Dust in the Ray

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 2015.

            I read an interesting short story the other day. It centered around a guy thinking his life was being led the “right way.” He was honorable, he was a good citizen, he was lawful. And, as such he could pass judgement on all the wrong he saw. There he was one morning, ready to take on the world when he saw it. There in the kitchen a ray of morning sunlight shone through the window. In the ray he saw thousands of particles of dust, usually invisible to his eye – in a room he knew was spotless, just like his life – and yet there it was in that ray clear for all to see. He realized in that ray his life was exposed. The ray was pure; it was God’s light. And the dust was all his arrogance and pride and judgment – he really was no better than those he’d held in judgment.

            I read that story and smiled. I got the metaphor of the ray. How odd I would “get it” in here during a week when my mind was bombarded by commentary and talking heads telling me who “loved” this country; who was law-abiding, who spoke for God. I thought all about it as I did another week inside, paying “my debt” to society for breaking the law.

            So the former mayor of New York says the President isn’t “like us.” He doesn’t love “America the way we do.” What spurred those comments? The President stated that what is happening in the Middle East is no more representative of Islam that the Klan is of Christianity. And you know, he’s right. No “religion” has morality cornered. History is replete with people doing horrible, awful things in the name of God. How often, in our visceral reaction to the beheading of a journalist or the burning alive of a Jordanian pilot, that we immediately utter how barbaric “those people” are. Yet, we forget that it wasn’t that many years ago when an angry white crowd in St. Louis threw a small black baby into a burning home; it wasn’t that many years ago when the churches in Alabama and Mississippi shielded killers – Klansmen who lynched and tortured simply because of one’s color. Do we remember how the churches in Germany were co-opted by a murderous tyrant? The ray of sunlight exposes the dirt.

            There is a tension at work between faith and devout citizenship. Too often, we think being faithful means supporting. The status quo. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote:

            “The church is not the master or servant of the state, but rather the conscience of the state. It must be the guide and critic of the state, and never its tool.”

            Put another way, civil life doesn’t necessarily equate with spiritual wellbeing. Or, as C.S. Lewis remarked, “Almost all crimes of Christian History have come about when religion is confused with politics.”

            You cannot read the New Testament, those magnificent parables in the four Gospels, and come away with a self-righteous attitude that we are good and they are bad. We care called to live in tension with society. Coziness with the state – any state – and the church may be good for the state but it is bad for the church.

            Throughout his entire adult life Jesus’ ministry was to the outcast, the downtrodden, the sick scum on the fringe. His anger, so seldom vented, was directed to who? The Pharisees – those who lived by legalistic interpretation. Jesus understood that proof of spiritual maturity is not how “pure” you live, but how aware you are of the impurity in your own life. We aren’t “pure;” we are covered in the dust. As Phillip Yancey says, “what trivial matters we obsess over, and what weighty matters of the law – justice, mercy, faithfulness – might we be missing?”

            This isn’t about Rudy Giuliani – though I wonder why when he talks about his “love” for the country he neglects to point out how over and over he sought and received military deferments to avoid service during Vietnam, how his “moral compass” didn’t preclude adultery. “You can know the law by heart without knowing the heart of it.”

            I lived a life of a legalist. I saw the world in black and white, right and wrong. Trouble is, without being right with God – and by right I mean understanding what He really is about – you can’t begin to see the wrong in yourself. “Father forgive them. They knew not what they do.” Here He is, wrongly accused, convicted, tortured, and now death’s throws and He is not calling for retribution; He isn’t even calling for justice. He is calling for mercy.

            I think a good deal about mercy – for those who wrong us; for terrorists and for those of us doing time; mercy; because we realize while we may not be “them,” we aren’t that far removed from them. That was the point being made with the adulterous woman’s accusers: “If you are free of sin, then carry out the sentence.” And the crowd, they saw the dust and dirt and grime of their own lives in the light; and they were humbled and they left.

            “Don’t the Bible say we must love everybody?”

            “O the Bible! To be sure it says a great many things;

            But, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them.”

            That dialog came from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s pre-Civil War master piece; Uncle Tom’s Cabin. One hundred and fifty years later has anything changed?

