Amid the grim realities of incarceration, a story of heroism in prison emerges, shining a light on an inmate’s brave rescue.
The trustee dorms have an upstairs mezzanine area on both sides. When I first came out here, my bunk was next to a guy named Henry, AKA “Old School.” Honestly, he’s only a couple of years older than me. We’re separated in cubicles by waist-high partition walls.
While we do sacrifice some privacy, the tradeoff is worth it. Cell blocks and buildings are rougher. There’s also the extra hassle of getting in and out of cells. But these close quarters mean that we get to know each other’s routines—sometimes a little bit too well.
Old School wasn’t a bad guy. He’d simply fallen into the trap of addiction. Gangs, crime, and drugs are rampant down here. I’d recently transferred from the largest unit in Texas, but I quickly learned that even though this place was a quarter the size, it had TEN TIMES THE TROUBLE!
I’ve done my share of partying before, but the stuff these kids are pushing is just plain dangerous. People have seizures, pass out, vomit, and worse. They call this “toon attacks” or “getting stuck.” Folks will freeze up like statues, only to stare straight ahead at nothing. Often, I’ll find Old School on the floor like this right after I smell him light up.
I’ve often had to remove a still-burning stick from his fingers and put it out. There have even been some close calls when guards would come in, and I’d throw his stuff under his bunk and try to get him to snap out of it.
“Look out, Henry! Fucking LAW is in here! Lay down and pretend you’re asleep!” Sure enough, when they smell it, they get mad as hell. “Next time I smell that shit at count time, we’re coming back with the dogs to tear up everybody’s house!”
Usually, Henry just wakes up to look under his bunk for his lighter and the rest of his stick. I never realized how deeply he was involved until these gang thugs came upstairs on commissary day. He started arguing with them one time, then the biggest one slapped the piss out of him. Afterward, they took off carrying his commissary bags. So I ask him, “Are they hogging you, School?” He smiles and shakes his head. “No, I owe them for the dope.” He rubbed his swollen cheek.
Although I didn’t want to “get in his business,” I started to monitor him closely. Occasionally, I’d notice him digging through the trash or pulling the laces out of old boots. Curiosity finally got the better of me, so one day, I offered him a shot of coffee and asked, “Whatcha makin’, School?” He didn’t look sad or depressed—only smiled and said, “A three-strand cord is not easily broken.”
I rarely go to breakfast because I like to have quiet mornings. I drink my coffee, then clean the dorm before exercising. On this day, I was a little slow getting up, but I heard the guard yell, “Last call for chow.” Then the door slammed shut, and the place got really quiet. Suddenly, the wall next to me shook, and I bolted upright in bed and noticed School’s bootlace rope stretched tight over the red iron up in the rafters.
I looked over the edge and saw him swinging like a pendulum in wide arcs over the day room! His legs kicked like he was riding an invisible unicycle, and his hands grasped the rope behind his neck! I jumped up to grab a razor blade off my table and quickly cut the rope. It made a loud snap, followed immediately by the thud of Henry hitting the floor.
I then ran downstairs to roll him onto his back. Blood was everywhere, and he gasped for air as we got the rope loose from his neck. I quickly grabbed some rags for his face. His mouth was moving, but he couldn’t speak. I grabbed him by his ankles and dragged him into one of the empty dayroom cubicles.
“Keep quiet! I’ll be back.”
I ran to pull the rope down and mop up the blood. When I got back, he still couldn’t talk. His nose and mouth were bleeding, and I told him, “Come on! Let’s get you to the shower before they get back.” He was barely able to walk, and once we got him there, I told him, “We’ll talk later. I’ll go grab your stuff.”
Back upstairs, I threw the rope in my house and grabbed his boxers and towel. There was a letter on his bunk, and I threw it in my house, too, and then went back down to give him his shower stuff. I rinsed out the mop and got ready to start cleaning. But I kept thinking about that letter. A suicide note to someone? I know I’m invading his privacy, but nobody needs to get mail like that! I ran back upstairs to open the envelope, ripped up the letter, and put it back inside.
People were starting to file back in from chow, and sure enough, that big bully and his cronies went upstairs to mess with Henry. I knew the big thug was only playing like he would slap him, but the overhead lights turned on just as he reached his arm back. They all ran and scattered like cockroaches. Evidently, the guards in the picket woke up from their nap and saw it on camera.
With Henry’s face the way it was, no explanation would keep the thugs from trouble. More guards came in, and Henry gave me a look like, “What do I do?” I just smiled, put my finger to my lips, and said, “Shhh!” That shouldn’t be a problem since he still can’t talk anyway.
The guards found Henry’s commissary bags in the gang banger’s cubicle and returned them. I think there was a lot of extra stuff thrown in them, too!
Everybody knew that Henry had kept his mouth shut because it was a week before he could talk above a whisper. With everybody always saying they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it feels great to be in the right place at the right time for once.
Brian Fuller #02046619
Texas Department of Criminal Justice
Stevenson Unit
1525 FM 766
Cuero, TX 77954
