Page 8 of His Favorite Felon

“Stop standing in front of the TV. I really don’t feel like breaking up a fight today, so move. Now!”

She flashed me a mischievous smile. “These bitches know they can’t fuck with me.”

She stared at a few of the women as if to dare them to call her bluff. When no one spoke up, she looked at me and chuckled as if she had won something. I stood up and matched her stare. After a second, she threw her hands up dramatically.

“Okay! Fine!” She jumped down off the chair and sat in an empty chair.

Jenkins was the type of inmate who, if you gave her an inch, she’d take a fucking mile. I wasn’t in the mood for her games. She’d been here for the past nine years and still has ten remaining, which she’d end up doing because she and good behavior did not mix.

“Thank you,” I said calmly.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take a Big Mac from McDonald’s in return for listening to you. You owe me.”

“Naw, that’s where you got me fucked up. I don’t owe you shit, Jenkins.” I chuckled at her audacity.

“See, that’s why I don’t like your bald-headed ass.”

A few inmates laughed, while others looked annoyed by Jenkins. Respect was earned behind these concrete walls. I didn’t play favorites or accept IOUs. I treated everyone equally. As long as you respected me, you could expect the same in return. I shook my head and ignored her pleas for attention. I wasn’t falling for her shit today. I had a long night and didn’t get any sleep thanks to the new medication I was taking.

Beep.

I heard the security door behind me unlock as someone swiped their badge to enter the booth. When I turned to see who it was, a slow smirk spread across my face.

“Wassup, Cambridge.”

I stood to dap him up.

“Ain’t shit. What’s good, Legend?”

Cambridge was my coworker who became like a brother to me. We worked together for two years, and then we began spending time together outside of work. What started as surviving twelve-hour shifts together evolved into cookouts, trips to the casino, and watching football on Sundays.

A loud bang on the floor caught our attention. Two inmates faced each other, ready to throw blows. I used the intercom before either woman could throw a punch.

“Knock it off,” I demanded, and neither of them moved.

I sighed in frustration at them ignoring me.

“Unit C. Guards, stand by.”

Before backup even acknowledged the call, I stepped through the electronically controlled door. The room grew noticeably quieter. It was funny how quickly a crowd shifts when someone actually walks into the fire instead of yelling from behind glass.

I stepped in between the two women.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, addressing them both.

“She keeps running her mouth,” one inmate said. She was young and looked like whatever she was accused of, she did it.

“And I wasn't talking to you,” the other responded.

“And I don't care, bitch!”

I shook my head. “Step away from each other.”

Neither spoke, so I repeated myself. “Step away from each other. Now.”

After a moment or two, one woman sucked her teeth, and the other rolled her eyes before they both stepped back. They were still shooting daggers at each other. That was fine with me as long as I didn’t have to break up a fight with restraints or pepper spray. The last fight I broke up still had me tight. Another guard accidentally maced me alongside these crazy-ass women.

I know some men would think being a correctional officer for women would be any man’s dream, but one week in here will have you questioning your sanity and theirs. I recall an incident when two women were fighting, and one suddenly ran to the bathroom. I thought she was escaping for safety, but she returned holding a pile of shit in one hand and a used pad in the other. When I saw that, I moved out of the way instantly, even letting the inmates intervene to break it up because I didn’t want any part of it.