Guilty

            I had a bet with my friend DC. Twenty-five push-ups per count. “Main Man, there’s no way a jury is gonna convict that man,” he said. “Just watch,” I told him. And the verdict came down: “guilty!” Eleven times the word was read. DC – and half the commonwealth – was shocked. I wasn’t. I take no glee in watching former Governor McDonnell’s life come crashing down. I’ve been there. But, having been there, I knew the result beforehand. Allow me some brief observations since I’ve gone through it.

            First, Mr. McDonnell has not honestly come to terms with his actions. Had he, he wouldn’t have put on that ridiculous defense blaming everything on Lady Macbeth, excuse me, Mrs. McDonnell. For years I rationalized and compartmentalized my wrong doing. Help in the community, work my butt off for my employer and my church, tithe to charities – all that I used to balance against my criminal conduct. Then a funny thing happened in late 2007. The rationalizations stopped working.

            I quit sleeping; I started drinking more. And, every quiet moment in my car became a conversation with God. “I’m out of control,” I’d say. “I don’t want to lose my wife and kids; I don’t want to go to prison.” For almost a year I prayed for a divine miracle all the while thinking I’d be better off dead. Then the day came and the call to the company’s president’s office and the five page letter where I was told I was being placed on “paid suspension” while an investigation was conducted over financial “irregularities.” I never read the letter. I knew what I’d done and I knew it was wrong. Then and there I admitted it.

            Gov Bob hasn’t gotten there, even now. Photos of him driving a Ferrari or smirking with Rolex blinging on his wrist and he says, “Hey, it’s ok.” No, it’s not … and he knows it. His own staff begged him not to wear the watch; his security detail tried to get him to avoid the Ferrari. And, Bob McDonnell is a smart man; he’s a decent man. But let me let you in on a little “truth” – good, smart, decent men are capable of doing wrong things.

            His defense, blaming his wife, stupid! You man-up and you take it; you stand there alone and you take the punishment. You don’t throw the woman who gave you five children under the bus to save yourself. A side story: Detective Clouseau (the investigator on my case) couldn’t believe I’d just admit everything. So, he decides there had to be millions stashed away. He teams up with a forensic accountant and schedules a “big meeting” with me. The detective tries to play “good cop” while the accountant is “bad cop.” They tell me they want “the truth” or they’ll prosecute my wife, throw her and my kids on the street. They’ll go on a hunt at work and “anyone” who received anything from me will be fired and perhaps worse. I listen to this bullshit for a few minutes and then I snap. “Leave … my wife and kids out of this! Leave everyone else alone or I swear I will fight and drag this out for years!”

            I’m red in the face; my shackled hands have slammed the table; and, I don’t give a damn what happens to me. There’s a pause, silence, and then the company President whispers to the accountant. A ten minute break and “Alright Larry. We won’t bother anyone …” I make no plea deal; I save the house and assets for my family and ironically I find my equilibrium. No one was responsible for the mess I found myself in other than me. Governor McDonnell needs to find that same honesty inside.

            Then there was the report about the Governor’s reaction to the verdict. He sobbed; he fell apart. Sentencing day. I’m alone in a basement holding cell at the Goochland County Courthouse. My wife isn’t there; she’s ready to file for divorce as soon as certain “settlement” papers are signed that day with my employer. I’m hoping for “time-served.” My lawyer says, “Prepare for two and a half to four years.” I go into the courtroom in shackles on my feet, waist, and hands. I see my parents for the first time in eight months.

            The hearing begins. The Prosecutor, who’s already told my attorney he’s being pressured by my former employer for a stiff sentence asks for thirty years. “They’ll suspend almost all of it,” my attorney whispers to me. My turn and three friends, three men who never have wavered in their belief and support for me, testify about who I really am. Other letters are read including one from a few elderly African-American women who served with me on a local food pantry board. “Jesus loves Larry and would show him mercy. Do the same for this decent man.” I fight back tears. I feel like shit about myself. They feel otherwise.

            Then, I speak. I make no excuses. I apologize to my family, my employer, my friends, and the court. I hear two young women – my paralegals – sobbing as I speak. I finish and I wait and then the Judge sentences me: “fifteen years with the Department of Corrections.” I am given more time that most child pornographers, child molesters, and second degree murderers.

