Rocky D Publishing

Chapter One

The Con-Air descended beneath dark clouds as it came closer to its destination. The weather created great turbulence that shook the plane, sending its passengers shifting in their seats. United States Marshalls were posted at the front and rear of the isles to insure its occupants, some of the most ruthless offenders in the nation, were secured. In a country where violence and disobedience to law was at an all time high, the business of prison incarceration was booming.

As Lavelle turned to view the scenery outside the plane’s window, he noticed a thunderstorm was approaching. Ever since they entered the State of Louisiana the hurricane season weather was apparent. It darkened his mood. The shackles and cuffs bounding his ankles and wrists seemed to tighten the more he anticipated his arrival to his new place of residence. He had heard stories about the place and none was worth looking forward to. They called the penitentiary Bloody Pollock.

United States Penitentiary of Pollock was a maximum security facility located in Central Louisiana. Home to 1,500 inmates, Pollock was undoubtedly one of the most violent penitentiaries in the Bureau of Prisons. Sitting on a hundred and twenty acres of complex land made ample room to construct the max yard, which consisted of three massive buildings containing four housing units each. The units themselves occupied one hundred twenty-eight inmates a piece. Pollock, at the time, was being used as a disciplinary facility for disobedient inmates. With nearly ten documented stabbings a month you could see where the place got its nickname.

The Con-Air made its unstable landing and came to a screeching halt on the runway at the airport in Alexandria, Louisiana. In typical fashion, and as protocol would have it, the U.S. Marshalls flanked the isle as the release hatch was opened. A roll call was performed, alerting the convict called to stand and proceed to the front of the plane.

"Denson, Lavelle," a husky woman with short cropped blond hair called out.

Lavelle rose despite the discomfort he felt from the two hour flight.

"Number," Ms. Husky snapped.

"04235-039," Lavelle spat from a place where consciousness wasn't needed and memory was ascertained. All eyes were on him as he ducked his head under the small doorway of the plane. Immediately his attention was drawn to the sky. In the midst of bellowing clouds, filled with dancing beds of electricity, rolled a single dark cloud; fierce in its appearance.

One by one the prisoners were removed from the plane in all of about twenty to thirty minutes. Six vans were parked in various places on the runway; each with Marshalls waiting to receive inmates designated to them. Two of those vans were from Pollock.

Lavelle and twenty-three others were called and placed in one group. The seal which graced the officer's uniform was a clear indication that all selected were designated for the penitentiary. Lavelle was ushered into a van that held twelve. He sat uncomfortably, next to a young Irish kid who looked nervous. After all the passengers were aboard both vehicles they began their route to the facility.

Damn, Lavelle thought. He couldn't figure out how his life had made such a dramatic turn. One minute he was enjoying life out in the streets and now this. One day he was seeing himself inching closer to the top of his game and the next a nightmare happened.

It all transpired on a Saturday night. Everybody getting money shot to the club. Not Lavelle. Not him. He looked at partying and bullshitting as a waste of time. So while all the other hustlers flossed and shined that meant more money for him to get on the block.

Swerving his truck through Puritan he got a call on his cell phone. The caller was one of his old associates; a cat named Moe G. Moe was usually out and about running quick hustles to get money and would call him every now and then to buy work. Even though Lavelle wasn't at the point where he handled "major" weight, he still found himself able to supply low level hustlers with anything up to four or five ounces.

"Yo, Vell… I need you," Moe said. "I got three. I need four and a split!"

No matter how many times he had told Moe about talking numbers over the cell phone he still kept slipping. Lavelle's first mind was to hang up on him, but then he thought again. "Where you at?" Lavelle asked against his better judgment.

"Usual spot… on Woodward," Moe replied.

Lavelle knew Moe was on the strip; the "Ho Stroll." He frequently stayed in run down motels hustling twenty dollar rocks to the prostitutes and runners. There was one particular motel he liked most. Lavelle knew if he was in the usual spot it was this one.

"Sit still," he told Moe. "I'll be there in a beat or two." Lavelle hung up his cell phone and shot through his hood, needing to make a stop. The spot was right around the corner. As soon as he pulled up he saw his man Cane was on the porch smoking a blunt.

"What's up, dog?" Cane asked. "When did you get that?" Cane was referring to the brand new Yukon Denali Lavelle was riding in. Candy Apple Red with limo tint, sitting on 30" inch Cobo 304's.

Still sitting in the driver seat with his door halfway open, Lavelle responded, "I got this a couple days ago. Fool owed me, so we worked out a deal. I shot him five stacks and he came off it."

Cane stepped back and admired the ride. "Yeah," he said with a look of appreciation. "You came up!"

"Yeah, I did." Not to be the one to get caught up in small talk at this time of night in the hood, Lavelle got straight to the bottom line. "You got that?"

With one long pull of the thick blunt, Cane exhaled then answered. "Yeah… it's right here." He reached inside his leather coat pocket and withdrew a thick wad of bills. "Six grand… it's all there."

