In that moment, I made a promise to myself that I would not leave prison worse than I had entered. I had stood by as adult men and women let drugs strip them of dignity and decency, and I understood the serious nature of the crime I had committed. But I also knew there were some things I would never be capable of, and raping another human being was one of them. Becoming a snitch in order to gain privileges or favor from the guards was another.
Sadly, I would soon learn that not everyone can keep a vow once he finds himself behind bars.
—
THE COUNTY JAIL’S pecking order was as clear as it was unforgiving. From the lowest of the inmates to the highest reaches of the prison staff, life in jail was a real-life human experiment in the survival of the fittest.
A few days after being processed in, I was transferred to the cellblock where I would stay until I was sent up north to prison. As I stepped through the sliding glass doors onto 6 NW, a cellblock where they housed violent offenders, the dayroom grew silent. The only sound I could hear was the raggedy drone of a television that sat atop a metal table. Before walking the short distance across the room to my assigned cell, I scanned the room of black and brown faces, looking out for enemies from the streets or familiar faces from the ’hood.
It felt like every pair of eyes in the room was boring into me. Out the corner of my eye, I noticed a bald, dark-skinned inmate talking to a brown-skinned brother with a long scar on his face. They were whispering to each other and pausing every couple of seconds to look up at me.
My street senses kicked in. I knew immediately that if I was going to have a problem here, it would start with them. From the way the other inmates reacted to them, it was clear that these guys were at the top of the food chain, and I could sense that others in the room were waiting to see what they would do.
As soon as I saw them sizing me up, I returned their glares, sending a clear message that I wouldn’t hesitate to fight to the death if need be. But I didn’t allow my stare to linger. This was one of the many rules of engagement that I had learned on the streets of Detroit, where staring at someone or stepping on his shoe could get you shot or killed. It was important to let people know that you weren’t a pushover, but it was equally important to communicate that you weren’t a shit starter, either. It was a delicate balance, but it was the difference between life and death.
I entered my assigned cell and tossed my bedroll onto the top bunk. The only thing I wanted more than freedom was sleep and a hot shower. As I looked around the room, I felt a rising sense of panic. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I couldn’t believe that my life had been reduced to a two-man cell with a toilet. I knew then that I had to figure out how to escape as soon as I could.
A dark-skinned, bald inmate approached my door. I had heard enough to know that the guys on the tier would beat your ass for recreation if there was something they didn’t like about you, so I clenched my fist and prepared to deliver the first blow if he got within arm’s length.
“You smoke?” the inmate asked as he walked past me to the desk in the back of the cell.
“Yeah,” I said, a bit confused, until it dawned on me that this was my cellmate. I had noticed that there were two bunks in the room, but it wasn’t like we went around wearing name tags that said, “Hey, I’m your bunky.”
“You might want to roll one of these up before they lock us down for the night,” he said, passing me a pack of Bugler brand hand-rolled cigarettes as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
I took the pack without knowing what to do with it. I had never rolled my own cigarettes; all I had ever smoked were Newports. I looked at the pack and then back at him as he rolled a thick wad of tobacco into the cigarette paper and left the cell. I followed suit, but my rolling skills were unrefined, and my cigarette came out lopsided.
I stepped out on the rock (our term for the cellblock where we lived) and got a light from the automatic lighter attached to the wall. I inhaled deeply and immediately began choking. The pungent smoke felt like it was ripping my throat to shreds. Everyone laughed as they watched me struggle with the cigarette. It was the worst thing I had ever tasted, but the rush of nicotine felt good, and I was grateful for it.
Moments later, a voice came over the PA system telling us that it was time for lockdown. We returned to the cell, and my bunky introduced himself.
“They call me S,” he said.
“Jay,” I replied with a nod.
“What they got you for?” he asked, leaning back on his bunk.
“Open murder,” I said, studying his face to see his reaction.
“Damn, homie, I hope you beat that motherfucker,” he said, leaning forward. “They hit me on a murder and sentenced me to natural life. But I’m about to give this time back.” His confidence made me believe him.
We talked deep into the night. S had been locked up for over a year, and he gave me some basic rules to follow if I was ever sent to prison. But he said he thought I could beat my case. I didn’t know what he was basing his opinion on, but it gave me hope at a time when hope was the one thing keeping me alive.
I washed my face and upper torso in the sink before hopping onto the bunk. As I lay down, my whole life began rushing through my mind in a violent stream of consciousness. My reality didn’t feel real. I couldn’t believe I was sitting in a cell with a stranger discussing the possibility of me spending the rest of my life in prison. I was supposed to be on my way to college. I was supposed to be following my dream of becoming a doctor—of becoming a healer, not a destroyer.
I thought of my girlfriend, Brenda. We had lived together for half a year, and she was about four months pregnant. I had a daughter from a previous relationship, but the mother hadn’t allowed me to be a part of raising that child. When Brenda told me she was pregnant, I was excited at the thought of being a full-time father for the first time in my life.
