Although I’d set off with scenes from Hollywood prison movies looping in my head, Rikers Island was much less imposing than I expected. Since it’s next to LaGuardia Airport, there are no high-rises or towers; only the razor wire on the chain-link fence around the buildings seemed sinister. I had to leave my cellphone and iPod in a locker outside, but even the security screening compared favorably with most airports: There was no line, I didn’t have to give up my water bottle, and no one yelled at me.
It wasn’t until a guard gave me a form to fill out that the grim reality of the situation set in.
“This will take two to three hours,” he said.
I told him I wasn’t planning on waiting for the inmate I was springing.
“It takes that long to process the bail,” he explained. “You have to stay.”
Suddenly, I felt like I was in jail.
The guard directed me to a line of people in the next room, who were waiting to be helped by three clerks sitting behind thick windows. It felt like the post office, except you couldn’t leave in a huff over the glacial pace of service. I decided that the sharpest employee was a large woman with a sign posted on her window saying, “Attitudes adjusted while you wait.” I got a break: When her window cleared, it was my turn.
I handed her my form, half-expecting to be complimented for remembering all the codes I’d collected over the previous few days: an arrest number, a New York State ID number, a docket number, a “book and case” number, a charge number, even a number indicating which jail Graham was in.
But she just gave it a cursory glance and told me I could take a seat. Flirting clearly wasn’t going to get me anywhere with her.
Eyeing the crowd in a row of molded plastic chairs facing the clerks’ windows—mostly women bailing out wayward men—I wandered to another part of the room, but a different guard intercepted me and told me I had to sit with everyone else. It seemed bossy at first, but since we were in the same place where they process inmates being released, I figured the point was to herd us together so they could keep an eye on things.
The room had the bright fluorescent lighting that makes you long for a dimmer, two machines dispensing sodas and snacks, and a pay phone that was monopolized by a woman speaking a language someone guessed was Chinese—as in, “That Chinese lady been on the phone forever.”
In the chair next to me, a girl who seemed about twenty was eating chicken and rice out of a Styrofoam container. It smelled awful, and she kept complaining that it tasted terrible, so I wished she’d just throw it away. But she was also the main diversion in our corridor of captivity—directing inattentive people in line to the next open window, bemoaning the long wait, at one point jumping up to explain why a skinny guy with jeans hanging off his hips was declining the MetroCard inmates are given when they’re released.
“He don’t want no MetroCard because he got a ride!” she shouted at a male clerk who was having communication difficulties. Frankly, the possibility of getting picked up at Rikers Island hadn’t occurred to me, either, but I was relieved that Graham would have a way to get home without me waiting.
It was too dark to see anything out of the window at one end of the room, but I pictured Graham somewhere on the island, sitting on a bunk bed, staring blankly ahead, with nothing to do except contemplate how his life had gone off the rails. That image made my heart ache, then clench—I was feeling claustrophobic myself. I turned away from the window, pushed those thoughts out of my head. I wanted to be angry, not sympathetic.
My talkative neighbor had fallen into a conversation with a young dark-haired woman who had been stuck in this room all day, waiting for bail paperwork in transit from Manhattan. At first, I just listened in: how the chatty girl’s last boyfriend had been at Rikers for a year, how she used to come see him every week, how she had to wait several hours for a one-hour visit, how the screening process for inmate visits was much more of an ordeal.
“Your body gets used to it,” she said, explaining how she adjusted to the routine—the subway and bus rides, the searches, the long waits. Despite her complaints, she understood something about the bureaucracy that hadn’t dawned on me yet.
“They got to make it a process,” she said, drawing out the last word. “They got to teach you a lesson so you rain down hell on the guy that brought you here.”
It was an interesting theory, though clearly it hadn’t turned out to be enough of a deterrent in her case, since here she was posting bail for a new man. But she swore she wasn’t going to go through that visiting nightmare again. The other young woman just nodded her head, surprisingly calm given how long she’d been waiting.
After a couple of hours, just as our confinement began to feel unbearable, the sharp clerk told the chatty girl her paperwork would be ready soon. We all got excited because it meant things were actually happening, that we weren’t waiting in vain. Feeling optimistic, I went to the window to see if my paperwork was coming along, too, but it was clear from the clerk’s question—“What’s the inmate’s name?”—that it hadn’t been on the tip of her tongue lately.
“The thing is, I have to pick up my son,” I blurted out, instantly regretting the lie but forging ahead. “You said it was going to take three hours, and it’s already been more than two, so if it’s going to take a lot longer, I don’t know what I’m going to do….”
She eyed me warily but picked up the phone, calling someone I pictured at a metal desk piled high with papers. “I know you’re busy,” she said, using the syrupy voice people resort to when they need a favor, “but could you check on the status of some paperwork for me?”
While she was on hold, I stood there burning with shame, desperate to get back to my chair. Finally, someone came back on the line with an answer.
“They’re really backed up,” the clerk told me, hanging up. “But they’re working on it.”
I thanked her and slunk back to my seat, horrified that I had invented an imaginary child to elicit sympathy. I didn’t believe in recovery theories about hitting bottom being a catalyst for change—you could always sink lower, it seemed—but this whole experience was a new nadir for me.
