Today, I pick up a chapter from the middle of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Infamous: My Year At MCC Federal Prison." In this segment, I talk about raid #2 - this time at the hands of the State - and then offer all the blog posts I published on my escort website about the experience spending a week at the Tombs in New York City, all written shortly after my release. One note: "Miles" is the same NYPD detective who took down Eliot Spitzer - and a guy I met along the federal way. He appears in an earlier chapter of the book and thus, goes unexplained in this one.
If there was one thing I could say about takedown number 2, it’s that I at least knew it was coming. Once again, the curtain call came at 9 AM on a summer morning. This time I was awake, sitting naked on the throne and reading John Meacham’s biography of Andrew Jackson.
I ignored the knock hoping against hope it might just be the super as I sat still with my heart thumping away at a mile a minute. But the rap on the door was incessant. It was clear who was looking for me.
So I rose, put on some clothing (shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers), walked deliberately through the kitchen, and in one movement opened and swung the door wide open. Might as well hit them with an element of surprise, right?
There they were. Two NYPD out of uniform. One guy and one woman. “So ya got a search warrant, right?” I tried to take the wind out of their sails. “No! We have an arrest warrant,” came their answer. Aha! Some good news right away! Apparently, because they’d observed no traffic in and out of my apartment, and no commerce pursuant to the conspiracy, the judge wouldn’t let them tear the place apart.
With a little preparation (like bringing reading glasses and some money to put on my commissary account), we were off to 150 White Street where I assumed I’d be meeting up with a DA who was going to want some information from me. But this wasn’t like the federal initiative at all.
The State had spent a lot of time and money on this case. Enough to fill more than 32 gigabytes of discovery packet. And they weren’t about having one conspirator flip on another. The State felt their cases were all strong enough to not require cooperation from anybody. It was going to be a straightforward affair. I was going to jail. Period.
After some discussion in the car about how Miles had told these two NYPDers that Mersey wasn’t going to be a problem, they expressed a measure of joy having finally met Dollar Bill, and wished me luck. Funny how I never felt like a person of note until the authorities apprehended me. Not exactly the crew I wanted to be famous with!
Anyway…after a brief drive in the car, I was marched into the courtroom where I met a public defender who’d been handed my case about five seconds before I met him. Ted was a nice enough guy. But he was powerless to do much on my behalf. The DA told the judge all about what they knew from literally 10 years of clocking me, and she locked me up with a 50 k 72 hour surety bond.
I don’t know a whole lot about bail and bonds and all that stuff that real live criminals are all too familiar with. But what I did know was that a surety bond required that the person who posted that bond had to prove the money was “clean.” That wasn’t a problem. But I was also aware that this process takes time - and I’d be in jail for a week at the very least. I was about to find out what it was like to be incarcerated in a somewhat notorious city jail (The Tombs).
Anybody who’s a veteran of the penal system will tell you that the first day of jail or prison is the worst. While I had 5 years to prepare emotionally for the inevitability of the event, I can’t tell you it was a pleasure.
Wherever you are - and whichever jurisdiction (county, state for federal), the procedure is more or less the same: Lots of time in holding cells with all manner of criminals, and a switch from street clothes to jail duds with an accompanying strip search, “sack” lifting, squatting and coughing.
After hours of waiting in discomfort (20 hours in the case of the Tombs), inmates will finally be led to a bed, which thankfully during my first incarceration, was situated in a single cell. Until commissary day, all an inmate will have in the way of creature comforts is soap, toilet paper, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a sheet/blanket/pillow and not much else. In my case, I had to wear the same underwear and socks for 6 days because I arrived 18 hours after my unit’s weekly commissary day.
I spent 6 and a half days in my cell at the Tombs, and did a lot of observing in preparation for what might be coming on both the state and federal levels. I figured that whatever lay ahead wasn’t going to be as bad as a New York County jail (the Tombs). I was mistaken. Before it was over, I’d be at an equally abhorrent and surprisingly similar federal facility, a worse city facility (Rikers), and even a reprise for 3 days at the very place I was first locked up.
After getting released from the Tombs, I wrote several essays about my weeklong adventure during my first go-round behind bars. I submit those now. There’s a freshness and spontaneity worth noting.
TOMBS BLOG
BARBARIANS AND ANIMALS
One of the few light moments associated with my one week incarceration came courtesy of a public defender who when questioned by my cousin (a suburban career woman) "What's it like inside The Tombs," he fairly exploded "They're barbarians and animals!" This from a guy whose job it is to defend the accused!
Ok! So that's his take on the population based on years of clients he's represented on the state's tab. But he's never spent a week inside. I had my own take. One of the first questions I asked after getting locked up was "Doesn't anybody white commit crimes in New York? What the fuck?" This of course met with applause from my new friends of color all of whom cited racial profiling as the reason what seemed like 95% of the inmates were black or hispanic (mostly Dominican and Puerto Rican).
In fact, of the 46 inmates housed in the unit where I was warehoused, there was one Asian, one caucasian (me) and 44 Afro-Americans and Hispanics. White boy in the mother fuckin' promised land. That was me. Fortunately, I was housed in what was termed a work unit. Most of the inmates in my section had jail jobs and were more civilized (all things being relative) than the guys who resided in pods populated by gang bangers of one affiliation or another. Whether my landing in that unit was a matter of luck or happenstance I cannot tell you. But on balance, while I couldn't honestly say you'd find my brethren out on the links or back at the pool sipping a margarita and talking bond portfolios, they really could have been a lot worse. Nobody called me white boy or fucked with me. And that was (I assume) a result of them having some sense of civility - and me knowing how to handle myself. Being token honky in all black bands, living in the multi-cultural East Village, and feeding the homeless all paid off. I did not come off as an entitled white asshole ripe for predation. And there simply was none of that going on.
