The Dangers of Gambling While Incarcerated and the Dangers of Incarceration
For nearly 14 years, I've helped individuals navigate the complex landscape of addiction in order to achieve recovery. Nicknamed "The Casual Counselor", my approach is unconventional but undeniably effective.
There was a Cambodian guy who lived on the block. He and I would play cards at all hours of the day, usually just him and me, heads-up, one-on-one, sometimes betting upwards of $20 a hand. He called himself “Charlie,” but his real name was a Cambodian name I couldn’t pronounce if my life depended on it. He had been there for close to two years, awaiting trial for his role in a fight at a 7 Eleven that had escalated to a murder charge.
He and I taught Keenan and a bunch of other guys how to play Omaha. Charlie and I did this knowing we had the upper hand because we played all the time. We wanted to take more commissary with more players putting money in the middle. When other guys would play at our table, we'd lower the stakes, and opponents would lose, then repeatedly buy back in and lose again. I can't remember one single game where either Charlie or I didn't win the pot at the end. Sometimes, the winning pots would top fifty to a hundred bucks. Small stakes for Charlie and me, but it was like playing with house money.
On the night of the riot, we'd been playing Omaha with about six people at the table. Three had gone out after a few hands, and the pot was up to $30 or $40, maybe. Keenan had been losing all evening, and he was starting to get hot under his sweaty collar. He didn’t seem to understand the simple jailhouse rules that dictated the game. We were only playing with a two-dollar buy-in, but he'd gone out a few times already and was already in the hole ten or twelve dollars. Keenan didn't have any money to pay. Rather, he was just fully expecting to win the entire pot at the end of the game. I don't think it ever crossed his mind that he would actually lose.
Keenan went all in. Charlie said, "Fuck it, I'll call you," and pushed all of his chips into the middle of the table. Charlie showed his hand first and called his trips. Keenan smiled widely and stuttered, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, yeah?! Oh yeah?! Well, that's not good enough! I got a full boat, motherfucker!"
"Sorry, buddy, you don't have a boat. I've got you beat," Charlie calmly told him and started pulling all the ripped-up chips in the direction of his stack.
"He's right, Keenan. You don't have a boat," I explained. "You need to use two cards, man. Both of your cards have to play. You've got trips, but Charlie has better trips than you do, regardless."
Charlie shot me a grin as he piled his spoils. Keenan was confused, and he stared down at the cards in his hand, then back at the spread, then back at his hand and the spread, and on and on.
"No! I gotta fucking boat!! Look! Three of these and two of those! That's a boat! Y'all trying to play me!" He was angry now, his voice gaining volume.
"Keenan!" I snapped. "We've been over this again and again with you, man. You have to use two cards in your hand! That 8 you're holding? It doesn't play. Plus, you called your hand wrong. So, you lose. Even if you'd called your hand right, Charlie still has you beat."
Charlie snickered and replied, "So, you buying back in or what?" "Fuck y'all! This is bullshit!" he shot back. "Y'all are trying to steal my fucking money by cheating! I don't play that shit! You think I'm a sucker or something?!"
I rolled my eyes. Though he was mad, this was typical behavior for Keenan, and everyone had been exposed to it at some point or another. I said something to the effect of, "Keenan, seriously, if you can't understand this game, and it seems like you can't, then don't play. Don't bet. But neither of us is trying to cheat you out of any money. It's not like that. You shouldn't accuse us of trying to play you. It doesn't have to be like that. This is getting fucking ridiculous." I was tired of going through this same conversation over and over.
Keenan glared back at me now, mad as hell, his eyes looking crazier than a box of frogs. It was like a circuit in his brain had shorted out.
"Oh yes, it does have to be like that, you little punk bitch," he said to me directly. "If you think that you're gonna get over on me like this, you got something coming. I ain't paying either one of you shit."
He looked directly at me now. "Now come step in my cell if you think you're so right about me, motherfucker! Strap up!"
“Jesus,” I thought. Not again. This couldn't be happening. I was being challenged to fight by a crazed giant. I'd been called out. I was fucked. He'd challenged me to a fair fight in his cell, and now he was waiting for me.
