Brittanys Life Of Crime

Author's Note

: This is an expanded version of my award-winning entry for Antarctica77's story contest. Although it's LOOSELY inspired by a real case, this is merely fantasy: it is neither an authentic depiction of, nor a comment on, the prison system. It's just a cheery tale about the moral & sexual corruption of a young, married prison guard. Enjoy!

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"Fuck me..."

Warden Stephen Childress, the head of Townsend State Penitentiary, sat at his desk muttering to himself as he pored over his files, hoping against hope to find some new solution to his problem. He already knew it was useless. The problem was the same one he'd struggled against since the start of his tenure: a wealth of violence, and a poverty of means with which to combat it.

The politicians had well and truly screwed him. They'd been over-eager to save money by cutting prison budgets after a meager decline in inmate populations. Worse, round after round of short-sighted collective bargaining agreements with the correction officers' union had left him with a contract that could best be described as disastrous: inept or delinquent guards were nearly impossible to fire, whereas his more skilled & experienced officers enjoyed seniority perks which allowed them to opt out of undesirable jobs — i.e., the dangerous ones.

This had left him with two choices. He could surrender most of his prison to the anarchy of warring gangs and watch the body count soar, with no say in who'd come out on top; many wardens in the state had done just this, mostly losing their jobs in the process. Or, he could strike a deal with the devil. Childress sighed aloud.

The devil you know...

He clicked on the intercom. "Darlene, you can send him in now."

A moment later the door swung open and in walked Cesar Luna. The warden gritted his teeth as he watched the cocky stride of the biggest shot caller in the prison — in point of fact, the biggest shot caller in the room. 6'6", 270 pounds of pure muscle. Intelligent, resourceful, and amoral. Breathtakingly violent, but never impulsively or without purpose. He was 15 years into his sentence, and it would be another 15 before he stood a real chance at parole. As always, he seemed very at ease in this prison he more or less ran.

"Afternoon, Stephen."

"Good afternoon, Cesar." It simply wasn't worth objecting to the inmate's petty show of disrespect, as long as it was private. "Please, have a seat."

"Alright, whatcha need?" Right to business, as usual; this would taste bad, but at least it would go quick.

"E Wing. It's just killing us. In the last couple weeks we've had three bodies, a half dozen maimed, and daily brawls or beatings."

"Yeah, you know I think I heard something 'bout that. Very sad. Hey, you should assign some extra CO's over there." The warden rolled his eyes and stifled a groan.

"Quit fucking around, Cesar. You know the kinds of problems I have. The situation in E is wrecking the numbers for the whole prison — that brings outside attention, and eventually a new warden. And neither of us wants that."

"Nah, I think I'd be just fine. But whatever. You want to know if I can help straighten them out over there?"

"Yes."

"Well I don't got a whole lot of friends over in E. Have to fix that, gonna need a few transfers."

"Done, send me a list of names." If Cesar were just a Good Samaritan, that would be the end of it. But there was always a price. "What else?"

"Shipment of kitchen supplies coming in next Thursday — you're gonna want your people to do a shit job inspecting it." Childress cringed. The amount of contraband that found its way into the prison was already calamitous; it was terrifying to think of how much damage Cesar could do without real inspections. Still, one shipment: it was a small price to pay.

"Fine. But use your head: no weapons, and nothing we can't explain as a mistake." Optimistically, the warden stood up and extended his hand. "So, you'll get me those names?" Cesar just chuckled.

"Oh yeah, you bet I will. After I tell you the last part: you gotta let me recruit one more guard for my crew."

"God damn it, Luna! I'm trying to run a real prison here. How many of my officers do you fucking need?!"

Cesar shrugged, mock innocence written all over his face. "I need one more. To do their thing my guys need some stuff from the guards. And I know you don't wanna be the one giving those orders. If I'm taking care of another wing, I need another guard. You want my help, or no?"

Childress slumped back down in his chair and looked away. This is the demand he'd been afraid of: terrible for the long-term health of the prison, but a small enough tradeoff that he'd need to swallow it given the circumstances.

"Okay," he said, "one more guard.

One

. Who is it?"

"That new girl I seen in the yard, the little brunette. Harrell."

"Brittany Harrell, from B Wing?"

"Yeah, she'll do." Warden Childress drew in a deep breath and stared at the wall, unable to meet the convict's gaze.

