Blind with rage and wet with tears, I fell to the floor. Lord knows if the guards were within earshot. I lay on the floor screaming, cursing and crying. And then, I turned toward God. God had it coming, and I cursed filthily, profanely. I challenged Him with my exasperated taunts.
I plunged to the bottom of my life as if I had fallen from its final slope. I lost all sense of respect, protocol and honor. It was my most honest moment ever—I was robbed of diplomacy on American history’s biggest political night. How poetic. Detroit’s biggest political figure, prostrate on a jail cell floor as Barack Obama wins the presidency.
My demons, those bastards, rubbed fear, rage and doubt across my back like jesters, self-pity and deceit a funky lotion. And I dared call out God in the midst of this spiritual chasm.
“What the hell do You want me to do now!?” I screamed. “I’m tired of this shit! You got me beat down! If You want to kill me, just kill me! I really don’t give a damn!
“You’re allowing these people to do this to me because I was messing around on my wife? What about all the good shit I did? I worked my ass off for these people! I damn near killed myself in this job! And now, I have to suffer. My children have to suffer. That’s some bullshit, God!”
I then turned my enmity toward President-Elect Barack Obama, the man with whom I’d been very cordial. We’d developed a mutual respect over the years. He attended a fundraiser for my mayoral campaign, which was held in Chicago, and even spoke a few words about me. I returned the gesture in Detroit, when we held a fundraiser for his U.S. Senate campaign.
Unbeknownst to most, he and I talked after he issued the statement about me before visiting Detroit during his campaign. We had a very good conversation. He was sincere and wished me well. And I told him I was so very proud of him, and wished him and his family well. That night in my cell, however, I hated him a little, asking God, “Why? Why him, and not me?” I never wanted to be president. I had never been a jealous man. I just wanted answers. I was in a free fall, and anyone who wasn’t helping at that moment was my enemy. And then…
Surrender. Not my voice, but it was in my head. It spoke through the struggle. It was strange, and it poked a bit of peace through my agony. It was poignant and sudden. It grabbed me and arrested my demons, and dried my back. Enough, it commanded.
The cell was dark, and I was still sorrowful, but I couldn’t talk. I was still prostrate on the floor, vulnerable to this new presence. A fear like nothing I’d ever felt washed over me. I trembled. I was too afraid to even lift my eyes and gaze around the room, so I closed them and pressed my face against the floor. I was a child afraid of a boogieman, all 6’4” and 300 pounds of me. The monster was in the room with me.
So I prayed and pleaded in a case of turnabout so typical of the biblical stories I’d grown up reading. I asked for His help. I prayed and apologized with the same emphasis and aggression I’d used to blame and criticize Him. I told God that I would do whatever He wanted me to do. I asked Him to save my life!
Accept. Yes.
If my circumstance wasn’t going to kill me, it would prepare me. I prayed for hours, conversing with God, reconciling and meditating. And then, I lifted myself from the floor, turned back toward the TV, and refocused on the Election Night coverage. I saw a park in Downtown Chicago. President-Elect Obama prepared to address the excited and anxious crowd. I felt proud now, watching him walk to the podium as a sea of humanity rolled around him like waves. And I felt his victory. And I felt prepared. My bags were packed, my journey apparent, a fresh wind in my lungs. Settle, Kwame. Settle, for a surge will come. This is a cusp. It may seem long-lasting, but it is fleeting, a moment. Peace be still.
I knew the voice. It wasn’t my own, but it was mine. And it was permanent.
I felt proud—of God, and yes, of my new President.
By the time my first visitors arrived the next day, I’d begun to make sense of my emotions. I was a mere few weeks into my sentence and focusing on my myriad feelings, and then on the stories behind them, gave me a great sense of clarity. So I embraced them, and began to discuss this with them – with my mother and Ayanna, as they arrived. Certainly with Carlita when she called, because it helped our healing. If I was going to emerge from this a better man, it would be on God’s terms, not the court’s, and not my own. It was time to come out of my dry place. Truth and admission needed a place in my spirit, and I was ready to admit some things.
chapter 27
Reconciliation
To the people of Detroit and the world, I let you down. You supported me. You were excited about my vision for the City. You felt progress. But my personal issues impeded my judgment. I cheated on my wife. I lied about it while on the witness stand. Of that, I am clearly guilty.
