“When a stupid government is elected in a democratic country, the best thing about this is that you learn the number of stupid people in that country!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

As we all anticipate the mighty debate, we should look forward to a new administration for this Best of All Possible Worlds. Think of it. Either Kamala, the Vice President or The Donald, who we all know from his previous four years as President.

So, we’ll either have four more wonderful years of Harris as President. Or, four wonderful years of Trump as President, again.

Unless. Well, you know how complicated these things get.

Age is apparently no longer an issue since Biden dropped out. And Trump is only 78. Just a kid.

But, if things go smoothly and The Donald wins, as many suspect, since the popular vote is irrelevant, perhaps he might decide to retire shortly before or after there are pardons all around, including for himself, unless Vance refuses to give him one. Right?

We’d then have a youthful, vibrant, J.D. Vance to lead us all into 2025.

You see. Democracy works!.

“– How odd that it should end this way for us, after so many stimulating encounters. I almost regret it. Where shall I find a new adversary so close to  my own level?

– Try the local sewer.”

–Raiders of the Lost  Ark (1981)

My sojourn in a New York State prison was instructive in so many ways it defies description. But I try. As the pundits consider awarding Trump prison time — which will never happen — they’ve commented that even with 34 felonies (I beat him by 10) the D.A. and judge have the option to sentence no jail time. Unjfortunately, in my case, having exposed corruption in the Town of Southampton and District Attorney’s office they couldn’t wait to ship me off to prison. But, since I was not being sent to a Federal Camp where Bannon, Manaforte, Cohen or other non-violent and dubiously guilty white collar guys went and go and where Piper Kierman did a few months before making millions with Orange is the new Black — I was kept in State prison. Even the D.A. himself, Thomas Spota got a camp plus 5 years for his crimes — after destroying my family for exposing him.

Real medical or mental health treatment does not exist in the State prison system.

A-Fib and Multiple Myeloma plus Civil Death were my gifts from the State.

_____________________________________________________________________________

April 9th, 2015

“Dr. Kasulke will be with you in a minute,” said the nurse. I woke up at 3:30 am after 4 hours of sleep. I was a wreck. I went back into the Infirmary waiting room where there were at least 15 guys sitting  waiting.  In addition to them, there were cops escorting several others into the bathroom and going with them, wearing plastic gloves and holding specimen cups. One cop knocked on the bathroom door,  since there was only one for the usual pit stops, testing, and any other uses, and before the guy was finished he opened the door — just as the guy was apparently wiping his ass and had  barely enough time to grab  his pants. He came out with unbuckled pants, looking sour faced but could say nothing to the huge, brawny, 300  pound cop who  had a cup in one hand and was waving to an inmate with cuffs  and shackles on his feet into the toilet.

It was mayhem. My  heart  was  pounding  with anxiety, stress and lack of sleep.

Along another wall were about 20 guys waiting for their urine tests since one of the dorms had  been busted this morning.

On top of that, Plowman, the C.O. was eating his sausage sandwich. He barked at anyone who talked or did not follow any rule he’d thought up at that particular time in the morning. I hid on a far bench by the soda machine that was only there for cops and civilians. A constant presence of food and sodas that inmates couldn’t have.

In the midst of this they would be taking my blood pressure.

“MacPherson,” called the nurse. “The reading was 163 over 93.” The doctor had come into the room and since I liked him, I felt comfortable talking to him with the nurse in the room.

“Your blood pressure^’s high.”

“It’s the the lower number I’m concerned about. Have any idea why it goes up like that?” 

I looked at him. Was  he kidding? Was he serious? 

I bet the  passengers on the Titanic were probably wondering if the ship was sinking as the water rushed in, but, then, there WAS this iceberg. Was the doctor not looking around? Was he suffering from dementia?

“Maybe it has something to do with being in prison?” I said, with a straight face, as the nurse looked on.

“Yeah, I suppose so, but, I’m here too,” he offered with a hint of humor. “When are you getting  out?”

“I have a Merit Board and a Work Release application going in next month.”

“How are YOU?” I said, remembering his aneurysm.

“Oh, I’m okay right now, except for the fact that when I  touch the top of my head it feels like I’m gripping a bowling ball,” he said, raising his hand over his head to put three of his fingers with a bowling ball grip and inserting them into the top of his head. It was bizarre. They had drilled into his brain to repair the  damage.

I laughed. Then he waxed  philosophical  after writing a new prescription for a different medication. 

“You familiar with Henry the Eighth? There’s a great show right now at the Metropolitan  Museum of Art?” he said.

That was good to know.

“Well, actually, I can’t catch that right now,” I said, smiling, “and my tastes run more to Larry David instead.” I left out George Carlin and Lenny Bruce.

The nurse burst out laughing. The doctor was confused. 

He continued looking for the right holes on his head for his fingers to prove he’d had the surgery.

“I guess you’re familiar with Curb Your Enthusiasm?” I said to the nurse. She nodded.

“What  do  you like  about HIM,” said  Kasulke, smiling. 

“Oh, I guess it’s the sarcastic humor. Not that I’d ever display that here, of course.”

I’d hoped he would eventually find the right fit for his fingers as he continued to grope the dome of his head.

He was a little confused. But, since his “event” he did get confused at times. He was a General in the Reserves and now, after having had the aneurysm, he always had a nurse in the room with him. It was not a gynecological  exam, but one would hope that he knew WHICH medication he was prescribing. 

“Are there any side effects from this medication?”  I  asked.

“No, just a little cough, if that. Otherwise, it’s completely benign.“

What were the chances, as he was poking himself  in the head, looking for holes that he chose the right medication for me? 

He continued groping his scalp with one hand and wrote a prescription with the other.

“Well, a little cough wouldn’t bother me.” I said, and then thought, as long as I don’t blow a lung out at people through my nostril.

I remembered how F.X. Doyle, the sentencing judge who refused to allow any delays – forced me to remove the heart monitor I was wearing to detect the cause of my arrhythmia. 

It didn’t matter that I was here for exposing corruption or that none of my crimes weren’t actually crimes. Once you took a plea, you were guilty. You were definitely fucked. There was no going back in the New York State criminal justice system. That’s why bribery, extortion, intimidation, financial destruction, threats and defamation are used to extract a plea from you. One there’s a plea, innocence is irrelevant.

As it turned out I’d had atrial fibrillation and nearly had a stroke due to this little medical oversight – which they knew about but ignored. And, the lack of feeling in my lower extremities caused no questions to be asked. The fact that the prison was located in a cancer cluster and that Agent Orange still infected our water was ignored. However, the judge lectured me that the medical treatment in the New York State prison system was quite adequate. 

For him. Not me.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of faliure”
― Dan Quayle

In an effort to beautify SoHo the courts have again come to our rescue. I remember the heated arguments at Community Board #2 where most of the members were Greenwich Village residents. SoHo fought vociferously for a dog run and finally SoHo got one. Except it was operated by a hotel and you had to pay a hefty fee for your animal to relieve itself. Other than that there’s the Hudson River Park where you have to wait an hour to use the tennis courts and risk Canal Street and West Side Highway freeway traffic to get there.

But the appellate courts have ruled. And, after all, the basketball courts which are next to ModernHaus Hotel (formerly The James where the Moondance Diner lived for decades), the only accessible place to play sports in SoHo — will reopen in 2026.

By then arthritis will prevent me from playing.

_____________________________________________________________________

Dear Don,

In a split decision last week, the state’s highest court, the Court of Appeals in Albany, ruled in favor of the city’s argument that destroying our Elizabeth Street Garden would have no significant impact on the neighborhood or its environment. 

The six judges in favor churned out a brief boilerplate decision only four pages in length, rubber-stamping the city’s claim.

Their ruling appears to be a trend in that court, which usually agrees with the city in community litigation, reluctant to buck the system even when the obvious is staring them in the face.

On the other hand, the one dissenting judge, Jenny Rivera, wrote a well-researched and reasoned 24-page decision, noting the the city failed to take a “hard look” at the incredible lack of green space in our community and the need for the city to adhere to the Paris Climate Accord to which it has signed on in this age of climate change.  

However, the fight to save the garden is not over and the legal team is considering all remaining options.

What Can You Do?

Send this pre-written letter to Mayor Adams insisting he stop the evictions and save the garden. URGENT:

WRITE THE MAYOR

136,971 letters have already been sent. The goal is 200,000.

Make a tax-deductible contribution to the legal fund. 

