Trapped on the Inside

by Jason Colpitts

©Jason Colpitts

     Souris’ resolve to correct her parent’s mistake, their Hitler-like blind and racist judgment, had never been tested to this degree. 

     Inside the prison chapel, a lone burly inmate shot twitchy glances at Souris while filling out the sign-up register.  His sunken eyes studied her as capriciously as a couple spiders from the corners of their shadow-filled basement.  She could sense it, but this sort of thing was common.

     He wrote: “Pray for Kim”.

     Souris wasn't here for a religious service.  She addressed the thought anyway, “Tell me about Kim.”

     Abruptly, the man flipped an internal switch and leapt, landing on her in a heap.  Red Sharpies scattered across the floor.  Souris tried covering her face as the inmate’s sweaty fists pounded down like thunder and lightning from an angry god.  His crimson jumper filled the whole sky.  Dirty fingernails clawed at her open skin.  He found her neck.  He squeezed.

     “You're the reason I'm in here, Kim!” the beast whispered, his rotten spit rolling down her cheek.

     “I’m not Kim,” she croaked.

     Suddenly, the inmate let go.  He grabbed a rusty desk and held it aloft.  

     Souris clung to consciousness.  Somehow, she lashed out with her left leg toward the red panic button.  Again she strained, and again she tried.  Her eyes rolled back. 

     When the desk struck her, the whole room flashed like a thunderhead, and Souris would dream from the hospital bed that either the building had collapsed, or that there was a cave-in, or that the moon had collided upon the earth, an immeasurable weight crashing down.

*** 

     A month passed.

     Souris touched her neck without realizing it – still sore.

     “Are you really going back in?” The state trooper’s voice rumbled, after he spied the bruising on Souris’ neck and arms.

     The man's point had a heavily weighted talus.  Working in rehabilitation was voluntary.  Still, here she was, reentering the prison with a shoddy wrap that covered little. 

     She could hardly see the man’s huge muscular body behind the thick tinted glass.  He looked very much like he could handle himself among the prison population.  Her appearance was strongly juxtaposed, a scant 5’4” 110lb white woman.

     Souris felt like an elephant’s trunk was crushing her heart.  She had a nervous terror in the pit of her soul.

     “Yes,” she answered, mousily. “I want to.”

     Walking slowly, she passed several checkpoints and a couple steel doors with chipped orange paint.  The open-air courtyard was foreboding.  Spools of razor wire covered the double chain link fences.

     Rumor had it one fool tried to slide past the first set of razor blades.  He collapsed in the yard between, not daring to climb the second fence.  When they finally collected him, he earned the name: “Ninety Stitch”.

     Souris pulled her coat tight against the sleet.  The last waves of orange marmalade sun disappeared from the horizon, replaced by a dark and freezing storm.  She cursed the weather.  Her classroom would probably be overloaded.  Normal volunteers canceled on nights like this.

     Finally, she entered the chapel, where the lower programs were, mainly religious – the Muslims, Spanish church, and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they had G.E.D, drugs, AA, and self-esteem building rooms too.

     “I can't believe you're back, Souris,” Officer Mike said from his high desk, three feet above.  He added impatiently, “Do you see that kid down the hall?” 

     She nodded yes.

     “His girlfriend cheated on him, so he hunted her down and cut the baby out.  I'm sure I don't have to remind you.  Don't get too close.  You don't know whom you're dealing with.  Are you going to take off your coat?” 

     “No.” She quickly fingered the tight folds. 

     “We put the call out to 240 upper and 60 bed.  I think you're getting thirty convicts – not sure.   The prison changed the rules.  No more single inmates.” 

     She gulped down a boulder.  Thirty men would cluster the room wall to wall.

     “Here's your clipboard and pencil.  Have a great class,” Mike said.

     Souris looked up at the high desk, nodded, and shot him a half-smile.  The officers’ desk was far away from lower programs, next to the pedophiles’ entrance.  They were usually checked into Protective Custody.  If they stayed with the general population, they were dead.

     Mike’s distance didn't leave her with a good feeling.  Neither did her room.  The last time she saw the desks they were in a pile.  Now, neat rows sat silent.  She crossed over to the dry erase board.  Two strands of her own hair were still stuck underneath.  Souris shuddered.

     Why do you keep coming? she asked herself.