            Every day in here I deal with broken, lost, sometimes violent men. And I ask myself in moments of silent meditation, “why” – why this? Nothing the state does or can do can clean the hearts of those of us in here. Our nation can drop tons of bombs but hearts will not change. The conclusion of the adulterous woman story is revealing. After the crowd leaves only she remains with Jesus. “Woman, where are all your accusers?” “They have left.” He looks in the face of an obviously remorseful woman, a woman who has seen “the dust” of her life in the ray. “Then neither will I condemn you.”

            Why am I writing about dust? I guess because my faith journey has led me to realize Atticus Finch was right. We have to try and walk around in the other guy’s skin; we have to show empathy, mercy, kindness especially so to those who wouldn’t show it to us. For far too long I lived in the shadows of cleanliness. The light exposed the dust. Those of us who profess faith would do well to remember that when any representative of the state tries to tell us what is right.

 

Grievance Process – or lack thereof

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 2015.

            During the mid 1990’s President Bill Clinton, embroiled in his own sordid sexcapades that become known as the “Lewinsky scandal” signed into law the Prison Litigation Reform Act. The PLRA was an attempt by the majority House Republicans to reign in what they perceived as activist judges from coddling inmates and their complaints. Before enactment of the PLRA an aggrieved inmate could file for habeas relief (habeas corpus protection goes all the way back to the English common law and ensures that “the state” cannot arbitrarily hold a person in confinement without “due process of law” which in effect means an accused is entitled to be treated “fairly”).

            If an inmate’s rights were being violated, the inmate could hand write a petition to the Federal court and spell out the constitutional abridgement. Cases involving beatings by officers, torture, lengthy terms “in the hole” all routinely found their way to Federal Court. Each year tens of thousands of these petitions were filed in U.S. District Courts. And, there were frivolous cases filed. Inmates, with nothing but time on their hands, would file suit because bread wasn’t soft enough, or conjugal visits were not permitted.

            The PLRA was enacted to curb those alleged excesses (more significantly, the act also attempted to deprive death row inmates of appellate rights to review their capitol convictions). Under the PLRA, state were permitted to set up “administrative processes.” Inmates were required to comply with those processes before being able to file suit. Every state and the Federal Bureau of Prisons did such. And, an inmate’s ability to challenge unfair prison treatment immediately began to wither.

            Due process in prison is just a couple of words. The grievance process in effect at this facility is neither fair, nor objective. It fails the “smell” test.

            The facility has a grievance “ombudsman,” a person responsible for handling and investigating inmate complaints. The term “ombudsman” has a specific meaning. It means “a public official appointed to investigate citizen complaints.” By its very definition it implies objectivity and fairness. Nothing can be further from the truth with this facility’s grievance ombudsman.

            Most egregious of the defects is the fact that the staff person in charge of grievances isn’t objective. Her comments about grievances filed by inmates reflects her belief that inmates “don’t know as much” as she does. Case in point – I recently filed a grievance detailing an improper withholding of pay. I specifically “grieved” the housing/program director who attempted to (1) issue a backdated memo about “pay during lockdowns and holidays” and (2) prohibited the education unit from paying for tutoring work in the buildings during those periods while he continued to give full pay to his own workers.

            The grievance ombudsman sent my grievances go to my work supervisor (who wanted to pay me) because “inmates don’t dictate where grievances go, I do.” Here’s the funny thing. Without sounding too arrogant, I have more education, more legal knowledge, and more administrative experience than the facility Ombudsman. Contrary to her view, I know exactly who is responsible for my pay shortage and who created the policy. If the ombudsman was interested in the merits of the complaint, she would have read it and forwarded it to the housing/programs manager and asked (1) why did you “backdate” your policy and (2) why are education workers arbitrarily being denied pay when your workers aren’t? But she didn’t do that because what matters is that the facility wins.

            Daily I am confronted by fellow inmates who just don’t give a damn. The system is rigged, they will tell you. There is no such thing as justice in here. Officers write petty, bullshit charges, rules are arbitrarily enforced, legitimate grievances ignored. “You can’t fight them Larry; you can’t win. They’re in charge.” And I shake my head and try not to agree even though all I see every day is the sham process of discipline and grievances.

