Loyalties Lie

By Joe Sharpe

Retired cop Jack Bishop understands that he may be opening up a real can of worms when he decides to write a book about his career as a police officer, as well as what really goes on in the world of law enforcement.

He knows full well that it might be looked upon by many as a betrayal of ‘the brotherhood’, but his intention is merely to write an honest book. He writes about everything, including some good things, and some...not so good things. In Jack’s words, “What’s the worst that can happen, huh?” Well, he’s about to find out...

Once the book is published, Jack finds himself caught up in the whirlwind of a seemingly endless nightmare. Could all of this really be happening because of the book he wrote?

Maybe...

Maybe not...

But one thing is certain.

Jack Bishop is about to get a crash course in lies, loyalties, and where LOYALTIES LIE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Sharpe
• Release date: Jul 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476179896

Joe Sharpe

Southern Californian Joe Sharpe is a retired police officer, former on-air-talent (fancy name for a radio D.J.), and licensed private investigator. As a reader, while it is very important to him that an author has done sufficient research on the topics they are writing about, he doesn't feel anything can quite take the place of real life experience. He believes there is no true substitute for having "been there, done that", and that is exactly what he offers his readers; a real life, "been there, done that" look into the world of law enforcement, as well as into how and why things happen inside a jail. Years ago, author David Morrell told Joe that a good novel should inform, educate, and entertain. He said if it does that, then the writer has done his or her job. It is Joe's most sincere hope, that he has done his job.

Book preview

This book is for K, K, J, Joe Devon and Ken.

I have been inspired by each of you.

CHAPTER ONE

Unnpff!

Do I have your attention now, Mr.…what’s this asshole’s name?

The answer came from the front seat of the car. Jack Bishop.

"Oh yeah…Bishop. As I was saying, do I have your attention now, Mr. Bishop?"

Through teeth clenched in pain, still trying to catch his breath, Jack answered, You had my attention before you hit me. You don’t have to do this. I have no intention of not cooperating with you guys.

Well, isn’t that nice of you? Hey guys, he says he’s cooperative. Says we don’t have to be so rough on him. I think he wants to be our friend. Or maybe our boss!

Oomphh!

"You trying to tell me how to do my job, Mr. Bishop? I know what I have to do, and what I don’t have to do. And I already got a boss. As a matter of fact, he’s standing right behind me, and, except for maybe me being much too gentle with you, he thinks I’m doing a fine job. Ain’t that right, Sarge?"

The sergeant took a step forward, around the moose of a deputy who’d been ‘talking’ to Jack. He leaned down and came face to face with Bishop in the back seat of the police car. Mr. Bishop, we’ve been anticipating your arrival, now let me give you some advice. You’re in our house now. We make the rules. We enforce the rules. And the most important thing for you to understand is, we always win. No matter what.

I understand all that, Sergeant. And I won’t resist, fight, or cause any problems. I just want —

In the blink of an eye, the sergeant’s left hand shot out and he grabbed a thick patch of Jack’s short brown hair. He jerked Jack’s head back so the only thing Jack could see was the dome light and the headliner in the back of the patrol car he was still sitting in. "Look, you piece of shit. You need to understand something before we get any further along here. It doesn’t matter what you want. What matters is what we want. And what we want is for you to keep your fucking mouth shut, do as you’re told, and show some respect for where you are."

There were three things that kept Jack from kicking the sergeant’s ass. He knew very well how the game was played here at the jail. He may win one battle, but he was sure to lose the war. No matter what, the deputies would always win, one way or another. That was just the way it had to be. And then there was the matter of the bracelets he was wearing. Not exactly friendship bracelets. They were cold steel, and they had been not so gently placed on his wrists by the young Garden Grove PD officer who was now delivering him to the Intake Release Center, called the IRC, at Orange County Jail. Even though Jack was very proficient in several martial arts, the cuffs were probably more of a disadvantage than he could overcome. And finally, even if he did somehow kick the sergeant’s ass, as well as the asses of the three uniformed gorillas accompanying him, and the GGPD officer, he would still have to deal with the problem of being caged in by a fifteen foot security wall, complete with rolled concertina wire running the length of the top, and video cameras evenly spaced so that the entire secured parking lot was under 24-hour surveillance. Bad, bad odds.

