Death Row Breakout by Edward Bunker Read Free Book Online Page B

Sully seemed the best liked and most respected, but a man they called “Six Way” was the most feared. Piece by piece, Booker came to understand that Six Way had gutted another convict in the laundry. He was taken out for questioning, and when he came back he told Sully, “They got shit! Ain’ nobody snitchin’.”
    “That sure is some kind of miracle.”
    “They don’t even have a note fingering me.”
    “Nobody saw nuthin’?”
    “Not a goddamn thing. Some fuckin’ rat said he saw me over by the shower room gutter.”
    “That’s where they found the shiv?”
    “Yeah. But he didn’t say he saw me doin’ nothin’.”
    “How the fuck you find that out? You been in the fuckin’ hole here for four or five days.”
    “A week. But my woman got that mouthpiece up here; he went to the Marin County DA’s office and got copies of reports. He told me.”
    “That’s where you were. We thought you were out snitchin’.”
    “Spare me!” said another voice.
    “Fuck all you suckers!” said the accused killer, but with a jocularity in the challenge. Then with mock seriousness: “Shit, I wish I could snitch on you suckers. But you ain’t got nuthin’, you ain’t did nuthin’, and they’re tryin’ to stick me with a killin’. They want me more than anything I can give ’em.”
    “Six Way Jack – always got Six Ways to fuck a sucker around,” announced Sully. “I know you’re a snake, but I love you anyway.”
    “Don’t do that, Sully,” said Six Way. “You know I wouldn’t cross you. You my friend.”
    “I know I am,” Sully said. “But I’m still watchful, ‘cause snakes have a certain nature. You know about the snake and the turtle, don’t you?”
    “No. Tell me about it.”
    “This snake was crossin’ California and he come to the Colorado River. He can’t swim. So he sees this turtle that he knows. The turtle is swimming around. And the snake calls out, “Hey, turtle, man, it’s me, your pal snake. I need to get across the river. Gimme a ride.”
    “Whaddya think, man, I’m a fool or something. You’re a snake. You’ll put your fangs in my neck.”
    “Hey, you and me, we know each other. I give you my word, man. You’re my pal. Gimme a ride. I ain’t gonna bite you.”
    “Swear on your mama’s grave you won’t bite me.”
    “I swear on my mama’s grave.”
    “Okay, I’m gonna do this.”
    So the turtle took the snake across the river. When they got to the other side, the snake bit him on the neck. As he was goin’ down, the turtle said, “You gave your word. You swore on your mama’s grave.” And the snake said, “Man, I bit her, too. I’m a snake. I can’t be anything else.”
    Booker smiled in the darkness. It was a good story. It said something. He didn’t know exactly what, but it had a message of some kind.
    Through the afternoon, Booker listened to the voices. He could identify five, and there seemed to be two or three others who had very little to say. All were white, some had the twang of the South in their voices and Booker, apparently the only colored man in the dungeon, listened for “nigra” or even “nigger”, but he didn’t hear either. Maybe it was awareness of his presence that stilled their tongues. Or maybe issues of race didn’t cross their minds. They sure talked about violence a lot, one story after another about fucking up somebody, or sticking somebody else.
    They also talked about sports, especially baseball. Betting on baseball was apparently popular in San Quentin. The New York Yankees, led by The Babe and managed by Miller Huggins, were tearing up the American League.
    As he listened, Booker experienced wonder. What was he doing here among thieves and killers? How could life take such swift and unexpected turns? Why had he lost his temper with that white man? It gave him satisfaction, sure enough, but goddamn it wasn’t worth the consequences. The papers said “joyriding”, but the real reason he was in prison was for