The Washington Post reported on December 30th that the Virginia Supreme Court will soon be ruling on a defendant’s right to use an antiquated writ (writ of Coram Nobis) to reopen their conviction.
The issue has arisen out of Justice Stevens’ majority opinion in Padilla v. Kentucky (“God bless JP Stevens!”) holding that a criminal defendant’s attorney fails to provide effective assistance of counsel when failing to disclose deportation risks to foreign defendants offered plea bargains.
The writ in question is used by inmates to reopen their cases. I’ve filed some for guys. It’s almost impossible to get a criminal case in Virginia reopened. Under Virginia Supreme Court Rule 1.1 a judgment (including a conviction) is final and not subject to review unless timely appealed or challenged within 21 days of entry.
Commonwealth attorneys around the state are whining about defendants trying to get conviction “do overs”. I have a response to those self-righteous political hacks: FU ! (Sorry, that was prison Larry talking).
Mistakes happen daily in court. Prosecutors and police lie, witnesses make false identifications, defense attorneys screw up.
“Freedom is a gift from God.” – George W. Bush.
No person should ever be denied access to the courts when their freedom is at risk. Whether the conviction was entered 21 days or 21 years ago shouldn’t matter. Freedom is more important than a date certain.
Showing posts with label Virginia Supreme Court. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Virginia Supreme Court. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Don't Give Up the Fight
This week I did something in a legal pleading I never considered doing before. In my Petition to the Virginia Supreme Court challenging my sentence on Sixth Amendment grounds, I deviated from mere arguments on the application of the law. In my conclusion I quoted from both Bob Dylan and Bob Marley and urged the Judges on the court to address the unjust results that are so prevalent in multitudes of cases involving the incarcerated.
I normally shy away from political statements in the legal documents I draft. Perhaps it was because of my legal training or it may have been reading “jailhouse lawyer” documents that were heavy on flowery language about freedom but lacked basic knowledge of statutes and case holdings. In either case, I urge guys to focus on what the law says rather than go on some self-serving “it’s all about me” tirade that focuses on using big words without making a point.
I changed my rule with my own pleading. I did so after two guys spoke to me about my incarceration. The first guy is one of my GED students. He’s 22 and an extremely bright kid. His last grade completed: 8th. He was in and out of alternative school and juvenile detention. Yet, placement testing indicates he reads at a college level. He always has a book with him, philosophy mostly. This week we were discussing Immanuel Kant.
He told me “you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met”. I told him, if I was so smart, I wouldn’t have done what I did and risk my family and my freedom!
But then he said this: “You’re smart enough to tell these people prison isn’t the answer.”
The second man who spoke to me was one of the law librarians. “Ty” has been locked up since the mid-eighties for a series of store robberies to support a drug habit. In his early sixties now, he is ineligible for parole because of his multiple offenses. He has six more years before he’s released. Ty is one of the men I hold in deep regard. He is a kind, wise gentleman who has seen and overcome a great deal of brutality in the prison system. I trust his opinion and value his friendship.
He was watching me craft my arguments for the court when he told me that “so many of the men in here fighting their own cases take their cues from you. They hear you talk about changing the system, speaking out, not losing hope. They’re starting to believe things will get better”.
There is a Bob Marley song called “Get Up Stand Up”. Over and over, with the reggae beat moving on, Marley sings “don’t give up the fight.” I listened intently to that song the other evening as I put the finishing touches on my brief.
Supreme Court Justice Steven Breyer in a television interview with Fox News said the following:
“Judges are not politicians. You can’t hold your finger up to the direction of the political wind to judge with justice.”
I have made that point to the Virginia Supreme Court. Whatever politicians may say, the simple fact is the current level of incarceration and the length of sentences handed down is neither just nor moral.
In all likelihood, the court will reject my Petition. That’s alright. I will fight on; next step will be the United States District Court. Too much hinges on my situation: my own personal freedom and the hopes of a great many men in here that the system isn’t completed corrupt.
In an article recently in Sport Illustrated, Saints quarterback Drew Brees was profiled as “Sports Person of the Year”. He and his wife have worked tirelessly for New Orleans recovery from Hurricane Katrina.
His road to success wasn’t easy. He faced numerous obstacles and disappointments. He was counted out many times. But, he never gave up. He always had faith.
At the end of the day, faith is a good enough reason to keep fighting for what’s right.