Yes, sir, said Jack Bishop.

You think you can keep your mouth shut and follow directions enough that we can take you inside my house now? asked the sergeant.

Jack swallowed hard, but knowing better than to hesitate too long, he answered, Yes, sir. Jack knew enough to play along for now. What he wanted more than anything was to get out of the back of that police car. When they leaned into the back of the car to ‘talk’ to him, nothing could really be seen from the security cameras. Jack knew that, and Sarge and the three gorillas knew that. That’s why, whenever a patrol officer bringing an arrestee in to the IRC would say those three magic words to the deputy in Main Control, ‘one male uncooperative’, a sergeant and two to four deputies always met the incoming officer and his prisoner out in the secured parking lot and made first contact with the prisoner while he was still cuffed behind the back, and in the back of the patrol car, concealed from the protective eye of any cameras.

The deputies could lean in and ‘greet’ the new arrival. They could explain the way things were going to work here in their ‘house’— for some reason, most jail deputies liked to refer to the jail as their ‘house’ when speaking to the dirtbags that were being booked there— and set the tone right from the start. If the arrestee seemed to understand and accept his current, albeit temporary, station in life, things frequently went very smoothly. If the arrestee just didn’t get it, couldn’t comprehend the situation, or was just an out and out fuckhead, they might need a little more ‘education’ before they were carefully assisted out of the car.

Getting the call to escort an ‘uncoop’ in from the parking lot was a big deal to most deputies assigned to work ‘the floor’ at the IRC. It was usually a bright spot in an otherwise drab and dreary shift they might be working. When the deputy in charge of receiving the new prisoners would yell out to the deputies on the floor that there was an incoming uncoop, the deputies would trip over themselves, racing to get to the door of the sally port to wait for the floor sergeant.

When the sergeant would arrive at the sally port door, ready to go out to greet the new inmate, he would usually have five or six deputies waiting there, salivating like a pack of wild, rabid dogs, all of them wanting to go out to the parking lot with him, none of them wanting to miss any of the fun or the action. The sergeant would pick two to four deputies— usually two or three would suffice— and tell the others to get back to work. The unlucky deputies would walk away, moping, heading back to their assigned tasks, and the sergeant and the deputies he chose to accompany him would go out to the parking lot and ‘take care of business’. Usually, a few quick rabbit punches to the solar plexus and a handful of hair later, the borderline assholes decided they didn’t really want to cause any problems after all.

If the arrestee was combative and showed no signs of being receptive to the voice of reason, the cameras didn’t matter. A couple deputies would pull him out of the back of the car by any means available, and when he came out kicking and yelling, he would be squashed like a bug. Immediately and absolutely. That’s what was necessary for the safety of all involved. That’s how the deputies were trained and how they believed, anyway.

***

Let’s find out, the sergeant said. Step slowly out of the car, Mr. Bishop.

Yes, sir, said Jack, as he placed his right foot on the ground outside the car door. He unfolded out of the vehicle and winced from the pain in both sides of his ribs. He attempted to straighten to his full height of over six feet, but was kept from doing so by the pain. Jack squinted. His face hurt. He had abrasions on both cheekbones, and his left eye was swollen completely shut and blackened. The artificial yellow light bathing the security lot was usually very soft and almost soothing, but for some reason it seemed harsh and unrelenting on his eyes now. Two of the gorillas passing themselves off as deputies grabbed onto Jack’s upper arms, one on each side of him.