Lavelle took the roll of money and instantly removed the rubber band. Cane was his boy but this was business. He counted out sixty one hundred dollar bills before replacing the rubber band. Seeing that the bread was accounted for, Lavelle addressed his loyal friend. "How you looking on work?"

"Well," Cane began, "I still got a quarter left. That should last me until tomorrow afternoon. But it might not. What you got?"

"A half, but Moe G just called and told me he needs four and a split. That'll leave me wit' thirteen and a baby."

Cane exhaled another cloud of smoke that drifted up and over the top of the S.U.V. "Damn! Moe must be dumpin' that shit hella quick. I just sold him four about an hour and a half ago."

Shoving the thick wad of money into his baggy jeans, Lavelle closed the door and rolled down the electric window. "That shit is good dope. Plus, he's on Woodward by the ho stroll. You know that hot ass spot be poppin' like that."

"Yeah, you right, dog." Cane stood next to Lavelle's window looking at the youngster with blood shot eyes. "Hit me in the morning.  I might be out."

"Alright."

Lavelle started up his truck and backed out the driveway. There was no way for him or Cane to know this would be their last night on the streets for years to come. No way to know that after he went to his stash and got out the big eight, requested by Moe G, this would be the final blow; initially his fall.

The four ounces earlier from Cane and the dope from Lavelle were both controlling buys. Buys that found both of them suffering a kick door raid at 5:00 AM the next morning, buys that would ensure them twenty years in the federal penitentiary.

Now, as the van raced the highway in Alexandria, Lavelle snapped and his thoughts came back, with the assistance of an elbow nudging him in his side. It was the young Irish kid next to him.

"Aye," the kid was saying, "have you heard about this pen? Man, I hope it's cool." The kid was extremely nervous and it was obvious. In fact, he looked outright scared. "Yo, man… they call me Woody."

Despite being rudely disturbed, Lavelle suppressed his emotions and entertained the kid." I'm Lavelle, and yes I've heard about this spot. They call it Bloody Pollock." Lavelle sat back and watched the facial expression of the kid transform from outright scared to horror movie petrified. Satisfied, Lavelle sat back and took in the scene before him.

As they exited the off ramp, the prison van slowed to a stop at an intersection bubbling with noon, dreary weather traffic. Lavelle looked to his left and saw a shopping center parking lot swimming with patrons hustling shopping carts to their vehicles. A hamburger fast food joint found its drive-thru lane packed with hungry lunch time maniacs trying to order a combo. A Corvette sports car carrying two young ladies pulled up next to the prison van just outside his window. The women looked up. At just that moment Lavelle felt a sense of freedom.

It came from their eyes. The recognition and the beauty held in the gaze of a woman's eyes brought him a flood of memories; soft skin, perfumed hair, feminine innocence. He sat transfixed to those eyes, wondering if they could see him despite the dark tint on the windows of the van.

Then just as his heart beat its next thump, one of the young ladies seemed to jump, as if realizing a van full of criminals rode only inches from the car she was in. As if on cue, the driver hit a button and the car converted, producing its roof. Right then Lavelle realized that the streets he once roamed were long gone.

The van veered right onto a main road, and his attention fell from outside the van to inside it. The Irish kid hadn't said a word since being told about the penitentiary. There was an old man sitting in the front, next to a few brothers seated in the center, conversing about the last spot they were in. An Indian sat stone quiet all the way in the back.

"Shut the fuck up back there!" a booming voice from the officer in the shooter's cage yelled. Obviously talking to the men engaged in a conversation.

One of them decided to respond. "Hey, man… you ain't gotta do all dat cussin' and shit."

After hearing the response given to his order, the officer unlatched a 12-guage shot gun mounted at the right of him. He racked a shell into its chamber, causing the gun to produce a click-clack metallic sound that spoke in another tongue. Combined with the attitude in which the officer performed sent a message that said I am not playing any games! For the minutes left until the arrival the journey was relatively quiet.

When the van turned off onto a side road and entered a wooded area, Lavelle's body began cramping. The chains were killing him. As the guard in the cage prepared his gear, the van approached a vast complex surrounded by layers of electrical fences and bobbed wire. Gun towers flanked the main entrance to the prison. As the van came to a halt, the driver exited and approached the tower sitting to the left.

Talk about maximum security, Lavelle thought.

An officer exited from the bottom of the tower and produced a clipboard, handing it to the driver. Walking back to the van, the driver opened the double doors and spoke to the passengers.

"When I call your name you are to answer by giving your number. Charles Adams."

"08324-062," said the old man.

"Joseph Raincloud."

It was the Indian's turn to reply. "17622-064," he answered without hesitation.

"Woody Hertz."

The Irish kid sat looking bewildered as if he couldn't figure out where he was at.

"Woody Hertz," the officer said the name again; this time with frustration.

"Oh, man," Woody replied. "Uhh, 133... no… uhh... 135... 41... uhh… 077."

"Do you fuckin' know your number or not, boy?" the officer spat.

The kid gave a look of embarrassment.

"You learn it quick, you poor shit… before the next time I beat it out of you."

