Gigi and I talked about what was going on in our lives. She’d lived in California and had plenty of tales to tell, so I loved listening to her stories. Listening tonight, though, I realized how many concerns she had on her own account. She essentially had a double shift as a caretaker, and her own health was being tested by the long hours. Even people in their sixties had to make a living. And here I was showing up with my child, seeking out her protection and common sense, two more stragglers for her to take care of at an odd time. But she was welcoming, and I was thankful. For a precious hour or so, we could talk and listen, even laugh a bit. It was dark out, but we were all together and safe.
I didn’t realize it then, but my little family should have kept Gigi as Dylan’s caretaker for as long as we could, for years. I should have paid half my salary to her so she could have steady work. During those early years, Dylan’s dad and I, amid all our concerns about career development, our money, our house, our lives, didn’t fully realize how much of a godsend she was to us, how much she could help us just by being who she was. The fact is, she had something neither of us could give so freely to our son at that time: her calm, steady presence, her experience coming through many storms, her patience, her laughter. How she maintained her spirit through her own trials and tribulations, I can barely imagine.
Eventually that evening, it was hard to say who among the three of us was more ready for bed. After hugs all around, I gathered Dylan up, and we went outside. We said good-bye; we waved. “See you tomorrow!” Thank God, and thanks to Gigi, I felt we could make it to tomorrow.
Could I have gotten the same calming results with Dylan if I’d given him a cool bath that troublesome evening or just taken him out for a ride? Maybe. I just couldn’t think to do those things at the time. All I know is that Gigi was a lighthouse to me when I was a lost boat on a rough sea, as she was in countless other ways later on during the time we knew her. Even after she wasn’t Dylan’s regular babysitter anymore, we continued to visit her throughout the years, and she remained the same wise, generous person she’d always been, even up to the end when her health gave out, right before she died in 1999. None of us will ever forget her. And I could have learned a lot more from her than I did, if only I’d paid more attention.
CHAPTER 5: LOCKED UP
I felt better after my meeting with Allison Marie and Patrick. The three of us talked about my family disaster on their oak-shaded backyard deck over a glass of wine. Somehow, from that perspective, with their input and experience to bolster me, Dylan’s arrest seemed a little more manageable. That is to say, survivable. Mainly, they assured me that I wasn’t alone in this. They knew a few others who had been through something similar with their adult kids. Two families had now, or did have, young men in jail. As clergy, Allison Marie would put out the call, and these parishioners would get in touch with me. By the time I left their house, though I still wanted to crawl under a rock and stay there until the storm blew over, I felt that maybe, just maybe, I could get through this.
Back home, when the phone rang, I jumped. Every time. No matter how often I heard it, I couldn’t get used to the recorded female voice, even if it did sound so professional, so matter-of-fact. “You have a pre-paid call from … (slight pause for the inserted voice) Dylan, an inmate at the Doran County Jail. All phone calls are subject to being recorded, except for privileged communications between attorney and client. If you agree to accept this call, press 1.” I discovered that once someone lands in jail, there is a whole set of protocols you have to learn about: putting money on phone accounts, setting up commissary, what mail you can send, how you can send it, when you can visit, what you can bring into the visitation booth, etc. Contact visits, where you can sit across from your incarcerated family member to talk and even hug by way of greeting and leave-taking, are not permitted at most jails—not unless a person has been sentenced and placed under the Department of Corrections, and serves in a work program. This was no country club low-security prison like the one Piper Kerman told us about in Danbury, Connecticut. There, you had the opportunity to work different jobs on the compound, let off steam by running on an outdoor track, make friends with an inmate cook, maybe even sneak out what you need to make fake cheesecake on the cheap for somebody’s birthday.
None of that happened at the county jail, not if you’re being held as part of the “general population.” Besides, each jail is its own little fiefdom with its own rules, which can change weekly by jailer fiat. At first, I was a little worried about the recording of conversations, but I soon got over that; what choice did I have, anyway? Besides, I wanted to find out from my son’s own voice what he’d been thinking and how he had gotten into this predicament.