He looked the sergeant in the eyes and couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew him. He looked so familiar; if Jack’s mind wasn’t fuzzy and clouded from the beatings he had already taken earlier, he was certain he’d recognize him. Jack looked at the sergeant’s chest, in search of a nameplate. He wasn’t surprised at all when he didn’t see one. None of the deputies had nameplates displayed on their uniforms either. Surprise, surprise.

Jack said to the sergeant, Excuse me, sir. But don’t we know each other from— aargh!

Gorilla 1, the one who had been thumping on him in the back of the patrol car, was suddenly applying a twist wristlock on Jack’s right arm. One of our rules here, said the gorilla, is you don’t speak to a sergeant unless he speaks to you first.

Jack spoke to the gorilla. I’m sorry. I don’t mean any disrespect. I just think I know the sergeant from years ago.

Gorilla 2, who was still holding Jack’s left arm, said, What are you, a faggot or something? You trying to pick up on the sarge? What a homo line. Then, with an exaggerated feminine lilt and a lisp, he said, Thay, fella, don’t I know you from thomewhere?

Aw c’mon. That’s not how I meant it. I only— unghh.

Gorilla 1 tightened the wristlock he was applying.

Gorilla 2 leaned close and whispered in Jack’s ear. "Look, motherfucker. I suggest you shut your fuckin’ yap and keep it shut. I don’t care who you think you know, or what you think you know. All I care about is you giving me a good enough reason to put you in the medical ward. Got that?"

Yes, sir. Jack hated calling these assholes ‘sir’, but he knew he didn’t really have a choice at the moment. Appeal to their egos. Show them respect. A crock of shit, but necessary nonetheless if he wanted to get through this ordeal okay.

The deputies walked Jack toward the sally port entrance to the IRC. The sergeant and the Garden Grove officer walked in front, the officer filling in the sergeant on details about Jack’s arrest. Gorillas 1 and 2 flanked Jack in the middle, and Gorilla 3 brought up the rear, just hoping Jack would do something stupid.

Just before the door to the sally port, they approached a large bank of phones and Jack said to Gorilla 1, Excuse me, sir. Could I possibly have one of my phone calls before we get inside?

You should have already had your calls before you got here.

Yes, sir. I should have, but I haven’t been allowed to make any calls yet.

Gorilla 1 stopped walking and barked, Hold up! Hey, Garden Grove, this guy is asking for phone calls. Says he didn’t get ’em yet.

The Garden Grove officer turned and said, Nah. He’s full of shit. He’s trying to play you. He refused everything. Wouldn’t give blood, breath, or urine, and when we offered him his calls at the PD, all he’d say was, ‘Fuck you.’ He’s a manipulative fuck.

Oh, you fucking liar! thought Jack. You are why people no longer trust cops! You are the reason good cops have such a difficult job to do today!

Gorilla 1 tightened his grip on Jack’s right wrist and arm and said, Is that right, asshole? You a manipulative fuck? You trying to play games with me? I’ll tell you right now, you play with me, you’re gonna lose…bad. As he spoke in an urgent, hushed voice, he continued tightening his wristlock on Jack, bending Jack’s wrist against the steel cuff, almost to the breaking point. Jack sucked in a breath, attempting to ignore the pain and control his breathing.

As they stood there, the gorillas giving Jack an impromptu ‘counseling session’, several deputies and officers walked by escorting other prisoners. This scene was such a common occurrence, it didn’t even merit a second look from anybody going by. Jack knew that any cops passing by would just assume Jack was a troublemaker who was getting whatever he deserved. Any prisoners being led by would just be happy it was somebody besides them getting jacked up.

Yes, sir. I understand. But I—

Both deputies cranked up the tension on Jack’s wrists, causing him to lose his breath. Gorilla 2 stepped forward and, all the while trying to turn Jack’s left wrist into silly putty, growled through tightly closed teeth, "But nothing, you cocksucker! Shut your fucking pie hole! Now! Unless you’d like to go to the infirmary instead of a jail cell. I can definitely make that happen. It’d be my pleasure."

