I read an Op/Ed piece by John Grisham in the Sunday, September 12th Washington Post (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/09/10/AR2010091002673.htm). Grisham wrote about Teresa Lewis the only female inmate on Virginia’s Death Row, who is scheduled to die on September 23rd (NOTE: Teresa Lewis was executed by lethal injection on September 23).l
She’s to be executed for the brutal murder of her husband and stepson. She clearly was involved. She, her boyfriend and another man decided to kill the husband and stepson (a National Guard member with life insurance) for money.
The two men did the killing. Both men accepted pleas for life sentences. Lewis pled guilty but was sentenced to death. Testimony at her sentencing indicated she had no criminal record, an IQ barely above 70, a dependent personality disorder and an addiction to pain medication.
Grisham notes so many inconsistencies in the meting out of the death sentence in Virginia that it “mocks the idea that ours is a system grounded in equality before the law”. I say “you go John”!
I’ve never been a big Grisham fan. I’ve read a good number of his novels and they’re an easy read, entertaining and light. He’ll never be confused with Dostoevsky. However, when I was in DOC receiving I read his nonfiction account of an innocent man on Oklahoma’s death row whose conviction was overturned. It blew me away.
I’ve come full circle on the death penalty and the criminal justice system. On our first date, I told my soon to be wife that I thought it better that 1000 guilty men go free than one innocent man be executed. I was idealistic, not yet in law school. I believed the law brought about right results, lawyers were hard working, judges fair, juries impartial.
All that changed, gradually, over the years. Safety and security became paramount. And so did the moral high road I trudged, or told people I trudged. Criminals were bad, evil. “Lock them up.” I accepted black/white answers and eschewed gray areas. And, if a few innocent people were imprisoned or executed, that was a small price to pay for safety, for order. I bought comedian Dennis Miller’s idea that “sometime the herd needs to let the sick and crazy wildebeest get eaten by the lion for the good of the herd”.
Then I got arrested and became exhibit “A” in my own production of “Man Was I Ever Wrong About That”. Folks, the criminal justice system is broken. It is unfair, evil and does more to create crime and disrespect for the law than it does to correct and prevent it.
I will go so far as to issue a new moral imperative. You cannot consider yourself a moral, ethical person and support the abomination that is the United States criminal justice and prison system in 2010.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, perhaps Russia’s greatest novelist and moral commentator, spent seven years in a Siberian labor camp in the 1850’s. He wrote the following: “A society’s morality is judged by how it treats its prisoners”.
What Grisham points out about the Lewis case goes beyond capital cases. It applies to every criminal case, every trial, every sentence. The prisons have become a toxic wasteland with mentally ill inmates pressed against evil, predatory ones. Virtually no programs exist to rehabilitate; society shuns those who do their time the right way. Incompetence and dishonesty among the prison staff is rampant.
Yes, criminals need to be punished. And yes, there are some acts that require society to put a person away for life (the recent trial in Connecticut is a prime example), but for the vast majority of cases the system does more harm than good.
As John Grisham notes, Teresa Lewis doesn’t deserve to die. The majority of inmates in Virginia don’t deserve the sentences they are serving or the conditions they’re living in. Society has a moral obligation to do better, to be just.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Count Time, Count Time
Being counted is a big part of prison life. I’m not sure who came up with the idea for counting but I’d be willing to bet every prison and jail in the U.S. employs some form of count.
When I was at the jail, we were counted four times a day and the inmates made all kinds of noise, talking, catcalls, hoots. That isn’t tolerated at a DOC facility. Count time is serious. No noise, no reading, no movement. All electronics turned off.
Still, being at a low level prison provides for some funny count times. Count here is a vast cry from count at receiving when I was sharing a cell with a psychotic, 24 year-old gang leader doing 76 years for a double murder.
At receiving, we were locked down 23 hours a day in dilapidated cells with leaking toilets, cracked sinks, and one 60 watt light bulb that had to be twisted off and on. First count at receiving was 5:00 am, standing, with cell light on. There was a second standing count between breakfast and lunch; a third mid-afternoon; fourth count after evening chow; and final count at 10:30 pm.
Here, count is a little more relaxed. Our “first count” is at 6:00 am. Inmates have to remain “in bed” while the COs quietly walk up and down the aisles. That’s a far cry from the loud siren whistle at receiving and the CO yelling “FEET ON THE FLOOR” over and over.
There are only three standing counts during the day: 11:30 am, 5:45 pm, and 10:00 pm. The COs (2) come in and whistle then call out “Count Time fellas; count time, count time”.
One CO – Jones – a mid-60’s black woman comes in and toots her whistle 3 times then says “give me a good count gentlemen”. Another CO – Eppes won’t blow his whistle any more. The pea got stuck once when he was blowing it. Everyone busted out laughing. Eppes is a young, skinny black guy. A lot of the “old heads” intimidate him so he tends to get timid when they laugh, of course, it doesn’t help that he’s got a high voice when he announces “count clear fellas” you hear 20 guys yell it back in a high pitched tone.
Count is serious. There are almost 1200 inmates here. The prison has to account for each one of those guys every minute of the day. A single number off and the compound stays on “no movement”.
A few weekends back I was up at visitation when 11:30 count was called. Inmates at visit line up in the gym under dorm building signs. Visitation count was correct, but building count wasn’t. No one was allowed to leave visits, including visitors. After 45 minutes count cleared and the mass exodus of visitors began to make their way out of the “VI” room and head to their cars.
It’s an antiquated system and labor intensive. It’s probably the same count method they used in the Civil War and at Alcatraz in the 30’s. But, it’s the only way the officers can be sure the inmates are all inside the compound.
A couple of years ago, at another low level Virginia prison, a guy went to “pill call” (med call) after early evening count. That facility had no other standing counts the remainder of the day and a bunk count at midnight.
After he got his pills he snuck back out on the rec yard and climbed the perimeter fence. It was the next day before anyone noticed he was gone. They found him a week later.
There’s a great deal I never knew about prison. Count time was one of these things. Inmates hate it, but without it I’m sure a whole lot of guys wouldn’t stay put.
When I was at the jail, we were counted four times a day and the inmates made all kinds of noise, talking, catcalls, hoots. That isn’t tolerated at a DOC facility. Count time is serious. No noise, no reading, no movement. All electronics turned off.
Still, being at a low level prison provides for some funny count times. Count here is a vast cry from count at receiving when I was sharing a cell with a psychotic, 24 year-old gang leader doing 76 years for a double murder.
At receiving, we were locked down 23 hours a day in dilapidated cells with leaking toilets, cracked sinks, and one 60 watt light bulb that had to be twisted off and on. First count at receiving was 5:00 am, standing, with cell light on. There was a second standing count between breakfast and lunch; a third mid-afternoon; fourth count after evening chow; and final count at 10:30 pm.
Here, count is a little more relaxed. Our “first count” is at 6:00 am. Inmates have to remain “in bed” while the COs quietly walk up and down the aisles. That’s a far cry from the loud siren whistle at receiving and the CO yelling “FEET ON THE FLOOR” over and over.
There are only three standing counts during the day: 11:30 am, 5:45 pm, and 10:00 pm. The COs (2) come in and whistle then call out “Count Time fellas; count time, count time”.
One CO – Jones – a mid-60’s black woman comes in and toots her whistle 3 times then says “give me a good count gentlemen”. Another CO – Eppes won’t blow his whistle any more. The pea got stuck once when he was blowing it. Everyone busted out laughing. Eppes is a young, skinny black guy. A lot of the “old heads” intimidate him so he tends to get timid when they laugh, of course, it doesn’t help that he’s got a high voice when he announces “count clear fellas” you hear 20 guys yell it back in a high pitched tone.
Count is serious. There are almost 1200 inmates here. The prison has to account for each one of those guys every minute of the day. A single number off and the compound stays on “no movement”.
A few weekends back I was up at visitation when 11:30 count was called. Inmates at visit line up in the gym under dorm building signs. Visitation count was correct, but building count wasn’t. No one was allowed to leave visits, including visitors. After 45 minutes count cleared and the mass exodus of visitors began to make their way out of the “VI” room and head to their cars.
It’s an antiquated system and labor intensive. It’s probably the same count method they used in the Civil War and at Alcatraz in the 30’s. But, it’s the only way the officers can be sure the inmates are all inside the compound.
A couple of years ago, at another low level Virginia prison, a guy went to “pill call” (med call) after early evening count. That facility had no other standing counts the remainder of the day and a bunk count at midnight.
After he got his pills he snuck back out on the rec yard and climbed the perimeter fence. It was the next day before anyone noticed he was gone. They found him a week later.
There’s a great deal I never knew about prison. Count time was one of these things. Inmates hate it, but without it I’m sure a whole lot of guys wouldn’t stay put.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Symbols
There’s been a whole lot of news recently about symbols. There was a crazy preacher in Florida ready to burn the Koran (question: How does the preacher explain his behavior against his professed faith in the “Prince of Peace?”); Americans are up in arms over the proposed location of a Mosque near Ground Zero. “Sacred land”, some argue, yet not too sacred to disallow a strip joint and an Irish Pub just offsite (I’ve had lunch and drinks at the pub. Great food and Guinness on tap!).
Frankly, to me both issues are asinine. I had a discussion months ago with a Muslim inmate I deeply respect. He got upset one night when the CO left his mail on top of his Koran. “She disrespected and defiled the Holy Koran.” I get the point. I believe the Bible is God’s word to us. One of my few treasured possessions I claim in here is a Holy Bible a close friend sent me two weeks after my arrest. I’ve read it cover to cover and have highlighted and underlined it extensively (which will probably offend some Christians).
The words in that book mean more to me than anything, because in my darkest moments they have provided me comfort and hope. But, as I told my Muslim friend, you could pick that book up and wipe with it and I wouldn’t react. The book isn’t the faith. Those words are etched in my heart.
Ironically, devout Muslims memorize the Koran. The first Koran was burned so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the “infidels”. Muslims memorize it so they can recreate it anytime, anyplace. Somehow the book has overtaken the word as the object of Holy adherence.
Symbols become important because we give them meaning. The same people that call Ground Zero sacred would likely scoff at a “Crips” gang member insisting on wearing his blue bandanna to show his colors.
I only really had one symbol in my life, my wedding ring. The day the divorce papers were served on me, I mailed the ring back to my wife. She wrote me shortly thereafter and said, “You could have kept it. It’s your ring” (ironically, she never thought about sending me the two carat diamond ring I designed and gave her for our 25th Anniversary). I wrote her back and told her I didn’t want a ring she didn’t believe in.
I noticed in that experience a great deal about symbols – they’re overrated. Our wedding ring was a symbol of our lifetime commitment, the eternity of our bond and love. Yeah, I buy that (sorry for the sarcasm).
“Crips” fight “Bloods” over the color blue verses red. Muslims will chop off hands over an alleged slight to their Holy book. Christian preachers burn Muslim Korans. It’s all about nothing except we made it important. I’m not so hung up on having symbols anymore. I see a whole lot of guys in here wearing crosses, yet they’re the first ones to cuss out a CO, get in a fight, or leer at one of the young nurses that work here.
I keep a few symbols in my locker. I have a painted card of Archangel Michael – a gift from an Episcopal minister friend. Michael, I was told, is the Angel that protects us. I look at him every time I open my locker. I keep two quotes from the Psalms in my locker that I recite over and over.
Psalm 55:24 - Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never let the righteous stumble.
and
Psalm 68:6 – God gives the solitary a home and brings forth prisoners into freedom.
I also keep a picture of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model Brooklyn Decker (man’s got to dream!).
The thing I’ve realized is, you can take it all away and I’ll be alright. The Psalms, my verse from Isaiah 40 or Ephesians 4, they’re in my mind and my heart.
We focus way too much on symbols. Prison life especially has too much emphasis on them. Guys will fight over the dumbest things: new blue shirts, crisp sheets, hats. Guys think the newness of their “stuff” signifies their place in here.
Truth is, none of the stuff matters. I’ve read a great deal by men who have overcome imprisonment. Mandela, Dr. Frankl, and the Apostle Paul. Not one of them ever wrote, “Man, I got through that experience thanks to my lucky coin”. No, what got them through was their faith, their hope, their belief in the future. They knew, in their hearts, that all the stuff could be taken away but they didn’t have to give up their souls.
So the Mosque near Ground Zero? Let them build it and perhaps we can all remember a little idea like religious tolerance (and remember, some of the people who worked and died in the Twin Towers were Muslim). The preacher in Florida? Pray God helps him pull his head out of his ass and Muslims remember their faith is based on peace.
As for me, I’ll keep praying for my ex and my sons. I’ll keep working to bring the failures of the prison system to light. And Brooklyn Decker? Her picture’s staying up.
Frankly, to me both issues are asinine. I had a discussion months ago with a Muslim inmate I deeply respect. He got upset one night when the CO left his mail on top of his Koran. “She disrespected and defiled the Holy Koran.” I get the point. I believe the Bible is God’s word to us. One of my few treasured possessions I claim in here is a Holy Bible a close friend sent me two weeks after my arrest. I’ve read it cover to cover and have highlighted and underlined it extensively (which will probably offend some Christians).
The words in that book mean more to me than anything, because in my darkest moments they have provided me comfort and hope. But, as I told my Muslim friend, you could pick that book up and wipe with it and I wouldn’t react. The book isn’t the faith. Those words are etched in my heart.
