Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  As I walk back to the dorm, I wonder what Liam is thinking—if he’s told anyone I’m in prison, or if he’s too embarrassed to admit that his dad is locked up. Even before I got arrested, I figured he didn’t want any of his pals to know what a mess I was, so I used to cycle to the soccer fields in Red Hook and watch him play—but from a distance, so he wouldn’t see me. That was the only way I could feel connected to him.

  Now I just want to be able to hang out with him like we used to, but I know it’s not gonna be the same even if I do get to stay. He’s grown up now, with his own life to worry about, so I’ve got to get to know him in a whole different way. Susan keeps reminding me that it’s not gonna happen overnight, and I got a letter from Anna saying I need to give everyone time to catch up. She was nice about it, but it’s still frustrating. I’ve wasted so much time already, I just want to move on and fix things.

  When I talked to my brother the other day, he seemed eager to accept me back into his life. At first all I wanted to do was tell him how sorry I was, but he made it easy on me—he’s always been really forgiving. He said if I didn’t win my case I could come stay with him and he’d help me find a job, which was a huge relief. I’m not sure I’d want to live in Dublin, but at least I won’t be out on the street. Mostly he was worried about what I was going to say to our parents.

  “Mum and Dad are pretty hurt,” he told me. “They’re still there for you, but only if you’ve changed. After everything they’ve been through, they can’t face another disappointment. It’s too much for them at this stage of their lives.”

  I appreciated his bluntness, but it made me realize that talking to my parents was gonna be a lot tougher than I’d thought. For weeks I couldn’t make international calls ’cause commissary kept telling me they were out of phone cards, but now that I’ve got one I don’t have any excuse not to call. I’m sort of hoping it’ll go better if my brother fills them in first. Talking with him went better than I expected, but all these conversations are really draining. There’s only so much I can deal with at once.

  —

  A FEW DAYS later, Susan tells me she’s going by my old house to pick up some of my stuff. The new owners let me leave some things in the basement, but I never went back to get it, so Susan got in touch with them and they said they’d put it all out in the front yard. They’re gonna get rid of whatever doesn’t get taken.

  I call Susan around the time she was going over there, to figure out what she should save.

  “I’m here,” she says. “And so is Tracy—with a U-Haul. She’s acting like everything is hers, so you’re going to have to tell me what you want.”

  That doesn’t sound good. We both knew Tracy would be there, but I thought she only left a couple of boxes in my basement—not enough to fill a truck.

  “Listen, I honestly can’t remember what’s there, but the only thing I care about is my film. There should be dozens of rolls of exposed film in a bag with a tripod, and maybe a couple of light stands.”

  “Well, I don’t see anything like that. It mostly looks like junk you picked up on the street. Broken chairs, bike parts, old magazines, some huge speakers. Wait a second—Tracy just grabbed something that might be the bag you want.”

  I can hear Susan and Tracy arguing, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m trying to imagine the scene in my front yard in Brooklyn, with stuff strewn all over and two women fighting—just when the neighbors probably thought they were done with my drama.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t find your film,” Susan says, finally coming back on the line. “One of the new owners told me someone broke into the basement a few months ago and took some stuff that was under a tarp. Maybe the film was in a bag that got stolen.”

  Those rolls of film must have hundreds of self-portraits I took, trying to document my slide into addiction, so it’s devastating to hear they might be lost. I have no idea what I’d ever do with them, but those photos are a record of what my life got reduced to—the endless repetition and isolation of getting high.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell Susan, relieved that I’ve still got a lot of digital shots on my computer. “Maybe the film is somewhere in my storage space. Just take whatever looks like photo equipment or anything you want. The rest I can live without.”

  That part is true. I’ve lost so much and been living with so little, everything else seems inconsequential.

  “I’ll take whatever I can fit in a cab,” Susan says. “But you really need to deal with Tracy. She seems to think she’s saving all your stuff for you and once you get out you’re going to pick up right where you left off. You’re not doing her any favors by not being honest.”