"Okay." Cesar stood up and offered his hand to shake, but the warden could only wave him away. "Just go. And hey: no coercion, no threats, no blackmail. I'm dead serious about this; it has to be her choice. You understand me, Luna?"

The convict laughed. "Warden, please. Who are you talking to here?"

Cesar left the office and waited for a guard to escort him back to the cells. He was pleased with the deal he'd struck. Reams of dirty money washed through Townsend — money for protection, drugs, contraband of all kinds — and most of it passed through his hands. To make that happen, he needed guards on the payroll. He could recruit from the men in uniform, and sometimes did, but he much preferred to have the women. Once they were in, they were so much more fun. And once they were having fun together, their loyalty was absolute.

While he was out of view, he pulled out a contraband cell phone and called one of his most important contacts; she picked up on the first ring.

"Monique, baby! How's my favorite CO? ... Cool, cool. Anyway, it's on ... Yeah, talk to her tonight ... That's a good girl. Thanks."

Back in the office, the warden dolefully pulled out the file for Harrell, Brittany. As he read it, he sighed and shook his head.

"Goddamn it. I liked her."

***

Brittany would have known most of what was in that file. 25 years old; 5'3" 135 pounds; community college; Army National Guard; 4 months in as a corrections officer. She would have been heartened to read the comments left by supervisors: punctual, energetic, fast learner; level-headed; small, but athletic; female, but not afraid of the inmates.

In short, she was exactly the kind of young guard the warden needed more of if he hoped to turn the prison around. But the qualities that made her valuable to the warden also made her attractive to Cesar Luna — in fact, he had orchestrated the recent violence in E Wing largely so he might have the opportunity to bring her into his stable.

Brittany had no inkling of these corrupt machinations as she crossed the parking lot after her shift. She took out her phone and called her husband, Adam.

"Hey, hon ... Yeah, I just finished up ... Actually no, that's why I'm calling: that guard Monique invited me to get a drink with some of the other girls, so I'm gonna stop at the bar on the way home ...

I know

, right? Finally. They're so cliquish. That's why I have to go, maybe I can actually make a friend here ... I'm not sure, why don't you just reheat the ... that's right. Ok, I gotta run. Don't wait up ... Love you!"

After a 15-minute drive Brittany pulled up in front of a slightly seedy looking bar and walked in; Monique and the rest of her new best friends were waiting for her inside. It was like whiplash for the young officer. They'd been so standoffish since she arrived at the prison, giving her the time of day but little else. But now they were conspicuously friendly — offering compliments, soliciting her opinion, asking all about her. If she was perplexed it didn't last long. She and Adam had moved clear across the state when she took the job and they still didn't know anyone; she drank up their attention like a woman dying of thirst.

Three drinks and 60 minutes into the outing, Britt found herself sitting at the bar alone with Monique. She took the opportunity to bring up a question she'd had on her mind for months.

"Alright, I have to ask: what's the deal with these matching tattoos I keep seeing?" Monique, like all the women in Cesar Luna's employ, had a small crescent moon permanently etched behind her left ear. "At least a dozen women at Townsend have them — you guys all do — plus a couple of the men. Secret society? Cult? And if it is a cult, hey, why haven't I been invited to join?"

The older woman smiled playfully. "It's not a cult, sugar. More of a club, let's say. It just means we have each other's backs. Lets people know not to mess with us. But more than that ... hmm, I guess it is a tiny bit secret."

"Uh huh. And I'm guessing you can't let me in on that secret?"

"All in good time, dear."

"Yeah yeah, I figured," Britt said. "Whatever it is, you guys are pretty close, huh? And it seems like a lively group."

"Ha! 'Lively,' yeah. You should see us when we're at full strength: Rosa's on maternity leave, and Kat & Sherry only skipped the bar because they're pregnant. We have a lot of fun."

As if to emphasize the point, Jasmine burst out of the ladies' room and skipped over to Britt and Monique at the bar. "More booooze, bitches! Let's fuckin' go!"

Brittany noticed the white powdery smudge under Jasmine's nostril and pointed to her own nose. "You got a little, um, right here..."

"Oops!" Jasmine said, wiping away the evidence. "Sorry, didn't mean to scandalize you."

"I'm not scandalized! But aren't you worried about the drug tests?" The other two women giggled simultaneously.

