Belmarsh Prison. Summer 2022. Terry V. Mandelson and Edward Raphael “Lyin’ Ted” Cruz are looking at 20-year bids, absent bad behavior or untimely deaths.
Friday
Arriving in suits direct from their appeals, Terry and Ted file into meeting room 431b for their prison initiation sessions.
A woman with chubby arms, slow eyes, and a stupid bovine face enters the room. She extends her hand and Terry grips it, moist and leathery like a dinosaur’s cunt.
“My name’s Sally,” she says. “I’ll be leading the sessions today. Just a few questions, then I’ll give you some general information. I’ll start with you, sir. Could you state your name, please?”
“Edward Raphael Cruz. But my buddies call me Ted.”
“Number.”
“Ah, let me see here…” He leafs through his papers. “145526.”
“Education.”
“Stanford. Then Harvard Law.”
“Occupation?”
“Attorney at law. Husband to Heidi. Daddy to two beautiful daughters. United States Senator for the great state of Texas.”
“Gang affiliation?”
“Good golly, no! Except for the old Cruz gang I left back in Houston.”
“Ethnicity.”
“Hispanic. The first to edit the Harvard Law Review, I might add, ha ha…”
“Now, 145526. Regarding alignment, there’s not a large Hispanic population in Belmarsh. Who are you going to align yourself with?”
“Align?”
“Which group will you seek protection from?”
“Protection? From what?”
She looks at him blankly.
“Well…ah…do y’all have a Republican club?”
She shakes her head.
“Free Market? Libertarian? Well, what are the groups?”
“Whites. Blacks. Those of the Islamic faith.”
Ted looks into the woman’s face as if for clues. She sits silently across from him waiting for a response and looking bored.
“Well…ahhh…whites…I suppose…”
“Thank you, inmate. Now onto you, sir,” she says, turning to Terry.
***
Walking back to their cells, Terry counsels Ted to come to terms with certain facts. He tells him that prisoner rules trump prison rules. That what Ted learned at Harvard is of little use to them now. That he should be discreet and avoid skins and snitches and the giving or receiving of favors.
“Terry,” Ted says, “I couldn’t give a flyin’ flip about the code of common criminals and petty thieves…I’m half-man, half-eagle…I cook bacon on machine guns…I watched porn with Sandra Day O’Connor in the Supreme Court library in 1983…none of that fluffy camera-on-the-face stuff either…I’m talking hardcore…in and out…close up on the you-know-what-now kinda action…I only follow three laws: the law of God, the law of the Constitution, and the law of the Redneck County Country Club, which means no groping the waitresses or scotch without mixer before 5pm.”
“Ted…”
“Now darn it, Terry, don’t make me pull my argument boots on. You’ve got us into enough trouble already.”
They come to a visitor room and hear groaning sounds from inside. They peer through the porthole and see a man who looks like Rasputin receiving fellatio from a busty blonde. The man looks up, smirks at Ted, and grasps the back of the woman’s head, working her skull up and down, his air majestic like a king holding court.
“That’s it, baby…who’s a good little slut come to visit Daddy in the big house…”
“That ain’t right,” Ted says, trying to avert his gaze. “Hang on a second…is that?…GUARDS!…ATTENTION!…GUARDS!…VIOLATIONS!…VIOLATION OF PRISON REGULATION 239A!…SEX ACT IN THE VISITOR ROOM!…”
A platoon of armor-clad men appear and quietly approach the room. They assemble outside the door, where one kicks it open and the rest storm inside.
The blonde woman screams and assumes the fetal position on the ground until the guards put her in handcuffs.
The man scrambles into a corner, his pants still around his ankles, his cock horizontal and aggressive-looking.
“What in the hell are you monkeys doing?” he screams, his eyes mad and swivel. “You’re breaking the law! Get the hell out of here!”
“Inmate, if you don’t cooperate, we’ll be forced to restrain you.”
“Restrain? Restrain, my pasty ass, you impertinent little puke! You see this?” He picks up a stack of papers from the table. “This is the U.N. Declaration on the Rights of Julian Assange to Do Whatever the Fuck He Likes…ever heard of human rights, shit for brains?”
He throws the sheaf of papers in the guard’s face. The guard responds with pepper spray and they set upon Assange, who’s now thrashing around the floor in a pool of cum and blood and feces.
“FASCISTS! YOU FUCKING FASCISTS! WAIT UNTIL THE PRESS HEARS ABOUT THIS!”
“Back in your cells!” a guard yells at Ted and Terry who continue down the corridor.
Saturday
The prison bell rings. Lyin’ Ted shuffles sheepishly onto the yard.
At its center, a group of black men with dreadlocks, a few staring in his direction. To their right, a group of whites with shaved heads. To their left, men with beards and dark eyes like predatory birds.
Then there are stray loners and smaller groups scattered around the yard’s periphery. Ted sees one leaning against the fence at the western end. Ted approaches the man and asks his name.
“I’m Cyril,” he says.
He has pale skin, thin lips, and the air of a minister, Ted thinks.
“Good to know ya. What are you in for, Cyril?”
“There are things I like that I’m not supposed to like.”
Ted chuckles.
“I hear ya…loud and clear buddy…hell, no one’s perfect…I once ate a pizza with pineapple and anchovies…don’t let the wife hear about that one…”
The man looks into space with empty eyes, his crooked incisors resting on his bottom lip.
“Who you wolfin’ for?” the man says, still looking away.
“I’m sorry?”
“Who’s your daddy?”
