When I arrived at federal prison, a minimum-security camp north of Boston, a muddled brotherhood was waiting for me. It was a diverse group of one hundred and twenty inmates, comprised of Hispanic drug dealers, Black gang members, violent offenders, insurance fraudsters, internet scammers, income tax cheats, sex offenders and white-collar offenders like me. Those with more serious violations had earned their transfers to the camps through good behavior at higher security prisons, and most were serving the last few years of their sentences. I was the oldest inmate at the camp, having turned seventy-six a few months before my arrival. At first, it was more wilderness than community. But, over time, we coalesced into a community, a true melting pot if there ever was one. Since my release, I’ve had time to reflect on those who were most impactful, whether they were friends, inmates I worked with or those I didn’t interact with but were present for me in some fashion and were a significant part of my experience. Below are profiles of those inmates who continue to haunt me as I try, like all of them, to reassemble my life after prison.
CRAZY LOU
Lou was a quirky, nerdy, former chiropractor in his fifties, who evoked the mad, crazed professor in the movie, “Back to the Future.” He was the quintessential oddball. Convicted of a major insurance fraud, he was featured on the business channel’s “American Greed” series. Although his medical designation was chiropractor, according to Lou, that was an incomplete and inadequate description of his expertise and didn’t come close to the unique medical professional he deemed himself to be. His accomplishments in this regard were disputed by all the other inmates, but he had a good audience in me, so he sought me out. He told me that he could diagnose patients with a glance, or a touch, and sometimes a sound. Many, he told me, he healed over the phone. A woman, whose blood was black, he diagnosed as genetic due to the guilt her mother had suffered during pregnancy. Another woman he diagnosed by placing his hand on her stomach and determined that a devastating cancer of the uterus was looming, and recommended that she should see an oncologist. She didn’t believe him, neglected his advice and died shortly after that. He was outraged by her indifference to his diagnosis. She called him later when her diagnosis was confirmed. But he told me that he hung up on her. “If they don’t listen to me,” he said, “they are dead to me.”
He had an unusual exercise routine, a strange series of stretches, mostly leaning to his left and right as he walked the track every day, in almost slow motion while stopping to spit every other minute. He said that spitting was essential in order to maintain good health. His spitting disgusted the other inmates. But he was immune to criticism. “They’re all idiots,” he told me. At mealtime, he devoured everything, managing extra trays of food through trades with other inmates who marveled at his capacity to eat, yet mysteriously never putting on any weight. He told me he had trained his pituitary gland with meditation.
He had been in prison for ten years when I met him, dedicating his time to gene research, synthesis of cosmology and neuro-genetics and planning to study all these subjects at Harvard when he was released. He spent hours after work in the cafeteria or library reading medical textbooks, taking notes, and listening to Metallica through clumsy and beaten-down headphones. He was convinced he would uncover the link to the above. Among his many outrageous claims was that he could levitate, or at least was on the verge of accomplishing this feat. He said he was close to understanding dark energy, which was the source to overcoming the issue of gravity. He was also working on discovering the immortal gene in humans. He told me that we are all made of the substances in the galaxy, of the same stuff as the stars and the planets. He will unlock all of it once he’s released. I believed him.
He told me I had good genes, but my posture was my weakness. He could fix me, he said, and he tried. He would have me sit in a chair, and from behind, he would suddenly quirk my neck right and left. You could hear the crack. While it never was painful, the sound was frightening. I finally refused this exercise, and he replaced it with a kind of bear hug, pinning me against the wall with several semi-violent lunges. I was convinced that we were on our way to a cure. (This is how crazy you can get in prison). But he was released before I was cured. I’ll never hear from him. But he’s out there, looking to save the world. Maybe he will.
