…And it will save the taxpayers of Virginia

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 2014.

Irony – “an event or result that is the opposite of what is expected.”  That word came into focus the other night as the local Richmond newscast reported that disgraced former Governor Robert McDonnell’s defense team countered the Federal Probation sentencing recommendation with a request for leniency and “community service”.  The defense recommendation noted “”serving in community service will save Virginia’s taxpayers over $300,000 in a decade.”  Hey Governor Bob, no kidding!! Yet, when you had that power, that ability, to commute sentences of non-violent felons doing time in Virginia’s prisons, you said no.  You wouldn’t intercede even when the sentence was harsh, even when the offender was remorseful, even when the taxpayers were paying over $25,000 each year just to keep the prisoner locked up.  You wouldn’t act courageously, justly, mercifully.  And now, with your own life’s house of cards collapsed around you, with no acknowledgement of guilt on your part, you ask for the very thing you denies so many.  Irony.

“Give mercy, and mercy will be given to you.  Forgive as your Father has forgiven you.”  Pretty clear words.  The meaning of those words so often escapes us.  Some call it Gospel Karma.  We continue to be legalistic.  We see fallen behavior, we rush to condemn and demand “justice”.  But our definition of justice, typically extracted in years and “pounds of flesh” is the exact opposite of the “word”.  “Law and order”. “tough on crime”, “truth in sentencing”, all make great campaign slogans until the man handcuffed before the court is your son, your friend, or you.  Those simple words, the Biblical admonitions are a reminder – and a warning – that the standards you set for others will one day be applied to you.  “But I’m not like him”, you say.  You may be – in God’s eyes where “all sin and fall short”.

Governor McDonnell had the power – and the opportunity – to make a huge difference in the lives of thousands of Virginia’s incarcerated, me included.  He could have said there are too many first-time felons doing too many years in Virginia’s prison system for nonviolent felonies.  He could have personally read the letters sent to him by the friends and families of hundreds of these inmates; he could have examined their incarceration records and seen evidence of genuine remorse and change.  Instead, he allowed those sentences to stand.  Worse, he ignored these men and women’s pleas while he was engaged in his own wrongdoing.  And now he prepares for his own day in court, his own sentencing. And, I’m sure he wonders, will the judge listen to him, to his family and friends, as a plea for sentencing mercy is made.  Ironic, isn’t it?

I believe there is no purpose served by sending Robert McDonnell to prison.  If U.S. District Judge James Spencer were to ask me, I would simply tell him, “Do not send this man to serve time”.  There is not purpose to it.  McDonnell has already been punished.  He has been convicted by a jury of Virginians.  His reputation, damaged; his family problems bared; his marriage is in shambles; his law career ruined.  Nothing is penologically served by now sending this broken man to a low-custody Federal prison.  No, Robert McDonnell does not deserve incarceration, any more than hundreds of men I’ve met these past six and a half years who are watching calendars turn, day upon day, month to month, year after year; in a warped dance called justice.  Perhaps showing Governor McDonnell justice with mercy will be the beginning of real corrections, real prison reform, real justice.  Perhaps another Governor is watching and thinking, “There but for the grace of God – and a rabid prosecutor – go I.”

February 3, 2009.  I was sentenced that day in a courtroom packed with friends who took the stand and asked the court to show me mercy.  My two assistants sat with coworkers.  Across from them, my parents and my retired minister sat.  They heard a community leader tell the court how I had turned the local Meals on Wheels around from a state of financial collapse.  Letters from church and community members were presented.  Each letter, each person who spoke, asked the court to show me mercy.

And then I stood before the court.  I have never felt so alone, so broken, so ashamed.  I had written a brief statement.  In it, I minced no words.  I wasn’t nuanced.  I admitted I broke the law – the same words I spoke the day I was arrested.  I apologized to my employer, my family, my friends, the court.  I bluntly told the court I failed my wife, my sons, my parents, my moral code.  I told the court I deserved prison.  I asked the judge to instead show me mercy.  Give me an opportunity to make right my wrongs. 

My words fell on deaf ears.  Within moments of my remarks ending, the court handed down my sentence.  There were gasps and weeping from friends, from my “girls”, my two assistants who’d each been with me over ten years.  Me?  I stood there, said “thank you” to the judge and walked out of the court.  You know what else?  My head was up.  I had spoken from the heart, told the truth.

Within a month I was served with divorce papers.  Would a shorter sentence have saved our marriage?  I don’t know.  I don’t know if she could have ever forgiven me for the betrayal.  Still, how do you ask someone to stay for fifteen years?  Within a month, I was assigned my DOC number.  I was now “in the system”.  Less than four months later, I was in a cell with a gangleader doing 76 years for murder, in the oxymoron known as DOC receiving at Powhatan. 

No, Bob McDonnell doesn’t deserve all that.  He deserves mercy…just like a lot of us in here.

