Panther Baby by Jamal Joseph Page A

the Panthers to be.
    He asked if the Panthers were coming to break me out. I told him that the charges against us were all trumped up and that the lawyers were working to get the case dismissed. He warned me not to trust anyone because the jail was filled with snitches and “booty bandits.” Booty bandits were prisoners who liked to rape “new jacks”—new guys like myself.
    Th e truth is I was secretly hoping that a Panther commando squad would blow down the walls of the cell block and free me. I hated jail. Th e metal walls of the tiny cell seemed like they were closing in on me. I felt like I was losing my mind. I inspected myself in the metal mirror. I looked like a crazy man. My Afro was matted and wild. My T-shirt was dirty. My eyes were puffy with depression and anxiety. Merciful passed me a plastic Afro comb. “Stash that in your mattress,” he said. “ Th e guards consider that contraband.” I picked out my Afro, then used the comb to tear a slit in my mattress and hid it. Merciful also gave me a clean pair of socks, drawers, and a T-shirt. He told me how to stop up my sink with toilet paper so I could fill it with cold water and use the prison soap to lather up and wash my dirty clothes.
    Th ere were other prisoners in segregation. Most were inmates who were serving three to thirty days for fighting, disobeying an order, or possessing contraband. A few were mentally disturbed inmates who were waiting for beds to open up in Bellevue’s prison psych ward. Th e rest were labeled snitches—inmates who were being held in protective custody because they were testifying against their codefendants or other inmates.
    A few days after I arrived at Rikers, three guards came to my cell. Th e cell door rolled open. I stood, uncertain as to why the guards were there. “You have a visitor,” one of the guards said. I cautiously stepped outside my cell. Th ey escorted me to the visiting room. Two dozen inmates sat on stools and talked into telephone receivers to their relatives who sat on the other side of the Plexiglas windows. I was considered a high security risk, so the guards led me past the other inmates and locked me into a small corner metal booth. Th e inside of the booth felt like a coffin. I dripped sweat and took slow deep breaths to keep from passing out.
    A few minutes later a guard led Noonie to a chair on the other side of the Plexiglas. She looked frail and bewildered in this concentration-camp-like environment, but I was happy to see her. Noonie smiled and started talking. I picked up my telephone receiver and gestured to her to do the same. Th e damn phones didn’t work. I banged on my cubicle wall, yelling for a guard. I motioned to Noonie to call for the guard on her side of the Plexiglas. She shook her head no and mouthed, “Let’s not make trouble.”
    “We’re not making trouble, Noonie,” I yelled. “I have a legal right to a visit. Th ese phones are supposed to work. Th ey’re treating me like an animal in here.” I pounded the cubicle wall. I saw tears forming in Noonie’s eyes and calmed myself down.
    I located a small mesh covered vent below the Plexiglas window where I could shout to Noonie and place my ear to hear her response.
    “Are you okay?” I yelled.
    “I’m fine, sweetheart,” Noonie replied, “but I’m worried about you.”
    “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Th is is just all a bunch of harassment. Th e lawyers will have us out soon. Did anybody from the party call you?”
    “Somebody called,” Noonie said. “But I told them I didn’t have anything to say.” My heart sank as I pictured Noonie hanging up on a Panther leader.
    “But if they were from the Panthers, they were trying to help. Maybe they had information from the lawyers.”
    Noonie set her jaw like a strong African mask. “ Th at Black Panther mess put you here. Now they want to help?”
    When Noonie got like this, there was no reasoning with her, so I left the subject of phone calls alone.