Jack opened his mouth, wanting to say that what he’d really like would be to just go home, but knowing better than to do something that stupid. Swallowing his pride and dignity, he said, Yes, sir. I’m sorry.

They walked through the first door of the sally port and, as the door clanged shut behind them, Gorilla 1 looked through the window in the door to their right. The door led into a room dubbed the ‘DUI room’. It was a room where licensed vocational nurses, commonly called blood techs, would draw blood from new prisoners arrested for various offenses— the most common being driving under the influence— for which samples of blood, breath or urine were needed.

Gorilla 1 said, Hey, Garden Grove, looks like we got a blood tech on duty. You wanna force some blood from him? It’d be a piece of cake. Only take a couple minutes.

You wouldn’t have to force anything from me, Jack said. "I’ll give blood. As a matter of fact, I’d love to give blood."

Shut the fuck up! said Gorilla 2. Or you’ll be givin’ blood all right— from your head!

No, replied the Garden Grove officer. That’s part of his manipulation game. We gave him several chances and he kept fucking with us and jerking us around. No more chances and no forcing the blood. He wants to refuse, he can have his license taken away and go to court and have a good long heart to heart talk with a judge about getting it back. Fuck him!

Jack struggled within himself to keep his mouth shut. The Garden Grove officer was lying and there was nothing he could do about it. He and the officer both knew if he gave a blood, breath or urine sample, it would prove he had no alcohol or drugs in his system. Jack made the wise decision to keep his mouth closed for the time being. At least while he was in this no-win situation.

Just thought I’d ask, Gorilla 1 said, as the second sally port door opened and they all stepped through, onto ‘the floor’ of the IRC.

CHAPTER TWO

The door slid on its track behind them and shut with a clap of deafening thunder. At once the stench brought back a flood of memories to Jack. He’d always said he would remember the dank smell of a jail for as long as he lived. He used to tell his wife, Taylor, that if he went fifty years without smelling a jail, and then was brought into one blindfolded, he would immediately know he was inside a jail again by the distinct odor of human funk and sweat; the unmistakable, stale smell of poor personal hygiene. It was something that made an indelible impression on a person’s mind, and Jack’s mind was certainly no exception.

As Jack’s nose breathed in the repulsive, malodorous aroma, his eyes took in the powerfully depressing view of the dull gray floor, giving way to the dull gray walls, which rose to the equally dull gray ceiling.

The holding cells were overcrowded, as usual. The main holding tank where inmates were held prior to processing had a maximum capacity of forty-three persons, and Jack could see there were at least seventy inmates in there. The smaller tanks on the floor had various maximum capacities, and every one of them was not only over that capacity, but way over. Some things never change, thought Jack.

A hard tug on Jack’s right wrist and upper arm brought him back from his little stroll down memory lane, and into the here and now. Gorilla 1 guided him around the fifteen-foot long concrete bench that ran the length of the nursing staff’s triage station.

The bench was full of new bookings— new prisoners that had been brought to the IRC to be booked in by officers from police agencies all over Orange County— who were packed together like sardines, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

Some of these new bookings had urinated and defecated in their pants. Some had vomited on themselves. Some were at varying degrees of intoxication and consciousness from either drugs, alcohol, or a combination of both. And most of them probably hadn’t had a shower, or even a spit bath, in at least three or four days.

The Garden Grove officer walked over to talk to a couple other officers while he waited for Jack to clear triage. Gorilla 1 put pressure on Jack’s right shoulder, causing him to lose his balance and fall back toward the bench, and said, Sit right there and don’t say anything until a nurse calls your name.

