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Thursday, July 29, 2010

Cost of Prison

This week the food got remarkably better. Couldn’t figure out why, but one day we had “steak umms” with real French fries, tossed salad with creamy ranch dressing and brownies. Every morning for breakfast the past three days we’ve received huge slices of cantaloupe. These cantaloupes are sweet and juicy and flat out delicious.



The warden OK’d ice cream deliveries to the buildings once a week instead of once a month. We buy ice cream tickets ($1.90 each) on commissary. One ticket gets you a half pint of either butter pecan, moose tracks (loaded with chunks of Reese’s cups), Neapolitan, or strawberry cheesecake.


In the past two weeks there’s also been a steady stream of CO (correction officers) firings and arrests. The first, a female CO nicknamed “big nasty” was known to have a penchant for young inmates she snuck into the medical unit. She was caught bringing cigarettes in and selling them to inmates or exchanging them for “favors”. They marched her large, tattoo covered body off the compound. She lost her job and is probably trying to figure out how to meet her trailer payments and buy the Merle Haggard box set.


Then there was Townsend – a short CO nearing retirement – who lost his cool the other day, grabbed his crotch and said “I got somethin’ right here for you smart ass”.


Reed – a young black CO who wanted to be an inmate (really; he tried getting a tattoo in here) was fired for (1) bringing a loaded pistol on the compound; and (2) stealing jugs of cleaning supplies from the facility.


Finally, there was Pinkney – a cute, outgoing mid-20’s African American CO who worked night shift in our building. She’s been suspended for falsifying medical notes to get paid days off. We miss Pinkney. She was kind, pleasant, and easy to look at.


There are a large number of men I know who have done significant years at “real” prisons. They just shake their heads at the inmates here. These men have seen the worst: the stabbings, the rapes, the officers walking the catwalks with loaded shotguns.


In higher custody prisons, violence is rampant. There is no ice cream or cable TV. Already in the last year, two inmates have been murdered at Greensville and another committed suicide. Not here. This is a poorly run summer camp with a large percentage of spoiled knuckleheads doing time and an equally large percentage of poorly trained, ignorant CO’s guarding them. I agree with the “old heads” – this ain’t real prison.


Guys that end up here without self-discipline and a willingness to change end up focusing on comfort versus what’s important. Case in point, the inmate reps (we have a committee that meets with the warden on compound issues) asked for concerns from the inmates. Almost to a man the list focused on “big bags of Doritos, green tea; more cable channels.’” How about improved medical care? Not a word. A full time dietitian and improved meals? Nope. Updating the law library? “No, thanks. I’d rather get mint flavored dental floss.”


Guys just don’t get it. They become content being denied their freedom. They cuss the CO’s all the while they’re running “game”.


And the citizens of this great Commonwealth? They’re just as bad. The vast majority of Virginia’s inmates are non-violent felons. Taxpayers spend approximately $30,000 per inmate to house him for one year. The current state budget has Department of Corrections spending over $1 billion! And the notion that inmates are being rehabilitated during their sentence is laughable.


Fact is, prison teaches you how to be a better criminal. I’ve seen and heard more scams in the 9 months I’ve been here than in my entire life. Meanwhile, guys come up to me almost daily offering to buy me commissary items if I explain the nuances of embezzlement to them.


Inmates are housed. That’s the dirty little secret those involved in “corrections” (there’s an oxymoron for you) won’t tell you. There’s no rehabilitation, no program to help many of these guys overcome the baggage and crap they’ve carried their entire lives.


So, guys are put in dorms and sold pizza sauce and ice cream and they get to go outside and lift weights and run. If they’re motivated, they go to school and learn a trade. If not, they do their “bid” then head right back out to where they came from.


Want to reduce crime? Get radical with prison reform. Lock up the sociopaths. But for the vast majority of inmates, use a different path.


Drug and alcohol offenders? Intensive treatment. White collar crime? Community service and restitution.


There’s a whole movement under way to implement restorative justice principles. It’s a faith based initiative to reconcile and restore the victim, the community, and the offender. It’s direct, it’s simplistic, and it works.


