Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle (15 page)

I could not believe it. A wave of confusion, rage toward Angela, and fear rushed over me. My emotions were all over the place, but I soon calmed down and realized what a hypocrite I was being. Who was I to complain and point fingers? I was sitting in prison for armed robbery. I had run out on both Angela and Brandon years earlier. I was disgusted with myself.

The letter was useless aside from giving me a haunting awareness that somewhere a frightened, innocent boy was abandoned and alone. He had to have felt the same way I had after my mother’s death—and I was responsible.

I called Billie to talk about Brandon’s situation, but she couldn’t do anything because she was not a legal guardian.

Like a parasite, the news ate me alive. I knew the minute my release came, I would not rest until I found Brandon. Until then, I had to accept the situation, press on, and stay strong.

My resolve was quickly tested. Although it was something Butler and I had discussed over the year or so we’d known each other, I had forgotten his time was coming to be paroled. When we were in the dorm playing a game of chess, two guards walked in and told him to pack up.

He smiled. “Shit, Book, I’m outta here! Help me pack up, man.”

We went to his rack, and I watched my only true friend rifle through his belongings for what to keep and what to give away. In prison, we started with nothing and left with the same. He had canned meats, crackers, cookies, and a few magazines, which he handed over to me. Then he stood and looked at me. “Take care of yourself. You’re gonna do great things someday. And you’ll always be my brother from another mother.”

We gave each other a brief handshake hug, and just like that, Butler disappeared through the doors with a final peace sign out. I would never see him again.

I felt bittersweet over my friend’s freedom. His long-awaited gain was my loss, but that was just the way it went on the inside. I imagined him on the outside, smiling in his newfound independence. It made me laugh out loud and think of my own not-too-distant future. I knew my day was coming soon, and that would keep me going.

After being in Pack 2 for just over nine months, I knew virtually everything about the place and how it ran from the bottom up and the inside out. Prison life there in our Navasota home was not as tense as I had expected. You had all walks of life in there, from blacks to black Muslims to Puerto Ricans to Mexicans to whites, who were a minority in there, to a small sect of openly gay dudes who walked around without incident. For the most part, everybody congregated in their own circles and kept pretty cool about things, but just to make sure, the guards established different TV times for each group.

At night we had the usual activities, such as playing cards and dominoes, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes and joints if you had them. Peace was usually maintained, but with so many different races, colors, and creeds under one roof, once in a while we had an eruption. Sometimes we had random, nonfatal beatings and shankings over trivial things like line cutting at the chow hall, cheating in cards, or unpaid debts of commissary items or cigarettes.

When something was about to go down, I would see all the guys lined up on one side or gathered around in big circles. I could feel it in the air. However, not every event came with warning signs.

One night we were all sitting around in the dorm watching television, and even though it was the time set aside for the black group to have our channel on, a few Mexicans in the back were mouthing off. They did not like the movie we were watching, and with the already extremely low levels of tolerance among inmates, the ticking time bomb exploded. Within seconds, chairs were flying and dudes were punching and kicking. Fury swirled like a tornado, gathering momentum by the second, engulfing everything in its path.

I sat as calmly as possible in the middle of it. I believed anyone who got near me would think twice about doing anything rash, and I was right. One dude came running in my direction, recognized who I was, and took the long way around as if a protective force field surrounded me.

Before I knew it, the guards were smashing in with their riot gear and giant Plexiglas shields, throwing tear gas all over the place. Within two minutes, the dorm was locked down and all the inmates were incapacitated.

Afterward, the guards brought us in one by one for questioning. They wanted to know how it had all started, who we had seen do what, and what our own personal involvement had been. When it was my turn, the code of the street kicked in. I was not saying a word.

“Man, I didn’t see shit and don’t know anything. You guys know how I am in here. Nobody bothered me, and I kept cool. All I remember was some commotion started over the TV.”

