Читать книгу Two The Hard Way - Travis Hunter - Страница 11

We made it to the massive structure that was the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. To me, the building itself was a crime deterrent. Fear kicked into overdrive as we passed through fence after fence topped off with concertina wire. Guard towers were everywhere, and straight-faced men with rifles paced back and forth, looking for signs of trouble from a place that housed some of the world’s most dangerous criminals. I hated that my brother was among them.

As we made our way onto the grounds, I saw a sea of black faces in the recreation yard on the side of the prison. The driver opened the car door and two guards escorted us inside.

We were searched, pushed through a metal detector, then quickly ushered down a long corridor. I don’t know why but I was petrified. Ever since I could remember, I’ve been deathly afraid of prisons. I had visited Kwame only once since he had been incarcerated, because I couldn’t shake the nightmares of the first time I visited him. We passed an inmate who was mopping the floor. He looked to be in his late twenties. He stopped what he was doing and openly lusted after me as if I were some pretty girl. I frowned and kept walking. I was quite offended but I wasn’t about to get into it with a sexually confused convict. He made a kissing sound and I turned around. He held up his hand and motioned for me to come to him. I gave him the finger and walked into the meeting room with Mrs. Ross and the guard.

The room was a plain and dull white with a long table and a few chairs. There were no windows or pictures on the wall, just a big square room. Mrs. Ross pointed to a chair in the corner, and I took a seat. A few minutes later, people started entering the room and taking their seats at the long table. My eyes lit up when Kwame was escorted into the room by a Hulk-looking correction officer. The officer nodded at him and gave him a thumbs-up. Kwame wore a matching khaki shirt and pants with a prison number stenciled across the left breast pocket. We both shared the same dark chocolate complexion, but he was taller and seemed to have muscles bulging from everywhere. We made eye contact, and he tossed his head back to say “what’s up” before taking his seat. The parole panel was made up of one woman and two men.

“Thank you for coming,” said the white woman, who looked to be old enough to have eaten at the Last Supper, before introducing the panel.

“Now, Mr. Kwame Braxton, why should we release you back into society?” the same white lady said.

“Well”—Kwame cleared his throat—“I know saying this may not help my cause, but I never should’ve been here in the first place. But since I’ve been here, I’ve kept my nose clean, and I’ve done almost a year’s worth of college correspondence courses.”

“It says here that you were placed in disciplinary dorms twice during your incarceration. Care to explain?” the woman asked.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, it’s almost impossible to do two years in prison without a few infractions. This is a very violent environment, and every day it gets worse. Gang activity is peeking at you around every corner, and sometimes asking them to leave you alone just isn’t enough. It’s not like in the streets where if someone bumps into you, you can say excuse me and walk on. In here if someone bumps you and you try to walk away, they’re going to think they can take advantage of you. So sometimes you have to fight just to keep the peace, not to mention your manhood. I’m not making excuses; it’s just the way it is in here.”

“Based on the severity of your crimes and the total lack of remorse on your part,” said a white man, who looked to be about Kwame’s age, “I’m finding it hard to vote that you be paroled.”

“Sir, I can’t be remorseful for something I didn’t do. You guys want me to—”

Mrs. Ross drummed her fingers on the table and Kwame stopped talking.

“You were convicted by a jury of your peers. And for the sake of argument, let’s say you are innocent. Then why would you sign a plea agreement basically admitting to the crime you claim you didn’t commit?”

“I took the plea because seven years, with the possibility of parole after two, was better than twenty-five. Contrary to your guys’ opinion, I’m not some drug lord who can afford the dream team to prove my innocence.”

“The court assigned you an attorney.”

“Is that what you call him? He might as well have been called a public pretender. Look, I’m not trying to sound cynical or anything, but that guy was incompetent, and if you do a little research, you’ll see that since my case, he’s been disbarred and is working as a stockbroker or something. Going to law school was something he did to appease his parents. If I would’ve taken his advice, I would’ve gotten the electric chair. So seeing what I was dealing with, I just took the deal.”

“I see that you have the same attitude you had at your trial. Nothing is your fault,” the young white guy said.

Kwame started to say something but caught himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” the same guy asked.

“All I have to say is this system is not perfect. I was seventeen years old when I came in here. I was headed off to my freshman year at the University of South Carolina. For the life of me, I can’t understand why you guys are so hell bent on ruining my life.”

“Try looking in the mirror at the person who is ruining your life. We didn’t put crack cocaine in your possession. We didn’t put two pounds of marijuana in your possession. That was all you,” the other guy on the panel—a black guy—said.