But what do I know? I’m just enjoying some butter pecan ice cream and watching a movie on TBS.

The truth about Honesty

I’ve given a great deal of thought to the notion of honesty. Perhaps it came about during my extended periods of soul-searching, questioning why I ended up doing what I did. Or, perhaps it was reading over and over my ex-wife’s numerous letters to me that all contained one or more of the following:



“You’re a G** D***** liar . . .”


“You lying A**hole . . .”


“You are a M----- F------ liar . . . “


After all those outbursts, my ex would then explain – or perhaps a better choice of words would be rewrite – our history.


At first I thought I’d go through point by point all the revisionist history she concocted. I’d be like the “National Enquirer” and “name names”, all the friends we had that she spilled secrets about. But then, I realized it simply wasn’t worth it. Why? Because, as Jack Nicholson pointed out in “A Few Good Men”, you “want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.”


Guys show up to prison and create new personas. Drug addict? He becomes a drug lord. Break into a house? No, you’re a reincarnation of Bonnie & Clyde. “I made $1 million a year and drove a Bentley”. Really? Why didn’t you use some of your money to get dentures (dental hygiene for most inmates is atrocious)?


Child pornographers become “computer technicians”. It goes on and on, until you meet the transparent guys. Those are the guys that look you right in the eye and say “I killed him. I stabbed him twice in the chest”. But, then the eyes fill with regret and you’ll hear him say “not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could change what I did”.


I’m one of those transparent guys. I don’t hold anything back. There are no secrets. Frankly, it’s liberating. Dishonesty, especially with yourself can wear you down and, if unchecked, destroy you.


I’ve learned that the people who scream the most about honesty are probably the ones with the most to fear from their version of the truth being revealed. Watch out for the folks that tell you “I’m a good person and I lead an honest life”. In my experience those are the people who would be embarrassed if their friends and neighbors knew what they really said and did.


Prison – the good, the bad, and the ugly of it – is a mirror image of society. So, I’ve learned to accept with a grain of salt Wilbur’s story about the 300,000 acre farm in Montana, or Ray’s car collection, or New York Rob’s master’s degree from Cornell. I’ve also learned to accept how hard it is for my ex to look in the mirror and admit to herself that she wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t a bad husband (matter of fact, I was a pretty good husband and a damn good father), and maybe feel some regret over what’s become of us.


The truth is, I became honest with God. I let Him know I made a mess of everything. The good news is, He said it was OK. I was forgiven and I was going to be alright.


If God could do that for me, the least I could do is overlook other people’s short comings and errors. The truth is, honesty isn’t nearly as important as forgiveness, and love, and compassion.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Morali-Dee

There’s a mid-twenties guy in here called “Dee”. His situation angers and frustrates me. Not because he’s innocent. No, he did the crime. I’m angry and frustrated at the hypocrisy of our community, our Commonwealth, this nation.



“Dee” is in prison for breaking and entering. He broke into a building on the campus of Hampden-Sydney College and stole some computers. He was prosecuted “to the full extent of the law” and sent to prison.


Here’s the thing. I went to church on the HSC campus. I socialized with the faculty. Every Sunday morning we’d clean up empty beer bottles from the church grounds, left by mostly underage men drinking to excess.


Drug use was a major concern to the HSC administration. Every weekend huge parties took place on campus. Girls from other schools crashed on campus for the night. Allegations of date rape frequently arose.


Hampden-Sydney boasts that it is a liberal arts college preparing men to be leaders and moral, productive, educated citizens.


Dee was raised by a drug addict mother. He didn’t know his father. The county public schools where he lived (coincidentally, where my sons attend and graduated from) are abysmal.


Hampden-Sydney chose to seek punishment for Dee. Here’s a novel approach. They could have gone to court and asked for leniency for Dee. HSC could have suggested to the court that Dee be placed on supervised probation and then they could hire him for maintenance and grounds keeping.


