The Price of a Good Deed

The Price of a Good Deed

I can’t believe I’m back here.

That thought crosses his mind as he walks into the building and approaches the desk, his bag in hand. It’s empty at the moment, so he takes a look around. The all-too-familiar sight causes a physical ache. People have already noticed him, several walking over.

“Do I know you?”

He turns to face the questioner and scoffs. “Oh, fuck off.”

The guy laughs. “Well, I won’t say it’s good to see you, but welcome back.” Patting him on the back, he adds, “Get settled in, then we’ll get together, cook something. I got you. You can tell me what happened.” He nods and walks off, back to his table in the dayroom.

“Name and DOC,” the officer demands, having reappeared at the desk.

He looks the CO in the eye as he rattles off his information and collects his cell assignment and key. He isn't really paying attention, focused on the question he still has trouble answering:

What happened?

It follows him as he walks up the stairs and down the tier to his new ‘house.’ He barely notices he got a good spot—not too close to the bathroom or stairs—or that he got the coveted bottom bunk. He tosses his bag on the bare, thin mattress, sitting down beside it, still lost in thought. It isn’t until he hears the knock on the door and sees his buddy from earlier in the small window that he realizes how much time has passed—and that he somehow got a single cell. He opens the door and steps out.

“Damn man, thought I was gonna walk up on you jacking it, long as you been hiding in there. Lucky man... solo house AND a bottom? Let’s eat, you can square that shit away later.” His buddy walks away, not waiting for a response, expecting to be followed.

So he follows. He heads down into the dayroom and takes a spot at the table next to the microwave. It’s piled high with food and bowls; another old ‘friend’ is already working. The guy looks up as he sits down, shoving some meatsticks over.

“Open those and cut them up, you got hands.” They work in silence for a minute before he speaks again. “Wasn’t expecting to see you again in here. It’s been a while, you get violated?”

“A while my ass, I was just here. It ain’t been long enough. And no, not flopped. New charges.”

“What the fuck man, what kinda stupid shit you been—”

“It ain’t like that. Completely different type of charges and circumstances. They really did screw me. Hemmed me up on some bullshit.”

The other guy waits a second, then huffs. “Well, let’s hear it then. This ain’t twenty questions, motherfucker.”

He sighs, then thinks back to that day...

It was just another day. Nothin’ even special about it. I just needed some cash. So I walked over to the bank. That’s how it all started…

The bank feels overly warm as I enter, the strenuous hike making me sweat even in the cool air of the day. I step up behind a younger black guy, who nods before turning back to the front of the line. To my left is the counter holding deposit and withdrawal slips, but I ignore it; I prefer just telling the teller what I need and they never care. Just as the line moves forward, I hear raised voices from a desk off to my left, behind a privacy partition.

Next thing I know, I’m hunkered down, taking cover behind the counter, pulling the skinny black kid behind it too. He’s been shot, bleeding badly. I peek out as more shots ring out and hear a scream as I see the shooter; middle-aged white guy, clean-shaven, average build… a nobody. I duck back behind the counter and put pressure on the injury.

That’s when I notice it. The black guy dropped a gun that was hidden in the back of his waistband. What a stereotype, right? But it’s true. And I have a decision to make. By law, I haven't touched a gun in years… I can’t. But what can I do? It’s not really a choice, so I do what I was once trained to do: pick it up, check the chamber, and put three rounds center mass. He goes down, so I rush over, kick away the gun and check him out… he ain’t getting back up. That last shot took out most of his throat. It ain’t pretty.

I secure his weapon, and the one I used, then go back to the kid… he’s gone. I try to help people, but the police show up soon after and I’m separated out. People call me a hero, the cops pat me on the back, then a detective starts asking questions. Just normal stuff at first: “What happened?”, “Why were you here?”, that sort of thing. But soon, it got less friendly. “Where did you get the gun?”

Turns out, the gun was unregistered, illegal. Strike one. But I told the truth. The security cameras would back me up, right? Nope, couldn’t confirm the origin of the weapon. But they were still treating me like I did a good thing. Asked me to ride down to the station, make my official statement. Then the fun questions started: “Why does a convicted felon have a gun?”, “You know you aren’t even allowed to possess a firearm, right?”, and the best one of all, “Why didn’t you tell us you were a registered Sex Offender on Community Custody?” Strikes two and three.

The cuffs came soon after, a feeling I never wanted to repeat. And they weren’t gentle. But still, I kept my head up. I mean, I had done a good thing, right? I stopped the bad guy, saved people’s lives, that had to count for something, right?

Nope. As soon as my past became public knowledge, I was a leper. I was no longer the hero; now I was a possible accomplice with an illegal, untraceable gun. They piled a bunch of bullshit charges on me and offered a nonsense deal. Yeah, right. I took that shit to trial. And lost, obviously.

