Slapped by Injustice

By W. F. Redmond

Rating: 5.0 stars

Reviewed by Alice D. for Readers Favorite

African-American Duane Freeman has served a seven year prison term for assault and now works as a janitor for Sunnycrest Mental Hospital in Dinuba, California. He worked in the mental health buildings both at New Folsom prison and at Mule Creek State Prison. Competent at bio-hazard work and highly intelligent, Duane is hired right out of prison by Sunnycrest supervisor Rosalinda Burgueno who becomes his mentor. Living with his love, Graciela, and her three young children, David, Ramon, and Margarita, who just adore him, Duane is proud of his inner strength that allowed him to survive California gang wars and the prison itself. Working his shift at Sunnycrest, Duane sees one of the prison psychiatrists forcing himself upon a naked female inmate. What is going on at Sunnycrest Mental Hospital?

"Slapped by Injustice: Point Blank" is a highly readable and very well-written story of Duane Freeman and the life that he is handed. Duane is an incredible and very likeable main character who does fall to his knees but always manages to climb back to his feet. The many other characters in "Slapped by Injustice," such as Graciela, Dr. Schietzel and Princess Washburn, are well-created and totally believable and play well against Duane, making this story a first-rate read. The plot proceeds with the necessary stops and makes it a good drama. The dialogue is first-rate and adds to the story. Duane's success in living his life fully after seven years in prison will inspire many. Readers should put "Slapped by Injustice" at the top of their lists of books that are must-reads.

Rating: 5.0 stars

Reviewed by Robin Clark for Readers Favorite

Duane Freeman has finally become a "free man" after seven years in prison and two years on parole. He is a rare exception for an ex-con, one who made the decision upon leaving the jail cell that he would never return. He was lucky not only to find someone who would give him a chance, but to find several people that he could call friends. He was hired on as a custodian at Sunnycrest in Los Angeles, a high-end, up-scale mental hospital, filled with the rich and the famous, including Princess Washburn, Hollywood’s leading lady. After two years of working there, Duane feels as if Sunnycrest is his home, and most of the employees, family. While working one night, Duane finds that one of the physicians is sexually abusing Princess, by telling her that he will make sure she is discharged early in exchange for sex. Duane confides in one of the head nurses and they, along with a few others, decide that something must be done to stop this terrible injustice. Will Duane and his partners be able to put a top to this and be heroes or will it all backfire and end his new “wonderful” life?

"Slapped by Injustice" gives you a look at an ex-con’s life through his eyes. You can feel his struggles, his disappointments, his losses and his wins. It really communicates the realities that newly released prisoners face, as well as the prejudices. The story is very smooth and has strong impact on readers. Kudos to author W.F. Redmond for his accomplishment in putting the regular Joe into the mind of an ex-con. Look forward to reading more of his work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W. F. Redmond
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476434469

W. F. Redmond

W. F. Redmond was born in the backwoods of Arkansas, the eldest of eight children, whose parents' lives were anchored to the cotton fields. But it was on the streets and playgrounds of Compton, California, that Redmond came of age. His daughter, six grand-children and four great-grands inspire, challenge and keep him young at heart. His work is also dedicated to his mother Rosie Lee, and his sisters, Amy, Jackie and Sharon, all of whose lives were cut far too short. He spends his days working at and and striving to improve his craft. He is author of the critically acclaimed two novel set, Compton Connection Books 1 and 2; the mid-west urban thriller, All is Fair in Hate; and the soon to be released, Arkansas Has Rainy Nights Too. He tells us that, "I have only just begun. The best is yet to come!"

Book preview

Slapped by Injustice: Point Blank is a well-written first-rate read. Duane is proud of his inner strength that allowed him to survive California gang wars and the prison itself. Duane's success in living his life fully after seven years in prison will inspire many. Readers should put Slapped by Injustice at the top of their lists of books that are must-reads.