 

 

A Tale of Two Cities

The dichotomy was apparent. During the same weekend; from the same city, great joy and pride and terrible heartache and loss. Chicago. Summer in Chicago. And like so many other summers in that mid-western city, the blood of its youth spills too easily. Black children lying dead. Teenagers gunned down by gun-toting Black teenagers shouting gang slogans. A three year old shoots himself in the head with a gun his paroled felon father – a gun he should not have because of his criminal record – carelessly left out. Five dead. All children. Another weekend in Chicago and it barely registers a mention on the news.

Pennsylvania. Baseball; little league baseball. An all-black team from the Southside of Chicago, “the baddest part of town.” They win the American draw, beating a team from Nevada who five days earlier had knocked them around. It’s Williamsport – idyllic, rural Pennsylvania – where every summer young baseball players from around the world gather and play the greatest game on fields of green grass and manicured infields. Baseball and Pennsylvania are a million miles from Chicago.

For months the talking heads on Sports TV have decried the absence of Black big leaguers. And, by the numbers they are right. Growing up, I remember Mays and Aaron, and Gibson. I wanted to be Willie Mays. Today, less than one in ten ball players are African American. The pundits have a dozen theories. But, I listened as the coach of the all-black squad from Chicago, from the almost all-black “Jackie Robinson Little League” answered the question:

“Baseball is a game passed down by your father. In our league we still have a lot of fathers. It’s not that way for everyone.”

Jackie Robinson. Perhaps no single man’s courage and self-control mattered more in the country’s slow march toward integration than he did. Jackie Robinson, a great man, a hero. And yet today, more young black kids in Chicago can tell you about Jay Z than Jackie. Who really matters? What really matters?

Missouri. Over four thousand people gather for the funeral of a young black man gunned down by a white police officer. No one yet knows what happened. I don’t presume to know what was in the officer’s heart before firing those fateful shots and I choose to believe he is distraught because blood has been spilled. Too many – on both sides – use this tragedy for their own political ends. Blood spilled and a family mourns a son gone too young. And, another family lives with the repercussions.

Here’s what I wonder, how many black children have to die in the street of Chicago at the hands of other black children before someone stands up and says “enough!” Where is the national outrage and national dialog as we watch thousands of young kids turning to gangs and killing each other? Why is “Ferguson” the issue and not just a symptom of something so much larger? And why are we not watching – and listening – to the mothers and fathers of those ballplayers?

A young man I know in here from Richmond told me about the shootings that regularly took place near his home. He was raised in a home with a mom too young to care for herself, let alone three young kids. So “Gramma” became their refuge. “Gramma” fed them, even when it was just mayonnaise on white bread. “Gramma” was responsible. Mom? She was in and out; Dad? He was at “state farm” (Powhatan to those not “in the know” on Virginia’s prisons).

And summers in Richmond, summers in the city’s notorious Gilpin Court, were filled with robberies and drug deals and killings. My young friend whom I tutor in English and Excel and any other class which comes our way, tells me when he was six he was sitting on the front stoop with his brother and sister. “It was loud, like a firecracker. Pop, pop, pop. Then, people across the street started running and that’s when I saw him … bleeding as he fell in the street.” His first seen “body.” Man shot across the street staggers and dies yards from him. And his six-year-old eyes see it all.

A few moments later, the police and an ambulance arrive. The neighbors stand all around but nobody “saw anything,” at least not in Gilpin Court. An ice cream truck approaches and Gramma gets the three kids popsicles, “Red, white, and blue rockets,” he tells me. They stand with the others behind the yellow tape, licking their popsicles as the dead man is loaded up and carted off and the blood, pooled on the ground remains. Gilpin Court, Richmond. Another dead black young man.

I can’t watch the news about Ferguson, Missouri anymore. It seems almost ghoulish and undignified. And, no matter what that young man may – or may not – have done, I can’t help but think it could have been avoided. There are too many dying too young and they look like so many of the young men I care about in here.

I confront race every day in this place. Early on, in my first few weeks in jail when my life was in a complete tailspin, I realized how little I really knew about being black in America. Every opinion I held as fact came from a life almost completely devoid of blackness. Then again, almost every opinion I held as fact came from a life almost completely devoid of contact with poverty, poor education, ignorance, and a whole lot more. My opinions were all forged from my own privileged life. I knew, I soon realized almost nothing about living – and dying – in America. Dylan wrote about such things in “License to Kill,”

Now all he believes are his eyes

And his eyes they just tell him lies

But there’s a woman on my block

Who sits there as the night grows still

She says who’s gonna take away his license to kill?

I hear about my young friend’s life in Richmond, I watch as more families weep over the loss of children cut down for no good reason and I wonder who will take away our license to kill? When will we see beyond color or economic status and mourn, really mourn the incredible waste of life and vow to do better? It seems as if it will overwhelm us, destroy us, condemn us. And then, twenty young black kids in yellow shirts with white pants run across the infield and I see hope.

