How should I do it?Purple like an eggplant. Not by hanging myself in the stairwell, I know that. There’s no way I’d make it a public spectacle. Sleeping pills would be an easy way out, but how would I get ahold of enough?… Maybe I can find something in our cell that has a sharp edge, hack away at a vein, and bleed out during the hours when Pug is at work. But no. Some CO might see the blood during count and intervene. He’d be a hero and I’d be a failure at one more thing.…
What about death by suffocation? Plastic trash bags used for something other than trash are contraband, which makes them a hot commodity here at Yates. The workout guys fill them with water and lift them during lockdowns when the weight room’s off-limits; the alkies use them as toilet tank liners for the jailhouse hooch they ferment from a mixture of bread, sugar, water, and fruit rinds. “Tastes like shit,” Pug has said. “But if someone’s desperate to get cocked, ‘pruno’ will do the trick.” I’m repulsed by the thought of drinking homemade booze distilled in a toilet tank but wonder whether I’d be able to resist it if it was put in front of me. Pathetic but probably not. Before I got here, I read the Big Book promise that the obsession todrink gets lifted for those who follow the program, but I haven’t been to a meeting since my sentencing. Lieutenant Cavagnero said they have AA here, but that counselor never got back to me before she transferred out of here and I haven’t followed through with anyone else. It won’t really matter, I figure, if I kill myself. My addictions will die along with me.
I know Pug has access to those clear plastic bags at work because I’ve watched him bring a couple back to our cell, fold them, and stash them in his lockbox. The problem is, he never forgets to lock the fucking thing. But DeShaun, an inmate who works janitorial on our tier, has a small side business going, swapping trash bags for commissary: candy bars, soup packets, styling gel. I won’t have anything to barter with until my commissary account gets set up, but maybe then I can make a trade. If I do, then work up enough courage, I can pull it tight around my head and suffocate myself in minutes. I’ve heard both arguments about suicide: that it’s the coward’s way out and that it takes amazing courage. I go with the second theory, but once I commit to it, I better have the balls to follow through.
My crying jags continue on and off that night and into the next day, but I’m dry-eyed and quiet, lying face-down on my top bunk, when the door pops and Lieutenant Cavagnero enters the cell. I sit up, swing my legs over the side, and watch him walk to the window, his back to me.
In my limited interactions with the guards at Yates, there seem to be two types. The gung-ho cowboys just arrived from their academy training are eager to demonstrate what hard-asses they can be if their authority gets challenged. The older guards are easier to deal with because they have nothing to prove; they’re just focused on getting through their shift without any hassles or complications. Cavagnero is one of the second type, but why is he here? I don’t think officers make house calls.
When he turns and faces me, he says, “So how’s it going, Ledbetter?”
I shrug. Say, “It’s going.” Pug has advised me that the less said to the guards, the better—that none of them can be trusted, especially the friendly ones.
“You been here, what? A couple of weeks now?”
“Three and change,” I say.
He sits down on my lockbox like a chummy uncle or something. “Big adjustment for you, I bet. How are you and Liggett getting along?”
“All right, I guess.” After all the kowtowing I’ve done, has Pug complained about me anyway? Is that what this is about?
Cavagnero nods. “That’s good. He can get a little prickly sometimes. He and his last roommate had some dust-ups, one of them a humdinger. They both went to seg for that one and when they got out, we moved Cappy to D Block.”
“Yeah, well, Pug expects to be the boss. He made that clear from day one.”
“You have a problem with that?”
I shake my head.
“So listen, some of us have noticed you don’t circulate much. Skip a lot of meals. Stay put in here during common time. Someone said the only time they saw you out on the yard, you just stood there and didn’t talk to anyone.”
Not true. I had a conversation with a couple of racist assholes and got hit on by a drag queen. And who’s this “someone”? One of the guards? Has Manny opened his big mouth about me? I tell Cavagnero I’m more of a loner than a socializer.
“Uh-huh. So we were just wondering. You depressed?”
“Sometimes. This place is pretty depressing. Why?”
Instead of answering my question, he asks me another one. “What about your people on the outside? Friends? Family? Much contact there? You getting some support?” I tell him I’m still waiting to get my phone account funded and the people on my visitors’ list approved. “No contact yet then, huh? Well, that stuff takes a little time, but like you said, it’s only been three weeks. Right?”
“Right.”
“But you wouldn’t say you’re overly depressed, would you?”
“Overlydepressed? What do you mean?”
“Well, like if, for example, you were thinking about hurting yourself.”
“Oh. No, then,” I say. “Not overly.” Now I get it. He’s trying to find out whether I’m going to become another Hogan.
He smiles, stands up, and walks toward the door. Then he turns back. “Because if you were, you could talk to someone—a counselor or one of the visiting psychologists. There’s usually a waiting list to get an appointment, but I could probably help you jump the line if you’re struggling. Or you could talk to me.”
I nod. Thank him.
“And look, it gets easier to be here once you’ve gotten your bearings, made a couple of friends you can trust. These first weeks are the hardest for guys like you: first-time offenders who never imagined they’d end up here. For a lot of the guys doing time, it’s just part of the life. They start in juvie, then graduate to big-boy jail. Do some time and cycle out, commit another crime and cycle back in. Some of them get so theypreferbeing on the inside. But for guys like you, it’s a whole new experience. Takes getting used to, but then it’s okay. Right?”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. Okay, nice talking to you, Ledbetter. Have a good evening.”
