— The Who

We’ll be fighting in the streets
With our children at our feet
And the morals that they worship will be gone
And the men who spurred us on
Sit in judgement of all wrong
They decide and the shotgun sings the song

I’ll tip my hat to the new Constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I’ll get on my knees and pray
We don’t get fooled again

A change, it had to come
We knew it all along
We were liberated from the fold, that’s all
And the world looks just the same
And history ain’t changed
‘Cause the banners, they all flown in the last war

I’ll tip my hat to the new Constitution
Take a bow for the new revolution
Smile and grin at the change all around
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I’ll get on my knees and pray
We don’t get fooled again, no, no

I’ll move myself and my family aside
If we happen to be left half-alive
I’ll get all my papers and smile at the sky
For I know that the hypnotized never lie

Do you?

“We have freedom if speech but we don’t guarantee freedom after speech.”

— Idi Amin

Here’s a sampling of comments reacting to our recent election and state of America.

___________________________________________________________________________

“Undecided voters didn’t believe that some of the highest profile things that happened during Trump’s presidency—even if they saw these things negatively—were his fault.

This was the case on two of the biggest issues in the campaign—the 2020 economic crash and demise of reproductive rights, the operative told me. The result: The good pre-Covid economy during the Trump years largely defined undecided voters’ impressions of him, and no message about his first term could persuade them to the contrary.”

Greg Sargent

_____________________________________________________________________________

“Our nation’s founders, all white, land-owning men, never envisioned democracy for anyone beyond themselves. White women, when they weren’t merely vessels for reproduction, existed to cater to their husbands. And enslaved Black people were viewed not as humans but as livestock.”

Jayant Sharif 

_____________________________________________________________________________

“We must now realise the truth. It is ugly, it is harrowing, and it should fill every one of us with apprehension. In truth, we should have acknowledged it eight years ago, instead of burying our heads in the sand. But we can, at the very least, acknowledge it now.

America is no longer the ruler of the free world. It is not even currently on the side of the free world. It is on the side of Vladimir Putin and his network of authoritarian gangsters.

More pertinently, America is no longer a reliable security partner. It wouldn’t have mattered if Kamala Harris had won that election on Tuesday. The basic reality would not have changed. Around half the US electorate is prepared to vote for someone who hates the global institutions which make up the post-war order – from the EU, to the World Trade Organisation, the UN, and Nato. Of these, the last is the most acute.”

Sarah Baxter

____________________________________________________________________________

We just elected a guy who’s fine with the planet melting down, kids getting shot in school, insurance companies going back to denying coverage for preexisting conditions, and wants to weaponize the federal government in a way dictators do.

What happened?

Democrats thought the 2024 election would be all about Donald Trump’s embrace of fascism and the future of our democracy. And abortion. 

Pretty much all of us thought that. As did most of the news media and pundits.

But now that the exit polls and research is largely in, we’re finding, instead, that the election was all about who’d be best able to “blow up the system.”

By “the system,” voters didn’t mean democracy (although we may get the end of that); they meant the neoliberal system that Ronald Reagan introduced to replace FDR’s New Deal policies in 1981 and was subsequently embraced by Bush, Clinton, Bush, and Obama.

In other words, they said, “We want the jobs like we had before Reagan’s neoliberalism, when one person could support a household.”

Thin Hartman

____________________________________________________________________________

“People were tired of someone talking in this bullshit, pre-prepared politician lingo,” Joe Rogan, one of America’s most popular podcast hosts, told Trump during an interview a little more than a week before election day. “Even if they didn’t agree with you, they at least knew, whoever that guy is, that’s him. That’s really him.”

Joe Rogan

___________________________________________________________________________________

“Who knows what the next four years are gonna be like? What we do know is that we’re gonna be governed by a monstrous child surrounded by cowards and grifters. It’s really hard to see a bright side here.”

Steven Colbert

___________________________________________________________________________________

“In 2016, having covered presidents of both parties as they came and went, I naively believed that even the narcissist Trump would be humbled by the august power and responsibility of being the leader of the free world. That he would grow in the job.

He wasn’t, and he didn’t. We know that now — after his tens of thousands of lies in office, the near-daily chaos, his deadly botched response to the pandemic, undermining of Americans’ faith in elections, flirtations with autocrats, unprecedented refusal to accept loss and peacefully transfer power in 2020, and his absconding with the nation’s top secrets.

