If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  “Well, Mizz Prick, I will allow you….,” he said, holding his tongue for a few seconds to let the suspense build “to suck my ass through a sippy straw ‘til your lips turn juju brown.” The woman and her constituents were of course horrified. This was definitely what not to say to the people who hold the future in their hands.

  “You are dismissed, Mr. Briggs,” said Mrs. Tilton. “You may leave the room now. You will not be heard again,” she said, her voice empty of any emotion.

  “You’re goddamn right I’m leaving this fucking charade,” he yelled. Gemini kicked his chair a few feet and tossed the personal file he had brought along with him. Sheaths of paper waffled and wended their way to the feet of the self-proclaimed judge who had just relegated him to six more years of hard time.

  “And that’s it, Miss Abrams. My whole life the last dozen years flushed down the crapper,” moans Gemini. There’s not much I can say to encourage him.

  “You’re a bigger person that she is by far,” I say. “And much prettier too.” A flicker of a smile flashes and fades. He bats his wet lashes and sniffles.

  “Yeah, fuck her! She couldn’t dress her way out of a paper bag. You should have seen the crap she tried to pass for business professional. And, she colors her own hair with some cheap box of peroxide from Wally World,” he says. “Looks like buffalo piss.”

  ‘”Atta boy,” I reply. Inside I curse the woman whose indifference might be the last straw that ultimately costs him his life. With his identity already swinging so precariously between genders and his self-esteem so dangerously low, it wouldn't take much to push him into hanging up.

  #

  I open the curriculum manual to our current lesson: Session 11. We are nearing the end of our odyssey. Eleven men and one woman slated to cover decades of dry ground and arrive at the finish line in less than two months’ time. It’s an amazing race of fortitude that few excel at. There is no million-dollar prize at the end of this short season to egg us on; just the hope that one or two among us will emerge stubborn enough to grasp and hold on to a new way of life. The proof of change is tricky. Like love, it is measured not in time but in the amount of transformation. One can be moving on a continuum over decades and have accumulated little growth or distance; and in an instant, another can make a leap that clears a lifetime of cheap talk.

  “Malcolm X believed that second to college, prison was the place for a man to do his best thinking. If a man wanted to change, this is where he can start. Why do you think he said this? What do you guys have in here that people on the outside lack?”

  “Time,” answers Ortega.

  “You got it! You all have an abundance of time to reflect and analyze and plan. Do it now before you get out. The world is waiting for you and you’ll be consumed by bills and making a living and children and all those things. Most people on the outside never stop to question their lives. They don’t have the luxury of time to do so. They are too busy just living. Put the thought in now while you have opportunity. You have to start caring about your lives more than others do. That being said, I disagree with Malcolm X,” I propose confidently.

  Noble immediately tenses his shoulders and starts to mouth an indignant protest. More than likely, there is a tome of philosophical differences between the black Islamic activist and my white self; and without question, Mr. I AM and Ms I’m- Not have had our differences. I sense he is getting ready to throw the race card at me.

  “Hold up! Before you say anything, let me one up Mr. X by suggesting that prison is an even better place than college to do your best thinking,” I add. “Why would I think so?”

  “Because of all the distractions at college?” asks Bowman.

  “Exactly! Temptations like drinking, women, sports, and socializing. Besides a hand-held Game Boy or a small TV with poor reception, a prisoner has his books and his solitude. Anyone who comes to prison will be smarter than he was before. Guaranteed. If you want to learn to be a better criminal, here’s the place to do it; but if you want to learn to be a better man, now’s your opportunity. And on this one point, Malcolm and I agree. If he is motivated, no one can change more completely than the man at the bottom.”

  “There’s some real evil dudes in here that ain’t ever gonna be different, Miss Abrams. No matter how bad you want them to. They spend their time planning how to pick up where they left off. Soon as they get out, they’re going back to the streets. You can’t stop a man from doing what he’s gonna do,” Ortega warns.

