by Andy Behrman
Judge Nickerson has been provided with letters from my friends and family asking for his leniency in sentencing. I read a prepared statement, which I have written out on note cards. “Your Honor, I’d like to start by saying that I do respect the decision of the jury, and I do take full responsibility for this incident. I’m sorry I have to rely on these note cards. My nerves. It’s been more than three years since my involvement with this case began. From that time on, the normal routine of my life came to an abrupt end. My conviction in December and the anxiety of waiting for this day has devastated myself, my family, and my friends. Not only am I sorry for what has happened, but I take full responsibility for it. In 1990, while I was working eighteen-hour days and closing $2 million deals for my employer, on the outside my life seemed perfectly in control. Inside, however, I was falling apart. By early October of 1990, my mental health reached an all-time low. I was bouncing between manic episodes and, at the same time, working in a world in which it was not uncommon to attend an opening in Munich one night and one in Tokyo the next. I was drawn to a world whose rules were different from any I had known before. Because at the time my manic depression was not being properly treated, I was wide open for trouble. I clearly remember the day that I was invited to a neighborhood bar near the art studio. There, I was presented with a plan that ultimately led to this case. I constantly remind myself that I had the choice to say no that day. For reasons I still don’t entirely understand, I didn’t. This was the greatest mistake I ever made. Because of this mistake, I am the convicted defendant in United States v. Andrew Behrman. I have humiliated myself, but even worse, I have shamed my family. I will never be able to forgive myself for this. I hope that I will be given the opportunity to prove to the court that I have something of value to offer the community, and that this mistake in judgment does not define my character. I am deeply sorry for what I have done. I take full responsibility. I am sorry for the pain I have caused others. Regardless of what happens here today, I will carry the burden of this mistake for the rest of my life.”
Then I wait for him to speak. “I’ve thought a lot about this case. And I must say, I am very impressed with the letters that were sent to me. Extraordinary, they were, on the whole, and I believe them—most of them. I get a lot of letters for people up for sentencing, and mostly they are concocted. They don’t have a ring of sincerity about them. These did—a lot of these did. You’ve obviously done good things in your life, and I’ve thought a lot about that,” says Judge Nickerson. Among the letters included in the submission to Judge Nickerson is one particularly moving one from my friend Suzanne Yalof:
Andy is the most giving and selfless person that I know. I think the best example of this is his devotion to my friend Ken Johnson, who has been diagnosed with AIDS. Andy has not only spent every day with Ken in the hospital since his admission but has created a support group for Ken which has kept him comfortable and financially independent. I truly do not believe that Ken would be alive today were it not for Andy’s support, caring and strength. I was surprised to hear of Andy’s involvement in this case. I cannot emphasize enough how terrible it would be for so many people not to have Andy around, particularly Ken Johnson, whose life depends on him.
Jonathan wrote:
Andy is the best friend one could possibly have. There he is, at my daughter’s birthday party, wearing an alligator costume, passing out Barney-inspired party favors for the two-year-old boys and girls. Oh, and here he is, helping my wife and I when we recently moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights. At the hospital, he holds your hand and gets the coffee when your wife is in difficult and protracted labor. He calls your mother in Washington, D.C., on her birthday; he helps your twenty-three-year-old brother get a job after a year of fruitless searching.
One of the letters comes from Robert DePasquale, who was featured in the documentary Lauren and I made, A Six Voice Home. Robert writes:
I’ve never told this to him but Andy Behrman is a fine individual whom I will never forget. The year of 1988 and our encounter was a blessing. I am in an unusual position. Twenty years ago I needed friends to attest to my character. Conversely, I am now pleading that a friend be given every possible consideration. An individual, frankly, who does not fit the accusations made about him. Your Honor, Mr. Behrman quite possibly gave me back my life.