Now to the corrections officers themselves. Surprisingly, the majority were women, almost all of color, and almost all what doctors would term obese using their height/weight ratio. Some were nice - and others, crude. Without their uniforms, it would be difficult to determine whether they were officers or inmates in some cases. A quote from a dark-skinned female CO who was beefing with an inmate about something or other: "Don't even try it, homey! You know I don't play that shit, mother fucker. Get back in your cell!"
Amazingly, while walking off and back to his cubicle, the Hispanic man responded "Fuck you, bitch!" She did not write him up...which could have landed him in seg (no leaving your cell and no phone privileges) or out to another unit. Which leads me to the relationship between CO's and inmates.
This truly surprised me. I figured CO’s would exist in a bubble with a thousand yard stare. The distance between inmate and CO would be unbreachable. But to my surprise, I found CO's approachable and incredibly friendly with the inmates. They'd do fist bumps, watch tv, and converse with the boys as if they were friends from the hood. While there was an occasional rude CO, I didn't see them bullying inmates at all. The very most they would do is answer back with strength if say, an inmate called them a nigger or a spic (which happened more frequently than I ever would have imagined). Racial slurs in the joint abound as you might guess. The unit's soundtrack echoed Samuel Jackson dialogue from "Jacky Brown."
Male corrections officers were again almost exclusively men of color (I think I saw 2 white boys and maybe 4 Asians during my stay). Although they could be dismissive at times, I found them generally civilized and even on occasion solicitous. One white CO even sidled up to me to ask "What'd you do to get in here?" And "So what's your take on this place?" He was apparently sociologically-oriented.
As I said, it was not uncommon for inmates to stand next to CO's and converse with them on a friendly basis. In other settings, that could signal an inmate as a snitch and expose him to all manner of intimidation. But not at The Tombs. The CO's attitude was "We're all in this shithole together. The only difference is we're getting paid to baby sit y'all and then go home while you're stuck in here until somebody in authority says you can go."
One anecdote before I go. Whenever you leave the unit for any reason (work, commissary, medical, or library), ya gets frisked by a CO. It's something I got used to quickly. So I'm off to the library where the selection of reading truly surprised me (they had some good books), and am approached by a tough and very pretty female CO. The woman was obviously a no-nonsense hispanic with a body to match her attractive face. Immediately, I thought "Now this is a guard I could go for!" If I viewed all the frisking from CO's as an imposition and invasion (which I really didn't), with her it was going to be a privilege.
All CO'S have their individual touch and style when they run their hands up and down your body. And this woman's touch and style reflected her overall primal appeal. The way she fixed my collar and ran her hands down my legs was an erotic experience that told me in no uncertain terms that whomever is this woman's lover has really reached the promised land. I never saw her again but I can tell you that if it was her job to escort guys to medical, I'd have suddenly come down with something! You get the idea. She was hot!
All right. Enough of that. Now you have an idea of who resides behind bars at The Tombs - and the CO's who baby sit the animals and barbarians. Again...not necessarily the people I'd choose to associate with on the outside but really, better than I expected. Tomorrow I'll get into "The Ballad of Crackhead Charly," the other white boy in the unit who sadly, exited all too soon after a monumental meltdown leaving me as the only colorless person for the last 4 days of my vacation.
CRACKHEAD CHARLIE
In a previous entry, I claimed to be the only white boy in my unit while locked up in The Tombs. That's not exactly true. For the first three days of my visit, there was another caucasian along with me. Crackhead Charlie (what I called him for obvious reasons) was a piece of work all right. A tile layer by trade (when he was employed), Charlie spent most of his time (by his own admission) either stealing or smoking crack. No fewer than 30 times had he been in and out of custody thanks to his constant illegal activity and addiction to the rock.
At 49 years of age and close to medically obese, Charlie wasn't really a tough guy. But that didn't mean he wouldn't sound off if he fucking felt like it - a reality which got him into trouble when his mouth flew out of control. As a person with an inquiring mind, I questioned Charley about the worst place he was ever locked up. His answer was Rikers, where after saying something sassy to a crip, he awakened to a severe beating dished out by no fewer than 8 of the offended inmate's brothers.
As it turned out, Charlie and I gravitated toward each other - and not just because we were of the same race. (In fact, I cultivated a few acquaintances in the joint - obviously all but one of whom was a man of color.) Charlie had an irreverent sense of humor I appreciated. His take on our "vacation" was "Hey! We hang out...crack some jokes...and we'll be all right."
On day 3 of my stay, Charlie had a court date in Staten Island which did not go well. He returned to the intake holding pen in a bad mood and got into it with a back inmate with whom he used the n-word. Upon being forwarded back to our unit, Charly continued with some racist intonations and after returning to his cell, discovered that the toilet stank to high heaven owing to plumbers coming in his absence and snaking the commode. (Charlie had actually been sleeping in Upper 22 but relieving himself in Upper 23 because the toilet where he slept was stopped up.)
And that was all she wrote. I was unfortunately in the common area when the shit hit the fan. Charlie, now locked in his cell for his own safety (after fucking with the inmates of color), went berserk slamming his fists on the cell door and hurling every possible politically incorrect epithet at the inmates with whom he was at odds. "You spics and niggers can suck my mother fuckin' dick, you faggot bitches," was just a sample.
And there I sat, the only white guy in the unit, listening to him hurling insults at the inmates who of course came back with "Kiss my ass you honky bitch," and on and on. When the hispanic CO on duty tried to calm him down, Charley of course called him a spic. It was really that bad!
