Lyin Brian: Life Imitates Prison

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 2015.

 

            A story about my first year here. I thought if I put my legal education and experience to good use I could somehow improve life for most inmates. For months I wrestled with the schizophrenia that is life behind bars: Don’t judge the person – no matter what they did, don’t trust the person, don’t question anyone’s truthfulness. I had a few simple rules for helping guys. First, don’t lie to me. I needed to know, no matter what, exactly what transpired. Second, don’t offer to pay me. There was no quid pro quo. I wasn’t going to be some stereotypical “jailhouse” lawyer who promised guys he’d get them out for a small fee. Like the Eagles “Hotel California,” you can check into prison “anytime you like, but you can never leave.”

            I wanted to believe the system was corrupt (which it is) and that corruption was keeping behind bars thousands of innocent men (which it wasn’t). It took a long time for me to figure out there is a difference between “innocent” and “decent.” Prison takes apart the lives of thousands of decent men (and women) who did illegal – and in some cases horrific – things.

            So, I would read dozens of trial transcripts each week. More often than not, I would find that the inmate (1) was as guilty as guilty could be; and (2) had lied to me about the facts. I also learned that there was no rhyme or reason to sentences. Repeat offenders – those coming back to the system – were typically given a few years (I often heard those men were doing life in 3 year installments), while – depending on the jurisdiction you were in – the years for nonviolent offenses exceeded those handed out for child porn, child sex abuse, even second degree murder; and (3) worst of all, most of my “clients” weren’t remorseful. They were bitter, scheming, “career” lawbreakers who were looking for “an edge,” a way to go toe to toe with a rigged justice system.

            I would tell guys “no” all the time: no, you have no “loophole” to your conviction; no, you aren’t innocent and you weren’t railroaded. As you can imagine, that pissed people off. I didn’t care. The truth, I decided, mattered. I kept coming back to a letter exchange my then wife and I had while I was at the jail in ’08. She wrote and told me she hated me; “there is no more ‘us’,” she said. “You are a liar and a thief.” I wrote her back, told her I loved her and used the line George Clooney spoke to Julia Roberts in “Ocean’s Eleven” (a movie I watch every time it comes on because of their interaction), “I only lied about stealing.” Trouble is, you can’t compartmentalize lying. Honesty, truth matters, not just in marriage but in life.

            This week NBC News anchor Brian Williams had “some esplainin’” to do. He “exaggerated” – i.e. falsified – his narrative of a trip in 2003 to see soldiers in Iraq. He went from journalist dining with soldiers to an active participant in a mid-air RPG hit on the chinook helicopter he was riding in. This wasn’t the first time Williams told the story. For the last few years he has told it, each time embellishing just a wee bit more until the narrative no longer resembled the truth. It reminded me of the toothless crackhead who stopped my run one day in 2010 to tell me “I had a Bentley and a Ferrari, counselor.” “Of course you did,” I replied looking at a man without an education from the worst housing project in Norfolk, a man who was on his fourth trip to DOC for drug use. My buddy DC told me that day, “Guys become whatever they want to be in here and they think no one knows the difference.”

            The truth matters in here … and outside. I find myself thinking a lot about that fundamental premise right now. There are those in DOC (incarcerated and those who work here) that have made it clear to me that they don’t like my writing about prison life. I recently saw a quote from Stephane Charbonnier, director of the French satirical magazine “Charlie Hebdo.” In 2012 he was interviewed and asked if he worried his publication’s attacks on “sacred” subjects could endanger him.

            “It may sound pompous but I’d rather die standing than live on my knees.”

            Charbonnier was one of those killed in the Paris Massacre at the “Charlie Hebdo” offices on January 7^th. The truth – honesty – matters.

            Truth: there is a need for prisons. There are some who are so anti-social that they need to be kept from society. However, for the vast majority of those behind bars, prison serves no rehabilitative purpose. You won’t leave prison a better man or woman because of your time behind bars but in spite of your time. Prison is dehumanizing. Prison does nothing to address the root causes of so much of the crime we see: poverty, lack of adequate educational opportunities, fractured families, recurrent cycles of violence. Worse, a significant number of those “on the front line” of corrections want offenders to fail for job security. Some are even hostile and contemptuous of those they oversee.

            Prisons “corrections” – need to be exposed to the truth. People need to see what really goes on in here and what incompetence and neglect their tax dollars are being frittered away on. This lack of honesty, of truthfulness isn’t just the Brian Williams story, or the story of a crackhead and his pretend Bentley, it’s the sum total of Virginia’s prison apparatus.