     Keeping her trembling hands busy, she folded each pamphlet with a tight crease.  

     Within minutes, prisoners began filing in.  Most were arrested for DUIs and petty drug charges.  The men slumped low, without confidence in their hollow eyes – empty husks.  

     Souris passed out the clipboard and the two inch orange pencil.  Without looking closely, she greeted the men who threw themselves into the chairs, pretending like they didn't care that they were in prison.  Several squared off in the back, whispering. 

     “Welcome to: ‘Get on My Feet’.  This program will help you avoid drugs and alcohol.  It will also teach you to make better friends and set good standards,” Souris said.

     Nobody acknowledged her.  One of them cracked a lewd joke about his “endless” exploits.  Everyone laughed.  The snickering kid got up and handed the clipboard back without so much as a glance in Souris’ direction.

      “Listen up!!!” Mike screamed.

     Everyone jumped. 

     “This is not a gang-meet!” Officer Mike continued shouting. “Souris volunteers her time.  You're not here to talk or pass notes.  If I catch anyone, you get thirty days – loss of all privileges!  Am I clear?!!”

     “Yes sir,” they grumbled. 

     With that Mike left.

     Souris felt like she was going to die.  She had their full attention now.  Everyone stared.  The rain trapped in their prison-issued jumpsuits was already evaporating.  As the heat increased, so did the humidity, their rancid breath, and the male body stench in the room.

     “This is an o-open forum,” she stuttered. “Has everyone filled in the sign-up sheet?” 

     Souris studied the clipboard and froze.  The eighth name jumped off the page.  She shot scattered glances around the room.  There were so many black men.

     “Yeah, we filled it out,” the Spanish kid who was cracking jokes piped in. “Word gets around.  Your boy, the one that beat you, got lockdown for six months.  He’s probably going upstate for attempted murder.”

     “Oh, okay,” she said. “Let’s talk about friendships.  Can hanging with the wrong crowd lead us toward a bad decision?”

     “Never mind that!  Wazz-up, everybody?! My name’s ‘Snipes’.  I’s got a better idea.” A different Latino boy took over, mispronouncing I’ve. “Let’s talk about my girl!”

     He laughed and fist-pumped the inmate to his left.

     “You ain't got no girl, man,” his friend – a man with a stringy beard – answered. “You're in here with the rest of us.”

     “I do too!  She's fine, yo!  She waitin’ for me on the outside.”

     “Yeah?” another buddy asked, mildly curious. “When you gettin’ out?”

     “Six months!” he answered.

     “Listen.” Souris tried to take charge. “How can we make decisions based on what the crowd wants?”

      “I gots ‘friendships’,” Snipes said, fingering air-quotes. “They walked the pedophiles through the general population for a medical check.  All my upper level ‘friends’ gave them a proper send off.  We call it the ‘Rainbow Waterfall’.  The guards figure it's better than us knifing them.  We’s all peed on them from up above!”

     The room exploded in laughter.

     “Dude, shut up!!!” Someone in the back was getting angry. “Let the woman talk…!”

     Snipes continued, “I got in a fight in Boston, and I didn't even do nothin’.  I hit a guy, but I wasn't, like, even involved!  Everybody was trippin’, not just me, and they lied about it.  My lawyer ditched my last court date.  I shoulda been out by now.”

      “Yeah. Yeah,” his bearded friend shouted. “We all got blown off!  Lawyers don't care!” 

     “Let her talk, man!” the inmate in the back aggressively yelled. “Show some respect!”

     Souris studied the crowd.  The men, once subservient, now felt like a sea of frothing mad dogs, licking their chops and laughing in slow motion.  She felt sick.  Souris didn't dare look anyone dead in the eye; the whole room might erupt in a riot.

     The prisoner who defended her was a white man with a reddish-brown goatee.  He was covered in tangerine-colored clovers, Irish tattoos for the Winter Hill Gang.  They were respectful but were here for a gang-meet too.  They just did it a little quieter.  He offered a flirtatious smile and took a pamphlet.

     “Meds?!” Mike shouted from the doorway. “Anybody got meds?”

     Souris sighed.  Half the men left to get detox medication.  The remainder shared a few stories.  Souris was able to get in a couple words.  They agreed, at least, to try and set better standards.  Two appeared to understand that they fell into a bad crowd.  One went on a rant about how the U.S. Government failed the V.A., and that's why they're all on heroin.  Then Mike came and called for the line-up in the hall.