Two cities. You can take all the pain and death and despair of Chicago, and Ferguson, and Richmond together and weep and lose hope until you see Williamsport, Pennsylvania and grass, and smiles, and baseball. 

You know what gives hope? When all you see and hear is death and anger and you look around your prison housing unit and almost every TV is turned to a team of little leaguers from Chicago and guys, hardened by life and crime and death are pulling for these kids as they play … a game.

There isn’t a black and white; there’s green and there is the sound of a ball coming off a bat and there’s joy. 

Ernie's Lesson

“Ernie’s Lesson”

            Almost five years ago I experienced a profound realization. I had – during that difficult first year at the jail with my case taking bad turn after bad turn – passed through my time physically unscathed. There had been incidents, threats, dangers – some not as real as others – but overall I had managed to cope and, if it’s possible to be a success in jail. And my perceptions, my opinions about life in “that” world – the world behind bars – were forged and strengthened by what I saw each day. All of those attitudes were shaken when I was transferred into DOC custody and taken to receiving.

            Every day at receiving became a battle for my soul. Every thought I had developed at the jail about living behind bars came crashing down. In many ways, I was back where I began the August before. Each morning when I woke in that filthy, squalid hellhole my first thoughts always went to the third tier, sixty feet above the concrete floor; I knew my life hung between my cell door and ten concrete steps up to the third tier. And every morning, in the darkness of cell B14 I began with the same thought: “God, I want this to end. I can’t do this anymore. Give me strength.”

            Still, I was in no danger. From the moment I arrived in property and processing on the first floor of the receiving unit, my past – my legal training – was known. Word spread quickly from processing officer to the cadres: inmate workers. Within fifteen minutes word reached the tiers in C3 and C4 (the dilapidated cell blocks used by receiving in the Powhatan prison) that a “real lawyer” had arrived. I was “processed,” then met with the investigator (“Do you have any clients locked up here?”) before grabbing my state-issued clothing and bag full of personal belonging and taking the meandering stroll through multiple locked doors up three set of stairs until I reached C3. It was there I first met Lil P, a 24-year-old barely literate OG – gang leader – from Norfolk who was starting a 76-year bid for the murder of two competing gang members. Lil P was my cellie and he was my first face to face with a total lack of empathy, a total sociopathic personality. His eyes, quite remarkably, were dead – there was no emotion, no feeling – like a shark at feeding.

            Within an hour of moving in, Lil P had introduced me to his boss, the senior ranked man in their gang who was responsible for the receiving unit. “I have a few associates who could use some guidance on their cases,” he said. How could I say no? Truth was, I’d been doing a lot of legal work at the jail – no charge. It helped the time pass and kept my mind focused. So, I said, “sure. Let me talk to whomever needs some advice; I’ll get their files and see what I come up with.”

            The remainder of that day the house men (guys who clean and bring ice and hot water to the cell) on duty would stop by with files. By evening chow I had a dozen files – all gang members, many only 17 or 18 years old, and all facing decades of time for violent crimes. I also received notebooks and pens – I needed office supplies – with a note telling me if I needed anything else just tell Lil P and word would get to the big boss.

            The next morning “Tommy” (that’s how the senior gang member introduced himself) came by my table at breakfast. My three meal companions – three mid-thirties white guys I’d met the night before were politely encouraged to move to another table. Tommy had with him another young black man, LJ. LJ, it turned out, was senior man in Tommy’s arch rival gang. While turf and hustles were reasons to go to war, both members understood the value of an educated legal mind. I realized I was like Switzerland – nonaffiliated, respected, and protected by all players. “Will you help LJ’s guys out as well?” Sure. And just like the prior day, throughout that day files were delivered.

            I soon fell into a regular daily pattern: up before 5:00 am count for prayers and reading, trying to convince myself I could survive prison; a morning of legal work broken up with 15 minutes at breakfast and 45 minutes of outdoor rec. 15 minutes for lunch, then three hours of legal work and personal writing. Dinner, shift change, then 8:00 (or 8:45 depending on the tier schedule) I’d get out of the cell for 45 minutes of “indoor rec” – shower and TV. After being locked back in at night the houseman would come by with a meal for Lil P and me – “swolls” usually, a mix of ramen noodles, meat, cheese, and beans swelled up in a bag and eaten with chips. One of his gang associates cooked Lil P a meal every night. Being fed was a perk of my work.

            Perks. I soon realized I had a good number. I was given shower priority; I had first sign up for the legal computer; I received office supplies and a snack every night; and, I was off-limits, or as Tommy and LJ said, “Anybody fuck with you, let us know.”

            Ernie. Ernie was two cells down from me. He was white, mid-forties and doing a three-year bid for crystal meth use. He had a small construction business in the King George area. His drug use cost him his marriage and led to multiple trips to prison (this was his third stop over). But, Ernie was personable. He liked to run, was a sports enthusiast, and was well read. He and I soon found ourselves sitting together at meals and working out together. Ernie was a guy I could relate to and day after day reading case files of young street guys – all Black, all uneducated, all remorseless – doing unimaginably horrible things – I needed someone that seemed to be “like me.” I knew there was no real friendship there. Friends in the real world are hard to come by; it’s even tougher behind bars. Still, it was nice seeing a familiar face.

