“Help!”

— Richard Nixon’s last words — spoken to his housekeeper.

The inverted morality of Jean Genet is nothing new to inmates — now called Offenders — in our prisons. Whatever strikes you as hypocritical in current politics is oddly similar to the truths I witnessed daily spouted by the criminal class — although, the difference between our current politicians and those behind bars were more often than not, interchangeable. Fascism, for example, is well-known as a compendium of half-truths, lies, and dogmatic fiction. Like the current drivel we are forced to consume on a daily basis as Americans.

— Donald Clark MacPherson

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“Fuggedaboudit,” said Bada-Bing, as Al called Mark, the overweight 62 year old sitting on the bleachers in the Gym.

Both Mark and Al, originally from the Bronx and Brooklyn, respectively, had found each other in prison, and now were trying to incorporate me into their little coterie of mobster aficionados primarily because he was white.

“You know, we don’ belong here. Y’know dat doncha?” Mark said to me and Al who were sitting on the bleachers about 3 feet apart. There was prison decorum. Don’t get too close. And, you never say Goodbye, or I’ll see you later, if you get up and leave. No niceties.

I looked at Mark. He’d been told this by others here, from inmates to the COs.

“Yeah, well?” I said. I had my opinion about that. While I agreed with him it wasn’t for the reason he had in mind.

“Really,” he said, “we don’ belong here. I mean, you hear about the guy dey jes let go. He was in for 20 years for murda’ an’ -­ no, I’m sorry, attemptid murda. He tried to choke his mutha. So, they let him out and he goes home, sees his mutha, and he fuckin’ chokes her to death I mean, what the fuck were they thinkin’?”

“No shit?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Mark. “Okay, so I heisted a few things,” shaking his head, “but dese guys are killers, rapists, pedophiles, an’ ‘ey’re keepin’ US here?”

“Whole system is fucked up,” said Al. “Y’know dey got me so twisted. Wanned me to do ASAT. I sez I got no drinkin’ problem, no drug problem, an’ you wan’ me to do a drug program. What’s wrong with dis pictya’?”

“I know. The system is corrupt. They just want bodies,” I said.

“An’ dat broad who runs the program, she’s a lunatic. You gotta agree wid her or they fin’ somethin’ to hold against you. Listen, fuckem’ I’m just gonna max out, go back to Long Island, pack my shit, find my girlfren’, and move to North Carolina. Fuck it.”

Mark said, “Y’know, I was thinkin’ bout Charles the otha’ day.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Well, you know, he was doin’ what I do.”

“Equipment?” I asked. 

“Yeah, like Cats, y’know?” 

“Cats?”

“Yeah. One size fits all,” he laughed. “Caterpillar equipment name.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, y’know, Like, there’s no key. Mosta dem have no keys, y’know, s’contruction equipment. That’s why they fence ’em in.  Jes’ push the button and you take off. Lots a dem’re worth a couple hundred thousan’.”

“So, that’s what Charles was doing?”

“Yeah, he was doin’ business with the mob in Yonkers. Just gets into a yard, starts up a front loader or some otha’ piece and jes drives off.”

“What kind of money is that?” I asked.

“Oh, a coupla hundred’s not hard. But, y’know you only get maybe twenny pacen’ on what it’s worth. Lotta risk and decent money, but not like drugs or anythin’.”

“There’s that asshole, Law,” said Al, watching one of the COs that had a reputation for being irrational. I knew him from the Law Library. He wasn’t irrational. It was much simpler  than that. He was an inbred, North Country idiot. Plus he was vindictive and abusive. Like a lot of cops.

“I know, just stay away from him,” I said.

“Reminds me a the Probation woman, y’know who did the pre-sentencing report? She axes me if I did drugs or alcohol. I say no. So, she writes that I have a cocaine habit. I mean, what the fuck? She fuckin’ made it up. Now, that’s why they want me to do ASAT. Go figure?”

“They want $30,000 per body.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Al, “they’re such fuckin’ criminals.” 

“Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

There were few left in the Gym. The “Early Go Back” allowed  most of the 30 or so inmates to leave and now only 10 or so guys were left in the Gym. No one was jogging and there were only 4 or 5 left in the weight room. The two COs, Law and Aguirre, were leaning back, eating as usual, their bellies prominently displayed as they sat reading on their special lounge chairs in the corner of the court. There was a small piece of carpet under a table where they had the I.D. holder, used for inmates to place their cards in when they went into the weight room. 

