by Jerome Gold
“There are two areas in Maximum Security there. One is Segregation—”
“The hole.”
“Right. The other is Close Custody. You’ll have to finish your four years in Close Custody. Unless you mess up. Then you’ll go to Segregation.”
“I’m not going to mess up.”
“You’ll be eligible to go to Minimum Security four to six years before you get out. You’ll be eligible for Work Release one to two years before you get out. You should never let another inmate know anything about whatever money you have. If they think you have anything, they may try to trick you out of it, or extort it from you.”
“Is this hard for you, Jerry?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will.”
Caitlin said she thought Karin was jealous of me. But she was not going to stop visiting me.
Peter had been assigned a counselor from the outside who was supposed to help make his transition to life out of prison easier. Peter qualified for this service because he was mentally ill and had a history of drug abuse. “My mother says he asks too many questions,” Peter said.
“What kinds of questions?”
“I don’t know. She just said he asks too many questions. She wanted me to ask you if she had to talk to him.”
“No, she doesn’t. It’s voluntary on your part and hers. But you might give it a try for a while. It can’t hurt you.”
“I don’t like this guy either, Jerry. We’re doing this only because you said we should. It isn’t something I would do if I had a choice.”
“All I can say is you don’t have to do it. If you think it’s helping you, stick with it. If you don’t think it’s helping you, drop it. Maybe you simply have the wrong counselor. You can ask for a different one. I don’t know if you’ll get one, but you can ask.”
“I’ll tell Mama what you said.”
One day when she was visiting Peter, his mother asked me to sit down with them. She wanted to know what would happen if she refused to talk to the little man who had been coming to see her about Peter.
“The guy from the program that helps kids on parole who have mental health problems?”
“I don’t know anything about a program, but this little man with a pony tail comes to my house to talk with me about Peter, he says. About making sure that Peter does good when he gets out. About Peter not getting into trouble again. About Peter going to school every day. That’s what he says it’s all about. But he doesn’t ask any questions about Peter. What he asks about is Peter’s brothers and Peter’s father and Peter’s uncles. He asks me about myself. Do I use drugs? How do I get money? As if I’m out turning tricks every day. I’ll tell you what, Jerry…or maybe I should be talking to Jan or Clarabelle—”
“Clarabelle?”
“Isn’t that Jan’s boss’ name?”
“Clara,” I said. “Her name is Clara.” I couldn’t keep from smiling.
“Look at him,” Peter said. “He’s laughing.”
“I think I’ll keep calling her Clarabelle. Whenever I call here, she moos at me.”
“She moos at you?” I laughed openly. So did Peter.
“I call here because I want to talk to the superintendent about this little man and they always pass me off to Clarabelle. And she moos at me. Every time it’s the same thing. Mooo. Mooo. I can’t make anything out of what she’s saying. She doesn’t use English, Jerry, not any English that I ever heard.”
“She speaks Moo,” Peter said.
“Anyway, I think I’m going to stop talking to this little man. Because I don’t think he has any interest at all in how Peter does. I think he’s interested in something else.”
“I don’t know what to say, Deborah. I know it’s a new program—”
“It’s an old program for me, Jerry. You haven’t been at this end of a police interrogation, but I have. And I know a policeman when I see one. Or hear one.”
“They want mama to learn DBT,” Peter said.
“That’s Clarabelle. She wants me to learn DDT. I understand that much of her moo-ing.”
I hadn’t known DBT was part of the program. “DBT,” I said.
“DBT, DDT. It’s all the same.” Her mouth turned to show disdain. I could see in her eyes that she knew she was entertaining me. “I told Clarabelle that her little man hasn’t said anything about DDT. All he does is ask questions, and they are not about Peter. They are about things that are none of his business. Or hers. So what I’m saying is: he doesn’t need to come to my house again, because I won’t talk to him. Now what I want to know from you, Jerry, is what’s going to happen when I tell this little man that I’m not going to talk to him anymore. Will they do something to Peter?”