     One by one each inmate thanked her and left.  Souris folded the sign-up sheet four times.  The whole experience was dizzying.  Some nights were better.  Some were worse.

     Souris turned to face the final man as her heart leapt into her chest and her hand toward the button.  He had black skin, and the eyes — there was a history.

     “I heard you're looking for me.” His deep voice had a sort of controlled wisdom.

     She didn't know what to say.  Six years she had prepared for this, and yet when her mouth opened only air came out.

     “Who are you?” he asked.

     “I w-want information,” she stuttered.

     The black prisoner frowned. “I’m a dried-up old incarcerate.  I've been here twenty years, for murder.  I have nothing to offer.”

     “Hey!” Mike demanded. “Line up!”

     The prisoner stared her down with a mixture of irritation and defeat.  Then, he joined the rest of the crazies.  As he left, his prison number, 122-019, stretched clearly across his back.

     Mike gave the word, and the inmates left the chapel, running into the rain.

     Souris breathed for the first time.  She had found him.

 ***

     Weeks went by.  Souris put up with the jeering and the demeaning once-overs.  She handled the low whistles, the winks, and the slow kisses in the air, and she didn't miss a class.

     The parking lot smelled different in the winter, like tar and exhaust, as did the cruddy black grease on the main entrance.  Her tiny arms struggled to pull it open.

     After check-in, another set of doors brought her to inmate registration.  Along the hallway, the new arrests looked like a group of dead men waiting to be assigned beds and sheets.  Leathery skin stretched over their skulls.  Their frightened eyes turned awkwardly to Souris and studied her up and down.  Most looked scared, like they wished their bones would liquefy and seep beneath the floor.  Suspended black panic masked their faces – worrying about their jobs, rents, girlfriends, kids.  They messed up, and they knew it.

     Then, there were the other inmates, who cackled.  They were the ones to watch out for – the ones with chattering jaws and sick grins which belied that all of this was somehow funny – repeat offenders.

     Souris walked on.  The hall of horrors wouldn't bother her today.

     Once she was in the chapel, Souris chatted with Mike and awaited her first class.  All the chapel sounds were familiar: the scratching graphite pencil, the rattle of the darkened windows, and the subtle slimy slide of the mop down the hall.  A chapel assistant – the man who carried books to the library and the half-broken TVs to the volunteer rooms – was quietly working.  She didn't notice who the assistant was, just the rank bubonic mop strands slowly undulating out of the corner of her eye.

     “What do you want to know?” he asked.

     For a moment, Souris jumped.  The prisoner’s voice was unmistakable.  It was him.  He seemed a hundred feet taller and a thousand times her size.  Her thoughts flashed to the crazy schizophrenic with his desk overhead.  She nearly fainted.

     He stepped menacingly into her room. “You called my number six years ago.  I watched you, from 240 upper, every Friday.  You cross the courtyard like you're walking toward some terrible memory – a hallway to death row.  Yet, you keep coming.”

          “I…want to know the truth behind your conviction,” she said. “You signed up for work detail in the chapel.  Part of you wants to talk, right?”

     He continued, “Did you come here with your white self to study me?  What do you think you'll find?  Beauty?  The Devil?  Try wearing my skin for a day before you cast judgment.  It's simple.  I killed a girl.  She looked just like you.  I come up for parole every couple years.  I go before the judge, and I tell them what happened.  But I'm black.  My name used to be Carl Thompson, but the headlines didn’t read no ‘Carl’.  They read: ‘Black man broke into a home.’  ‘Black man tripping on drugs.’  ‘Black man killed a sweet white girl, ruined us pure folks.’   The girl's parents wrote letters, how the black man ruined their family.  What does the judge do after that?!” 

     “Did you mean to kill that girl?!” she demanded. 

     Carl had her cornered by now.  A charcoal eraser hit the floor as her back hit the board.  He pounded the wall.  She yanked her head away, wincing. 

     “Does…it…matter?” he whispered, angry at the whole world. 

     Suddenly, Mike came out of nowhere and hurled Carl to the floor. 

     “No!” Souris unfolded her arms and screamed. 

