by Beth Harden
“I am so pleased. It gives me hope and restored belief in a system that can acknowledge making a mistake and then correct it. It’s rare in here to see an injustice rectified,” I reply. The victory is his; the reward is mine.
#
As expected, no one volunteers to go first. I look around the room and see that each man, except Zimmer and Bowman, has several sheets of notebook paper on the desk in front of him. The quantity is there, but the quality of the content is yet to be revealed.
“So, who’s gonna lead off?” I repeat. Mr. Monopoly spots his opening and jumps up. Rev is in his early forties, a man of medium height and build with charismatic hazel-colored eyes and short cropped brown hair with streaks of white. He might even have been considered good-looking if it wasn’t for the wedge-like, rodent shape to his face which started wide at the ears and ran a narrow angle down to a blunt snout. His bristling, aggressive approach is reminiscent of a badger. His limbs are stringy, his movements jumpy. No doubt his mind is brilliant but it comes with the cunning of his species.
“Allow me,” he says in that ingratiating whine. Bowman shrugs in frustration. Zimmer rolls his eyes. They’ve heard this unsolicited tale twice before, we all have, about the woes and pressure of having to care for a terminally ill spouse and the post-traumatic stress from his exposure to the military as both the son of a veteran and a soldier himself. That hard line of tough love proved to be the tipping point; after which the depression settled in and curbed his activities to laps paced around his living room. The drawn blinds and fistfuls of tranquilizers helped to calm his nerves. Though he claims to never have laid a hand on his wife of twenty-eight years, Rev now sees in retrospect how his tight rein on his home and his angry mouth had caused real upset in his family. Once the cries of bullshit and liar go up and challenge his truthfulness, Rev’s tune changes slightly and then it’s swear-to-God only that single slap one time. After all, he loves his wife. It is all nicely packaged in the past tense as the man he used to be.
“You, too can change, my friends. I took this class voluntarily because I knew I could improve. This is my fourth time going through this program and each time, I learn more about myself and how I can help others with my story,” he says, gesturing earnestly at the band of Neanderthals that strike their women as habit. The men are neither fooled nor convinced by his sermon. They are doubters, skeptics. Most of all, they find him irritating as hell.
Dent is the next to man to take to his feet and run his play pattern. Humor is his tactic and his unique delivery is personified in the ridiculous. His belly swells above the elastic waistline of the baggy pants that fall short of his ankles by six inches. A stubble of reddish hair ranges in erratic patches on his scalp, cheekbones and double chin. His blue eyes sparkle with good nature but his words describe actions that are very dark. He recounts how he was convinced that his third wife was cheating on him with the garbage collector, so he went down to the guy’s house, abducted him at gunpoint, and drove him down to the salvage yard. Though the man pleaded for mercy, Dent forced him in the back of one of the garbage trucks with the hydraulic gate that lowers down, pulls up all the refuse and dumps it into the well where it is crushed. Dent had his hand on the lever, lowering it inch by inch, demanding that the guy confess his guilt and apologize. Say seven Sweet Mary, mother of Gods and when his slow torture had exacted an adequate confession, he stopped the mechanism but left the man trapped in the garbage overnight. The sanitation crew found him there the next morning covered in coffee grinds and grapefruit peels, but alive. Dent was not a bit remorseful for what he had done and if given the same circumstances, he would do it over again. The difference being, next time he’d use one of the newer, efficient compacters and never push the kill switch.
“I respect your honesty,” I say.
“No prob, Mizz A. I tell is like it is,” says Dent proudly.
Gemini sashays to the front of the classroom and distributes his weight to one side so that the line of his hips is more noticeable. He pushes back a few strands of hair that have fallen out of his bun. His tale is long-winded and circuitous, much like that of a woman who thinks in a circle rather than a straight line like his peers. He truly is a beautiful she-boy with a sensual, theatrical quality. Gemini catches a lot of flak for the sexual confusion his presence engenders, but he also catches a lot of action back in the block. He articulates about how needy he was as a young man, how the neglect of his family drove him to prostitution and drugs and the bitch-slap, drag-out fights he had with his lover. While sad and true, his story lacks the requisite brutality that his long sentence would indicate.
Serge has his assignment in hand but prefers to just talk straight from his heart and memory. This man looms above his peers by a good seven inches or so. He has a curly shock of coarse hair and a thick build honed down to pure knotted muscle. His head is large but the circumference seems to have outpaced the size of the brain it conceals. The thought of being the object of this man’s rage is more than sobering. Serge details the night of his incident when he and his girlfriend were arguing and drinking. She pulled a knife and stabbed him in the shoulder which made him stumble back and put his hand through the glass pane on the door. The sight of his own blood and the searing pain made him see red. After that, he remembers beating her first with his fists and then a wooden walking stick, pulling the whole china closet down on top of her, and finally dragging her out into the slushy snow where he dropped her bloodied, huddled form on the driveway. Serge had his key in the ignition of his SUV and fully intended to run her over, but a passing snow plow sent up a shower of sparks that illuminated her unconscious body. The emergency call was made and the ambulance whisked away a critically injured patient. Initial triage confirmed two fractured orbital sockets, broken cheekbones, nose and jaw, multiple rib fractures, a punctured lung, ruptured spleen and dislocated shoulder. He had stopped just short of killing her and that one measure of self-control was the difference between fourteen years and the rest of his life behind bars. His confession was a brutal forthcoming without excuses.
