* * *
—
My hole time ends up being a blessing. It slows me down and lets me take a step back. I see myself losing sight of the future, being digested by the beast. Something awakens inside me. No, I’m not going to let this happen. My determination to turn things around is helped by a jolt of reality, when the appeals court affirms the lower-court opinion in my case instead of reversing it.
I resolve, finally, to stop fucking with heroin altogether. Dealing it comes with way too much baggage, and I won’t use it again either. I have to be honest with myself. I’m doing all these edifying things, such as studying, but I’ve also been using the drug that helped get me here. If I’m doing heroin, I’m not doing everything I can do to put myself in the best possible position, when I’m released, to have a real shot at a meaningful life. I just don’t want it in my life anymore. It’s an obstacle to what I want to achieve.
By now, I have some understanding of the science of my addiction. I know that after years of opioid dependency, my brain can’t produce the chemicals it needs, leading to my constant feeling that I need something just to feel okay. It’s going to be difficult, but abstaining will be just one more accomplishment, another thing I can power through and overcome. I’m more than halfway through my sentence now, and there’s a glimmer at the end of the tunnel.
All that gets me out of the rack in the morning is the imperative to make each day count. To become a little bit better of a person. I become almost militant about practicing my four-pronged self-improvement program of writing, reading, meditating, and exercising—never skipping a day, never deviating from my practice. In the hole, the light stays on at night until you ask a guard to turn it off by slipping a piece of paper out through the slot in the door. I read a lot of books, including a bunch of fat James Michener paperbacks and some volumes of Persian poetry. Once my cell goes dark, I lie awake listening to Coast to Coast, a radio show best known for its focus on paranormal phenomena and conspiracy theories. For me, it’s just a relaxing ritual. I put on my headphones and tune in so that I can tune out, listening to smart people talking about interesting ideas, like the evidence that heating garlic can destroy its anti-cancer effects. Some are more interesting than others. Sometimes I listen to all four hours of the show, and sometimes to no more than half an hour. But it’s a moment of solace, an escape from the narrow confines of my cell, and the relentless, animal physicality of prison, into the sphere of ideas.
I didn’t know I had this work ethic in me, because nothing in my past experience suggested that I did. Seeing what I’m capable of, I begin to think that I previously suffered from a deeply ingrained laziness that was almost a spiritual sickness.
* * *
—
When I’m released from solitary in June, the white car is waiting for me. Hafer and a couple of other guys on my block have managed to get most of my stolen stuff back, which is nice. I go to Hafer’s cell to debrief everyone. Easy has already had some notes smuggled, by orderlies, from the box to the yard, in which he fingered Charlie the tattoo artist as his betrayer. And a guy who came to Cumberland while I was in the hole, Michael Becraft, arrived as Easy was leaving, and they somehow intersected on the transit bus. Easy told him about me and to look for me, and also told him all about his betrayer, Charlie. He told Becraft to spread the bad news, and Becraft, like a good convict, said that he would. He has already kicked up another level of shit about Charlie, and the yard is now ready to give Charlie an ultimatum—leave or get hurt—but is awaiting my opinion before taking that step.
“What’s the deal?” everyone asks. “Did he rat him out or not?”
I choose my words carefully. “Easy is convinced he did,” I say. “You’re asking my opinion. I don’t know. It seems a little farfetched to me.”
* * *
—
I’d started working in the recreation department from 8 a.m. until noon. Now I’m able to get a no-show, no-pay job with an orderly on my unit without greasing any palms, because there’s more demand for jobs here than supply. This frees me up to focus entirely on my self-imposed curriculum.
I’m still reading three books at a time—a classic lit pick (Jack London, Charles Dickens), a beach read (Game of Thrones), and a self-help selection (Eckhart Tolle). After doing my reading, I write poetry. I work out every afternoon, and play handball in the evening. After that, I meditate for as long as an hour and a half. Right now, my mantra is William Ernest Henley’s poem “Invictus.” I pay a lot of attention to how I carry myself, to being a gentleman, to having manners and being honest and polite, to not conforming to peer pressure, and to being my own man.
My will to make this time meaningful has trumped my will to be as comfortable as possible. Besides giving up heroin, I no longer drink prison alcohol. Now, when I feel discomfort, I find other ways to cope. I do smoke pot occasionally. It relaxes me.
Every day is an exercise, a chance to make this sacrifice count, from the smallest to the most important things. Living this way gives me an inkling of freedom, a sense that under difficult circumstances I’m making the most of each day, and gaining knowledge about the world and myself—what I’m capable of and not capable of, what I can endure and not endure. This feeling and this knowledge are my inspiration, my motivation, and my salvation.
Every day, I’m reminded that I’m fundamentally alone. I have my small group of friends, and I’ve never been among so many people all the time, but I’ve never felt so lonely or isolated. I also know that somehow this is an important experience. That my old urge to surround myself with people isn’t conducive to pursuing my dreams. To be an actor, to work for success, I need to believe in myself and stand on my own two feet, not need someone to lean on. How else would I learn this lesson if it wasn’t forced on me in this way, in this environment?