            Soon, other guys who “looked like me” began congregating outside my cell door at meal and recall. Guys would vie for the extra two seats at our table. I didn’t understand it at first. I was lost in my own pain, own difficulties. But, one of the guys, “Roy,” told me if they hung around me maybe, just maybe, the gangs wouldn’t bother them. Initially, his words didn’t register. In a few short days I saw what he meant.

            When I arrived at receiving I brought with me a check from the jail with my money from my commissary fund. And commissary – buying food and hygiene (toiletries products) are one of the rare joys inside. Being able to buy a bar of Dial soap, Fritos, and coffee – well, it matters. So the receiving unit put a hold on my transferred funds – two weeks – before I could order. Still, I was alright (a relative term). The jail heavily regulated what you could buy so I’d gone a year without snacks and foods I’d had B.A. – before arrest.

            It was a Wednesday and our tier went to commissary. I was in my second week waiting for my “government” check to clear. And, Lil P pulls me aside. “Look lawyer man, you’ve been helping our boys. What do you like? Let us give you something to say thanks.” I thought for a moment and said, “I haven’t had a ginger ale or pretzels in over a year. That would taste great.”

            Later that afternoon, I came back from lunch and the tier houseman was standing there with his mop bucket. “For you from Lil P and the boys.” There were five large bags of pretzels and four six packs of ginger ale. I opened a bag and felt the pretzels in my hands. I savored bitefulls. I drank warm ginger ale and kept my nose close to the can so I could feel the carbonated bubbles pop near the surface. It was a moment of inexplicable joy.

            That night, a can full of ginger ale poured over ice in my plastic tumbler and a large plastic bowl full of pretzels, I headed down to the first floor to sit at the metal table and catch “Sports Center.” Ernie and Ray were already sitting at a table and I joined them. “What’s the matter fellas?” I asked. Ray looked up at me. “The fuckin gang bangers. They robbed me and Ernie and a few others. Took all our commissary.” And it hit me – Lil P hadn’t bought me pretzels and ginger ale to thank me for my help. They’d robbed guys that looked like me to pay me.

There have been times I’ve done things in here no one gets, things not in keeping with the “prison code,” like calling guys out, confronting men, talking about vague ideas like honor. That night I confronted Lil P, a cold-blooded killer. I went back to my cell and took all the ginger ale and pretzels out of my locker and sat them on his bunk. “You took this shit. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be paid. I just want to do the right thing and go home.” In hindsight, they were such naïve words. And I waited … I waited for him to pulverize me or worse. But he didn’t. He just smiled and said, “ok lawyer man. We’ll do it your way. I don’t get you.”

            I was thinking about a history story I read while at the jail. During World War II as the Americans were landing on the Philippine Island of the Leyte the Japanese launched a surprise naval attack. The Japanese had come through the Leyte Gulf and into Philippine Sea. Their hope was to destroy the U.S. fleet, stranding the landed soldiers without resupply.

            A small group of support ships including the USS Samuel B Roberts was all that stood in the way of the Japanese Navy. The Captain called the ship to “battle stations” and told the crew that while the ship’s survival was not expected. “We will do our duty.” The USS Samuel B Roberts was, in fact, sunk (but their actions and those of the USS Johnson and others led the Japanese Navy to withdraw). Hundreds of men ended up in the shark-infested waters of the Philippine Sea.

            The young sailors hung on life rafts for four days. Many gave up, swallowing salt water, swimming away, or worse. One young man said, “I felt something bumping my thigh. I looked down and I saw a tiger shark. It kept ramming my leg. And I prayed. I said, God, I don’t want to die out here. I want to go home, meet a nice girl, live a good life.”

            The shark moved on, and at a raft nearby grabbed another sailor. For three more days that young sailor watched as sharks circled his raft and yet not one came up to them. All around, men drowned or were pulled under by sharks, but that raft was spared.

            That battle story and my time at receiving have perplexed me and – at times – caused me to be wide awake at 3:00 a.m. wondering about God. My “sharks” were different. I witnessed the aftermath of stabbings, beating, and worse. And yet, I walked through unscathed. I wondered “why me?” At the same time, I wondered, where was God? What was He doing? Why am I seeing this and more importantly why am I safe?

            A little while ago, a friend, a woman who prays for me, sent me a remarkable sermon about grace and about understanding the mystery of God in the midst of the storms in our lives. It’s tough, but the writer said this, “God will take you where you haven’t intended to go in order to produce in you what you could not achieve on your own.”

