A Tale of Three C’s

            Three white guys whose names all begin with C stroll around this compound. Much of what I consider problematic with prisoners is represented in the three Cs. For I fear, as a lay psychoanalyst and observer of human behavior, that prison has done nothing except bring out the worst in them.

            C#1 is on his second trip to “the rodeo,” that’s what guys doing time three or four years at a time – the installment plan – for fifteen or twenty years call it. The guy is an accomplished artist. He can draw or paint anything. Beautiful cards; posters; embroidery. But, he’s a scumbag. He runs dirty hustles all over the compound. Want a watch? See him. He gets ten to twelve watches smuggled in. Religious medallions too.

            Then there’s the forgery scam. Guy wants money for drugs, or gambling, or a cellphone. C#1 got hold of a “college transcript” form. Inmate pays him $50; C#1 creates a “college transcript” showing the inmate pulled A’s in his classes. Transcript sent home with a heartfelt letter. “Mom, I’m working hard, getting my education. The next class cost $275 (or $375 or $150) and I have to pay by next week.” Mom, who’s seen her son come in and out of prison three, maybe four times, willingly sends the money in. Trouble is, the guy isn’t in college.

            C#1 partners with a notorious child rapist to con guys on their electronics. The partner – a mid-thirties white guy, who looks like he stepped out of a GQ ad, is doing twenty years for forcible penetration of a pre-teen when he was eighteen. At a higher level, this guy would try and run under the radar. Fear is an effective deterrent to a lot of nonsense in high-level security facilities; fear isn’t very prevalent down here.

            So this guy – who works as an electrical vocational aide – teams up with C#1. You need new wiring on your headphones and C#1 tells you, “I got a guy.” Problem is, your speakers are coming out, replaced by older, crackly ones in the shop. And your speakers? They’re going in someone else’s headphones – for a price of course.

            And C#1, well he’s gone from church group to church group. He’s a Jehovah Witness now. He’ll spout doctrine and verse all the while pocketing his thirty pieces of silver.

            Then we come to C#2. This guy has the skin color of the Speaker of the House. He too is on his return trip to the rodeo – third in all. He lost most of his twenties, part of his thirties, and now at 41 and with two years remaining – his entry into his forties. C#2 is a prick; sorry, but there is no other way to describe him. He is angry, hateful, bigoted, and smart enough to be dangerous. He is a very smart man and that may bother me more than anything else. He’s smart and yet so dumb to the reality of life around him. He sees color and class and judges by those arbitrary lines.

            C#2 is inmate assistant to the Catholic deacon who comes every Sunday – 52 weeks a year – and leads a dozen or inmates in worship (once a month a priest comes with the deacon to perform confession and communion). This seventy-year old man felt called in retirement to work in prison, ministering to Catholics behind bars. His assistant professes to be devout, yet his words – about blacks, Hispanics, gays, and women – speak louder than his faith.

            I asked him the other day – as he was charging his usurious interest rate on store-boxed ramen noodles and cookies, “What kind of store-box would Jesus run?” His answer: “Fuck you Larry. Jesus never had to do time with these assholes.” Couldn’t argue with that logic!

            C#2 represents all the separation you see in here. Guys feel no loyalty, no comradeship, no empathy that “we’re all in this together.” So, prejudice and ignorance fester and guys are drawn to crazy theories – on both ends of the spectrum.

            “What’s in it for me?” That’s the mantra of C#2. And, I don’t recall seeing that anywhere in the Sermon on the Mount. I can’t help thinking old Karl Marx (the unfunny Marx brother!) must have coined his expression, “religion is the opiate of the masses,” inside a prison. Because in here, guys use religion exactly the opposite of what God intends. C#2 is an apostle alright, an apostle of anger, hatred, and separation.

            Finally there’s C#3. I must confess I am conflicted by #3. He can be charming – especially to your visitors when your paths cross in the VI room. I’ve seen him give to those without. But then … suffice it to say, this isn’t his first rodeo – nor will it be his last rodeo. Simply put, he runs too many hustles, is too dirty, to avoid detection.

            Need cologne? See C#3. Certain religions are allowed access to “prayer oils.” C#3 fronts dozens of orders through Muslim inmates. The bottles come in; he breaks them down by dram. We’re not talking “Sandalwood” and “Myrrh” available on the commissary. We’re talking CK, Polo, Kenneth Cole, Hermes, you name it. And most of these guys have never worn cologne or aftershave so they bathe in it.

