by Beth Harden
I bring up the computerized query and load the printer with paper. Next I print off a sizable stack of postage-free envelopes and hide them in my drawer. I check the bucket to see if there is an ample supply of courtesy care packages, the dollar-store freezer bag variety with pro bono products including deodorant that smells like oven cleaner, hotel-size shampoo, toothpaste, toothbrush and bar of soap. Something akin to the novelty samples provided at medium-fee hotels except these cosmetics are much more versatile as proven by the ingenious ways they can be used as ingredients in making art materials, illegal tender, sex toys and deadly weapons.
The work call sounds at eight o’clock which is the Wall Street signal inside the walls. The men drag plastic chairs from their cubes and slam them into place outside my door like a game of musical chairs on crack. First out of the blocks is Barrios, an illegal from Honduras. I usher him in and punch in his number. He has zero. Since he cannot understand English, I form a rounded circle with my fingers. Thumbs up from him. Out he goes with his envelopes and goodie bag. Next a new entry from the city jail. He hasn’t yet established a steady residence where his people can send money. Our second winner. On the heels of his departure comes the blush-cheeked, red-haired country boy who’s been in and out of my office the past four weeks with not a penny to show. His grandmother in Montana had promised to mail in a check, but to date, the well is still dry.
“Please, can I put in a call to my grandma?” he begs. He is super jittery and doesn’t want to leave the room too quickly.
“Like I’ve told you, we’re not approved to place personal calls. I can give you one envelope so you can write to her.”
“You don’t understand, Miss. I’m in debt. I owe some guys who lent me stuff.” Problem is, I do understand. A kid like this is neck-deep in a barter system. He obviously has not been schooled in prison-style finance. There are no gifts in jail and absolutely nothing is for free. Eventually, the debt will be called in; if not in like currency, then it is exacted in flesh. I feel scared for him.
“What’s your grandmother’s name and number?” I ask. “Just in case she calls.” I scribble the information he provides on a sticky note and send the terrified kid back out to the loan sharks with a few sheets of crisp new lined paper. Maybe that will buy him some time. When office hours are over, I’ll call up Norma Braxton from Lodge Grass and encourage her to pass along an early birthday check.
“Morning, Mr. Wilson. Here to find out if you won the Mega Millions yet?” He smiles. “Let’s see….”
“I’ve got nothing, right?” guesses the good-natured convict who’s scrambled up ingenious ways to live on less than a dollar by stitching soap pouches out of cut-off sleeves and making picture frames from the foil lining of potato chip bags. In many ways, he’s richer than most.
“No, it’s better than that. You’ve got thirteen cents,” I say cheerily. The joke’s on him.
“Have a good day, Miss A,” he replies amicably and sidles out of the stuffy office already getting thick with body heat. Just as the door swings shut, it flies back open in a fury. Tommy Pisano barges in huffing and puffing. He’s bypassed the wait list, which can be enough to trigger a riot.
“I heard that Irish kid that was working for you left yesterday. I want his job,” he demands. I consider my approach. Is it feasible to try and reason with him? Too many words will confound his simple mind but a brush-off is equally unwise.
“Mr. Pisano, I think there were others ahead of you,” I say in an even-keeled tone. Tommy flings himself into the inmate chair and rubs a rough hand over his bald head. I can see little nicks where the barber pressed too hard. There is one noteworthy dent in the top of his skull and a bulging purple vein running on the bias across his temple.
“Fuck ‘em. I need to talk you worser than they do,” he insists. His ears begin to heat up to a hot pink.
“But it is my job to make sure everyone gets a turn to be heard,” I reply. The rumbles of discontent are building towards an eventual crescendo.
“I need that job,” he says.
“Mr. Pisano, you have two-hundred and seventy-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents in your account.” I hand him a print-out as proof.
“That ain’t dick,” he squawks. I try to explain that the jobs are divvied out with certain criteria in mind; for example, if someone has been waiting a long time and if that person is broke. And whether that person is black or white or some other color. We can’t have eight slots all filled by white people, it has to be racially balanced. Tommy doesn’t make the cut on any of the three.
“That ain’t fuckin' right. I’m a US of A citizen. These people aren’t even from here,” he fumes. Tommy’s eyes are beginning to bulge and one knee jerks up and down in rapid-fire succession. His fuse is lit.
“Let’s do this. I’ll get you in the running for a dorm job. I believe we may have an opening in the bathroom next week,” I suggest with a smile. I’m ready to take the next customer, but Tommy has blown a gasket. His first victim is the blue plastic chair that skitters onto its side as he bolts upright.
“I KNOW you don’t like me,” he screams. Froth bubbles from the corner of his chapped lips. “You think I’m good for nothing but mopping up piss? You think I can’t figure out how to hand out mail better than that fuck-tard? You expect me to live out there with all those freaks and jerk-offs and be happy doin’ nuthin'? I want to go back to a Level Four. If I stay here, I’ll pound someone and…”
“I never said I didn’t like you, Mr. Pisano,” I say softly, interrupting his rant. “Ever hear the saying, Get angry and you’ll make the best speech you’ll ever regret?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. How would you like to give me a little help in my class?”
