BOOK ONEChapter OneKittie didn't always fuck her clients. Sometimes, but not always. Depended on whether she found them attractive, though few of them could walk into a club and win a second look from women. That was OK. She didn't become an escort to seek relationships with men.
She gazed out the window as the cab passed Qwest Field, home of the Seattle Seahawks. A light rain dotted the glass and the darkening streets were stained. She smiled. She loved the smell of Seattle, often washed fresh by rain, and with the salty sea air of a port city breathing through its streets. The city had become her home ten years ago after she moved from Little India, the predominantly Eastern Indian neighbourhood in the Bronx. She liked New York life. She didn't like her demanding parents who actually attempted to arrange her marriage.
She glanced at her phone. 7:02pm--plenty time to make it to Bottoms Up, a gay club downtown. An odd meeting place by her client. Tony, manager of Exotic Desires Escort Service, told her Perry Grant was in his mid-thirties, and that he'd be wearing a white Stetson, sunglasses, and a short beard, and that he'd be seated at the bar. What a poser, sunglasses in a nightclub? Before she slipped the phone back in her pocket, she received a text from her daughter, Hannah, reminding her she'd become a big girl in four days when she turned six. Hannah's dream birthday present changed from one moment to the next. In cystic fibrosis years, six years old was a small milestone. It marked one more year of surviving a disease that limited the lifespan of children, though expensive medicines could buy thirty or forty years. Birthdays meant everything, especially early ones. Kittie texted, 'How is your cough?'
Chapter SixThe Washington State Reformatory at Monroe hadn't changed in the three years since it shit me back into society. Not physically. It stood as it has for over a hundred years against time, against the pounding of frustrated fists, squeezing the wills of broken men, strangulating hope, wear and tear and discolouration of its high surrounding walls its only signs of decay. Its population had changed. I had to do a double-take when a woman in prisoner issue passed in the hallway, long hair tied in a ponytail, cheeks blushed, lipstick, eye shadow, and a dark sports bra under a thin white T-shirt that held what looked like a teenaged girl's titties. Then I saw another, realised they were, you know, trannies.
Besides the chicks-with-dicks, everything else looked the same as I made my way through the cellblock corridor to the yard. I had arrived on the chainbus earlier that morning, after spending eleven months in the Yakima County Jail and two months in the Washington Department of Corrections (WDOC) processing centre at Shelton. I had tried to make my time in jail shorter. At my arraignment, three days following my arrest, I entered a plea of guilty to attempted felony murder. Paco, the meth head, had been in a vegetable state in the hospital, so why take the chance of him waking and disputing my story? It might lead them to my son. So I entered my plea. But my bendajo court appointed attourney decided my plea should be rejected pending a psychiatric and competency evaluation.
Chapter SixWhen I turned, asked what he was doing, he tried to explain it was in my best interests. The fuck would he know? I had just met him for the first time minutes earlier when guards escorted me in chains to the hearing. All I could see was this son of a bitch public defender cockblocking my desire to enter the WDOC to save my son from suspicion. I lost my head. My wrists were cuffed to a waist chain, so I lunged at him, got his red bulb of a nose between my teeth, and I held on. Blood filled my mouth and covered his white shirt by the time the guards maced me to extract my grip. Dumb bastards also had to mace the public defender who was clenched between my teeth.
What did I care at that point? I knew my future. I was a three strikes loser facing a sentence of never-never getting out. Life Without Parole. The big LWOP. So add more time for assaulting my public defender. They wasted judicial resources and taxpayers money to try me for the assault. They hit me with another eight years. But so what? I already faced life. Besides, the judge ran the eight years concurrent with my life sentence, so it didn't mean a goddamned thing. They just wanted to make an example to all, you know. It was a fucking charade. But I harboured the happiness of any father whose son gave them something to be proud of. Jorge fulfilled his promise. He began college, was maintaining a high grade-point average, and he wrote me every couple of weeks. I spent months staring at the spit encrusted ceiling of my jail cell, smiling at the thoughts inside me. My boy was going to make something of himself. I had done right by him as a father. I was as proud of myself as much as I was of him.
