The Tree
A day in the life of a Florida prisoner
My name is Roderick Richardson, born 22 minutes before New Year’s Day 1965. My mom wanted a New Year’s baby, but I guess I was anxious to come into the world. If only I’d known that I’d have only 11 good years.
The first 11 years of my life were filled with love and the ability to dream. My mom and dad divorced when I was 12 years old, and I went from living in a secure family environment to being the man of the house. Being the oldest of six, I felt it was my duty to help my mom take care of the family. With poverty insistently riding our backs, I got tired of watching my mom get evicted, then cry. She ended up in jail for writing bad checks mostly for clothes, rent, and food.
I’m in prison now. I was convicted of armed robbery when a drug deal went bad. I was 27 when I entered prison, and now I’m 56. For 29 years, 7 months, and 23 days, I’ve been incarcerated. Today is August 13, 2021.
I’m alone, dead among the living, walking within a bottomless sea. The lights come on at 5 a.m., and my cell door pops open — my alarm clock here in the Florida Department of Corrections.
Each morning, my heartbeat accelerates as I contemplate another day. Will someone die of natural causes? An overdose? Or will someone be stabbed over a 65-cent soup?
In here, death appears like a thief in the night. Arguments escalate over small things like staring at someone or gambling on a football game. The drugs and gangs keep up most of the trouble but owning a cellphone could cost a man his life.
When the lights come on in the morning, I wipe the tears from the corner of my eyes, force myself up, and take care of my personal hygiene. The madness begins. I step out of my cell. The noise instantly elevates. I live on the second floor, so I have a penthouse view. Under the back stairs, in the corner, I see the transgenders twerking, touching their toes, talking and laughing loudly. They keep calling each other girl. Pop Simmons and old man Jigg walk in circles around the dorm reminiscing about when they were young. They are stuck in a time warp from 30 years ago, unable to accept it’s 2021. Other cell doors slide open. Inmates prepare for breakfast. It’s the beginning of another unpredictable day.
The intercom comes to life. The officer yells, “Diabetics and pill line.” Violators with iron stomachs line up to leave at 6:00 a.m., on a mission to eat two or three trays. Some just to have something to brag about this early in the morning. I’m not sure why they are in a hurry. Breakfast is always cold. The grits stick together like yellow glue. The sausage is so cold and rubbery that you can bounce it and hit a three-pointer into the garbage can. This is a guarantee, along with the officer’s yelling, “Y’all have five minutes to eat.”
In the eyes of young, cocky, oppressive officers, every man wearing blue is the same. We are herded like cattle on a trail, always being yelled at, told to hurry up, to eat, to get in our cell, or walk inside the yellow line. In this isolated sea, bullshit is so transparent that emotions turn thinking men into angry animals. Small incidents turn into major confrontations.
Yesterday, Reed, the laundry man, brought me a new pair of prison-issued plastic Crocs. Crocs in here might last two or three months before a hole comes in the bottom. Reed set them outside in the hall by the Wing Three entrance door. He knocked on the glass to get my attention, then walked away. I knocked on the glass to get the officer’s attention pointing down at the Crocs. The officer waved me off. When I knocked again, the officer spoke: I couldn’t hear through the glass but his lips said, “What the fuck you want? Go sit your ass down.”
I went from zero to crazy. I pointed up at the officer’s station and said, “Fuck you.” I’m not sure if anyone saw me, and I considered banging on the window to make sure he understood. Then, I thought about my odds and sat down. It’s so easy to end up in confinement about nothing.
My eyes settled on the Crocs, praying nobody stole them. Ten minutes later, an inmate opened the door to come in, and I reached outside and grabbed the Crocs.
At 6 a.m., the intercom reminds us it’s time for breakfast. While he speaks, the officer blinks the dorm lights and yells, “Chow, chow, chow.” I think, this asshole should have been a D.J. I look up at him as I walk out the front door. All of us inmates start our journey to the kitchen, aka the chow hall. Inmates in wheelchairs race as soon as they smell the fresh morning air. The stars twinkle and the moon is bright. Most of the conversation is about last night’s football game. I look around and see what looks like a man hiding up in a tree.
A few officers are standing around smoking and talking shit. One yells, “Everybody get inside the yellow line.” I get a funny feeling, and the hairs on my arms stand up. My body starts tingling. My prison senses feel trouble.
The door of G-dorm opens and out comes another wing of inmates. I see loud mouth J-Rock, Do-Do, and Dred laughing and talking to please the crowd. They are not looking in the direction of the tree.
As I turn the corner, the chow hall comes into view. We walk inside the yellow line, same as always. When I’m almost at the center gate, I look back at the tree just as Duke jumps from his perch. Duke charges directly at J-Rock like a bull on a mission. In Duke’s hand is a six-inch, shiny shank. His goal must be to seek and destroy because two more of his homeboys appear with shanks. Duke plunges the knife into J-Rock’s chest over and over and over again. Do-Do and Dred take off running as J-Rock lies across the yellow line in a pool of blood.
I’m a witness, but I see nothing. In here, a loose tongue will cost you your life. The officers order everyone to stop and be still. My appetite for cold grits and rubbery sausage is forgotten. The officer’s yell, “All inmates report to your dorms.” As more officers run across the grass, the nurse runs by with an inmate orderly pushing a chain gang ambulance. We look in the direction of the tree as we’re herded back to G-dorm. We pass J-Rock who is loaded onto a stretcher. He’s motionless and his blues are so soaked in blood they look brown. Most of the inmates are probably thinking, as I am, that J-Rock is dead.
It’s so quiet you can hear the roaches crawling. Everybody’s caught up in their own thoughts as the sound of rescue sirens invade the compound. I hear the helicopter arrive and five minutes later, it’s up and gone.
During lockdown, four sergeants go from cell to cell asking inmates what we saw. Most inmates think just like me, so we mind our own business in order to live another day. We stay on lockdown for 72 hours. The only movement is a 10-minute shower and an escort to the chow hall and back. Most of the conversation is about Duke and J-Rock and how Duke stabbed him 27 times.
Duke killed J-Rock for robbing him of his cell phone, which at Walmart costs $35.99.
Two Miami-Dade police officers escort Duke off the compound, handcuffed and headed to T.G.K, the main jail. He was charged with premeditated murder and was never to be seen on this plantation again.
Now, two years later, every time I walk past the tree, a reflection flashes in my mind of how precious life is. In here, alone, dead among the living, the unexpected (along with the cold grits and rubbery sausage) is always expected.
I reside among a sea of lost souls that’s slowly deteriorating. Sinking into the darkest depths of loneliness, I walk cautiously and alone.