“Every day above ground is a good day.”

–Tony Montana

As someone said to me a few days ago, “there’s not a lot of sympathy for people in prison these days.” That’s true. But, there is some sympathy for those of us on the outside — considering the fact that with no mental health treatment — as is the case in New York State prisons operated by DOCCS — inmates are released onto our streets and back into our neighborhoods. Not just thieves, drug dealers, con artsts and white-collar schemers but murderers as well. So take a brief glimpse at who your new neighbors will be and thank your local legislator for allowing the prison system to function without treating the people who are currently living in their home-away-from home.

Copyright: Confessions from the Gulag

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“How are you doing?” I asked Scott, the 50-something year old black guy who I worked with. He was slightly stooped forward, having previously complained of arthritis. It was a beautiful day and I was speed-walking since my knee was giving me trouble.

“Ah, I’m okay, jes’ gettin’ some exercise. A little walkin’ an’ a little runnin’.” His “exercise” seemed absurd.

“I hear you,” I said as I was passing by him and then decided to slow a bit. 

“Listen, Scott, what are you here for? This your first time?”

He laughed. “No, this is ma 7th bid.” 

“Holy shit,” I said. “Your seventh?”

“Yeah.” he said, as we continued around the track. 

“Jesus, how many years have you been in prison?”

“Altogether?” he said. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, ’bout 35.”

“Christ. What were they for? I mean, this last one?”

“Burglary. Jes’ small, petty shit. That’s how I lived alla this time. Stealin’ shit.”

I thought, ‘Well, no, you’ve lived in the prison system, what got you HERE is the burglary.’ “Stealing what?” I said.

“Oh, you know, bag a potato chips, anythin’ I wanned. But, it was the drugs that made me do it. I was on heroin for a long time then I switched ta crack. Tha’s what did it.” 

Moving up the ladder of success. “Crack’s that bad?”

“Well, ya gotta get mo’ of it allatime. So, ya gotta steal.” 

“How come you avoided that ‘Predicate Felon’ designation with all those convictions? And, how’d you avoid Robbery? No weapon?”

“Neva hadda weapon. But, dey still charged me wid Robbery. If you fight wid the security guy inna store they still kin charge you wid Robbery. But, you cain’ gota trial. You gotta take a plea.”

“I see. So, you always took a plea. So, what’s this bid?”

“Two ta four. S’always two ta four. I ain’t neva gone ta trial. Too dangerous.”

“I see.”

“If you’re Downey, Jr. ya kin get off widout any time an’ not hafta take a plea, but not guys like us.”

“He did coke though, didn’t he?”

“No, he was doin’ crack. Tha’s whad got ‘im. Nearly killed ‘is ass.”

At this point we were joined by another older guy going around the track. Scott was a bald-headed black guy and the new guy was a 60-something year old white guy with long, scraggly hair, needing a shave along with his gray hair. I thought it might have been Nassau, someone I’d met about two years ago in the Yard. The time hadn’t been kind to him and since he was doing a 20 year bid for what I presumed was murder. I vaguely remembered him talking about blood all over his clothes but trying to get The Innocence Project interested in his case. 

Unsurprisingly, he was from Nassau County on Long Island, a location that used to be known for corruption — but had been eclipsed by the more notorious Hamptons in Suffolk County — where political corruption had become an art form.

“Was that what Charlie Sheen was doing also?” I said.

“Yeah, he was fucked up on crack too,” said Nassau, with Scott nodding in agreement.

I pulled ahead of them speed walking and passed Montanez on the track. He was doing fairly well. No cane, moving along. I felt like I was in a movie about old-timers doing the marathon, or maybe the Special Olympics. Me, Montanez, Scott and Nassau. Nothing like a Scotsman among fellow horse thieves. 

For some reason, it made me think of my recent conversation with Cowboy, the night before after the Law Library.

We were heading back and he had just lit up his cigarette. He looked to be about 55 going on 80, needed a shave, thinning hair, slim, looking a little emaciated. I couldn’t quite figure him out. I’d asked Cowboy what he was down for and it never quite clearly came across. But, I knew it was serious because he’d been in prison for 30 years.

“What’s your bid for, Cowboy?”

“Oh, it was jes’ a misunnerstannin,’” he said  with his southern accent. I presumed that that was the reason for the ‘Cowboy’ nickname. And, there was no doubt in my mind that there really was some sort of a misunderstanding somewhere involving his bid.

“What happened?”

“Ow, we was atta bar, an’ one thin’ led ta anotha’ an’ allavasudden onea th’ guys haddis girl innis truck an’ y’know they was blood allova an’ ‘en th’police come an’ befo’ ah knew it, dey was tellin me it was ma fowt.”

“I see,” I said. Of course, I didn’t see, but I’d gotten the gist of it. Cowboy had  been charged with at least one murder and he was spending all of his time in the Law Library trying to overturn a conviction from 30 years ago. By himself. No outside attorney. Just a lot of cigarettes, persistence, and an unclear theory as to what the fuck he was doing. NOT a typical inmate who came to the Law Library to psychologically masturbate.

I had an outside attorney, a totally non-violent bid, and had spent about $100 grand on legal work and I couldn’t even get Work Release. There was no surprise that Cowboy had accomplished nothing in 30 years.

“Where’d  you do your time first, Cowboy?”

“Attica,” he said, as he took a deep drag on his cigarette being held by fingers that were yellow from nicotine.

“What was that like?”

“Well, let’s just say…” and as he spoke, he suddenly raised his arm as we were going along the walkway, and placed his fingers on my right arm. As he was on my right side he began to pinch my shoulder. “Let’s jus say that every day ah was so tense, fa twenny-two yeahs, that it was like pinchin’ a rock.” His fingers pinched me at that moment.

“Jesus,” I said, still looking at him as Cowboy finally released his fingers and put his arm down.

“Wassna day ya could relax. Fa twenny-two yeahs. Knifins’ every day. Killins too. Guys cuttin heads off…”

Cowboy took another puff, his yellowed fingers holding the butt and smoking it to the very last before he threw it onto the grass and they walked along.

Suddenly, I thought about the girl that Cowboy described as bleeding when the never-quite-fully-described “murder” that obviously took place thirty years ago and wondered what had really happened.

“By the way, that girl, what’d they say got her?” 

“Oh, she choked ta death.”

I looked at Cowboy’s nicotine-stained fingers again. He wondered where the bleeding came in. Had he choked her and then cut her throat?  I said, “Bad food, huh?”

“I guess.” he said.

“Well, have a good night.” 

Then I peeled off into my dorm as Cowboy lit another cigarette.