat as a sign of his appreciation for the cooperation going on in here.”
“What kind of package?” Cutter asked. He could tell by the look on Sly’s face he wasn’t going to tell, not yet. He never did until it was on the compound. “Just wondering. I mean you got us all taking the risks.”
Sly’s mouth curved a little. “You okay, Cutta? You havin’ a day or somethin’?”
Cutter smiled, faking the anger that was swelling up inside.
“I mean, come on, Sly. He aint wrong—”
“—Yous neva, eva. Will know… got it?” he spat out quick and cut the deck all at once. “That’s how this works. Now, lets play some cards…”
WHITAKER AND HATCHET’S CELL
Whitaker hadn’t even made it halfway to his bunk before Hatchet looked up from the bottom rack.
He’d been lying on his back with one arm behind his head, watching the television mounted outside the cell. The moment Whitaker climbed the ladder without saying a word, Hatchet muted the little radio resting on his chest and studied him.
“You look rough, brother.”
Whitaker sat on the edge of the top bunk and let out a tired breath.
“I’m alright.”
Hatchet snorted. “No, you ain’t.”
Whitaker looked away.
Hatchet swung his boots onto the floor and climbed to his feet. He rested one forearm against the ladder and looked up at him. His tattoos right in Whitaker’s face as a reminder of what he was about, what he was dealing with.
“You’ve been gone almost an hour.”
“I know.”
“The hacks give you grief?”
“I got caught out in the corridor,” Whitaker shrugged. “I was tryin’ to scrape together some money. Owed somebody a little tobacco. Started askin’ around before they caught me.”
Hatchet nodded slowly, believing him. “They rough you up?”
“A little.”
Hatchet frowned but didn’t press it.
“Hell...” he muttered. “That figures.”
The two sat in silence for a moment. Hatchet looked at his cellie and finally spoke up.
“Look, I got something I need to get off my chest with you. You think we been avoidin’ you?”
Whitaker didn’t answer.
“You do. I know it… “ Hatchet assured. He folded his arms across his chest. “Everybody knew you were carryin’ that weight.”
“I hit the wrong man.” Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face.
“You hit the wrong man,” Hatchet agreed. “Ain’t nobody denyin’ it. But you stepped up when it counted. Your number got called and you didn’t punk out.”
He let that sink in for a moment.
“I talked to Cutter this morning. It’s done. You ridin’ lighting with us now, official.” Hatchet smiled.
Whitaker felt his stomach tighten and couldn’t speak.
Hatchet grinned. “You’re Brand, brother.”
The words echoed inside Whitaker’s head. No longer somebody proving himself.
One of them.
Hatchet reached up and squeezed the back of Whitaker’s neck.
“I’ll walk you through the rest later gonna go shower up.”
A lump formed in Whitaker’s throat.
“Quit lookin’ so goddamn miserable.” He laughed and slapped the side of the bunk. “We’ll make it official after chow. Cutter wants everybody there.”
Whitaker forced himself to nod.
“...I appreciate it.”
“You earned it,” Hatchet said. “Nobody gave you a damn thing.”
Hatchet headed for the door, stopping only long enough to look back.
“And quit beatin’ yourself up over Ray.” He shrugged. “It was business.”
Then he walked out onto the range. The sound of boots faded into the noise of the block.
Whitaker sat perfectly still. His breathing became shallow, eyes filled before he could stop them and he lowered his head into his hands. He was fucked in more ways than one now for sure. He signed his own death warrant.
FLASH BACK:
Rourke stood behind the desk in those black gloves, like he was dressing for something ugly. One hand, then the other. Lieutenant Rourke then bent, opened the desk drawer, and Whitaker heard the scrape before he saw it.
Metal on wood.
Then the shank came out. Eight inches of sharp, thick steel. Pure killer of a weapon wrapped in Rourke’s gloved hand. Whitaker’s stomach dropped straight through him.
Rourke stepped around the desk so fast that he had the blade to Whitaker’s throat before he could even process what was going on.
“I’m tellin’ you the truth!” is all Whitaker could muster.
Then the blade went under Whitaker’s jaw just enough.
“You’re telling me a lot of things nobody should know!” Rourke growled. “Keep your mouth shut. You’re going back to your fuckin’ unit. We’ll be watching you, cause I got something your gonna do understand?”