BRAVE NEW WORLD

At 9 AM on July 29th, 2013, someone knocked on my door. I rose to answer and found two IRS agents at the threshold. Minutes later at least 6 cops rolled in with a search warrant. The message was clear: We've seized most of your money. Go get a lawyer. You might be going to prison. 

For nearly five and a half years, I waited for the federal government to finally determine if it was really going to lock me up. Then on 10/31/18, I at long last sat before the judge the final time. The words "a year and a day"  flowed from his mouth with such ease that if you weren't listening attentively, you could almost miss what mattered in all the legal mumbo jumbo that surrounded it. 

But I didn't. Rather than break down and cry like Anthony Weiner, or Dan from Backpage, or many others who aren't really criminal types but find themselves going to prison, I'm proud to say I showed no emotion...nor did I experience any adrenaline rush from the decision. Mostly, I just felt relief that it was only a year. After all the uncertainty, I could do that standing on my head. And oddly, the feeling I would never have to see the DA or those IRS agents ever again lifted my spirits. 

The next two months (my last two months of freedom before surrendering) were even worse than the previous 64. I knew my fate and unlike others I met in prison, wasn't of the mind that I wanted to party down before I went in. (One guy I met hired no fewer than 8 escorts the day before surrendering. That would never be me!)

Generally, inmates have to do at least some traveling to arrive at their designated new home. I was unique in that fashion. My prison was just a mile and a half from where I live. I was out my front door at 1:15 PM on 1/3/19, and at the prison entrance 15 minutes later after a brisk walk downtown. Yes, I literally walked to prison (as I told many inmates).

Having now suffered "intake," at three different institutions (the Tombs, Rikers Island, and MCC), I can tell you unequivocally, that the first day of jail is the worst. Generally, it takes hours in a holding pen to finally reach your bed. And when you do get there, all you have is a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a small tube of toothpaste, a crappy sheet and blanket, in some cases a pillow, khakis or a jumpsuit, and only the socks and underwear you have on. It will be days before you get anything else and even approach a level of comfort you can deal with on a long term basis. 

Intake at MCC took 7 hours. And when I finally arrived at 5 South, the unit where sentenced (as opposed to pretrial) inmates are housed, I walked in at the most hectic time of the day. No matter where you're interned, the hour before lockdown is always noisy and chaotic. Almost nobody's at work, and guys tend to be at their most animated knowing that soon, they'll be locked into 50 square feet with their bunky for 9 hours. Really, it's only natural.

Having experienced the Tombs 6 months earlier, the chaos and cacophony came as no surprise - though I expected a more civilized environment from the feds. At least, I wasn't unfamiliar. Within just a minute or two of my arrival, Officer Thomas led me to my cell and celly, a 63 year old black man named Benjy, who though initially put out that he'd been assigned a bunky (all prisoners love it when they have their own cell for however long it lasts), turned friendly quickly and was actually the best partner I had during my stay (I roomed with 6 different inmates). 

He introduced me to the other guys in my tier (a section of the unit which contained 8 two man cells) most of whom were cordial to the point that I soon had a bowl, spoon, water bottle and even a tuna pack and ramen soup in case I was hungry. And just like that I was on my way. By morning, I was up and counting: Day one over. Only 310 to go (including good time which in the fed is 15% off your sentence).

To be continued...