by Bobby Love
Eat and sleep.
And that’s when it hit me. I took a test to be sure. I wasn’t eating and sleeping because I was depressed. I was eating and sleeping because I was pregnant.
chapter five
Prison
* * *
BOBBY
Before I left Greensboro for Central Prison in Raleigh, North Carolina, my court-appointed lawyer told me that he was going to appeal my case on a technicality. There wasn’t a large part of me that believed I’d be set free on appeal, but still, I maintained hope. Dan was sentenced to the same facility I was, which was a relief, so I didn’t have to face what was coming alone.
At Central Prison, all of us who were waiting on appeal were separated from the general population, which gave me time to get used to life behind bars. I walked around in fear for the first few weeks because nothing—not jail in DC or my stints in juvenile detention centers—could prepare me for the world of prison. The facility itself was massive and overwhelming, with multiple salmon-colored three-story buildings surrounded by razor-wired walls and gun towers everywhere I looked.
I was housed with three other men in a large cell with two bunk beds, a sink, and a toilet smack in the middle of the room. If we weren’t at a meal or pulling fresh air into our lungs during our designated minutes of recreation time, we were in that cell, trying not to choke on the stench that comes from living in a single room with an open toilet and three other men.
Dan and I were on the same floor but not in the same cell. We were able to eat together and play basketball when it was our turn for recreation time. We stuck together for protection, and we made no attempts to befriend anybody else. We just tried to be patient and lay low while we waited for the results of our appeal. We didn’t want to attract the attention of any of the inmates who were looking for fresh meat to exploit, and we didn’t want to attract the attention of the guards, who were only too happy to show us who was in charge.
Dan and I watched a guard turn a water hose on a fellow inmate as punishment for some infraction. He aimed it straight into the man’s cell. That water came out so fast and cold, I was sure it would rip the skin right off his body. Watching him try to escape the piercing spray by scrambling under his bed like a cornered cockroach convinced me that I had better be on my best behavior.
It took nine months before we were told our appeal had been denied. After that, Dan was sent off to another prison, and I was given a new uniform—a brown one—and taken over to the general population section of the prison. My so-called honeymoon was over.
Once I was settled in, I was taken for diagnostic testing to see what skills I had that could be utilized in the prison system. The state of North Carolina had to get some use out of its ever-increasing prison population and tried to give every inmate a job based on his abilities.
I apparently scored high enough on the test to be assigned to the prison hospital.
“They’re going to teach you how to care for the inmates there in the hospital,” the warden told me. “You okay with that assignment? Because if not, we can send you out to the road camp.”
I didn’t have to consider my options.
“The hospital sounds fine,” I said.
“Good, you’ll start tomorrow.”
Working in the hospital turned out to have quite a few benefits, the best one being that I didn’t have to live with the general population in a cell. All hospital workers slept in a special dormitory so we could be on hand for work at odd hours. I learned how to take vital signs, like temperature, pulse, and respiration. I also learned how to do physical therapy with inmates who had been shot or seriously injured.
Getting into the rhythm of work helped me take my mind off the twenty-five-year sentence looming in front of me. Although I had it in my head that if I did my job well and didn’t cause any trouble, I could possibly be out in six years on parole. The other inmates had told me that if you keep a clean record, you only have to serve about one-third of your sentence. But if you mess up, then you have to do the whole thing. I didn’t know if that was actually true or not, but I chose to believe it because serving six years sounded manageable. Twenty-five years did not.
“Miller, you have a visitor!” the guard shouted.
“I got a what?” I said, sitting up on my bunk. It was Sunday, and I had nothing special planned for the day. Even though I’d filled out a visitors’ form with every family member I could think of, I had no expectations that anyone would actually want to see me.
“You got a visitor,” the guard repeated. “Hurry up and get out to the visiting room.”
I slid my shoes on my feet and hustled to the visitors’ room and tried to imagine which one of my siblings might have made the seventy-mile drive from Greensboro to the prison in Raleigh.
When I got to the room, I saw that it wasn’t one of my siblings. It was my mother, sitting primly in a wooden visitor’s chair, dressed in one of her Sunday dresses.
The tears started to fall before they even took off my handcuffs.
“Mama,” I said, my voice trembling as the tears continued to flow. “What are you doing here?”
My mother patted me on the shoulder and told me not cry, which only made me cry more. I hung my head down in my lap and tried to keep my blubbering to myself.
“Buddy,” Mama repeated. “Don’t cry now. It’s okay.”
“I’m so sorry, Mama,” I said without looking up. “I promise I’m going to get out of here.”
My mother forced me to look at her and she fixed me with her sternest gaze. “Are you done with this criminal life, Buddy? I mean really done?”
At that point I didn’t honestly know if I was done with the criminal life. I knew I wanted to get out of jail more than anything. But I didn’t feel any different about my chances on the outside. I still had no image of myself leading an honest life. I had no idea what that would look like, much less if it was possible. Would I turn away from an opportunity to steal or to rob someone if I had the chance? How could I know that until I was tested? That’s what I thought when my mother posed the question to me. I’d been a thief for almost ten years. Could I say that part of me was truly dead?