  The reality of the statistics makes me sigh with weariness. Eight of the eleven will be back within the first twelve months, most of them on technical violations of probation or parole rather than a new charge. The three lucky souls who make it to the magical three-years-free mark might just stay out but they are far from free men. The drug addiction has pickled their senses; the emasculation behind bars soured their sensibilities. Their forwarding address may well be the parking lot behind the old train station. They are still handicapped by inferior educations, hounded by child support enforcement, aspiring to be sandwich makers at a sub shop for marginal pay if they are fortunate to have the manager overlook their criminal record. What if I I’m wasting my time? What else should I be doing? If I stopped to question my part in this human drama, I’d be doomed as well.

  “I realize that. It’s up to each individual to make peace with this idea. The system can’t force people to change,” I admit.

  “Why do they got to punish me for what another man does? I mean, I served my time. That’s what they wanted, right? And then some other mother fucker gets out and shoots a dude in a gas station and out comes this new law. I shouldn’t have to pay for his fuck-up. I can’t know what he’s gonna do.”

  “Listen, you have to remember that public safety is the number one priority, not only for law enforcement but for the citizens they swear to protect. This is what propels politicians towards drafting up public acts,” I say. Euclid is right to a point. God Himself must be taken aback when one of his first draft picks falls miserably short of expectations and ends up buffing the locker room floor instead of mopping up the other team.

  “But that’s just human nature, my man. People judge us all as a group. That’s never gonna change,” Noble says.

  “You just hit on a very good point. None of us can ever know what is in a man’s heart. He might act like a model citizen on paper and be capable of incredible evil. Some of the guys who have left here and gone on to do heinous crimes looked great on paper. They were ideal inmates, supposedly.”

  “They tryin’ to cover their asses, that’s all. If something should happen. The Governor makes some dumb-ass decision that affects us all.” Crespo is talking out of turn and off the cuff, but at least he’s talking. However, he couldn’t point us in the direction of his native Puerto Rico even with the help of a compass and he sure can’t steer his conscience minus a moral compass. He has not a clue about politics, except the clearly-delineated party lines between one gang’s turf and another’s.

  “In part, that is true because they pay attention to what goes on in their towns and cities. They listen to what is important to the citizens that vote for them. That is what drives the laws. When an ex-offender goes out and commits a horrific act, people are scared. And you can’t blame then. The community puts pressure on the politicians to do something. Then the legislators meet and deliberate and try to come up with some new policy that will address that issue. Are others sometimes unfairly caught in these laws? Sure,” I conclude. “But what’s the alternative?”

  “Enforcing laws or making up new ones is not going to change anything,” Bowman argues.

  “So, let me ask you guys. If not laws, then what will?” No one appears to have an answer for this question. Dead quiet ensues as each man ponders this question privately. The bell rings for recall. Noble immediately stands and starts walking towards the door.

  “Hold on a minute. Thursday is our last class. I want each of you to spend some time thinking hard about what
you have gained, either through the material in the hand-outs or from something someone has said here. And I’m asking each of you to bring in a piece of wisdom to share whether it be a in the form of a quote, a poem, a rap or an original thought. Does that make sense to everyone?”

  “Miss. Miss. Will we get our certificates then?” asks Ortega.

  “Here’s the deal. You bring me the ‘cash’ and I’ll hand over the goods. Fair deal?” I ask. There is a choir of discordant yes’s, for sure’s and no doubts.

  “Will you bring the ice cream and cake?” asks Zimmer.

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply. “You’re responsible for the entertainment. “

  “Let’s kick some ballistics. I don’t wanna ever come back here and I never wanna be reminded of this place. Lots of dudes will say they’re gonna go work with kids. Stop 'em from getting into trouble and shit like that. I’m not going out there and try to save the world. That’s your job,” Crespo says, looking straight at me with unwavering honesty. Amazingly, his near-perfect English has come back to him at this final hour.

  “Yeah, Miss Abrams. That’s your job!” they all echo.

