You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish

by Jimmy A. Lerner

"Do me a favor, Spoony, since we're celling together. Call me Jimmy, Jim, or O.G., but don't call me dawg."

  "Aiight, O.G."

  Both prison etiquette and convict common sense ("Today's road dog— tomorrow's snitch") counsel against inquiring about one's cellie's "crime." Unfortunately this unwritten restriction has resulted in the rise and concomitant shaping and honing of the Convict Song of Self— an endless, self-serving soliloquy utterly devoid of any real wrongdoing, always ending in the Fall, the convict term for his arrest.

  So Spoony sings the song, clearly in awe of a cellie capable of assault with the New York Times. I wonder what I could have done with that Newsweek. I lie down on my bunk to better appreciate the cadences and rhythm of a ruptured life.

  I half-nap through Spoony's early dysfunctional years shuttling between CPS (Child Protective Services), juvie hall, and his dope-fiend mom. I awaken fully to "so then Mandy's mom kicked us out of the trailer when Mandy got pregnant— said her SSI check didn't cover two more dope fiends, with a baby dope fiend in the making— even though we was planning to get married as soon as we got off the crank, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin', O.G.?" This is my minimal cue to fake some Active Listening skills.

  "Yeah, Spoony, you were planning to get married and Mom still wanted you out of her trailer— that's scandalous, dawg."

  "For real," says Spoony, retrieving the threads of his Me Melody while I attempt to nap.

  "Then when Mandy got kicked out of the drug rehab, the CPS just took the baby… so we had to move back to her mom's, but I had my eye on our own place— this awesome double-wide with like phone, cable, water hookup, everything, even had a built-in microwave— when I fell behind some crank sales I had to get involved in 'cause Kmart fired me. All the employees was stealing them blind, but they fucking fire me." I always like the part where they are the victim.

  The Fall is a good part too. Convicts don't get busted or arrested— they fall. They fall behind dope, behind a woman, behind a snitch. They had nothing to do with it! The rationale system is staggering in its self-enclosed logic, in its utter absence of volition.

  Anybody can Fall. It's like gravity or something sucks us all down. The earth itself sucks— sucks a righteous dawg like Spoony down.

  The Fall is the convict version of the Slip— a favorite twelve-step term for a drinking or drug relapse. Between gravity and banana peels how can a recovering righteous dawg not Slip and Fall?

  Spoony, all of eighteen, is doing four to ten behind a drug trafficking conviction, measuring out his life with collect calls to Mandy's (mom's) trailer, wondering if Mandy will answer, wondering if she's high, worrying if she's been with someone, if she is with someone at this very moment— and who is it? Jody? Sancho? And wondering just where Mandy is on the long waiting list for the Salvation Army's drug rehab program.

  Spoony's doing "hard time."

  * * *

  In the movies, convicts in prison always get a special meal for Christmas. In here it's the same ol' same ol'— we were served soybean patties with mashed potatoes on top, green Jell-O on top of the mashed potatoes, purple Kool-Aid.

  Events of interest to the denizens of the free world, such as New Year's Eve— the Millennium 2000 Edition— passed unremarked. I watched the ball drop in Times Square. People screamed and danced drunkenly in the streets. Predictions of Armageddon triggered by "noncompliant Y2K" computer chips failed to materialize. If anything unusual happened on Groundhog Day, Dan Rather chose not to report it.

  It stays desert hot in the days, cold now at nights. The dirt and sand continue to sting our faces every day.

  While I am delivering books and attending disciplinary hearings, Spoony attends GED preparation classes in a converted cellblock used as a school. Instead of a hall monitor, there is a Bubblecop with an AK-47 to ensure a rich learning environment.

  Spoony doesn't mind. Says it reminds him of the public schools he briefly attended.

  Spoony, state-raised and institutionally savvy, is a Yard Trick. I arranged the job interview for him (with Kansas) when it appeared that he was in danger of being utilized as a sperm bank depository for some of the more bestial members of the Car.

