No Team To Root For (33) "Jessop." Other words came from the face and the light --- "Can you hear me?" At first the words were vague and distant. Now they were getting clearer and closer. "Hey! Jessop!" Barrett Jessop opened his eyes slowly. He was --- someplace. He felt as if he were floating through space --- coming from one world and being transported to another world. Now things were coming into focus. He saw the face next to the light. The face was looking down at him. Barrett realized he was flat on his back. "Hey, Jessop. You awake yet?" The face had white eyebrows, a white mustache and a short white scraggly beard. The head was bald except for a thick white batch of hair over each ear. A small round metal pair of glasses was on a small round red nose. The per-son looking at him wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a wrinkled green tie. Barrett felt like every inch of his body was either missing or in a vise. He ached in places he didn't know existed and he never re-membered being so sick to his stomach. "Where --- am --- I? What --- who --- ?" His voice was weak and foggy and the words were slurred. One moment he was sure he was going to die. And the next moment he was sure he wasn't going to die! "I'm Doctor Richard Kramer." He got his face close to Barrett's. "Just try and breathe easy." Barrett stared at him. "You're joking, right?" He could barely get the words out. The physician put away his pen light and picked up a small stack of papers. His gaze alternated between Barrett and the papers. "Are those papers about --- me?" Barrett asked weakly. His mouth was very dry. "Yep!" Kramer now looked over his spectacles at his patient. "They roughed you up pretty good last night." He flipped through the pages. Barrett closed his eyes. "You got a cracked rib, some severe contusions on your face, a bad bruise just above the navel --- " He paused. Barrett thought he suddenly looked uncomfortable --- almost in pain. Kramer put his papers down, cleared his throat and again got his face close to Barrett's. He continued in a soft tone. He spoke slowly and compassionately. "You were sodomized, son. I'm sure you're aware of that." Barrett nodded slowly. He turned his head. He felt his eyes fill with tears. Sodomized! His focus of attention turned to a glass table in the corner. The table had white cloths, small vials, cotton swabs, a box of tissues, a thermometer and a syringe. He recog-nized an ophthalmoscope and an otoscope. A sphygmomanometer was on the bottom shelf. There were several things he didn't recog-nize. Some electric devices were on the floor next to it. A long white coat hung on a metal coat rack. Barrett turned back to Kramer. "Tell me Doc --- " He tried to be coherent. "Am I going to survive this --- ordeal?" Sodomized! Kramer nodded. He hesitated before he responded. "You will --- physically." Barrett knew what he meant. He licked his lips. Logic was be-yond reason and nearing the realm of impossibility. Coherency re-mained difficult. Panic was the dominant emotion. "Isn't what --- happened to me --- against the law?" Kramer took a large white cloth and covered the table. "Not in here, son." Barrett started to raise his head. Kramer pushed him down gently and whispered, "Keep your head down. If someone comes by they need to see you flat on your back." The physician looked around the small clinic. Then he picked up Barrett's file again. "You have nothing life threatening. All your vital signs are back to normal." He slipped the records into a manila folder. After a long silence, Barrett asked, "So what the hell am I sup-posed to do now?" Sodomized! Barrett raised his head again. And again Richard Kramer gently pushed him back down. "I told you," he whispered, "keep your head down. If they see you flat on your back, I can keep you here a few extra days. If you get up, some damn hotshot guard will grab you and toss you back in your cell." Barrett closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You haven't an-swered my question." The physician stared at his patient for a moment. "I've been here almost twenty-five years. I've seen people come and go. I guess I've seen about all there is to see." He spoke with more anger. "This shit happens all the time!" "So --- what does that mean?" Sodomized! There was another long pause. Kramer took his coat off the rack and hung it in the closet. Then he took a large black cover and put it over the machines on the floor. "It means --- there ain't nothing you or anyone else can do. It's a damn way of life here!" "Goddamn it! That really stinks!" "I know it does. And it's not gonna change!" "Look, Doc." Barrett started to raise his head then changed his mind. "I got seven and a half more years here --- barring some sort of miracle, that is. There is no way in hell I could go through this again!" Sodomized! The elderly physician nodded sympathetically. "Some guys are here for life. Ain't nothing they can do either." Barrett had trouble with the analogy. He spoke with difficulty. "Being fucked in the ass --- " "Is painful and humiliating." Kramer finished Jessop's sentence. "I know." "What if it