The Con Being Peddled

I make a simple statement:  Harold Clarke, DOC’s Director, may profess he cares about inmate re-entry and rehabilitation; Governor Robert McDonnell may likewise say the same thing.  But, actions speak louder than words and their actions – or inactions – speak volumes about the current state of Virginia’s prisons – the choice is theirs.  They can put real emphasis behind their words and actually begin changing DOC’s mentality or they can continue speaking empty words and follow the same failed policy that has led to the current crisis in corrections. 

Right now, they are peddling a great con job on the citizens of Virginia.  They need to either do what they claim they want to do or be honest enough to say “screw re-entry; screw restorative justice; screw rehabilitation.”

This prison is now being led by both a warden and an assistant warden who publicly state their responsibility is to keep inmates locked up.

Officers I know reported that the assistant warden announced at his department head meeting this week: 

“I hate flowers, fraternization and felons.”

Flowers?  Yes, here at Lunenburg the inmates maintain two greenhouses where spring and fall flowers are grown.  In April and again in September the yard crew plants these flowers along the sides of the “boulevard” – the main walkway connecting the seven dorms, vocational, educational, factory and chow hall.  Around the flowering pear trees that dot the main lawn, flowers are also planted.  Rich mulch is spread.  The yard crew waters and maintains the plants and learns a little about horticulture and landscaping.  Ah, screw it.  Blacktop the entire area!

What this genius assistant warden missed is the Rudy Giuliani lesson on broken windows.  Want people in a neighborhood to take pride in where they live?  Fix the broken windows, pick up the trash.  Want inmates to feel embittered about their circumstances, bombard them every day with reminders of block and fences and that they don’t matter.

Over and over guys here tell me I’m fooling myself.  “They aren’t gonna help us get an education.  They aren’t gonna let us go early.  They make money off of us and the public doesn’t care.”

What Mr. Clarke and Governor McDonnell need to realize is recidivism is a mindset.  DOC gives inmates zero reason to believe they matter, that what they do matters.  We’ve heard the expression “hearts and minds” whenever the military is involved in an action overseas.  Win the hearts and minds of the population.  Convince them you are there to help them, improve them.

Crime is often described as a war.  Well Virginia, you’re losing the war on crime.  You spend over $1 billion a year with the costs going up each year and the recidivism rate is increasing.  And crime is generational.  Lock up one out of four young black men and see how the children of those incarcerated do.

Instead of being courageous and honest and changing the dialogue and mindset of DOC, Messrs. Clarke and McDonnell do the same old, same old, putting wardens and assistant wardens in place who make no bones about trying to put the brakes on re-entry education programs.

A part of the IT grant money was spent installing “smart boards” in two classrooms – one in the programs building and one in the horticulture building (outside the program building by the greenhouses).  The first term of school, night classes used the boards.  This semester’s math class assigned to the horticulture building has been shifted and the board sits unused.  “Can’t waste an officer out there” is the excuse. 

Is it any wonder these guys lack hope, lack desire to change, don’t believe in the Governor?  They’ve heard it all before.  They know a good con job when one’s being peddled.

A Happy Ending

I had a peculiar week.  Twice I was to the point of such deep frustration that I snapped on guys.  Throughout the week, as events in here swirled around me, I passed the time finishing Jonathan Franzen’s amazing new novel “Freedom”.  Franzen writes some of the most complex story lines I’ve ever seen and he captures the struggles – with absurdity – of middle class American families post 9/11.  The picture he paints isn’t always pretty, but for me at least, he speaks with a powerful voice knowing exactly what I’m feeling.  I quite literally rose and fell with “Freedom’s” protagonist, Walter.  More on that later.

I have a new bunkmate.  Once E was tossed from the building, his bottom bunk became a hot property.  “IG”, a young, personable gang banger who does quite well in school, took the bottom bunk below me.  He’s a nice kid:  barely 21 and two and a half years into a four year sentence for distribution; he’s polite and respectful – usually.  Here’s the problem:  he’s young.  Everyday he’ll say “Heh Larry, have you seen my book?  Have you seen my lock?  Have you seen my bowl?”  He’s a friggin disorganized mess. Crap is piled everywhere!  He has no sense of structure, no sense of organization.  I finally said “Look IG, I’ll help you get everything organized, but then it’s on you.”

We found out Opie is fine.  The “MD” here (I won’t call him a doctor) had blood drawn from Opie – “routine” when he went down to medical with severe intestinal cramps and fever.  Three days later, Opie is called back to medical and told “you have either leukemia or AIDS, not sure which.  Go back to your building.”  Nice.

Extensive blood testing at a real hospital and an oncologist tells him “you have a slight infection in your blood.  Take this antibiotic and you’ll be fine.  Oh and by the way, the prison doctor is a quack.”

IG Part II.  It’s now Tuesday afternoon.   I’ve been tutoring all morning, got out for a quick three mile run, shower, lunch and IT academic aide from 1:00 to 4:00.  It’s now 5:00 and I’m trying to get a few minutes to do my afternoon Bible reading.  IG – I discover – has had his TV enhanced by a budding engineer in here so that he can play his CD player through his TV speakers.  You always have to have earbuds in for TV or CD, that’s a DOC rule.  But, with no officer on the floor, rules aren’t that important.