Judge Nickerson straightens out some papers on his desk and leans back in his chair. There’s a painfully long pause. “I’m going to impose a sentence of five months’ imprisonment, two years’ supervised release, a special condition of home detention, another condition of two hundred fifty hours of community service, as directed by the probation department, to commence only following the period of home detention. And I’ll impose the minimum fine of $7,500.” I’m relieved that he has not sentenced me to the maximum five years. In fact, I’m thrilled. I think he’s been extremely fair. In the next few weeks my parents line up a “sentencing advocate,” who for a fee of $7,500 will negotiate that my sentence be served in a CCC—a community corrections center—with work-release restrictions. Without the recommendation of the sentencing advocate and the approval of the judge, I would be sent to a minimum-security prison somewhere in the Northeast. This particular CCC, Esmor, provides residential care for individuals who have been referred by the U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, U.S. Probation and Parole Service, U.S. courts, and other legal jurisdictions. It’s something like a halfway house for assistance in the transition from institutional to community life. It’s supposed to be a step up from a minimum-security prison, and it’s closer to home. The judge approves the advocate’s recommendation. I leave for Esmor at the end of August.
The Calvin Klein Prison Collection
August 16, 1994. New York.
In preparation for serving my sentence, I put all of my possessions in storage and move back to New Jersey with my parents. I enjoy the comforts of home—good food, a comfortable bed, and a clean bathroom, luxuries I doubt I’ll see again for the next five months. My parents, concerned for my safety at Esmor, make me feel as though I am going off to battle. Luckily the facility is in midtown Manhattan and not someplace in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania, making it easy for friends and family to visit. Everyone is sad here. Scared for me.
A few days before we leave for Esmor, my mother suggests we take a short drive over to Riverside Square, an upscale shopping mall in Hackensack, to pick up a few things. Like what? I wonder. She keeps her eyes focused on the highway as she drives us to the mall, looking like she’s about to break into tears at any moment. We park the car, and I can smell the heat rise from the asphalt as I follow her inside. It’s a hot day in August, a year after my indictment, and the mall welcomes us with a blast of cold air. Our first stop is the men’s department at Bloomingdale’s. My mother immediately reaches for a black cotton DKNY sweater, which she waves at me from behind a mannequin. She looks at me for approval. We’ll take it. She strides around the store at a rapid pace, a woman with a mission. She holds up a pair of Ralph Lauren khakis. Try these on. I grab them and try them on in the dressing room, and when I come outside I see that she’s made a pile of button-down and polo shirts. Is there anything else I need for the next five months? For God’s sake, Mom, I want to say. I’m not a freshman going to college—I’m a convicted felon going to prison to serve his sentence. But I’m not sure if reminding her of this would make her laugh or cry, so I just keep trying on the clothes. It makes my mother happy to see me try on everything and put together a few good outfits. She starts grabbing packages of Calvin Klein briefs. I don’t need that many. She doesn’t pay attention, talking and reaching for white sweat socks. You were “best-dressed” senior in high school, and you’ll be the best-dressed prisoner at Esmor, damn it, I think to myself. She pays for the clothes, and we stop in a restaurant at the mall. We both order Caesar salads with grilled chicken and Diet Cokes. And we’re both happy.
Jonathan calls me from Washington and tells me that he’s leaving the Ea
st Coast. Somehow I find humor in the fact that he’ll be in treatment in the Midwest and I’ll be in a prison at the same time; in our own ways, we’ll each be on sabbatical from the New York scene. I didn’t think it would end up like this. He was going to be the famous novelist, and I was going to make a small fortune and retire by forty. Lauren and their daughter, Nicole, who is now two years old, are living far away in Denver. She is encouraging about my situation.
I don’t want my friends to forget about me over the next five months. Two nights before I have to surrender at Esmor, I throw a party for myself at the Merc Bar in Soho. I design invitations using the famous Lichtenstein image of the crying woman, which I caption, “Come Shed a Tear for Andy Behrman,” and enclose free-drink cards based on Monopoly “Get Out of Jail Free” cards. I invite all the friends, acquaintances, contacts, and media people I know in New York. I’m having fun organizing the party and making sure everyone is going to have a good, memorable time. I arrive in an upbeat mood and am energized by the crowd and their support, but I immediately realize that I’ve forgotten what I’ve done to be in this room—I’ve been handed a five-month sentence in a minimum-security facility and five months under house arrest. The evening is a celebration of a huge loss for me as well as a good-bye party, and there is an undertone of sadness beneath the good mood. “I’ve got to leave early—early morning flight to Miami—be good,” says one friend as he shakes my hand. Nobody knows what to say to me, and nobody talks about where I’m going. We just talk about the phenomenon of having a going-away-to-prison party. I hug and kiss friends and make the rounds to everybody who has come to send me off and toast to the next five months. “Here’s to prison,” I say. Everybody laughs. I’m walking around, a little spaced-out, when I see Katie, a “friend” of mine. I met Katie on the bus a month earlier and in the first five minutes of our conversation invited her to my going-away-to-prison party. She has come with a guy she met in front of Grace’s Market, on the way to the party. I realize there are lots of people here I don’t know, and they all seem to be having fun at my prison send-off bash. The bar is crowded and friends are handing me drinks and I’m getting pretty drunk for the last time and this party isn’t making much sense to me. Somehow I feel like I’ve won a prize I don’t really want.
