I wanted to help Kwame write this book because innocence is not nearly as much of a question in his case as is fairness. He is not a villain, as the local media and the Wayne County prosecutor have characterized him. And the only way anyone will come to understand that is by reading his story—uninterrupted and unreported.
I also wanted to help him because Kwame Kilpatrick is too valuable not to become a contributor to someone’s community, if not Detroit’s. Talent like his is uncommon, and he was at once blessed and unfortunate to be given control of a major city before he had firm control of his own life. A mature Kwame Kilpatrick, however, would be like a mature Malcolm, a mature Tupac Shakur. Today, he is ferociously visionary, and consistently representative of the people. For once, we need to preserve those of this ilk, place their imperfections in perspective, and protect them from those for whom money and power are all that matter.
The last reason I wanted to help him is that, even as this book goes to press, the Detroit media has firmly established itself as the sole biographer of Kwame’s professional history. That’s just flat-out dangerous. I am a journalist, as well, but I’ll be the first to say that newspapers and Op/Ed columns should never be treated, nor act, as historians.
Famed journalist A.J. Liebling describes newspapers as well as anyone. The role of newspapers, he said, is to inform the people, but their functions are to make money. History will reflect that the Detroit newspapers were fighting for survival, as were near-failed entities like The Boston Globe and The New York Times, when the Kilpatrick story landed on the desk of a reporter via illegally obtained text messages from Kilpatrick’s two-way pager. The Internet gave newspapers a tough run for their money, and sales plummeted. But running the Kilpatrick story into the ground (they’re still printing stories) and making the headlines as bold and exciting as possible was great for business. Even Ron Dzwonkowski, the Detroit Free Press’ executive editor, estimated during a group interview I conducted with him in March 2008 that newsstand sales leapt from seven to twelve percent after January 24, 2008, every day that Kwame’s name or likeness appeared on the front page.
How ironic is it that, even in his darkest hour, the mayor fulfilled his own vision, generating enough revenue to save the city’s most storied news rag?
Television and radio are no less neutral, because many of their storylines took their cues from the newspapers.
This is why history should not be the responsibility of reporters. We don’t fight the battles. Instead, we count the bodies. Proper history should involve the subject’s perspective, and Kwame’s was omitted. The truth is, his administration was leading Detroit through revolutionary changes when his scandal surfaced. That progress has not been reported or mentioned with any significance since 2007, and the City of Detroit is still benefiting from the strides he made.
Kwame is a subject of what psychologist Irving Janice called “groupthink,” which occurs when a group or population makes a faulty collective decision about a topic through deteriorated mental efficiency and judgment, due to group pressure. One-sided press coverage in a city that takes its news as gospel can do that. It’s the kind of phenomena that once caused people to believe that the world was flat.
An old saying suggests that history is written by the winners. Thanks to the increased independence that technology has created, that is now a false statement. History, today, is written by many voices.
That is why I am helping Kwame Kilpatrick tell his story. He did enough for the City of Detroit that he deserves to tell you about it. Had he been properly punished for the crime he committed, he’d have been charged with the aforementioned misdemeanor, possibly given a short jail sentence (ninety days or fewer), and then left to the mercy of the voters. The man should not be in prison.
Likewise, if he does tell his story, it must be transparent. I believe Kwame has no room for anything but blunt honesty. Not to say who is right and who is wrong, but simply to tell you what he saw.
Kwame and I had a conversation just weeks before his first jail sentence (yes, there were two) in October 2008 regarding how he felt about working on this book.
“I don’t know,” Kwame said, “but I’m ready to talk. I’m ready to talk about everything. Carlita (his wife). Christine (his friend and the woman with whom he had a publicized affair). Detroit. The job. Everything, brother. People think they know me, and they don’t. They think they know what happened with the job and the City, but they have no idea.”
I then asked him how he felt about the prospect, knowing that a 300-page spin job would be heavily discredited.
“Brother, I’m terrified,” he said. “Carlita and I are still healing, and I don’t know how this process will affect us. But I’m no good to anybody if I don’t heal. And this is critical to that process. So let’s do it.”
This process, two years later, has helped the Kilpatrick family heal and move forward. I’m personally thankful to former First Lady Carlita Kilpatrick, an excellent writer herself, for her contributions. I found it heroic, and courageous. I thank the Cheeks-Kilpatrick family for trusting me with the responsibility of accurately representing this story. My remaining hopes are for Kwame’s freedom, Detroit’s resurgence, and the world’s understanding of an American epic.
~KHARY KIMANI TURNER
Out of the night that covers me,
black as a pit from pole to pole,
I thank [God]
for my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not whinced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
my head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
looms but the horror of the shade.
And yet the menace of the years
finds, and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
how charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
~“INVICTUS,” WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
chapter 1
Happy Birthday, Inmate #702408
IT WAS the most unforgettable day of my entire life. The day the twins were born, my wedding day, and the night of my re-election as mayor of the City of Detroit in November 2005 were all wonderfully memorable occasions, and I’ll never forget them. But this day was extraordinary because it plunged my spirit to a new low, while simultaneously forcing me to lean on every ounce of faith I had.