So there are seven of the young guys hanging around his bunk while Lil Wayne, or Lil Kim or Lil somebody is rapping away.  And it’s loud, friggin loud.  I lean over and say “Heh IG, can you please turn it down?”  He wasn’t being disrespectful.  It was so loud, he couldn’t hear me.  How’d I handle it?  I jumped up and yelled “IG turn that shit down!”  I was beet red in the face (and obviously not paying too much attention to my Bible reading) and saw eight young black guys’ eyes grow wider.

There’s a scene in “Freedom” where Walter has had enough.  He’s giving a speech and lets loose with the truth and the audience breaks his jaw and pummels him, but his self-respect is restored.  I stood there waiting for my “Walter” beat down.  Instead, IG turned the tunes down and said “Sorry man.  I never meant to disrespect you.”

And then there was Friday.  I was up at the school when the principal, Ms. C saw me.  She busts her butt for these guys.  She and her husband have dedicated their lives to inmate education.  Every day she has to fight the powers that be in this dump who don’t want the inmates to get anything, those narrow minded administrators and officers who fail to grasp the theological and ethical demands to treat even inmates with respect and dignity.

“Larry, I hear from Dr. Y two guys didn’t turn in their research papers.  I’ve had it.  Between guys cussing professors and not going to class, and not doing the work, I’m going to throw guys out.  I can’t keep fighting everyday if they don’t care.”  She told me they had until Monday night to turn their papers in or they’d be failed in the class and be tossed out of school.  For the second time in 72 hours I was pissed.  I found the two guys and went off.

“I’m bustin my ass for you clowns and I find out I care more than you do!” 

“But Larry, it doesn’t matter.  They won’t let us out early.  They won’t really help us.  This is all bullshit!”

“How do you know?”  Now I’m really fired up.  “If I thought stickin a flag in my butt and walkin on my hands would get me out a day early or get the three people I’m heartbroken over to just say ‘I love you’, I’d do it.  Every f---in day I do everything I can to believe this will end.  Every day I do everything I can to give you dipshits a chance and you just say screw it cause you’re too lazy or stupid to care.”

For the second time in a week I waited for my “Walter” moment.  But again, it didn’t come.  Instead, these two chuckleheads apologized for letting me down and went to work on their papers.

Big S talked to me later that day.  “You can’t save all these guys.  You’ll drive yourself crazy.  Do what you can and move on.”

I tried to tell him I can’t do that.  For better or worse, these guys are the hand I was dealt and I won’t give up on any of them without knowing in my heart I tried.  I’ve convinced myself my reason for being here is just that.

Which brings me back to “Freedom”.  Walter is heartbroken.  He’s imprisoned in his own private cabin suffering from his life’s failure.  In perhaps the most powerful scene in the book his daughter says “Dad, if you didn’t still love her you wouldn’t be in such pain.”  Walter says “Honey, not all stories have happy endings.”

I won’t give the book away, but I’ve always believed without a happy ending, the story’s never complete.  Believing in a happy ending keeps me going.

Ten Years After

As I watched the Mets-Phillies game last night the news broke that Navy SEALS had killed Osama Bin Laden. There are dates we just remember in great detail. For most Americans, 911 was one of those collective dates seared into the nation’s conscience. My life is so much different today from that beautiful September day. Ten years, a lifetime of change.



On September 11th I went to work early as I did any other day. I was conducting a training program in a conference room on the third floor of our corporate offices. It was about 10:00 am; we’d been meeting since 8:00. The conference room door opened and a coworker, a friend, walked in. Ashen faced, she said “planes flew into the World Trade Center. One of the towers collapsed.”


I looked at her for a moment. Her words weren’t registering. Just four months earlier to the day (May 11th), I had been on the observation deck of the towers with my older son, serving as a chaperone to his “TAG” (talented and gifted) class trip to New York City. There was no conceivable way, I thought, that those towers could collapse.


I cancelled the remainder of our training program and headed back to my first floor office. The building was silent. Everyone was glued to their computer screens watching the tragedy unfold.


My voicemail light was flashing. It was my wife. She knew I was scheduled to go to DC later that week and, in her immediate reaction to the attack, couldn’t remember if I’d already left. Her message was simple and very emotional. “Honey, there’s been an attack on New York and Washington. I don’t know where you are. Please call me. I love you. “


I called her and assured her I was fine. I also kept that message. Up until my arrest and removal from my office that message stayed on my voicemail. So many times after that day as my life spiraled out of control, I would return to that message just to hear her say “I love you”.


That night, we had a quiet family dinner. Our older boy was thirteen. He loved hearing about and discussing politics and history. He also had his personal memories of being on top of the trade centers. The attack had a noticeable effect on him. Our younger son was four. He knew things weren’t right, knew something “bad” had happened. But, he was with this mommy and daddy and brother. His world was secure.


