HEARING AID

  

      Recently I was asked:  “When was the first time you sensed things were going to get bad— really bad?  Was it after your accident, or Michelle’s death or a particular case?” 

     “The car accident— and my introduction to opiates was the catalyst for everything …  I guess.“  That’s how I answered the question, but the truth is more disturbing.

       I’d been home from the Lawrence General four months before enough skin grew back on my legs so that I could get around.   The first thing I did was set up an office in our spare bedroom.  Even before the hospital released me I saw the writing on the wall.   The partners at my firm were gracious and accommodating, but I couldn’t expect them to wait and not replace me.

     Unemployment wouldn’t cut it.  Bills began piling up.  Liquidating possessions and downsizing was not an option.  I refused to do anything other than advance on the success ladder.  Without breathing a word to anyone, my thoughts turned to opening my own law firm.  The problem was, inevitably my area of expertise would become criminal defense.  Of course everyone deserves representation; however, when I finally moved forward I did so promising myself rapists, pedophiles and any other case that didn’t sit well with my conscience was off limits.

     The practice of law, in essence, involves molding the truth to suit your client’s interests.  I’ve heard it said that in a court of law— “the best liar wins.”  As a prosecutor, I approached the job simply, assuming my responsibility was to do justice.  When the facts didn’t add up, I refused to move forward.  Instead, I’d fold my cards and go to the next file.   Many other prosecutors didn’t see it this way.  They treated every case like was their last, believing each twisted story told by a cop or prosecution witness as though it were gospel, taking liberties with the truth to secure a convict.   Their - win at all costs - attitude mirrored the way I'd seen defense attorneys’ maneuver to spare clients from prison.   Ethical gamesmanship didn’t appeal to me.  I hoped for a smooth transition to the defense bar, but knew it would involve some degree of moral compromise.

     People in the community knew who I was from the DA’s office.   Once the word got out that I had switched sides there was no shortage of criminals knocking down my door.  One of my first was Doyle.   He was a kid from Charlestown, early twenties, broad shoulders, slightly over weight, with an unassuming baby face.  “ I could use a good lawyer,” he boasted when we first met, “I’ve got a life sentence in every one of my houses. 

     We met at the 99 Restaurant to go over Doyle’s latest case.   I was surprised to find he’d brought along an associate— a leaner, slightly older Irish looking hoodlum named Harmworth.  With me in a suit fresh from court, and this pair clothed like dockworkers, we slid into the booth as the waitress handed us menus.

     “Listen sweet heart, we need some time to talk.  Leave us alone for a half hour or so before you come for our order.”  Like a fawn, the waitress froze while Doyle spoke, then quickly gave us an assuming nod and walked off chomping her gum.   The second we were alone Harmworth dialed his cell phone, giving Doyle enough privacy to begin providing me with some background information.

     “My mother legally changed our last names to hers when my Dad got pinched for an armored car robbery.”  Doyle kept his voice low, almost to a whisper.   “Three guards got killed.  He ain’t getting out.  Ever. ”  I knew the case.   His words and calm delivery sent a spike of anxiety up my spine, forcing me to adjust in my seat and appraise the depth of the shit I was getting into.  Before I could respond, Harmworth began yelling into his cell phone:

     “You better have my fucking money by Monday— that’s it — no later!  What?  Can you hear me?  I said Monday!  You already had an extra week to pay!  If Monday night comes, and I don’t have my money, they’ll be tagging your toe and I’ll make sure you have a closed casket!  Ya hear?  Are you there?  Hey— Hey—!”

     When the call dropped Harmworth whipped the phone in front of his face and looked at the blank screen before slamming it on the tabletop.

     “That motherfucker!”   His eyes swung wildly in Doyle’s direction.  “Lets go, he’s in a dart tournament at the Dubliner.”

     Seemingly governed by one mind, the pair rose together while I remained seated with an ass clenched so tight it was suction cupped to the booth.

   “Come on!”  Doyle demanded.  “This won’t take long.”

    I knew the right move was to stay behind.   But if I did it would kill a new income stream and label me a pussy right out of the gate.   So —“kuurrr-pop,” I pried myself out of the booth and followed.

     It was a short drive to the Dubliner.  Not a word was spoken on the way.  From the backseat I observed Harmworth working his phone in a panicked frenzy while Doyle commandeered the vehicle as though it were a Sunday drive.   Somehow both men seemed to know what “the plan” was.   I felt as though I’d been drafted into the criminal NFL from a Pop Warner town league.

    We parked directly in front of the old Irish Pub.   With giant green shamrocks in the window, and shanty Celtic music blaring through the walls, there was little doubt I would be over dressed.   However, that concern was overshadowed by the struggle to control my heart from pounding out of my chest.

     One, two, three, we entered single file into near darkness.  I followed last behind Doyle with one arm extended like sonar tracking his direction until my eyes could adjust.  The bar area was full of regulars.  We continued passed them, between two rows of pool tables, to a door at the far wall.   Harmworth nearly pulled it open off its hinges.  On the other side were more people and brighter lights.  All eyes were on one man at the center of the room with a dart positioned gently in fingertips, up behind his ear.  Doyle and Harmsworth came in behind him as he sized up the bull’s eye.   I followed several feet behind.   Our entrance shifted the focus of the room, causing the man with the dart to swing around and meet Doyle’s 9mm.   At the same time Harmsworth grabbed him by the opposite shoulder, causing his dart to fall straight into the wooden floor.   The man’s eyes widened in horror, and by the look of his jeans, his bladder emptied as they carried back and slammed him against the wall.

     “Can you hear me now motherfucker!” Harmsworth shouted.  The man didn’t speak and couldn’t move with Doyle pressing the Glock into his temple.   Then, looking like a rabid animal, Harmsworth struck with the speed of a rattlesnake, biting into the man’s upper ear.  The shriek that followed came from severe disbelief as much as pain.  It was a sound that curdled every liter of blood in the room.  Harmsworth cranked his shoulder away from the man, whipping his neck right behind, spewing blood and a flesh from his mouth all over his shirt.

     “Obviously…. You don’t… need…”

     Harmsworth tried to speak, but with cartridge stuck between his teeth and gums anything discernable was thwarted until he dislodged the chunk of ear with his tongue and spit it out to the floor.

        … This!”  Now get my fucking money by Monday— and don’t make me come looking for you again!”

     During the mayhem, Doyle retreated a step allowing the man to double over, holding his head with both hands.  No one else in the room flinched.   Keeping our backs to the door we exited in a triangle with Doyle at the point holding the burner extended arm at the crowd. Every face turned away.

     This incident left a lasting impression.  Before long I was present for much worse.  But it wasn’t the violence and brutality of the people I represented that surprised me.  It was the lack of remorse I thought I should feel — together with the rush that came over me for being  being involved.  The more shit like this I tagged along for, the more eyes I noticed fell to the floor when I walked in a room.  It wasn't what you actually "did" civilians were scared of.  The tales got so tall they pissed pants over what people said you had done.  All these years later I still feel the faint scent of intimidation now and then.  All these years later I'd be lying if I said I still didn't get off on it.

RESIDUAL EFFECTS

     “Corkscrew!”   I was alone and still I felt compelled to yell— “Fucking Corkscrew!” 

     My knuckles turned white from gripping the wheel, my briefcase flew past my face as I focused on suppressing breakfast.  Yet my greatest fear came when I was completely inverted and noticed my zipper was down—wide open, tighty whities showing and everything.

     There wasn’t a lot of time.  Why couldn’t I have put on colored boxers?   I didn’t dare let go— just like I couldn’t let go of the safety bar on that frigging roller coaster Kyera had coaxed me on.

     When the cab of my pick-up lands on the pavement I’ll be either knocked unconscious or into my next life.   That was the reality and oddly the image that popped into my head was of emergency responders finding me flying low...

