Ernie's Lesson

“Ernie’s Lesson”

            Almost five years ago I experienced a profound realization. I had – during that difficult first year at the jail with my case taking bad turn after bad turn – passed through my time physically unscathed. There had been incidents, threats, dangers – some not as real as others – but overall I had managed to cope and, if it’s possible to be a success in jail. And my perceptions, my opinions about life in “that” world – the world behind bars – were forged and strengthened by what I saw each day. All of those attitudes were shaken when I was transferred into DOC custody and taken to receiving.

            Every day at receiving became a battle for my soul. Every thought I had developed at the jail about living behind bars came crashing down. In many ways, I was back where I began the August before. Each morning when I woke in that filthy, squalid hellhole my first thoughts always went to the third tier, sixty feet above the concrete floor; I knew my life hung between my cell door and ten concrete steps up to the third tier. And every morning, in the darkness of cell B14 I began with the same thought: “God, I want this to end. I can’t do this anymore. Give me strength.”

            Still, I was in no danger. From the moment I arrived in property and processing on the first floor of the receiving unit, my past – my legal training – was known. Word spread quickly from processing officer to the cadres: inmate workers. Within fifteen minutes word reached the tiers in C3 and C4 (the dilapidated cell blocks used by receiving in the Powhatan prison) that a “real lawyer” had arrived. I was “processed,” then met with the investigator (“Do you have any clients locked up here?”) before grabbing my state-issued clothing and bag full of personal belonging and taking the meandering stroll through multiple locked doors up three set of stairs until I reached C3. It was there I first met Lil P, a 24-year-old barely literate OG – gang leader – from Norfolk who was starting a 76-year bid for the murder of two competing gang members. Lil P was my cellie and he was my first face to face with a total lack of empathy, a total sociopathic personality. His eyes, quite remarkably, were dead – there was no emotion, no feeling – like a shark at feeding.

            Within an hour of moving in, Lil P had introduced me to his boss, the senior ranked man in their gang who was responsible for the receiving unit. “I have a few associates who could use some guidance on their cases,” he said. How could I say no? Truth was, I’d been doing a lot of legal work at the jail – no charge. It helped the time pass and kept my mind focused. So, I said, “sure. Let me talk to whomever needs some advice; I’ll get their files and see what I come up with.”

            The remainder of that day the house men (guys who clean and bring ice and hot water to the cell) on duty would stop by with files. By evening chow I had a dozen files – all gang members, many only 17 or 18 years old, and all facing decades of time for violent crimes. I also received notebooks and pens – I needed office supplies – with a note telling me if I needed anything else just tell Lil P and word would get to the big boss.

            The next morning “Tommy” (that’s how the senior gang member introduced himself) came by my table at breakfast. My three meal companions – three mid-thirties white guys I’d met the night before were politely encouraged to move to another table. Tommy had with him another young black man, LJ. LJ, it turned out, was senior man in Tommy’s arch rival gang. While turf and hustles were reasons to go to war, both members understood the value of an educated legal mind. I realized I was like Switzerland – nonaffiliated, respected, and protected by all players. “Will you help LJ’s guys out as well?” Sure. And just like the prior day, throughout that day files were delivered.

            I soon fell into a regular daily pattern: up before 5:00 am count for prayers and reading, trying to convince myself I could survive prison; a morning of legal work broken up with 15 minutes at breakfast and 45 minutes of outdoor rec. 15 minutes for lunch, then three hours of legal work and personal writing. Dinner, shift change, then 8:00 (or 8:45 depending on the tier schedule) I’d get out of the cell for 45 minutes of “indoor rec” – shower and TV. After being locked back in at night the houseman would come by with a meal for Lil P and me – “swolls” usually, a mix of ramen noodles, meat, cheese, and beans swelled up in a bag and eaten with chips. One of his gang associates cooked Lil P a meal every night. Being fed was a perk of my work.

            Perks. I soon realized I had a good number. I was given shower priority; I had first sign up for the legal computer; I received office supplies and a snack every night; and, I was off-limits, or as Tommy and LJ said, “Anybody fuck with you, let us know.”