Later, my wife and I sat close to each other on our couch. She wept and told me the world our sons were living in would never be the same. “There’ll be war and a draft and “D” is so close to that age. We won’t be able to travel”, she sobbed.


I, on the other hand, was pissed. I hated militant Islam. I was sick of appeasement. I wanted payback. And, I was convinced justice would be done.


Later that night as the emotions of the day poured over us, we made love. In many ways, my wife and I were closer that day than at almost any time in our twenty years together. That day also marked the beginning of the collapse of our relationship. Things began to change between us after 911. Like the towers, our strength, our bond, could not survive the intense heat of what was coming.


Between 1998 and September 2001, I had embezzled less than $150,000; after 911 until my arrest in August 2008, I stole almost $2 million. There was a connection. For a long time I denied it, but there was. I became convinced that we had to destroy evil while I ignored my own misdeeds. She worried about loss of life and lifestyle. She lost respect for me. I became angry with her that she was so quick to dismiss my views.


Then, there was the travel, the gifts, the new everything. I was proving to her that no terrorist, no war could stop us from being happy, having our dreams met. She accepted everything. Our friends accepted my extravagant largesse. But, inside I knew.


I could tell how she felt about me. I never heard “I love you” the way I heard it on the voicemail message. It drove me crazy. What I wanted more than anything was to be told “I love you”. The world was falling apart with anthrax, war, terror attacks. My life was falling apart. Still, I made lamb and crab legs and filets. We ate, drank and were merry while the world, while my life, went to hell.


And, I did stupid things and ordinary things and occasionally courageous things, all in the name of getting my life, my self-respect back. I was so sure what the future held on 911 as I sat in my home comforting the woman I loved more than my own life. I was so sure, yet I was so wrong about almost everything.


I greeted the news this morning with a high degree of ambivalence. In many respects, justice was carried out by the raid in Pakistan. If anyone deserved to die it certainly was Bin Laden. But as I watched the coverage, I couldn’t help but think about my Bible reading this morning.


“Teacher, what is the most important commandment? There are two. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself.” I wondered what Jesus would say about the precision strike that toppled public enemy number one.


Like this wonderful country, 911 was a watershed event in my life. Like this country, in the name of right and good (and love), I did a lot of wrong things in the aftermath of that horrendous day. And those decisions had repercussions I couldn’t anticipate.


I lost the woman I loved after 911. It wasn’t her fault. Things could have been different between us, but they are what they are. If she’s happy, then I can be at peace.


And me? This morning I read Exodus 14. The Israelites were at the waters edge. The Egyptian army was bearing down on them. They were afraid and wanted to go back, back to where they came from. Moses called out to God. And God said, “Why do you cry out to me? Tell the people to move forward.”


Move forward. Can’t change what’s happened. Can’t go back. Just trust and move forward. And the sea was parted.

Gang Talk

It is odd who you end up considering a friend when you’re in prison. I know almost everyone here, yet count only one – Big S – like a real friend/son. I’m gradually feeling the same way about my friend, the gang leader “L”. We have nothing in common, yet when we talk about politics, relationships, religion, I find him well-versed and very insightful. He also reads people better than most of the folks I’ve seen.



Last week, at my worst, he pulled into my cut to “keep it real” with me. He told me I needed to tighten up, fight through what I was going through and see the big picture. “I don’t believe in happenstance”, he told me. “Things happen for a reason. You’ve got to trust that reason.”


He said a lot more on issues very close to my heart. And he knew things you wouldn’t expect a twenty-eight year old inner city gang leader to know or care about.


Once again, I learned most of us want the same things out of life. I also learned not to judge a book by its cover. And, my kindness brought out kindness. Funny that it took me coming to prison to learn that.

Money and Prisons

We learned this week on the “down low” that Congress – as part of its budget discussions – is considering gutting the grant program for college programs in prisons. All the data agrees – a college degree is the most significant preventer of an inmate not re-offending on release. Knowing that, it makes perfect sense to gut the program. After all, leave guys locked up without access to education or vocational training. They deserve it for their misdeeds. I’m sure they’ll come out ready to work hard and be good productive citizens!



As a recent editorial in the Newport News Daily Press succinctly put it, Virginia is on the wrong path: “wait them out” is a centerpiece of Virginia’s strategy for reducing recidivism and getting criminals to change their ways…there’s not much systematic work before inmates are released to address the factors that contribute to their criminal ways or are obstacles to cleaning up their acts…the majority of inmates lack high school diplomas or job skills, but programs to fill these deficits are very limited.


This year’s Virginia budget includes over $1 billion for DOC. That works out to $25,000 per inmate for housing. That also doesn’t include the $1 billion spent the past two decades to build new prisons.


Politicians will tell you abolishing parole has worked. “The Commonwealth is safer” they’ll tell you. Don’t believe it. States with aggressive early release programs have seen their crime rates decrease exponentially more than states with a “lock em up” approach.