I normally shy away from political statements in the legal documents I draft. Perhaps it was because of my legal training or it may have been reading “jailhouse lawyer” documents that were heavy on flowery language about freedom but lacked basic knowledge of statutes and case holdings. In either case, I urge guys to focus on what the law says rather than go on some self-serving “it’s all about me” tirade that focuses on using big words without making a point.
I changed my rule with my own pleading. I did so after two guys spoke to me about my incarceration. The first guy is one of my GED students. He’s 22 and an extremely bright kid. His last grade completed: 8th. He was in and out of alternative school and juvenile detention. Yet, placement testing indicates he reads at a college level. He always has a book with him, philosophy mostly. This week we were discussing Immanuel Kant.
He told me “you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met”. I told him, if I was so smart, I wouldn’t have done what I did and risk my family and my freedom!
But then he said this: “You’re smart enough to tell these people prison isn’t the answer.”
The second man who spoke to me was one of the law librarians. “Ty” has been locked up since the mid-eighties for a series of store robberies to support a drug habit. In his early sixties now, he is ineligible for parole because of his multiple offenses. He has six more years before he’s released. Ty is one of the men I hold in deep regard. He is a kind, wise gentleman who has seen and overcome a great deal of brutality in the prison system. I trust his opinion and value his friendship.
He was watching me craft my arguments for the court when he told me that “so many of the men in here fighting their own cases take their cues from you. They hear you talk about changing the system, speaking out, not losing hope. They’re starting to believe things will get better”.
There is a Bob Marley song called “Get Up Stand Up”. Over and over, with the reggae beat moving on, Marley sings “don’t give up the fight.” I listened intently to that song the other evening as I put the finishing touches on my brief.
Supreme Court Justice Steven Breyer in a television interview with Fox News said the following:
“Judges are not politicians. You can’t hold your finger up to the direction of the political wind to judge with justice.”
I have made that point to the Virginia Supreme Court. Whatever politicians may say, the simple fact is the current level of incarceration and the length of sentences handed down is neither just nor moral.
In all likelihood, the court will reject my Petition. That’s alright. I will fight on; next step will be the United States District Court. Too much hinges on my situation: my own personal freedom and the hopes of a great many men in here that the system isn’t completed corrupt.
In an article recently in Sport Illustrated, Saints quarterback Drew Brees was profiled as “Sports Person of the Year”. He and his wife have worked tirelessly for New Orleans recovery from Hurricane Katrina.
His road to success wasn’t easy. He faced numerous obstacles and disappointments. He was counted out many times. But, he never gave up. He always had faith.
At the end of the day, faith is a good enough reason to keep fighting for what’s right.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Shelter from the Storm
I’ve had another lousy week. That’s not completely accurate. I had another terrible week through Friday. The constant bombardment of bad news received almost every day has been wearing me down.
In the last few weeks I discovered my attorney screwed up my 401(k) surrender (I used my 401(k) to make partial restitution). I had to hire an accountant to handle my 2009 income tax returns. He arranged a filing extension through October 15th. I learned about ten days ago I owe an additional $7,000 in Federal and State taxes. Let’s see, at 45 cents an hour . . . .
I had to file my appeal to the Virginia Supreme Court after the trial judge dismissed my initial Habeas petition. I had my initial “annual review” with my counselor. Just seeing my release date so many years in the future brought me down.
I read daily about embezzlement cases where the sentence is a mere fraction of mine. The most recent, a Federal Judge in Harrisonburg, Virginia sentenced a corporate manager who stole just under $1 million to 30 months in prison. I took $2.1 million but paid more than $500,000 in restitution the day I was sentenced, yet still received over five times that other man’s sentence.
Then there’s my ex and kids. I sent her a card telling her how sorry I was and how much I missed her and our sons. Did I expect a response? No. But then, I guess I secretly did hope she’d write back. As I have for the last year, I again heard nothing.
I couldn’t shake the thought that everything I had was lost and there was no way out. I’d been busting my butt trying to help guys in here to the point that I felt like a trauma room surgeon at the scene of a natural disaster. Hundreds of people are lined up and I’m alone, with no medication, no bandages, nothing but a rusty, dull saw. I go to chow and guys stop me. “Heh lawyer Larry (my prison tag) can you look at my papers?” or “Heh double L, can they really take my good time?” “Kites (notes)” are sent to me daily. Guys stop me on the boulevard asking for “just two minutes of time.” I was in a place for substantially longer than I deserved. I had been abandoned and betrayed by people I thought loved me. I had years left to do. Guys were pulling me in a hundred directions.
