Bernie, Jack and Me

I lead a peculiar life in prison. I have remained – at least for the first three years anyway – above the daily fray of theft, two-bit violence, threats and general disrespect from larger, more violent men.  As I’ve written before, Darwinism – “survival of the fittest” – plays out daily in places like this.  That I’ve remained unscathed and only been a recorder of the abysmal conditions here is one of those things I have counted as a blessing from God.  Oscar Wilde, as I previously noted, was quite right when he wrote “what seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.”

Survival of the fittest.  So often that is thought to be the biggest, the strongest, the cunning predator over the weak prey.  I have discovered that brains, education, and your crime, may in fact place you in the realm of “fittest” in this screwy world behind wire.

Which led to a funny revelation for me the last few weeks.  As Bernie Madoff’s wife and son peddled a book attempting to get them public sympathy (at the price of more scorn heaped on Mr. Madoff) guys started calling me “Larry Madoff”.  Newspaper accounts of Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, his wife’s “I didn’t know” mea culpa and his liquidation trustee’s multiple suits against anyone ever connected with him (at least the attorneys will be paid in full!) appeared on my bunk and guys would ask for my thoughts.

Then, last week Jack Abramoff appeared on “60 minutes” and the guys lined up to hear my pronouncements on the man convicted of corrupting congress and cheating his clients – various Indian tribes seeking gambling compacts – out of $45 million.  Ironically, Abramoff served less than four years in a medium security Federal prison.  He now works as an accountant for a pizzeria with a $24 million restitution order on his back.  Of course, he lives at home with his wife, children and dogs – same house, same everything – just as he did before his arrest.  So, naturally I was called “Larry Jack” for a few days.

And the questions always followed the same lines:
“Do you really think Madoff’s wife didn’t know?”
“Why do you think she hasn’t divorced him?”
“Does it piss you off that both their wives stayed while yours dumped you?”

Leaving my answers to those questions for another day, both stories got me thinking.  Take Bernie Madoff.  His wife said “he was a wonderful man who got in over his head and was afraid to admit it.  It took on a life of its own.”  I get that.  Like Bernie, my intention was never to steal for twelve years.  I know why I wrote the first check.  I know what I was feeling, what I was dealing with.  And, I knew it was wrong.  But once you cross that line it gets easier and easier until you want to stop, but the fear of getting caught, of admitting what you’ve done, paralyzes you.

Like Bernie, death seemed a better solution than facing failure.  It was a George Bailey moment he – and I – faced.  Only Frank Capra didn’t write the ending; a judge did.

Then there was a comment from Abramoff.  He told the interviewer his pride blinded him.  He was, in his mind, a highly moral man, a pillar of the community.  The money, the access, the perks, corrupted him.  It was true as Bob Dylan so poetically put it, that “all he believes are his eyes…and his eyes they just tell him lies…”  There’s a reason the Bible warns us of the dangers of pride.  As Jack Abramoff spoke, I could only shake my head in agreement.

Bernie, Jack and me.  I told a friend in a letter this week I’m a better man for going through this.  I’m a lot lonelier, but I’m also a lot less judgmental and more merciful.  I’m not sure what Bernie’s doing, but Jack – well, he appears to be a different man as well.

Soviet dissident and political prisoner Mihajlo Mihailov said “whoever follows his inner voice and saves his soul, learns empirically that, so long as the soul is not lost, the most important is not lost.”

Bernie and Jack are not simple, black and white, good versus evil men nor are their circumstances.  The guys understand that about me.  But, it applies to everyone.  Perhaps there’s a little of Bernie and Jack in all of us.

Guest Blog – The Will to Walk (Jay)

I’ve asked some of the guys in here to contribute blogs.  “Write about anything you want”, I told them.  This medium – the blog – fascinates the guys.  Whether there is one reader, or a thousand, the guys believe somehow my blog is reaching someone, maybe changing someone’s mind or heart.  When I started this blog a year and a half ago it was to give me something to do.  That it’s a source of communication with the outside world and hope to dozens of men in this place was beyond my original intention.

I write blogs to tell my story.  What I’ve discovered is it’s not my story.  It is the story of literally anyone who’s screwed up, suffered unforeseen consequences, and tries to do right and live with hope.  And I’ve learned that is the story of most of the people I meet in here. 