Ironically, devout Muslims memorize the Koran. The first Koran was burned so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the “infidels”. Muslims memorize it so they can recreate it anytime, anyplace. Somehow the book has overtaken the word as the object of Holy adherence.
Symbols become important because we give them meaning. The same people that call Ground Zero sacred would likely scoff at a “Crips” gang member insisting on wearing his blue bandanna to show his colors.
I only really had one symbol in my life, my wedding ring. The day the divorce papers were served on me, I mailed the ring back to my wife. She wrote me shortly thereafter and said, “You could have kept it. It’s your ring” (ironically, she never thought about sending me the two carat diamond ring I designed and gave her for our 25th Anniversary). I wrote her back and told her I didn’t want a ring she didn’t believe in.
I noticed in that experience a great deal about symbols – they’re overrated. Our wedding ring was a symbol of our lifetime commitment, the eternity of our bond and love. Yeah, I buy that (sorry for the sarcasm).
“Crips” fight “Bloods” over the color blue verses red. Muslims will chop off hands over an alleged slight to their Holy book. Christian preachers burn Muslim Korans. It’s all about nothing except we made it important. I’m not so hung up on having symbols anymore. I see a whole lot of guys in here wearing crosses, yet they’re the first ones to cuss out a CO, get in a fight, or leer at one of the young nurses that work here.
I keep a few symbols in my locker. I have a painted card of Archangel Michael – a gift from an Episcopal minister friend. Michael, I was told, is the Angel that protects us. I look at him every time I open my locker. I keep two quotes from the Psalms in my locker that I recite over and over.
Psalm 55:24 - Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never let the righteous stumble.
and
Psalm 68:6 – God gives the solitary a home and brings forth prisoners into freedom.
I also keep a picture of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model Brooklyn Decker (man’s got to dream!).
The thing I’ve realized is, you can take it all away and I’ll be alright. The Psalms, my verse from Isaiah 40 or Ephesians 4, they’re in my mind and my heart.
We focus way too much on symbols. Prison life especially has too much emphasis on them. Guys will fight over the dumbest things: new blue shirts, crisp sheets, hats. Guys think the newness of their “stuff” signifies their place in here.
Truth is, none of the stuff matters. I’ve read a great deal by men who have overcome imprisonment. Mandela, Dr. Frankl, and the Apostle Paul. Not one of them ever wrote, “Man, I got through that experience thanks to my lucky coin”. No, what got them through was their faith, their hope, their belief in the future. They knew, in their hearts, that all the stuff could be taken away but they didn’t have to give up their souls.
So the Mosque near Ground Zero? Let them build it and perhaps we can all remember a little idea like religious tolerance (and remember, some of the people who worked and died in the Twin Towers were Muslim). The preacher in Florida? Pray God helps him pull his head out of his ass and Muslims remember their faith is based on peace.
As for me, I’ll keep praying for my ex and my sons. I’ll keep working to bring the failures of the prison system to light. And Brooklyn Decker? Her picture’s staying up.
All Around Like Heron
A guy came up to me at the law library asking if I’d take a look at his “paperwork” and see if there were any options he had to get his sentence reduced. As I do with anyone who asks, I said “sure”. He then said, “Your name is all around the yard like heron”.
I didn’t know quite what he meant so I asked my friend Ty – the law library aide – exactly what he was talking about. “Heron, you know ‘heroin’. In the projects everyone knows where to score heroin. In here, everyone knows who to turn to for help.”
He then said this: “You’re a righteous man. The guys here respect you because you care and you try. It’s not about a hustle to you.”
I thought a great deal about Ty’s comments. The strange thing is, in here I am who I am. I’m still the same outgoing guy I was before my arrest. I talk to anybody; white, black, Hispanic, gangbangers, gay, it doesn’t matter. Most guys in prison keep to themselves. They say little, if anything. I’ve always engaged people. Just me being me. As my friend Paul (a/k/a “hippohead” – guy must have the biggest head on record!) said, “Only you could act this way in prison”.
The “helping” issue is a little different. Years ago, when I was in private practice, I was a damn good lawyer. I outworked my opponent, out hustled them. I viewed law practice as hand to hand combat. I wanted to win, whether it was the right result or not.
When I met my wife in college, I was young and idealistic. I told her I wanted to defend the oppressed and argue great questions of constitutional law. Then came law school, marriage, law practice. I wanted to win; I didn’t care who got hurt. The win was all that mattered.
I changed. I took the job at Farm Bureau and was damn good at that too. I evaluated cases for the company. I made recommendations when to fight and when to settle. I can honestly say my opinions were always correct, if correct means calling a case within a few dollars of what a jury would do.
I told my wife how much a life was worth. So much of my job was about that. How much was a 7 year-old girl worth who died in a car accident? How much is a 45 year-old homemaker’s life worth?
I got involved in community service, working with my church and the local Meals on Wheels group. I like to think I did it to “give back”. Thinking about it recently, I’m afraid I did it to compensate, to balance out the fact that I put winning ahead of what’s right.
Self-reflection is a scary thing. You look in the mirror one day and see “the real you”, at least the you you’ve become and you realize you could have, should have done better. I realized after my arrest I’d been after all the wrong things. I wanted so badly to be loved and appreciated, I was willing to lie and steal. I realized I was so hell-bent on success; I’d sold out my values.
So I lost everything. The woman I loved never loved me. My kids turned from me. My own church abandoned me. Friends left me. Almost every dollar I earned, every possession I owned, was given up. Then, I found my idealism again.
I help guys in here. But, I tell them the truth. I won’t file suite for a guy just to file. If he’s guilty, I work toward a fair sentence. Remorseful? I use a pardon. I’m researching and briefing significant points of Constitutional Law. It’s funny sometimes how God works. Our lives come full circle.
I recently found out a friend from church was in the last few days of her life. She has fought cancer courageously for a number of years. This beautiful woman is now confined to her bed, with only days remaining. Friends have been sitting with her so her husband could continue holding his college classes. My ex-wife has been with her a number of days.
I wrote my youngest son earlier this week and told him to see, understand and love the compassion he is witnessing from his mom. “Be gentle and kind”, I urged him. It means more than all the power, prestige, and wealth in the world.
My morning devotional the other day included a verse from 1 John – “The world is passing away . . . but the one that does the will of God lives forever”.
I may be wrong, but I think God’s will is ultimately that we love, we forgive, we be kind and compassionate. Hard to believe it took prison for me to realize that.
Ty told me something else the other day. He told me a group of guys had prayed for me. Two months ago, I helped a guy win a new appeal when I argued his lawyer provided ineffective assistance of counsel. We filed a Bar complaint and learned last week the attorney had been disbarred (11 complaints; 3 from inmates. The attorney admitted he suffered from depression which led him to not prepare his cases).
The other two inmates are also housed here. I’ve filed papers for them to get appeals granted. Given the Bar’s action, their appeals will be granted. At least they will get a fair shot at proving their innocence.
Perhaps these cases would have worked out that way without me. I’m not smart enough to know the answer to that. I only know that the idealism I felt as a young man is back.
It really is weird to count you blessings when you’re in a tough spot. For all my stupid stories about prison, this experience really does suck. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I was still with my wife and kids, sleeping in my bed, watching the sunset from my deck. But, I’m doing better than I ever expected in here. And, I got guys praying for me and comparing my presence here to heroin in the ‘hood. All in all, not as bad as I thought.
I didn’t know quite what he meant so I asked my friend Ty – the law library aide – exactly what he was talking about. “Heron, you know ‘heroin’. In the projects everyone knows where to score heroin. In here, everyone knows who to turn to for help.”
He then said this: “You’re a righteous man. The guys here respect you because you care and you try. It’s not about a hustle to you.”
I thought a great deal about Ty’s comments. The strange thing is, in here I am who I am. I’m still the same outgoing guy I was before my arrest. I talk to anybody; white, black, Hispanic, gangbangers, gay, it doesn’t matter. Most guys in prison keep to themselves. They say little, if anything. I’ve always engaged people. Just me being me. As my friend Paul (a/k/a “hippohead” – guy must have the biggest head on record!) said, “Only you could act this way in prison”.
The “helping” issue is a little different. Years ago, when I was in private practice, I was a damn good lawyer. I outworked my opponent, out hustled them. I viewed law practice as hand to hand combat. I wanted to win, whether it was the right result or not.
When I met my wife in college, I was young and idealistic. I told her I wanted to defend the oppressed and argue great questions of constitutional law. Then came law school, marriage, law practice. I wanted to win; I didn’t care who got hurt. The win was all that mattered.
I changed. I took the job at Farm Bureau and was damn good at that too. I evaluated cases for the company. I made recommendations when to fight and when to settle. I can honestly say my opinions were always correct, if correct means calling a case within a few dollars of what a jury would do.
I told my wife how much a life was worth. So much of my job was about that. How much was a 7 year-old girl worth who died in a car accident? How much is a 45 year-old homemaker’s life worth?
I got involved in community service, working with my church and the local Meals on Wheels group. I like to think I did it to “give back”. Thinking about it recently, I’m afraid I did it to compensate, to balance out the fact that I put winning ahead of what’s right.
Self-reflection is a scary thing. You look in the mirror one day and see “the real you”, at least the you you’ve become and you realize you could have, should have done better. I realized after my arrest I’d been after all the wrong things. I wanted so badly to be loved and appreciated, I was willing to lie and steal. I realized I was so hell-bent on success; I’d sold out my values.
So I lost everything. The woman I loved never loved me. My kids turned from me. My own church abandoned me. Friends left me. Almost every dollar I earned, every possession I owned, was given up. Then, I found my idealism again.
I help guys in here. But, I tell them the truth. I won’t file suite for a guy just to file. If he’s guilty, I work toward a fair sentence. Remorseful? I use a pardon. I’m researching and briefing significant points of Constitutional Law. It’s funny sometimes how God works. Our lives come full circle.
I recently found out a friend from church was in the last few days of her life. She has fought cancer courageously for a number of years. This beautiful woman is now confined to her bed, with only days remaining. Friends have been sitting with her so her husband could continue holding his college classes. My ex-wife has been with her a number of days.
I wrote my youngest son earlier this week and told him to see, understand and love the compassion he is witnessing from his mom. “Be gentle and kind”, I urged him. It means more than all the power, prestige, and wealth in the world.
My morning devotional the other day included a verse from 1 John – “The world is passing away . . . but the one that does the will of God lives forever”.
I may be wrong, but I think God’s will is ultimately that we love, we forgive, we be kind and compassionate. Hard to believe it took prison for me to realize that.
Ty told me something else the other day. He told me a group of guys had prayed for me. Two months ago, I helped a guy win a new appeal when I argued his lawyer provided ineffective assistance of counsel. We filed a Bar complaint and learned last week the attorney had been disbarred (11 complaints; 3 from inmates. The attorney admitted he suffered from depression which led him to not prepare his cases).
The other two inmates are also housed here. I’ve filed papers for them to get appeals granted. Given the Bar’s action, their appeals will be granted. At least they will get a fair shot at proving their innocence.
Perhaps these cases would have worked out that way without me. I’m not smart enough to know the answer to that. I only know that the idealism I felt as a young man is back.
It really is weird to count you blessings when you’re in a tough spot. For all my stupid stories about prison, this experience really does suck. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I was still with my wife and kids, sleeping in my bed, watching the sunset from my deck. But, I’m doing better than I ever expected in here. And, I got guys praying for me and comparing my presence here to heroin in the ‘hood. All in all, not as bad as I thought.
Baggage
I recently began work on a conditional pardon application for a young man 13 years into a first degree murder conviction. He lives in my building. About a month ago he approached me and asked me to review his paperwork. I agreed and have now embarked on a quest to get him released. Not because he’s innocent; he killed the man; shot him three times at close range. He deserves my help and another chance because of the circumstances behind the crime and the baggage from his life; baggage that no one ever helped him unload. He’s from West Virginia. In 1997, at the age of 18 he came to visit his brother in Floyd County, Virginia. He was recently married and his wife had stayed home to work. His brother was also married and lived on his in-law’s farm. Unknown to either the brother or him, the father-in-law was leading a double life. While his brother was at work, the father-in-law made a pass at him. A few hours later, this young man snuck up to the sleeping father-in-law and killed him. He then took the dead man’s wallet and car and drove back to see his wife in West Virginia. Three days later, he turned himself in without ever telling his wife what he did.
He was originally charged with capital murder. The prosecutor found the fact that he stole the “victim’s” wallet and car to be particularly cold-blooded. At trial, the charge was reduced to first degree murder. He went forward without a jury and the Judge found him guilty. The sentence: 100 years, with 70 suspended. He has to serve a minimum of 26 years.
It came out at the trial that the “victim” had spent his life sexually abusing his own son and daughters. He did this all under the eye of his wife who claimed “I didn’t know”. Here’s a question: how do you not know when your husband gets out of bed every night for an hour? When your son’s underwear is stained with blood?
No matter. The Judge held that the victim’s predilections had nothing to do with the crime. You can’t allow for vigilante justice. Fair enough. I agree with the Judge. I am not prepared to say despicable human beings deserve death.
But, the reason why this young man did what he did was because at age 10 he was sexually abused. His “baggage” – the abuse at the hand of an uncle and his family ignoring it led him to that fateful moment when an elderly pedophile made a pass. All those years of pent up hurt, anger and rage came out in three point blank shots to the victim’s face.
