The fight I couldn’t win appeared to be over. Say what you want about the law, but public opinion sways courtroom decisions. The negative press had swayed public opinion, and my historically bad relationship with the press swayed the tone of their coverage.
My goal now was to start working to fix everything. My life and marriage still needed repair that could only happen away from the spotlight. My family was emotionally damaged, and the family name was beginning to symbolize something negative to many people. My mother, father and sister were wracked with pain, which permeated my entire family.
Christine, meanwhile, had also been charged with obstruction of justice, and was a fixture in the news herself, although far less than I was. We hadn’t been in contact, outside of hearsay from mutual friends and acquaintances. Later, she would also plea, and be sentenced to ninety days in jail and $150,000 restitution. I shuddered every time I thought about my role in her plight.
I delivered a televised address to the city later that day. I spoke honestly, placing our accomplishments on the record. I was and am still proud of what we did for the city. We progressed. We changed the way the city operated. But it was over, and Ken Cockrel would now become mayor in my stead. I wished him the best, and asked that the citizens wrap their arms around him and support him. And I meant it. He would need it.
One of the parts of my address that garnered the most news commentary was a critique I made of Gov. Jennifer Granholm. I think the governor and her advisors truly believed that her record of doing absolutely nothing for the State through her first six years would be forgiven or forgotten if she aggressively went after me. She’d spent her tenure going with the political flow, and remained consistent when my troubles arose.
I ended my speech by saying, “Detroit, you have set me up… for a comeback.” As I expected, that statement was attacked, called arrogant, and teased. All of the critics missed the mark. I was in no way talking about coming back as mayor, or even as a politician. I had completely divorced myself from that. I was happy to finish my political career, and was ready for the next part of my life. I was talking about coming back a better, wiser and more dynamic man. And, again, I meant it.
I was given six weeks to get my affairs in order at home. We packed up and moved out of the Manoogian mansion. That was another media spectacle. Carlita commandeered that effort while I prepared to vacate my post. It’s probably cliché to describe every news attraction as some sort of media frenzy at this point, because just about everything we did became a headline. But I’d never been more relieved to get out of a house in my life.
I was a husband and father again. For a moment, there were fewer headlines and gossip. The news cameras, the tether strapped to my ankle for the entire summer (yes, I was a mayor on a tether)! were gone. I became plain ol’ Kwam, and it felt great. It was an incredibly important time for me and Carlita. We started dressing our wounds. It wasn’t easy, at all. Time together was also time to face our issues. We’d become different people, and we had to get reacquainted. We were committed, but there sleepless nights along the way.
The night before my sentence was to begin was one of the roughest for Carlita and the boys, which made it hard for me. All of them were wracked with anticipation now that the moment was upon us. Sleep eluded us as completely as serenity. So, the next morning, we spent our time together quietly, just being in each other’s presence. I’d spoken with my mother the night before, but she wasn’t up to seeing her son sentenced and sent to jail. Besides, I wanted her to distance herself from my situation. She had enough to worry about with her own political career, and my detractors were already trying to ruin her just because she was my mother.
Another packed courtroom. Another live broadcast. Another meeting with my attorneys in a nearby conference room. Another nervous, confused appearance by my legal team. They’d been beaten up pretty good over the past six months, and the sentencing hearing hit them a few more times. Still, they just never seemed to be prepared for these things (or at least it appeared that way to me).
The prosecutor, my lawyers said, made changes to the final sentencing agreement we’d ratified six weeks earlier. It turned out the prosecutor and Judge Groner worked together and added a few requirements to my guidelines, and wanted me to agree to them on the spot. The judge offered me a choice to concur or withdraw my plea and go to trial. This, mind you, was after I’d already completed every other tenet of the previous agreement except serving my time and paying restitution. I was out of office. My law license was gone. Now I could withdraw my plea?
My lawyers shoved the new requirements at me and advised me to sign them. The new conditions called for the immediate surrender to the City of the funds in my campaign account, as well as other organizational funds. I held no affiliation or fiduciary responsibility with many of the funds noted in the new document. I was also called to give up any tax refunds that I or my wife, who was in no way involved in this saga, generated.
As for the law license, the judge arranged for the director of the State Bar of Michigan to come to the courtroom and assist in the public revocation. This was a new twist. I’d agreed, in the deal that was previously ratified, to surrender my license specifically for the “period of my probation.” The prosecution changed its position on sentencing day, demanding permanent rescinding. The judge, of course, agreed, and I was promptly presented with the voluntary revocation document, but not before the judge reiterated his offer to withdraw and go to trial.
My attorneys again advised me to sign everything. They were scared, and completely outmatched. I took their advice, but I still believe my entire sentencing was illegal and a complete abuse of judicial discretion and authority. I’m determined to find out one day. The proceedings lasted for hours. It was one of the longest sentencing hearings in the court’s history.