  I was wrong about Spoony having teeth— he has a full set of dentures, compliments of a juvie prison dentist who first pulled all of Spoony's crank-rotted teeth. The dental plates don't fit properly, and Spoony only wears them for special occasions— like eating.

  When he's not struggling with the mysteries of converting GED fractions to percents and decimals (sometimes they tell him to reverse the process), he can be seen snipe-hunting in the yard— collecting the discarded shorts of rollies. He puts the butts in a Bugler can and rerolls the preowned tobacco in the cell, selling full rollies to new fish.

  He takes care of the Car's laundry and runs contraband from one cellblock to another. I tell him I don't care what he does outside the cell (that's his lookout) as long as he doesn't bring anything into the house that will attract heat. "Y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you, Spoony?" "It's all good, O.G.," he says.

  Sometimes, after he's done an especially thorough job of sweeping and mopping our house, I toss a Hershey's Kiss or a Digby's Jolly Rancher ("fire"-flavored) up to the top bunk.

  The GED fractions are driving Spoony crazy. He was kicked out of school in the seventh grade and never returned. He had trouble sitting still, trouble concentrating. He's a member of the Ritalin Generation and they won't give him any speed in prison. He has to barter for his crank on the yard.

  "The teachers said I was dyslepnic," Spoony confides in me one chilly evening. "They said I got ADD too." Spoony shares these diagnoses with me with the quiet pride of someone whose life challenges have been dignified by an official-sounding disease label.

  I assure him he doesn't suffer from dyslepnic disorders or even dyslexia. I have observed that he can read, comprehend, and concentrate like a Rhodes scholar when given incentives like candy or drugs.

  Spoony just has a different "learning strategy" from most students. After a few evenings of M.B.A. brainstorming with myself, I arrive (as I usually do) at a Breakthrough Learning Paradigm.

  I address the metal bottom of the upper bunk. "Spoony— what do you do when you buy an ounce of crank?"

  "What do ya mean what do I do? I snort some, shoot some, maybe sell the rest. What do ya think I do?"

  "I mean what do you do before you sell it, assuming you and Mandy don't snort and shoot all of it?"

  "We cut it with Ex-Lax," Spoony answers without hesitation, finally in a familiar classroom where he is an A student.

  "Why Ex-Lax?" I'm genuinely curious. Is this another new applications-driven stock I should purchase, assuming I have any cash left after buying up blocks of Bic?

  " 'Cause it's water-soluble so the customer don't get no impurities when he shoots it." Spoony is energized now, practically twitching on his bunk with amphetamine longing.

  "So you just sell the whole ounce, or what's left, to make your profit?" Give Spoony a minimal cue, a lead-in to Fun With Fractions.

  "Fuck no, O.G.! I thought you grew up in the sixties! We cut it, break it down, and bag it, you know what I'm saying, dawg— sorry, I meant 'O.G.' "

  "Spoony, trust me when I tell you that I have probably spilled more drugs on the floor than you have taken in your entire life, but what I'm asking is just how do you break the stuff down?" My Inner Teacher can be relentless!

  "You know, like… into quarters, teeners, eight balls, whatever the customer wants."

  "Spoony, I rest my case— you're down with fractions."

  Later I turn off the overhead light. "Night, Spoony."

  Outside the relatively safe cocoon of our locked cell (we can lock ourselves in), the ghetto blasters blare out their themes of murder, robbery, and rape while predators— white, black, brown— roam the corridors.

  In prison the Morlocks always come out at night.

  Spoony's squeaky adolescent voice drifts down in the darkness.

  "Y
ogee— you still awake?"

  "Yeah, Spoony, I'm enjoying the music from the street fair."

  "Listen… uh… thanks for helping me with the GED stuff and all. Hey! We got biscuits and gravy tomorrow. You want I should bring a biscuit back for you?"

  "No thanks, just an apple or orange would be fine."