—Alice D. for Readers Favorite (Rating: 5.0 stars)

Slapped by Injustice gives you a look at an ex-con’s life through his eyes. You can feel his struggles, his disappointments, his losses and his wins. It really communicates the realities that newly released prisoners face, as well as the prejudices. The story is very smooth and has strong impact on readers. Kudos to author W.F. Redmond for his accomplishment. Look forward to reading more of his work.

—Robin Clark for Readers Favorite (Rating: 5.0 stars)

Redmond writes a compelling book about a topic that we can easily relate to. Most of us know someone who is troubled and have been on a destructive path and even with our attempts to help them, they must hit bottom and help themselves first. Instead of letting the prison culture suffocate him and pound the life out of him, he pulls on his inner strength and confidence. I felt like Duane’s personal cheerleader, as I was cheering him on from the sidelines and rooting for him.

—Rita V for Readers Favorite (Rating: 3.0 stars)

Slapped by Injustice:

Point Blank

by W. F. Redmond

Copyright © 2011 W.F. Redmond

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To all of the beautiful women in my life who have nurtured, loved, supported, and stood by me through all of life’s travails and struggles.

First and foremost, to my mother and my precious daughter; you two have been my rocks. Rosie Lee and SaLisa, you are my everything!

Also, Sandra, Helen, Brenda, Jackie, Sharon and Amy, my beloved sisters.

Ola, Thelma, Olivia, Equetta, Sherricka, Lucy, Aunt Sue, Lessie, Bernice, my family, whose love has known no boundaries.

To Alegra, Dorothy Jean, Aunderia, Shirley, Alicia, the women whose various gifts have helped to shape me.

To Deirdre, for helping me become a better writer and to Tracy and Meredith, thanks for everything!

Finally, in memory of Richard Mejico, the founder of Criminals and Gangmembers Anonymous, who taught me that change is possible!

PROLOGUE

April 1, 2007April Fool’s Day, Are you Duane Edward Freeman? asked the big headed, lion-faced man seated at the table. He was sandwiched between a thin, fidgety woman sporting a steel gray pageboy hairdo, and an angry looking black man, who was a dead ringer for Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas."

Yes, I am, I replied curtly, succinctly. I was in no mood to be bullied and this wasn’t a pleasurable experience for me.

Have you been informed of the terms of our final settlement offer by your lawyer? snarled a third Black man in the room, the other two being Travis Childress, my attorney and myself. He grimaced as he spoke, glaring at me as if I stank, had bad breath, or had done him wrong personally.

Yes, I have. It’s acceptable. Where do I sign? I answered, doing my best to convey to all three of them that I cared very little about decorum or the solemnity of the occasion. For me, it represented the end of an era, the end of life as I’d known it for more than two years. Justice! I cried inwardly. Where is the justice in all of this?"

Do you fully understand what’s required of you, per this agreement, young man? the man with the huge dome and mane asked. His expression was stern and businesslike, yet I swore there was a flash of compassion in his eyes. It was only evident for one brief second, but I was sure it was there.

Yes, I do! I’m fired, I no longer have a job. I can never work for the great state of California, and a bunch of other stuff. The thing is, sir... I stressed, sarcasm dripping from my every word, and becoming increasingly frustrated. The point is, I get it man! Now, can we just get to the conclusion of your kangaroo court and let me out of here? My lawyer has given me all the details. Toward the end of my statement, I angled my vision toward Koon Thomas, as I’d tagged the Black man on the panel. I stared hard at him as he sat there glaring at me like I was vermin, and somehow beneath him for merely being there in the capacity that I was. Suddenly, I became tired, fatigued. Claustrophobia set in and I felt as if the spacious, lacquered walls of the room were shrinking, closing in on me. I needed to get out of there.

My attorney sensed my mounting restlessness. He harrumphed a couple of times, unnecessarily clearing his throat to get my attention, before turning toward the panel. Esteemed panel, for the record, my client has been fully apprised of the terms and will stipulate to those specified in the panel’s offer, stated Travis calmly.

