Dallas felt like home. We had no family there, and had never visited before. But it felt like we tried on suits that fit perfectly. No tailoring required. But, it didn’t help that we kept encountering old acquaintances who’d moved there. We bumped into old friends from FAMU walking through the mall, and Carlita’s old hairdresser, Melissa. Even at church the next day, we met NFL Hall-of-Famers Deion Sanders, Michael Irvin and Emmit Smith, all of whom encouraged me.
“If you leave Detroit,” Deion said, “Dallas is the place to be.”
The service was awesome. We cried at several points throughout the service, and headed for the airport directly afterward, feeling sad about having to leave. We knew we belonged there. We returned to Detroit with newfound hope. The future, even if it had to be delayed, was bright and real. Our marriage, we also learned, was solid at its core. We built it using old-school materials such as values, ethics and beliefs, and they all withstood the elements.
Each subsequent visit to Dallas was better than the last. After each trip, Carlita would return to Tallahassee, and I’d go back to Detroit to work and weather. My rose-colored Detroit glasses were removed. It was no longer the city I knew growing up. I loved Detroit, but the particular spirit that once articulated my affection seemed dead. I yearned for the flavor of the past, the people’s can do spirit. The fight. Where was the love? And what was up with the sense of depression and hopelessness that replaced it? Certainly, some would pin the blame on me. And yes, I felt like an outcast myself. A pariah. I was an easy target, though, because the work we were doing was defying the economy’s downward spiral. No, Kwame Kilpatrick was not the illness. The illness were the times. An era of fatigue had dawned on Detroit. Our freedom fighters were mute. Our children lacked guidance. Our mojo was gone.
In that cell, I counted my blessings. I’d gained a great deal of understanding. A meeting and conversation with Reverend Jesse Jackson, just before I was jailed, came to mind. Reverend Jackson and I have had numerous conversations over the years. His sincerity and concern gave me pause. Honestly, I don’t know how he found me. I was trying hard to keep away from anyone outside of my family and attorneys. He was in town for a speech, and I knew he was looking for me. To be quite honest, though, I was deeply embarrassed and fatigued. It’s easy to shut yourself away from everyone when you feel like a failure.
So I planned to hide until he left town. Reverend Jackson, though, is a hawk. He’s accustomed to people hiding from him when he’s in their city. But he knows how to find them, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when my office phone rang and, thinking it was my father, I answered to hear Reverend Jackson’s legendary baritone. He’d been in my position years earlier when an infidelity scandal threatened his family. He spoke to me from inside my situation. I’m glad he found me. He told me to put everything down and cleave to my wife. Forget politics, the media and my image. Forget trying to save myself.
“You already messed up,” he told me. “So now, make it right with God. God gave you a partner for life. Go, apologize and renew your life with her.” In clarity, I remembered it all, and my pencil began to flow across the pages of the small notepad with words and names.
New words and phrases began to gnaw at me. And I found one key phrase that I’d heard as a young adult, before I assumed my post. I leaned up, looked at the ceiling, and said, “All men cheat.”
My father said that to me in 1985. My hero and best friend who had taught me everything, including that statement. When he and my mother divorced, he assured me and Ayanna that we’d never be separated from him. And he made good on that promise, showing up and driving me to every achievement. But I rebelled in 1985, a few days after my father and his new wife, Bettye, moved into their new home. I learned that he had cheated on my mother, more than once. One of the affairs was with Bettye. I stood as my Dad’s best man when he and Bettye married, and now I felt we had both disrespected my mother.
My father had some explaining to do. I was six feet tall, and about 220 pounds at the time. He still had six inches and thirty pounds on me, but it was time to man up. I got to the house and heard him talking to Bettye from the basement. When he spoke to me, I gave him a flippant response and abruptly asked, “Why did you cheat on my mother?”
He looked confused but oddly expectant of the question, almost ready to respond. He squared himself at me and said, “You won’t understand.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re a sorry dude.” That didn’t sit well with him at all.