Why the depression? Simple. I was on my way to a Michigan maximum-security prison, just two years after resigning my post as mayor. It was also my birthday, June 8, 2010, and I was forty years old.
The guard woke me up, startling me a little. Breakfast at the Michigan Department of Corrections Reception and Guidance Center, in Jackson, always came with a 6 a.m. wake-up call. Corrections officer Sam Allen, a cordial enough guy, entered the room with my usual helping of prison oatmeal, two slices of toast and a plastic carton of orange juice.
“Good morning, Officer Allen,” I said.
“Good morning, Mr. Kilpatrick,” he responded. “Here is your fine cuisine for the morning.”
“Thank you, Officer. Always a treat.”
He left the room and I began to eat. I was quarantined in a unit that was painted stark white. It was a self-contained space with a shower, bed, sink, toilet and a small storage locker. I thought it was horrible, but I’d soon think of my room at Jackson with fond memories.
My routine went like this: I was locked up for twenty-three hours each day, with a one-hour “recreation period” in a small 20-by-20-foot fenced yard with razor-sharp barbed wire circling around it. I was thankful to another prison official, Officer Mark Bradshaw, for making sure that I got at least some fresh air during my time there.
After breakfast, I got up to wash my face. I then knelt to start my morning prayer when I was interrupted, even more abruptly than the wake-up call. Officer Allen, who seemed t
o work day and night and must have racked up a decent amount of overtime, turned his key, which had a familiar sound, in the door. I thought he may have forgotten to tell or give me something, maybe a magazine or a book. Maybe the keys to let myself out? I wished. Instead, he entered with another C.O. I didn’t know this guy. He was cagey, and he looked at me authoritatively.
“Pack all your personal items in this bag. You’re leaving now.” He heaved a large duffel bag my way. It was a large green bag with “MDOC” printed on it, along with my inmate number, 702408.
“When you say ‘leaving now,’” I asked, “what do you mean?
“Immediately!” he snapped.
I then asked, cautiously, sitting on the bed, “Where am I going?” Both men, in unison, replied that they could not tell me where I was going, and that officers would arrive in fifteen minutes to pick me up. Sam, however, looked like he wanted to tell me what I was in for. I could tell he felt sympathetic.
I stood and threw all of my personal things in the bag—deodorant, comb, toothbrush, T-shirt, pen, paper, many letters of encouragement I had received (mostly strangers) and a couple of pictures of Carlita and the boys. I moved quickly, and the officers stood and watched me the entire time.
“Is that all?” they asked. It was. I had only been there fourteen days. My true “personal items” were in Texas, the place I’d come to regard as home.
They closed the bag and told me to put on my State prisoner outfit. It was blue, with orange patches on the shoulders and legs. I started to get dressed as they left, and a strange silence settled in the room. A boding despair began to settle over me. I can’t say the feeling was alien. I’d spent the past two years pleading with God, wrestling with my own sense of self, my own dignity, to make sense of my life. How could I have gone from making history as the youngest elected mayor in a city’s history, to a publicly lambasted pariah whom many misunderstood, and seemingly wanted dead? I didn’t deserve this, and I began to wonder if I’d steeled myself enough to handle it.
The sun hadn’t fully risen. It was a cloudy morning, but beautiful. Sunrays poked through the clouds, creating a picturesque scene outside my small window. I sat there and tried to think about where I could be going. I started to ask myself a ton of questions. Was I headed out of state? How far would I be from Detroit? Would they force me to remain in protective custody? Was I going to a boot camp?
My thoughts disturbed my peace, and the room became noisy with them. I began to feel crowded, and a little anxious. So I began to pray. I thanked God for that moment in my life. I thanked Him for allowing me to see another birthday. And I asked Him to give me the grace to accept and overcome whatever was about to happen. I asked for a calm and relaxed spirit.
A moment later, the noise in my head settled, and I opened my eyes and looked toward the window. I tend to pray decisively, meaning I make my petition to God, and then I go about doing my part. The work. In that moment, I decided that the noise in my mind would decrease, just for that moment. No matter what, I would have to trust and believe Him, and know that He is able. That was the work—acceptance. Calm returned, and none too soon.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I waited. Soon, the officer’s key clanked against the door. This time, two much larger Corrections officers entered the room. Sam was with them. They wasted no time. One of them told me to take off my clothes for a strip search. I knew that this was not the time for questions. Immediately, I disrobed, and they made me go through the whole battery of movements. If you’ve ever seen the movie American Me, it’s all real. And I had to endure it.
Open your mouth. Lift your tongue. Lift your nutsack. Turn around. Bend over and spread your ass cheeks. Cough. Turn back around and lift your arms. I stayed calm as they searched me, and then searched my clothes. I told one guard, in jest, that I left my cell phone and contraband in the car. He didn’t find that funny and continued his work.