  I know Susan’s right—I probably haven’t been as up front with Tracy as I should be, but I’ve been going to some AA meetings in here and listening to everyone talk a lot about forgiveness. If I want people to accept that I’ve changed and not hold all the shitty things I’ve done against me, I feel like I have to do the same for Tracy. It doesn’t seem right to totally cut her off.

  It’s just hard to explain that to Susan, especially since I’m not sure exactly what’s on her mind. After she got the long letter I wrote her, she told me she doesn’t expect anything from me, except that I do whatever it takes to stay clean. I was relieved about that—it takes some of the pressure off me—but I feel like that might not be all she really needs. It’s impossible to bring up all these feelings and emotions without getting drawn back into thinking about our relationship, and there’s definitely something changing between us. I just have no idea where it’s gonna lead.

  —

  ONE NIGHT RIGHT after dinner I get a call from the CO telling me to pack up—I’m getting moved.

  “Where to?” I ask, a bit nervous. People don’t usually get moved at this time.

  “You’re going to IB3-10. It’s up the stairs and along the corridor, opposite the kitchen workers’ dorm.”

  “Man, you goin’ on the snitch program!” someone behind me shouts.

  “What the fuck is the snitch program?”

  “Oh, you know—you got to tell on everyone about all the things they’re doin’ wrong.”

  “Well, I’m not a snitch,” I say, wondering if he’s talking about the Freedom Program—I had an interview to see if I could get on it the other day. It’s a four-month rehab meant for county inmates, not immigrants, but I was telling my CO about my situation and he told me I should apply. Maybe I managed to talk my way in.

  When I get to the dorm, the first thing that strikes me is how quiet and orderly it is. There’s not the usual prison chaos—and not an unmade bed in sight.

  I’m introduced to a guy called Mr. Torres, who shows me my bunk and hands me a bulky red book with an American eagle and the words Freedom Program on the front, along with a six-page list of rules (single-spaced!). Some are pretty obvious—no shaming, no arguing, no disrespectful comments or allowing doors to slam—but others seem a bit picky: “If you sneeze, cough, wipe your nose or put your hands in your pants, you have 10 minutes to wash your hands.”

  As I flip through the book—hundreds of pages about recovery, writing exercises, and a detailed schedule, from 6:30 A.M. to 8:00 P.M.—I start to wonder if I’m going to regret this.

  “Everyone has that look on their face when they first get here,” Mr. Torres says. “But trust me—once you get the hang of it, it’s gonna make you think different about things.”

  He gives me a quick rundown on the daily routine and explains what cognitive behavior therapy is—as far as I can tell, understanding how your negative thoughts lead to bad choices like doing drugs. Honestly, I’m a little stunned. I thought there would be a couple of meetings a day—not five groups, individual counseling, and self-analysis pretty much every waking hour. I can’t imagine ever getting it, but I scribble notes and nod enthusiastically, hoping it’ll become clearer as time goes on.

  The next day, it feels like I’ve stumbled into the middle of a race everyone else h
as been running for miles. Most of the groups are led by other inmates, but two outside counselors come in every day. In the morning there’s a workshop on anger management and another one on self-esteem. In the afternoon someone does a presentation on rational thinking and then everyone gathers around for a “feelings check.” I’m shocked when a few really hardcore jailhouse guys break down in tears talking about what’s going on inside their heads. I can’t imagine anything like this happening at Rikers.

  The mix in here is pretty different—there are a lot more white, blue-collar guys. Everyone in the program is mandated by the court, or they sign up so they can reduce their sentence—mostly for drug crimes, fighting, or DUIs. I can already tell it’s nothing like the rehab I did in California, definitely a lot less pampering. Here there’s always someone doing chores, but I haven’t quite worked out how they’re assigned.