does happen again?" Anger was mixed with fear. "What if those sons-a-bitches ---? "Relax, okay. Just because it happened once doesn't mean it'll happen again." "That's not an answer, Kramer." Kramer shrugged. Barrett con-tinued. "And there are no guarantees --- right?" The physician shook his head. "No guarantees." "Well --- I think I should tell the warden." "Forget it, Jessop! Don't waste your time." Kramer went to an-other closet and took out a tan sport coat. "Gordon Slade hates convicts. He's probably glad it happened!" "Terrific!" Barrett muttered to himself. "You stay in there, Jessop." Kramer pointed to the room next to the one they were in. "You stay there for --- oh --- eight to ten days. You'll feel better by then." He put on his jacket and once again put his face next to the patient's. "Have some faith, son. In a month or so, you'll be pretty well healed." "So I can go through it again?" Sodomized! Someone had sud-denly turned a fan on inside Barrett's head. "Barrett. I told you there are no guarantees in this joint." He looked around the room quickly, then continued. "If you don't have money or influence --- " He shrugged. " --- there ain't a hell of a lot anyone can do for you." I had money. So what? "You just have to take your chances and make the best of it." "But the warden --- " "Jessop, forget the damn warden! I'm telling you --- " Barrett reached up and grabbed the green tie, pulling the elderly physician down until their noses were an inch apart. "I can't make the best of it, Doc. "I --- " He let go of Kramer's tie and began to cry. "I know, son." Kramer spoke softly and consolingly as he unlocked the wheels of Barrett's bed. "It's all one big crock of shit! Everyone knows what goes on here, but no one is interested in do-ing anything about it --- including me!" "But --- " "I'm too old to be wasting my time making waves where nobody gives a damn. I'm not ready to quit and I got nowhere else to go." The elderly physician leaned in closer and whispered. "Tough to get old, Jessop. Don't do it" "Look, Kramer --- " "Just do yourself a favor and direct all your energy to recuperat-ing." He wheeled Barrett to the adjoining bedroom. "There's a phone next to the bed with my home number on it." He adjusted his glasses. "When I'm not here I'm at home. If you need anything you give me a call." Kramer started to leave then asked "Oh --- do you want me to contact anyone? Family? Friends?" "No!" Barrett would have screamed it if he had the strength. "No one outside these walls must ever know. Please! Promise me!" "Okay, Jessop. Okay. I promise. Relax!" Barrett motioned for the elderly doctor to come closer. Then he whispered. "Let me stay here. I'll --- " Kramer shook his head. "I'd like to but they won't let me. And be-sides, I don't have the space or the manpower. I'm literally a staff of one." Barrett started to object. Richard went on. "Every damn day three or four inmates come in here because of a --- headache, or a bellyache, or a backache --- or something. Sorry." Kramer started to say more. But instead he just shrugged and left. Barrett lay flat on his back, frightened, angry and exhausted. He looked at the walls, then at the ceiling, and then at the floor. He went back and forth unable to concentrate on anything. His jum-bled thoughts were vague and disoriented. He felt as if his mind and body were slowly unraveling. Nonetheless, he always came back to the same painful and pathetic conclusion. He was a victim of poetic justice at its very worst! XLVIII Gordon Slade was thirty-nine years old and had been warden at Lucasville Prison for four years. He got his law degree at Temple University and his criminology degree at University of Cincinnati. Slade had small steel gray eyes and a little square mustache that re-minded Barrett Jessop of Adolph Hitler. Both his nose and his chin came to a sudden halt when they got to the end of his face. A high forehead and a short neck stood atop his stocky five feet eight inch frame. He had a large purple birthmark on his left cheek that he tried to cover with his hand whenever he was with anyone. Slade wore a wrinkle free three-piece suit with a loud expensive looking silk tie. His black patent leather shoes were spit polished. The warden's dressy attire reminded Barrett of Miles Garrison. Barrett thought the size of the small office did not reflect the im-portance of the position. Two walls had floor to ceiling books on law and jurisprudence. Slade's degrees and college certificates along with pictures of him in various poses in a football uniform hung conspicuously on the wall behind his desk. The walls and ceiling were beige and the carpet was a thick plush brown. "Sit down, Jessop." It was more of an order than a request. He offered Barrett no handshake. He took a white folder from the top drawer and threw it on top of a very neat desk. "Did you file this complaint?" He picked up the folder and shook it at Barrett. Then he quickly put his free hand against the birthmark. When Barrett did not give an immediate response, Slade leaned in toward him and threw down the folder. "I asked you if you filed this