     Michelle and Kyera loved roller coasters in a way I could never understand.  It wasn’t the minute-thirty seconds upside down at G-force that I didn’t enjoy; it was the way the effects lingered.   One stupid ride and my world spun for hours.   Last Sunday, after disembarking the “Corkscrew” in the afternoon, I felt like I was below deck on the Norwegian Dawn during a typhoon long into the evening.  Being a “coaster-pussy” was something I wouldn’t cop to.  Nor would I run from a dare to ride.  Doing so would translate to listening to taunts from my girls for the rest of the week— something too painful for my ego to bear.

     Motion sickness aside, I was happy to have a Sunday off.   Going to the office on weekends had become common since becoming an associate at a Boston law firm.  The work was time consuming in the beginning because I was still getting used to civil litigation.   What was most important— almost miraculous— was I’d made a clean break from the DA’s office without having to defend.  Many of my former co-workers were not as fortunate.  After putting all that time in as a civil servant for shit pay what we left with was experience, fine-tuned in the criminal arena.  Without charisma and connections most former ADAs found themselves short on clients and quickly resorted to taking court-appointed cases.  I credited the higher profile cases like Donahue for getting my name in the news and the offers from firms with diverse areas of practice coming in.  Now, as soon as I got a handle on the rules of civil procedure, I was confident I could successfully spin any set of facts in favor of my new clients.

     Friday’s were casual dress days at the firm.   Routinely, I arrived at the office before 9:00 AM by leaving at 7:30.  With so many business people taking the fifth day of the week off in the summer, today I felt comfortable leaving at 8:00.  Ten minutes earlier I pulled away from our newly constructed home, waving to Michelle and Kyera as they packed Michelle’s Lexus for the beach.  Snap shots of them—and how beautiful my life was— shot by right behind the briefcase.

     Even at this early hour the August humidity was unbearable.   Usually I could catch a breeze off the Merrimack River, which wove to my right along Route 110.  Today what I found was thick, stagnant, stillness when I stopped at the traffic light.  Jumping on the gas I thrust my left arm out the window and opened my palm to grab every molecule of passing air.   I should have sprung for AC?

     Low speed and tapping breaks indicated the driver of the compact in front of me was lost.  When the right blinker of the empty boat trailer he pulled finally flashed I shot past on the left.  Goddamn that breeze-felt good!

     The sharp impact into the frame below my passenger door was deafening but lasted only a second.   A crunch of bucking steel immediately followed as my oversized rear tire drove up and over the compact’s hood, catapulting my truck diagonally through the air. There seemed a long period of silence, most of which I was upside down.  It seemed pointless to contemplate why he’d turned left.  What transpired next comes back in glimpses like frames spliced from a larger reel of lost film.

     Despite the way I recollect it I’m certain everything happened rapidly, rose to ear shredding volume, and involved immense pain.   What I discovered is in times like this the mind and body form a partnership— an agreement to protect each other.   That morning unimaginable trauma befell my body yet my mind did all it could to shield me.  It suspended my senses— shutting out sound, killing the taste of blood and vomit, extinguishing the scent of burnt rubber and radiator fluid.  It filtered my sight but there was simply too much devastation to eliminate completely.

     The instant I became inverted gravity took over.  When the roof of the truck’s cab finally met the road the back of my head was inches behind.   Somehow I see myself wince on impact.  There comes a second when I’m in the air, one where I curse not wearing a seatbelt, and another where I’m helpless in the street.  It remains silent although I am aware of crushing steel in the distance— and screeching breaks right in front of me.  I have every intention of moving out of the way but I’m positive I am too late.  The only thing I recognize then is darkness— no, there’s one image. Looking down I see scissors tearing up the sides of my pants in the ambulance while emergency personal utter something about internal bleeding.  Then there is absolutely nothing.

     My memory seemed at rest for a long time.  When I wake its pain that brings me back.  There is lots of pain— in specific places.  Excruciating pain at the base of my skull, my right shoulder, left knee and right ankle.  My lower body burns from skin left behind on the pavement.  But nothing compares to the searing down my middle.

     “We had to remove your spleen,” the doctor explained.  “It was severed and bleeding relentlessly.”  He continued on about how lucky I was and while I contemplated the irony of this he told me about the button.  “You can press it as often as every eight minutes.  It will help with the pain.  Don’t worry you’ll get used to it.”

     The button was attached to a cylinder connected to a hose leading up to a bag of morphine.   Pressing it brought on a torrent of nausea that caused violent dry heaves.   I don’t know if you’ve ever dry heaved on your back with forty fresh staples in your belly but it hurts— like a bastard.  Minutes later the pain began to subside.  When it registered why, I became resigned to dealing with being nauseous, so I pressed again.

     Not long thereafter I learned the doctor was right about getting used to the drug.  Inside of two days any hint of sickness had passed and by the end of the week I welcomed the warm itchy glow I found had more to do with masking pain behind a veil of euphoria than eliminating it the way aspirin cures a headache.  Before long I was fumbling for the button at the six… five…  and four-minute marks.

     When finally I was transferred out of the intensive care unit the morphine drip was replace by a battery of pain medications.  Without asking a question I choked down every miniature cup full of pills the nurses placed in front of me.  They weren’t fast or efficient but once they took hold, as before, pain was placed on layaway.

     Bedridden and incapacitated from fresh incisions, torn muscles and missing skin, I found my new hospital room less than secure.  In ICU the greatest threat came from being invaded by a pair of three hundred pound nurses during a late night sponge bath— a foul that while in a comma apparently no one calls.  Now the threat of violence assumed a new level.  Lawrence General Hospital was a war zone on par with Lowell District Court.  Surrounding rooms were filled with gang affiliates from Latin Kings to the TRG.  These were victims of stabbings and gunshot wounds whose warring friends and family waged battles of revenge that spilled into the halls.  Wielding knifes and swinging mop handles like baseball bats one teen was beaten and stabbed by four others outside my door.  With a bedpan wedged between my skinless thighs my first reaction was to get up and help.  But no sooner had the notion risen it was over and my second thought was to pray no one looked in with an eye towards eliminating witness.  Fortunately the perpetrators scurried off.  And their victim became my new roommate.  No asked if I’d seen anything, and if they had, I hadn’t.  Nine years would pass before I’d witness a beating as savage— one I would watch behind steel through wired glass.  And come to think of it no one asked if I’d seen anything then either.

     The splenectomy turned out to be the least of my problems.  Over time I underwent surgeries to reconstruct my left knee, right ankle, my septum, and four abdominal hernias.  Pain medications were administered liberally during these procedures and prescribed thereafter by each surgeon.  After consulting with Neurology my primary care physician provided a further diagnosis of brachial plexus nerve damage.  The explanation for the fierce pain that shot across my upper chest then down my back and arm like electricity was a spinal cord injury.   “The chance of a surgery repairing the nerve damage is low so I will put you on a comprehensive management regiment.”  What the good doctor meant was more drugs— lots more including one that in 1999 I’d never heard of: OxyContin.  “You’ll have to continue on this medication for the rest of your life to manage pain,” he told me.  Truth be told I knew better; knew I couldn’t keep on popping pills and living in the clouds without serious, lasting repercussions.  But by the time I gave enough of a shit to try to stop— off the deck came my next card.

BED OF ROSES

     “Tamagini!  You’re up – come on get moving!”

     “I’m coming, take it easy forcrissake.”  I said this under my breath, half jogging out to the batter’s box, secretly fearing being impaled in the side of the head with a cleat if I didn’t move fast enough.

     Before arriving on the compound I would have told you this was only a game. Anywhere else that would be true but in a place where reputation and bragging rights were of supreme importance the only thing higher than fast-pitch-prison-softball on the totem pole of notoriety was a good fight.

     I don’t recall taking any practice swings.  The bat felt cumbersome and my shoulder registers a dull ache where it had been resting.   My eyelids were narrowed to paper-thin slits by a sun that sprouted beads of sweat on my forehead.  Pounding the butt end of the bat against the ground loosened the rubber doughnut I must have put on there for show, dropping it with a muffled thud into the lifeless dirt.