HSC could have said “our student body, by and large, hasn’t had to deal with the baggage" Dee did. They could have offered remedial classes and a chance for a college education. Instead, they took the easy way out. And the cycle of brokenness, of ignorance, of crime goes forward. In Ephesians 4:32, the Apostle Paul sets a high bar for followers of Jesus:


“be kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake has forgiven you”.


All of us fall short. None of us are moral enough, righteous enough to overcome public scrutiny. There have been deeds we’ve all done in the dark, words we’ve uttered in the heat of the moment that we wish we could take back.


It is the real man or woman of character who tempers their demand for justice with the soothing waters of mercy, of forgiveness.


It has been written that “prison should be reserved for those whom we fear injury from, not those whom we’re mad at”. So simple, yet so true.


I embezzled in excess of $2 million. Even with the restitution I’ve already paid, I still owe in excess of $1 million. Given the sentence handed down by the court, I will be 60 on my release. It is highly unlikely I will ever make complete restitution.


I have the ability to work. I have the education, holding both BA and JD degrees. I teach GED classes here at the prison and began a writing program. Yet, the determination has been made that it is better to spend $30,000 a year to keep me incarcerated than release me in a reasonable amount of time so that I can make restitution and be a productive, tax-paying citizen (as I was up until my arrest).


What does justice require? What is the right thing to do? What is our moral obligation to each other? My conversation with “Dee” gave me a new perspective.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Exercise

I went out running this morning, just a couple of miles around the rec yard track followed by ten, 100 yard sprints.



I’ve been running since I was a freshman in college back in 1977. In my 20’s and 30’s I ran a lot of 10K and 15K races. You’d pay an entrance fee, run the course and get a t-shirt and usually a couple of glasses of beer.


By the time I was 40 I decided to run a marathon. Ran and completed it, went out drinking with friends from work and decided to memorialize my run with a tattoo on my shoulder.


Running always was my “out”. No matter where I was I’d put my running shoes on and hit the pavement. I’d get lost in my own thoughts, try and figure things out.


The last year before my arrest, I started cutting back on my daily miles. In its place, I drank. I know why. I couldn’t handle the solitude. Every time I ran I was overwhelmed with thoughts of “you’re gonna get caught; you’re going to prison; your wife will leave you; you’re gonna lose your kids; everything you worked for, everything you love will be gone.” I’d be running back to the office (I ran every day at lunch) with sunglasses on so no one could see me breakdown in tears. I’d go home at night and chug five or six scotches just to numb the feeling of inevitable doom.


Then I got locked up and was housed in the Henrico jail. For six days short of one full year I got outside less than 20 days. I couldn’t run. I’d walk the dayroom (pc word for cellblock) and drop down and do pushups.


The receiving center (perhaps the worst, most poorly run facility I could ever imagine) at least had a small outdoor rec yard where you could see trees.


Finally, last November, I came to Lunenburg. The morning after my arrival I went out on the third of a mile gravel track and began running: one lap; two; three; seven; ten; fourteen. I wheezed and I coughed and I sputtered, but I ran.


For the first time in years I was free, free of thoughts of gloom, of despair. I ran around the track reciting the words to Psalm 23 –


“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . “


The words from Isaiah 40 –


“yet those who wait on the Lord will be given new strength. . . they will run and
not be tired . . .”


I suddenly realized in that run that hope lives. All my worst fears had been realized: I was in prison; the only woman I ever loved divorced me; my sons turned against me; I gave up all my property; friends abandoned me. I had nothing . . . but my run. God gave me my running back.


I think about all that has transpired these past two years, how much I’ve learned, how much I lost.


Guys in here exercise for a number of reasons. They’re trying to combat boredom, they take their health seriously, or they just want to look good on visitation day.


But, there are men in here who view their weight lifting or running as I do. They find their spirit, they talk to God, they sense their liberation.


Prison, by and large, is a constant battle to do what’s right in an environment that is built completely on what’s wrong.


