My mind is racing—Don’t object, just let me go—but one of the ICE guys says he’s got some reservations. I obviously had a bad drug problem, he’s saying, and even though he’s impressed by my rehabilitation and he’s willing to accept the judge’s recommendation, he wants to make sure I have no open cases or warrants before signing off on my release.
I look at Armen in a panic, not sure what that means. “Am I getting released?”
“These guys are being tough,” he says quietly. “I have to get another document from the court in Brooklyn showing you don’t have any open cases. I’ll try to get it faxed over this afternoon, so you might still get out today.”
“What happens if there’s an open case? Is this going to be like that additional gun charge they threw at me?”
“There isn’t an open case—we already submitted several dispositions to the judge. They’re just making us jump through hoops before they let you go.”
Before I get a chance to ask anything else, a guard leads me back to the holding pen. I don’t know whether to be happy or pissed off. The fact that the judge went in my favor is brilliant, but I’ve heard so many stories of people getting hit with additional charges I’m worried that these ICE guys are just buying time to dig up something else. And what the fuck happened with Susan? I still have no idea why she wasn’t in court.
I’m desperate to get back to the dorm and call her when one of the court officers opens the door and shouts, “MacIndoe—you’ve got a visit!” At first I’m thinking it must be Armen, but the CO leads me past the lawyers’ rooms toward another part of the prison. I’ve never had a visitor here, so I’m a bit thrown.
It looks like a scene out of a movie, with a row of men in orange uniforms sitting at booths talking into phones. When I get to the numbered booth I’ve been told to go to, Susan’s already there. She smiles as she sees me and picks up the phone.
I’m not sure what I look like after being locked up for eight months—probably a bit puffy and pale, with less hair—but Susan looks way cuter than I remembered. She’s wearing a dark gray sweater, belted at the waist with a lacy top underneath, and her curly hair is pulled up off her face. The attraction I felt the first time I took her picture comes back in an instant, hitting me a lot harder than I thought it would.
I know I signed my letters with love and I told her I loved her—and I meant it. I loved her for everything she’d done for me. But until I saw her, I didn’t know how I’d physically feel. It’s like a part of me that had been shut down for so long has suddenly come back to life. I just want to be able to touch her, hug her, smell her, and feel that closeness—which makes it even more painful to be separated by a thick Plexiglas window.
These “no contact” visits are so fucking cruel. At least at Rikers you could sit at a table with the person and feel like a human being for an hour. Here all I can do is put my hand up to the window. Susan puts hers up opposite mine. We joke and flirt and I keep thinking, Shit—now I’m really in love with this girl.
She tells me it doesn’t look like Armen can get the paperwork faxed over today, so it might take a few more days to get things sorted out. I can tell she’s disappointed, but in that positive way she’s been this whole time she smiles and says, “Listen, we won. That’s the important thing. A week ago you thought you’d be stuck here until the end of February, but pretty soon you’re going to be free.”
—
WHEN I GET back to the dorm, everyone is in group so I sit down in my usual spot. Walker is mouthing to me, “What happened?” but I just shake my head and he looks confused. While they’re all talking about rational thinking, I sit quietly, not really listening to any of the shares. There’s so much bouncing around in my head—the hearing, seeing Susan, what’s going to happen next—I can’t focus on anything else.
The minute group breaks Walker rushes over and asks, “So what did the judge say—are you going home?”
I tell him that the judge wanted to let me go, but one of the ICE lawyers asked to see some more paperwork first, so I don’t know how long that’ll take. “But at least I got to see Susan—we had a visit afterwards. She looked fucking brilliant. I didn’t think I’d be so blown away seeing her.”
“Listen, they all look good when you’re on this side of the glass,” Walker says.
“Oh really? I guess that’s why every time your girlfriend visits you come back acting like you’ve just had a date with Pamela Anderson.”
“Well, you should both be staying away from any pussy,” another guy chimes in. “You know how that shit works—too much sex makes you lose sight of the bigger picture.”
We’ve all had it drummed into us: Don’t fall in love, don’t get involved with another addict, don’t go running back to your ex. If you’re leaning on someone to get you through your recovery and it doesn’t work out, then you’re a lot more likely to relapse.
One time early on in the program, when we were talking about relationships and I’d mentioned Tracy and Susan being back in my life, the first thing out of the group leader’s mouth was “Ditch the both of them.” Everyone else seemed to agree.
But that was a while ago, and a lot has changed since then. I’ve tried to be more up front with Tracy about why I can’t be with her, but I haven’t really told her what’s going on with Susan. Maybe I’m being a coward, but there’s been so much thrown at me, I just couldn’t deal with it all at once. And honestly, it wasn’t until I saw Susan today that I realized how I really felt about her—and it’s not love I need reciprocated to make me feel good, or something I’m clinging to ’cause I think it’ll keep me off drugs. It’s a way deeper understanding of what love really means, and it’s pretty clear Susan feels the same way about me.
