House of Nails

by Lenny Dykstra

  During my stay, I was informed that my mother was seriously ill and death was imminent. I was devastated that I was incapable of visiting her due to my inability to post bail. Dorothy was able to reach the prison chaplain, who at least arranged for me to talk to my mom by phone. She died the day I talked to her. Because I was unable to post bail, I wasn’t even permitted to attend her funeral. Needless to say, that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

  As for the charge of grand theft auto that landed me in prison, the basis of the charge was that I formed a shell company that was not properly registered. I pleaded with those who were detaining me to speak with my attorney Moshe Mortner in New York, who had properly registered the alleged shell company nearly a year prior to my indictment. Ignoring my pleas, they never contacted Moshe. What follows is the declaration written by Moshe, under penalty of perjury, where he affirms the proper registration of the entity Home-Free Systems, LLC.

  Lines 16 and 17 of the document that appears on pages 289–290 state, “I declare under penalty of perjury, under the laws of the United States of America that the foregoing is true and correct.”

  Numbers 4 and 5 in the document clearly delineate that $300,000 was raised from an investor, who received a promissory note, prepared by my attorney, as well as equity in the start-up company. Moreover, said $300,000 was wired directly to my attorneys Client Trust Account, whereupon he immediately distributed the funds as per my instructions.

  From the declaration, number 12 states the following: “At no time prior to or subsequent to Defendant’s arrest was I contacted by law enforcement officials or investigators asking for any information with regard to the Defendant or Home-Free Systems LLC.”

  Therefore, Moshe Mortner, my attorney, substantiates that I told Detective Contreras the truth. Please note that Moshe’s letter is dated February 28, 2012, prepared for my sentencing hearing approximately eight months after I was incarcerated for Grand Theft Auto in June 2011.

  For the normal person, this must sound like I am crazy. The fact of the matter is, I am far from crazy. The only thing that was crazy was that I was getting locked up no matter what. Let’s think about this for a minute. Follow me through the actual sequence of events.

  If the detective was doing his job, which was to investigate the case and find out the real truth—We are talking about a man’s freedom here, this was not just another day at the ballpark—he would have called my attorney Moshe Mortner to ask him if what I claimed was true regarding Home-Free Systems. I had begged Contreras to call my attorney, as Mortner would clear this whole mess up. Their allegation of a so-called shell company would have been proven wrong. They would have had no case. The facts were all supported by my attorney who formed the company, and the Grand Theft Auto charge would have been dismissed.

  During my arraignment hearing, my criminal defense attorney, Andrew Flier, asked Detective Contreras, a twenty-four-year LAPD veteran, a series of questions. Specifically, Detective Contreras, the investigator who handled my entire case, was asked under oath if he had ever bothered to check if I was telling the truth when I explained that Home-Free Systems, LLC, was indeed a real company, not a shell company as they alleged. In fact, Detective Contreras stated under oath that Home-Free Systems, LLC, was a shell company with no money. Flier had even read from the interrogation transcript that I was begging, and then screaming at, Detective Contreras to call my attorney, Moshe Mortner. Mr. Flier went on to say, “I’m reading from the transcripts that Mr. Dykstra was pleading with you, ‘Please, call my attorney, he can verify everything, all you have to do is call him and he will tell you that Home-Free Systems is not only real, but, in fact, it was my attorney, Moshe Mortner, who formed the company.’ ” Initially, Detective Contreras would not answer the question of whether he contacted Mortner to find out the real truth. When the judge told him he had to answer the question, Detective Contreras, in a very low voice, replied, “No.”

  Therefore, under oath, the investigator in my case admitted that he had never attempted to follow up on my request to contact my lawyer to prove that Home-Free Systems, LLC, was not a shell company. He didn’t want to know the truth, that’s why he didn’t call. So, instead, this man, who stated under oath that he would “support and defend the Constitution of the United States,” failed miserably.

  Unfortunately for me, Moshe’s letter was never entered into evidence or even considered until we produced it at my sentencing hearing. I was incarcerated for approximately six months without an investigation. After sentencing, I was incarcerated once again, and entered into a world for which there is no adequate primer. Little did I know that what I was about to embark upon would alter my perspective on life forever.

  Again, I ask the question “Does this represent justice?”

  31

  IN THE HOLE

  The rights of every man are diminished when the rights of one man are threatened.

  —JOHN F. KENNEDY

  When the prison cell door slams shut for the first time, your mind is flooded by a plethora of emotions. First and foremost, that sound becomes indelibly etched into your brain. Regardless of what other thoughts you might have racing through your mind, one thought predominates and is constantly reinforced: I am no longer free. You can’t prepare for that feeling, because we take freedom as a given. So when that door shuts, and you hear that sound, you are transported to a place that is incomprehensible.

  Darkness engulfs you, invades you, and establishes a parasitic relationship with you. You see the same four walls and hear the same sounds every single day. The nights are particularly challenging, because it’s difficult to turn your brain off. Moreover, there’s virtually nothing to do to distract you from your thoughts. In essence, it’s pure fucking monotony.

