by Beth Harden
“So, whatcha talk about today, Miss A?” Chulo asks. He turns back to face the board, “Sympathy, compassion and empathy,” he reads, slowly enunciating the words that he’s poised to wash from the board. He’s always conscious of not grouping himself with the others, and chooses to ask questions with a third-person kind of curiosity under the guise of taking wisdom back to the blocks for the younger guys who might need it.
“You know the difference between them?” I ask. I continue to collect up the paperwork and count the returned pencils.
“Sort of,” he says. His English has suddenly dwindled a bit. His brain is fumbling to come up with the equivalent in his native language.
“They are all good words derived from the same Latin origin: the root word ‘pathos’ for feeling. The first one, sympathy is a feeling for others in their trials. Then compassion. Think of it this way. We don’t have to know the people or countries who are suffering but there is a community of unspoken feeling for their hardships, like the recent tornadoes in Oklahoma or the Boston bombing. We all can guess what it must feel like to go through these tragedies. And then this final one, the prize quality we should all strive for. Empathy, feeling with someone. In other words, standing in his Jordans and knowing fully what is going on with the man because we’ve been there before. You know what I mean?”
“Yes ma’am,” Chulo replies. “I have empathy for you dealing with these guys because I live with these dudes twenty-four seven.” Some people are born with inordinate amounts of empathy; others can through self-discipline acquire a knack for it and then there are those like Chulo who simply don’t have it and don’t claim to. I look up suddenly. Inmate Willis stands in front of the desk with a tattered envelope in hand.
“Oh shoot! That’s right,” I say. I had promised him I would put through that legal call he requested. His block counselor Wolfe is notoriously thorny and rude. In the older counselor’s defense, two tours as a gun runner on a boat in the Mekong followed by another nineteen being bombarded by a different kind of crafty enemy has taught him how to defend himself with a crust of sarcasm. His favorite weapon is the word “no.” Problem is, inmates have legal right to speak to their attorneys twice a month and preventing that discourse can lead to lawsuits.
“Take a seat. I will put the call through for you, but afterwards, I want to ask you about your case. What you wrote,” I say. Chulo has his back towards us and is making busy work jiggling the handles on the windows to make sure they are fully secured.
“Hey Chulo, would you mind giving us privacy? Mr. Willis needs to speak to his attorney,” I say politely. My Hispanic helper is reluctant to go. His shoulders stiffen and he starts to protest, but then thinks better of disobeying a staff member and grudgingly gathers up his folder of resumes and hesitates by the door. He nods at the shelves to the left of the teacher’s desk.
“I put a little something there for you. Don’t forget to take it,” he mumbles. I yank out the drawer that rattles on its ancient track. Another Styrofoam container containing peach crisp or vanilla pudding with ground-up graham cracker dust is tucked inside. Though I’ve told him repeatedly that I can’t accept these, he brings the offerings anyway and abandons them within reach, knowing I won’t leave them there for others to access. He’s caught me in a quandary with Willis as an observer.
“Take that back, please. You know the rules,” I say, more briskly than I intended but Chulo knows better than anyone else that setting a precedent is a dangerous move. Sending a strong message is the language that the institutionalized understand. His hazel eyes flash with indignant rejection.
“Nothing personal, Diaz,” I add, intending to soften the refusal but he is furthered angered by the use of his surname. He grabs the dessert and stalks off. I’ve learned to brush off these upsets and volatile mood changes a long time ago.
“Go ahead, Mr. Willis. I’m sorry for the interruption.”
“It’s all true, ma’am,” he replies.
“Where does all this stand right now?”
“They are trying to force me to take Sex Offender treatment, which is a year-long program. If I refuse, they’ll take my earned good time away and deny my parole. But I am not going to accept treatment for something I have no need of. Allowing that is admitting guilt to something I didn’t do. Miss Abrams, I never touched that girl in a sexual way or forced myself on any other female; so how can I in good conscience put my name on a register of perverts? I wouldn’t do it, so they jailed me twice for refusing. I’ve been fighting this battle for over twenty years. No one in the Department of Correction or the courts will listen because if they do, they will be forced to admit to their errors. I have all the documents. They never charged me with that crime. Everything was nolled. They knew they had nothing on me. Miss Abrams, they took me to a room in the basement of the court house with no court reporter present so there are no transcripts. All I need is to get the copy of the Judge’s transcript. They cleared me from any wrongdoing with this girl.”
“Then what charge did they hold you on?” I ask.
“Tampering with a witness, but all I did was call this girl and ask her to tell the truth. The phone call is recorded. They have it in their hands. I didn’t threaten her and I didn’t touch her inappropriately. Period!”
Per self-report, ninety- five percent of sentenced offenders are innocent or at worst, someone who was in the wrong company or in the wrong place at the wrong time or was wrongfully fingered as the suspect. The other five percent are the guys who are proud of what they’ve done and wave it like a banner. After awhile, all the posturing and campaigning for proclaimed innocence is little more than white noise, a low-grade buzzing in the ears from relentless pests. It’s not surprising that Mr. Willis’s personal crusade has been dumped in the bucket full of general complaints and shoved aside.