Solitude, instead of being something that makes me sad, is now something I value. Every day, I have to walk the compound. Cumberland is the hardest time I’ve served, because of the security level, but also the most significant, and the best other than the minimum-security camp.
* * *
—
I have greater clarity every day: I no longer belong here. For years, I glorified all of this, and for a time I wondered if I was like these people. I almost hoped that I was.
Now I see how much of a fish out of water I am. I go out of my way not to identify with the other inmates. I’m not impressed or inspired by them. The majority, I’ve come to realize, are defined by prison: it’s their identity through and through. There are so many followers and very few leaders. Prison talk is an endless stream of time-killing bullshit, lies, ignorance, bigotry, stupidity, cruelty, and anger.
It’s enough to make you not want to talk to anyone, and I wear my headphones and listen to music whenever I’m out of my cell. I now see socializing with other inmates as a distraction, one more thing pulling me away from the things I want to be spending my time on: writing, reading, meditating, exercising.
I’m respected enough to be allowed to do my own thing. Ninety percent of inmates adorn their cells with bikini photos; I hang a world map and National Geographic pictures of animals in mine. The decor stands out, and guards seem to think a little better of me because of it. I stop casually exchanging information with other inmates. It’s a formality or pleasantry that now strikes me as frivolous. Unless I’m really close to someone, there’s no reason to pretend we’re going to stay in touch. And my tolerance is less than it was. At Lewisburg, my first cellmate was a snorer. Now, if I’m sent a new cellie, the first thing I ask is, “Do you snore?” If they say yes, I say, “Nothing personal, but you can’t live here.” The guards here, as at other higher-securities, are pretty good about honoring inmates’ celling preferences. Probably some of the other inmates consider me aloof or stuck-up, but I don’t want them around me. When I get out, I don’t want them around the people I love.
* * *
—
Ironically, my newfound confid
ence and self-respect and comfort with being alone lead to my making real friends here. My trip to the hole has helped my reputation with inmates and also with guards. They understand why I got into that fight and, I believe, respect me for going into that cell to get my stuff back.
I hang out with other “independents,” as we’re called, and become friendly with the shot-callers in some of the more serious gangs. I’m surprised that this happens, but it feels good to be received this way. I feel like an equal, which makes me feel more confident and relaxed. Even with all of my baggage, I’m carrying it. Everyone in prison is always complaining about something—the judge who railroaded him, the prosecutor who fucked him—but I’m not one of them. Intelligence, strength, and courage are the qualities respected in here, and I have them to a degree. I feel pride that I can keep my head up. It’s not easy, it’s not the way most people do their time, and it feels like a real victory and achievement. I think about what Eddie Callegari told me when I was just at the start of my prison odyssey: that I could make it at a high-security prison. I didn’t really believe him. But he was right. I can.
When Hafer’s cellmate leaves, Hafer invites me to live with him. I’m not sure about this, given that he has serious mood swings and a reputation for violence, and that I don’t take well to being alpha’d over, but he turns out to be a great cellie. I have mood swings too, and we’re both respectful, understanding that none of it’s personal, minding each other’s boundaries. He likes to tinker with things, but he’s not a slob. Sometimes we’re just really quiet, which suits us both. I lend him my copy of “As a Man Thinketh,” and he reads it with a highlighter in his hand. We live together for much of my time at Cumberland.
I make some real friends. I define a real friend as someone you can count on and trust, and who isn’t just a taker. Someone who, even if he isn’t a saint, I consider a decent person. Everyone I become close to reflects some side of my character. All are people who, like me, want to better themselves and improve their lives, in their own ways. Peter, my cellie, is a Wiccan, and more often than not he’s a voice of reason; he has a kid, and even though he’s looking at a lot of time, he makes an effort to put his best foot forward and is focused on trying to hold his family together.
John Willis is a white Catholic kid from Boston who was orphaned at fourteen and improbably became a high-ranking member of the Chinese Triads gang, with the Cantonese nickname Bac Guai John, or White Devil John. He’s doing twenty years for his involvement in a South Florida OxyContin ring.
Mike Becraft is six three and good-looking and a tremendous athlete. He was his high school quarterback and a baseball star too, and he’s a former minor-league hockey player. He’s strong as an ox; in hockey he was the enforcer. He’s from D.C., and much of his family is involved with the CIA. He’s obviously the black sheep. He’s in prison on a local Washington cocaine case, but D.C. convicts are sentenced to federal prison. He projects a self-assured ease that masks what I suspect is a fair amount of internal turmoil, and he’s very outspoken, saying the craziest shit to other inmates and getting away with it. He’s always reading and making notes and drafting business plans for when he gets out. We run around together and work out together and become close in the process.
With John “White Devil” Willis and Michael Bridge, at Cumberland.
After Hafer leaves, I have the cell to myself; then Becraft pushes to become my cellmate, and he moves in for a time. I’ve hit a plateau in my workouts, and Mike is a great workout partner, helping me mix up my routine. He’s always reading up on the newest exercise techniques, and we do a lot of handstand push-ups and handstand walking, which is big in CrossFit. Neither of us knows how to do it, and at first we look ridiculous, but a couple of months later we’re walking thirty yards on our hands. We take turns doing squats, with the other person on our shoulders. Mike makes amazing dumbbells and barbells out of rolled-up magazines and trash bags filled with water. I do 2,500 push-ups in two hours. I reach a new level of fitness.