As for me, I was mortified as in..."Charlie. Shut the fuck up! You're making our people look bad!" Because I really was the only person who might be able to calm Charlie down (he had bared his soul to me the night before), I went to the CO and offered to make an effort on behalf of essentially everybody involved. And as I walked over to his cell door, it looked like I might be able to get something done! But one of his most vociferous taunters, a guy with a mean knife scar across his face, chided "Billy! forget it," as if to say "Don't get involved in this!" He didn't have to tell me twice. Charlie had made his own bed and now it was time for him to sleep in it.
I have to admit that initially, the exchanges were so over-the-top that the entire performance was as humorous as it was embarrassing. But this insanity went on for hours. Everybody would calm down and then out of nowhere, Charlie would start banging and screaming - and the guys would taunt him more as if he were a caged animal. Honestly, it got sick. And some of the guys knew it.
Oddly, the episode brought me closer to the other inmates. Some came over to discuss what happened and I got the idea that given the circumstances, they approved of how I handled the outburst and didn't hold me guilty by association.
Anyway...by morning, Charlie had been moved to another unit and I became the sole white boy in 8 South. I'd really like to speak to Charlie now. The boy needs help - and I could tell my presence brought a calming and positive influence in his life - however temporarily. Oh well! I have my own problems to tend to. I'll leave him to tend to his.
MUSIC AND TENDER MOMENTS IN THE JOINT
So let's say you're a big music fan and spend hours a day bopping to your favorite sounds. What happens when you get locked up in the Tombs? Initially, you're mostly out of luck. Whatever music you hear will come from the television in the common area - mostly in the form of jingles playing behind the commercials. Forevermore, I will be reminded of my vacation at the Tombs whenever I hear the song "These Are a Few of My Favorite Things." It's the music from some commercial or other I heard at least 25 times during my stay.
But once the unit's commissary day rolls around, inmates have an opportunity to improve the situation. Made available for purchase by the corrections department is a see-through Sony radio, ear buds, and batteries - all for about $22. Basically, the unit resembles an old Sony Walkman. Whether it's AM or AM/FM I do not know. I assume it's the latter - which even with both bands, offers the listener significantly fewer choices than if he were on the outside. I'm not a big fan of commercial radio but still, if I were in for a while, I'd get that radio if for no other reason than to ascertain what time it was while locked in. Peering out the translucent slat in my cell, looking for hints of dawn's early light would no longer be necessary.
The Tombs itself is a transitional home for those who reside there. It's essentially inhabited by inmates who can't make bail and must wait for their court hearing before being moved, inmates with no bail because they're in on a probation violation and must await their next court hearing before knowing anything about their fate, and people like me waiting for their bail to come through. It's not a permanent situation for anybody.
Apparently, when that moving day comes, he who owns a radio can't take it with him. And that necessitates a decision as to which lucky inmate gets the radio. I imagine some guys will establish a quid pro quo with another...but the heavy guy who I befriended looked at me one day and said "I think I'm going to give you my radio when they move me upstate." Homey knew he was going to get 3 - 5 years for his probation violation. He knew the move was coming. And he didn't know how long I'd be stuck in that rotten jail. And for whatever reason, he decided I was the most deserving recipient. If we were at the Catholic Worker, I'd have given him a hug. But at the Tombs? Not appropriate. I simply answered "Thanks, but I'll be out soon enough."
Nap was a big, friendly black man who sat down next to me one day and was in fact, the only person who asked me how I'd managed to earn a vacation at the Manhattan Detention Center. And so I told him "Promoting prostitution in the third degree." Nap gave me a quizzical look and declared "I know you wasn't no pimp!" "No, but I knew some," I answered. From there I described exactly my role in the escort industry and we became friends.
Just hours before getting sprung, I got the feeling that I had truly been accepted among my unit's inmates. I can't tell you why but on that night, Nap offered me some cooked hamburgers he'd taken from the kitchen (with permission I would assume), the conspiracy theorist offered me some coffee he'd bought at commissary, the guy who stole my code gave me some coffee without saying a word (read a previous post), and a very dark man who I thought might be older than me (though he was actually 50 but looked 75) approached me to say "Hey, man! You want a job?" "A job? A job doing what?" I responded forgetting for a moment I resided in a work unit. "Working for me...in supply," he offered.
I found the manner in which he phrased the offer amusing. But I guess even inmates have their self-respect. "I don't know. I'd actually like to work for you but I think I'm getting bailed out tomorrow. There would be no point," said I and left it at that. I know it sounds odd, but I had more feeling about his offer and the inclusion it represented than I did my impending release. One week in and I was already significantly institutionalized. A little income and some structure really would have improved my sublimely simple life. Conversely, I knew I was in for a world of shit the moment of my release. Walking out of the Tombs did not regale me with a sense of freedom. It was but the end of Act One of a new Shakespearian nightmare with me as the central fucking figure.
Yesterday marked the 5th anniversary of my federal home invasion. And for five years I've been held in limbo wondering whether I'd be sent up the river. The comfortable thing about my stay at the Tombs lay in the reality that I was downup the river. And wherever I might go afterwards wouldn't be as bad! I remember reading that CARL FERRER, co-owner of Backpage, had been incarcerated in San Diego county jail for a week or two - and wondering "What the hell is Carl gonna do in that environment?" I found out when I got placed in that environment. What you do is fucking survive. Or you kill yourself. I chose door number one.
SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
Call it the SHU (acronym for special housing unit)...or SEG...or ISO (as they say in the Tombs). It's all the same thing. Solitary confinement in the context of the Manhattan Detention Center, means the inmate subjected to that style of incarceration can't leave his cell - and can't make a phone call. His meals are slipped under his cell door which as with all cell doors there, has a 4 inch space between the floor and that sliding slab of metal.
