Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Read Online Free PDF Page A

gate opening, inmates yelling, electric cell doors opening and closing, and the sounds of heavy chains crashing to the floor. An inmate kicked the metal tab on the wall, and the toilet made a whoosh as it flushed the rust-colored water down the filthy suck-hole at the bottom of the stainless steel bowl. It continued sucking air long after the water receded and then spit back, noisily, water that was just as filthy.
A deputy came to the front of the cell, "OK, Listen up. When I call out your name, step to the front of the cell."
"Hey Dep! Can I ask you somethin'?" a stocky black inmate pleaded.
"Williams, Johnson, Taylor," the deputy read from a clipboard, holding a pen in his right hand as he went down his list. "Miller, Hughes, Jackson."
"Yo, Dep!" the black man persisted, "Please! I have a quick question."
"Walters, Parsell, Pierce." He looked to his right and yelled, "Open Five!" Two deputies came over and joined him. All three of them were white.
I followed as each man stepped from the cell. The deputy with the clipboard checked off our names. The other two deputies motioned us to the right and ordered us to line up, turn in and face the holding cell with our backs to them.
"Officer! Please, just one quick question."

"Close five!" the deputy yelled, not looking up. The gate jolted forward and closed on Holding Cell Five. "OK Maggots, let's go."
They led us past the other cells and into an open area. There was a counter to the right with stacks of blue plastic bins and to the left a long cinderblock bench. The deputy told us to take a seat and to remove our shoes. My shoelaces were still with my other belongings that were taken at the courthouse, including my carton of cigarettes.
One at a time, we were called into the next room where there was a black curtain tacked to the wall, opposite a large Bell & Howell camera. The deputy handed me a letter board that read, Wayne County Jail. My name was spelled out in tiny letters. March 3, 1978, was indicated below.
"Hold it just under your chin," the deputy ordered.
I'd seen this a hundred times before, in the movies, but it felt chilling to see my name written along the felt grove. I was startled by a loud thump and dropped the board. The plastic letters scattered to the floor, but I couldn't see them because the large flash had temporarily blinded me.
"Oh Jesus," the deputy said under his breath. "Why the fuck don't they put these on a chain?" He came out from behind the camera and kicked the letters off to the side. I flinched, half expecting him to hit me. I guessed he could tell it was my first time.
After he reconstructed the board and took a profile, he led me to the next room where he placed a thin white piece of cardboard on an easel at the edge of the counter. He clamped a metal frame down to hold it into place, squeezed a dab of ink from a tube and used a small roller to spread it evenly across the smooth surface of the template.
"Relax," he said, ordering me to stand behind him, "and let me guide your hand."
He took my index finger and rolled it, left-to-right, onto the inked surface and then repeated the same motion onto the marked section of the cardboard. He captured each impression with a swiftness and precision of someone who'd been doing this a long time. When he was done, he handed me a piece of tissue, which was barely large enough to clean one hand. He didn't seem to care. "Have a seat out front," he said.
Next, I was handed a blue storage bin and told to take off my clothes and place them inside. The deputy pointed to the bench where two black inmates were sitting naked. A third nude inmate was standing up, his back to me, with his arms stretched to the side.

"OK, good," a deputy in front of him said, as the prisoner complied with each command. "Now open your mouth and lift your tongue ... OK ... Good. Run your fingers through your hair ... Shake it ... Good ... Lift up your balls ... OK ... Turn around and bend over ... Spread your cheeks ... Wider ... OK.