            I think about those words a lot, and my passage through receiving to this place. I think about last December and the attitude of the students in here after two of the senior college aides got locked up and everyone believed the program would shut down. I’d tell anyone who would listen, “we’ll get through this.” They’d say, “You don’t know anything about prison.” They were right. But, I had a sense something bigger than prison was going on. And, I’ve been thinking about Ernie at receiving and the lessons I learned there.

            Prison is a terrible place, and there are many violent anti-social men and women behind bars. It’s hard to imagine the filth, the noise, the lack of compassion. Still, even in places like this, light shines in. I knew walking amongst such violence and despair that I would be ok, I would survive, and some day all this would make sense. I kept it together and moved forward.

            I left receiving in November 2009, left Ernie, Ray, Lil P behind. But, the lessons I learned there, the misconceptions and misperceptions I overcame, they stay with me … and always will.

Potpourri for the Week

Anyone familiar with “Jeopardy” knows about the catch-all category “Potpourri.” “I’ll take potpourri for a thousand, Alex.” With that in mind, here’s a potpourri of D.O.C. happenings this week.

An inmate was found dead in his cell at Powhatan. Cause of death: “apparent” heart attack. I say “apparent” because a week after his death his family still wasn’t given any details. “Privacy Issues,” DOC’s spokesman said when the local TV news reporter approached. The family and the press are demanding answers. What they’ve gotten is a copy of the department procedure for dealing with a dead convict.

Hey, people die behind bars. “If you didn’t want the worry of keeling over in prison, you shouldn’t have broken the law.” I know all that. Still, what does it tell you about the system put in place to carry out justice acting corrupt and callous?

Speaking of corruption, Lunenburg is awash in tobacco. Guys are chain smoking in every building bathroom. A library aide went to the hole when he was caught with forty – that’s right forty – cigarettes. There’s only one way that much tobacco can come on the compound and that’s through the staff. And that’s half the problem inside prison – the people paid to run the place are as dirty as the inmates.

The Justice Policy Institute has issued a scathing indictment of Virginia’s justice system. Dated this November and titled: “Virginia’s Justice System: Expensive, Ineffective, and Unfair,” the researcher notes, “Despite some recent small progress in the areas of post-incarceration re-entry … the state continues to suffer under misguided policies and practices of the past.” Here are a few notable highlights –

·       At minimum, Virginia spends nearly $3 billion on its Public Safety Office and Judiciary. $1.5 billion of that goes to operate its crowded jails and prisons.

·       Virginia has the 13^th highest incarceration rate in the county. It costs in excess of $25,000 a year to keep a person in prison. For inmates over age 50 (approximately 15% of all inmates) the costs grow four-fold because of health care costs.

·       It costs over $100,000 per year to confine a juvenile in a juvenile facility. Almost 63% of confined juveniles are on psychotropic meds. Those sent to juvenile detention have a recidivism rate (re-offending within the first twelve months of release) in excess of 75%.

·       Contrary to what politicians say, “Truth in sentencing laws” (Virginia abolished parole in 1996 and requires an offender to serve 85% of their sentence) “have no significant impact on standardized recidivism rates”.  In fact there is no correlation between increased sentence length and recidivism rates.

·       While Virginia’s crime rate has decreased significantly over the last two decades (and across the country) the number of arrests (as opposed to the rate of arrest) has only fallen 1% in the same period.

·       Virginia law contains hundreds of restrictions on convicted felons searching for work making re-entry success more difficult.

·       Over 75% of Virginia’s incarcerated have an education of high school or less (40% have no high school diploma).

The study makes specific recommendations to avoid “an escalating crisis if the state does not take steps to reassess and change its approach to crime and imprisonment.”

1.     Repeal “Truth in Sentencing” and reinstate parole.

2.     Reduce focus on drug offenses.

3.     Work to address racial disparity throughout the criminal justice system.

4.     Demand better educational resources and opportunities especially for low-income communities of color.

5.     Re-allocate juvenile justice resources and restore authority of judges to treat juveniles as juveniles (not adults).

Is anyone in Richmond listening? Virginia’s justice system is broken.

Then there’s Jasper. Jasper is 38 years old. This is his second time in prison; he has a dozen or so trips to the jail. He’s a rural, Southside white guy with a rented trailer and five kids. And, he can’t read or write. He makes crystal meth – at least until he gets caught – because it’s more economically advantageous. His lack of education excludes him from most work.

Every third period at school I work with Jasper and four other men just like him. Five men, all of whom are between 30 and 50; all of whom have children; all of whom read and write below the second grade level.

 That I work with them is in itself a surprise. I’ve never been known as a patient man. Yet, all five guys love the class. For them, it’s the first education success they’ve ever known. And, it’s been good for me. It’s too easy to miss the “other” America, the America without education, good jobs and benefits, and hope in the future.

You want to solve the “prison” problem? Figure out a way to give Jasper’s kids a better chance at the American dream.

Just a random week in DOC.