I find my purpose, remember the good, loving man I am, look forward to the future, put my left foot in front of my right and slowly start silently singing “God Our Help In Ages Past”.
And, the laps add up.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Pranks for the Memories - July 15, 2010

I have always been a guy who could take a joke. Good thing because my two closest friends love pulling pranks on me. It’s a weekly ritual, “screw with the old guy”.



In the past two months this comic duo has switched my locks (I spent 30 minutes working the combinations only to realize I had a different lock on my wall locker), my pants legs were tied in knots, and baby powder was dumped in my socks. I put my shoes on to head to a visit and “whoosh”, powder exploded everywhere!


I received a Mother’s Day card from these two chuckleheads. I made the mistake of telling them I was a hypochondriac. A week or so later I caught a cold. They got other guys in the building to tell me I looked like I was losing weight and was pale. I was so worried I got ready to ask for an “emergency medical pass”. Then and only then did Big S take pity on me and tell me “we’re just screwin’ with you”.


One morning I found my shoes laced backward. Another morning there was a sign telling me not to look down. I’ve had onion left in my locker.


The greatest prank, however, involved my TV. For a week I had to keep resetting my cable channels. For some strange reason a channel would be deleted. I switched cable connections and even asked one of the maintenance guys if there was a problem with the cable. Little did I know he was in on it. He had me check the back of the set for burn marks.


I’m standing on a chair checking my set, worrying about having to possibly buy a new set when Big S suddenly loses it, falling to the floor laughing. He told me when I wasn’t watching he’d manually delete a channel.


His “partner in crime” – E played right along. E was quick to point out, however, that he was “only 20%” involved in the prank. Funny, according to E, he’s only ever 20% involved!


I don’t mind the pranks. These guys truly care about me, and I care about them. We have formed a bond stronger than almost any I’ve formed with friends in the past. A good number of those “outside friends” abandoned me after my arrest. These two young men have stayed by my side every day in here.


I’ve always had a positive outlook and a good sense of humor. It’s what my ex was attracted to. I made her laugh (I knew it wasn’t my looks or sophistication). I remember one time early in our marriage she had just seen Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” for the first time. She left our apartment to go to the laundry room. On her return, I jumped out, spatula in hand, yelling “eek, eek”. She dropped the laundry basket and shrieked!


It’s hard to believe that same woman would later write me after my arrest “be glad God doesn’t answer my prayers because I’ve been praying you’d die”. Sweet. Hard to believe I still love this woman. I put together a “Letterman’s Top 10” list of classic quotes from her letters. Knowing her the way I do, she’d be embarrassed by much of what she wrote. It would crack the facade she always presents about being such a loving, forgiving person.


You learn the most about people when you’re walking through your darkest tunnel. I’ve found through this experience a new sense of compassion and forgiveness I didn’t think was possible. That’s why I can honestly say I love my ex, no matter what she wrote.


Perhaps it’s an issue of faith. I wasn’t the world’s greatest husband. I lied, cheated and stole my way through much of my adult life. Yet, I took – and still take – the vow I took to that woman seriously.


I read yesterday that this week is the 50th Anniversary of the publishing of To Kill a Mockingbird. That book may be the greatest novel written. I wanted to be a lawyer because of Atticus Finch. I failed. I became a disgraced lawyer instead.


There’s a scene in the book that I often think about. Atticus is speaking to his daughter, Scout, and reminds her you can’t really know someone until you’ve walked in their shoes.


I helped a middle age man last week file for a conditional pardon. His name is “Sid” and he’s 40. Ten years ago, while drunk, he got into an altercation with his brother-in-law, who accused him of having an affair with the brother-in-law’s wife.


Words were exchanged. He was punched repeatedly. He ran to the kitchen, retrieved a knife and when his brother-in-law lunged at him, he stabbed him in the chest. Sid was convicted of murder and sentenced to 30 years. He hasn’t seen his wife or kids since his conviction (they do write often).


He is a quiet, kind man. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t regret what he did.


