True Notebooks

by Mark Salzman

  “Yoda?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yoda’s just a mechanical puppet,” Benny pointed out.

  “So? He a smart fuckin’ mechanical puppet.”

  “Jones, quit laughin’. You gettin’ on my nerves.”

  “He ain’t laughin’, he cryin’.”

  “No he ain’t. Show me the tears.”

  “Damn,” Sal said, “I hope I get invited back to this thing.”

  26 / The Letter

  Kevin’s sentencing hearing was postponed, first from August to October, then to November, then to December, then to January. Each time, I crept through rush-hour traffic down to Torrance—two hours round-trip from Glendale—only to be told by a representative from the alternate public defender’s office that Kevin’s lawyer was not feeling well and had asked for a continuance. The hearing finally took place on January 12, five months after Kevin’s conviction and expulsion to county jail.

  Mr. Kinion did look frail. His face was bloated and pale, and he drank so much bottled water during the hearing I worried he might burst. He began with a motion for a new trial, citing procedural flaws that may have biased the jury against Kevin, but his motion was promptly denied.

  Before passing sentence, Judge O’Neill asked the murder victim’s mother, who was present, if she wished to address the court. She did. The room went silent as the grieving woman carried a framed photograph of her son, taken at his high school graduation, up to the podium.

  “I wanted Kevin to see the person that he murdered,” she said, giving each word its full measure. “Brandon was not only our son. He was a brother, a father, an uncle, a grandson, a cousin, a nephew, and a friend.”

  She held the portrait up so that everyone in the room could see it, then faced Kevin. Without taking her eyes off him, she described the horror of receiving the news of her son’s death, and then the despair she felt in the weeks and months afterward.

  “I know you know what it feels like to lose someone you love, because I know you lost your mother. But you don’t know the pain that a mother feels when she loses her child.” She wondered aloud if Kevin could possibly imagine how much damage he had caused, or how many lives he had shattered, then—just as her voice began to shake with emotion—she finished with an admonition: “When you go back to wherever they take you, you need to fall down on your knees and ask the Lord to forgive you for your sin. For you have committed the ultimate sin.”

  Kevin’s aunts spoke next. They each acknowledged the victim’s family’s grief and expressed remorse on Kevin’s behalf, but insisted that justice had not been done. The jury had never heard from Kevin, they had never really heard anything about him. They knew nothing of the obstacles he’d faced in life, or the good things he’d done for others. The police had lost the photos of Kevin taken immediately after the incident, showing the injuries to his face, and had also lost his clothing, which was not gang attire and would have shown that Kevin was not a gang member looking for a fight. They also wanted the court to know that Kevin’s attorney had promised to go to juvenile hall to meet with Kevin before the trial to discuss the case, and had promised to set up a meeting with the family members to let them know what he was doing on Kevin’s behalf, but had not done either. “To this date, he has never answered any of our phone calls. How do you prepare for a case without taking the time out to discuss the case with your client?”

  Kevin’s turn to speak came last. Now that he was a convict rather than a defendant, he wore the clothing he would probably wear for the rest of his life: a blue prisoner’s jumpsuit and sneakers. He had aged in the half year since I’d seen him; his shoulders had filled out, his face looked more gaunt, and the beginnings of a mustache had formed on his upper lip. He stood up, faced the mother of the dead boy, and said, “I feel remorse for what happened on November 9, 1996. There are no other words I can say to bring back your son, but I’d like to apologize and pray to God to allow you and your family . . .” His voice gave out. He took a few moments to compose himself, then continued:

  “I wish the things that I done didn’t occur, but unfortunately they did. I wish I could take them back, but I can’t. I wasn’t really trying to hurt your son or anything like that. I thought I was defending myself. I reacted before I knew what I was doing.”

  Kevin looked up at the judge. “I would just like to thank you for the chance to speak. I’d like to thank my family and friends for coming to support me and being by my side through this all.”