Forty-five minutes later, I shook hands with my attorney and friend as we stood in the parking lot of the California State Capitol Building. I climbed into my Suzuki Samurai and roared away, quickly joining the throng of midday, workday traffic in the capitol city, Sacramento. Damaged in my emotional state, angered by the circumstances surrounding the loss of my job, uncertain of my tomorrows, rudderless, without firm direction in my life for the first time in...well, in a very long time, I drove aimlessly. Someone once said that like homing pigeons, man shall always find his way home, back to where he belongs, where he’s most comfortable, especially in desperate times of need. GOD! I cried out inwardly as I crossed Greenleaf Boulevard and passed the sign that read: ENTERING THE CITY OF COMPTON — THE HUB CITY.

God, I hoped that was not true.

CHAPTER ONE

"Why do you have to buy just that car? questioned my girlfriend, with an exaggerated pout on her face. It’s ugly and too little," she added.

"Grace, I don’t have to buy it. I could keep bumming rides, busing twenty miles roundtrip day and night, or wait till you get the kids settled, and then have you drive the twenty miles yourself to pick me up. Like I told you, this little Suzuki is in excellent shape, good on gas and insurance, and most important, the price is right!" Frustration was beginning to grow in the woman. Her back became rigid, ramrod straight. She began taking those tiny breaths, quick little gasps like a train or steam engine cranking up. Though she managed to sound like she was making a concerted effort to control herself, I knew this woman, knew that her movements and actions meant exactly the opposite. She was slowly working herself to the boiling point. Then she’d explode, exhibit her volatile Latin temperament. We’d argue — well, not quite. She’d scream, hurl one invective after another in her own curious mixture of English and Spanish, which required one to really pay close attention in order to comprehend. While I, on the other hand, would simply stare at her with quizzical, almost vacant innocence and obtuseness. These emotional disconnects served only to stoke her fires even more. But they served me well, allowed me to disengage, step off the roller coaster, so to speak.

"Duane, she began again, speaking in what she thought was her reasonable tone. I know all of that, baby. It’s just that I don’t see you in that sickly colored Suzuki Samurai, putt-puttin’ down the street. No way, bay-bee! Mah-mee sees her pa-pee behind the wheel of an Escalade or Navigator, you know, like Monica and Armando have. My mother would gladly co-sign, she...uh...umm, Duane, Duane where ya goin’? Come back, we need to..."

CODE GREEN, 3rd. FLOOR A/B REC. ROOM! CODE GREEN, 3rd. FLOOR A/B REC.! ATTENTION THIRD FLOOR CUSTODIAN! SUIT UP, BIO 3rd FLOOR CUSTODIAN, BIO, SUIT UP!

What? Huh?

Code Green, 3rd. floor, A/B Recreation Room, Bio Custodian...

Oh shit, that’s me. Man, I’m sitting here rehashing Grace’s foolishness and they’re paging me. Coming to my feet, I rushed to the cabinet where the biohazard suits were stored and snatched one out. I quickly stripped off my uniform and gave the hazard cart a fast visual once-over, checking to ascertain that everything I might need was on board. It really wasn’t necessary, as checking and reloading the custodial cart was the first thing I did every day as soon as I signed in for my shift. The perfunctory once-over was more habit than necessity. I pulled on knee-high rubber boots, then clicked off the television and opened the door to the cubbyhole assigned to 3rd floor custodians. Marilyn worked the day shift and I worked from 2:00 to 10:00 p.m. From 10:00 at night until 6:00 a.m., there was only one janitor assigned to cover all three floors of the hospital. Outside the door I encountered madness as orderlies in white, black clad security personnel, and psych technicians dressed in civilian clothes all flowed toward Modules A through D in response to the code. Passing the nurses’ station, I made eye contact with Patricia Robinson. Upon spotting me, she cut short her ongoing announcement: CODE GREEN 3rd. FLOOR…

There you are. They’re waiting for you, Duane, and it’s a mess. Mr. Baxter again, she informed me, as she replaced the P.A. system’s microphone onto its cradle. Aw, fuck, I replied, even as I pushed harder on my long, bright yellow cart. Thanks, Patty, I yelled over my shoulder. Man, not again! I agonized to myself, mentally getting prepared for the smelly, shitty task in front of me. With Bart Baxter involved, it nearly always meant the throwing, spreading, or even eating of his own defecation, which always entailed me having to decontaminate the area. In plain English, it meant I had to clean up the shit that a 47-year-old man seemed compelled to use as an expression of his opinion of the world, or to announce to the world that he was depressed. But, that’s part of my job and it pays my bills.