  "I'm down with that."

  "Then it's all good."

  "Night, O.G."

  "Night, Spoony."

  * * *

  Every Friday I join Caseworker Ringer for the disciplinary hearings. They are held in his office in the administrative building, down the hall from Dirt Headquarters. Sergeant Stanger drags in up to thirty accused convicts during the course of a long day.

  Ringer looks like a refugee from a production of Grease, his thick black pompadour slicked into shape by a gallon of gel. His hooked nose would not be out of place on some birdlike, prehistoric creature.

  Ringer is all bark and no bite. I like and respect him.

  "Your job," Ringer likes to explain to me, "is to shut the fuck up and write down the punishments imposed— the sanction— after I find these fuckups guilty. They had plenty of time to send you a kite and consult with you before the hearing. Anything you don't understand about the process?"

  Caseworker Ringer is firm but fair. I know this because of the hand-lettered sign taped to the front of his desk: SENIOR CASEWORKER RINGER— FIRM BUT FAIR!

  A veteran of Quality Improvement Process meetings, I thank him for the role clarification. He tells me to knock off the sideways shit. We get along fine. Ringer is ready.

  "Sergeant Stanger, send in the meat!"

  And here comes the meat! One shackled, cuffed, cowering victim after another is hauled in by Stanger, who then exits the room to guard the remaining meat on the Group W bench in the hall. Busy as he is, Stanger always makes some time to glare at me and spray threats. "I hear your little bitch Spoony is running drugs for you and the Car, O.G. You're going down real soon, asshole." Then Ringer orders him out of the hearing room. Senior caseworkers outrank Dirt sergeants around here.

  "How do you plead?" Ringer asks the first victim, a confused black teenager charged with "M-5, a minor violation: failure to keep one's person or assigned area neat and clean." The kid slumps in the chair, bewildered, as Ringer reads the Notice of Charges aloud, omitting the Copspeak narrative.

  "Guilty… I guess," he whispers to his state sneakers.

  "You guess— you can't fucking GUESS!" Ringer roars. He tosses aside the write-up and tilts his beak down at Kid Guess. His tone is suddenly calm, reasonable.

  "Why don't you just tell me what this is all about— you didn't clean your cell? Scared of dropping the soap in the shower?"

  "No… nothin' like dat," Guess murmurs to his feet. "I takes my showers, keeps myself clean… I ain't be havin' no nasty-ass crib neither… but I was in the holding cell by the intake waiting, you know what I'm sayin', all day I be up in that muthafucka… den I axed the C.O. to use the bathroom, you…" Kid Guess hunches further down in his chair, acutely embarrassed.

  "And the C.O. told you to hold it— right?" finishes the suddenly helpful Ringer.

  "Yes, sir… Sergeant Stanger, he say 'hold it' or piss myself because he be too busy to come to the holding cell right then." Kid Guess is now trying to disappear through the floor.

  Ringer senses a confession. "So you did, in fact, proceed to piss yourself!"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Ringer… so I guess I be pleadin' guilty."

  "Plead not guilty," orders Ringer.

  "Sir?" Kid Guess glances at me, his silent advocate. I give the kid my best legalistic shrug. Ringer is writing on his disposition form.

  "I'm entering your plea of not guilty to the charge of M-5. I have considered all the available evidence in this case and I find you"— Ringer pauses for dramatic effect— "not guilty!"

  Ringer is ripping up another of Stanger's write-ups. "Now get the fuck out of here! Your charge is dismissed! No man should have to piss himself— you've been punished enough."

  Over the next five hours, Ringer judges twenty-three more cases, often advising convicts how to plead when it is in their best interest. Final score: eleven guilty, seven charges reduced from major to general or minor violations, and six not guilty.

  Senior Caseworker Ringer: firm but fair!