Know that I have also been accused of things for which I am not guilty, but my enemies are artists, and they paint vivid images. Unfortunately, you have been bombarded with these accusations with no counterpoints. If I am you, I probably think there is so much news, so much rumor and commentary, that something must be true. To that, I suggest that you consider a few things. Newspapers are not ‘truth’ papers. They sell headlines. Judges are elected, and they have agendas of their own. Lawyers can be opportunists. And politicians often build careers on the backs of people they destroy. Feel how you will about me, but think critically. The wisdom of entire communities depends on it.
DETROIT IS a great city, but we are a depressed people. We won’t progress until we learn to truly love each other. I believe our collective depression—our frustration with the lack of adequate City services, historic racism and national respect—causes us to fight ourselves. We are the only major city in the country that does not benefit from a productive regional relationship. As far as Detroiters are concerned, the suburbs are the enemy next door, and they feel the same way about us. That alone is a recipe for disaster.
I thought a lot about what I did to contribute to the City’s misery, and what I didn’t do. It’s important to me that people know how deeply personal these thoughts were. It’s impossible not to dwell on every little thing when you’re alone in a cell for twenty-three hours a day. It’s even harder when things dawn on you, and you have to face yourself, alone. I fought through states of despair in those months. To an extent, the Parable of the Wheat and Tares applied to me. I was responsible for charting growth for the City and for my family. It’s similar to the seeds that God wanted to be well tended, but was offended when they were planted on unstable ground. By cheating on my wife, however, I believe I offended God. And then, by the way I handled things when the information went public, I embarrassed the people who admired me. I hurt my family. For that, I became deeply sorrowful, and I longed to apologize—first to my wife, and then to the people of Detroit.
Gaining perspective between making amends and pinpointing a political railroading made my cell feel a bit bigger. Spiritually, I was freeing myself. I was physically locked down, but I began to understand what I’d heard from men who’d been incarcerated before me, that a sound mind and spirit can open your world in ways that physical freedom cannot. I was a long way from Nirvana, and I would have given a leg to get out of that cell, but jail strengthens the psyche. Strong minds get tougher in prison. Weak ones rot. I resolved to use this time as personal training.
Occasional assistance came in the form of key conversations and visits. My wife and sons were like respirators. Talking to them always made my day. Carlita had taken the boys to our house in Tallahassee, where they were finally able to enroll in new schools and make new friends, benefiting from living in an environment that knew little and could care less about Kwame Kilpatrick and the City of Detroit.
My visitation list included about ten people, whom I’m thankful to say came to see me every week. My parents, sister, grandfather, uncles, aunts and cousins soldiered through one of the harshest winters on record to help keep my spirits up. When prisoners talk about the importance of the letters they receive, the calls and the visits, that is
real. I received hundreds of letters and cards from supporters throughout the community, along with my family’s visits. It sustained me when my cell, which did not have heat or insulation, dropped to near-freezing temperatures. The newspapers reported that I received preferential treatment. That’s laughable. I could run my finger through the frost on the window and couldn’t ask for enough sheets to keep warm. I celebrated my first Christmas away from my family. On December 26, my phone cut off while I was talking to Carlita. I was told that the power failed, but learned later that my cell was the only unit in the building where it happened. It wouldn’t cut back on for three days. I was taking showers and shitting in full view of deputies, every day. Had I allowed my ego to wage a bigger battle, these conditions may have driven me crazy. So, yes, it helps to know that people are rooting for you on the outside. I don’t know how I would have fared without the support.
