Criminal That I Am
Page 28
I start my run at the top of East River Park. I use the word “run” quite loosely. The pace at which I usually advance can be generously described as a “jog,” and more accurately as a “putter.” I only ever pass runners of the geriatric variety.
But today I feel a surge of energy. I find myself moving at a speed so unexpected that I look down at my feet to watch them work. I actually pass several able-bodied runners on a narrow path in order to make my way onto the wider thoroughfare.
The park looks as though its contents have been shaken in a snow globe. Trees are knocked on their sides. Park benches are ripped out. Heavy branches and trunks litter the running path.
The extent of the devastation causes me to think once again about Sandy, about the laws of nature. These laws are inalienable. When the rain pours, the river will flood. When the wind blows, trees will fall. When the storm is over, the sun will warm us with its rays. These rules do not bend. They do not vary by jurisdiction. They cannot be amended. We have no choice but to live within their lines.
Criminal law, on the other hand, is not natural. Our laws are man-made. They can be erased and rewritten and applied haphazardly. The law has no basis in science, it does not fully correspond to even the most basic moral code. All of man’s worst evils—killing, torturing, pillaging—are crimes, except in the hundreds of thousands of instances where they are not. And though we are forced to conform ourselves to its mandate, the law sometimes creates the very wrongdoing it is designed to prevent.
The criminal law is not really of us. It is more likely upon us, covering us like an uneven coat of paint, applied too thick in some spots but barely touching others.
As I run, I find comfort in this thought. If the criminal law is something separate from who we are, then perhaps the urge to resist its directives is not necessarily unnatural. Maybe criminals stand apart from the human race only in our willingness to subject ourselves to painful consequences. Although it sounds like a platitude printed on the side panel of a box of maxi pads, I consider the possibility that compliance with the law does not come from some innate love and respect for authority as much as it does from an established love and respect for yourself.
I’m running faster. I’ve been so lost in thought that I don’t know exactly where I am. Because of the many detours I’ve had to take around the damage, I am away from the promenade, a few blocks inland. I slow my pace so I can get my bearings. The Williamsburg and Manhattan Bridges are behind me. I’m outside of the island’s numerical grid, and so I try to find a street sign in the hope it bears a name I recognize.
I jog down a little farther. Here, the environs begin to look familiar. It takes me a moment to place them. I am a few blocks from MCC.
I have no great desire to revisit the scene of my crime, the place where I broke the law and ended up breaking out of my life. I lurk cautiously around a nearby block in order to catch my breath, conscious not to go any farther.
As I stand in MCC’s shadow, I think about all of the days I spent inside its walls. Memories return as though they have been stowed away in this neighborhood. I remember my first day on Cameron’s case, its steady procession from criminal case to circus. I remember the Sharpie marker, the newspaper articles and transcripts, waiting for the count to clear.
And then another memory: it was early into the case, long before my criminal exploits began. In the attorney room, I am explaining to Cameron how the sentencing guidelines correspond to drug weight. When I look up to see if he understands, his face is red and bears a look of concern.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “I’m listening.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I pause, giving him an opportunity to speak.
“This is not the most straightforward thing, so you shouldn’t feel embarrassed if you have questions,” I say.
He takes a breath and asks, “Do you think I am a bad person for dealing drugs?”
I examine his face for a moment. Cameron is not a stranger to fishing for answers to make himself feel better. But his expression is grave enough that I think he is asking seriously.
“Cameron, it’s not my job to judge you.”
“I know, but still.”
I think for a second. “Well, do I think it was the best idea to deal drugs? I mean, no, probably not.”
He laughs at my diplomacy. “Well, I know it wasn’t the best idea.”
“Look, you did a not-great thing,” I say. “But it doesn’t have to be who you are.”
He looks at me and says nothing.
I keep talking. “We can always be someone different from who we used to be. There’s this quote my ex-boyfriend told me, I forget where it’s from. ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.’”
The quote—I later look it up—is from The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley. It is somewhat misplaced, given the fact that the protagonist wishes he could return to the past. But perhaps the longing for innocence is all the same.