            Then there’s his phone scam. He sells “Google numbers” for $25.00 a pop. A phony local address and one of his 100 local Google numbers gets you $0.99 per minute calls instead of $2.00 or $3.00 per minute via DOC’s provider GTL. C#3 recycles the numbers to new inmates when current “users” transfer or go home.

            What C#3 doesn’t realize is the Feds (who are already looking at him for something else) know all about his “Google scam.” A few months ago, DOC put out a directive prohibiting money orders for “fronted long-distance numbers.”

            Finally, C#3 had his wife send in “going home” clothes to guys with thumb drives sewn in the waistband or hemline. One of those thumb drives found their way into another building and was confiscated during “computer crisis #1.” And yes, the powers that be here know he’s dirty.

            C#3 sits around reading books by TV preachers telling everyone he’s down to 15 months at which time he’ll leave and live a fairy tale life with his wife. I think it’s called cognitive dissonance; your behavior is opposite your words. In here, its C#3 being C#3.

            I watch and shake my head. It’s no wonder two out of three guys are back inside within 36 months. The sad thing with the three Cs is they all have strong family support. They are all smart. They don’t need to run the prison cons; they don’t need the anger, the arrogance, the conniving. They have a chance at a real life outside of here. But, they blow it. They didn’t learn anything from their first trip (or trips) to “the rodeo.” This is a moral tale with no happy ending. I wouldn’t expect any less in here.

Dear Tom Wolfe

Dear Mr. Wolfe,

            It’s been over twenty years since I read your first novel, Bonfire of the Vanities. That is, until I re-read it here in prison last week. And I have to tell you, the story made a lot more sense to me now than then.

            Back then, during my first read, I was a young, successful trial attorney, a partner in a small litigation firm in East Tennessee. I was in the middle of a large bank fraud case pitting shareholders of a failed bank against their board members as they sought to recover staggering financial losses after their bank was taken over by the FDIC.

            I picked the book up and read each night to unwind from the day’s proceedings. Scotch in one hand, TV tuned to ESPN, I’d read a few pages and laugh at the travails Sherman McCoy created for himself. My wife was nearly full term with our first child. I’d watch her attempt to lift herself out of a chair, a petite frame with a twenty pound ball strapped to her front, and read your words and think, where does this guy in the white suit come up with this stuff?

            Those days were so long ago. I’m over fifty now, divorced from that young woman, alienated from our two sons, four years into a thirteen year sentence for embezzlement. I read your book again. This time, I didn’t laugh as much. This time, I knew what Sherman McCoy felt. I knew because I’d been there. And I wondered, how did you know what it was like: the arrest, the loss, the shame, despair, and guilt? How did you know and why didn’t I pay attention all those years ago?

            Rationalization. I guess it’s part of the deadly sin of pride, but we rationalize way too much when it comes to our behavior. We know what we’re supposed to do and yet, so often doing the right thing is the furthest thought from our mind. We’re quick to hold others in contempt for their foibles and failing, but ourselves? We kind of give a quick wink.

            I was arrested at my office. For a number of years I’d been living a lie, taking money from work. It was small amounts at first, a thousand here or there. But, as the years progressed the amounts grew. I became like Santa Claus after a while. Any friend, coworker, or family member who needed anything could come to me. And I rationalized away my behavior. After all, I’d tell myself, I was a good employee in every other way. No one worked harder. And, I was active in my church and community. I was keeping our local Meals on Wheels afloat, I’d remind myself, to offset the guilt that was starting to grow in the dark recesses of my mind.

            I re-read Bonfire and came to Sherman’s explanation for his ‘drinker’s insomnia.” He needed to tell his wife what he’d done. Instead, he acted as though all was right in their world. Then, in the middle of the night, he’d awaken. His heart pounding, his mind racing one thousand miles an hour, he would be racked by guilt, and shame, and fear of being caught.

            Those words, that description, was my life. There were the 4:00 a.m. puffy, bloodshot eyes, the six scotches before bed to help me shut down, the paranoia every day at work that “today’s the day” they get me. And, there was the pleading and the deal making with God each morning on my commute. “God, I don’t want to lose my wife and kids; I don’t want to go to prison. Get me out of this. I’m a good man. Please get me out of this.”

            But actions have consequences. As I said, I was arrested at work, denied bond (too many assets, I was deemed a flight risk), I was hauled away to jail. I turned in my navy blue blazer, khaki’s, oxford shirt with Jerry Garcia tie, and Kenneth Cole shoes for a two piece puke green jail jumper (v-neck and elastic waist) with “Jackie Chans” (cheap plastic shower shoes).