     “We need a hit you Ginny-mother-fucker!”  This came from my bench, which meant: don’t react; you are not required to split open the taunter’s head like a watermelon at a Gallagher concert.  Harmless racial jest among teammates was acceptable here and often encouraged.  What was I expected to do if it came from the other dugout?

     In the box I tried to look comfortable, swinging for the first time, breathing steady; the bat felt lighter now.  It has been awhile I thought, like 30 years since I’d been pitched to in little league.  But there was nothing to worry about, right?   It’s not like my own teammates are going to stab me coming out of the shower if I strike out…

     A few more swings and I’m loose.  I spot the catcher in a little space of peripheral vision down behind my right elbow.  He’s signaling to the pitcher - the only guy I really should be concerned with right now.  For the first time I look out to the mound and am surprised to see the pitcher is as short as he is stout.  More astonishing is how familiar he looks—his features and facial hair resemble the banker from the board game Monopoly, the same thing I said after meeting my lawyer in federal court.  

     While the pitcher and catcher continue communicating I back out of the box and tap the inside of my cleats with the bat way they do in the majors.  After several moments their exchange grows uncomfortably long.  The catcher stands and I expect him to trot out to the mound for a private discussion but instead the pitcher heads in towards the plate.  Suddenly he veers off course, straight towards me, and at the two yards mark I recognize him.  “Attorney Folgelstein?  Jezzus, what are you doing here?”  “This is bad Jim, its very bad.  I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when I heard you’d been arrested again.  You’ve gone way beyond second chances here.  When the AUSA says she’s looking for 35 to life she’s not kidding.  Conspiracy to traffic in OxyContin, Cocaine, Methamphetamines, Ecstasy, Marijuana, HGH - on any one of these she could ask for high numbers and get them from a judge.  Buddy, you are F-U-C-K-E-D!”  … Buddy?

     Sweat soaked through my tee shirt, saturating the itchy wool blanket below and draining straight to the cement block they considered a bed in my holding cell.   I found the phenomenon of dreaming to be greatly magnified during periods of solitary confinement; their frequency and frightening realism were amazing.  On the street I rarely remembered my dreams.   Inside they’d haunt me for hours after I woke, demonstrating the powerful escapism unconsciously carried out by a mind yearning for freedom within a body held captive.  Many times they were good—extreme, intense, erotic, and in such cases I subliminally fought to stay asleep.  This dream wasn’t one of those.  Today I was terrified.  Marty Fogelstein’s sermon was as it had been at our first visit right down to the stuff about being disappointed.  If not for the “Buddy” I would have remained trapped in that nightmare for God knows how long.  

     By nature Folgelstein was a practitioner of the “Gloom and Doom” strategy of client relations.  This is where attorneys pass along the worst possible news during the consultation, making it appear as thought the potential client will get the electric chair if they don’t quickly come up with the fee.  Then at the end of a long legal road, when things turn out far better than originally reported, theses lawyer’s looked like super heroes.  This method was popular with law firms who had already built strong reputations.  Relying on name and track record, they could look down their noses at clients, acting superior and all - knowing.  The truth is the future holds no certainty and no client was more important than the one that had yet to fork over a retainer.   However, once that check was written, good luck getting a timely return call from a partner, associate, paralegal, secretary or even the janitor.

     After opening my law office I chose not to practice “Gloom and Doom,” partly because pessimism didn’t suit me but more because if I used this blueprint I feared never getting any clients in the first place.  Instead I adopted the “Bed of Roses” technique where no matter how dismal the outlook of a case appeared I painted a colorful picture to ensure I got hired, then sweat blood to keep my new clients happy and out of jail.  The question from each was inevitably, “Do you think I’ll have to do time for this?” to which I’d reply, “I will fake a fucking heart attack at sentencing before letting a judge put you away.”   Even when there was nothing important going on I would go down my client list and rotate pre-emptive calls to assure them I was doing everything possible.  Hearing from their lawyer out of the blue without having to play phone tag for weeks was unheard of in the profession.  At the time I was still green on the criminal defense side of the system and this practice simply seemed like good business.  Little did I know that happy clients passed out my card faster than call girls spread herpes.  Before long my daily calendar couldn’t hold another court date and I learned that representing criminals had more to do with psychotherapy, handholding and bullshit than the practice of law.  It was therefore from experience I knew Marty’s words to me that first day weren’t part of any strategy.  They were simply the truth.  Dream or no dream he was right, I was fucked and heading to prison.

     I recall reading a quote from a rock climber who said he never felt more alive than when on the peak of a mountain where his every decision determined whether he would live or die.   A similar feeling exists in jail.  The first time you walk into a crowded Department of Corrections Unit it hits you.  On the surface there’s a busyness: card games and dominos; pushups, ping pong, hoop and handball; microwaves cooking, Muslims praying, others sitting around telling war stories.  The hustle and bustle makes everything look copasetic.  Just below this layer of activity however, there was something brewing.  Present in the air but invisible to the untrained eye were high stakes wagered on every activity, hand to hand exchanges of drugs, smoke exhaled down flushing toilets, concealed weapons and mounting racial tension.

     What struck me first were the televisions: three of them mounted high off the second tier, spaced out fifty yards apart, each designated  “Black,” White” and “Spanish.”  At the entrance to the pod one rotund cop polished off his deep-dish pizza while reclined behind a massive control board equipped to unlock each cell.  Looking extremely inconvenienced he glanced up at me, down at a clipboard then back at me saying, “cell 21” while jerking his head up and to his right.  It was the last cell on the second tier.  At least I was next to the showers.

     My first cellmate was a skinny nineteen-year-old kid from Manchester, New Hampshire nick-named Chester.   His head was shaved and his pigment whiter than paper.  This made the scorpion tattooed on his neck and the word “Omerta” running along his forearm seem to jump off his skin.  We exchanged introductions and got along from the start.  Later that day I learned Chester had blown trial on a drive by shooting.  He was here in the DOC waiting to be sentenced to a minimum of ten years.

     I also learned prison nicknames lacked the slightest bit of imagination.  Inmates from New York were often named after their burrow and guys from outside New England for their state.  A guy with a vicious scar running down his cheek was simply called “Scar.”  The guy who did my laundry had a bad yin-yang tattoo on his forehead.  They called him “Spot.”  Every black prisoner over fifty was “OG” (original gangster).  There were seven guys named “Harlem,” ten “Brooklyn’s” and a dozen “Bronx.”  I came in with a line of hair under my bottom lip and was dubbed “Batista” after the WWE wrestler.   I felt blessed not to have any prominent moles.

     Ice was a big commodity, not the drug but actual frozen water.  With it you could convert the plastic waste paper barrel in your cell into a cooler to preserve milk, eggs and any other stolen perishables.  Taking it upon myself to represent the white guys, I teamed up with Tennessee from the black guys and Chao’ from the Spanish to divvy up the left over ice each morning before the cops removed the juice jug after breakfast.  There was only one Asian on the block.  They called him “Strap.”  If he needed ice I helped him out.  “Why do they call you Strap?” I asked.  “Hav-a no fuckin idea.” he replied giving me the impression the inquiry annoyed him. “My name is-a Chin.”

     One morning after breakfast I was watching Sports Center when an inmate shouted:  “Yo, C/O, get seventeen,” requesting the correctional officer electronically “pop” open his cell door.  There was no reason I should have paid this any special attention, guys locked themselves out all day long.  But for some reason the skin on my arms thickened, standing every hair on end.  Looking away from the television and down the block I suddenly realized it was the voice.   I’d been here a short time yet whenever “seventeen” was called out it was always in a Spanish accent.  This time it came from the Bronx.

     The stairs blocked a clear view so I slid my chair back just as the door unlatched.  There were three dark skinned males, each armed, two with locks in socks, the third with a prison billy club made from tightly rolled magazines inserted through a toilet paper roll then dropped in a sock.   The end of every sock was wound so viciously tight it turned each assailant’s knuckles purple.

     They entered with the precision of trained tactical team.   From my semi-obstructed view I could still hear a hurricane of blows pelting the sleeping victim, sending him from one state of unconsciousness to another.  The assault lasted thirty seconds before the attackers dropped their weapons in a hemorrhaged heap on the floor between the splattered walls and retreated to their own cells.  After catching the upcoming NBA playoff schedule I returned to mine.

