She catches her breath and whispers through her tears, “I don’t know what to do now. What do I do?”
“I—I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
My mother exhales. She pauses. She speaks now and her words explode.
“When they get their hands on our boys, we never get them back.”
Her voice splinters and she starts wailing. I remove the phone from my ear and press it against my forehead. I need to say something—anything—to calm her. But I have no words. My mind has gone empty. Finally, I speak into the phone. I manage only to say, “Mom.”
We stumble through our goodbyes, her crying never letting up.
I hang up and come to a terrible, inevitable conclusion. In order to survive, I will submerge myself into life in prison, and I won’t call her again. I cannot face the heartbreak of what I have done to her.
* * *
—
I call my aunt Sugar. She says she knows I will be spending my days soul-searching, looking for answers, especially to the question, why?
“You have to pray,” she says. “Keep praying. Just keep praying.”
“Pray for what?” I ask.
She gasps in shock.
“You don’t think He’s watching?” I say. “If you say He’s all knowing, the way He is in all those songs you sing in church, then tell Him to stop this.”
My breathing comes so hard I start to pant. I feel ashamed for yelling at my aunt.
“He knows what’s going on. If you tell me He’s got everything under control, then I don’t need to pray. I’m just gonna wait on Him. Wait on Him to get me out of this.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Sugar says quietly.
“Auntie, I’m sorry. I can’t think about praying right now. I just can’t.”
“I understand,” she says. “I get that.”
“If God is so powerful, then why would He allow racism to exist? We’re at the end of the twentieth century, and we still have inequality and unfairness and injustice. Why is that? I can’t figure that out, Auntie.”
“I know, baby. I know you’re hurting.”
“I’m eighteen years old, Auntie. Why am I in here?”
“We’re not gonna let you go. He’s not gonna let you go. You hear me?”
I don’t say anything. Her words sail by me, then evaporate. Words, I think. Meaningless words.
“Think about going to church,” she says. “I can’t tell you why. Just think about going. That’s all.”
“Can’t make no promises,” I say, my voice breaking.
* * *
—
Three weeks in Jefferson County Jail. Waiting.
Dimitri and I may be the only Black guys in County. I befriend a ridiculously tall white biker dude named Knapp who’s fighting a murder charge. Knapp has been locked up in County longer than I have. He’s a fixture here. He’s so tall they can’t find pants that fit him. The ones he wears come up to the middle of his calf. I find nothing remotely funny in here—except the first time I see Knapp walking across the pod, wearing his ridiculously short pants. We make eye contact, shake our heads simultaneously, laugh. That breaks the ice. We begin to talk.
“You from Milwaukee?”
“No, man. Chicago.”
“You’re quiet.”
“Don’t have much to say. What is there to say?”
“I hear you.”
Knapp and I bond over books. When the book cart comes to our cells, Knapp and I pounce on it. When we both read the same book, we talk about it. One time, he grabs a volume and reads the title aloud.
“You know The Art of War by Sun Tzu?”
“Oh, I want to read that. Maybe pick up some pointers. I’ll read it after you.”
“You take it,” he says. “You read faster.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I got the next one.”
We share books, talk books, and Knapp, who knows Wisconsin, schools me on the prisons.
“You’ll go to Dodge next. You’ll do intake for a week, ten days; then they decide which prison to send you to after that. They might keep Dimitri there. Medium maximum. You could go to Waupun, that’s maximum, hard time. Or maybe Green Bay, supermax. You don’t want Green Bay. Out of control. Violent. Have to watch yourself. They call it Gladiator School.”
He pauses, then yanks up his ridiculous pants.
“The thing is, they’re all bad.”
I nod, feel my throat dry up.
“How come Dimitri got twenty years and you got twenty-eight?”
“Lady judge said I wasn’t remorseful. She tacked on eight more years because I didn’t apologize for a rape that never happened.”
“Make sure you appeal that. I don’t think what she did is even legal.”
“Yeah, I should appeal that,” I say. “I will.”
“Definitely,” he says.
“Which institution did you say is the worst?”
Knapp snorts. “All of them.”
* * *
—
Knapp’s time estimate turns out to be low. Dimitri and I both get sent to Dodge, but I sit in a cell by myself for almost six weeks before my transfer. I lose myself in prison life. I read, book after book, and I play basketball every day, every chance I get. I lose myself in games. Basketball becomes my therapy. I’m small, but I’m among the best on the court. “Court,” I think. That word. Maybe the most important word in my life. I do a lot better on this court than I did in the other court. I play point guard, hit mid-range jumpers, dish off to teammates, set them up for layups. Once again, I go from the last guy picked to the guy everyone wants on their team. Someone gives me a nickname—Li’l Chi-Town. The name sticks.
Usually my team wins, so we hold court. Prison ball reminds me of street ball, only rougher. Still, I don’t alter my game. I dare to drive the lane, bulldoze my way into the paint, take my chances, mix it up with big guys inside. I get clobbered on the back of the head, punched, scratched, gouged, mauled, even tackled. I rarely say anything. Unless you’re bleeding, nobody calls a foul.