            I think of Atticus Finch and his impassioned defense of black share cropper Tom Robinson before an all-white Alabama jury in “To Kill A Mockingbird,”

            “We know all men are not created equal in the sense some people would have us believe. Some people are smarter than others, some people have more opportunity because they’re born with it … But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal – there is one human institution that makes a pauper equal to a Rockefeller, the stupid man equal to an Einstein … that institution, gentlemen, is the law…”

            Perhaps it’s time for those in charge to remember those profound words. Even the incarcerated deserve fairness.

 

It’s Hamlet for God’s Sake!

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 2015.

 

            Hamlet, one of William Shakespeare’s great tragedies, is being taught in the college British Literature class this semester. Hamlet, for those who don’t know, is the story of a young prince. He’s away at college living it up when he’s visited by a ghost. The ghost tells him, “Your Uncle has murdered your father – the King – and has taken his crown. And, he’s doing your mom. You hear me Hamlet, this guy’s taken your legacy and is screwing your mom. Go home and settle the score.” So Hamlet goes home, only he doesn’t “take care of business.” He dithers and dawdles and people die. At the end, everyone is dead, the crown is empty and a Danish king strolls in and takes the kingdom. The themes, the tragedy that is Hamlet, are as old as man. Perhaps that’s why this – and so many other Shakespearian dramas – still flourish. They speak to the failing that is the human experience.

            The instructor is a wonderful woman who speaks with a Southside Virginia twang. Her knowledge of British literature is astounding! She’s forgotten more than I could possibly learn. Add to that, she’s a Dickens’ groupie. I love Dickens’ novel Bleak House. It is an indictment of the British legal system. I first read it in law school and have reread it another three or four times. The students – all whom have experienced the real workings of our justice system – rip and tear through Dickens’ fictitious Jarndice v. Jarndice Chancery case. Literature - themes about the human condition and life – real life – is presented and discussed and learning takes place.

            But this isn’t about British authors. No, this is about the policies present at facilities like this to stunt – or even stop – learning. I once thought it was out of ignorance that policies were mistakenly in place which effectively interfere with education. As I watch – and daily live in here – taking in the sheer stupidity of procedures that harm the education of inmates, I have concluded it’s deliberate. Ignorant, uneducated released felons come back. That keeps places like this is business.

            Hamlet. To get books, movies, or school supplies in here almost takes an act of Congress. Weeks before classes begin instructors have to send lists of “materials” they wish to bring in. The British Lit books – five separate texts plus six videos/DVDs were dropped off “up front” to be “examined.” Who does the examining? An “operations” director who has never read Shakespeare, or Dickens, or Hardy. Three or four days later the materials make their way to the school with a cursory email sent from the security chief (another “senior” staff member who lacks a college education). “All materials are permitted,” he writes.

            Hamlet is approved, only the books are on order. So the British lit instructor brings them with her (and a copy of the email from security) when she shows up to teach. “Can’t bring them back without operations OK.” Three more days and Hamlet sits up front, Hamlet for God’s sake, one of the great works of literature, while everyone waits on the operations manager to “complete her review.”

            And it isn’t just Hamlet. The biology instructor can’t get non-alcohol based lens wipes in to clean microscope lenses and slides. She wasn’t allowed to bring Gatorade in for use with a DNA experiment even though officers buy Gatorade in the visitation room.

            Worse, try coming in here to teach. Try being a minister or lawyer arranging a “special” visit. Citizens – taxpayers – are subjected to demeaning treatment and disrespect. A college professor regularly has to wait to gain access to the facility – even though they know she’s coming out here at that time – because the “check in” CO is on lunch break.

            “Why does the college need its own building?” That was the “housing manager” overheard recently. This guy takes pay from education aides who are tutoring in the buildings while making sure his re-entry elders get full pay. Chief of Security? He regularly tells staff how much he can’t stand the college program – forget how all the men in college pay their own way (name any other DOC program where men pay “street prices” for a program? There isn’t any.)

            How can this happen? How can the people paid by the taxpayers to rehabilitate and release offenders back to society to live as law-abiding citizens be so openly hostile to the single best deterrent to recidivism – higher education? Perhaps someone should ask DOC Director Harold Clarke.