“Well done, Serge. I’m sure that was difficult to do,” I say. My stomach bubbles with slight queasiness. Not much shocks me these days but this story is particularly disturbing.
“It’s taken me over twelve years to be able to put this incident into words,” Serge says.
“Amen,” says Willis.
“Would you like to share yours, Mr. Willis?” I ask.
“If you don’t mind, Miss Abrams, I’d rather hand this in and have you read it in private,” he replies.
“The purpose of this exercise is to share it with the others. Everyone is equally vulnerable. If you can’t do it here in safety, how are you to make any kind of real amends to others?” I ask. Willis has never struck me as a self-conscious type, but he continues to shake his head and digs in.
“Believe it or not, I was the deathly-shy girl in school who would rather take an “F” on an oral report than speak in front of others. I’d be in the girls’ lav about to be piss my pants, I was so nervous.”
“No shit. For real, Mizz Abrams?”
“True story, Mr. Ortega. So it isn’t my natural style to force others to do what they’re not comfortable doing. I get it. There’s a lot to risk by revealing oneself in here. But if I let one guy off the hook, I’d have to do the same for the rest.”
“No, Mizz Abrams. I can’t. You gotta trust me on this,” says Willis. Rather than bog down the others, I choose to move on.
“Who else?” I ask. Bowman and Ortega each blurt out a handful of half-hearted sentences that sound awfully alike. The two youngest members of the group are still playing the blame-game and offer cliché claims on how they want to change their lives without any convincing substance behind them.
“Good enough. We have time for one more. Mr. Zimmer? You always love to tell a story. What do you have for us?” The elder shrugs and pulls a little standing wheelie with his chair. The men applaud.
“I’m
not angry and I’ve never been violent. I ran a little scam with prescription drugs. Passed bad checks and did quite well by it. I’ve got all the shit. You know flat screen TV, Bose sound system, Nintendo, a tablet. Cricket has more bling than any rapper on the block. I’m pretty bad-ass for an old fart and maybe by the next class, I’ll show you my moon-walk, if I can get out of this bitch.”
The first bell goes off for recall. The class across the way begins to file out into the hall, cursing and creating a real distraction to our heart-to-heart. A horizontal tear of lightning streaks across the dark sky and deepens in bold contrast to the white watch tower on the hill.
“Listen, whoever didn’t read their paper or felt they couldn’t, please make sure your name is on it and hand them in. As I said on day one, you will be evaluated on participation, written work, attitude, attendance and your credibility in taking responsibility for your actions.”
“What if we were willing to tell our stories out loud to you in private, but not in front of the group?” asks Euclid
“I would entertain that idea. Time permitting.”
“Counselor, that stack of papers in front of you, are those our certificates?”
“No, we still have two more sessions before you are finished. These are your police reports,” I answer.
“We’re fucked,” announces Dent. Instantly, some of the men grow pale and shudder. Their versions don’t even remotely sound like the facts; instead, they’ve submitted some sensational tales that make good fodder for Lifetime movie scripts.
“Hey, Mizz. I just realized there’s a lot of spelling errors on mine. And I crossed out a lot of words. It’s pretty messy. Can I re-do it and hand it in tomorrow?”
“Sure, Ortega.” I hand the writing papers back to him. What a man won’t do for a little gold star on an otherwise black report card.
#
Business is slow today. I’ve called for at least six guys from the bottom tier who are out roaming the first level for inside recreation, but not a one has showed.
“Damnit, I’ve got to get this shit signed,” I say out loud. “What the devil is the hold-up?” I step out onto the tier and look both ways for oncoming foot traffic. No one in sight. Down below on the bottom floor there seems to be a jam by the stairs. Tommy’s got his big bulk planted on the first step and has created an effective wedge. He’s jawing at the other inmates who are trying to make their way up to the counselor’s cubicle. What did I do? In my haste to help, I’ve created an even bigger browbeater. My nod of confidence to Tommy Pisano gave him the attention he’d been hammering for but not the diplomacy to handle it. In a brain that is chemically wired to be borderline, paranoid, antisocial and delusional all in a span of a few hours, the absence of an official title left the door wide open for his own interpretation. Tommy had appointed himself as watchman, body guard, advisor, intelligence agent, bouncer, deal closer and BFF depending on what he saw fit at the moment. Obviously he had made it his business to keep an eagle eye on the comings and goings in the counselor’s office and he wasn’t in the mood to play nice or let anyone else play at all. I’d have to deal with him later.
A healthy portion of the inmates were herded outside to do planks, dips off the weight stand or solitary laps around the pavement court with headphones on. Many of those remaining in the unit are resting or waiting for the return to work call. I lift my radio and buzz a signal to Boozer who is on duty at the desk. I can see him from the small opening in the door. He takes his sweet time, swinging his jackboots down off the desk and reaching around to push the call button on radio 36.