The night before my hearing, when we were talking on the phone, I could tell something was different. There was this feeling of anticipation—like everything was about to change—then she said, “I love you,” just as I was about to hang up. That was the first time she’d said it since all this started, and hearing it gave me a huge lift. It wasn’t a surprise that she felt it, but I couldn’t believe she said it. Then when we saw each other today, I just knew. The way she looked at me, this was for real.
—
THE NEXT FEW days it’s impossible to concentrate on the program. Between phone calls with Susan and Armen and talking to my family, all I can think about is the fact that I should be out of here by now. Except in this fucked-up system, everything moves in slow motion—no matter how urgent it is to the person locked up.
It turns out there was an open case, an arrest that got merged with my conviction last year, so Armen has to fax paperwork to the judge showing that was part of the time I already served. Then I’ll either have another hearing or the judge will just issue a written decision—hopefully next week. But of course I keep worrying ICE is gonna throw another spanner in the works. Susan is trying to be positive, but I think she’s just as fed up as me.
She’s sick, I’m sick, everyone in here has got a cold or the flu. It must be obvious how anxious I am because one of the counselors pulls me into his office before he leaves on Friday and suggests I use this time productively—asking if I’ve got a “sobriety plan.”
“Well, to be honest, I thought I had seven more weeks to figure that out. I’m sure I’ll go to some meetings and I’m gonna reach out to a friend who’s been clean for a while.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
“With my girlfriend.” For the past few months I’ve been calling Susan my ex, but now that doesn’t seem right.
“Does she live in Brooklyn?”
“Yeah, but in a different neighborhood from my old house—further away from the projects. I know what you’re gonna say….I should be avoiding people, places, and things that are triggers.”
“It’s a cliché but it’s true: The minute you’re around those people, in those places, and you see those things, you’re gonna be tempted to use.”
“I’m not going
to be around people I did drugs with. First of all, Susan would never put up with that, and I’ve worked way too hard to get to this point to risk throwing it all away. Besides, if I get arrested again, it’s all over for me.”
We talk a little more about the warning signs of relapse before he heads home, giving me a last bit of advice: “Use the Red Book whenever you feel vulnerable. Just pick it up and read a few sections. Everything you need is in there.”
The rest of the weekend I try to keep what he said in mind, participating in the program as much as I can. When we do our weekly feelings check on Sunday, I’m thinking it might be my last one, so I raise my hand to share. Walking to the front of the room, I’m not sure what I’ll say.
“It feels weird to still be here knowing I’m probably going home soon,” I start off, looking around at all the guys I’ve gotten to know. “I was pretty bummed when I found out I wasn’t getting released right away, but the last few days have given me time to think about what I’ve gotten out of the program. There were definitely a few times I felt like packing it in—I’m sure you can all relate to that.” A few people smile and nod. “But I’m really glad I stuck it out. I’d been resistant to this sort of thing for so long, and now I realize it’s exactly what I needed. I’m actually a bit disappointed I’m not going to finish the whole sixteen weeks, just to have that sense of accomplishment.”
I catch Walker rolling his eyes—I should pull him up for disrespect!
“Anyway, I will say I’m glad my time in prison is almost over. I never thought I’d be able to deal with being locked up for so long. Even though I’m nervous about going back out to the real world, I’m determined not to screw up again. So for all you guys who are early in the program, you might be overwhelmed now, but trust me, you’ll be feeling really great when you get to this point. Stick with it—it’s worth it.”
Some of the guys tap on their tables as I walk back to my seat, which is how people show respect for your share. I wonder if I sound like one of the old-timers I used to look up to when I first got here. I know a lot of it is typical recovery talk—the old me would’ve shrugged off this sort of advice—but I meant what I said. I do believe people can change.
January 10th, 2011
Susan,
Well here I am almost a week after court still stuck at York County Prison—and I’m now starting to get pissed off—I just want to be out of here. I was okay at first but now it’s that not knowing how long it’s going to be. A few days, weeks—more than a month—I don’t know and it’s starting to wear on me. Also, coz I didn’t sign out on the phone sheet—again—I’ve got a 48 hour speaking ban coming up. So I’m hoping I can get this resolved ’coz I’m getting sort of fed up + my mind keeps thinking of being outside + not in jail or on the program.
I’ve been told that when you get out you get a check & not cash so I won’t have money to stay anywhere or get a bus home—I’m sort of in a dilemma about what I’ll do. I can’t get a wire transfer ’coz I have no I.D. I don’t have a jacket and it’s 19 degrees F outside. All this is sort of getting me down right now. It’s really fucked up that they bring you down here from NYC & then just release you to the streets 250 miles away with no money or transportation.
Anyway by the time you get this I’ll have spoken to you and maybe we’ll have a better idea about how I can deal with this situation. It must be weighing heavy on your mind too. And on that note I have to say to you—again—thank you. I never thought the day would come (even though I’m not out yet) where I’d beat this immigration case and I know that without your help I would probably have little or no chance to have done so. I realize how lucky I am & how much you did for me—giving me the strength to sit tight & fight this case—despite all the obstacles. So, Susan, I want to say to you from the bottom of my heart THANK YOU.
