It’s
been over twenty years since I read your first novel, Bonfire of the Vanities. That is, until I re-read it here in prison
last week. And I have to tell you, the story made a lot more sense to me now
than then.
Back
then, during my first read, I was a young, successful trial attorney, a partner
in a small litigation firm in East Tennessee. I was in the middle of a large
bank fraud case pitting shareholders of a failed bank against their board
members as they sought to recover staggering financial losses after their bank
was taken over by the FDIC.
I
picked the book up and read each night to unwind from the day’s proceedings.
Scotch in one hand, TV tuned to ESPN, I’d read a few pages and laugh at the
travails Sherman McCoy created for himself. My wife was nearly full term with
our first child. I’d watch her attempt to lift herself out of a chair, a petite
frame with a twenty pound ball strapped to her front, and read your words and
think, where does this guy in the white suit come up with this stuff?
Those
days were so long ago. I’m over fifty now, divorced from that young woman,
alienated from our two sons, four years into a thirteen year sentence for
embezzlement. I read your book again. This time, I didn’t laugh as much. This
time, I knew what Sherman McCoy felt. I knew because I’d been there. And I
wondered, how did you know what it was like: the arrest, the loss, the shame,
despair, and guilt? How did you know and why didn’t I pay attention all those
years ago?
Rationalization.
I guess it’s part of the deadly sin of pride, but we rationalize way too much
when it comes to our behavior. We know what we’re supposed to do and yet, so
often doing the right thing is the furthest thought from our mind. We’re quick
to hold others in contempt for their foibles and failing, but ourselves? We
kind of give a quick wink.
I
was arrested at my office. For a number of years I’d been living a lie, taking
money from work. It was small amounts at first, a thousand here or there. But,
as the years progressed the amounts grew. I became like Santa Claus after a
while. Any friend, coworker, or family member who needed anything could come to
me. And I rationalized away my behavior. After all, I’d tell myself, I was a
good employee in every other way. No one worked harder. And, I was active in my
church and community. I was keeping our local Meals on Wheels afloat, I’d
remind myself, to offset the guilt that was starting to grow in the dark
recesses of my mind.
I
re-read Bonfire and came to Sherman’s
explanation for his ‘drinker’s insomnia.” He needed to tell his wife what he’d
done. Instead, he acted as though all was right in their world. Then, in the
middle of the night, he’d awaken. His heart pounding, his mind racing one
thousand miles an hour, he would be racked by guilt, and shame, and fear of
being caught.
Those
words, that description, was my life. There were the 4:00 a.m. puffy, bloodshot
eyes, the six scotches before bed to help me shut down, the paranoia every day
at work that “today’s the day” they get me. And, there was the pleading and the
deal making with God each morning on my commute. “God, I don’t want to lose my
wife and kids; I don’t want to go to prison. Get me out of this. I’m a good
man. Please get me out of this.”
But
actions have consequences. As I said, I was arrested at work, denied bond (too
many assets, I was deemed a flight risk), I was hauled away to jail. I turned
in my navy blue blazer, khaki’s, oxford shirt with Jerry Garcia tie, and
Kenneth Cole shoes for a two piece puke green jail jumper (v-neck and elastic
waist) with “Jackie Chans” (cheap plastic shower shoes).
The
jail stunk. It smelled of sweat and excrement and rotten food. They threw me in
a cell by “reception” (funny choice of words I thought) to “make sure you don’t
off yourself.” And every fifteen minutes, in that eight by eight cell with the
dirty yellow bulb staying on, an officer came by and said “You alright in
there?” I’d say “yeah,” but I wasn’t. I knew it was all gone.
I
thought about that as I read Sherman tell his lawyer, “All I can tell you is
that I’m already dead … your ‘self’ is other people, all the people you’re tied
to, and it’s only a thread.” Sherman knew so much. He knew what it was like
sitting in the cesspool that is a jail. He knew what it was like to defend
yourself against men who quite frankly don’t give a shit, who will beat you
senseless over a perceived snub or a twenty cent ramen noodle.
Soon
enough you too have to learn not to give a shit. Weakness is death in here, so
you lash out and try and become what you’re not capable of being: unempathetic,
devoid of compassion, atonement, and kindness. But some of us can’t live like
that.
Somehow,
you understood that. Your words, “He ain’t got the heart for being on the wrong
side of the law. I don’t care who you are, sometimes in your life you’re gonna
be on the wrong side of the law, and some people got the heart for it and some
don’t,” rang truer than you may know.
I
realized I didn’t have the heart for it. And, I realized I couldn’t be like
most of the men in here. I lost everything: freedom, wife, sons, friends,
career, wealth, and for a long time I thought “I’m already dead, my heart just
doesn’t know it”. I had a decision to make: quit or fight back. I loved that
about Sherman. He too was all set to quit until his “friend” tried to persuade
him to leave his building.
Friends.
I knew dozens and dozens of people. I got locked up and all of them, save one small
handful, bailed. I decided not to quit. It was the toughest decision of my life
and there are days even now when I wonder if I made the right choice. But, I
couldn’t, I can’t quit.
This
entire episode has been life changing and it’s taught me a few things. A major
life lesson is you find out who you really are, what’s at your core, when
you’re put in a place, an environment, like this that is (pardon my crassness)
completely fucked up.
And,
you don’t have to be like every other guy going through this. Most of the men
in here come from lousy homes, lousy schools, lousy economies. They’re poor,
ignorant, and alienated from the American dream. And for all their bravado they
quietly acquiesce to their life’s lot. They can’t see beyond this place and the
shitty existence they knew before. Prison to them is just another stop on their
train to nowhere.
It’s
depressing, but it also makes me angry enough to fight back. I teach, GED prep,
college tutoring, and creative writing. Yes, I write. I write blogs about this
experience and the complete failure of the criminal justice system. Face it,
there’s not “justice” in the system and no “corrections” going on in here. And
I write stories about broken people. One think I’ve learned from this is we’re
all broken in some way. But, there’s redemption when you come face to face with
your brokenness and overcome it.
I
write this letter so you would know that Sherman McCoy matters. His story isn’t
too farfetched (just look at the headlines about CIA Director Petreaus!) I’m
still not sure how you knew the nuts and bolts of jail or what guilt and shame
are like. But, you do and your man Sherman lived it.
Earlier
in this letter I told you my thoughts on rationalization. It’s “the glass
house” effect. We are quick to pass judgment on others all the while we cut
corners and try and have things “our way.” Sherman wasn’t a bad guy. But, this
isn’t about being good or bad. It’s about doing the right thing even when no
one is watching.
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