"No way, honey. We don't have to worry about that sort of thing," Monique said as her finger tapped the tattoo behind her ear. "You want a taste?"

"Um ... no, thanks. Better not."

"Suit yourself."

Fueled by liquor and drugs the group stayed out until last call; Brittany had to leave her car and Uber home.

***

Ten days later, Brittany was in the prison yard. In the interregnum she'd had two more late nights at the bar with other guards — all of whom bore that trademark crescent moon tattoo — and each day she and her new friend group would share lunch and gossip. Suddenly, waking up and going to prison every day didn't seem like such a bad life after all.

She was thinking about these very changes, lost in her own head, and completely failed to catch the silent communication of the conspirators around her. Cesar, loitering near the barbells, looked at Monique & Jasmine and gave them the signal. Monique then turned to a pair of hulking inmates (both lifers) just 20 feet away from Brittany, and nodded. The pair of convicted murderers nodded back and began their choreographed fight: first shoves and shouts, quickly escalating into real grappling and forceful blows.

Britt, displaying more courage than sense, didn't hesitate. "Hey! Knock it the fuck off!" She rushed in to break up the fight, nightstick in hand. The rest of it happened almost too quickly to process.

She reached the men. Then she was knocked back, flying through the air and landing on her ass with a thud. Then she was looking up as both men turned to advance on her. She saw Monique & Jasmine charge in, blocking the men's path and firing pepper spray. Then they, too, were on the ground. One of the inmates staggered back, coughing.

Then the other man fixed his gaze on Brittany and her whole world shifted to slow-motion. Dead silence in her head. She watched, immobile, as he produced a shiv from somewhere on his person. He took a step toward her, and Britt tore her eyes from the weapon to look at him — his face was a mask of cold, murderous intent. Another step, so close to her now, and still she was paralyzed by fear.

Oh my god: he's actually going to kill me. This is how I die. Why won't my legs move? I'm dead. I'm sorry, Adam. I'm so sorry...

Then she blinked and it was over; the world resumed spinning and sound was turned back on. When her brain caught up to what her eyes had seen, she realized that another inmate had stepped in front of her and thrown a single punch — her would-be murderer was now moaning and writhing on the ground, blood gushing down his shattered face.

Britt turned away from that gruesome sight to find her savior. It was Cesar Luna, looking perfectly calm: "You're ok now, officer."

Sirens blared and the yard was put in lockdown, inmates filing back indoors. Monique and Jasmine collected the shaky Britt and helped her inside. She tried to tell Cesar 'thank you' but was still too petrified to talk. Instead she just stared at him as she passed by — he watched her go, smiling.

Back in the locker room, Britt's friends comforted her. A decade's worth of adrenaline had been dumped into her system all at once and she was trembling.

"I can't s-stop s-s-shaking," she said. Monique reached into her pocket and pulled out two pills.

"Here, take this, honey. You'll feel better."

"No, I c-can't ... drug test..."

"Shhh, nothing to worry about. You're one of us, ok? Just take 'em."

Britt snatched up the pills and swallowed them down without bothering to ask what they were. She trusted Monique — after today, how could she not?

"Oh god damn it, oh fuck," she rambled. "Holy shit, you guys saved my life. Thank you. Oh my god, thank you so much."

"Ain't no thing, Britt," Jasmine told her. "We have each other's backs, right? The one you really need to be thanking is Luna. He had no reason to step in and he

destroyed

that guy for you."

"I know, you're right ... Oh, fuck, what am I doing? I need to call Adam." The other two guards shot each other a quick glance; Monique jumped in.

"Britt, honey, I don't think you want to be doing that. Thinking about home when you're at work will only fuck you up, ok? Your husband can't help you in here, so you gotta learn to leave him at the gates. Jazz knows what I'm talking about." Jasmine nodded solemnly and gave an

Mmm-Hmm

. "Trust me on this. You talk to him when you get home. When you're inside, you rely on your partners. We're your family. You understand?"

She didn't understand, not really. But Monique spoke with such authority, such wisdom, and Britt was in no condition to think rationally. It was easy to accept this new way of thinking.

It got even easier thirty minutes later when the mystery pills kicked in — by then she'd forgotten all about them. She spent the rest of the day in the company of Monique or Jasmine or one of the other girls, absorbing their affection & reassurance, and forming an implicit association between those relationships and her chemically-induced opiate bliss. How could she not trust them?