So what does an inmate have to do for the privilege of gaining entry to the bad boys club? I'm not exactly sure of all the ways a detainee can merit separation. But I can tell you what I observed. Calling an hispanic corrections officer a fucking spic doesn't do it! And mouthing off to a female CO "Fuck you, bitch" likewise didn't earn the move! But here are two things that do:
Refusing to take a blood test at intake will automatically put an inmate in ISO. Why? Because that test determines whether the entering individual has tuberculosis or syphilis. And if you're unwilling to prove you don't suffer from either disease, you can't be housed with the general population. One of my compatriots declared he wasn't "about to give up no blood" until he discovered the consequences of refusal.
And here's another surprising infraction that earns a trip to the promised land: A week before I entered, the unit which would become my home was subjected to a thorough search. Which means CO's invade all the individual cells seeking contraband, of which I could smell some during my stay (dudes were smoking weed in their rooms). During that search, officers discovered a little Mexican guy brewing hooch in his cell! And that earned him the walk! Upon his return (which happened during my stay), all inmates stopped what they were doing to cheer his reentry to the unit. It was then that I learned of his offense and resulting banishment.
In my buddy Crackhead Charlie's case, hurling racial epithets at virtually every inmate in the unit (rather than just a CO) didn't result in the move to ISO. Just to another unit which apparently, the warden is willing to execute in the name of peace and harmony.
I have to think that an inmate assaulting a CO would get him a transfer to ISO. But that wouldn't be likely to happen. Overall, I found the corrections officers extremely permissive when it came to unruly inmates. They might fire back verbally if a rube got under their skin. But I didn't see any violence perpetrated by CO's (though I wouldn't have blamed them a couple of times) and as I've said, certainly no punishment for racial slurs.
In fact, when it came to racial slurs, I found the complete lack of political correctness in the joint refreshing. There's no blacks, whites or hispanics in the Tombs. Only niggers, white boys and spics. Alas, we ultimately find racism in actions and attitudes - and not words and epithets. And while those epithets flew freely in the joint, the guys who spewed them simply weren't all that prejudiced. A good thing for me I think we can all agree.
HYGIENE IN THE JOINT
Back when I went to Camp All America (basically a summer session of New York Military Academy), showering and shitting were done completely out in the open. Thirty eight kids shared two shower heads and three toilets with absolutely no partition or privacy. So one might ask "Is that what it's like in the joint?"
Well...I'm glad to say that times have changed. Figuring (and rightly so in my opinion) that such public displays might breed homosexuality and/or violence, the powers that be afford inmates their privacy while shitting and showering. I've already indicated that at least where I was housed in the Tombs, each man had his own cell. And it had a sink and toilet within. So when it came time for a sit-down, you were free to stay as long as you wanted with nobody checking on you unless they chose to peer through the window on your cell door. That was a luxury I did not enjoy when I arrived at federal prison (more about the later).
Showering, while not as private, was still more or less civilized. Against the wall and off to the side of the entrance to the unit stood six shower stalls, all with a swinging door reminiscent of a public shitter at a rest stop on the highway. The doors didn't stay closed on their own. But if you wedged a plastic spoon where the closing mechanism used to be, you were good to go. The shower head itself was quite good. But the hot and cold controls were truly the challenge. Because inmates tend to flood the place for fun, the traditional knob was replaced by a push button which you not only had to push fully - but actually indent to get the water flowing. And once you released the button, the water stopped immediately!
My first shower netted me a badly broken thumbnail. Midway, I realized that if I used my toothbrush head rather than my thumbnail, I would at least avoid injury. But that was after suffering the ultimate hangnail. Clearly, getting your body wet...soaping it up...and then rinsing was a serious challenge as one arm was always occupied jamming an implement into the button with serious force.
Supposedly, there was a way to wedge a plastic fork between the button and its housing to make the water flow freely. And actually, the top middle shower boasted such a configuration. But I only saw that accessory one time - and in one shower. More often, I noticed pencils and pens lying about. And I knew inmates were using those for operating the shower. Actually regulating the water temperature was near impossible as it would have taken two arms and hands in tandem to accomplish that task. Thus, I used all hot water which while hotter than I would have liked, was just on the edge but not past the scalding level. Despite the obstacles, I managed.
But there were other hygienic hurdles challenging the inmate - especially in that period before a guy could go to commissary and get the little stuff he needed. Unfortunately, I was arrested on Thursday morning and my unit's once-per-week visit to commissary was scheduled for every Wednesday. Thus, I went without certain items for a week. When an inmate is taken from intake to his cell, he's given a cup, crappy little toothbrush with which you can barely brush your teeth it's so short, a small tube of generic toothpaste, and a motel size bar of soap. Additionally, we got one frayed towel, two khaki shirts and pants, a khaki sweatshirt, and a white t-shirt. At least that's what you're supposed to get. It wasn't until Saturday that I managed to get a sweatshirt. And I never got a t-shirt. As a result, I walked around with a towel wrapped around my neck to fend off the air conditioning which was mighty in the unit.
While I didn't really sweat much (or hardly at all), I did stink. Without deodorant, there wasn't much hope. Not that anybody could smell me. But when I took off the khakis to shower and got a whiff my initial reaction was "Is that me?" Yeah, it was. I assume deodorant was available at commissary. But by the time Wednesday rolled around, I knew my release was imminent. So why bother? I went to commissary just to see what it was (ugh!) but didn't buy anything knowing I'd be out in at most a day.
Shaving was a curious activity. The mirror above the sink isn't made of glass (I don't have to tell you why). It was a sort of polished steel in which there would be no way to shave yourself neatly. Disposable razors were available after breakfast from the CO on duty. All inmates were required to shave with their doors open and to return the razor forthwith after having accomplished the job. Again...I don't have to explain why.