“Jay”, my guest blogger, is one of those guys.  Just turning 40, he’s been incarcerated since 1996.  He shot and killed a man during a drug deal gone bad.  He was selling and the “two customers” tried to rob him, shooting him twice.  He returned fire, killing one man.

Jay is a leader in our college building.  His earliest release will come in 2024; still, he pays his own way for college (murderers are precluded from Federal grants).  He’s thoughtful and well read.  Five years ago he began tithing (one tenth of his factory salary) to an orphanage in Kenya for children whose parents died of AIDS. 

The famous British playwright Oscar Wilde said, “What seems to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise”.  Meeting guys like Jay bear that out for me.

In 1981, at the tender age of ten, I found myself in the fight of my life.  Unbeknownst to my family and myself, I would be diagnosed with a rare form of cancer called “Astrocytoma”.  Through an uncountable number of prayers and superb team of doctors, I would overcome this life changing ailment to regain a clean bill of health.  Welcome to my story of tragedy and triumph.

The Will to Walk

With everything in me, I fought to take that first step.  I can remember my mom saying “Come on, John, you can do it”, with that piercing voice.  With that, and the motivation to play basketball again, I took that first step.

Life was good for me in 1981.  I had a loving family of two brothers and three sisters along with a jump shot that would not quit.  It was late fall in Baltimore when my basketball team, the “Calloway Tigers” were undefeated.  We were in the fight of our lives.  Down by two points with the clock running out, my coach, Mr. Davis, yelled “John-John to the basket”.  With hoop-dreams of basketball gods Magic, Bird, Dr. J. and a future of my own, I dribbled past the first defender and moved toward the rim.  As I left my feet to take the shot I didn’t know this jumper would be the beginning of a life-changing event.  Crashing down on the defender’s foot, my ankle twisted as I fell to the floor.  “Count the basket”, the ref yelled.  As I lay there on the floor looking up at my teammates, I could tell something was seriously wrong with my ankle.

I hobbled to school the following day with one thing on my mind; the loss the team suffered because of my injury.  I had left the game and we were unable to come back.  As I entered my classroom, Mrs. Bloom my homeroom teacher asked, “John what’s going on with your leg?”  I answered, “I hurt my ankle playing basketball”.  Later, Mrs. Bloom sent me to see the school nurse.  Upon examination, the nurse informed me that I needed a test for scoliosis (curvature of the spine).  A notification letter was sent to my mom revealing the medical exam results.  Surprisingly, the diagnosis for scoliosis was positive.

Kernan Hospital is a place that specializes in spinal cord and brain injuries.  Mom and I arrived early one morning and were greeted by wall-to-wall people in the waiting area.  “Sign in, take a number and a seat”, said the nurse.  Scanning the room from side to side, I noticed people with all sorts of injures.  “John Hinson” announced the nurse, “please follow me”.

As we made our way through the crowd at the end of the hallway the doctor stood waiting to greet us.  “Hello” said Dr. Johnson.  “I’ll be performing a variety of test on you today, such as x-rays, c-scans and MRI’s”.  After all the tests were performed, Dr. Johnson returned to the room with a blank look across his face as he said, “Ms. Hinson, I hate to inform you and your son with this bad news, but we have located a tumor on John’s spine.”

“John, welcome to Johns Hopkins Hospital”, I’m Dr. Smith.  “I’ll be one of your doctors during your stay with us.”  Nervousness started to set in as more doctors and nurses filled the room.  From my hospital bed, I watched as my mom began to cry.  I remember saying to myself, “Mom, don’t cry, I’ll be alright.”

As the anesthesia wore off, a cold hand rubbing my head awakened me.  “Hello, my baby”, Mom said.  “How do you feel?”  In the hours that followed, Mom would share the news with me about the surgery.  The doctors advised that my chance of a successful surgery was 50/50; not only was this percentage given in reference to removing the tumor but also in me regaining the ability to walk again.  The news crushed me.  I could not imagine never playing basketball again.

After the surgery, I was awakened by the soft voice of my mom saying, “John-John, can you hear me?”  There I lay on my stomach crying from the pain caused by the surgery.  Hours turned into days and days into weeks.  One day, as I attempted to sit up, I was unable to turn over.  I asked my mom why I couldn’t move my legs.  To my surprise, her response was simple “Fight, Baby, Fight”.  Those words defined my will to walk.  I may not move as swiftly as before, nor run or walk without a severe limp, but I am able to play the game I have always loved, “Basketball”.