Page 12 of Thick

I wanted to be a police officer for as long as I could remember. There were two things that prompted me to choose it as a profession. First, I’d always enjoyed helping others. I saw law enforcement as an occupation that would allow me to measure my successes in doing so. Secondly, I was fascinated with people. A career in law enforcement would give me a broader understanding of cultures, beliefs, and human nature would be my reward.

My weight prevented me from being accepted into the academy. As much as I tried to make changes to alter that fact, I was eventually forced to accept it. So, I owned it and became a prison guard. My second choice of professions fed one of my desires, however.

My fascination with people.

I pushed the food cart to the first cell. Jerry Porter Price created a collection of videos depicting sexual acts with young boys, all of which clearly displayed his active participation. The videos were then sold to other men who desired to view such disgusting filth. As the electronic files crossed Tate lines when they were emailed, the crime became a federal offense.

He was confined to his cell twenty-four hours a day. Prosecution realized if he was released into population, that retaliation for his crimes by the other inmates would be swift and deadly. There were other ways, however, that the inmates chose their own means of justice.

I unlocked the steel slot, let it slap against the door, and smiled when the sound caused him to jump from his sleeping state.

His tray was specially prepared by the cook, who was an inmate incarcerated for a six-month stint on bankruptcy fraud. It wasn’t merely society’s belief that Jerry Porter Price was a vile human being, it was the belief of the staff and the inmates as well.

I had no idea what was in his food, but I knew it wasn’t good. I pushed the tray into the slot – satisfied that he was at least getting a portion of what he deserved. As he rose to his feet and began to speak to me, I turned and walked away.

He lost his right to have any meaningful interaction with me when he touched the first boy.

The second cell housed Tracey Tillman. A meth cook who lived in a camper in the middle of the Mojave Desert, he was facing life in prison for the amount of drugs he sold an undercover DEA agent.

I couldn’t fathom the amount of lives he had ruined with the drugs he manufactured. The lives lost. The families that had been torn apart. The innocent people affected by the actions of the addicts who took desperate measures to obtain the drugs they were dependent upon. It made me sick to think about it.

I opened the slot, allowed it to slam against the door, and shoved his tray through the slot. He began to speak to me, but I turned away before he made eye contact. Pleased that I once again escaped a moment of interacting with him, I pushed the cart to the next cell.

James Grossman. After two years of unemployment, and a few hundred missed job opportunities, the thirty-seven-year-old father of three robbed a bank. Using nothing more than a note, he obtained $1,200 from the teller.

Before he escaped, he was caught by an off-duty officer who happened into the bank.

I turned the key, lowered the slot to the open position, and pushed his tray through the opening. “Time for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

It saddened me to think about his children growing up without him. I realized what he did was wrong, but sentencing a man who wanted nothing more than to feed his family to ten years in federal prison seemed extreme.

After a few cells of sleeping inmates, I pushed the cart to cell number twenty-four. Surprised that Tate was sleeping, I unlocked the slot and let it bang against the door, hoping to wake him. As he stirred, I grabbed his tray and pushed it into the slot.

“Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast,” I said.

He turned to face me. “No one named Reynolds here.”

My face went flush with frustration, and then disappointment set in. I turned away, grabbed the handles on the cart, and pushed it forward – but not to the next cell. Standing between the two cells, I slowly filled with anger.

The way Perry treated the men was uncalled for.

Certain that he took Reynolds to the SHU for some minor infraction, I decided after my distribution of the meals that I’d let him have a piece of my mind. Senior officer or not, he needed to know that his actions and attitude did nothing but encourage the inmates to react unfavorably toward him.

I passed out the remaining meals, trying the entire time to hide my disappointment. After returning the cart to the kitchen, I stormed into the observation station.

Peering toward the cellblock while he twirled his ring of keys by the chain that connected them to his belt, Perry looked the part of a warden at one of yesteryear’s second-rate institution.

I barely made it through the door before I unleashed on him. “You took Reynolds to the hole?” I snarled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He turned to face me. His mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk.

I glanced at the blur of swinging keys and then met his gaze. “Quit swinging those God forsaken keys and answer me,” I seethed.

His eyes narrowed.