FAMILY


Cory sat on the edge of his bunk in the county jail cell, alone, and thankful for it. One bad thing about living a life of crime, as his truant officer had so often told him, was being locked up. But worse than that, as Cory knew from experience, was that you had no say so in who they locked you up with.

He looked at the cell across from his and thought it was a mercy that it was empty. He wouldn’t have to watch some brute take a dump in the toilet in the center of the cell, or feel some pervert’s eyes all over him, or listen to any steady stream of shit coming out of a hard-timer’s mouth.

There were eight more cells in this block and though he couldn’t see the other inmates, he could hear grunts and farts, toilets flushing and an occasional slap of skin on skin that he didn’t want to think about. He sang “Yes, Jesus loves me,” in a whisper to cover over the noises and move his mind to a better place.

The trustee came onto the floor with the chow cart amidst a clatter of keys, doors slamming, jangle of spoons and trays. The wheels of the cart needed several shots of WD-40 to stop their shriek. The cart stopped in front of Cory’s cell and the trustee slapped a metal tray down on the concrete and shoved it with his foot under the bars and into the cell. Didn’t even look up.
Then he pushed the cart on down, not stopping at the next cell door. Cory listened for the shriek of the cart, slap and scrape of the trays and counted them. Two men in the next two cells, and one in the end, one in each of the last two cells on the other side.

One thing he’d learned in jail was to listen; the other was to keep his mouth shut. First time he was in Juvi, he’d got the ABC’s of both from the eighteen year old toughs who bragged that next time they took a fall they wouldn’t get stuck in kiddie court. They’d go to a real jail and not have to listen to any snot-nosed babies wailing for their mothers. Well, this was Cory’s third time in county and he couldn’t see any glamour in it. Locked up is locked up.

The first time he’d got off because some rookie cop fresh out of training had forgotten to read him his rights, and had bungled the evidence. Tripped on a rock and lost the whole bag of dope down the sewer drain.

Second time, he was on the front side of twenty, still nineteen and scared shitless to do any real time. Lucky for him that judge sounded just like his daddy out under the elm with his belt in his hand, so serious and righteous like the wrath of God. Cory went into some kind of trance and answered just like his daddy’d taught him: take his licks like a man, apologize fervently, and look as humble as he could manage. The judge gave him that same sorrowful, “this hurts me more than it hurts you” look and gave him forty hours of community service and probation. Hallelujah!
Now he was almost twenty-one and a third timer to boot, he didn’t feel so lucky. He was older, not necessarily wiser, but at least knew the game. When the deputy came to get him for his court appearance Cory shuffled along next to him and recited the words every inmate memorizes. “I know my rights. I got a phone call coming and a court appointed lawyer.” The he added, “I have the right to remain silent, remember that.”

All the deputy said was, “I wish you would.”