“What up?” he says casually.
“Can you pop Mr. Willis? Cell 215, please.”
“Anything you want, sweetheart!” he says, the same line he uses on every female he encounters, be it young or old, homely or hot. As long as the female parts are proportionately in place, Boozer will hit on it. It takes much longer than it should to walk to the panel and jimmy the levers that disengage the cell door. Willis finally emerges in the doorway. The whole process has taken a good fifteen minutes which is just fine with the officer who doesn’t give a good goddamn if the inmate ever makes it there at all. It’s just another complication to his otherwise mind-numbing routine of sitting and sitting some more.
“Come in,” I offer. “I thought this might be a good time to do your presentation. I should have told you to bring it along when I called you down.” I’m always struck by how well African-Americans age. Willis’s face is devoid of creases or wrinkles. The lack of sun exposure over years of being kept indoors is a better remedy than any Botox injection. He would be readily carded at a liquor store. I know his true age by the information on the offender face sheet. He’s just shy of three years older than I am. All of the demographics are within easy touch on a computer screen such as height, weight, age, race, and religion, all the data that categorizes and distinguishes us one from another.
“I don’t need to refer to my paper. I can just speak from the heart” he says. Humility is a rare virtue in a place where pride equates to power and protection. I can see it in this man, in the slope of his shoulders and the angle of his body as he adjusts his size into a more comfortable position. He’s humble; not a broken man, but one who has bent of his own accord. Willis folds his over-sized hands in his lap and looks me directly without blinking or looking away.
“That’s fine,” I say.
“Well, Ms. Abrams, I am not here to talk about what I’ve been convicted of and punished for. I’ve done my time for those charges. To the best of my ability, I have tried to make restitution to those I have harmed. Some of that still remains to be done when I am released, but I’ve been trying for years. Mostly reaching out to those who will still communicate. Many of the bridges are too far burned, but I made peace with my God when I hit a dead-end.” Not another one, I think. If I had a dollar for every crook turned theologian, I could have erected a small church in Haiti for future Jesus freaks.
“So tell me a little about what brought you here,” I reply.
“Unlawful Restraint and Risk of Injury,” Willis states.
“Yes, but I’m more interested in the why’s and what- ifs involved.”
“It’s not really what it appears like on paper. My wife knew what I was up to as far as selling dope, but I kept her out of my work on the streets. Didn’t tell her what I was up to on the daily. I’d just go out and take care of business and bring home the money. She knew there was a gun in a shoebox and another stuffed with cash in the closet. She was well taken care of, she and her kids. But one day she gets sick of the life and wants me out. Goes to the police for a restraining order claiming I been threatening her and abusing our kids. All of a sudden, I can’t even come back to the place I been paying for. All the money I have saved is in that shoe box so one day when she should be at work, I go by to get what’s mine. I had no idea she’d be home sick. Once she comes to the door, I tell her I’m there to collect up my belongings and go but she runs to the closet, grabs both boxes and says she’s gonna dump this shit outside. I tell her to give me back the stuff and start thinking with some sense. She’s crying and won’t put the gun down. I grab her so she’ll calm down and she starts bugging, so I pin her down on the carpet so she won’t hurt herself. I’ve got my hands on her shoulders, you know but she’s struggling hard and they slip up near her neck. I keep saying, gimme my gun back, but she won’t let go. We’re in a tussle, wrestling and her night dress gets ripped. By then, she’s screamin’ like she’s gone bat-shit and my oldest daughter who’s walked in sees me on top of her mama and calls the police. I’m hit. The State got me on all kinds of charges – attempted burglary, possession of a firearm, strangulation, assault third and risk of injury to minor. My lawyer got it pled down to violation of a protective order, unlawful restraint and risk of injury.”
“You aren’t going back to this woman, are you?”
“No, we’re divorced now. Can’t fix stupid,” he says with a particular sting of nast
iness. Willis corrects himself immediately. ‘I don’t mean it to sound like that. I forgave her.”
“And do you have a plan? Where are you going to live if you can’t go back there?” I ask.
“I’m gonna stay with a friend. She’s got a place in Roxbury and wants me to come there. I can help her out cause there’s no man in the picture right now.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Willis. What was so hard about telling that? Your story isn’t much different than anyone else’s in the class. Why couldn’t you share it with the others?”
“You know me, Counselor. What happened to me as a kid. I don’t trust anyone but you. I’m not just another criminal crying wolf. This is serious business to me. I want to leave this place with a clean record.”
“Well, you must know it’s very difficult to get your record expunged. It can be done, but there is a five-year wait period from the time of conviction and the Board of Pardons looks closely at what productive steps the person has made since that time. You may have a very good chance if you do all the right things in the meantime.”
“I don’t mean on paper, Mizz Abrams. I mean I want to leave this life with a clear conscience. What’s troubling me are things I’ve done that I never was caught for. The things a man carries around in his own soul.”
“We all have dark spots in our souls, Mr. Willis. And we must try and scrub them clean if we are lucky enough to. That’s where church and religion can play a part. Perhaps a priest or the chaplain might be helpful in purging your conscience.”