As a recent study concerning Louisiana’s abysmal prison system concluded, “Too often offenders leave prisons as more hardened criminals than when they entered. Louisiana comingles nonviolent offenders, at whom we are simply upset, with violent offenders we are afraid of. Nonviolent offenders can often be treated and supervised in the community…alternative sentencing – including electronic monitoring, day reporting and work restitution programs – can more cost effectively hold many nonviolent offenders accountable and reduce recidivism.”


Makes a good deal of sense. Unfortunately, politicians would prefer to spend dollars than use sense. Virginia is at a crossroads. It can decide to aggressively pursue rehabilitation, re-entry training and education and early release, or it can keep running the same old failing prison model. The choice is there; the choice is obvious. It’s a billion dollar question and it’s time for the Governors answer.


The Governor pledged to make re-entry a priority. It’s his call: money for college, GED’s and vocational training and early release or another couple of billion.

If I Had a Million Dollars

The other night I was flipping through the TV channels when I came across a pleasant surprise. There on the music TV station was a concert, “The Barenaked Ladies, live in Detroit, Michigan”. If you aren’t familiar with BNL, they are a great Canadian band doing music somewhere between the Eagles, John Mayer and Dave Matthews. They have a great, soft rock presence with acoustic guitars; stand up bass, an occasional banjo and great lyrics. Their songs hit all the right feelings of despair over a relationship breakup as well as humorous stuff. They are a great band!



Their biggest hit was a song called “If I Had a Million Dollars” with a guy telling his girl what he’d buy her with the money. It’s funny and rhythmic and the kind of song I sang along to as I sat in my bunk.


That tune also got me thinking about my views of money and how all that’s changed since I’ve been in here. I didn’t steal to buy flashy cars or clothes. I paid my bills on time, saved money from my pay for a max contribution to my 401K, put money away for my kid’s college and stole and spent $2 million showering my family and friends with gifts, trips, picking up the tab for airfare and meals. I was Santa Claus. The strange thing, I did it because psychologically I thought I had to be all things to everyone to get them to love and appreciate me. Ironically, after my arrest I soon realized all those people I gave things to to love and appreciate me in fact were going to do neither. I was an embarrassment; I was expendable.


In my younger days money didn’t mean much to me. I wanted a cabin in the mountains, books, a typewriter (you’d have to be fifty to understand that) and someone to love. Funny how life goes full circle.


All the guys in here want to know is why didn’t I buy a Bentley or a Benz. Why I didn’t use the money to buy beautiful women. Ideas about love, loyalty, commitment are alien to them. Hard work gets you nothing. Commitment to a spouse, “for better or worse” gets you divorced and “doing your bid” while those you love live off your efforts. I am pitied and scoffed at for being so naïve.


“Of course the courts aren’t fair…”


“Of course she’d leave you. You were just dumb enough to think a ring matters…”


“At the end of the day, even your homies sell you out…”


I refuse to accept that. What this experience has taught me is money doesn’t matter. It’s not the car you drive or flying first class. It is about where your heart lies.


But, if I did have a million dollars, I’d be a whole lot better off financially….

Thinking about Freedom

Every week my blog manager forwards reader comments to me. I read – and many times reread over and over – what the blog readers are thinking or reacting to what I write. I enjoy the feedback even when it occasionally and painfully hits close to home.



This week an “Anonymous” reader commented on my recent writings about freedom. And, those comments got me thinking about not just freedom, but our interconnectedness.


Ironically, and my ex would fall over to see me admit what I’m about to write, I’ve discovered through this experience, that we are all in this together. I use to ridicule then Senator Hillary Clinton for her book It Takes a Village to Raise a Child. I always thought my success, whether in school or relationships or work, was solely and directly due to my efforts. I bemoaned paying the way for others less ambitious than I. Oh, I did community work. It’s what we “successful people” did. Ultimately, I realized going through this that my logic was completely skewed. God has a way, His way of showing us how off kilter we are. Sometimes the way He shows us is unpleasant. But, if we pay attention, we learn exactly what He expects from His children.


Anonymous, I take issue with your posting for a number of reasons. Here goes. Freedom is derived from God. In one of the most powerful scenes in David McCullough’s incredible book 1776 he retells the story of a Presbyterian minister in New York City. Reverend Knox, on the eve of the British attack on Washington’s troops, uttered these powerful words from the pulpit: “God ordains that man live free”. So simple, yet so profound.


Freedom is God’s creation. It isn’t granted us by a benevolent government. It is from God and of God. That isn’t anarchy. God requires that we live under His rules and there are only two that really matter: “Love the Lord with all your heart” and “Love your neighbor as yourself”. When you steal – like I did – you violate God’s law. And society has an absolute right to correct that ungodly behavior and help restore me to a position of “law abiding”. But, society does not have the right to break God’s law to punish me. That, Anonymous, is ungodly.


It is ironic that at the entrance to the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz, Poland the following sign appeared: “Work Makes You Free.” I would caution Anonymous to be careful when you conclude you’re on one side and the outcasts are on the “other” side, like the Jews in 1930’s Germany, or the Christians in China, or the black school children in Prince Edward County, Virginia in the late 50’s when the public schools were closed rather than integrate them.


