Wade’s legs waggled and writhed while the heels of his boots bounced against the floor. His arms flailed and flopped, making slapping noises against the concrete. Moaning noises were punctuated by occasional grunts as his entire body shimmied and bucked. Seeing Wade afflicted like that, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. My fist covered my mouth to conceal my grin.
C/O Prader was a consummate shakedown artist, and he’d been terrorizing the cell house for weeks. As the afternoon shift change approached, the entire atmosphere of the building changed to one of high alert as every inmate waited to see if (please, oh please, oh please) Prader would be absent. Perhaps he would take a vacation or be assigned to a different building in the prison compound. Robocops like Prader don’t take vacations, and he always showed up just as regularly and regimented as a caffeine fiend’s first jolt of java in the morning. He arrived with his stoop-shouldered gambol on legs as limber as toothpicks and wearing a mustache that was the anemic twin to Tom Selleck’s signature facial flourish. Prader’s musty body odor was overpowering as he walked the hallways smelling of mothballs and burnt birthday candle wax.
For any convict who has been locked up for a while, shakedowns are par for the course. Many come to think of it as a kind of cat and mouse game. The authority figures are well aware that inmates are in possession of illegal items, but it’s their job to prove it by finding them. A convict’s duty is to stay one step ahead of them. In a max or medium-max, moving illicit materials around to duck a shakedown can be difficult if not impossible at times. Prader’s reign, however, was in a lower security facility where inmates could move through the hallways and dayroom more freely, so smuggling contraband came more easily. The question became: what do I hide?
What made Prader’s searches and seizures so despicable, feared, and insidious was the fact that he was unpredictable. One never knew what he might take. The obvious illegal items, of course, could be hidden or concealed on one’s person because when Prader came to shakedown, he didn’t pat down the inmates as they left the cell. But what about the rest? Prader was taking electronic items like TVs, beard trimmers, and hot pots with the justification that he thought they looked scratched or marked as if someone had buffed out another inmate’s ID number and carved their own in. Even when confronted with the contract and proof provided by the personal property office that the item in question was in fact legit, Prader took it anyway and made the inmate jump through hoops to get it back. Prader took clothes, bowls, cups, utensils, and food—all of which were obtained legally through commissary. Sometimes he would make up some bogus excuse, but for the most part his reasoning was simply “because I can.”
For his own safety it’s probably for the best that Prader wasn’t at a max joint because he would’ve been a likely candidate to be a victim of a staff assault. He got away with his bullying tactics because the privileges afforded inmates at a lower security facility served to keep the population pacified. Acting out violently is the best and quickest way to get transferred to a joint where you’re locked behind a door all day. With this as the dynamic, Prader seized property with impunity and convicts learned to adjust and avoid.
Once it was confirmed that Prader was, in fact, working, convicts would collect their contraband and shuttle it around to a safer spot. Since it was impossible to know who would be shookdown, everything became a calculated risk. If a cell was searched the night before, it was considered safe. Generally speaking, unless the occupants of a cell gave Prader a reason to search them again—a reason such as pissing him off—a shakedown once per month was customary. The beginning of the month was rough because every cell was fair game. The end of the month could be dangerous because Prader was known to circle back on cells randomly after the 25th of the month. Prader performed his shakedowns when the bulk of the building’s occupants were at chow. Before that, while the house was full, he usually had other duties to perform. When Prader shuffled up to my neighbor’s door nearly ninety minutes earlier than was usual and announced that they had to get out so he could shakedown, he caught them completely off guard and with their proverbial pants around their metaphorical ankles.
The cell held three men, and one of them, Art, exited with a look on his face that was three parts fear and two parts guilt. Both of his cellies were gone on their work assignments, and Art looked around in a panic, frantically seeking someone to tell him what to do. Not only had Prader caught him unaware by coming early, but apparently since their cell had been shookdown only one week prior, they felt they were safe and so they had several other inmate’s belongings secured in their cell. If/when Prader found the large stash hidden haphazardly under the bed and behind a property box, it would be a fiasco. All three occupants of the cell would almost certainly be hauled to Seg, and anyone who could be even tenuously linked to any of the illegal property would face severe penalties. In this case, it would’ve been better (meaning a lesser punishment would have been applied) to have been caught with an unauthorized item rather than being caught trying to conceal that item.