About time you showed up. Where in the hell were you? questioned an indignant Dr. Schietzel. Ignoring him, I grabbed my masked bio-helmet, and expecting to find the worst, snatched the shiny antibacterial foam extinguisher off the cart before stepping through the door to the patient recreation room adjoining A&B living modules.

Observing my arrival, Dr. Mitchell Masters visibly breathed a sigh of relief before announcing, Okay, he’s here. Everybody quiet down and we’ll get you all out of here, into the shower, and back to your rooms. Duane, come over here, please, he said, beckoning me over to the side of the throng. There was semi-bedlam going on as orderlies, nurses, psych techs, and even a couple of doctors struggled to calm down about a dozen patients in the sparsely crowded rec room. Even John, the security guard, was busy talking with Train. Nurse Lori Sachs, psych tech Brenda Zapien, and 3rd floor orderly Alex Dunham surrounded Bart Baxter, who continued to rail about the evils of soap operas, Sodom and Gomorrah, and the hellfire awaiting all of mankind.Look, we’re gonna need twelve bio bags with tags, and twelve bars of antibacterial soap before you can even get started in here, said Dr. Mitch Masters as the odor of defecation began to permeate the large room. Baxter went crazy in here, throwing crap on everybody, and smearing the television screen. He especially went after Princess Washburn. He held her down and rubbed it into her face and hair.

Uuggghhh, I whispered, shuddering at the thought of somebody rubbing shit all over my face. Unavoidably, I averted my eyes from his, seeking out Princess. I located her, cowered in the far corner, seated on a bench with Supervising Nurse Glenda Jackson and Dr. Schietzel, who she seemed to be retreating from, even as her body racked in heaving sobs.All right, Doc, give me one minute and we can get started, I said, kicking myself into work mode — high gear, at that, as I stepped out into the hallway. Within less than the sixty seconds I’d asked for, I quickly returned with the items he’d requested, along with fifteen pre-moistened, disposable, antibacterial face cloths. Before I reported back to Dr. Masters, I made my way over to the corner, where Nurse Jackson was soothing a near hysterical Princess Washburn, and silently handed her three face cloths. Thanks, Duane, she really needs ‘em, said Nurse Jackson.

Out of the corner of my right eye, I detected a baleful glare aimed at me by Dr. Schietzel, and though it was a bit disconcerting, I didn’t let it bother me — perhaps because I was unable to resist curiosity’s urge to see what a famous movie actress looked like with her face covered in shit, and somebody else’s shit at that.

No problem, Nurse Jackson. On her way to the showers I’ll have bio bags and soap, I responded, finally breaking away from my stargazing. Actress or not, she looked like anybody else with crap spread on her face. Shitty, shook up, and messy! I’d seen quite a few such sights in my lifetime, sad to say. I returned to Dr. Masters. We now stood at the entrance to A-Module. I asked him, How do you want to handle it, Doc?

Shhiiitt...hell man, your show. You do this all the time, handle it as you see fit. Let’s just get ‘em outta here and get this mess cleaned up, aired out, he replied, sniffing distastefully. Without further hesitation, I opened a box of soap, slipped on my latex gloves, and cleared my throat to get everybody’s attention. Okay, everybody, I’ve got what we need to get us all cleaned up and prepared for dinner. I know, my fault, sorry about the delay, I said, purposely sounding dejected. Then I smiled and added, But, I made it, so let’s do this! trying my best to sound upbeat. My approach seemed to work. In staggered stages, the patients calmed down, Mr. Caravella and Wilma Pritchess even started laughing. A-Module first, please. Oh, and please remember, after showers, be sure to leave these yellow bags outside your doors with your dirty clothes in them and after dinner I’ll pick ‘em up. Then later on, someone will come by with fresh clothes for everybody. Here we go.