The night before I go to Esmor, I dream that I am sent away for five years of hard labor and that I find myself working at Kostabi World as a painter. I am standing in the studio, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls and a cap. I work around the clock, churning out painting after painting of faceless images; Kostabi signs his name to them as fast as I can produce them.
August 31, 1994. New York.
Early on this sweltering afternoon, my parents drop me off at Esmor, on 31st Street between Fifth and Madison. It used to be a single-room-occupancy hotel, and by the look of the façade it was probably a magnificent place in the early twenties. It’s as if my parents are dropping me off at a hotel for the weekend—except for some reason we’re all crying. I walk up the steps to the building and into the lobby, a dingy area with walls that are painted two shades of gray and speckled brown carpeting. There’s been a little mistake. My travel agent has obviously booked me into the wrong hotel. I identify myself to a security guard at the front desk, a young Latin man in his early twenties wearing black pants and a wrinkled white short-sleeve dress shirt. He has me fill out registration papers—I guess they’re expecting me. I’m dripping with sweat, and my hands are shaking from fear and all of the medication I am taking. Everybody around me is speaking Spanish. Latin music blares from a radio behind the desk. When I’m finished filling out the papers, I give my suitcases to one of the resident supervisors to put into storage. I am pushed into a small room and asked for a urine sample. It takes me a few minutes to pee because I’m so scared, and when I do it spills over the tube onto my hands. Too much. Then I pick up my suitcases from storage and am guided to my room on the fourth floor by a resident supervisor. It’s a small room with a TV, two single beds, two dressers, a closet, a locker, and a bathroom. One side of the room is occupied. I follow the resident supervisor back downstairs for sheets, blankets, a pillow, a towel, and a handbook. I go back upstairs and make my bed the best I can—it’s a three-inch-thick green plastic-covered mattress, and the sheets keep slipping off. I unpack my clothes and put them away. I organize my books and magazines on top of the dresser. I glance at the handbook and read the list of prohibited acts; the first three are killing, assaulting, and setting a fire. I put all of my pills in the top drawer of the dresser and take a Klonopin to calm myself down and stop shaking. I hide my medication in my socks, as a precaution against theft. I walk outside my room and laugh when I hear Tony Orlando and Dawn on the radio singing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.” Nobody else is laughing.
I walk through the hallways and pass by small groups of men just hanging out in shorts and tank tops, sweat dripping from their faces, trying to cool off in front of their fans. A large group has congregated in the first-floor smoking lounge. The room is filled with smoke, and Cristina is blaring on a television in the background that’s competing with the heated tones of two residents arguing in Spanish. Three pregnant women in shorts and slippers stand near the vending machine in the corner; one is kicking it—she’s just lost two quarters and is intent on getting them back. The women live on different floors from the men. I can’t stay in this room much longer without being noticed—I’m the only white person in here—unless I can find a big-enough cloud of smoke to hide behind.
I take the elevator upstairs, but there’s someone blocking the doorway to my room. He’s drinking a Pepsi, a pack of Marlboros sticking out of the waistband of his shiny green sweatpants. It’s my new roommate for the next five months. He’s muscular and tattooed with multicolored serpents and hearts; SONYA is written in script on his right shoulder, and dark green-and-red swirls are emblazoned on his torso from his pectorals down to his navel. He’s wearing two thick gold chains with medallions. Didn’t I see him on Geraldo? He reminds me of some kind of Latin superhero action figure. He introduces himself as Pippo and extends his hand, glittering with gold rings and bracelets. He offers me a cigarette. No, thank you, I don’t smoke. Pippo finishes his Pepsi, opens the screen, and throws the can out the window. He throws all his garbage out the window. He takes a picture out of his wallet of his girlfriend and their kid, a seven-year-old girl. He smiles. Two more months in this place, he tells me. He walks into the bathroom to smoke a cigarette, since we’re not allowed to smoke in our rooms.