RASTA
Rasta was American-born and had no particular relationship with the other island inmates. But because of his Rastafarian dreadlocks, he was known to all the other inmates as Rasta. He was in his late thirties, midnight black and as wily a character as there was in prison. Although not a big man, he was cut, supremely fit, a workout hound and a big personality. He had an informal workout class for the white guys. Almost all of the over fifty guys worked out with him. He tried to recruit me. But his regimen was too intense for me.
You always knew when Rasta was in the room. Loud, laughing, shouting or pleading his case about something. He was also the jailhouse lawyer for the black community. And he was a good one. He even tried to help me. He wanted me to fire my attorneys.
“Fuck them lawyers . . . represent yourself . . . don’t you know the judge gives you more credit . . . he has to listen to you ‘cause you’re disadvantaged . . . you don’ have no jackshit legal scumbag in front of him . . . these judges know . . . they know man . . . you stand there like a man . . . he’ll listen.”
He had hundreds of girlfriends who sent him nude photos of themselves. He had two full photo albums filled with them. He described them all as “friends with benefits.” There didn’t seem to be a girlfriend among any of them. He said there were some kids along the way, but they kept him out of it. He was a hard one to figure out. He was seemingly from everywhere: Connecticut, North Carolina, LA and even the Big Apple. And he touted several businesses, including real estate, for which he always picked my brain. And, of course, drugs, which brought him to prison but which he told me he was swearing off. His plan after prison was to open a string of workout gyms based on his unique regimen and located in the best locations in the US. He was a person of endless superlatives.
He was the only inmate who could reduce his sentence via a 2255 appeal provision. 2255 is a typical vehicle employed by inmates to reduce their sentence. The appeal is based on “ineffective assistance of counsel.” However, the success rate for this endeavor is miniscule. Every inmate believes his lawyer was either incompetent or screwed him. Ninety-nine percent of 2255 submissions are rejected. But Rasta was granted a furlough to attend the hearing of his appeal, argued his case himself, and the judge surprisingly released him. He stormed into my bunk.
“I’m takin off Big Brother . . . party tonight . . . I told them fuckers they better let me out by five.”
“Do they have to?”
“Fuckin eh, they do, or I’ll sue their ass.”
He had a huge smile as he said it. Then, a big hug and he was gone. He said he was going to North Carolina, New York, Connecticut, and the West Coast and changing his mind every time we spoke, so I have no idea where he ended up. But I’m sure he’s carrying on. He said the one positive thing about prison was that a street guy like him and a business guy like me could come together as equals. After a while, I didn’t think that we were equals. He was by far the more intelligent man. Streetwise and otherwise. At the end of the day, he was a question mark to the overall inmate population. I thought he was genuine. Just a rare bird. Not for everyone. There was something inspiring about him. In some ways, I feel I let him down. I don’t really know why that is. Maybe because we started out as fast friends, and then over time, our relationship just petered out. There was no falling out or dispute. Just drifted away as we all do, back to our tribes. It’s inevitable, I guess.
DEE
I never knew his real name. He was a black Jamaican in his mid-60’s, who worked with me in the kitchen. He was “number two” in the kitchen (prison speak for assistant chef) on the AM shift. As the number two man, most of his work was in prep, slicing and dicing. A deliberate, meticulous worker, he moved so carefully in the kitchen that he never seemed to be in the way, despite the tight quarters we worked in. He had a kind face and never once lost his temper. He never appeared to be in a hurry, walking to or away from the dorm with the same deliberate stride. He was independent from the black community but not estranged from them. He was more educated than most of the black inmates who were there for drugs and/or gang membership. He had a deep, sonorous voice, distinct island accent that was rich and hypnotizing.
Although he had a kind, even-keeled temperament, he was passionate about politics. He loved Donald Trump, guarding the television during our work hours in the kitchen to make sure it was always tuned to Fox News. We didn’t connect at first. He told me later that he thought that I would be a prima donna when I first arrived to work in the kitchen. He said that he changed his mind about me after I didn’t shy away from the “dirty work.” After that he was always friendly, never missing to say good morning or acknowledging me in the halls with a nod and a smile. He approached me once about politics but I told him that I didn’t discuss politics with anyone. And if I did, he wouldn’t want to be my friend. He smiled broadly and put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s ok John John,” which is what he called me. “Not everyone is born with brains,” he said with an even bigger smile.