            Ernie. Ernie was two cells down from me. He was white, mid-forties and doing a three-year bid for crystal meth use. He had a small construction business in the King George area. His drug use cost him his marriage and led to multiple trips to prison (this was his third stop over). But, Ernie was personable. He liked to run, was a sports enthusiast, and was well read. He and I soon found ourselves sitting together at meals and working out together. Ernie was a guy I could relate to and day after day reading case files of young street guys – all Black, all uneducated, all remorseless – doing unimaginably horrible things – I needed someone that seemed to be “like me.” I knew there was no real friendship there. Friends in the real world are hard to come by; it’s even tougher behind bars. Still, it was nice seeing a familiar face.

            Soon, other guys who “looked like me” began congregating outside my cell door at meal and recall. Guys would vie for the extra two seats at our table. I didn’t understand it at first. I was lost in my own pain, own difficulties. But, one of the guys, “Roy,” told me if they hung around me maybe, just maybe, the gangs wouldn’t bother them. Initially, his words didn’t register. In a few short days I saw what he meant.

            When I arrived at receiving I brought with me a check from the jail with my money from my commissary fund. And commissary – buying food and hygiene (toiletries products) are one of the rare joys inside. Being able to buy a bar of Dial soap, Fritos, and coffee – well, it matters. So the receiving unit put a hold on my transferred funds – two weeks – before I could order. Still, I was alright (a relative term). The jail heavily regulated what you could buy so I’d gone a year without snacks and foods I’d had B.A. – before arrest.

            It was a Wednesday and our tier went to commissary. I was in my second week waiting for my “government” check to clear. And, Lil P pulls me aside. “Look lawyer man, you’ve been helping our boys. What do you like? Let us give you something to say thanks.” I thought for a moment and said, “I haven’t had a ginger ale or pretzels in over a year. That would taste great.”

            Later that afternoon, I came back from lunch and the tier houseman was standing there with his mop bucket. “For you from Lil P and the boys.” There were five large bags of pretzels and four six packs of ginger ale. I opened a bag and felt the pretzels in my hands. I savored bitefulls. I drank warm ginger ale and kept my nose close to the can so I could feel the carbonated bubbles pop near the surface. It was a moment of inexplicable joy.

            That night, a can full of ginger ale poured over ice in my plastic tumbler and a large plastic bowl full of pretzels, I headed down to the first floor to sit at the metal table and catch “Sports Center.” Ernie and Ray were already sitting at a table and I joined them. “What’s the matter fellas?” I asked. Ray looked up at me. “The fuckin gang bangers. They robbed me and Ernie and a few others. Took all our commissary.” And it hit me – Lil P hadn’t bought me pretzels and ginger ale to thank me for my help. They’d robbed guys that looked like me to pay me.

There have been times I’ve done things in here no one gets, things not in keeping with the “prison code,” like calling guys out, confronting men, talking about vague ideas like honor. That night I confronted Lil P, a cold-blooded killer. I went back to my cell and took all the ginger ale and pretzels out of my locker and sat them on his bunk. “You took this shit. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be paid. I just want to do the right thing and go home.” In hindsight, they were such naïve words. And I waited … I waited for him to pulverize me or worse. But he didn’t. He just smiled and said, “ok lawyer man. We’ll do it your way. I don’t get you.”

            I was thinking about a history story I read while at the jail. During World War II as the Americans were landing on the Philippine Island of the Leyte the Japanese launched a surprise naval attack. The Japanese had come through the Leyte Gulf and into Philippine Sea. Their hope was to destroy the U.S. fleet, stranding the landed soldiers without resupply.

            A small group of support ships including the USS Samuel B Roberts was all that stood in the way of the Japanese Navy. The Captain called the ship to “battle stations” and told the crew that while the ship’s survival was not expected. “We will do our duty.” The USS Samuel B Roberts was, in fact, sunk (but their actions and those of the USS Johnson and others led the Japanese Navy to withdraw). Hundreds of men ended up in the shark-infested waters of the Philippine Sea.