An hour and a half later I was in the shower scrubbing myself down after decontaminating the entire rec room. In spite of all the hullabaloo, it had turned out to be a relatively quick clean-up. The television’s screen and knobs had taken me nearly as long as the rest of the entire room, the benches, and all of the tables. Now that it was all over and the patients had showered, had taken their medications and were eating dinner, the ever-present sympathy I’ve always had for mental health patients cascaded over me. Unbidden, the faces of the two people involved most in this evening’s drama found their way into my mind’s eye. I reflected back to how Princess Washburn was abused in that manner for no reason that I knew of, other than for being an actress. Perhaps surprising to many would be the deep empathy and compassion I felt for Bartholomew Baxter, Princess’s abuser. Yes, it was definitely possible for one to empathize and be concerned with the well-being of both a victim and their victimizer. In some sad way, it was an easier and shorter reach to feel for Bart Baxter. Any person so miserable, depressed, and occasionally delusional to the point that they’ll eat their own defecation has to be viewed with compassion. At least, that was my way of viewing it. Suddenly, I saw the faces of others who’d used their own crap to write on walls and windows. Or painted markings on their faces, thrown it at guards, doctors, nurses, or even at me a time or two. But somehow, as heart wrenching and sad as those uses for one’s own bowel movements were, seeing someone eat it made you cry out inside and almost question God for allowing it.Man, what am I doing? Why such morbid thoughts? It is what it is, I kept repeating to myself as I stepped out of the shower stall, glancing at my watch, which read 5:55. Well, only four more hours to go and I can head home. Unless Kevin doesn’t come to work again and I’m held for overtime. I’ll just have to keep my eyes peeled for my supervisor waddling my way, I thought, and then chuckled. I know, that’s awful and I’m always saying, Oh D-Man, that ain’t cool! So I chastened myself. My supervisor, Mrs. Burgueño—or RosaLinda as she insisted she be called amongst colleagues and friends—was such a nice, sweet person.

And she was, too! I must admit that my shift supervisor had really been in my corner from day one with overtime, tips on ways to get the work done more efficiently, and how to stay ahead of schedule. Maybe her greatest gift to me had been her thorough, and so far, very accurate insights on everybody working at Sunnycrest Mental Hospital. From the Director, Naomi Sung, who’d hired me fresh out of prison (over the objections of many), all the way down to the cook, and even the old man who pressed clothes in the laundry, Big Rose, as people called her out of earshot, knew seemingly everything about everybody. She’d taken me under her wing, guiding me through the maze of third floor and hospital wide politics, as if I were a son or younger brother.

Kevin Ross had been missing so much work, and screwed up badly when he did show up, that frankly, I found it surprising he still had a job. I could usually tell when he wasn’t coming in, because at around 9:30 I could glance down the hallway to the end of the corridor and there’d be RosaLinda Burgueño, making her way toward the third floor complex. She never appeared to hurry; waddling was the way Blanche and Patricia describe it. But I wasn’t so sure about that. She was 55 years old, 285 pounds or so, and resembled a duck when she was on the move. Still, her head was on a swivel as she slowly made her way up the corridor. Where I was from, that was an indication that a person was looking, observing, checking things out. In my experience, alert people didn’t miss very much, and neither did my boss! I knew because of the multitude of little notes she’d left clipped on my clipboard the few times I’d been less than meticulous in my work.

Anyway, I hoped Kevin could get away from that speed long enough to make it in that night, because as much as I needed the money, I wanted to get home to my girl. I didn’t like leaving things left unsaid or unresolved between her and I. Especially just walking out on her when she was talking, like I’d done. But man, Grace can really drive a person up the wall at times with her confounding, naïve way of thinking.

THIRD FLOOR CUSTODIAN, REPORT TO THIRD FLOOR NURSES’ STATION!

