The Animal Factory

 

Edward Bunker,
Mr Blue
in
Reservoir Dogs
, was the author of
No Beast So Fierce, Little Boy Blue, Dog Eat Dog, The Animal Factory
and his autobiography,
Mr Blue
, all published by No Exit. He was co-screenwriter of the Oscar nominated movie,
The Runaway Train
, and appeared in over 30 feature films, including
Straight Time
with Dustin Hoffman, the film of his book
No Beast So Fierce
. Edward Bunker died in 2005 and another novel,
Stark
, was discovered in his papers. Along with some short stories published as
Death Row Breakout
.

 

 

www.noexit.co.uk

Dawn pushed a faint line of yellow on the city’s low skyline when the prisoners, nearly five hundred of them, were herded from the jail’s sallyport to the parking lot. Waiting was the fleet of
black-and
-white buses with barred windows and heavy wire separating the driver area from the seats. The air was filled with acrid diesel exhaust and the stench of rotting garbage. The ragtag prisoners, more than half of them black or Chicano, were in columns of two, six to a chain, a busload to a group; they looked like human centipedes. Everywhere were deputy sheriffs in knife-creased uniforms. Three deputies were assigned to each bus, while the others stood back with fat .357 Magnum Pythons dangling from their hands. A few fondled short-barreled shotguns.

Despite the smell, many men breathed deep, for no cool air entered the windowless jail, and they had already spent three hours in seventeen-foot bullpens, as many as fifty in each. Behind them the jail trustees were already sweeping the cages for the second court line of the day.

Ronald Decker was young, looked even younger than he was. In contrast to the generally disheveled clothes of nearly all the others, he wore a neat corduroy suit that had withstood three days of going to court, getting rousted awake at 3:30 a.m., standing in the jail cages, riding the bus in chains, waiting in the packed bullpen beside the courtroom, getting a twenty-four-hour continuance, returning to the jail in the evening. When the steel gates crashed, loud-speakers blared, and there was no sleep until midnight. Today it’ll be over, he thought. The attorney had tried to save him from prison, but a garage with two hundred kilos of marijuana and a kitchen table with forty ounces of cocaine was just too big a bust. No matter that he, or the fat fee, had convinced the psychiatrist to report that he was a cocaine addict who would benefit from treatment. No matter that the probation officer was convinced by his “good” family that an alternative program would be rehabilitative. The district attorney, who had a legion of subordinates and didn’t know one case in a hundred, sent a personal letter to the judge demanding prison. Ron grinned wanly, remembering what the deputy district attorney had called him yesterday: the “boy wonder” of drug dealers. At age twenty-five he was hardly a boy.

The prisoners climbed onto the bus, a deputy roughly guiding the befuddled winos so their chains didn’t entangle as they swung around to be seated. A Chicano even younger than Ron was
handcuffed
beside him. Ron had already noticed the yawns and sniffles of withdrawals and hoped the youth wouldn’t vomit the green fluid that junkies cast up when their stomachs were empty. The Chicano wore khaki pants and Pendleton shirt, the uniform of the East Los Angeles
barrio
.

Ron and the Chicano got seats, but the bus had just thirty-two and was carrying sixty-one men. The aisle filled.

“Okay, assholes,” a deputy called. “Move back in there.”

“Man, I ain’t no motherfuckin’ sardine,” a black called out.

But the men were packed in. Once Ron had seen some prisoners refuse. The deputies had come with mace and clubs and the
rebellion
was short-lived. Then the driver had raced down the freeway and thrown on the breaks, sending the standing men crashing around. Finally, so the word came, the rebellious ones had been charged with assault on a peace officer, a felony carrying up to ten years in prison.

It was 6:20 when the bus whooshed and started moving. Other buses were also getting under way, en route to dozens of
courtrooms
in every region of the vast county: Santa Monica, Lancaster, Torrance, Long Beach, and more obscure places like Citrus, Temple City, and South Gate. No court would convene until 10:00, but the sheriff’s started early. Besides, another five hundred had to be processed for court in downtown Los Angeles.