            The jail stunk. It smelled of sweat and excrement and rotten food. They threw me in a cell by “reception” (funny choice of words I thought) to “make sure you don’t off yourself.” And every fifteen minutes, in that eight by eight cell with the dirty yellow bulb staying on, an officer came by and said “You alright in there?” I’d say “yeah,” but I wasn’t. I knew it was all gone.

            I thought about that as I read Sherman tell his lawyer, “All I can tell you is that I’m already dead … your ‘self’ is other people, all the people you’re tied to, and it’s only a thread.” Sherman knew so much. He knew what it was like sitting in the cesspool that is a jail. He knew what it was like to defend yourself against men who quite frankly don’t give a shit, who will beat you senseless over a perceived snub or a twenty cent ramen noodle.

            Soon enough you too have to learn not to give a shit. Weakness is death in here, so you lash out and try and become what you’re not capable of being: unempathetic, devoid of compassion, atonement, and kindness. But some of us can’t live like that.

            Somehow, you understood that. Your words, “He ain’t got the heart for being on the wrong side of the law. I don’t care who you are, sometimes in your life you’re gonna be on the wrong side of the law, and some people got the heart for it and some don’t,” rang truer than you may know.

            I realized I didn’t have the heart for it. And, I realized I couldn’t be like most of the men in here. I lost everything: freedom, wife, sons, friends, career, wealth, and for a long time I thought “I’m already dead, my heart just doesn’t know it”. I had a decision to make: quit or fight back. I loved that about Sherman. He too was all set to quit until his “friend” tried to persuade him to leave his building.

            Friends. I knew dozens and dozens of people. I got locked up and all of them, save one small handful, bailed. I decided not to quit. It was the toughest decision of my life and there are days even now when I wonder if I made the right choice. But, I couldn’t, I can’t quit.

            This entire episode has been life changing and it’s taught me a few things. A major life lesson is you find out who you really are, what’s at your core, when you’re put in a place, an environment, like this that is (pardon my crassness) completely fucked up.

            And, you don’t have to be like every other guy going through this. Most of the men in here come from lousy homes, lousy schools, lousy economies. They’re poor, ignorant, and alienated from the American dream. And for all their bravado they quietly acquiesce to their life’s lot. They can’t see beyond this place and the shitty existence they knew before. Prison to them is just another stop on their train to nowhere.

            It’s depressing, but it also makes me angry enough to fight back. I teach, GED prep, college tutoring, and creative writing. Yes, I write. I write blogs about this experience and the complete failure of the criminal justice system. Face it, there’s not “justice” in the system and no “corrections” going on in here. And I write stories about broken people. One think I’ve learned from this is we’re all broken in some way. But, there’s redemption when you come face to face with your brokenness and overcome it.

            I write this letter so you would know that Sherman McCoy matters. His story isn’t too farfetched (just look at the headlines about CIA Director Petreaus!) I’m still not sure how you knew the nuts and bolts of jail or what guilt and shame are like. But, you do and your man Sherman lived it.

            Earlier in this letter I told you my thoughts on rationalization. It’s “the glass house” effect. We are quick to pass judgment on others all the while we cut corners and try and have things “our way.” Sherman wasn’t a bad guy. But, this isn’t about being good or bad. It’s about doing the right thing even when no one is watching.

            Thank you for Sherman McCoy and all the other characters you create with their foibles and biases, desires, and idiosyncrasies. Your books capture life, our sarcastic way we screw up and, hopefully, get it back together and go on.

When Will They Ever Learn?

As I was working out a few weeks ago, Pete Seeger’s song “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” ran through my head.  After each stanza, from flowers to girls to young soldiers, to graveyards, Seeger ends with the same refrain, “When will they ever learn?”

To say I was unprepared for arrest and jail would be an understatement.  I was taken to the jail – in shackle and handcuffs of course – wearing my navy blue blazer, oxford collared shirt, khakis and Kenneth Cole dress shoes.  As opposed to most guys who know they’re about to get picked up and have on four pair of t-shirts, boxers and socks, I had one v-neck tee and a pair of green Italian silk boxers.