Oh, yeah, six o’clock, time to eat. That’s Patty paging me to the nurses’ station. Wonder what’s on the menu this evening? I asked myself. We had a third floor Lunch Bunch which included ten of us. Those get-togethers had become the highlight of my working days. The food in the cafeteria was pretty bland and extremely costly. The crap in the vending machines was a rip-off and unhealthy, as well. So Brenda, Morris, Alex, Patricia, Greg, Donna, Beatrice and myself, along with Tina Murphy from the second floor, contributed $20 a week each and every week a different person handled the cooking for all of us. It was great, too! Hot, home cooked meals every night at a savings, and good company to boot.

We’re on the terrace, Duane, shouted Donna, flashing an inviting smile. Your plate is over there. A spot with a view so you can look at the lake. Tell me what’cha think about my egg salad, she whispered as I passed her.

Okay, good lookin’ Donna, thanks.

Oh, you know you don’t have to thank me, brotha, it’s my pleasure, she added suggestively, attempting to make eye contact with me.

Without being rude, I cast my eyes out toward the water, which was sparkling blue in the late July California evening. I took a deep breath of the invigorating fresh air, and slowly exhaled. Any institution had that antiseptic, disinfectant smell clinging to it. Be it a hospital, prison, mental institution, even courthouses, they all reeked of pine, lemon, or some other antibacterial. Better, of course, than the aroma of human misery, unwashed bodies, or worse. Yet, I always enjoyed that first breath of fresh, natural air after being inside for a few hours.Here’s Dee now, let’s ask our resident NFL Almanac, announced Alex Dunham, third floor orderly.

I sat down near Alex, Brenda Zapien, Pedro Benavidez, and Morris Hicks.

Duane, Superbowl #3, who played in it? And who won it? Alex questioned. That’s easy, I retorted. It was the Minnesota Vikings against the Kansas City Chiefs. K.C. won 34-to-31, I continued offhandedly, making a conscious effort to get away from Donna’s intense and prying eyes.

Donna Price, third floor psych tech, was 32, and a gorgeous, cocoa brown sister. Eyes so grayish-green you’d think they were contacts, and a figure that most of the women in hip-hop videos had to diet and kill themselves working out to have. Donna’s was natural and still firm, even after three kids. She was really a cool person who simply had a few bad breaks and made some terrible choices, mostly with men. As a result, she was raising three children with three different last names. I took my hat off to the girl though, she was a hard worker, and from what I’d heard and seen, an excellent mother. For whatever reason, she was also dead set on getting with me.

As smart as she was about most things, the woman simply didn’t understand NO! In her mind, no healthy, straight man could resist the 5’5, 130-pound stack she was carrying around. And she was right, most had not! Which for me was another turnoff. Too many passengers in a girl’s background usually sent me running in the opposite direction; and even were it not for all the baggage and the fact that we worked together, there was Graciela, my lady. They’d known one another since junior high school, for one thing. For another, I loved my woman and I simply wasn’t made that way. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I tried the player-playa-thang back in high school, and for a while afterward. But cheatin’ just ain’t how I did it. Plus, it was done to me, and played a major role in me landing in prison for nearly seven years. It hurt people! So, good friends were all Donna and I could ever be, no matter how fine she was.

What’s that ya say? I asked, leaning toward Pedro, the night security man for the third floor.

The other back in the Dallas Cowboys backfield that had a thousand yards one year along with Calvin Hill? asked Pedro.

Man, you guys need to run down to that gift shop or somewhere and pick up a Sports Almanac, or spend some time on a computer before coming at me with these weak weenie questions, I quipped, frowning good naturedly.

Well...we’re waiting, tough guy, challenged Pedro. Duane Thomas rushed 44 times for 167 yards in the final game of the season against the Washington Redskins to end up with 1,044 yards for the season. His running mate, Calvin Hill, had 1,125 yards coming into the game, so coach Tom Landry sat him down after only one carry, the first play of the game. He only allowed him to suit up to keep Calvin’s consecutive regular season starts streak intact. Now, Officer Benavidez, any more elementary school questions?