  “Well, looks like I’m doing a great job at screwing that up,” I say. “You all are proof of that.” The class erupts in good-natured laughter.

  “Yeah, we’re not changed men. We’re just re-circulated personnel,” says Zimmer.

  CHAPTER 13: CRACKDOWN

  Ready. Set. Go! As planned, the inmates are not expecting the army of staff that comes marching into the unit. The cons are milling about the officer’s station and lounging on their bunks with their sneakers untied when we descend like a swarm. As ordered, counselors each choose a cube and man it up front as the residents are recalled. I keep an eye on the eight men under my watch as they grumble and dress, observing each movement, checking to see if an inmate tosses anything in the garbage so we can retrieve it. Two guys are acting suspiciously. One tucks small papers in the pages of his Koran and the other has produced a roll of Scotch tape and is wrapping it madly around a pen barrel. Whatever use it is intended for, tape is contraband and must be removed. A tall African-American seems disinterested in the whole show, props his mirror up against the plastic coffee cup and dabs pimple cream on his face. Another fellow is flushed out of the showers and comes skidding over, hopping on one foot in order to shed his shorts. I discreetly look down at the floor for the few seconds he is sans boxers. These guys are no different than women. Having unexpected company has prompted many of them to pull styling gel from their lockers to comb through their scalps. Bed C lumbers down from the top bunk in a lackadaisical crawl, slips his feet into untied kicks and scowls. A sleek, black German shepherd lunges against his leash whenever any inmate makes a sudden move or looks him in the eyes. His handler is enjoying the show of bravado. This half-grown pup will make a keen officer in another six months.

  “That dog hates black people,” mumbles bed A.

  “He hates anyone wearing tan,” says his bunkie.

  “Like I said.”

  “Listen up, everyone. Off your bunks, now! You need to be in full tans only,” barks the Captain. “No sweatpants or shorts. Have your ID’s and shoes on. No headphones or electronics. We’re shaking down this dorm. You’ll be led out in groups of fours, strip searched and sent to the gym. Let’s go!”

  The Intelligence unit has learned that there is a cell phone in the facility, apparently in the hands of several gang members who are running game and orchestrating business with it. The mandate has been issued: Find that phone as soon as possible. The cell device reportedly has magnets attached so that it can cling up under anything metal. The Security Division has garnered details down to the make and suspected location of the phone, but we are not privy to the exact source of its signal. During our search we are to remove all disallowed items, anything deemed a fire hazard and any excess supplies above and beyond what is allowed on their personal matrix. Once the room is clear of inmates, we are underway.

  I sift through grocery bags gorged with jelly-filled pastries, cupcakes with artificial cream centers, squeezable pouches of sandwich spread, bags of yellow, salty popcorn which smell much the same as the old socks and Converse knock-offs tucked beneath the metal bed. Packets of sweetener are crammed into Styrofoam cups along with denture cream and plastic combs. It’s amazing how a life can be reduced down to a ragged envelope of letters, both love and legal. I roll the mattress end over end and search the frame underneath. Then I force a gloved hand deep into the shoes and boots, feeling for any pockets or opening in the lining where drugs can be stashed. The K-9 has pulled up short and squatted near a bottom bunk.

  “Good girl!” exclaims her handler. She has rooted out the bag of heroin he planted there as a training tool. Some guards get a primal thrill out of looting through another man’s possessions with the permission to decipher at will, tossing and tearing and leaving an ungodly mess behind. We work in pairs, two sets of eyes on the same territory. I’m teamed up with an officer who has done this routine a thousand times and scans robotically over the same old, same old. It is a filthy task. As worthless as these possessions appear, it is all a man has here. I try to respect the time it took for the inmate to fold his shirts and align his devotionals but for most, it is a free-for-all. A growing number of questionable items have been handed over in marked bags to the Captain, but still no cell phone.

  “Take your time. I want you all to dig in and do a good job. We’re in no hurry. We’ve got five days to take this place apart,” shouts the Lieutenant.