Gang Training

School was cancelled last Monday so all the teachers could attend gang training.  “Learn to spot gang signs and tattoos”, the teachers were told.  Gangs are, and will continue to be a major problem in prisons.  Looking at it from the inside there is nothing DOC is doing that is effectively challenging gang influence.  Asking teachers to be on the lookout for gang evidence is no solution.

Gangs exist and their prominence in prisons is a given.  Even at a low level facility like this you can’t help but be walking to chow and see two young guys pat their chests as they pass on the boulevard (three taps on your heart with an open hand signifies blood connection).  You hear expressions, catch phrases, thrown back and forth.  And you wonder, if a 50+ year-old white guy with no exposure to gangs pre-incarceration can spot it, why can’t the officers?

You then realize the prison knows who’s in and who’s not.  The investigators’ office has a “gang board” with pictures of members by rank.  So why is it tolerated?  I’ve written before about the young gang leader “Live”, recently indicted for ordering hits on wayward gang members from inside the facility.  Everyone knew Live was a high-ranked blood.  Once a week he found himself talking to investigators.  And yet, at least monthly, new members were brought in.  What does the facility do about it?  Nothing.  It appears the status quo is easier to deal with than aggressively challenging them.

Things are worse at higher levels.  Extortion, robbery, attacks, these are common place at higher level prisons and the parties responsible are the gangs.  You want drugs, cigarettes, gambling? It’s the gangs who control it.  And for all the talk of “gang intervention” DOC officials spout, they are virtually impotent when confronting it and defeating it.  Gangs are thriving in prisons.

When I was in Virginia’s despicable Powhatan Receiving Unit, I was housed with a high ranking member of the Crips.  In the cell next door, a blood leader.  Both men knew my legal background and asked if I would review their guys’ pending appeals.  Frankly, doing legal research helped pass the time and kept me sane as I struggled daily with 23 hour lockdown and living in filth and despair.

“How much you charge us?” the blood captain asked.  “Nothing,” I said.  “Well we need to show our appreciation,” my Crip cellmate said.  “What kind of food do you like?”  I thought a little bit then said “pretzels and ginger ale” (both items were available on commissary but I hadn’t been to the store yet).  That afternoon, two six packs of ginger ale and three large bags of pretzels showed up on my bunk.

That night, it was my floor’s turn for 30 minutes out of our cells.   I grabbed a ginger ale, my cup and a bag of pretzels and headed down to the first floor to sit by the fans.  After grabbing some ice for my cup, I poured my soda and sipped on it savoring the drink and the salty pretzels.  A guy I’d met on arrival sat down with me.  Ernie was my age.  A white guy back in prison for drug use, he’d been at receiving a month before I arrived.  He was noticeably upset.  “What’s the matter Ernie?” I asked.  “The gang bangers,” he said.  “They came in my cell and took all my commissary.”  Sodas, cereal, snack foods.  Fifty dollars worth taken and there was nothing he could do.  You can’t tell.  Snitch and get beat, or worse.

I realized the ginger ale and pretzels I was enjoying had been stolen from Ernie – and some other “non-affiliated” guys.  I couldn’t prove it, but I knew.  I went back to my cell, got a six pack and bag or pretzels and gave them to Ernie.  Then, I told the two gang leaders I didn’t want anything else from them.

DOC could break the gangs.  But, prison fosters gang life.  All the training in the world for DOC teachers won’t stop gangs from flourishing in here.  Gangs survive because this environment feeds them.  Change prison culture, kill gangs.  Or, keep doing what you’re doing and the cycle continues.

Thinking About an eBook

The other night, I read an interesting piece in USA Today about a recent Barnes & Noble eBook “daily special” of Eric Metaxas amazing biography of martyred German Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  Selling as an eBook for $1.99, Bonhoeffer’s amazing life story sold tens of thousands of copies in a short time and thrust the book to number 19 on the paper’s weekly bestsellers list.

I read (and wrote about) the Bonhoeffer book months ago.  I found it a difficult read, very cerebral, theologically driven, and yet one of the most powerful books I’d ever read.  Bonhoeffer was a brilliant, serious Christian who, I believe, would offer scathing criticism of 21^st century American faith trends.  I wondered, as I read the article, if all those readers knew what they were getting into.

Inside my wall locker I display two small items.  The first is a color drawing of the Archangel Michael.  A friend, and Episcopal Rector, sent it to me shortly after my arrival at the receiving unit.  “Michael is the archangel who protects us,” his letter stated.  I kept “Michael” under my pillow, looking at him daily as I dealt with the filth and inhumanity of DOC’s Powhatan Receiving Center.

The second item is a poem penned by Bonhoeffer while imprisoned by the Nazi’s and awaiting his execution.  Simply titled “On Waking in Prison”, it is a powerful testament to this man’s undying faith in his Lord even as the hangman’s noose drew closer.