            Harold Clarke’s hiring to run Virginia DOC came with great public fanfare back in 2010. Mr. Clarke spoke candidly about his Christian faith. Back then, I took Mr. Clarke at his word. I wrote and asked him – as a Christian, what kind of DOC Director would Jesus be? Five years later, I can tell you my understanding of the Savior is He wouldn’t run this place like Mr. Clarke does.

            And the politicians who continue to rubber stamp DOC budget requests – how do they continue to do the same thing over and over without even leaving Richmond for a day and seeing what they are paying for?

            “The Buck Stops Here.” Virginia needs you, Harry Truman. It’s time to hold those in charge of this broken, incompetent, bias system accountable.

            One last thing: it’s Hamlet, for God’s sake. I have been told – off the record – on more than one occasion to “be careful. They read what you write.” And, I think back to a day in August 2009 in a sweltering, roach infested receiving cell. My cellie – 24 years old and with a 70 IQ, doing 76 years for murder. He had threatened to kill me that day because in his eyes, I’d done the unthinkable: I stood for count.

            He said to me that day, “You think you is better than me.” I said no, “I think, no I know, I’m better than this place.” And I stood there and thought if I’m going to die, it’s better to go out as a decent man. I remember Atticus Finch’s words in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

            “Before I can live with other folks, I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rules is a person’s conscience.”

            It’s Hamlet, for God’s sake! And, it’s time for DOC to give a damn about education and truth.

The Law and Justice

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN JANUARY, 2015.

 

            I was reading John Grisham’s latest legal thriller and it got me thinking about my own law career. Back in the ‘80s – was it really that long ago? – I tried cases; big cases, small cases it didn’t matter. I loved court. I loved the energy and the jousting, the intellectual combat. I loved having jurors smile and nod in agreement; I loved winning and often, too often really, winning came easily and mattered more than justice.

            Grisham’s novel, Gray Mountain, is set in the far southwestern corner of Virginia. It involves coal companies and poor Appalachian mountain folk, and little hamlets nestled in hollers. It portrays the enigma that is the law. It is more than good versus evil. And, it reminded me of the days so long ago when I thought winning mattered above all else.

            I was bright, outgoing and idealistic. I wanted to argue and write about cases that would change the world. But marriage and a house payment and dozens of other compromises led me to a mid-size firm. I cut my teeth, so to speak, driving from Knoxville to Harlon, Kentucky. Our firm represented a number of coal companies. I’d drive into the coal fields and see men, working men with nails black from the mines and arms and hands scarred and gnarled from real labor, and I’d “discuss” their black lung claims – me in my pressed white Oxford shirt and three piece wool blend, gray pin-striped suit. I’d fight them over a few thousand dollars in benefits before returning to my office and my cute, perky secretary. Then, I’d drive to Chattanooga and help a developer who’d figured out how to manipulate Federal urban development block grants into hotels with attached city-rented parking garages. It was all legal and it was so far from where I dreamt I’d be.

            My first jury trial: Two weeks after admittance to the bar I’m in the Knox County Circuit Court. My client, an obnoxious, arrogant VT grad student. One Friday night after returning home from a date with the daughter of one of our firm’s biggest estate clients, ol’ James decides to drink a couple of tall boys with a joint or two. Later, he climbs in bed not realizing he’d left a smoldering butt between couch cushions. A neighbor saw the smoke and crawled across the fire escape to beat on the bedroom window. James made it out. The apartment was a mess.

            So, the estate client calls the senior partner who calls me at home with a new assignment. “It’s an insurance claim,” he tells me. “They’ll negotiate. Help the kid out for Mr. F.” As I said, my client was a real piece of work. “I’m not paying for the damage,” he tells me. “I don’t have any money.” The insurance company hires a lawyer, a lovely, proper woman who was a year ahead of me in law school. Her father, coincidentally, was a Federal Judge.

            “Larry, we are willing to reduce the demand from $21,000 to 12,000, all payable in monthly installments over five years.” The apartment building owner didn’t want problems with VT renters. But my client turned the offer down. “Fuck em,” he told me. “What do I care if they go to court?” Like I said, a real charmer.

            I started preparing for trial. I had no business even putting on a defense, but I did … I discovered something in the scene photos – no smoke detectors. I learned from the fire marshal they’d been taken down a week before the fire so the unit could be painted.

