“Well, there was robbery, of course …”
“Yes. And? You’re a federal prosecutor, Mr. Fineman. You must know you need at least two predicates to make a RICO case.”
Fineman started rifling through papers like a maniac. Documents, briefs, notebooks, pens, and pencils were flying off the side of the desk while he kept saying, “Robbery and … robbery and … robbery and …”
“And what, Mr. Fineman?”
“I’ll find it, sir. Prostitution? Gambling? Kidnapping? No. Wait.”
“Mr. Fineman, you can stop looking. I don’t think you’re going to find it. If this were your mistake, I wouldn’t be so concerned. I don’t give a damn about your career. Unfortunately, this is my mistake, too, and I don’t like getting overturned on appeal. In fact, I hate it. Of course, maybe I wouldn’t have made this mistake if there had been a defense attorney working the case.”
The judge stared at Michael Willis, who shrunk into his chair. Up until this point, Michael had been smart enough to sit there without saying anything.
“Mr. Volpe,” said the judge, “I’m going to address you directly. Your attorney can listen in if he’s not too busy with his fantasy football league. I believe you’re guilty of taking part in an armed robbery. I don’t believe you’re guilty of violating the RICO statute. I don’t think you’re a member of the Mafia. I think you’re just an actor.”
The expression on my face said, What have I been trying to tell you people for the last six months?
“You’re an actor who got mixed up in some bad business. I don’t know how and I don’t why. What I do know is you didn’t belong in my courtroom,” said the judge. “You should’ve been tried in Ohio under the local statutes against armed robbery.”
I looked up at him with a glimmer of hope in my eyes.
He continued. “Having said that, armed robbery is a serious crime—especially when the gun goes off and hurts somebody. I couldn’t let you walk out of here, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
“Your Honor—” said Fineman.
“Shut up, Mr. Fineman, you’ve done enough damage already. What I can do for you, Mr. Volpe, is reduce your sentence to five years. I’ll suspend half of it so you’ll serve two and a half years. If you keep your nose clean, you’ll get good time, which means you’ll only serve twenty-four months. I’m also allowing you to self-surrender. You have thirty days of freedom to put your affairs in order. I can also put you in a minimum-security prison and let you choose which one.”
“Thank you, sir,” I managed to say.
“It’s been my experience, Mr. Volpe, that convicts either choose a prison close to home or one known for being gentle. Which would you prefer?”
“Gentle, please.”
“You don’t care if it’s someplace like Arizona or New Mexico? Your family won’t be able to visit you often.”
“Things aren’t going great at home, Your Honor. I doubt my wife would come visit me even if I were in Queens.”
“I see. Well, I’ll try to make that happen for you. Meanwhile, if I were you, Mr. Volpe, I’d think about hiring an attorney for your appeal who has an IQ above room temperature. There’s a good chance he could get you off the hook entirely.”
The judge turned to Fineman and Willis and continued, “I must say, you gentlemen are two of the worst lawyers with whom I’ve ever had the displeasure of working. Court is adjourned.”
So the judge walked out of the courtroom and thirty days later, I was part of the federal prison system. My last official act as a free man was to give the envelope with the tape recording in it to Michael Willis and tell him to give it to Caitlin one week before my release. I knew I’d have a lot of time to worry about him screwing that up, but what choice did I have? He was my so-called attorney and my only connection to the outside world.
They assigned me to the Hoover Federal Correctional Complex. It was in the desert not far from Tucson, Arizona. I don’t know if it was technically a desert, but it sure looked like the desert to a New Yorker. The minimum-security prison was attached to a medium-security prison and a maximum-security prison. It was like one of those senior citizen homes that have three levels of care: people who live independently, people who need some supervision, and people who require attention twenty-four hours a day.
The intake for all three prisons was in the same building. So the guards handled me rather roughly at first and it scared the shit out of me. Literally. I had to ask to use the toilet three times during my brief orientation, at which they gave me my prison uniform and a manual of rules and regulations.