I wrote a pardon application for him. I wrote what I came to understand he felt. I read him the letter I wrote the Governor on his behalf. As I read, his eyes teared up. You try not to show emotions in this place, yet Sid began to cry. He hugged me and told me “you’re the first person I’ve met who understands. God bless you.”


I learned last night the Governor turned down my initial pardon request. I can re-apply July 1, 2012. I was disappointed, but not broken. God has blessed me in these circumstances. I trust in God’s unfailing love. I will see this through.


Now, if I can only survive a few more pranks!

Independence Day - July 15, 2010

Yesterday was July 4th. To celebrate; E, Big S and I “found” some homemade tangerine wine (by “found” I mean a guy in another building gave us three peanut butter jars full). We sat outside at a picnic table on the rec yard sipping our pulp-filled jars and talked about past – and future July 4ths.



Truth be told, it’s hard to get guys in the penitentiary to give a flip about Independence Day. I watch guys around here and realize how easily they succumb to the loss of freedom.


Inmates have a name for guys that like prison life too much. They call it “state struck”. The other word for it is institutionalized. So many inmates, who are incarcerated for any period of time, forget what it means to be independent, to live free.


They become comfortable having someone call them three times a day for meals. “A-side, standby for chow”. Once a week, the dorm laundryman handles their wash. Bed linens and towels are exchanged each weekend if they desire.


They have no worries about taxes, bills, or groceries. Need to see a doctor? Put in a sick call request and, if you’re lucky, within a week the doctor sees you (the cost $2.00; but, you’d be better off going to see a veterinarian. Medical care in prison is abysmal).


All your basic needs are provided. You have access to a barber twice a month and the library each week. You can choose from about a dozen religions – from Messianic Jews, to 3 or 4 Muslim sects, Rastafarian, Christian.


Guys will cuss the officers and demand to be treated with respect. “I’m a grown ass man” they’ll yell. Funny thing is, these same guys know nothing about being responsible, of living independently, being free.


I just finished the book Stolen Lives by Malika Oufkir. At the age of 18 she, her mother, and all her siblings were imprisoned in the most unbelievably horrible conditions in Morocco after her father – head of the Moroccan Air Force – failed in a coup attempt and was executed.


For 20 years this family suffered unspeakably. Yet, by sheer will and determination they overcame. They struggled, they survived, and they succeeded. As Oufkir wrote of her moment of liberation I couldn’t help but feel her sense of relief, her freedom.


Independence Day means so much more now. I never truly appreciated freedom until I came to this dump. I’ve maintained my dignity in spite of all this.


I wondered for awhile what freedom really meant. I lost everything – family, friends, wealth, my personal freedom – because of my crime. Yet, I discovered inner strength and character.


So I sat there with my two closest friends in the prison, two guys who are as decent, and loyal, and caring as anyone I knew outside. And we toasted the 4th and talked about the parties we threw, the places we’d been on past 4ths. We watched the institutionalized guys walk by, talking to themselves or plotting a new hustle.


We talked about our release, how we’ve changed by going through this. I thought to myself “just keep your sanity, you’ve beat this thing already”.


Freedom is so precious. We don’t realize what we have until we lose it. But, there’s always hope. Like Ms. Oufkir, you can overcome. You can drink again to freedom.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

U2 - July 13, 2010

A friend in here let me borrow his U2 “Joshua Tree” CD the other day. I listened to “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” over and over. It’s a song that for so long I equated with the woman I loved.



“I have climbed the highest mountain


I have run through the fields


Only to be with you


Only to be with you.”


I miss her terribly, more than I care to admit. I had assumed I would spend my life with her. She was, she is, an amazing woman. Losing her weighs on my heart each moment of the day. Every memory somehow reminds me of her.


“I have run, I have crawled


I have scaled these city walls


Only to be with you


But I still haven’t found


What I’m looking for.”


I spent months during the past 2 years asking why. Why wasn’t what we had enough? Why would I risk everything when I was willing to do anything for her love?


“I believe in the Kingdom come


Then all the colours will bleed into one


But yes I’m still running


You broke the bonds


You loosed the chains


You carried the cross


And my shame . . .