Now to washing your clothing. This I found to be the worst of it. As previously noted, at the moment the police knocked on my door, I was literally sitting on the pot naked. I hardly had time to plan my wardrobe. It wouldn't have mattered. All I was allowed to bring along was reading glasses, my apartment keys, and money for commissary. Accordingly, I had no choice but to wear the same pair of underwear and socks for a week. I washed my socks once which in retrospect was a poor idea as it took 30 hours for them to dry. As for my drawers, oh forget it! Inmates who've been in for a while have changes sent to them and actually buy clothesline from commissary with which to hang wet clothing. So at least, it's not so bad after the first week. Peering into the inmates' cells, you'd get a view of a well-lived-in space with clothing hanging from those clotheslines in almost every cell. And the jail issued plastic bins in which you could wash your clothing.
Little things that most people wouldn't even consider were also remarkably challenging. Like in real life when you break a nail, you go get a scissor or emery board to fix the problem. Not so in jail. The very first night, I broke a fingernail fixing my bed. Carefully, I tore off what was hanging so as not to remove too much of the nail. And then I filed it against the cinder block wall in my cell. It wasn't like an emery board, but I managed well enough so it didn't present a problem.
Now here's an interesting facet to jail hygiene: I needed to cut my toenails and figured maybe I could borrow a nail clipper. It turns out that you can't have a nail clipper in jail. Once a week, the unit has barber day. And if you want to have your nails clipped, you go to the barber to get the job done! Very interesting.
And one thing peculiar to me that I worried about if ever incarcerated was access to vaseline. Forty years ago, I developed a monstrous hemorrhoid and ever since, I'm vigilant about cleaning and lubing that area after a dump hoping to never experience that condition again (though I do on occasion). My quest to get anything resembling lube - let alone vaseline - was answered with a bureaucracy too convoluted to describe here. The bottom line is that I never got what I needed. But owing to diligent care - and a lot of shredded wheat, roughage and fresh fruit - I avoided disaster.
And that wraps it up on the hygiene front. To summarize, inmates at the Tombs can be clean and fresh if they so choose. But only after the first week. For that initial period, you're out of luck.
EATING IN THE JOINT
As evidenced by the smorgasbord of prison shows on television, inquiring minds want to know what prison (or jail) life is really like. While I wouldn't claim to know the system at all levels throughout the various jurisdictions, I can certainly illuminate and enlighten when it comes to county (and specifically New York County) jail.
A day in Tombs life begins at around 4:30 AM when the breakfast cart rolls in and anybody who wants to get up can chow down. We didn't have clocks or watches (not allowed) during 9 PM to 5 AM lock-in, and so, I'd peer through the skinny translucent slat/window in my cell. And if I saw the light of day beginning to shine on the horizon, I knew 5 AM was nigh.
Breakfast is the worst meal in the joint. You might get a hard-boiled egg with no salt. Or other days could feature nasty grits or oatmeal. But the staple of the morning meal is cold cereal served in those little plastic boxes accompanied by a small container of either fat free or 1% milk. Thankfully, you could get two or even more of each. While the quality of jail food isn't always the best, the quantity is surprisingly good. The Tombs also offers plain matzoh (yuk) or semi-stale whole wheat bread (all you want) for breakfast with grape jelly or pats of butter to smear on the side. I passed on that but learned quickly to grab multiple boxes of unfrosted shredded wheat when they were available - and extra milks and sugar packets (the shredded wheat has no sugar) which I would take back to my room and eat at my leisure. Breakfast also featured either bananas, oranges or apples. I was pleasantly surprised to see fresh fruit of a decent quality in the joint. Nobody's gonna catch a case of scurvy.
If you're not up and about by 5:30, breakfast is gone (though there could be a remnant or two in the form of a box of cereal or piece of fruit) and you have to wait until 11 AM when the lunch cart rolls in. Both lunch and dinner could be characterized as somewhat meat heavy. You might get turkey patties, or hot dogs, or meat pies, or fishcakes with tartar sauce depending on the day. Horrible warmed over/overcooked canned vegetables are offered on the side. And usually, there will be fresh shredded cabbage (or sometimes cooked) with no dressing. Just dry roughage which if you're smart, you'll combine with the meat in some way so you can take a decent crap. I was constantly mindful of getting enough fiber in my diet. And jail food actually enabled me to do that even if odd combinations were the order of the day. For that I was thankful. Beverage-wise, some sort of kool-aid was it unless you preferred water. Inmates loved that kool-aid crap. They'd fill one and two liter bottles with the liquid junk to take to their rooms. Mostly, I passed and drank water.
At 4 PM, the dinner cart arrived. Dinner and lunch were mostly interchangeable though the "evening" meal would be a bit heavier. Turkey stew, beef stew and dark meat baked chicken were the treats most inmates liked. The quality of the meat and preparation was surprisingly tasty by me. As with lunch, shitty canned vegetables and raw roughage came as sides. Whole wheat bread with butter (but not jelly) were always available for consumption in mass quantities at all meals - not just breakfast. Seconds were offered as well. If you like to stuff your face, you can at the Tombs. And I should mention that guys can sign up for kosher or halaal meals. These were smaller packets for those who chose what appeared to be of a higher quality than the regular food. Mixing and matching was not the order of the day as special cuisine came through marked with the inmate's name who had ordered the custom grub.
Despite the surprisingly varied selection and quantity of what was offered, many inmates bought extra foodstuffs at the commissary. Chips, trail mix, slim jims, mackerel packets and especially, ramen noodles were most popular with the boys. There are no microwaves in the Tombs. But there is a hot water spigot (boiling hot). Guys would acquire plastic bags from somewhere. Then they'd stomp on the ramen to break up the packet...pour the noodles into the bag...fill the bag with hot water...and then shake for a minute or two. And voila...ramen noodles! Seemed weird to me but take my word for it, lots of the guys were down with the college cuisine.