A deep sadness engulfed me as I thought about the baby growing inside of Brenda’s womb and the conversation we had the night before I was arrested. I had looked into her eyes and told her that everything would be all right, that we would get away from Detroit and get a fresh start. We would give our child the life we had dreamed of as children.
She laid her head on my chest and looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. I rubbed her belly, where our precious baby was growing.
“Can you feel it?” she asked as she guided my hand. The warmth of her belly coupled with the warmth I felt in my heart made me believe everything would be all right. I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t be around to see our baby born.
I thought about the embarrassment and disappointment that I knew my father felt over my arrest. I hadn’t spoken with him, my stepmother, or my mother since that night; I had made a decision to live the street life, and I felt like I had to deal with the consequences on my own. I had no idea what it meant to be a parent. No idea how it felt to hurt because you knew your child was hurting. It wasn’t until years later that I would learn about the sleepless, tearful nights that my father endured during the years of my incarceration.
I couldn’t stop the flow of thoughts. I thought about how it felt to fire the shot that ended another man’s life. I thought of all the people who had betrayed me—the best friend who turned me in, and the people I knew who had made statements against me. As soon as I was arrested, my friends from the outside turned their backs on me. I hadn’t been gone a week, and they had already begun stealing my clothes and playing on the little money I had left.
Then I thought about the ultimate betrayal: my betrayal of myself. This was the hardest thought for me to deal with. I had given up on myself when I picked up drugs, alcohol, and guns. In fact, I had never even given myself a chance in the first place. I thought about every teacher and parent who had told me I was wasting my potential and asked me why I was doing it. Hell, even the officers who arrested me asked me why I was wasting my life. The very people who put me in prison believed in me more than I believed in myse
lf.
But none of that mattered here in the county jail, a place that housed the broken dreams of people like me. The only thing that mattered to me was the threat of a life sentence hanging over my head.
As I drifted off to sleep, I could only manage one thought: It can’t end like this.
—
OVER THE NEXT few weeks in the county jail, I was given a crash course on how to survive behind bars. I learned to barter for food or cigarettes with services like making three-way phone calls for other guys or writing a letter for someone who couldn’t write. I learned that jail wasn’t much different from the streets; it was a power-based environment where the only means of gaining respect were violence and money. Every inmate had to prove himself at some point, and if you had money, you had to prove that you could keep it or find someone who could keep it for you.
Once I was settled in, I called Georgia, a lady from the block who I knew could help me connect with my family. She was like a big sister to me, and I could hear concern in her voice as she asked me about life on the inside. It was through Georgia that I talked to my family and the few friends I had left. She would make three-way calls or have the person I wanted to talk to come by her house.
The first day I called, Georgia went and got Brenda for me. I could hear the worry and the childlike vulnerability in Brenda’s voice, and a wave of guilt surged through me. I had never thought about the fact that by getting locked up, I was also imprisoning everyone who loved or cared about me.
For the first few minutes, we talked about what was going on in the ’hood. We talked about my defense strategy and what I needed to do to beat the case. We also talked about some money issues that she was facing, and I told her that I would talk to a few people to help her out. When I told her the date of my next court appearance, she started crying.
“My stomach is growing, and the baby is kicking,” she said.
“I’ll be home before the baby is born,” I said, my voice barely registering above a whisper.
“I need you here with me right now!” she wailed. “Why does God take everybody I love away from me?”
“I don’t know, baby.”
“You betta get your ass home,” she said. I could tell from her voice that a smile had formed on her tear-streaked face.
Brenda was a tough girl who had grown up in tougher circumstances, yet she had the most beautiful laugh that I had ever known. At the time of my arrest, we had still been getting to know each other. But as I listened to her on the other end of the phone, I realized that I truly loved and cared about her, and there was no way I could leave her out there to fend for herself and our child. She deserved to be taken care of, and she deserved to have the father of her child by her side.
She deserved for me to get out of jail, and I vowed that I would give her what she deserved—or die trying.
—
AFTER TALKING WITH Brenda, I was emotionally and mentally drained, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk to anyone on the rock. I was walking back to my cell when Twin commented on the call, which he had overheard.
“That nigga Jay just got off the phone sucker stroking,” he said with a laugh.
A few guys laughed at his joke. To openly express your emotions was considered a weakness, so whenever someone showed any feelings toward a female, be it love or anger, they would say he was sucker stroking. Twin was just joking, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“Stay out my business, bitch ass nigga,” I said, turning toward him. It was time to show that I could handle my business.
“Damn, nigga. I was just bullshitting,” he responded. The whole room grew silent.
“You don’t know me like that to be playing, so stay the fuck out my business,” I continued, my anger growing.
But Twin didn’t take the bait. I could tell that he was at a loss for words.
“Come on, homeboy, let that go,” an older cat named L said, guiding me toward my cell.
