Whose the “Shot Caller” here!


“Lowecki,” Vic said reading my name off the tag on the upper breast pocket of my shirt, just under the federal ID number, 18099-424.

“What’s that Polish! or something like dadt?” The Kramer-looking guy, Nicki, asked, and I wanted to punch him.

“No, it’s Russian… the name was shortened when my grandfather came over from Kiev and went through Ellis Island,” I snapped back.

I felt a gust of confidence come over me, and there was this brief awkward moment when the group silently agreed with each other, by nods of skepticism, that maybe they didn’t know as much about me as they originally thought.

“Well… we know you ain’t a ‘Rat’…, cause you didn’t cooperate wit the feds. Ain’t that right, Vic?” said the patsy Nicki, asking the “Don” for approval. There were nods of approval around the small posse and my admission was confirmed.

“Just do your time, don’t talk too much, and make sure you’re always at your bunk for count,” Vic explained. “The COs count all the inmates at 4:00 o’clock, 9:00 o’clock, midnight, 3:00 AM and again at 5:00 AM. There’s also an additional count on Saturday and Sunday at 10:00 AM. Be standing at your bunk when they file through or its to the Hole. Chow is served at 6:00 AM, 11:00 AM, and 4:30 PM.” Vic finished up and looked at his watch. Our little get-together was about to adjourn.

“Three o’clock… take a walk, kid. Look around. Go out in the rec yard and get some air. But be sure to be at your bunk before four.” Vic gave his final instructions, got up and his crew and I followed him back up the stairs and out of the basement.

Excerpt from my book: Pay To Play http://www.paytoplaythebook.com

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