Despite my intentions, these inmate phone calls with my son were not encouraging. Of course, at first I was alternately disbelieving (Why did you do this?) and furious (How could you do this to me? I loaned you my car and you used it to get alcohol and get drunk?). We went over Keith Birchen’s May visit, the whole descent-into-the-underworld narrative. For the most part, Dylan was defensive. His rationale was that he wasn’t at all content living the way he had been, quietly and on the sidelines. He wanted more, and growing pot was a way to “step it up.” As for getting the beer on Friday night, he knew that probably wasn’t a good idea but felt he wasn’t doing anything unusual compared to what most college kids were doing on that same evening. As for the gun, that had come from Keith and its purpose was to “protect his investment,” the leafy one growing behind the locked closet doors.
In all this scheming, however, what he didn’t realize was that by drinking the beer, then hitting the bottle of scotch on the table at the friend’s house, he was not going to be in the best position to make decisions about safety—not his own, not anyone else’s. And then, all drinking aside, I wondered aloud why he had put a gun in the backpack when he went out. To brandish it at a dramatic moment and scare everyone around him? To give himself a sense of power he couldn’t get any other way? We didn’t have any family history with guns. Dylan himself admitted to me that he’d been afraid of the pistol until Keith showed him how to use it. After that, they’d had great sport practice-shooting off the apartment balcony. And all that was going on while trusty Mom was waiting for him to return my calls from Boston. Maybe the weapon was yet another way to “step it up”—only this one backfired on him big-time.
No doubt, all these questions should have been asked in the confidential situation of “privileged communications between attorney and client,” but as of yet there was no attorney. That’s because it would fall to me to find and pay for one. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted to. Not after what we parents and grandparents had paid already for Dylan’s education and wellbeing. Had I believed my son was innocent of the charges, I would have found the best lawyer I could. But he was far from innocent. I didn’t want to send the message to him that Mom and Dad would always be there with our checkbooks, ready to bail him out. It didn’t seem the right thing to do anymore.
I talked about this with John. I knew John was not in favor of any bailing out whatsoever; he was aware of Dylan’s past infractions. Neither was Mike, who lived in Cleveland. The initial bond was high, $10,000. This would later drop, but the truth was, we weren’t eager to get him out. He needed to get stopped in his tracks, think about what he’d done. Jail was useful for that. And we needed to think, too.
To get another viewpoint on the attorney issue, I decided to check in with my new friend, Sandra. She was our local NAMI chapter leader; the acronym stands for National Alliance on Mental Illness. She and her husband, Robert, had a son whose crazy irresponsibility when he was a teenager turned out later to be due to schizophrenia. He’d had a record of legal problems, including DUIs and illegal drug possession—mainly marijuana but other things, too. She told me they had paid for an attorney once, but when it happened again, they decided to let their son be represented by a public defender. Things worked out; it wasn’t the worst choice. Public defenders didn
’t have much time to spend consoling or consulting with their clients—maybe ten minutes face-to-face with them in a spare room before court appearances. But Sandra said that she and Robert, as parents, weren’t prepared to fork over a higher fee for a wayward young adult who didn’t learn the first time. Mind you, Sandra was a really kind, tender soul, too, not a rough-edged person like me, trying to be tough-minded.
Nonetheless, I found two private attorneys who offered an initial free consultation. One of them had an office right near the courthouse. When I explained the situation, Mr. Larkin spoke affably enough, asked questions, reviewed the situation, suggested a diversion plan he would argue for, and stated that his fee would be $2,000 per felony, and I could think it over. Well, for three of them, I didn’t see any sort of bargain. The second lawyer turned out to be much more entertaining. I could tell she would be a good trial lawyer by the questions she asked and the possible tales she was already starting to spin based on my answers. Given the circumstances, though, I doubted that there would be a trial, or that it would be worth it even if there were one. In my talks later with Mike, what it all came down to was guilt and cost. We’d already hired a lawyer to defend our son in a misdemeanor case involving marijuana in Ohio. This time, we didn’t want to pay for a guilty defendant. He would be assigned a public defender.