“No. They’re not going to do anything to Peter. Like I told Peter, you’re not required to participate in this program. If it’s not working for you, drop it.”
“It’s not working for me, Jerry.”
I had a girl on my caseload who was not able to tolerate the proximity of other people for very long. Regardless of the situation, whether it was in the middle of a conversation with a kid or a talk with one of the staff, she would suddenly break off and go to her room when she could endure no more. Exceptions to this were her participation in board games, the classroom, and her discussions with me. I thought, and Jan agreed, that Jasmine would be better off in a mental health unit. Clara, although acknowledging that she recognized that Jasmine was ill, refused to transfer her. After a while I stopped bringing up the issue of moving Jasmine because I could see that Jan believed it was hopeless; for reasons of her own, Clara would never go along with it.
Jasmine’s mother was fiercely protective of her daughter. She did not believe Jasmine belonged in prison—she was in on one charge of selling marijuana and one charge of prostitution—but as long as she was here, she should be getting help for her illness. She had been seeing a therapist on the outside and Ms. Nunn wanted the administration to allow the therapist to visit Jasmine in order to continue treating her. Ms. Nunn said her insurance covered the cost of therapy, regardless of whether it was inside or outside prison. The administration refused. There had been letters and phone calls between Ms. Nunn and Clara and the superintendent for several weeks, but nothing had changed except that, according to Clara, Ms. Nunn had become more insistent. Finally Ms. Nunn demanded a meeting and Clara had been ordered by the superintendent to accommodate her. Clara wanted Jan to be there, but Jan sent Layton instead. As Jasmine’s case manager, I also had to attend.
The meeting was in the conference room of the Administration Building. Ms. Nunn had said she would arrive at noon but called at twelve-fifteen to say she would be late. She showed up at twelve-forty-five. She was alone, though she had told Clara she would be accompanied by an attorney. I had no idea what the meeting was about, whether it would have to do with Jasmine’s illness and Ash Meadow’s refusal to allow her to be treated for it or it had to do with something else, but clearly Clara was nervous. While waiting for Ms. Nunn, she drummed her fingers, she pushed her chair away from the table and then scooted it back, she sighed, she frowned.
When Ms. Nunn arrived she smiled and apologized for being late, but before anyone could say “Oh, that’s all right” or “We enjoyed the break from work while we waited,” she asked why Jasmine was on suicide watch. She looked directly at Clara. Before Clara could respond, Ms. Nunn asked how long Jasmine was supposed to be on this Suicide Level Four or Five or whatever it was. Ms. Nunn was an imposing woman and she used her size and voice to intimidate Clara who was small by any standard. I had talked with Ms. Nunn a number of times and I knew she loved her daughter. I knew, too, that she despised people in authority and that she enjoyed using anger, or the pretense of it, to discombobulate them.
Clara said Jasmine should have been on Suicide Prevention Level Four for seven days.
“Then why wasn’t she taken off after seven days? She’s been on this suicide thing since she’s been
here, according to your own nurses.”
“I don’t know,” Clara said. She turned to me. “Why wasn’t she?”
I was caught by surprise; I hadn’t known Jasmine was on suicide watch. “Because staff didn’t know she was on SPL Four. Nobody told us. It isn’t in her file.”
“Why isn’t it in her file? The nurses knew about it. They got the information from somewhere,” Ms. Nunn said.
“The cottage file may not match the medical file,” I said. “When Jasmine came here, before she got to the cottage, one of the administrators interviewed her. The information they got from her was passed on to various offices here. Theoretically, copies are made of everything and sent to the cottage. In reality, this doesn’t always happen. It’s possible the Health Center got the information, but didn’t send it down to us. But I really don’t know why we don’t have it.”
“‘In reality…’ I’m afraid I don’t see much reality here, Jerry,” Ms. Nunn said.