Big S and I were talking the other day. He has a beautiful young daughter. He views the molesters and child pornographers we live with in here in utter contempt. It takes all his self-discipline not to tear these men limb from limb. I pointed out to S that almost all molesters were themselves victims of abuse. Big S then said something that made me pause. He said, “They were victims. But, they should have remembered how badly their pain was and vow never to hurt another that way”. He’s right you know. The tragedy of abuse ad molestation is that most abusers, most molesters, were themselves abused. But as Big S pointed out, someone has to break the cycle of abuse. It is one thing to carry the baggage of abuse; it’s another thing to then put the baggage on someone else.
There’s another issue with “baggage” especially as it relates to molesters. Prison does nothing to help break the cycle. Don’t for a minute think prison is rehabilitating anyone. Prisons are used to house inmates. Therapy, rehabilitation is virtually nonexistent.
Take a group of the child porn guys in our building. All of them are required, before their release, to attend a “sex offender rehabilitation treatment” program. It consists, basically, of every type of sex offender sitting in a room while a “counselor” – not a therapist – discusses healthy sexuality. Mind you, in this room are: child pornographers, child molesters, rapists (violent and nonviolent) and abductors (Virginia law describes all abduction offenses as sexual). There is no individual therapy; no meeting of men with similar predilections. Meet once a week, sit quietly while the counselor tells you “no means no” and head back to your bunk and your newest issue of “Barely Legal”. They do their sentences convinced there is nothing wrong with their behavior. They consider themselves to not be like the “real sex offenders” locked up. Ironically, because of the way the law treats them (not one kiddie porn inmate in here has a sentence longer than 10 years), the way the prison “rehabilitates” them, the baggage they carry remains.
What’s the answer? I’m not completely sure. But I do know this: locking men up without addressing the underlying root causes of their behavior accomplishes nothing. If you’re serious about breaking the cycle of sexual violence, molestation and abuse you have to spend the money to actually unload the baggage.
We also need to help those so devastated by abuse. The guilt and shame these young victims carry is profound. Had the young man I’m helping had an outlet for his “baggage” when he was young, chances are he wouldn’t be here today.
Baggage is a terrible thing. You drag it with you through life. Your parents start packing your bags; you carry that with you as you embark on your own life. You find someone, hoping for love, then get rejected, hurt, disappointed. Your baggage is full to the seams.
You have to dump your bags. It’s not easy. I know first hand how painful it can be to unload all that crap and just get on with living.
Ironically, by unloading all your baggage you may end up finding you’re a decent loving person. As the young man in here told me “it took a long time, but I feel OK”. I know what he means.
He was originally charged with capital murder. The prosecutor found the fact that he stole the “victim’s” wallet and car to be particularly cold-blooded. At trial, the charge was reduced to first degree murder. He went forward without a jury and the Judge found him guilty. The sentence: 100 years, with 70 suspended. He has to serve a minimum of 26 years.
It came out at the trial that the “victim” had spent his life sexually abusing his own son and daughters. He did this all under the eye of his wife who claimed “I didn’t know”. Here’s a question: how do you not know when your husband gets out of bed every night for an hour? When your son’s underwear is stained with blood?
No matter. The Judge held that the victim’s predilections had nothing to do with the crime. You can’t allow for vigilante justice. Fair enough. I agree with the Judge. I am not prepared to say despicable human beings deserve death.
But, the reason why this young man did what he did was because at age 10 he was sexually abused. His “baggage” – the abuse at the hand of an uncle and his family ignoring it led him to that fateful moment when an elderly pedophile made a pass. All those years of pent up hurt, anger and rage came out in three point blank shots to the victim’s face.
Big S and I were talking the other day. He has a beautiful young daughter. He views the molesters and child pornographers we live with in here in utter contempt. It takes all his self-discipline not to tear these men limb from limb. I pointed out to S that almost all molesters were themselves victims of abuse. Big S then said something that made me pause. He said, “They were victims. But, they should have remembered how badly their pain was and vow never to hurt another that way”. He’s right you know. The tragedy of abuse ad molestation is that most abusers, most molesters, were themselves abused. But as Big S pointed out, someone has to break the cycle of abuse. It is one thing to carry the baggage of abuse; it’s another thing to then put the baggage on someone else.
There’s another issue with “baggage” especially as it relates to molesters. Prison does nothing to help break the cycle. Don’t for a minute think prison is rehabilitating anyone. Prisons are used to house inmates. Therapy, rehabilitation is virtually nonexistent.
Take a group of the child porn guys in our building. All of them are required, before their release, to attend a “sex offender rehabilitation treatment” program. It consists, basically, of every type of sex offender sitting in a room while a “counselor” – not a therapist – discusses healthy sexuality. Mind you, in this room are: child pornographers, child molesters, rapists (violent and nonviolent) and abductors (Virginia law describes all abduction offenses as sexual). There is no individual therapy; no meeting of men with similar predilections. Meet once a week, sit quietly while the counselor tells you “no means no” and head back to your bunk and your newest issue of “Barely Legal”. They do their sentences convinced there is nothing wrong with their behavior. They consider themselves to not be like the “real sex offenders” locked up. Ironically, because of the way the law treats them (not one kiddie porn inmate in here has a sentence longer than 10 years), the way the prison “rehabilitates” them, the baggage they carry remains.
What’s the answer? I’m not completely sure. But I do know this: locking men up without addressing the underlying root causes of their behavior accomplishes nothing. If you’re serious about breaking the cycle of sexual violence, molestation and abuse you have to spend the money to actually unload the baggage.
We also need to help those so devastated by abuse. The guilt and shame these young victims carry is profound. Had the young man I’m helping had an outlet for his “baggage” when he was young, chances are he wouldn’t be here today.
Baggage is a terrible thing. You drag it with you through life. Your parents start packing your bags; you carry that with you as you embark on your own life. You find someone, hoping for love, then get rejected, hurt, disappointed. Your baggage is full to the seams.
You have to dump your bags. It’s not easy. I know first hand how painful it can be to unload all that crap and just get on with living.
Ironically, by unloading all your baggage you may end up finding you’re a decent loving person. As the young man in here told me “it took a long time, but I feel OK”. I know what he means.
Friday, September 17, 2010
And So It Goes
Prison time passes remarkably quickly even though each day feels like a repeat of the previous one. In many ways, you end up feeling just like Bill Murray did in “Groundhog Day”, doing the exact same thing, walking and talking with the exact same guys, same workout routine at the same time with the same guys; on and on, day in and day out it goes. As I’ve written about before, I’ve always been fairly disciplined with my schedule so monotony is something I’m comfortable with.
Even when unique events happen, you realize they’re not that out of the ordinary anyway. This week “Flo” pulled a series 100 stealing charge getting caught in a strip search with an orange from the chow hall. Series 100 charges are serious and this one, the sergeant who wrote it knows, won’t stick because taking food from the chow hall is a series 200 charge for contraband. The sergeant was just ticked off because he knew Flo had been taking stuff out of chow every day he’s been here.
Every morning at breakfast Flo carries two empty squeeze jelly containers which he fills with milk and brings back to make oatmeal and cappuccino. Every lunch, he sneaks back fresh veggies and butter from the common fare tray to add to rice dishes; every evening, fresh fruit for snacking while watching TV.
The sergeant knows he’s doing this, but couldn’t ever catch him in the act. His solution? Wait for him outside of chow the other day and then take him to the watch commander’s office to strip search him.
And Flo’s reaction? You would think he’d admit it, face up to the charge and accept a $6.00 fine (what they offered him when the orange first fell). No, he filed a complaint against the sergeant alleging the strip search constituted “sexual harassment”.
I laughed at the stupidity and arrogance of both men, but truth is, they acted exactly as I’d expect them to. The sergeant overreacting and chest thumping because of his own ineptitude and impotence to control simple pilfering; and Flo, a career criminal who wouldn’t admit he was caught even when the orange fall out from between his cheeks (“How’d that get there? It ain’t mine!”).
There’s Tony and his marital problems. Tony is in here for a long time – until 2026. He is a computer wiz and accomplished jazz musician. He also had sex with a number of his teenage daughter’s girlfriends, photographed the girls and put their photos on a number of websites. The strange thing about Tony is, you meet him and – not knowing his crime – you think “he seems like an OK guy”. Then, you see he’s hardwired into all these teen girl shows and books and you suddenly realize “this guy’s got problems”.
He and his daughter were abnormally close. When he was arrested she tried to take her own life. She got help, was hospitalized, and after three months returned home. So here’s Tony dilemma. His daughter has now been arrested for stealing a car to drive to the mall and meet a boy. She got caught – in the backseat – with the boy and is now on house arrest (ironically, the same prosecutor who handled Tony’s case also handled hers). And the wife? She’s absent most nights bar and bed hopping.
Tony’s furious with his wife’s lack of involvement in their daughter’s life. Yet, it was that lack of involvement that allowed him to get close to his daughter and use her to get to her girlfriends.
E, who spent a week wondering and worrying if he was going to go to the hole, lose his job, his apprenticeship, and college all because he’s been blatantly stealing from the kitchen, decides this week to grab another 10 eggs for me to make a quiche, which, by the way came out perfectly (I made a Ritz cracker crust, tuna, sautéed onions, pepper jack cheese, bacon and broccoli; guys circled around the table when I lifted it out of the plastic pan).
On the one hand, he’s still worried, borderline paranoid, that the investigators will show back up and bust him. Yet, he can’t or won’t realize the shakedown was a wakeup call. He has to get out of the hustler mentality. Everything he does revolves around a scam, a con, a hustle. If he’s not careful, he’ll get out of here and the first twinge of greed that hits him will lead him to try and move some drugs again.
It’s not easy to stop what you’re doing. My arrest for embezzlement wasn’t the first time I “played” with other people’s money. I may understand now why I did it, but that doesn’t excuse it, nor does it make the hurt I brought to my wife and kids any less painful. I was self-centered and short sighted and hurt deeply the three people I love the most. No matter what “issues” existed between my wife and me, she and our kids deserved better from me.
I decided after my arrest that I didn’t want to keep repeating the insanity of the past. I couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe it was my finding my faith and understanding what grace really means. I just know, as most people – COs and inmates alike – will tell you, I’m an honest, truthful, stand up guy. I’ve learned that faith and trust in a power beyond yourself is the only way to break out of the cycle of repeating the same behavior.
It also makes you recognize you’re not always right about things. You’ve got to be a little kinder, a lot more forgiving. I wonder, as I sit in here, whether I’d feel the same way if my wife – instead of divorcing me – had said “I’m deeply hurt and it’s going to be very difficult to put this behind us, but I love you and I know that’s what our marriage means”. Somehow, I think I would have.
Days in prison, just like days outside, go on. One leads to the next. Yet, for me, my days are all new. I may follow the same routine, but I go about it in a whole new way.
Even when unique events happen, you realize they’re not that out of the ordinary anyway. This week “Flo” pulled a series 100 stealing charge getting caught in a strip search with an orange from the chow hall. Series 100 charges are serious and this one, the sergeant who wrote it knows, won’t stick because taking food from the chow hall is a series 200 charge for contraband. The sergeant was just ticked off because he knew Flo had been taking stuff out of chow every day he’s been here.
Every morning at breakfast Flo carries two empty squeeze jelly containers which he fills with milk and brings back to make oatmeal and cappuccino. Every lunch, he sneaks back fresh veggies and butter from the common fare tray to add to rice dishes; every evening, fresh fruit for snacking while watching TV.
The sergeant knows he’s doing this, but couldn’t ever catch him in the act. His solution? Wait for him outside of chow the other day and then take him to the watch commander’s office to strip search him.
And Flo’s reaction? You would think he’d admit it, face up to the charge and accept a $6.00 fine (what they offered him when the orange first fell). No, he filed a complaint against the sergeant alleging the strip search constituted “sexual harassment”.
I laughed at the stupidity and arrogance of both men, but truth is, they acted exactly as I’d expect them to. The sergeant overreacting and chest thumping because of his own ineptitude and impotence to control simple pilfering; and Flo, a career criminal who wouldn’t admit he was caught even when the orange fall out from between his cheeks (“How’d that get there? It ain’t mine!”).
There’s Tony and his marital problems. Tony is in here for a long time – until 2026. He is a computer wiz and accomplished jazz musician. He also had sex with a number of his teenage daughter’s girlfriends, photographed the girls and put their photos on a number of websites. The strange thing about Tony is, you meet him and – not knowing his crime – you think “he seems like an OK guy”. Then, you see he’s hardwired into all these teen girl shows and books and you suddenly realize “this guy’s got problems”.
He and his daughter were abnormally close. When he was arrested she tried to take her own life. She got help, was hospitalized, and after three months returned home. So here’s Tony dilemma. His daughter has now been arrested for stealing a car to drive to the mall and meet a boy. She got caught – in the backseat – with the boy and is now on house arrest (ironically, the same prosecutor who handled Tony’s case also handled hers). And the wife? She’s absent most nights bar and bed hopping.
Tony’s furious with his wife’s lack of involvement in their daughter’s life. Yet, it was that lack of involvement that allowed him to get close to his daughter and use her to get to her girlfriends.
E, who spent a week wondering and worrying if he was going to go to the hole, lose his job, his apprenticeship, and college all because he’s been blatantly stealing from the kitchen, decides this week to grab another 10 eggs for me to make a quiche, which, by the way came out perfectly (I made a Ritz cracker crust, tuna, sautéed onions, pepper jack cheese, bacon and broccoli; guys circled around the table when I lifted it out of the plastic pan).
