By Randall Radic
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Extra resources for A Priest in Hell: Gangs, Murderers and Snitching in a California Jail
His eyes widen. “Whew! ” “No one,” I say. “I’m charged with embezzlement and fraud. ” he asks, giving me a sly look, tilting his head. “I was,” I confess. “But not now. ” “You got a house? A car? ” he asks me. ” I smile at him. ” “Too bad,” he says. He hands me a small piece of paper. “Anyway, you find any money, call my cousin. Ask for Martin. Tell him you know me. ” He taps his chest with his fingers. ” I read the piece of paper. It is hand printed, in pencil: “Need bail? ” Then it gives a phone number.
A short Afro haircut puffs from his head. ” yells the . The orange jumpsuit pimp rolls out of the cell. His hands are cuffed in front. Tall, he looks around sixteen or seventeen. Snide arrogance spills from his face. ” shouts the black guy. “I want you to fuckin’ shut up,” snarls the . The other unsnaps the capsule on his belt, removes a canister from it. “I need to stretch my fuckin’ legs,” shouts the black guy. “Look, asshole,” says the , “you don’t tell us what you want. ” He points into the cell.
I drink the coffee, wrap the dinner roll in my napkin, which is a coarse paper towel, and place it inside my dresser. If I get hungry enough, I will eat it. But not until then. Thirty minutes later the trustee returns to pick up my tray. The sour accompanies him. The unlocks the cell door, opens it. I hand the trustee my tray. “Thanks,” I say. ” He gives me a secretive look. ” I say to the . ” he barks. ” “You’re ,” he snaps out. “You weren’t supposed to get out for rec last night. ” He bangs the door shut in my face.