     Less than two minutes later hell broke loose.  Through my narrow cell window I looked down to see guards and other correctional personnel racing all over the pod.  In came a stretcher. Out went the Mexican.  His cellie who was playing dominos during the ambush walked in circles, screaming in Spanish before they cuffed and removed him as well.  We were all locked in our cells while Special Investigative Services came around asking questions.  Since no one saw what happened we remained locked down for two weeks—meals served through the slot, out only for fifteen-minute showers, one cell at a time, two times per week.  To head off future disturbances a few well known Black and Mexican inmates were shipped out to other institutions.  As it turned out I never needed the week’s basketball schedule.

     In time this sort of thing became less unusual.  Life on the pod often changed in an instant.   Guys you did time with for weeks, months or even years were there one minute then gone the next.  On rare occasions it was because they were released.  And if that were the case you would have been hearing them do an annoying count down each day for months.  Most often they were whisked off to court, transferred to another institution, or taken to the SHU because of a fight, gambling or contraband.  For all you know they could have been hot the entire time you knew them and were sitting in the US Attorney’s Office proffering information that very second.  And after hearing such a rumor you’d lay awake at night replaying every conversation you ever had with them…    Then before their bunk got cold it was replaced by another guy who depending on his race altered the complexity of this little world either for or against you.

     Fortunately our lockdown ended before the basketball season did.  It was the end of May and the Celtics were up against the Pistons in the playoffs.  Although the televisions were designated by race I never saw a problem with inmates watching the other sets.  On any afternoon dozens of white guys could be found camped out in front of Latin soap operas and dance shows by the beach watching half naked women.  Seeing the Black TV was on BET I began looking for the Unit’s one remote control to change the White joint from Two and a Half men to the NBA Finals.  “Where’s the remote?”  I inquired.  “I think the Blacks have it,” proclaimed Winter Hill as he headed off in their direction presumably to retrieve it.

    While we waited I shot the shit with K-Pin whose case involved three bank robberies carried out over two days after his wife had a miscarriage and he ate forty pills.   “Yo, we have the same case,” I teased.  I’m a king-pin and you’re a Klonopin!”  K-Pin’s modus operandi was to pass the tellers notes that said, “Give me $3,500.00,” because he believed that’s how much they kept in their draws.  He never bothered with a disguise, which no doubt shortened his career.  K-Pin’s last exploit involved robbing his own bank where everyone working that day had known him for years.

     When Winter Hill returned he sat without a word, looking dejected.  “Where’s the remote?” I was growing impatient with the tip-off moments away.  “They won’t give it to us, said we stole the batteries yesterday.”  What?  Who – we?  That’s fucking ridiculous, the game’s going to start, who has it?”  Winter pointed towards the telephones and I followed the tip of his finger to big, black, Tennessee sitting in a heavy green DOC issued plastic chair talking to one of his baby - mommas.   Tenn had the head of a bowling ball and the body of an industrial dumpster, but all things considered I was glad it was him.  We’d compromised on the ice so I figured he’d be reasonable on a little thing like the remote control.  “Excuse me, Tenn…” Burying the receiver in a slab of his right pectoral, Tenn looked less than excited to see me.  “Yo Batista, whatchu want man?  Can’t you see I’m talking here?” “I need the remote bro, just for a second, to switch over to the Celtics.”  While I spoke I noticed the device tucked into Tenn’s waistband, as he’d no doubt position his Glock on the street.  “Ya can’t have it. Ya’ll took the batteries yesterday.”  Growing impatient, but still holding on to hope our ice capades counted for something,  “ ‘I’ didn’t take shit - listen bro I just need it for a second.”  “Well you can’t have it!”  This time he rose in his seat to make his point and used his free hand to slash back and forth at his neck.  Seeing this my body shrunk as every drop of blood rushed to my face.  With mounting systolic pressure I pulled the headphones off from around my neck: “I’m gonna put these in my cell and come back for that, one way or the other!”

     In hindsight storming up to the second tier probably wasn’t the best idea. I was vaguely aware of dozens of eyes on me but not until much later, after reading the report, did I realize one pair belonged to the cop on duty.

     When I returned Tennessee was gone.  Scanning the floor I spotted him in the furthest corner from the C/O’s station down by cell 19.  Heading in that direction I noticed things were different.   There was a buzz on the unit and the air was becoming thick with the tension of imminent conflict.

     Behind him Tenn had aligned a number of his friends.  They held a formation like a rack of pool balls.  Among the group I noticed Brooklyn, Harlem, Detroit and Ray-Ray.   Conspicuously missing was Tenn’s side kick Dee.  I hadn’t time to come up with a strategy or seek any recruits of my own.  I was torn between the ridiculousness of what was happening and the picture replaying in my mind of Tennessee karate chopping his throat at me in disrespect.

     “This is stupid bro.  Just let me change the channel and you can have it right back.”  With the remote still tucked in his waistband Tenn widened his stance and raised his fists.  Looking like a shorter version of Buster Douglas he announced not only to me but the whole unit: “If you want it, you’ll have to bang for it!”

     The instant presented a fork in my road.  Both choices were bad, and either one was going to follow me the rest of my time in prison.  I could be the guy who walked away or the one who stood up.  The truth was: there were no options.  Tenn’s words were like waving red in front of a bull.   My mind erupted with a fury for which control was absent.  I couldn’t choose, only react.

     I didn’t raise my hands or bob or weave, I just lunged.  Mid air I saw Tenn had wound up.  Lowering my head the blow landed above my hairline and came with a “crack,” like splintering wood.  I’m sure the success of my take down had more to due with Tenn’s being shocked than anything else.  Out came his feet, down went his head.  And when it hit the floor a second wincing sound followed.  To my delight the remote bounced loose and Tenn’s momentary incapacity made it easy to scoop up in victory.  This celebration was cut short when I was forced to duck an incoming chair swung by one of Tenn’s followers.  The chair nearly missed my head but Ray-Ray wasn’t as lucky.  It split him above the right eye and bled in a manner that cried out for stitches.

     Swinging chairs became contagious and within seconds every man on the unit was engaged in battle.  Armed only with the remote I plotted my next move when I felt the weight of someone land on me, followed by a sharp piercing graze along my back.  Before I could shake free it was gone.  I turned to see Dee being yanked by his dread locks in a circle by my boy Fiore.  In his right hand Dee still carried the pen he tried to stick me with.

     Before any plan could develop a tactical team of officers stormed the unit.  They were armed with shields, mace and beanbag shooting rifles.  If hit with one of those projectiles you’d be robbed of your breath and lucky not to crack a rib.  Viewing this as a good time to return to my cell I bolted up the stairs still clinging to the remote control.   Safe inside I locked myself in and watched the fireworks from my window.  There was shooting, clouds of chemicals, bodies down, and others being cuffed.  Oddly a feeling of elation swept over me, the feeling like when you nearly avoid a bad car accident.

     A day earlier Chester had been shipped off to State Prison so I laid down on my bunk in solitude replaying the past half hour.  I hadn’t been able to get beyond the throat slashing when a pounding came upon my cell door: “Tamagini!  Face down on the floor, arms and legs spread out to your sides!”  Standing, raising my prize in two hands like a miniature Stanley Cup, I asked: “But don’t you guys want the remote?”

     When they unlatched the door I was as they’d ordered, but not before stacking my writing and other valuables in a box for easy transport to the hole.  There was no way I’d ever be back to this cell and I figured a substantial amount of time would pass before I got back to this pod.