He had great patience, never complained and he was always the last to finish his meal. When he’d place his tray for me to clean, he’d always bow slightly and say “Thank you.”
I never did find out what he was in for. We never communicated outside of the kitchen except for one time when someone told him that my mattress needed fine tuning. There was a way to tie your sheets to make the mattresses more comfortable. I don’t even know how he knew about it. But he arrived unannounced, proceeded to push me out of the way and remade my bed, tying the sheets in the prison fashion (a complicated, time consuming process using shoe strings and toilet paper) so that the mattress was more balanced and supportive. Almost everyone in the kitchen pilfers some food, especially apples and bananas. But I never saw Dee take anything.
The night before I was released, he came by my bunk, put his hand on my shoulder and shook my hand. “Good luck John John. I’m happy for you. You’re a good man.” I don’t feel like a good man any more. It meant a lot to hear that from Dee. But for some reason, every time I think about him, I’m overcome by remorse and guilt.
PRIMO
I can’t remember his real name. I should because we worked together for six months. Seems like I can’t remember most names now; every day I forget more of them. Not sure why that is because I know they’re there; probably in all those dreams I have every night that I can’t remember in the morning.
I called him Primo because he reminded me of the legendary, Italian boxer, Primo Carnera. But he was a long way from there. He was a Puerto Rican native who had emigrated decades ago. I’m sure he never heard of Primo Carnera. But he was almost as big as Carnera. A big man who filled a doorway: broad shoulders, thick chest, and muscled forearms that were tattooed from top to bottom and forever sticking out of his short-sleeved shirts that he wore in every season. He had a big personality and wore his heart on his sleeve. He had an ominous face, until he smiled and even less so when he laughed. And he liked to laugh. He was almost always upbeat. But he had a quick temper and he was feared by the other Spanish guys—black guys too. He called all the white guys “Papa,” except for me who he called Primo, probably because we worked together in the kitchen. He didn’t get why I called him Primo; I think he thought it meant number one. All in all, most inmates liked him and respected him. I think the staff did as well. He was never in trouble and worked hard. He would occasionally steal some food from the kitchen. But he was a small player in that regard. Although respected by the other Spanish guys, he was independent of them. At night, when all the Spanish guys gathered for a prayer, he was never among them. “They full of shit,” he told me. “I say my own prayer.”
He was in for drug dealing but he had a real business as well. I don’t think he was ever a user. You couldn’t tell for sure. But he didn’t evoke one. The users were obvious. He owned several two-family properties in West Haven, CT and a bus service to the Connecticut casinos that was being run by his son and his wife, while he did his time, and his brother-in-law drove the van. He had big plans after his release and was forever picking my brain about how to improve his properties. He thought of me as a real estate titan, not realizing that I had been wiped out by the courts. He still owned several two-family properties with no debt, all leased up and a limo service overseen by loyal, competent family. I envied him.
He was a good worker. He said he didn’t care what job they gave him. He didn’t care that he was only a dishwasher He could only work one way: “the right way.” He disparaged other inmates who weren’t like-minded. When he talked of the other inmates, he would lean in to you, look right and left, and then whisper his gripes about them. Gaming the work requirements was the attitude of most inmates. But not Primo. We connected as dishwashing partners. He liked working alone. I did too. I created a schedule for us so that we only worked together for one day per week and also created an extra day off for both of us. He loved that. The dishwashing area is separate from the rest of the kitchen—a small area where all the trays, pots and pans are deposited to be scrubbed, sprayed and deposited into a commercial dishwasher. Usually two guys work there together to handle the flow. But we worked out our shifts so that we could work alone, except on Thursdays, when the lunch service was busy and we had to work together. He was hard to work with when we were together because he flew around the kitchen like a mad man, grabbing trays, and pots and pans and the containers for the trays with abandon. You could get whacked in the head if you weren’t careful. He was determined to keep ahead of all the trays and dishes coming in.
