On the Yard Read Online Free

day was out. Then he saw the bookmaker he worked for, and walked over to take his station beside him.

1
    T WO HUNDRED miles to the south in the Delano County jail, Jim Nunn was the first prisoner on the court chain down from the felony tank. He was keeping his cool. He’d been through it all before, several times in different counties, and nothing in the routine of jail, trial, conviction, or sentence could any longer surprise him. Today’s chain was running for sentencing, and when the deputy unlocked his cuffs, Nunn gestured into the bullpen at the hidden courtroom beyond and asked, “This where they give out the free board and room?”
    The deputy smiled mechanically. “This is it,” he said and began to uncuff the next man. Nunn stepped into the bullpen. They’re all the same, he thought bitterly. They all look the same, smell the same. He sat down on one of the two benches that faced each other in this narrow, featureless room.
    Henry Jackson, a tall, very dark Negro, stepped in. He smiled at Nunn and said softly, “Well, sport, here we is.”
    Nunn smiled back. “You come to get your rent paid too?”
    Jackson winced humorously. “Mos’ likely that be what happen.”
    â€œThey told me if I couldn’t do the time, I shouldn’t mess with crime.”
    â€œThat’s the troof.” Jackson shrugged and sat down beside Nunn. “Well, they won’t be gettin them no cherry.” He looked up as another prisoner, released from the chain, entered, and asked Nunn, “How many of these dudes you think we take with us?”
    â€œEnough,” Nunn said. “They keep that prison full.”
    â€œThey do that.”
    Nunn watched the other prisoners enter the bullpen. He thought of them in terms of their crime. Two Checks, a Manslaughter, a Burglary, the Baby Raper, and three kids, one a stone nut, with a four-dollar robbery to divide between them. Nunn rubbed the back of his neck and tried to remember his last good fix. The memory brought no ease. He started as the metal door leading back to the county jail slammed shut; he heard the solid thrust of the bolt. In an hour or so, whenever the judge got ready, they would be led out for sentencing. Nunn felt but slight suspense. He knew he was going back to prison. He would be sentenced and delivered by midafternoon.
    He turned to ask Henry Jackson, “What’s for chow on the main line tonight?”
    â€œFriday? Tha’s fish, ain’t it?”
    â€œThat’s right, fish.”
    â€œAnd cornbread. Apple pie.”
    â€œYes, and all the water you can drink.”
    â€œTha’s right, go heavy as you like on water.”
    Nunn shook his head in mock sorrow. “Jackson, I think we have fucked up.”
    â€œYou bes’ tell it like it is.”
    â€œThe judge’ll tell it.”
    â€œWell, he the man today.”
    â€œThat’s right, and tonight he won’t even remember what we looked like.”
    Was that what bothered him? Nunn wondered. Did he wish he’d had the brains and the balls for some spectacular offense, some legendary crime, rather than be, as he knew he was, just one more small gray malcontent? Yes, he wished he was someone else. His eyes searched the faces in the bullpen and in the saddest, the weariest, he saw some furtive hope. Even the Baby Raper appeared to believe he could be forgiven. Baby raping didn’t necessarily make him a bad fellow. He just forgot to ask for ID. It could happen to anyone.
    â€œHey, Manning,” Nunn called.
    The Baby Raper looked up. “Yes,” he said.
    â€œWhat’re you looking for out there?”
    â€œIn court?”
    â€œYes, what do you expect?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou think you’ll get the joint?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Henry Jackson leaned over to whisper to Nunn, “Iffen he don’t get the joint the ducks in Mississippi wear rubber