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?

An Inspirational Story: Happy Mother's Day!!

     There’s one reason I am out of prison right now: RDAP, the Residential Drug Addiction Program.  Nine months, five hundred classroom hours, living in an aluminum warehouse with ninety-nine other federal inmates in what was part boot camp, part therapeutic community.   Each morning began with Inspection followed by Community from 7:30 – 8:30.   A lot of crazy things went on in Community, many I can’t explain, but I can honestly say this: I sat with some stone cold convicts who’d been down anywhere between thirty months and thirty years and regardless of how they resisted treatment in the beginning, I saw positive change in each by graduation.

     One small part of Community was the reading of an inspirational story.  This became interesting when an inmate couldn’t read or spoke three languages but none were English.  Those who were able usually read a passage from Chicken Soup for the Soul which over time leads to stories being repeated.  To avoid this, when it was my turn, I read something I wrote that inspired me.

     This was my inspirational story:  The first time my mother had cancer I was fifteen.  She downplayed the event so much I hardly remember it.  Being a freshman at a new school I had so many obligations between sports, academics and social activities that I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.  She didn’t change her routine.  Mom drove us to school and wherever else we needed to go.  She cooked, cleaned and cared for my three sisters, father and I all while heading the music department and teaching at an all girl’s Catholic High School.

     When the cancer came back I was away in college.  “Don’t bother Jimmy, he’s very busy and I’ll be fine,” she told my sisters who immediately phoned me in Vermont.  But Mom was right, I was busy with extraordinarily important things and after an operation and several rounds of chemotherapy she was as good as new.

     The third time my mother had cancer I was there, I had to be.  Having just been busted by the feds she put up the bond to get me out.  I was there when she coughed up blood and told me it was only a cold.  I waited, even resorting to prayer, when they operated by going down her throat but couldn’t extract the whole tumor.  Then I prayed harder during the second operation when they opened up the length of her back with a crescent shaped incision to remove her entire left lung.

     Mom didn’t smoke, not a day in her life, but she stood by many years while other loved ones did.  When she felt her worst no one knew.  I have not a memory of hearing my mother complain and many of her wearing a smile.

     Finally I went to prison while Mom had more chemotherapy and an experimental treatment only 32 other subjects had tried.  Her doctors at Mass General told her if she could tolerate these drugs there was a 90% chance the cancer would not return.  I heard these medicines made her very sick, but of course I was not there.

     My Mother worked hard all her life and deserved to retire, but by working her son’s children could continue in schools they loved while she had the means to support them until his return.  I was in my freshman year at Fort Dix when I received the news; due to the poor economy the school where she worked was being sold to a developer.  Although I was away I could not get this out of my mind.   It tormented me day and night.  I knew my Mother, how she loved that school, and how this would adversely affect her more than any sickness.

     Several months passed before one day I received an unusual letter.  The envelope was larger and the contents thicker than normal.  I opened it to find a brochure for a new school with a note from Mom explaining how she had gotten our town to donate the abandoned building where she had gone to elementary school, obtained funding for renovations, and started a new private school.

    That was more than two years ago.  This September my daughter will enter the senior class of the new Nazareth Academy.   And there is a chance I will be able to see her graduate in June of 2011.

     Everybody clapped as they do each morning.  I headed back to my seat walking past Darareaksmey Nhean who suddenly stood up clapping with tears streaming down each cheek.  Then for the first time since I’d been in RDAP everyone followed his lead and stood.  This was wonderful, then I realized, Dara spoke only Khmer.
(Mom, some forgot me.  You wrote to me by letter, email or spoke with me on the phone everyday for three years.   My commissary was never empty, even all those months in the SHU.  And we didn't  talk simply to pass the time, feeling your pain was difficult but it was the strongest force in my recovery.  You rode with me through something a lot of people won't understand and would have cracked most on the high social ladder I use to climb.   I'm  humbled because you gave so much, without condition, when I needed it most and could not have been less deserving.   You taught, by example, my entire life.  I am ashamed it took so long and such extreme circumstance to make it sink in, but now I truly understand.  I love you too.  Happy Mother's Day.)

A CONSCIENCE'S BEST FRIEND

     The kids wanted a puppy.  It was by no means an unreasonable request there were just too many milligrams of chaos swirling inside my head back then for another responsibility.
     Fast forward to when I was in prison and my mind had been emancipated of responsibility only to have the chaos replaced with anxiety.  I went from total, to less than zero control in the time it took to execute a search warrant.  Being unable to protect or provide for my children was killing me.  Suffocated by guilt I thought the worst was over until I learned the little girl I left behind was now fixed on precision self-mutilation.

     "Hi Daddy, how are you?"  " Good sweet -  heart.  What are you up to?" Just getting something to eat with my friends."

     In the background I could hear muffled  conversations; my grip tightened at the depth of the voices.  "Who are you with?" "Just friends - Oh... wait... Daddy, Matt says hi."  "... Great, (who the fuck is "Matt?) that's great honey say hello and tell everyone I'll be home very soon, ok?"  "Ok,  I will but when are you coming home I miss you."  Miss you too... soon,  I can't say exactly but soon, ."  "Well Daddy when you get home I want to get a tongue ring - I'm obsessed."  Swallowing hard, "... Alright,  just promise you won't drive Auntie crazy and don't tell her I said I'd take you to get one."  "I promise... And Daddy, I think I want a star tattoo... behind my ear...."

     In the background came louder conversation and deeper laughter.  With the phone pressed tight I clenched my teeth and heard a splintering right before the annoying electronic recording chimed in: "This call is from a federal prison."

     Looking down I was relieved to find the receiver in tact, the cracking must have been my jaw.  Destruction of government property is a 300 series shot in the Feds, something I couldn't afford after coming this far. 