As Jesus pointed out to the Pharisees when he disapproved of divorce and protected the adulterous woman, God’s law is significantly different from man’s law.


Some people in prison clearly are sociopaths. They are a danger to others. Their horrendous deeds call for separation. That does not give society the right to treat them ungodly. “Be patient; be kind; be forgiving.”


And that leads me back to my new thoughts on our interconnection and my disagreement with Anonymous. Prior to Anonymous telling me about the effort put forth to earn his/her degree and how prison education cheapened the value of that education, Anonymous stated “the other day I was teaching high school…” so Anonymous teaches school – public, I assume, which is supported by taxpayers, many of whom don’t have children in school but have to pay nonetheless. And Anonymous works a school year (what, possibly 200 days per year?) and is eligible for tenure – guaranteed employment – and has little responsibility when his/her students do poorly. See, Anonymous, I used to think like you and public school teachers could always rile me up. And Anonymous, you may work in a good school. A lot of the guys I’ve been in contact with went to lousy schools, with lousy teachers, in lousy communities.


Your education: no one pays the full fare. Even when you pay the tuition, that tuition has been subsidized by alumni giving, Federal aid and state taxpayers (if you go to a state school). This myth that we “make it on our own” is just that, a myth.


While you were in college some of the dregs in here were filling potholes in your town and picking up your trash. A good number of these “criminals” were overseas fighting while you were “exploring” your major. One thing I didn’t know until I came in here was the large number of vets locked up, guys who fought in Vietnam, Panama, Grenada, both Iraq Wars and Afghanistan.


Your reference to a “free education” in prison is off base. First, the number one factor in keeping a felon from recommitting is – a college degree. You want to pay $25,000 to keep a guy locked up or $3,000 to enroll him in college?


Instead, let’s follow your lead, Anonymous, and gut prison programs. Why stop there. Handicapped kids? Screw ’em, why should I pay. It’s the parent’s job to take care of them. Public schools? Don’t need ‘em. Most of the teachers I knew weren’t qualified anyways. Let everyone home school.


I could go on and on but I won’t. I think you get my point. We all get something from someone else’s hard work, money or grace. We all need to give a helping hand from time to time to a brother or sister in need, even when that brother or sister did something horrendous.


“No man is an island unto himself”. That’s what justice is about. That’s what mercy is about. That’s what freedom is about. That’s what God is talking about.

A Dream

The English students have been working on critical essays the past week. They were required to choose two famous speeches out of a handful given them and break them down, looking at the speaker’s reasons (logos), character (ethos) and play to the audience’s emotion (pathos). One of the speeches available was Dr. King’s “I Have A Dream” speech, given on a sweltering August afternoon in 1963.



Dr. Y brought a DVD of the speech into class and the guys sat spellbound as Dr. King, in the classic rhythmic pacing of a black, Baptist preacher over and over slightly raised his voice each time he uttered “I have a dream”. Remember, this is a class made up predominantly by African-American males, yet I was the only one in the room who had ever read the speech before or ever seen Dr. King speak before.


“Let freedom ring”, Dr. King said over and over and the guys leaned forward as he recited the words from the Old Testament prophet Isaiah and the patriotic American song “My Country tis of Thee”. That evening I was telling DC about the guys’ reaction. I told him how choked up I get every time I read Dr. King’s words because he spoke with moral clarity; he spoke with Godly truth.


DC told me an astounding thing. “I was at that speech. My grandmother took me. We walked the ten blocks from her house and I was standing way up the hill near the Washington Monument.”


I sat quietly as DC told me he stood there with his grandmother clutching his hand tightly so he wouldn’t get lost in the crowd.


“We couldn’t see him. We were so far back. But all along the sides were huge speakers and the crowd was completely quiet when Dr. King spoke. I remember when he got to the end and he began raising his voice saying ‘Free at last, Free at last, thank God Almighty free at last’, I looked at my grandma and she was crying. I said ‘grandma why you sad?’ she said, ‘I’m not sad. Your great grandparents [her grandparents] were slaves and they prayed every day they’d hear those words.’”

DC has told me a great many stories in the time I’ve known him.  He’s let me know he was, by his own words, a “knucklehead” who was violent and out of control for years.  I’ve also gotten to know a beautiful, peaceful man, one who is loved by his parents, his wife and his children.

Once before DC told me something that really stuck in my mind. He came back from a visit with his parents, both in their eighties, who make the drive down from Northern Virginia every two months. His dad made an off the cuff remark about his mom not getting to bed early enough the previous night so they could get an early start for the visit.


“I finished praying about you and your mom was still running around the kitchen. I had to say ‘come on woman, we need to sleep’.” DC stopped, stunned and asked “Pops, you prayed about me?” His father is not a deeply religious man – at least to outward appearances. “Every day since 1972”, his father said. “I know the Lord will answer and deliver you.”


This week I spent a good deal of time thinking about faith, dreams and hope. I thought about those things on a personal level and a corporate level: where am I, where are we, as a people of supposed faith, headed? I had my “Good Friday” moment last week, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach of abandonment, betrayal and rejection, the feeling – a minister friend wrote me – “when darkness is our only companion” and there seems to be no remedy.