  After dinner my second night, I finally get a chance to call Susan—making sure I sign in on the phone sheet first. We’re only allowed two phone calls a day, one before 5 P.M. and one after we eat.

  “I’m in the program,” I tell her.

  “What? The connection is terrible so you have to speak up.”

  “I can’t. I got into the Freedom Program—that rehab program I told you about—but there’s a rule about talking loudly. They’ve got rules about everything—how you make your bed, when you can use the phone, how you clean up the bathroom sink….”

  “That’s great!” Susan says, sounding a bit like a parent congratulating a kid. “I thought you said they don’t take people from immigration?”

  “They usually don’t, but I must’ve convinced them I really need this. I’ve got a week to decide if I want to stick with it.”

  “Do you think you will?”

  “Yeah, probably. I think it’ll be good for me. But it’s pretty intense. You have to address people as ‘Mr. Jones’ or ‘Mr. Clark’—no first names. It’s all about respect and taking responsibility and facing up to how your bad choices got you where you are now. It’s really disciplined—you should see all the rules.”

  I want to say “fucking rules,” but that’s another thing: We’re not allowed to swear.

  “Well, it’ll definitely help your case,” Susan says. “I didn’t want to make a big deal about that in case they didn’t accept you, but it’s really important to show the judge you’re committed to staying clean. I’m doing a lot for you, but that part is up to you.”

  I tell her I know that—it’s why I applied to this program—feeling a bit irritated that she’s not giving me much credit for taking this step. She changes the subject, telling me she’s going to search through my storage unit tomorrow, to look for some documents Michael and the accountant need. I know that’s the only way she can pull together everything for my case, but I’m worried about what else she might find. Before I got arrested, I’d sometimes bike over to my storage space and hole up there surrounded by my stuff—flipping through photography books, trying to feel some connection with who I used to be. I’d usually end up getting high to block out the pain, so there might still be a pipe or a needle lying around.

  “I hope you don’t come across anything in there that upsets you,” I tell her.

  “I can’t imagine there’s much left that can shock me. Besides, I’m so busy reading your email, cashing in your frequent flier miles, and spending your money, I don’t have time to dig through your boxes and read all of your letters.”

  Picturing notes from Tracy, arrest records, and notebooks full of whatever was going through my head at that time, I’m not so sure about that. “I guess I’m not gonna have any secrets left, am I?”

  “Probably not. But your taxes will be done, and you’ll be starting over with a clean slate. As far as I’m concerned, that’s not a bad trade.”

  —

  AFTER A FEW days in the program and all this talk about taking responsibility and making amends, I can’t put it off any longer: I finally call my parents. These calls are never easy—I keep playing out the conversations in my head first, trying to imagine how everyone will react. But this time I’m practically shaking as I punch in the international codes and dial their number.

  My dad picks up the phone attached to the old fax machine in the hall—I can tell by the delayed click.

  “Hello?” he says—in that Scottish brogue I haven’t heard in at least a year.

  “It’s me, Graham.”

  There’s a pause before he says, “Your brother said you were going to call.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch sooner,” I tell him, my own accent coming on stronger. “It’s hard to make international calls from here—it took ages to get the phone cards I ordered.”

  “Aye, well, I’m glad you got through. We’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

  It’s uncomfortable at first, but we settle into a semi-normal conversation, mostly talking about how I’ve dealt with being in prison. Once I’ve reassured him that I’m okay—no one’s beating the shit out of me and I’m not getting buggered—he says, “Let me get your mum on the other line. She’ll want to speak to you as well.”

  I know her health’s not great but when she picks up the other phone she sounds different—quiet and sort of frail. I tell her how sorry I am that I’ve caused them so much stress and try to explain what happened, but it’s like she’s not quite ready for that. She just asks how long I think my case will take.

  “I don’t know yet. I have another hearing next week, so I’ll probably find out then.”

  “Well, you’re lucky to have Susan,” my mum says. “I don’t know what you’d do without her.”

