“Listen, don’t get upset,” said Kelly. “It was just talk.”
Just talk! Yes, I had sent an unwelcome memo. But I had also singlehandedly pulled the unit through a horrendous summer—overseeing the Bing, guiding us through a successful audit, maintaining staff coverage during a lengthy vacation cycle, not to mention managing a psychiatrist crisis—in every way demonstrating my ability to supervise OBCC’s Mental Health Department. How dare they! My world was coming apart. I grabbed my jacket, ran out to my car, and drove off the island and down to the Triboro Bridge. The beastly heat had finally relented, and summer’s green leaves had changed colors and fluttered to the earth. I walked down a leaf-covered path and sought sanctuary at the river’s edge. The dark water, buffeted by stiff winds, crashed along the rocky shoreline. I looked out on the water, and as I did, a powerful realization was taking shape: It was over. There was nothing left of the meaning and fulfillment I had once found on Rikers Island. It was over now.
I lifted my face up to the wind and felt the soft spray of water. Images from the beginning started flashing through my mind—I smiled at the memory of the mothers and babies in the Rose Singer nursery. I thought of Lucy and Annie Tilden and Rhonda Reynolds. Where were they now? I recalled my first day at GMDC when Janet and Pat had met me in the lobby, and how enthused I’d been. I thought of my first case, Antwan Williams; of Chris Barnett, the motorcyclist; Alex Mora, whose brother had been shot; and Alex Lugo, forced to be a prison gladiator. I recalled Michael Tucker and his mother, and the many worried families of the mentally ill that I’d tried to comfort. Countless others flashed through my mind, hundreds of people struggling, trying to find their way. Maybe my father was right—maybe I couldn’t change the world. But in some small way I’d always tried. I’d shaken hands with every single person I’d met. I’d looked the disdained, sick, and forgotten in the eye, listened with an open heart, and treated all with dignity. Despite everything I’d been through, I still believed in the dignity of all life.
Yes, it was over now. St. Barnabas may have just done me a favor.
I started back to my car, and then I stopped. I turned around and walked back to a trash bin and reached into my pocket. I pulled out my cigarettes and tossed them away for good.
* * *
When I woke up the next morning, my heart was immediately flooded with the ugliness of the previous day, the bitter sting of rejection. Yet I also felt a deep sense of peace at the thought of my decision to leave. For the remainder of the week, I kept things to myself, allowing the staff to first process the news of Kelly’s departure. When she’d gathered everyone to inform them, they were surprised and disappointed. And then, inevitably, conversation turned to talk of the new chief. Everyone looked in my direction. “Don’t assume it’s going to be me,” I cautioned. But my warning wasn’t taken seriously. “Oh, Mary,” Theresa said, waving her hand, “you’re so modest!” Under the pressure of summer’s events, we had forged a strong bond. This whole group had grown dear to me, and the thought of telling them that I would also be leaving was almost unbearable.
But at the first opportunity, I called over to my old friends Janet and Charley. “Now, don’t do anything rash, Mary!” Janet said. But by now, even Janet’s admonitions were drowned out by the roar in my own heart; my time on Rikers was done.
The following day, I typed up my resignation letter. My first stop at Central Office was Hugh Kemper’s office. As soon as he saw the envelope, he knew. “Why, Mary? Why?”
I liked Hugh and knew he’d been in my corner. “I just feel it’s time to move on.”
“Does this have to do with not being asked to replace Kelly?”
“Honestly, Hugh? No . . . not that I wasn’t upset about it, but I think it was a catalyst, the push that I needed.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. I’m really sorry.”
Next was Dr. Campbell’s office. When I handed him the envelope, he seemed mildly surprised but received the news politely, wishing me well in my “new endeavors.”
Thankfully, Suzanne Harris was out that day.