At the lowest, darkest moment I ended up reading Chapter 38 from the Book of Job. Funny how devotions tend to pop up at the most opportune time. In that chapter, in the whirlwind, God finally speaks to Job. He finally had enough of Job’s questions about “His way” that He fires back. “Who are you to question my ways?” God asks. “Did you help put the earth on its plane? Did you fix Orion in the sky? Do you control the tides, the wind?”


God, I realized was the Great Debater. He knew the answer to every question He threw at Job. And, more importantly, Job knew as well.


Dreams. A few weeks ago, Ms. Marie Dean died. Her obituary stated she was a tireless advocate for Virginia’s death row inmates. When her death was announced the “old heads” here had a smile for Miss Marie: DC, Saleem, Ty, Kicks, all down more than thirty years, all remember this tiny woman coming into “the walls” (the Virginia penitentiary in Richmond, since torn down) and advocating for the prisoners. Three husbands left her over her tireless work. Her children ignored her. Still, she continued to find lawyers to challenge capital sentences. Each day she worked because she believed in her core the parable statement from Jesus, “when I was in prison, you visited me.” She believed no man was beyond redemption, no inmate deserved to be executed.


And she was not alone. The old heads told me about Sister Irene, a petite catholic nun from Richmond and Bishop Sullivan, the Catholic Bishop of Richmond who worked during their tenures as advocates for prison reform. They believed it was their Christian duty to push for reconciliation, not incarceration.


Dreams. I don’t understand on an emotional level why me ex-wife divorced me. I understand it on an intellectual level. It makes perfect sense. It was logical, rational, a no brainer. But, it’s not what you do when you profess to love someone. I don’t know why friends abandoned me. I don’t know why the judge decided to be so harsh with me. I have every legitimate, logical reason to feel self pity and believe I was treated unjustly.


But, I have dreams. And, dreams don’t die. What I took from God’s discussion with Job is simply this. God’s telling Job “you don’t know what I know. So, you have a choice. You can roll over and quit or you can trust Me.” Job realized God was right. The funny thing is God already knew what Job was going to do. He knew it beforehand because He was willing to let Satan do his worst to Job. God, it seems has more faith in us than we have in ourselves.


Tornados ripped through the Southeast this past week. Watching the news the other night I was struck by a middle aged African-American woman standing in front of what used to be her home. There was nothing but rubble, yet she had climbed out from between sofa cushions, virtually unscathed. She said as the house began to explode around her, she was prepared to die but “God had another plan for me. Others were called, but I was spared in His infinite wisdom.”


Dreams. Many nights as I’ve fallen asleep these past few weeks I’ve just wondered why God wouldn’t let me sleep permanently. I just didn’t feel I was built strongly enough to do day in and day out what I faced. “Who are you going to trust?” But I have dreams. I realized the past few days as I’ve slowly fought myself back to equilibrium, that that is precisely what those vague concepts like justice, mercy, compassion, forgiveness and love are built on. They are built on dreams.


Dr. King saw a country torn apart by racial injustice but he had a dream that in God’s way and in His day, justice would prevail. Ms. Dean, Sister Irene, Bishop Sullivan dreamed of changing the prison system to be more humane, more merciful, more Christ-like.


Dreams, I concluded this week are what our faith is built on. They remind us to trust in the Lord with all our hearts as the Proverb tells us, even when our friends and family hurt us and our circumstances overwhelm us. Dreams keep us free. Dreams give us hope. Dreams can connect us to God’s way.


His grandmother died while he was in prison. But, she knew he’d get out someday. Even on his worst days, his grandmother believed in her dream that her grandson would live righteously and one day would be free.

Strange Bedfellows

I was sent a copy of the recently released NAACP report calling for a change in current incarceration policies. The report appropriately titled “Misplaced Priorities: Over Incarcerate, Under Educate” (http://naacp.3cdn.net/01d6f368edbe135234_bq0m68x5h.pdf)  is a scathing indictment of America’s love affair with prisons. What was truly ironic is who is standing with the NAACP and their clarion call for reform. Grover Norquist, President of Americans for Tax Reform – a conservative advocacy group – stood directly behind NAACP President Benjamin Todd Jealous as he presented the report. Republican Presidential hopeful and former Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich sent a letter of support. What would bring such diverse parties together? Sadly, it is the growing realization that this nation’s prison system is failing. They say politics makes strange bedfellows. Perhaps justice requires even stranger ones.



The NAACP report is eye opening for its simple, direct message. They call the current system the “prison industrial complex”. That is quite an apt name for a system nationwide that costs almost $70 billion per year to maintain. As I’ve pointed out before, the lucrative sweetheart contracts given by state DOC’s to conglomerates like Keefe and Global Tel Link line private pockets at the expense of taxpayers, inmates and their families alike.