Chapter Eight'What you watching tonight, brother?' Ali Ali said as we made our way through an alley that connected A and B sides of the cellblock. As usual, the night sky poured through the block's row of high arched windows like treacle, and the noise level increased as more prisoners returned to their cells. Their raised voices ping-ponged back and forth from cells, mostly talking shit. I never understood the excitement that filled the cellblocks in the evening as prisoners began to settle in for the night. Maybe it came from their relief of having survived another day in the joint.
'Nothing on,' I replied. We had just walked back from AA with Chino, who peeled off to his cell on A-side. 'I'll probably finish this Shane Dunphy book I'm into.'
'Shane who?'
'Dunphy,' I said. 'Crime fiction writer.'
'Never heard of him,' Ali said. 'Any good?'
I nodded. 'Not bad. Worth reading. What you gonna go do?'
'Probably watch a flick if there's a good one on.'
I used to hate reading before I started doing time. Come to think of it, I didn't do much when I was out between stretches neither, but I've always been a keen reader in the joint. At least a book or two a week, or as many as five a week whenever I'm parked in the hole, like I been the last thirty days.
Chapter Ten His nostrils flared and he looked as if he wanted to reprimand my use of offensive language. I'm glad he didn't because it would get ugly real quick. Instead, he stepped away, spoke to the guard inside a glass booth through a grated partition, asked what table I had been assigned?
I looked at the bodies that surrounded tables, each family trying to ignore others, trying to suspend reality and shut the prison world off from themselves and their fallen angel they'd forgiven for committing whatever crime forced them to meet in prison visit rooms. I didn't see Maria. Some tables had a prisoner and a woman, most with their hair perfectly coiffed, make up carefully applied, clothes tighter than the manufacturer designed. They'd make a show of it for their prisoner and anyone else who cared to notice as they walked down the catwalk, the main aisle that led to the vending machines.
'You're at table sixty-two,' Baker said. 'It's in the back.'
I walked along the aisle that split the sea of tables. The main visiting room had a section of its wall opened to allow access to an adjacent room, mainly used for wives and immediate family members. It was quieter, darker. When I passed through, I stopped. My mother sat alone at table sixty-two. She looked smaller than I remembered, as if the emotional impact of being here weighed her down. She didn't have to say that visiting me was a humiliating experience. Her body language said it all. She sat stiffly, her ankles crossed tightly, back stiff, hands flat on the table in front of her. She didn't even feign a smile when she saw me. Last time she visited in the joint was a year before my release from my last stretch. She visited because she felt obligated. Not because she wanted to.
Chapter 12ESCORT KILLER HOSPITALIZED
Former King County Public Defender, Perry Grant (35), recently convicted and sentenced to life without parole for the killing of hired escort, Kitterine Naysmith, outside the Seattle nightclub, Bottoms Up, was stabbed twenty- seven times from an attack by another inmate at the Washington State Reformatory in Monroe last night. Grant, known as the 'Escort Killer,' was attacked at the prison chapel, which is the infamous site of the murder of Corrections Officer, Jayme Biendl, who was strangled by Inmate, Byron Scherf, in 2011.
Perry Grant survived the attack and is now in stable condition at the Evergreen Health Monroe Medical Center, pending return to the Reformatory.
Rafael Mendoza, Spokesperson for the Reformatory, stated that the matter was still under investigation. At this time, the reason for the assault is unknown.
Seattle Times.
Perry's attacker had used a small pointed hobby craft blade he had melted between two toothbrushes. The blade hadn't penetrated much more than an inch but the multitude of wounds caused great loss of blood, especially from his carotid artery in his neck that had been nicked. He spent two days in the Medical Center, then they transferred him to the upper floor of the prison infirmary.
The day after his arrival, he received a visit from a middle-aged man with short wispy grey hair. He entered the room like a scowling John Wayne entering a saloon, an exaggerated hitch in his step. His jeans, like his jacket, were loose fitting. He dragged a plastic chair across the floor to the side of the bed and emmitted a great sigh as he plopped himself onto it. He quietly unzipped a soft black case on his lap, removed a folder from it. His blue staff ID clipped to the collar of his jacket identified him as Belinda J. Sparks. He smiled, introduced himself as BJ, said he worked in the Intelligence and Investigations Unit (IIU).