So there it is...food in the joint. Having dined on multiple shelter meals in the past few years, what was provided posed no problem for me. Some of it I actually liked - and was offered so much that I'd have to be mindful not to overeat. Sometimes, I'd get extra and give it to a big fat guy I'd befriended. The first day back from The Tombs I really didn't eat much. Having consumed so much turkey stew the night before, it was time to give my gut a rest.
Granted, I'm not a foodie and I'm sure some people in the "civilized" world would have found the food in jail horrific. But if I were to grade what the Tombs fed me, I'd give the food an A- for quantity and a C+ for quality. Just not that bad. There were phases of jail life I didn't like. But the cuisine was not one of them. I could live on jail food on the outside indefinitely - and actually have for the past few years (in the form of shelter food). So I was prepared.
HOMELESS BILL
Just after 9 PM lock-in at the end of day 6 of my stay at the Tombs, my cell door crashes open and a corrections officer appears in the opening. "Mersey! Grab your blanket, tans, and sheets. You're going home."
"Can I return Upper 19's books before I go? I want to do the right thing," ask I. He doesn't give a crap about that. So I simply place them on the card table next to my cell where for the past 6 days a group of Puerto Ricans has been playing some unidentifiable card game at 120 decibels.
At the entrance to my unit (8 South), I get frisked for what seems like the 100th time and then continue to the elevator where I already know to face the wall without being told. Down at intake, things go smoothly for a change. I sign some papers and am handed the stinky yellow bag in which my street clothes have been stored. But then I'm ushered into a holding pen inhabited by one stocky Puerto Rican putting on his street gear...one 50-something mellow kind of black dude still in his khakis...and two wild young black thugs likewise attired.
Things are not going well for them. Like me, they've been bonded out...but the CO's can't find their clothing. The banter is what I've come to expect: "Stupid mother fuckers! You guys got no brains. Get me the fuck outta here, n-----r!" Clearly, they have some harsh comments about the inefficiency of the system. The CO's ignore their insults. They've obviously heard it all before. In the meantime, I'm wishing one of the inmate workers from back in my unit good luck. He's passing out water as part of his dollar an hour job which finances his trail mix jones (available at the commissary). Ditto with one of the CO's on duty who I got to know in my unit during an inmate meltdown. All kinds of crazy shit happens routinely at the Tombs. If you want to see an insane asylum, you don't need to go to Bellevue. Manhattan Detention Center rates equally or above the hospital when it comes to crazy.
Back to the system. Processing when I came in took 20 excruciating hours, and a wave of panic comes over me. Could I be in for another marathon? Thankfully, not. Miracle of miracles, within 20 minutes, they call me out and I'm walked through the 100th metal detector and into a scummy garage and garbage area where they lift a metal gate designed to receive trucks and instruct me to turn left and then make another left into a building where I will be getting the money back that's left on my commissary and most important, the keys to my apartment. This strikes me as a little hinky. What recourse have I if something goes wrong? I know from experience that backtracking will definitely not work! I'll have to fill out paperwork and then wait three days!
Sure enough, I find the incredibly disgusting and dirty property claim window. But guess what! Nobody's there! I bang and yell like the animal inmate I've almost become and after several minutes, a uniformed whatever comes to the window on the other side of the space to tell me the building had a water pipe break (I know that because earlier in the day, we all got locked in when an inmate went berserk and broke a couple of water pipes causing the elevators to flood and shut down). But more important, the property claim computers are down...everybody's gone home...and he tells me to come back tomorrow. In total dismay, I ask when he thinks the problem will be solved and he repeats what he just said with an attitude and zero sympathy for the reality that it is 11 PM. I have not a penny in my pocket - and no way to get into my crib. I am effectively that homeless guy I've been feeding almost every day for the past 4 years. Why MDC would release me knowing that I wouldn't be able to get my keys is something you would have to ask them. But after spending almost a week in their care, it doesn't surprise me. This is not an institution particularly concerned about their detainees.
So anyway...what the fuck to do now? First I have to find one of those free phone kiosks. No easy task. Then I have to remember the number of somebody who will let me crash for the night. Another challenge. I'm already scoping out benches and doorsteps where I might be as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. Then I get lucky - successfully recalling someone's number who invites me over. And that is where I am right now.
Without pen and paper in my cell, I wrote nothing while incarcerated. But in the foreseeable future, I'll be describing what life is like in a county jail - a New York county jail. Not for the faint of heart I assure you. Stay tuned.
HUSTLED IN THE JOINT ("There Are No Good Guys In Jail")
Since the day IRS agents came a-knockin' at my door, I've done a lot of research in preparation for the possibility of my incarceration. And one admonition I remembered when entering the Tombs was to beware of people offering favors during the early minutes and hours after I got locked up. Yet despite all my reading and the little voice inside my head telling me to beware, I managed to get hustled in those first few hours.
While the arresting officers did offer to let me make a phone call shortly after apprehending me, I declined, thinking I'd get ROR'd - and didn't need to bother anybody with my unfortunate circumstances. I've made worse decisions during this whole nightmare but in retrospect, I'd have been better advised to accept their offer. It wasn't until more than a day later that I got the opportunity to make that phone call. Yes, my public defender had promised to call my cousin after I was escorted from the court room. But I had no idea if he'd gotten through to her or whether she'd begun the arduous task of qualifying to bail me out. I knew I'd be in for a week. But I was hoping miscommunications wouldn't make my stay longer.
MDC staff does give each incoming inmate a handbook. But if I had to grade how effectively it actually orients the new detainee, that grade would be somewhere below passing. Clearly, getting your bearings is a touchy deal as in...who the fuck are ya gonna trust in jail? So I approached a mature dude (who eventually became my friend) about the procedure for making phone calls, only to discover that until the money I'd brought along with me was put on my commissary books, I wouldn't be able to make that crucial call.
