Sleepers

We were allowed a shower every three days and were given clean clothes every Friday morning; the dirty laundry was thrown into a hamper wheeled by a white-haired man with a limp. To avoid confusion, our green shirts, white pants, white socks and dark blue sneakers were stenciled with the first two letters of our last name. Those old enough to shave did so under a guard's supervision. Beards and moustaches were not permitted. Neither were portable radios or any type of recording device. There was only one television per building and that was usually watched by the guards.

Once a month, a movie was shown in the main hall and all 375 inmates were required to attend.

There were four guards assigned to each floor, with one, in our case Nokes, designated group leader. The three men working with Nokes were named Ferguson, Styler and Addison. We were never told their first names nor were we encouraged to ask. None was older than his mid-twenties, and they seemed to be close friends.

Ferguson was tall and angular, with feminine hands and a thin face that quickly betrayed his thoughts. He was the only son of a slain New York State trooper and was on the waiting list for both the New York City and Suffolk County police departments. He had just completed his first year at Wilkinson and was both distrusted and disliked by the juveniles. He had a flash temper and a brute strength that went against his physical appearance. 'You could see it in him from the first day, from the first time you laid eyes on the guy,' John said. 'He had the kind of temper that was either going to kill or going to get him killed. Or both.'

Styler was using his job at Wilkinson's to finance his way through law school. He was short but muscular and made as much use of the gym as any of the inmates. On his evening breaks, he would do chin-ups on the railing bars, his body dangling over the second-level of the tiers, openly daring any juvenile to make a move. Styler was always in a foul mood, brought on by the dual demands of work and school and the frustration of spending time at a job he viewed with contempt. He was a poor kid who looked down on other poor kids. They only reminded him of where he came from and how far he had to go to get away.

Addison was a graduate of a local high school who wanted nothing more than a steady job that paid well, offered good benefits and a twenty-year pension. He took every civil service test he found out about and was on the waiting list for eight police and fire departments throughout the area. He was the youngest of the guards assigned to us and also the loudest, eager to flex verbal muscles by barking out orders. We had seen many men like him in Hell's Kitchen. He had little else in life but his mundane job. Off the job, he took a lot of shit; on the job, he shit on everyone.

At first look, there were no surprises to Addison. There were no surprises to any of them. But that was a first look, and for once, we had no idea what to look for.

I was sitting next to John, our backs up against the gym wall, our knees stretched out, shirts drenched with sweat, watching six black inmates play an intense game of three-on-three basketball. We were only in the middle of our third day at Wilkinson. It already felt like three months.

I watched a muscular teen in full sweats hit a corner jumper, my eyes looking beyond him at the cement walls that kept us prisoners. Nothing that had happened during my first days at the Home had helped ease my anxiety. The food was tasteless, the sleeping conditions horrid and the atmosphere in the yards and classrooms charged. There was always a sense of impending danger and I just couldn't envision living a full year of my life in such a way.

As bad as it was for me, it was worse for John. The tight quarters gave weight to his claustrophobia and worsened his asthma attacks. He wasn't eating and couldn't drink the milk that was served at every meal, reducing his liquid intake to the tepid water he sipped from playground fountains. His skin was pale, his nose always seemed to be ru

'Is this how you Hell's Kitchen boys spend your days?' It was Nokes. He was standing above us, facing the game, a black baton in his hand. 'Watching niggers shoot baskets?'

'We're takin' a break,' John said. 'That's all.'

'I decide when you get a break,' Nokes said, a smirk on his face.

It didn't take long for Sean Nokes to make his presence among us felt. He was one of those men who enjoyed the power he held and who looked to cause trouble at every turn. He was in the middle of his second year at Wilkinson and had been married less than six months. He lived in a two-bedroom, third-floor apartment less than a five mile drive from the Home. He sent a small portion of his paycheck to his widowed mother in nearby Rochester and was captain of the guards' bowling team. He smoked heavily and his breath often smelled of bourbon.

Nokes talked and acted tough, especially around the inmates, but I always got the feeling that on his own, without the back-up guards and the power of his position, he wouldn't amount to much. In a fair fight, on a Hell's Kitchen street corner, any one of us could probably take him. I knew Michael would bring him down, maybe even Janet Rivera. But for now, we were locked in his house, forced to play according to his rules.

'Get back out there,' Nokes said, pointing an end of the baton toward the crowded courts. 'Now.'

I shrugged, turned to John and said, 'One more game won't kill us.' Then, I got up and, as I did, brushed one of my shoulders against the side of Nokes' uniform.

Nokes, inches behind me, lifted his baton and swung it down hard, against my lower back. The pain was sharp, intense and numbing. The force brought me to one knee.

Nokes' second shot landed against the center of my back and was quickly followed by a third, a swing that was hard enough to crack bone. I was down on both knees now, gasping for breath, staring into the eyes of a black teen with a gel Afro. He looked back, still and silent, except for the basketball bouncing at his side.

I heard John scream from behind me. 'What are you doing? He didn't do anything to you!'

'He touched my uniform,' Nokes said calmly. 'That's against institute rules.'

'He didn't touch you,' John said, his entire body trembling. 'And if he did, he didn't mean it.'

'Stay outta this,' Nokes told him.

'You didn't have to hit him,' John said, a touch of Hell's Kitchen to his tone. 'Don't hit him again.'

'Okay.' Nokes' voice softened, but his eyes stayed hard. 'Help him up. Take him back to his cell.' When John hesitated, Nokes said, 'Go ahead, pick him up. Don't be afraid.'

'I'm not afraid,' John told him.

Nokes just smiled.

Back in the cell, John helped ease me down on my bunk and covered my legs with a folded blanket.

'I can't believe he hit you like that,' John said.

'He's hit before,' I told him.

'How do you know?'

'While I was down, I looked over at the others. None of them seemed surprised.'

And now I wasn't either. I understood what Father Bobby had wanted to tell me but couldn't. I realized the weight of my father's words. I figured out what was behind all of King Be

We felt their presence before we heard them. John had lingered, making sure I was all right, delaying his return to the harsher world outside the cell. Somehow, when it was just us, we could make believe that things were fine. But things weren't fine and would never be again.

Nokes stood in the cell doorway, his arms folded across his chest, a crooked smile on his face. Behind him stood Ferguson, Styler and Addison, black batons at their sides. Nokes led them into my cell. Addison closed the door behind him. They didn't say anything except when John, as fearlessly as he could muster, asked them what they wanted.