Josh’s next visit came two days earlier than scheduled. He received a call from one of the guards, who told him he might want to get down there. Immediately. Paul had promised him twenty bucks for ten minutes with his brother, that Josh would bring the money with him.
An hour later, the guard let Josh in one of the side doors. As they made their way to the visitors’ room, he told Josh that Paul had been asking for him since their conversation that morning—had he come yet, were there any messages. He told Josh to wait there, that it might take a few minutes, given that it wasn’t Visitors’ Day.
Josh sat at the table for the first five minutes, then got up and walked around the room. He stopped in front of the green-grey grill window and looked down at the exercise yard. It was a smaller version of the yards he’d known in San Tomas, Alameda and Baltimore. The blacks clustered around the weights, their hard, sweaty bodies throwing back the sun. The Latinos were at the other end, seated on the bleachers or playing one-wall. The whites were of two camps: the first was a tightly-knit group sitting together in the other bleachers, the second no group at all, singletons and couples staying as far away from the others as possible.
As he watched, the far corner of the yard came alive. Two men standing over a patch of grass strewn with playing cards and packs of cigarettes were arguing, gesturing at the ground. The taller man pushed the other, pointing more furiously at the cards. The other man’s neck arched back, then snapped forward. Even at that distance, Josh could see the gob of spit sail through the air and land on the chest of the pointing man.
The two men circled and the crowd quickly surrounded them, shielding them from the guards’ view. The tall one, sporting a red scarf headband low across his brow, reached behind him and pulled a short knife from his waistband. At almost the same moment the other man did the same.
The tall one’s arm swung up suddenly, arcing past the other’s face. The second man struck at the arm as it flew past. A thread of red formed against the blue workshirt, then spread quickly, dominating the sleeve. Josh shifted his gaze to take in the rest of the yard. Two guards roused themselves from their perch at the top of the bleachers and started over, no rush to their step.
The wounded man shifted his knife to his left hand and resumed his circling, taunting his opponent with his right arm—limp, damp and scarlet. Then he feinted with his knife and lashed a foot at the smaller man’s groin. The man looked down at the foot, realizing too late that the kick was a feint as well. The knife that had been a decoy initially now slashed across his cheek, spinning him with the impact. Josh saw the face open up, half the man’s check now hanging from his face.
Josh closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the heavy mesh. He kept them shut for over a minute, drawing air in long, deliberate breaths. When he opened them again, the taller man’s arms were now behind his back, restrained by two guards. His opponent was being hustled into the main building, a towel tight against his face. The crowd was dispersing, now with more animation.
The door opened behind him. Josh composed his face into a welcoming smile and turned. The smile dropped as Paul entered the room. His face sallow, his eyes deeply circled, he walked across the floor as if each step was a decision. He almost collapsed as he settled into the chair.
“How’re you doing?” he mumbled to Josh.
“Never mind me. What happened to you?”
“My luck ran out.” His finger traced idly on the tabletop. “Last Friday they transferred in a new bunch from Vacaville, something about overcrowding at San Tomas. Hard-timers. Their leader has a thing for me. Cruised me on Friday. I thought I did a good job of staring him down. But when no one jumped to my defense, he knew I was fair game. Saturday night he caught me alone in the bathroom. He had a knife.”
Josh closed his hand over his brother’s as the tracing became more frenetic. “Are you okay? Inside, I mean.”
“Last night he brought along a friend.” Paul’s voice shivered. “I’m in here for something I didn’t do and I’m winding up a fucking whore. I’m the one who got raped, not the bitch who put me here.” He looked up, his eyes unfocused. “Luckily it’s just another thirty-eight days.”
Josh lifted his hands, cradling his brother’s face. “I’ll talk to the guards, the warden. You’re going to be okay.”
“Not after this. Even if I get transferred, they’re going to smell the fear—it’s smeared all over me.” His face stiffened. “Don’t let them transfer me, Josh. At least here I can see you a couple of times a week.”
“If you’re staying here, Paulie, then you need to fight. With whatever you have. They’re trying to steal you from yourself. You can’t let them do that.”
The door opened and the guard came towards them. Josh’s voice tightened. “You do whatever you need to survive, you hear me?”
As the guard’s hand settled on his shoulder, the resolve in Paul’s eyes vanished. His mouth went slack. He started to say something to Josh, then turned back to the guard, his shoulders slumping with each step.