Bonhoeffer felt compelled by his faith to challenge the Nazi regime, the status quo.  He became a leader of the Covenant Church movement, separating a number of Lutheran parishes away from the mainline German Lutheran churches which, at best, quietly acquiesced to the Nazi’s rule of terror and, at worst, actively participated in Hitler’s dreams of ethnic cleansing and world domination.

Lest we too quickly applaud Bonhoeffer for his deeds; let’s remember the Nazis were a legitimately recognized political organization.  Hitler’s rise to power came about by the force of political calculation and legitimacy.  There was no government overthrow.  The Nazis entered politics, Hitler was asked to form a government and the German people – a majority at least – willingly followed along as law after law was passed.  There was no coup, there was simple acquiesce by the German people to fear and economic despair and the deep-seated desire to have simple answers to complex societal issues.

And what of Bonhoeffer?  He willingly broke the legitimate laws of his nation because he believed God called humankind to a higher order than the laws on the books.  Bonhoeffer was willing to fight the legitimate government of his nation, challenge the conventional wisdom of his people and be imprisoned and executed to remain true to his God.  An amazing man.  A true Christian.  I wonder how many of us would be willing to do the same; give up job, family, freedom, our lives for our faith.

Bonhoeffer challenged the conventional wisdom of his day – and our day – that found faith to be an easy exercise.  It’s not.  It’s painful and lonely and it involves suffering but you press on anyway because God requires you to do so. You are His child; your eternity is secure.  You are compelled, therefore, to do right even in the face of unwinnable odds.

I wonder what Bonhoeffer would say to modern American Christians; white, upper-income families believing they are blessed because they have two cars, a half million dollar mortgage, a recovering 401k.  What would he say about our reaction to 9/11, to the denial of rights to “enemy combatants”, about our step by step dismantling of personal freedom in the name of security?  What would Bonhoeffer say about the rights call for a wall to “protect” the border?  What would Bonhoeffer say about America’s staggering incarceration number (2.3 million) and supervised probation and parole number (almost 5 million) at a cost of $200 billion per year (criminal justice spending) most of which goes to arrest, try, convict and incarcerate nonviolent offenders?  What would Bonhoeffer say about 46 million Americans using food stamps while our defense budget continues to grow and unemployment exceeds 9%?

I may be mistaken, but I think he would simply ask each believer “What does the Lord require of you?”  As I said earlier, this fast selling eBook will be a difficult read.  But, if we truly believe, we will take heart.  We will get involved.  We will demand justice, seek mercy and forgiveness. 

Ultimately, our power, our future lies not in the military, economic or legal system of this country.   Ultimately, it rests with the Lord who “gives the solitary a home and brings forth the prisoners to freedom”.  What would Bonhoeffer say?  He’d say what I see every morning when I read his poem.  As the psalmist said, “be strong and let your heart take courage.”

A Response to Governor McDonnell

Dear Governor:

I intently read your office press release concerning recent legislation you signed to push your prisoner re-entry initiative forward (http://www.alexandrianews.org/2011/06/governor-mcdonnell-signs-prisoner-re-entry-legislation/).  I also read your online op-ed piece (http://www.riponsociety.org/112bm.htm) touting prisoner re-entry which appeared on the pages of “The Ripon Forum”.  Ironically, I had to wait until someone on the street sent copies of these to me.  Even though I serve as an academic aide in one of your re-entry pilot programs – this one training inmates in computers – we aren’t given access to the Internet.

Like the folks in Syria and Libya, I am one of approximately 40,000 incarcerated persons in a Virginia prison yearning for freedom.  Like those people in the heart of “the Arab Spring”, I am cut off electronically from the outside world.  And like those people, I hear politicians speak and write each day in lofty platitudes about “freedom” and “second chances”.  But, as my Grandfather used to say “actions speak louder than words”.  You talk a good game Governor.  But, as you will see below, there’s no action behind your words.  If you really do believe “everyone deserves a second chance”, then cut the bs.  Stop the quick campaign slogan gimmicks about “public safety” which have absolutely nothing to do with the operation of prisons or the failures of “truth in sentencing” laws which instead just lead to a bloated, money down the drain, criminal justice bureaucracy that cannot be sustained. The legislation you recently signed will do nothing to lower recidivism rates in the Commonwealth.  The legislation, simply put, doesn’t address why some men and women commit crimes, nor does it address the attitude most pervasive in here:  the system isn’t fair.

Start with your comments about “truth in sentencing” and Virginia’s abolition of parole.  Statistics can be used to skew the truth.  It’s obvious you know that.  Yes, Virginia – per the recent Pew Center study – has the seventh lowest recidivism rate in the country.  But, the rate was actually lower when parole was in place.  As for “truth in sentencing” you know better than anyone the vast majority of states have adopted the same laws.  Why then are non-violent felons sentenced to substantially shorter sentences in the neighboring states of Maryland and North Carolina?  Why does the state most comparable to Virginia in population – Massachusetts – have about 11,000 inmates while Virginia has 40,000?