DONATE

SPREAD THE WORD: Please Forward This Email to Friends and Neighbors

Sincerely,

Sean Sweeney

Director

SoHo Alliance

A Volunteer Community Association

PO Box 429

New York, NY 10012

212-353-8466

“I don’t believe there’s any problem in this country, no matter how tough it is, that Americans, when they roll up their sleeves, can’t completely ignore.”
― George Carlin

So, I’m crossing Broadway, a block north of Csnal Street. You know, that vast melting pot of traffic — of cars heading to and from the Holland Tunnel. The exit and entrance from and to New Jersey where cars move along trying to hit as many SoHo residents as possible. Police avoid any confrontations or waste time handing out tickets to this crowd. In fact, Traffic Agents will tell you,”Oh, we don’t give out tickets. That’s another unit. That’s a special operation.”

Keep in mind that I started writing about this 25 years ago. About crosswalks that are blocked by cars, vehicles that line up and prevent parents from crossing the street with carriages and 6 inches between bumpers.

So, anyway, the crosswalk was blocked by Spectrum trucks and I headed across Broadway about 30 feet south only to be met by a car speeding along in the Bus lane. He hit me and kept going until he was stopped by the Canal Street traffic. Once I got up I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the fleeng criminal.

A Hit and Run!

I called the police. Two mid-fifties women arrived and called an ambulance for me. And, then the interrogation began. Where was I going? Who was I? Why didn’t I cross at the green? Did I want an ambulance? Why was I in the Bus Lane? I looked at the two cops. Were they trying out a scene from Cagney & Lacey?

After pointing to the Spectrum trucks who were still blocking the crosswalks, I said “Where was I supposed to cross?” They didn’t like that confrontational question. Then, I asked, “Are you going to find out who hit me?” A short snort emanated from Cagney and then Lacey looked at her partner — at each other — and Cagney said, “You’ll have to talk to the Detectives about that. We’re just here to get the facts.?” Their eyes glazed over when I showed them the photo of the car that hit me. When I asked about accessing the various MTA and sundry Terrorism cameras all around us as they looked at each other and then turned to me with a blank look. “Oh, you’d have to get permission to access them.”

Shades of Jack Webb and Dragnet flashed before my eyes.

We agreed that I’d have to head over to the 1st Precinct and file a report. After a few more questions during which hostility seeped through from my interrogators, I was hoisted onto an ambulance. My right side and wrists were painful but I didn’t think anything was broken. And, after a joyful, bouncing ride to the replacement for St. Vincent’s Hospital on 12th Street – I headed home.

Believing the police, FBI, NCIS, and spy shows I watched on T.V. I began my investigation since the plate number wasn’t clear on the fleeing vehicle. And, to augment my rage over the lax, disinterested treatment pedestrians received in SoHo I also sent letters to our political representatives and to Community Board #2 and its Traffic Committee. I was on a mision.

At the 1st Precinct, where visitors receive a more hospitable welcome than at Trader Joe’s, I asked the civilian employee who handled inquiries if I could talk to the Detectives about finding the Hit and Run driver. She informed me that the Detectives could not be bothered with such a matter.

“They only meet with people if there’s a murder.”

After staring at her for a few seconds and viewing the potpourri of waiting complainants sitting beihind me in a daze, I left. There was, as yet, no murder to report. Only a Hit & Run in SoHo. Nothing new.

This began my adventure. I called and wrote to politicians: Assemblymember Glick, Senator Kavanaugh, Representative Nadler, Senator Schumer, the Chair of Community Board #2 and the Traffic Committee. Then I called and wrote to the MTA, Police Department,and FBI.

Nothing. No response other than — that I should file a FOIL request. Apparently, the T.V. shows were full of shit. There were no special units that could generate plate numbers to help victims locate perps.

DOT, Civil Rights Commission, Motor Vehicles, MTA, Small Claims Court, DHCR, HPD, Police Department, FBI, NYC Bar Association, Community Board, Loft Board, to name a few.

DeBlasio had reportedly hired over 300,000 city workers to support City agencies in assisting residents. And, the politicians ran on supporting SoHo, among other communities.

Just watch your ass. None of the agencies are here to help you in SoHo.

But I did get a $2,000 bill from the hospital for the ambulance which I hadn’t called — the police did. Now it’s in collections.

Stay Tuned.

“What we were after now was the old surprise  visit. That was a real kick and good for laughs and lashings of the old ultraviolence.”

— A Clockwork  Orange (1971)

Among the fun times in prison were what is called a Shakedown. It’s sort of a mini version of a prison riot except that it’s one-sided. It’s not the C.O.s versus the inmates, who are now lovingly known as Offenders, so as not to hurt their feelings. It’s really the cops going after the Offenders simply to punish them for being in prison. The entire process is intended to abuse, harass, and teach — retaliation for being there.

For the most part, it does not rise to the level of prison riot behavior which is both dangerious and life-threatening. The facility I had the pleasure of living at for nearly five years had only had one genuine riot. Rifles were used, inmates were beaten, people died and the C.O.s in the Tower got to practice with their new scopes–a regular occurrance at other Maximum Security prisons.

This was not a Federal Camp where people like MIchael Cohen (Otisville) or Bernie Madoff (Butner) or even Piper Chapman (Orange is the New Black) spent time playing tennis if they were not relegated to the Box as Cohen was. Chapman did less than a year, and made millions, Cohen did two years and Madoff died in prison.

_______________________________________________________________________________

March 24th, 2015

I had a good feeling.

It should have been an omen.

LaGault, the night cop, was up turning on lights as soon as he felt he’d had enough sleep. Despite the fact that I’d had to visit the bathroom and then had to listen to at least 6 different rings from the phone on his desk in the bubble which kept me from falling back to sleep, I did manage to get almost 7 hours. That was at the top of my prison wishlist.

Why did it matter to this cop?

He had a thing for Moussa (the obese french guy) and his pathetic PT that was an even more ridiculous attempt at exercise than normal.

LaGault actually was bothered by the fact that guys did not get out of bed at 6:30 and did not join in on real exercise when he called PT. So, this morning, he joined us and did real squats and real arm-stretches.

Of course, Moussa was unable to do this because he was too fat and too out of shape.

He was laughing in his peculiar Franco-African way, and, of course, no one else followed because they just refused to do any exercise at all at 6:30 in the morning. A few of us did, as I did. So, the cop sat down and wrote tickets for people sleeping in ASAT.

After going to Gym and working out and listening to Al and Trauma continue to ridicule my running and “Godfather” image, which  I ignored and  for which they soon apologized  since I wouldn’t talk to them when they did it, I headed  back to the dorm for ASAT after lunch.

ASAT started out fairly normally. There were no readings from the A.A. books — which I always found ridiculous since only Dierberger and Roddy, the counselor, did alcohol and neither was there in the Information segment. We went right into “Education” which was read by Green. It was another segment on Friendship and Loyalty. But, then we broke down into two groups.

The first part was to work on our “Easter Bunny” rap song.

I sat there listening to lines of so-called rhyming ‘poetry’ involving  the Easter Bunny. Reality was funny, not the rapping.

I’d come so far with this ludicrous busy-work, that I no longer took umbrage. Nothing surprised  me at this point. You want a rap song? Fine. You want a rap song about the Easter Bunny? No problem. You want a rap song about the Easter Bunny going through Relapse and Recovery? Piece of cake.

At this point little surprised me in stretching a history of no drugs or substance abuse to fit any kind of scenario to get the fuck out. I was doing just that.

So, when I sat opposite Sal, in the second of our little workshop groups and had to “interview” him about “Support Groups” for Relapse and Recovery which we had never even discussed before, I never thought twice about it.

“What can a support group do for you?” I said, staring into Sal’s face.

“Well, they could probably get me drugs faster,” said Sal, looking at me with a twisted smile.

“C’mon Sal we gotta do this.”

“So, why is this so important?” I coaxed him to get into the mood of this absurdity.

“Oh, so I can hang myself with an appreciative audience?”

I shook my head and we did a few straight lines in order to make Roddy happy and avoid some kind of retribution for not finishing the assignment.

We were saved after only about 10 minutes and were told to circle around. We had another Delbert Boone video to endure.

I sat quietly through the video which lasted about 45 minutes and at its end there were some questions and answers with Roddy joking with Green who was leaving in two days, and Brisco — two guys who had  become more vociferous in the program. Of course, they kept their snide remarks about Roddy until after the ASAT sessions.

We all picked up our chairs after having another bullshit discussion about what Delbert Boone conveyed to all of us. Nothing. It was the usual platitudes about Relapse, Recovery, the need for the 12-Step program, yada, yada, yada.

It wasn’t until we were filing through the door with our chairs into the dorm that something happened.

