I took the “rules” very seriously when I was in prison, and I tried hard to live by them. They had served me well and, I believed, had kept me safe overseas. But near the end of my sentence, I nearly went off the rails because I let emotion get in the way of the rules.
After dinner one evening in August 2014, just six months before the end of my sentence, Frank walked into the room after going to the insulin line for his evening shot. “Hey, John. There was a guy in the insulin line talking trash about you tonight.”
I was surprised, to say the least. “Who? What did he say?”
“I never saw him before,” Frank said. “He must be new. He was telling people that you were a rat.”
I could feel my blood pressure rising. I genuinely don’t care what people think of me. But calling somebody a rat in prison usually results in blood being spilled. I had to defend my honor or die trying. “Point this guy out to me, Frank. I want to see who this asshole is.”
The next morning, I met up with Clint for our daily walk around the track. As soon as we saw each other, he said, “There was a guy in Medical this morning telling everybody that you were a rat. You might want to take care of this before it goes any further.”
I was incredulous. “Point this guy out to me, Clint. Who does this guy think he is? Those are fighting words.”
I frankly wasn’t sure what to do. By saying that I was a rat, in public, he was asking for a hearty ass-kicking. I knew that if I were to deliver it, I would likely spend the rest of my sentence in solitary. I didn’t care. I was furious. And God knows I had lived in worse places over the previous twenty-five years than the solitary confinement unit in Loretto, Pennsylvania.
At dinner that evening, both Frank and Clint pointed out the transgressor. I had never seen him before. He was definitely new. He was about my age, thinner, six feet tall, and with a bushy beard covering a severely pockmarked face. He got a tray of food and sat with the Aryans. I was at the next table sitting with the Italians.
I fixed a stare on him. “Hey!” I shouted. “You have a problem with me?” About fifty heads turned, including several COs. The cafeteria is the only place where the COs worry about their safety. It’s the only place where they’re generally outnumbered fifty to one at any given time. Consequently, they are always attuned to any hint of trouble.
“You know what I said. You know where I live,” he responded.
“Fuck that!” I shouted it too loudly. Again heads turned. “If you have something to say to me, say it now and we’ll settle this! Right here!”
A young Aryan ran over to me. “Please don’t fight here. If you do, the cops will send all of us to solitary.” I didn’t care. I was ready to do it. In the meantime, the bearded guy and I were in a staring contest.
As I weighed in my mind what to do next, Pete, the Bonanno family captain, gently tugged my sleeve. “What in the world are you doing?” he asked quietly. “Are you crazy doing this in the cafeteria?”
“As God is my witness, Pete, I’m going to kill this guy,” I said, still staring.
“No you’re not. You’re going to go to Mark’s room and you’re going to read the USA Today while we take care of this.” I was still furious, but I knew that I wasn’t thinking straight. I took Pete’s advice, sat down, quickly ate dinner, and went to Mark’s room.
Mark and Paulie showed up a few minutes later. They were bemused by how angry I was. I was spewing epithets. I wanted to kill the guy, or at least I wanted everybody around me to believe that I wanted to kill the guy. I was so furious that I had completely forgotten the rules. I should have been thinking about “eliminating potential problems using dirty tricks” and about “knowing my enemy.” But as things stood, I just wanted to see the guy lying in a pool of his own blood.
Mark smiled at me. “I’ve never seen you this worked up before. Why did this guy get to you? Nobody else has.” I couldn’t explain myself. Maybe it was because I had worked so hard to cement relationships with such diverse groups all over the prison. Maybe it was because nobody had ever called me a rat before. Maybe I just didn’t want to take any shit from this piece of white trash. Mark handed me a soda and said that he and Paulie would be back in a few minutes.
I perused the USA Today sports section, unable to focus. Mark and Paulie returned about fifteen minutes later. “Everything’s taken care of,” Mark said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I was still incredulous.
“It means it’s all taken care of. The guy’s not going to be a problem.” Mark and Paulie were smiling at me. Mark continued, “The guy apparently didn’t realize that you were a highly-respected member of the prison community—and especially of the Italian community. We made him understand that.”
“OK,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it.” A moment later came the call for a ten-minute move. I went back to my room.
Five minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of my bed reading The Wall Street Journal. It was the middle of the ten-minute move. “Excuse me.” The voice was to my left. I turned, looked up, and saw “the guy.” It looked as though his face had recently undergone a serious rearrangement. His left cheek was swollen, blood was drying in his left nostril, and his hair was askew.
Now was not the time to feel sorry for him. “What the fuck do you want?”
He hung his head down. “I’m very sorry for what I said about you,” he said, near tears. “I should never have said it. I want you to know that I’ll never say it again.” I looked at him for a moment. I had to appear tough.
“Get the fuck out of here before I decide to break your legs, too.” He turned and walked quickly, all the way out of the housing unit.
I went back down to Mark and Paulie’s room at the next move. “I really appreciate you guys stepping up for me,” I said.
They laughed. “You’re always talking about those damn rules,” Mark said. “I figured someone should take them seriously.”