  A few days into my sentence, I laid on my cot fully expecting another night of unending boredom. I was learning how to allow my mind to just drift way out there until I became, as the song says, comfortably numb.

  Just before I checked out for the night, a voice startled me from the adjacent cell. “Hey, man, you all right over there?”

  “Yeah, ah, I guess,” I replied, not sure who it was.

  “You read?” the low, rough voice asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Man, you got to learn to read in here, or you’re gonna do some hard time,” the voice cautioned.

  Then I heard a noise outside my cell, and there before my door was a book that he had tossed to me from his cell. I opened the food slot in my door and snagged it. It was The King of Torts by John Grisham.

  Literally, in the blink of an eye, I was awakened to the unchanging misery of my circumstances.

  What a great fucking read. For a few days I became Clay Carter, the main character in the book. I even dreamt I was him. Never having read before, I got sucked into the world of well-written fiction, hard and fast. And any Grisham narrative sure beat the shit out of nightly oblivion.

  Lenny Dykstra and reading? Undeniably, they were mutually exclusive until I was incarcerated. Prison changes a man, and it made me a bibliophile. I devoured as many books as I could get, transporting myself into the stories to help forget where I was and what I faced.

  Meanwhile, the dude next to me, the voice, would have bags and bags of shit delivered to him on commissary days. Other inmates paid tribute to him, and there was respect for his position. Being a new kid on the block, I wasn’t sure how it all worked, but it was abundantly clear that this dude was wired and dialed in. I’m not sure how he did it, but on commissary days, you might have thought he went on a shopping spree at the mall.

  The voice from the cell next to me turned out to be Lalo Martinez, the head of the Mexican Mafia, who ran the whole fucking jail from his cell down in the hole. Lalo kind of took me under his wing. He would throw me soups and other shit I didn’t have from his stockpile of goods. We talked about books, pussy, religion, just about everything. For a major league crime boss, in the hole for nearly thirty years, he was kind of sur
prising. He was very intelligent, which I credit somewhat to all the books he read.

  Lalo taught me something early on about the accommodations. There were video monitors looking into each of the seven cells along G-Row, each one of them filming everything 24/7, including when I took a shit.

  Lalo told me, “Man, you hang up the towel to block the camera, or your ass will be sold to TMZ. It happens all the time.” He didn’t have to tell me twice.

  I’m relatively certain that his sway there at Men’s Central was why I was never bothered by any of the other inmates. Unfortunately, other inmates turned out to be the least of my worries.

  Lalo and all his influence could not help me on one particular night. Close to lights-out, I was relaxing in bed, preparing for that nightly journey to nowhere, when I heard a commotion coming down the cellblock toward my cell. This huge motherfucker—the deputy who always egged on the other deputies to commit their petty bullshit—was taunting me, laughing and singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  “Not tonight, man,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  The next thing I knew, at least three guards came crashing into my cell and proceeded to beat the holy fuck out of me. They slammed my head against the wall as they pounded on me, knocking out at least one of my teeth and doing major damage to the rest. As I faded in and out of consciousness, I vaguely remember being dragged down the cellblock like an animal.

  I was cleaned up and my injuries were cataloged and videotaped, based on what they were told to record. All of this occurred before I was fully conscious. When I finally came to, I was in the hospital. To this day, I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever as to how I got to the hospital, or where I stayed for three days.

  After being released from the hospital, I regained my senses and became lucid, which prompted an internal investigation into what really happened to me. I was emphatically told that if I did not corroborate their version of what transpired to their satisfaction, the next time, I would not be waking up. Fearful for my life, I heeded their advice and told no one what really happened . . . until I was released from prison.

  That savage beating eventually led to the removal of all my teeth. Furthermore, the repeated severe blows to my head may have resulted in some brain damage.

  This brutal attack came from out of nowhere, with absolutely no provocation from me. I realize that I am lucky that I did not die from the beating. Nonetheless, I had to serve the remainder of my time there, saying nothing about the incident, or risk death if I did. Needless to say, I lived in constant fear that they would come back and finish me off.

  Many of your rights are taken away when you enter prison. Some believe that this is a just penalty for breaking the law. However, there are certain rights that are unalienable. The vicious and reckless assault of an individual by these men, without provocation, regardless of the setting, cannot be construed as right. Moreover, the perpetrators of such an act should be punished to the highest degree that the law allows. When you find out that this type of behavior is not an aberration but rather a microcosm of a systemic culture, this can only be reviewed as egregious.

  I wish I could say my situation was a rare occurrence. But in light of the indictments and sentences of Los Angeles prison authorities and guards, it obviously is not. In case you aren’t on their e-mail list, here are some headlines from the FBI litigation newsletter:

  • “Current and Former Deputies Charged with Federal Crimes, Including Illegal Beatings of Jail Inmates and Obstruction of Justice”

  • “New Indictment Stemming from Civil Rights Investigation into Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Alleges Two Deputies Abused Inmate”

  • “Six Current and Former Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputies Sentenced to Federal Prison for Obstructing Federal Civil Rights Investigation”

  • “Ex–LA County Sheriff Lee Baca Pleads Guilty in Jail Scandal”

  It was dark in the hole. It was even darker when you contemplated your existence there. Nonetheless, I was adapting, following the rules, doing what I was supposed to do. When they turned my lights out, that was a shade of darkness I could not possibly fathom.