On the one hand, he’s still worried, borderline paranoid, that the investigators will show back up and bust him. Yet, he can’t or won’t realize the shakedown was a wakeup call. He has to get out of the hustler mentality. Everything he does revolves around a scam, a con, a hustle. If he’s not careful, he’ll get out of here and the first twinge of greed that hits him will lead him to try and move some drugs again.
It’s not easy to stop what you’re doing. My arrest for embezzlement wasn’t the first time I “played” with other people’s money. I may understand now why I did it, but that doesn’t excuse it, nor does it make the hurt I brought to my wife and kids any less painful. I was self-centered and short sighted and hurt deeply the three people I love the most. No matter what “issues” existed between my wife and me, she and our kids deserved better from me.
I decided after my arrest that I didn’t want to keep repeating the insanity of the past. I couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe it was my finding my faith and understanding what grace really means. I just know, as most people – COs and inmates alike – will tell you, I’m an honest, truthful, stand up guy. I’ve learned that faith and trust in a power beyond yourself is the only way to break out of the cycle of repeating the same behavior.
It also makes you recognize you’re not always right about things. You’ve got to be a little kinder, a lot more forgiving. I wonder, as I sit in here, whether I’d feel the same way if my wife – instead of divorcing me – had said “I’m deeply hurt and it’s going to be very difficult to put this behind us, but I love you and I know that’s what our marriage means”. Somehow, I think I would have.
Days in prison, just like days outside, go on. One leads to the next. Yet, for me, my days are all new. I may follow the same routine, but I go about it in a whole new way.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
At Least This Isn't California
About a week ago, a riot broke out at California’s Folsom Prison (think “the Man in Black”, Johnny Cash) on a handball court. When it was over about 250 inmates were injured or charged with fighting. California has 155,000 men and women incarcerated in a system only built to house half that many. They are currently operating under a Federal Court order to release 40,000 inmates in the next 18 months to reduce their inmate population to 137% of bed capacity [Note: the inmate lawsuit over this issue took the Federal Courts 10 years to finally order the mass release. For eight years California operated under a consent order to either release or build more prisons. Oh yeah, they have a $19 billion budget shortfall so they can’t afford to build any new prisons.]
Things are so bad with California prison medical care that “Governor Aahnold” agreed by consent order to spend $150 million immediately to improve medical care for inmates when faced with “an alarmingly high rate of deaths of inmates due to poor care and suicide”.
At least Virginia doesn’t have the problems California has. Really? Last Friday, August 27th, one inmate was stabbed to death and three others seriously injured at the level 4 Nottoway Correction Center.
At Greensville, a massive 3,000 inmate prison holding level 2 and 3 inmates, since January two inmates have been murdered and one committed suicide. And, at Red Onion prison – the Commonwealth’s Super Max facility – two inmates have been murdered – by the same inmate.
But forget that. After all, those guys are felons. They deserve what happens to them (I wonder how many people dare say that while they’re sitting in their church pews on Sunday morning). Instead, think about the cost.
According to Virginia’s State Government website, there are approximately 38,900 inmates serving time in Virginia’s prisons. That does not include another 5,000 with DOC numbers awaiting transfer to a DOC facility who are sitting in regional jails, overcrowding them. The DOC website announces “fortunately, we don’t yet have an overcrowding problem”.
I guess it depends on how you define “overcrowding”. Having bunks sitting in fire lanes must not meet DOC’s definition of overcrowding. Having 200 inmates being watched by two officers must not meet their definition either. And, I guess being so understaffed that COs at Nottoway couldn’t search for “shanks” isn’t overcrowding, at least according to DOC’s spokesman, Larry Traylor.
Still not convinced, consider the other costs. As former Lt. Governor (and now head of Prison Ministries) Mark Earley recently said: “Virginia spends more than $1.1 billion annually on its prisons”. That’s more than is spent on education or healthcare in the Commonwealth.
Then there are the legal costs. In between filing lawsuits challenging the new federal health care plan, or going after a University of Virginia Professor who conducts research on global warming for fraud, Attorney General Ken Cuccinelli is responsible for defending DOC in a myriad of cases.
Each year, inmates file thousands of Habeas Corpus petitions in an attempt to get their sentences reviewed. Each case requires an Assistant Attorney General (and support staff) to defend the legitimacy of the incarceration.
Each year thousands of other suits are filed by inmates over violations of constitutional rights, such as religious freedom. Injured inmates or inmates denied adequate medical care sue.
Then, there are the major lawsuits brought by or on behalf of inmates. Currently, Troutman Sanders (a major Richmond law firm) is providing counsel to eleven inmates who have been denied parole (guys locked up pre-1994 are still parole eligible).
The National Lawyer’s Guild filed suit against DOC for refusing to allow inmates to order a legal self-help book. Prison Legal News filed a similar lawsuit over censorships of their paper, a monthly compilation of cases around the country involving inmates and prisons.
On September 2nd, U.S. District Court Judge James Turk, sitting in Roanoke, found “laughable” the Attorney General’s argument in an inmate censorship suit. In that case, the inmate sued because Augusta Correction Center refused him access, under Operating Procedure 803.2, to literary classics such as James Joyce’s Ulysses, DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Nabokov’s Lolita (all three books appear on various “100 Must Read Books”). The reason for denying access to these books according to the Attorney General? Inmates read these books for the sex scenes depicted in them, then “barter” the books for goods and services.
The Judge – not a bleeding heart, a no-nonsense conservative – found the policy unconstitutional censorship. DOC has dozens of rules that are selectively enforced and/or vague and nonsensical that lead to litigation. Imagine the dollars Virginia taxpayers spend just on legal costs alone. Add that to the $1.1 billion annual budget and you start talking about “real money”.
In this case, Virginia DOC is well on the road to copying its neighbor to the west. Soon Virginians will be able to paraphrase President Kennedy’s famous words. When it comes to prisons, Virginians can say: “Ich bin ein Californian”.
Things are so bad with California prison medical care that “Governor Aahnold” agreed by consent order to spend $150 million immediately to improve medical care for inmates when faced with “an alarmingly high rate of deaths of inmates due to poor care and suicide”.
At least Virginia doesn’t have the problems California has. Really? Last Friday, August 27th, one inmate was stabbed to death and three others seriously injured at the level 4 Nottoway Correction Center.
At Greensville, a massive 3,000 inmate prison holding level 2 and 3 inmates, since January two inmates have been murdered and one committed suicide. And, at Red Onion prison – the Commonwealth’s Super Max facility – two inmates have been murdered – by the same inmate.
But forget that. After all, those guys are felons. They deserve what happens to them (I wonder how many people dare say that while they’re sitting in their church pews on Sunday morning). Instead, think about the cost.
According to Virginia’s State Government website, there are approximately 38,900 inmates serving time in Virginia’s prisons. That does not include another 5,000 with DOC numbers awaiting transfer to a DOC facility who are sitting in regional jails, overcrowding them. The DOC website announces “fortunately, we don’t yet have an overcrowding problem”.
I guess it depends on how you define “overcrowding”. Having bunks sitting in fire lanes must not meet DOC’s definition of overcrowding. Having 200 inmates being watched by two officers must not meet their definition either. And, I guess being so understaffed that COs at Nottoway couldn’t search for “shanks” isn’t overcrowding, at least according to DOC’s spokesman, Larry Traylor.
Still not convinced, consider the other costs. As former Lt. Governor (and now head of Prison Ministries) Mark Earley recently said: “Virginia spends more than $1.1 billion annually on its prisons”. That’s more than is spent on education or healthcare in the Commonwealth.
Then there are the legal costs. In between filing lawsuits challenging the new federal health care plan, or going after a University of Virginia Professor who conducts research on global warming for fraud, Attorney General Ken Cuccinelli is responsible for defending DOC in a myriad of cases.
Each year, inmates file thousands of Habeas Corpus petitions in an attempt to get their sentences reviewed. Each case requires an Assistant Attorney General (and support staff) to defend the legitimacy of the incarceration.
Each year thousands of other suits are filed by inmates over violations of constitutional rights, such as religious freedom. Injured inmates or inmates denied adequate medical care sue.
Then, there are the major lawsuits brought by or on behalf of inmates. Currently, Troutman Sanders (a major Richmond law firm) is providing counsel to eleven inmates who have been denied parole (guys locked up pre-1994 are still parole eligible).
The National Lawyer’s Guild filed suit against DOC for refusing to allow inmates to order a legal self-help book. Prison Legal News filed a similar lawsuit over censorships of their paper, a monthly compilation of cases around the country involving inmates and prisons.
On September 2nd, U.S. District Court Judge James Turk, sitting in Roanoke, found “laughable” the Attorney General’s argument in an inmate censorship suit. In that case, the inmate sued because Augusta Correction Center refused him access, under Operating Procedure 803.2, to literary classics such as James Joyce’s Ulysses, DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Nabokov’s Lolita (all three books appear on various “100 Must Read Books”). The reason for denying access to these books according to the Attorney General? Inmates read these books for the sex scenes depicted in them, then “barter” the books for goods and services.
The Judge – not a bleeding heart, a no-nonsense conservative – found the policy unconstitutional censorship. DOC has dozens of rules that are selectively enforced and/or vague and nonsensical that lead to litigation. Imagine the dollars Virginia taxpayers spend just on legal costs alone. Add that to the $1.1 billion annual budget and you start talking about “real money”.
In this case, Virginia DOC is well on the road to copying its neighbor to the west. Soon Virginians will be able to paraphrase President Kennedy’s famous words. When it comes to prisons, Virginians can say: “Ich bin ein Californian”.
Convict Cable
Prison has cable and prisoners have TV’s. To a good many people, that will come as a surprise. Our prison here is on “Corrections Cable”. We get basic channels, bare minimum, and the inmates pay for it, not individually but with the “slush fund” the prison collects from overcharging on commissary (for a detailed explanation on the commissary and cable contracts read my previous post – “Contracts 101”).
TV watching is a prime past time in here. Inmates can buy a color TV (13 inch) through commissary for over $200. The TV is specially manufactured for prisoners. It’s made out of clear plastic so officers can see inside to make sure there’s no contraband stored in the case. The same TV in a catalog lists for $89.
You order your set, wait two weeks and then you walk across the compound to personal property and pick it up. The property officer puts “security” stickers around the case (stickers removed, you get an alteration charge) and engraves your name on the set to prevent theft. You also need to order a surge protector, coaxial cable (to hook your set up to cable) and a headset. Prison rules prohibit you from watching your set without headphones. After spending your $300 for the full “set up” you’re ready for TV.
Of the 96 bunks in this building, there are 92 individual sets. We get the four major networks (ABC, CBS, NBC and Fox). Then there are the specialty channels: CNN, TBS, TNT, CW, A & E, Univision (Spanish), PBS, Health Channel, ESPN & ESPN2, BET, Spike, and Lifetime.
The two “eye opening” prison experiences for me have been watching guys line up for ice cream on Tuesday nights and seeing all the sets tuned to Lifetime. There is something off kilter about guys sitting on their beds, eating butter pecan ice cream, intently watching “Army Wives” on Lifetime. To be fair, most guys watch Lifetime because the women are hot.
The other big channel is Spike. Spike is all bikinis, guns, cars and action movies. Two weeks ago, Stallone’s newest “Rambo” came on Spike. From the corner of the building, P or V or E (pick a letter; it’s someone’s name!) yelled out “Rambo on 10”. Within nanoseconds 50 sets turned to Spike.
You can spot the child molesters. They love cartoons (no joke) and avoid any show with bikinis (Spike had “Ms. Hooters” contest on a month ago, the “game guys” all had “You’ve Got Mail” on).
TV is really mind numbing. There are guys that lie in bed all day (except for meals and bathroom breaks) switching from “Jerry Springer” to “Wife Swap”. They know every channels programming schedule by heart. Their TVs remain on 24/7 except during “standing counts” (there are only 3 of these each day).
If you are shocked that prisons allow inmates to have TVs and cable, think of the alternative. 96 guys living on top of each other, many guys angry at the treatment they received in court, feeling wronged, pissed off at the world. Guys with kids put in bunks next to child molesters; Bloods next to Crips; and you hire two female COs to keep the peace. TV does more to keep the building quiet than 10 Cos could do.
I used to be a big TV guy before I got arrested. Now, I check the scores on ESPN at 5:30 in the morning and then the local news and headlines. With the exception of an hour a night, my TV is off. There are too many books to read, stories to write, crossword puzzles to work, law work to handle; to dull my mind with TV.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a couple of shows. Besides sports and news my “picks” for TV: any Gordon Ramsey cooking show; “The Mentalist”; “The Office” (Tuesday night 3 hours on TBS, just an FYI); “The Closer”, “Rizzoli and Isles”, and “House”. I’m just trying to keep my mind fresh to get through each day. Gotta go, “Big Brother” is coming on.
TV watching is a prime past time in here. Inmates can buy a color TV (13 inch) through commissary for over $200. The TV is specially manufactured for prisoners. It’s made out of clear plastic so officers can see inside to make sure there’s no contraband stored in the case. The same TV in a catalog lists for $89.