Kwame sighed and shook his head. “All I’m saying is if you guys believe that everyone behind these walls is guilty and not one of them has been wrongfully convicted, then I guess I won’t make parole.”

When Kwame said that, I felt as if my heart were going to fall out of my chest. I wished he would just shut up, or if he insisted on talking, just tell the people what they wanted to hear so we could get out of here.

“The system is not the issue here. We’re talking about you. I’ll tell you right now that your attitude is not helping your cause at all,” the old white lady said as if she were reading my mind.

“I’ve done two years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. I’m nineteen years old, and all I really want to do is get on with my life. Now, being that you guys are trying to keep me in here has me a little upset, but I understand.”

“You understand what?” the white guy asked.

“What I’m dealing with.”

“Care to elaborate?” the black guy said.

“Guilty or not, this is my first offense. Before this, I never had so much as a traffic ticket, so at the very least, I would be considered a nonviolent offender, yet I’m in here with some of the worst people you could ever imagine. Murderers, rapists, child molesters—people who will never see the streets again as free men. People who will try to sabotage any possibility of release just for the sake of being evil. So, yes, there were times when I had to stand up for myself, but if you read the reports, you’ll see that I was never the aggressor.”

“Have you ever seen a crack baby?” the black man asked.

I wanted to scream, “I’m looking at one,” but I knew Kwame and Mrs. Ross would’ve slapped me silly, so I kept my comments to myself.

“Excuse me?” Kwame asked.

“Have you ever seen a crack baby?” he barked, slamming his hand down on the table.

“I’m sure I have,” Kwame answered quietly.

“Do you realize people like you contribute to that?”

“Sir, that crack was not mine. The car wasn’t mine. I was doing a favor for a friend”—Kwame started, but was cut off.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ve all heard your story and the jury didn’t buy it and I’m sure this board isn’t buying it either. Now”—he rustled through some papers—“you were sentenced to seven years, and you could be, and I stress could be, paroled after two years.”

Kwame looked over to Mrs. Ross, who nodded that everything was okay.

“But I’m not sure you are rehabilitated,” he said.

“Sir, I’m very familiar with drug addicts. I’m not proud of some of the choices I’ve made. Some of the people I chose to hang around. Being in here has given me time to see the things I could’ve done differently to change my situation,” Kwame said.

“What are your plans if—and trust me, it’s a big ‘if’—we were to grant you parole?” the white guy asked.

“I plan to get a job. I plan to be the best role model I can be for my brother. I plan to be the man my grandmother raised me to be.”

“There’s something about you that makes me believe you’re a con artist who’s still trying to get over. I think the minute you see the light of freedom, you will be back to selling drugs,” the black man said with a self-righteous look on his face.

“I can’t go back to selling drugs because I never sold them in the first place,” Kwame said.

“You’re in prison for it,” the black man snapped, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms with a smug look on his face.

“What’s wrong with you?” I screamed, surprising myself with my outburst. I couldn’t sit there quietly anymore.

“Romeo,” Kwame said, shaking his head. He was pleading with his eyes for me to sit down, but my blood had risen to its highest level, and I was about to blow a vessel.

“No,” I snapped. “I wanna know why this man is trying to keep you locked up. You’re acting like he murdered somebody. You just want to keep him locked up so you can make some money off of him. He’s not a slave. He did time in your dumb little prison, now leave him alone!” I yelled.

“Remove him from the hearings,” the black man shouted, pointing his finger at the door. “I’m so sick of these ghetto bastards that I don’t know what to do. If you ask me, we should do our race a favor and exterminate every last one of the little ignorant—” he said before catching himself.

Mrs. Ross stood and stormed toward me. She grabbed my arm and snatched me up like I was an unruly toddler.

“What was that?” she asked once we were in the hallway.

“Did you hear what he said?” My eyes were wide with disbelief.

“What was that?” she snapped again.

“I just couldn’t sit there and listen to that man treat my brother like that.”

“I want you to calm down. That little charade did not help your brother’s cause at all. That’s what they do. It’s all a game to try to provoke him. Kwame is doing fine.”

“And why are you just sitting there? I thought you were his lawyer. You’re not saying anything.”

“Romeo, Kwame is in jail. That means he’s the property of the state. This is not a television show. This is real, and until you take a few classes in criminal law, I suggest you keep your comments to yourself.”

Reality hit me and I felt like a complete idiot. I leaned on the wall and slid down to the floor.

God, I hope I didn’t ruin his chances, I thought.