            “Anything else from the defense?” The judge looks down at my lawyer and me. “No your Honor,” I say and add, “thank you.” I’m escorted from the courtroom. I won’t cry; I won’t succumb. I am alone in that holding cell and I repeatedly ask God why He just won’t let me die. An elderly sheriff’s deputy drives me back to the Henrico Jail. He is the same deputy who has driven me all four times that I’ve left the jail to go to court.

            There are no words between us on this trip. I look straight ahead and have no thoughts. We arrive at the jail and he escorts me in and signs me back over to Henrico authorities. My life feels over.

            As he is unhooking my shackles he speaks to me.” Mr. B, you are a decent man. Never forget that. You did yourself proud today. You can get through this.” I have never forgotten that deputy or his words. I’ve often wondered why he chose to speak such encouragement to me. Perhaps my behavior that day really did matter; perhaps it was God sending a message.

            The other morning, one of the teachers I work for asked me if the Governor “will be able to carry himself through this as well as I have.” I was stunned for a second. See, I know how tough this has been. And, every day I feel like I let someone down. I remembered that night after sentencing reading Psalm 27:

            “Though an army may encamp against me,

            My heart shall not fear …”

            And I thought about Hemingway – “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

            Governor McDonnell is a convicted felon. And, he’s a disgraced lawyer. He will, in all likelihood, go to prison. He will lose his retirement, his wealth. His marriage is over. His reputation damaged. But if he listens to the quiet voice inside he will overcome this. We are better than these convictions. We are broken, but in those breaks comes rebuilding.

            If he asked me, I would tell him this – don’t fight to save your past; move forward to save your soul.

            Perhaps, just perhaps it is in these failures that God’s true path for us comes through. Good, decent men can overcome their wrongs.

            Grace Potter, what a gorgeous woman with a beautiful voice, sings “Low Road” with this,

            But it’s a low, low road

            You’ve gotta roll down

            Before you find your way, my friend

            And it’s a high, high hill

            You’ve gotta climb up

            Before you get to the top again.

            Someone needs to let Governor McDonnell hear that song.

More Trouble in Paradise

“No use of computers by inmates until further notice.” It was Wednesday morning and we had just arrived at work. Our boss, the school principal, was waiting for Rain Man (my name for my co-worker, Mike) and me:

            “They put a high-priority email out at 6:00 this morning,” she told us. “Inmates can’t use any computers. There’s an investigation going on.” That news didn’t surprise us. The evening before, the compound investigators came into 4A looking for laptops. Funny thing is, all the laptops are stored at the school. And, during college math class that night, we noticed our classroom was stripped bare: no smart board hookup, no laptop for the teacher, no laptop carts.

            Paranoia set in. “Hope it’s not “code blue” for me Omar,” I said, half joking but half serious – (“Code blue,” was the term I coined for my emergency contact person. If I’m in trouble as in headed to 7 building) I’ll tell him “code blue” and he’ll know to call my family and get pressure started to get me out. I returned to the building after class and did another familiar thing. I opened my Bible and read Psalm 27 (“The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear?”); settled in and waited, and then Wednesday and the announcement and it all made sense: there was more trouble in “paradise.”

            It’s been a crazy seven days except … except every day, every week here offers hearty doses of lunacy. It started with the factory raid last Thursday. All the computers confiscated; six guys locked up. On Monday, two more went down. By Tuesday night, all computers locked down. And then, the wait. Nothing. I mean, they ransacked the library – CTs (computer techs) from Richmond came up and found “dirt” on the library computers, but nothing else. And we all just sat around not doing our jobs.

            There’s a constant tension in here between utilizing technology and limiting inmate access. There are some in DOC who argue that inmates should have no computer access, not even for education (every adult ed classroom has 5 computers for software designed lessons such as phonics, and Microsoft Encarta for research). Others believe re-entry must include access to computers. You can’t avoid technology in the “real world,” they argue.