“And you were how old?” I ask, incredulously.
“Nine. Miss, if anyone should be held accountable, it should be the other kids who were older than I was. Doesn’t anyone question what they were doing with a little kid like me and no grown-ups around? Shouldn’t they hold some responsibility?”
“And you’ve talked with the therapist here who runs that group?” I ask.
“I wrote him, but because of my Sex Treatment score, they’re forcing me to participate in that program. I’ve written appeals to all of them: the Deputy Warden, the Warden and the Commissioner. Nobody wants to question a wrong and try to un-do it.”
“So, where are we placing this call to?” I ask. The abrupt change in subject seems to diffuse his focus. Willis reaches into the slack pocket of his uniform pants and pulls out a pencil stub and small flip pad. The pen is not one from our Commissary. It’s sleek-barreled, shiny gold with a monogram of some sort on its barrel. Swiped from a teacher’s desk?
“Juvenile Court in Dorchester,” he answers.
“Do you have the number with you?” I ask. Willis recites it from memory. I patch the call in to the clerk’s office, verify that I have connected with the criminal division, and then indicate that he should pick up the other line. I step out into the hallway. Inmates are allowed private conversations with their legal counsel but they must remain in full view of staff when doing so. A closed door could lead to trouble in the form of false accusations, lawsuits, stolen supplies or vandalism. Willis leans into the conversation with his head in one hand, one knee jiggling nervously up and down as he is put through a series of automated prompts. He taps the keys on the phone. The clock is ticking off the minutes, two of the allotted ten have already been burned and still no live person to answer his question. Chulo appears at the far end of the hallway and hesitates for a moment in the band of sunlight spinning down through the pentangle of ceiling glass. I give him a cursory everything-is-fine smile and he ducks into a distant classroom. Willis suddenly straightens up in his seat and clears his throat. It looks as though his passionate plea to the public defender’s office has an audience on the other end. He nods in earnest and rephras
es his request. I can hear him spelling out my last name. Suddenly he looks up, slightly panicked and scans the top of the desk but doesn’t dare touch any of the papers lying there. He waves me in.
“Miss, what’s the number here?” The clerk said she’ll send it to your attention.” I quickly scribble the number of the fax machine in the office with my title on a sticky note and he relays it to the harried paralegal that is trying her best to foist this guy off on someone else. Finally he puts the receiver down and sighs.
“She said she’ll send it to you. I appreciate your help, Miss Abrams. You’re the only one who has taken the time to hear me out.”
“Well, I’m very interested in what’s fair and right. Mistakes are made, even within the justice system. It’s worth making sure that things were handled properly. Would you trust me with those over the weekend? I’d like to review what you have.” Willis eagerly hands me his personal folder of legal paperwork and rises to his feet.
“I apologize for getting so emotional and taking up your time. I know you’re a busy woman, but this is my life here.”
“I said I would be objective in looking at your situation. If we don’t have our word, then we have nothing. I’ll give it a look over the weekend and see you on Monday.”
“Have a blessed day,” Willis replies. He picks up his homework folder and heads out the door. In the process, he accidentally bangs shoulders with the cocky Hispanic school clerk who’s just rushed past him into the classroom. The two men regard one another coolly.
“What’s up, bro?” Willis mumbles. There’s a quick bump-and-pump greeting exchanged and Willis is on his way. Chulo closes the door in the wake of the big man’s departure and watches the retreating figure warily.
“I told you to be careful with him,” he warns. He waits for an ensuing explanation. Suddenly, a little trip-switch flips in my head. How dare he assume to correct or coach me?
“Mr. Diaz. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I don’t need you to tell me how to handle myself or do my job.”
I gather up my water bottle, papers and eject the ancient HBO video, Battered from the player. Though dated, it is powerful stuff. The victims portrayed are real-life survivors of horrific trauma. It’s plain as day on the disfigured face of Hedda Nessbaum who was systematically beaten by her well-heeled lover. And the mother of two who was bludgeoned with a shotgun by her ex-boyfriend out on an eight-hour furlough from prison. Same with the young Hispanic mother whose five daughters tried to intervene when her estranged husband stabbed her repeatedly in the abdomen as she showered and then staggered out of the bathroom to collapse on the linoleum floor in front of them. On the way to hospital, this brave woman prays that she won’t die before she knows what it’s like to be happy. ’It’s a messed up way to go,’ she says, her eyes sad and hollow, having never yet held the faint flicker of a smile. And more powerful still is the seven-year old stuttering daughter with the shell-shocked stare when she calmly tells the interviewer she wants to grow up to be a police man so she can stop people like her own father. It gets them in the gut each time. After the credits skip by, the men shake their heads in disbelief at the brutality and whisper, ’Jesus, that’s so fucked up’ at the sight of broken eye sockets and a healthy thigh filleted of its skin. No one says anything. The television needs to get rolled back into the staff bathroom and locked up. I place my belongings on the bottom tray and start to maneuver the clumsy cart.