“I can’t sit in a room with a bunch of other dudes. You know that by now. It fucks up my nerves.”
“You don’t have to attend the class. Just help me out before and after handing out papers and collecting homework. You can erase the board, sharpen pencils, and help me move the TV. Stuff like that.”
Tommy looks at me, dumbfounded. He sticks a thick finger in one ear and swabs it around as if a clump of earwax has distorted his hearing. He swipes his mouth with his sleeve. He leans a shoulder up against the wall, crosses one leg over the other, bites his lip and takes stock of the situation as if he’s got a million other offers on the table.
“I can’t pay you for that, though. It would be strictly as a peer mentor.” He squints his eyes and looks suspicious. “You know, a volunteer,” I add.
“Yeah, I’d do that,” agrees Tommy.
“Alright. I’ll add you to the list. You can start on Wednesday.”
“Thank you, Miss A. You think I could have a few envelopes?” he asks sweetly.
“Tommy, you have almost three hundred dollars in your account. You think you could order some next time around?” His face screws up with irritation and I can see another storm brewing. “Okay, do me a favor. Raise your right hand!” He looks at me as if I’m the one that’s got impulse control disorder.
“Just do it!” I repeat. “Pretend we’re in court.” Tommy lifts his hand up, palm forward.
“Repeat after me. I promise I will order envelopes and not harass my counselor anymore.” He repeats the pledge word for word with a comical grin on his face.
“Okay. I’m hooking you up this one last time. We’re good then?” I look over his shoulder at the sound of the milling crowd outside the door, a subtle social cue that he has been dismissed.
“One thing, Ms Abrams. If this was real court, I would have spit on you like I did to my public defender last time I was in the trap.” I am tempted to laugh, but he’s telling the God’s honest truth. He’s in this bid for assault on his attorney.
“I’m plenty impressed, Mr. Pisano. Case closed.” I say. He likes the analogy and slaps the bookcase with hearty approval. A stack of visiting applications slips off the top shelf and slides to the floor in a randomly collated pile of Spanish
and English versions.
“Fuck me,” he says, but the new Tommy drops down on his knees and gathers them in a bunch.
#
This isn’t like regular jury duty. There will be no judge. Noble has named me as his disciplinary advocate and also a first-hand witness to the incident that led to his ticket and pending sanctions. I am required to offer him an objective interview during which he can relate his version of the story and make a plea. This must be done within forty-eight hours of notification. Better to get it over and done with. In my limited experience, a face-to-face with Mr. I-AM is not something you look forward to.
The RHU, or Restricted Housing Unit, is sealed off from General Pop by a double set of jailhouse gates and an impenetrable locked door. Two officers escort me into the corridor that is a narrow squeeze along open-faced cells with heavy iron bars. Inmates wear bright red jumpsuits to distinguish their level of danger. Some are sprawled on the concrete floor so they can stretch their skin out on the cool concrete. Others look blankly up from flimsy-thin cot mattresses stripped of sheets. The heat is stifling in here. The interview room, which is down on the right hand side directly across from the Disciplinary Office, contains only two beat-up chairs and a table. Officer One ushers me into the seat closest to the door.
“You never want to be backed into the corner if shit goes down in here,” he says matter-of-factly. He’s just hoping that some shit will go off so he can practice the new defense moves he learned in Behavior Management training. I put my notepad and pen on the table and smile weakly.
“We’ll go get the shitbag,” says Officer Two and disappears out the door. I wait in the eerie silence. I expect guys down in the hole to be shouting crazy demands to have the governor brought in for a face-to-face chat or to be busy spackling the wall with feces in a do-it-yourself redecorating project. That’s what happens in all the prison movies, but not so here. There’s a palpable sense that everyone has just given up, laid down the fight and is curled around their own hopelessness A good ten minutes passes before there is the sound of scuffed slippers and the smooth shuffle of chain. Noble steps into the doorway, wrists cuffed and ankles shackled to another cumbersome chain that restricts the distance between hands and feet. Movement is difficult. A man this size is forced to hunch over at the shoulders and cow before his captors. They could twist Noble into a contorted human braid, padlock him limb to limb and still nothing would bend his pride.
“Take your seat!” orders Officer One. Noble lowers himself into the plastic chair.
“Drop your hands!” barks Officer Two. Noble complies and the hostile guard undoes the bottom end of the connecting chain and fastens the last link to an iron loop on the floor. The two guards step out and grant his right to privacy with counsel, but it’s a formality, really. The verdict is already stamped in the minds of the State before any proceedings take place. Noble looks weary. Who knows what torment he’s endured or inflicted in the darkness of this closed kennel?
“How are you faring?” I ask.
“I’ve been down here before,” he replies.
“We miss you in class,” I tell him. Noble regards me with a curious indifference. The resentment he carries is like slow-burning acid that etches holes from the inside out. Whatever good medicinal tonic is poured into this man seems to leach out through his pores.