Cameron thinks about this. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says.
As I say it out loud, I become more convinced. “I’m not just trying to make you feel better, I do really believe that,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t work in the law if I didn’t.”
“But you know what, Jen?”
“What?”
“I think your ex-boyfriend had it wrong. I don’t think the past is a foreign country. I think the future is a foreign country. Because we don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s totally new.”
His one-upmanship makes me smile. I don’t bother explaining to him that the quote did not belong to my ex-boyfriend.
I think about this. “I guess that’s true, too,” I finally say. “Maybe the future could be a new country that you are moving to. And all of this can just be what you leave behind.”
He is satisfied by this answer. He nods in agreement, and we return to discussing the sentencing guidelines.
My walk down memory lane is over. I have caught my breath. As I ready myself to run home, I turn around for a moment. For good measure, I walk to the end of the block. And then, with MCC at my back, I begin running.
When I reach the end of my run, daylight is disappearing. Wanting to savor every moment before darkness falls, I stand along the river’s edge. I observe the surrounding wreckage with renewed optimism. The damage is extensive, the park grounds will have to be completely cleared. But once the fallen trees and orphaned branches have been removed, once the broken benches and trash cans are replaced, there will be an opportunity to build something new. Maybe even something better.
I walk back to my apartment and find the same security guard sitting in the lobby, still reading her magazine. She glances up at me for a split second and returns to its contents.
“You made it,” she says with disinterest.
“I did,” I say.
I wait for a moment to see if she might look up. She doesn’t. I retrieve the flashlight from my mailbox. Then I begin the long climb home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For all of their talent and hard work in helping to bring this book together, I give great thanks to Kathy Anderson, Brian Belfiglio, Ilsa Brink, Caitlin Dohrenwend, Diana Jiminez, Mark Melnick, Emily Reimer, Mike Ricca, Lisa Rivlin, Katie Rizzo, Isabelle Selby, Elizabeth Serrano, Gwyneth Stansfield, Kate Watson, and Shannon Welch. I am particularly grateful to Katrina Diaz at Scribner for such careful and considered editorial assistance, to Terra Chalberg for gracious support and guidance, and to my amazing agent, Rachel Sussman, for absolutely everything.
I am profoundly thankful to Shaina Oliphant for unwavering loyalty and support, both in the creation of this project and in the unfortunate events underlying it. Her good humor and spirit have gotten me through many a difficult day, and her love has taught me what friendship truly means. Special th
anks, too, to Sebastian Moultrie for all-around goodness and sweetness to his aunt Jen.
I will forever be grateful to my parents, who somehow managed to provide their love and support even when the things I’ve done have been mostly incomprehensible to them, including, I should add, writing it all down here. (“If anyone asks,” my mother recently told me, “I am just going to tell them that I didn’t even know you wrote a book.”) I can’t help but love them terribly, and I have come to see that it was only by abandoning the lessons they spent a lifetime teaching me that I was able to stray so far, and it has only been by adhering to the values that they instilled in me that I have been able to bring myself back.
In this book and in life, I am always thankful for the works of Michel Foucault, a self-described “delinquent” whose books have greatly enriched my thinking on matters of crime and punishment. Most of the philosophical meanderings contained in this book can be traced to one extent or another to his writings, in particular Discipline and Punish (1977), “Governmentality” (in The Foucault Effect, 1991), and Wrong-Doing, Truth-Telling (2014).
Finally, my deepest gratitude goes to my editor, Colin Harrison. Working with him on this project has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life, and I feel blessed every day to have had this opportunity. By never settling for the surface, by always pushing me toward the truth with a capital “T,” Colin has made this a better book and me a better writer and, quite possibly, a better person. It isn’t a moment too soon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Courtesy of Mike Ricca
A graduate of Columbia Law School, Jennifer Ridha has at various times in her life been a lawyer, a law professor, and a criminal defendant in the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. She is pursuing a doctoral degree in legal anthropology, urban studies, and criminal justice. Criminal That I Am is her first book. Visit her website at www.jenniferridha.com.
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