     In the Secured Housing Unit I waited alone for two weeks to see the Disciplinary Board.  The original charge was: Inciting a Race Riot.  “Race?  This was over the remote control!”  After my persuasive oral argument, and a thorough review of the evidence, the case was dropped to: Inciting a Riot, for which I was sentenced to 90 days in the SHU.  This involved twenty-three locked in and one hour out to shower and walk a tiny corridor housing the other SHU inmate’s cells.  I suppose I could have done some pushups the first day but instead I rushed to Tennessee’s window and pounded, “What the fuck were you thinking!  What was that shit all about?”  The wired glass on his cell door window was old and smokey, making it difficult to see in clearly.  Slowly Tenn rose off his bunk favoring a right arm that from fingertips to triceps resembled an elephant’s trunk.  “Yo, look how fucked up this is.”

     I was having a difficult time mustering sympathy.  “Fuck that, what was your problem?”

     “My girl was sweatin me, too many things sour on the street - Yo it really wasn’t you.“

     “That was out of control bro so I did what I hadta do.”

     “True that, I left you no choice, true that…” When Tenn finally reached the window he looked out right at me, and we both started cracking up.

     Next I was at Dee’s door trying to act serious, “You cheap shot motherfucker, you stabbed me?”  There was nothing wrong with Dee.  He got right up from his desk, came to the door and said:  “No I didn’t.”  Turning, I displayed the back of my tee, ripped shoulder blade to lower back, hanging open enough to see the red abrasion.  Swinging back I caught Dee fighting a smile before adding, “Yo I had to protect my boy.”

     At the end of the hour I was back in my top bunk getting acquainted with my new SHU cellmate, a tattoo artist from Miami who spent most of his time spitting bad raps while drawing graffiti from the floor to ceiling of our cell with a little yellow pencil he kept sharpening with the top of a can.   “They call me ‘Tauaje,” he told me. But despite the long dreads his fair skin and freckles gave away he was Irish.  In the middle of our riveting debate over law enforcement’s efforts to thwart street art there came a bustle of activity down at Tennessee’s cell.  Apparently Tenn had buzzed for the officer on duty to report he had fallen while exercising in his cell and injured his arm.  Peering out at an angle I could see two officers, a sergeant and a nurse from medical.  When they finished they left Tenn behind.  In fact they left him there for eight days before removing him to go to the hospital.  He spent that week and a day in pain, dictating letters home through his air vent to Dee.   I could only imagine what it was like to break and reset that monstrosity of an arm.  When Tenn returned from the hospital he boasted a black cast that covered his hand and rose past his elbow.  Naturally Tauaje rhymed about it:

     “Jimmy be nimble, Jimmy be quick, no remote control, Tennessee’s a dick.  ‘But I just need it quick cause my Celtics are home.’  Then he went and cracked his wrist, off the top-a your dome.  Now were locked in the SHU, Ten’s alone with his pain, soon we’ll be back on the unit, and they’ll ship his ass to Maine.”

     And that’s exactly what they did.  This was Tenn’s second infraction for fighting and the third overall considering a weed charge.  Early one morning the cops swooped in and he was gone.  It was months before word got around that he was shipped to “Cumberland,” which is what everyone called the Main Correctional Center, located in Windham.  I heard Dee shipped out as well.

     Just before Tenn left they moved Tauaje somewhere.  Chances are I’ll die never seeing him, Dee or Tenn again.   Immediately I moved to the bottom bunk and spent my time staring blankly up at the elaborate art work Tauaje left behind while daydreaming of my return to H-Unit; seeing myself being carried in over rose pedals in victory after liberating my people from the tyranny of Tennessee and his Disciples.  In my mind there were congratulations and back slapping, the vision was glorious.

     Actually, at the end of my SHU time they moved me to a smaller pod were I didn’t know anyone and had to start over.  This I wouldn’t find out for another seventy something days.  Till then there was plenty of time to wallow.

     The way time passes when you’re all alone is peculiar.  I can’t honestly say if it was minutes or a few days but when I realized the mural I’d been staring at was a beautiful depiction of the heads of Malcolm X, Tupac Shakur, Biggie Smalls and Martin Luther King, Jr. I wasn’t surprised.  Something about being looked over by such positive visionaries seemed appropriate.  Almost as much as all the roses in full bloom that framed them.

BEER IN PRISON

The single most frequently asked question in all my e-mails is:  “Do they really serve beer in prison? ”  (The second is: “How the $#%! Did you end up in prison?”)   So once and for all I am here to confront this smoldering beer issue head on and tell you the answer is a resounding:  “Hell Ya….” – Wait a minute, first I have a little explaining to do.

It must be understood that the “they” is not the prison.  You won’t see guards in aprons carrying pitchers.  They don’t sell six packs, cases or kegs on commissary.  And there’s no 16 oz drafts being drawn in the chow hall - not even on March 17^th.   Furthermore, the substance is not called “beer.”  It goes by a variety of different names: Juice, Jump, Raisin, Jack, Buck, Brew, Chalk, Hooch, Pruno and there maybe others, but if you drink this evil shit  - Hell Yes - you will get wasted and the next day you’ll think Samuel Adams came back from the grave and did the antler dance through your intestines before splitting your skull open with a musket, it’s that brutal.

Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones once said:     "I’ve never had a problem with drugs, only with the police.”  Personally, I had a problem with both.   Going to prison at forty, as a lawyer and former prosecutor, brought new meaning the term: “Midlife Crisis.”  You’d think I would have needed a drink, but it was making beer in prison that intrigued me.

My first experience in this area was at county jail awaiting federal sentencing.  An inmate came to my cell to bum a scoop of freeze-dried Columbian coffee and while doling it out one granule fell to the floor.  I’d only met this inmate that day but when he bent to pick it up, lost his balance and fell laughing on his ass, I learned something about his character, and prison alcohol consumption: “We jack the hand sanitizer from the officer’s station when the guard goes on rounds.  He keeps it in his bottom draw.  Heating it in the microwave burns off everything but the alcohol.  Mix that with some juice and holy shit you’ll get slammed. You’ve got to try it.”  “No thanks.” Was all I could muster, still shocked he went for the Columbian.  It will never get that bad.  I kept telling myself.  No matter what, don’t ever let it get that bad.  Life, even locked up, didn’t suck enough to pick specks of coffee off the floor or resort to ingesting that poison.  But the fact was many inmates spent a great deal of time and creative energy devising ways to escape reality through alcohol consumption.  I found this fascinating.

Apparently ordinary items used and consumed independently everyday could be combined in synergy to make a potion Satan would be proud of.  Ask 99 prison bootleggers and you’ll get 101 different recipes.  However, those same men will agree on one fact: every ingredient is readily available on the compound.

The details of their combination will vary, but the concept boils down to fermentation.  During fermentation yeast interacts with sugar from the juice to create ethanol, commonly known as ethyl alcohol, and carbon dioxide (as a by-product).  Co2 is a gas that makes  “burping”  – periodically letting the gas out of the plastic bag you’re using to make the batch – a step that under no circumstances you should forget.  Ever.

My next exposure to institutional intoxication came at Fort Dix.  After a grueling month in the ‘Admission and Orientation’ building I was assigned to the second floor in one of the housing units.  The assignment came on a little white slip of paper delivered by Counselor Hernandez’s orderly, inmate Pollo (The ‘l’s are pronounced like a ‘y’  for all you non-Spanish speakers).  Traipsing around A&O with a white scarf, Pollo was so flamboyantly gay I feared he would burst into flames.  Nevertheless, in his position he could get many otherwise difficult things such as job changes and bed reassignments accomplished.  For this reason everyone tried to stay on his good side. “Good luck Jeemee,” Pollo hushed with a smile when he handed me the tiny paper.  I knew not why, but anyone who’d been at Fort Dix for a while knew I was going from Beverly Hills, straight to Compton.

 It was Christmas week 2008.  There were several inches of snow on the ground, it was brutally cold, and I was starting to believe there were always snowflakes in the New Jersey air in December.  After loading my personal belongings into garbage bags, I coaxed Patty from the AM yard detail to snag me a wheel barrel and off I went across the Compound.  Mind you it is not a straight shot.  Not even close.  The mazes of razor wire fencing that ran in every direction were used to control movement and secure the facility in case of an emergency.  Once you understood the layout, negotiating them provided a little extra exercise.  Until then, they were a kaleidoscope of delirium.