Another of my new compatriots overheard this conversation and offered to let me use his code provided I limited the conversation to just a few minutes saying "I know how it is." I was at once eternally grateful but circumspect - given what I'd read about accepting favors. And so...I declined...but then relented. It was worth the risk. On balance, it was a good decision - though it cost me ten bucks in the end (more about that soon). I got my cousin on the phone and happily, found out she was on the case already.
A few hours later, I was given my inmate number and phone code, which I showed to my benefactor for a grand total of maybe one or two seconds as I asked him to orient me on using the phone system. I figured there was no way in that one or two seconds he could memorize 15 digits (yeah, right).
Satisfied that my release was in the works, I did not use the phone for two days after that. But when I did, the automated operator informed me that I couldn't use the phone again until 9:29 AM (phone use is limited in the joint). Obviously, either the system fucked up - or an inmate had gotten hold of my numbers. And most likely the latter as my $38 balance had become $28 in two days. To the CO on duty I went explaining my problem. "Did you show your numbers to anybody?" asked she. "Only to one dude - and for like a second. And he's a good guy," I answered. With that she laughed me off and exclaimed "There's no good guys in jail." I felt like an idiot. But she took pity on me and called down to have my code changed effectively putting an end to the hemohrraging.
I really wasn't clear whether my original benefactor was the culprit or I'd been careless when making that one phone call and somebody had come up behind me and read my numbers. But it was only ten bucks and with $26 left in my account, I knew I wasn't going to run out. Not that big of a deal. Just an hour before I was released - and while sitting in the common area minutes before lock-in, up walked my phone call "benefactor" to hand me a packet of commissary coffee he'd purchased that day. He said not a word as he did this and simply walked away after bestowing me with the gift. I got the message loud and clear. It was a peace offering and something of an apology. After seeing me in the unit for 6 days, my benefactor felt a token gesture was appropriate.
In retrospect, I harbor no ill will. It was worth way more than ten bucks to be able to make that phone call when I did. And I had myself to blame for showing the inmate my numbers for even a second or two. But the bottom line is despite my research - and first mind when offered the favor - I got hustled in the joint. As I've said before, it could have been a lot worse.
A LITTLE JAILHOUSE MACHISMO (Is Will Smith Gay?)
I think it's safe to say that career criminals view the world differently from law-abiding citizens. They'll excuse - and even advocate - the behavior that lands them in places like the Manhattan Detention Center. But a take on inmate machismo I learned during my incarceration really struck me as odd. Allow me to share.
Somewhere around midway through the marathon 20 hour intake process, a group of us reprobates were sent from intake up to medical, where we're weighed, pee and blood-tested, and have our blood pressure taken. In fact, a few guys didn't want to submit to the blood test until they discovered that refusal carried incarceration in ISO, which means you never leave your cell and can't use the phone.
While awaiting my turn to see a doctor of Caribbean descent whose accent was so strong I had difficulty understanding his questions, one inmate observed out loud that he used to think that all men who crossed their legs while sitting were gay. But in fact, he knows a few guys who do just that (though not tightly), who aren't. To this declaration, another of my compadres disagreed. By him, any guy who crosses his legs in any manner while sitting sucks cock. Case closed. At this revelation, I a) shook my head to myself in amazement…and b) made sure to never cross my legs in the slam. And there were several times while reading in our unit's open area, when I began to do just that and then caught myself before being labeled homosexual.
From observing my fellow inmates, I judged that this one individual's opinion was more or less shared by all. After hearing what I felt was a totally absurd statement, I indeed discovered that virtually nobody in my 46 man unit ever sat cross-legged! On only one brief occasion did I see an inmate sit that way. And that was a Chinese detainee who put his right ankle on his left knee (something I also allowed myself to do).
I can't imagine where all this came from. Maybe, in the opinion of criminals, if a man can sit cross-legged comfortably, he must have a small package and therefore wants to fondle or put his mouth on a big one. Just as I didn't feel it was my place to inquire as to the other inmates' charges, I found it equally inappropriate to question each and every inmate's opinion on the hetero versus homosexuality of men who cross their legs while sitting. Call me crazy.
And here's an odd finale to this preposterous post: While my cousin and her husband visited me at the Tombs, the husband crossed his legs. And it wasn't ten seconds before a CO walked up to admonish him "No crossing your legs!" Why a visitor is not allowed to sit in that manner I cannot tell you. But I'm quite sure my cousin-in-law isn't gay - if that means anything. The only observation I can make herein is that jail is fucking weird. And so are the people who end up there.
BACK IN THE GROOVE
Suffice it to say that I am currently stuck smack dab in the jaws of a two front legal dilemma - faced with the real prospect of serving time in prison. So the question might arise as to how I reacted after being sprung from the Tombs - and what is my current mental condition. I'm amazed at how well I'm taking the strain.
The threat of serving prison time is nothing new to me. I've been living in federal limbo for five years on that front. People freaked out when they read the Daily News feature in October of 2016 thinking I'd just been apprehended. But that was in fact very old news. The feds raided me on July 29, 2013 and I still await sentencing on that charge. With respect to the specter of incarceration, I view my week in the Manhattan Detention Center as an orientation of sorts. Whatever the future holds, I'm not going anywhere as bad as the Tombs. And that's an odd comfort. I've survived the initial trial by fire.
Once sprung, my week long ordeal wasn't quite over. As you may recall, I had to double back the next morning after spending the night on my cousin's couch to retrieve the keys to my apartment. And in my email box was a mandate to suffer a random drug test at the Eastern District Federal building. I've passed each and every drug test administered (except one for oxycodone for which I had a prescription). Thus, that struck me as repetitive but I figured "What the hell! No way I'm gonna fail. And it will look good on my record."
