“He had long ago learned that society imposes insults that must be borne, comforted by the knowledge that in this world there comes a time when the most humble of men, if he keeps his eyes open, can take his revenge on the most powerful.”

— The Godfather

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Genet was known for his inverted pyramid in both literary and psychological terms. We live in a society where the Truth is perverted to force us to question our own perceptions and doubt our vision in order to adjust what we believe. This will pass. No matter how long it takes, no matter how painful it may be, and no matter what the cost.

Meanwhile, enjoy some of the lessons I learned. It’s instructive if not pleasant. There will be no journalistic rewards for my five years in “the trenches” but it gives one pause and perspective on what is important.

Copyright 2025 Confessions from the Gulag

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August 17th, 2015

While the Family Festival was a wonderful time to see my wife and children, the next day when I saw them in the Visit Room, the reality of our financial condition was unavoidable.

Rents on property that I still owned were not being collected and my favorite broker had been arrested. The Town of Southampton was clearly winning its vendetta against me for challenging their policies. It was now becoming a race against time in which it was nec­essary that I get out of there and start earning some money. As unlikely as that seemed.

Meanwhile, the prison bullshit continued. A long line of guys paraded in front of our dorm — streaming out of D-1, which was my former ASAT drug program dorm, all wearing handcuffs.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that I’d learned what happened. Apparently, one of the guys in ASAT had been caught with two ounces of K-2. Once that was found out, someone stole the guy’s razor and he finally went to CO Slaney. 

The shit hit the fan and nearly a third of the dorm was sent to the Infirmary with cuffs on for a piss test. I could just imagine the screaming going on as Slaney found out about it.

Later, I arrived at the new program I was taking to help support my Parole application; there were only about four guys in the ARP group which had eight circled seats. I waited for someone to start talking about something. Anything. When the conversation finally began it only seemed to be about one of the guys who appeared to be the group leader. He was a 35 year old black guy who’d just been released from the Box.

But, there was no leader and there was no agenda. This was the follow-up for those who successfully completed ASAT. 

Mitch, the guy who’d been abused and who was full of tattoos — whom I had counseled in ASAT — sat next to me. Cuba was also there. He’d strongly recommended that
I take this program to add to his list of in order to convince Parole of my dedication to reform and rehabilitation. And, Keef, the white guy who had beaten his wife and had an order of protection against him sat next to Mitch.

Their only words were, “What time is it?” along with confused looks.

“So, dey keep hittin’ me.” 

“Bud, evey time I gota da Board, I been gettin’ Tier two or Tier 3 tickeds,” said the 35 year old black guy.

“Whatsya bid?” said James, the 25 to Life black guy from my dorm. He was the one who felt it was necessary to teach me how to flush the urinal, at 71. HE had an ‘84 number. Meaning, he had a body and he’d been in prison since 1984. They’d hit him at the Board every two years since he’d hit his minimum.

“I gotta fi’ ta Life.” 

“How longya done?”

“I been in fa 20 yeahs.”

“Dey hit ya 10 times?” said James. He was referring to the Parole Board’s discretion in requiring another two years before he could be considered again for release. Previously, it had been a one year review before being eligible to see Parole again. That had been eliminated, no doubt, to lower costs for the State.

“Yeah.”

“Whenya gonna’ stop?”

“Stop? Lissen’ da las’ time I got 2 back ta back Tier 3’s fa fightin’ an’ I jes coun’ figa’ why.”

“Whaddyamean?” said another black guy. 

Apparently, I realized, it was a group primarily composed of killers.

Keef looked at me and I asked him again for the time. 

“We got another 15 minutes.”

“Ya jus’ gotta think. Ya gotta think befo’ you hit dat weed,” said one guy.

‘Cause tha’s gonna fuck you up, man,” said another black guy wearing a kufi.

“Lissen, man I was talkin’ ta a dude an’ he was so fucked up di udda day, I din’ evn wanna talk ta him. I was afraid da cop would think I was doin the stuff too. Ya gotta make a decision.”

Decision? I thought. What? Like whether to find a way to shoot up and avoid dealing with assholes? Was this the current state of mental health and substance abuse therapy? Apparently, this ASAT graduate, now doing a follow-up to hone his rehabilitation skills was not a good ad for Roddy’s or Massey’s social therapy efforts. Or for the State either. 

Here was the brilliance of social work intervention theory produced by people who’d never done time.

Here was a group of killers. Doing Group Therapy.

Bemoaning their continuing violent behavior and use of drugs which was hardly the plan and it confused me. Why was I here.

No one could or would be able to answer that question. Except to say, to retaliate against me for writing the Truth.

My bunkie wasn’t having a good day either. He’d gotten up and created one of his ‘Health Food’ concoctions and then got some bad news. He’d used an old peanut  butter jar and filled it with oatmeal, a scoop of peanut butter, a packet of cocoa mix, a large portion of Cap’n Crunch, and some protein powder. I called it the ‘Sinaloa Special.’ Lopez didn’t realize that it was all sugar. He actually thought it was healthy.

Apparently, Lopez had now also heard from the Feds. With very little understanding of what the fuck he ever said, since his English was minimal and fractured, he managed  to convey that “I am good on inside bud I am,” as he shook his hand, “nod goot owside.”

I had difficulty with what he was saying. He spoke Spanish, came from DR and, on top of that, was not a candidate for Mensa. So, I never knew whether I was talking to someone with a communication or intelligence problem.

“So, what’s wrong?” I asked him.

He looked at me blankly. “Dey go back ta before.”

