INMATE 53006

Inmate 53006

Inmate 53006 sat stiffly upright on the edge of his weathered mattress. He stared blankly at the beige wall opposite him, ignoring the claustrophobic 7 by 12, by 8.5 foot windowless cuboid that encapsulated him. The mattress had never been replaced, or washed. It was only given a fortnightly change of sheets if the guards were feeling charitable.

The inmate had been a terrified seventeen year old kid when he had arrived. Barely-there coils of jet black facial hair had only just begun sprouting in inconsistent patches under his chin. He was rarely granted permission for time outside of his cell. Only one hour per day. For that hour, he would be transferred to another concrete chamber, with two pathetic windows that were too high up to see outside of anyway. For this reason, his brown skin had developed a greyish hue, which made his already dark complexion appear dull and unhealthy.

His body remained perfectly still, patiently waiting. He heard the familiar rattle of keys and slow shuffle of McCauley who was one of only four guards that manned the East Block, all as sick and depraved as the next.

A loud bang rattled the inmates cell door. He didn't move, he knew better. McCauley waited tauntingly on the other side, he always played these games. He was particularly cruel and wicked, more deserving of retribution than the ill fated prisoner sitting wrongfully convicted on death row, Inmate 53006.

"Against the wall, Inmate!" McCauley spat as he burst into the cell, rigorously placing the cold unrelenting cuffs around the prisoners wrists.

He was breathing heavily into the inmates ear, intentionally forcing his wrists up and against the middle of his back. McCauley revelled in the power it gave him, demoralising him, treating him no better than he would a neighbourhood stray.

"Wouldn't want the pretty blonde lady ta' be saying things she shouldn't, ta' people she shouldn't now, am I right?" he leered.

Inmate 53006 remained silent, he wasn't going to give McCauley the satisfaction of a reaction.

"That's why ya' gunna keep ya' mouth shut, am I right?" McCauley pressed. "Fuckin' answer me damnit!" he screeched.

"No Sir." the inmate replied, seething, but appearing calm.

HANNAH

Hannah was finally sitting crossed legged at a low desk. It was covered in dust and had been placed in the middle of the room. Upon arrival Hannah had been rather distressingly searched by a female officer named D. Porter. They were observed by a male officer, A. McCauley. Hannah had noted both names down in the liquorice coloured notebook that she carried everywhere, the perfect size to fit into her breast pocket, it always found itself useful. Hannah got a slimy feeling from McCauley. His gaze had lingered too long over her breasts, and his awkwardly raised eyebrows paired with a dangerous looking grin, told her to avoid him where she could.

Her breath was shallow. She could feel her hand trembling, it clutched at the Mont Blanc ballpoint pen that her grandmother had gifted her when she had graduated, just less than two years ago. Hannah had been agonising over this moment for months. She hadn't known what to expect, and that made Hannah uncomfortable.

Hannah raised her gaze to see the door open in front of her. A split second of panic filled her body. It felt like a tight hand wringing her heart from the inside. She caught her breath immediately, this was too important. Get it together Hannah, she coached herself.

"Inmate 53006, Ma'am." droned McCauley.

"He has a name, Mr. McCauley." Hannah retorted.

"Inmate 53006, Andre W. Johnson, Ma'am." McCauley fixed.

Andre Johnson lowered slowly into the chair opposite Hannah. She felt instantly connected to the sadness that filled his deep green eyes. His jaw was chiselled, he looked sullen and tired. She could barely look him in the eye. Hannah stared down into her lap, a moment of guilt troubling her. She had underestimated how confronting this would be.

Hannah took a deep breath before directing her gaze steadily at Andre. She glanced expectantly over at McCauley, who unenthusiastically departed the room.

"Start from the beginning in your own words, Mr. Johnson." she directed, a determination now burning from within her.

MCCAULEY

McCauley hovered lazily at the door of his fridge, he forced it closed angrily. There was no beer left, and payday was still three days away. He fumbled with the buttons of his uniform frustratedly. He was still groggy from the nap he had just woken up from, and buzzed on the valium he’d popped only moments prior. McCauley pressed his nose into the side of his 'pit, taking a quick sniff and deciding to ignore the stale, musty smell lingering from last nights shift. He hadn’t bothered to shower or change, and was already running late. Despite it being only his doing, it set his mood for the afternoon. Foul.

McCauley pulled into the staff car park recklessly, screeching to a halt between two empty lots. He ambled into the locker room, unfazed by the fact that he would be clocking in late. He flung his locker door open, a mouldy Chinese takeaway container that he’d been ignoring for weeks, dropped to his feet. Something else, too. It was a brown paper bag. It was creased and tearing from the way it had been scrunched up and forced amongst the other items that he had been allowing to pile up.

McCauley smirked, he hadn’t received one of these for a while. He snatched up the paper bag, unravelling the top to reveal the contents.

“Twenty fuckin’ K...” he whispered to himself excitedly.