  “I know, she’s been brilliant. I can’t believe how much she’s doing for me.”

  I try to reassure them that I’m actually pretty good, or at least a lot better than the last time they heard from me. It’s hard to describe the Freedom Program to my parents—all the rules make it sound like I’m in some sort of boot camp, not rehab. But I tell them this is something I’ve needed for a long time, it’s just a pity that I had to find it this way.

  “Well, I hope it works,” my dad says. “Because if you can’t pull yourself together after this, then I don’t know what could possibly help you. The last few years have been a nightmare for us—your mother can’t deal with it, I’m worried sick constantly. It’ll be the death of us if you don’t get your act together.”

  I’m surprised by how blunt he is, telling me he’s had sleepless nights wondering if I was dead or crumpled up in a doorway somewhere, and how much of a burden it’s been for the whole family.

  When he’s done, I don’t know how to express how sorry I am. I’m already choking up when my mum says, “We’re still here for you, but you need to get better—get back to your old self. This has gone on for too long.”

  “I know,” I tell her, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. “This whole experience has been a real eye-opener for me. I promise you I’m not going down that road again.”

  My dad wraps up the conversation with news about my relatives and tells me I need to take the advice I’m getting in here seriously—because the advice I’ve been giving myself hasn’t worked. I tell them I’m doing my best and promise I’ll call again soon.

  After I sign out on the phone sheet, I just sit there for a minute letting everything sink in. Sometimes it feels like I’m living a double life. It’s as if people are talking about a person I don’t recognize anymore, someone I never thought I’d be. But I know I have to accept that I was that person and I did do those things. As much as I wish I could take a lot of it back, I can’t—it’s all me.

  —

  A FEW DAYS before my hearing, I call the law firm to check in and get hit with another surprise: Michael quit.

  “So who’s gonna handle my hearing?” I ask Maria. “I’m supposed to see the judge on Tuesday!”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she says. “But one of our other lawyers will phone in. Don’t worry, they’ll have all the not
es about your case.”

  When I tell Susan—I have to wait until after 5 P.M. for my second call—even she seems rattled, promising she’ll call the firm and find out what’s going on. I get the feeling she must’ve read someone the riot act because the next time I talk to her she tells me one of the partners is going to step in.

  The morning of my hearing, I’m a nervous wreck waiting to see the judge. It doesn’t help that almost everyone seems to come out of the courtroom holding a deportation order. By the time my name is called, I’m so convinced that ICE is going to throw the book at me I’m already imagining trying to start a new life in Dublin.

  The judge doesn’t look up when I walk in. Neither do the ICE guys on the other side of the room. I feel such a weight in my stomach I want to stand up and shout, “Fuck it—just deport me!” But then I hear my lawyer introduce himself on the speakerphone and the judge makes a joke about him not handling a case in ages—like they know each other and used to cross paths all the time.

  “I assume you won’t be doing the final hearing,” the judge says, then asks if someone whose name I don’t catch is gonna take over. My lawyer says that’s probably who it’ll be.

  I thought I’d get grilled about the new charge or at least get asked something, but it’s all over pretty quickly. The judge announces he’s scheduling my final hearing for February 24—four months from now—my paperwork gets stamped, and I’m back in the holding cell. I’m one of the only people who didn’t get a deportation order, so I feel bad for all the guys who weren’t so lucky. If you speak English and can afford a good lawyer, at least you’ve got a chance of winning. If not, you’re basically fucked.

  —

  IT’S 7:30 A.M. and I’m standing in line with a dozen other prisoners, staring straight ahead with my hands behind my back. Everyone else in the dorm is looking on in silence.

  I’m trying not to catch the eye of my bunkie, Mr. Walker, but it’s practically impossible. He’s giving me this long, hard stare and I’m trying not to laugh since that’ll just get me in more trouble. I bite my tongue and look at my feet as all the guys in line next to me recite their negative behaviors.