But I still haven’t found


What I’m looking for.”


I discovered, throughout this ordeal that there was someone that loved me unconditionally, someone that was willing to bear the pain, the brokenness, the disappointment all bottled up inside me. I found my soul on a dark, lonely night in a cell.


I won’t tell you that I haven’t cried at night since then, or felt overwhelming despair. But each day gives me hope.


The song isn’t about my broken relationship with that beautiful, yet fragile woman. No, the song is about finding your soul.


We all chase dreams, all get upended by our failures and disappointments. But, there is hope. We can find what we’re looking for.


For me, it was all about love. I wanted her to love me in a crazy, exuberant, no holds barred, unconditional way. But, that wasn’t her.


Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could reset the clock and go back and tell her, tell her how much I love her.


Funny thing is, it took this for me to find that I loved her – frailties and blemishes – completely.


I’ll be 51 in about 3 weeks. Yet, I feel as though I have a new lease on life. If I had one wish, it would be for that one chance to reconcile with the only woman I ever loved.


That probably won’t happen and I can live with that. It took a long time, but I finally found what I was looking for.

"Lawyers, Guns, and Money" - July 13, 2010

Warren Zevon sang a great song called “Lawyers, Guns and Money” back in the 80’s about a young guy getting arrested overseas The song, like so many of Zevon’s other numbers, was sarcastic, humorous, and insightful at the same time. It got me thinking about jailhouse lawyers.



There is a rare breed of inmate who decides their “hustle” (how they make money) will be to hold themselves out as “jailhouse lawyers”. They prey on guys’ overwhelming desire to get out of prison early. Most of these jailhouse lawyers are slick, but they can neither think, nor write as a lawyer. They convince a man hanging on to hope by a thread, that for just a few hundred dollars they can get their conviction overturned.


I’ve seen some of the paperwork these legal eagles have put together. One older inmate paid $200 to a guy who filed a habeas corpus petition for him. Problem was, the “jailhouse lawyer” (a guy that hasn’t even earned his GED yet) didn’t allege any 6th Amendment ineffective assistance of counsel, which is the only basis for a prisoner habeas corpus action. The old man’s case was dismissed. I looked at it and redrafted his petition. Two days ago, he heard from the court that his case could go forward.


I’m no legal genius, just a guy who actually passed law school and practiced law. There’s a reason you need a college degree and law degree. There are few people with discipline to read and understand legal opinions.


Jailhouse lawyers are a scam. They take advantage of inmates and cause more harm than good. In the past two weeks, I’ve learned 2 habeas petitions I wrote have been granted (both men have been awarded appeals on their convictions). I also helped a man get early release by a conditional pardon.


“JL” (the pardon case) came up to me to thank me. He’s been in prison for 18 years, way too much time. He told me “you’re here for a reason, you have character and you care. There’s not much of that in prison. “


I choked up. I’m doing just what I can to provide justice to a few. Perhaps that’s what it’s about – pure, simple justice. It’s not about punishment only. No, it requires punishment, righteous punishment, and mercy, and fairness, and reconciliation.


The system is broken. Prosecutors are more interested in a conviction than justice; defense attorneys care more about “writing a deal” and moving on to the next case than what is best for the accused, the victim, society.


Yeah, the system is broken and it breeds hostility in its inmate population and disrespect for the law. Guys don’t accept responsibility for their crimes because they see how the “system” screwed them.


Having the ability to confront the system is a constant battle. I have my own habeas petition pending. The Attorney General’s Office is defending. They have an assistant AG assigned to the case, vast computer resources, and support staff. I’ve got a few worn law books, a cousin who cares enough about me to research cases I request and mail them in; I use an old Selectric typewriter and get additional research off an old Lexis database that’s only updated once a quarter.


The AG’s office requested 3 extensions of time to respond to my petition. When they finally answered – 2 days late – they bombarded me with a 40 plus page Motion to Dismiss.