39
My last day on Rikers Island brought unexpected gifts that I will never forget and will always treasure. My goal was to get through what would be an emotional day of tying up loose ends. Kelly was already gone, and predictably, Central Office had yanked our new clinical supervisor, saying she was needed in another jail. Had I not been leaving, I would have been seething, but now I simply took it as another sign that my decision to leave was the right one.
I was assigning my last batch of referrals when Hugh Kemper appeared at the door with two overstuffed briefcases, the contents of his desk, in each hand. St. Barnabas had a new idea. Because of a recent suicide at Rose Singer, it occurred to them that the Central Office administrators were out of touch with the jails. Their overnight solution was to physically relocate their staff to the jails themselves. Hugh was assigned to OBCC. I cleared off a table for him, and he started digging into the briefcases, searching for papers that had been filed in his desk.
The phone rang, and it was the Bing. Someone had just cut himself, and another was threatening suicide. I called Pete Majors into the office. Hugh looked up. “I’d like to go over there,” he said. “I’d like to see the Bing.”
“Coming with us, Mary?” asked Pete.
“No. Looks like there’s enough of you to handle it.” I would never again set foot in the punitive tower.
After they left, I went out to the fax machine and noticed a band of DOC brass making their way through the clinic. With their white shirts and colorful medals, this was a high-ranking crew. In the middle was a short, well-dressed man in a business suit whom I did not recognize. They were coming closer, looking in my direction.
“Who’s Mary Buser?” asked the man in the suit.
“There she is,” said one of the deps, pointing to me.
The man in charge thrust out his hand. Although puzzled, I reached out and shook it.
“I’m Deputy Commissioner Paris,” he said.
I recognized the name immediately; he worked just under Commissioner Bernard Kerik.
“On behalf of the New York City Department of Correction, I want to thank you for the work you’ve done on Rikers Island.”
I was stunned. Hardly a word of gratitude from my own employers, but recognition from this unlikeliest of sources.
“Everyone I’ve spoken to is complaining about what a loss it is that you’re leaving,” he said. “This is a tough building, with the Bing, and you’ve done a great job.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you!”
“If you ever want to come back to Rikers, you call me directly, do you understand?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Good,” he said smiling. “See that she gets one of my cards,” he said to one of his deps.
I floated back into my office with a smile I couldn’t erase. That was my first wonderful gift.
When Hugh got back, he was looking a little wan but said nothing about his trip to the Bing. Instead, he wanted to meet the warden. With Kelly gone and my own departure imminent, Hugh needed to do a little damage control. I walked him over to the warden’s office, where Warden Cooper was barking out orders. Big, loud, and streetwise, the warden eyed Hugh warily. “I don’t know why there’s such a turnover of Mental Health staff here, I really don’t,” Cooper said. “We were all very happy with Kelly and Mary, and first Kelly quits, and now Mary. I don’t get it.”
“Yes, I know, Warden, and we’re not happy about it either,” said Hugh, “but I want to assure you that we have someone very experienced who’ll be stepping in to take over.”
“Well, I hope so,” he said skeptically. “We’re getting into Christmas. Bad time of year for these inmates, and I’d like to know that I’ve got a solid Mental Health team to handle the holidays. Because let me
tell you something, okay? I don’t want a call at four in the morning that somebody’s hanging for real. I do not—no, no, I do not.”
“Warden, I totally understand your concern, and that’s why I’m stopping by to personally assure you that you’ll be very satisfied with the next chief.”
“Well, I hope so,” Cooper repeated dubiously. “I hope so. Because let me tell you something,” he said, wagging a finger at Hugh. “When all is said and done, these inmates, okay—these inmates, here—they’re still human beings.”
* * *
Back at the clinic, Theresa was looking for me. “Oh, Mary, there you are. I know it’s your last day and all, but I just need you to sign off on a couple of chart notes. I have them spread out in the lounge. It’ll only take a minute.”