I’d gotten as far as my cube when I suddenly heard  Roddy come into the dorm, screaming about what someone had said to her, to Slaney, the C.O. Then she went out to the Rec room again and we all heard her saying,

“I TAKE THIS VERY PERSONALLY,” she screamed. 

Green could be heard saying something to her and she continued. 

“NO I’M SORRY, I TAKE THIS VERY VERY PERSONALLY. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THIS. THIS IS IT! 

She became hysterical.

“What the fuck happened?” I said, looking at Mitch, the suicidal guy whose mother had traded him to pedophile boyfriends for drugs as a 3 year old. sitting across from me. While I could no longer legally do psychotherapy and had both experience and a 20 year psychoanalysis (since New York State imposed a licensing law) both Roddy and her partner assigned me to handle his “case.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

A couple of the guys filtered back into the dorm from the Rec room and she went up to Slaney again and he spoke to her and then made a call as she ran out of  the dorm.

“What the fuck happened?” I asked Henry as he was coming in from listening to Green talk to her.

“Somethin’  about pussy,” said Henry, shaking his head. I went out to the Rec room and saw Mike, the Coordinator.

“What the fuck happened?” I asked him.

“One of these shitheads decided to repeat the line from a rap song, “I smell your pussy” as he was going past her into the dorm. And, she got crazy. This isn’t going to be good. Then Slaney called  the Sergeant. They’re probably  gonna do a shakedown. So, get ready.

Everyone started removing shit from their cubes. Lights, fans, devices that they’d bought illegally from other guys and didn’t have permits for – permits you get when you buy from an approved online store your family can afford to send to you or from Commissary. All the shit out of their lockers that were considered contraband, like yogurt that I’d gotten earlier or the milk that Sal or Cuba had gotten for me in the Mess Hall. I made sure that all of my medication was in the proper envelopes with my name on it, clearly visible. All of my vegetables had to be retrieved from the Ice Man, in case his locker was raided and all of my food destroyed OR taken and thrown away.

Slaney got a phone call. It was the Superintendent. He spoke with her and then got off the phone and called “COUNT,” and then spoke out loud. 

“In case any of you don’t know what happened, some asshole decided  to say a few lines from a rap song that included, ‘I  smell your pussy,’ in it and said it to Roddy. The Superintendent said she was thinking of dropping everyone from the ASAT program over this.”

Everyone was now standing and there was quiet. I could hear the pounding in my temples and could feel my heart racing. I was 71 and worried about a stroke of heart attack. The oldest guy in the prison.

I briefly reminded myself of the 7 hours of sleep. Safety? Protection? Everyone was watching at the windows.

“You guys are probably going to get a visit. So, be prepared.”

“Here they come,” said Sal, looking out the window to the walkway. Everyone tensed.

It took no more than 10 minutes for the 15 cops that came through the door. They all had already put on their latex gloves. And, as they came into the Rec room, they threw the garbage cans around, ripped things off of the wall, banged  the cans and threw anything in their way across the Rec room. Then they entered the dorm.

There were three Sergeants and more than ten regular C.O.s, who said nothing but looking at pieces of paper and then headed for particular cubes.

Then it began.

Henry’s cube was hit first. The cop opened his lockers and threw everything on his obsessively neat shelves which had been folded and stored, on the floor, banging the metal doors and flipping over the entire locker. 

Loud crashes and booms could be heard as metal hit the floor. Several other cubes got the same treatment. Sal’s cube, Hiller’s cube, Moussa’s cube — along with many others. There was silence, except for the systematic destruction of personal possessions. A few guys were taken into the shower and a couple out the front door of the building where scuffles and yells were heard in the silent dorm. Some guys looked at each other.

We could hear muffled screams from the shower room.

Shortly after, an ambulance pulled up. We all knew that this was the same vehicle that doubled for use heading to the morgue as well as the Infirmary or the hospital.

Sometimes things went a little too far and got out of hand. But it kept the cops in shape. Just lilke the Suffolk County prosecutors who taught activists and journalists a lesson about Truth.

I could feel my heart pounding but I simply stood and stared in front of me while it was going on. I made no attempt at eye contact  or to look at what was happening.

After half an hour of destruction, threats, and a few beatings which occurred out of view, the cops finished up. The place looked like a ransacked homeless shelter — which it was.

I nervously left for work. Everyone behind me had to clean up the mess and I had fortunately been spared the destruction of my things. However,  I no longer had an Ice Box. All of the ice had been thrown out by D.J. before the cops came. Had he not done that and had they picked his cube, the food would have been thrown all over the floor and he would have had  to explain — who it belonged to and why he had it.

“So, you guys did something stupid today and we’ve come to let you know that you can’t talk to women and civilians the way you have. If this continues. We’ll  be back,” said the short Sergeant.

Of course, this instruction apparently only applied to inmates. I’d vaguely remembered hearing about one C.O. who blew his wife’s head off with his shotgun and reported her having committed suicide. He got away with it.

There was an audible sigh of relief just before I went to work. The groans and complaints were starting to come through in muffled sounds.

“Christ my heart was pounding,” I said.

“Me too,” said a tall black 20-something kid. “I’m leavin’ in 13 days. Man, I don’ need this. I’m a wreck as it is, worryin’ about anythin’ comin’ up ta fuck up my release.”

“Hey, don’t look for sympathy, you’re leaving in 13 days.”

Of course, I knew I had an arrhythmia but my A-fib had not yet been officially diagnosed. The sentencing judge, Suffolk County’s alcoholic Judge F.X. Doyle would not allow me to complete my heart monitor test before I was incarcerated. At the behest of the Town of Southampton and D.A. Spota, they were in a rush to stop me from writing. Not to mention the poisoning which the cops themselves knew emanated from the cancer cluster caused by Agent Orange production and mine effluent in the water — which we were all forced to drink.

“Ya should always have sympathy,” he said, smiling.

“Fuckin’ Green. They broke my lamp AND my fan. Fucked up all my shit. Fuckin’ guys.” Henry was pissed off.

Green was widely blamed for this. He’d spoken the words of a Fifty Cent song which Moussa later told me,

“I smell your pussy,

   That you Jah,

   I smell your pussy, 

   That you Erv…”

I had no clue that the song even existed, My favorite was still ‘Fuck You’ by Katy Perry.

But, the Keystone Kops. The C.O. crew, upon reflection, were a notch above – considering it WAS prison, after all. But, still I was terrorized.  At my age? Jesus Fucking Christ.

Luckily, I didn’t know that with A-fib, it easily could’ve killed me.

March 28th, 2015

Things had started to return to normal after ‘The Terror.’ There were no more shakedowns or urine-test round-ups. And, no one else had been called down or arrested as a result of the tests that had been done.

The way the system worked was that you were called down or brought down, as had been done when they came en masse and taken the 21 guys during the week, and then they all gave urine samples. If you had a problem producing, you had 3 hours to get it moving. After that, you went to the Box, regardless of what the reason was. In my case, since I had a urinary problem, I could be clean and still go to the Box for not producing. Guilt didn’t matter. Innocence didn’t matter. Only test results mattered.

They had 24 hours to do the test and when the results were in, they acted.

Unless.

Unless they froze it.

“You mean, you could take the test and have it be positive, like have ‘dirty urine’ and not be charged with it for weeks?”

“Dat’s it bro’,” said Cuba, “dey can fuck wid you weeks later after you think it’s all ova.”

“Nice.”

But, of course, that wasn’t MY problem. I’d never done drugs, and only was concerned with not being able to produce with some white upstate cop staring at my dick while trying to give him some of my best urine. The urge to piss on their shoes was strong.

But, the fear was subsiding, unlike the winter weather. It was, of course, snowing again. I felt like I was stuck in Bad Santa’s Workshop in Antarctica.

Stalin’s Gulag came to mind. The Town of Southampton had planned to fuck me and did a good job.

It’s no place for old Journalists

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

The writer is the engineer of the human soul.
— Joseph Stalin

There was literally no limit to the number of guys who were trying to get into ASAT, the drug program, while in prison. It had nothing to do with recovery or addiction. It was all about qualifying for early release. The guys who were accepted to the program were either drug dealers, addicts, rapists or even killers looking for an easy out. I’d signed up hoping to get some good material along with shaving some time off of my sentence and escape without being attacked or killed. There were some dicey moments and circumstances but I got what I was hoping for. without paying a price.

_______________________________________________________________________________

March 19th, 2015

We’d had two “Life Stories” in the last couple of days in ASAT. Lynch, the young kid from Harlem, and Henry, the dealer, gave us a lengthy performance.

