The Black Book and the Commissary Kings

In 1960, Mississippi’s per capita annual income was $967 - the lowest in the United States and the District of Columbia..

As you can imagine, the average income for inmates at Mississippi Penitentiary was... much less than $967 that year.

You can imagine my disbelief when my commissary balance suddenly shot up to $20,001.01 (from $1.01).

To everyone at Mississippi Penitentiary, it seemed as if I had mysteriously amassed a small fortune worth of commissary overnight. No one — not even I — knew how it happened.

Or at least that’s what I told everyone.

A week before, my cell block was returning to our cells from dinner when Ray found it — a little black book lying on his bed.

“Yo, Bobby!” Ray shouted to me from his neighboring cell.

Ray had been my neighbor on Cell Block B for five years (which is like ten years in prison time).

“Whatcha yelling for, Ray?” I asked.

“Funny thing, Bobby…” I heard Ray’s voice drift off in the distance.

There was silence for a few moments.

“Yeah?” I asked curiously as I propped up against the corner of my cell, leaning my ear out to see if I could hear what was going on in Ray’s..

“Huh… How do you figure this book got in my cell?” I heard footsteps as Ray approached the gate to his cell, “The guards are supposed to lock our gates every time we exit and enter, ain’t they?”

Ray’s arm extended out of his cell offering me a glance at the black book he had found.

“Huh, guess it can’t be no one but the guards then,” I said as I took the book from his outstretched hand.

“Or it could have been Tony,” Ray said chuckling.

Tony was my neighbor on the other side of my cell. Rumor has it that Tony has been suffering from some sort of mental condition for years now. Tony laughed whenever a fight broke out, and cried when he was served lunch. Ray and I try to include him in most of our conversations, but we don’t get much back in terms of substance.

I turned my head towards Tony’s cell, “Tony, was it you who put that book in Ray’s cell?” I joked.

“Only in the summertime,” Tony replied in a serious tone.

I finally directed my attention to the book that Ray had passed me. I flipped through hundreds of empty white pages, and then turned to the only page that had any writing at all — the first page.

There, I found a short hand-written message:

RAY SNELL you have been selected to nominate an individual who will receive $20,000 in commissary within a week’s time. Your selection must meet the following criteria:

Only an inmate on death row can be nominated.

You cannot nominate yourself.

If you choose not to nominate someone or if you violate either of the first two criteria, then an inmate will be chosen at random.

DESIGNATION: _____________________________________________

“$20,000 worth of commissary, huh? Mind as well write my name in the book, Ray,” I chuckled as I handed Ray the book back.

Tony started to cry, “I like red pillows.”

“It’s alright, Tony,” Ray whispered soothingly, “Lunch is almost over, buddy.”

Ray was always sympathetic to Tony. Being sandwiched between the two of them, I would often hear Ray singing hymns to Tony in the middle of the night whenever Tony had one of his meltdowns.

“I think I’ll write Tony’s name down instead,” Ray said trying to lighten the mood, “He’ll probably be better with the money.”

“Tony doesn’t even know how to use his commissary,” I said with a grin.

“You got a point, Bobby. I guess you win by default!’ Ray announced as he scribbled my name in the book.

Although we didn’t know it then, Ray had just anointed me as the first Commissary King.

On the night that I had received my newfound wealth, I waited until everyone was asleep before I crept up to my cell gate to awake Ray.

“Ray… Ray!” I hissed.

“Wha— what is it, Bobby?” Ray uttered half-asleep.

“Ray, the $20,000 was real,” I whispered solemnly.

“Bobby… you really gonna wake me up with this mess? You coulda woken up Tony if you wanted to joke around,”

I had expected this type of reaction. I pulled out the burlap sap from under my bag that was filled with the dozens of cigarette cartons that I had purchased earlier that day.

“No seriously, Ray, look!” I insisted as I reached towards Ray’s cell from my gate with four cartons of cigarettes stacked on my outstretched pal.

I waited a moment. I heard sheets ruffling and Ray’s bare feet touch the floor.

“Bobby… how’d you…?” Ray said as he extended his own fingertips gently over the cartons as if he were trying to determine if they were a figment of his imagination.

“That book, Ray… it was real,” I said with conviction.

I waited with anticipation for his response.

Instead, I heard Tony mumble from his bed, “Please, no more hats.”

After what seemed like minutes, I finally heard Ray’s voice,“Bobby… we’ve got work to do.”

And that’s when the strategizing began. The truth was that Ray was the shrewd operator that I wasn’t. With his vision and connections, I knew that the $20,000 I had in commissary could become more than just commissary.

And it did.

Ray developed a brilliant plan to purchase products from the commissary store that were either in high-demand or retained value outside of the prison walls.