The table with carpet under it and special lounge chairs where no one but COs could sit was the “office” which the two COs used to keep an eye on everything. Periodically, one of them would get up and walk into the bathroom to check things out — and did the same for the weight room where guys were lifting weights. 

It was a sign of macho behavior to pick up and literally toss dumbbells around weighing upwards of 100 pounds each.

“So, how many times you been in prison, Al?” I asked.

“This is my 4th bid,” he said. “An’ I ain’t comin’ back,” he laughed. “This is it, for me, I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

“How long each time?”

“Ah, I caught a 1 to 3, a 2 to 4, another 1 to 3, and now this, a 1 an’ a half ta 4 an’ a half. It’s bullshit. I tol’ you — I spilled some paint thinner and lit it ona groun’ an’ a cop nailed me for attempted arson. I says, ‘what’s th’big deal,’ an’ he says, ‘its less’n 20 feet from a buildin’, so I  gotta take ya in.’”

“Really?” I said, “for just a couple of feet you got prison?” 

“Yeah, ain’t that a fuckin’ shame?” he laughed.

“Well, you’ll get out of here.”

“Yeah,” he said, “better’n the guy in my dorm.” 

“What?”

“Guy in my dorm done 40 years a’ready and jus’ got hit at the Board again.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Innerestin’ guy tho’.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I hear he’s a serial killer. Supposed ta have raped a girl an’ killed ‘er, den raped ‘er  mother and killed her too.” He shook his head. “How do you figure? Why’d he haf ta kill em? 

“Y’know, I mean, I can unnerstan’ rapin’ ‘em, but killin’ ’em too?”

I was listening to someone who apparently felt that it would have been okay to have raped a mother and daughter. But, this was abhorrent because it was a twofer killing. There were some standards here, I mused.

“Yeah, I guess I see your point,” I said, trying to figure out what the appropriate response was to such gruesome crimes.

“Guy used to put ads in the paper to find women.” 

“What?”

“The guy used to put ads in the newspaper and get women to ansa’. Den he’d drive ’em to otha’ places, like Florida. He’d kill ’em afta he raped ‘em.”

“You mean he’d advertise for women who wanted to drive to Florida and rape them when they got there?”

“Yeah, I guess he needed someone with a car. He raped ’em afta he got there. Didn’t wanna do it til he got the ride, y’know?”

Apparently, it was all about convenience.

“Is that the guy they call ‘Animal’?” 

“Maybe, I dunno.'”

“He’s got a lot of bodies, I hear.”

“Yeah,” smiled Al. “Good artist, though.” 

“Artist?” 

“Oh, yeah. Does beautiful drawings. I was gonna’ buy one but he wanned fifty bucks for one a dem. I’m not payin’ 50 bucks. But, who knows, could be worth somethin’ in a few years. Paints really beoo-tiful flowers.”

“I see. Maybe he’ll have a show in SoHo someday?” 

Al missed my comment and continued. “But, y’know what’s weird is the books he has in his cube.”

“What do you mean?”

Al shook his head. “Y’know that book, ‘Silence a th’ Lambs?'” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s got dat and a few books about serial killers. Weird. He’s weird. I stay away from ‘im.”

“Really?” I said. “Maybe he’s just studying?”

“Yeah, he’s creepy though. An’ every once in a while some detective comes up and talks ta him. Axes ‘im if he wants ta help ‘em find any more bodies. An’ he always tells ‘em ‘I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about.’ Weird.”

“Guess he’s got a lot more bodies buried elsewhere.”

“Weird,” said Al, shaking his head. “But, you know, dey tol’ him. You ain’t never gettin’ out. Y’know?'”

“The Parole Board told him that?” 

“Tha’s what he sez.”

Mark, City, a/k/a BadaBing came over from the weight room as Al finished talking about his dorm-mate Animal.

“I dunno’, though, 40 years in ‘is place…” said Al. 

“Forty years?” asked Mark. “How about that guy Madoff? Got 150 years. Now they should do somethin’ about that. What’s the point a’givin’ someone 150 years?”

“Yeah,” said Al, “dey put ‘im in Florence where Gotti was.” 

Neither was true. But I’d learned to ignore many comments. 

“I’d heard that,” said Mark. “That’s dat Super-max in Colorado, ain’t it. Place is unnagroun’. No windows, nothin’. S’where dey put drug lords an’ terrawrists. Heard that Madoff complained an’ said, ‘What am I doin’ here wid dese people, which, I can unnerstan’ ’cause, hey, it was only money.”

“That’s what Nixon said.”

“Huh?” said Mark, staring at me strangely.

“I’m NOT a crook.”

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