“You’ll see, I’m going to make you proud” was all I could think to say.
She gave me a look and then said, “I hope this is the end of it for you.”
“Me too, Mama,” I said.
My mother told me she’d brought me a whole bunch of my favorite foods, but the prison didn’t allow visitors to bring food from the outside into the building. She had to leave it all in the car. So instead of giving me a taste of home, Mama regaled me with all of the family news and gossip from back in Greensboro. By the time visiting hours were over, I was laughing instead of crying and Mama had a smile on her face too. Before she left, she offered me her usual words of advice. “Stay out of trouble, Buddy. And ask God to help you.”
“I will,” I said.
“I’m always praying for you,” she said, before hugging me and walking out the door. My mother didn’t make it back to the prison, but we continued to write letters to each other after that so I could let her know what I was doing and how I was surviving. In every reply, she always reminded me to pray and to ask God for help and guidance.
* * *
“Hey, Miller, you want to come to the meeting with the Jaycees?”
I peeled my eyes away from the football game on the television in the common room and looked at this inmate everybody called Big Mike. Among the inmates, he was the guy everyone wanted to know. He was always full of useful information and seemed to like to help the new guys get acquainted with how things operated. And he wasn’t one of those cats who expected something in return. I trusted him.
“What kind of meeting is it?” I asked.
“The Jaycees teach you about the Bible and Jesus and stuff. It’s like Bible study,” Big Mike explained.
“Naw, man, I’m good,” I said, turning my attention back to the television. Despi
te my mother’s best efforts, I continued to stay away from church and talk of God. My thoughts were so twisted on the matter. I felt like I kept failing God and therefore I didn’t deserve Him or belong in His house. I didn’t believe He had time for someone like me.
Big Mike moved his chair closer to mine. “Yo, Miller,” he said. “You gotta think about getting out of here.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I mean, people are always watching what you’re up to. And the busier you stay trying to ‘get rehabilitated,’ the better it looks when you go up for parole. You feel me?”
“What do you mean?” I asked again, the football game completely forgotten.
“What I mean is that parole works like a point system. The more good things you do, activities you join, positive write-ups you get, the more points you’re going to accumulate, which will lead you to parole. Plus, you need people from the outside to vouch for your character.”
I frowned. “Vouch for my character?”
“You need people who will say good things about you, man. And I’m guessing there probably aren’t a lot of cats on the outside who have nice things to say about you now, is there?”
Every family member I’d stolen from or betrayed flashed through my mind. I shook my head.
Big Mike leaned in closer. “That’s why you gotta come to these meetings. Show them you’re trying to repent for your sins and all that. And let them get to know you, so when you’re up for parole, one of them can write you a letter of support.”
“I see what you’re saying,” I said, nodding. Everything about prison life was calculated. And if I needed to get my religion on to ease my way out, I was more than happy to do so.
I stood up and looked at Big Mike. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go find Jesus.”
I took Big Mike’s advice to heart and, from then on, made sure to stay busy doing positive things. In addition to my hospital job, I became one of the people to show movies to the other inmates. We showed films twice a week, on Saturday mornings and on Tuesday nights, and I learned how to use the projector from a fellow inmate named Ralph. Ralph got out on parole after a recommendation from one of the Jaycees. Big Mike was right. I just had to keep showing that I was trying to rehabilitate myself.
All of the extra activities weren’t just for show. They helped the time go by faster, and after a while, I really started to enjoy going to the Jaycees meetings. They made me remember the good things I liked about church, like our summer picnics and seeing my mother so full of joy. They also made me feel better about myself, as they constantly reminded us that God loved all of His creations, even those in prison.
* * *
One day in early 1973, a little less than two years into my sentence, I was in my room in the hospital dormitory when my boss, Mr. Rice, came to the door. “Miller,” he said from the doorway. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have some bad news.” He paused before he continued. “Your mother has passed away.”
“What?” I cried, sitting up. “When? What happened?”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Rice repeated. “I only just now got word that she passed away last night. I’m unaware of the cause of death.”
I was stunned. No words came to my mouth.
Mr. Rice stood there for one more moment and then he said, “I’m sorry about your loss, Miller. The warden has decided to allow you to attend your mother’s funeral, which we understand will occur sometime next week.” And with that, he walked away.
I curled up in the fetal position on my bed and started to wail. I couldn’t believe my mother was dead. I was devastated. A mixture of guilt, grief, and sadness roiled around in my gut and forced big wracking sobs through my body.
“Miller, shut up!” the guy in the next room called out.
I turned my face into my pillow to muffle the sounds of my sobs. I knew the first rule of prison life was to never let people see you cry lest you get marked as soft. But I couldn’t hold in the tears for my mother. The one person who I knew I could always go home to was gone.