Groner rehashed the details of every charge. It made little sense, given that I’d already pled guilty and was there to begin my sentence. But he did his best to make it good TV, reading his lines for his big scene. After exhausting the proceedings, he adjourned the session, and I was led toward a rear exit. I wasn’t allowed to kiss Carlita, but I reassured her that I loved her and would be in touch soon, and headed to my temporary home.
chapter 26
Surroundings
ATUNNEL SNAKES underground beneath a downtown Detroit Street, connecting the Wayne County Circuit Court to the Andrew Baird County Jail. Footsteps tend to echo in that corridor hauntingly, like recurring thoughts, or reminders. It’s long, cold and damp, with yellow cement block walls. The floor is grey concrete. It’s a gloomy, clandestine walkway reserved for law enforcers, and those people the law convicts. I now took this walk, under one of the very roads that I administered for six years, as its most infamous political prisoner.
A phalanx of Sheriff’s deputies, all very professional, escorted me, while turning their faces to avoid eye contact. Still, I could tell what they were feeling. Some couldn’t hide their excitement, others their discontent. A few were sad.
Prisoner Processing was surrounded by a number of holding cells filled with new inmates. I heard a chorus of the same profane and supportive chants from inmates that I’d heard months earlier, when Giles jailed me.
We got love for you, Big Dawg!
Away from the cameras and lights for the first time in ages, I quietly exchanged my navy suit for a green prison uniform, handed my dress shoes to a deputy, and accepted a pair of slippers. I was assigned a number, which would replace my name for the next four months.
Kwame Malik Kilpatrick, former mayor of the City of Detroit, was now Inmate No. 2008-34589. I began a long, slow walk to my cell, entered unit 14J-4 on the second floor, and quickly surveyed my surroundings. The cell boasted the warmth of a military brig. The walls were made of the same neutral block. The stainless steel toilet and sink sat adjacent to an open shower stall. The convenience was fantastic—I could crap, shower and shave in a single step. There was a pay phone with a six-inch cord conne
cted to it from which I could make fifteen-minute collect calls to an approved list of friends and family. I imagine the short cord protected certain inmates from harming themselves. For a 6’4” man with no suicidal tendencies, it was just plain uncomfortable.
I walked to the far wall and peered through a tall, slim, filmy window. I could see the courthouse across the street. Because I was the mayor, I was placed in isolation. Ironic, the designation, given that the people of the city had always demonstrated a familial affection for me. Even the deputies showed it at times. One of them, a man whose name I don’t remember, but whose sullen expression I’ll never forget, mentioned how much he hated having to do his job the moment I arrived. I wondered if I’d have more peace of mind in General Population. No matter. I was a high-profile prisoner, which made Gen Pop impossible.
Aside from one other inmate on my cell block who was slated for transfer, I was alone. That concerned me. Budget concerns had prompted the Department of Corrections to grant early releases all non-violent offenders a few weeks earlier, so not only would there be no prisoners on my block, but half the jail would be empty by Christmas. I was a non-violent offender, but there would be no early release for me. Suddenly bereft in a sea of thought, I anticipated the solitude, and also felt a sense of peace.
That’s right. A peace—I’d have to call it that—settled over me. It was a passing feeling, brought on more by the absence of public chaos and silence, than anything born of my spirit. This was my first encounter with stillness in twelve years. I hadn’t been alone since running for my first office in 1996, and was I accustomed to organized chaos. Accompaniment. Obligation. Paranoia. What a stifling existence. I could keep my game face locked, and think through situations. My thought process is one of my biggest weapons, and it helped me keep my composure. But that didn’t mean it was good for me.
Being alone, even in a jail cell, brought relief for the moment.
Surely, this odd but strangely comforting feeling of peace wouldn’t last. Carlita and the boys would certainly enter my thoughts. I would have to console my mother, father and sister to assure them that I was doing well. I was going to worry about them. People would soon visit. The press would come looking for jailhouse interviews. Whatever. But at that moment, I just stood at that window, its film like a metaphor for everything that once challenged my sense of clarity, managing nothing but the moment.
It had been a long day. It was amazing that they managed to sentence and process me, given that gaudy courtroom show, just in time for chow. And what an eclectic menu it was! Italian link sausage with spaghetti sauce, with a side of tater tots, buttered peas, Texas toast and an orange. I would learn within days that this was as good as the food got. I have diverticulitis, a condition that requires a strict diet. I shouldn’t and usually don’t eat beef, pork or any high-cholesterol foods. A diet without high amounts of protein and fiber will trigger a chemical reaction that will cause my colon to flare and burst. I could die.
This was serious. After withstanding years of scrutiny, inaccurate reporting and an eroded constituency, jail food, of all things, was my biggest threat. Three days passed before I received any water to drink. The usual beverages were artificial fruit drinks, high in sugar. Snacks were assorted Little Debbie products and Better Made potato chips. All meals were consistently saturated, fatty and devoid of green vegetables. When a guard delivered my dinner, I didn’t recognize the meat on the tray.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know?” I said. “Well, I’m not eating that.”