I had done everything I could to make this right. I protected my family. I stood up, faced the court and admitted everything, no excuses, no buts. And everything I did right was used against me.
The teachers I work for, the old heads I’m close to, Big S, all said the same thing: “you matter to people here and you did the right thing. You’re gonna get through this.” I had a hard time believing that.
As I’ve said before, I love Bob Dylan music. One of my favorites from Blood on the Tracks (an album Dylan wrote to deal with a painful divorce) has always been “shelter from the storm”. I always equated that song with my wife.
“I came in from the wilderness
A creature void of form
Come in she said
I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”
Over and over I would think of that song and others and feel down. I was close to giving up, ready to drop my case and just be like so many other locked up guys and just move from day to day not giving a damn about anyone or anything.
And just when you think no one’s listening, something happens to convince you otherwise. A guy in my building came by Friday afternoon with a card from his mom. This young black kid – late twenties – is in here on a serious crime. He’s been locked up nine years already and has seven more to go. I agreed to help him after sitting with him and talking about what happened. He let me read his transcript and see all the evidence. It wasn’t pretty, but he was honest and remorseful. The card his mom sent had one paragraph in it he wanted me to see. It said the following:
“Our prayer circle is praying for your lawyer fried. He’s the first man we’ve felt understood what this means. May God help and bless him.”
He told me his mom “knew in her heart” something positive would happen. “She believes God put you here for a reason” he told me.
I was stunned. My wife and kids gave up on me. Friends turned away. Yet here was this woman I didn’t know who felt moved to believe in me. I went out and ran and thought over and over what does it mean? I came in and read my afternoon Bible verse. Jeremiah 29, verses 4 through 14. God, through Jeremiah spoke to his captive people in Babylon. “For I know the plans I have for you . . ..” The whole passage is about God reminding his people that even though they’re in captivity He has not forgotten them. He will restore them. Let your life go on with faith. He will deliver you.
That night I made pizzas with Jerry Lee, Black and Big S. They know what I’d been going through. I asked them what they thought about my situation, the letter, and Jeremiah. Jerry Lee thought a moment then told me that sometimes we forget just how courageous, just how faithful we really are in the midst of difficulties. “Give yourself a break. You’re a tough, righteous man. You have positive energy. Guys see it.”
I still don’t know why all this is happening to me. But, I do believe that I matter, maybe not to the woman and sons I love, or the supposed friends I lost. I matter to a large group of people that society seems to have given up on. And, I matter to my God. One way or the other I’m going to get through this.
I’m still finding shelter from the storm. It’s just coming from a more reliable source.
In the last few weeks I discovered my attorney screwed up my 401(k) surrender (I used my 401(k) to make partial restitution). I had to hire an accountant to handle my 2009 income tax returns. He arranged a filing extension through October 15th. I learned about ten days ago I owe an additional $7,000 in Federal and State taxes. Let’s see, at 45 cents an hour . . . .
I had to file my appeal to the Virginia Supreme Court after the trial judge dismissed my initial Habeas petition. I had my initial “annual review” with my counselor. Just seeing my release date so many years in the future brought me down.
I read daily about embezzlement cases where the sentence is a mere fraction of mine. The most recent, a Federal Judge in Harrisonburg, Virginia sentenced a corporate manager who stole just under $1 million to 30 months in prison. I took $2.1 million but paid more than $500,000 in restitution the day I was sentenced, yet still received over five times that other man’s sentence.
Then there’s my ex and kids. I sent her a card telling her how sorry I was and how much I missed her and our sons. Did I expect a response? No. But then, I guess I secretly did hope she’d write back. As I have for the last year, I again heard nothing.
I couldn’t shake the thought that everything I had was lost and there was no way out. I’d been busting my butt trying to help guys in here to the point that I felt like a trauma room surgeon at the scene of a natural disaster. Hundreds of people are lined up and I’m alone, with no medication, no bandages, nothing but a rusty, dull saw. I go to chow and guys stop me. “Heh lawyer Larry (my prison tag) can you look at my papers?” or “Heh double L, can they really take my good time?” “Kites (notes)” are sent to me daily. Guys stop me on the boulevard asking for “just two minutes of time.” I was in a place for substantially longer than I deserved. I had been abandoned and betrayed by people I thought loved me. I had years left to do. Guys were pulling me in a hundred directions.