Okay, ‘they go back to before.’ What does that mean?

“I can’t understand most of what Lopez is saying,” I said to Cuba. “What’s he here for?”

“Dey gotim wid 50 grams a heroin,” said Cuba. 

“In Manhattan?”

“Upper Eas’ Side.”

“So, he has a Federal case too?”

“Don’ know. But, lissen, bro’, tha’s an A-1 felony.”

I understood. I had my very own A-1 felony. 

Apparently renting houses to black or brown people in the Hamptons was the equivalent of selling heroin for the Sinaloan cartel.

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“Life is like a box of hand grenades. You never know what will blow you to Kingdom come.”

— Mario Puzo

August 20th, 2015

BOOM! BOOM!

BOOM!

My introduction to the day.

Apparently, they were testing armaments again at the Fort, only down the block — near where Agent Orange was produced and gave me cancer — as I later learned. The building shook. I was now definitely awake. There were furtive glances and smiles near the Bubble. The overnight cop was still sleeping in his chair. His hat fell off.

There had been a fight overnight in one of the dorms during the night.

Keef had some info. Brad, another young kid with a ponytail filled in a bit, Cuba had some intel, and I got some from the Yard as I listened to the comments of some of the inmates.

It was a beautiful, warm day and I dressed to speed walk. 

Until my leg healed or I got out of there, speed walking for 45 minutes was my replacement cardio.

“…so he hit’im anna cop went down. Knocked ‘im almost 5 cubes away,” the white kid yelled to his friend. He was laughing. “I coon’ believe it. Was great…”

I passed him and didn’t want to slow down. Long noses in prison were not a good idea. I’d already pushed my luck asking questions. No point in being obvious.

When I got back to the dorm I got more details.

Apparently, one of the cops, a guy named Simmons, known to be abusive and nasty, came on duty in CO Martin’s dorm and started to fuck with the guys over whose napkins they’d used.  They were the brown folded paper napkins given to each dorm for cleaning.

Simmons wanted to make the guys return them. Martin wouldn’t do it because, in reality, they were FOR the inmates. But, Simmons just wanted to fuck with them.

So, once Martin left, Simmons started being abusive.

“Lissen, you motherfuckers, get the fuck up. COUNT.”

Usually, the 11:00 p.m. Count, which comes on the heels of the 10:15 Count since a new CO is coming on duty, guys that have already gone to bed are allowed to remain reclined there and did not have to get up again. Simmons made everyone get up and stand up for this late Count. It was his way of harassing and irritating inmates.

He went around and had things to say to them, like “Get up motherfucker.”

Simmons reached a spot where an old-timer, a guy in his 40’s who was doing a 25 to Life bid, was standing. The black guy looked at Simmons and said, “You gonna fuck wid us again, mothafucker?”

The CO, caught off guard, asked, “What did you say?”

“I said, you gonna fuck wid us, mothafucka? Dis is what you do allatime, mothafucka.”

Simmons looked at him. The inmate was a very big, very capable black man, with not the slightest indication of fear and was glaring at the cop. So he did what any cop who is directly challenged in this prison did, he walked away and went to the bubble where he proceeded to pull the pin on his radio. Or, so the story initially went.

He didn’t immediately realize that the black guy was following him, however. And, suddenly he was set upon as he sat behind his desk.

“Oh, ya gonna call ya boys, huh?” he said. 

“Well, lemme help out wid somethin’ til they  ged here,” as he started to punch the shit out of the cop.

As big as Simmons was, he was supported by a spine of jelly and was essentially a bully and a coward as many of the cops in this prison were.   

“I wasn’t talkin ta you. I wasn’t  talkin’ ta you,” said the cop and with that fearful protestation he picked up the fan on his desk and was hiding behind it hoping to prevent the blows from hitting him in the face. But, it was useless, and the inmate had already hit him several times and the blood was shooting out from his broken nose. “Don’t, don’t, don’t….” he yelled, fearfully, trying to block the punches.

At this point, reinforcements began to arrive.

The first was a cop, named Coffey, who was about 40 years old and had an “I’m a tough guy” attitude. He used to work the Law Library hallway, you know, that dangerous location where all of the food is handed out for the fundraisers — and he was a dictator when he had that spot. Simmons was still cowering behind the fan that he used as a shield in the Bubble as Coffee came in.

The inmate had gone back to his cube waiting for the response team.

“Where is he?” said Coffey. And, when Simmons pointed to him and said “5 cube” Coffey headed to him.

Until, as Leslie Fiedler described it, ‘The Shock of Recognition’ set in. Coffey realized he was essentially alone and the inmate was a truly tough motherfucker. And, he was MAD. He also was described by others as having “No one at home.” He had a blank expression and wasn’t about to be fucked with. He didn’t care anymore. He’d been fucked with once too often. He was a Lifer and had nothing to lose. He just didn’t give a shit.

Coffey approached the inmate in his cube and the guy said, “Oh, you comin’ ta fuck wid us too? Here, mothafucka,” he said, and proceeded to punch the shit out of Coffey. In fact, the first time he hit him, the cop landed in the next cube. Over the cube wall into the next guy’s bed.

By the time he’d taken out Simmons and Coffey, the rest of  the cops showed up and he was restrained. No doubt they would beat the shit out of him.

“So, what’s going to happen to the guy?” I asked Cuba. 

“After they finish beating the shit out of him dey’ll probly giv’im a new charge. He’ll get five years and do three.”

“No shit?”

“Somebody’s gotta teach these mothafucka’s ta stop messin’ wid us.”