The Animal Factory (2 page)

“Okay, you drunks and punks and other assholes,” a deputy said at 10:00 a.m. “When I call your name, answer with your last three numbers and get up here.”

Ron paid no attention. This was the municipal court line, the misdemeanors. His court was for the afternoon. His eyes were still closed when a large key banged the bars. “Decker, front and center.”

Ron jerked from his stupor and saw his attorney, Jacob Horvath, standing slightly behind the bailiff’s shoulder. Horvath was tall, with long, thinning hair, flared suit, and upturned gray moustache. His hands were soft. He’d learned his trade as a deputy U.S. attorney, and now earned a dozen times that salary by defending the dope peddlers he once prosecuted. Narcotics laws and search and seizure were his specialties. He was very good, and charged a fee
commensurate
with his skill.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Tell me,” Ron said. “You talked to the judge.”

“Not good. The trial deputy would go for the rehabilitation center, but the big boys downtown are watching this one. The judge—” Horvath shrugged and shook his head. “And guess who’s in the courtroom.”

“Akron and Meeks.”

“Right.
And
the captain of the administrative narcs. It’s on their own time. They don’t get paid for this.”

Ron shrugged. Nothing would be changed by their presence, and he had accepted the inevitable weeks ago.

“I talked to your mother this morning.”

“She’s here?”

“No, in Miami, but she left a message to call her so I did. She wants to know how things look and told me to have you call her collect this evening.”

“Just like that. She thinks I’m in the Beverly-Wilshire.”

“I’ll get a court order.”

“Make sure it’s signed and goes back on the bus. The pigs at the jail won’t let me near a phone otherwise.”

“Okay … Anyway, the judge doesn’t want to bury you, but he’s under pressure. I think he’s going to send you to prison, but keep jurisdiction under Eleven sixty-eight. Keep your nose clean and he can pull you back in a couple of years when the heat’s off.”

“A couple of years, huh?”

Horvath shrugged. “You won’t be eligible for parole for six years, so two is pretty soft.”

“I guess you’re right. It isn’t the gas chamber. You did what you could.”

“You were selling dope like you had a license.”

“And I don’t see anything wrong with it. I really don’t. Somebody wants it.”

“Don’t tell the judge that, or anyone at the prison.”

A prisoner came back in handcuffs, escorted by a deputy. Horvath and Ron stepped back from the door so the man could be let in. When Horvath stepped up to the bars again, he glanced at his gold Rolex. “Gotta go. I’ve got a preliminary hearing upstairs scheduled for eleven. I have to see the client for a few minutes first.”

“Is Pamela out there?” Ron asked quickly.

“I didn’t see her.”

“Shit!”

“You know she’s got troubles.”

“Is she hooked again?”

Horvath made a face that confirmed the fact without saying it. Ron had wanted Horvath to ask the judge to let them get married, but this piece of information stopped him, sent a hollow pang through his stomach. As he nodded and turned back to the bench, he resented Horvath as the bearer of bad tidings, thinking that he’d paid eighteen thousand dollars to go to prison, recalling the
promises
that Horvath had made to get the money. Ron had learned since then that the business of lawyers was selling hope. Hot air was what they usually delivered. In all fairness, Horvath had fought hard to get the search warrant, and all the narcotics seized from its use, thrown out as evidence—but the warrant was solid, based on oath and affidavit, which wasn’t what Horvath had said when he asked for a fifteen-thousand-dollar retainer.

Just before lunch the last pair of prisoners from morning court were brought in, new faces who’d probably spent the night in a substation, skinny youths with shoulder-length hair, peach-fuzz beards, and filthy blue jeans. They looked like city hippies, but their voices were pure Georgia farmboy. Ron wouldn’t have noticed them except that they asked him to read their complaint. It said they were charged with violation of Section 503 of the Vehicle Code, auto theft. They couldn’t read, didn’t know what they faced, and yet didn’t seem disheartened by their predicament. They were more interested in when the food was due.

