Page 88 of The River Is Waiting

Some of my peers are still filing past on their way back to the cellblock. “Full strip searches are supposed to be done in private,” I remind him.

“There he goes again,” Anselmo says. “Telling officers what they should and shouldn’t be doing. He got his picture in the paper, so now he thinks he’s buddy-buddy with the warden and the deputy warden. Maybe you should write me up then, Picasso. Make sure you spell my name right. It’s F-U-C-K-Y-O-U.” He pulls out a pair of latex gloves and snaps them on.

“Officer? Excuse me.”

I look around and realize that Manny’s still here. “I was at that table, too. There was no salt shaker when we sat down.”

“Is that right?” Anselmo says. “Ain’t that sweet, Officer Goolsby? Twinkle Toes is sticking up for his cellie or his boyfriend or whatever they are to each other. How’d you get that black eye, Twinkle Toes? Someone’s dick slap you in the face?”

Goolsby orders Manny to get back to his tier before he writes him up for interference. He looks to Anselmo for approval.

“Or we could always go over there and shake his cell down,” Anselmo says. He hits the jackpot with that threat.

“Sorry, Officer,” Manny mumbles. Walking away, he turns back and shouts, “But there was no stinking salt shaker on that table!”

I appreciate Manny’s effort, but he could have saved his energy. To get this over with, I open my mouth wide so Goolsby can check inside—make sure there’s no missing salt shaker pouched in my cheek or hiding under my tongue.

“Why don’t you head back, Officer Goolsby?” Anselmo says. “I got this. I’ll see you over there.” His sidekick does what he’s told. Now it’s just Anselmo and me. “Okay, Ledbetter. You want some privacy? Follow me.”

He leads me to the door of the walk-in storage room adjacent to the kitchen. Unlocks the door and swings it open. “After you,” he says. I know in my gut that I shouldn’t go in there, but it’s not like I have a choice.Anselmo steps in and yanks the pull chain hanging from a bare bulb. The room is cold and reeks of onions; bushel bags of them are piled on the floor. Towers of cartons are lined up against the wall, labeled: cooking oil, powdered eggs, canned tomatoes. Anselmo closes the door behind him. I’d better think fast.

“Could you leave the door open a crack, Officer? I get claustrophobic when—”

“Oh, sure,” he says. Opens the door a foot or so, then slams it shut again. “That better? Okay, you know the drill. Drop your pants and underwear, then turn around and put your hands on the wall.” I do what he says. “Now bend over, spread, and cough.” I comply. Relieved that this is over, I start to stand up. “Hold on there, Picasso. We ain’t through yet. Bend over again, spread your ass wider, and cough again. Louder this time.”

I break out in a sweat and can feel my heart pounding. This isn’t just harassment. It’s torture, pure and simple. I half expect him to order me to bark like a dog. But the sooner I can get out of this room, the better. I bend over again, pull my cheeks apart, and cough once, twice, three times. “Satisfied?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” he says. “And if we have to keep doing this until Iamsatisfied, then that’s what we’re going to do. Now get in position again, spread that hairy ass wide enough so I can see the pink inside your butthole, and cough until I tell you to stop.” Furious, I do what he says. I’m goddamned if I’m going to give him a reason to ticket me for noncompliance.

As I bend over this time, I feel something poking and jabbing around back there. “Hey! What the hell are you—”

I scream out in pain as something is shoved up my rectum, withdrawn, and plunged back in again. Overcome with nausea, I lose my balance and stumble forward, hitting my forehead against the wall as I go down on my knees. I might have passed out for a few seconds, I’m not sure.

Dazed, I struggle back onto my feet, and as I do, my eyes move from those bags of onions to the weapon he’s used: one of those expandablealuminum batons they swing at inmates when a fight turns into a free-for-all. I stare at that thing as he collapses it, picks my shirt off the floor, and uses it to wipe off his weapon before he slides it back into the holster on his belt.

“Well, looky there, Officer Anselmo. The baby killer’s got himself a boner.” There, suddenly, stands Piccardy, in street clothes instead of his uniform. He must have been here all the time. “You enjoy that, Ledbetter? You want some more? Maybe enough to get you to a happy ending?”

I shake my head, struggling to speak. “You two are going to lose your jobs over this,” I finally manage to say. My voice is a croak.

Piccardy shrugs. “I’m not even here,” he says. “I’m off until next week.” He brings his face so close to mine that I can smell his hair gel. Whispers, “Better not make threats you can’t prove, baby killer. You see anyone who can back up your bullshit? Who do you think they’d believe: a whiny little bitch like you or an Officer of the Month who was just doing his job?”

Anselmo joins in. “Good thing I checked, too, Officer Piccardy, because look what fell out of his asshole.” He reaches into his pants pocket and tosses something onto the floor. It rolls toward me and stops against my shoe: one of the chow hall’s cylindrical cardboard salt shakers.

Piccardy shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “Stolen contraband, Ledbetter. Exhibit A. Now if I were you, I’d get the fuck back to my unit and keep my mouth shut unless I want more of the same. Or worse. And from now on, try to remember who’s in charge around here and who isn’t.” With that, he pivots, opens the door, and disappears around the corner.

“Is that clear what he said?” Anselmo asks. His hand is on the pull chain. He watches my involuntary trembling.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He pulls the chain and the room goes dark.

Hobbling in pain along the walkway, I don’t know why all those fall colors have turned monochromatic gray. I’m confused by the numbness that’s overtaken me as I walk back toward B Block. Where’s my outrageabout what they’ve done to me? I flash back to Emily’s behavior the night of Niko’s death and most of the next day. Picture the way she sat slumped on the couch for hours, hugging a pillow to her chest and paying attention to no one, not even Maisie. Her pupils were saucers and her complexion was ashen. When I sat beside her and reached for her hand, it felt clammy and cold. Later, a counselor we talked to said she’d probably been in shock. Is that why I’m feeling detached from what they just did? Am I in shock? If not for the pain back there, I might almost be able to convince myself that it didn’t really happen. That it was just some perverse dream I was relieved to wake up from.

But itdidhappen. They raped me with a state-issued defensive weapon to punish me. Silence me. And they must have planned it ahead of time. Why else would Piccardy have shown up on his day off?

Nearing the cellblock, I approach two guards chatting with each other. Neither looks familiar. As I come closer, their conversation stops. Why are they staring at me? Is this something Anselmo and Piccardy would keep to themselves or brag about to other officers? Has word already gotten out? Walking past them, I glimpse their batons and shudder.Better not make threats you can’t prove.…Who do you think they’d believe: a whiny little bitch like you or an Officer of the Month?Challenging their two-bit authority put me in their crosshairs. That was how it had started. Then, to make matters worse, I got noticed and praised by their superiors. They had to punish me for that, and if I don’t want more of the same or worse, I’d better keep my mouth shut.

Inside the building, I climb the stairs in pain. Walk down the hall and stand in front of our cell door for longer than usual. Mullins is at the control desk. He and I don’t have a problem. Why isn’t he letting me in? Is he fucking with me, too? Has he joined the campaign against me? “Sorry, Ledbetter. Didn’t see you there,” he finally calls. He buzzes me in.

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