The reality of truth in sentencing is there is no truth to it.  Real examples for you to ponder:

·         A woman steals $2.3 million from a Norfolk business and gets 28 months. 

·         A Republican political hack steals $4 million in public funds and has a conviction for public indecency on his record (you know the case Governor.  When you were Virginia’s AG the investigation came across your desk and suddenly got misfiled) gets 10 years.

·         An employee in Fairfax steals almost $2 million, causing the company to lay people off.  He gets 4 years. 

·         I steal $2.1 million over twelve years; pay back over one third prior to sentencing, cooperate fully and accept responsibility for my actions and get 15 years.  

Sadly, the examples I just set out happen every day.  It’s called sentence disparity, Governor.  We sentence petty drug dealers to more time than child pornographers.  My sentence is higher than the dozens of child sex offenders I’m doing time with.

“Truth in sentencing” doesn’t exist.  Your sentence is dependent on the harshness of the judge, the case load of the prosecutor’s office, publicity surrounding your case, and the quality of your defense attorney.  What the abolition of parole and “tough on crime” rhetoric has led to is a prison system at 137% bed capacity, spending for DOC at over $1 billion a year, with no lessening of the recidivism rate, and those beds filled primarily by non-violent felons.  The “truth” Governor:  this isn’t about public safety; it’s about justice and economics.

Your press release and op-ed tout the work your Department of Corrections is doing to turn inmate lives around.  Have you ever been to one of Virginia’s prisons?  Go to C3, Powhatan Receiving Unit.  This time of the year the 10 X 6 cells hit 95°.  Chances are you’ll be put in with a sociopathic gangbanger who’s killed two men already for wearing rival colors.  Maybe, you’ll get to do time with a child molester who’ll be interested in pictures of your kids.  Yes, Governor, that’s your DOC receiving unit.  And that doesn’t include the toilet leaking, the roaches and ants crawling over everything.  That’s the system you’re overseeing Governor and it is broken, unyielding and cruel.  And Sir, as Governor, you are responsible for it.

I can’t speak for all the incarcerated, but to a man, the ones I have talked to think you’re just another politician feeding the public a cartload of manure.  “He doesn’t care about us” is the most common refrain I hear in this place.  Imagine trying to convince men that you really are sincere.  I’m labeled a hopeless optimistic.  “These guys say this all the time when they’re in office, but nothin’ changes.”  Makes me feel like a young Natalie Wood in “Miracle on 34^th Street”.  See Governor, one thing this experience has taught me is, we’re lost without hope.  So I believe in you.  “I believe.  I know it’s silly, but I believe.”

Instead of travelling all over Europe, drive out to Lunenburg and talk to a few of us.  We’re the guys who are spearheading the pilot IT Certification program for the forty at risk guys.  You may not like what you hear from us, but it’ll be a damn sight more honest and on point than what your own people are telling you.

For example, at this facility we have a college dorm with seven academic aides and almost eighty students.  Ask any teacher who comes “behind the walls” and they’ll tell you the same thing:  these guys have a hunger, a desire, to learn that isn’t seen on the street.  That desire is what motivates me to work my regular thirty hours a week as an adult basic education aide and then put in twice that amount of time – without pay – to tutor these guys in English, History, Philosophy, computer and a creative writing program.

This program, partnered with Goodwill (God bless those people) and Southside Community College can be a model for prison education around the country.  What does DOC do?  They assign a head warden here who said in a meeting to these college students “I don’t know much about this college re-entry program”.  Then, DOC puts an aggressive Assistant Warden in place who is openly opposed to the program.  His own officers have warned men in the college building “he wants us to come down on you.  He hates the building and all it stands for”.

So Governor, you can talk about re-entry all you want, but if your people don’t buy in, it’s doomed from the start.

And then, there’s early release.  You know why inmates don’t believe in you?  Because you keep peddling the false notion that longer sentences work.  They don’t.  Length of sentence bears absolutely no correlation to crime rate or recidivism rate.

What does work?  How about this.  Tie good time/early release into educational, vocational and rehabilitative programs.  An inmate who actively works at change and accepts responsibility for their crime should get out early, say after 25% to 50% of their sentence is served.

The fundamental flaw in your logic is you think making a criminal do a long prison sentence will make them feel more remorse and responsibility.  They’ll come out better citizens.  That Sir is backward.  The longer a person stays in prison, the more bitterness is created.  Every day in here is a day to lose hope.  You want prisons to be places of rehabilitation and restoration?  Turn the system on its head.

Governor, you talk a great deal about your faith.  The Book of James reminds us of two significant points:  faith without action is not faith and God’s judgment will be merciless on those who fail to show mercy.  Jesus dined with the prostitutes and the tax collectors.  If He were here, He’d come out to Lunenburg.  He also told the adulteress – seeing her remorse – “I forgive you.  Go and sin no more.”  He didn’t set an 85% minimum sentence on her.  That should be the model we follow for incarceration.