On the prison court, I see violence beyond what I ever saw in my old alley games. One day, a player on our team goes up for a layup, and the guy guarding him punches him in the mouth, knocking out a tooth. Our guy mops up the blood with his shirtsleeve, picks his tooth up off the ground, stuffs it in his pocket, and keeps playing. I don’t remember him calling a foul.
On occasion, I witness something unexpected during these daily prison games. I witness humanity. Sportsmanship. Even kindness. A guy gets mugged going up for a shot, and someone on the other team helps him up. With a point of a finger, some players acknowledge a good shot, a defensive stop, an accurate pass.
Every day, for these forty-five minutes, I see men escaping. With a basketball in their hands, they transport themselves outside the prison walls to another place in their minds, in their memories. They are seeking normalcy. At these moments, I don’t see inmates playing hoop on the rec yard. I see men playing a game. Basketball players. They are not prisoners. They are free.
* * *
—
“I stand silently before the Lord, waiting for Him to rescue me. For salvation comes from Him alone.”
I pause in the doorway of the chapel and listen to a group of inmates reading from the Bible. Malik, a thin, older Black man with a long gray beard that covers his neck and flows onto his chest, leads the service.
“Yes, He alone is my Rock, my rescuer, defense, and fortress.”
Psalm 62, I recall, as I find myself walking into the chapel and moving toward a chair. I pick up a book lying on the seat and sit down. An inmate points to the page they’re on. I nod, find my place, and begin to read aloud with the others.
“Why then should I be tense with fear when troubles come?”
Malik stops and says a few words about the line we’ve read. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in the words of the psalm and in his smooth, soft baritone.
But instead, I lose myself in the memory of two other voices—Honey’s and Sugar’s. Every Sunday, when I call my aunts, they ask if I’ve gone to church. Every Sunday, I admit that I haven’t.
“Will you at least think about going?” Honey asks.
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
Filled with guilt, knowing that I probably won’t be going to church, I don’t make that promise. Until last Sunday.
I don’t know why, but last Sunday, I said, “I promise.”
I go first because I look for any reason to get out of my cell. Then I realize I’m going to church because I feel emotionally and physically safe. The familiarity of the prayers comforts me, especially the psalms. And I go for my mother and for my aunts, for Honey, Sugar, and Peaches.
Now, after only a few minutes, as I sit in the chapel with my eyes closed and my head bent, something unexpected happens. We begin reading Psalm 62 again aloud, in unison, and I start to disappear into the words.
“My protection and success come from God alone. He is my refuge, a Rock where no enemy can reach me. O my people, trust Him all the time. Pour out your longings before Him, for He can help.”
He can help, I think.
“God is loving and kind and rewards each one of us according to the work we do for Him.”
I read these words aloud, with the group, and then I read them again to myself. For this moment, I feel that I am actually in church. I forget that I am in prison.
* * *
—
A few days later, on the yard, a group gathers on the basketball court. One of the players calls, “Hey, Li’l Chi-Town, you in?”
I wave, start to jog onto the court, and something stops me. An uneasy vibe. I can almost sense danger. I wave back, yell, “I got next,” and drift away from the court toward the free weights. I usually lift between games, but I don’t see any available barbells. I keep walking toward a guy who has just finished setting up a chessboard. I recognize him—Malik, from church, the guy who leads the services. Hard not to recognize him. With that long gray beard, he looks like a prophet. I heard he’s serving a couple of life sentences. I don’t know for what. You never ask.
Malik nods at the chessboard.
“You looking to get yourself into some trouble?”
“Nah. I don’t know how to play.”
“Sit down. I’ll show you.”
I ease onto the concrete bench across from him.
“Okay, take off your back row,” he says.
I hold my hand over the two tallest pieces, both with crowns.
“What are these?”
“The strongest pieces on the board.”
I push all the pieces away, leave the row of the smallest pieces in place. To me, they look like gnomes. Or upside-down mushrooms.
“What are these pieces?”
“Pawns,” Malik says. “They’re like soldiers. But they’re deceptive.”
“Deceptive?”
“You’ll see. Come on. Let’s play a game with just those. Pawns only. They move one square at a time.”
He shows me. We begin a game with only the pawns. Malik’s manner is easy, but his concentration is intense. My hand moves easily, finger to pawn.
“Okay,” Malik says, “once a pawn makes it all the way to the other side of the board, it can become whatever you want it to be. Any of the other pieces. You can make this little soldier a king, a queen, a knight, anything you want.”
“Pawns are powerful,” I say.
Malik looks at me.
“A lot of people don’t see that. They disregard the pawns. They overlook them. They don’t get that pawns haven’t reached their potential yet.”
I know Malik is trying to teach me more than chess. He strokes his beard and eyes the inmates playing hoop and lifting.