“Okay,” I sighed. “Last time.” I followed her into the darkened lounge. The overhead lights suddenly flicked on and the packed room yelled, “Surprise!!!” I stepped back in shock as a forbidden camera bulb flashed. The room was full of OBCC’s health-care team—doctors, nurses, pharmacy techs, dentists, and our own staff. Tables were spilling over with home-cooked food, buckets of fried chicken, soda, cakes, pie, and cookies. I wished they hadn’t done it, but at the same time, I was delighted. One by one, those who knew me and those who didn’t made their way over to wish me well, asking why I was leaving. I politely told them that it was time to move on—which was the truth. While I was uncomfortable in my starring role, I was moved that so much thought and effort had been put into this celebration.
Whenever there’s food, word travels quickly, and there was a line of COs vying their way in for the goods. I eased out of the crowded lounge with a plate of food and made my way back to the office with the Mental Health crew. My decision to quit had come as a shock and they had not taken it well. Hugh had been dispatched to meet with them and smooth things over. Telling them I was leaving was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. But now it was over and I cherished these final moments with my team.
Throughout the day, the phone rang with well-wishers from around the island, and I appreciated every call.
I wanted the day to end, yet I wanted it to never end. But soon it was dark, and after final hugs and good-byes with staff, I sat quietly and worked on my final payroll. Finishing up, I gathered up my bags, shut off the lights, punched out for the last time, and walked out through the clinic, where the usual crowd awaited treatment. Out in the hall, busloads of inmates returning from court were spilling out of the receiving room. In their dark hoodies, they squinted as their eyes adjusted to the glaring fluorescent hallway lights.
I decided to walk over to the MO one last time for a final moment with the most innocent of the inmates. I didn’t go into the dorm, but through the big window I said a silent good-bye to our mentally ill patients, who were huddled around the TV in their laceless sneakers and torn pants, watching the happy Huxtables.
In the lobby, I opened up the big logbook and took my time signing my name for the last time. Then I signaled to the officer, who popped the front door.
Outside, the night air was cold and fresh. After a hectic day in which I hadn’t had a moment to myself, I suddenly felt very alone. Plumes of clouds silently moved across the early winter sky. Driving around the perimeter road for the final time, I felt like I was in a dream. I passed the road that led down to the women’s jail. Another lifetime. The jails were lit up with Christmas lights. “Season’s Greetings” read the lettering in front of the adolescent jail.
At the exit booth ahead, an officer spotted me and stepped out as I pulled in. I waited while he checked underneath the car and then shone a flashlight about the trunk for the last time. Across the way on a grassy knoll, a pine tree bedecked in colorful lights swayed in the wind. For a blessed moment, all was quiet. Even the air traffic above was still.
The CO slammed the trunk and walked up to my window, rubbing his hands together. “Gettin’ cold!”
“It feels good,” I said.
“Feels good?”
“It was a hot summer.”
I took one last look around and then drove straight ahead, up and over the long narrow bridge that connects Rikers Island to the Borough of Queens.
Epilogue
By the late 1990s, the Rikers population hovered at a record high 24,000 inmates. But by 2014, this number had dropped by half to roughly 12,000 inmates on any given day. This was due in part to the easing of drug laws.
The harsh Rockefeller drug laws, enacted in 1973, mandated sentences of fifteen years to life for people caught trafficking as little as four ounces of drugs. Although these laws were ostensibly designed to take down drug kingpins, the result was mass incarceration of the lowest-level street players, primarily poor minorities, and did nothing to stem the flow of drugs. In 2004 under pressure to reform these draconian laws, New York governor George Pataki signed the Drug Law Reform Act, which reduced mandatory sentences for the same crimes to eight to twenty years.
Despite the drop in numbers, the island remains plagued with violence, brutality, and callous indifference to human life. In February 2014 a homeless veteran suffering from mental illness, who had been arrested for trespassing, died in an overheated cell. In the summer of 2014 the New York Times published a series of scathing articles that exposed systemic guard-on-inmate brutality, leading to an investigation by the Justice Department.