            The young sailors hung on life rafts for four days. Many gave up, swallowing salt water, swimming away, or worse. One young man said, “I felt something bumping my thigh. I looked down and I saw a tiger shark. It kept ramming my leg. And I prayed. I said, God, I don’t want to die out here. I want to go home, meet a nice girl, live a good life.”

            The shark moved on, and at a raft nearby grabbed another sailor. For three more days that young sailor watched as sharks circled his raft and yet not one came up to them. All around, men drowned or were pulled under by sharks, but that raft was spared.

            That battle story and my time at receiving have perplexed me and – at times – caused me to be wide awake at 3:00 a.m. wondering about God. My “sharks” were different. I witnessed the aftermath of stabbings, beating, and worse. And yet, I walked through unscathed. I wondered “why me?” At the same time, I wondered, where was God? What was He doing? Why am I seeing this and more importantly why am I safe?

            A little while ago, a friend, a woman who prays for me, sent me a remarkable sermon about grace and about understanding the mystery of God in the midst of the storms in our lives. It’s tough, but the writer said this, “God will take you where you haven’t intended to go in order to produce in you what you could not achieve on your own.”

            I think about those words a lot, and my passage through receiving to this place. I think about last December and the attitude of the students in here after two of the senior college aides got locked up and everyone believed the program would shut down. I’d tell anyone who would listen, “we’ll get through this.” They’d say, “You don’t know anything about prison.” They were right. But, I had a sense something bigger than prison was going on. And, I’ve been thinking about Ernie at receiving and the lessons I learned there.

            Prison is a terrible place, and there are many violent anti-social men and women behind bars. It’s hard to imagine the filth, the noise, the lack of compassion. Still, even in places like this, light shines in. I knew walking amongst such violence and despair that I would be ok, I would survive, and some day all this would make sense. I kept it together and moved forward.

            I left receiving in November 2009, left Ernie, Ray, Lil P behind. But, the lessons I learned there, the misconceptions and misperceptions I overcame, they stay with me … and always will.

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….

Gambling, Storebox and Stabbing

Commissary day came and went. I got my regular order of chips, ramen noodles, refried beans, peanut butter, crackers and pop tarts. Since school’s been in full session, my meals in the building have been limited to a lot of chips (my weakness) mixed in with equal parts of ramen noodles and peanut butter crackers. Commissary also brought out the gamblers.



By Thursday night there was one major poker game, one dice game and one game of tunk underway in the building. “Big money” was changing hands: $30.00, $40.00, $50.00, won and lost. The NBA playoffs are in full swing so the parlays are drawing $3, $4 and even $5 bets. There’s a general rule in prison old heads tell you – don’t go in debt and don’t gamble, unfortunately guys don’t follow that advice.


In less than one sitting there were a half dozen guys who lost their entire commissary order. We’re on a sixteen day stretch between orders. That’s a long time to go without any food in the building. Guys get desperate and visit “the storebox”. What’s the storebox? One or two guys run a store. You need a tuna fish? Visit the storebox. Next store day you pay the box man two tunas. Some items run on specials. You can get two snickers bars by paying back three.


Like gambling, storeboxing is illegal. Guys that visit the store box never get out of debt. You’re always paying extra back which eats up your money and makes you order more on commissary day, which goes to the store man, which leaves you short, which sends you back to the box.


I just sat there and watched as guys lost everything in their boxes, cussed the cards and the dice, then headed to the “box”.


Earlier in the week we had a stabbing in another building. I try not to write too much about the violence here because folks that still stay in touch with me would worry. Fact is, prison – even at this level – is a violent place. Every week there are numerous fights; every week at least one fight involves an inmate being struck repeatedly with a master lock stuffed in a sock. Every week some guy gets his teeth broken, or his jaw or his eye socket smashed. This week was different. This week there was a stabbing. In my eighteen months here, there’d only been one other stabbing. This one could have been serious. Fortunately, it wasn’t.


Members of the “viceroys” (that’s another gang in here like the bloods and crips) were getting a “gump” (a homosexual) to bring tobacco in through the visitation room. The gump became involved with an “independent” who convinced him to bring the tobacco to him instead. This upset the viceroy leader who approached the independent. Words were exchanged; the independent said something disrespectful to the gangleader. The gangleader began pummeling the independent. The gump jumped in to defend “his man” and within seconds three other gang members jumped in, one with a blade.