  The epic Simon and Garfunkel song “The Sounds of Silence” begins with: “Hello, darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again . . .”

  Well, with all deference to Paul and Art, I would change the lyrics, based on my experience, to: “Good-bye, darkness, you never were my friend. I hope to never see you again.”

  32

  LEGACY

  Don’t give up on your dreams, or your dreams will give up on you.

  —JOHN WOODEN

  Although incarceration was difficult at best, I am forever grateful that I was released just prior to the start of my youngest son Luke’s senior year in high school. Having the ability to be present in Luke’s life throughout his senior year was a tremendous gift for both of us. Of course, I helped him with his studies, emphasizing, “If you don’t get the grades, you don’t get to play baseball.” More important, I was able to guide him in making difficult life choices that could drastically affect his future. We all remember what we did when we were high school seniors, which, in all honesty, makes it somewhat difficult to counsel your kids fairly. Regardless, I cautioned Luke about hanging out with the wrong crowd and encouraged him to always consider the consequences of anything he was about to do.

  Luke has the uncanny knack of knowing exactly what to say to appease his mother. After all, he is my son. But I’m the King Operator; nothing gets past the master, who has seen and done it all. Luke knew that I loved him, but he realized that appropriate discipline is a responsibility that comes with being a father.

  Admittedly, I was somewhat limited in my ability to help Luke with his studies (all this new shit!). However, I could and will continue to provide him with my extensive knowledge about my expertise—playing the game of baseball, the right way. I spent countless hours every day with Luke, discussing the nuances of the game. I was preparing Luke for pro ball, as I knew from talking to the scouts that he was going to be a high draft pick. Luke made it abundantly clear to me that he wanted to become a professional baseball player rather than go to college. Therefore, it was incumbent upon me to prepare him the best I could.

  In 2015, Luke, who is the perfect size for baseball at six foot one, 195 pounds, was drafted in the seventh round by the Atlanta Braves. He signed, and his dream of becoming a professional baseball player has been realized. He is on his way.

  In Luke’s first full season, he was promoted to the Braves’ midlevel Class A team, the Rome Braves. Luke put up All-Star-caliber stats, hitting .348 with an on-base percentage of .378.

  My son Cutter, Luke’s older brother, was drafted by the Milwaukee Brewers in the second round of the 2008 draft. He was then traded to the Washington Nationals, where he was the organizational player of the year in 2013 and 2014, which earned him an invitation to his first major league spring training in 2015. I see the big leagues in Cutter’s future. He’s a winning player and I know he can help a team win.

  While it took a while for my stepson, Gavin, to find himself, he has grown into a fine young man, and I am proud of him. He is a great father to his son, Marshall, works hard to provide for him, and is a constant presence in his life.

  And as proud as I am of Cutter’s baseball achievements, I am even more impressed with Cutter the father and husband. In many ways, he is a better father and husband than I have ever been. On January 16, 2016, in a beautiful ceremony held at the Parker in Palm Springs, California, Cutter married Jamie-Lynn Sigler, a wonderful young woman. Many of you know Jamie-Lynn as Meadow Soprano, the daughter of Tony Soprano, on the long-running HBO series The Sopranos.

  Jamie and Cutter have an awesome, beautiful little boy, Beau. Beau is nearly three years old now and completely obsessed with baseball. The countdown to a third-generation Dykstra in professional baseball has officially begun. It’s hard to believe that Lenny “Nails” Dykstra is a grandfath
er, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Undeniably, I have made some monumental mistakes in my life, some of which, inadvertently, have had a negative impact on my family. Despite my indiscretions, my love for my boys cannot be questioned. Incarceration deprived me of valuable time with my sons. While I can’t get the time back, I can make sure that I do everything in my power to maintain a constant physical and emotional presence in my sons’ lives now and going forward. Circumstances have hammered home to Nails what is truly important in life. I look forward to watching my sons grow and contributing to that growth by providing the wisdom I have gained throughout the years. Perhaps, more important, I am looking forward to my sons providing me with insight to aid in my own personal growth. Never lacking confidence, I assure you, I fully expect my relationship with my sons to continually grow and strengthen until the day I die.

  I am not sure who said it, but this quote describes how I feel about my sons: “A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty.”

  33

  TO BE OR NOT TO BE LENNY

  In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.

  —MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

  Although that outbound Greyhound bus ride from prison is a mere speck in my rearview mirror, I have a far better understanding of its meaning now. On the one hand, that Greyhound bus was my conduit to the freedom I desperately craved. Yet I realize now that it is also a reminder of where I have been and all that I have lost. Perhaps, more important, it is the recognition that objects in the rearview mirror are larger than they appear.

  Sitting on a dirty bus going thirty-five miles per hour at the command of someone else was a stark contrast to lounging in my Gulfstream at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet going six hundred miles per hour. Incredible highs and unbearable lows, the story of my life! Nonetheless, I have had a great deal of time to reflect and better understand what is truly important in life.