As the recent Pew Center Study (http://www.pewcenteronthestates.org/uploadedFiles/Pew_State_of_Recidivism.pdf)  showed, increased spending and incarceration rates have done nothing to reduce recidivism. In fact, the opposite has happened. Shortly after the Pew Study was released, Virginia began touting the fact that “sixteen years after banning parole, Virginia has defied the nation’s unshakably high recidivism level…”


The story reported that Virginia’s 2007 recidivism rate (for inmates released three years earlier) was 28.3 percent versus a national rate of 43.3 percent. Buried just below that “amazing statistic”, attributable to Virginia’s unjust denial of early release to model inmates, was this fact, “the rate has edged up slightly since 2000”. In other words, the rate was lower just after parole was abolished. Sounds to me like the trend is going the wrong way.


As the Washington Post noted in an editorial on April 18, the “NAACP report…is the most recent to argue convincingly that public safety can be preserved and tax dollars saved with smarter policies…Individuals must be held accountable for breaking the law, and in many cases, especially those involving violent offenses, imprisonment is the best way to protect public safety…But the levels of incarceration are financially unsustainable and in many instances counterproductive…”


The “radical proposals” the NAACP came up with that are supported by all these conservatives include shortening prison terms (recommendation # 8) and increasing parole release rates (recommendation # 9). Ironically, at the recently completed session of the General Assembly, Delegate Donald McEachin’s proposed bill to give Virginia inmates enrolled in vocational or educational programs (and the classroom aides) ten days of earned good time credit (versus the current 4 ½) never made it out of committee.


Sadly, it appears that the NAACP report, along with all the other evidence being compiled to show that prison reform is needed is falling on deaf ears here in Virginia.


In a Washington Post letter to the editor (http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/window-dressing-in-virginia/2011/04/15/AFFX03vD_story.html) on April 15th, Vienna resident John Horejsi, a member of Governor McDonnell’s “Prisoner and Juvenile Re-entry Council” noted that of the numerous recommendations made by this group on issues addressing recidivism, parole, taxpayer costs, “only one…unfortunately, was presented to go forward.” He then said the following:


“There is widespread agreement that we, a group of citizens asked by the governor to serve, were perhaps no more than window dressing.”


Is Governor McDonnell just another politician using “tough on crime” sound bites to buy votes or is he courageous? The answer will be seen if he becomes a strange bedfellow of the NAACP report.

Gambling, Storebox and Stabbing

Commissary day came and went. I got my regular order of chips, ramen noodles, refried beans, peanut butter, crackers and pop tarts. Since school’s been in full session, my meals in the building have been limited to a lot of chips (my weakness) mixed in with equal parts of ramen noodles and peanut butter crackers. Commissary also brought out the gamblers.



By Thursday night there was one major poker game, one dice game and one game of tunk underway in the building. “Big money” was changing hands: $30.00, $40.00, $50.00, won and lost. The NBA playoffs are in full swing so the parlays are drawing $3, $4 and even $5 bets. There’s a general rule in prison old heads tell you – don’t go in debt and don’t gamble, unfortunately guys don’t follow that advice.


In less than one sitting there were a half dozen guys who lost their entire commissary order. We’re on a sixteen day stretch between orders. That’s a long time to go without any food in the building. Guys get desperate and visit “the storebox”. What’s the storebox? One or two guys run a store. You need a tuna fish? Visit the storebox. Next store day you pay the box man two tunas. Some items run on specials. You can get two snickers bars by paying back three.


Like gambling, storeboxing is illegal. Guys that visit the store box never get out of debt. You’re always paying extra back which eats up your money and makes you order more on commissary day, which goes to the store man, which leaves you short, which sends you back to the box.


I just sat there and watched as guys lost everything in their boxes, cussed the cards and the dice, then headed to the “box”.


Earlier in the week we had a stabbing in another building. I try not to write too much about the violence here because folks that still stay in touch with me would worry. Fact is, prison – even at this level – is a violent place. Every week there are numerous fights; every week at least one fight involves an inmate being struck repeatedly with a master lock stuffed in a sock. Every week some guy gets his teeth broken, or his jaw or his eye socket smashed. This week was different. This week there was a stabbing. In my eighteen months here, there’d only been one other stabbing. This one could have been serious. Fortunately, it wasn’t.


Members of the “viceroys” (that’s another gang in here like the bloods and crips) were getting a “gump” (a homosexual) to bring tobacco in through the visitation room. The gump became involved with an “independent” who convinced him to bring the tobacco to him instead. This upset the viceroy leader who approached the independent. Words were exchanged; the independent said something disrespectful to the gangleader. The gangleader began pummeling the independent. The gump jumped in to defend “his man” and within seconds three other gang members jumped in, one with a blade.


Just like that, in the span of a few seconds, all hell broke loose. As I’ve written before, this place isn’t properly staffed. The officers are ill equipped to keep things like that from happening. And these things will happen. You put men on top of each other, deprive them of basic human contact, create an environment run on snitching, ignore adequate mental health treatment, and put predatory personalities in the midst of 1200 men and violence will result.


Lest you think these things happen because the inmates are criminals, read any book about POW camps. You deprive people of basic human decency and there are incidents of base human behavior exhibited.


