A memoir excerpt from my forthcoming memoir, A PRISON OF MY OWN.
There’s a particular desperation that settles in behind bars and a persistent obsession with freedom that haunts every inmate. It manifests itself through insane ideas, like outlandish escape routes, and obscure legal strategies from jailhouse lawyers.
Farewell to Prison (Part I)
Lumi said I could escape to Albania. Through Canada, then Mexico.
“John,” pronounced more like Joan with his accent. “I serious. These lawyers do shit for you cept take your money.”
“My family there. Food like Italy. They take care. I get your social security sent to you there.”A lot of laughing followed. Except Lumi wasn’t laughing.
It crosses your mind. Crazy things, that is. Anything to get out. Outside we could see the public streets that surrounded the camp. The cars passing. Outside life right in your face. I used to take a break from washing dishes. I could step outside in the visiting area. It’s like a picnic area: trees, grass, remnants of a former golf course. I would see the old fairways and greens. I watched the seasons from there. Then I would think about Lumi and Albania.
Most times, it’s the more conventional efforts. Countless hours spent with lawyers, none of which I could afford, and reading and editing their painful, boring briefs. But how you kid yourself believing. At least I wasn’t alone. Every inmate was working on something while sourcing all the loopholes from public defenders and jailhouse lawyers. The best ones were the non-lawyers. Rasta the most effective one. It was just his hair that gave him the name. He was American born and had no particular relationship with the other island inmates. He was late 30’s, midnight black and as wily a character as there was in prison. Although not a big man, he was cut, supremely fit, a workout hound and a big personality.
You always knew when Rasta was in the room. Loud, laughing or shouting or pleading his case about something. He was also the jailhouse lawyer for the black community. And he was a good one. He even tried to help me. He was the only inmate who was able to reduce his sentence via a twenty-two fifty-five appeal provision—the appeal based on inadequate counsel. Every inmate believes his lawyer screwed him. However, the success rate for this endeavor is miniscule. Ninety nine percent of twenty-two fifty-five submissions are rejected. His understanding of the appellate options for incarcerated inmates was substantial.
He was a hard one to figure out. He was seemingly from everywhere: Connecticut, North Carolina, LA and even New York City for a while. He touted several businesses including real estate, for which he was always picking my brain. But also, drugs, which he told me he was swearing off of. He told me that when he was released, he was going to open a string of workout gyms, based on his unique regimen, and located in the best locations in the US. He was a person of endless superlatives.
He had hundreds of girl friends who sent him nude photos of themselves. All large women with big butts. He had two full photo albums filled with them. He described them all as “friends with benefits.” There didn’t seem to be a girlfriend among any of them. He said there were some kids along the way. But they kept him out of it.
He said the one positive thing about prison was that a guy like him and a guy like me could come together as equals. After a while, I didn’t think that we were equals. He was by far the smarter man. Street wise and other wise. At the end of the day, he was a question mark to the overall inmate population. I thought he was genuine. Just a rare bird and not for everyone. But he was the only one I knew who got his sentence reduced. He’d keep hounding me at my bunk to follow his lead.
Fuck them lawyers. Represent yourself. Don’t you know the judge gives you more credit. He has to listen to you cause you’re disadvantaged. You don’t have no jackshit legal scumbag in front of him. These judges know. They know, Man. You stand there like a Man. He’ll listen.”
The judge listened to him. He even got a furlough to go to his hearing. A rare occurrence, and surprisingly, he came back with his release. He stormed into my bunk.
“I’m takin off Big Brother. Party tonight. I told them fuckers they better let me out by five.”
“Do they have to?”
“Fuckin eh they do, or I’ll sue their ass.”
He had a huge smile as he said it. Then a big hug and he was gone. He said he was going to North Carolina, New York, Connecticut, West coast and changing his mind every time we spoke. I have no idea where he ended up except he’s out, and that’s all you need to know when you’re an inmate. He’s out, and you’re not. You say you’re happy for them, and you are. But you’re more sad than happy if you’re honest. I watched so many leave. Guys I loved and guys I didn’t. It didn’t matter. I was bummed when they left. Tony was right. Everyone’s for himself when it comes to getting out. And that was me now.
Rasta was released months before me. I have no idea what or where he ended up. But I’m sure he’s carrying on. There was something inspiring about him. In some ways, I felt I let him down. I don’t really know why that is. Maybe because we started out as fast friends and then over time, our relationship just petered out. There was no falling out or dispute. We just drifted away as we all do, back to our tribes. It’s inevitable, I guess. In bed that night, that old cowboy song jumped in my head, and I couldn’t stop singing it to myself, right through my shift the next day in the kitchen.
Next week in Prison Camp: Farewell to Prison, Part II— the final morning inside, and the uneasy freedom that follows.
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
I hope you’ll continue with me as I explore stories of incarceration, justice, and redemption.
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