Flashing a pained expression, Pedro moaned as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills more than three inches thick. Pedro might have been the only person in the world who still walked around with a bankroll that size in his pocket. Consensus was, he mostly did it to flash and impress girls. From what I heard, he really didn’t have a problem parting with any of it, either. But hey, why not; he was in his 50s, no wife or kids. If he found a honey to spend his money on, the way I saw it, more power to him! He’d had his eye on Donna for a while now. Before that, it was Patty.

Donna! Donna! Earth to Donna Price, come in please, yelled Brenda. Suddenly, all eyes turned toward the transfixed, nearly hypnotized Donna, who’d been caught again staring at me. Embarrassed at being discovered in her fantasy or daydream while in a crowd, Donna lowered her head in shame. At that moment, I felt sorry for her. But she wasn’t down long. After only a few seconds of disconcertion, her head shot back up, her eyes flashing defiantly.

Brenda Zapien, one of these days ya gonna piss me off and I’ma test your ass, she threatened. Although she was plenty mad, maybe mad enough to try it, silently I prayed that she wouldn’t. Simply put, there was just too much of Brenda for the girl to handle. Apparently, Brenda herself was well aware of that, because she calmly explained the obvious. Girl, all I’d do is sit on you, crush your little butt and it’d all be over. Come on, you know I was only teasin’ ya, child, trying to get you to wise up and accept that Duane already has a woman, and unlike most guys, he ain’t a dog! Plus, right now he’s too busy putting money in my pocket to be thinking about you or any other woman. Ain’t that right, Pedro? She laughed, dismissing Donna as she held out her hand, palm up, toward the uniformed security guard.

Amid friendly cheers and jeers, Pedro peeled a $5 bill from the bottom of his roll. He handed it to Brenda, promising that one day things were going to change and that she’d be paying him all of his money back.Not as long as you keep bettin’ against Duane, she isn’t, interjected Greg, to the delight of everybody at their table.

In that instant, all the guffaws and laughter became stilted, then silenced altogether, replaced by the discomfort that followed a party being raided by the cops, or maybe akin to a guy caught having sex by his girlfriend’s parents. The way everybody’s eyes shifted told me that whoever it was intruding on our good time was standing behind me. I felt a twitching between my shoulder blades, which confirmed it.

Alex, there you are. Here’s my list for this evening, just two patients. Bring Clarence McDonald first and at 7:30 I’ll see Princess Washburn, uttered the nasalized voice of Dr. Schietzel from behind me.

All right, Dr. Schietzel, right away, said Alex, already rising from the table.

One by one the others began to follow suit, including yours truly. Couldn’t quite lay a handle on the why of it right then, but Dr. Schietzel just didn’t sit well in my mind. I knew he was this big time, renowned psychologist with best-selling books to his credit and degrees up the ying-yang. Still, there was something phony about him, and his voice grated on my nerves like rusty screws screaming when you turned ‘em.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was only 6:35 and technically we had 10 minutes remaining on our lunch break. But it was obvious that the mood had been ruined, the meal was over. Pushing myself away from the table I noticed, with Tina and Beatrice’s help, Donna didn’t need me to help clean things up. And in any event, after the next lunch break was over at 7:30, I’d be cleaning the terrace, so I headed back inside.Duane, rang out that irritating voice.

I stopped and spun around to face him, remaining silent, standing only about five feet away. For a brief moment longer than necessary, we stood in a silent face-off, engaged in actual visual combat. My brain, my intellect, told me to look away, back down, not appear threatening to this guy. You’re a young Black man, not quite a year out of State Prison. This guy’s your boss, your superior, what’re you doing? The question screamed inside my head. But another voice, one more primal and deeper seated, said to me, Do not bow down to this smug, arrogant Nazi. He’s not superior, he’s not better than you, no matter his title!

Duane, there’s no need to clean my office tonight, I’ll be leaving early. Oh, and that was good work earlier, you handled that well, he stated in compliment. Which, of course, caught me completely by surprise, throwing me off balance. That, I would later conclude, was his intent.