I had done everything I could to make this right. I protected my family. I stood up, faced the court and admitted everything, no excuses, no buts. And everything I did right was used against me.
The teachers I work for, the old heads I’m close to, Big S, all said the same thing: “you matter to people here and you did the right thing. You’re gonna get through this.” I had a hard time believing that.
As I’ve said before, I love Bob Dylan music. One of my favorites from Blood on the Tracks (an album Dylan wrote to deal with a painful divorce) has always been “shelter from the storm”. I always equated that song with my wife.
“I came in from the wilderness
A creature void of form
Come in she said
I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”
Over and over I would think of that song and others and feel down. I was close to giving up, ready to drop my case and just be like so many other locked up guys and just move from day to day not giving a damn about anyone or anything.
And just when you think no one’s listening, something happens to convince you otherwise. A guy in my building came by Friday afternoon with a card from his mom. This young black kid – late twenties – is in here on a serious crime. He’s been locked up nine years already and has seven more to go. I agreed to help him after sitting with him and talking about what happened. He let me read his transcript and see all the evidence. It wasn’t pretty, but he was honest and remorseful. The card his mom sent had one paragraph in it he wanted me to see. It said the following:
“Our prayer circle is praying for your lawyer fried. He’s the first man we’ve felt understood what this means. May God help and bless him.”
He told me his mom “knew in her heart” something positive would happen. “She believes God put you here for a reason” he told me.
I was stunned. My wife and kids gave up on me. Friends turned away. Yet here was this woman I didn’t know who felt moved to believe in me. I went out and ran and thought over and over what does it mean? I came in and read my afternoon Bible verse. Jeremiah 29, verses 4 through 14. God, through Jeremiah spoke to his captive people in Babylon. “For I know the plans I have for you . . ..” The whole passage is about God reminding his people that even though they’re in captivity He has not forgotten them. He will restore them. Let your life go on with faith. He will deliver you.
That night I made pizzas with Jerry Lee, Black and Big S. They know what I’d been going through. I asked them what they thought about my situation, the letter, and Jeremiah. Jerry Lee thought a moment then told me that sometimes we forget just how courageous, just how faithful we really are in the midst of difficulties. “Give yourself a break. You’re a tough, righteous man. You have positive energy. Guys see it.”
I still don’t know why all this is happening to me. But, I do believe that I matter, maybe not to the woman and sons I love, or the supposed friends I lost. I matter to a large group of people that society seems to have given up on. And, I matter to my God. One way or the other I’m going to get through this.
I’m still finding shelter from the storm. It’s just coming from a more reliable source.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Platypus, Job and Me
I’ve had another lousy week, lousy enough that it reminded me that God has a warped sense of humor. There’s an old joke about God proving He was a funny, quirky guy by creating the platypus, a mammal that lays eggs, carries its young in a pouch, has a duck bill and webbed feet. It is a complete genetic mish mash.
Tuesday evening I received “legal mail”. Legal mail is the term prisons use to describe any letter, any envelope you receive from an attorney, court, or governmental agency. All “regular” mail is examined prior to delivery to inmates. Envelopes are opened and shaken out (to check for contraband being mailed in – drugs, cash, nude photos). Inmates on the prison “watch list” (known gang members) actually have their mail read before delivery.
Legal mail is different. It has to be opened in front of the inmate. It cannot be read, only shaken out for contraband. Inmates must sign a log book acknowledging receipt of the legal mail.
Tuesday night I was sitting in my cut, writing when the CO hands me an envelope. I looked at it and realized it was from the Court Clerk. I tore open the envelope and find an executed copy of the Court’s order dismissing my Habeas Corpus Petition.
I knew this was coming. I knew I’d lose at the state court level. It’s an exercise in futility. You file with the same judge who convicted and sentenced you and you tell him “judge you screwed up. You didn’t realize my attorney violated my 6th Amendment right to effective assistance of counsel”.
In my case, I went even further. In response to the Attorney General’s motion to dismiss, I challenged the court to face itself and admit the sentence imposed was wrong. I called the judge every non-profane name in the books, daring him to revisit my case.