He knew my business had been in real estate. He was always pumping me about his properties and how he could finance them or improve them. He’d come to my bunk just before count to pick my brain. I told him he was richer than me. He loved that. Always a big smile as if he didn’t believe me for a second, but it was ok with him. “Yeah, sure Primo” he’d say. “You broke . . . I know . . . ha-ha.”
He said that he was giving up the drug business. I tried to convince him that his real estate and his limo service should be all he needs after he leaves here. And I gave him some ideas how to expand it. He only had another year or so. He said that he would give it up. I’m not sure I believe him. I learned from other inmates that the money in drugs is immense, hard to blow off. It’s all around them and too easy to jump in. He told me he made $50,000 in a week, on more than one occasion.
He loved his wife—called her “Mamacita.” His son had given him two grandchildren and he missed them terribly. Like so many I met here, their humanity wins you over. Why are they here? What purpose does this serve? This is a good man. A family man. But like all inmates, prison wore him down too. You could see it when he got up from meal time and was walking out of the kitchen and he didn’t think any one was looking at him. He had a lumbering, staccato stride as he returned to the dorm, his face framed like all of us, in sadness and disgrace.
When he was released, he left me his contact information. He only gave me a phone number. Not even his name, only this, on a torn scrap of paper: “Partners in the kitchen.”
BRIAN NELSON
Brian was a long-termer who walked the track with a guitar but everyone called him Nelson. He told me that there were three sex offenders in the main prison named Brian and he didn’t want to be confused with them. He didn’t walk the track often and only during the summer. A former long-hauler, he was seasoned but surprisingly not bitter. Although always on a diet, none seemed to work. He told me he had lost fifty pounds twice and put on fifty pounds twice over the years. He was one of the few inmates who was balding that didn’t succumb to the popular shaved head. He certainly didn’t look like a singer-songwriter. But he was. Every once in a while, you’d see him strumming, meandering around the track moving from the inside lane to the outside lane in deliberate stride. Pausing, stopping, never acknowledging anyone, he seemed oblivious to everyone passing him. I’d hear melodies and lyrics very familiar but actually none were anything I could have heard because he made them up as he walked. One night just before count he came into my bunk and told me he was going to organize a camp sing-along of the “Inmate’s Anthem,” which I never heard of. He said I might not know it but I would be able to figure it out and sing along with the rest of the camp. I was skeptical as I don’t have a great ear, but I said I’d try. He had a loud voice and he was able to surprisingly quiet the entire dorm, just before the final count at 10:00 pm. The start was intermittent and soft, the Spanish guys weren’t even trying at first, all confused about knowing the lyrics.
FIRST VERSE:
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
At the start of the second verse, more inmates joined in, and Nelson was waving his arms like a conductor, his big gut jiggling, imploring everyone to sing it out. I couldn’t name the melody, but it was a familiar one and easy to sing along.
SECOND VERSE:
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
Nelson, confident he had everyone’s attention, sang louder as we began the second verse and by the end of the second verse the whole camp got the joke and was singing loudly, lustily, heartily and everyone smiling and laughing. It got so loud I was afraid a CO would come back and start sending guys to the Shoe.
THIRD VERSE:
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
And on and on. We sang for ten minutes or more. One of the best nights in prison. In some ways, the obvious was more nuanced than when I first heard it and I enjoyed the fun, the laughing and the place. But the words began to sink in. I thought about Judge Bolden and his words about me being disconnected from humanity and I understood then that all of us, here, were all branded as outcasts and disconnected from society when we arrived in prison. And this is the anthem of the exiled. FUCK YOU.