That’s all I had to say. Without mentioning names or groups, I saved face not only with the guys in the dorm but with the guards as well. My answer was respectful toward them and gave them something to go on, which was good enough for them and everyone else. Once again, I was out of a jam and right back up on a pedestal. And that’s exactly where I liked to be, especially with my parole board hearing coming up.

I kept quiet about the hearing among the other prisoners, especially the weight lifters, since I’d gotten on the team under false pretenses about the duration of my sentence. When the time came, I was led into this tiny room where a panel of four supervisors sat at a table facing one lone chair. They smiled, motioned for me to come in, said hello, and told me to take a seat.

I sat and smiled back, trying not to stare at them too much while collecting my racing thoughts. I pressed my sweaty palms firmly against my knees to keep them dry. This was it. The next phase of my life would be decided there and then. Adrenaline pumped through every inch of my body as the interview began.

“Mr. Huffman, do you feel remorseful for the crime you committed against society?”

I did not need to think about it for a second. I launched into an automatic answer that had been building inside me since that first night in Harris County. As if my mother herself sat by my side and guided my thoughts, I told the parole board every detail of the hows and whys of the Wendy’s Bandits. I explained that I had received no guidance after Mom had passed, had hung with the wrong crowd, and had gotten involved with drugs. From April 9, 1987, until that very moment in front of them, I had been thinking about what had brought me here. I continued to speak in detail about all the sleepless nights I had spent staring at the ceilings of various institutions seeking an opportunity to redeem myself. When they asked why I’d taken the plea bargain instead of contesting the charges, I said my guilt made it impossible to weasel out; I had to make restitution for my actions.

The board was engrossed and asked several basic follow-up questions: “Would you ever offend and break the law again? How would you change your life for the better to benefit society?”

I had ready answers. I told them all about Brandon, how things went really badly with him, and my intentions upon being released. “I’m going to pick myself up from the ground when I leave this facility and get a job. Then I’m going to find my son and do what’s right. He’s out there somewhere all alone, and it’s my responsibility to give him the father he needs and deserves.”

One member of the panel, a woman, was visibly moved. When it was all over, as bizarre as it might sound, I felt cleansed. Sitting there in front of those people and telling my entire story without any bullshit was like a confession in church or something. For better or for worse, letting all that out from beginning to end helped ease some of the hurt, guilt, and pressure that had been locked inside me since my mother had died.

As I stood, the panel thanked me. The guards led me back to the dorm.

I sat on my rack, my head hanging. I felt totally drained, hoping I’d said the right things in there. Some of the other guys filed into the cell after recreation time was over. They could tell by how quiet I was that I did not really feel like talking. The next few weeks in the dorm were the longest stretch of time I did in prison.

Thankfully I had something to keep my mind busy. I had yet to reach the winners’ platform for the weight lifting team. I had been at it hard for about eight months, and in another two I would compete in my first exhibition. By now, my bench press had soared to 385 pounds, and just four weeks out from the competition, I made an attempt at 405 pounds.

I was so excited to get under that weight and test myself for the first time. The plates on each side made the bar slightly bend in the middle. After psyching myself up and taking several deep breaths, I lay back on the bench and nodded at my spotter for a liftoff on the count of three. I held it up for a split second, then slowly lowered the crushing poundage to my chest. In one swift burst, I pressed it straight up. I did it—405 pounds!

All the guys cheered, and I stood and gave everybody high fives and hugs. I was proud of myself for working so hard for so long toward a constructive goal. It was the single greatest achievement in my life to date. I put my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. An uncontrollable smile stretched across my face as I stared at that intimidating bar sitting on the rack with those giant plates still noticeably bouncing.

Just then the doors to the gym swung open, and two of the guards came walking my way. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.

One of them announced, “Huffman, get your stuff. You’re a free man.”

Well, I’ll be! I had served a total of only nineteen months of two concurrently running five-year sentences. For whatever reason—maybe my upstanding behavior and some good old-fashioned luck—the parole board had decided it was my time.