I wondered how much she knew. Clara’s statement that Jasmine should have been off of SPL after seven days was not true. Once a kid was placed on SPL 4, it would be six months before the administration authorized her removal from it. Too, did Ms. Nunn know that Ash Meadow’s last suicide was a girl we had just gotten from another facility and that that facility or the Health Center—the other institution claimed there was a note in the girl’s file that accompanied her; Ash Meadow said there was no note—had not told her cottage she was on suicide watch? I would have bet the nurses did not tell her that.
“Now, Clara, I understand that you are the person who put Jasmine on Suicide Level Whatever. She’s been on it for four months. When are you going to take her off?”
After the meeting, Clara asked Layton and me to come to her office. Once there, she ranted about Marie Nunn. Both she and Jasmine were bi-polar, Clara said. “She didn’t even talk about her daughter! She just came here to harass me! They should both be in Andromeda! And that name! Nunn! Where did she get that name! She’s no nun!”
Walking down to the cottage, Layton said, “She’s the one who’s crazy.”
“Maybe what everybody believes is her drinking is really the depression part of her own manic-depression. Maybe that’s why she misses so much work,” I said.
“Could be. Could be.” Layton was serious. I had meant it to be funny, but hell, who knew? It could be true.
Caitlin complained again about doing “Observe and Describe.” Sometimes she didn’t want other people to know how she was feeling. Sometimes she wanted her feelings for herself. She spent most of the hour we had together playing computer games on Yahoo.
I was no longer Jasmine Nunn’s case manager. A new staff member, Tim King, was. Why? It was what Clara wanted. Why? She felt I was not loyal to her, that I was too friendly with Marie Nunn.
“How did she come up with that?”
“She doesn’t think it’s appropriate for you and Ms. Nunn to address each other by your first names,” Jan said.
“Imagine that.”
“This isn’t easy for me, Jerry. I’m doing what I’m told to do.”
“I know that.”
“I’m putting Ahmed Williams on your caseload. He’s new.”
“I’ve seen him. How do I explain to Jasmine why she’s been replaced by Ahmed?”
“I’ll tell her. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her, but I’ll tell her something.”
“Clara’s using Jasmine to get at her mother. She knows Jasmine is attached to me, so she severs that attachment to make Marie pay for trying to help her daughter.”
It was too obvious even to respond. Jan said, “She doesn’t want you to even talk to Jasmine. Beginning immediately.”
“How am I supposed to adhere to that? Jasmine lives here and so do I. Am I supposed to snub her if she says something to me?”
Jan wrote something on a piece of paper. “I’ll mention that to her.”
I took a breath and let it out.
“Do you know what I think of whenever I hear somebody mention Clara’s name? I think of Clarabelle the Cow. I can just hear that little cow bell go ‘tinkle, tinkle, tinkle’.”
“Oh my god, you’re right! That’s what I think of too. What show was that on?”
“Howdy Doody.”
“Howdy Doody! Howdy Doody and Clarabelle the Cow.”
“And Buffalo Bob. Don’t forget Buffalo Bob.”
“And…what was that Indian princess’ name?”
“Princess Summer Fall Winter Spring.”
“Oh my god. Princess Summer Fall Winter Spring. You’re right.”
“Do you know who else Clara reminds of a cow? Deborah Kasser. Peter’s mother. Deborah says Clara moos at her.”
“Moos at her!” Sounds came from Jan as though from a drum. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to choke. “Oh my god! Oh, Jesus! I can’t stand it! She moos!”
When she was more or less calm, I said, “Okay. What else?”
“What else?”
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“All right. I hate this. Clara doesn’t want you to see Caitlin anymore. Her transition to Serpent Cottage is complete and the staff there want the relationship ended.”
For a moment I couldn’t think. Although I’d been expecting this, when it came I felt as though I’d been hit with a hammer. I said, “Caitlin told me that Karin had asked her to change our visiting day from Sunday to Monday because Caitlin has a DBT group on Sunday. I agreed. So Caitlin came over last night instead of Sunday night.”
Jan’s eyes went twice from left to right. “Caitlin didn’t say anything about not visiting you anymore?”
“No.”
“Well.”
“Well?”
“All right. Just continue doing what you’re doing. I’ll get back to you.”