Reality sank into my head as I realized I had little choice in deciding what I would be able to put in my body. Until my scheduled release in February 2009, I would have about as much freedom as a babe in a crib. I’d be on lockdown in my cell for twenty-three hours a day. I’d be awakened at 5 a.m., told when to eat breakfast, when to go for recreation, when to eat dinner, and when to go to sleep. That little bit of peace faded as I stretched out on my mattress, another cement-filled luxury model, and fell asleep. I guess the stress of the past eight months finally put me down and, instead of drifting, I plummeted into a deep slumber. I slept for three days, only to awaken for an occasional visit from a staff nurse, doctor or psychiatrist, family and friends; mealtime, or a deputy making rounds.
During that first week, a psychiatrist came to the cell every day. He feared I was losing my grip on sanity. Varied levels of insanity were normal for people in isolation, he’d later tell me. His concern was that I’d fall susceptible to strange thoughts, or vertigo. I shared his concern because I was accustomed to activity. I appreciated stillness, but my capacity to dwell there was about to be profoundly tested.
A panic button in the cell would alert the deputy in the Master Control station if the conditions he warned about took root. The psychiatrist mentioned this on several visits, and I would tell him I was fine, and go back to sleep. I was totally listless. Completely drained. Hell, that hard, horrible, far too short mattress felt like a Westin Dream Bed for the first few days. I woke up several times completely unaware of where I was.
Sensation. Realization. Caging. Caging.
One week in, I crashed into reality. Anger and hatred gripped me as fear and the outside world teased me. It was November 4, 2008—Election Day. During my first two weeks, I’d been let out of my cell four times for one-hour recreation periods, taken to a very small gymnasium, and locked in. I could do whatever I pleased for one hour.
I wasn’t allowed any reading materials for the first six days, no form of mental stimulation whatsoever. I was simply placed in a cell. A few Sheriff’s deputies were reprimanded once for bringing me a book and a magazine from the jail library. They were told not to bring me anything. Both deputies told me that no one had ever been treated this way.
The nurses at the jail were truly a godsend. They were professional, and did outstanding work. They were also tough and caring, and fought for fair treatment of all inmates. On the sixth day of my stay, one of the nurses took the radio from her office and put it in my cell. And her boss backed her on the move when administrative authorities resisted. Whew! I had a radio! After six days of solitary confinement with absolutely nothing, a radio was like a little slice of heaven!
The nurses, a couple of deputies and some community members banded together on my behalf at that point, and spoke with Sheriff Warren Evans about how I was being treated. Warren Evans would later run for mayor and lose to Dave Bing, only to be later appointed chief of Detroit Police by Mayor Bing. Evans was dubiously talented. He never saw a TV camera or newspaper reporter that he didn’t like, and would be forced to resign his post as chief after using City resources to produce a pilot for a reality show about himself. He was also romantically involved with another officer, one he’d supervised, and it all blew up in a mini-text message scandal that slightly mirrored my own. He could capitulate to any political or media whim that would grant positioning. That said, even after declaring on TV that I would not be getting any special treatment and would be handled like any other inmate, he turned up the bad treatment a notch. Why? I believe he pandered to the press. Only after receiving calls from people who mattered to his upcoming mayoral bid was I taken off of ‘Hannibal Lector’ status and given a television to watch. Nine days had passed. A commanding officer brought it to my cell at 6 p.m. on Election Night.
I saw the long lines of Detroiters at polling sites as soon as I turned it on. Throughout the state of Michigan and the entire country, the scenes reminded me of the historic election of Nelson Mandela to South Africa’s presidency. The voting lines were much shorter, of course, but the energy was similar. In Detroit, in Jackson, Miss., in Brooklyn, the atmosphere was amazing. It was a theater of hope, faith, love and transformation! From my small cell, my spirit momentarily soared above my present circumstances, beyond the past months. It was a special feeling.
Hours into the viewing, I felt tears roll down my cheek in steady streams.
I hadn’t cried like that in years. As a student of history, I remembered triumphant spirits of the past. Nat Turner. Denmark Vesci. Booker T. Washington. Carter G. Woodson. Marcus Garvey. Medgar Evers. Malcolm X. Martin Luther King, Jr. The four little girls killed in the Birmingham, Alabama, bombing. The Mississippi freedom fighters. I felt. I saw. Tears. Joy. Jubilation. So many people, so many races. I cried forcefully, and screamed, “Victory!” from my cell. And as I stood with my fists raised to the ceiling, I caught a reflection in the stainless steel sink and toilet in my cell. I saw the big door that locked me away from the movement, and I hated Sorrow for laughing so sinisterly as he barreled and tackled me. Freedom, for me, was immaterial.
Oh, the emotional abyss I fell into. For the first time in my life, I felt like a complete and utter failure. I was removed from a monumental moment in American history, one in which I’d played a significant role, and sent to a dungeon like a miscreant. A criminal. I couldn’t share it with my wife and children. I was an absent father, an adulterer, a liar, a creep. In that moment, I didn’t feel I deserved much beyond the nothingness into which I had been tossed. I grew enraged at myself, but I shouted blame toward everyone and everything else, including God. I threw wild, violent punches at demons. I thrashed and gnashed my teeth as election coverage became a haunting, taunting score in the background. The scenes looped. The jubilation mocked me. My rage grew and my thoughts turned evil.
Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revolution of Kwame Kilpatrick Page 23