  * * *

  As a Lawdog I am permitted to review various Department of Prisons guidelines if they are relevant to an inmate's disciplinary charges. Among my favorites are the UA Drug Testing Guidelines. In addition to random urinalysis tests (usually administered to convicts the cops hate), inmates may also be tested if they meet any of the following criteria:

  1. The inmate exhibits an "inexplicably cheerful demeanor."

  2. The inmate "appears depressed."

  3. The inmate "exhibits mood swings."

  4. The inmate "isolates" in his cell.

  5. The inmate "is excessively sociable or garrulous."

  6. The inmate is in "a state of denial" characterized by refusals to attend A.A. or N.A. meetings.

  7. The inmate "exhibits impaired motor skills."

  8. The inmate engages in "confrontational behavior toward others."

  9. The inmate has a "criminal history involving drug abuse."

  10. The inmate "protests a pat-down or strip search."

  The cops do a lot of urine sampling around here. Successful test candidates make it to the final interview stage with Mr. Ringer on Fridays. I have already "counseled" (in a collaborative or consultative way) most of these guys during my daily rounds to the lockdowns. My value-added counsel consists primarily of advising these dawgs of the sanctions that they will be subjected to after Caseworker Ringer finds them guilty.

  And he will. Ringer never dismisses dirty UAs, never reduces them, and always imposes the harshest penalties. It's a political issue right now. Federal agents have just arrested one of our very own correctional officers for dealing drugs to inmates. The federal investigation, as Stanger would say, is ongoing.

  "Mr. Narducci," intones Ringer, reading from the Notice of Charges, "you are charged with MJ-45, a major violation: possession, introduction, sales or use of any narcotics, drugs, alcohol or other intoxicants, or possession of materials suitable for such manufacture." Ringer adjusts his head-beak unit to better scrutinize Narducci, a real hard case doing Life on the Installment Plan. His full sleeves are his résumé from various prisons and gangs.

  "How do you plead, Mr. Narducci?"

  Narducci, well seasoned in these little chats, has never copped to anything in his unillustrious life and isn't going to start now.

  "Not guilty, sir. I ain't lookin' to get crossed out behind no drugs. I don't do drugs. There can't be no speed in my piss unless the cops put it there, trying to get me crossed out and off the yard, you know what I'm sayin'?" Narducci leans back in his chair, convict-cool, fiddling with the rubber band around his ponytail.

  Ringer absolutely hates not guilty pleas on dirty UAs— he has the lab results and that's all he needs. A not guilty plea not only wastes his time, it is Disrespectful! It insults his intelligence, which is not inconsiderable.

  "Mr. Narducci, after reviewing the available evidence, I find you guilty of MJ-45 and impose the following sanctions: 180 days in disciplinary segregation, loss of all visiting, phones, commissary." Narducci snickers. This ain't shit. He's been down and done all that.

  Ringer is saving the silver bullet for the end, though. He smiles and resumes. "In addition, Mr. Narducci, you will immediately forfeit all category A stat time."

  At the mention of stat-time loss, Narducci is on his feet, chains rattling in outrage. This sanction is clearly outta line!

  "That's bullshit! I know the fucking code! You can't take no more than 120 days of good time for a dirty UA!" Narducci is just about to share some additional insights into the code when Stanger races into the office and clamps a choke hold around his neck. Stanger squeezes hard, grinding this outta-line con back
down into the chair.

  "Thank you, Sergeant," says Ringer. "I believe that will be enough." But Stanger's bloodlust has been roused. He increases the pressure on Narducci's trachea until blood vessels promise to burst from the cuffed and chained convict's eyes.

  "Sergeant Stanger! I said that's enough!" Stanger reluctantly lets go of Narducci's throat but not before jabbing two kung-fu stiffened fingers into his larynx.

  Stanger saunters out of the office, making sure to flash me his bright sociopathic smile, a smile that promises me future pain, great suffering, and lots of it. I smile back sweetly.

  Narducci is now massaging his throat with cuffed hands, his hardcase act in temporary deep storage, along with the patented convict smirk. He starts whining and puling.