In April 2014 New York City mayor Bill de Blasio appointed Joseph Ponte as correction commissioner, with a mandate to bring reform to the troubled complex. In his first year, Ponte addressed the issue of solitary confinement and enacted new protocols that include prohibiting this grueling punishment for those with serious medical or mental health issues, as well as limiting its use to no more than thirty consecutive days for all others.
Despite the increased public scrutiny, in January 2015 the New York Times reported that brutality persists at Rikers and cited incidents of ongoing abuse of the inmates, particularly the mentally ill.
In a trend that began in the mid-1980s, following the shuttering of state psychiatric hospitals, Rikers Island continues to be the prime caretaker of New York City’s unsupervised mentally ill, who are typically arrested for low-level crimes and petty mischief. There have been no efforts to make good on earlier political promises of community-based housing and supervision for the mentally ill, measures that would likely prevent the bulk of these arrests in the first place.
Rikers Island continues to be populated by poor detainees who cannot afford bail as they await trial. Because the pathway to trial is far more daunting for the incarcerated, the detainee who might have been exonerated at trial will often accept guilt in the more expedient plea bargain process, often as a means of escaping Rikers Island. No efforts are underway to address this gross inequity.
Glossary of Terms
Abbreviations Used in the Book
Department of Correction—DOC
Correction Officer—CO
Deputy Warden/Assistant Deputy Warden—Dep
Mental Observation Unit—MO (housing unit for the mentally fragile)
Mental Health Center (higher level of care than standard MO)
Central Punitive Segregation Unit—CPSU, aka the Bing
Mental Health Assessment Unit for Infracted Inmates—MHAUII
Facilities on Rikers Island
Rose M. Singer Center—RMSC, aka The Women’s House
George Motchan Detention Center—GMDC
Anna M. Kross Center—AMKC
Otis Bantum Correctional Center—OBCC
George R. Vierno Center—GRVC
Eric M. Taylor Center—EMTC, aka The Sentenced Building
Robert N. Davoren Complex—RNDC
North Infirmary Command—NIC
James A. Thomas Center—JATC (formerly House of Detention for Men, the first jail o
n Rikers)
West Facility—WF, aka West
Acknowledgments
As a first-time author, I would like to acknowledge Karen Wolny and the amazing team at St. Martin’s Press, who believed in this book and so capably guided me through the publication process. A special thanks to Emily Carleton and Donna Cherry for their editorial expertise. I am also grateful to Laura Apperson, Meredith Balkus, and Yasmin Matthew; and to Gabrielle Gantz and Christine Catarino in publicity and marketing. Thank you also to copy editor Bill Warhop.
For recognizing the potential in my manuscript and providing his expert guidance in seeing it to publication, I am grateful to my literary agent, Adam Chromy of Movable Type Management. I would also like to thank Michele Matrisciani of Bookchic, who first took note of my work and shepherded it into the appropriate channels.
There were many long years that preceded publication, and I am grateful to so many who cheered me on. First, I would like to acknowledge my mother and my father, who listened to my endless stories about Rikers and encouraged me to write this book. I am proud to say they were my first editors. My great sadness is that they are not here to see it published, yet somehow I believe they know.
For their love and support throughout this journey, I would like to thank John, Charlie, Danny, Thomas, Peter, Mary Lou, and “Aunt Mary Lou.” A special thanks to Mary Farry and my Ohio ’cuz, as well.
To the readers who so generously gave of their time in reading earlier versions of the manuscript (and encouraged me to keep going!): Mary Lou Buser, Anne Ashley Quinn, Kathy Loughlin, Helen Burguiere, Dominick Bencivenga, Liz Weber, Kelly Caldwell, the late Harry Cronin, and Evelyn Neleson.
To my dear friends who’ve been with me through the highs and lows of this process: Susan Reeves, Karen Goldman, Karen Cassidy, Janet Cocchi, Evelyn Soto, and Wolfgang and Patricia Demisch. For her friendship and expert advice, a special thanks to Bettina Faltermeier.
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