“This is prison, you ain’t gotta do nothing. Just take the book. Ain’t like you going anywhere with it,” he said matter-of-factly.
A trim, middle-aged white man with light brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail stood up and walked over to me. He had the New York Times in his hand. “You may have this when I’m done, if you’d like. It’s a few days old.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m Howell Woltz.” He was the first inmate to introduce himself by his full name.
“Charlie Engle.” It was the first time I’d said my given name in prison.
“Welcome to Camp Cupcake. What brings you to this fine establishment?”
I felt at ease enough to risk a joke. “Mix-up with the travel agent. You know how it goes.”
A couple of long beats passed, then Howell started to laugh. Once he started, the others joined in. I felt comforted by their reaction. Howell told me he had been in investment banking in the outside world. I wasn’t surprised. He had a sophistication about him that suggested yachts and good Scotch. Howell introduced me to some of the other guys in the library. There was Doc, a physician “and genuine drug kingpin,” Howell said; and Phil, a financial adviser “who had the great misfortune of being sentenced right after Mr. Madoff.”
At about 9:00 p.m., Howell, Phil, and Doc stood up to leave.
“Care to join us?” Howell asked. “We are going for our nightly stroll.”
“Sure. Do I have to get permission from someone to go out?”
“No, no. Come along.”
I felt as if I had been granted membership into a gang of prison nerds. We headed out to the track, past a few disinterested guards. The sky was clear and full of stars. We started walking.
“That’s Orion.” Doc pointed up. “And Gemini. See the twins?”
We did a couple of laps, then Phil asked me what I had been convicted of. I had been warned before coming to Beckley that I should be careful who I talked to, but I couldn’t help myself: I took a deep breath and launched into my story. It lasted most of the next six laps.
A loud voice came over the intercom telling us that the recreation area was closed and it was time to return to the housing unit. I followed along.
When we reached Evergreen, Howell looked at me. “Are you all right?”
I was touched by his concern. He had already been here for more than five years and had seen plenty of guys come and go. I think he sensed that I was strong and cool on the outside, but maybe things weren’t so calm in my head.
I hesitated, not wanting to show any weakness. “I don’t really know.”
“Listen, it’s up to you how you pass your time here. You can sit around in a funk if you want. You’ll have plenty of company. Or you can keep an open mind about this experience. I don’t know who you pissed off to get sent to this place, but it’s up to you what to make of it. I have a feeling you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.” I turned toward the door.
“Oh—and, Chuck?” I smiled and turned back. Nobody had ever before called me Chuck. “Remember this. The COs aren’t your friends, and neither are most of these guys. Don’t talk about yourself or your family too much. Don’t get into arguments, but don’t take any shit either. And don’t talk to anybody else about your case. If what you say is true, you need to be cautious. If you aren’t, some snitch will tell the US attorney that you admitted to killing somebody. Keep your head down.”
I was the only one in the bubble. I climbed up to my bunk and picked up my book. A few minutes later, the loudspeaker blared. “Count time! This is a stand-up count. Do not screw up my count.”
Guys scrambled into the cell and stood still, as if they were waiting for something. I waited, too. Then, just outside the door, I heard someone bang on the wall and yell, “Count time!” A heavyset white guard with a crew cut stepped in and pointed, one at a time to each of us, counting silently with his lips. He left the room and everyone relaxed. A minute later, a giant black CO came in. He did his counting by nodding his head at each of us. I almost nodded in return, but I realized this was not a greeting.
After he left, Shorty walked over to me. “Don’t mess with that guard. He’s the real deal.”
The lights went out and I climbed into my bunk, still wearing my sweats and T-shirt. I pulled the wool blanket over me. Little reading lights blinked on in the other bunks. I closed my eyes. I was wiped out. The day had been so busy that I had managed to shove aside the reality of where I was. But now, I felt a dark panic overtake me. I was in a federal prison on top of a frigid, windblown mountain in West Virginia. It was fucking Valentine’s Day. I would be here for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July and Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and next Valentine’s Day and next Memorial Day.
- - - -
In the morning, I was issued my prison “greens”—two pairs of long green pants, two long-sleeved green shirts, and two short-sleeved green shirts. I was also given a green winter coat—a bulky thing with lots of pockets. Every piece of clothing had a glued-on patch with my name and inmate, or “register,” number—26402-057. The first five numbers identified me as the 26,402nd man incarcerated in federal prison from my district, 057, in North Carolina. Those last three numbers also meant that other inmates could identify me as being from Greensboro, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I couldn’t imagine wanting to see any of these guys on the outside.
Over the next few days, I did all I could to blend in, learn the rules, and avoid anything that seemed even remotely like trouble. I felt like a kid who had been dropped off at the world’s worst summer camp. I was homesick and heartsick. I was also anxious to let my family and friends know that I was doing okay. We had all watched too many prison shows and movies. At the least, I wanted them to know I hadn’t been shanked.