Nothing lifted my spirits more than seeing their faces. But a few key visits came close. Min. Farrakhan made a highly publicized visit. And I received counsel from Bishop T.D. Jakes soon afterward. His Christian perspective almost mirrored Min. Farrakhan’s ministering.
“Everything you need is in your house,” Bishop Jakes would tell me. He was referring to our bodies, our temples, which house our spirits. By trusting God, that small voice inside me, I receive all the answers I need. And then, there was my home with Carlita. Everything we needed to survive our storms, we already had. We had the ability to make godly decisions, to exercise godly discernment, access godly resources and make godly transformations. It doesn’t come from outside, but from within. It was not the last time Bishop Jakes would counsel us.
Both men told me that it was time for me to die, not physically, but in that phase of my existence. New life required space. Min. Farrakhan likened my incarceration to birth. The birth canal, he said, is the closest that a baby comes to experiencing death, because its struggle through the canal challenges its instinct to survive. On the other side of the canal, however, is a new realm. They both agreed that I was being reborn.
Bishop Jakes wrote to me, quoting Jesus’s teaching that those who try to save their immature lives will ultimately lose them. But in faith, in Christ, he wrote, they are reborn. As he wrote, I imagined how incredible it might have been to have these two great men in the same room.
I accepted God’s will. I resolved to be led by it, to be reborn, renewed and rededicated. Some people may never accept me, but they have their own issues. They may always mock me. But people mocked and crucified Jesus, so who am I to avoid a similar path? My directive, and my inspiration, was clear. I had to trust God.
My release date arrived on February 3, 2009, ninety-nine days into my sentence. Maybe it was foolish to think this, but I truly looked forward to quietly leaving the jail, kissing my family, packing my things and leaving Detroit. That was all I wanted. Carlita and I had decided months earlier to make Dallas our new home. Detroit needed to be free of me, and I needed to get out of the city’s way. I also wanted the people of Detroit to heal. The City couldn’t move forward as long as I was in town, because I couldn’t be invisible. The best thing for me to do was disappear, get a job elsewhere, pay my restitution and stay away. Whatever my legacy in Detroit would be, let it be, or let my future work make amends for whatever happened while I was in office.
What wishful thinking that was. My release was an event.
Physically, I was a spectacle. I never cut my hair while in jail, so I’d grown a full afro and beard. I also lost about thirty-eight pounds because of the quality of prison food, and my reluctance to eat it. So yeah, if the press wanted a spectacle, they were about to get one. Sheriff Evans caved under the pressure to publicly release me, resolving to have me walk out through the front door just after midnight so news crews could carry it live. My family had fresh clothes delivered to me, and Minister Rasul Muhammad, a friend and spiritual leader who’d stood by me throughout my trials, sent the Fruit of Islam (FOI), the Nation of Islam’s security, to escort me. The FOI are highly disciplined, exceptionally well-trained men. I was thankful for their presence more than anything because, when my paperwork was processed and I walked through the lobby, I could see a phalanx of news cameras and reporters outside the main entrance. I could also see my friend DeDan Milton, Khary, my cousin Ajene Evans and my brother-in-law Daniel Ferguson, standing on the perimeter of the news crews. My directions from the FOI were simple. Walk out, go limp, and let them guide me as they saw fit.
Once the deputies pushed the crowd back, we moved. As soon as I stepped out the door, the cameras and reporters rushed toward me. It was madness, and they were violent! They pushed us, so one of FOI guards grabbed me and yanked my now-285-pound frame as if I were 100 pounds lighter. As they pulled me toward a waiting SUV, the army of newshounds advanced in a virtual stampede. Two cameramen fought for position, and one of them hit DeDan in the eye with his camera. DeDan’s eye was already swollen by the time we got out of there. As I was literally tossed into the SUV, a reporter grabbed the door, preventing us from closing it. One of the FOI—they were all as big as houses —warned the reporter to step back, and he did. We sped off as quickly as we could, and Daniel, DeDan, Khary and Ajene followed.
