The White Angel Murder

45

Noah Sherman lay quietly on a cot in his cell. There was never enough room and today he felt as if there weren’t even enough for him to think properly. The cell was nine foot by eight foot, shared by two inmates. There was a steel toilet, a steel sink, a bunk bed, a small mirror, and a stand with a television. Despite the surroundings, the cell was immaculately clean, Sherman insisting that his cellie clean whenever he couldn’t get the chance.

His cellie, Tucker Matheson, was a decent man by his estimation. An African-American that had been raised in Louisiana, he had a Southern drawl and deep-set eyes that always seemed to be bloodshot.

He had been charged with murder, pled to voluntary manslaughter, and was on the eighth year of a twelve year sentence. His wife had taken the kids and moved in with another man while they were still married. The other man lived for six hours with his new family before Tucker got into a fist-fight and ended up beating him to death.

Sherman guessed it was later in the evening but it was hard to tell. There was no clock and they had to guess the time by the television shows that were playing. He jumped off the top bunk, glancing once at Tucker who was asleep. Sherman remembered the first time they had met. It was in the yard and two of the Mexicans had decided to jump Sherman while he was working out. Payback for a fellow gang member he had put away for life when he was a young detective in the Gang Unit. Tucker intervened, slamming a forty-five pound weight into one of the gangsters’ face and shattering his jaw and cheek bones. A few of Tucker’s crew stood by, keeping anyone else from helping. The Mexicans were growing in number every year and soon they would overtake the prison. But for now, it was owned by the blacks.

He had never explained why he had helped Sherman other than the fact that they shared a cell. But Sherman had grown to like the man. He couldn’t read or write and had only a fifth grade education so Sherman took it upon himself to teach him. In six months time, he was reading children’s books and in a year was reading novels. His favorite novel was an old copy of Huckleberry Finn he had checked out from the prison library nearly a dozen times.

Sherman stripped down to his boxers and stood in front of the mirror. He had grown old in two years. His hair, once jet black, was now peppered gray. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes and the skin on his neck appeared looser. The numerous tattoos he had received while inside he wore like badges of honor. The most prominent were the ones he had on his knuckles spelling hell on both hands.

Though the prison noise had died down, it wasn’t quiet. It was never quiet, even in the dead of night. That was the first thing he learned about prison on his first day. The second thing was that it always smelled. The cleaning crew would come by twice a week and they routinely cycled the stale air, but it never helped. There was always the stench of sweat and piss and feces. The stench of hundreds of human beings crammed together so tightly the walls themselves absorbed their stink.

“Heard you was leaving?”

Sherman looked to Tucker but saw his eyes weren’t open. “Yeah.”

“You coming back?”

“Not planning on it.”

“Don’t seem right, you kill them girls and get to go free.”

“Whoever said the world was right?”

“Not me.”

“Not me either.”

“You gonna get them urges again, Noah? The bad thoughts.”

“The bad thoughts come and go. It’s a fight, that’s for sure.”

“I ain’t never got bad thoughts. I killed the mutherfucker cause he deserved it. Don’t seem right you getting to go free and me bein’ here.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He turned to him; his eyes were now open. “I never got to thank you for what you did for me. I have a feeling my time here would’a been a lot worse without you.”

“Every man got a choice in life. And he should be free to make that choice, even in hell. I did what I did cause I think that’s what Jesus would want me to. You want to pay me back, next time you get them urges, you think a Jesus.”

“I’ll try.”