Death Row Breakout Read Online Free

here. Get your black ass in there,” the deputy finished with a pugnacious jut of his chin. Zinc oxide ointment covered his nose, and his freckled face was sunburned and peeling. Booker wanted to crush his jaw with one punch, but managed to hold himself back. The satisfaction would not be worth the punishment that would follow. He was already in more trouble than he had ever imagined. He had been so stupid to borrow the car without permission. Why hadn’t he thought about it? He’d already been gone for two nights. Morning would be Monday. Maybe his mother knew where he was. That would be terrible, but less terrible than if she didn’t know. The jailer’s sneering insult rankled him. It wasn’t so much being called ‘nigger’; back home in Tennessee, white folks (especially the uneducated rednecks) used ‘nigger’ or ‘nigruh’ without a sense of insult. It was the jailer’s sneer; the contempt and disdain that dared him to react. When the gate opened, Booker glared at the deputy, who felt the stare and looked around. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, then Booker looked away. The deputy laughed to himself, not realizing how close Booker was to losing control. Only a lifetime of family discipline kept him from smashing his fist into the deputy’s face. That would wipe the smile away real fast.
    It took hours to go through the booking process; the multiple fingerprint cards, the mug photos with the number and “LA County Sheriff’s Dept” underneath, the shower and change into jail clothes, the pickup of bedroll (it included cup and spoon), the trek to the hospital where a Medical Technician asked a few questions and had a squeeze down inspection for gonorrhea. After that they were dropped in the tanks. The process took so long because it was done by group. Nobody moved to the next step until the last man finished with the present one.
    It was near morning when a jailer opened a lockbox panel and pulled a lever, taking the tank off ‘deadlock’, and then inserting a key in a narrow gate. “Go down to cell eleven,” the deputy said as he unlocked the gate and pulled it open.
    Booker stepped through the gate and it slammed behind him. He was looking along the gates and bars of twenty-two cells on the right. Six feet away was a wall of bars running the length of the tank. Between them was a long runway. Booker started walking along the cells. Over each gate was a number – four, five, six. Black faces were visible through the bars. The tanks were segregated. Nine… ten… eleven. The gate was open. It had two bunks and both were occupied. Booker hesitated.
    “Get in down there,” yelled the deputy.
    “Get in here, ‘blood,” said the man on the bottom bunk, gesturing for emphasis.
    Booker stepped in. The gate rattled. “Watch the gate… comin’ closed,” yelled the deputy at the front. It was a chant always yelled when a gate was closing. The gate was on rollers and slammed shut with a loud crash. Soon enough Booker would hear of the prisoner who killed himself by sticking his head in the gate. Right now he looked around and wondered what to do with the bedroll on his shoulder.
    “Put it on the floor,” said the man in the bottom bunk. The man in the top bunk was dark-skinned and barely visible in the deep shadows. Light came from a walkway outside the second set of bars.
    “Just roll it out,” the man continued. “Put your head toward the gate so it ain’ ‘side the shitter, y’know.”
    Booker could see the point. If he slept with his head next to the toilet, he might be spattered in the night. He sat down on the mattress; his back against the steel wall. The windows on the outer walkway were open and he could hear the distant sound of cars and the dinging bells of the yellow streetcars passing below. He felt the heartache that precedes tears, but he hardened himself against them. He could not be sure that the other two men, who had now rolled over to face the other wall, had gone back