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Florence, Arizona - 2001; International author, K.L.Guillen, provides an in-depth look into the confines of an American prison in Betrayal Of Innocence. It's a more balanced, and compact novel than the previous, yet excellent, The Grinder, because it wasn't written under the same distress, the writer was more concentrated, and he could check out the events more quietly. The result is a clearer and more linear story based upon fact and experience, taking us behind the walls, within its pods, the inmates and their jailers. This book is a must for any human rights supporter, and for whoever wants to know the truth about still a too hidden world of violence and abuse.

Yet, after surviving a six year long walk with death, K.L.Guillen's revelation about Arizona's corrupt prison system gives also space to a new chance either in his life or in the fiction. Oddly, the sales of this novel can have an affectation upon the author's situation, for in America (and not only in America. E.N.), money and fame buy justice.

In this case, the brutal facts must come first, for in a novel based upon real places and faces, it becomes necessary that we analyze the guts of a system that is slowly permeating the lives of every human being on this planet. It has often been stated that to know the future of a country and its citizens, one must look to the treatment of its prisoners.

On the edge of the Sonoran Desert, in the middle of nowhere Arizona, there sits a hell like no other; The Cork, a 2400 man prison, surrounded by tall tan walls topped with razor wire, where gladiators still fight to the death, and matadors don't leave the ring unbloodied. Beneath the lions and bulls, in boxes kept hidden from the public, a crazed and surreal existence mocks the ban on solitary confinement and the hypocrital human rights treatises.
Into this maelstrom innocence is thrown. Brock McCool has been sentenced to the Cork for 15 years, for a crime that did't happen, but if revealed will surely mean his violent death.
Sex-lies-secret videotapes, serial killers-psychotics-sharks, and even love figure into the unfolding of events. Now, if only Brock MacCool can survive this maelstrom... this Betrayal of Innocence.
Because this work is based upon experience, we are provided with a complex and dark look behind the bars of todays American prison industry.

There follows some excerpts.

From Chapter 1: BEGIN THE END

Straight Ray was a hardcore dope fiend, and Brock had helped him get over his sickness, though he was white and Straight Ray black. Something about the man he liked, along with the war stories of life on the streets. On the needle. Always looking for that next fix, selling self to get it.
“I’m good, Ray. Thanks for waking me.”
“Ain’t nuttin’ but a thang, man.”
Brock waited for the next sentence.
“You gonna leave me dat radio, right?”
Brock grinned inside. For the past five days, since Ray had found out that he was gonna get sentenced, there had been subtle hints about the shitty little twenty dollar radio and ear plugs. Every inmate knew that they couldn’t take the radio to the state prison. There was a scheme, between county and state prison systems; radios were confiscated by the state and re-sold to the county inmates.
“Get off me about the radio, Straight Ray.” Brock leaned back on the mat, then added:“Besides, you’re so old you can’t hear nothin’ no how. I seen you readin’ lips.”
“Man, you crazy, MacCool. I hear just fine.” Straight Ray laid back down, thinking about how he could get the white boy to give up the radio. Catch more flies with honey, he silently repeated the old axiom his partner had always told him up until the day he died. He lost his train of thought when the crook of his right elbow began to itch, which set off a cramp in his gut. The craving - physical and mental - for the needle gutted him, and he farted like the sick old dope fiend he was.
“Ah man, Ray. I thought you was over being sick?”
“Ain’t never over it, youngster, just -gets used to it.”
Brock let the old man be. “But turn your ass the other way.” He planned on leaving the radio with the old man, who had nothing, but he had to make sure none of his own race wanted it. One had to be careful not to be branded a race-traitor. There was a code, which he was still trying to learn, that dictated interracial relations. Especially when it came to gifting. He knew that Straight Ray, with his twenty-two years of prison experience, knew this. No disrespect taken, then none intended. It was all part of the game.

(...)“Fifteen hard?” Straight Ray thought it over.
It hadn’t sounded like much when it came out of the judge’s mouth, but now he was transfixed by it. He would be about forty-seven years old when, if he got out. Past his prime, past his child-rearing age. No savings. No retirement. His pool cleaning business partner had moved back to California, from whence they’d came seeking better business.
Brock felt a soft sympathetic touch. His eyes came back to the old man.
“You be goin’ to the Cork.”
Brock had heard the term before. It was the toughest prison in the State of Arizona, and from what Ray said, as “dangerous as a dirty needle.” Men used it like a calling card, which meant that the person who’d been there was tough, and could hold his own, or was connected to one of the three prison gangs. In other words, don’t fuck with anyone from the Cork. The granny knots became figure-eight knots, but he tried not to show any emotion. Especially fear, the greatest enemy a man could have on the inside, where lions
and lesser predators, but predators still, could pick up its scent a table away.

(...) But he stayed sharp, healthy, always with the hope that Heather would recant and tell the truth. But she wouldn’t, he thought, recalling his mother’s words. Once a woman lies, it is a rare thing to recant, unless there was proof of the lie. Women were different from men, in that way.
“Just survive,” she’d told him over the phone. He’d strained to hear her weak voice over the jail telephone. “Just you survive,” she’d repeated. He promised that he would. “Love ya,” was the last thing Brock had told her, yet unsure if she’d even heard him.