  “Anything else, Mr. Jackson?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  After Kevin sat down, Ms. Rose argued for the maximum sentence, citing no mitigating factors and Kevin’s juvenile record of four previous arrests. Mr. Kinion disagreed, insisting that there were, in fact, mitigating factors to consider.

  “Particularly relevant in that connection,” he said, “is a letter by Mr. Joe Sills, a deputy probation officer, dated August 14, 1998, about Kevin. I’d like to read it now.”

  Your Honor:

  I am writing this letter in support of Kevin Jackson. I am a probation officer at Central Juvenile Hall. I have been working probation for the past fifteen years. Throughout my career at Central I have come across many kids and young men. Out of all the minors that I have come across I have never met any minor quite like Mr. Jackson. He stands out in a unique way.

  I have known Kevin for almost two years. During these years he has proven to me that he is trustworthy, responsible, and sincere. He has also earned position as a messenger (unit worker), which is a job most of his peers admire. This is a job that requires intelligence, dedication, patience, and pride. He has been involved with the Narcotics Anonymous group, theater group, writing class, behavior modification courses, college course, and Bible study classes. Faced with adversity and peer pressure in a place like this, Kevin Jackson could have chosen the easy way and given up on himself, but instead he has still maintained a positive self-image for others and continued to further his education.

  In the beginning when I met Kevin I saw him as a young kid who has wasted his life. I figured he was like any other gangbanger that come and go. But as I got to know him on a personal basis he has shown no signs of gang involvement.

  I believe meeting Kevin was a blessing to me because he has made me a better person mentally and spiritually. He has always emphasized to me that his goal was to become a chef.

  I am convinced that if given the chance Kevin has the tools to become successful in society. I believe Kevin Jackson is an asset to his culture.

  Sincerely,

  Joe Sills

  I looked at Kevin. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t make a sound or move at all.

  “Your honor,” Mr. Kinion said, “as a criminal defense lawyer, I have never seen a letter like that from a probation officer on an aggravated murder case like this. I have never seen a criminal defendant in a case like this come before the court and say to the victim’s parents, ‘I’m sorry this happened.’ And I’ve been doing this for about thirty-five years.

  “I ask the court not to maximize the sentence. I feel that if he’s given a chance, at least a hope, something could be salvaged and he could be a benefit for all of us out of this society.”

  With no testimony or arguments left to hear, Judge O’Neill announced that the court was prepared to make a decision. He began by acknowledging the numerous letters he had received in support of Kevin from teachers, volunteers, counselors, and probation officers. My own letter was among them.

  “Absolutely,” he said, “unequivocally, I believe every word that is said. He is a model prisoner. But once he’s on the streets with his colleagues, his fellow Bloods, he becomes an animal . . .

  “It’s almost like there are two individuals. It’s tragic. It’s really sad. We’ve got a very young man here who tragically lost his parents. And where did he turn for family? He turned to the Bloods. That’s what he did. But that was his choice. And his choice was to go to that movie armed, and his choice was
to shoot three individuals. Bad choices.”

  Declaring no factors in mitigation, the judge gave Kevin the maximum sentence allowed by law: twenty-six years and eight months for the second-degree murder conviction, fifteen years to life for each attempted murder conviction, plus ten years for the use of a gun, all to run consecutively. Kevin didn’t visibly react to this news. When the sheriff’s deputy led him out of the courtroom to be transferred immediately from county jail to state prison, he kept his head lowered and didn’t turn to look back at any of us.

  “This is some good-ass food, Wong.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the dogs’ toes?”

  “That’s Filipinos, not Chinese.”

  Benny Wong’s mother had delivered enough Chinese food for a party. The occasion was Benny’s upcoming release. He had taken a three-year deal which meant that with time served, he could be sent home any day.

  Benny, Victor, Dale, Toa, Sal, and the newest members of the writing class, Carlos Bours and Antonio Siddique, stuffed themselves to capacity. Then they leaned against the walls of the small kitchen and joked around. The mood was festive; everyone seemed to share in Benny’s good news.

