What Snitches Get

Deadeye's sharpened toothbrush enters my abdomen three times in quick succession, just to the left of my navel. There are no solid organs there to worry about, but I find myself instinctually attempting a quick, impromptu ‘sniff test’ to see if he has punctured any of my bowel. If he had, an awful smell of feces would emanate from the wounds. Luckily, I don’t smell any, but it is hard to tell because I cannot contort my body quite well enough to get my nose close.

Also, I'm in the process of being murdered, which is itself distracting.

Snitches get stitches. That's how the saying goes. But my guess is that's only true for the lucky ones who survive. As I contemplate whether or not the eventual stitches from the mortician should count, Deadeye stabs me twice more, this time in my flank. I’d twisted my body, so these two land in the thick fat over my kidney. Still nothing fatal yet. Lucky me.

I knew this was coming. Two weeks in the SHU all because of some lousy Percocet. As a former doctor—now disgraced of course—I had been assigned work in the prison infirmary as part of my rehabilitation. Not as a physician, mind you. That was out of the question, my medical license having been revoked long ago. But I could still tidy up, change out bed linens, take down inmate medical histories, even bandage up cuts and scrapes here and there. It was good work, and preferable to scrubbing toilets.

It was because of my placement in the infirmary that I came across the little drug ring.

Deadeye gets me once more in the belly, this time a bit lower. Intestinal perforation would mean leakage of fecal matter into the abdominal cavity, possibly causing peritonitis and septic shock: conditions fatal if not treated quickly. The searing pain in my midsection is exquisite, but still no smell of shit. Then again, Deadeye hasn't showered in a week by my estimation, so any foul smell from my gut might just be overpowered by his horrible body odor. But I can’t back away. Murder by prison-shank is up close and personal. 

It wasn’t my scheme. Let me be upfront about that. I was just aware of it. Long story short, the prison doctor and a couple of staff were running a little side-business that involved plundering the prison’s small supply of Percocet and selling it for fifty bucks a pill to stockbrokers on the outside. I knew about the racket practically from the get-go, but why should I say anything? Live and let swindle, I say, makes no difference to me how a person makes a living. Besides, snitches get stitches.

No, sir, I don't know nuthin. I wouldn’t tell, even if I knew.

So, as they went about their business, I went about mine. I pretended not to watch as they swapped out an inmate’s prescribed Percocet with regular old aspirin. Then, do it again. And again. Who cares if a felon suffers the pain of his tooth abscess or his kidney stones? Who even notices? Really? And if the prisoner protests, so what? It was awful to watch pain go untreated, but it would be worse if I tried to intervene.

So, I kept my mouth shut. I pretended not to see them fudging medical charts. I turned away, suddenly interested in that cobweb in the corner, any time one of them smuggled little white pills into their sock. Weeks went by. Order forms and medical charts adequately doctored, day-traders sufficiently doped, pockets pleasantly lined. I ignored all of it, quietly tucking in bed linens day after day. More weeks went by. Then months.

Run any con long enough though, and eventually the wrong someone will catch wind of it. I should know. Buy me a glass or two of Lagavulin when I get out and I’ll tell you all about my own stupid con that sent me here in the first place. That is, if I survive Deadeye's attack. I’m currently collecting a respectable assortment of defensive wounds on my forearm, so who knows?

Percocet is Schedule II, so it came as no surprise that the DEA eventually came sniffing around. Of course, I minded my own business when they did. Snitches get stitches, after all. Even when Sean McMichaels, ASAC sat me down and asked his questions I was very “I wouldn’t know, Agent McMichaels” and “I couldn’t possibly say, Sir” and “I don’t recall observing anything untoward, Special Agent.” No, sir. I wouldn’t tell, even if I knew. That is, until he produced a few copies of delivery receipts that seemed to have a few damning signatures on them. Signatures that bore a striking resemblance to my own. And then his questions became more accusatory. “So-and-so mentioned that they might have seen you pocket a whole bottle of Percocet when you thought nobody was looking.” That kind of thing.