At noon a deputy dropped a cardboard box outside the bars, calling all the assholes to get in line. Some crowded and jostled. Ron hung back.

“Straighten up, assholes, or I’ll send it to Long Beach,” the deputy called. Long Beach was where sewage went.

“That’s where it belongs,” someone called.

“Then gimme yours,” another said.

“Knock it off!” the deputy yelled.

The men quieted and the bags came through the bars, each with salami between two pieces of bread and an orange. It was all the food they’d get until morning unless they got back to the jail early, which was unlikely for those going to afternoon court. On his first court trip, Ron had looked at the bag’s contents and handed it away. Now he wolfed it down with the same gusto as the undernourished winos, pocketing the orange and dropping the bag on the floor. Litter everywhere mingled with the odor of sweat, Lysol, and piss.

Because he was the only prisoner going to this particular
courtroom
, the deputy handcuffed Ron’s hands behind his back. They went down a concrete tunnel and reached the courtroom by a side door. The deputy took off the handcuffs before they entered. Court was not yet in session and the room was empty except for the police emissaries in back spectators’ seats. One of them smiled and waved. Ron ignored the gesture, not because of a particular animosity, but because a response would have been unseemly. The young
prosecutor
was shuffling folders at his table while the court reporter and clerk moved around on hushed feet. A huge state seal flanked by the flags of California and the United States was on the wall behind the bench. Ron was struck by the contrast between the back-room cages of justice and the courtroom’s solemn dignity. The public saw the mansion, not the outhouse.

“Take a seat in the jury box, Mr. Decker,” the deputy said, and as Ron followed the instructions he smiled, thinking he had gone from “asshole” to “mister” by walking through a door. In a few minutes he’d be “asshole” again.

Horvath scurried in with perfect timing. He’d just put his
briefcase
on the counsel table when the clerks jumped into place, court reporter at his machine, clerk beside the chamber door.

“Department B of the Superior Court of the State of California is now in session, the Honorable Arlen Standish presiding. All rise.”

As the few people stood up, the judge came through the door and mounted his throne. He was all brisk business in his black robes. He was a big ruddy man who radiated vigor. Except for tufts of white hair above his ears, he was totally bald—but his pate was tanned and marked with freckles.

Everyone sat down as the judge shuffled some papers, then looked up, first at Ron, then at the policemen, without changing his
expression
. He nodded to the clerk.

“People versus Decker, probation hearing and sentence.”

Ron didn’t wait for the deputy to motion before getting up to join Horvath at the counsel table.

“Ready for the people, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said.

“Defendant is ready, Your Honor,” Horvath said, glancing at Ron and winking, though it had no significance.

The judge moved some unseen papers, slipped on glasses for a few seconds to read something, took them off and looked down. Everyone stood quietly waiting for him.

“Do you have any remarks, Mr. Horvath?”

“Yes, Your Honor, though in substance it is what you’ll find in the preparation report and the evaluation of Dr.”—Horvath glanced at notes—“Muller.”

“I’m familiar with both reports … but proceed.”

“This young man is a classic example of the tragedy of our era. He comes from a good family, attended college, and there’s no history of any criminal activity until two years ago when he was arrested with a half-pound of marijuana. Both the probation officer and the psychiatrist report that he started smoking marijuana in college and, as a favor to friends, began getting some extra to sell. In the youth culture, this isn’t criminal. But things have a momentum of their own, and someone wanted cocaine, and he could get that from the same place he got the marijuana. In other words, he drifted into it without realizing what he was doing. He was also using cocaine quite heavily, which clouded his perspective, and although there’s no
physical
addiction to cocaine, there can be a psychological dependence.

“According to Dr. Muller, Mr. Decker isn’t violent or dangerous. On the contrary, the psychological tests show an intelligent, well-balanced personality, providing he is weaned from the drug dependence …”

Horvath went on for five minutes, and Ron was fascinated. It was weird to listen while he was being discussed. He was impressed by Horvath’s plea for leniency.