Fortunately, we anticipated being followed, and decided not to go straight home. We drove around for a while, and then stopped to get some real food to eat. It was like heaven, eating real food. About an hour later, we went to my mother’s house, where my family waited. The news crews were there by the time we arrived, and we had to fight through more trucks and microphones just to get into our driveway.
The news carried it all live, and reported that we were the aggressive ones, even though the reporters outnumbered us significantly. The media was so out of touch with the heart of the city that they couldn’t even describe the FOI accurately. They described them as something closer to henchmen. It was so indicative of the mainstream press’s ongoing effort to undermine and rewrite Detroit’s history.
Whatever. That night, it didn’t matter. I was out of jail and, though I wasn’t with Carlita and the boys, who had stayed in Dallas to avoid the frenzy, I was home.
chapter 28
Revelation 2: Clarity
WHEN I GOT up from the cold hard floor that night in the Wayne County Jail, I was a changed man. I knew it. I could feel it. I turned the TV off and looked around for one of the three-inch pencils the jail provided. I then began to think, away from despair and guilt, and toward more positive moments—events and encounters that had truly blessed me.
I thought about a time just after the text message scandal broke. Carlita and I were at home in Tallahassee. We still had our house, and went there to get away from things and collect ourselves. A program featuring Bishop T.D. Jakes aired on TV one day. He was preaching a sermon called “Potholes.”
Carlita and I were drained at that point, and we were both struggling to find something that could help us, individually and as a couple, and we were familiar with the Bishop. He and I both participated in the funeral for Mother Rosa Parks, the matriarch of the Civil Rights Movement. I’d also heard him preach, and he was excellent. I suppose a crying soul has a way of honing your focus, because he seemed to be speaking directly to us. As I sat next to the woman I’d completely disrespected and desperately wanted to win back, I was riveted. The sermon’s content was buoyed by the spirit the man conveyed.
Bishop Jakes affected Carlita and I so much that we ordered the sermon online and requested next-day delivery. How ironic it was that we heard another of his sermons before the package even arrived. Another day, our painter, Warren, was listening to Bishop Jakes while he worked, but had mixed the sermons with instrumental hip-hop music. Carlita asked him about it, and he said he mixed the tapes so his children could bob their heads while absorbing positive messages.
Warren told us about other preachers whose sermons he’d mixed to music, I asked him to make some for us. He brought several of them over to the house the next day. They had uplifting t
itles, like “God Never Meant for You to Lose,” “Famine to Favor,” and “From Disgrace to Grace.” And they flowed over beats like Common’s “I Used to Love H.E.R.” or Jay-Z’s “Encore.”
We targeted the messages that seemed to especially fit us, and they helped us slowly repair our foundation. We absorbed the messages, prayed together and tried to remain open and obedient. That period was such a Godsend that in April, after an opportunity arose for me to take a business trip to Dallas, Bishop Jakes’s home, I asked Carlita to accompany me. We called ahead and scheduled a meeting with the Bishop and his wife, First Lady Serita. We had no idea what we would discuss with them, but the urge to be in the presence of people whose closeness to God touched us just seemed right.
We met for lunch after I finished my business, and immediately thanked Bishop Jakes for his guidance and teaching. We opened up a little to them, but spared them the details of our recent past. It didn’t matter that we were guarded. Bishop Jakes is a master counselor. He does it even when you don’t know it’s happening. By telling us about his and his wife’s past situations, about being assaulted by the press, experiencing fear and emotional fatigue, he smoothly canvassed everything we were going through. They were both patient, calm, loving and funny. They made us so comfortable that we stayed an extra day to attend services at the Bishop’s church, the Potter’s House.
In the meantime, we spent quality time together, walking around Dallas’s shops, enclaves and talking about the weather. We noticed the peace there, and it felt wonderful. A few people recognized me, but they weren’t angry or vitriolic. We realized how foreign this feeling of anonymity had become. What a sad and hopeful adumbration our hometown had become for us.
Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revolution of Kwame Kilpatrick Page 24