“Lot of pawns around here,” he says. “Lot of pawns in this prison.”
Malik shows me where to place the rest of the pieces on the chessboard. He demonstrates how they each move, and then we play a game. I pick it up right away. I love the strategy—thinking three, four moves ahead, imagining contingency plans should my first attack fail. The game ends when Malik surprises me and takes my last remaining pawn.
“Didn’t expect that,” I say. “Good move.”
“A man’s character will be displayed in every decision he makes,” Malik says.
“Sun Tzu,” I say, “The Art of War.”
Malik grins. We set up the chessboard and play with all the pieces this time.
I stick with chess the rest of that day, avoiding the basketball court, where, as I sensed, a brutal fight breaks out. The next day, I find Malik.
“Looking for more trouble?” he says.
We set up the board and play a couple of fast games. Malik schools me, but I don’t care because I’m hooked. I empty all the cash in my account and buy my own chess set through the canteen. I practice for hours in my cell. At night, I lie awake and envision the chessboard. I work out moves, play games in my head.
When the chessboard dissolves, my usual prison fever dreams return. Images of my mother appear: the shattered look on her face, her uncontrollable sobs. I fight off wave after wave of shame. Why did I put myself in that position? What did I do?
How do you keep yourself from going crazy in this place? I think. You let the daylight seep in, wherever you can find a sliver of light, you embrace that and let it warm you. And you push yourself forward, one step at a time. Compartmentalize—books, basketball, chess, church. Look left, look right, behind you, in front of you, side to side. Think four moves ahead. Stay safe.
* * *
—
The word comes down. I’m being sent to Waupun.
“Watch yourself,” Dimitri warns.
“You, too.”
“We’re gonna appeal this, right?”
“Definitely. We’re gonna win, too.”
I want to believe that. But I find myself adjusting to life inside.
I still can’t bring myself to call my mother, but I write her long letters, expressing how I feel, not holding anything back.
Hello, Mother,
How are you doing? I hope you are in good health when this letter reaches you. I’m attending church services here and taking it one day at a time, but I still have lack of sleep. Just thinking how it really is not fair the way that lady gave me 28 years for speaking the truth. I pray that the Lord removes this anger out of my heart…but what was said in that court was a bunch of lies! This is a huge embarrassment to me, you, and the rest of my family. I’d rather be a killer than to be looked at as a sexual predator.
Mom, I love you, and take care. Tell Sugar I’ll be writing her next week. Tell Honey I love her also.
I end the letter the way I end all the letters I write her:
Sincerely, White Folk’s Property
P.S. I love you, Mom.
* * *
—
My mother and my family are giving me everything they have, every ounce of their love, and all of their support. If they could, they would pay for the kind of attorney who would use every legal means available to prove my innocence. They would do that for me.
But they don’t have that kind of money.
8.
Pops
Chained and handcuffed, I come by prison bus to Waupun Correctional Institution, labeled maximum security, a castle-like fortress built in 1851 in a remote part of the state. An officer hustles me off the bus and takes me directly to intake. I walk slowly, my head down, my hands cuffed in front of me. The officer urges me to pick up my pace. I don’t. What’s my hurry? I’ve got twenty-eight
years.
I slouch down a narrow hallway, passing cells on either side. Medieval and mammoth looking from the outside, Waupun on the inside seems small, out of scale, built for tinier human beings born centuries ago. The prison smells and looks old. It feels as if it has never been updated.
Intake, I discover, will last a week.
And intake, I learn, means segregation.
I spend the week in a minuscule cell, a closet with bars, a bed, a toilet, a slit in the wall that passes for a window. I spend the first days going through the litany of indignities I’ve become accustomed to—medical exam, cavity search, a visit from the dick doctor. Then I go through a series of meetings with a prison counselor. She creates a file, fills in my religious affiliation and dietary restrictions, completes a psychological evaluation, lists any gang association. By her questions, I gather that she tries to make sure a cell doesn’t house two vicious murderers or members from rival gangs. Before I receive my cell assignment and enter into the general prison population, she hands me a file containing all my paperwork, including police and court transcripts and a letter from the appellate attorney who has been assigned to my case. Finally, she informs me that I am required to enroll in a program for sexual predators.
“I’m not going to do that,” I say.
“You refuse?”
“Yes.”
I look her in the face.
“I don’t need that program. I am not a sexual predator.”
She clicks her pen several times, shrugs. “Your choice. Your record.”
* * *
—
I get placed in the very first cell at the front of the north wing, on the bottom of six tiers, close to the guard who lets people in and out through an automatic door. I walk into the tiny five-by-nine space, holding everything I own against my chest. My roommate, a tatted-up, scowling hulk twice my size, studies me. We don’t speak. I climb to the empty top bunk. I know immediately that I can’t stay in here twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes a day. I need to get a job. I have to keep myself busy, or I will go insane.
Redeeming Justice Page 10