Chapter 15The morning after Perry had left the infirmary and returned to his cell in population, a guard called his name over the cellblock speakers, instructed him to report to the property room. When he left the cellblocks, stepped outside into crisp air, he paused. A column of prisoners marched in cadence, left-right-left-right, from the long wide concrete hall that connected all four cellblocks. Once outside the blocks, they formed into four neat columns, about forty prisoners, all standing at attention. Their warm breaths billowed over them. One of the leading prisoners stepped forward, marched to the flagpole that centred the area, surrounded by a handrail barrier. He hoisted the Stars and Stripes while the platoon of prisoners smartly saluted.
The flagman returned to the ranks and the prisoners turned in unison, two rows at a time, and marched back the way they had come, left-right-left-right, one-two-one-two. Most of the prisoners were worn away, pot-bellied, balding, grizzled. They were former military service members who lived in the veteran’s unit, a square separate living block of about forty cells once used to film scenes for the movie, The Butterfly Effect, starring Ashton Kutchner.
For prison staff, housing these veterans together, effectively re-instilling the discipline and moral principles extolled by the military, it was one segment of the population they could reasonably control. For the prisoners, they got to pretend they were something they weren't. Perry watched them go, got the sense they carried backpacks of regret, tried to recapture what they had been thirty or forty years ago. But they were still old men who couldn't escape the prisoners they'd become. There was something pathetic and pitiful about them.
Chapter 17You could say I saw the assault coming, or, you know, got the sense of it. It told me I was settling back into life in the joint. The Whiteboy with a dirty blond mohawk was eating alone at a table usually settled by Whiteboys. Other dining hall tables were occupied, but every Whiteboy who carried his tray from the serving line passed the vacant seats beside Mohawk.
Then it happened.
One of the Whiteboys got up from another table, asked Mohawk to pass the salt from his table. As Mohawk took the salt container and reached across to pass it, occupied, another Whiteboy seated behind Mohawk rose, plastic tray in both hands, and he swung it, slicing the air. If it had been a sharp-edged sword, it would have taken the top of Mohawk's head off. Instead, when the hard plastic edge connected, the side of Mohawk's bald head split, and Mohawk slumped to the floor. His attacker showed no mercy, brought the tray down on Mohawk's head again and again like a cleaver. Why should he show mercy? He was going to spend a stretch in the hole for assault anyway. May as well make it worth his while, leave an impression.
It was a good place for an assault. No worry of taking a bullet from a yard tower. Four guards rushed from their place by the exit door, brandishing pepperspray containers, yelling, 'GET DOWN--GET DOWN!' Didn't take but seconds for a gang of other guards to rush through the door of the dining hall from all corners of the joint. This was their strategy for containment of 'violent disturbances.' Appear quickly in force. The assigned areas they vacated were more vulnerable. It would be easy to take the joint over by, you know, attacking these vulnerabilities, but you couldn't get past the planning stage without some snitch whispering in a cop's ear.
Chapter 18She was toned all over. Since starting work a month ago, Janice's trousers progressively conformed to her hips and ass tighter than ever, and she wasn't gaining weight. She was obviously wearing tighter clothing. It was these images he remembered until he was able to relieve himself of them after count each night. Even after, he still found himself thinking about her and looking forward to showing up for work.
Janice definitely made his job easier. He heard stories from other prisoners about their work environment that included browbeating from contemptuous supervisors who viewed every inmate as replaceable. Most prison jobs hardly required a PHD to be fair, including his. But Janice obviously saw value in free legal advice. He'd already convinced her to transfer her rental property to a Limited Liability Company to protect her personal assets against lawsuits, and to protect her against the WDOC learning that one of its employees ran a halfway house for parolees. This violated policy, and the WDOC would shut her down if they got wind of it.
'We can clear out some of the IMU boxes in the storeroom and set up a workout space,' she said. The long storeroom held the property of inmates who were warehoused in the Intensive Management Unit, the hole, some for a year or longer.
'You're serious?' he said. 'You mean, you really want me to work out with you in the storeroom?'
She lifted a brow, smirked. 'During the lunch hour. If you can keep up with me. I was in the army, you know.'
'So I have to miss lunch?' 'I'll bring food. You bring shorts and a change of clothing.' A smile played on her lips.
'What will you wear?'
'Very little, and it will be tight.'
Chapter 20Speedy called Perry to the dais of the Black Prisoners Caucus where, moments ago, Speedy talked about continuing the legacy founded by Ali Ali. The chapel was filled with prisoners, and not all of them black. Perry knew how difficult it was dragging some prisoners from their nightly card games or TV shows. It was unusual to have so many diverse prisoners in one room without obvious signs of tension. Ali had brought these men together, and they were there in celebration of him.