“Are you a man now?” he said, poised and ready to kick my ass. I was nervous, but stood my ground.
“Yes!” I retorted as, without hesitation, he punched me in the chest. Damn, it hurt! And immediately, I knew I wasn’t quite a man, but I caught my breath, looked up from whatever I’d stumbled to and shot back at him. “I would never be a sorry dude and cheat on my wife.”
“All men cheat!” His words seared my soul. We didn’t speak for weeks. His words took root, and blossomed. Time and maturity would pass before the other words in that exchange—”…never be a sorry dude, and cheat on my wife”—applied to my own marriage.
Dad and I made up, but I considered the antagonism of it all from my prison cell, and could clearly discern the difference in my spirit between some of my good and bad decisions. I remembered the fear and guilt I felt while on the witness stand during the Whistleblower trial, and the exhilaration and joy I felt working on the Super Bowl. I bounced between similarly negative and positive charges when thinking about my personal life. Two phrases sparked a remarkable era of contradiction in my heart, my personality, my thoughts and, finally, my actions. Was I a hypocrite? No. I was discerning and deciding, choosing emancipation, finding me.
Pastors helped me. J. Drew Sheard. John H. Sheard. Robert Brumfeld. Claude Cline. Min. Rasul Muhammad, and an extraordinarily good brother name Victor Muhammad, who visited me every week at the County jail and guided me through numerous study materials on facing and overcoming difficulty.
Businessmen helped me. Pete Karmanos. Roger Penske. Jim Nicholson. Bob Johnson. I even remembered an encouraging conversation with former HUD Secretary Alphonso Jackson, in which he echoed the sentiment of those who implored me to focus on my family.
I stopped writing when a conversation I’d had with Min. Louis Farrakhan, before my incarceration, broached my thoughts. In August 2008, just ten days before my formal resignation as mayor, I was sitting in my eerily empty office, my mind cluttered, when the phone rang. It was my mother, telling me she’d just spoken with Min. Farrakhan at an event in Washington, D.C., and that he asked about me. He sent word that he was available if I wanted to speak with him. Mama being Mama, she suggested that I give him a call.
I was overwhelmed with stress and didn’t want to speak to anyone. Guilt and abject loneliness made me very unreceptive. I sat at my desk weighing the phone call for several minutes before finally picking up the receiver and dialing. A Brother answered the line after a few short rings. After telling him who I was, he greeted me with the Muslim words of peace, “As Salaam Alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum salaam,” I formally responded. The Brother exhorted me to stay strong, and then put Min. Farrakhan on the phone.
“Hello, dear Brother,” were the first words he spoke. His sense of humility and peace shone through his attributes. I immediately responded to his composed energy. We spent several minutes discussing my concerns, including my facing jail time, and then he said three words that foreshadowed the voice I heard in that cell a few months later.
“Surrender, dear Brother,” he said. “You have been stressed, angry, vengeful and hurting. Surrender it all to God, and allow His will to be done. And that may mean that you must go to jail. But jail won’t be the end. It will be the beginning, the beginning of your purification process. God wants to use you, Brother. And he wants you to surrender all to Him, so He can use you for His glory.”
It was the first time I seriously considered the prospect of jail, and hearing
the word “surrender” in the same breath, well, took my breath away. I was no longer in control. Not one bit. Minister Farrakhan added one more jewel to our conversation, offering for the first time his thoughts on my wife and our marriage.
“Many people believe that they get married on their wedding day,” he said. “But actually, the couple simply gives notice to God, their families and the greater community of their intent to marry. The actual marriage takes years of trial, difficulty, suffering, success, failure, good times, bad times, laughter and tears. Only then are the two truly united as one.”
I thanked him, hung up and headed straight home, feeling very grateful. His visit to the Wayne County Jail would be one of my more humbling days. His perspective had nothing to do with politics or social issues. We talked, man-to-man, spirit-to-spirit, and I thought deeply about my life, my marriage and my purpose. It was time to stop hanging on to the past and move triumphantly toward the future.