“I got you,” says Chulo, his hand brushing mine as he takes over navigation. Is it an apology of sorts? I escort him down the short hallway and unlock the door. He positions the electronic antique back in its space. On the way out of the unit, he keeps stride with me though usually he sets our pace at a leisurely stroll back along the mainline towards Inner Control. I can understand why he is in no hurry to get back to the unit where he is only Inmate # 100417. Out here, he is the man of the hour, the prince of the pipeline where he gets his due recognition.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for your help,” I say, as the rolling gate ratchets back enough for me to squeeze through. It quickly reverses direction and we are closed off from one another. Chulo stands for a moment in his brand-new, brushed suede work boots and pressed bleach-white shirt with a hopeful look on a boyish face that hasn’t seen more than an hour’s daily ration of UV rays in the past twenty-two years. He looks barely a day older than his first mug shot on File #1. I adjust the bag strapped to my shoulder enough to lift my hand in a small wave. He grins widely and does a little bantam strut before the hall keeper orders him to keep moving.
#
Roll call. Seven-thirty a.m. sharp! Come rain, snow, sleet or hail. It’s adult attendance with grown-up consequences: tardy on three occasions and you’re written up. The officers lug in giant thermal lunch bags and gallon jugs of drinking water, squeeze through the narrow row, knocking over chairs and sweeping papers off the table top before solemnly taking their seats. Nobody stoops to right the chairs or pick up the mess. One day is no different than the next. It’s the same wooden walk down the aisle of occupied seats with people already in place counting off the minutes and most of them nursing a hangover or a sour attitude or both. And there’s always the one guy running late who shuffles his heavy boots in what appears to be an earnest attempt of getting up the walkway and by the sally-port before the Captain ticks off his shift. Like a classroom full of kids, they claim their same seats like Officer Everett, who for nineteen years, eight months and thirteen days has swung his chair around with his back to the pole, put his head in his hands and fallen asleep and without fail, roused up right in time to mumble when his name is read off. Every other staff person gives that seat berth and allows him that right. The whole contingent is upset and pouts if some newbie mistakenly settles into the wrong chair. A select few claim the non-contact booths along the left hand side of the room, their rear ends perched on the spot where someone’s distraught fiancé or momma will be wringing her hands and shedding tears in another hour or so.
At the front end of the visiting room is a raised platform from which the lieutenants make daily announcements and recount any incidents from former shifts. The memos are read. Friday is Tip-a-Cop for Special Olympics. Then a united plea goes out to anyone willing to donate sick time to our ailing brother with a brain tumor. These guys may be stingy in personality, but they will give over and above any lousy tithe when it comes to charity. Maybe it’s their way to offset their skepticism and reward the good people in this world. The Lieutenant on duty informs us that Inmate Rodriguez and Inmate Sanchez went at it over living conditions in D-block. Now they are both down in Seg in holding cells, which is the equivalent of complaining about a broken ice machine at the Holiday Inn and ending up at Motel 8 in the heat of summer with a busted air-conditioning unit.
Hastings winks at me from his place two tables over. We usually walk out together and chat for a few. I’m guessing the staff has us down as lovers and so be it. Dysfunctional relationships are the norm in this crowd. Sexual harassment is rampant. Affairs abound on and off-duty. New rumors scuttle through the morose crowd each week and more attention is paid to fodder for their fantasies than the safety protocol being recited up front. We are dismissed.
“Go to work!” yells the Lieutenant in a cursory order. As I pass the podium on my way out, Captain Wittman looks up from his Fantasy Football picks.
“Abrams. Come see me in my office ASAP!” he snaps. This can only spell trouble. The others all cast glances my way and a few make teasing whistles in my direction. It will give them something to ponder while they read the sports section of the Boston Globe. After pulling my keys and body alarm, I head straight down and stand in front of the unmarked entry-way which sports a red line dissecting the middle. Off-limits to anyone without invitation. Like Maxwell Smart’s series of gates and doors that opened mysteriously as he approached, a metallic click releases the lock and it swings outwards. I step into a room full of lieutenants and captains lounging in chairs and gaping at
the television suspended in the corner by ceiling bolts. World Cup action.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I say, hesitating to interrupt a good head-butt that’s being wildly applauded by the Brazilian crowd
“All the way to the back, Abrams,” announces one without looking up. I’ve never been farther than the first desk and only to deliver official business from incoming investigators. There is a short corridor with a series of small rooms on one side where special business is handled behind closed doors. This is where interrogations are conducted or confidential informants arbitrarily quizzed at their discretion.
“Come in. Take a seat,” says Captain Wittman. He seems like a fair man. Three other intelligence officers with dead-pan faces stand off to the side with arms crossed. What did you do? I quiz myself. Was it a call placed mistakenly to an unverified law firm? Did I deplete the overstock of unfranked envelopes and hand some out to guys with money on the books? Did I neglect to sign in and out of the block?