In victory, Teleprompter Trump mostly said the right things: “We’re going to try to help our country heal,” he read, eyes shifting left to right to scan prepared remarks. “This will truly be the golden age of America.” (Real Trump ad-libbed the “enemy camp” remarks.)

But we know Trump too well. We are entering not a golden age but a new dark age in America.”

Jackie Calmes

____________________________________________________________________________________

“The Democrats have to stop pandering to the far left,” said Rep. Tom Suozzi, a Democrat from New York, in an interview with The New York Times. “I don’t want to discriminate against anybody, but I don’t think biological boys should be playing in girls’ sports. Democrats aren’t saying that, and they should be.”

Tom Suozzi

____________________________________________________________________________________

Young liberal women across TikTok and Instagram are discussing and sharing information about the South Korean feminist movement, in which straight women refuse to marry, have children, date or have sex with men.

These women say they are enraged and fed up after a majority of their male counterparts voted for a candidate who was found liable for sexual abuse and whose appointment of three conservative Supreme Court justices led to the overturning of national abortion rights protections.”

Harmeet Kaur

“The bigger the lie, the more people will believe it.”

— Joseph Goebbels

As I prepare to publish several volumes that discuss the former Hamptons District Attorney — Thomas Spota — and his merry band of criminals involved in prosecuting me for free speech, with the assistance of politicians who did all they could to prosecute the “writer,” I prepare. They succeeded. Thomas Spota and his associates Chris McPartland, James Burke and unindicted co-conspirator Emily Constant as well as a corrupt prosecutor were the very top law enforcement officials in Suffolk and the Hamptons. The racist Southampton Town, and it’s so-called mouthpiece The Southampton Press pursued what is known as a Vindictive Prosecution culminating in Civil Death.

As a result I spent almost 5 years in prison for renting new houses to immigrants, Blacks and poor whites.

In an effort to target immigrants, Blacks and poor whites, the Town succeeded while eliminating decent housing provided by me and my partners and while killing any affordable housing — and also killed the SoHo Journal Magazine — while prosecuting me for among other things, being a borrower.

I was the only borrower prosecuted and incarcerated as a direct result of the 2009 Financial Crisis.

This was during the Great Recession, created by lenders like Deutsche Bank who used craven mortgage brokers to provide fraudulent paperwork in the form of mortgage documents in order to create CDOs and Structured Investment Vehicles — and thus destroyed the local economy. Unfortunately, in seeking a victim I was targeted. I supposedly brought America to its knees and destroyed the Hamptons economy.

It wasn’t the banks. I did it all!

Meanwhile Spota and Frank McKay were rigging the election system in the Hamptons to stack judges they could control and didn’t like being exposed in my publications and blogs. 

My novels will be available in 2025 regardless of whether the criminal is re-installed as the 47th president. Perhaps he will join Bezos and find a job working for Musk if he loses.

Frankly, with 44 felonies and Trump with only 34, I’m way ahead.

As Steve Bellone described that DAs office, Spota, McPartland, Constant and Stavrides were operating a “criminal enterprise.” Fortunately, I did the time with the Latin Kings, MS-13, the Mexican Mafia, The Bloods, Crips, Trinitarios and assorted bikers as well as the Mob — a much better class of criminals.

The Southampton Press never interviewed me. Nor, did John Sutter, former Villager publisher (now AM/NY archives) who did business with Trump’s gangsters from the FSU following his defamatory character assassination of me and my family. He never interviewed me either. They all got their infio from a corrupt DA operating through a cowardly verbal assassin by the name of Bob Clifford.

All of the fiction was laid out by Bob Clifford of the DA’s office, Spokesman for convicted and imprisoned DA Thomas Spota, ADA Christopher McPartland, sex-offender and Police Chief Jimmy Burke and corrupt prosecutor Stavrides who suborned perjury and took orders from them while trying to get my family evicted. My landlord, Michael Saperstein and his criminal associate Mark Ramer were rumored to have stolen some serious Manhattan real estate belonging to the family of an aging Jew who trusted their “friends.”

But the real story of Hamptons corruption is coming. Look for the P. Diddy story and Gilgo Beach to embarrass a few retired politicians and law enforcement as the trials heat up.

Stay Tuned.

“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