            Trial comes and I get to pick a jury: mostly older women like my grandmother. And I’m polite and ask nothing as all the evidence comes in about the fire damage. The owner testifies about the building repairs. My turn.

            I show him the scene photos of the wall without the smoke detector and he admits they were taken down. I move in for the kill. I read into the record the code sections requiring smoke detectors.

            “This young man could have died because you didn’t think the detector needed to be rehung … You violated the law and this young student has lost everything!”

            I sound like a Baptist preacher. My questions are rhythmic, my voice raising and lowering in a cadence. The owner is stammering and red faced.

            Then, my client takes the stand and he becomes “Eddie Haskell” –

            “Yes sir. I coughed and wheezed and thought I was going to die.”

            The women in the jury box looked on with eyes of sympathy and concern. “I lost everything.” The jury took less than an hour to reach a verdict: nothing for the apartment owner. My client, James, was awarded $3500 (his lost property) and another $3000 in punitive damages. And me? “The law provides legal fees for housing law violations.” $10,000 in fees came my way.

            Law. Justice. It was right in the law, but it wasn’t justice. The apartment owner was a decent man and I made him look like a money-grubbing, heartless bastard. And my client? He was so busy getting high and drunk that he almost burned an entire building down.

            “Great result Larry. Mr. F is pleased.” Me? I wondered if that’s why I went to law school. I handled dozens of cases like that. I watched families disintegrate as I argued about assets in divorce cases. I defended bank directors who ignored the recklessness of management and destroyed investor value. I could argue either side of a case … and I could win. The law was just that: an arena where winners and losers were determined.

            “A man’s respect for law and order exists in precise relationship to the size of his paycheck.” The Reverend Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., of Harlem’s Abyssinian Baptist Church said that. I think of those words often in here. Reverend Powell was on to something. We tend to espouse a lot of flowery words about the law when we’re on top. Get caught up in its gristmill, however, and our respect for, our love for, the law decreases.

            I wasn’t yet in high school the first time I saw “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Harper Lee’s novel, perhaps the best American novel ever written, was required reading in my upper income, all white middle school. We read about Scout, Jem, and Dill and Boo Radley. We read about Atticus Finch, southern lawyer, father, decent human being. And then the movie. I sat spell-bound as Gregory Peck portrayed Atticus. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

            I watched Atticus’s impassioned defense of Tom Robinson, a defense which exposed the shame of the Jim Crow South. Atticus believed in justice and the power of the law. No scene stayed with me as much as at the conclusion of the trial a weary Atticus Finch turned to leave the courtroom. In the balcony, in the “colored” seating area everyone rose. “Stand up Scout, your father is passing by,” the black reverend told Atticus’s daughter. It was a scene of respect that my generation of law students etched in our minds. The law mattered; being a lawyer was noble.

            Atticus was the last true lawyer hero. Today, it isn’t justice we see, its law. Too often the law becomes a tool to incarcerate, to violate, to humiliate. Justice is like a waterfall spraying; law has become like a stagnant pool. I see the bad side of the law every day in here. And, I wonder how often those in power – prosecutors, judges, corrections employees – think about Atticus Finch’s admonition, “until you climb into his skin and walk around it in.”

            The smartest lawyer I ever met was a young woman from the hills of east Tennessee. She was brilliant and gifted; she clerked for both the DC Circuit and the U.S. Supreme Court then returned to Knoxville and practiced with me. One day she and I were at lunch and she announced she was leaving law practice to pursue a doctorate in Elizabethan English.

            “Why?” I asked. “You’re great at the law.” She looked at me with sad eyes and said, “There is no beauty in the law; there is no truth in it; there’s just heartache and money.”

            You know what? She was right. We spend way too much time idolizing “the law” and its ability to enable society. Instead we should focus on justice which is merciful, rehabilitative and restorative.

            What would Atticus say about our love affair with legalism, litigation, and retribution? I think I know.

Facts Matter. Paula, Atticus, and Me.

A lot was made in here over Chef Paula Deen’s disclosure that “once…thirty years ago…” she’d used the dreaded “N” word.  As with most things that happen on the outside, I am constantly amazed at the direction conversations take after news stories – if you consider some obese Southern chef’s use of a derogatory word newsworthy – break.