Not long after I sat down, the clerk called the chatty girl’s name. While she was at the window, I started talking to the other young woman, who was posting bail for her ex-boyfriend—as a favor to his parents, who lived in another state. After sharing her tale, she asked me the question that had been on my mind, too: “What are you doing here?”
I told her an abridged half-truth—that a friend had been arrested on a drug possession charge, and that his parents also lived far away.
“You’re a good friend to come all the way out here,” she said, obliquely suggesting I find some new friends. That might’ve been presumptuous in another context, but at the moment it struck me as wise—even caring.
When the clerk finally called my name, I felt bad that she didn’t have news for my serene seatmate, but I grabbed my bag and hustled up to the window. First, I had to confirm that the tiny black-and-white copy of a photo she showed me was Graham—a grainy image that triggered a sharp pang of pain.
“Is this him?” the clerk asked, her long fingernail tapping the picture.
No, I wanted to say, that isn’t him. This isn’t me, this isn’t my life, that scowling guy isn’t the man I ached for back in Christmas past. Numbly, I nodded instead.
Then she carefully placed sheets of carbon paper between the pages of a bail receipt and handed me the thick form to sign. “Press hard,” she said. “You’re making five copies.”
I pointed out that Graham’s name was spelled wrong, but she said it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to delay the proceedings by protesting, so I signed and handed over the stack of fifty-dollar bills I’d withdrawn from the bank that morning. It seemed like days ago in a place very far away. The clerk counted the money using one of those machines that spins the bills, then put the cash in a big Ziploc bag with a copy of the bail receipt.
“This will ta
ke another fifteen minutes,” she said, offering no explanation for why I had to wait.
In fact, I had no idea what transpired behind the bank of windows while I was there, what paperwork was shuffled, faxed, or delivered by hand. But the whole process did take nearly three hours, and as I said goodbye to the dark-haired woman, I wondered how long she’d have to wait. I gave her my copy of The New York Times and wrote my name and phone number on the front page, well aware that we’d never speak again. Before long, the clerk called my name.
“You’re free to go,” she said. I couldn’t remember the last time I had so viscerally experienced what that means.
—
AS I WAITED for the bus to take me away from Rikers Island, shivering by the parking lot but unwilling to spend any more time inside, I thought bailing Graham out of jail would be the last thing I’d do for him—that it would release me to walk away for good. But bailing out has different meanings, and it turns out leaping overboard wasn’t the one that came naturally to me.
When you’re in a rowboat that’s taking on water, bailing out can mean scooping up the water and dumping it over the side, over and over again. As long as you keep at it, you can keep the boat from sinking—save everyone, save yourself. And for a while, it works. You feel like you could keep up this rhythm forever: scraping a plastic cup along the bottom of the boat, lifting it up, pouring out the water. But it’s exhausting. Your arms begin to throb with pain; everywhere else goes numb. Finally, as the water rises and the boat really starts to sink, you realize the only option left is the other kind of bailing out—to jump.
It’s not about saving yourself, because once you take that leap, you’ll still be out there in the unknown, drifting away from the boat that’s disappearing as you helplessly watch it go down. You’ll still need someone to come along and save you, or hope you somehow make it to shore.
When Graham called that night to thank me, as he waited for the same bus hours later, I was too angry to talk, too fed up for apologies, too tired for all his dubious explanations. And yet for a while I listened, scared of what would happen to us both if I hung up, abandoned ship, let go.
CHAPTER TEN
December 2006
Boerum Hill, Brooklyn
I’m downstairs hanging out with a couple of pals when out of nowhere there’s a loud BOOM right above our heads. I hear the sharp shatter of broken glass hitting the street and small rocks rattling inside the walls—then it’s dead quiet.
“What the fuck was that?” Tye says, jumping up and looking out the window. “There’s glass everywhere, man! That sounded like a fucking bomb!” He backs away from the window and stares at the ceiling like it’s going to fall in on us. Izzy is too caught up in her high to realize what’s going on.
I run up the stairs and the first thing I see are the two front windows completely blown out, shards of glass everywhere and papers strewn all over the floor. It looks like a mini tornado spun through my living room, did a few laps, and escaped by bursting through the windows. There’s no fire, no smoke, no clue as to what really happened.
I can hear sirens in the distance and see neighbors opening their doors. Tye comes up behind me, takes one look at the mess, and says, “I can’t be dealing with this shit. Call me later—I’m outta here.”
Rushing back downstairs, I shout at Izzy to gather up any drugs and get the fuck out before the police show up. She’s moving painfully slow, so I grab her stuff, shove it in her bag, and hustle her out the door below the stoop. She hesitates, like she doesn’t know where to go.
“Move, Izzy!” I yell, following her out to the front yard. “The cops are going to be here any second.”
People are gathering in the street, staring at the broken window frames and the glass covering the sidewalk. I take a quick look at the damage and head back inside before any of them can ask what’s going on.
Within minutes, a bunch of uniformed cops are streaming into the house, followed by firefighters weighed down with equipment. They immediately start bombarding me with questions: “What caused the explosion? Where were you? Is anyone else in the building? Was anyone injured?”
