Like Father, Like Son

Don't Shoot the Messenger

"Money-", the guard said, coming up to his cell. "I gotta tell yah something's and uh- well.. Your uh- your boy's here", the man said reluctantly.

Jacob "Money" Harlon's eyes widened. He'd been incarcerated when his son was only six. That was ten years ago. His son had not once come to visit him. And he'd stopped receiving all contact from him when the boy was nine. 

"Jakey? He's here? He's come to see me?", he asked, turning quickly and sticking his wrists through the slot in the cell door, so the guard could cuff him and take him to visitation. "Come on, cuff me", he said, anxious to go see his son, yet nervous as to why the boy chose now to come visit him. 

"Money", the man said, there was a sadness to his tone. "He's uh- He's here here. I thought you should know".

He pulled his hands from the slot and turned around quickly, his eyes widening even more, mouth falling open slightly.

"Wait.. wait he's-", he began. "He's- an inmate?", he asked, utterly perplexed and shocked by what he was hearing.

"Sorry, man", the guard said, truly feeling bad for the man. "I thought you should know".

"What-", he began, speechless. "What's he in for?", he asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"Drug charges. Possession. He's uh- Well I hate to tell yah, but he was also clearly using. Coming off it real hard", the man said. "He's in his bed sweating like a human faucet. Shaking real bad  really going through it rough. Again, I'm- I'm sorry".

Money backed away from the cell door, plopping down on his bed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Jakey. Little Jakey. His son? His little boy? His eyes scanned up to the pictures on his cell wall. The last picture he received of Jake was when he was fourteen. His mom had sent it, like all the others. He hasn't received anything from Jake personally since the boy was nine.

He was supposed to get out when Jake was nine. His first sentence was only three years. But he got in to some trouble, and it got extended to another five years. And then he just couldn't seem to keep himself out of trouble from then on. Jake took rough. He stopped writing letters when he was nine. He stopped all contact. But his mother, she kept Money updated on the boy. Sure, the contact had slowed down in recent years and he knew the boy had been getting in to some trouble at school but she hadn't mentioned anything like that. He shook his head.

"Jake? My Jacob, you're sure? Jacob Noah Harlon Jr., that Jake?", he asked.

"Don't shoot the messenger", he said, suddenly pulling folded papers from his pocket. Money rose to his feet, grabbing the papers quickly. It was a copy of the boy's intact documents. His eyes immediately fell on the young man in the picture in the upper right corner of the paper. The boy was so recognizable, yet so unrecognizable at the same time.

"Sorry, Money", the man said again.

"I need to see him! Can you- can you work something out for me? Can you- do you have a pen?", he asked. He wasn't allowed to, but there was a lot of things C.O Bradley wasn't allowed to do that he did. It was illegal for him to even tell Money of the boy's incarceration. Still, he handed over the pen. Money instantly flipped one of the sheets of paper over, scribbling a quick message on to it.

"Bradley, can you give this to him? Please? He's in general population, isn't he? Can you get me a transfer or get him one? I need to see him! I need to talk to him!", he asked, near frantic.

The man nodded. "I'll see what I can do. But, I can't promise anything Money, you know that".

He'd kept the main pages of the boy's intake sheet. Clutching them in his hand tightly.

"Possession of a controlled substance. Possession of narcotics with the intent to distribute", he read. He plopped himself back in to his bed, setting the paper beside him and putting his head in his hands.

"No, no, no!", he said to himself. "Fuck!".