I told Carlita about my conversation with Minister Farrakhan, and shared that he also wanted to speak with her. She called him later, and they talked. I then told her that I was ready to surrender and move forward. I just wanted us to speak with our sons first.
We called Jelani and Jalil, then twelve, to our bedroom for yet another “talk.” They were my big boys, so I wanted to talk to them first. They were also tiring of the attention and stress, but they’d remained strong and loving. Even today, miraculously, all three of my sons want to move back to Detroit and help lift the city from its current state. They still feel a connection to their hometown. Children’s ability to love unconditionally amazes me.
I had a choice, I told them, to continue fighting the charges, or accept a plea deal and serve 120 days in jail. What did they think about it?
“If you don’t win after fighting the charges,” Jelani asked, “how much time would you get?” I told him I could receive up to five years in prison.
“So, your choice is either to do 120 days now,” Jalil said, “or maybe five years later?”
“No,” I said, and explained that my choice was for us to decide as a family what we wanted to do—continue to fight as mayor and First Family, or move forward into whatever God had in store for us.
Jelani and Jalil looked at each other. After a few seconds, Jelani rose to his feet, and assumed a spokesperson’s role. What he said inspires me to this day.
“Dad, Jalil and I want to move forward. We love Detroit, but it’s time for all of us to go. We are tired of seeing our mother unhappy and crying all the time. And we want to come back together as a family.” He looked at his brother, and then continued. “Dad, I can handle being the leader of this house for 120 days, but I can’t do it for five years. I got Mama. And I got my brothers. We will stand strong, Dad. We love you.”
My oldest son broke me down in a way that I didn’t know was possible. I didn’t even know he had it in him to put all of that together. I looked at Carlita, and she was sobbing quietly, filled with strength and pride. Jelani walked around the bed and hugged his mother tightly, whispering to her, “I got you, Mom,” while Jalil came over and embraced me.
“I love you, Dad,” he said, “and I always will.”
It was settled. We chose the purification process, assured that our team was united. My wife gained new strength that day, and my sons taught their father a lesson in true love and strength. I reflected on all of this from my cell, and felt called back to my purpose. I continued to write, created a study schedule, an exercise plan, and made a list of goals for myself. I eschewed self-pity, arrogance and selfishness. I then asked God to walk with me through the entire journey. I knew an arduous process was to come, but I was determined to finish. Turn off the overhead light. Go to sleep. Rest.
chapter 29
Ghosts
MY INTENT was to leave jail on February 3, and be in Dallas, reunited with my wife and sons, by February 4. I landed in Texas at dusk, and news cameras met me exiting the airport. Dallas’s news crews wanted to chronicle the family’s move to Dallas, especially my arrival. But these reporters and cameramen kept a respectful distance from me until I actually reunited with my family.
As Carlita’s truck pulled through the gate of a parking lot, all I could see were her headlights. I could also see Jonas’s silhouette as he jumped up and down with excitement. Man, I was so excited that I dropped my bags and starting walking quickly toward the vehicle. Jonas, Jelani and Jalil hopped out of the truck and ran toward me, shouting my name. They’d all gotten noticeably taller in the months since I’d last seen them. Jonas leapt into my arms, and Jelani and Jalil ran behind him. When Carlita walked toward me, smiling, it took everything in me not to break down. This was all I wanted, a moment to embrace my family, to tell them I loved them, to hear them and see their faces. And they were beautiful.
We all stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just gazing at each other. Jonas had a million things to tell me about, and he wasted no time getting started. I loved it! Finally, the reporters approached. I braced myself for a battery of questions, but they kept them light, allowing me camera time to express my love for my family, along with my regret and hope for the City of Detroit. It was brief. I thanked them, and we all piled into the car and drove home.
