Page 102 of The River Is Waiting

I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It can’t be. I swear to God I’m clean!”

He shrugs. “Well, what can I tell you? You say one thing, your test says something different.”

“Then test me again. Because either you didn’t do it right or the one you used is flawed. And don’t tell me I’m not getting out today because that’s bullshit!” He tells me to lower my voice and watch my tone when speaking to an officer.

I turn my attention to Stickley. “Look, I’ve got family waiting out there in the snow, including my little girl. Remember her from the visiting room? You told her where the kids’ books were? They’ve been waiting here since eight o’clock. Just, please, retest me. You’ll get a different result and I can go.”

Her face goes DOC-neutral. “That’s not how it works, Ledbetter. You’re right. These instant-result tests aren’t foolproof; you can get a false positive once in a while, so you will be retested. But there are procedures we have to follow. The second specimen has to be sent to the lab, where the results are going to be more accurate.”

“The lab? How long would that take?”

“A couple of days, three at most.”

“No! That’s fucking unacceptable!”

“Watch your mouth,” Ostertag warns.

“You two in cahoots with Piccardy? You one of his weight-lifting pals?”

He and Stickley look at each other like I’m nuts. “We’re not in cahoots with anyone,” Stickley says. “We’re just following procedure.”

“Whether you find that ‘unacceptable’ or not,” Ostertag adds.

His sarcasm infuriates me. “You don’t even give a shit that I’m telling the truth, do you? My wife and kid can freeze to death out there for all you care!”

Stickley says she understands I’m upset but I need to calm downright now.

“Oh, I’m way more than upset! I’m fucking furious!” I’m shouting at them, at Anselmo and Piccardy for what they did to me, and at everyone else in this place who treats us like we’re subhuman. And I’m not taking it anymore! My adrenaline’s in charge now and I’m finally fighting back.

Ostertag comes out from behind the counter, stands next to me, and talks into his radio. “Ostertag in Discharge. We’ve got a Code Two here. Guy who’s being sent back to his block and—”

“No, I’m not!” I scream. “I’m clean! I’ll fucking fight my way out if I have to!”

Stickley comes out from behind the counter, too, and stands next to him. “Yeah, he’s pretty agitated,” Ostertag says. “All right, thanks.”

“Motherfucker!”

I take a swing at him, but it misses and clips Stickley instead. I’m grabbed and slammed to the floor on my back, Ostertag’s breath blasting in my face. Wrenching my left arm, he flips me onto my stomach and pins me to the floor, his knee pressing hard against my back. Less than a minute later, three of his fellow goons arrive. I’m yanked up onto my feet, shackled, and belly-chained. Two of them grab me under the arms and drag me backward while the third one videotapes us. As I’m pulled out of Discharge, the last thing I see is Officer Stickley holding her hand against her nose, blood dripping in the spaces between her fingers. “I’m clean,” I keep insisting. I’m not shouting anymore; I’m mumbling. The fight’s gone out of me. Is this really happening? How can it be when today’s the day I’m getting out?

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

February 2020

Day 923 of 1,095

The door to my cell in the segregation unit is unlocked. From the doorway, the guard says, “Let’s go, Ledbetter.”

I’m groggy. Sleep-deprived. My balance is off. Unable to eat, I’ve been dry-heaving whenever the nausea overtakes me. “How long have I been in here?”

“You got questions, ask your counselor. And you’d better not pull any stunts like you did in Discharge. You’re in enough trouble around here. Come on, get moving.” It dawns on me who he is: Officer Garcia. When he worked at B Block, he was one of the more affable guards. Not now. Not with me, anyway. His contempt is coming through loud and clear. And I get it. That swing I took missed one of his fellow officers and hit the other one—a female guard, no less. From now on, I’ll be on the shit list of just about everyone who works in custody.

Outside, the sun against the snow is blinding. I’m a little unsteady on my feet and my back still hurts from being slammed against the floor. I’d ask him whether we could slow down a little, but I know what the answer would be, so I force myself to keep up. Inside B Block, instead of leading me up to the third floor, he walks down the hallway of the first. I ask whether they’re moving me. “No idea,” he says. “Your counselor wants to see you. That’s where we’re going.”

When I enter her office, Jackson gives me the once-over and tells me I look like hell. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I stink, too. How long was I in seg?”

“Seventy-two hours,” she says.

“So it’s Friday?”

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