“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.