It’s nearly 95 degrees. He nods at me to follow. He offers me a cigarette again and lights it. I’m wearing a pair of khakis, a white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and a pair of loafers. My pants are sticking to my legs, and my shirt is clinging to my back. The shower curtain is clear vinyl with a seashell print. The floor tiles are loose and some are missing. The sink is cracked. I’m trying to explain my crime to Pippo. Looking for key words. Art. Fraud. Counterfeiting. Japan. Inhale deep. I’m choking on smoke. He starts laughing, so I start laughing. Soon we’re both laughing. I’m still choking on smoke. I don’t know if he’s laughing at my crime or because I’m choking, but I keep laughing with him and then he starts mumbling in Spanish and laughing even harder.
Esmor is run by Mr. Hughes, a cruel black man in his midforties who manages a staff of resident supervisors—a group of young social workers who are poorly trained and command little respect from the residents—and a pathetic and nasty employment counselor, Mr. Gordon, who picks his nose and advises me to apply for a job at a nearby toy factory. He is the target of hatred and the butt of residents’ jokes since he treats us like animals. He is known for meting out harsh punishments for ridiculous infractions, like weekend lockup for five-minute lateness. The second Sunday I’m there, all of us residents assemble in the cafeteria for an hourlong meeting with Mr. Hughes, in which he begins by discussing policy and the past week’s violations. He talks about the importance of curfew, keeping a neat
and orderly room, and respecting the staff. “Respect. Respect is key,” he says. He paces in front of us, telling us we’re lucky to be in a place like this and that we all belong in the “big house” and he has the power to send us back there. Then he starts screaming insults and demeaning random residents in the group. “If you hadn’t had such blatant disrespect for the law, you wouldn’t find yourself here, so I have no pity for you,” he says to a dark-skinned young Muslim wearing a skullcap. The man stands up and lunges for Hughes, starts choking him, pulls him to the floor, and sits on his chest. The resident supervisors finally pull him off, and the police arrive in about ten minutes to take him away. The meeting is quickly disbanded.
There are about one hundred men and women confined to this facility. A majority of the residents are transitioning—they’ve spent time in “real” prison serving longer sentences, mostly for drug-related crimes. The majority are Hispanic or African-American, although there is one Orthodox Jew in for diamond fraud. I definitely stick out in the crowd; residents are constantly stopping to ask me questions as if I work here or asking me to sign passes for them. I feel like a fool.
I am prepared for my stay at Esmor with a month’s supply of medication, which I am able to administer myself. I am taking lithium, Depakote, Risperdal, and Ambien to sleep at night. I’ve been committed to keeping a consistent regimen, taking my medications at the right dosages and the right times. In my dresser drawer they’re easily accessible to anyone, but I’m never concerned that any of the residents are going to steal my medication, although sometimes I do double-check to see if any are missing. On my first day—I introduce myself to as many of the residents as I can—it feels like freshman orientation again. I feel a huge surge of energy as I sit drinking a Diet Pepsi (unfortunately they don’t have Diet Coke here) in the smoking lounge after dinner with a few new friends. It’s almost 10:00 P.M., time for lights out, and everybody starts returning to their rooms. It’s ridiculously hot and I get into bed in my underwear and lie flat on the three-inch mattress. Pippo opens his top drawer and pulls out a flag, the flag of Puerto Rico. He gets into his bed and covers himself with the flag. The resident supervisor comes into our room for the head count and calls out my name. I answer “here” and thank him, and he slams the door shut. For the next twenty minutes I hear doors slamming. I can’t stand the noise. I feel like I’m being locked in my cage. And I’m petrified of falling asleep next to this scary guy underneath his flag of Puerto Rico—I feel like he’s lying in his coffin.