The guard who escorted me over to the minimum-security area noticed how pale and sweaty I was and took pity on me. “Don’t worry, kid. You’re going to spend two years in summer camp, and then you’re going to walk out of here and get on with the rest of your life.” He nodded in the direction of the maximum security area. “Some of the guys over there are never going to see the light of day again. You’re one of the lucky ones. So cheer up.”
I did cheer up when I got my first look at the place where I’d be spending the next couple of years. It looked like my college dormitory at Haverford! The only way I could tell it wasn’t Haverford at first glance was that college students didn’t wear orange jumpsuits and white slip-on tennis shoes. We were younger back then, too. But the large common area looked much like the main lobby of the dorm. There were overstuffed chairs and couches scattered about, where inmates sat reading or talking among themselves. A big television set dominated one corner of the room, and several inmates were watching a basketball game. Both a billiard table on one side of the room and a Ping-Pong table on the other were in use. Strange as it may sound, it struck me as a rather welcoming environment.
“You’re in cubicle one hundred and eighty-eight,” said the guard. “I’ll walk you there and then you’re on your own.”
There was something comforting about the word cubicle. It sounded less threatening than cell. As we walked down a long corridor, I peeked into the other cubicles. Each had two bunk beds, a set of lockers, and two small desks. Most of the cubicles were empty, but here and there I saw an inmate lying on his bed reading a magazine. There were no bars on the doors or windows. The floors were carpeted and clean. Unlike every other jail cell I’d ever seen in the movies or on television, there were no toilets or sinks in the rooms. Presumably, I’d find a central restroom and shower area. I breathed a little easier with every step we took toward my new home.
When we finally arrived at my cubicle, the guard said, “Okay, here you go, Mr. Capone. Put your stuff in the empty locker. You’ll have to find out from your cellmates which bed you’re in. The new guy usually gets the top bunk. Good luck to you, young man.”
There was one inmate in the room. He’d been sitting at the little desk and writing something in longhand in a spiral notebook. Now he turned to greet me.
“Ah, our new cubie has arrived.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Charlie Scott. Mail fraud. But I didn’t do it. Well, I sort of did it, but I shouldn’t be in jail for it. Of course, that’s what everybody says.”
This struck me as surprising, because I’d done some research on the internet about prison life to prepare myself. One piece of advice I saw was that you should never ask another inmate what he was in for. I was under the impression it was a taboo subject. Maybe it was, but not in cubicle 188. So I responded in kind.
“Joey Volpe, armed robbery.”
“Armed robbery? Whoa! What the hell are you doing in here? You should be in big-boy jail. That’s where they put the armed robbers.”
“Well, it wasn’t really armed robbery. Technically, it was a violation of the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.”
“RICO? You’re a mobster? Holy shit!”
“Well …”
“Can you cook spaghetti? Can you slice a clove of garlic with a razor like Paul Sorvino in Goodfellas?”
“I can’t cook at all, I’m afraid. I’m an actor. I did work
with Sorvino once, though.”
There I go again! Remember when I told you that one of the ways an actor pads his résumé is by mentioning the name of the star in a show where he only had a small part? Well, Paul Sorvino was the guest star in an episode of Button Men one week. I had one line in that episode, and it wasn’t in the same scene with Sorvino. I never even got a chance to see him from a distance. But I had no reservations about dropping his name whenever I thought it could help.
“That’s pretty cool, dude,” said Charlie. “You’re a major improvement over the guy you’re replacing. He was just a garden-variety embezzler. Dull as dishwater, that one. Trust me, an actor who moonlights as a Mafia soldier is going to make things much more interesting around here.”
“Where are the other two guys?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re around somewhere. Nigel is a big card player. Steve likes to exercise. If I had to guess, I would say Nigel is in the rec room right now and Steve is in the gym.”
Nigel? Now, there’s a name I didn’t expect. Not after all the jokes you hear about, “Hi, my name is Bubba. I’m your new cellmate and I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.” So I was expecting Bubba. The names Killer, Tex, or Spike wouldn’t have surprised me either. But Nigel?
