Because of who we are.
Disposable young Black men.
That’s how I feel. That’s what I’ve seen. That’s how it is.
I lie on my bunk, hour after hour, day after day, feeling murdered by the law, by terrible lawyers, by the injustice of the justice system, by life.
One day, my bunk blanketed in shadow, a guard rattles my cell door. “Call your family,” he yells; then the trap at the bottom of the door drops open and a telephone appears. “Call them now.”
“I can’t—”
“Call them or you’re going in the hole.”
They’re doing it again, I think. Tag-teaming me. My mother and aunts and everyone must be calling the prison, badgering whoever answers the phone. I can’t blame them. I don’t know how long it’s been since Rovaughn’s trial—a week, two weeks, a month, I honestly have lost track of time—but I have regressed, broken my promise, become the walking dead. I haven’t called. I have turned inside myself. Guilt pours out of me like perspiration.
I call my mother and she patches in my aunts. They sigh communally in relief. They cry softly, not all at once, taking turns. Mostly, they envelop me with love, with concern, with thanks that I’m alive, and all that makes the guilt soak me even more.
“We thought you died,” Sugar says. “I swear we did.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been feeling very low. Rovaughn got freed, but here I am.”
“You got to fight, Jarrett,” Honey says. “You have to pull yourself up and fight.”
“I’m so tired, Auntie. I’m exhausted from this. Why did they let Rovaughn out and not me?”
Then someone says—I can’t make out who—“Because you’re stronger.”
“What did you say?”
“You’re stronger.”
It hits me like an electric shock reviving a dead man.
My letters, I think. It was my letters. The letters got Rovaughn out. Boyle knew the laws, knew what to say in court, but if he didn’t have my letters, he wouldn’t have had his case.
I don’t know how long or how hard this climb will be, but on the phone with my family I pull myself off the floor.
* * *
—
I go back to the law library and pick up where I left off. I tutor inmates and study law books, searching for the laws that apply to my case. I discover a statute in Wisconsin that seems to indicate Shawn Demain’s three-page statement would have qualified as new evidence and that my lawyer could have—should have—asked for a new trial. I bring this to his attention. He stonewalls me, gives me the runaround in legalese, hitting me with excuse after excuse: I’ve already begun the appeal; I don’t want to ruffle any feathers; this wouldn’t apply, because he doubts it would be considered new evidence at this point; it’s after the fact; and my least favorite excuse, it’s so hard to get a new trial. Unlike Boyle, this guy refuses to take my legal suggestions seriously. I don’t pretend to know more than a practicing lawyer. But I no longer feel like a naive nineteen-year-old inmate with no knowledge of the law. I have some knowledge, scant as it may be. I read. I study. I feel energized by the law and what the law can do.
* * *
—
Of all the cases I read, I’m most inspired by Brown v. Board of Education and Thurgood Marshall, the attorney who argued the case in front of the Supreme Court. I remember learning about the case in high school but haven’t dived into the details until now.
In 1951, Oliver Brown, a Black resident of Topeka, Kansas, joined a class-action lawsuit with twelve other claimants. They stated that the local, all-white public schools had refused to admit their children, forcing the families to send them to segregated schools much farther from their homes. In the suit, the families asserted that the Topeka School Board’s action violated the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. The suit asserted that the city’s Black and white schools were not equal to each other and never would be.
The U.S. District Court for the District of Kansas ruled against them.
Undeterred, the claimants brought their case to the NAACP. The organization’s chief counsel, Thurgood Marshall, appealed the district court’s decision and ultimately argued the case in front of the Supreme Court. He won a unanimous, 9–0, decision. This established that racially segregated schools are unconstitutional and set a precedent for future civil rights cases.
For every reason, this case both stirs me and fills me with hope. It validates my feeling that if you have truth and right on your side, you can overturn a decision on appeal—with a good lawyer.
In the weeks that follow, Thurgood Marshall becomes my role model. His approach to taking on cases follows the way I’ve begun to see the law—a means to an end, a chess match, a series of well-prepared strategies, a competition.
“You do what you think is right and let the law catch up.”
That is what Thurgood Marshall said.
That is what I believe.
* * *
—
I sit in the law library, waiting for an inmate named Brick. He’s late for his tutoring session, but I don’t mind. I use the time to begin strategizing about writing a new letter. Based on the new evidence I’ve uncovered—Shawn Demain’s statement—I want to see if I can find a lawyer who will represent me and fight to get me a new trial. I will request a writ of certiorari, a procedure that asks a court to review a case. I plan to send the letter out to as many lawyers as possible. I’ve already begun compiling a list of attorneys I’ve read about in the newspaper, attorneys who win cases. I’ve also made a deal with the guy who has the typewriter. I’ll pay him to type out a template for the letter. That way I can fill in each lawyer’s name and address without needing to type out dozens of letters. Because that’s what I plan to do. Overwhelm attorneys with my letter, with my argument, with my plea. Send out letters until I find someone who will take my case.