I was not happy. In fact, I was scared to the point that I had gone a whiter shade of pale, and I felt myself trembling. I hadn't anticipated the progression leading up to this, and I felt like I had failed myself. Keenan was huge and very pissed, and there was barely even enough room, with him occupying so much space, to step inside his cell to fight and have any room or any chance of dodging and defending oneself against blows. I was outmatched, and the feeling of impending doom was back during what had been a welcome and peaceful respite on the 19th floor.
I asked Charlie, "What the fuck just happened?! Am I really about to walk down there and step in with that maniac?"
Charlie was calm and replied in his usual laid-back way, "Ugh. Josh, man, that's fucked up. Fuck him. I can't stand that dude. Listen, yeah, you're gonna step in with him, but check it out, hold up one sec. Don't go down there just yet."
He was considering something. I could sense Charlie’s wheels turning in his sharp thinking mind, but I didn't know what they were telling him. All I knew was that I'd pissed off a gigantic, stupid psychopath, and there was no way of talking my way out of it. I hated jail, and I was more upset that I was going to have to explain to my family why my face was all damaged and black and blue again. I was sick to my stomach, standing by the table and looking to Charlie for answers. My eyes were pleading.
"Yo Steamboat!" Charlie shouted down the tier. "Come here for a minute!"
Steamboat made his way down to us, also serving time in detention for a murder beef. Steamboat was a true badass. He was covered in Tiny Rascal Gang (TRG) tattoos, with two full sleeves, and he was shredded with about 200 pounds of pure muscle. He kept his head shaved bald, save for a Friar Tuck-style braid on the top of his scalp, and he had a Fu Manchu-style mustache that he twisted at each end. He was intimidating to look at, but he was also a nice and likable guy. He was very soft-spoken and didn't form too many friendships or personal relationships on the block. But he hung out with Charlie, and he respected him, and he had his back.
Charlie took Steamboat aside and talked to him briefly and quietly in Cambodian, pointing over at me and down the tier to where Keenan's cell was. Steamboat cracked a smile, looked at me, and said, "Oh, shit! You in trouble, man! You pissed off big man!" Then he laughed, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He turned and walked back down toward the end of the tier, close to where Keenan was housed.
"Yo Steamboat!" Charlie called down to him. "Yo, grab Rooster and tell him too!"
Steamboat gave a thumbs up without turning around and went to wake up Rooster. Rooster was just a kid, maybe 18 or 19 years old, another Cambodian from Lowell. I was confused and on the verge of a panic attack by now. Only two minutes, maybe, had passed since Keenan had flipped out on me, and now Charlie was conspiring with his boys about something that I couldn't understand. I don't speak Cambodian.
"Yo, Josh, check it out. Wait another minute. I gotta go do something in my cell right quick. Then, when I tell you to, go down there. Tell the big man that you'll meet him in the trap and that you'll settle things in there. Aight?"
Fuck. I didn't know what was about to go down, but I knew it wasn't gonna be pretty. I had a bad feeling in my gut. A few pops from anyone else on our tier, save for Steamboat, would be nothing compared to what Keenan could inflict on me with his massive frame and gigantic hands. Fists.
We headed down toward Charlie's cell. He told me to stand outside while he took care of something real quick. I stood by the entrance to his cell and watched to see what he was doing. I couldn't see what he was up to, though. He had his back to me. He'd laid a single sock out on the bunk next to him and huddled over his cubby in the corner.
"Alright, listen. Go down and tell him to meet you inside the trap." "Wait, Charlie." I began to protest, but he cut me off.
"Just tell him that you want to step inside the trap with him, aight? To settle shit. Don't go into his cell. Tell him to come see you in there."
I did as he told me to. I walked down to where Keenan's cell was. It was down at the end of the tier, near where the trap was. I saw Rooster sitting down by the trap, lounging in a chair and watching TV. He glanced at me as I made my way further down. I looked back over my shoulder to see Charlie standing outside the entrance to his own cell, watching my every move.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I thought repeatedly to myself. I got to the entrance of Keenan’s cell. He was lying on the bunk, writing something on his notepad. Presumably, he probably thought that I had chickened out and that I wasn't coming down to face him. This would've been a perfectly fine resolution for me, but it wasn't going to play out like that on this night.