Henry talked about his days as a drug dealer, drug user and disappointments as a child and as a father. He’d been abandoned  by his own father when he was 9 years old even though his father lived only a few blocks away from him. He’d made several attempts to see him and reconcile with him but, apparently, his father wasn’t interested.

So, to help the family survive, he turned to selling drugs. A few things stood out about his heartfelt description of his life and the transparency of his story.

“Ma dauda was 15 when I was in prison the firs’ time. An’ my baby momma was livin’ wid dis dude who hit my dauda — an’ killed her.”

The Rec room, the ASAT group, was silent.

“An’ when I foun’ out, I coun’ do nothin’ so I waited until I got out. An’ den I traveled an’ got a hotel room where dey were living and went tada prison where he was.” Henry stopped briefly.

“Bud, I coun’ ged in. So, I jes left.” 

“What were you gonna do?” said  Green.

“I was gonna do whateva,” he said, seriously.

“So, I was sellin’ drugs an’ makin^‘  good money. Sometimes, $10,000 a week, livin’ good, usin’ and increasin’ whad I used. By th’ time I stopped I was doin’ 10 bags a day. It was up there.”

“You gonna go back to usin’ an’ sellin’ when you gedout,” said Cuba.

I smiled to myself and wondered about the job prospects for someone used to making $10,000 a week. At 71 with 44 felonies, 30 years of education and a new license required to be a therapist, I’d be lucky to become a dog-walker. Or worse, a writer on social security with no agent.

Henry smiled and said, “I’m gonna try an’ get a job. But, I’m not gonna lie. I gotta do what I gotta do. As far as usin’? I’m gonna’ try an’ stay clean. When I stopped, after they arrested  me it wasn’t pretty.”

“What was it like,” said Lynch.

“Took me 3 1/2 weeks. I had diarrhea fa all dat time, couldn’ eat, chills an’ stomach  pains, shittin’ an’ pissin’ an’ throwin’ up, couldn’ sleep, nightmares, hot one minute, cold the nex’.”

“Then what?” said Green.

“After dat I started ta eat. But, I was snortin’ it ya know.  My nose is all fucked up from it.”

Henry had done a good job and told us all about his extensive family life, his drug use, and his drug sales.

The next day, an officer came around and asked for Henry to accompany him to the Infirmary. He was the only one to be taken out. He was being subjected to an unannounced “piss test.”

So much for the promised confidentiality in ASAT. They were teaching Trust, after all.

Assuming you believed anything that anyone told you who worked for the prison. Henry wasn’t fooled and I said, “You know, Henry, even Corleone in The Godfather, said, ‘There are no coincidences.’”

“I know.”

So Henry went up to Roddy the next morning, and said, “You know, Ms. Roddy, the day after I did my Life Story, I had a piss test.”

“I didn’t tell them to do that,” said Roddy, defensively. “If I had, I wouldn’t have done it the day after you told your story.”

“Bullshit,” I said, to Henry, later. “She told Massey and then Massey called it in, allowing Roddy to tell you that SHE didn’t do it.”

Lynch did his Life Story and spent an hour talking about how he started causing trouble in school by the age of 8 years old and was thrown out. Who gets thrown out of elementary school, I thought. But he went on, describing his “girlfriend” whom he had lost to his friend and then made a bet with him — that he’d get a new belt and his girlfriend back — if he won the bet.

He was now 22 and talked about his first bid, at 15 when he did 4 years for a gun charge. Apparently, he’d started shooting people at the age of 13 and developed  a reputation as a killer.

Lynch was about 5’5” tall and just seemed like a typical, smiling, young black kid. He was pleasant and friendly. But, he was a little off. You could tell. Something wasn’t quite right. It could have been the cultural thing but then he described a meeting he had with a guy who owed a friend of his some money.

“I started carryin’ a gun. Den, one day we was walkin’ along an’ my fren’ says, ‘Yo, dere’s da dude who took da money an’ drugs.”

“So we goes upta ‘im an’ I says, ‘Yo, my niga, you got some money fro’ my fren’ an’ his stash, he wans it  back.'”

“So, what happened?” said Green, smiling mischievously.

“I goes ‘cross da street, an’ he sees me, an’ I start firin’ ad ‘im.”

A few guys are laughing now at this report of street violence. “I stahted taget a rep an’ when some shit happened dey’d call me taget involved,” he said  smiling.

“But, y’know, at leas’ nine a my frens is deyd. I gotta stop that shit.”

We had a break and Lynch turned to me and said, “You listenin?” 

“What?” I said, since I along with mostly everyone else had said nothing at all during his story. I was fighting off falling asleep after having awakened  at 4 a.m. with “MESS HALL WORKERS GOIN OUT.”  I couldn’t get back to sleep after that and was sleep deprived.

“You hear ma story?” I looked at him, this 22 year old assassin with a serious, deranged look but I answered him.

“Yeah, I heard it,” and turned back to see everyone heading to the bathroom break.

“Whad I say?”

“What do you mean?” I said to him.

“Tell me one thing that you heard?” He had a slight grin on his face.  I looked at him. “Well, you had an 8 year old girlfriend.”

“What else?” he said.

I looked at him. 

“What is this a test?” 

“Yeah,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t take tests,” and headed to the bathroom. 

There was always risk.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“I’m just saying that statistically, a psychopath is more likely to end up as a CEO than a serial killer.”
― Jennifer Lynn Barnes

For nearly five years I spent as much time as I could in the prison Law Library. It wasn’t my affection for the law that found me there every day, it was a typewriter. Not a computer. There were no computers. Unlike Federal prison, the State does not provide computers or email accounts and while phones are available access was often controlled by the Bloods, Latin Kings, MS-13 or Hells Angels.

But, the Law Library was a sanctuary where there was the real possibility of putting together a set of papers that would get an inmate released. Few managed that but on occasion it did happen. It was also a place where, with some assistance at a price, you could file papers to obtain a divorce. But none of those options interested me. I was there to write. For more than four years I recorded as many stories, as much dialog and captured as much information as possible — nearly 10,000 pages of a reality that I’d never known growing up.

But, there was danger. I was surrounded by killers and psychopaths who, had they seen what I was writing about — their conversations, actions and opinions, it could have hastened my release. Perhaps, In a body bag.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“Remember,” said Lamont, the Administrative Clerk, the ‘anguis in herba’ who ran the Law Library, “shit flows downhill.”

He was referring to problems with paperwork coming from the Box, where the officers weren’t taking care of the distribution of legal materials. Legal materials were part of a court-ordered right that all prisons had to be careful not to violate.

We had several guys now in the Library. There was Rivera, a 40-something year old inmate with a shaved head which sported a 5 o’clock shadow. He was a bit chunky and had a perversely pleasant demeanor. He’d ask me how I was on a regular basis and then would make some kind of remark that would belie his subconscious intention, which was, essentially, to kick me in the  head.

HIS original crime was the stabbing murder of a kid in his neighborhood who’d supposedly had been terrorizing some of his friends when he was a teenager. So, to “protect” them, he stopped the aggressor from doing any more harm. He stabbed him 35 times and left him to die.

Of course, there was no such explanation that made him look good with his second killing. THAT had taken place in a prison Law Library where he worked as a clerk, as he did now eight feet away from me, where I sat typing. A relaxing environment. Like SoHo or the Hamptons. Apparently, there had been words and Rivera decided that the guy wasn’t observing the usual rule to keep quiet. 

So, he killed him by beating him over the head. 

Both of his sentences were coming to an end at the same time and soon he would be dropped off at one of the New York City shelters. 

Rivera was not a good prospect for living in the community. He took umbrage at the slightest remark that he interpreted as uncomplimentary. He was accusative and attacking and was surprised when anyone acted as if he’d made a disparaging  remark.

He was a time-bomb ready to explode at any moment.

Then there was Charlie, a black guy in his fifties, who was affable and friendly at times. He was a bit stiff and wore his hair like Angela Davis. It was styled like a chia  plant that was three or so inches high. 

He handled the divorce packets in the Law Library. Like Charlie, many inmates no longer wanted to be married. So, he did the paperwork and charged $150 for his work. He managed this quid pro quo by arranging to have inmates’ families deposit money directly into his Commissary account.

HE, himself, was an expert on the subject of divorce and separation. 

Charlie determined that his wife had been cheating on him, even though they were already divorced. So he decided to teach her a lesson. He shot three bullets into her vagina with a .357 Magnum destroying her internal organs. Her date escaped out of a window fully naked. Then Charlie wrapped her in a rug and threw her body in the East river.

This was his version of a “quickie” divorce.