I don’t mind the odds. Like David versus Goliath, I’ll persevere. I never argued that I wasn’t guilty, only that 15 years was too much for embezzling.


I’ve lost the wife I loved for over 28 years; I’ve lost all my financial security and wealth; I’ve lost my freedom. But, I haven’t lost my hope.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

"H" words - July 4, 2010

The week wasn’t even completed and I found myself thinking over and over about different words beginning with the letter “H”.



I thought about humanity early in the week trying to understand the absolute stupidity of 2 guys in my building who ended up getting thrown in the “hole” (that’s another “H” word to describe solitary confinement) for asinine behavior.


First, “Tim” an angry, miserable, self-absorbed 60 year old guy on a cane, who’s also known to drop anonymous notes on other inmates to the officers. Tim earned the nickname “the finger” Sunday when he decided to do some body probing of his wife during visitation. He was caught and immediately sent to the hole (sexual contact by an inmate is a level 100 series charge – very serious).


Then, there’s Dewey and the yarmulkes. Dewey is a mid-20’s guy who bears a striking resemblance to Austin Powers. He is also crazy as a loon. Dewey only arrived two weeks ago but made an immediate impression on everyone. He told us he was “old school Sicilian”. Naturally, that led guys in here to tell him our building housed a whole lot of “made men”. Big S became “Magic Man”, mob boss underling; Max, “the ice man” a mob enforcer. I was the “consigliore” and provided legal counsel to the “family”. Dewey ran through the building calling out “Magic Man”. It was hilarious!


But Dewey topped it all by getting in a fight with the chaplain over a yarmulke. Dewey came in one day having a fit. He approaches me and we have the following conversation:


Dewey: “Consigliore, I’m Jewish and I want a Jewish hat and the chaplain has thousands of them”.


Me: “Just write a request form to the chaplain asking him to give you a yarmulke”.


Dewey: “What’s a yarmulke?”


So Dewey demands a “Jewish hat” from the chaplain during a meeting. He jumps up and calls the chaplain a “Jew hater” when he’s told there are no yarmulkes being stored at the prison. Dewey headed off to the hole right after that.


I also thought a great deal this week about honesty and hurt. A televised religious program I watch every Sunday had a fascinating sermon about love last week. The minister said the following:


“There may be no emotional pain that hurts more than being told by your spouse ‘I don’t love you anymore’. That isn’t what God intended marital love to be”.


I remembered a letter my ex-wife wrote me shortly after my arrest. She wrote “I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t loved you for a long time”. Almost every letter she wrote me made that point.


At the same time, she also told me she was always “honest” with me. Really? She claimed she didn’t love me for years but she was also always honest. I can take the hurt. After all, she’s suffered deeply due to my wrongdoing. But, I can’t take her throwing in my face how honest she always was. That is either the height of hypocrisy or she can’t look herself in the mirror and admit the truth.


So here goes my conclusion on honesty. Yeah, I lied about money; I lied about a good many things. But, I never lied about my feelings, my love for my wife. There are a great many decisions I regret making, but I can look in the mirror and know I was always honest about my love.


Then there are my folks. I have been bombarded by their “disappointment” over this for the past two years. Funny thing is, while I was busting my ass getting to be an Eagle Scout, graduating 3rd in my class in college, graduating law school, passing the bar exam, I can’t remember them ever saying “we’re proud of you. We love you”.


Instead, they keep this entire incident buried. “We don’t share our embarrassment”.


I don’t hold them responsible for my wrongdoing. I don’t blame my ex. Matter of fact, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for all three of them. I can be honest about the hurt, the harm, I caused by my actions. The question is, can they?


Which leads me finally to hope. No matter what, you have to hang on to hope. I’ve been thinking recently about a John Prine song. The chorus goes –


“That’s the way the world goes round,
you’re up one day, the next your down;
It’s a half an inch of water
And you think you’re gonna drown,
That’s the way the world goes round.”


You’d be surprised what you can survive. You can find humor in the most dismal places and hope even when your heart is hurting. Even in a dump like this, every day’s a blessing.