(...) What was he doing there? God? You gotta get me outta this? He asked silently, coming back to the fold like a prodigal son. Like thousands before him. He ached to be out on the desertscape, among the Joshua trees and varieties of yucca, cacti and scrub plants. Every so often he caught sight of some movement; jumping jack rabbit or javelina. He’d driven this route many times, in the two years he’d been out here, but had never before appreciated it, as he did now. It could be the last time, a voice told him, so he stared and tried not to blink, the monotonous whir of tires providing the background music.

(...) He turned his head to see the van leaving. Behind the windshield the two transportation guards were afraid, transfixed. He locked eyes with Ramirez for a second, then the van left him. He had been abandoned, thrown over the enemy line to be executed and tortured in whatever manner desired. The reality of society’s betrayal brought hot tears to the fore, but he fought them, not willing to give them that satisfaction. The pain blossomed and he had to build another damn. A boot struck, stuck, and heaved him up and onto his back. Wrists instantly vised by the cuffs, now trapped under the small of his back.
Then it got quiet. ’’Who kicked him in the face? Which one of you assholes kicked him?” A new voice barked.
Blood refilled his mouth and he coughed and choked. He felt the crimson tide running down his chin and neck, mingling with his hair. As quickly as it started, it was over. He was saved by biting his tongue.
“Welcome to the Cork,” Sergeant Winslet said. “Take him to medical.”
A siren sounded within the unit.
“Welcome to my world convict,” McGill warned.

From Chapter 3: CHECKING IN, CHECKING OUT

Outside he stopped and looked at the setting sun. It touched him deep down, in the instinctual part of his soul, and shook him. This daily phenomenon readily available to all mankind, should one only stop to look, which taken for granted was only missed when holed in a cell with no view. Not just missed, but craved, like a missing life partner.

From Chapter 5: GOING WITH THE FLOW

Nearly three months had passed since the initiation. His tongue had healed, a pink scar in the mirror when he brushed his teeth the only reminder. He was respected on the yard, and nobody fucked with him, not even Negro. But he still had pressures and decisions to make; Special K wanted him to probate, to be a Whitey. This appealed to his need for family. It was something he’d lost when his father left he and his mother at a young age. The urge to have the familial protection, to be bound by blood, was strong. It tormented his common sense, which told him to wait until his appeals ran out to decide whether or not to join any gangs. But he also knew that Special K had talked to Negro about getting off his back. But still, the black Mexican had a way of getting to him. Sometimes while he laid in bed he would envision a knife in his hand, then slitting Negro’s throat, or sticking him, face to face, eyeball to eyeball, knife in and out, sticky wet with blood and silver fish, guts, spilling out of the hole in great heaps. It kept him up late at night, these morbid thoughts, yet he knew he shouldn’t let the man fuck with his mind. Then there was the matter of his heritage. He was part Indian. What would the Whitey’s think about him perpetrating such a fraud? He didn’t think the white supremacists would like that, though he’d seen some questionable looking brothers. Special K himself was hardly a racist. Could he be a good man as a Whitey?

From Chapter 6: LIKE SAND THROUGH FINGERS...

He turned back to the picture and brought out a notepad, wondering if what Petey, and almost every other inmate, said was true; That there was an invisible black hole, two years away, that sucked in loved ones and made them disappear into the void named, “out of sight, out of mind.”
People forgot about inmates, whether by subconscious choice, or for the reason of distancing themselves from the hell that was behind the fences and walls. They simply fell away. To the inmate, they ceased to exist except in the inmates mind. Usually it took two to three years, and like grains of sand through the fingers they slipped away, forgetting about their friend or relative in prison. After a certain period only a few grains of sand were left. Usually parents and grandparents, and a few very exceptional spouses.

(...)He took out a fresh piece of drawing paper, and began to sketch out the rose, a wave of hope swelling in his chest. Would she like a drawn rose, Brock wondered, as he finished it and took a skeptical look. His best one yet. If only he had some paints to add color, he thought, then searched for a red pen.
He could smell the burritos cooking all the way down at Chuck’s house, and his stomach growled.

From Chapter 7: KNOWING THE LINGO

He had an hour to write. It was nine o’ clock. At ten the light had to be off, except for those with legal work, or who had pull. Words littered the page, about his painting, about her beauty, about love, about sex and honesty. He was unconscious of the loneliness that drove his words of passion and love. After, when he reread the letter, he almost tore it up, but what the heck, he thought. “Love Brock,” he signed off. “Hope to see you.” He wrote a postscript; “I almost tore this up. Sorry so soppy. Smiles.”
He sealed the envelope, put a stamp on it, and set it on the bars. He watched it for a moment, wondering, hoping. Guards would read those words, and that fact made him reach for the letter. But he left it there. If he didn’t send this letter he would lose the possibility of her, and all those pleasures she would bring with just her presence in his life.
He’d gone over every word of Lisa’s last letter, and had tried to grasp every metaphor and subtlety that was locked into word, sentence, and phrase. Questions abounded over the simple sign-off; “Yours Truly, Lisa.” What did the heart, drawn in red, next to his name mean? What did “call me” mean? Then there was the perfume, bringing a physical sensation to his already vivid fantasies.
“I need some pussy,” he murmered to himself, trying to envision Lisa from the neck down, then he too joined the chorus of the night.

