THE $64 QUESTION

With several recent documentaries on the subject of Jeffrey Epstein, I find myself once again answering a barrage of questions about the inmate with whom I spent several hours while working the suicide watch during the year I was imprisoned at MCC federal prison. And I'm reminded of an observation I made about Jeffrey Epstein while serving my yearlong sentence at the facility.

ACAPULCO GOLD

No, not the stuff you smoke. I'm talking about the Mexican guys who worked the dishwashing machine at MCC federal prison. I don't know exactly why (though I have my suspicions) our south of the border brothers drew the short straw for long duty in a hot kitchen's hottest area. I wasn't one of the dishwashers. But because I'm semi-fluent in Spanish, liked the dishwashers better than the other guys, and wanted access to the officers' mess food leftovers (which the dishwashers commandeered), I joined in and helped with the dishwashing duties.

RETURN TO SENDER/VEHEMENT DISCLAIMER

Yesterday's snail mail included a piece of correspondence from the IRS. Of all the people or governmental agencies I don't want to hear form, I think the IRS would top the list. The last time I heard from them, they sent me a bill for $40k I didn't owe. The time before it was a bill for $700k I didn't owe. And once upon a time, they saved the postage and dispatched two agents to my door! You get the idea. 

SIDE BENEFITS OF FULL TIME EMPLOYMENT (What a Girl Wants)

Besides the obvious stuff which I won't bother to mention, two characteristics by which women judge a man are a) his footwear...and b) the contents of his refrigerator. I'll give you a perfect example of the former: 

BITTER SWEET IRONY/MIRACLE OF MIRACLES

Curious as to why Trinity Church suddenly obtained enough funding to hire two new full time employees, I inquired therein to discover that almost the entire soup kitchen and pantry program is a government-funded operation and moreover, the money I'm being paid comes from a special Covid era federal grant.

So let me get this straight: The "people" take 2/3 of my life savings and then after I've volunteered thousands of hours of my time to feed the poor and homeless, it rewards me with a $20/hour job? Doesn't strike me as a huge concession. 

WHAT LOCKDOWN?

If there's a pandemic gripping the world's collective consciousness, you certainly wouldn't have known it by the number of people out and about on the East River promenade yesterday. Try keeping New Yorkers cooped up on a gorgeous and warm Saturday. Not happenin'.

4' x 6' LOCKDOWN

Now that I have a job which requires I rise at 7 AM, I'm up and at 'em bright and early nowadays whether it's a work day or not. So this morning, I decided it would be laundry day. I don't even want to tell you how long it's been. Notwithstanding my owning tons of underwear, t-shirts and socks, it was getting ridiculous.

So anyway...I gathered all my dirty clothes, dragged the whole load into the elevator, and descended to the basement. But a funny thing happened en route. The elevator quit at the second floor! Just fucking stopped! First, I pressed every button on the panel. Nothing. 

STANDING AT THE CROSSROADS

My irreverent old man used to muse about how fortunate hookers were in that they could sell it...and sell it...and sell it...and still have it. Of course, the same could be said of barbers, manicurists, advisers and really, anybody else in a service industry. 

I recall the moment he made that ridiculous statement today because yesterday I had something of value that two buyers wanted. And I had to choose which to sell it to. I hate how freelance writing works. 

BAG NASTIES/PHONEING WITH CINDY/LOCKDOWN JAM

I'm always looking for a silver lining in a storm cloud. Ya know...like monetizing my stay in prison by writing and doing numerous interviews about Jeffrey Epstein? And I've found one in the covid pandemic.

Back in my lockdown days (I'm talkin' real lockdown - not this bull shit everybody's so freaked out about), prisoners were stuck in a 60 square foot cell (with a bunky) and fed what the officers used to call "bag nasties" (because they came in a bag for one thing. And they were nasty for another).

PAINLESS POTTER

Among the voluminous advice columns to be found on the internet concerning what to take care of before surrendering to prison, almost all advised that a soon-to-be-incarcerated defendant see the dentist before entering lockup. By all accounts, prison dentistry is a nightmare best avoided if possible. I took this sage advice and had my teeth taken care of before my in date. 

THE PRISON ECONOMY

"Wow! Look at that," I explode to Officer Richardson. "Money! I almost forgot what it looks like." Officer Richardson was taking $5 out of his pocket as we rode the elevator to the basement kitchen where he would be buying a special meal prepared by one of the officers who runs the area. Her cuisine was known to be so superior that officers ponied up for the treat.

By now you've probably guessed that legal tender was not something an inmate saw often (or ever) in prison. And there's a good reason for that. There is no money in prison. But that doesn't mean there wasn't a robust throwback economy which operated more or less like an intricate barter system.