“Do you want to stay in the group?” I ask. Noble shrugs. He doesn’t expect me to care; in fact, he assumes he’s already a black mark drawn in a straight line across my attendance sheet.
“I’m dead serious. I want to know what you want.”
“I thought this meeting was about my ticket. Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get me out of here? You’re my advocate,” he snarls. Noble lowers his head in defense, visibly bristling like a Tibetan Mastiff that’s held on a short length of heavy-duty chain and for good reason.
“Yes, I am. I am building an argument on your behalf,” I reply.
“So, are you going to tell them I’m not guilty?”
“No and neither are you. You’re guilty as shit. If you cry innocent, they’re going to slap you with the maximum loss of privileges. You know that. So you’re going to plead guilty because that’s owning up to your actions and at the same time, it makes them feel justified in what they did.”
“And how does that help me?” Noble hisses. He’s probably regretting his choice of legal representation about now. He’s thinking that even the shitty public defender that cost him his case would have summoned up more false concern.
“I’m going to write a strong recommendation that you be moved out of here and into the ticket block contingent on the stipulation that you complete my program and an additional session of Cage Your Rage. My defense is simply this: Further restrictions and confinement without providing opportunity for rehabilitation will put you at greater risk of violent outbursts and is therefore a liability in terms of staff safety.”
“What the fuck does all that mean?” he demands.
“In other words, they need to cover their own asses and show that we as a Department took positive steps towards addressing your anger problem. Otherwise, if you blow off out there and someone gets seriously hurt or killed, the public is going to demand an answer. And the first thing that happens is that they’ll trace your history right back here to Hazen, pull your file and see who was to blame for not addressing the issue. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of, “Noble says. “Cover your ass, right?”
“Pretty much. So tell me. Are you serious about getting anything out of the class?”
“I’ll keep it one hunnit. I’m only there because I have to be, but I have learned a lot by listening to the others.”
“Will you commit to participate if I can get you back in? You are an intelligent man with a lot of wisdom to offer. In here, street smarts count over book smarts. You’ve got forty-three years of living behind you. You must have learned something along the way.”
“Yeah, but I fucked up most of that,” he admits. That’s the closest thing to a confession that will ever come from this formidable man.
“Listen, figuring out what you don’t want in life is equally as important as knowing what you do want. If you can eliminate the wrong decisions, then you’re that much closer to answering what is right. Mistakes have a long memory.” He looks confused. I decide not to press the philosophical points here. “Then, are we good? You’ll plead guilty and I’ll write up my report that will be read at your hearing.”
“Yeah, we straight,” he replies. There can be no gentleman’s handshake here but we both know that a man’s honor rides on his credibility, especially in the street where going back on one’s word might mean a bullet in the back. Noble has given me his pledge. I will hold him to it.
“All set!” I wave to the officers who immediately come to free the accused and maneuver his big body out the door, one at each elbow in a slow tango back to his cell.
#
The following Tuesday, Noble is back in his seat, the fourth desk down on the far side of the room. The other guys give him fist bumps and shoulder slaps. In their limited assessment of the situation, it appears that another one of their own has beaten the system. He and I exchange a knowing look, one that contains gratitude and complicity. The thirty day loss of phone, visits and commissary are worth the measure of a man. He gets to keep his Rec time; I get to keep his respect.
CHAPTER 9: CRAZY BITCHES
“Good morning, gentlemen. Today we are on lesson ten. We’re going to talk about where anger comes from. Is it through nature or nurture? In other words, are we born with it or do we learn it through our environment? Are people predisposed to hate or do they acquire it as they grow up and are rooted in bitterness? What factors contribute to…..” and just then the Locke mower fires up right underneath the classroom window. A barrel of gasoline smoke drifts in as the engine throttles. The grounds crew begins its sweep of the lawns between the chapel and the school wing. With a whole hundred acres of sta
te property to be hacked down, I wonder how imperative it is to carve up the perimeter of mealy weeds along the wall where the teachers are just beginning their lessons. It’s meditated sabotage, a more devious way to try and silence a message the custody staff does not subscribe to. ‘Hugging thugs’ is not the Hazen way, though ironically the agency’s stated mission promotes enthusiastic and successful reintegration of its offenders. I stop trying to talk above the background noise while the machine idles just outside our room. Finally the piece of lawn equipment jerks into gear, takes up forward momentum and crawls down the length of the building, eventually carving out a right-angle turn before it heads out over open ground towards the fence line.
“As I was saying, what factors contribute to us resorting to anger as a way to solve problems?” I ask.
“We’re born with it,” says Serge. “Think about it. Babies are selfish people. If left alone to raise themselves, they’d be ruthless little bastards. That’s why we gotta discipline kids to get them to conform to society’s way of thinking.” Mr. Magrini speaks from experience. He was thoroughly schooled in the violent culture of organized crime. By the age of ten, a succession of backhands to the head had primed him. At fifteen, he had wholeheartedly subscribed to a charter of violence and lifetime loyalty.