From Chapter 16: YIN AND YANG

The recreation field was in the usual state following a fight or stabbing. As in a film, where extras waited for the director’s command; “ACTION!”
It was hot, with no breeze to provide coolant. The sky was clear blue. A perfect day, Brock thought, as he approached the gate. An ominous quietude hung in the air.
Up against the wall, just inside the chain-link gates, a small man sat smoking a cigarette. Brock thought it was a white convict, but he hadn’t heard of any problems between anyone.
“Cool,” Brock heard the hunched over form call him. Beyond the gates, by the recreation pile, Brad the rat was sitting with Dale and Special K. Brock quickly refocused on the man.
“Chuck?” He ran forward the last twenty meters. “Chuck?”
“Slow down,” Marcia requested. She was denied.
“What the fuck, Chuck?” Brock asked, letting the stretcher go and falling down next to his friend. He saw the blood running down Chuck’s mouth and nose.
With a bloody smile, Chuck said, “Say bro, I think there’s smoke coming out of my back.” He took a weak drag and coughed.
“Who did this shit?”
Chuck looked around to make sure no pigs were in hearing range before speaking. “Brad the rat.” Cough.
“Put that fuckin cig down, mother-fucker.” But he left it.
“-got me from behind-” Cough. Blood. “Guess he got a job out here?” Mouse struggled for breath before speaking.
“Lung’d me. Tell Rachel I said goodbye-”
“Shut the fuck up.“ Brock looked for the wound. “You ain’t gonna die bro.” He saw three puncture wounds in vital areas.
“You the only one calls me proper, bro-I love you man.”
A weak laugh turned into a cough. Blood soaked the cigarette to its cherry. It sizzled and went out. “Should see your face...”
A residue passed over Chuck’s brown eyes, and he was gone.
“Chuck? Come-on bro?” Brock picked up his friends body and put him on the gurney. He saw Marcia just now catching up. “Back-lung wound! Bag him and get life-flight!”
She saw the tears, but said nothing. “I already notified them- Slow down so I can get the bag on him.”
“Come on little buddy!” Brock urged, pumping on Chuck’s chest. He’d learned CPR from Nurse Rein, and now he did it as if his own life depended on it. He shouldn’t have wasted time BS’ing about Brad the rat or Rachel, and he kicked himself mentally and pushed faster.
The pulse faded, if it was ever there. They were going too fast and bumpy for her to get a read. She broke a sweat for the first time since she’d began working at the Cork, but she didn’t want to tell him no, or that his friend was gone.
“Slow down!” A blurry brown shape ordered, and was ignored.
They reached the makeshift heliport at the East end of the unit, a fifty square meter section of hard-packed dirt. This was where many had died waiting for, ironically, “Life-Flight” to arrive. For ten painfully long minutes Brock pumped Mouse’s skinny chest, and those seeing this were by his sheer will forced to help. None could tell him that it was over.
“Nothing’s over!” Brock screamed at them when they tried.
The thumping sound of rotors beating air reminded him of those Vietnam films, where John Wayne landed and dropped vacant-eyed grunts into the shit, and picked up the glass-eyed wounded. He heard voices, deep warbling sounds, as if the world around him had shifted to slow-motion. Wind and dust attacked him, but he fought against it, moving his doubled fists up and down, up and down; blood in-blood out. He saw dust getting into Chuck’s eyes. Blink, Chuck, why don’t you blink? he wondered.
“Son, let him go now son.” The old Vietnam vet looked into the past when he looked at Brock’s face. He’d piloted too many hot zone pick-ups, where men stood next to their fallen comrade, teary eyed, going into shock right there in the middle of the shit. He’d said the words a hundred times before, in that stinking shit hole, and now he said them again; “Son, we’ll take care of him. We got him.”
Brock looked up, past the bushy white eyebrows, into trustworthy eyes. There was a telepathic connection. He allowed someone’s hands to peel his off of Chuck’s chest, and then his friend was whisked away. A comforting hope was given him by the two EMT’s continuing CPR. But the void wasn’t filled.
Chuck, little buddy, Mouse, not Rat, but Mouse, was gone.
He was cold. Odd, he thought, the sun was bright.
“Goodbye, Chuck,” he whispered into the beating rotors.
“Brock? MacCool?” Marcia Glasser saw what was going to happen. “Guard!”

SECTIONS OF THIS PAGE:

INTRODUCTION - ACKNOWLEDGMENTS - CHAPTER ONE: BEGIN THE END - CHAPTER THREE: CHECKING IN, CHECKING OUT CHAPTER FIVE: GOING WITH THE FLOW - CHAPTER SIX: LIKE SAND THROUGH FINGERS
CHAPTER SEVEN: KNOWING THE LINGO - CHAPTER SIXTEEN: YIN AND YANG

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