You order your set, wait two weeks and then you walk across the compound to personal property and pick it up. The property officer puts “security” stickers around the case (stickers removed, you get an alteration charge) and engraves your name on the set to prevent theft. You also need to order a surge protector, coaxial cable (to hook your set up to cable) and a headset. Prison rules prohibit you from watching your set without headphones. After spending your $300 for the full “set up” you’re ready for TV.
Of the 96 bunks in this building, there are 92 individual sets. We get the four major networks (ABC, CBS, NBC and Fox). Then there are the specialty channels: CNN, TBS, TNT, CW, A & E, Univision (Spanish), PBS, Health Channel, ESPN & ESPN2, BET, Spike, and Lifetime.
The two “eye opening” prison experiences for me have been watching guys line up for ice cream on Tuesday nights and seeing all the sets tuned to Lifetime. There is something off kilter about guys sitting on their beds, eating butter pecan ice cream, intently watching “Army Wives” on Lifetime. To be fair, most guys watch Lifetime because the women are hot.
The other big channel is Spike. Spike is all bikinis, guns, cars and action movies. Two weeks ago, Stallone’s newest “Rambo” came on Spike. From the corner of the building, P or V or E (pick a letter; it’s someone’s name!) yelled out “Rambo on 10”. Within nanoseconds 50 sets turned to Spike.
You can spot the child molesters. They love cartoons (no joke) and avoid any show with bikinis (Spike had “Ms. Hooters” contest on a month ago, the “game guys” all had “You’ve Got Mail” on).
TV is really mind numbing. There are guys that lie in bed all day (except for meals and bathroom breaks) switching from “Jerry Springer” to “Wife Swap”. They know every channels programming schedule by heart. Their TVs remain on 24/7 except during “standing counts” (there are only 3 of these each day).
If you are shocked that prisons allow inmates to have TVs and cable, think of the alternative. 96 guys living on top of each other, many guys angry at the treatment they received in court, feeling wronged, pissed off at the world. Guys with kids put in bunks next to child molesters; Bloods next to Crips; and you hire two female COs to keep the peace. TV does more to keep the building quiet than 10 Cos could do.
I used to be a big TV guy before I got arrested. Now, I check the scores on ESPN at 5:30 in the morning and then the local news and headlines. With the exception of an hour a night, my TV is off. There are too many books to read, stories to write, crossword puzzles to work, law work to handle; to dull my mind with TV.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a couple of shows. Besides sports and news my “picks” for TV: any Gordon Ramsey cooking show; “The Mentalist”; “The Office” (Tuesday night 3 hours on TBS, just an FYI); “The Closer”, “Rizzoli and Isles”, and “House”. I’m just trying to keep my mind fresh to get through each day. Gotta go, “Big Brother” is coming on.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
South of the Border
I’m locked up with a large number of Hispanic guys, the vast majority of whom came into the country illegally, worked their butts off pursuing the American dream, did something stupid in breaking the law, and are now serving sentences until they are deported. These guys came from Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador, Chile, Cuba, every Latin American country.
I’ve gotten to know a good many of these guys as a tutor in the Spanish class. I don’t speak a lot of Spanish (but I’m learning!), but between my poor Spanish and their poor English we communicate just fine. They are a close, tight group. When you make up about 10% of the inmate population you tend to stick together. I’m one of the few “Anglos” (Big S – a great soccer player – is anther Anglo tight with the guys) they hang with. As such, it’s given me some insight into these guys. I’ve also changed my mind about an issue dominating the headlines: illegal immigrants.
These guys – for the most part – are decent, and straight up. A high percentage of them are very active, practicing Christians. They treat everyone fairly and are honest. They tend to be more upfront about accepting responsibility for what they did and being remorseful. Oh yes, and almost to a man they love this country and wish they could stay.
Here’s my opinion on the current debate about the border and it will probably tick a lot of people off. My “people” came to this country before 1700 (at lease on my dad’s side). My grandmother was in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), so that makes me as native as they get (unless you count the Indians). The people yelling the most about the borders are the very ones whose families cut corners to get in the country. My mom’s dad came here with his parents from Italy. Do you have any idea how many thousands of Italians, or Irish, or Polish, lied, cheated and stole their way into this country through Ellis Island? This country was founded by people who risked life and limb for a chance at something better.
Don’t like my history lesson, try our belief in Judeo-Christian tenets. God told his chosen people – the Israelites – after giving them “the promised land” to remember their suffering and remember how God so loved them that He brought them out of bondage. God then tells Israel to treat the alien in your land, the foreigner in need, with kindness.
How about an economic argument. These people pay more in taxes than they take out in services. They work harder and longer than most Americans, at jobs most of us wouldn’t even consider. They buy houses and cars. They pick almost all the food we eat. They are this economies backbone and muscle.
You want to “send em all home”, go ahead. But it’s the business owners, the farmers, the contractors who hire them; the banks that write them mortgages; the military that allows them to enlist and die in Iraq and Afghanistan so our kids can go to expensive colleges.
Most of these guys know more about this country than the average citizen. Here’s the other thing I discovered. The courts treat them unfairly. Public defenders convince them to take a plea – many times they don’t even understand what they’re pleading guilty to or the consequences of their plea. The U.S. Supreme Court just tackled this issue in its past term in Padilla v. Kentucky which requires lawyers to advise immigrants on the effect their guilty plea will have on their deportation status.
My experience in here has taught me there is no simple solution to the issue of immigration. It’s also taught me you can’t lump everyone together. Cases in point:
“Douglas” – one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met in my life. He came here in 1992 from Mexico, served in the Air Force for 6 years, bought a house, became a master framer, became a naturalized citizen, and moved his parents up here. He was making a good living when a “friend” asked him to translate in a business deal. The “friend” was selling crystal meth to an undercover cop. Douglas plead guilty, got five years, and now is in danger of having his citizenship revoked.
There’s Hector. He owns a restaurant in Fairfax and is here as a political refugee from El Salvador. He also had a drinking problem. On his third DUI, the court decided to send him to prison for 3 years; no accidents, just drunk driving. The day I was sentenced, the Judge (before giving me 30 years) sentenced a 22 year old man who drove drunk and had a wreck that killed his passenger to 2 years (apparently his life was worth a lot less than $2 million).
There’s Joker from Bolivia, a great basketball player; and Raul from Mexico – the best Spanish tutor at school; Batista and Miguel, Cuban immigrants. Miguel could be a pro boxer (bantam weight), Batista loves baseball. And, of course, there’s “Chili” from . . . you guessed it. He is hilarious and he doesn’t mean to be. The other day a guy called him “goober”. He didn’t know what it meant. We explained it the best we could. Finally, Chili figured it out and paraded up and down the aisle calling the same guy “goooo. . .bre”.
Chili is also the potato guy in the kitchen. We call him “Senor Papas” because he’ll come back and complain about making potato salad: “sum beesh; 18 sacks papas; chop, chop, chop; sum beesh!”
There’s also Rodriguez. He’s pond scum. He ran hustles on all the Hispanic guys when they first came in. He wears dark glasses 24 hours a day – that’s right, when he sleeps, showers, you name it. He can’t work or go to school because he refuses to take the glasses off. He and I got into it. He tried to “hire” me to handle his case. I refused. He called me “Gringo”. No legal help, his case fell apart.
I’m opposed to blanket deportations; I’ll make an exception for Rodriguez!
I’ve gotten to know a good many of these guys as a tutor in the Spanish class. I don’t speak a lot of Spanish (but I’m learning!), but between my poor Spanish and their poor English we communicate just fine. They are a close, tight group. When you make up about 10% of the inmate population you tend to stick together. I’m one of the few “Anglos” (Big S – a great soccer player – is anther Anglo tight with the guys) they hang with. As such, it’s given me some insight into these guys. I’ve also changed my mind about an issue dominating the headlines: illegal immigrants.
These guys – for the most part – are decent, and straight up. A high percentage of them are very active, practicing Christians. They treat everyone fairly and are honest. They tend to be more upfront about accepting responsibility for what they did and being remorseful. Oh yes, and almost to a man they love this country and wish they could stay.
Here’s my opinion on the current debate about the border and it will probably tick a lot of people off. My “people” came to this country before 1700 (at lease on my dad’s side). My grandmother was in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), so that makes me as native as they get (unless you count the Indians). The people yelling the most about the borders are the very ones whose families cut corners to get in the country. My mom’s dad came here with his parents from Italy. Do you have any idea how many thousands of Italians, or Irish, or Polish, lied, cheated and stole their way into this country through Ellis Island? This country was founded by people who risked life and limb for a chance at something better.
Don’t like my history lesson, try our belief in Judeo-Christian tenets. God told his chosen people – the Israelites – after giving them “the promised land” to remember their suffering and remember how God so loved them that He brought them out of bondage. God then tells Israel to treat the alien in your land, the foreigner in need, with kindness.
How about an economic argument. These people pay more in taxes than they take out in services. They work harder and longer than most Americans, at jobs most of us wouldn’t even consider. They buy houses and cars. They pick almost all the food we eat. They are this economies backbone and muscle.
You want to “send em all home”, go ahead. But it’s the business owners, the farmers, the contractors who hire them; the banks that write them mortgages; the military that allows them to enlist and die in Iraq and Afghanistan so our kids can go to expensive colleges.
Most of these guys know more about this country than the average citizen. Here’s the other thing I discovered. The courts treat them unfairly. Public defenders convince them to take a plea – many times they don’t even understand what they’re pleading guilty to or the consequences of their plea. The U.S. Supreme Court just tackled this issue in its past term in Padilla v. Kentucky which requires lawyers to advise immigrants on the effect their guilty plea will have on their deportation status.
My experience in here has taught me there is no simple solution to the issue of immigration. It’s also taught me you can’t lump everyone together. Cases in point:
“Douglas” – one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met in my life. He came here in 1992 from Mexico, served in the Air Force for 6 years, bought a house, became a master framer, became a naturalized citizen, and moved his parents up here. He was making a good living when a “friend” asked him to translate in a business deal. The “friend” was selling crystal meth to an undercover cop. Douglas plead guilty, got five years, and now is in danger of having his citizenship revoked.
There’s Hector. He owns a restaurant in Fairfax and is here as a political refugee from El Salvador. He also had a drinking problem. On his third DUI, the court decided to send him to prison for 3 years; no accidents, just drunk driving. The day I was sentenced, the Judge (before giving me 30 years) sentenced a 22 year old man who drove drunk and had a wreck that killed his passenger to 2 years (apparently his life was worth a lot less than $2 million).
There’s Joker from Bolivia, a great basketball player; and Raul from Mexico – the best Spanish tutor at school; Batista and Miguel, Cuban immigrants. Miguel could be a pro boxer (bantam weight), Batista loves baseball. And, of course, there’s “Chili” from . . . you guessed it. He is hilarious and he doesn’t mean to be. The other day a guy called him “goober”. He didn’t know what it meant. We explained it the best we could. Finally, Chili figured it out and paraded up and down the aisle calling the same guy “goooo. . .bre”.
Chili is also the potato guy in the kitchen. We call him “Senor Papas” because he’ll come back and complain about making potato salad: “sum beesh; 18 sacks papas; chop, chop, chop; sum beesh!”
There’s also Rodriguez. He’s pond scum. He ran hustles on all the Hispanic guys when they first came in. He wears dark glasses 24 hours a day – that’s right, when he sleeps, showers, you name it. He can’t work or go to school because he refuses to take the glasses off. He and I got into it. He tried to “hire” me to handle his case. I refused. He called me “Gringo”. No legal help, his case fell apart.
I’m opposed to blanket deportations; I’ll make an exception for Rodriguez!
Monday, September 13, 2010
Contracts 101
Every first year law student learns about contracts. You learn about “offer” and “acceptance” and “consideration”. Unfortunately, everything you learn about contracts gets thrown out the window when a governmental agency is involved.
Inmates become very familiar with DOC’s contracting skills. Just looking at the costs, terms, and limitations makes you think someone at DOC is either getting kickbacks or is a complete moron.
Take the following examples of government contracting impotence:
Corrections Cable. DOC signed a contract with an outfit from Texas called Corrections Cable to provide cable TV service to DOC facilities. First, its not cable. The channels are fed to the prison by satellite. Second, service standards are terrible. Channels go out every day. Third (and most important) it is more expensive than either cable or satellite service through local providers in the facility’s area.
DOC’s contract is a cash cow for Corrections Cable. The cost is high, the channel choice low (16 channels versus 40 on the local providers basic cable package at a lower cost) and the service stinks.
Why would DOC spend more for less? Easy. The money used to pay for cable comes from the “inmate commissary fund” which is the money DOC is paid by Keefe – the commissary provider – for the privilege of exclusively gouging inmates, which leads to:
Keefe Commissary. Keefe is the Goliath of the prison commissary business. Tom Keefe had an idea years ago. He convinced Florida DOC he could provide plastic orange juice containers cheaper than they could buy them. From that grew his billion dollar business.
Inmates do not have a constitutional right to commissary; that is a fact. When inmates complain about the cost of a ramen noodle pack (10 cents at Wal-Mart, 28 cents here, 73 cents at Henrico Jail) it generally falls on deaf ears. Commissary is a necessity, however, because it allows DOC to not meet its obligations to the health and hygiene – and food needs – of the inmate population.
Any inmate who works is required to purchase their own hygiene products (soap, deodorant, detergent, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor). Don’t work, don’t earn good time. Prisons are required to provide hygiene products. They avoid this responsibility by making inmates buy their own from their wages.