So effectively, it wasn't until Friday that I could resume my normal life - whatever normal is for me. But first, a trip to Westchester was in order to thank she who went my bail - and let her know I was ok and no worse for the wear all things considered. The contrast between jail and cushy suburban life was considerable in all respects with the exception of how boring both were. There I stayed kayaking in the lake and finishing the Andrew Jackson biography I was busy reading when apprehended until Sunday night when it was time to resume my life.
Which is exactly what I did. The staff at Trinity Church gave me a cross-eyed look when I entered after missing 7 straight weekdays (I generally go almost every day), but nobody asked where I'd been. I got the idea that maybe they knew - but was happy to not be interrogated. I'm not a very good liar and I didn't think the truth would set me free. Day one saw me in charge of several Minnesota teen volunteers. And I couldn't help but think what the feds who investigated me thoroughly for pedophilism might think if they watched how good I am at relating to the youth of middle America.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, I continued at the same pursuit and then took off Thursday for a hike in the country - complete with a dip in a roaring stream brimming with crystal clear and very cold rain water from the previous week's deluge. Given that it was a weekday - and a not-very-traveled trail, there was almost nobody around. I had the wilderness entirely to myself. Fucking brilliant! Friday I was back at church - and just one of two volunteers to serve 27 pantry clients. The staff loaded me down with food as thanks for my performance. The other volunteer is an old and slow lady and everybody knew I took the brunt of the work burden. Convicted felon...alleged promoter of prostitution...or whatever...they know what they have in me. I am in all immodesty, their best and most-present volunteer. And in between, I read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" to put some perspective on my recent study of America in the pre-Civil War years.
Anyway...life goes on. That's the point. If the State or Fed wants to deprive Trinity Church or the Meatloaf Kitchen of one of their steadiest volunteers - and spend mid-five figures to do it when I didn't hurt or rob anybody - and paid twice what I owed in income tax, I'll just have to live with it. What else can I do?
SLEEPING IN THE JOINT
One thing I wondered about as the specter of jail or prison time loomed over my head for the past 5 years, was whether I'd be able to get enough sleep when and if I went in. I figured that 8 uninterrupted hours of quiet time was a fantasy I wouldn't even bother to entertain. And as it turned out, I was dead on. Despite, I did not exit my incarceration sleep-deprived. But since, I sleep no longer than four hours at a time - owing to what my body is apparently still used to from being locked up.
In theory, 9 PM to 5 AM when almost all inmates are locked in would be that 8 hours of quiet time. But that's not exactly how it worked. At 9, we without immediate job duties were confined to our cells. But several of the inmates remained outside sweeping, mopping and moving tables and chairs each night. That racket continued for at least an hour after lock-in time. Additionally, guys would shout out to each other from the confines of their cells so effectively, relative quiet didn't really begin until after 10 PM.
That quiet time lasted until about 4:30 AM when the unit stirred with activity associated with 5 AM breakfast and guys hitting the bricks to work their $1 an hour jobs. So yes, in theory, there were six and a half quiet hours during which a guy could get uninterrupted sleep. But that's just the theory. Officers were on duty throughout the night and I wouldn't exactly say they were considerate when it came to "keeping it down." They walked their rounds shining lights into the cells, pitter-pattering and jingle-jangling all the while. One night while sleeping blissfully, I woke to the sound of the television blaring New York One! Curious as to how and why the tv was on in the middle of the night, I peered out my little window to see a lone corrections officer sitting in a chair watching the news, oblivious to the fact that he was disturbing all the inmates.
One saving grace was 8 AM lock-in (for one hour) during which the floor was cleared and most of the inmates in my unit were at work. Often, I caught a few winks during that time to make up for what I missed overnight. By afternoon, it was mayhem in the unit. Most of the detainees (I love that word) were back and playing cards and dominos at a fever pitch. The din was remarkable. And I had a big-time boriqua card game right outside my door. Sleep was tough during those hours though incredibly, I did drift off a few times. I tend to get drowsy after reading for a while and the program was to find reading material of some sort...dig in...and then try to get a snooze when I got tired. It wasn't easy but I actually managed a few times despite the 100 decibels of noise surrounding me.
I should add that while our doors locked shut for 10 hours every day, there was a 4 inch space under that door to slide food trays under in case a guy was locked in 24/7 for whatever reason (usually personal safety). Thus, the door didn't cut out the noise when closed.
And I'm sure everybody wants to know what kind of bed we're dealing with. Lots of guys complained about our sleeping mat. I didn't have a problem with it. Once done with intake processing (which took 20 hours in my case), inmates are given a pack which includes spare khakis (which you've already donned after the initial strip search), a blanket, a pillow, a towel, two sheets and a sleeping mat. If you've ever watched "60 Days In" on A & E, that's exactly what it's like. Led to your cell, the inmate finds a stainless (though very stained) steel sink and toilet right at the door...and then a basic slab against the back wall. There you lay your mat down and rest your weary soul. The width of that bed is a little prohibitive. Rolling over in your sleep would mean rolling onto the floor. But the thinness and hardness of the accommodations were fine with me. After suffering a crushed vertebrae a few years ago, I like an extremely hard bed. The blanket was actually kind of decent. Not too scratchy and very necessary as the air conditioning was oddly, very strong in jail. The pillow was ridiculously rough. But I covered it with a sheet...slept on my back...and covered my eyes with my towel. I was fine. While the noise was a challenge, the mattress (or mat) really wasn't.
And so there it is...sleeping in the joint. Easier than finding something constructive to do with your time. At least for me.
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