During this time, I visited Dylan in jail. Whereas my previous experience involved inducting students into an honor society, now (thanks to my son’s unfortunate brand of ingenuity) our whole family was being inducted into the criminal justice system. No matter how many times I went for visits, it always felt strange to leave the ordered, respectable world of my college office to find my way to the backstreet county jail behind the Justice Building. It was like leading two parallel lives, or having an alternate identity. I had to get there early to sign in, then find a seat among other, assorted family members of inmates. They were of all ages, from grandparents to little kids. Honestly, the only other place I’ve seen that many rambunctious young children is the elementary school playground—either that or the pediatrician’s office. It made me realize how many inmates are parents, not to mention brothers, sisters, spouses, boyfriends, nephews, nieces, or grandkids. When our male inmates’ names were read, we were allowed to file into a dull green, booth-lined corridor. We all walked slowly past the men on the other side, each of us looking for that familiar face behind the plate glass. To talk we each picked up an ancient phone receiver hanging on the wall. In no time, there would be a cacophony of sound on all sides, with each visitor watching that face, listening for that one voice they had come to hear.
Dylan looked a little roughed up from the arrest but basically OK. He showed me a cut he’d received on his head from being taken into custody.
“Look at this, Mom. They tazed me and slammed me onto the hood of the police car.”
I winced. The apartment manager, Blaine, had told me about that on the phone right after it happened. I could see grazes on Dylan’s hands, too, but all the wounds looked clean and healing.
“They had to take me to the hospital to make sure I was OK. Then they brought me here.”
“Well, it looks like you’re going to survive,” I said, then shook my head. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to be patched up after an incident. I asked him what it was like in there. He told me he was in a cell with about sixteen other guys. It was essentially one big holding tank, with each prisoner having a different court date and slightly different charges. There was one toilet and one sink for that many, with bunks against the wall. They got to go out into the courtyard and play ball maybe once a day. I couldn’t imagine, but I asked him everyday questions to normalize the situation.
“So, how’s the food?”
“Horrible quality, small quantity. We’re all starving.”
“How’s your shoulder doing?
“OK, trying to limber it up, take care of it in the crowd.”
“You’re taking your meds?”
“Yeah, the nurse distributes them and makes sure I swallow.”
“Can you work in there? What do you do all day?”
“No, the work program is only for convicted state inmates, Class D felons. They apply and have to wait their turn.”
“Can you read books?”
“Sure, I read a lot in here.” But he warned me. “No edifying reading materials, Mom. If you send me anything, make it a good thriller.”
Sure thing. OK, so now I’d be hunting for edifying good thrillers. Margaret Atwood flashed through my mind, but I knew she’d be too Canadian-dry for his taste. I shrugged and gave him a Mom look.
In any case, I found out later that you can’t just pass or send a book from home to an inmate. You have to order it from an outside source and have it sent directly to the jail to that person. If, that is, the local facility allows a book to be sent at all; some don’t. Every jail is concerned first and foremost about any contraband drugs that could be slipped between pages or glued into bindings. As in the case of the airplane shoe bomber, if it happened anywhere once, afterward the authorities would suspect all travelers wearing shoes because they might conceal explosives.