He held the AG’s proposed order 90 days. Frankly, I started thinking “maybe I’m right. Maybe justice will be done”. No such luck. He did as I expected.
I already had my Notice of Appeal drafted. I already had my pleadings in the works to proceed to the Virginia Supreme Court, and then Federal Court (you have to exhaust your state remedies first before getting in to Federal Court).
But, reading the order – an order drafted by the AG – I started to think “why bother appealing. I’m never getting out of here”. In the last month, I’ve been able to get two guys their hab’s granted and one guy’s pardon request has now moved to the parole board for final processing. My own case, nothing.
I knew then what the platypus feels like going through life. I knew I was the punch line of God’s joke. “Did you hear the one about the lawyer who got everyone he met a new chance in court, except himself?”
Fortunately, Big S and the “Old Heads” (the three convicted murderers I’m tight with) made me realize I had to keep fighting. “You can’t give up. Do you know how many guys are optimistic now because you’re optimistic? You got to fight these bastards.”
Which got me thinking about Job. A close friend in here gave me some advice that I’m trying to take to heart. Funny thing is, it’s the same advice two therapists gave me. Simply put, they all said I needed to quit being so hard on myself and remain patient and hopeful.
I wrote my ex this week. First time in a year. I wrote her because it was 30 years to the day that I found the courage to tell her “I love you” for the first time. In the letter I told her I was sorry the way things ended, sorry she hadn’t been happy and didn’t love me, sorry for letting her down. I also told her I’d always love her.
My friend said “you have nothing. You gave everything to her; you went against your own self-interest with your case to protect your wife and kids. You acted more noble and compassionately than anyone I know. Isn’t it possible her behaviors wrong? Isn’t it possible she’s just about her own selfish interests?”
And then this. “You can’t change people and you’re not responsible for everyone’s actions. Yeah, you screwed up. Good people do that. You’re a good guy and it’s not all your fault.”
I took what he said to heart. I’ve been dealt a lousy hand, no doubt. But, I’ve realized along this path I’m a pretty decent guy. I don’t know why God’s letting all this happen to me. But, I know this; I’m going to get through it.
One of the toughest lessons I’ve had to learn in here is knowing what I can control. I can’t make my ex love me, can’t make her admit she was wrong to divorce me. I’m not responsible for our marriage failing.
I can’t make guys in here decide they need to focus their lives and change. So many guys do their bids, run their hustles in here, get out, screw up again, and come right back. I can’t make them “learn” from their experiences.
So, here’s the “Job” part: I’m not sure why I had to lose everything. In my mind, it just isn’t fair. I’m not sure why I keep getting smacked in the face on my own case while I find it so easy to help other guys get another chance. But, I’ve learned I’m more resilient, kind and loving than I ever thought. I am a good guy, not perfect, but a guy who deserves better than he’s getting.
This isn’t the way I’d play this out if I was “in charge”. But, I’m not. And neither is DOC, or my ex, or the Governor. Ultimately, God’s in charge and I have confidence He’ll see me through this.
There’s a wonderful message about justice in David’s 9th Psalm. It says, in part:
“The Lord also will be a stronghold for the oppressed,
A stronghold in times of trouble;
And those who know Your name will put their trust in You,
For You, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek You.”
I’ve had a couple of lousy weeks. I may have more. But, I finally realized, no matter what others may think, the platypus is happy being a platypus. My life may suck right now, but I’m OK with that. At least I know who’s in control.
Tuesday evening I received “legal mail”. Legal mail is the term prisons use to describe any letter, any envelope you receive from an attorney, court, or governmental agency. All “regular” mail is examined prior to delivery to inmates. Envelopes are opened and shaken out (to check for contraband being mailed in – drugs, cash, nude photos). Inmates on the prison “watch list” (known gang members) actually have their mail read before delivery.
Legal mail is different. It has to be opened in front of the inmate. It cannot be read, only shaken out for contraband. Inmates must sign a log book acknowledging receipt of the legal mail.
Tuesday night I was sitting in my cut, writing when the CO hands me an envelope. I looked at it and realized it was from the Court Clerk. I tore open the envelope and find an executed copy of the Court’s order dismissing my Habeas Corpus Petition.
I knew this was coming. I knew I’d lose at the state court level. It’s an exercise in futility. You file with the same judge who convicted and sentenced you and you tell him “judge you screwed up. You didn’t realize my attorney violated my 6th Amendment right to effective assistance of counsel”.