  “Man, you Asians are always passin’ the buck,” Mr. Granillo said. “Chinese say it’s the Filipinos, Filipinos say it’s the Koreans, Koreans say it’s the Vietnamese. I wanna know right now: Who eats dogs’ toes?”

  “Dogs don’t have toes,” Benny pointed out. “They have paws.”

  Mr. Granillo sighed. “I liked it better in the old days, when everybody used to kick Wong’s ass.” He stacked some egg rolls on his plate like firewood. “So who’s gonna bring in food next?”

  “My mom could bring in Mexican food,” Victor said.

  “Mine too,” said Antonio.

  “What about you, Jones? Your mom do any cooking?”

  Dale burped. “Hellyeah. KFC.”

  “That ain’t cookin’, Jones. That’s buyin’.”

  “Sheput somekinna sauceonit.”

  “OK, then it’s cookin’.”

  “Guys,” I said. “If we’re going to do any writing today, we’d better go over and do it now. It’s already ten-thirty.”

  “Can’t we write in here?” Antonio asked. “Then we could keep eating.”

  “If we stay here, no one’s going to get any writing done.”

  “Yes we will! C’mon, Mark, we—”

  Mr. Sills cut him short with a look. He pointed at the door with his plastic fork, and the boys began filing out toward the library.

  “Speaking of writing class,” Mr. Granillo said, “I got a bunch of kids saying they wanna join. And I know Jenkins got a few, too. You takin’ anybody new right now?”

  I didn’t want the class to grow beyond its present size, but I felt badly that so many boys were not being given the opportunity to join. On impulse, I asked Mr. Sills what he thought about my starting a second writing class.

  “When would you teach it?”

  “I could start the first one at ten, then the second right at eleven, and be finished by twelve.”

  Sills dipped an egg roll in hot sauce and thought about it. “Lemme discuss it with the committee.” He waved Dale and Toa back into the kitchen and told them what I’d just proposed. Then he asked me to leave the library. “Excuse us, Mark. We gotta talk this over.”

  I stepped out of the library and waited in the dayroom. Through the window set in the door I saw Mr. Sills put his arms around Dale’s and Toa’s shoulders, pulling them into a huddle. With their heads together they held a brief meeting, then waved me back in.

  “The committee has reached a decision,” Mr. Sills said.

  “No second class,” Toa told me. “You’ll get burned out. A man only got so much to give, and you already givin’ it. Too many kids, not enough you.”

  “But what about all those other guys?”

  Dale shook his head. “Gottawait. Sadbut true.”

  When I got to the library the other boys were already writing. Toa, who loved being challenged, handed me his notepad and asked for his word. I no longer had to think of topics for him; all I had to do was write a single word at the top of a page and he would do the rest. This time I gave him the word “substitute.” Ten minutes later he slid the notepad back for me to look over.

  I remember growin’ up I used to look up to my oldest brother. He was the baddest muthafucka I knew. Everything he did I wanted to do, every word he said I repeated. To me he was God. My substitute dad. My whole attitude was formin’ from his influence. When I got jumped in my hood my older brother was there. I took up as his Li’l Homie under his name. To me that was for life. Incarcerated, I phoned home, hearin’ that my brother just got released. I felt like my sergeant was back in command. But he came at me funny. The things I expected him to say, he didn’t. I was like, “Aw, man, he getting soft.” Time passed and I phoned home. He told me he was havin’ a kid and he finna get married. I started baggin’ on him, hopin’ that he’d get angry. But you know what he told me? “It’s all right Li’l Uso, I still love you.”

  That hit me hard. I was so angry, disappointed, ’cause I felt that what kept us close together was disintegrating. I now know that gangbanging, killing, 211s ain’t life. Happiness is. And the disappointment I felt wasn’t in my brother. It was in myself.

  I smiled, opened his notepad to the next page, and wrote the word “regret” at the top. He nodded and started a new essay.

  When everyone had put down their pencils, I asked the two new boys to read first. Carlos explained that he used to hate writing, but that changed after being locked up. “Now I got a different view. So today I decided to write on why I write.”

