Not on MY watch!

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Even more ludicrous by civilization’s standards might be to imagine covert maneuvers by prison staff resulting in reckless disregard for the sanctity of life itself. For the heck of it, we’ll consider an attempted-suicide “story.” It is time for cell raids. A notorious buzzing sound marshals the release of the thick metal mass enclosing each cell. The omnipotent C/Os enter and conduct their scrupulous search. Sheets, towels, blankets, clothing, and rolls of toilet paper go flying through the air. They are deemed superfluous to acceptable quantities. Haphazardly, they become graceful decorations on all block surfaces.

In the process a radio is discovered. It bears an engraved name different from that of the cell’s occupant. The apparatus was loaned with the consent of its rightful owner, who happens to be black. Borrower and borrowee get twelve days of lockdown. After six days into the restriction period, the borrower attends a scheduled court appearance. He gets a twelve-month sentence.

Driven by despair, during the quiet hours of the night, he slices numerous gashes through his wrists. In the sanctuary of his temporary tenancy, he lays to drain. Diligent first shift officer C/O Roberto, (the manikin-nurse’s brother), discovers him draining and gasping within a tick’s breath of animation. Roberto jerks and yanks the misguided martyr. The jostling and kicking is accompanied by shrills of demoralizing commands.

“Wake up you son of a bitch. Let’s go you bastard, you fuckin’ motha’ fucker. You’re not gonna die on my watch.” Heaven forbid! Imagine the disgracing reprimands, not to mention the dreaded publicity of another suicidal prison death. Moreover, the horrendous volume of paperwork would be overwhelming. By a narrow margin, thankfully, it is all avoided. The medical staff revives him.