He’d already done 30 years when I met him and Parole still had some doubts about the wisdom of releasing him. Among the clerks he became know as “the pussy killer.”

Charlie had earned a Master’s degree in Ministry while in prison and was planning to be a Preacher in the South where his uncle was a pastor. His plan was to take over the church when he was released. I wondered abut his sermons to the unsuspecting flock.

Tony also had recently joined us. He was a Carolinian. North we believed. And he had already spent 9 years in prison. He was about 55 and had a good legal work background. He’d already been to this facility where he’d spent 5 years. He was slow talking, mildly intelligent and, similarly, slow moving. He was in prison for manslaughter and once he got started talking, you couldn’t  shut him up. So, I left him alone.

Lamont was the narcissist and had an ego diametrically opposite to his social skills.

He could rise to the occasion. When C.O. Emerson, the Law Library Supervisor, was on duty, Lamont was a regular Chatty Cathy. Otherwise, he demonstrated what it was like to work with a mute, bipolar  robot, whose electronics had jammed. To say that he was bipolar was an insult to manic-depressives. But, he was my secret weapon. He didn’t like me because I had an education. Other  than Emerson, I was treated as the resident Chief of the Library, no doubt because I was white. It certainly wasn’t because I was knowledgeable about the Law. I’d managed to find myself a very good slot where I didn’t have to do much EXCEPT write, which I did five hours a day. Had I any interest in being the Administrative Clerk, I would have had to work and be responsible for the operation. As it was, the job I had entailed making copies, giving out typewriter ribbons, and distributing divorce packets — very popular in the prison — and writing. 

Lamont’s conviction for a drug deal that had gone awry was the third in a series of maJor fuck-ups for him and the only thing he cared about was a good evaluation from Emerson so that he could attempt to shorten his bid. I didn’t want him to leave before me so I could continue my writing. Although he was insufferable in his obsequiousness towards Emerson I never questioned it and kept my head down since I was surrounded by killers.

Mel, the other Spanish guy, aside from my friend Cuba and Rivera, was someone who was a real risk for the outside world. The community was not ready for him and HE was not ready for the community. He’d recently won a $900,000 settlement after the prison fucked up his heart. He now wore a pacemaker at the age of 50. But the Attorney General who’d made the deal  that he’d accepted was reneging on the agreement. 

Mel was from Suffolk County on Long Island where it is known among inmates as a Police State and he had already done 20 years for armed robbery with an empty gun. Or, more correctly, as I later learned, the gun had bullets but was defective and couldn’t fire. You can take your pick about which explanation got him the 20 years, and counting. He’d already had five Parole interviews and was still here. HE, as well as the ineffective or defective gun — depending upon whom you believed — him or the Suffolk County D.A. that I was so fond of myself — apparently, had a hair trigger.

I knew that the entire Suffolk County D.A.’s operation was a criminal enterprise which depended upon attorneys, judges and indicted criminals paying off to get “JUSTICE.”

Mel was not in the habit of thanking anyone for anything. He had one mode. When others would thank you, he would attack you.

If an apology was in order, he would attack. If he made a mistake, he would point the finger at anyone else nearby, and attack. He was devoid of any social graces but on occasion would say ‘Hello,’ as painful as that might have been. I often wondered, since Rivera and Mel would both be eligible to be released around the same time, what it would be like when both were given their Exit papers. My fantasies included a series of knifings and beatings in New York City for having been denied extra sauce on a Big Mac.

The Law Library had been the subject of many problems for me and for Cuba, my friend, since none of the workers had any social intelligence.

No one said Hello when you arrived. Charlie was the most outgoing of the killers and often responded to my saying Hello with “Alright.” Lamont never spoke unless Emerson was on duty. Rivera only knew how to clumsily be insulting, with “Hi, How’ya feeling? You alright? You sure? You sure you’re alright? I’m here for you. You don’ look so good.”

By the time Rivera finished asking me if I was alright, for the 4th or 5th time, I just wanted to punch him in the face, but, of course, that was the point. That was what he did. He engendered hostility. And, then murdered you.

When he couldn’t get that reaction, he went on the attack. He had it all worked out.

The paperwork had been causing problems since the books coming back from the S-Unit, the jail in prison, were not consistently returned. This happened primarily because the cops on the S-Unit hated the inmates in the Box. They refused to give them food, stole their  belongings, beat them occasionally, and routinely deprived them of their legal materials, not to mention violating their  human  rights. They were nothing but animals to most cops. Actually, animals were treated better. Especially in the Hamptons and in Manhattan.

But, the Law Library was at the bottom of the cesspool.  My home away from home for exposing corruption.

If there were any question about who fucked up an order for guys that the cops didn’t give a shit about, they always had the Law Library clerks to blame.

“As I always say, th’shit flows downhill,” said Lamont. “Make sure you have backup to ya  paperwork.”

He was right. But, of course, he was dealing with two angry, hostile Spanish guys, two killers, and Cuba and myself. I did not handle the S-Unit any more. As Senior Clerk, I only handled the small Box, known as the SHU. So, I wasn’t subject to the same fuck-ups and finger-pointing.

In essence, I was the proverbial fly on the wall. I sat and wrote about what they were doing, while they were doing it, and recording what they were saying to each other as they said it. It was a Seinfeld episode with a cast of convicted murderers.

Granted, I was only getting paid $4.74 a week for doing it. But the job did have perks that only I knew about. The Clerks were treated as if they were an intelligent group in a sea of idiots by the cops who were actually somewhat intimidated by us. Not for our physical strength, but for our presumed knowledge or intelligence. The fact that Rivera could engender awe for HIS intelligence or knowledge, of course, was an absurdity. But, certainly I and Lamont were treated  that way. Even though I couldn’t draw up a motion or fill in the blanks on an Article 78 if my life depended upon it, unless I plagiarized it.

“S’not my fault,” said Rivera. He looked like he was about to have a coronary when Emerson told the guys that the paperwork sent to the Box was fucked up. 

“I don’ do the B side,” he said.

The A side and the B side were different locations in the S-Unit.

“Lissen’, I don’ care WHAT happened. Get the paperwork tagether so I can show the Sergeant and we’re good. I jes don’ want no bullshit. Remember, shit flows downhill.” 

Everyone looked at him. That meant that if he got any grief we all were all in the line of fire no matter who was at fault unless we could PROVE that the fuck-up was not our responsibility. 

If I heard that “Shit flows downhill”one more time, I was going to give someone a very snarky  answer. Like, “How do you know that? You been sleeping with your mouth open next to a cesspool?”

“Charlie’s a piece of shit,” said Cuba. “Lamont says he and Charlie closed up the Library, y’know, stayin’ behin’ when we was closin’ up th’ otha night, an’ Charlie tells C.O. Lalone, that I’m chargin’ for my legal work. The fuckin’ guy, HE’S chargin’ $150 tado a divorce, an’ he tells Lalone I’m  chargin.’ What  the fuck  is wrong wid ‘im, bro’?” 

Of course, Cuba was also charging for his work.

“No shit?” I said.

“He’s senin’ me to a very dark place in my min’ bro’, he betta be caful. All I gotta do is drop a slip. Y’know — sen’ a note toda MH Unit sayin’ Charlie is talking about hangin’ ‘imself.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

He laughed. “Dey’d  have a unit come pick ‘im up an’ he’d go right to Dannemora. Y’know, the Office of Mental Health at Clinton. They’d take care a him there, bro’, trust me.” He continued to laugh. His Tony Montana side to side dance was underway in the Rec room as he spoke. 

“S’not a pretty place, bro’, trust me.” He laughed again. “He’d be one unhappy niga’.”

“I never heard of that place?”

It was called Dannemora because it was located in the Village of Dannemora. But, it was Clinton Correctional Facility. 

“How do you know about it?”

“I was at Dannemora fa Reception and I foun’ out about the OMH, Office of Mental Health. It’s a central Mental Health facility fa the whole State prison system.” 

“It’s not a pretty place, lemme tell ya. All the nuts an’ anyone who don’t cooperate geds sent ‘ere. You ged there and ‘ey shoot you up, an’ you can jes wave goodbye. Makes ‘One Flew Ova Th’ Cookoo’s Nest’ seem like ‘Alice in Wunnalan,’ bro’.”

I was visualizing Jack and Nurse Ratched having sex after a shot of thorazine.

Charlie had made a mistake ratting out Cuba who was charging for his work as all of the other clerks did. Except me. I did no work for anyone because I knew how dangerous it was besides being incapable of doing it. Cuba, for example, was doing a 440, an appeal intended to overturn a conviction.

