One Blood

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

Monday

Angola, LA

 

 “Baker? Baker! I know you hear me, boy! Time to wake up. The warden wants to see you.”

Lincoln jumped at the sound of the man’s voice. He opened eyes caked with sleep and saw a redneck guard yelling at him through the cell bars.

“What did you say?”

“Are you deaf and dumb, Nigger? The warden wants to see you. Now. Let’s go.”

Lincoln stretched. “What time is it?”

“Time to get yo’ black ass over to these here bars and ‘sume the position.”

After securing the handcuffs—every prisoner’s least favorite accessory—the guard yelled down the corridor. A moment later, Lincoln and the guard were only separated by air and opportunity. Lincoln held a happy vision of slitting the man’s throat with a used razor blade. He smiled at the balding, pudgy, white man before him.

“What does the warden want to see me for? I’ve got to pack up my stuff. You know I’m fin to get out today.”

The guard told him to shut up and yanked him out of the cell.

Walking down the corridor of Camp J, Lincoln looked into the cells of the other lifers waking up to another day on the block. They all had variations of the same story. To outsiders, twenty-three hour lockdown might seem unbearable, but to the prisoners of Camp J, there was a worse alternative. They could be at the injection center waiting for the poisonous kiss of the needle.

Moments later, Lincoln walked out into the humid Louisiana morning. As his eyes adjusted to the morning light, he smiled broadly. He usually only got to spend three hours outside per week.

When I get outta here I’m gonna sleep outside for a whole month! That’ll be the life!

Lincoln got into the backseat of the patrol car and rested his head against the window, watching the other inmates trudging out for another day of work in the fields. He managed to get one hand inside his jeans pocket and fished out the crinkled photograph he carried with him at all times. Staring at the old picture of Juanita, given to him some years ago by Amir, he felt a mixture of anger and hope. Anger because she died before they could meet, and hope that he could do her memory justice upon his release. They had the same eyebrows, nose, chin, and mouth. And now they had the same dream. Revenge.

* * * * *

Amidst his collection of wallpaper was an article Amir sent him a few days after their initial introduction. Lincoln requested proof of Amir’s authenticity and Amir had produced a worn article from 1973. The article accused a woman, Juanita Simmons, of killing her husband—the first black mayor of Lake City—and his secretary.

The assassinated mayor’s name was Walter Simmons. Amir had circled his name and written YOUR DAD in the margin. Lincoln couldn’t believe that the park he had played, grown-up, and killed on—Simmons Park— was named after his biological father.

At the end of the article Amir had written the phrase, MOM WAS FRAMED.

Panama X filled in the rest of the blanks, telling him about the man responsible for Lincoln’s loneliness, pain, and suffering over the years. The man who’d robbed him of the chance at a better life. The man who had built an empire on the decayed bones of his father.

Listening to X, it all clicked for Lincoln. He immediately began to read anything and everything he could get his hands on about Randy Lafitte. The more he learned about his enemy, the more he fantasized about the day when he would confront him and make him feel pain like he’d never known. He didn’t know if it was “his destiny,” like Panama X always said, but he was committed to vengeance, consequences be damned. First step: get out of Angola. Second step: get to Lafitte. Third step: kill him.

Then improvise the rest.

* * * * *

The car pulled up to the prison administrative office, but instead of stopping, the guard drove around to the back of the building.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Lincoln asked.

The guard ignored him.

“I’m axin’ you a ques—” Lincoln swallowed the rest of his sentence as the guard turned around brandishing his bully club.

“The warden told me to give you this.”

Lincoln started to protest, but a bully club to the temple shut him up. All he saw was a flash of light before his world turned black.