     If I was lucky I'd be going home in October.  I had good reason for not divulging this to Kyera.  It took me two years to get to Lewisburg Camp and now into the Residential Drug Addiction Program, the only federal program allowing time to be earned off a sentence.  The Feds controlled RDAP participants about as well as BP contains oil.  The few who did snagged were sanctioned for untucked shirts and hats on in the building.  Serious violations got you set back or thrown out altogether.  I know a guy from my class who's still there for tomatoes. 

     At this point words meant nothing.  To break mine to Kyera would be the equivalent of shooting my integrity in the head.   My arrest unraveled enough broken promises.  It wasn't so much of a shock to me,  but my my poor sister.   As the two by two formation of  armed tactical team members shuffled across linoleum and ascended the stairs to get me she stood reading a copy the warrant in pure disbelief; screaming: "Growth hormone?  Are you people crazy, your arresting my brother for human growth hormone!"

     And while they led me out the front door into the morning's bright sun, double cuffed from behind in my shorts, her words of unwavering support shrilled for neighbors and horrified elementary children alike: "Why don't you go and arrest some pedophiles?  And leave my brother, who's never hurt anyone his entire life, alone!"

     Unfortunately the cops didn't agree and took me to Wakefield P.D. where I realized that because of the long weekend leading into Saint Patricks day I would spend no fewer than ninety-six hours in a tiny cell.  And on the other side of that rainbow lay not a pot of gold but a bunch of slimy, lime - green public defenders and court personal who posing as leprechauns started drinking at 8:00 A.M. 

      At the P.D. I'd waived my initial phone call due to an uncustomary loss of words, and began settling into my new life of unknown duration.  Then on the second day signs of life came from the outside world; food, books, magazines and letters.  Sitting on my cement bunk flipping through the pile I came upon one I thought I might be able to handle.  Ripping into the envelope it read:

"Daddy,

I thought the worst day of my life was the day you took me to the lake and told me Mommy died.  But today I came home from school and Auntie was rushing around fixing my room and she told me what happened.  She said she didn't know when you'd be home.  I don't understand.  After Mommy you promised you would never leave.  Now I don't know what to do.  Will you be home for my sweet sixteen?  What about prom and my graduation?  Will you even be home someday when I get married?  And what about Anthony?  I can't stop crying, he needs you so much.  I was wrong Daddy, today is the worst day of my life."

     Until that moment I had never conceived of a suffering deeper than loosing Michelle.  But personal failure eclipsed tragedy.  In all the world Kyera's disappointment in me could only be surpassed by mine in myself.  My emptiness had no bottom.

     Calling to the guard I asked for the phone.  Dialing Tricia:  "Hello."  "Trish, its Jimmy.  Can you do me a favor - can you go to the pet store..."

                                                                                        

BALLSY

     In a city full of backstabbers a prosecutor covertly moving in with a cop may not have been the smartest of ideas.  The premiere advantage of this living arrangement was being closer to Michelle and Kyera.   Preparation for Donahue and other cases made my time with them preciously scarce.  When Michelle was working Kyera was at my side.  To liven up a Thursday night I’d often ask:  “It’s just us tonight, do you want to have a party?” This invitation was never rejected.   As I chauffeured her through the supermarket Kyera picked out everything her heart desired and tossed in the shopping kart behind her.  Then with her attention diverted by the one prized item I left in her arms I’d make the necessary returns, help the cashier bag the rest, and make a smooth exit.  Back home we’d feast on pizza or chicken nuggets and I would promise her a bedtime movie if she’d eat some veggies.   With after-dinner Jiffy Pop exploding like automatic weapon fire on the stove top, Kyera stood shuttling jelly beans into her mouth with one hand and lighting up the DVD player with the other.  When the first cord of Blister in the Sun struck we dropped everything and I took hold of her wrists, swinging her tiny feet off the ground in carefree circles of endless laughter.

     Bright as the sun she was beautiful and growing so quickly.  When Kyera visited with me at my office the most difficult part was tearing her away from my secretaries and co-workers.  She loved to chat and had no shortage of those who would engage her.  From the front desk of the dentist’s office to the gym or in line at CVS she held court to captivated audiences.   On Saturday afternoons we stopped by my grandmother’s to visit Nana and my Aunt Paula.  At this point Multiple Sclerosis had left Paula incapacitated and bed ridden.  Midway through our visit I'd carry her out to the kitchen where Kyera stood ready to assist Nana wash her hair.  In spite of the depth of this situation Kyera always kept us entertained.  If Aunt Josie were alive there was no doubt she would have presided over Kyera’s fan club.

     Saturday evenings we were off to Fun World, an indoor arcade/amusement park that became one of our favorites.  On the second floor they had an enormous obstacle course complete with shoots tunnels, rope–ladder–bridges and a pool of colored plastic balls you could almost get lost in.  I never read the rules but observed most parents watching their kids from the sidelines.  I, on the other hand, slipped off my Nikes and dove right in.

     It wasn't unusual to hear kids call out to ensure none of their courageous endeavors went unnoticed.  Basking in the pool of balls, with everything below my shoulders submerged, I watched Kyera ascend a rope ladder negotiated a covered bridge and swoosh down a slide into a group of children.  Straining to regain her in my sight I could hear young voices yelling, one rising up: “Daddy, Daddy!” Still looking, Kyera finally pushed her way out of the group stopping short of the pool’s edge and with outstretched arms and eyes trained on me continued: “Daddy, Daddy, catch me!”

     Reclined on my back like an otter it took a moment, but when the surreality lifted I pulled myself to the surface and mirrored her gesture.  Without hesitating Kyera leapt down into my arms and for the longest time I held her, much tighter than I had before.