It was a mistake. The guy STILL wanted to do it but Cuba was sorry he’d taken the case.

“Eva notice that some guys have their DIN blacked out on their shirts and pants?”

“Yeah, what’s that about?”

“Sex Offenders. Dey don’ want someone lookin’ up the conviction.” 

“Really?”

“Like the guy I’m doin’ the 440 for. He’s got a conviction for 92 counts of child molestation. He’s a fuckin’ pedophile, bro’.” 

“What’s his case?”

“Fuckin’ guy started sodomizin’ a 3 year old an’ kept it up until ‘ey arrested him, when the kid was almost 16.” 

“He’s the kid’s uncle too, fa Chrissake.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Gave’im 5 years. A fucking gift. He loses this appeal, he’s good. He wins the appeal an’ they re-try him? Dey gonna give ‘im 25 years. He should do the 5 an’ shut the fuck up.”

“Why’d you take it?”

“Money, bro’. But, I’m gonna hafta tell him I cain’ doodis. The kid he did it to is fucked. His life is shot. He’ll be a pedophile or worse. Maybe a serial killer.”

 “He’s ruined the kid’s life?”

“Dat’s a fact, bro’.”

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“All I want to be is normally insane.”

— Marlon Brando

Let me tell you. Pretending to recover from drugs or alcohol is not easy. First you have to develop the taste, savor it, and then dispense with the desire — without necessarily ever having had it. But, I was lucky. It was always around and as a musician and a psychotherapist it was a cinch. Between the booze necessary to be on stage and entertain or liven a party, sometimes naked and outrageous during the 60’s — or, being offered valium by another “shrink” after doing talk therapy with actively hallucinating patients and a supervisor who was a former Nun — no one escaped drugs or alcohol.

So I was well-prepared to recover even though I’d had neither drugs nor alcohol for a very long time. But, as with the Method, my stint in acting school was useful staying alive in prison. I’d known when to step back and when to play along. When I’d asked an “Old-timer” how to stay alive he said:

“Shut the fuck up.”

______________________________________________________________________________

“Whaddaya gonna call it?

I looked at Cuba on the walkway. We were on the way to the Gym and it was a sunny day and the weather was actually starting to warm  up. It was 30 degrees. PLUS 30 degrees, not minus  30 degrees.

“Call what?” I said looking at him. 

“Y’know, bro’ your ‘Memoirs?'”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said looking  at him with a straight face. “Come on, give me a break.” 

“Alright, bro’,” he said, “whateva.”

Of course, I was NOT going to touch that. The fact that he’d  come by my desk at the Law Library numerous times and that I would go through a ribbon a week at the typewriter, eventually DOES raise some questions. I’d told Emerson so I was good. 

But, it was just ‘Memoirs’ and then I left it with that. Other guys in the Library rarely leave ANYTHING with a simple answer.

Naturally, I smiled to myself and allowed myself some kudos for having kept my mouth shut for 3 years and not shot my big mouth off which was the primary reason why I wound up here in the first place. I let the embedded journalist thought trickle down my back and it felt like I was one of the spies who worked for the CIA and got medals that no one could see since they were all kept at Langley — with only a star on a wall denoting an award for some guy who might have spent 20 years in a Chinese prison as John T. Downey had. Although, in his case, they actually let him have the medal.

But, even if I were embedded, it was not among combatants. I was embedded among idiots. 

No one was going to give me a medal. More likely a Booby prize for being a shithead and living among people who would give Emily Post a stroke, if she weren’t already dead.

It had  been an interesting couple of days in ASAT. 

Today, for example, we had another useful Group.

It followed a reading for “Information” by one of our quiet and unassuming black guys. His hair looked like extra-long dreads that one could smoke like a cigar.

Apparently you cannot un-entwine dreads. You can’t wash them or unbraid them. 

They’re permanent until you cut them off.

We had another round of Creative Energy. The day before it had been another version of Musical Chairs. Today, it was being run by Lopez, the Puerto Rican shortly to be deported, who called HIS game “Ah, Ah,” as a gesture to a couple of the only words I could use with him which stood for A.A. 

The “Ah, Ah,” game consisted of Lopez holding a handkerchief and calling numbers which two different guys on both sides of the Rec room would hear and then jump up and grab the handkerchief out of his hand. This produced several near­ misses with two guys heading for the same object and paying no attention to whether they were about to collide with anyone headed for the same object. It seemed like something Hemingway would have written about if it were animals in the bush. Which, of course, described these guys perfectly. 

I’d caught one of them washing his hands this morning with Cleaner 128 and marveled that though he was Spanish he was not apologetic  about  essentially  using nerve-damaging chemicals to wash himself.

My heart wasn’t in it today. 

As I’d started out the week with some very dim views on what was going on. Not just in my life but my life in ASAT. 

The day before we had been playing Musical Chairs.

Massey, the showrunner, engaged in drawing people out with her delusional belief that she and Roddy were doing anything more than suffering a massive attack of educated self-mutilation.  And Denial.

So, today, I made a false start and immediately crapped out and dropped out of the game.

But, yesterday, with our Game Show host Dierburger, we’d played a more elegant and sophisticated version of Musical Chairs. It was thrilling. This was the State’s method to cure addiction. The different age groups would play against each other, and I watched them start. There were guys in their twenties, then thirties, forties, then…?

George Burns came to mind. When asked why he didn’t date women his own age, he said, “There are none.”

There were no other guys in their 50’s. Or, 60’s. Not to mention 70’s. So, I got up and carried my chair into the center of the group and declared  myself the winner.

The winners of each age group played one last game.

The chairs were lined up and the tension built, Most of  the group’s focus was on me. My nearest adversary was 30 years younger. The tension was palpable. 

This was not what I had in mind as it occurred to me that I would just walk into the center of the group, pull up my chair, look around, sit down, and then leave as the winner of the 70’s segment.

The “music” – banging on a shelf – began and I circled with the 4 other guys. One by one, as I sat down when the banging stopped, fell by the wayside. They were doing their best to win and I was doing my best to lose. This was the culmination of a lifetime of education, sensitivity training, psychoanalysis, and professional work. A game of Musical chairs with drug addicts. Truly, the accomplishment that I had envisioned when I decided to have a family as my real estate investments grew. So, instead of teaching my young children how to play Musical Chairs, here I was playing musical chairs by myself in my seventies and had to INVEST myself in winning, or pretending to play well, in order to show that I was Recovering using Creative Energy. 

What the fuck?

Around and around I went, as guys dropped at each stop of the erratic banging on a metal shelf with 30 drug dealers and drug addicts and alcoholics watching, in addition to Roddy judging me, arguably an alcoholic herself.

I decided that it had to be Camus who most likely would be the one who thought this was funny. Either him or Sid Caesar. I couldn’t be certain which.

Mel Brooks would have appreciated the humor in this. 

“Torquemada this, Torquemada that.” 

No question, Larry David would have used this in an episode of ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm” or a stand-up routine — after being arrested for grand larceny while returning a gift that he’d had to steal to replace one he’d inadvertently destroyed.

We went around and around and when the music stopped it was me and Mr. Kane, also known as Africa, or Ibrahim. I landed on the lone seat and he stood there smiling, his dreads flopping from the excitement.

The group cheered wildly and I stood up, bowed, and dragged my chair back to the periphery of the group. A great accomplishment. Watching Roddy laugh and clap, of course, showed that my accomplishment had succeeded.

“Congratulations. You’re the winner,” she said.

I looked at her and smiled. 

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought.

I bowed gracefully, and said, “Thank You,” and sat down.

Success arrives in unexpected ways. Like lobotomies.

Following Musical Chairs came the Massey show. She showed up a few times a week, apparently looking to prove that she’d  made the right decision in her life. All of the guys knew what she and Roddy were looking for and they produced it. They knew that using words like “Recovery,” “Relapse,” “Stayin’ clean” along with a few other catch-phrases were the key to getting through and out of the program. After six months of bullshit they could  get  back  to selling dope, supporting their families,  baby-mommas, or  girlfriends, with maybe something for their scattered kids, and maybe “get twisted” themselves. 

Since drug sales and drug use was likely to only get them 1 to 3 or 2 to 4, or 2 flat or a flat 3, it was a nuisance but was the cost of doing business.

“Why do you think Roddy drinks,” laughed Sal. I looked at him.

“She drinks because she has to deal with these assholes all day long.”

He was talking to me during the break after Musical Chairs was over and Massey had walked in to “work with” the group. Everyone tightened up since she was the Anjelica Huston look-alike with the Adams Family values. She was like Hitler with a dress on and after having had a colonoscopy without propofol.