When Jack fell back, he landed partially on the laps of two other prisoners and his back slammed back against both of their chests. The guy on Jack’s right was so under the influence of heroin, he was hardly aware of Jack’s presence, or anything else for that matter. The guy on the left, however, was drunk, belligerent, and had both pissed and thrown up on himself, and he took great exception to Jack sitting on his lap. He used his right shoulder to shove Jack as hard as he could and he yelled, You fuckin’ faggot! Get the fuck away from me before I kill you! I’m gonna—

Before he could finish, a giant hand came from above and smacked him in the side of the head so hard, it almost knocked him off the back of the bench. Gorilla 1 said, "You’re gonna what, you fuckin’ drunk? If there’s gonna be any fighting or killing here, it’s gonna be me doing it! Got that? Now shut up and scoot over enough to make some room."

Jack knew better than to think for even a minute that Gorilla 1 was protecting him or watching out for him. His actions were purely motivated by the desire to be able to beat up a dirtbag, any dirtbag. Jack knew the deputies could think an inmate was the biggest asshole in the world, but if another inmate started to beat up the asshole, or even smack him around a little, the deputies would intervene and take the opportunity for some recreational ass beating, all in the name of ‘defending’ the victim inmate and stopping the aggressor inmate.

The drunk lowered his eyes to the floor and said to Gorilla 1, I’m sorry, deputy. It won’t happen again.

The deputy ignored him and the drunk turned his face to Jack and silently mouthed the words, You wait, motherfucker.

Jack looked away from the drunk, who was actually the least of his worries at the moment, and tried to sit up tall enough to see over the triage counter to get a look at the nurses who were on duty. He really didn’t expect any of the nurses he had worked with to still be working there. It had been about six years since he had last worked as a deputy at the IRC and he knew they usually rotated the medical staff from one jail facility to another every couple years to keep them from getting burned out. It seemed to be pretty effective.

Unfortunately, the powers-that-be at the sheriff’s department never thought it was that important to implement rotation plans or programs to help deputies assigned to the jail facilities to avoid burnout. Jack felt this was one of the factors that contributed to the problem of abuses of power and authority within the confines of the jail facilities. Most deputies assigned to the jails were just putting in their required time before they could move on to patrol and other, more exciting assignments. Working the jails was considered a necessary evil, something that was just tolerated until the jail deputies could become ‘real’ cops. Most deputies got out of the academy thinking they would have to put in three, maybe four years in the jails, and then ride off into patrol, happily ever after. When reality set in, they found themselves putting in seven, eight, and nine years in the same jail facility before being allowed to go to patrol. That is a long time to spend in a jail, on either side of the bars.

For Jack it had been different. He had graduated from the Orange County Sheriff’s Training Academy, but not as a deputy sheriff. He had been hired and sent through the academy by Garden Grove PD, where he worked as a police officer for almost a decade before applying for a lateral transfer to the sheriff’s department. While going through the application process with the sheriff’s department, he was told that, even though he had already been a cop for many years, he’d have to do ‘jail time’. He’d be working in the jails with mostly the newer deputies, with the exception of a few old-timers who just wanted to quietly ride out the rest of their careers in the jail, far from the politics of patrol. Jack was fine with that. He’d already experienced working patrol, investigations, and numerous special assignments: some in uniform and some in plain clothes. For the most part, he had enjoyed his days at Garden Grove, but the time came when he was ready to move on. He was ready for a change.