Before I could make phone calls, I had to have money in my PAC, or inmate account. I couldn’t arrange for that until I met with my counselor, Johnny “Don’t Keep Your Hands in Your Pockets When You Talk to Me” Whacker. Whacker would also approve my official list of visitors—and I was eager to get that squared away. His days off had coincided with my arrival at Beckley.
When he returned, I was told I could see him. He stood when I entered his office and looked me up and down. He had a crew cut, tiny eyes, and one of those unexplainable round bellies that protrude from a skinny frame.
“What do you have there, Engle?” I handed him my list of visitor names. He sat down, cocked his head slightly to one side, picked up a cup on his desk, and spit tobacco juice into it. Then he grinned at me as he reached back and shoved my visitors’ list into a shredder on a low table behind his desk.
“You don’t need no visitors, Engle. Don’t nobody want to see your ass anyway.”
I was furious, but I knew I had to keep my anger in check. Whacker stared at me while his tongue worked its way behind the wad of tobacco tucked into his lower lip. He popped the brown mass out into the cup.
“What’s your religion?” he asked, pen in hand.
“None.” I hadn’t been to church in years, and I didn’t want to declare myself to be a part of anything until I understood what I was committing to.
“Do you mean you ain’t sure what kind of Christian you are? Or do you belong to one of those fake religions like Buddha or Islam or some other shit that makes you wear a rag on your head?”
I said nothing.
He spit again. “Okay, asshole, but you can’t never change your answer, so don’t come back in here at Easter and tell me you’re a goddamn Jew just so the kitchen has to give you those lousy crackers. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
After I had closed the door behind me, I said, under my breath, “That went well.”
- - - -
A basketball tournament was scheduled on my first Saturday. I wished I could play, but I couldn’t risk it only weeks after
my knee surgery. I went out to the courts to watch. When I got there, a big guy shouted, “Anybody else want to sign up for the three-point contest?”
Without thinking, I walked over to him. He was at least six feet five, 250 pounds, with a shaved head and biceps the size of my thighs. “You want in?”
“Sure, why not?”
He handed me a clipboard and told me to add my name and my inmate number. Discreetly, I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket because I hadn’t memorized the number yet. The sign-up sheet contained several dozen names. This was going to take a while. I considered backing out, but the big dude was standing over me. I signed my name to both the three-point list and free-throw list.
He took the clipboard back and stuck out his hand. “James, but they call me Mo in here.”
I shook his hand. Before I could say my name, he turned and yelled, “Another white boy signed up. That makes five of them.”
The yard had two courts, so while the contest started on one, I went to the other to practice. I hadn’t shot a basketball in years. Mo called out names, and one by one, each contestant stepped up to shoot. A lot of the players were good, but the baskets were old-fashioned with unforgiving double rims. Most guys missed the first few shots—and each time Mo would heckle them. A few actually missed all ten shots and were razzed off the court. Maybe entering had been a bad decision. Maybe I should just head back to the unit.
“Engle!” Mo called. Too late. Mo threw me the ball. “You got to beat seven to win.”
I dribbled the ball a few times to get a feel for it, then launched my first shot. It banged hard against the back rim and bounced all the way into my hands again.
“Oh for one,” Mo said.
I shot the ball again and it hit the front rim, bounced high, and dropped through.
“Lucky bounce. One for two.”
My next shot slipped cleanly through, hitting only net and making a nice pop. I hit my next shot and the four after that. I felt the crowd ramping up, paying attention. A clump of white guys cheered for every basket I made.
“Seven for eight,” Mo yelled. “All you need is one more.”
I felt good and nervous at the same time. I launched the next shot and it barely nicked the front of the rim. Some of the inmates hooted.
“Seven for nine. Lot a pressure for the new guy!”
Without waiting, I threw up my final shot—a high-arching ball. I knew it was going in as soon as I let it go. The ball went through the net cleanly, and the crowd let out an “Ohhhhhh.” I had gotten lost in the moment. Suddenly, I realized that I had attracted a lot of attention—exactly what Howell had told me not to do.
Mo walked over with my winnings: four packets of Gatorade. As he handed them to me, he clamped one of his giant hands on my shoulder. “You’re a pretty good shooter, Engle, for an old white dude. Then he leaned in close, squeezed my shoulder a little harder. “Some friendly advice. If I were you, I would make sure I didn’t win the free-throw contest.”
I nodded. When it was my turn at the free-throw line, I missed seven out of ten. I looked over at Mo, and he winked.
- - - -
When I finally had money in my PAC—and managed to find an available phone in the busy hallway—I called my kids. I was afraid I would cry when I heard their voices. I told myself to keep it together, not make it worse for them. I did everything I could to keep the conversation light. I even made a few inappropriate prison jokes. My allotted fifteen minutes passed quickly. I reminded them we would get through this together. When I hung up, I felt empty and desperate to talk to someone else. I had to wait an hour to use the phone again, and when I was allowed to, I called my mother.
She answered after a few rings but was confused by the recording that greeted her, asking if she wanted to talk to an inmate at Beckley federal prison. I was afraid she would hang up, but she hit the right button and said a quavering “Hello?”
“Hi, Momma.”