The court gave me a few days to spend with Carlita and the boys, but I was scheduled to return to Detroit at the beginning of the next week. I had to secure employment and have my restitution agreement approved before I could move to Dallas permanently. So, we made the most of our time during that long weekend. My friend DeDan traveled with me in case I needed assistance with my daily activity. I got a chance to see our temporary home, which Carlita had moved into and decorated in a matter of days. I also got to visit the boys’ school, take in the sunshine, greet my new neighbors and envision life in this new environment. It didn’t take much for me to imagine a happier life in this place.
Alas, it was too short a trip. I returned to Detroit to honor the court’s orders. My restitution was already set at $1 million, and thirty percent of the gross receipts from my income would go toward it. Income, according to the terms of the agreement, was any money given to me as the result of rendered labor. That definition would become critical in the months to come.
Setting my restitution at $1 million was completely arbitrary. The prosecutor, and seemingly the press, decided on a set of “facts,” which mandated that I should pay back that money because the officers in the Whistleblower case won. The underlying sentiment was that my lie lost that case for the City, even though the suit was not about the affair. The restitution was a measure for me to pay something back, although there was no direct loss that warranted compensatory action. It was unjust, and probably illegal. But I agreed to it, because I wanted the City’s citizens and my family to move forward. I actually gave the prosecutor and judge a foothold—a kind of insurance, in case I slipped, tripped or even relaxed a little.
My departure process should have been fairly simple: meet with Probation, establish my employment, hop a flight and get out of town. But Judge David Groner apparently saw the situation differently, and I spent thirty days languishing in Detroit after being released from jail. First, he wanted confirmation not just of my job, but my start date. Check. Pete Karmanos hired me to work for Covisint, a subsidiary of Compuware. I was going into sales, pitching a large healthcare software package to large companies, municipalities and corporations. My salary was $180,000 plus commission. The job offered me the potential to make far more than my City salary, which meant I could bust my tail, pay my restitution to the City early, and keep it moving. All of this information was immediately forwarded to the court from my new employer. He then demanded that we forward information confirming the interview process, detailing how I got the job, and including who was present for it.
Check. Groner got everything he wanted and, a few days after, I returned to Dallas. But Judge Groner still wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to see a documented start date before signing the release that allo
wed me to transfer my probation to Texas. I wanted that, because the transfer would take my situation out of the hands of Detroit’s judicial system. I’d be free to work, raise my family quietly and pay my debt. I believe Groner didn’t want that to happen, because having no responsibility to me would rob him of camera time. So, in an unprecedented decision, he ordered that I pay thirty percent of the price of a two-year Cadillac Escalade lease, and thirty percent of lease payments for the house we rented in Southlake, Texas. He demanded this in lump sum payments, which meant I had to pay more than $15,000 in a one-time recompense.
One of my attorneys told me that Judge Groner was upset because I was “trying to get away from him.” So he stalled, making my attorneys wait for hours before he returned calls, and then leaving for a Jewish holiday, going on vacation and forcing me to wait over long weekends.
I literally lived like a college freshman during that waiting period, staying at my mother’s house while she worked in Washington, D.C.—I ate cereal and found ways to keep myself busy. It was much more serious than I’m making it sound, because my new employer was waiting patiently for me to get out of town and get to work. My wife was also going nuts wondering whether the court was stalling until it found a reason to keep me in Detroit permanently. Groner had already opened his door wide for the prosecutor, while keeping it cracked for my attorneys, and the appearance of a mutually beneficial rapport between him and Worthy didn’t help me ease Carlita’s fears. Actually, it was much more than an appearance. Prosecutor Worthy’s chief assistant—the number-two guy in the Prosecutor’s Office—is Judge Groner’s brother-in-law. So I couldn’t blame Carlita for being nervous. It felt like they wanted to make my life miserable.
To make the most of my days, I spent time with my nephews, Ayanna’s sons. I went to their games. I reconnected with old friends and attended some Detroit Public School league basketball games. It was hard to enjoy myself, though, because news cameras even followed me to these places. Along the way, I communicated constantly with my lawyers, waiting for a breakthrough in the process. And I kept my bags packed at all times.
Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revolution of Kwame Kilpatrick Page 25