I put my clothes back on, and the other officer pulled what looked like dozens of chains, padlocks and handcuffs from his waistband.
“What’s all this?” I asked. He told me that I was being transferred under the classification of a Level 4 Prisoner. Maximum security.
“Officer,” I said, as calmly as possible. “I’m a Level 1 inmate. I know that, as a Level 1, I’m deemed non-threatening. Most Level 1 prisoners are transferred in handcuffs. Some are allowed to walk with their hands free.”
My official classification is the lowest security level in the Michigan Department of Corrections. Their treatment was appropriate for a violent offender. A very thorough process establishes each inmate’s classification level: background, nature of offense, mental health, and so forth. It involves several days of physical, psychological and background evaluation. You might imagine, then, that I had a slight problem seeing the C.O. come at me with enough chains to subdue King Kong.
“I know,” he said, “but this is how it’s going to be.” That meant I was being outfitted with the Department’s full Level 4 regalia. Ankle cuffs. Belly chains. Handcuffs with waist chains. Padlocks. I couldn’t move my arms more than four inches from my body. I had to take short, wide steps to keep from falling as I was promptly marched out of the facility.
“Sam,” I said as they chained me, “where am I going?” Sam looked down and breathed deeply.
“You’re going to a prison up north,” he said. The two big guards shot him a look, and he didn’t say anything else.
“Well, will I be able to call and let my family know where I am?” I asked.
I got no answer on that one. It would be a few days before I was able to contact anyone.
We began walking past all the other inmates and employees. I could only shuffle my feet, moving in a hopping walk. My hands were bound to my waist. For every journalist who editorialized me during my time of scandal, it was a missed photo op for the ages. Kwame Kilpatrick, former Mayor of Detroit, in body chains. I needed every bit of peace God gave me, because my mind was tripping.
An empty prison van sat waiting in a garage as we exited the facility. I was put into the van and driven about ninety minutes to a stop in St. Louis, Michigan. I wondered if this was my destination, but the C.O. told me it wasn’t. I was headed to “The Oaks” in Manistee, Michigan, on the State’s northwest coast. This was just a stop to transfer me to another bus. As he spoke, I saw something that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
There was a very large horseshoe-shaped drive in front of the prison. As we drove through the barbed wire gates, I saw what looked like twenty other buses pulling into the facility. Some resembled Greyhound buses. Some were smaller, and some were vans, like the one I was in.
The haunting sight was the cargo—scores of inmates, dressed in their “State blues,” pouring from each vehicle like black chattel. I had a perfect vantage point. Dozens—I do mean dozens—of young men, mostly African-American, all in belly chains, ankle cuffs, hand restraints and padlocks like mine, stepped from these buses and formed lines. Corrections officers, most of whom were white, ordered them, ordered them again, and they shuffled to other buses.
I thought about Jamestown, Virginia. It looked like a slave trading post, the marketplace where slaves were bought and sold. Strong, able-bodied black men were moved from plantation to plantation, from one person’s control to another. These young men’s transgressions made them State property. And these were just the ones being transferred. How many more were holed up in the state’s penal system? It was shocking, and daunting.
Is this where all the black men are? How many of these men have children? What are they in for?
This public trading went on for more than an hour. After all the lines had been formed, it was time to reload. The entire time, I managed to completely distance myself from the scenario, as if I were watching a documentary. I forgot that I was actually a part of it. In fact, my opening scene was about to commence. The hour had passed, and I was told to get off and get ready to be loaded on the bus headed to “The Oaks.”
I stepped out of the van and was spotted immediately by brothers who began shouting.
“What’s up, Kwame!”
“Keep your head up, Kwame!”
“Stay strong, Kwame!”
Guys were throwing up their fists (as much as their restraints allowed) and holding up peace signs. I gave them many head nods and fist salutes on the way to my bus. As soon as I stepped into the bus, the brothers seated let out a collective, “Ooooh…!” Every seat was filled, except one that they held for me, near the back. I said, “What’s up” and threw more head nods all the way back to my seat. I was in the midst of brotherhood, and I had always been comfortable in that spirit.
The bus was divided into three sections, separated by locked gates. I could only speak to the folks in the rows in my section. I was prepared for a quiet ride, but who was I fooling? That ain’t me, and it damn sure wasn’t the brothers on board.
Just after pulling off, one of the guys remarked that we had all missed lunch, and that he knew it should have been provided. The C.O. yelled back, after several attempts to reason with him, that we were dropping one inmate off at a prison around the corner, and we’d eat right after that. It was during this exchange that I learned we’d make several stops before arriving at Oaks Correctional Facility.
Lunch was served after the first stop. They gave us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an orange and some red juice. We then made the two-hour trek to our second stop, near Baldwin, Michigan. I had some incredible conversations about everything, from State, federal and local politics, to sports and the inmates’ favorite subject, the MDOC and the criminal justice system. The brothers gave me invaluable advice about the prison community and how to function there. They were very helpful and knowledgeable.
Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revolution of Kwame Kilpatrick Page 2