Jack noticed many of the other deputies he worked with in the jail seemed to harbor anger and resentment over being stuck in the jail for so long and, since they were forced to work with inmates every day, much of the anger and resentment became directed toward those inmates. They were, after all, dirtbags, dregs of society. Most of them didn’t even rate as human beings, so naturally they were easy targets. If a deputy needed to blow off a little steam, he could take another deputy with him and find an inmate with a ‘bad attitude’ who needed an attitude adjustment. If there were no inmates in need of this free county service at the time, the deputies could, and would, turn a perfectly cooperative inmate into a fighter without too much effort. When the inmate was finally pushed into fighting, the deputies would be only too happy to oblige him. How bad the deputies beat the inmate would determine what happened next. If the inmate was just a little bruised up, there would be no report or paper trail on the incident. Who would believe the inmate if he reported that he had been beaten by deputies? Inmates were always getting lumped up by other inmates. That’s just how it was in jail. If the deputies broke any of the inmate’s bones, or did any type of serious damage to him, one of them would do a report to cover them: to justify what they had done. They would usually write an ‘assault on staff’ report, claiming the inmate attacked one, or both, of them and they had defended themselves, unfortunately resulting in injury to the inmate. It was their word against his and they knew the scales were tipped in their favor. To make matters worse, the inmate who got beaten for no reason other than providing stress relief, or merely recreational activity for the deputies who pounded him, would usually get the more serious charges of ‘assault on a peace officer’ added to whatever they were in jail for in the first place. Once the inmate was labeled ‘assaultive to staff’, the road he had to travel down while in custody became a very rocky one. From that point on, the treatment he received from deputies and other staff was, at best, poor.

Jack had no problem with an assaultive inmate— a real assaultive inmate— being treated like shit. His problem was with never knowing if an inmate was known to be assaultive to staff because he really was, or because he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and had become an unwitting participant in some deputy’s anger management exercises.

CHAPTER THREE

Jack…Bishop?

Jack heard the soft, slightly gravelly voice say his name and he felt a flutter in his stomach. My god, he thought. That voice is so familiar.

He looked up to see the nurse who had just called his name, quickly jumping to her feet behind the tall triage counter. He could only see her from the shoulders up, but that was enough. He immediately recognized her short, sassy, chestnut colored hair, her fair skin with light freckles interspersed about her cheeks and nose, and her big blue eyes. The only difference was the expression she wore on her face. The last time he had seen her, about six years earlier, she’d always had a big, friendly smile on her face. The look on her face now was one of worry and grave concern.

Linda?

Jack?

Gorilla 1’s large hand grabbed Jack by the biceps and yanked him to his feet. When you’re talking to a nurse here, you stand up and show her some respect, you idiot.

Again, Jack knew Gorilla 1’s show of concern with ensuring the nurse was afforded all due respect was simply a big steaming pile of horseshit. He knew he couldn’t care less about the nurse or how she was treated, but if it gave him a reason to flaunt his authority and physical prowess, then by all means, he’d guarantee she was shown proper respect, Goddamnit!

My goodness, Jack! What are you doing here? Why did you get arrested? Why do you look like you’ve had the crap beat out of you? Are you okay? Then, before Jack could answer, Linda turned to the Sergeant and continued, What’s this all about? What the hell is going on here? He’s one of you, for God’s sake! What have you done to him?

Jack leaned toward the counter and said softly to her, "No Linda. I’m not one of them. I’m nothing like th— aarrh!"

And Gorilla 1 was once again doing his best to separate Jack’s hand from his wrist by way of brute force. "Shut your trap! Don’t so much as mumble another word unless it’s in direct response to a medical question. Got that, shit for brains?"

"God dammit, Sergeant! What is going on? This just isn’t right!" said Linda.

The sergeant, who had been standing a few feet to the side, observing, stepped toward Linda at the counter. Linda, look. It’s a long story. He’s drunk and we’re kind of in a rush. Get us through this quickly and I’ll explain everything to you later.

Linda crossed her arms over her chest, tilted her head to the side, and looked at the sergeant with an expression that seemed to yell, "Yeah, right!"

The sergeant quickly looked around them. Relieved that there was too much commotion in the immediate area for anyone else to be paying any attention to what was going on, he said with urgency, "Linda, trust me. I’ll tell you everything later. Now please, finish the triage."

Not knowing what was going on, and not wanting to push things and somehow end up in trouble herself, Linda figured the best thing for her to do was to complete triage on Jack, and make notes on everything she could remember for later, just in case.

A few minutes later, when Linda had finished asking Jack all the statutorily mandated questions regarding his physical and mental health, and checking on his injuries, she cleared him for acceptance to Orange County Jail.