In my case, I went even further. In response to the Attorney General’s motion to dismiss, I challenged the court to face itself and admit the sentence imposed was wrong. I called the judge every non-profane name in the books, daring him to revisit my case.
He held the AG’s proposed order 90 days. Frankly, I started thinking “maybe I’m right. Maybe justice will be done”. No such luck. He did as I expected.
I already had my Notice of Appeal drafted. I already had my pleadings in the works to proceed to the Virginia Supreme Court, and then Federal Court (you have to exhaust your state remedies first before getting in to Federal Court).
But, reading the order – an order drafted by the AG – I started to think “why bother appealing. I’m never getting out of here”. In the last month, I’ve been able to get two guys their hab’s granted and one guy’s pardon request has now moved to the parole board for final processing. My own case, nothing.
I knew then what the platypus feels like going through life. I knew I was the punch line of God’s joke. “Did you hear the one about the lawyer who got everyone he met a new chance in court, except himself?”
Fortunately, Big S and the “Old Heads” (the three convicted murderers I’m tight with) made me realize I had to keep fighting. “You can’t give up. Do you know how many guys are optimistic now because you’re optimistic? You got to fight these bastards.”
Which got me thinking about Job. A close friend in here gave me some advice that I’m trying to take to heart. Funny thing is, it’s the same advice two therapists gave me. Simply put, they all said I needed to quit being so hard on myself and remain patient and hopeful.
I wrote my ex this week. First time in a year. I wrote her because it was 30 years to the day that I found the courage to tell her “I love you” for the first time. In the letter I told her I was sorry the way things ended, sorry she hadn’t been happy and didn’t love me, sorry for letting her down. I also told her I’d always love her.
My friend said “you have nothing. You gave everything to her; you went against your own self-interest with your case to protect your wife and kids. You acted more noble and compassionately than anyone I know. Isn’t it possible her behaviors wrong? Isn’t it possible she’s just about her own selfish interests?”
And then this. “You can’t change people and you’re not responsible for everyone’s actions. Yeah, you screwed up. Good people do that. You’re a good guy and it’s not all your fault.”
I took what he said to heart. I’ve been dealt a lousy hand, no doubt. But, I’ve realized along this path I’m a pretty decent guy. I don’t know why God’s letting all this happen to me. But, I know this; I’m going to get through it.
One of the toughest lessons I’ve had to learn in here is knowing what I can control. I can’t make my ex love me, can’t make her admit she was wrong to divorce me. I’m not responsible for our marriage failing.
I can’t make guys in here decide they need to focus their lives and change. So many guys do their bids, run their hustles in here, get out, screw up again, and come right back. I can’t make them “learn” from their experiences.
So, here’s the “Job” part: I’m not sure why I had to lose everything. In my mind, it just isn’t fair. I’m not sure why I keep getting smacked in the face on my own case while I find it so easy to help other guys get another chance. But, I’ve learned I’m more resilient, kind and loving than I ever thought. I am a good guy, not perfect, but a guy who deserves better than he’s getting.
This isn’t the way I’d play this out if I was “in charge”. But, I’m not. And neither is DOC, or my ex, or the Governor. Ultimately, God’s in charge and I have confidence He’ll see me through this.
There’s a wonderful message about justice in David’s 9th Psalm. It says, in part:
“The Lord also will be a stronghold for the oppressed,
A stronghold in times of trouble;
And those who know Your name will put their trust in You,
For You, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek You.”
I’ve had a couple of lousy weeks. I may have more. But, I finally realized, no matter what others may think, the platypus is happy being a platypus. My life may suck right now, but I’m OK with that. At least I know who’s in control.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Moore Stories
There’s a guy in here named Moore. Moore is a mid-fifties black guy who’s been in and out of the system a number of times. He’s also a prime time “whaler”. Whaler is prison jargon for liar, a guy who makes up stories that are so far-fetched they can’t possibly be true.
In Moore’s case he whales about his athletic prowess. One day he tells everyone he was in an NBA training camp. The next, he was a triple A infielder for the Yankees. It’s gotten so bad when he walks by I’ll stop and say “yeah, I invented ramen noodles”, or “yeah, I invented writing”. Or, my personal favorite, “I’m really a 30 year old black rapper who’s married to Halle Berry. I’m just here to research a movie”.
