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I blink. “No, I took it from Zion. He was about to fucking shiv me. Self-defense.”
The guard looks me up and down, frowning. He then grabs his walkie-talkie from his waist. “Can I get medical over to Zion’s block? He’s been in a fight and is bleeding bad.”
Some staticky response from the walkie talkie.
The guard looks at me. “You sure this wasn’t your shiv, Savage?”
If I tell him the truth, it’ll mean more time. Besides, he was using it against me. Not the other way around. In a way, I’m not even lying.
I swallow. “No.”
The guard looks unconvinced. But then two medics come in with a stretcher. They hoist Zion onto it and wheel him away.
That was close.
Too close.
“Mr. Bellamy, I have it written here that you claimed that the weapon used in your altercation with Mr. Zion Flegler was his and not yours?”
I lean my face down to the microphone in the hearing room. “Yes, that is correct.”
The woman cross examining me, a short-haired blonde named Ms. Waters, looks at me from across the space. “Mr. Bellamy, are you aware that the toothbrush in question was purchased from the prison commissary?”
I shrug. “I assume it was. I can’t imagine anyone would sneak a toothbrush into prison.”
“Then perhaps you are also aware that the prison keeps track of which toothbrushes are sold to which inmate.”
My stomach clenches, but I don’t respond.
Ms. Waters pulls out a piece of paper. “According to this copy of the commissary record, a few months ago, a toothbrush with the serial number matching the one on the weapon used by Mr. Flegler was purchased by you, Mr. Bellamy.”
I sputter. “Who’s to say Zion didn’t fucking steal it from me? I want an attorney.”
“First, Mr. Bellamy,” Ms. Waters says, “I would advise you not to use that kind of language in a disciplinary hearing.” She approaches me slowly. “Second, this is an administrative proceeding and you are not allowed to have counsel, as you well know. And third, it is entirely possible that the item in question is stolen. But then we examined your cell, Mr. Bellamy. Do you have any idea of what we might have discovered there?”
My throat closes. I can’t speak.
“May the record show that Mr. Bellamy is not responding,” Ms. Waters says. “In your cell, Mr. Bellamy, we found a small niche between the wall and the floor. Inside this niche we found a very sharp rock, which we sent to forensics. On the rock, they discovered several microscopic pieces of plastic, the color of which match the weapon used in the assault with Mr. Flegler.”
I still don’t respond. I can’t.
“We also found cigarettes in the niche. Also contraband.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“It is clear, Mr. Bellamy, that the weapon of interest was in fact yours. Do you deny it?”
I should stay quiet. But my mind is a blur. I blurt out the first thing I can think.
“He was going to kill me! I had to have a weapon.”
Ms. Waters nods curtly. “If you believed that you were in danger, you should have talked to a correctional officer. They would have helped you.”
“They would have thrown me into solitary.”
“Nonetheless, you would have been safe,” Ms. Waters says. “Mr. Bellamy, I’m afraid that possession of dangerous contraband, in addition to lying under oath, is going to add a significant amount of time to your sentence.”
And every last ounce of Falcon remaining in my body drains away.