Perry had no idea why he was invited to the dais. After he took his place beside Speedy, Speedy took an envelope from the lectern, opened it. He slid its contents into Perry's hand--a hand beaded medallion attached by a beaded necklace. The medallion showed the scales of justice in black beads with white beads as a background. It must have taken many hours to make.
'This is from all of us. We appreciate what you done did for our brother. If nothing else, he at least gone and died with hope in his heart, which he never had in decades. If you ever need anything from us, all you gotta do is ask. An invitation always be open to join us here.'
'Yeah, you our brother, too, Perry,' someone said.
Others chimed in, agreed.
Perry thanked them, returned to his place in the pew. For the first time, he felt as if other prisoners both respected and accepted him as one of them. It gave him some comfort. He stayed until the end of the meeting that was mostly filled with prisoners reminiscing, telling stories of Ali. Perry answered some legal questions. This was becoming typical whenever prisoners got his ear. He didn't mind. It was a small price to pay to gain a measure of safety.
Chapter 21My hand rested on the crowbar I'd placed in the well between the driver and passenger seat. I could never pack a piece anymore, not with my felony record and not with my face tatted up. Cops loved to pull me over. Any weapon, concealed knife or a gun, was an automatic sentence of three to five years flat time because I was a felon. No thanks. Life had become a chess game where one wrong move put me back inside. I had to reduce risk whenever I could. It's why I chose the crowbar. It worked well for cracking doors and cracking skulls.
I watched Paco from a block away. I was parked behind a pick-up truck that had a flat and probably hadn't run in a while. It had a peeling sticker on the bumper that proclaimed, 'Biden left US behind to die.' Scrap pallet wood poked out from its bed. Little had changed since I was a youngster. The bangers hung out on a porch, drinking, smoking weed, squeezing the asses of the hynas who fluttered around them. Paco was easy enough to see even through the failing light. He wore a bandanna like Tupac to hide the gunshot wound. I checked my watch. 10:15pm. I hoped he'd move soon. I had a few hours drive to Seattle. That was the reason for the crowbar. I had no plans to use it on Paco. I made a promise to Maria. I just wanted to talk.
At a quarter-to-eleven, the bangers parted ways. They got into the three cars parked on the lawn and driveway and left. I got out of my car, left the crowbar behind. I crossed the street, entered his dirt driveway. I had got his address from a police report in my case. I stepped onto the porch. It creaked under my weight. Beer cans and cigarette and roach butts littered the area.
Final ChapterPerry's eyes opened to the glare of the morning count light. It had to be his worst recurring moment in prison. Waking to the bright fluorescent cell light, leaving his dreamworld and re-entering the reality of prison life. At least, for now, he could still dream about life beyond the walls. Ali warned him this would change in time. A wall would build around his dreamworld and confine it and him in it. He couldn't imagine that. For now, he could at least escape prison for eight hours a night.
He got out of bed minutes after two guards passed his cell bars, taking the headcount. The prison would waken soon. It would begin within a half-hour after count, starting with long morning pisses amplified by steel toilet bowls, the coughing up of phlegm, the pushing of steel buttons to run water, and the roar of over a hundred toilets flushing. Perry added his lot to this prison concerto, then heated water in a clear electric hot pot for the instant Keefe coffee he spooned into a clear plastic cup. When the voice of the guard in the booth exploded from speakers, notifying all that 'COUNT'S CLEAR,' doors began to roll open, clanged against steel spines, vibrating the very concrete underfoot.
Perry stepped to his bars. Prisoners headed for the showers. Others descended the iron stairs. Their morning rituals. Some made for the microwaves in the cage at the end of the tier, some made for ice chests to fill their plastic pitchers, to the JPay computer, or to the phones to wake their wives or girlfriends. People's lives don't end in prison. They adjust and continue a semblance of living. Treading water more like it. They exist and survive their sentences in the hope their lives as they knew them will be waiting upon their release. Perry knew this described him to some extent, though if he ever again practised law, it wouldn't be in a Washington State courtroom.
Commercial buildings at Lake Tye in Monroe, Washington, with the mountain range of the Cascades in the background. Monroe is the location of the prison complex, where Perry Grant and Brando Barajas are incarcerated.