She told Jack the only physical injury she was concerned with was the pain in his ribs. His eye looked pretty bad, but she’d seen worse. She was confident his eye, as well as the rest of his bumps, bruises, and abrasions, would be all right. As for the ribs, she felt fairly certain they were only bruised, but she wanted Jack to monitor the pain, and if the pain didn’t recede pretty soon, he was to inform the jail staff, via a pink sheet, that he needed to see the jail’s doctor to rule out broken ribs.

Jack didn’t think what she’d said was funny, but he couldn’t help laughing inside. He knew, as well as the deputies, that the little pink half sheets of paper maintained in every housing location within every jail facility, were a joke. The deputies and inmates called them ‘pink snivel sheets’, though the real name for them was a ‘medical attention request’.

In theory, if an inmate felt he had a problem, or condition, which needed medical attention, he was to ask a deputy for a pink snivel sheet. There were also white snivel sheets, which were for every other type of inmate request that was not of a medical nature. The inmate would fill out the snivel sheet and return it to a deputy. The deputy would then be responsible for making sure the pink sheet got to the medical staff.

It had been Jack’s experience that less than thirty percent of pink snivel sheets ever made it to the medical staff. The percentage of white snivel sheets that ever got to their intended destination was even lower. It was one more way in which deputies could regularly display their power and authority.

Jack had discovered early on when he began working in the jails, that if a deputy actually turned in the snivel sheets he received from inmates during his shift, he got branded very quickly as an ‘inmate lover’, or a ‘kick down’, which is a deputy who treats inmates too well, or does anything for an inmate which is perceived as a favor by the other deputies. Being branded as such was the equivalent of wearing a sign on your chest and back that said, I’m a bleeding heart liberal and I think inmates should have more rights! Any jail deputy tagged with one of these monikers was forevermore looked upon as a weakness, a disease. A fucking loser.

The majority of the snivel sheets, white or pink, were crumpled, shredded, and dumped in a trashcan away from the housing units. The deputies knew they had to let a few get to the medical staff and other recipients, lest someone go to the jail administration and complain that they don’t think the requests are getting taken seriously by the jail staff and aren’t being properly delivered.

Take care of yourself, Jack, said Linda. And good luck with whatever has caused you to be here.

Jack figured he had one last shot at getting help before being whisked away and sucked into the very bowels of this godforsaken hellhole. He spoke loudly, with a clear, strong voice so there would be no chance of being misunderstood. Linda. You can see the charges…DUI. I’m not drunk. You know me. You know I don’t even drink. I’m being set up…framed! I don’t—oomph!

At once, all three gorillas were on him! Gorilla 1 cranked his wrists so hard, Jack fully expected to hear the sound of bone and cartilage popping. Gorilla 2 used both of his massive hands to clamp Jack’s mouth shut; one hand under Jack’s chin, and one hand on top of Jack’s head. Gorilla 3 moved in very close to Jack and, nearly imperceptibly to anyone nearby, as well as the cameras, gave Jack just what he needed. Another shot to the ribs.

The sergeant began walking to the right and said quietly, Let’s get him to the back.

Aw shit! thought Jack. This is not good!

Of all the things that could happen to him right now, this was probably the worst. As a deputy working the IRC, he had been a part of taking several hundred inmates to ‘the back’. ‘The back’ was the area directly behind the triage station. Its real name was the medical observation area, or, as the deputies called it, ‘med obs’.

The med obs area is a room large enough to house ten holding cells, labeled ‘med obs 1 through 10’. Several of the cells are single cells, only designed to hold one person. Several of the cells were designed to hold two to four people, and the two largest cells were designed to hold twenty people apiece.