Art was sick. He had lost some of the color in his face—a very noticeable thing for a Latino guy as dark-toned as he was. I was in the hallway being nosy. I sympathized with my neighbors, but that didn’t mean I’d forgo a front row seat to the drama about to unfold.
“What am I supposed to do?” Art sounded terribly desperate as he asked the assembly of fellow lookyloos like myself. He got only a gaggle of shrugged shoulders and a grunted chorus of “I don’t know, man.” Art let out a low, pained moan before spinning on his heels and rushing toward the dayroom. Perhaps he was going to seek assistance from others, or maybe he was just trying to distance himself from the impending debacle in his cell. The guy standing next to me broke off from our impromptu group and ran to intercept Art. After imparting some hushed wisdom, the two of them picked up the pace even more toward the dayroom. With my curiosity piqued, I hustled after them.
By the time I caught up to Art, he had already found his accomplice and was huddled in the corner with him. Wade was an annoying clown, an unabashed fool, and a loudmouthed idiot. He was a sad indictment of the inner-city ghetto environment, the gang lifestyle, the public education system, the prison system, and perhaps America as a whole. Wade was a sixtyish black man with a head full of gray hair who still spoke and behaved like he was a hot-headed, ignorant, and uneducated sixteen-year-old gangbanger with something to prove to the world and not a jot of sense in his head. However, history has shown that even a fool can serve his purpose.
The two of them were hunched over with Art’s arm around Wade’s shoulders and their foreheads nearly touching as they conferred. It looked like Art was spilling all the words into Wade’s ear while Wade merely nodded his head vigorously. With a final curt nod, Wade clapped Art on the chest reassuringly and made a beeline toward where I stood just inside the dayroom and next to the entry to the hallway down which Prader was plying his tyrannical trade.
For a brief instant, I thought that Art had somehow convinced or cajoled Wade into attacking Prader, but then Wade suddenly stumbled into a stutter-step, bent in half at the waist, clutched at his chest and upper arm, (something which is more closely associated with a heart attack, I believe, but what do I know?) before finally crashing in a mess on the floor right in front of the bubble and commencing his flopping and floundering routine. From across the dayroom, Art called out, “He’s having a seizure!”
C/O Gilbert was the bubble officer and he went from half asleep to instantly alert but decidedly discombobulated. He stood up quickly then sat down, stood up partway, then collapsed to his seat. Third time was the charm and Gilbert stayed on his feet, pointing at Wade wriggling on the ground. Gilbert’s mouth was opening and closing but only making confused and ineffectual chuffing noises as he looked around in all directions for some assistance of direction. “Are you alright?” Gilbert finally managed to ask—arguably the most dimwitted query he could’ve conjured. In response, Wade moaned and grunted louder as he flailed and seized more violently. I stifled my laughter so as not to wreck their ruse. “Call a Code!” Art hollered from his corner hiding place, throwing his voice with all the expertise of an abysmal ventriloquist. C/O Gilbert seized on the idea and finally sprang into action.
“Code three! Code three!” His voice was shaky with panic and lacking authority as he called it into his radio, but it produced the desired effect. Code three is the designation for a medical emergency. Gilbert added the cell house number and the location as the dayroom, and Prader burst from Art’s cell in six seconds flat, moving in his signature hunchbacked fashion on quick, stiff legs to the location of the crisis. Thanks to Wade’s diversion, Prader hadn’t spent more than three minutes inside the cell and hadn’t found anything. Prader leaned over Wade and asked if Wade could hear him, if he was okay. Wade’s noisemaking increased once more, and it sounded suspiciously like he was choking back chuckles.
C/Os and lieutenants arrived in droves followed shortly by a trio of nurses who gathered Wade’s quieted form and rolled him away on a stretcher. After spending a large chunk of the night writing an incident report detailing all of his actions during the medical emergency, C/O Prader merely wandered down the hall and provided my neighbors with their Photostat copy of a shakedown slip which reported that the C/O had searched their cell and found nothing.
In defense to his legitimate history of seizures, Wade was held in Healthcare for observation overnight before being released back to the building the next day. His triumphant return was met with lots of laughs and high-fives all around. When Prader showed up for the evening he was sure to check on Wade to ask about his health and well-being. Two hours later, Prader arrived at Wade’s door again, this time for a shakedown. There was nothing for Prader to find because Wade and his cellies had already stashed all their contraband in Art’s cell, and so the cat and mouse game continued.