Guys in here have skewed ways of looking at things.  What with the prevalence of quasi-religions formed on racial myths, there is a huge distortion of fact from fiction.  Conspiracy theories abound on every subject under the sun.  History revisions occurs more frequently than my ex rewriting our twenty-eight years together.  So, I take most of what I hear in stride, chalking up the ridiculous points being made to sheer ignorance.

But, anything involving race gets magnified in here (can’t wait to see how the George Zimmerman murder trial plays out!).  And, Paula Deen’s idiotic handling of an embarrassing remark is no different.  As the news made major hay out of her ignorant behavior (have you noticed how everyday we have to have “breaking news”?), the guy in the bunk next to me asked me if I thought she deserved to be fired.  “That’s not the question”, I told him.  My prior “legal life” taught me that you can be fired for a good reason, a bad reason, or even no reason, just not an illegal reason (i.e.:  because of race, creed, sex, religion, national origin or sexual orientation).

The real question is, in a free society what’s off limits anymore?  If the “N” word is offensive, then it should be held as such regardless of the user.  And, at that precise moment, my next door neighbor had B.E.T. on showing yet another rap video built around drugs, drinking, scantily clad women, and dropping the “N” word.

“You glorify this stuff and these performers who cause much more damage in the black community than anything some overweight redneck cook from Savannah could say.”  He looked at me for a second, said that there’s a difference between a black artist using the term and a white southerner.  Fair enough, I responded.  And just then, it happened.   One of his buddies walked up to us and said, “Hey Dom, my main Ni—a from home just got here.  He’s a bad M—f—n—a!”  I looked at Dom and said, “Case closed”. 

People say and do stupid things.  Or as Atticus Finch told his young daughter “Scout” in “To Kill a Mockingbird”, “you never know what someone’s going through ‘til you walk around in his shoes.”  It is important to remember that Atticus told his daughter that after she asked him if he was a “n---- lover” for defending a black man accused of raping a white woman in a small, 1932 Mississippi town.

“Don’t say n---- Scout.”  And then, he proceeded to explain to his daughter that he took that case because if he hadn’t, “I couldn’t hold my head up and look you and your brother in the eyes.”  It was that book and Gregory Peck’s portrayal in the movie that led me to want to be an attorney.  I learned early in my legal career, however, that no matter how gifted I was as a trial attorney, I was no Gregory Peck.  Life, outside of celluloid, is much more nuanced.  Clients, case decisions, aren’t as black and white as Atticus Finch confronted.

This blog is not in defense of Paula Deen.  She said numerous stupid things and followed them up with a defense that only reinforced the public’s opinion that she is ignorant.  What this is about is seeing the big picture, the human frailty in all of us to be the next Paula Deen.

There has been a heavy concentration of blog responses recently about my “right” to describe life in here.  I accept and welcome that discussion.  But, discussions must be based on facts.  As the late Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan put it, “Every one is entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts.”  Paula Deen has an opinion; it just doesn’t match with reality.  Just like the ignorant men in here with their conspiracy theories and arguments, their opinions don’t align with the facts. 

Here are the facts:

The United States has the highest percentage of its population incarcerated.  The number of citizens in the U.S. under some form of correctional control is now 1 in 33.  When Ronald Reagan was President it was 1 in 78.  We have 5% of the world’s population and 25% of the world’s inmates.  About 65 million Americans have a criminal record.  The U.S. prison system costs nearly $60 billion a year.  In 1985, that cost was slightly less than $9 billion.

The risk of going to prison does not act as a deterrent to the commission of most crimes.  Fact is, most people misidentify the risk of being caught and the resulting punishment. 

There is no correlation between length of sentence and re-offending.  In fact, the studies done on nonviolent offenders sentenced to prison actually conclude that exposure to violent prison conditions leads to increased recidivism.

Those are the facts.  Economically, prisons fail at their mission.  Rehabilitatively, they likewise fail.  Philosophically, what does it say about this country – and the ethic of the citizenry that we will accept a failed system that destroys lives in the name of corrections?