Finally, Brick arrives. He storms into the law library and throws himself onto the chair in front of me.
“This place, man,” he says. “They gave me a shot.”
A shot means a disciplinary ticket.
“For what?”
“For nothing. For a bunch of bull. They saying I made a weapon out of my plastic shaver. I didn’t make no weapon.”
“Out of a shaver?”
“Yeah.”
“Those cheap things they buy in bulk from Walgreens?”
“Yeah. Those things are dull, man. They can’t even shave us.”
“I know,” I say, absently rubbing my face. “What did you do?”
“I broke the plastic guard off so I could shave. Otherwise you end up pulling out those hairs. You know what happens then?”
“You get ingrown hairs,” I say.
“Hello,” he says. “Exactly.”
I nod in sympathy. Almost every African American guy I know in here breaks off the plastic guard so he can get a closer shave. Nobody worries about cutting his skin without the protective guard. The razors are too dull. Even after you break off the plastic guard, the razor barely works.
“What was the exact complaint?”
“Got it right here,” Brick says, sliding the paperwork toward me. He pianos his fingers on the table, squints over at me. “What does it say?”
Brick struggles with reading. We’ve been working on that.
“Manufacturing a weapon,” I read.
“I’m gonna lose good time,” he says, miserably.
“You could.”
For every year you serve without an official complaint or disciplinary ticket, you receive fifty-four days of good time, meaning time taken off your total sentence. Those fifty-four days add up. Inmates hoard those days, bank them, count on them, live for them.
“This place, man. I’m gonna lose my good time because I wanted to shave?”
“
Fight it,” I say.
“How?”
“You can request a hearing. You go in front of a panel from the prison and argue your case.”
He sniffs. “I can’t do that. I don’t know what I would say.”
“You can have an advocate. Someone to argue on your behalf.”
He stops cold. Stares at me.
“You do it.”
I quickly scan the law library, the shelves of books, then think about the time I’ve put in reading the law, studying the law, thinking about the law. I turn back toward Brick. I can feel that I’m smiling.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
* * *
—
I sit at a table facing two guards on the other side of the glass, the reporting officer—the one who wrote up Brick’s ticket—and the hearing officer, a second guard assigned to the case. Brick sits in a separate room, out of sight. If he loses, a third guard will bring him to the hole. I will never see him leave.
I adjust my glasses and listen to the reporting officer read the complaint alleging that Brick manufactured a weapon. When the hearing officer calls on Brick to rebut the charge, I explain that I’m his advocate.
“Every inmate receives a shaver,” I say. “And every inmate I know, at least all the African American inmates, alters their shaver. But not for the purpose of creating a weapon—”
I hold for effect.
“For the purpose of shaving. We need a sharper blade to shave with. It’s because of how we were born. Even so, this altered shaver isn’t sharp enough to be used as a weapon. It’s barely sharp enough to pierce the skin.”
I say Brick’s real name; then I press my point.
“This man should not be penalized for wanting to keep himself looking neat. He’s doing his best to be clean shaven. He’s attempting to maintain a good appearance. He serves as a model to other prisoners. He is not making a weapon. Far from it. The charge is false and unwarranted. I move that his disciplinary ticket be thrown out. Thank you.”
The two officers look at each other, exchange a few hushed words, then turn back to me.
“We have ruled,” the hearing officer says. “The disciplinary ticket will be thrown out.”
That’s it. We win. Brick avoids segregation.
All it took was ten minutes.
* * *
—
Word spreads.
After I clear Brick’s ticket, inmates start asking me to help them fight their shots. I find I have a knack of explaining legalese in simple terms to inmates. They hand me their paperwork, baffled by terms like “res judicata” and “issue conclusions.” One guy, I’ll call him Aaron because he has the Green Bay Packers logo tattooed on his face, says, “Man, can you break this down for me? I don’t understand any of this. What does this mean?”
I read through his paperwork. “Okay, look, I’m not going to be able to help you with this, because all your issues have been issue precluded.”
“Huh?”
I look at his Packer tattoo. “Okay, let’s say the ref calls pass interference. You’re the coach. You think it’s a bad call. What do you do? You throw the red flag. The play goes to replay review. That’s an appeal.”
“Oh, I get what you’re saying.”
“In order to overturn the penalty, you have to have what?”
“Clear evidence.”
“Right. Can’t be a tie. Can’t even be close. Has to be clear to overturn it. If it’s a tie, the decision stands. That’s what happened with your appeal.”
Aaron looks up at me, his eyes wide.
“I get it,” he says. “That is some bull, but I get it.”
Aaron leaves, and on his way out I hear him talking to some other inmates: “Hey, man, talk to him. He’ll break it down for you.”
At first, I don’t accept payment, but then I start asking inmates to pay me in stamps. We get an allotment of stamps, a book of ten, but I know I’ll need a lot more if I’m going to send out letters to lawyers.