On My Honor

Honor codes. Just about every college has one now. The community college sponsoring our college program here has one. The crux of the honor code is simple and straightforward. The student acknowledges “on my honor” that he – or she – has neither given, nor received, help; the student has not cheated, nor plagiarized, nor helped anyone else do so.

            In my prior life I laughed at faculty members who would espouse their campus’s adherence to an honor code. I’d laugh because (1) half those faculty members were with second spouses who started as their students – where was their honor? And (2) honor codes don’t work. If you cheat you’ll still sign the honor code or you will be disciplined for “not abiding by its terms.” So, cheat on the test then lie about it by signing “on my honor.”

            That was the “old” Larry. Prison – education in prison – has changed my perception. Honor, more than ever especially in here, matters. Two quick stories –

            First, the worst moment is a series of terrible moments for me early after my arrest was calling my wife and telling her. A few days later she came to see me at the jail. She looked through the smudged Plexiglas and said, “You’re a liar.” I tried to downplay it with the George Clooney retort in “Ocean’s Eleven,” “I only lied about stealing.” But, even now, I can’t shake her words. I lied; I deceived the person I was closet to. There was – I knew – no way to repair that breach of trust. And, I understood then why I’d had such a difficult time sleeping for so long: I knew the truth, and the truth was I had sold my honor; I had betrayed all I cared about.

            Second, my first year here I was confronted by an unsavory organization leader shall we say. He needed help on his case and wouldn’t take no for an answer. It got to the point where he “made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” but I did. I told him to watch “Bridge Over the River Kwai” and “The Last Samurai” to understand that “you can beat my ass, but you won’t take my honor.” I never forgot the look on that guy’s face, like I stunned him; but he never asked me for help, nor did anything happen to me.

            Honor matters. Men in prison – for the most part – gave up their honor and self-respect at some point, which led to either their crime or their lack of rehabilitation once behind bars. You want to stop released offenders from re-offending? Help them find their honor.

            “On my honor …” Every college syllabus given to the men in here includes reference to the college honor code. In our recently completed math class the instructor, a wonderful, energetic, attractive, young woman told the men to write and sign “on my honor” on their tests verifying adherence to the college code.

            Last Tuesday morning, one of our students (“Ray”) came to take the chapter test early. We always made special arrangements for him – test anxiety (he freezes up in the classroom when everyone is testing). So, he completed the exam which I then graded (he scored a 100) and returned to him. “Don’t show this to anyone until they take the test tonight,” I told him. “No problem,” he replied.

            I returned to the building later that afternoon. As I was changing clothes, I noticed four students – all “white,” “good,” “middle class” guys huddled around “Ray” – the early test taker. And, I saw “Ray” with papers in his hand. I decided it was not up to me to interfere. Each man has to decide for himself what matters – does his word, does his honor matter? Before we went up to the test, one of the “gang of four” approached me. “Hey Larry,” he matter-of-factly began. “We asked Ray what was on the test, but we never asked to see it.” I paused a moment and told him when I was young trial lawyer I had older, more seasoned lawyers tell me I couldn’t win a particular discrimination suit on the facts. “You need to find an angle, cut a deal,” those lawyers told me. It pissed me off. I would have run into a brick wall before I ever cut corners on that case or before I even conceded I couldn’t win by my own hard work and efforts.

            I wish I’d remembered that tough, conceited, idealistic young lawyer years later, I told him. I never would have landed in prison. I never would have failed my wife. I never would have lost my self-respect and honor. “God help you if you think you would have to cheat to succeed. You’ve already failed.”

            I proctored the exam and watched, watched all four to see what they would do. Did they have the answers I wondered? And what would I do if they did? My buddy DC and I have a simple rule of thumb for the college program and instructors: Nothing will be allowed to happen that hurts or embarrasses them. We came up with that four years ago when this program first began. Over the years we’d confronted guys over behavior issues and a host of other less than honorable things. Before the test I asked DC what we should do. “What we always do. No tolerance for cheating.”

            Not one of the four cheated. I graded their papers and each said to me “I never looked at the test. But I shouldn’t have asked him what was on it.”

            Honor. It is such an antiquated term. We live in a world and a time when it doesn’t seem to matter. And yet, as I sit here in this prison surrounded by men who have done both the horrific and inane I know honor matters above all else.

            “On my honor.” Those words mean something. Your honor matters, matters more than your wealth or social status. It is a lesson I hope stays with four young men. It is a lesson I can never forget.

           

Rethinking George

I’ve never been a big fan of George Clooney. Perhaps that’s because my ex thought he was sexy, or maybe it was that I just thought he was an average actor playing average characters. He was certainly no Pacino, De Niro or Eastwood, my three favorites.