Prison reform is coming.  And, surprisingly, it is being pushed by Conservative Republicans who see corrections as a gar hole that accomplishes no redeeming social policy, as well as Evangelical Christians who ask, “What would Jesus do?”  Jesus, I am confident, would be (and is) ministering to those behind bars.

As for me, my life is an open book.  As the one commenter who knows me already knows, my life is on the blog.  And while the writer’s opinion of me isn’t very flattering, neither is it factually accurate.

For one thing, DOC in Virginia does not allow inmates access to the internet (some states do).  I provide my observations to a person’s blog for free and handwritten.  Those blogs are then typeset.

Second, my guilt was never in doubt.  At no time did I seek a plea deal or offer any medical or addiction cause for my actions. In a seven minute address to the court on the day of my sentencing, I acknowledged sole responsibility for my actions.  I apologized to my family, my employer, friends and the community.  I told the judge I deserved incarceration.  I then asked him to temper his sentence to give me an opportunity to correct the wrongs I committed.

I have never once “whined” about being sent to prison.  I broke the law and knew there was the likelihood of my arrest and incarceration.  In fact, I consider my arrest a turning point in my life.  For too long I lived with guilt knowing I was living a lie.

And my Atticus moment – I’ve learned that most people are decent.  There are some who are evil and need to be separated from society and prison – safe, secure, well-maintained prisons – are needed for them.

But for the vast majority of men and women put in prison, the experience leads to a life of despair and failure.  Surely, a nation with the intellect, character, and fortitude of this one can do better.  “Walk in another man’s shoes”, urged Atticus. 

People don’t know why I did what I did.  And, that’s ok.  But, I ask you to consider:  Consider being desperate to get your spouse back from sadness and depression.  You make the decision, you violate your own moral code and you feel like hell.  But, it works.  And, you always come back to that approach whenever things are tough because it works.

I won’t go into detail and if I had to do it over I would have made different decisions all the way back to college.  And, whether you think that warrants my behavior doesn’t change the fact that prisons fail and America can, and must, do better.

The Joshua Principle

This past week I found myself thinking back to an incident during my time at the receiving unit.  I had been placed in a cell with a psychotic 24 year-old gang leader beginning a 76 year sentence for the double murder of two rival gang members.  A day or two after my arrival, he asked me to read his appeal.  He wanted to make sure his court appointed lawyer wasn’t “screwing” him over.  What I read chilled me.  I realized I was in an 8 X 8 cell with a man who had no conscience.

One particular incident stood out in the paperwork.  He had held a gun pressed against the head of a six month old baby to force the parents to turn over a few thousand dollars in cash.  I couldn’t imagine such cold, detached behavior.  His eyes were black as coal.  He showed no empathy, no humanity.  He was prescribed psychotropic drugs to control his anger and stop “voices” he heard.  He pocketed the pills and sold them around the facility.  He preyed on the weak. On more than one occasion I saw him physically hurt another inmate.

By the time I met him I’d been in jail a little more than a year.  Shortly after my arrest I had contemplated taking my life.  I was afraid, lonely, and hopeless.  God, however, had other plans for me.  During my time at the jail I faced a number of difficult days.  On more than one occasion, my life was threatened.  Yet, I was never afraid.  I had made a deal with God in the jail and was sure, no matter what I faced, I’d be alright.

But prison receiving on this morning would test my belief.  Every morning at 5:00 am there was a standing count.  Every morning I stood.  Every morning, my cellmate lay in bed and yelled expletives at the officers.  On this particular morning, my cellmate was asleep when the officers came by.  There was a mutual hatred that existed between the counting officer and my cellie.  It had grown and festered over eighteen months of fights, verbal abuse, and disrespect.  This morning, the officer decided to get even.

I stood at the end of my bunk.  “Cover your ears”, the officer said to me before letting loose with a blast on his whistle.  The sound vibrated off the cell walls and startled my cellie.  He sat up too quickly and fell off his top bunk landing with a sickening thud.  He lay motionless.  Fearing he was hurt, I walked over to him and reached for his arm.  He jumped up, ran to the cell door and unloaded verbal volley upon volley at the officer.  Then, he turned his attention to me.