A LITTLE MUSIC BUSINESS FAMILY HISTORY

With the quarantine still a harsh reality, I spend my spare time doing all sorts of things I might not normally do to keep my mind occupied. Like just yesterday, I decided to Google my father's images. The old man produced and or arranged on 17 gold and platinum records and worked with not just pop stars the likes of Louis Armstrong, Andy Williams, Barbra Streisand, Met Torme, Robert Goulet, Patti Page, Marty Robbins, Aretha Franklin et al...but pimple rockers (at least at the time) Frankie Avalon, Bobbie Rydell, Bobby Vinton, Dion, and many more. The point is there were literally hundreds of image references to peruse.

LUCK OF THE DRAW

I'm not in the habit of re-reading my old Quora answers. In fact, I almost never do. But this morning, I clicked to answer  a question and found an answer I'd already written at the top. With nothing much else to do, I checked out my response and was somewhat amazed at how good it was. (I often don't like posts I've written after stepping away for a while and then reading them as if somebody else wrote them.) The question was "How are cells assigned in prison? How can you change cellmates?" Obviously, a good question deserving of a well thought-out answer.

WARDENS WARDENS EVERYWHERE - AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE

Being named warden of the infamous MCC federal prison in downtown Manhattan is not an appointment synonymous with job security. And probably not one that anybody would want to keep in the first place. It's a circus with way too many untamed animals and clowns who aren't funny.

To non ex-cons, it may come as a surprise to discover that we inmates actually had the privilege of meeting up and talking with our main captors, generally on mainline day when the heads of each department would briefly convene in the unit's central area for the purpose of allowing inmates to air their grievances. Presumably, that concession would effectively operate as a safety valve for prisoner tension.

EXPRESS YOURSELF

One of my wannabe book's less interesting chapters:

Orientation class for soon-to-be-surrendering defendants given by the Eastern District was a bad joke. While I’d done my research and figured I knew what I was in for, what harm could there be in attending the class? It turned out to be almost a total waste of time. Mostly, what we got was a boatload of misinformation.

The officer teaching the class was coincidentally my favorite pre trial officer. But he couldn’t answer any of my numerous questions. And worse, he claimed that there would be computers for word processing, and musical instruments to play. With the former, he was just dead wrong. And the latter? It took me fully 7 months to get near a guitar.

FORTY DOLLARS RICHER/LEMONS FROM LEMONADE

I repost this on top of the blog today because 3 months after publishing the plaintive cry, I STILL DON'T HAVE MY COMMISSARY MONEY FROM MCC! Read on to discover the details of how a federal prison employs one of its inmates for between 6 and 40 cents an hour - and then has the temerity to not give him his money - even after 5 months of numerous phone calls, emails and visits!

Back when I was selling ads for the Village Voice, the bane of my existence centered around complaints from my clients about botched ads. The culpability rested squarely in the lap of the idiots who worked at the Voice almost every time. But that didn't mean I didn't get blamed by the self-centered and spoiled hookers who'd been wronged.

While the slaves at the Voice definitely did have their issues when it came to accuracy and quality control, they couldn't hold a candle to the staff at MCC who worked at an institution which seemingly fucked up where and whenever possible.

MORE HARD KNOCKS

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. 

WHAT'S AN IMAC?

On July 5th, 2018, I was arrested by the State of New York and charged with promotion of prostitution. With my federal sentencing for tax fraud pending, this was of course, bad news. 

I had a federal status hearing scheduled for just a few weeks later and no doubt, the State would let the Fed know they'd arrested me - and for what reason. In theory, the State was working independently of the Fed. But you'd have a hard time convincing me that was really the case. 

CAN WE STALK?

By his own admission, my last celly at MCC was a stalker. According to him, he was beefing back and forth on either email or texting with a girl, and at one point threatened "I don't care if you call the police. I'm going to come over there and stick a gun up your ass." I didn't see him as the kind of person who would actually make good on that threat. But a female judge who had herself been stalked, saw it differently - to the tune of a 37 month sentence. Charley (not his real name) was upfront about his charge. He was man enough to divulge at least some of the truths behind his incarceration. 

HERE'S A GUN

My very first night on suicide watch at MCC federal prison in downtown New York. If you didn't want to kill yourself before you entered the BOP's most in-the-news prison, you just might after a month or two. I was the watcher - not the observed.

As an "inmate companion," it was my job to monitor a prisoner about whom I knew nothing - except his reg number and his name: Bahnasawy. He was young with curly hair and a beard. Nothing about him seemed amiss. I started the conversation. "You ok?" He nodded his head.