There are three ways to enter the med obs area. There is a door that leads from the back of the triage station into med obs. There’s a door about ten feet to the right of the front of the triage station which leads from the floor directly into med obs, and there’s a door about forty feet farther along that same wall, where the wall jogs to the left and connects the floor with a very large, wide corridor which sweeps to the right to form a giant circle known as ‘the booking loop’.

The third door, near where the booking loop starts, is the door through which inmates being taken to the back are always taken. Jack knew there are a couple reasons for this. It is an unwritten policy that no disease is to be allowed to spread to the housing units at the jails. It shall be treated and eradicated on the floor. Disease, in this case, means inmates who are assaultive toward staff or other inmates, as well as inmates who have problems showing respect for the deputies, or just flat fail the attitude test. When several deputies are escorting a med obs candidate to the back, they take the longest route possible, which is the route through the third door. This has the double-sided benefit of letting the inmate stew even longer in the juices of his mind in anticipation of the unknown, while providing inmates in all the cells along the walls of the floor with a clear, unobstructed view of exactly what happens to assholes in Orange County Jail. Not only can they see the inmate being escorted in a manner that, at best, could be described as uncomfortable, they can hear the yelps of pain and the cries of anguish coming from him long after the inmate disappears behind the third door.

Another reason the third door is the door of choice, is camera placement. Almost every inch of the floor and the booking loop are covered by surveillance cameras. There are only a few very small areas where there are blind spots in the camera’s field of vision. Of course, the deputies all know precisely where these spots are. When they first start working at the IRC, the other deputies inform them of their existence and their whereabouts. The blind spots are to be used when necessary to deal with a problem child.

The third door just happens to be the location of one of the largest blind spots on the floor. The area approximately two feet either side of the doorframe, referred to by the deputies as ‘the black hole’, does not show up on camera. This gives deputies a four-foot wide stretch wherein they can administer any needed blows to the subhuman piece of shit being escorted to the back. Usually, it was a good hard uppercut to the solar plexus designed to knock the wind, and some of the fight, out of the prisoner.

The three gorillas turned Jack to the right and began walking him toward the third door, following the sergeant. Gorilla 1 still had Jack’s wrists twisted excruciatingly tight against the unforgiving steel of the handcuffs. The skin on both of Jack’s wrists had ripped under the cuffs and he bled. The blood ran across the latex gloves worn by Gorilla 1, and down the back of Jack’s legs.

Gorilla 1 grunted, You better not bleed on me, motherfucker!

Jack was unable to say anything because Gorilla 2 still had his hands on Jack’s head and face, clamping his mouth shut.

Gorilla 3 had walked around them and gone ahead with the sergeant. When Jack and Gorillas 1 and 2 got within twenty feet of the third door, the sergeant stood to the side and Gorilla 3 opened the door. For the benefit of the few inmates in the area as well as the cameras, Gorilla 1 slyly pulled Jack’s wrists hard to the left, causing Jack to lose his balance. This made it appear that Jack was struggling and flailing at the deputies with his feet.

Gorilla 1 pulled up on both of Jack’s wrists and pushed Jack forward, causing Jack to strike his chin on the concrete floor as he was ‘assisted’ to a prone position on the floor. Take it easy, asshole. Quit resisting and everything will be okay!

Everything will not be okay! In the brief seconds Gorilla 2 lost his grip on Jack’s head and face, Jack yelled, "What the fuck are you animals doing!? I haven’t done anything wrong! You don’t even know me! For God’s sake, I’m not even resisting you! I— "

Gorilla 1 yanked Jack back to his feet by his wrists and his shirt. Gorilla 2 resumed his grip on Jack’s face and head and they continued walking him toward the third door, blood now trickling down Jack’s chin and neck.

Just a couple feet from the door, Jack saw Gorilla 3 step through the door while the sergeant stayed back to the side, holding the door open.

Jack knew, without a doubt, what was coming next. He was about to step into ‘the black hole’ and have the shit knocked out of him. He could only hope that the stomach was still the preferred target, as it had been years ago. It made sense, since a