  There are many reasons why I write. Some are unexplainable, others I can explain are my way of expressing emotion, my way of getting free, my mental vacation, my way to vent anger, my way to throw emotional blows without using my physical ability, a way that no one gets hurt. A way to get through life and keep the peace. It’s my joy, my shining light. If I had no pencil and paper my mind would fail, with no real vocals to express myself it would overload my brain. My writing is how I maintain.

  Antonio had written about his father’s death from leukemia when Antonio was eight. His family, thinking they were protecting him from this terrible news, had lied to Antonio, telling him that his father had simply gone away somewhere for a rest when, in fact, he was dying in the hospital:

  . . . That day I found out that my father passed was the last day I cried in front of my family. I felt a burden fall on me that I was the man of the house now, that I had to look over my family. The day of the funeral everybody was crying but me. I felt if I cried it will make my family, especially my mom, cry more, so I held it in. But I was so busy holding my feelings for my family that I ceased to think about myself, and I held myself to a high standard. I thought, if I can take it, then so can my family.

  The truth is I was still a kid, but I covered my feelings so that they thought I could handle it, but the truth was I couldn’t. I thought I did, but that’s why I now have so much trouble showing my feelings. I am able to show my anger, but not my sentimental self. I never had a real childhood. It’s weird that a person who passed when I was eight can have such a big impact on my life. After his death my sorrow turned into anger. My ignorant mind painted a picture that my mom lied, so did my family, they all lied that my father just left us, so that’s why I have a lot of inner anger.

  “I feel what you sayin’,” Toa said. “Sorrow turn to anger ’cause it stay inside you.”

  “Turntopoison,” Dale said. “Youbecomin’thatsnake, waitin’tobite.”

  “Huh?”

  “He sayin’, you got poison inside you, you become like a fuckin’ snake. You in a bad mood all the time. You just waitin’. Anybody look at you funny, anybody get in your way, you bite ’em to get that poison out.”

  Dale nodded.

  “Yeah, same as what I was sayin’,” Carlos said. “It gets that shit out without hurtin’ nobod
y. Man, some of the stuff I wrote, if you read it you’d think I was some kinda ax murderer.”

  “You are a murderer, fool.”

  “Not a ax murderer.”

  “Anyways,” Toa said, “Siddique an’ me must be readin’ each other’s mind today. Mark give me the word ‘regret,’ an’ here’s what I come up with.”

  The day I thought would never end was the day I had to bury my cousin. I felt like shit the whole day. I woke up thinking of how I was gonna get the fools back who killed him. How I was gonna catch these punks slippin’ and smoke they ass. But most of all I was thinking of how was I going to look my auntie straight in the eyes again. How was I going to tell her everything was going to be all right, knowing I was lying to myself? He was gone and there wasn’t nothing any of us could say or do to bring him back. Life cut me short a heartbeat.

  The funeral also made me mad. All these old people that used to talk shit about the boys in my family standing up in front of the church talking about how they felt about my cousin. What the fuck did they know about him? Shit. Nothing. Even putting him in the ground felt like forever. How I gave people dirty looks who were there, hoping they would say something stupid so I could have a reason to trip. But the main reason why the day seemed so long to me was because I tried not to cry that day and succeeded, regretting it, wishing I would’ve.

  “That’s real,” Antonio said, nodding. “Whoever come up with that shit in the first place? That a man not supposed to show how he feels?”

  “It always been that way.”

  “No wonder we so fucked up.”

  “Yeah, but check it out. Girls show how they feel, they cry all the time, and looka what good it does them? They just as fucked up as we are.”

  “They worse! Why you think we call the man we hate the most a bitch? ’Cause he sneaky on top of everything else.”

  “Yeah, just looka the way girls treat other girls! They cruel, homeboy. And none of it straight up, it all behind the back. Never one-on-one, always with they little group, like fuckin’ hyenas. They cheat, they lie, they weak. If that’s what cryin’ does, I’ma hold off on them tears.”