I had called my mother Momma for the first twelve years of my life. After that, it was mostly Mom. But when I heard her voice, I felt like that little boy again.
“Hi, Momma. It’s Charlie.”
I told her I was fine, that she shouldn’t worry about me. She told me a story about her cat and talked about how much she wished she could focus on writing but her mind wasn’t working right. Then she launched again into the story about her cat. I didn’t have the heart to stop her. She sounded so far away, so uncertain, so lost. My throat tightened. She was slipping away. I wasn’t sure there would be anything left by the time I got out.
Besides three hundred minutes of monthly phone time, we had limited access to an e-mail system. We were charged by the minute. I exchanged daily e-mails with my father, who was still in full battle mode with my case. He was combing through the trial transcript and other documents. He kept me up-to-date on the national news; every day, he said, came more astonishing revelations about the collapse of the housing market. Banks were being hit with record fines—but not with criminal charges, something we both found outrageous. My father’s doggedness made me smile. I’d known he had a deep streak of cynicism when it came to the government. But now this was personal. Big government had come after his son. It felt good to know he was on my side. For all our differences, I knew he loved me—and he was determined to not let these assholes win.
- - - -
My knee was feeling a little better, and I was anxious to run again. Before I could even attempt my first running steps, though, I had another problem to solve. I didn’t have running shoes—only the poorly fitting steel-toed boots I had been issued with my standard greens. I could order shoes from the commissary, but I had to wait for money to be put into my account. The purchase would also have to be approved by Whacker, and based on my first encounter with him, I didn’t think he would rush to sign the approval form. I suspected if he knew how important running was to me, he might never allow me to buy shoes.
I decided to see if I could make a deal for somebody’s old shoes. On the outside, I would never consider wearing castoffs. Running shoes wore out in specific ways based on how their owner ran. Wearing used ones could lead to injuries. Plus, anything you didn’t buy through the commissary was against the rules. If I was caught, I would get a shot—be written up for an infraction—and risk being sent to the hole, solitary confinement. Still, in the short time I’d been here, I’d witnessed a robust free market. Guys traded each other daily for watches, boots, artwork, and food. I was desperate for shoes. I’d take my chances.
One day, a huge black guy, maybe four hundred pounds, massive arms, approached me in the long lunch line. “You the dude looking for kicks?”
I glanced around to see if any guards were within earshot. “Yeah.”
“Cost you some mack.”
“No problem.”
I didn’t actually have any packs of mackerel or tuna or stamps or anything that was viewed as currency at Beckley because I hadn’t yet been allowed to shop in the commissary. But I wanted shoes. We’d have to work out a deal.
A few days later, the guy showed up outside my cell with black Nikes under his arm. He slid them over to me. “Check ’em out.”
The ratty-looking shoes had holes in the sides and worn-down soles. I pulled the tongue up to check the size, and when I did, I got a whiff of them. They were size twelve.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to hide my excitement. “Okay. All right.”
I promised him a dozen packs of tuna and a jar of peanut butter, even though I had been told owing an inmate anything could get you in serious trouble. I’d deal with that later. The shoes were mine. When he was gone, I took off my heavy boots, laced on the Nikes, and bounced, as best I could on my sore knee, around my cell. Yeah, these would work. Now I just needed my knee to heal.
- - - -
After I made two more attempts, Whacker finally approved my visitors’ l
ist. Thinking maybe he had decided to be reasonable, I went back to him with another request: I wanted a job in the recreation department. Inmates were not required to have jobs, but I wanted to stay busy and make a few dollars to spend at the commissary. I got the head of recreation to sign my request form—a cop out in prison lingo—and went to see Whacker.
“Do I give this cop out to you?”
“Why the hell would I want that?” Whacker glared at me.
“I was told that rec needed people and I would like to work there. Mr. Wahl signed off on it.”
“I don’t give a shit what he signed. It’s not your fuckin’ choice. I’ll assign you a job tomorrow.”
The following Monday, I was assigned to recycling. My job was to sort through the garbage from both my camp and the medium-security facility next door. Most of it was routine crap, but some days I discovered little surprises: hypodermic needles, soda cans cut in half and used to hold ink for prison tattoos, and the occasional blood-soaked piece of clothing. It was disgusting. I earned $5.25 per week, just enough to buy a jar of peanut butter only six months past the expiration date and some crackers to go with it.
I continued walking with Howell and the guys around the track every night before count time. In his former life, Howell had been an investment banker managing a big portfolio for some powerful people. He told me he had been asked by an unethical prosecutor to give false testimony about one of his former clients. He refused to lie, which made him the target for the same prosecutor. He lost his legal battle and was sentenced to eighty-four months. Because of what had happened to him and so many other people he’d encountered in the federal prison system, Howell had become an advocate—and pro bono jailhouse lawyer—for inmates who needed help filing grievances or appeals.
Howell wanted to help me, too, and I gratefully accepted. I gave him every document I had relating to my case, including the grand jury testimony and the trial transcript. After reading it all, he told me that mine was one of the worst cases he had ever seen. He encouraged me to keep fighting.
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