That was the problem.
But Brock Kniles had a secret.
The rain over Rookwood Penitentiary fell in greasy, vertical sheets, washing week-old grime from the exercise yard’s cracked concrete. For the men in D-Block, the rain was a blessing—it meant no yard time, no shanks baked from melted toothbrushes, no forced hierarchy under the watchtower’s dead eye. But for Brock Kniles, the rain was an insult. brock kniles
Chavo laughed. “You think you get a vote?” That was the problem
Word spread. By noon, the Aryan Brotherhood had a new rumor: Kniles was a snitch, using poetry as coded letters to the DA. By evening, the Kings had their own theory: he was writing a tell-all about prison corruption. The truth—that a violent lifer wrote sonnets about sparrows—was too strange to survive. For the men in D-Block, the rain was