The prosecutor was next. “I concur with much that counsel says. This young man is intelligent. He is from a good family. But that gives him even less excuse, because he had every opportunity. The facts don’t indicate that this was a hobby, which counsel seems to imply. Mr. Decker was living in a seven-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment and owned two automobiles, one of them a
twelve-thousand
-dollar sports car. The amount of drugs that he was caught with are worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If he needs treatment for his own drug problem—and cocaine is not
addictive
—the Department of Corrections has programs. Above and beyond that, this is a serious offense, and if someone with this degree of involvement, someone who has every advantage and opportunity our society provides, doesn’t go to prison, it would be unfair to send those who haven’t had such opportunity.”

When the prosecutor finished, the judge looked to Ron. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Is there any legal reason why judgment should not be passed?”

“No, Your Honor,” Horvath said. “I’ll submit the matter.”

“The People submit,” said the prosecutor.

“Frankly,” the judge said after a judicious pause, “this is a
difficult
case. What counsel says—both counsel—has merit. There is a lot of good in this young man, and yet the People have a right to demand severe punishment because this offense is so serious. I’m going to send him to prison, for the term prescribed by law, but I think that the statutory term of ten years to life may be too severe. Many years there could ruin him and not serve society’s best
interests
… so I’m going to retain jurisdiction under the provisions of Section Eleven sixty-eight, and I’ll ask for reports in, say, two years. If they’re satisfactory, I’ll modify the sentence.” He looked directly at Ron. “Do you understand? If you show signs of rehabilitation, I’ll change this sentence in two years.” Then to Horvath. “Now this matter is off calendar, and it’s your responsibility to make a motion.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Ron felt the deputy’s hand tweak his elbow. Sentence had been passed and he was going where he had expected to go.

Ronald Decker began the ten-day wait for the prison bus. Since his arrest five months earlier he’d told everyone that he was going, but part of him had belived that he would avoid it somehow. The imminent reality created both anxiety and curiosity. He asked questions, listened to stories. Prison was more than a walled-in place; it was an alien world of distorted values, ruled by a code of violence. Some tales contradicted others; the viewpoint depended on the experiences of the speaker. A middle-aged forger who had served eighteen months as a clerk in the administration building while living in an honor cellhouse saw prison differently from a
barrio
Chicano who had gone in at age twenty and spent five years walking the yard and bouncing between segregation and the cotton textile mill. The clerk said, “Sure those lowriders stab each other, but if you mind your own business, nobody bothers you, except when a race war is happening. Then you stay in your cell.” The Chicano said, “A
vato
can get killed quick. Every day somebody gets hit. You need to get in a gang. They run things.” The clerk explained that there were four powerful gangs, two Mexican, one white, one black, and that they existed in varying strengths in every one of the prisons. The clerk didn’t know much about them, and the Chicano wouldn’t talk. However, a few days later the
Los Angeles
Times
had an article about the fifty-seven murders and three hundred stabbings that had happened in three prisons—Soledad, Folsom, and San Quentin—the previous year. Nearly all the violence was attributable to the gangs, which, according to the article, had started up for protection during the early racial violence but were now running rackets when they weren’t killing each other. The two Mexican gangs were at war, as were the whites and blacks. “
Fifty-seven
killings!” Ron said. “What kind of place am I going to?”

“You might miss Q and Folsom,” a potbellied old con said. “But you might have trouble wherever you go. Some people can go there and fade into the crowd, but sure as shit you can’t. Know what I mean?”

Ron threw the paper on the bunk and nodded. He knew.

“You’ll look like Gina Lollobrigida to some of those animals who’ve been down for eight or nine years. Even to some who aren’t animals but just hardrock convicts. The jockers will have one idea and the fairies will want to gobble you up. Shit! Give ’em a chance and all they’ll find of you is shoelaces and a belt buckle.” The man laughed as Ron blushed. Prison culture, he knew, distinguished between masculine and feminine roles, but he was repelled by all of it. He didn’t condemn it, but it wasn’t for him. He was especially touchy about it because he’d seemed to attract homosexual
propositions
since puberty.