I tried my best to sound confident and intimidating. If it had any effect on Keon, he didn't show it. "Yo, Keon. Why don't we step in the trap if you still want to settle things?" My voice surely warbled.
He slowly looked up from his letter, and his mean eyes met mine. "Oh, so it's like that, huh?! Okay then. Let's do this. I'm finna fuck you up," he said back. Before he could roll off the bunk to follow me, I walked down quickly to the end of the tier.
I passed by Rooster on my way to the entrance of the long, darkened corridor. He slowly turned his head from the TV show he was watching and smiled at me with a wide, toothy grin.
I stepped to the entrance of the trap and walked inside. In the dim light, standing at the end of the corridor, I saw a silhouette. Steamboat. There was no mistaking the silhouette of his frame.
"Steamboat? What the hell is going on here?!" "Just fall back behind me. Do it now," he said.
I shuffled briskly past him, and before I could fully comprehend what was happening, he put his hands up and rushed by me, moving forward in short bursts. Footwork. Southpaw stance. Steamboat was a competent fighter. He knew how to handle himself.
Keenan was walking inside now, also with his hands up, fully inside the trap within a second or two. He began to utter the words, "What the f*ck?" but before he could get the statement out, Charlie came up from behind, swinging hard. He wasn't swinging his fist at the big man, but rather a sock full of batteries. He connected with the back of Keenan’s head.
"Whap!" The sound of the impact was severe. Steamboat moved in and popped Keon a time or two in the face and midsection. "Whap!" Charlie struck him again in the side of the head. Keon dropped down to one knee.
"Whap!" The sound was like a rock smacking against another rock. "Whap!" Again, on the back of his skull.
Steamboat continued to pummel him from the front, busting his face apart. Rooster stood by the entrance to the trap, keeping watch, and other inmates had congregated by the trap to witness the violent confrontation. I stood in the back, several feet away, in shock about what was going on in front of me.
"Whap!" I could see that the sock hanging from his hand was dripping with blood. "Alright, man! Alright! Enough! That's enough! Alright already!" Keenan shouted out. He was begging.
"Please! That's enough!" He sounded scared and desperate. Steamboat stood poised in front of Keenan, ready to strike. Charlie got right down by his ear and shouted, "Yo, you ain't gonna pay me my fucking money?! That's it?! You think you can stiff me and call me a cheat?! Huh, motherfucker?!" He reared back like he was gonna hit him again, but he didn't swing.
Keenan stayed covered up, balled up fetal on the floor. "Alright, man, alright. That's enough. Alright." That's all he could say.
Charlie yelled something in Cambodian at him, spit on him, turned, and walked back out of the trap and back to his cell. Rooster followed. Steamboat turned to me and said, "It's over, man. See? Everything's alright in the world again."
I followed Steamboat out, and as I walked past Keenan, he didn't look up or say anything to me. Steamboat sat nonchalantly in one of the chairs and started to watch TV like it was any other night. I walked down toward my cell, dazed and excited from the attack that I'd witnessed.
Charlie and Rooster were in Charlie's cell. Rooster was smiling and laughing. Charlie was not. He was winded and looked drained and tired. They were talking in Cambodian.
He looked at me. He said, "I just don't like bullies, you know?" I nodded blankly and kept going in the direction of my cell.
Keenan left the block in the middle of the night. Steamboat told us the next day that he'd seen him walk by his cell, leaving the unit with a towel on his head, his eyes down, and his shoulders hunched over.
"Oh, shit!" Steamboat said the next day. "Big man's gonna need some stitches for that big ass head of his! He's gonna need some aspirin too!"
He laughed. "Big man got his wig split!"
Read more from Joshua Bennett-Johnson
Joshua Bennett-Johnson, Licensed Counselor & Owner of JBJ Counseling
After working for 7 years in an amazing clinic, I launched into private practice in 2018. I love my job. I can say that without reservation. Watching people rebuild their lives is worth more than any dollar amount.