Mrs. Ross walked over and leaned down to squeeze my shoulder. “Just relax. I know this is very difficult, but we have to stay the course and play by the rules. Okay?”

I nodded my head.

Mrs. Ross walked back toward the room. She paused and gave me a reassuring smile before she entered the room.

I tried to calm myself by standing up and taking a walk. Then I sat down. But I couldn’t sit still, so I stood again and paced the halls. I sat back down and got up again. It seemed like they were taking forever in there. I prayed that I hadn’t hurt Kwame’s chances of coming home, but something inside of me told me that I had done just that. How would he ever forgive me? I know I would never forgive myself. And what would Nana do? Oh, my God. How could I ever face Nana if I was the reason Kwame wasn’t coming home? I sat back down and jumped right back up when that confused convict with the mop came walking my way. I looked around for a guard or somebody, but all I saw was a long, empty corridor. I started to go knock on the door, but I had already caused enough confusion today. But I would yell if he made a move toward me. And if that didn’t work, I would bite him.

“What’s your name, sexy?” he asked, lust oozing from his words. “You a pretty lil something.”

“Man, I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to leave me alone.”

“No need for all the hostilities. I’m just making conversation,” he said, steadily walking toward me, looking over his shoulder as he approached. I guess he was trying to make sure the coast was clear. “You’re so damn cute.”

This was crazy. The guy didn’t look gay to me—at least not what I thought gay should look like, but this was a prison, so I guess anything went. He had more muscles than Kwame, a bald head, and a nasty scar going down his face. I imagined that scar came from him trying to hit on the wrong dude. Mr. Confused walked closer to me and looked me up and down before licking his lips. I stopped being scared and became disgusted. He walked past me and peeked into the door window of the room of the parole hearing. He did a double take and his whole demeanor changed. His eyes bulged as if he had just stepped on a land mine. His lust turned to nervousness.

“You here for Kwame?”

“That’s my brother,” I said, trying to capitalize on his sudden apprehension.

“Damn,” he said with a nervous smile. “I was just playing with you earlier. You know that, right?”

“Whatever.”

“Hey, you don’t even bother telling your brother because he ain’t gonna do nothing but act a fool. He’s about to get out, so if I were you, I wouldn’t tell him nothing. He ain’t got no sense of humor,” he said as all of his lustful bravado turned to fear. He looked back at the room where Kwame was before almost running down the hallway.

I thought about the look of sheer terror on Mr. Confused’s face and wondered what kind of guy Kwame had become in this place.

Before I could finish my thought, Mrs. Ross walked out and motioned for me to follow her.

“What happened?” I said, following her. She didn’t answer as we were escorted out of the building the same way we had come in.

“He’s not getting out, is he?” I asked just as the fresh air entered my lungs.

She ignored me and kept walking until we were outside and standing by the car.

“Come on, Mrs. Ross. Tell me something,” I pressed. My nerves were on edge, and I couldn’t take the silent treatment.

The driver opened the door for her and she got in the car. I stood outside looking down at her.

“Are you planning to walk?” she asked with a hint of irritation on her face. I couldn’t help but think that she had gotten some bad news.

“Why won’t you answer me?”

“Romeo, get in this car before someone mistakes you for an inmate.”

I huffed a bit but thought about all of the other guys who kept Mr. Confused company and got in the car.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked, and I buckled my seat belt.

“I hurt it jumping a fence,” I answered reluctantly. “What’s going on with my brother?”

“Is that injury going to stop you from playing football on Friday?”

“No,” I snapped. “Who cares anyway? I wanna know about my brother.”

“Calm down. I’m only asking because I would hate for Kwame to come see your game and have you not be able to throw one of those touchdown passes you like to brag about.”

I stared at the lawyer. What she said didn’t register until she flashed the prettiest smile I had ever seen.

“He has to sign some papers, but he should be home in time to make your game Friday night,” she said, shaking her head.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“As a heart attack.”

“Yeah!” I yelled, pumping my fist. “That’s what I’m talking about. If he had you in the beginning, he wouldn’t have been in there in the first place. Man, I thought I messed up his chances.”

“Actually, you helped. Your outburst exposed one of the board members as a racist. The only black man at that,” she said, shaking her head. “After that, it was pretty obvious they had ulterior motives. I made a phone call to the deputy warden and told him what transpired, and, well, let’s just say, he’s going to make this right. Better let him go than to face a discrimination lawsuit.”

I felt like jumping through the sunroof and yelling to God how awesome He was. So that’s what I did.