Massey continued to talk about the embezzlement of her businesses to let the group know that she was sharing.

“So, let’s talk about Relapse,” she said, pointing to the board which had R-E-L-A-S-P-E written on it. A list of words were under that,  such as “Euphuric,” and “Craving,” and “Compultion.” Apparently, the salient point was that “Relaspe” was “Trigered”  by “Craving” and then you were on your way to “Compultion,” meaning that you were on your way to Hell. Apparently, no one could spell anything. English language or grammar was not a requirement or even taught.

“Well, we gotta take chaage a’ ar’ lives, an’ we gotta tell ah’selves what’s really happenin,” said Brisco.

Morales piped up and said that he had relatives that did cocaine and smoked weed for 20 years and “dey still good. Neva been arrested. Dey good,” said Morales.

Seeing an opening, I said,”but what about their health? Don’t you think that doing drugs for more than 20 years is bound to take a toll?”

“Yeah,” said Massey, happy for the observation that drugs were NOT GOOD for you. It was my victory for the day.  In front of Massey. Speaking AND getting approval. Otherwise, what the fuck did any of them care even if those people self-immolated?

I decided to go for the brass ring,

I commented further on Brisco’s running monologue. He’d gotten a ticket, was on cube, and had to go back to the Ghetto so he was now trying to do a one man show. He was pulling all of the stops and saying every word he could think of to ring the bells in Massey’s mind. So, interjecting along the way, I said, “You know, Recovery and Relapse is like Recovery and Relax. You have to Relax and ease into a new  way of living to change the old ways.”

Trauma was sitting next to me and said, “Deep.”

I looked at him. Was he playing me after the bullshit line that I’d just spouted out?

“Are you making fun of what I said?”

He looked at me. “NOOO, I mean that.” 

If he WERE serious that was even worse.

“Yeah,” said Brisco, “I like that.”

This session went on for about half an hour before we had to “Circle-up” and watch a movie. It appeared to be a promotional video by some drug treatment facility that was run privately and had gotten Bill Moyers to be the interviewer because, apparently, his son had been an addict that had gone there. It had fairly high production values but not one of the guys watching it would ever be able to afford the place. Including me, if I’d needed it.

Once the video was over I grabbed Brisco and talked to him. 

“You actually believe that shit you were saying?”

“Not really,” he said, “I was just playin’ both sides.”

He knew the game. He just wanted to finish the program, keep his release date and get out.

Roddy took over and wanted comments about Relapse from all of us. Massey had gone out the door, having unloaded more of her personal life which interested no one, and while we thought it was the end of ASAT for the day, we had to continue with remarks about “What we got” from the video, other than a headache.

I decided to go for broke and try to win an Oscar. We’d been talking about why guys did what they did and that, according to Roddy, we had to watch the “Triggers” for relapse.

The whole Relapse thing was making me nauseous. Roddy was making me nauseous. These drug addicts and dealers were making me nauseous. So, I decided to try to end  it.

“You know,” I said, after raising my hand, where every other rude and insensitive  asshole just  butt into discussions, “there’s a question that every actor who’s studied Method acting asks.”

There was quiet now. They were  listening.

“He learns during his training. Y’know Brando was a Method actor. He studied with Stella  Adler  Theatre  Studio  in Manhattan. And, he did ‘On the Waterfront,’ ‘Last Tango in Paris,’ and ‘The Godfather,’ just to name a few. He was the best there was. And, I had the good fortune to be with that school for a short time and was invited to be on their Board  of Directors.”

Of course, I didn’t tell them that I’d only attended two classes and thought that Pearl, the teacher, was an asshole. Or, even worse, that I was invited to be on the Board because they thought I had friends with money who would lavishly donate. But, that was another story.

More silence.

“The question that all Method actors learned to ask themselves  was, ‘What’s my motivation?'”

Roddy and everyone else in the group was now staring at me. They were silent and transfixed.

“So, you have to ask yourself the question. It doesn’t matter what the course teaches you, it doesn’t matter what Ms. Roddy says, and it doesn’t matter what the C.O. tells you. YOU have to ask yourself, ‘What’s my motivation?’ You have to decide whether you’re taking this program  because the court made you do it. Whether you  are doing it to complete your  program requirements. Or, whether there is something here for you.” 

Now I had them.

All of them. Roddy, the drug dealers and the addicts. I was Werner Ehrhardt and had sprinkled fairy dust over everyone and they were paralyzed without drugs or alcohol. 

“Only you — only you can answer the question of what YOUR motivation is for being here. Because only if YOU want to get out of here and stop doing drugs or selling them and it will help you in your life, going forward, will this work. You have to decide that and figure out which one of those things is YOUR real motivation.”

One guy whispered to his neighbor, “He should teach this course.”

“So, you’re saying that you need to know why you’re really here?” said one guy.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m saying that you have to stop bullshitting yourself and at least be honest with YOURSELF about why you’re really here.”

Roddy piped in with, “That’s really important that you decide why you’re here. If you wanna just go back to sellin’ drugs, that’s okay, I mean it’s not okay, but telling yourself now that that’s what  you’re gonna do, that’s okay.”

She went on and then said to me, “so what did you get outta this video?”

Now, I was on the spot. I thought I’d given a good performance but now she latched onto the fact that I could wrap up her afternoon for her so I continued.”

“Well,” I said, drawing upon some emotional wrinkles in my cerebellum, “the concept of relapse was important to me. And, of telling the truth to yourself. I remember seeing the body of my favorite aunt being brought out on a stretcher when I was 12 years old by the coroner and I remember that my father died in a pool of blood from drinking. And, I remember that in order to get him into a hospital treatment program I’d had to have a lot of drinks with him to get him to go.”

The room was quiet again.

“I also remember that even though I only had a couple of drinks with dinner at night, there were  times…”

“There were times when it went beyond that couple of drinks with dinner,” said Roddy, jubilantly.

“People would come over. Someone would say, ‘Let’s open another bottle of wine…” I said.

Of course all of this was horseshit. My aunt and father had died from accidents after drinking. But, the friends coming over was pure fantasy.  The Scots as well as the Swedes were too cheap.

Most of them kept drinking to a minimum. Not that I hadn’t ever had drinks with friends. But, when that happened it was social or like a bizarre rock event as I performed the Stones or The Who. 

There were quiet drinks at Barolo in SoHo, drinks with dinner at a restaurant, and many music­-filled performances in Europe before any of these people, including Roddy, were born. Not to mention, a lot of fucking. Much more fun than drinking or drugs. 

But those times were indescribable and none of them could ever comprehend my experiences – the music performances in Florence or Mykonos or Copenhagen or Amsterdam with beautiful screaming girls and dancing crowds.

Why would I give a shit about drugs?

But here I was now paying for it. Forty years later.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“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.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

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.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit

“The first thing we do is, let’s kill all the lawyers.” — William Shakespeare

It’s hard to accept that Truth in its many forms was more available in prison than on the street. However, when it comes to reality my experience has been that after having lived through the vagaries of justice the responsibility of the Press to expose the Truth and the role of both Prosecutors and Lawyers who supposedly negotiate freedom and punishment — honesty does not play any part in the mix.

Subsequent to my conviction for, essentially, providing affordable housing for immigrants, thie D.A., Speaker of the Assembly, several of my lawyers, and several Long Island politicians –were convicted of crimes and were imprisoned. So, it certainly gave me something to think about. Here’s some verbatim dialog from my four years — wasting time in prison so that my financial, social, family and emotional life could be destroyed for writing about the real criminals who continued their work while I was behind bars.

_________________________________________________________________________

“Guy I know in the Gym just threw paint thinner on the ground and lit it. He’s got a bid for Arson. All he did was throw it on the ground.”

“Don’t matter. Dey won’ give’im Parole. Dat’s arson. Anythin’ wid lightin’ a fire, ya done. No parole fa  dat shit.”

No wonder Al was so negative. His second arson bid would fuck him.

“Y’know all I did was trow some paint thinna ona groun’,” Al had said. “Da guy dat hadda bar only had it fa two weeks. So’s he callsa cops. Y’know I trew da thinna ona groun’ an’ den I dropped a cigarette onid an’ it din’ light So, I coun’ figa why, so’s I bens down an’ lights it wid my lighta, an POOF, flames up’n almos’ burns my shoes. Din’ cause no harm, tho’. “

“So, what was your other bid for, Al?” I said, as we had been sitting in the Gym. He’d just told me that I wouldn’t  make my first Board.