Trials aren’t like you see on TV. There ain’t no dramatic ‘Order in the Court!’ moments. Just a mostly empty courtroom, a few reporters in the back, the lady prosecutor in her fancy suit, my overpriced lawyer in his overpriced suit, and the judge and his staff. The prosecutor spent her time trying to make me out to be the devil, while my attorney tried to pretend I was an angel, with a judge playing referee while twelve bored strangers wanted to go home.

I’m not giving him enough credit; my lawyer tried. He really did. But no one cared when he brought out witnesses whose lives I might have saved, or when he showed the footage of me trying to save that black kid. The only thing that mattered at the end of those long, tiresome days was that I had somehow gained possession of a gun I should never have touched. The guilty verdict was inevitable. The judge didn’t even have the decency to pretend like he cared when he read it.

But the only charge that stuck was Unlawful Possession of a Firearm. And since my previous felony was a Class A and I had some felony points to spare, there goes another 72 months of my life… well, not really. This time, I’ll get a third off, but that’s still FOUR YEARS. For picking up a gun and stopping someone from killing people.

Let me say that shit again. I’m losing four years of my life to the system for picking up another man’s gun and stopping an active shooter. But it’s not like that other guy could stand up and claim his weapon; he’s dead. So here I am. Could be worse; last time I did 70 months out of 78. But I pled that one out, for the record, because I did it. You ALWAYS get more time taking it to trial. At least it’s not my second strike.

We’re appealing, but I hold no fantasies about my odds…

“Really? That’s your whole story?”

“Fuck you! Why would I lie now? I’m here, ain’t no goin’ back.”

“That sucks man, it really does. But you know what the moral of this story is though, right?” He shakes his head, so his friend continues. “Ain’t no heroes in real life. Save that shit for the movies, or your comics and shit.”

“Thanks for the advice. It came a little late though. You got a time machine handy?”

He laughs, handing him a rice bowl. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go hand out these other bowls. We ain’t done here.”

He takes his bowl to a corner table and starts eating. A second later another old acquaintance approaches, offering a fist bump. He obliges and then continues eating.

“Sorry to see you back here.”

“Shit happens.”

“Yep. If you’re interested, we started a new game recently. Could pull you in.”

“I don’t have no books or dice.”

“You know that don’t matter. We’ll get you a character sheet and some books. Build it and jump in. These guys are mostly murder-hobos, though. Just to warn you.”

“Fifth or Pathfinder?”

“Pathfinder. After you left, nobody wanted to play Fifth anymore.”

“Okay, well… bring me a sheet and the books later. I gotta set up the cell after I eat. I’ll build it tonight. When we play?”

“You got time. I’ll come see you later.”

“Cool.”

He eats in silence for a bit, until his buddy finally returns with his own bowl.

“You deliver those bowls to China?”

“Shoulda made you do it, new guy.”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

His buddy laughs. “Only here. You coming back to the program?”

“You know it. The dogs are the only thing that make this place worth it.”

“It’s different now. A lot more restrictive, more expectations.”

“What’s new? It ain’t like anything in here ever gets better.”

His buddy nods his head towards the officer's desk. “I think he wants you. Welcome to Prisneyland, here’s your complimentary TV.”

He laughs, but sets his bowl down and walks over to the CO, who he recognizes.

“Sorry to see you back. I followed your case. That was a raw deal.”

He scoffs. “Is there any other kind?”

The CO shrugs, then points to the TV sitting on his desk. “You want this, I assume?”

“Might as well.”

“Then fill this form out and sign it. You know the deal, $7 a month. If you don't have it in your spendable, it creates a stacking debt. 50 cents a month, whether you have a TV or not, for cable.” He signs the form and the CO hands him the TV and cord. “Congratulations, you are now the proud renter of a crappy state-owned TV.”

All of a sudden, the déjà vu hits him hard, reminds him of where he’s at. He just nods, swallows hard, and walks back to the table with the TV. He grabs his bowl, closes it, and looks at his buddy.

“I’m gonna go get this hooked up and set up the cell. It’s been a long day.”

“I got you. If you need anything—food, hygiene, whatever—let me know.”

“Thanks man.”

He walks away quickly, not wanting the people in the dayroom to see him upset. Luckily, he ‘soft’ locked his door, leaving it cracked, so he didn’t need his key. Not like he had anything to steal yet, and nobody in this unit would anyway. Setting down the TV and bowl, he takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help, so he slams his fist into the concrete wall. The pain helps.

He tosses his bag onto the floor, laying down on the bare mattress with the shitty state pillow, not even bothering to pull out his sheets or blankets. He just stares at the bottom of the top bunk, in all its graffitied glory.

This is my life. Again…