Each brick building had three stories.  I climbed the stairs to the second floor.  This would be my home for how long?  A year?  More?   I reached the landing and was instantly struck by the pungent odor of cannabis.  Having attended Saint Michael’s College in the early eighties, partially because of the tremendous skiing, primarily because the drinking age was eighteen and it ranked high in Playboy Magazine's list of party schools, this smell was like homecoming.  Making my way down the hall to room 220 I gave the customary knock and entered to find something you would never… ever find in Winooski: six black guys.

The only bunk open was the one closest to my right, six upper.  Six lower was occupied by the largest and the darkest of the bunch.  He was stretched out reading Sooth Magazine.  The woman on the cover had a bottom large enough to rent as a moonwalk for my kids. “Jimmy,” I said with outstretched fist, and for a sliver of time thought I'd be left hanging.  Then he looked up briefly: “Big,” he replied. And although he looked pained to do it, met my knuckles with his.

“This locker open?” I asked gesturing to the one closest to my side of the bunk.  Big, who’d gone back to his magazine, and clearly had had enough of me, tapped his chin off his chest, which meant moving it less than an inch. Big's feet hung so far off the bed I knew he was well over six feet.  The way the mattress bowed under to the floor, he had to weigh 300 lbs.  When Big opened his mouth gold caps shown in contrast to his onyx skin.
I dragged my bags closer, tossed them up top, and began unpacking.  There was an empty, desperate feeling in my stomach.  My heart was fast and my hands unsteady.  The others went on playing cards, reading and listening to their Walkmans.  I was sick.

When everything was put away.  I climbed up top.  It was already 3:30 PM; too late to do anything before count, so I might as well lay down.  As cold as it was outside, and in most parts of the buildings for that matter, I was thrilled to have the lone heating duct in the room running up the wall behind me and directly overhead.

“Count!” “Count time!”  “Four o’clock standing count!”  Someone shook the bed frame rousing me from those first stages of REM.  On instinct I swung my legs left to get down as I’d done in the A&O building.  There, however,  A-G was my Bunkie and he kept his chair on the right.   Here, Big was partial to sitting on the left, and was enjoying spaghetti with red sauce when I landed in his gigantic bowl.  “What the fuck – Yo!”  He shouted, while I slid out and hit the floor.  Big jumped up with such force his chair hit the locker behind him and would never be he same.  The rest of the room was dead silent while Big hovered over me looking like the victim of a drive by shooting.  I was reasonably certain his next move was pulling the pick he kept in the side of his fro, driving it through my heart, and taking me to the other side of midnight.  “Hey I’m sorry – so sorry.”  I offered while scrambling to my feet.  “I’ll clean this up, and – and I owe you a new tee shirt…”  Big didn’t speak.  The guards entering the room for count interrupted the tension.  After that no one spoke, not at all.   Eventually we were released from the building for chow but by then the emptiness had mushroomed into complete despair blocking any desire for food.

Deciding to walk, I made my way towards the A&O building.  With close to 2500 inmates mulling around I needed to stay with some familiar faces.  Everything was segregated by race.  No ship without an armada had a hope to survive.  By necessity I hung with the Italians. The only other thing I might’ve passed for was a Jew.  They were many more in number, but their kosher food trays were a bitch.  

The Italians were fewer in size than most groups but thanks to a mystique created by Hollywood and the literary world they were high on the respect ladder.  Everybody loves a mob story and having worked their way down with good behavior from federal penitentiaries, to mediums, now to the low, we had the real thing: true goodfellas.  Bosses, guys that had been straightened out decades ago, and soldiers who’d gotten pinched trying to earn their button.

Through an unusual chain of events I’d fallen into the good graces of one of the latter.  I watched his back in a situation my first week in A&O and we’d become friendly.  I was happy to spot him in front of 5811 and we walked the compound this night killing only boredom.  I didn’t know much about him, but it quickly became clear something was different.  In the course of our walk no less than fifty inmates said hello.  Every person we passed; Caucasian, Black, Hispanic, Asian, knew him.   “Nino, what’s up;” “Hey N, how’s it going?” “Ni-no!”  He just shrugged it off, hardly speaking in return, seeming aggravated by the fact we kept getting interrupted.

When we reached the corner near the softball field I heard a voice call down from the unit.  The person yelled his name, but this time it was not as a greeting but to get his attention:  “ Yo - Nino! Do you know that dude?”  When I realized the voice belonged to Big my heart tripped into reverse.  There was an uncomfortable moment, then Nino put one arm over my shoulder and shouted back: “This is Jimmy, my boy from Boston, look out for him - you hear!”

As usual they called “Recall” at 9:30 PM to give us time to get to our rooms before ten o’clock count.  I hadn’t been back since the spaghetti incident and regardless of Nino’s recommendation, I wasn’t looking forward to it.  No sooner had I crossed the threshold Big took me by the wrist, pulling me in the rest of the way. “ Yo, you didn’t tell me you were with Nino, I spent eight years with him up at Shcuylkill .  Yo, fellas – fellas , this here’s Jimmy, he’s with Nino and the Italians.” 

That’s how I first got in.  We went around the room with introductions and intricate hand shakes.  I told them I was from Boston and they assumed I knew Nino from the street.  Seeing he’d been away almost fifteen years, and most of these guys were still in there twenties, there was plenty of grey area.

“Nino’s got a mad body count, Yo - Are you in the Mafioso books too?” Asked Baby.   Before I could respond Big stiff-armed him in the chest: “Yo, real gangstas don't talk about their shit! What the fucks-a-matta with you B?”

Taking Big's lead I kept quiet about myself.  The less I said the more their imaginations galloped. They wanted me to be something… “their something…” “their pet Italian.”   My roomies would brag to their homeboyz about my exploits.  When they walked with friends from other units they'd point, then make me the protagonist in a story they heard at another institution.  Knowing me made their britches bigger.  Knowing Nino  did away with a formal initiation or period of suspicion any other new man to the room would have underwent.  From the first night I was accepted. I was trusted. I got lucky.

With twelve we had a full house.  Moments after the 10:00 count was cleared out came eight cell phones, and he party erupted.  A card game was set up at the center table,  four of the phones were streaming porn while the others connected to baby mommas back home eager to provide a wide variety of live erotic entertainment.   On the street I had to make an effort to procure drugs.  Here a quarter gram of good coke or heroin could be delivered for three books of stamps in the time it took to signal Bonez from across the room.  We kept our door open for the steady stream of traffic.  Rap music blared.   Dudes stood up and down the hall sipping from plastic cups.  The smoke in the bathroom was so thick I had trouble locating a urinal.  If you added women it would have looked like a college dorm or fraternity party and no one would have wanted to go home. 

There was one guard assigned to a building of 300 inmates and tonight’s was known to never leave is his office.  These freedoms are why violence is kept to a minimum in the low.  If blood were to be shed it would have to be for good reason like an insult or dispute over the TV.  Without an incident report everyone here was going home in at least the next ten years.  Nobody wanted to go back to a penitentiary.   

After a while I noticed the beverage was being kept in large plastic jugs.  There seemed to be an endless supply.  It frothed, when poured, like death in a cup.  There was no hiding the agony it took to choke down, but once south, the boys were twisted like gyroscopes.  Someone poured a glass for me.  It smelt like ammonia.  Touching it to my lips burnt off a layer of skin.  That was as far as I got.  We continued playing cards and they were so messed up no one realized I dumped it when I went to the bathroom.

 Around the table were guys from Philly, Baltimore, DC, and NYC.   While we played they wanted to hear about Whitey Bugler and the Winter Hill Gang, armored car robbers from Charles Town, wire taps in the North End, and the aftermath of Raymond Senior’s rule.  These were things unrelated to me that I knew and could discuss competently.  Carrying myself like a thug was a relief compared to hobnobbing with lawyers and judges who’s heads were so far up their asses they could check for strep throat.   Had I told my new friends I was speaking from courtroom experience and not the street; they would have never believed me anyway.