Just like that, in the span of a few seconds, all hell broke loose. As I’ve written before, this place isn’t properly staffed. The officers are ill equipped to keep things like that from happening. And these things will happen. You put men on top of each other, deprive them of basic human contact, create an environment run on snitching, ignore adequate mental health treatment, and put predatory personalities in the midst of 1200 men and violence will result.


Lest you think these things happen because the inmates are criminals, read any book about POW camps. You deprive people of basic human decency and there are incidents of base human behavior exhibited.


I’m fortunate. I’ve seen a great deal in my days locked up I’m still not comfortable talking about. It’s made me realize that if Virginia wants to lock people up, they bear responsibility for maintaining a safe environment.


Fyodor Dostoevsky wrote “compassion is the chief law of human existence”. Its high time judges, DOC Directors, Members of the House of Delegates and the Governor take that to heart.

Do the Hustle

I hired a laundry man yesterday. Reggie, the same guy who talks to the trash cans. We have building laundrymen who do our laundry once a week (there are 2 washers and 2 driers in each building. Inmates get one wash each week with detergent provided by the prison; all other washes are on your own with your own soap).



Reggie is crazy – certifiable. But, he also does a great job on laundry and his job is in the building so he’s here all day. The only times I can get another wash in is weekends because of my schedule. So I hired Reggie to do my laundry – wash, dry, and fold – twice a week for $2.57 a month (price of one bag of coffee), plus I provide the detergent ($1.98 for an 8 load bag).


Almost every guy has a hustle – a way to earn a few extra bucks each month. I’m considered “upper-middle class” because I make the compound high 45 cents per hour. Average month I make a whopping $54.00. Housemen (the guys that clean the dorm) only make 23 cents an hour. You want to eat well from commissary, buy personal clothing (you need more than three pair of boxers!), get CD’s, you hustle.


A guy in our building – KC – used to make furniture. He needed a divorce. I handled it for him (I don’t charge for legal work. I abhor uneducated guys who “sell” jailhouse lawyering). To thank me he built me a CD case. It’s made out of cracker boxes glued one on top of the other (glue courtesy of the prison) until it forms an almost fiber board thickness. It’s sturdy, painted white, with a shelf, and holds 16 CD’s. KC sells the boxes – and all sorts of other storage containers for $5 to $20 worth of commissary. He also does handmade cards. I got a father’s day card for my dad with a perfect replica ’57 T-Bird painted on it.


There’s a guy in another building who makes jewelry – cross necklaces, bracelets, all out of wire and wood he lifts from the on site factory. There are a couple of Kitchen guys who sneak out onions, peppers, spices, fresh fruit and deliver them.


Malik has a catering business. You give him the ingredients and he’ll prepare you a pizza, calzone, apple pie.


Then there’s the illegal stuff (technically, all hustles are illegal. You can’t barter or sell any item or service). You want drugs? For the right price, you can get them. Just last week, a dealer and seven of his customers were busted with weed and pills.


Tobacco? A whole pack of Newport 100’s can be had for $75 to $100, cash. Cash on the compound? You can find it.


Sex? Just last month a gay prostitution ring was broken up in another building. The “pimp” was shipped elsewhere.


How does all this go on in prison? As recent firings and arrests of CO’s shows, with their active participation. But, what do you expect? Everyone has a weakness. A great many of the CO’s are young, uneducated, poorly paid, and poorly trained.


There’s a massive underground economy in here. Need your glasses or headphones repaired? See Miguel. Sneaker soles need re gluing? E’s the man. Need an extra blue shirt, blanket or sheets? See Ray. He’s got the laundry hook up. Want a woman? There are a couple of female CO’s who “like a man in uniform” (one guy in my building actually married a CO in prison – after she was fired for fraternizing).


This entire system is maintained by the underground economy, guys working on the side for a little “somethin”. Sounds a whole lot like the U.S. economy, doesn’t it?