I almost collapsed as euphoria coursed through me. I had dreamed of this moment for nineteen months. I did not know how to react or what to say. “Get the fuck out of here! Seriously? Come on, man. Seriously?”

The guard nodded and flashed a tiny smile. This was the real deal. I was going home.

Having just accomplished the colossal lifting feat in front of my team, I got some mixed reactions that resulted in an awkward, anticlimactic moment.

“Hey, man,” one of the guys said, “how in the hell did you manage to come up on parole so soon? That could only be possible if you had a bid like half as long as your ten years.”

I had to tell these boys who’d become my friends about my lie to get onto the team. They shook their heads and laughed it off. Yes, I was letting them down, but they were proud to see one of their own return to the outside.

All that was left to do in the dorm before checking out was to pack up what little belongings I had in my locker and say my good-byes, just as Butler had done not long before.

As I sat there pulling out my stash of commissary foods and spices, cigarettes, magazines, and stuff like that, I thought,
Why don’t I just give this shit away? I don’t need it.
So that’s what I did. I walked around like Santa Claus with my bag and handed out whatever each of my buddies wanted as we shook hands and said good-bye.

Just before I walked out the door, I stopped and turned for a last wave. Everyone clapped for me. Just a touch sad, I smiled.

From the dorm, I was led down the same hall I had walked after first arriving at Pack 2. I was sent into a small holding cell with four other dudes who were going home too. We could not contain our smiles as we changed into our street clothes, which we hadn’t seen since the days we were arrested. Mine were ridiculously tight due to the weight I had gained. Then we waited for the next step.

Within a few minutes, the guards came to put us on a bus, unshackled, for the trip to Houston—but not before we walked past a rifle-toting guard on his white horse.

“I’ll see you when you get back, Huffman.”

I smiled and waved, glancing at that motherfucker’s face for the last time. He was just taking a parting dig, but the last laugh would be all mine when I proved him wrong and stayed on the outside for good.

We all boarded the bus, and it finally hit me—I was a free man. As we pulled away from the curb, I watched Pack 2 slowly disappear behind us. I thought of the self-discipline prison had given me along with the confidence of being a natural leader people could trust. My remorse for my crime and for losing Brandon had slowly changed me. Day in and day out, the broken clay fragments of a confused boy had been shaped into a strong, twenty-three-year-old man.

Although the system had pulled me in and proceeded to drain what little spirit I had, now I realized they had refilled me with passion. In many ways, I felt like King Arthur after he lost his purpose in life and sent the Knights of the Round Table in search of the Holy Grail to save him. After a long and treacherous journey, Sir Percival returned with the grail. As Arthur sipped from the cup, he said, “I didn’t know how empty was my soul, until it was filled.” Amen, brother. I was King Booker.

The bus pulled in for a rest stop at some gas station in the middle of nowhere. It’s funny how you take for granted little things like simply walking up and down the aisle of a convenience store. Looking at all the chips and candy bars took me back to childhood when buying a Snickers and a Coke had made my entire day. On the way out of Pack 2, each of us had been given some cash. It felt good to be out and about with a few bucks in my pocket, and I couldn’t resist buying my old favorite snack combo before returning to the bus for the last leg of the journey home.

As I rested my head against the bus window and we neared Houston, my anxiety started to build. One of the main concerns of the parole board had been about where I would be staying and the conditions of that place. I had established that Billie Jean’s was the place I’d be going. She was the only one who had been there for me throughout my whole prison ordeal. By now Red, tired of waiting for a convict’s release, was long gone. Over the course of my many phone conversations with Billie while at Pack 2, she had agreed to take me in.

What made me nervous about Billie, though, was the fact that she was still in the game, running with Toffa, as if time had stood still while I’d been gone. You can imagine the trepidation I felt over the prospect of moving back into that atmosphere, possibly risking my parole. If I fell victim to past demons, I would be thrown into Pack 2 faster than a supervising officer could say, “Violation!” I was determined to prove that guard on the horse wrong. I would never return.