“The next time they give you all that cvic bullshit about voting, crime, prison, keep in mind that Hitler was elected in a full free democratic election.”

— George Carlin

To celebrate the onoing trials and tribulations of the one and only Donald J. Trump, I’ve included a selection from my memoirs — from my four year stay in a New York State prison for writing about corruption. My expose of the politiical, legal and bureaucratic criminal enterprise being operated out of the Town of Southampton and Suffolk County Court system crimnal justice machine — should be of some interest to anyone who may wind up there. Think Rikers is bad? Try Riverhead Jail where anyone picked up for a suspected murder or DWI winds up hanging out with MS-13 in a dorm for a few hundred. However, the Donald is never going to do a day in the New York State prison system. Only those who expose politicians or the courts and have no money do time in New York. But, for those of us who have a taste for schadenfreude — especially naive journalists who write about criminality in public office — here’s a glimpse of reality.

The segment below starts off by one inmate talking about Southport Correctional, a prison where many difficult disciplinary violators are sent and also conditions in the Box. Both resemble maximum security in someone’s nightmares.

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March 9th, 2015

“Dey all wear rubba suits,” said Al. “Southport’s where dey sen’ guys wid 15 ta Life, guys dat attack C.O.s, an’ udda hod cases. All a dem’r Boxes an’ th’ C.O.s run back’n fawth avoidin’ the shit’n piss dese trow alla time.”

“Sounds nice Al,” I said, sitting on the bleachers in the Gym, “why’re you telling me this?”

He cackled. “Well I jes wanned ya ta know what Cheese do-do here was missin’,” he continued to laugh.

Mark, also known to Al as Cheese Do-Do, or, more correctly Cheese Doodles, had just gotten out of the Box. He’d done 25 days in the SHU, the small Box, for doing someone else’s work on the office computer in General Business. He’d been charged with lying to an officer, doing other people’s work and being out of place. He was only convicted of doing work for others.

“How was it?” I said to Mark, sitting one step up above us. He was about 6 foot tall, 250 pounds, white skin and a flushed look. Like someone who’d been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

“Terrible,” he said. He wasn’t being funny. 

“What was so terrible about it?

“There’s no heat, the windows are cracked and you have to use all of your toothpaste just to seal up the cold air cracks. You get to shower 3 days a week in cold water. They take all of  your personal stuff and food and you only get about 15% of the food you get in Mess Hall. I couldn’t even have one of my own sweaters.”

“Nice,” I said.

“Single  bunk or double?”

“Single. And, you can’t talk. If you want food you have to stand by the door at 6 a.m. If you don’t, or if you don’t wake up, you don’t eat.”

“What’d you do with yourself?”

“Nothing. I had nothing to read for 3 days, no T.V., nothing.

And, I was freezing all of the time. It’s fucking twenty degrees out. And, after 3 days, they came around with a cart with some books to read.”

“S’shitty. Bud it’s a palace compared to Southport,” said Al. 

“I don’ unnerstan’ dis place, tho. At Groveland dey got a big kitchen inna Honor Dorm, ya can get most any kinda food from home. Dere’s somethin’ wrong wid dese people here.”

I’d met C.O. LaRoq, Senior, father of the cop who had handled Carrington, as it said on his nameplate on the way into the basketball court. He was a tough nut but after 3 years of teasing me about my eyebrows being too bushy and needing  a cut,  I got some grudging respect for my persistent exercise regimen. He was the father of two other C.O.s in the  prison and at 5’7″, tall, only 30 or 40 or so pounds overweight, gray hair  and a wizened look, we kind of got to appreciate each other’s sardonic humor.

“Whena you gettin’ out?” he ventured to ask me. 

“I don’t know. Depends,” I said, honestly.

It was rare for a C.O. to strike up a conversation with an inmate and, on top of that, to have a conversation that for all intents and purposes was between equals. Granted, he was at least 10 years younger than me but he clearly was showing some form of respect.

“How come you don’t know? Everyone else around here seems to know to the day,” he said wryly.

I laughed briefly. “Yeah, well, I WISH I knew, but it all depends on how things fall. I got a Merit Board AND my 4th try at Work Release. We’ll see.”

He just looked at me. No meaning.

“Listen, I wanted to ask you a question. Are you guys allowed  to write recommendations for Parole? Or, is that a problem?” 

“It’s not a problem. But, it won’t do you any good,” he said.  

“Why not?”

“I used to Work in Albany. We’re no better than you are, to them.”

“What do you mean?” I said to him as we stood near the Gym C.O. room where they congregated, drank coffee, bullshitted with each other, and watched what was going on if no one was on the  post IN the Gym by the table where the I.D. cards were kept for the Weight Room and where the blue cushioned chairs were for C.O.s.

He held out his one hand and with his other hand illustrated a level of things on an imaginary vertical ruler. 

“Here are the inmates down here,” he demonstrated, and then slightly raised his hand a little higher, “and, this is where the C.O.s are in the eyes  of  Albany.  There’s about an eighth  of an  inch difference in higher status. The only difference as far as they’re concerned is the color of our shirts.”

“Are you kidding?” I said, stunned.

“No. I wish I was. So, no recommendation’s gonna do you any good. Trust me on that.”

LaRoq, the father, I presumed, seemed  like an okay guy. It only took me 3 years to have a conversation with him. But, it  was another example of the fact that these guys were beginning to trust me, knew that I had a wonderful and stable family, and was NOT looking for any kind of trouble. They sensed that they could give me a set of keys to the place and that I wouldn’t try to leave or steal anything. They were right of course. Not  because I was so honest. But, because there was no point. I was here until THEY let me go.

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