On the morning of Mama’s funeral, a guard woke me up and gave me a pair of dress slacks and a shirt to wear. I put them on, and then I was led out of the prison to an unmarked car. Two guards were waiting for me. I recognized one of them—Gaines. He was one of the guys who enjoyed telling the inmates that we were worthless and we’d never get out of prison. The other one didn’t look familiar. But I didn’t care. The only thing I cared about was saying goodbye to my mother.
“You ready, Miller?” the driver said.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and we were off.
I spent the entire one-hour ride from Raleigh to Greensboro, handcuffed in the back seat, thinking about my mother and all of the good times we had together and the love she poured into me. I thought about how hard she worked to raise me and keep me out of trouble. How I’d watch her cook in the kitchen, making miracles out of nothing. How she taught me to iron my own shirts when I was just ten years old because she said she wasn’t going to do it for me anymore but she wanted me to know how to present myself nicely. And how proud she was of me when I started mowing lawns and hustling for work. She supported everything I did as long as it was on the right side of the law.
Then I started thinking about all the things I’d never be able to share with my mother. She’d never see me get married. She’d never see the kids I hoped to have one day. Family was so important to her, and even when we messed up, which all of us kids did, she never stopped loving us.
By the time we arrived at Brown’s Funeral Home, my eyes were already wet with unshed tears.
“Listen, Miller,” Gaines said as he unlocked my handcuffs, “you get forty-five minutes in there with your family. Not a minute more. You try any funny stuff and I’ll shoot you. Understand?”
“I got it,” I said.
As soon as I stepped into the funeral home, I was assailed by a memory from my childhood. Brown’s was the same place we’d laid my father to rest when I was nine. I was twenty-two now, and the pain was even worse.
“Hey, Buddy,” the owner, Mr. Brown, came over and engulfed me in a hug. “It’s good to see you, son.”
“Thank you,” I said, returning his embrace.
When I pulled away, I saw all of my siblings standing around the open casket at the front of the room.
Mr. Brown saw me looking.
“Go on over there with your family, Buddy. The viewing goes on for an hour, and then we’re going to start the service.”
The guards told me I only had forty-five minutes, so that meant I wasn’t actually going to be able to stay for the funeral, just the viewing. That smarted, but I knew I couldn’t argue.
“Buddy!” My sister Jean noticed me and called out my name.
I shuffled over to my siblings and received love from each and every one of them. They asked how I was doing and told me I looked good, but I didn’t want their attention. I just wanted to know what had happened to Mama.
“Mama didn’t suffer, Buddy,” Jean assured me. “She had a heart attack, but I was with her the whole time she was in the hospital. She was in and out of a coma for a while, and her diabetes just made it worse. She just couldn’t fight anymore.”
Hearing that made me cry even more. My poor mother. All of us stood around the coffin crying and lost in our thoughts while more and more people entered the funeral home to pay their respects. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed, but suddenly Gaines was in my ear telling me it was time to go. Just then, Mr. Brown announced that the funeral service was about to start.
I wanted to stay longer, but Gaines was hovering right behind me, and his earlier threat lingered in the back of my mind. My feelings quickly shifted from anger at having to leave to guilt as, once again, I felt like I was letting my mother down. Even in death I couldn’t be there for her.
I said goodbye to my family, and everyone told me they would pray for me. My brother Raymond told me to stay strong and I said I would. Then I walked
over toward the door while everyone else headed to another room for the service. “I’m ready, let’s go,” I said to Gaines. He was kind enough to wait until we were outside before he put my handcuffs back on.
It took me a week or so to get back into my routine again at the prison. I was grateful that my boss and the other nurses were sympathetic and let me mourn. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” one of the other inmates who worked at the hospital said to me. “But at least you got to go to her funeral. I didn’t even know you could do that.” Even though I knew that was true, hearing other guys say it made me feel more grateful that I’d gotten to see Mama one last time. Not to mention, seeing my siblings had been a gift to my soul as well. I now felt more determined than ever to do whatever it took to get out of prison so I could finally show my mother that she raised a good son. Even if she’d have to witness my accomplishments from heaven.
* * *
It took two more years before my good behavior was finally rewarded. In a meeting with my counselor, I was informed that I had earned the right to be transferred away from Central Prison to a minimum security prison somewhere else in North Carolina.
“Where do you want to go?” my counselor asked me.
I shrugged. “I just want to be someplace close to Greensboro so my family can come visit me.”
My counselor looked down at his list and said, “All right, we’ll send you to Asheboro, then. That’s only twenty-five miles from Greensboro.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, trying not to show all my emotions. But inside I was ecstatic. Being transferred to a minimum security prison meant a lot more freedom. I’d heard of cats who were in minimum security prisons and held jobs on a work-release program. They got to go to their job on the outside and just come back to the prison to check in and sleep. That’s what I was looking forward to, that kind of freedom.