That’s OK, except DOC then signs a contract with Keefe giving them an exclusive right to sell all food, clothing (extra t-shirts, boxers, socks – we only are provided three sets), and hygiene products (and TVs and other approved electronics). Keefe, then charges an exorbitantly high price for those items ($1.61 for a 4 oz. bag of tuna; $229 for a 13 inch color TV), gouging inmates. Keefe pays DOC –the local prison – a 15% “commissary fee” which the prison then uses to fund: the inmate law library (inmates have a constitutional right to access legal materials); inmate rec yards (again, inmates have a right to recreation time); cable TV; and – a unique Virginia practice – the chaplain’s office (a non-profit group in Virginia: “Prison Chaplain Assoc.” gets $600,000 a year from the inmate fund to provide Protestant chaplains in the facilities. Catholic, Jewish, and Muslim inmates have no on-site spiritual counselor. Of course, the chaplain here is terrible so no one has spiritual support!).
J.E.M. Jones Express Music of Big Stone Gap, Virginia. Mr. Jones is a former CO. He convinced DOC he could provide audio CD’s and cassettes to inmates from his basement. He is a middleman. You want a Rolling Stones CD? Lady Gaga? Look in Mr. Jones’ catalog. Send him twice the amount you would pay ordering the CD from Barnes & Noble (ironically, we can order books from B & N) plus shipping and, if you’re lucky, Mr. Jones sends you your CD in two to three weeks.
Mr. Jones has little, if any inventory. Mr. Jones has tremendous mark up and poor service. “What does Mr. Jones have”, you ask? That’s easy. He has contacts in DOC and that’s enough to give him an exclusive contract.
You may be thinking “So what? It only affects you law breakers”. Wrong. Think: VCE.
Virginia Correction Enterprises. Every prison has a VCE shop that manufactures products sold to other Virginia State Agencies. Inmates are paid “slave wages”. The 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution outlawed slavery except involving inmate work (look at the language).
Here, VCE builds furniture – upholstered chairs and tables. Skilled VCE workers are paid between 55 and 75 cents an hour.
State Colleges and agencies are required to buy from VCE. That dorm furniture your son or daughter is using was manufactured here.
Here’s the irony for taxpayers: VCE significantly marks up their prices. One conference room chair costs more than four similar chairs purchased on the open market (I have friends in higher ed who confirm this).
So DOC makes a chair for $50 and sells it to State U for $800. Those costs are passed on to parents as higher tuition and taxpayers as schools demand more funding.
Welcome to DOC contracts.
Inmates become very familiar with DOC’s contracting skills. Just looking at the costs, terms, and limitations makes you think someone at DOC is either getting kickbacks or is a complete moron.
Take the following examples of government contracting impotence:
Corrections Cable. DOC signed a contract with an outfit from Texas called Corrections Cable to provide cable TV service to DOC facilities. First, its not cable. The channels are fed to the prison by satellite. Second, service standards are terrible. Channels go out every day. Third (and most important) it is more expensive than either cable or satellite service through local providers in the facility’s area.
DOC’s contract is a cash cow for Corrections Cable. The cost is high, the channel choice low (16 channels versus 40 on the local providers basic cable package at a lower cost) and the service stinks.
Why would DOC spend more for less? Easy. The money used to pay for cable comes from the “inmate commissary fund” which is the money DOC is paid by Keefe – the commissary provider – for the privilege of exclusively gouging inmates, which leads to:
Keefe Commissary. Keefe is the Goliath of the prison commissary business. Tom Keefe had an idea years ago. He convinced Florida DOC he could provide plastic orange juice containers cheaper than they could buy them. From that grew his billion dollar business.
Inmates do not have a constitutional right to commissary; that is a fact. When inmates complain about the cost of a ramen noodle pack (10 cents at Wal-Mart, 28 cents here, 73 cents at Henrico Jail) it generally falls on deaf ears. Commissary is a necessity, however, because it allows DOC to not meet its obligations to the health and hygiene – and food needs – of the inmate population.
Any inmate who works is required to purchase their own hygiene products (soap, deodorant, detergent, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor). Don’t work, don’t earn good time. Prisons are required to provide hygiene products. They avoid this responsibility by making inmates buy their own from their wages.
That’s OK, except DOC then signs a contract with Keefe giving them an exclusive right to sell all food, clothing (extra t-shirts, boxers, socks – we only are provided three sets), and hygiene products (and TVs and other approved electronics). Keefe, then charges an exorbitantly high price for those items ($1.61 for a 4 oz. bag of tuna; $229 for a 13 inch color TV), gouging inmates. Keefe pays DOC –the local prison – a 15% “commissary fee” which the prison then uses to fund: the inmate law library (inmates have a constitutional right to access legal materials); inmate rec yards (again, inmates have a right to recreation time); cable TV; and – a unique Virginia practice – the chaplain’s office (a non-profit group in Virginia: “Prison Chaplain Assoc.” gets $600,000 a year from the inmate fund to provide Protestant chaplains in the facilities. Catholic, Jewish, and Muslim inmates have no on-site spiritual counselor. Of course, the chaplain here is terrible so no one has spiritual support!).
J.E.M. Jones Express Music of Big Stone Gap, Virginia. Mr. Jones is a former CO. He convinced DOC he could provide audio CD’s and cassettes to inmates from his basement. He is a middleman. You want a Rolling Stones CD? Lady Gaga? Look in Mr. Jones’ catalog. Send him twice the amount you would pay ordering the CD from Barnes & Noble (ironically, we can order books from B & N) plus shipping and, if you’re lucky, Mr. Jones sends you your CD in two to three weeks.
Mr. Jones has little, if any inventory. Mr. Jones has tremendous mark up and poor service. “What does Mr. Jones have”, you ask? That’s easy. He has contacts in DOC and that’s enough to give him an exclusive contract.
You may be thinking “So what? It only affects you law breakers”. Wrong. Think: VCE.
Virginia Correction Enterprises. Every prison has a VCE shop that manufactures products sold to other Virginia State Agencies. Inmates are paid “slave wages”. The 13th Amendment to the United States Constitution outlawed slavery except involving inmate work (look at the language).
Here, VCE builds furniture – upholstered chairs and tables. Skilled VCE workers are paid between 55 and 75 cents an hour.
State Colleges and agencies are required to buy from VCE. That dorm furniture your son or daughter is using was manufactured here.
Here’s the irony for taxpayers: VCE significantly marks up their prices. One conference room chair costs more than four similar chairs purchased on the open market (I have friends in higher ed who confirm this).
So DOC makes a chair for $50 and sells it to State U for $800. Those costs are passed on to parents as higher tuition and taxpayers as schools demand more funding.
Welcome to DOC contracts.
Shakedown
My bunkmate suffered through a shakedown yesterday. It’s a part of prison life, but it’s never pleasant. By the time the shakedown is completed, everything you possess is rifled through. He had been pretty well stocked with stuff. When they finished going through everything in his foot locker, wall locker, in and under his bed, they had filled a trash bag. As the Deltas screamed in Animal House “they even took stuff he didn’t steal.”
Why’d they shake him down? Great question. Here is a basic truth about prison life: prison discipline couldn’t exist without inmate snitches. There is nothing worse in prison than being labeled a “snitch” – a guy who will rat out fellow inmates to curry favor with the administration.
Snitches are hated and feared because they can bring unnecessary heat on you from the investigators. And, many times they provide their information “anonymously”. A note will be slid under the sergeant’s door and within an hour or so; the investigators – decked out in blue surgical gloves – appear and begin the process of reminding you you have zero privacy or freedom while locked up.
Most “police work” done in prison is based on information provided by snitches. Here’s the weird thing (though you probably expect this already), snitch tips are very unreliable. Most times a note ends up dropped, it is because an inmate is “beefin” (fighting with) another inmate. Why get in a fight with a guy when instead you can just “drop a note” and bring heat on him?
That’s what it looks like happened to my bunkmate. He ticked off the wrong person and here came the investigators. And, the shakedown was intense. They tore through his stuff like they were looking for something specific. This shakedown wasn’t about brownie mix, pizza dough or eggs (he just bought 8 fresh eggs from a guy in the kitchen. He had arranged for broccoli and onions to come in so I could make him a quiche with a Ritz cracker crust). All his food, his spices and sauces, anything he didn’t pay for is gone.
That may not be the end of it. He could get a charge. There are two levels of charges: 100 level and 200 level. 100 level charges are serious: fighting, escape, and stealing to name a few. You get charged with a 100 level offense and you go to the “hole” (solitary), lose your job, get thrown out of school and possibly face actual criminal charges and get your security level increased (meaning they move you to a higher level prison). 200 level charges are more like demerits: contraband is the most often cited (and anything not issued to you or bought by you is contraband). Level 200 charges involve loss of privileges: no rec or commissary for 30 days, or fines ($6.00 or $12.00).
Here’s the thing: every inmate could be written a contraband charge every single day they’re locked up. We all have bowls, or books, or pens, or shirts we didn’t pay for or have issued to us. The CO’s don’t care. Guys having a few extras helps keep thing running smoothly. What they care about is when guys start stealing in bulk from the kitchen and putting it out there that they’re living above everyone else.
I suspect that’s what happened here. My bunkmate’s been running his mouth about how much stuff he had and how no one could catch him. Pride is a terrible affliction and the only treatment sometimes is a big dose of humility. He’s going through that right now.
Meanwhile, everyone’s paranoid about the source of the shakedown. That’s the effect snitches have on this environment. Yet, for all the talk about guys hating snitches, most guys in prison would rat out another inmate in a heart beat. Loyalty is much stronger on the street. Case in point, Big S and I are about the only two guys in here who didn’t “name names” when we were arrested. Neither of us wanted to cause trouble for anyone else.
So, Big S and I keep our lockers clean. And my bunkmate? He’s been talking a good deal to the CO‘s.
Why’d they shake him down? Great question. Here is a basic truth about prison life: prison discipline couldn’t exist without inmate snitches. There is nothing worse in prison than being labeled a “snitch” – a guy who will rat out fellow inmates to curry favor with the administration.
Snitches are hated and feared because they can bring unnecessary heat on you from the investigators. And, many times they provide their information “anonymously”. A note will be slid under the sergeant’s door and within an hour or so; the investigators – decked out in blue surgical gloves – appear and begin the process of reminding you you have zero privacy or freedom while locked up.
Most “police work” done in prison is based on information provided by snitches. Here’s the weird thing (though you probably expect this already), snitch tips are very unreliable. Most times a note ends up dropped, it is because an inmate is “beefin” (fighting with) another inmate. Why get in a fight with a guy when instead you can just “drop a note” and bring heat on him?
That’s what it looks like happened to my bunkmate. He ticked off the wrong person and here came the investigators. And, the shakedown was intense. They tore through his stuff like they were looking for something specific. This shakedown wasn’t about brownie mix, pizza dough or eggs (he just bought 8 fresh eggs from a guy in the kitchen. He had arranged for broccoli and onions to come in so I could make him a quiche with a Ritz cracker crust). All his food, his spices and sauces, anything he didn’t pay for is gone.
That may not be the end of it. He could get a charge. There are two levels of charges: 100 level and 200 level. 100 level charges are serious: fighting, escape, and stealing to name a few. You get charged with a 100 level offense and you go to the “hole” (solitary), lose your job, get thrown out of school and possibly face actual criminal charges and get your security level increased (meaning they move you to a higher level prison). 200 level charges are more like demerits: contraband is the most often cited (and anything not issued to you or bought by you is contraband). Level 200 charges involve loss of privileges: no rec or commissary for 30 days, or fines ($6.00 or $12.00).
Here’s the thing: every inmate could be written a contraband charge every single day they’re locked up. We all have bowls, or books, or pens, or shirts we didn’t pay for or have issued to us. The CO’s don’t care. Guys having a few extras helps keep thing running smoothly. What they care about is when guys start stealing in bulk from the kitchen and putting it out there that they’re living above everyone else.
I suspect that’s what happened here. My bunkmate’s been running his mouth about how much stuff he had and how no one could catch him. Pride is a terrible affliction and the only treatment sometimes is a big dose of humility. He’s going through that right now.
Meanwhile, everyone’s paranoid about the source of the shakedown. That’s the effect snitches have on this environment. Yet, for all the talk about guys hating snitches, most guys in prison would rat out another inmate in a heart beat. Loyalty is much stronger on the street. Case in point, Big S and I are about the only two guys in here who didn’t “name names” when we were arrested. Neither of us wanted to cause trouble for anyone else.
So, Big S and I keep our lockers clean. And my bunkmate? He’s been talking a good deal to the CO‘s.
Secrets
I’ve been helping an older inmate get his conviction overturned. Late last week the Federal Court in Richmond agreed with me and returned his case to the local Virginia Circuit Court so he can appeal his conviction (his conviction stands, but his appeal rights were reinstated).
Why? Because his appellate attorney was recently disbarred for neglecting cases, letting pleadings go unanswered and failing to note appeals. His appellate attorney suffered from depression and alcoholism that impaired his ability to properly handle his cases.
I don’t know if this inmate is guilty. I do know his attorney’s inability to face up to the secrets he carried cost him his chance to have his appeal heard.
Secrets. We all have them; we all know them. I’ve thought a great deal about the secrets I carried, many for a long time. I’ve concluded, after much reflection, that secrets end up poisoning our soul. In the light of day, nothing is so bad that it needs to be hidden. No matter how painful, light eventually heals. Secrets on the other hand fester and poison, not only ourselves, but our relationships.