***

Following the fight Brittany had the weekend off, and she returned to work on Monday to find she'd been transferred to C Wing. It was a welcome change, since there was a higher proportion of guards from her new friend group — little crescent moons were hiding behind the ears of seemingly half the CO's here — and Monique was now her direct supervisor.

C was also home to Cesar Luna, but she didn't see much of him. Each Wing of the prison comprised three Units which fed into a single common area; Cesar spent most of his time in Unit 3 where his cell was. There were many corners of Townsend known to be dangerous, but Unit 3 of C Wing was the only true no-go zone: officers never ventured inside with without a full tactical team in riot gear.

On the second day of her new assignment, Britt was making her rounds in the common area when Cesar Luna appeared; she found herself standing a few feet away and couldn't stop herself from making eye contact.

"Hey, Luna."

"Officer Harrell." He nodded his head, acting the perfect gentleman.

"So, um ... I never got a chance to thank you for stepping up in the yard a few days ago."

"Nah, don't mention it."

"No, seriously. You really saved my ass, and I won't forget it. I wish I could make it up to you."

"You're good, Harrell, you're good." Then, as if it only just occurred to him: "Although, if you're serious about that, there is one thing you could help with."

"Uh..." Britt knew this could be dicey: there were a whole lot of favors a guard could do for an inmate, and some of them led down a dark path. "Well ... if I'm able, sure. What is it?"

"It's gonna sound stupid. My electric toothbrush died, and I can't get nothing like it from the commissary. If I give you the brand, maybe you could help me replace it."

"Uhh ... yeah, let me see what, um, I can..." Britt mumbled non-committal noises, let Cesar tell her the brand, and then backed off.

She spent the next hour working herself into a near panic.

It's just a toothbrush ... but there's a reason he's not supposed to have it ... he probably saved your life ... but this is literally smuggling, and who knows what he'll ask for next?

When she finally came to Monique with the dilemma, the older woman could spot her distress before she even opened her mouth. She tried to calm Britt down.

"Alright, darling, I get it," Monique said, resting a reassuring hand on Britt's shoulder. "I know that seems scary, but we'll figure it out. Just tell me what he asked for."

"Okay ... shit. It's a new toothbrush, an electric one. They're only supposed to have those soft rubber ones that can't be, like, filed into a shiv."

Monique stared blankly at her for a long three seconds, then burst into laughter.

"HAHAHA-haha ... Oh, Britt, honey, you're too much. You had me worried! I thought you were into some serious shit. Haven't you seen all the crap in these cells that ain't supposed to be there?"

"Oh. Ok. You mean the guards ... wow. So, what do I do?"

"Bring him the damn toothbrush, girl!"

"Really? It's like $80." Monique wore an amused expression that made Brittany feel very foolish.

"Um, yeah.

He's good for it.

Just give him the toothbrush tomorrow and don't say anything about money. Trust me."

So that's what Brittany did. After her shift she stopped at Target, and the next day was waved through check-in with the toothbrush tucked under her shirt — for a guard, smuggling in contraband was shamefully easy at Townsend. She handed it to Cesar at the first opportunity, being stealthier than she really needed. He was exceedingly gracious, though there was no mention of money. When she got back to her car that evening after work, she found an envelope under the windshield wiper — inside was $200.

Back in C Wing, Cesar walked back to his bunk. On the way, he poked his head into the cell of one of his junior lieutenants.

"Yo, Diego. Want a toothbrush?"

***

Over the next two weeks, the rupture between Brittany's work life and home life that Monique had hinted at after the fight became more pronounced. "Prison Brittany" suddenly had a rewarding social life with lots of friends — she spent all day with them gossiping, sharing secrets, and soaking up valuable guidance on how to navigate her new profession. Britt, always an extrovert, had missed that kind of connection even more than she'd realized.

It was fun, and after work she'd want the fun to continue: about every other day she'd leave the prison and head straight to a bar with her girlfriends. And before long, those outings involved sneaking off to the bathroom with her friends to share their cocaine. Not a lot of it, she told herself. Just a tiny bit — just enough coke so she could stay awake and make sure her friends weren't doing too much coke. And besides, she was always stone-cold sober at work. Prison Brittany had things under control. She was having fun.