“My daddy…is…Raphael Cruz…he’s back in Texas.”
“No…I mean…who you ridin’ with?”
“…Well, my friend Terry’s in here somewhere.”
“But you must be ridin’ with someone…else you’re gonna have it real bad in here…they’re sizing ya up already…look for yourself…three o’clock…”
Ted turns and sees some of the black men still looking in his direction.
“If I were you, I’d go see one of those white boys and try to work something out. Listen, I’ve got to split. We’re drawing too much attention.”
Left alone in the corner of the yard, Ted reassures himself that whatever victimization might be planned for him would contravene several prison ordinances and his human and common law rights.
Sunday
The bell rings after rec time. Ted and Terry walk back towards their cells. They turn a corner and Ted is seized by a muscular pair of arms and pulled into a storeroom.
“You can wait outside,” one of the men says to Terry.
The room is crowded with five or six of the black men from the yard. Ted is at the center.
“Now ‘ere’s the Dicky Bird,” the ostensible leader says. “This is a hostile environment. You’re liable to find yourself in Barney Rubble ‘less you play your cards just right, crystal? Luckily, we are gonna do you a big favor. The first fing we’re gonna do is put the word out for you to be left Jack Jones. What do you say?”
“Okay…”
“It’s not okay. What do you say?”
“Thank you?”
“That’s right. Fank me. It’s a favor I’m doing you and don’t you forget it.”
“That’s very kind of you…mister…?”
“Melvin. Also known as the Melvinator, like the fridges but wif an M, ya get it?”
“Thank you, Melvinator.”
“All I ask in return is that you do certain little favors for me.”
“Happy to help, sir.”
“Yeh…you gonna be ‘appy…aint ‘e boys ha ha…very ‘appy indeed…”
Melvin runs the back of his hand over Ted’s cheek.
“Smoove…I like that…don’t you worry about nuffin’…I’m gonna treat you real good…diamond…now run along my septic tank…”
Ted and Terry resume walking towards their cells.
“Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Oh Lord!…” Ted says once they’ve turned a corner. “This is not good…I wanna call Heidi…I need a lawyer…I’m gonna schedule a meeting with the governor…”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I wasn’t brought up to be a coward,” says Ted, on the brink of tears. “I will not be bullied or intimidated…”
Proceedings in Meeting Room 124c
“Now, Melvin, inmate 145526 claims you attempted to intimidate and extort him. That is a criminal offence and could result in your sentence being prolonged by a maximum of twelve months. Do you understand that?”
“I do.”
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“All right, inmate,” the woman says, turning back to Ted. “Tell us what happened.”
Ted relates the incident inside the storeroom. Melvin watches with arms crossed, demeanor cool.
“Can any witnesses verify your story?”
“Yes, ma’am. I call inmate 135124 to testify on my behalf.”
Terry is led into the room and told to take a seat. He locks eyes with Melvin for a moment and then looks back down at the table in front of him.
“Inmate 135124, tell us what you saw.”
“Not a great deal, I’m afraid…I was in the corridor and couldn’t really hear or see what was going on inside…”
“But…” Ted interjects.
“Thank you, inmate. Unless you have anything to add.”
“No, ma’am.”
Ted’s case is dismissed for lack of evidence. All parties are told to leave the room.
Monday
Ted has a meeting with a prison liaison officer. He rushes to the room stealthily, peeking around corners and looking over his shoulder. He finds the officer waiting for him inside. He’s waved in and asked what’s wrong. He informs the man that he is in danger and needs to be isolated from the general population if he is to avoid being victimized.
The officer looks at Ted severely.
“Calm down,” he says. “Just calm down. You have rights in this country. And they apply whether or not you’re in prison. They’re called human rights and they protect fundamental freedoms such as the right to vote. The right to a family life. The right to read and access cultural materials.”
“Perfect. I’ll take some books with me to solitary.”
“Out of the question. According to the European Court, inmates may not be put in isolation.”
“Sir…I don’t think you heard me….I want to be put in isolation…I’m asking to be put in isolation.”
“That would violate your Article 3 rights under the Convention.”
“But…”
“The decision might seem strange…but the court upholds its principles with neither fear nor favor… policymakers…politicians…they have to deal with practical issues…courts don’t have those concerns which allows them to make their decisions more objectively.”
“I guess…but…”
“Please close the door on your way out.”
Ted arrives back at his cell, where Melvin and his associates are waiting for him.
“Howdy,” Ted says. “Listen…about what happened…”
One of Melvin’s men puts Ted in a headlock and drags him towards the bed.
“I was thinking,” Ted continues, his voice now muffled by a pillow, “…we could just kinda bury the hatchet and start over…I’ve got lots to offer…I can sing “Green Eggs and Ham”… Simpsons and Darth Vader impressions…scenes from The Princess Bride…”
One of the men pulls Ted’s pants down to his ankles and tears his underpants clean off.
“Terry, help!” Ted cries out.
“Sorry, little man,” Melvin says, unbuttoning his fly. “No one’s gonna help you now. The offer for protection is hereby withdrawn.”
“Owwwwwww! Lord! Help me! Please! The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob!”
From his cell, Terry hears Ted’s cries. He puts in his earphones, lies back on his bed, stares at the ceiling, and turns up the volume.
***
For all installments of “Terry’s Weekend,” click here.
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R.J. Dyar is an Australian writer subsisting in the world’s prettiest cesspool. He is working on a trilogy of novels set in contemporary Rio, Paris, and London which explore the theme of the city as antagonist.