I learned years ago that my grandmother thought I made a mistake marrying my wife. She thought my wife was too demanding, to self-directed and I was the one putting my education, my career on the back burner.
Ironically, I held that inside and conceded each and every decision to my wife. In hindsight, perhaps Lucy knew best. Perhaps I should have told my wife as partners we both needed to be willing to compromise. I didn’t do it out of fear my wife would be angry and think she was a great compromiser. Our relationship would have been better served by me “manning up”.
There were dozens of times I came home and found my wife deeply hurt by remarks made by my mother. I knew how my mom was/is. She says whatever pops in her head and is cutting, blunt, and down right mean at times. I’ve lived with that my entire life and dealt with it by ignoring her venomous tongue. I held in my personal frustration with my mom from my wife; I held my wife’s hurt from my mom. Ultimately, I did nothing and the same behavior continued.
I’ve realized over the past two years how many secrets I held. I know which friends of ours were having problems, which husbands were cheating. My silence ended up serving as acquiescence.
I knew at work everyone’s cheating, everyone’s lies. I knew the financial irregularities, the “shell game” the senior management team played for years as the company I worked for came dangerously close to failure. Early on, I seriously considered “laying it all out there”. I decided to do so now would be because I was angry at those folks for wanting me to bleed and suffer with a long prison sentence.
I held secrets. I never told my wife how I needed her to be more affectionate and loving. I never addressed the baggage I carried from my family; I never told my wife what I needed, what I longed for. Instead, I tried to be the person that would get me what I wanted.
I’ve concluded that love – real love – can handle any need, any failure. Ultimately, holding a secret in poisons you. You end up acting in a way that keeps the secret hidden, but tries to get you what you desire. You can’t have it both ways.
Secrets end up coming out. Every day some Congressional hearing discloses another secret kept from the public. Everyday the paper and the news lead with some famous person caught up in a secret, whether it’s Republican strategist Ken Mehlman being outed as gay, or Roger Clemens using steroids.
As I’ve written before, nothing hurt me as much as my wife telling me “I haven’t loved you for years”. It will take me years to heal from that, just as it will take her years to recover from learning of my secret stealing.
I wish I could go back and replay it all. There’d be no secrets.
Why? Because his appellate attorney was recently disbarred for neglecting cases, letting pleadings go unanswered and failing to note appeals. His appellate attorney suffered from depression and alcoholism that impaired his ability to properly handle his cases.
I don’t know if this inmate is guilty. I do know his attorney’s inability to face up to the secrets he carried cost him his chance to have his appeal heard.
Secrets. We all have them; we all know them. I’ve thought a great deal about the secrets I carried, many for a long time. I’ve concluded, after much reflection, that secrets end up poisoning our soul. In the light of day, nothing is so bad that it needs to be hidden. No matter how painful, light eventually heals. Secrets on the other hand fester and poison, not only ourselves, but our relationships.
I learned years ago that my grandmother thought I made a mistake marrying my wife. She thought my wife was too demanding, to self-directed and I was the one putting my education, my career on the back burner.
Ironically, I held that inside and conceded each and every decision to my wife. In hindsight, perhaps Lucy knew best. Perhaps I should have told my wife as partners we both needed to be willing to compromise. I didn’t do it out of fear my wife would be angry and think she was a great compromiser. Our relationship would have been better served by me “manning up”.
There were dozens of times I came home and found my wife deeply hurt by remarks made by my mother. I knew how my mom was/is. She says whatever pops in her head and is cutting, blunt, and down right mean at times. I’ve lived with that my entire life and dealt with it by ignoring her venomous tongue. I held in my personal frustration with my mom from my wife; I held my wife’s hurt from my mom. Ultimately, I did nothing and the same behavior continued.
I’ve realized over the past two years how many secrets I held. I know which friends of ours were having problems, which husbands were cheating. My silence ended up serving as acquiescence.
I knew at work everyone’s cheating, everyone’s lies. I knew the financial irregularities, the “shell game” the senior management team played for years as the company I worked for came dangerously close to failure. Early on, I seriously considered “laying it all out there”. I decided to do so now would be because I was angry at those folks for wanting me to bleed and suffer with a long prison sentence.
I held secrets. I never told my wife how I needed her to be more affectionate and loving. I never addressed the baggage I carried from my family; I never told my wife what I needed, what I longed for. Instead, I tried to be the person that would get me what I wanted.
I’ve concluded that love – real love – can handle any need, any failure. Ultimately, holding a secret in poisons you. You end up acting in a way that keeps the secret hidden, but tries to get you what you desire. You can’t have it both ways.
Secrets end up coming out. Every day some Congressional hearing discloses another secret kept from the public. Everyday the paper and the news lead with some famous person caught up in a secret, whether it’s Republican strategist Ken Mehlman being outed as gay, or Roger Clemens using steroids.
As I’ve written before, nothing hurt me as much as my wife telling me “I haven’t loved you for years”. It will take me years to heal from that, just as it will take her years to recover from learning of my secret stealing.
I wish I could go back and replay it all. There’d be no secrets.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Loudon 9:4
I have four favorite recording artists: Bob Dylan; Van Morrison; John Prine; and a little known folk singer named Loudon Wainwright, III. If you’ve ever seen the Sandra Bullock movie “28 days”, you’ve seen him. He played another patient in rehab with Bullock’s character.
The thing I like about these four guys is the lyrics they write. I was in the delivery room when both my sons were born. As I held each, moments after their birth, I leaned down and softly sang Dylan’s “Forever Young” to them.
I danced with my wife on our deck the night our eldest graduated high school. It was dark, the moon was full, and I held her in my arms and danced to Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey”. I heard John Prine sing “Angel from Montgomery” close to a thousand times. His words “if dreams were lightin, thunder was desire, this old house would have burned down a long time ago” played over and over in my head.
Loudon’s music was with me since college in 1977. I had his albums (I’m giving my age away!) and heard him sing “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road” and “Rufus is a Tit Man” (a funny ballad about his son breast feeding). No song of Loudon Wainwright’s resonated more with me than “Unhappy Anniversary”, a ballad he wrote about his divorce.
On September 4th last year the Henrico County Circuit Court entered our final decree for divorce. It was entered exactly 29 years to the day of our first date. It came only 85 days before our 28th wedding anniversary. I was devastated by the divorce. In truth, however, the reasons behind it – my wife deciding to end our relationship because of my crime; her statement “I haven’t loved you for a long time”, my awkward attempts to “make her love me” – revealed more to me about the strength (or lack thereof) of our marriage than I was ever willing to admit.
Still, with the 4th just days away, I miss her terribly, still love her, and yes, wish our marriage hadn’t failed. I’ve learned a great deal this past year about relationships.
First, more than anything, love matters most in those moments of failure, trial or loss. We all screw up; we all hurt each other, and even put ourselves ahead of others. Yes, sometime we commit crimes, or suffer from addictions. But, when you love someone, truly love them; it’s for the long haul.
Second, if you love someone, you forgive them without condition. That doesn’t mean the hurt that person caused you magically goes away. It does mean you forgive, and the bond between you remains, in spite of the hurt.
I believe in true love. I know it exists. I also know it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s loud and you can’t stand the other person as you argue and bicker. But, you love them anyway.
There is definitely such a thing as soulmates. Without your soulmate you feel a part of you is missing.
The strange thing about these past two years is, I’ve discovered I’m a very good, strong person. Prison can’t break me. I feel better, more alive, more appreciative and empathetic for people than I ever have in my life. But, the pain I feel over the end of my marriage, the loss of my soulmate, the separation from my sons, tears at my innermost core.
My friend, Big S, and I were talking the other day. He asked me what I would do, what would I say, if she ever came for a visit or wrote me. I told him I wasn’t really sure. I’d probably just look at her blue eyes, tell her I love her and hope she’s doing well, and tell her I miss her and I’m sorry, sorry the way we ended.
People sometimes tell me I’m spending too much time grieving the loss of her. I tell them I’ve only spent 2 years locked up, but over 28 with her.
So, I run and recite Isaiah 40 over and over. And, somewhere back in the recesses of my brain I hear Loudon Wainwright sing, and I can’t help but wish things were different.
Unhappy anniversary, one year since we split
I walk and talk and get around
Lie down, stand up and sit
I eat and drink and smoke a lot
And live a little bit
Unhappy anniversary, one year since we split.
Unhappy anniversary, ten years since we met
There is no need to remind you
Or way I could forget
We fell in love and then fell out
Both times there was no net
Unhappy anniversary, ten years since we met.
Unhappy anniversary, I cannot count the days
My mind thinks back to happy times
Before you went away
I tell my mind to forget you
But my heart it disobeys
Unhappy anniversary, I cannot count the days.
The thing I like about these four guys is the lyrics they write. I was in the delivery room when both my sons were born. As I held each, moments after their birth, I leaned down and softly sang Dylan’s “Forever Young” to them.
I danced with my wife on our deck the night our eldest graduated high school. It was dark, the moon was full, and I held her in my arms and danced to Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey”. I heard John Prine sing “Angel from Montgomery” close to a thousand times. His words “if dreams were lightin, thunder was desire, this old house would have burned down a long time ago” played over and over in my head.
Loudon’s music was with me since college in 1977. I had his albums (I’m giving my age away!) and heard him sing “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road” and “Rufus is a Tit Man” (a funny ballad about his son breast feeding). No song of Loudon Wainwright’s resonated more with me than “Unhappy Anniversary”, a ballad he wrote about his divorce.
On September 4th last year the Henrico County Circuit Court entered our final decree for divorce. It was entered exactly 29 years to the day of our first date. It came only 85 days before our 28th wedding anniversary. I was devastated by the divorce. In truth, however, the reasons behind it – my wife deciding to end our relationship because of my crime; her statement “I haven’t loved you for a long time”, my awkward attempts to “make her love me” – revealed more to me about the strength (or lack thereof) of our marriage than I was ever willing to admit.
Still, with the 4th just days away, I miss her terribly, still love her, and yes, wish our marriage hadn’t failed. I’ve learned a great deal this past year about relationships.
First, more than anything, love matters most in those moments of failure, trial or loss. We all screw up; we all hurt each other, and even put ourselves ahead of others. Yes, sometime we commit crimes, or suffer from addictions. But, when you love someone, truly love them; it’s for the long haul.
Second, if you love someone, you forgive them without condition. That doesn’t mean the hurt that person caused you magically goes away. It does mean you forgive, and the bond between you remains, in spite of the hurt.
I believe in true love. I know it exists. I also know it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s loud and you can’t stand the other person as you argue and bicker. But, you love them anyway.
There is definitely such a thing as soulmates. Without your soulmate you feel a part of you is missing.
The strange thing about these past two years is, I’ve discovered I’m a very good, strong person. Prison can’t break me. I feel better, more alive, more appreciative and empathetic for people than I ever have in my life. But, the pain I feel over the end of my marriage, the loss of my soulmate, the separation from my sons, tears at my innermost core.
My friend, Big S, and I were talking the other day. He asked me what I would do, what would I say, if she ever came for a visit or wrote me. I told him I wasn’t really sure. I’d probably just look at her blue eyes, tell her I love her and hope she’s doing well, and tell her I miss her and I’m sorry, sorry the way we ended.
People sometimes tell me I’m spending too much time grieving the loss of her. I tell them I’ve only spent 2 years locked up, but over 28 with her.
So, I run and recite Isaiah 40 over and over. And, somewhere back in the recesses of my brain I hear Loudon Wainwright sing, and I can’t help but wish things were different.
Unhappy anniversary, one year since we split
I walk and talk and get around
Lie down, stand up and sit
I eat and drink and smoke a lot
And live a little bit
Unhappy anniversary, one year since we split.
Unhappy anniversary, ten years since we met
There is no need to remind you
Or way I could forget
We fell in love and then fell out
Both times there was no net
Unhappy anniversary, ten years since we met.
Unhappy anniversary, I cannot count the days
My mind thinks back to happy times
Before you went away
I tell my mind to forget you
But my heart it disobeys
Unhappy anniversary, I cannot count the days.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Lt. Dan
I watched “Forrest Gump” on TV the other night for about the 100th time. I love that movie. My favorite scenes involve Forrest and Lt. Dan, his commanding officer in Vietnam. As you know, Lt. Dan comes from a family with a long military history which, we find out, involves some relative dying in every war the U.S. has ever fought in.
The unit is out on patrol and they’re ambushed. The North Vietnamese are everywhere, bullets and bombs hitting men on every side of Forrest. Lt. Dan calls a retreat and Forrest runs. He’s out of danger, but alone. He can’t just run away. He goes back, over and over, rescuing wounded men. He finally goes back for Lt. Dan who cusses him. He wants to die on the battlefield, it’s his fate. But, Forrest saves him anyway.
Next time we see the two men, they are in a military hospital. Lt. Dan has lost his legs. He is angry and blames Forrest. “I should have died out there with my men”. Forrest, always the sweet, gentle moron, just lets it roll off him.
For the next hour of the movie Forrest and Lt. Dan cross paths again and again. Lt. Dan’s life is in complete turmoil. He is drinking heavily, let’s himself go and is awash in bitterness. However, with nothing else to do, he shows up in the Gulf and helps Forrest run a shrimp boat. That too, proves a failure until he calls out to God. A tremendous hurricane strikes while the boat is out at sea.