Walk through bed counts were at 12:00 AM and 3:00 AM.  Everyone scrambled to their bunks just in time and the second it was clear went right back at it.  After 3:00 AM I decided to stay put.   I felt exhausted from the move… and the stress, but relieved it was over and for now I was safe.  It may have been from the exhaustion or the relief but in either case I let my guard down and broke out the earplugs and eye shades.  I’d started using them in the county when the unit was wilding-out half the night.  There you were locked in a two-man cell making security less of a factor.   Here you could get your throat slit or head bashed in by a lock in a sock and never know what or who hit you.  I think I was asleep before I finished adjusting the shades.

I’ve had several nightmares in my life where I felt like I was falling, and several more where I was drowning, but being water boarded was a new twist; one that surprised me because in a state of wakefulness I’d never given this torture much thought.  I didn’t realize the water was  poured all over your body?  Why was everyone screaming?  Who was holding me down?  And why did the water sting my eyes and throat – what the?  Fighting an arm free and ripping off the blinds I thought I was still submerged but the blockage was the earplugs.  Two inches from my throat hung a sheet of severed steal certain to have beheaded me if Big and Baby let go.  I was drenched from head to groin in vile stickiness, the scent of which turned my stomach.  The steal hung from a vent in the ceiling right where my cellmates glanced when I first walk in.  The secret location of the endless supply had revealed itself.

“Yo Bonez, I told you we needed to burp that bitch again before the end of the night.”  Bonez’s stoned stare remained fixed on my soaking cloths while Big kept talking,   “Tam-my-man it looks like we’re even on the tee shirt thang. Lets clean you up and see if we can save some of what’s left in this bag.”

 This was my crash coarse in prison brew.  Don’t feel let down, I know without barley, hops and the malting process technically this is not beer.  But just when you thought I brought you here to admit I’ve perpetrated a fraud, leave it to the Italians to once again save the day.

Pausa Cafe (Prison Brews) from Italy released in for the first time in the U.S.

First time in the U.S.

Pausa Cafe Social Cooperative

"The Pausa Café Social Cooperative was established in 2004, with its headquarters in the 'Lorusso e Cotugno' penitentiary in Turin, Italy. It was founded on a small set of principles. Firstly to support good social and economic development and sustainable practices, while giving special attention to help the more disadvantaged in both the North and South of the world. Secondly to promote a fair trade network based on the partnership between producers, manufacturers and consumers, allowing the producers to be closer to the consumer in order to improve food quality and increase the efficiency of the supply chain. Further Pausa Café also believes in: overcoming the many forms of social exclusion; more equality in international exchange; protecting universal human rights; valorization of the bond between food cultures, regions and their biodiversity, and how they are human heritage and should be preserved; environmental sustainability; and using nonviolence as a methodology to solving conflict." – importe

So there you have it.  While prisoners in states like Massachusetts are banging out license plates, Italian inmates are taste testing their product, Hell Yes.

VIEW FROM AN ITALIAN PRISON CELL

IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

     From a block away I'd already made up my mind.  I was on my way to work at Dino's Cafe in the North End when I first spotted the girl.  Like a weather vein the turbulent morning workforce turned her in all directions.  As I closed the gap between us, not one stone face accepted the pamphlets she offered.

     Despite the heavy winter coat I could tell she was a little bit of a thing.  Bundled up in a hat and scarf all that showed were distant eyes and a forced smile.  I offered a genuine one in return and paused with a pleasant: “good morning," and "thank you," as I took the folded paper.  Up close she looked mildly catatonic yet genuinely seraphic.  There was a second, I could have sworn, of reciprocation; a tiny spark, and then it vanished.  

   Spinning in a failed attempt to hand off to the next by passer, she went one way and I continued on, glancing down at the flyer:

                          

OH GOD NO!  Turning and taking up chase I caught back up confronting the young woman. "No, this can't be!  It just can't!"  Staring back her eyebrows disappeared under that stocking cap and her mouth rounded to a gaping hole of terror. "Please no!"  I continued. "Can you get it touch with somebody, even 'HER' if you have to, and move this date?  Please! Please!" 

     Petrified, she managed to summons the word: "Why?" "Because it's my birthday! Of all days it has to be May 21st?  You've got to be kidding me!" Can't it be moved - even just one day? “

     Most of the foot traffic had passed.  It seemed we stood there alone.  The silence suspended time, but I held my ground, and my straight face.  Then finally there was break, and through whatever twisted brainwashing she'd undergone we shared a smile. 

      Turning, I left thinking, even if it does happen; I’ll feel fine.

SATURDAY NITE SPECIAL

     It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve and I'd been snorting lines of crushed Oxycontin most of the day trying not to think about tomorrow without Michelle.  Usually I'd scarf up two at a time.  I had several important cases on for trial after the first of the year.  These clients still owed me money.  I set up the meetings today knowing they'd pay cash.  I figured I'd start Christmas shopping on the way home.

     Wiping then licking my index finger clean I stashed the mirror in my top draw and stepped to the window.  Across the street I saw my next client exiting Bank of America.  He slipped and almost fell climbing over a mound of snow.  After making it midway into Merrimack Street he looked up, saw me and waved.  He was an alcoholic.

     A few minutes later I greeted him at the door and led him to my front office.  Once we'd taken our seats on either side of the desk he handed me a bank envelope marked "$7,500.00."   It was stuffed to capacity with stiff twenties. This payment represented the rest of the flat fee owed on his case.  Opening my draw I placed it on the mirror.  I'd count it when he left.  Up to now there wasn't anything remarkable which would've caused me to remember this day, but that would change.

     "The kids look terrific,” my client commented towards the picture of Kyera holding baby Anthony hanging on the wall to his left.  "How are they?"  What he meant was how are they doing now that they're mother is dead?"  "Good.  My family is an enormous help, this picture is from last year; here's the most recent."  I said before turning the 8 x 10 frame 180 degrees; " Wow, they're getting big,” he responded before lowering his gaze to the inscription and mouthing the words:  "Worlds Best Daddy."  

     I figured the picture was going to be a present from the kids.  I don't know when she had time to dress them up and sneak them to the mall to have it taken.  My sister Lisa found it hidden under a sweater when she was cleaning out Michelle's side of the closet.  I still can't believe she left us on Father's Day.

     "God bless them... well the office came out beautiful,” was the awkward segue my client made while turning in his seat to scan the room.  I'd forgotten the last time he was here Michelle was in the midst of decorating.  "Yes, it did,” I replied.  Then, while he turned back, I noticed him linger a millisecond on the bar.  Offering him a drink entered my mind then quickly exited.  His case was a hair from being a vehicular homicide where the young couple in the other car ended up in intensive care.  A "No Vacancy" sign flashed over my conscience;  the last thing this fucking guy needs is a drink.  From the faint odor of stale hops floating my way I felt safe to conclude he'd started priming long before our meeting.

    For the next hour we conducted a comprehensive review of his case and set a time to meet with his witnesses before trial.   Then he departed, but not before gazing over at the bar once again.  This time I ignored his silent plea.  I knew exactly how he felt.  It was my turn to prime.

     After licking away the green time-release coating I dried the now white pill with my shirt and began sifting it back and forth into a fine powder between my thumb and a screen tea bag strainer.  This was the method of pulverization I preferred.  Feeling pressured by the time I pulled out my ID and stretched the pile into one long line.  Then with a snipped plastic straw I blasted half up each nostril.  Sinking back in my leather chair I tilted my head waiting for the drug to drip... and take hold.  Picking up the envelope from my open draw I flipped through the $7, 500.00 and thought:  The next client will arrive any minute with his father, and an additional $25K.

     I'd counted half way through the stack when a knock came up front.  Putting back the cash I hurried out to the reception area, turned the deadbolt and pulled open the door.  Catching me off guard was a man who extended his hand introducing himself as John Sullivan.  "I hope this isn't a bad time," he began,  "I have a criminal case and I'd like to hire you."   His eyes searched behind me while he spoke, and if it weren't for the bank envelope he carried I would have shut the door in his face.  " Come in,” I said while turning to let him pass and the front door swing shut. "What are you charged with?"   " It's my second OUI."  Standing face to face between the coffee table lined with magazines and my secretary's desk piled with files I gave John the once over, and was surprised it was only his second.