“They’ll be back soon. The morning count is coming up.”
“The count?”
“Yeah, we all have to muster in our rooms twice a day so the guards can count us and make sure we haven’t gone to Las Vegas for the weekend.”
At that moment, a distinguished-looking older gentleman with a pencil-thin mustache walked into the cubicle. Well, he was as distinguished as one can be when wearing an orange jumpsuit with white tennis shoes. Even in the prison garb, he reminded me of David Niven or Fred Astaire.
“Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” said Charlie. “Nigel, this is our new cubie, Joey Volpe. He’s an armed robber and a made-man in the Mafia.”
“I’m duly impressed,” said Nigel.
I thought I detected a slight British accent. Or maybe it was an upper-class American accent.
“What are you in for, Nigel?” I said.
“Dear boy, it’s considered bad form to ask a fellow inmate for the cause of his incarceration. He will share that information when and if he chooses to do so.”
Dammit, I thought so. Charlie’s instant confession had thrown me off. It was going to take me a while to master the etiquette around here.
“Oh, don’t get a stick up your ass, Nigel. He was born with a stick up his ass, Joey. Nigel is what’s politely known as a flimflam man. So am I. The only difference between the two of us is that I do it in the mail and he does it in person.”
“In other words,” said Nigel, “the only difference between the two of us is that you’re a pusillanimous milksop and I’m not.”
It was a rather nasty insult. I backed off thinking that someone might pull a knife or—what do you call it?—a shiv out of his shoe and stab the other in the chest. Charlie just laughed.
“Good one, Nigel! I hope you brought your thesaurus with you, Joey, because Nigel talks like he swallowed a dictionary. I’m the writer around here, but he comes up with words I’ve never heard before.”
“Well, I did score eight hundred on the verbal part of my SAT,” I said before I realized what an inappropriate thing that was to say. In prison, no less. To people I’d just met. Under any circumstances, really, unless you were applying for college.
“Okay, let me get this straight,” said Charlie. “You’re a Rhodes Scholar. You’re a Mafia hit man. You’re an armed robber. And you’re a Hollywood actor. Nigel, I think we’ve just added the third con man to our little band of brothers here.”
“For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother …” said Nigel.
“Be he ne’er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition,” I added.
“And gentlemen in England now abed,” said Nigel, as he swept his arm and pointed to the bunk beds, “shall think themselves accursed they were not here …”
“And hold their manhoods cheap,” I continued, “whiles any speaks who fought with us …”
We finished the famous speech from Henry V shouting in unison:
“ON SAINT CRISPIN’S DAY!”
Nigel and I shook hands and he patted me on the back.
“I am honored and delighted, sir, to share a cubicle with a fellow scholar of the Bard of Avon.”
“Shakespeare?” said Charlie. “I thought you guys were doing Mel Gibson from Braveheart.”
“Philistine,” said Nigel with a wink in my direction.
At that moment, another man walked into the room and said, “Have they done the count yet? I hope not.”
“You’re just in time,” said Charlie. “Steve, this is our new cubie, Joey Volpe, Shakespearean scholar and Mafia button man.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Steve. He was an ordinary-looking middle-aged guy. Rimless glasses. Mostly bald. Overweight, especially in the belly. Charlie had said he was an avid exerciser, but it didn’t look like it was doing him much good.
“Steve is a con man, too,” said Charlie.
“I object to that. I was in the investment banking business on Wall Street.”
“He ran a pyramid scheme,” said Charlie.
“The Carlo Ponzi of our time,” said Nigel.
“Nonsense,” said Steve. “Don’t believe a word these guys tell you, Mr. Volpe. They sound like the prosecutors in my case. I ran a legitimate brokerage firm and investment bank on Wall Street. Then 2008 hit and we got caught short of cash. Some of our clients wanted their money back and we weren’t able to pay them. Next thing you know, I’ve got the SEC up my ass saying I’m running a Ponzi scheme. Outrageous.”