Lt. Dan, at the height of the storm, yells at God, “You’ll never sink this ship!”! The next day the sky clears, the shrimp are plentiful and a calm, at peace Lt. Dan looks Forrest in the eye and says “I never thanked you for saving my life”. As Forrest points out, Lt. Dan made his peace with God.
I’ve had my own “Lt. Dan moments” these past two years. You build your life, head in a particular direction, and anticipate how it will work out. Then, whether by your own doing or having circumstances suddenly thrust on you, your life is in complete disarray. You wonder, “what the hell am I gonna do? How did I end up here?” You panic, fret, worry, fear, and yes, get bitter over the circumstances you find yourself in. And, you replay over and over the whys, and hows, and what ifs of your life.
I think I like Lt. Dan because he’s so, well, human. He is just like each and every one of us as we struggle day to day to get on with life. I’ve had my moments when I’ve called out God. Like Jacob, I wrestled God and ended up bruised. I’ve been like Job asking how can a loving God let all this happen?
And, just like Lt. Dan, Jacob, and Job, I’ve found peace. It’s a peace that comes from discovering that no matter how badly things go, no matter that I can’t make sense out of all this, I’m not now, nor ever been, alone. God’s always been there, even when I was stealing, even when my heart was breaking over the loss of my wife. I don’t know how, but I’m a better person than I was before my arrest.
Fact is, I had a wonderful life. I loved, with all my heart, my wife. I have such beautiful memories of her and our time together. I wouldn’t trade away any of that. I’ve been told by well-meaning people to “get over her, move on”. I’ll never get over her. I will always love her, always pray for her happiness and well-being. In spite of all that has happened between us, I consider my time with her as a blessing, an amazing gift from God.
It took my arrest and conviction for me to be reminded of the merciful, loving, hopeful person I used to be. As I told Big S last night, had it not been for this experience, my arrest, two men would still be languishing in prison. “Pilly” a nice Mexican man would still be here not back in his native Mexico, if I hadn’t been here and taken the time to review his paperwork and discover DOC had miscalculated his release date.
Had I not been here, “Mr. W”, dying of pancreatic cancer, would still be here instead of home with his wife and daughters during his last months on earth. I’ve discovered the true meaning of Joseph’s words to his brother when they were reunited – and reconciled – in Egypt. As he welcomed and forgave them, he said “you intended this for evil, but God brought about good.”
Which led me to another eye-opening observation. I’ve discovered that as well-meaning and caring a person I tried to be “BA” (before my arrest), I quite frankly was also – excuse the vernacular – an asshole. It wasn’t too difficult to recognize. I was, after all, a big fish in a little pond. I was brash, opinionated and very sure I was correct. I knew in my core, I was right. And, because of my outgoing personality people just naturally accepted what I said.
Don’t get me wrong. I was good at what I did and I devoted a great deal of time and effort to helping others. But I did it on my own terms. I thought people just needed to suck it up and work harder. Their background, their baggage, was irrelevant. Then I cam into this salad bowl of human genes and conditions and saw a whole world I had ignored.
James, in his New Testament epistle warns believers to not be so hung up on a person’s appearance. He also notes that no one can completely follow the law. Therefore, we must be merciful, not judgmental. As we show mercy so shall we be shown mercy.
I never thought a great deal about that until I ended up in this dump. It’s a funny feeling to be thanking God for the blessing of losing everything.
At the end of the movie, Forrest is getting married to the woman he loved all his life – Jenny. It’s a bittersweet moment because you know Jenny is dying. Off in the distance you see a man approach, walking toward Forrest. Forrest runs to him and says “Lt. Dan, you got new legs!”(“Titanium; just like on the space shuttle”).
Sometimes it’s not just your legs that get replaced. Sometimes our trials give us a new outlook, a new heart.
The unit is out on patrol and they’re ambushed. The North Vietnamese are everywhere, bullets and bombs hitting men on every side of Forrest. Lt. Dan calls a retreat and Forrest runs. He’s out of danger, but alone. He can’t just run away. He goes back, over and over, rescuing wounded men. He finally goes back for Lt. Dan who cusses him. He wants to die on the battlefield, it’s his fate. But, Forrest saves him anyway.
Next time we see the two men, they are in a military hospital. Lt. Dan has lost his legs. He is angry and blames Forrest. “I should have died out there with my men”. Forrest, always the sweet, gentle moron, just lets it roll off him.
For the next hour of the movie Forrest and Lt. Dan cross paths again and again. Lt. Dan’s life is in complete turmoil. He is drinking heavily, let’s himself go and is awash in bitterness. However, with nothing else to do, he shows up in the Gulf and helps Forrest run a shrimp boat. That too, proves a failure until he calls out to God. A tremendous hurricane strikes while the boat is out at sea.
Lt. Dan, at the height of the storm, yells at God, “You’ll never sink this ship!”! The next day the sky clears, the shrimp are plentiful and a calm, at peace Lt. Dan looks Forrest in the eye and says “I never thanked you for saving my life”. As Forrest points out, Lt. Dan made his peace with God.
I’ve had my own “Lt. Dan moments” these past two years. You build your life, head in a particular direction, and anticipate how it will work out. Then, whether by your own doing or having circumstances suddenly thrust on you, your life is in complete disarray. You wonder, “what the hell am I gonna do? How did I end up here?” You panic, fret, worry, fear, and yes, get bitter over the circumstances you find yourself in. And, you replay over and over the whys, and hows, and what ifs of your life.
I think I like Lt. Dan because he’s so, well, human. He is just like each and every one of us as we struggle day to day to get on with life. I’ve had my moments when I’ve called out God. Like Jacob, I wrestled God and ended up bruised. I’ve been like Job asking how can a loving God let all this happen?
And, just like Lt. Dan, Jacob, and Job, I’ve found peace. It’s a peace that comes from discovering that no matter how badly things go, no matter that I can’t make sense out of all this, I’m not now, nor ever been, alone. God’s always been there, even when I was stealing, even when my heart was breaking over the loss of my wife. I don’t know how, but I’m a better person than I was before my arrest.
Fact is, I had a wonderful life. I loved, with all my heart, my wife. I have such beautiful memories of her and our time together. I wouldn’t trade away any of that. I’ve been told by well-meaning people to “get over her, move on”. I’ll never get over her. I will always love her, always pray for her happiness and well-being. In spite of all that has happened between us, I consider my time with her as a blessing, an amazing gift from God.
It took my arrest and conviction for me to be reminded of the merciful, loving, hopeful person I used to be. As I told Big S last night, had it not been for this experience, my arrest, two men would still be languishing in prison. “Pilly” a nice Mexican man would still be here not back in his native Mexico, if I hadn’t been here and taken the time to review his paperwork and discover DOC had miscalculated his release date.
Had I not been here, “Mr. W”, dying of pancreatic cancer, would still be here instead of home with his wife and daughters during his last months on earth. I’ve discovered the true meaning of Joseph’s words to his brother when they were reunited – and reconciled – in Egypt. As he welcomed and forgave them, he said “you intended this for evil, but God brought about good.”
Which led me to another eye-opening observation. I’ve discovered that as well-meaning and caring a person I tried to be “BA” (before my arrest), I quite frankly was also – excuse the vernacular – an asshole. It wasn’t too difficult to recognize. I was, after all, a big fish in a little pond. I was brash, opinionated and very sure I was correct. I knew in my core, I was right. And, because of my outgoing personality people just naturally accepted what I said.
Don’t get me wrong. I was good at what I did and I devoted a great deal of time and effort to helping others. But I did it on my own terms. I thought people just needed to suck it up and work harder. Their background, their baggage, was irrelevant. Then I cam into this salad bowl of human genes and conditions and saw a whole world I had ignored.
James, in his New Testament epistle warns believers to not be so hung up on a person’s appearance. He also notes that no one can completely follow the law. Therefore, we must be merciful, not judgmental. As we show mercy so shall we be shown mercy.
I never thought a great deal about that until I ended up in this dump. It’s a funny feeling to be thanking God for the blessing of losing everything.
At the end of the movie, Forrest is getting married to the woman he loved all his life – Jenny. It’s a bittersweet moment because you know Jenny is dying. Off in the distance you see a man approach, walking toward Forrest. Forrest runs to him and says “Lt. Dan, you got new legs!”(“Titanium; just like on the space shuttle”).
Sometimes it’s not just your legs that get replaced. Sometimes our trials give us a new outlook, a new heart.
Counselors
Every inmate ends up relying on their “counselor”. That’s a strange word to use, given there is no counseling that actually takes place. Much like George Orwell detailed in his great novel 1984, there isn’t any counseling done by the counselors, it’s just a word. Like the term “jumbo shrimp”, calling these folks “inmate counselors” is an oxymoron.
The concept is good. Each inmate is assigned a counselor who develops an “annual plan” to move the inmate toward release. Problem is, every inmate’s “plan” says virtually the same thing: “Keep charge free and get a job.”
The other problem is the people that work in “treatment” (that’s “DOC speak” for the counselor’s department at the prison) are lazy and not very bright. That may sound harsh, but the truth usually is. Counselors – more than any other operation at the prison, except for security – are the crucial link between an inmate and his release. Each building has an assigned counselor with an office in the building itself.
But, the counselor never shows up to the building to meet with inmates. We’ve seen our counselor less than two hours over the last two weeks.
DOC procedures require each inmate to have an annual review with their counselor. August is almost concluded and yet none of the August inmates have had their reviews. And this isn’t an aberration; this is “standard operating procedure” – run 30 to60 days late on reviews.
The counselors avoid meeting with inmates because, well candidly, they don’t understand their own policies. Take the case of Kareem. Kareem was sent to prison at the age of 17 for a second degree murder. Four weeks ago, at the age of 31, he left prison. He should have left the first of June, moved to New Jersey to live with his Mom and start college. Why didn’t he? Good question.
Six months ago he met with the counselor and filled out the interstate compact forms that are, in essence, a request from Virginia to New Jersey to accept a released inmate. The counselor lost the paperwork. Without written authorization from New Jersey to accept him, Kareem had no home plan. No home plan and DOC can hold you an additional 30 days. It normally takes 90-120 days for interstate compact approval.
It took Kareem’s family in New Jersey raising hell to expedite the paperwork. The counselor just shrugged it off.
Then there’s Malik. Malik has been locked up for the past 20 years. Throughout his entire bid, his wife remained by his side. They decided to renew their vows for their 25th Anniversary. Malik meets with the chaplain and the warden and the ceremony is approved. He submits a list of guests to the counselor who will be coming in for the ceremony. Security approves the list (background checks had to be run).
The “big day” arrives and the guests file in. All that is except for the wife. The counselor “forgot” to include her on the list. The ceremony had to be postponed and rescheduled due to this “small glitch” (the counselor’s words).
Two examples out of dozens collected. Fact is, you want to know something about a DOC policy or procedure – research it yourself.
Each day guys are given incorrect information; paperwork is lost and/or improperly filled out. These are the state professionals charged with getting inmates rehabilitated. Is it any reason there’s a 40% recidivism rate?
The concept is good. Each inmate is assigned a counselor who develops an “annual plan” to move the inmate toward release. Problem is, every inmate’s “plan” says virtually the same thing: “Keep charge free and get a job.”
The other problem is the people that work in “treatment” (that’s “DOC speak” for the counselor’s department at the prison) are lazy and not very bright. That may sound harsh, but the truth usually is. Counselors – more than any other operation at the prison, except for security – are the crucial link between an inmate and his release. Each building has an assigned counselor with an office in the building itself.
But, the counselor never shows up to the building to meet with inmates. We’ve seen our counselor less than two hours over the last two weeks.
DOC procedures require each inmate to have an annual review with their counselor. August is almost concluded and yet none of the August inmates have had their reviews. And this isn’t an aberration; this is “standard operating procedure” – run 30 to60 days late on reviews.
The counselors avoid meeting with inmates because, well candidly, they don’t understand their own policies. Take the case of Kareem. Kareem was sent to prison at the age of 17 for a second degree murder. Four weeks ago, at the age of 31, he left prison. He should have left the first of June, moved to New Jersey to live with his Mom and start college. Why didn’t he? Good question.
Six months ago he met with the counselor and filled out the interstate compact forms that are, in essence, a request from Virginia to New Jersey to accept a released inmate. The counselor lost the paperwork. Without written authorization from New Jersey to accept him, Kareem had no home plan. No home plan and DOC can hold you an additional 30 days. It normally takes 90-120 days for interstate compact approval.
It took Kareem’s family in New Jersey raising hell to expedite the paperwork. The counselor just shrugged it off.
Then there’s Malik. Malik has been locked up for the past 20 years. Throughout his entire bid, his wife remained by his side. They decided to renew their vows for their 25th Anniversary. Malik meets with the chaplain and the warden and the ceremony is approved. He submits a list of guests to the counselor who will be coming in for the ceremony. Security approves the list (background checks had to be run).
The “big day” arrives and the guests file in. All that is except for the wife. The counselor “forgot” to include her on the list. The ceremony had to be postponed and rescheduled due to this “small glitch” (the counselor’s words).
Two examples out of dozens collected. Fact is, you want to know something about a DOC policy or procedure – research it yourself.
Each day guys are given incorrect information; paperwork is lost and/or improperly filled out. These are the state professionals charged with getting inmates rehabilitated. Is it any reason there’s a 40% recidivism rate?
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