L was from the Cass Corridor, and he was one of the oldest guys on the rock. All of us respected him, and he was the go-to guy whenever we needed advice. He would sit and talk to us about life, the Bible, and prison. His advice was insightful and articulate, and he was genuine in his concern for us. He had been to prison before, and even when he was on the outside, he was a prisoner to a heavy crack addiction. Like many of the guys who find themselves in the penitentiary, L was at his best in an institutional setting, safe from the temptation of drugs.
When we reached my cell, L came inside and asked me what was going on. I gave him the rundown, and we sat around kicking it about life and the time we were facing. After about half an hour, Twin showed up at the door. He apologized for his comments, and I apologized for snapping on him. We were all going through some tough times, each of us coping in the best way we knew.
—
AFTER MY DISPUTE with Twin, guys on the rock started looking at me differently. They began to seek me out for advice, and I slowly emerged as a leader. Older inmates sometimes asked for my help with their problems, and they would defer to me when ever a dispute arose. L took this all in and gave me counsel along the way. He later told me that I reminded him of himself at an earlier age. He said that he had always been smart, but could never pull himself away from the allure of the streets and drugs.
Out of all the young guys, I developed the strongest bond with Gigolo, a brother from Inkster. We were a lot alike, except Gigolo liked to fight more than I did, which made a lot of the guys on the rock keep their distance from him.
Every day, Gigolo and I would sit in my cell or Twin’s cell and kick it about life and all the things we missed. Sometimes we would take turns peeking out of the spots in the windows where the paint had peeled away. If you looked at the right angle, you could see outside and catch a glimpse of the courthouse steps and hundreds of people walking by. Looking out that window made it feel like we were stealing a small sliver of freedom.
Each day, at approximately one o’clock, Twin’s girlfriend would come and stand outside where he could see her, a sign of her love for him. During that time, we allowed Twin to have the window to himself. In fact, it was our respect for Twin’s girlfriend that eventually led to one of the first physical conflicts I experienced in jail.
A tall, slim, brown-skinned brother from the East Side had moved onto our rock. He seemed cool, so we allowed him to play cards and shoot ball with us. Over the course of the next week, he started coming to our little counseling sessions in Twin’s cell.
One Saturday morning, we were all sitting around smoking cigarettes and talking about the court dates that some of us had coming up. We had all gone to the law library, but most of the books were torn up or outdated, so we relied heavily on the advice of L (who was familiar with the law from his previous stints in prison) and the advice of our attorneys. After talking about the pros and cons of taking a plea deal, we were getting ready to lock down for the afternoon count when Twin noticed that a picture of his girlfriend was missing. Gigolo, L, and I hadn’t seen it, so we began helping Twin look for the picture.
It was then we realized that the new guy was gone. I shot out of Twin’s cell and raced down to where he was staying. When I got there, his door was closed, and a towel was hanging on the window, to keep people from being able to see inside.
I told him to open the door. “Hold on,” he yelled back. By this time, Twin, Gigolo, and L had come down to the cell. We demanded that the guy open his door, but he told us he was using the bathroom. By now, the rest of the guys on the rock had come to see what all the commotion was about.
I told Gigolo to grab the sheet from his bed and pop the cell door open. We jimmied the lock, and by the time we got in, the guy was flushing the toilet. But even from the edge of the cell, we could see remnants of the picture floating in the water, and in one of the shreds, Twin recognized the dress his girlfriend had been wearing in the photo.
Before the guy could force out an explanation, I punched him in the jaw. I was angry he had viol
ated our trust, and it was time to make him pay. He staggered against the door and tried to cover up as I delivered another punch, knocking him out into the dayroom. Before he could hit the ground, Gigolo and Twin started punching him in the head and face. The guy scrambled to his feet, rushed toward the cellblock door, and started beating on the glass, begging a deputy to rescue him.
His face was bloody and swollen, and L told us to let him be until the deputies came and got him. A deputy we called Tyson came to get the guy. He was one of the few officers who understood and respected us. He knew we had one of the more laid-back rocks and didn’t start shit unless we had a good reason.
When Tyson asked the guy what happened, we looked at one another and started laughing. Twin explained to the deputy that the guy had tried to jack off to the picture, and Tyson began laughing along with us. He turned to the guy and said, “I should send you back in there so they can beat your ass again.”
—
IN A COUNTY jail known for being a hellhole, we had managed to carve out a decent life for ourselves. But the following week, things took a somber turn as we were reminded of the reason all of us were there in the first place. A laid-back guy named G was the first inmate on our rock to be found guilty on the charges he was facing. He was convicted of posing as a police officer and robbing a couple of drug dealers, who had come to court and testified against him. The night before G went for sentencing, we had stayed up talking about the possibilities and what he hoped for. He knew the charge carried a life sentence, but he thought the judge would give him no more than ten years.
When he returned from sentencing and told us he had been given eighty-five years, we were stunned into silence. Each of us started thinking about the time we were facing. If they had given G eighty-five years for robbery, what would they give me for murder?
Writing My Wrongs Page 4