Love Graham. X
—
ON TUESDAY NIGHT, I call Susan after dinner, hoping she’s got good news for me.
“I just got off the phone with Armen,” she says. “The judge scheduled your hearing—it’ll be Friday at eleven A.M. He said it should be quick, but it takes a few hours to do the paperwork, so you’ll be released by six.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I wrote it down. Armen’s exact words were He’s going to be granted relief.”
I don’t say anything at first, not sure how to respond.
“C’mon—Graham MacIndoe is never speechless. You won your case! How do you feel?”
“Relieved, I guess, but I’m not gonna be totally convinced until I actually walk out of here. This last week has been really brutal.”
“I know, but it’s just three more days. Armen said he’d let Liam know.”
“I spoke with Liam earlier—I told him I should be getting out soon.”
“What did he say?”
“He sounded excited to see me—happy I’m not getting deported.”
“Me, too,” Susan says. “I had my doubts a few times, but I wouldn’t have pushed you to stick it out if I didn’t think you could win.”
“I’m going to be sort of indebted to you the rest of my life, aren’t I?”
“Maybe not that long….But my birthday is coming up soon, so you’d better do better than a lingerie catalog this year.”
—
FRIDAY MORNING, I’M back in the holding pen. Susan told me not to worry—it’s just a formality and should be over in minutes—but it’s hard not to be nervous. When I get brought into the courtroom, everyone is in their same places, except Armen is on speakerphone this time.
The judge starts by saying how impressed he is by my determination to turn things around and how he hopes my photography career will pick up where it left off. I’m used to judges coming down hard on me, so I’m not quite sure how to react. He looks through the new paperwork, asks the ICE guys if they’re satisfied, they say yes, and he gives his final ruling: I’m being released.
That’s it. The stress of the last ten days—or really, five months—disappears in an instant. This is for real. I’m going home.
“Thank you,” I say to the judge.
“I hope I don’t see you in front of me again,” he says, then I’m escorted out of court—for the last time.
I feel like running back to the dorm, but that would get me a violation, so I walk as fast as I can, passing guards and inmates who must be wondering why I’m grinning.
When I get buzzed through the door, a meeting has just finished so I tell everyone it’s official: I’ll be out of there by dinner. Walker gives me a high-five, then a bunch of other guys shake my hand. I go through my locker and start packing up what I’m taking with me—a few books, all my letters, the Red Book, and my program notes. Everything else I give away.
I’m already imagining the drive back to New York with Susan—I hope she brings some music or made a CD with the suggestions I sent her. I’m picturing roadside stops for food I haven’t tasted in ages and just looking out the window, sipping a good cup of coffee. Friday seems like a good day to be going home. It’ll be the weekend tomorrow so maybe I can see Liam, or hang out with him and Susan. My mind races, just thinking about all the things I can do.
The afternoon drags as I wait for the call—it’s always around four o’clock, but I try not to worry when it doesn’t come. I saw the judge sign the papers. He handed them to the court officer. Armen heard everything on the phone.
By five I’m in a total panic. Something’s wrong.
I pace back and forth, then ask the CO if he can find out what’s up. He just gives me some bullshit about maybe they’re running late. There’s nothing reassuring about this statement, so I pick up the phone to call Susan—not even bothering to sign in first. “They haven’t called my name yet!” I practically shout.
She tells me the van hasn’t dropped off anyone at the parking lot yet and suggests I talk to my counselor—not that he’ll have a fucking clue. After dinner, which I can’t eat, I phone Susan again. I don’t care that I�
��ve already used up my one call for the night.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what happened, but the van came and the driver told me you weren’t on the list for release today. I’ve been buzzing intercoms and trying to talk to someone for the past hour, but no one knows anything.”
“What do you mean I wasn’t on the list?” This can’t be happening. It’s like some sick joke someone’s playing just to fuck with me.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she says. “Armen said he’s never heard of anything like this—once the judge signs the order, you’re supposed to get released. But everyone’s already left for the weekend, and just to be totally honest with you, it’s possible no one from ICE will be in until Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?”
“Monday is a holiday—Martin Luther King Day.”
“Are you telling me I might have to spend another four days in here?!” People are looking at me like I’m crazy—I’m talking loud enough to get a double speaking ban.
“It’s possible. I’m going to stay in York tonight, so maybe I’ll have better news in the morning, but it doesn’t sound like ICE releases anyone on the weekend. I’m really sorry. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated and pissed off as you.”
Except you’re not in prison, I want to say. Susan sounds exhausted, so I tell her how bad I feel that she came all this way for nothing. She says to call her in the morning—maybe Armen will have heard something by then.
I save my ranting until after we hang up, then pace around the dorm complaining to anyone who’ll listen about how unfair this is. Walker takes me aside and tries to calm me down.
“I know it’s bullshit,” he says. “But it’s got to be some bureaucratic fuckup. You saw the judge sign off on your release—you know you’re going home.”
“Yeah but I want to be out of here NOW,” I say, almost bursting into tears. “I’ve already been waiting nine extra days. What the fuck can be the problem this time?”
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