Th-thank you, s-sir, thanks a lot, I managed to stammer before turning and walking away.

At 9:15, right before I filled out my daily log, I dropped in at the Crisis Center to check on Bart Baxter, to say hello, maybe cheer him up. I’d already seen Princess, who seemed to have no serious or long lasting ill effects from the ordeal. But I was unable to see Bart, he wasn’t in mid-level, Pod-A. Instead he’d been placed in Five Points, Pod-B.That came as a total shock in view of the relatively minor nature of the incident. Five points was the highest level of physical restraint permitted, and was usually reserved for extreme, violent cases where a person represented a clear and present danger to themselves and/or others. Even in prison that was the standard, and for the few months that I’d worked at Sunnycrest, it was the same, more or less.

Some innate, natural need to know caused me to scan the Crisis Room red door tag on my way out of the pod. Expecting to see Dr. Mitch Masters’ name, I received my second shock. Dr. A. Schietzel had ordered the placement. Kevin showed up, early at that, and I actually signed out at 10:01.

CHAPTER TWO

As I got near to the electrified mat leading to the hospital maintenance breezeway, the first thing I saw was Grace’s white Mustang, parked directly out front. On impulse, I turned and rushed toward the hospital gift shop. I was in luck. Even though the CLOSED sign was clearly visible, I could see Mrs. Zimmerman inside doing the night’s receipts. I knocked on the glass repeatedly to get her attention. Raising her head, she frowned and growled, Whad’ya want? obviously a bit irritated by the disruption.

Quickly, I put my hands together as if praying, making pleading motions and mouthed, Please, I need help!

Though flustered by the interruption, it was hard for her to say no to me, because I’d always made myself available to her, even though technically her floor was not my area. Normally, I was hesitant to play on such obligations or call in markers, as they say. But tonight, I really needed her.\

What’s all the commotion out here? she asked while opening the door, doing her best to sound angry and gruff.

I’m desperate, Mrs. Z, I need a peace offering before I get home. Please, ya gotta help me out.

Even at sixty-something...and a widow, Mrs. Zimmerman remained a romantic at heart. Almost immediately I witnessed her countenance relax and the romantic nature of my request took root in her mind.

Come on in, Duane, let’s see what we can do for you. You young fellas just never learn, do you? The woman is always right. Even when we’re dead wrong! she said, winking devilishly. Leading me back inside to the counter, she paused in front of the chocolates. Well, what do you have in mind?

I hadn’t given much thought to that, because three short minutes earlier I hadn’t been of the mind to do this. Just seeing Grace parked there like that had triggered my own inner romantic side. Well...well, uhmm, let’s see Mrs. Z, I stammered, stalling for time, racking my brain. Like that, huh? Not a clue, have ya? Ahh, how typical, she chided me good-naturedly. Okay, what did’jah do to your lady friend? And Duane, just the short version please, I’d like to get home sometime this year! In spite of her best effort to be stern, she failed miserably.

I gave her a brief rundown of my confrontation with Graciela, feeling kinda childish as I recited the details out loud. Five minutes later, I was on my way out the door bearing gifts.

Grace was sitting in the passenger’s seat when I walked out into the brisk evening air. As I neared the car, she cast an apprehensive, uncertain glance in my direction. I walked around to the driver’s side and passed her the gift shop bag, then climbed in behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. Hey baby, how ya doin’? I greeted her cheerfully, before leaning over and brushing my lips lightly over hers. Her surprise was instantly noticeable. It was in her eyes. I also felt her shiver as I kissed her a second time, this time on the cheek. Okay, I guess. Just a little tired, worn out from the kids and work. Beep-beep! Honk-honk! came the sound of more than one impatient motorist behind us, wanting our parking space in front of the hospital. A brief look in the rear-view mirror and I was nearly blinded by the glare from headlights in back of us. Turning the key, I brought the 5.0’s powerful engine to life and pulled away from the curb.

We rode