I tell them I have no idea what happened—maybe it was a gas leak—but it doesn’t seem to be sinking in because they keep asking me the same things over and over.
As the minutes pass, I get more and more anxious, wondering if there are any drugs left in the house. The way these cops are nosing into everything seems overly aggressive—turning over couch cushions, looking behind furniture, opening cabinets. I’m just about to say something when one of the firefighters announces, “This is what caused it—an air canister for a BB gun.” He’s holding up a ruptured gray cylinder, torn metal sticking out from one side. “It was behind the radiator. Must’ve blown when the heat came on.”
How did that get in here? I’m thinking—then the answer hits me. Now I know I’m fucked.
As I walk toward him to get a better look, I catch the scene outside the house. It’s like something out of NYPD Blue—police cars, an ambulance, people gawking, yellow tape being tied to the fence. One cop is shouting at everyone to move back. A nervous panic washes through me. I wish I’d bounced with Tye and come back later acting shocked, but it’s too late for that. Before I can get close to the fireman holding the air canister, a couple of cops intercept me. “Where the fuck’s the gun?” one barks.
“I’ve not got a gun,” I say—which is true, since it doesn’t belong to me. I’m still hoping I can make up some excuse that will get them all to leave.
“You look fucked up—are you on drugs? Are there any drugs in the house? If you don’t tell us and we find them, the charges are gonna be a lot worse.”
“You know we’ve got your junkie friend outside,” the other one chips in. “One of your neighbors ID’d her and said she left the house after the explosion.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I say. “I’m the only one here.”
“Don’t give us that shit,” says a female cop joining the circle.“She already told us she was with you.”
Suddenly, questions are coming at me from all directions: “Who was the guy running from the house?…Does he have the gun?…Are you holding for him?…Is he your dealer?”
My head is spinning. I just want to crawl into bed and make it all go away. They’re half-pushing me back downstairs with threats of arrest for withholding evidence. I’m hoping they’re bullshitting about Izzy—and that she took the last of the crack with her.
Downstairs, two cops are rummaging through the desk in my room, pulling stuff out of drawers, checking pens and lighters, and dumping everything on the floor.
“Tell us where the gun and the drugs are or we’ll tear this fucking place apart,” says the guy who seems to be in charge. I feel sick—I don’t know what to do. They don’t have a warrant so I’m not sure if they can really search my house. But that doesn’t seem to matter—they’re already rifling through everything and seem intent on keeping at it.
I swallow hard and brace myself, knowing this may be a bad move. “Okay, listen. There is a BB gun in the house, but it’s not mine and it’s really just a toy. It only fires pellets.” I don’t tell him it belongs to my son.
I caught Liam playing with it a few weeks ago—he told me he’d gotten it from a kid at school. So I took it off him and hid it in a closet under some towels. It never occurred to me that there was an air canister that went with it. Why the fuck did he hide that behind the radiator?
Before I can get mad, one of the other cops turns around with something he’s found in a box on my desk. “Look what we’ve got here,” he says. He’s holding up a broken piece of crack pipe for everyone to see—a blue rubber glove covering his hand.
Instantly, I’m up against the wall being cuffed.
“You can make things easier and tell us where the gun is, or you can leave it up to us. Either way we’re going to find it—and the drugs.”
“Alright, give me a second,” I say, tr
ying not to sound as scared as I really am. “It’s in the hall closet, on the bottom shelf, under the towels. It’s just a toy and there aren’t any pellets. It’s not mine,” I add, already knowing they won’t believe that.
Two cops are holding me roughly by the arms, the cuffs digging into my wrists as they drag me into the hall. I watch as another one opens the closet door, throws a bunch of towels and toiletries aside, and pulls out the gun. A satisfied grin spreads across his face as he drops it into an evidence bag.
“Take him to the precinct,” he says. “And let’s find whatever else he’s hiding.”
“I told you—that’s all there is.”
As they push me toward the downstairs door, I hear the sound of furniture being shoved around upstairs, feet stomping, and dishes clattering in the kitchen. The last thing I see when I pass by my room is a cop pulling my collection of photography books off the shelves.
It’s a bright Saturday morning and my eyes hurt from the light. I’m totally disoriented as I take it all in: the yellow tape, the fire trucks, the broken glass, the neighbors’ stares. Once I’m in the back of the squad car, I turn my head and see Izzy sitting in another car looking vacantly ahead. I can’t believe she came back—Why the fuck did she do that? What has she said?
Two cops jump in the car, turn on the siren, and speed off to the precinct with the light flashing. As they’re talking into their radios, I’m trying to grasp what the fuck just happened. One minute I’m hanging out with my pals—listening to music, talking shit—the next thing I know I’m about to get thrown in jail.
I feel sick when I think of Liam seeing this—the house torn apart and me nowhere to be found. He’s meant to be coming ’round later, before he heads off for Christmas with his mum. I’d promised him we’d do something fun this weekend, but now he’s gonna be faced with whatever mess the cops leave behind. I wish I could call him and warn him not to come. His mum is gonna go ballistic when she finds out.
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