But, in the last 24 hours I’ve had to rethink my animus toward Clooney. I watched two of his movies – one for the first time, one for the twentieth, - and came away with a new sense of respect for his acting ability. The characters he played in those two movies spoke to me. Clooney, I’ve come to realize, is good at what he does. Good movies, like well-written books, succeed when the theme speaks to the audience. A man coming to grips with his broken, failed life, believing in love even after divorce, doing the right thing even when it costs you. Story themes work when people can say “I get that”. I said that twice the other night and Clooney was the reason.


First, “Michael Clayton”. Clooney plays a lawyer at a powerful New York firm in the middle of defending a corporation in a class action lawsuit brought by farmers over carcinogens in a fertilizer/weed killer the company sold. Clooney isn’t much of a lawyer; he’s a “fixer”. You have a problem, Clooney gets it fixed.


But his life is broken. He picks his son up from his ex-wife and new husband’s home. He spends time playing poker (and losing badly we come to understand) in illegal, all night games. He’s alienated from his family, he’s lost thousands on a failed restaurant, he owes a loan shark $75,000.


At one point he’s talking to the firm’s senior partner and he says “I’m 45 and I have nothing”. His mentor, another lawyer at the firm and perhaps the finest trial attorney he’s ever seen - has a break down –or is it a profound attack of conscience about defending the corporation.


Clooney struggles as he realizes his life, his career, haven’t been about justice. He’s accomplished nothing. He’s done nothing. He’s been on the wrong side.


I felt what Clooney’s character felt. The law, I learned early in practice, wasn’t about justice. It was about winning. And, I enjoyed winning. Later, in my job with Farm Bureau, I calculated the likelihood of success in court of hundreds of cases. I put a value on injuries and deaths. How much is a four-year olds life worth? How much responsibility does a thirty-year old bear when she fails to yield the right of way and an accident occurs?


I learned Virginia juries (and judges) didn’t go overboard with monetary awards. As a result “I guessed right” on my valuations almost every time. I was good at what I did, but deep down I was conflicted. The law was supposed to be about justice. I couldn’t face the fact that it wasn’t. Like Clooney’s character, I had nothing to show for my life. And, I began to compromise who I was, what I believed, to be successful. Was I a good husband? A good father? A good lawyer? A good friend? A good lover? A good man? I didn’t think so, at least not without being all things to all people, including the woman I thought would love me unconditionally.


And then there’s “Ocean’s Eleven”, a man’s quest to reunite with his ex-wife against the backdrop of a casino heist. Clooney (“Ocean”) has numerous conversations with his ex (“Tess” played by Julia Roberts). The entire movie takes place in and around the Bellagio, a Las Vegas casino I gambled and dined at extensively with my ex (I’m no George Clooney, but to me my ex was more beautiful than Julia Roberts on her best day).


How’s this for dialog:


Roberts: “You’re a liar and a thief.”
Clooney: “I only lied to you about stealing.” (We wrote each other those exact words).
Clooney: “Does he make you laugh?”
Roberts: “No but he doesn’t make me cry either.”
Roberts: “How are you going to give me the five years back your lies cost me?”
Clooney: “With better years in the future.”


As the story unfolds, Clooney and his band of sophisticated thieves get millions from the casino. Clooney goes back to prison. This time when the gate opens, Julia Roberts is there, waiting on him.


Sometimes life imitates art. Sometimes it doesn’t. In “Michael Clayton”, Clooney continues to gamble, and lose, even though he’s told everyone he’s done gambling. He “comes right” at the end and yet, we see no repercussions, just him riding in a cab.


In “Oceans Eleven” his ex realizes she always loved him. He’s still running scams, still breaking the law, but that’s OK because they have each other.


Life, at least my life, didn’t play out that way. I did the right thing from August 18, 2008 forward. I made my case easy for the prosecution. I confessed to everything, gave detailed information on every action I took, signed everything over to my wife and kids so they’d be secure and then paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in partial restitution. There was no cab ride for me, no “just drive” moment.


And my ex telling me she still loves me, always loved me, coming by the prison to tell me her faith in me, in us, is unshakable? Didn’t happen.


Today would have been my 29th wedding anniversary. I’ve done well today because I’ve finally realized my life isn’t a movie, at least where it involves my ex. Only one of us is still in love, only one of us misses our mate. The other, another day and life goes on.


For a few hours yesterday I watched Clooney play two roles and recite lines, and salvage his own life and his marriage. For a few hours I thought “if it worked for George, it could work for me”. For a few hours I felt that things would work out for me just like in the movies. That George Clooney really is a good actor!