In one instance, the prison officials have offered an inmate, Major, thirty days in loss of good time. He can accept the thirty days or fight the ticket, but if he loses, they’ll give him a hundred days in the hole. He weighs his options. Give up good time or spend three months in segregation. Major talks to Brick, and Brick encourages him to see me.
I look over Major’s paperwork and tell him that I think I can help him.
“How much will it cost me?”
“Two books of stamps.”
“Steep,” he says.
I shrug.
“You really think you can beat this ticket?”
“Slam dunk,” I say.
In order to survive in here, you need to show that you’ve got game. When it comes to legal issues, I’ve got game.
“They’re not giving you due process by following their own administrative handbook,” I explain.
“I don’t know what you talking about.”
“I’m saying you can win this.”
I write up the case, give him the paperwork, and tell him to file it. He does.
I forget about Major’s case, lose myself in tutoring and helping other inmates fight their tickets.
One day, right before dinner, I’m bunked up, reading, and I overhear a conversation outside.
“Major, hey, man, I thought you were in segregation.”
“I got out of it, man.”
“You did? How?”
“Guy on the first tier, man. He did it for me. You got to see him.”
“Who on the first tier?”
“The guy in the single cell. You’ve seen him. Li’l Johnnie Cochran–looking mofo with the glasses.”
* * *
—
Everyone inside gets a nickname. I never know anybody’s real name, even Pops’s. A year and a half in, I graduate from Li’l Chi-Town to Li’l Johnnie Cochran–Looking Mofo with the Glasses. The name sticks. I become everyone’s go-to legal guy.
Inmates pull me aside at church, hand me their paperwork. I open their file, catch a book of stamps that falls out. I work on cases, help guys overturn their tickets, start stashing stamps. I don’t win every case, but I win way more than my share. I rarely have to appear in front of a panel. I mostly write civil petitions or letters to the prosecutors themselves. I find it so surprising that most people cannot craft even the simplest, most basic one-paragraph letter. In many instances, that’s all I do—write an effective, convincing letter. I familiarize myself with legal jargon, making sure I use the proper language, emphasizing key points of the argument. I send off these letters; in return, inmates receive justice.
Months go by. We head into a bitterly cold winter followed by a brief, balmy Wisconsin spring, then another hot summer. Between tutoring and working to overturn disciplinary tickets, I not only stay busy but feel somewhat content. I would never call my time in prison comfortable, but those months in Waupun, spending almost every waking hour in the law library, come close. I settle into a routine. I know how to maneuver Waupun to survive each day, avoiding danger, embracing my nickname—Li’l Johnnie Cochran–Looking Mofo with the Glasses. I like being identified as a savvy, successful lawyer. I receive nods of respect from inmates, stares of recognition from guards.
One stifling summer night, sweating through my thin, scratchy sheet, I finally doze off somewhere after 3:00 a.m. At 4:30, the door to my cell flies open. Two guards rush in, shake me awake, grab my legs, pull me off my bunk, force me to my feet, slam handcuffs on my wrists, and drag me toward the open cell door. I don’t resist, but I’m in such shock I barely move.
“Let’s go!” a guard screams in my face. “We’re moving you out.”
“Where?”
“Segregation.”
“What? Why—?”
“Let’s go. Now.”
/> The guards yank me by my arms. I go slack, then reach out and hold on to the bars of my cell.
“You have to tell me why. What did I do?”
“Conspiracy to start a riot.”
“What?”
“Conspiracy to start a riot,” the guard repeats haltingly, as if struggling to remember a term he was told to memorize from the prison handbook five minutes ago.
“Do you even know what that means?” I ask.
The guard slams my face into the bars. The other guard catches me before I slump to the floor, then pulls me away from the bars by the handcuffs. I feel the metal slicing into my flesh.
“Don’t make this harder. You’re already going into the hole.”
“You can’t do this. You need evidence.”
“We have a CI,” the guard says.
Confidential informant.
“Sure you do,” I say.
He shoves me out of the cell, leads me down a dark, narrow hallway.
* * *
—
The guards walk me over to the segregation unit located in another wing of the prison. I’m going to jail, I think. That’s what segregation is—jail—the place where you get sent if you commit a crime inside prison. On the way, I see guards leading several other guys to the segregation unit, many of them inmates I helped with their disciplinary tickets. I wonder if the prison has decided to punish them for getting their disciplinary tickets overturned and if I’m being punished for helping them. As the guard leads me to isolation, I picture certain pages in the handbook and try to calculate how much time I will spend in segregation. Minimal, I decide, because they’re charging me for something completely bogus, a made-up charge. Total fiction. Thirty days at most. I’ll fight it and win. I am Li’l Johnnie Cochran–Looking Mofo with the Glasses.
I spend the night in segregation, in what’s called TLU—“temporary lockup.” Two days later, I get the word. The prison has issued me a disciplinary ticket for “group resistance and petition,” a fancy term meaning conspiracy to riot. What nonsense. The prison judicial system, joke that it is, has twenty-one days to investigate me. They have to issue a conduct report within that time or release me from segregation.
Redeeming Justice Page 13