Pushing me against the cell door, he screamed at me with spittle coming off his lips.  “I’ll kill you. You stand again and I’ll rip your throat open and watch you drown on your own blood!” For a second, I stood frozen.  And then, I thought about my ex-wife and sons and how I let them down.  I failed them as a husband and father.  Everything I was going through was a direct result of my bad decisions and my fears.  And I realized right then that it’s a lot worse living with shame than standing – and possibly dying – for principle.

I don’t know why, but I stepped forward, into my cellmate.  “I’ll stand up everyday” I said.  “I’m better than this place.  I’ll do the right thing and I’ll get out of here.”  I waited for the attack.  But, it never came.  My cellmate turned around and climbed back in his bunk.  The next day I moved buildings.  Shortly after that, my cellie beat a middle aged white inmate severely.  That assault led DOC to finally ship him to a maximum security prison. 

Why am I telling this story?  It’s in response to a recent posting by an “Anonymous” reader who obviously knows me from the outside yet chooses to hide behind anonymity on the blog.  I never hide the truth when I write, and I don’t make smug accusations while hiding behind “Anonymous” postings.

One of my favorite Bible verses is in the first chapter of the book of Joshua.  The people of Israel have been wandering in the wilderness for forty years being cleansed and prepared by God.  It wasn’t easy and often time they felt abandoned and forgotten by their God.  “If only we’d stayed” was a common refrain.  God never breaks His promises and the day came for them to enter the Promised Land.  Problem was, their leader, the man who led them there – Moses – had died.  Joshua, a brave, trusted leader was called on to replace Moses.

And Joshua, naturally, wasn’t sure he was up to the task.  But then Chapter 1 begins and God speaks to Joshua and gives him two profound promises.  The first, do not fear; be strong and courageous because I am with you.  The second, do not turn to the left or right, but follow My path and you will succeed at whatever I give you.

I remember the first day in jail when I read those verses and I remember the overwhelming sense of peace and confidence I felt.  And it dawned on me that Joshua wasn’t chosen because he was perfect.  Just like Moses (a murderer), Joshua was very human; he failed and sinned.  God, however, knew what was in his heart.

I am frequently asked in here about certain aspects of my faith.  Guys will misread Romans 8:28 and say “God led me to prison”.  That’s not what Paul was saying.  He didn’t say “God makes you do everything you do for a good purpose”.  No, what he said was “God causes all things to work together for good….”  That means if – and when – we screw up, if we admit it and remember God’s promises, He will set us back on the road to the Promised Land.

My life is an open book.  I am not a perfect person and I have done a number of things I’m not proud of. And, nothing weighs on me more than the loss of my wife and sons.  But I wonder, “Anonymous” if you’re willing to shed the same light on your shortcomings?  I doubt that you are.  I can figure out who you are and then write back, detailing all your indiscretions, failures and improprieties – but why bother. 

See, in some very difficult, trying circumstances, God helped me to discover the person He always saw.  The fact that it had to come out through a place like this just proves God understands irony.

One of the lessons I’ve learned is the difference between so many of the men I’ve met in here and the folks I knew on the outside is merely one of degree.  “Anonymous” bears a lot of the same cold, unempathetic world views of my receiving unit cellmate.  It’s the view that we can’t step back and spend even a moment in someone else’s shoes.

Anonymous doesn’t know my full story, doesn’t know what went on behind closed doors at my home.  Worse, Anonymous doesn’t even take the time to ask what they would have done if facing the same choices I faced.  No, instead Anonymous smugly takes shots and thinks they are justified.

As Bob Dylan prophesized, “a hard rains gonna fall”.  Everyone screws up, everyone faces that moment staring into the abyss.  And some are given a second chance, maybe even a third or fourth chance.

How you judge is how you will be judged.  Pretty straight-forward isn’t it.  It’s a reminder that we all fall short and as Atticus Finch tells his daughter Scout in “To Kill a Mockingbird”, “we have to walk around in another man’s skin to understand them.”

I like to think my five years in this wilderness – caused by my own actions – have given me an opportunity to witness the humanity that exists even in places of despair such as this.  And, my eyes have been open to the failures the system creates.  And Anonymous, you don’t know what it’s like in here and if you think some people deserve it you are closer to being like that cellmate than you know.

I learned the Joshua principle early on in jail.  Perhaps, Anonymous, it’s time you pay attention to it as well.