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.