complaint!" Barrett nodded. His throat felt like a rough dirt road. "Y --- yes I did." Slade grunted as he kept his cold gaze fixed on the prisoner. Then he sat down and looked at the folder again. "And just what do you expect me to do with this report?" Barrett sat up as straight as he could. His back and buttocks still hurt a great deal. He spoke directly. "I know there are laws against --- this sort of thing." Sodomized! "Is that so?" Slade nodded, absently rubbing his cheek. "And who made you the law expert around here?" "Doctor Kramer said --- " "I know what Kramer said." Slade interrupted. "It's in the re-port." He opened the folder for a second, glanced at the contents, then closed it. He looked Barrett in the eye. "Do you have any proof?" "Proof?" Fear replaced anger and emotion replaced reason. Bar-rett wanted to stand up and scream. Why me, Goddamn it? "Proof!" Slade raised his voice. "An eyewitness! A name! Some-thing --- anything!" Barrett paused. His head was throbbing and his hands were damp. "Isn't it in the report?" "That's not enough, Jessop. I need names!" Barrett paused again. He knew he had to be precise. "Uh --- Randy. Someone named Randy." "Randy?" Barrett then described what little he knew of the men that at-tacked him, finally adding. "There were four men in the cell. Randy was one of them." "We don't have any cells with four prisoners, Jessop." Slade's cold and penetrating glare was making Barrett's headache worse. "There were four prisoners in that cell, Warden." "I just told you that we don't have any cells with four prisoners." He leaned in closer to Barrett and spoke softly but menacingly. "You're not calling me a liar --- are you?" "Well --- no --- " "Good!" The warden took out a large notebook from the bottom desk drawer and turned several pages. Then he stopped and stared. "There are five 'Randys' in this establishment." He turned another page. "Black or white?" "Excuse me?" He rubbed his wet hands on his trousers. "Was the man black or white?" The warden said impatiently. Barrett thought a second. "He was white --- and bald. And I think he had a scar over his right eye." Snide ran his fingers up and down the page, stopping dramatically somewhere in the middle. "Hmmm --- " He absently ran his other hand along his cheek. Barrett was sweating profusely and his head continued to throb. Now he felt nauseous. Sodomized! "The only 'white' Randy --- " He looked scornfully at the pris-oner. " --- was released nine months ago." Then he slammed the book shut and put it back in the bottom drawer. "I'm sorry, Warden." Barrett knew he should go calmly back to his cell and forget the whole thing. But it was too late to back down. "He said his name was Randy. And he was white." "You don't listen do you, Jessop. I just told you that a 'white Randy' doesn't exist!" Barrett started to protest, but quickly changed his mind. After a few seconds of silence, he asked, "Why don't you question the guard that took me to that cell?" Slade continued to stare then shook his head disgustedly. "Guard?" Barrett just nodded Slade shook his head again. "Okay, Jessop. Tell me this guard's name." Barrett thought for a while. The pain in his stomach suddenly re-appeared. The warden took his pencil and began to methodically pound it on the desk. Then he spoke contemptuously. "Come on man! I haven't got all day." Barrett looked up quickly. The rhythmic pounding of Slade's pen-cil reminded him of the pounding of the guard's club. A sharp pain shot through his body. "Fletcher." Slade stopped the pounding and narrowed his eyes again. "Au-gust Fletcher?" Barrett nodded. He didn't know the guard's first name. "Jessop!" Slade shook the pencil in front of Barrett. "If this turns out to be a dead end, I will personally see to it that you are thrown into solitary and kept there for the remainder of your sentence." He raised his voice again. "And this incident will be automatically closed --- forever!" Barrett did not respond. He hoped it was only an idle threat. Snide then added, "Do I make myself clear?" Barrett nodded. His stomach pain was more intense and the fan inside his head began whirring again. He didn't know how much longer he could sit here. Slade pressed a button on the intercom. His cold narrow eyes re-mained focused on the prisoner. "Please get me August Fletcher." Slade spoke unemotionally into the box. Then he folded his hands and sat back in his chair. Barrett looked at the floor as both men were silent for several minutes. The only sounds were distant voices coming from the courtyard. Barrett then closed his eyes and began to do some deep breathing exercises. A knock on the door disrupted him. His heart was beating so hard he felt his entire body shake. "Come in." Slade said as he immediately covered his cheek with his hand. The door opened slowly and the guard named Fletcher entered the small room. "Did you want to see me, sir?" He stood at atten-tion, seemingly not to notice Barrett. "Yes, Fletcher. This man here --- " Slade pointed to Barrett. " --- claims you took him to a cell where four prisoners attacked him. I've already told him that we don't have any cells with