The noise level within the cell block rose steadily like one collective stomach growl. At 7:00 a.m. the buzzer sounded, the place fell quiet, and the inmates came to the bars, standing in pairs behind locked cell doors. A team of guards passed from one end to the other and counted heads. The cell-house sergeant signaled to the control booth, another buzzer sounded, and forty cell doors slid open simultaneously. The inmates stepped out into the block to form two lines, one on each side of the corridor. Theo tried not to make his curiosity too obvious as he checked out his new neighbors. Even if he hadn't known that the second floor was mostly sex offenders, Theo probably could have guessed what each guy was in for, just by looking at him. The young Hispanic with jet black hair and a movie-star profile: roofies and date rape. The scrawny white guy across from him: jerking off in school zones. The black guy with arms like an NFL linebacker and a missing right earlobe: beats his wife or girlfriend, or both. Jail was a veritable warehouse of broken lives and useless parts. If Theo looked hard enough, he probably could have spotted one or two old Grove Lords. Maybe Isaac had found them, too.
Theo wondered if his search for the safety valve could possibly be that easy.
"Single file, A block first," the cell-house sergeant announced.
The line was long and Theo was near the rear, so he butted ahead to get closer to an inmate from two cells down, a brotha' who reminded Theo of his older brother Tatum – someone who looked like a player. He had the body of a weight lifter, the hands of a prizefighter, and the eyes of a sniper. He was still pulling on his undershirt, half undressed, his briefly exposed back covered with tattoos.
"Hope you like slop," he told Theo, speaking under his breath as he buttoned his shirt.
Theo offered a slow nod – not to express his agreement, just his way of saying it was cool for him to speak without Theo speaking first.
"Yeah, the food really sucks," added Charger. He'd ridden on Theo's coattails to cut ahead in the line.
"Shut up, weasel," said Theo.
Theo was part of the main line, the general prison population, which entered the cafeteria just as the "short line" was leaving through another exit. The short line ate separately – breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was mostly the kitchen crew, but it also included inmates in protective custody who were isolated for their own safety.
"Snitches," said the big guy, again speaking only to Theo.
The line moved steadily but slowly. Theo grabbed a tray and took everything they offered: toast, diluted orange juice, something that resembled watery scrambled eggs, a glob of oatmeal that stuck together like mastic, sausage patties that could have doubled as hockey pucks.
"Over here," someone said.
Theo turned and saw the Tatum look-alike at the end of the second table, sitting by himself. It was unofficial reserved seating, by invitation only. Theo sat directly across from him but said nothing. He just started eating.
"New?" the guy said.
Theo salted his eggs. "Only to this place."
"Done time?"
"FSP. Death row."
He seemed duly impressed." How'd you beat that?"
"Good lawyer." It wasn't a lie, his innocence notwithstanding.
"Cool. Maybe I can use him."
"Only one problem," said Theo.
"What?"
"He doesn't defend punks."
He worked a spoon through his fingers like a miniature baton, shooting Theo an angry glare that would have reduced most inmates to gelatin. Theo shot one right back, then smiled. "Gotcha, dude."
It took a moment, but finally he returned the smile – albeit a thin one. A toothy grin wasn't part of prison culture, unless you were a catcher, and this guy didn't roll over on anybody's bunk.
"Moses," he said, extending his hand.
"Theo," he said, shaking prison style.
Charger walked by with his tray in hand. Theo and Moses gave him a collective look that said, "Beat it." He moved on to the next table.
"What you in here for?" said Moses.
"The food."
Another little smile. "Me too," said Moses, and then he stuffed his mouth with the world's lousiest oatmeal.
They invited no one to join them, so they had their own end of the table for the entire breakfast. It was mostly small talk, guarded but mutually respectful, a confirmation that they agreed on certain basic tenets that would ensure their peaceful coexistence: Miami's Duane Wade (not Lebron James) was the best player to go in the famous first round of the 2003 NBA draft; Kobe Bryant never would have made it in prison; and anybody who messes with you, messes with me – and then wishes that he hadn't.
Theo was back in his cell by eight o'clock. Charger had voluntary work duty and wouldn't return until eleven o'clock. Theo had yet to be assigned a job, so he had the cell to himself until lunchtime. He lay on his bunk, thinking. Hooking up with Moses was a stroke of luck. He was definitely an operator, a good contact, the kind of guy who would have latched onto an Isaac Reems. Theo could befriend him on many levels, not the least of which was the fact that Theo had distinguished himself as the Clarence Darrow of jailhouse lawyers on death row, an expert on everything from writs of habeas corpus to a prisoner's fundamental right to chew gum. But Theo knew he had to be careful. Ask too many questions too soon around an operator like Moses and you could end up on the wrong side of the prison balance of power.
Theo's eyelids were growing heavy. The restless night was catching up with him. In fact, he hadn't enjoyed a decent night's sleep since that bullet grazed his head. Weird, but the shooting was beginning to feel like a million years ago. The stitches, however, were a clear reminder of just how recent his latest brush with death had been. He no longer had to wear the bandage, and the scar added to his menacing persona.
He rolled onto his side, but something was poking him in the ribs. Shifting onto his back didn't help. That annoying lump in his bunk was unavoidable. He reached beneath the mattress and found the culprit. It was a tube. Theo read the label. It was some kind of age-spot bleacher.
"No way," Theo said, his words coming like a reflex.
Theo amazed even himself with the knowledge he'd gained in prison, and some things he would never forget, even if he was among the lucky ones who'd managed to keep his pants on. Age-spot bleachers packed a double whammy: an effective lubricant with the added benefit of making the unsexy brown skin that sprouted anal hairs more pink and attractive.
Isaac Reems – badass leader of the Grove Lords – had hisself a girlfriend?
Theo put the tube back under the mattress, still not believing it. No way. Charger had to be getting it from somebody else, not Isaac.
There was just no way.
Chapter 24
Jack was in trial all day. The state attorney was determined to make an example out of his client, a high-school valedictorian who should have gone on to MIT, except that he'd already made a cool million selling nonexistent jewelry and sports cars via Internet auctions – always under the stolen identity of other sellers, of course. Jack wasn't optimistic. Predicting jury verdicts was always dicey, but it appeared that this bunch had already left-clicked on Go_Directly_To_ Jail.com.
Trial adjourned at 5:00 p.m., and Uncle Cy was waiting for him in the hallway outside the courtroom. Jack wasn't expecting him.
"What's up, old man?"
Cy kept pace as they walked toward the elevators. "You and me are going to Overtown."
"For what?" said Jack, as he hit the down button.
The elevator doors opened, and they went inside. "For Theo," he said.
Ten minutes later they were in Jack's car, cruising past the Miami Arena, the original home of the Miami Heat and one of the more expensive failed attempts to revive Overtown. In theory, fans would shop and dine in the neighborhood before and after events. In reality, they came and left as quickly as possible. No offense to Uncle Cy, but with Theo having dodged a bullet to the head just last weekend, Jack was feeling a similar sense of urgency.