While developing the plan, Ray made an important revelation: secrecy would be essential. This led to the realization that I had almost ruined the whole operation before it even began by buying hundreds of cigarettes just hours before.

The next morning, Ray went back to the commissary store with me to clear things up with the clerk, “Look, the truth is that Bobby’s daddy just died, and had Bobby in the will. We ain’t trying to have a bunch of people ruining Bobby’s peace during this difficult time, so if you could please keep this between us…”

“I already done told a couple guards ‘bout it,” the clerk replied honestly.

“That’s fine — just go back to them and tell them it was a mistake,” Ray said with a smile as he slid over a $20 bill, “And there will be another one of those every month for you.”

The clerk looked at the bill with suspicion and held it up to the light, “I think about every two weeks sounds better,” as he peered out of the corner of his eye back at Ray.

Ray grimaced, “That’s fine, but if you ruin this for us, then obviously the money stops.”

The clerk shrugged, “Fine by me,” he said.

And so it began.

From there, Ray and I worked to bribe a string of prison guards to help smuggle out dozens of pounds worth of cigarettes and stamps to a guy that Ray had on the outside.

“Corruption is always out there. It just needs an opportunity to show itself,” Ray would say.

When the merchandise made it to the streets, Ray’s connection would sell it at 75% of the going-rate. After taking his cut, Ray’s contact would send the profits back to us through conjugal visits. Ray had done it — he had found a way to convert commissary into real money

We began to build our own little regime within the prison. We could use $5 of real cash to purchase $15 worth of commissary from other inmates to begin a new cycle of smuggling.

Thus, the era of the Commissary Kings was born, and for years the Kings would reign.

Unfortunately, as is the case with many good things, it had to come to an end.

In recent months, Ray had become a little too sloppy. Once, Ray had a brand new radio smuggled in for Tony which automatically raised suspicion among the honest guards on the block. Another time, Ray was almost caught passing his mother $500 during a conjugal visit.

But if we’re being honest, those weren’t the deciding factors behind my decision to… dismiss Raymond. My primary motivation was greed.

I’m on death row for murdering multiple bankers during an armed robbery.

I am not a good man.

Neither are the men I work with, or the men I bribe, or even Ray for that matter. After all, Ray earned his spot on death row just as I did.

The only difference was that Ray wanted to pretend to be a good guy, and by doing so he threatened the only success I had ever enjoyed.

So, on a foggy day out in the yard, a couple of the men that I knew to be bad stabbed Raymond in his liver, and returned to their cells to find $200 in cash.

No one saw a thing, and I became the lone Commissary King.

Until this moment, my plan had worked out wonderfully.

But now...

As it stands now, I am using the last rays of sunlight to squint at the first page of a familiar little black book. On the bottom of the page is my name scrawled in Ray’s handwriting. But now there's a second page.

It’s almost identical to the first page except for the first line, which reads:

BOBBY BARRETT you have been selected to nominate an individual who will receive $20,000 in commissary…

I feel fear falling over me for the first time in years.

My mind is scrambling to think of someone among my dozens of allies whom I can trust.

I can’t think of anyone.

Anxiously, I read the third criteria aloud once more, "If you choose not to nominate someone or if you violate either of the first two criteria, then an inmate will be chosen at random..."

That clause provided me with no solace. I have no doubt that whoever the new recipient of the $20,000 in commissary will take my place as the new Commissary King.

And I’ve made a lot of enemies on the way.

Suddenly, I hear Tony cry out, “Too many colors!”

“Guard! My door!” I call out, realizing that the one person I could trust was right beside me all along.

Our block guard — who of course is in my pocket — appeared and opened my gate.

“Tony’s gate as well, please. You can leave the door open. I’ll be out of his cell shortly.”

The guard obliged without question, unlocked Tony’s gate, and walked away whistling.

I peer into Tony’s cell to see him sitting at his bedside.

“Tony! I’m glad you’re up!” I exclaim as I slap the cover of the little black book, “Listen, you don’t know how to use commissary do you?”

Tony looked up at me with a smile and walked over to me, “Bobby,” he said with open arms.

I lift my arms in preparation for a hug, but instead Tony passes me, dropps his arms, and closes his prison gate.

“Why would you go and do that Tony? Now I gotta call the guard aga—” I can’t get the words out before Tony clamps his big-bear paws around my throat with incredible strength.

“You killed, Ray,” Tony says as he tightens his grip and stares into my soul.

“No... Ton—”

I can’t get the words out.

“Ray was my friend. And you’re a BAD KING!”

Tony tears the black book out of my hand and tosses me with full force against the wall.

I hit my head and immediately feel myself beginning to lose consciousness.

The last thing I see is Tony writing in the little black book.