Before long, we talked about upcoming court dates. At the time of his arraignment, Dylan found out that his public defender would be Ms. Wesley Pulaski, and she planned to make a plea of not guilty, so that things could be worked out over time. Basically, the court had to decide what to do with him. The court would agree that he wasn’t a hardened criminal. He was a first-time offender. Usually, the law is more lenient in that case. We talked about how he could make the best case for himself, show that he is worthy of having a suspended sentence. Chastened, Dylan said he had a plan for his life and shouldn’t be put away for this one bad lapse of judgment. He’d been able to accomplish things, like two more semesters of college courses here as well as the ones at the University of Cincinnati. His slate didn’t only have black marks on it. We talked about persons who could put in a good word for him: the landlord after he helped out with some repairs, also his marketing and math professors. Dylan knew from Ms. Pulaski, though, that in order for him to get the diversion he wanted and be able to resume his studies, he would have to complete some kind of substance abuse program. “I’ll do it,” he said.
Soon, our half-hour visit was over. The correctional officer gave the signal, and all the inmates got up and moved away from the booths. The next hearing in court would be important; at least we had some plan. I didn’t like what my son did, but I wanted him to know I was on his side.
I didn’t mention, though, that I’d decided to write a letter to the judge to personally advocate for him. I thought Judge Marlowe needed more background than he would get otherwise. The truth is that before writing it I felt guilty, like I wasn’t doing enough to help. At a NAMI meeting in Louisville a few weeks earlier, I’d attended a workshop led by a young lawyer who was advocating for persons, like her brother, who had mental health issues and had been picked up for vagrancy or petty theft. Usually they were talking about persons with schizophrenia who hear voices and are clearly delusional. In cases like that, the issue of not being in control of one’s actions is clear-cut. But other people have mental health problems, too, even if they’re not as severe, not as visible. I explained to the judge that my son had been diagnosed with Bipolar II, and though he was fully rational, he was also subject to impulsive actions and bad decisions. I’d learned, too, that he had addiction problems. Those three all went together in the same package, along with the good stuff: talents, interests, accomplishments. “Judge Marlowe, the way I see it, he’s an at-risk individual who needs a chance to work his way back toward the possibility of having a good life.”
Before the next hearing, under Sandra’s counsel, I left a phone message for Ms. Pulaski. I wanted to tell her about some substance abuse program options the family had been researching. But even though I tried to throw in my two cents’ worth, I got the distinct impression that our influence would be limited. For one thing,
Pulaski was Dylan’s defender, not mine. I had to wait and see if she would contact me; and she, in turn, would be mostly attuned to her client and the workings of the court.
Two months later, on Monday August 8, in circuit court, there was finally a major hearing after several preliminary ones. Fortunately, I’d been able to mobilize moral support. Mike and Linda up in Cleveland wouldn’t be there, but John would be with me. Sandra from NAMI also offered to come, as did Rev. Patrick from St. Alban’s. I was glad we were all together; it felt like a united front even though, to a large extent, we were only observers. Circuit court that day was a full house. We four had to search for a place wide enough on the pews to accommodate our group. It felt like we’d assembled at church, with the altar being the judge’s bench. By now, I’d become used to the recurring rituals: for example, everyone standing up as one body when the judge emerged from his chambers and the bailiff pronounced solemnly “All rise.”
Sandra had coached me in how to locate the docket online so I could print it out. Dylan’s name was on page three, and I knew from previous hearings that he wouldn’t appear until later. I scanned the other names. More than one looked vaguely familiar, probably from a previous court appearance. Just as there were regulars at bars and restaurants, there were regulars in court, too. After Judge Marlowe settled in, the audience remained quiet while a flurry of activity took place on the floor. Private attorneys stepped forward to present their cases first, scurrying between clients, passing in and out of doors off-stage on the left to check files or copy documents. Stage right, presided over by the bailiff, was reserved for jailed defendants, who would be brought over in handcuffs. The four of us speculated as to where Dylan was being held. Maybe he was still at the jail. Or maybe he was being held in a locked chamber somewhere down one of those hidden, backstage corridors. We knew he’d be led in when his case was called. Gradually, we got used to the flow of events. It would just take as long as it took to get to Dylan’s name. For him, it must have felt like being a tense racehorse locked inside the starting gate right before the Kentucky Derby, only he’d be waiting in that tiny gate for an hour or more before the pistol went off.
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