The air in the mess hall is saturated with fear and tension. A couple hundred convicted murderers, rapist, drug kingpins, and gang bangers have assembled, prepared to feast. And me, Shakeil Price.
Searching for a seat at the table, I survey the faces in attendance looking for any familiarity. Amongst the worst criminal elements of the State of New Jersey, I am unable to identify a single friendly facade. Contrarily, I am more than glad to not have recognized a foe in the company of these men. Now that those predatory gazes of hardened criminals have assessed my demeanor for weaknesses, where do I sit?
After grabbing my breakfast tray from the stainless steel counter I subtly observe the waffles and turkey links out of my peripheral then quickly shift my eyes toward the goons sitting near the back wall. I wouldn’t want to be in the center if a brawl was to break out and the villains sitting in that area probably share that same logic. Voices are in competition trying to overpower one another to be heard. Sounds of plastic trays slamming against metal tables create the environment of a production warehouse.
I make a beeline for a table with 3 of its 4 seats occupied. One of the occupants and I engaged in a world class staring match. With laser focus, I locked eyes with him never blinking or breaking my stare. I walk towards his direction with pace and imposing confidence then abruptly stopped and in a non-threatening voice I respectfully ask, “Somebody sitting here?”
A light-skinned man with a slim build and raspy voice, likely the results of chain-smoking Buglers, replied aggressively, “Yeah, this Big Bro seat.”
With my limited knowledge of gang terminology, I imagine that “Big Bro” is a title given to a high-ranking member. A feeling of defeat plummets through my veins as I was rejected to sit amongst this brotherhood. I quickly assess the situation and decide this wasn’t the guy who’d I have to make an example out of on my first day in the prison.
I proceed to prowl, searching for a place amongst my criminal cohorts to devour these waffles and sausages. Within a few strides into my less confident walk, an intimidating heavyset white man with no facial hair waved me over and said, “You just got down here? You can sit right here.”
It was something about the way that he was grinning and patting the seat next to him that made me remember my Mother’s warning not to accept candy from strangers. I heard the phrase “Pedophile Radar” a few times before and realized at this incidence, I intuitively possessed one. I instinctively reply, “Na, I’m good.”
Just as those words roiled off of my tongue, I could see four people in a synchronized motion raise up from a table a few steps away. As they headed towards the dish rack to return their plastic trays, I quickly slid in their now empty table so fast that I could still feel the heat from the previous convicts’ body temperatures in the chair. I sat down with my legs in a position so that I would be able to get up in an instant if I felt my safety was compromised. With my back facing the wall, I didn’t feel the same level of security that I am accustomed to. There is an aisle in between my back and the wall and everybody exited using that aisle so they had to walk behind me to leave. I quickly rearranged my seating position not to expose my vulnerable backside.
Finally, I was now sitting in a den of thieves. Just as I began to tear open the package of syrup to pour over my waffles, the whole cafeteria was overcome by a deafening silence. My nerves were shot; I immediately became conquered with fear and adrenaline. I instinctively knew something bad was happening. .
In my direct line of sight everybody was fixated on something taking place over my left shoulder. I stood up, turned around to see what was captivating everyone’s attention. I spotted a man of Spanish decent in his mid-50’s plunging his arms in a downward thrust upon a man twice his size and half his age. The younger man was sandwiched in between the table and the elder man. The younger felon was not fighting back; he only held his forearms up trying to protect his face. The Spanish man continued to plunge away and I wondered if his strikes were even fazing this younger guy. Just as that thought entered my mind, I began to see blood splatter and soak the young man’s khaki colored shirt. As I shifted my attention to the elder man’s hand I notice that he is gripping on something very tight, though I can’t quite determine what it is. Whatever it is, I need to get one for myself, immediately.
Now that my weak stomach has begun to chum at the site of all this blood, I’ve lost my appetite. The New Jersey State Prison mess hall is living up to its reputation as the dungeon of doom. I can’t even imagine what lunch is going to be like. And to think, I’ll be returning to this setting three times a day for the next 63 years.
Shakeil Price
#200947-C/#666160
NJSP
P.O. Box 861
Trenton, NJ 08625
Instagram: @FreeShakeilPrice