The thing about prison is, you can be whoever you want to be. The more desperate and pathologic the inmate, the more outrageous the story. There’s the guy I tutor with rotten teeth, early 40’s, reading at a third grade level who swears up and down he drove a 2006 Bentley.
Cars, women, jewelry, it all becomes the subject of far-fetched tales. But, as I’ve written before, prison merely mirrors “the street”. This past week the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals held as unconstitutional a federal law making it a felony to claim you were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. The defendant, Xavier Alvarez, claimed to not only be a medal recipient, but also a retired NHL hockey player married to a Mexican movie star.
The court wasn’t condoning lying, but was saying lying – without something else like defrauding someone of money – isn’t a crime. I think about the concept of lying a great deal. In one particularly venomous letter, my then wife stated “you’re a liar and a thief”. I wrote back and told her “I only lied about stealing”.
Shortly after meeting my wife in college I took a look at her application to the school. I worked for the associate dean of students and back then privacy wasn’t as big a deal as it is today. Besides the amazing photo on the application, under “extra-curricular activities” she had written “high school cheerleader”. I knew it had to be true. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I didn’t tell her I saw her app, I just asked her one night about cheerleading. She told me she wasn’t ever a cheerleader. I never said anything else to her about her embellishment, but I always wondered why. She didn’t have to do it. She was beautiful, and brilliant, and pleasant.
Everyone lies. We do it everyday, multiple times. We lie about big issues (“yeah the money is legitimate”) and we lie about small issues (“you look great”). My ex insisted in one letter “I never lied to you, except telling you sometimes it was good when it was so so”. Less than a paragraph later she wrote “I haven’t loved you for a long time”. Funny, the night before my arrest she told me “I love you”.
I think we lie because in the short term it’s easier. Why hurt someone’s feelings with the truth? Why unload your problems on those around you? Lying is a lot less risky. You can be who you want, not who you are.
But lying comes at a price. You can’t keep up with all the lies. Eventually, the truth comes out and there are always consequences.
I often wonder what my wife’s feelings would have been if I was more assertive to what I needed in our relationship. Would she have been receptive to change? I don’t know; but, I do know the price I paid was way too severe. I lost her. And, ironically, I lied so I wouldn’t!
Back to prison. I teach beginning and advanced writers programs for the school. There’s a teacher for an advisor, but she doesn’t attend class. She just helps me prep materials and topics.
I teach by telling stories. A lot of them are about me. The guys in the class sit spellbound as I describe my ineptitude in building a garbage can holder, or a trial I conducted, or my arrest. My stories are all true. I go out of my way to be painfully honest about successes and foibles, emotions and actions. They gaze on in amazement then say “no one ever tells us the truth about their life”. But, I’ve discovered its OK to be me, like Popeye the sailor, I now hold my head up content that “I yam what I yam”.
Yesterday afternoon “Hank” asked to walk the track with me. He was down. The Virginia Supreme Court dismissed a petition he filed. It was tossed on an urban legend that exists in prison that states an inmate can “de-incorporate” (the government gives you a social security number; you become a corporation. Return the number and they have to release you). From the moment I arrived in prison I told guys “this is a crock. It doesn’t exist. It won’t work.” I upset a good number of guys with my honesty. But, I was proven correct.
Hank told me he had paid an inmate $300 to handle the dismissed petition. “I feel hopeless, like God’s give up on me.” As we walked and I listened I felt the pain in his voice. He’s back here on a probation violation. He previously did three years for grand larceny, got hooked on heroin, forged/altered a check an the judge gave him all his suspended time: 12 year to do. Harsh sentence? No doubt. Decent guy who got in trouble because of a drug addiction? Absolutely. Being helped in prison? No.
After he finished, I told him my story: a perfect life; deeply in love with a beautiful woman; two amazing sons; friends; great job and education. I told him how it was all gone.
He stopped walking and stared at me. “How do you go on?” he asked. I told him the most honest thing I knew; that I trust, I hope, I know this will all work out for the best. Everyday I get up believing that people can endure anything with hope and that’s the truth.
In honor of Moore, let me just say “I invented hope and truth”.