     Two dozen other officers stuffed with testosterone streamed into the room, hitting, swinging, and thrashing the inmate on the floor.  Carl covered his head - lurching.  Souris clawed her face in horror.  For two minutes and a thousand years they beat him.  She could do nothing.  After a while, it stopped. 

     As Mike’s friends dragged what looked like a brown pig carcass out the door, a young officer said, “Don’t worry.  We’ll protect you, ma’am.”

*** 

     “You're not allowed to see him,” Mike said. 

     Souris couldn't understand. 

     “Why?” she asked. 

     “Because he's in the hole.  I wouldn't even allow family visits.”

     Souris remembered an old story.  Once, when an elephant kept crushing his home, a mouse prepared for war.  He advanced into the elephant’s trunk, driving the elephant mad.  When the elephant collapsed – bleeding and dying from exhaustion – the mouse was free to live. 

     Souris was not giving up now.  It was time for war.  She bit her lip, and hurled a manilla folder onto the desk.  Out of it slid pictures and newspaper clippings.  Mike looked them over.  Suddenly, his eyes shot up.  Souris stood before him more determined than ever. 

     “I've never asked for anything,” she said. 

     “You have one conversation,” Mike answered. 

     Souris pulled the hallway door open herself, as Mike escorted her deep into the prison.  They passed a moldy basketball court and an empty cafeteria filled with scattered green lunch trays. 

     In the prison hole,  a 6’5” state trooper stood at the end holding his German Shepherd tight.  Each wrought iron cell held a small window.  They were endless – oubliettes – into which evil things were tossed and buried – dark places to forget.  Many housed psychotic maniacs.  One of them bloodied his fist on the glass just to see her reaction.  Another death stare came from the man who choked her just three months ago.  Souris bravely unfolded her arms.  Some deserved to be here.

     Souris walked down to the last door and slid open the glass.  Carl was sitting in the corner with a hand covering his face.

     “Welcome to the freak show,” Carl said, sarcastically. “We have the bearded woman and the two-headed man down here.” 

     “Some merit it,” she said.

     “And me?” he asked.

     Fishing through her documents, Souris unfolded an old picture and held it up to the greenish glass.  In the image, two parents proudly posed with a preteen girl.

     “What's your point?” Carl raised his voice. “That's the girl I shot.  It was on the news.  Black man did evil.”

     “Tell me what really happened!” Souris yelled. 

     “What do you want from me?!” Carl asked, shaking.

     Souris took a step back, caught off guard.

     “Did you hunt her down like they said?” she asked.

    “No!” he said. “I was a civil engineering student.  Like a joke I got into a bad crowd, young and stupid!  I was desperate for drug money, and I saw a back door open.  I scared her.  I didn't want to hurt her.  I was afraid.  I tried to pull her gun away, and she got shot.  Somehow I killed her.  I relive it every day.  I see her face when I go to sleep and when I wake up.  I see her when I brush my teeth, when I brush my hair, and I tell God I'm sorry.  I tell Him because no one else listens.  In this justice system, a black voice is no voice.  Nobody ever hears my side…so get out of here…cause I don't want to listen to you…no more!!!” 

     Carl covered his face and cried. 

      Souris wiped the sides of her own face.  She could handle the vicious prison reeking of death, but not a strong black man in tears.  The courageous mouse of a woman uncurled her body – her defensive aegis – and gestured widely for Mike to come and let her out.  

     The awful experience threw Souris back to her past – when she was a little girl, walking through shadows toward her parents’ bedroom.  She could hear them shouting at the government and the justice system – demanding rights, pain, and torture – requiring a blood sacrifice on an altar of fire.  Their fury burned from the other side of the door.

     Snapping her attention back to the grown man who was now gasping for air, she explained softly, “This photo isn’t from the Sunday Herald.  She was my older sister…” 

***

     Two attorneys in navy pinstripe suits came to the court hearing, as well as the judge behind the bench, a couple court hands, and Souris sitting in the back. 

     Her indigo dress was embroidered beautifully with light blue flowers.  Souris’ striking blue eyes were the prettiest things in the room. 

     After Carl was led in, the opposition attorney launched into an ocean of a rant.  He displayed the crime scene and pictures from the examiner’s office.  Then he flew into a tirade against the man who would rob this world of such goodness, clearly a despot who should never be unleashed.  