“Didn’t you burn something before?” Shades of Goodfellas.

“Oh, dat was wen I burned my truck. I jes filled it wid gas an’ dropped a match in it. Piece a shit truck. Bud ya know th’ insurance paid off. Got $4400 fa it.”

“So, that was arson too?”

“Yeah, whateva, din’ hurt nobody. Lissen, I got 23 arrests an’ only been in fa 3 bids. I’m gonna C.R. nex’ year. But, you’ll probly get hit at ya firs’ Board.”

Al was apparently not aware that it was the act. Two arson attempts. A serial burner like Tony the Torch in the South Bronx, circa 1970. Burning things and the potential effect on everything around it.

Driving around drunk and hitting people, murder — or like Animal who chopped up his girlfriend and sent the pieces to her family — were crimes for which they would likely not cut you a break.

But, was there hope for someone who wrote about political corruption?

Since this was not Russia and for the D.A. who had not yet morphed into something like soylent green, there was hope.

Problems at home were weighing on me. There was not enough money. Of course, that was predictable. In fact, I HAD predicted it. There was nothing I could do, or could have done to avoid it. When you can’t work, do anything about resolving assets that might be of value, or, for that matter, work on making sure that I even had life insurance, what was there to be done?

Get  depressed.  That was easy.

In fact, as I walked  along towards the Law Library I truly wished that I could NOT EXIST. It was a strange feeling. I’d put up with the mindless bullshit for over three years now, wending my way towards four with no certain prospects of getting out, and just the mundane, repetitious life that had no meaning — was hollowing  out my core.

I wondered again if Camus or Sartre knew the feeling. I wondered if they’d ever done time, not just palavering about it in a salon after writing about some “deep” thoughts. I felt that I truly was an Existentialist. Funny, after all of those college years, to feel something instead of having to learn something philosophically relevant.

I’d gone back to the dorm after working the morning weekend shift at the Law Library and found Domo, the psycho ghost, unpacking a Tyvek bag. Apparently, he’d not appeared at work for three straight days and his C.O. at work sent him back to the dorm and wanted to send him to the Box. For some unknown reason, they decided not to send him. I asked him what had happened while in the Rec room, where you CAN talk and he just stared at me. So, I just walked away. I went into the dorm and he followed me in and came up to me at my locker and started to tell me. In full view of the C.O. in the dorm, I  put my finger to my lips and said, “Shh,” as the C.O. watched and Domo walked away.

Brilliant.

Who was it that said, “Timing  is everything?”

I got on the phone to talk to my family. My oldest son, who’d just returned from his first solo trip — to Buffalo, which was near me, to bowl with his high school coach as a senior — was too tired to talk to me. My wife then informed me that they were considering postponing the visit by a week or two. 

My daughter, who now only briefly spoke to me when she wasn’t sleeping or out with friends, wasn’t in. SHE had requested the visit  be postponed, I had no problem with it. Obviously I was just REALLY starting to be little more than a pain in the ass.  I wanted contact with the outside world. Away from stupid people. But, the outside world was beginning to show that I was gone. And, not far from forgotten,

I thought that NOT EXISTING was a good solution, not acted upon or ushered along, but, as a mindset. Or, perhaps, a mindless set. 

Another year or two of this and my so-called contribution to Freedom of Speech, would be about as meaningful as Franklin’s little gem, “He who lives on hope, dies farting,” 

I was beginning to feel that my journalistic efforts and  my SoHo Journal Magazine had been little more than an exercise in mental masturbation. There certainly was an argument that my exposing of corruption in the District Attorney’s office in  the Hamptons, regardless of the veracity of my reporting, was a sign of a mental condition. As Barbara, the secretary for my attorney Tom McVann said, after reading one of my articles on the Pay-to-play criminal enterprise in the D.A.’s office, said to me, “Are you crazy?”

She had a point. No one had EVER written anything about political corruption in the Hamptons before. 

There were only a few publications, Newsday, Dan’s Paper, the Independent, The Southampton Press — the latter NEVER stepped out of line and none wrote about real political news then. It was an “after-the-fact” pimp show, as opposed to ACTUAL journalism that Hunter Thompson would have glibly identified. It was the Emperor’s New Clothes in spades. 

People worked  hard in the Hamptons to suppress the truth in print. Rampant racism, therefore, didn’t exist, political corruption was a fairytale, and Freedom of Expression, Freedom of the Press and Speech were all First Amendment fantasies and abstractions. There were only payoffs from attorneys looking for good decisions from judges who were appointed once they were “vetted,” and “grants” that were pocketed by the D.A.’s office from insurance companies seeking newsworthy convictions.

I was the lonely sucker.

The W.C. Fields of journalism. The idiot who pointed out that the Emperor was naked. Or, as the man said in Goodfellas, I was the “Schmuck on wheels.”  Because nothing would change. I was like Khodorkovsky without the cash or assets, not to mention  the intelligence.

Yet, there  was something  about  ‘Being Here,’ not the odd Peter Sellers movie, that had some value. As my·wife had said to me during one of my many pitiful telephone talks, “You ARE getting something out of it.” My writing of course. Where else would I meet people like Chauty.

“Ma nam  ees Chauty,” said the guy who looked just like ‘G’ from my previous dorm, before moving to ASAT dorm for my “Recovery.”

He was about 5’5″ tall, a strip of a beard that started at his sideburns and wrapped around under his chin and up the other side to the other sideburn. It was a sartorial mystery to me that anyone would bother spending so much time on such a pencil thin line, pretending  to be a beard. But, of course, as with most guys here,  he had the time.

“He’s a major trafficker for the Latin Kings, bro,” said Cuba, “I’d  be careful about him.”

“You think I’m  putting in an order?” I replied  sardonically.

“No, bro’ you hang in’ wid  him puts you in the scope.”

“What scope? I thought he was someone else and tie asked question  on the walkway. What are  you talking about?

Then I remembered the scopes that were always trained on us in the Yard, on high-powered rifles.

“Dese cops watch eveyone you hang wid  bro’,” he said. 

“You hang wid the Latin Kings, you on the radar. Don’ ged on the radar.”

“I got it. But, what kind of a name is Chauty? 

“Shorty, bro’, his name is Shorty.”

“You’ve got to teach me Spanish,” I said to Cuba. 

“You a funny guy, bro’,” he said,

This was not reality, though. Well, it WAS my reality, just not the reality of a Life.  I lived with real people but there was something wrong with all of them. It wasn’t just that they were criminals. That was easy to accept. After all, everyone I did business with before going to prison was a criminal, including the attorneys and the politicians. Including the D.A. and his personal criminals like Stavrides the prosecutor and Miceli, the cop who threatened people to lie about me.

The politicians were not only politicians but attorneys as well. So, they were in, like, the 9th Circle of criminal Hell. Shelley Silver, the Speaker of the New York Assembly was a top politician, for example, AND an attorney. His Chief of Staff was Judy Rapfogel, wife of the guy convicted of bilking his Jewish Non-Profit in order to give money to politicians, including Shelley Silver. So, where does that put HIM, and HER, who claimed that she didn’t know about the $400,000 in cash in their apartment closet? Is that even possible?  How do you hide $400,000 in cash and, supposedly, another million from your wife? Certainly, it would be laughed at in the Borscht Belt. I don’t think it’s even possible. 

The Scots are notoriously “parsimonious” and  there’s no way that my wife in the normal course of life that $400,000 in cash would remain undiscovered in one of our closets.

I’d met Shelley Silver in an elevator at a political club meeting.and Rapfogel was with him. I felt like a bug on the wall when I asked for his card. And, when she gave me an old used card, it had Shelley’s laundry list on the back  of it. Or, maybe it was her husband’s list for the Chinese laundry on the corner. Who knew?

But, now I was meeting  a better class of criminal. 

People with a more direct approach. Guy fucks with you, you hit him with a pipe. That was the Hernandez  method. Guy fucks with you and takes off, you follow him and pump 5 bullets into him. He won’t do THAT again. That’s Hayes. Guy fucks your wife? You shoot her and throw her into the river, that’s what Charlie in the Law Library did.

None of this namby-pamby lame ass shit. Like taking bribes or money to fix criminal cases to screw enemies or journalists using judges who take orders from the party apparatus. Or, using D.A. detectives who threatened little old ladies and forced confessions for the banks. Why prosecute guys who are cops or prosecutors.

Or like the criminals on Wall Street who paid off the politicians and walked away after stealing billions.

After all prisoners are not like prosecutors in the Town of Southampton and Village of Westihampton where all the criminals have immunity for their crimes.

Copyright 2024 The Snake Pit