He didn’t know who delivered the bags, and in truth he didn’t care. This was the largest amount so far, twenty thousand dollars on the nose. He picked out a folded note from inside the bag, opening it to reveal the number scrawled inside. 53006. He began to chuckle, a sinister grin spreading over his face. This is going to be fun he thought, shoving the bag into the side pocket of his duffel, and closing the locker door behind him.

LANELLE

Lanelle steadied herself against the vinyl bench top of her kitchen that hadn't been updated since the sixties. This was where she spent most of her time. It was hard work caring for and feeding three adult grandchildren, and multiple great grandchildren of varying ages. She did it happily, though. She wanted better for them, and felt responsible. Mostly due to the guilt that she harboured about feeling as though she had failed with her own kids. She had already attended two of her own babies funerals, a feat no mother should have to endure even once. The other was currently doing his third stint at the County Jail.

"That's nothing compared to my baby, Andre." she hummed quietly to herself.

The pain knowing that his goofy laughter and infectious smile wouldn't be present at the dinner table for Christmas again, felt as real and raw as the day he was incarcerated.

Andre was her first grandchild. The two were kindred spirits, she had always told anyone willing to listen. So polite and smart, a special young man, a lover of god and a dedicated father to one of the children that she now housed. He wasn't like the others she reminisced. There is no fairness for black boys she thought wistfully. Lanelle believed without a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't capable of what they were accusing.

A loud buzz echoed down the narrow hallway of the bleak two bedroom unit. Lanelle limped slowly toward the door. Her ankles were sore and inflamed, but she persevered nevertheless.

Lanelle opened the door only two inches, she kept the safety chain still in tact. It wasn't the kind of neighbourhood where you opened your door willingly to just anybody. She could see a petite white woman standing stiffly before her. Honey-coloured ringlets fell past her shoulders. Lanelle peered from behind the door at her face. Her blue eyes were swollen and puffy, bloodshot, as though she had been crying.

"Mrs Johnson, it's me Hannah, we've spoken on the phone before." she whispered.

Lanelle opened the door hastily and pulled Hannah inside.

"Hannah, sweet girl, you should have told me you were comin' baby, I would have fixed you something to eat. Tell me you've got good news for me honey girl?" She was optimist even still, despite the look on Hannahs face telling her she needn't be.

"Miss Johnson, it's Andre" she lowered her gaze, tears the size of pearls falling freely down her cheeks.

"No. N-No. No!" Lanelle uttered, she began to scream.

Lanelle collapsed. In that moment, she let out an ear shattering scream only a mother is capable of. She began to shake. Her chest felt as though a hand had reached in and seized her heart. Her lungs felt so crushed, that she was sure she would never draw another breath. The torment was too much to bear. Lanelle sobbed defeatedly. Her soul left her body that day. She felt like a stranger in what was now otherwise, an empty vessel. She remained in a crumpled heap. Her body was unwilling, no, unable to move. Lanelle pressed her forehead against the floor.

"Why Lord, why? For what am I receiving these trials? How Lord, God? How? Help me, please, God." she begged.

Hannah closed her arms around Lanelle on the floor of that two bedroom unit, where they wept silently together.

ONE WEEK EARLIER

ROBERT

Robert Tiller tugged impatiently at the collar of his Hugo Boss suit, undoing the top buttons and letting out a relieved sigh. It had been a chaotic day. He poured himself a double shot of Glenfiddich, swiftly bringing the glass to his lips. He gulped it back in one mouthful, immediately pouring another.

Robert eased into the chair at his desk, pausing for a minute to take in the floor to ceiling windows that exposed the concrete jungle beneath. It's lights danced before his eyes, as though it was a show made just for him. He pulled a thick pad from his desk drawer and ripped a small piece from the top page. His hand hovered for a moment. He knew it was cruel, but in his mind it was also necessary. He just couldn't risk the truth coming out, and the kid had made it just too easy to become the scapegoat. It was bad luck that Hannah had been assigned to this one. He refused to let that become his problem. He had a good for nothing life anyway Robert justified to himself, before quickly printing the number down and folding it in half.

53006

The loud beep of Roberts answering machine startled him awake, it seemed he had dozed off briefly.

"Daddy! It's Hannah Banana! You never got back to me about Christmas. Are you and Tracey still bringing your famous Pumpkin Pie..." a voice chirped happily "...that was rhetorical by the way, in case you weren't sure! Okay, love you, bye!" Another loud beep ended the recording. He scrawled a note quickly to return her call on the other half of the same ripped note that he had torn earlier. Giving a less than genuine smile-and-nod to Jerry at office security, Robert made his way home for the night. He was looking forward to a hot shower when he got home, and wondered what Maria might have made for dinner tonight.

Authors note: The ambiguity of this story should, in theory, confuse most readers. This intentionally elusive fictional take; inspired by very real issues, aims to startle the reader through the use of implied meaning and assumed knowledge, made only possible as a result of the bias, prejudice and racism so prevalent and deeply ingrained in today's society. I hope you can agree, we all need to do better. Be better.