The mood on the bus had an element of levity. It was something to be riding down the freeway when the rush hour was just
beginning
. Some of the chained passengers, mostly the drunks, were
oblivious
to the sights, while others stared avidly at everything. Some, next to the windows, stood up when a car with a woman whipped by; they tried to stare down at the best angle to see bare thighs pressed against the car seat.

Ron was too tired. His eyes felt gritty and his stomach had a hollow burning. Already thin, he’d lost nearly twenty pounds after four months of jail food. He dropped his head back against the seat and slid down as much as he could, given the chains and the cramped leg space. Through the hubbub a set of voices, easily
identifiable
as belonging to blacks, pulled his attention. They were close and loud.

“Listen, blood, I damn sure know Cool Breeze. Breeze, sheeit, that nigger’s hotass wind! Nigger calls himself a pimp … an’ ain’t nuthin’ but a shade tree for a ho. He take a good workin’ bitch an’ put her in a rest home. Me, I’m a mack man an’ a player. I know how to make a bitch bring me
monee
…”

Ron smiled involuntarily, envious of anyone who could laugh and lie with such gusto in these circumstances; but blacks had had centuries to develop the knack. It was hard not to feel embarrassed when they boisterously called each other “nigger,” as if they hated themselves. And pimp stories were a cliché in jail; every black claimed to be that or a revolutionary. No, he thought, “every” was an unfair exaggeration. It was stereotyping, and by doing it he was being unfair to himself, too. Yet, those he’d found in jail were certainly different from the blacks he’d done business with, musicians, real hustlers who were cool. Indeed, he’d believed everyone’s stories when he first came to jail. He seldom lied about his own exploits, and because he’d made quite a bit of money, he expected to find others who’d done the same. He’d found incompetents and liars. Now he was going to prison. It was a long fall from a West Hollywood high rise and a Porsche Carrera.

The courtroom bullpen was twice as large as the cage at the jail, and concrete benches lined the concrete walls, which were defaced by graffiti scratched into the paint.

“Okay, assholes,” a deputy yelled as the column of prisoners filed into the room from a tunnel. “Turn around so we can get the iron off.”

Ron was among the first unchained and he quickly took a piece of bench in a corner, knowing that half the men would have to stand around or sit on the floor. When the deputies left, locking the door, the room quickly filled with cigarette smoke. The
ventilation
shaft in the ceiling was inadequate, though most prisoners had to mooch butts. A few men handed out cigarettes, and a dozen hands were extended. One red-faced man of fifty in a plaid shirt and work boots freely passed out cigarettes and used the largesse as a wedge to vent his woe.

“I’ve got sixty days suspended for drunk driving and they’ve got me again. What’s gonna happen?”

“Suspended?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then he’s gotta give you at least sixty days.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Oh, God,” the man said, his eyes welling with tears that he tried to sniffle away.

“Check that
puto
,” the Chicano addict sneered. “I’ve got the joint suspended, five years to life, and another robbery … I ain’t snivelin’.”

Ron grunted, said nothing. He knew that sixty days in jail could be a greater trauma for some than prison for others. What he couldn’t sympathize with was the unmanly display. Hidden tears he could understand. He felt them himself. But what he felt and what he showed were different. The man had no pride.

“Save that shit for the judge, turkey,” someone said. “We can’t do a thing for you.”

The quip brought a couple of chuckles, and the man rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and tried to compose himself.

The long wait began. Ron sighed, closed his eyes, and wished the judge could mail the sentence. What difference did his presence make? It was going to be the same no matter what.

After 8:00 a.m. the lawyers began visiting their clients, calling them to the barred door and talking softly. When the public defender came, carrying a yellow legal pad, a crowd gathered around the gate. Ron thought about cats in a television commercial.

“Fuckin’ dump-truck P.Ds,” muttered the Chicano. “All they say is “so stipulated” and “waive.” They waive you right to prison … punks all want you to plead guilty.” Nevertheless, he joined the crowd at the gate. He’s exaggerating, Ron thought, but not a whole lot. After four months I know more about justice from being in jail than from two years of college.
They
don’t really care about justice. “They” was both lawyers and judges. That he was disillusioned
indicated
how naïve he’d been to begin with.