     I put him somewhere around fifty; slim, balding with a ruddy complexion. His navy blue parka, Levis, and Converse were worn but clean and still John looked skeevy; a result made inescapable by a mishmash of jagged teeth and bleeding gums.  My sixty-second conclusion was that at some point in the last twenty-four hours John had consumed alcohol, crack cocaine or meth, heroin and possibly all of the above.  I was on the verge of shoving him back out the door when my eyes were drawn to the white, red and blue in his hand.

     "If it's in Lowell District I’ll need  $2,500.00 before I can file an appearance."  Breaking into a vulgar grin: "Will a thousand get us started?" John said while raising the Bank of America envelope.  Unable to repress a smile of my own I gestured, waving him in ahead of me.

     John Sullivan looked familiar to me; perhaps I'd seen him around town or in the courthouse.  Who knows I probably prosecuted him back when I was in the DA's office.  Rounding my desk I took my seat.  On the other side John remained standing.  Before I could offer him a chair he reached into his jacket with the envelope and in one smooth motion drew a revolver to the bridge of my nose: "Give me the fucking money!  All of it! Right now!"

     My jaw dropped open as fast as my heart hit my stomach, then I closed it to force back the vomit.  Unable to squeeze out a word I must have looked ridiculous with hands raised shaking my head like I had no idea what he was talking about.

     "Cut the shit!  I was behind a guy at the bank who took out seven and a half thousand and came here.  I just watched him leave."

     Until now the onset of the drugs had been delayed.  But suddenly, with John yelling and the barrel five inches from my face, adrenaline dumped in on top of the opiates to create a speedball that would have made John Belushi envious.  My pulse raced; every hair stood on end; completely out of my mind; I was fixated on the revolver.  Not because of the obvious threat it posed to my life but because of its striking resemblance to my father's snub nosed Smith & Wesson .38 Chief's Special.

     "Come on, hurry up!"  Spit flew off John's impatient, cracked lips as the gun shook in his hand - although the barrel was too short to actually waive - I mean the entire firearm was only like six inches long.  I knew it well.  Heavy enough to carry a threat; light enough for a grade-schooler to wield with ease. 

     Growing up there wasn't a square inch of our home I left unexplored.  You'd think all adults would remember their childhood but either they'd forgotten, or delusionally believed they were superior parents raising better, well behaved kids.  Whatever the case, the choice of storing the burner in Dad's top dresser draw with me living under the roof was way-the-fuck-out-there— to say the least.

     Sitting idle in the blue cardboard box it came in; long before the advent of trigger locks; the only precaution was keeping it unloaded.  Alas, with all five bullets resting in the same box, both home protection and safety seemed a bit compromised.

     The second my babysitter put me down for a nap and settled into All My Children I was off.  Dragging Mother's gold vanity chair across my parent’s bedroom I'd climb up to pull open the draw, grab the sidearm, and return everything as it was.  

     Back in my room I'd marvel at the cold steel in my hands.  Pointing it made my little heart race.  Peeking around corners to synchronize my mischief between television commercials was half the fun.  And when the coast was clear, I'd take not only mock target practice but also innocent hostages during bank, armored car and stagecoach heists.

     In first grade I brought a single bullet to school wrapped in a white handkerchief.  At this point I'd found more ammo and a cleaning kit in the closet.  Removing a round from this cache gave me more time to get it back and less chance of being caught. 

    During the summer between first and second grade I began sneaking the banger out to play in the neighborhood.  While other kids were armed with their impotent toy guns I ran around in the clouds, intoxicated by my powerful secret.  

     Once in fifth grade I took the .38 to school to impress Diana Shaw.  All day I carried it in a black dress sock inside my book bag but ended up in after school detention and showed it to no one.  I was better off.  Having it made me way too nervous and Diana ended up making out with me in a secret spot on the pipes behind the stalls in the boy's room anyway... 

     It sounds funny to say but I wasn't careless with the gun.  I never mishandled or dropped it— not even a scratch.  And I returned the weapon safely each and every time.  Hell packing a gat kept me super-alert, taught me responsibility, and no I never carried it around loaded.  Although in the privacy of my room I couldn't resist sliding in those five rounds, giving the cylinder a brisk spin and  sharp cock of my wrist to "snap" it into place.  Or, only when I was absolutely positive it was unloaded, pulling back that hammer, allowing the gun to be dry - fired with the slightest amount of trigger pressure: "click!"

     "What the fuck are you looking at?  Hurry up with the cash!"  John's hysteria brought my current situation crashing back.  But by this point some subliminal quadrant of my brain had concluded he lacked the testicular fortitude to intentionally fire into my face. He had however pulled back the hammer with his thumb and placed his index finger on the trigger. Add his epileptic shaking and my comfort level plummed.  

     "Ok man, take it easy."  Displaying my palms, making no sudden movements:  "I don't know what you think you saw but no one left any money here. If they did you could have it, I don't want any trouble."  The jackhammer in my chest, and the swell of oxy's and adrenaline, carried me to my feet.  "Listen, you’re not going to shoot, we both know that.  Pull the trigger and you'll get nothing.  It's Christmas Eve for chrissakes. The jewelry store downstairs is packed. You'll never make it to the street. But I think I can make this worth your while. Why don't you sell me the gun? "What" "Yeah. It fires doesn't it? And its not registered; not to you anyway?  Right?" 

    The look of disbelief on John's face broadened when I reached in my breast pocket.  "Don't fucking move!  What are you doing?"  He swung his other hand up to the grip and widened his stance to show he meant business.  Ignoring him, I pulled out my wallet and began thumbing through the contents:  " It looks in decent shape, what do you want for it?  A hundred?  One fifty?   I've got eighty here; let me run over to the bank before it closes..."

     You can never count on anyone being on time for an appointment.  Believe me I'm the worst.  But you'd think just once....  Patiently I'd been praying for the knock, and now it finally came during my offer.

     The client was a young kid,  a computer geek who got in over his head dealing weed with the Asians.  His father was a loud Armenian guy.  I knew they would knock and barge in the unlocked door.  "Holy shit there's no where to park!  I had my wife drop us off, I hope you'll validate the ticket for the garage."  

     John, who clearly thought office hours were over, lunged closer almost mounting my desk to stay out of their sight.  "Be right with you!"  I yelled, feeling more fearless. 

      Stuffing the piece in his waistband and bowing his head, John spun off while I hurled myself over the desk in a failed effort to grab his jacket. "Wait I'm serious.  Come back, I want to buy it!"

    I never saw his expression; John moved so fast I barely caught sight of the rest of him.  When I made it out to reception the door was swooshing closed and my client and his Dad wore expressions of extraordinary inconvenience for being so rudely pushed aside. Acting embarrassed, I made my apology and gestured them in for our meeting.  Bending to pick something up: "That mad man dropped this,"  The father said handing me an empty white, red, and blue envelope.  "Why thank you, now come on in."

     On my way home that evening I got all my shopping done, giving the kids a wonderful Christmas from what I was told.  

     After that afternoon my peripheral vision was strained for months, expecting "John" to emerge from the shadows or around a sharp corner seeking retribution.  I'm not sure what he thought about my offer.  The way life turned out all my guns were seized by the authorities and I have been threatened with twenty- five to life if found as a felon in possession.  Had I known this I would have tried harder to catch up with John that afternoon.

     I've often wondered how things would have turned out if I hadn't been so high; convincing myself I handled the situation better since I was.  This way of thinking spread to other area's of my life.  Eventually the kids seemed happy, the cases came back wins, and money piled up so I kept my dopamine receptors full to the point there was no room for doubt, or mourning.  But who was I kidding?  Did being doped up like a friggin elf really make me a better father or more cunning attorney?  Could narcotics create a braver hostage and robbery victim?  Or were John Sullivan and I both addicts completely wasted on the same drug that none of us can kick:  Greed?