Rapist on the Yard (by Warrior)

Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Raised by a family heavily involved in drug commerce.

“Yo, Warrior! Come over here, homeboy!” said Cane, who was my age, eighteen at the time.
Cane was at a bench with three other guys: Flaco, Gordo, and G.
“G wants to holler atchoo!” Cane said.

G was short for Gilbert, a heavily-tattooed prisoner in his early forties. A man who’d been in the system for a while – what you call an “older number” or a “con.” About average height but his confidence made him seem larger than he was. The typical Mexican stereotype: a thick overgrown mustache past the lips, a bull neck, and long hair slicked back in a braided ponytail. I’d said “Wassup!” to him once or twice.
Everyone knew that G ran the yard for the prison gang that ran the Mexicans. The EME (Mexican Mafia). Nobody wanted to know any more than that. Nobody liked to talk to G either, because if he called you it was for one of two reasons: you messed up real good or did real good in some area. If it was bad, it was usually too late to do anything about it because by the time you realized you messed up, you were usually laying in your own blood from a beat down or a stabbing. So I was nervous as I walked to where they were.

“Wassup, G!” I asked, shaking his hand, then everyone else’s on the bench.
“Hey now. You on the work crew wit Cane and Flaco, que no [right]?” G said.
“Yeah.”
“Cane says you a real good vato [guy] and his road dog. I wanted to get atchoo about a coupla theengz if you don’t mind.”
“Nah. It’s cool, man.”
“Orale, have a seat then.”
Everyone gathered round closer, so no one could hear the conversation except those in the immediate circle.
“How do you feel about helping us out with a problem we got wit a vato?” G had a slow way of talking, yet forceful. He raised a subconscious fear that made you want to say yes to whatever he asked – immediately.
“Sure. No problem. What’s the deal?”
G nodded his head in approval and gave Gordo a look to fill me in on the details.
“A rapist has touched down on the yard, and it needs to be handled,” Gordo said.

Many guards can’t stand rapists as much as inmates, so they’ll tell an inmate, knowing the gossip will climb up the yard chain of command from the lower inmates trying to earn brownie points. Flaco was screwing around with a counselor who had access to a staff computer containing all the information of every prisoner on the yard. She confirmed the gossip.

“I say let me and Warrior stick the fucker, ese [homey],” said Cane who just wanted to stab anyone, he didn’t care who, just to say he’d shanked someone in prison.
At first I was hesitant, but as I thought about my sister, mother, and aunts and the possibility of rape, my reasoning to follow through became clear.
“Nah. We don’t know the details to the case,” Gordo said. “What if it’s some old fucked-up jacket on the vato, like a ruca [woman] that was seventeen and him eighteen and the ruca’s parents pressed charges? I’ve seen that go down.”
“Fuck ‘im. Let’s peel his cap, G,” Flaco said. “His sex score on file is high, loco. It ain’t no seventeen or eighteen jale [work] thing. I seen it.”
Cane looked at me to chime in.
“Hey, whatever you vatos decide, I’ll roll with it,” I said.
G had the final say. He looked in deep thought with his hands clasped together below his nose, yet above his chin. He had a way of revealing a crease in his forehead between his brows when he came to a decision. Everyone was silent, yet listened intently as G was about to make his decision.
“Stick ’im. Flaco, take these two witchoo and make sure the jale gets done.” G was referring to me and Cane.
Flaco and Gordo were older numbers too. They respected G’s call and didn’t question it. Cane was all smiles. He had that sadistic smile only a sociopath can give off.
Yet to develop a conscience, I was OK with the decision. I believed I was doing society a service.
Flaco was to plan everything, but Cane and I wouldn’t know when or who until the day it was to occur. Plans were always kept vague until the day, just in case someone got cold feet and wanted to chicken out by warning a captain or other staff member.

A few days later, I noticed Cane and Flaco walking my way. We’d all just got let out for work detail and I had about twenty minutes to report to my assigned area. I knew it was time by the sadistic smile Cane once again wore so well.
“Wattup, Warrior!” Cane said, shaking my hand.
“Que onda [wassup!], Warrior. Listo [ready]?” Flaco said.
“Simon [yeah]. Let’s do this,” I said.
“Peep this, change of plans,” Flaco said. “G said we ain’t gonna stick the vato. We just gonna beat ’im instead.”
Life has a weird way of changing up on you, or putting up road blocks to keep you safe. If it wasn’t for the change of plan, I would have carried through what I was supposed to do.
“We do this jale all stealth mode,” Flaco said. “His dorm goes to breakfast in a few. The vato stays back to wash up and get ready when everyone’s gone. The chota [guard] will pass the perimeter at that time. We’ll have fifteen minutes, in and out. The fool is Kenny G. I’m gonna keep point [be the lookout] for you two vatos. Got it? Handle that shit right.”
“Got it,” Cane and I answered.

We waited for Kenny G’s dorm to go to chow. The day was humid from the monsoons. My heart was beating fast, my mind racing, my palms sweaty. Flaco stayed outside as we made our move. Cane and I went to Kenny G’s bunk location. He wasn’t there. We went to the community restroom for the dorm. There were four sinks and three toilet stalls. One stall was occupied. Cane turned on one of the sinks as though he were washing up. Then he jumped on a urinal to peek into the occupied stall. He looked down and his sadistic smile said it was Kenny G. He jumped off the stall, motioned to get ready, went to an empty stall, and came out with a wad of toilet paper. He wet it in the sink, jumped back on the urinal and chucked it on Kenny G. I couldn’t help but laugh at his ingenuity.
“Who just did that?” Kenny G said.
As yelling and swearing came from inside the stall, we posted ourselves beside the urinal ready to pounce.
A figure emerged.
Immediately I heard a grotesque crack and Kenny G went down.
I followed through with a punch.
Cane was determined to hurt Kenny G with a combination lock in a sock knotted at one end.
We pummelled Kenny G.
“You need to roll yer shit up, rapo [rapist],” I said.
We left him bloody. We were in and out in less than five and on our way.

The guards found Kenny G, whisked him away to Medical never to return to the yard.
I didn’t feel guilty. He deserved every consequence that comes with being a rapist. I was commended by G and others on the yard for doing a noble service.

Years later, I was in maximum security watching the news on TV. Recognizing a face on the screen, my attention focussed on what was being said. It was Kenny G. Arrested for the rape and murder of a woman. Caught through DNA evidence.
I couldn’t help think, we should have stabbed him that day. Life is weird like that. That’s one moment forever scorched on my memory. Along with the face of the woman he killed.

Is Warrior justified in thinking he should have stabbed Kenny G to death that day?

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