I’m fortunate. I’ve seen a great deal in my days locked up I’m still not comfortable talking about. It’s made me realize that if Virginia wants to lock people up, they bear responsibility for maintaining a safe environment.


Fyodor Dostoevsky wrote “compassion is the chief law of human existence”. Its high time judges, DOC Directors, Members of the House of Delegates and the Governor take that to heart.

A Shout out to Adam

I was recently sent Internet postings by Adam Serwer, a writer with the American Prospect (http://prospect.org/csnc/blogs/adam_serwer). Serwer focuses his pieces on civil rights, human rights and criminal justice. I normally shy away from columnists who report on prisons without actually experiencing life in here. As I’ve come to discover, what we think we know about prison is usually the complete opposite of the reality of life behind bars. Simply put, until you live it, you can’t comprehend what a colossal failure the American prison system is.



To see the day to day waste of money and lives in feeding this horribly broken model is eye opening. And only in corrections can a Governor get away with touting a 30 percent recidivism rate as proof his plan is working. Imagine a school principal telling you only thirty of one hundred second graders can’t read. Imagine a doctor saying only thirty of a hundred children died of measles. Yet, that is precisely what the public accepted from Governor McDonnell following the recent release of the Pew study on recidivism trends.


But this blog isn’t about Governor McDonnell and his failure to show courage, faith and leadership with prison reform. No, this blog is about a young looking policy wonk at the “American Prospect” who gets the insanity that is corrections. Adam Serwer, you’re alright.


Serwer recently wrote two pieces that are must reads for anyone interested in prison operations. The first, “Books Behind Bars”, took a critical look at Virginia DOC’s continuing efforts to censor books and publications available to inmates. As I’ve noted in this blog in past postings, DOC continues to unfairly limit access to a wide array of reading material – from literary classics, to legal periodicals, to soft porn – to the inmate population even in the face of repeated embarrassing court defeats.


Serwer understands the issue, he gets the idiocy of the DOC policy and the arbitrary and draconian enforcement of the policy based on the whims of individual operations officers at particular facilities. But Adam needs to press the issue further. It’s not just reading material, but access to music and spoken language CD’s as well. DOC has a sweetheart contract with JEM (Jones Express Music) – a company owned by a former corrections officer in Big Stone Gap, Virginia – to be the exclusive seller of music CD’s to the inmate population.


And while he’s at it, Adam should also look into the way DOC allows their facility wardens to run their prisons like fiefdoms with little or no central control and supervision from Richmond. I’m on my fourth warden in less than eighteen months. The first ran the prison in a way Joseph Stalin would have admired, through lies, heavy use of a snitch network, and arbitrary enforcement of rules.


The second warden, Ms. Runion, was a saint. She believed in the power of redemption. She demanded both officers and inmates treat each other with respect. She was an advocate for change. What did it get her? The ire of the security apparatus here. They ran her off. She’s now in charge of a sex offender facility. The third warden was a no-nonsense, but fair, African American woman who was killed in a tragic auto accident.


That led to warden number four; a skinny, arrogant man who barely is seen in the compound and then will only walk around escorted by an officer. Funny, Ms. Runion and the late Ms. Avent didn’t need an escort and went all over the facility every day. This warden wants no contact with the population. This warden is an aloof, self-absorbed little man who wants to throw his weight around. He cares nothing about redemption, rehabilitation or re-entry. Adam, you need to look into the wardens at these dumps.


Adam Serwer’s other eye-opening column dealt with the recent Pew report. Perhaps someone could direct Governor McDonnell to the rather startling information contained in Adam’s posting. While McDonnell is busy touting Virginia’s 28.3 percent recidivism rate and attributing it to the “abolishment of parole”, Serwer’s column points out that Oregon has reduced its recidivism rate to 22.8 percent, an almost 32 percent drop, by focusing on parole and probation.


Try this for powerful prose:


“…the Pew study makes it clear that we’re now beyond the point of diminishing returns. Even as the prison population has ballooned, the study states that only about a third of the drop in crime is attributable to incarceration, and notably, 19 of the states that cut their prison populations also experienced a drop in crime…”


Give that man a Pulitzer!


Here’s what I like about Mr. Serwer. He gets it. He understands. He is looking from the outside in and sees the same screwed up mess I see from bunk 96.


For a long time I held the same draconian views most voters had. I frankly didn’t care one bit what happened inside prison. I figured the system worked just fine. The guilty went to prison. I didn’t want to hear excuses like poverty, drug and alcohol addition, illiteracy. No, I thought, everybody had the same chance and excuses were for fools. I ignored my own indiscretions. After all, I wasn’t really a criminal. The pain I was feeling in my damaged relationships was nothing like the losers addicted to crack, or heroin, or crystal meth.


Then I was run through the system and like the blind beggar who meets Jesus, I was blind, but now I see. I see the inhumanity in this system and the waste of precious resources to feed it, and the arrogance of those who sustain it.


Perhaps before any politicians can vote to abolish parole, before any judge sentences a convicted person to prison, before any Governor touts their state’s tough on crime statistics, they should have to spend ninety days in a prison.


Good work Adam. Keep writing. The message has to get out.