     Afterwards, Carl’s defense attorney made a semi-inebriated plea, and the judge, a wise looking older man, turned his attention to Souris. 

     “Can you please state your name for the court and if you have any relation to the perpetrator?” he asked.

     Souris unfolded her notes. “My name is Souris McDonough.  The man being considered for parole is my sister’s killer.  I have no other relationship with him.  

     “He told me once that a black voice is no voice.  I'm here to be his voice.

     “I grew up in a home filled with anger.  My parents were in terrible pain.  They hated this man.  They wanted nothing more than to see him pay.  I watched their grief turn into madness.  After they passed away, I became a human rights lawyer.  I visited the jail and asked for Mr. Carl Thompson.  He refused, plagued with guilt.  So I waited.

     “I saw prison conditions firsthand.  The guards try their hardest.  But it’s another world.  Prisons have their own economy, politics, elected leaders, and internal justice systems.  Mr. Thompson was beaten unconscious in front of me not two months ago, unfairly.  A black man’s strength is that they bear up under the pain and soldier on with dignity.

     “Are black people to be forever trapped in a prison of our own preconception?  Battling equality in our heart is like asking a mouse to wrestle an elephant.  In short, I battled it.  I looked into Carl’s soul.  He did what he did.  He has the courage to face that.  I don't believe my sister’s death was intentional, and it shouldn’t be held over him for the rest of his life.”

***

     Time passed. 

     The snowmen eventually melted, giving way to long walks and bleached seashells.

     Souris swung the prison door open.  Her white tennis shoes scampered through check-in, inmate registration, and the courtyard.  The new arrests kept to their standard nonsense.  Two troopers escorted a movement of MS-13 members, some baring wolf-like teeth at her. 

     “Welcome to: “Get on My Feet!” Souris announced with gusto while writing out the day's program on the white-board. “This program is designed to…” She trailed off. 

     Her class was silent this time.  They were neither passing notes nor jeering at each other.  They looked like perfect students, sitting amongst concrete bricks and with the subtle scent of wild daisies in the air. 

     “What?!” she asked, suspiciously. 

     “122-019 – they let him out,” Snipes said. “We know what you did for him.” He nodded in approval. 

     “We don't know why,” the Irish tattoo man added. 

     Souris noticed a soccer ball tattooed near the clover.  She wondered if he had kids. 

     “Why did I defend him?  Everyone deserves a second chance, if they've changed.” 

     “No,” the tattoo man clarified. “We don't know why you're back.” 

     Souris looked down.  The white sign-up sheet was littered with names written by what looked like kindergarteners.  Mixed among the wolves, rats, and snakes were a few wide-eyed children in desperate need of help.  Few could spell.  Less than half could utter a normal sentence.  What really shocked her, though, was the prayer column.  It read: “Pray for my mom.” “...for my kids.” “...for my girl.” “Pray for me, please.”  

     “I’m here because I want to be,” she said. “You're here because you made a mistake.  Let's keep it real.  Tell me the truth.” 

     The Spanish kid studied her. 

     Finally, he said, “In Lowell, it was, like, either sell crack or sell donuts – you feel me?  Anyway, two of my dope fiends showed up in a bar and wanted a hit for free…” 

     He told the rest, and Souris nodded.  As the whole group gave Snipes space to talk, the prison melted away like they were suddenly transported to a peaceful baseball field with a ball and a bat. 

     “Back up, Snipes,” she said when he finished. “Think about when you decided to sell drugs instead of donuts.  Where would you be right now if you went the other way?”

     “Poor!” He frowned.

     “You'd have more money than you do now, right?” Souris asked.

     “Shoot!  She's got you there, bro!” his buddy snickered.

     “Here's the thing: You wanted a better life for your girl, but you hurt other people and their girls to get it,” Souris explained. “And in the end you hurt her.” 

     Snipes suddenly clammed up.  He collapsed into his chair, and for the first time, he didn't say a word, not a peep for the rest of the class.  Instead, he stared at the floor in a dumb-found trance.  

     On the way out, Snipes paused and uttered only five simple words, “It’s ‘Manny’.  My name’s Manny.”

     Souris opened the classroom door as wide as possible.  Every corner of her room seemed to sparkle with new life. 

     He’ll be back, she thought. Next week, he’ll be back.