            Then, there is the simple fact that a prison can’t run without inmates working in jobs that require computers. Food service? There are two 45-cent inmate clerks who prepare orders and manage inventory. Factory? You have a time records clerk, a shipping and billing clerk, four CAD clerks (designing and configuring furniture), an inventory-control clerk, and a general clerk. Eight men doing all those jobs for a combined hourly rate of less than $6.00.

            At school, Rain Man and I operate all the data base results for college as well as GED and vocational programs. In addition, I teach “computer literacy” to re-entry inmates – an item included in re-entry programming.

            Imagine the increased cost associated with hiring “real” employees at “real” wages to do all the jobs needed inside the walls. Prisons run on inmate labor. The state cannot afford the full complement of staff to operate a thousand prisoner facility beyond merely housing and feeding. So, computers are – and will remain – a reality.

            There’s another tension inside. It’s the tension within a person who is living under constant surveillance and arbitrary rules. He decides, “the hell with it,” and hustles and scams and operates. And for a time, he feels free – free of the walls and all the crap that comes with prison. And the reaction from those in charge is equally crazy. Cast a wide net; lock up anyone, even on mere suspicion. Press and search and believe everyone is involved, everyone is guilty. It’s the age-old battle inside of security and control versus free will.

            You sit around and wait, wait for the shoe to drop, wait to be accused of improper use of state property. The rumors fly; always rumors: More guys going to the hole; porn, music, gambling tickets – they found it all.

            You sit back and remind yourself you and you alone are responsible for the bullshit that is your daily life. And you remind yourself how much you hate this place and the men who make your time even tougher, and the system that says it believes in “second chances” then beats you down. You remember this isn’t supposed to be fun; it’s supposed to suck, and hurt, and beat you down. This isn’t paradise. You do the only thing you can. You open to Psalm 27 and you read.

First Pitch

Yesterday was opening day and it wasn’t lost on me that the first pitch of the first game of the 2013 baseball season occurred the night before, on Easter Sunday. How appropriate. Easter is the day of hope and renewal. It’s the day we Christians consider “the big one.” It’s the day we know God has final say and nothing is bigger, or more permanent than Him. Simply put, Easter says “God is.” He’s life, love and hope.

            The funny thing is, I see baseball in much the same way. Baseball isn’t merely a game. It’s a metaphor for the ups and downs of life and ultimately for the miracle that is God and what took place on Easter. No matter how bleak and dismal things may appear, when I see that cut diamond and the fielders take their positions, when I watch the pitcher wind up and deliver that very first pitch, I know there is a reason to hope.

            Baseball. I have an aunt who turns sixty-nine this year; she’s eleven years younger than my dad. They are different as can be. Yet, there my dad and I were in 1968, around my ninth birthday, sitting in Shea Stadium with my aunt watching a young New York Mets pitcher named Tom Seaver face Willie Mays and the San Francisco Giants. Forty-four years later and I can still smell the grass; I can still see Seaver’s wind up. That night, I became a Mets fan. Not a season has gone by that I haven’t believed on opening day that my Mets would win the World Series.

            It was easy back then. A season later, 1969, the Mets shocked the sports world by winning the World Series over the vaunted Baltimore Orioles. Earlier that season, a famous Chicago politician scoffed at the Mets chances of even catching his beloved Cubs. “A man will walk on the moon before the Mets ever win a pennant.” July, 1969, I sat transfixed in my living room as astronaut Neil Armstrong uttered the immortal words, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” as he stepped onto the lunar surface. The mayor of Chicago was never better at predicting the future.

            The Mets won and a ten year old boy had his faith rewarded. There was no heartache, no lost season. There was only joy. I decided then and there that God was a Mets fan.

            Opening days came and went after the miracle of 1969. And there were more lost seasons, more disappointments, than successes. The Mets only made it to the post-season one more time until I was a married man a few years removed from law school. For most of those years – 1970 until the early 1980s, baseball was disappointment and heartache. Great players arrived too late in their careers to lead the Mets to victory, young players didn’t meet expectations; and I saw – as my heroes like Tom Seaver were traded – that baseball was a business, not a passion. Yet every opening day I believed this was the year.