The kid cowered back into his seat as if the words spoken to him were a slap to his face. "Yes Sir!"

"Lavelle Denson," the officer continued.

"04235-039," Lavelle responded.

Six more names were called out, and Lavelle began to feel relief in knowing soon he would be out of his chains. The officer returned the clipboard when finished and hopped back in the van. The fence before them parted and the van drove between four more sets before it finally entered into the compound's exterior walls. After rounding a massive building, they came to a stop in a Cul-de-Sac type of opening next to a metal slider.

The officers, the driver and the officer from the shooters cage got out and waited after pressing a small button next to the sliding door. Almost instantly it opened and out came a few more officers dressed in the same correction uniforms. Clean shaven, physically fit men with police written all over them. To Lavelle they looked like real ass holes.

Bringing up their rear, a man in plain clothes consisting of blue jeans, a black T-shirt and High Tech boots came into plain view. He carried a walkie talkie, which he spoke into. "All be advised! New arrivals at rear entrance!"

Mr. Walkie Talkie was apparently the one in charge. You could tell by his demeanor.

"My name is Captain Bravo, and your name is unimportant to me. This is my yard! I want you to be forewarned that if you're hot, a snitch, a rat, or whatever you choose to be called, step forward or go to the yard and risk being killed."

As he spoke to the inmates, his words gave off a sense of death all round them in the bluntness. The feeling of murder combined with the horrific stories about the place set in. Eight out of twelve that were in the van with Lavelle took one step forward, heeding the advice of the captain.

"Is there any more?" the captain asked with finality in his voice. After seeing there wasn't, he called out to the other officers with him, "Take them."

On the snap of his command, two of the officers rounded the eight up and escorted them into the hallway.

"Now with that done," the senior officer continued, "It's customary here at U.S.P. Pollock that when I receive new arrivals I inform them of the rules set forth by me and what to expect on the yard. I'll be quick, because I have another van to orientate. Rule number one: I don't like snitches, so if you get into a jam or need some money don't come to see me. Rule number two: If my officers feel the need they have orders to use deadly force, so if you honor your lives obey the rules set out in the handbook you will receive in your bed roll. Rule number three: If you harm any one of my staff, I will personally make sure your life is cut short. Either that or made into a living hell. This is a level six max security prison, fellas, and if you didn't know or haven't heard it's a hell ground. I suggest you get or make a knife, because nine times out of ten you'll need it. Whatever cars or group you roll with... Dirty South, Texas, Louisiana, D.C., Mid-west, Vice Lords, Latin Kings, G.D., Crip, Blood or Syndicate, whatever it may be, you can be assured they're here."

Lavelle stood listening to the senior officer wishing he hurried the fuck up.

"Now," he continued, "Although our assault rate is high it has its positives. The yard needs its gardens. As ludicrous as it sounds, the most violent of crimes committed in our fine country are upper crust compared to the low life rapist and molesters. Thieves and slicksters get it too, so if you come up in here with that slick shit you're sure to be in a body bag by morning time. Your housing unit will be given to you when you receive your bed roll. When you get these you will be led in a single file through the hall and let out into the central plex of the facility. The compound A unit will be on your left, B unit will be slightly left and C unit will be right ahead of you."

Upon his command a cart was wheeled out the hallway and put before them. The staff member pushing it retrieved the bed rolls one at a time, calling out names. "Denson-04235-039."

Lavelle grabbed his pillowcase filled with his beddings and stepped back in line.

"What about it?" the captain replied before snapping another order. "Move 'em out!"

Surveillance cameras mounted the walls on both sides of the hallways. As the small group proceeded, Lavelle noticed the cameras rotating to watch their every movement; eyes in the sky. The lingering smell of disinfectant, combined with the mirror-like gloss on the tiled floor gave a hospital like feel to the place.

More like a morgue, Lavelle thought.

They were led to the end of a hall to stand before two metal doors. All waited as an officer fished for the key to open it to let them out on the compound.

As Lavelle stood patiently waiting to get to a cell, his mind and body seemed to drop into low-gear and he found himself extremely tired. It had been a long day and he couldn't wait to take a hot shower.

After standing there a few more seconds, the officer finally opened the door and in came a draft of cool air. The feel of it quickly awakened all the convicts. The outside light that crept in was darker now than when they arrived, signaling a storm was definitely amidst.

The Indian was the first to step out into the fresh air. No sooner as he got two feet into the opening did he pause, standing there like a wooden totem pole. This left Lavelle with the feeling something was wrong. Hesitant, Lavelle proceeded out of curiosity and walked towards the fresh air.

First, the scent got to him. He couldn't place it, but something about it sent a jolt through his veins. It was like a mixture of mold, rust and decay. Then, as his mind focused on the issue at hand, Lavelle came to realize what made Raincloud stop. Never in his life had he saw anything like it. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. Standing just outside the slider, out on the yard, awaited a welcoming committee of at least a hundred convicts; standing there, quietly watching.

Stay tuned for more sneak peaks in 2012!!!