Mike also convinces me to get my hair cut and wear it shorter. During my months in the hole, I’d let it grow. He keeps saying, “Dude, just cut it off.” So I trim a few inches, then go for it and get most of the rest clipped. It’s a new look that fits my new lease on life.
Another guy on my block who I become close to is Talib Shakir. He’s a top shot-caller with the Muslim car, which is powerful in the BOP’s northeast region, so no one’s going to question him for hanging out with a white person.
Talib has been in prison since he was eighteen. He grew up in inner-city D.C., and although he was regarded as studious and well-behaved, according to later newspaper reports, he was a troubled kid who drank alcohol and smoked marijuana, and, when he was seventeen, shot a convenience-store employee during an attempted robbery. He was charged as an adult with felony murder and sentenced to fifteen years to life.
When I meet Talib, he’s been in prison for twenty years, and he has completely turned his life around. He’s a gentleman and is almost professorial. If you took him out of prison and put him in a tweed jacket with tortoiseshell glasses, you’d never guess he’d done time. He has started a life-coaching program called Reconstruct, helping prisoners with reentry to society; he’s become fluent in Spanish and Arabic, teaches English as a Second Language and GED for Spanish-speaking prisoners, and has six months to go until his next parole hearing. (Parole no longer exists for federal prisoners, but D.C. inmates, though held in federal prisons, are still eligible for it.)
Talib is sure he’s going home. He has everything set up on the street. Since entering prison, he has married a Montessori schoolteacher who lives in Washington. He’s gotten various professional certifications, including as a barber. His record has been flawless. He’s done everything he can do to be a model prisoner and someone the parole board will look favorably on.
* * *
—
Having real friends helps take me out of myself. I get caught up in their aspirations and struggles. When Talib goes up for parole, I share his hope. The assistant warden advocates for his release, and the parole hearing examiner recommends that he be paroled. When she is overruled by the U.S. Parole Commission, and Talib is told to try again in five years, I share his devastation.
He really thought he was getting out, and he’s also embarrassed, because he told everyone on the street that he was coming home. He’s been in prison long enough to know you don’t say stuff like that, for just this reason. He had a new life planned. Now it has been taken away, and he will be spending at least another five years locked up.
For a moment, he questions the path he’s been on and flirts with despair. I worry about how many more of these reversals he can bear. He could do a lot of good in the community. He could help the government fight homegrown terrorism, as someone who’s both a rock-solid convict with unimpeachable prison ethics, and a person willing to work to combat it.
* * *
—
Life here is overwhelmingly bleak. From the moment I wake up, it’s a hike and a climb until the moment I go to sleep. I’m still a target. Maybe because Tetley has heard that my paperwork was accepted here, he and I end up having an understanding, and he doesn’t create any problems for me at Cumberland. But any number of other people might want to come for me.
I’m just waiting for it. Someone’s going to stab me. Why wouldn’t they? Maintaining a hypervigilant state, day after day, I worry that too much cortisol is being released for too long and that it’s burning out my mind. I obsess about it. It comes in waves. For a month or so, I’ll feel my vocabulary is slipping. Then it comes back. There are times I feel I’m losing my mind. But the shiv between my ribs never happens. People may not like me, but I think they respect me. That’s why the most valuable thing you can carry with you in prison is your reputation.
In prison, there’s a lot of laughter to punctuate the gloom. People are constantly joking, telling stories, and playing little tricks on each other—summer-camp stuff like
short-sheeting a bed or putting hot sauce in someone’s skin cream—anything to make light of a heavy situation. There are touching moments when you see men just trying to hold it together the best they can. I look over and see Farmer coming down the stairs with a bowl of rice and some ramen noodles, getting ready to make a special meal for a group of people; he has years left on his sentence, but there’s a look of contentment on his face, if only for a moment. I see people in the visiting room putting on a face so their families and children won’t guess what’s really going on inside them or outside that visiting room. I see guys slaving for Unicorp-job pennies to support their families and keep them together. I’ll see a guy walking alone, and I can tell something’s happened—a family member died, or his wife asked for a divorce, or his child won’t speak to him, or he just got diagnosed with cancer—and I’m moved by his dignity in shouldering the news.
A small hobby of mine since entering prison—one of my little efforts to feel like a person in a dehumanizing environment—has been collecting the different colognes sold by commissaries in the various prisons where I’ve spent time. At the end of a day, after I’ve come in from my workout and taken a shower, I slap a little on. None of them contains alcohol, so they don’t last very long. By now I’ve amassed around fifteen bottles.
When softball season starts, everyone turns out to watch the opening game. Since I entered prison, men’s commissaries have started selling bras and other women’s items, and a group of cross-dressers here sing the national anthem. The game is umpired by Jeffrey MacDonald, the army doctor and former Green Beret who was convicted of murdering his pregnant wife and their two daughters, and portrayed in the book and television movie Fatal Vision. Everyone in here calls him Doc and goes to him for medical advice.
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