In Moore’s case he whales about his athletic prowess. One day he tells everyone he was in an NBA training camp. The next, he was a triple A infielder for the Yankees. It’s gotten so bad when he walks by I’ll stop and say “yeah, I invented ramen noodles”, or “yeah, I invented writing”. Or, my personal favorite, “I’m really a 30 year old black rapper who’s married to Halle Berry. I’m just here to research a movie”.
The thing about prison is, you can be whoever you want to be. The more desperate and pathologic the inmate, the more outrageous the story. There’s the guy I tutor with rotten teeth, early 40’s, reading at a third grade level who swears up and down he drove a 2006 Bentley.
Cars, women, jewelry, it all becomes the subject of far-fetched tales. But, as I’ve written before, prison merely mirrors “the street”. This past week the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals held as unconstitutional a federal law making it a felony to claim you were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. The defendant, Xavier Alvarez, claimed to not only be a medal recipient, but also a retired NHL hockey player married to a Mexican movie star.
The court wasn’t condoning lying, but was saying lying – without something else like defrauding someone of money – isn’t a crime. I think about the concept of lying a great deal. In one particularly venomous letter, my then wife stated “you’re a liar and a thief”. I wrote back and told her “I only lied about stealing”.
Shortly after meeting my wife in college I took a look at her application to the school. I worked for the associate dean of students and back then privacy wasn’t as big a deal as it is today. Besides the amazing photo on the application, under “extra-curricular activities” she had written “high school cheerleader”. I knew it had to be true. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I didn’t tell her I saw her app, I just asked her one night about cheerleading. She told me she wasn’t ever a cheerleader. I never said anything else to her about her embellishment, but I always wondered why. She didn’t have to do it. She was beautiful, and brilliant, and pleasant.
Everyone lies. We do it everyday, multiple times. We lie about big issues (“yeah the money is legitimate”) and we lie about small issues (“you look great”). My ex insisted in one letter “I never lied to you, except telling you sometimes it was good when it was so so”. Less than a paragraph later she wrote “I haven’t loved you for a long time”. Funny, the night before my arrest she told me “I love you”.
I think we lie because in the short term it’s easier. Why hurt someone’s feelings with the truth? Why unload your problems on those around you? Lying is a lot less risky. You can be who you want, not who you are.
But lying comes at a price. You can’t keep up with all the lies. Eventually, the truth comes out and there are always consequences.
I often wonder what my wife’s feelings would have been if I was more assertive to what I needed in our relationship. Would she have been receptive to change? I don’t know; but, I do know the price I paid was way too severe. I lost her. And, ironically, I lied so I wouldn’t!
Back to prison. I teach beginning and advanced writers programs for the school. There’s a teacher for an advisor, but she doesn’t attend class. She just helps me prep materials and topics.
I teach by telling stories. A lot of them are about me. The guys in the class sit spellbound as I describe my ineptitude in building a garbage can holder, or a trial I conducted, or my arrest. My stories are all true. I go out of my way to be painfully honest about successes and foibles, emotions and actions. They gaze on in amazement then say “no one ever tells us the truth about their life”. But, I’ve discovered its OK to be me, like Popeye the sailor, I now hold my head up content that “I yam what I yam”.
Yesterday afternoon “Hank” asked to walk the track with me. He was down. The Virginia Supreme Court dismissed a petition he filed. It was tossed on an urban legend that exists in prison that states an inmate can “de-incorporate” (the government gives you a social security number; you become a corporation. Return the number and they have to release you). From the moment I arrived in prison I told guys “this is a crock. It doesn’t exist. It won’t work.” I upset a good number of guys with my honesty. But, I was proven correct.
Hank told me he had paid an inmate $300 to handle the dismissed petition. “I feel hopeless, like God’s give up on me.” As we walked and I listened I felt the pain in his voice. He’s back here on a probation violation. He previously did three years for grand larceny, got hooked on heroin, forged/altered a check an the judge gave him all his suspended time: 12 year to do. Harsh sentence? No doubt. Decent guy who got in trouble because of a drug addiction? Absolutely. Being helped in prison? No.
After he finished, I told him my story: a perfect life; deeply in love with a beautiful woman; two amazing sons; friends; great job and education. I told him how it was all gone.
He stopped walking and stared at me. “How do you go on?” he asked. I told him the most honest thing I knew; that I trust, I hope, I know this will all work out for the best. Everyday I get up believing that people can endure anything with hope and that’s the truth.
In honor of Moore, let me just say “I invented hope and truth”.
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