They took everything from me except my underclothes.  I was given two sets of puke green, elastic waist scrubs and a set of “Jackie Chans”, jail lingo for the 99 cent shower shoes they give out.  I was told by the property C.O. I could order my own sneakers, boxers and t-shirts from commissary.  And, feeling sorry for me – I was a pathetic mess – the officer helped me fill out my first “store” order.  I’d shown up in jail with $400.00 in my wallet that was immediately taken and put on my “account”.  I ordered three sets of white tees, boxers and socks and a $20.00 pair of Velcro sneakers.  “You’ll be able to get your stuff next Monday”, the officer told me shortly before I found myself in my first jail pod with no daylight, no quiet, and no hope.

That first week was horrendous and I fought desperately against self-destruction even as my whole “real” life was crashing around me. I barely survived that first weekend, had my moment of begging God to not abandon me, and somehow made it to Monday morning.  And, shortly after 9:00 that morning, the intercom called me to commissary.  That entire first week I lived in the same t-shirt and underwear.  Each night in my cell, I’d wash those clothes out with my state issued bar of soap and hang them to dry.  And I’d sleep “commando” in that uncomfortable jail-issued scrub set.

The sneakers.  I put them on at the commissary window and headed back to the pod.  It was the first moment of normalcy I’d enjoyed since my arrest.  Back in my cell block I walked around feeling – well – better than I had in a week.  Then I saw him. 

He was a young, muscular black kid, no more than eighteen.   He was sitting on a table, saw me and climbed down and began heading toward me.  I noticed his smile, devious is a good way to describe it, and also noticed the ten or so other guys in the dayroom suddenly moved toward the walls.

“Nice shoes”, he said.  Before I could respond he added, “Give em to me or else”.  My mind raced a thousand miles an hour.  I was forty-nine and wanted to die – or so I thought.  But, his words did something to me.  I put myself in a fighting stance, on the balls of my feet, hands fisted.  Then and there I decided I might get my ass kicked, but I’d always keep my dignity.

Divine intervention?  At that precise moment the young, female psychologist walked by our pod windows in a silk blouse and jeans that accentuated her petite frame.  My would-be assailant saw her and turned his attention to her.  In one of those tragic-comic moments you only see in prison, he began uttering lewd, grunted words to her while exposing himself.  In a matter of seconds the dayroom door sprang open and three beefy officers lifted “Casanova” off the floor and out of the pod.  I never saw him again.

There have been other situations where I’ve been threatened, sometimes by guys for whom violence has been a way of life.  It’s funny, but I don’t worry about it.  As I told a friend one time, it’s better to get beat up and keep your dignity intact than live with yourself out of fear.  But, those experiences have convinced me of the needless waste that is violence.

The other night a fight broke out in here.  Like most fights this one arose out of a stupid thing, a wager gone awry, and one skinny loudmouth telling a much larger guy “you ain’t gonna dispect me, bro.”  Within seconds the big man had lunged at skinny, landed at least six heavy “Whumps” to the head and chest, then began to choke him out.

And as with most fights in here, we all stopped and tried not to look, but also didn’t intervene.  In a minute or two it was over.  Skinny slinked off to his bunk gasping for air, only the blackness of his skin hiding his bruised and bloodied face.

I’ll never get use to the violence in here.  It jolts me and offends my sense of dignity and compassion.  And the more I see of it, the more I realize it’s just a stupid, stupid waste.

Were it only in here, I’d write it off as some depraved state of the incarcerated; you know “what do you expect from criminals?”  But then you watch the news; Syria, Egypt, Afghanistan, Chicago, Richmond, on and on the news details fighting and killing.  Gandhi once said “with an eye for an eye the world will soon be blind.”  Gandhi was a very smart man.

Violence is never the answer.  Violence begets violence.  I have watched too many men beat each other senseless in here.  Then again, I saw too many young men die and kill in the rice paddies of Vietnam and the sands of Iraq.  “When will they ever learn?”

I shared with a friend in a recent letter how much prison has changed my outlook on life, on people, on things in general.  Years ago, after that initial confrontation over my sneakers, I began getting up at 4:00 and reading the Bible.  I guess I wanted to understand why, why God, why things were the way they were.  I found more questions than answers.  But, I began to come away with a deep sense of awe over the infinite mystery that is God.

And I began to understand that we are all flawed.  Perhaps that’s why I keep thinking it all boils down to kindness, mercy, and forgiveness.

When will they ever learn?  After the fight, the big guy came up to me to talk.  Everyone else was joking on him, he said.  “Not you.”  And he told me he felt like crap about doing that, pummeling the loudmouth, skinny guy.  “I hate that.  Hate getting so angry.  Hate how I feel afterwards.” 

When will they every learn?  Maybe never, or maybe….