Oh, did that make my blood boil. Those bastards were going to try to pin it all on me. Well now, that is a whole new carnival entirely. If I get caught in a drug ring, the Judge tosses another dime my way; ten more years at least. I’m doing a nickel with almost three already served. I’ve got no interest in an additional ten years, believe me. I had no choice but to tell Special Agent McMichaels and the Warden everything I knew.

So, I snitched. Ratted. Sang like a canary I did, and eagerly too. I hadn’t kept a diary or anything, but I have a pretty good memory. My account was detailed and accurate. I made sure of it. Law enforcement isn’t usually quick to believe the word of a convict, but my details held up, and matched what they already knew.

In exchange for my future testimony, they knocked a year off my sentence. Imagine my luck! The Warden also put in a transfer for me to a prison across the State. In the meantime, I was to wait out my time in the Segregated Housing Unit until the transfer went through. The protective custody would keep my belly unstabbed. 

Should have, anyway. I'm a snitch, and you know what that gets me. Destiny requires it.

Enter Deadeye, stage left.

Like I said, I knew this was coming. I could feel it in my skin, as real as how I now feel Deadeye's shiv. Even in solitary I swear I could hear the nasty whispers in the infirmary. I envisioned that dirty prison doctor enlisting some inmate with no scruples to violently dispatch me. I could just feel the imminent plot against me. It was in the air, raising the little hairs on my arms like static before a lightning strike. I couldn't help but pace back and forth in my cell. What was going on out there? Was Special Agent McMichaels wrapping up his investigation? Had he made any arrests?

Mercifully, the transfer was finalized, and a guard arrived to escort me from the SHU to a holding cell to await my bus ride. Deadeye cleans this particular section of the prison as part of his labor. The guard and I round a corner and I see him, mop in hand. I expect the guard to shuffle me toward the opposite side of the hallway, but he’s suddenly nowhere to be found. I turn my head to see where he’d gone, and Deadeye lunges at me. This was it.

That damn Percocet. I could use one or two myself right about now though, truth be told. My knees have buckled from the pain, and I’m sinking to the floor. Deadeye stabs me a few times again as I fall, this time in my left deltoid. Happily, there’s not much there but muscle, fat, and bone.

“That’s good, Deadeye. That’s enough.” I say, and he backs off.

“Did I do good, Doc?” Deadeye asks. “I held it short, see?” he says, showing me his hand choked up on the shiv. “I only hit the places you told me, didn’t I?”

I nod and dig into my pocket. I take out a full bottle of Percocet and hand it to him. “You did good, man," I say. "You got me just right. Now, go. Run before someone sees you.”

I collapse onto the floor. Getting shanked really takes it out of you. I finally get a good, proper sniff of my belly while I wait for someone to find me. Good, still no shit-smell. Better still, it’s Saturday and the infirmary staff has the day off. So, it was civilian paramedics who eventually arrived after a couple of friendly guards called it in. No enemies to finish me off right here.

“Who did this to you?” they ask, strapping me onto their gurney.

I wouldn’t tell, even if I knew.

Such a strange thing, to pay your own cellmate to stab you. But if you’re going to get shanked anyway—if it’s a foregone conclusion—then it’s best to have a friend do it. Better that than get shanked for real. Besides, I’m pretty sure Deadeye has cholecystitis, based on his jaundiced skin and the occasional vomiting he’d done in our cell. The Percocet should give him a little relief. Unless he sells it in the yard.

“C’mon, buddy,” one of the paramedics say as they lift my gurney up into the ambulance. “Let’s get you to the hospital and sewn up.”

Absolutely. I’m a snitch. I’m entitled to my stitches.

It wasn’t my scheme, the Percocet. No, the only scheme I ran was Early Release. They’ve knocked a year off my sentence. The months I have left? Why not serve them in a cushy minimum-security hospital instead of this hellhole? Believe me, as a former doctor, I know every little thing I can do to milk the recovery time all the way to my parole date.

I know what you’re thinking. What happened to the guard who was escorting me? Was it pure luck that my attack happened to occur on a day the infirmary was closed? How did I smuggle a whole bottle of Percocet into the SHU to pay Deadeye?

Come to think of it, who was it who tipped off the DEA in the first place?

Well, my friend. I wouldn’t tell, even if I knew.