  The task of sifting through photographs is tedious but can often turn up vital information for gang Intel. I discover a pile of photos that chronicle a life of clubs, cookouts, cars and more stacks of cash than the local teller has in her drawer, but nothing noteworthy. My counterpart has pulled a bundle of papers out of a Federal Express envelope and left them strewn on the bunk. Pages torn from rapper magazines and Christianity Today, multiple years worth of birthday cards, car catalogs, scorecards for gambling bets, journal entries of workout repetitions and newspaper clippings from Sunday inserts all manhandled and badly shredded in the hunt. I toss them on the floor to be swept up with all the other refuse. Several obituaries have been carefully creased and clipped together. So many young men lost to this make-believe war on the streets, like this handsome buck glowing up at me from his memorial prayer card. Poor Alix Carson, 1973-1998. Carson. Instantly my gut turns ice cold. I scan the short article for clues, perusing the lengthy list of survivors that in addition to his mother includes a sizable extended family of aunts, uncles, half-siblings and cousins. No cause of death noted.

  Carson is one of three names on the short list of those who had the greatest impact on my life. The mention of it had the profound effect of stopping me in my tracks with the fearful reverence one has for something that has the power to kill and nearly had. I never saw the man in person. I’m not certain I would have attended the trial had there been one, even if I was well enough to get to the court house. But the plea proceedings took place in the privacy of the District Attorney’s office and Carson disappeared into the crowd of thirteen thousand prisoners before we ever got a good look at him. All I had was a flash portrait like a profile in a quick strobe light, a shape moving in a jumpy dance away from me. The dynamics of our ill-fated encounter were spoiled from the start. I was his victim; therefore I was nothing to him. But for a time, he was everything to me. I received the victim notification call when they transferred Mr. Carson to a lower-level facility three years into his bid. When I sat at the parole hearing, he chose not to look at me. My only recourse was to read the impact statement that I hoped would sting his soul. Based on the lesser charges that he pled guilty to, the Board decided to release him after eighty-five percent of his sentence was served just shy of seven years. The final courtesy call came to inform me that Carson had just suited up in civilian clothing and was walking free. His co-defendant Turner followed a similar track but the onus of the crime fell on the
first man as the instigator. Carson resumed his life pretty much where he left off. As for me, I was forced to recreate myself. What drove me to throw myself headlong into the mud of mankind was the need to find common ground where I could eventually look these men in the eyes; not up from the vantage point of a pitiful patient and not down at them from a distance of denial. No, straight on as a human being they could not ignore.

  But what did this dead man have to do with the inmate who slept in this bunk? There is not time to formulate a plan. No materials can be carried out by a staff member. The only way to spare this item from the garbage is to declare it contraband and have it catalogued for removal and possible reprimand; but nothing about this benign pile of papers warrants this action, I need to find something else. Quickly, I rummage through the locker where his cosmetics are stuffed in Pringles containers. I dump out the Q-tips, nail clippers and strips of state-issued pills in a roll of serrated strips. Nothing suspect. And then it comes to me. I can use the potato chip canister. If they aren’t storing food in them, these containers can be tossed. I grab the envelope of clippings off the bed, roll it in a cylinder and push the wad down into the tube. I mark it with the cube and bunk number and drop it in the trash.

  There are more folders to go through but my partner is back to wind up this cubicle and move on. Even rooting out sexually-explicit material or gang codes is not enough to keep anyone here past shift change.

  “All set?” he asks. Most of the other teams have snapped off their latex gloves and are sitting at the inmate tables tossing checkers at each other.

  “Sure. Let’s do it,” I reply. Together we sweep up the debris on the floor and dump it in the waiting bins. We high-five one another. My heart is palpitating wildly, either from uncontrolled tachycardia or another full-blown anxiety attack approaching. I can tell everyone is looking at me, wondering why that counselor is walking stiff as a wooden Indian. My steps are out of sequence and bring me up short and breathless in front of the officer’s staging platform.