four prison-ers --- but he insists!" Fletcher cast a brief glance at Barrett. When their eyes met, Bar-rett could feel the powerful impact. It was as if two knives had penetrated his forehead. The guard turned his head quickly back to the warden. "I don't know about anything like that, sir." He continued to stand at atten-tion Barrett was drenched with sweat and shaking all over. "Well, Jessop." Slade smiled menacingly. "Seems we have a dif-ference of opinion here." "That isn't true. I ran out of money and he hit me with his club. Then he took me to this cell where --- " Barrett knew he had re-sponded too quickly. He hadn't meant to blurt it out. He wanted to reach out and pull back the words. But it was too late. "Whoa!" Slade said as he put both hands into the air, exposing his birthmark. "Jessop! You have insinuated police brutality. Now you insinuate that a guard at my prison took money from you!" Slade's small beady eyes had suddenly gotten smaller and beadier. "Accepting bribes in my jail is a serious crime, Jessop! A guard that accepts a bribe is as big a criminal as any prisoner!" The guard named Fletcher was still at attention but breathing harder. "Excuse me, sir." Now his voice displayed a noticeable tremor. "I never took money from this man. I would never accept a bribe." Barrett started to protest and again changed his mind. He had said enough --- probably too much! "I never hit him." The guard continued evenly. "And I don't know nothing about him being attacked." "Well apparently he was attacked." Slade said stoically. "I have Kramer's release here. But there are no specific details. It doesn't say who's responsible and it doesn't say how many were involved. There are no references as to where an assault took place." He picked up the report and pointed it at Fletcher. "But this is a medi-cal release. It's not a police report!" Slade stood up abruptly and looked directly at Fletcher. Once again his birthmark was on dis-play. Then he threw the folder on the desk. "Well --- I guess now I'm forced to investigate this sad state of affairs." His eyes were like two dots. "You can go, Fletcher." The guard turned to leave. As he did so, he cast an even more in-tense fiery glance at Barrett. Barrett felt the knives plunge deeper. "Okay, Jessop!" roared Slade. "Get out of my office!" Barrett stood slowly. His mouth was dry, and his clothes were so wet they stuck to the seat. His legs felt like twigs. Slade walked closer to him, his left hand flat against his cheek. He shook his right forefinger at the optometrist. "The next time you file a complaint or accuse someone of something, you damn well better have a shit pot full of proof. Because without sufficient proof my job becomes exceedingly difficult --- see?" Barrett didn't but he nodded anyway. The warden walked back to his desk and sat down heavily. "You inmates irk the hell out of me! Always thinking someone is out to get you!" He raised his voice again. "As far as I'm concerned, you're all scum. Society put you here for a very good reason. And whatever you get, you deserve! This is not a vacation resort. This is a Goddamn prison! And I intend to run it like a prison." Slade turned his finger away from Barrett and pointed it at the door. "Now get out!" The frightened prisoner hesitated a moment. He wanted to tell the warden that he was not scum. He was a professional! He was a pil-lar of the community! He wanted to yell it out --- but he didn't. Sodomized! He left the office cautiously and quietly. Then he remembered the guard's seething wrathful glare and he knew that a dreadful and irreversible situation had just taken a major turn for the worse. Barrett Jessop was lying on the cot with his face to the wall when the door to his cell suddenly flew open and banged resoundingly against the bars. A sharp painful jab to his ribs caused him to scream. He got up slowly holding his side. "You son-of-a-bitch!" August Fletcher roared. Then he rammed his club into the cracked rib. Barrett screamed again. "You got a big fucking mouth, Jessop! You know that?" His large round face was red and he was salivating. He stood motionless, glaring at the prisoner. Barrett was both petrified and infuriated at this point. His pulse was out of control and his breathing was suddenly erratic. He knew he couldn't go on this way any longer. He had had enough. He could take no more. God help me with what I'm about to do! He seized the moment and shoved his knee into Fletcher's groin. August Fletcher, with a shocked expression on his face, fell back against the cell door. Barrett Jessop, still weak and in agony, reached for the guard's club. But he wasn't agile or quick enough. Fletcher hit him across the face shattering his cheek. The next blow busted open his head. It was the last thing he felt. Then he was floating numbly through a blurred web of broken asymmetrical lines, fragments of glass of all shapes and sizes, and millions of multicolored spots. It was a moment of surrealism. Eve-rything was moving at all speeds in all directions. Then it all stopped and there was nothing!
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