Except when he blinked, Ahmed Williams’ left eyelid was half-closed from when he was cut with a bottle. He had a knife scar on his neck from a different occasion. I listened to him talk for an hour and a half, staying late because I didn’t want to stop him. He talked about his grandmother whom he had loved and who died last year. One time he came home after having been gone for two days and went into his room, and there was a clock radio his grandmother had bought him, with a card on it on which she had written “Happy 14th Birthday”. He couldn’t believe he was only fourteen; he had even forgotten it was his birthday. He felt so old.
Shortly before she died, his grandmother was not herself. She was angry with someone and cursed that person, and that wasn’t like her. When he talked about her dying, tears leaked out of his eyes and he leaned back in his chair and took a breath and let it out, and there was such sadness on his face, he looked a thousand years old. Then he said his mother told him that people were glad his grandmother had died because that meant they each got a little bit of money, and his aunt Alice used hers for crack and he was angry at their disregard of his grandmother, appreciating only the money she left.
He talked about his cousin, a Crip who was shot in the back of the head by a BGD, and because Ahmed was a BGD he could not retaliate, could not relieve himself of what he felt by getting back, and had to pretend, whenever he saw the kid who killed his cousin, that everything was all right when it was not. And his other cousin, the brother of the murdered boy, was shot in the back and crippled—nobody knew who shot him. He walked now by taking a step with his left foot, then swinging his right leg around to bring it up to his other one, then taking another step. (Ahmed did not talk about his sister dying of sudden infant death when he was seven. He didn’t tell me that he was babysitting her because his mother was on a bender, and that it was he who found her dead. I knew all of this from his file.)
And again the tears come and he leans back and takes a breath and lets it out. He doesn’t have much family left, he says. He can’t stand to be around people who talk. He means he can’t stand to be around people who talk as if they know suffering, as if they know loss, as if they know anything. And he
says, “A lot has happened.” Then he says, “But you can’t look back, because there’s a lot more to come. There’s a lot more to come.” Leans back. Breathes. Lets it out. He does not mean that what is to come will make him happy.
In the living room, the kids seated and waiting to be told to line up to go to school, Paula told me I was black.
“I am?”
“Weren’t you born in Chicago?”
“Everybody from Chicago is black?”
“Uh huh. Aren’t you?”
“Are you from Chicago?”
“Uh huh.”
I walked over to her and bent over and said in a mock whisper, “You know, I promised your mother I would never tell you, but I think you should know: I’m your daddy.”
Everybody roared, kids and staff.
At nine-thirty Jenny called from Serpent and said, “Your girl is a mess.” Sonia had just left for Purdy. Jenny asked me to come by.
Trent was in Jenny’s office with her; he had been Sonia’s case manager. Both he and Jenny were crying. Jenny thanked me for coming over and my eyes filled and I felt a sob or a groan come up through my chest and I forced it back down.
I took Caitlin for a walk around the playing fields. The sun was out and the sky was clear, but it wasn’t very warm yet. Caitlin said she and Jenny and Trent had cried before I arrived, and Sonia was crying as she left. She had been told she could take two boxes of belongings, but when DOC came, they said she couldn’t take anything but some photos and her address book. Life would be different without Sonia, Caitlin said. After we had done one loop, she said she was exhausted and I walked her back to Serpent where she went to her room to take a nap.
FOURTEEN
Maggie told me she still thought about Julius beating up James Johnson. She still asked herself what she could have done. She said she had thought about jumping on Julius’ back, but had thought, too, that he would pull her over his head and she would land on top of James, injuring him worse than he might be injured otherwise.
She may have thought that then, but it was more likely that she had thought about it since. I suspected this because I too had been thinking of what I could have done. I could have rammed Julius in the ass with my shoulder. I could have kicked him in the balls from behind. Maybe I could have punched him in the ribs when he brought his arm up to swing again. But I hadn’t thought of any of those things. Everything was possible, but I hadn’t thought of anything. All I did was yell. Why hadn’t I thought to do something else?