EPILOGUE
Gratefully, I received a reprieve due to the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was released after serving only eighteen months of my sentence. But I was confined to Home Incarceration for three years, the most restrictive form of house arrest. Home Incarceration is a more internal form of isolation, but I used the time to complete these essays as a requiem for this exiled incarcerated class and for all of the inmates I lived with, including the guards, who are as incarcerated, in some ways, as the rest of us.
The moment of release is a kind of fool’s gold. A conviction to make amends, start over, re-build a life . But returning home from prison, the relief fades sooner than you’d think. The old failures still reside there, and prison makes the trip home with you.. The experience of incarceration: its agony, sense of exile, isolation and the misery of day-to-day confinement lingers long after the arrival home. Even in the relatively low-security environment of a federal prison camp, confinement becomes an internal form of torture, no matter its locale or facility.
The presiding judge told me I had already sentenced myself to a prison without bars. Still, a prison nonetheless, a prison of the soul, that I was not connected to humanity, disconnected to what makes life meaningful and worthwhile. He said I had a challenging life ahead, and I must figure out how to release myself from this prison of my own making. I concluded that my crime was a failure of character, something intrinsic, revealed only under great duress and crisis.
Returning home, I embraced a life of contemplation, renewal and self-reflection.
But no one’s the same as you remembered them. Friends are uncomfortable, distant, measuring and opportunities foreclosed. Ambivalence follows warm greetings. And then there are the questions asked and the more painful ones, not asked, but implied in half measures and stares and pauses, more revealing, hurtful than a thousand insults. You try to put on a good face, show courage, believe it yourself for a while. But it doesn’t last, resonate. You’re damaged goods because prison doesn’t prepare you. All the stuff on the bulletin boards, the courses, seminars: resume building, reentry strategies, interview preparedness, family orientation, all bull-shit. Every inmate leaves with only a T-shirt, a new pair of jeans, a pair of sneakers, a felony conviction and maybe $200 from his prison-store account. The excruciating self-loathing, a permanent consequence.
It’s been four years since my release. I’m still disconnected from humanity, and I haven’t reached out to any of my former inmates. I’m not sure why that is. But that’s what prison does to you, it takes everything you came in with and everything you left behind. I still think about them, many of them are probably in those dreams I have every night that I can’t remember in the morning.
I’m uncomfortable around good people. The self-loathing, the residual guilt that the guards instilled in us every minute of incarceration, lingers long after the arrival home. I’m connected to a group of former white-collar felons—a kind of AA confessional for the formerly incarcerated. I’m the worst kind of member, still wallowing in my own brokeness, and reluctant to share and truly connect with their honest and open confessions. But I think I know what makes life meaningful and worthwhile. I got that much out of prison. I’m not sure I didn’t know it before.
My most vivid memory at Devens, is the cemetery along side the track, that I passed everyday during my daily walk. An eerie tableau of perfect rows of pure white-crosses. It was rumored that several former inmates were buried there and I often contemplated the prospect of being buried there alongside of them. It always reminded me of conversations with my wife who told me she wants to be cremated and her ashes spread over the little river near our first house on a beautiful pristine hill in Darien, Connecticut. But that was before we knew anything, as it was the beginning of our lives, really, and of course we weren’t aware of it as you never are when you’re young marrieds and the last thing you’re thinking about is how you want to be buried. But after all my time at Devens, passing those graves of inmates I never met, but part of my brotherhood just the same, I decided that I don’t want to be ashes and spread anywhere. I want to be put in a box and know the weight of me will be felt by some unknowns who struggle lowering me down there, next to the other buried inmates I had never known. And it doesn’t matter that they don’t know me, but only that there’s somebody in there that was alive once, and I’ll take comfort just knowing that. But please don’t make me ashes and spread me anywhere because no matter where you spread them it’s really nowhere and I was here once and at least I’ll know that there’s a place that says I was here no matter what I was or wasn’t.
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