I’ll Take Care of It

Author: Elvis

The other day I heard an officer tell someone, “You better get out of my face or I’ll have someone take care of you.” It wasn’t the words themselves that got me—it was the way she said them, low and certain, like she’d given that order a hundred times before. And just like that, I was back at Dooly in 2022, watching a man get destroyed for speaking the truth.

I hadn’t been locked up long then. Still green. Still believing the rules meant something. The warden came into our dorm for an inspection—COVID protocols still hanging in the air like the best excuse anyone ever had to do nothing. She made some comment, I don’t even remember what exactly, but one inmate spoke up. He said what everybody in that dorm was thinking, and said it plain, and he was right. You could feel the whole room agree with him.

The warden’s face changed. She didn’t yell. She just looked at him and said something like “I’ll take care of it,” but you knew—we all knew—she meant something else. The words were ice. Not for him. For us.

As she and her team walked toward the door, about ten gang members rushed over to her like they’d been secretly summoned. I stood there watching, not going about my business, because I didn’t understand what I was seeing. I hadn’t been locked up long enough to understand.

They huddled around her for maybe a minute. She left. Then the gang went to work.

They walked up to the man who spoke out and draped an arm around his neck like old friends. Real casual. Laughed a little. Walked him right to his room while I stood frozen. Four of them went inside with him. A couple more posted up at the door. I couldn’t hear what went on, but he didn’t come out when they did. He didn’t come out the rest of the day. A couple days later I saw him, and he could barely walk. His face was swollen, his eyes down. He kept away from everyone. The man had done nothing wrong.

I started asking around. Took about a week to piece it together. The warden told the gang they could take care of the problem or everybody would suffer. Everybody. And this came from a warden—the person who’s supposed to keep order, keep us safe. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed it.

After that, I watched closely. I learned this is everywhere, at every level. The female officers especially—they don’t go anywhere without their gang escort. Maybe it’s different with the male officers, but there usually aren’t any male officers around. The gang members are their protection. But it isn’t about anyone threatening the officer. What often happens is the officer is busy playing games, doesn’t want to do her job, and if you try to get her attention so she’ll open the door or whatever, she can take offense. And then you could be seriously hurt for no fault of your own. It’s not a secret. It’s a system.

And the gangs get rewarded. Some officers bring in contraband for them. Others look the other way when a drone comes in with a package. Some will open doors and gates so the gangs can fight, stab, kill. I’m not at Dooly anymore, but I still have friends there. They told me in June, an officer opened the doors and gates to let the Bloods in F building hit the Bloods in E building. Just opened them up. That little war locked down Dooly and several other prisons for two weeks. Two weeks.

Every time I hear a threat like the one I heard the other day, I think of that man who only told the truth. I think of his face when he finally came out of his room. I think of how I stood there, not knowing yet that the walls don’t just keep us in—they hide everything that happens when the cameras aren’t looking, when the people paid to keep order are the ones pulling the strings.

I go by Ghost now. After you see enough, you feel like one. You move through the days knowing that speaking up can cost you everything. That justice is just a word, and the real power is in whispers and nods and gang members who appear out of nowhere. I carry that man’s beating with me. I carry all of it. That’s why I’m telling this—because if you’re not inside, you don’t see it. But it’s there, every day, in every dorm, waiting for someone to step out of line.