“The defense rests, Your Honor,” said Charlie. And we all laughed.
At that moment, a guard poked his head into the cubicle.
“I see the Barrow gang is all here,” he said, and made a check mark on his clipboard. “Plus, you have a brand-new member.” He looked at the clipboard again and said, “May I give you a word of advice, Mr. Joseph Volpe?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you’ve just shaken hands with your new cubies, I suggest you look carefully to see how many fingers you have left.”
“Oh, get the fuck out of here, Swanson,” said Charlie.
“I’m going, I’m going,” said the guard.
Prison was an entirely different experience from what I’d expected.
23
The worst part of prison?
The food, of course. But that was second worst. First worst was the sheer, unrelenting, oppressive boredom of it.
The best part? The best part was all the interesting, intelligent, and complex people I met there. No, not everyone you meet in minimum-security federal prison is a nice person. Not by a long shot. Some of them are downright evil. But surprisingly few.
The food was the institutional slop provided by the same private contractor who ran the cafeterias at Haverford. As bad as the food was at Haverford, it was much worse at Hoover. I assume the food-service company had a range of plans they offered their clients from the Caviar Plan to the Dogshit Plan. Hoover was on the latter. The best thing you could say about the food in prison was that it was capable of sustaining human life. Barely.
The biggest difference between the food at Haverford and the food at Hoover, however, was not the food itself, but the role food played in your life. At Haverford, there were lots of interesting things to do each day from attending classes to going on panty raids at Bryn Mawr. Food played a relatively small role in campus life. It was bad, but so what?
In prison, you lived for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Those three occasions were the highlights of your day. When the highlight of your day is terrible, then your life really sucks. We did have a commissary where you could buy snacks, candy, and an occasional piece of fruit. When you purchased something from the commissary, they deducted the cost from the money in you
r prison bank account.
How did you get money into your account?
Either by working a prison job or having your family send it in from the outside. There was a limit to how much money you could keep in your account, and the Bureau of Prisons deducted a certain amount each month to pay restitution to your victims. That’s right, a few pennies of the measly paycheck I earned from scrubbing prison toilets went into the mailbox of Steven Dubois—where I’m sure it was lost among the thousands of dollars he earned from Star Trek residuals.
As I said before, the worst part of prison was the crushing boredom. Every day you faced hours with nothing to do but tedious manual labor, three god-awful meals, and the constant blare of a communal television set that was tuned to the lowest of lowest-common-denominator programming.
Different inmates dealt with the boredom of prison in different ways. My cubie Charlie, for example, who wrote letters for a living (he was a freelance junk-mail copywriter by trade) was writing a series of long letters to his two young sons. He wrote in a spiral notebook and when he finished ten pages or so, he’d rip them out and send them home. He let me read each installment before he put it in the mail.
“Are you sure it’s not too personal?” I asked. “It’s a letter to your family, after all.”
“You’re part of my family now, Joey. Besides, I’m going to publish them someday. I’ll charge ninety-nine nighty-five and discount it to forty-nine bucks. I’ve got a mailing list in the millions. At a two percent response rate, I’ll net several hundred thousand dollars from this project. When I get out of the slammer, I’m going to need that money.”
“No offense, Charlie, but why would anyone want to buy your letters to your kids from prison?”
“There’s a lot of advice in there on copywriting and marketing. That’s what I’m known for. Don’t worry, people will buy it.”
So I read the letters. They were beautiful. They contained a lot of advice about advertising. I wasn’t in any position to tell whether the advice was brilliant or bullshit. But the affection he felt for his two boys was palpable on every page. On one page he’d tell them how to write a headline on an envelope, then on the next page he’d talk about how to use a razor without nicking your chin. He was such a good writer, he could make anything interesting. I got more pleasure out of reading Charlie’s letters than any of the hundreds of books I read in the prison library—except, of course, for Shakespeare.
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