            I vowed when we had children that they too would love baseball. Sure enough, shortly after our older son was born I came home with a Mets sleeper. A dozen pictures were taken of our little man in that orange and blue striped outfit with “Mr. Met” prominently displayed. Nine years later that “onside” was pulled out of a zip-lock bag and put on our second son.

            Dinners were filled with talk of baseball. It was the Mets, always the Mets, in our house. When our younger son was just over three he sat patiently on the couch as I watched the 2000 Mets get first one, then two, and finally three ninth inning outs to beat the Giants and advance in the playoffs. I lofted my young son over my shoulders and ran through the living room yelling “Mets win! Mets win!” His shrieking shouts of glee, “Daddy’s crazy,” rang through the house.

            Baseball mattered in our house. It was a bond between my sons and me. And, it helped define the seasons of our family. Every spring, every opening day, was met with anticipation and hope. Spring turned to summer and trips to games which had been scheduled back in the heady days of spring when we all believed this was “the year” were upon us. Those road trips: to DC or Baltimore, Atlanta or Philadelphia and yes even New York, became part of the family atlas.

            Summer trips to Seattle included a Mariners game. A business trip to Indianapolis included a triple A game. We’d head into Richmond – or Lynchburg – for minor league action. Visits to my folks in Raleigh would mean a Durham Bulls or Zebulon Mud Cats game. Baseball and summer were woven into our family’s DNA.

            Opening day. I began a family tradition with our first son. He was eight and in third grade. I sent a note into his teacher. “I will pick him up at noon;” simple, declarative words. But, it was opening day. We would get hot dogs, popcorn and chips, and set up stadium chairs in the den. We’d rise for the National anthem, baseball hats over our hearts, then watch the first pitch. It would begin, a new season, as we – just father and son – would watch game after game on opening day. Before dark, we’d have a catch.

            Every year, every opening day, ten years through our older son’s teens and then our younger son’s elementary and middle school days, there we were. Opening day was spring. Opening day was family. But opening day couldn’t survive an arrest. I was wrong. I realized, when I told my son baseball mirrors life. Nothing in baseball compares to divorce or imprisonment. Baseball isn’t life. Life is harsh, and unforgiving, and tear filled. Baseball is always about next spring, next opening day.

            Maybe that’s what draws me back each year. Just before Christmas, the reports start filtering in from the mid-winter baseball owners meeting. It’s hot stove league time and trades, contract extensions, and manager hirings run across ESPN’s sports ticker. It’s cold and drizzling outside, the days dreary and gray. But, the sports network breaks into its broadcast with news from Peter Gammons or Buster Olney on a huge signing. The report always begins with “All-star pitcher,” or “MVP runner up …” and I hold my breath and wait, hoping its news on my Mets.

            Even when it’s not (after all, the Mets owner, Fred Wilpon, with millions owed to the Bernie Madoff trustee, has begun the process of cutting salary and rebuilding the franchise with young ball players), I still listen intently calculating the relative merits of the move. I look at my calendar and smile. I know there are only sixty-one days until pitchers and catchers report, only sixty-one days until the Grapefruit and Cactus leagues rebud into existence.

            Five World Series have come and gone since my life unalterably changed that hot August day in 2008. Five opening days followed each winter. And each time, as each opening day approached, I began to feel more hopeful. That’s opening day, that’s the first pitch; I knew it: hope.

            I used to tell my sons baseball was a metaphor for life. I forgot so much of my rationale for that philosophy as I struggled with the heartbreak of separation and divorce, and the daily battles inside prison as I tried to negotiate my way around violence, ignorance, and filth. Then, spring would draw near. Days would lengthen, Lent would begin and somehow each day my thoughts would go back, back to earlier springs, earlier opening days, earlier first pitches. I hear the words from Psalm 27 about waiting, waiting for the Lord, or Micah telling anyone who would listen he would be lifted out of the darkness. In my mind’s eye I smelled it, the fresh grass from the infield.

            I wasn’t so far off when I told my boys that on the seventh day God created baseball. After all, it’s about hope, and miracles, perseverance and faith. And, it’s about renewal every spring.

            I saw the first pitch yesterday and I knew, this is the year.