“I’m just saying that statistically, a psychopath is more likely to end up as a CEO than a serial killer.”
― Jennifer Lynn Barnes
For nearly five years I spent as much time as I could in the prison Law Library. It wasn’t my affection for the law that found me there every day, it was a typewriter. Not a computer. There were no computers. Unlike Federal prison, the State does not provide computers or email accounts and while phones are available access was often controlled by the Bloods, Latin Kings, MS-13 or Hells Angels.
But, the Law Library was a sanctuary where there was the real possibility of putting together a set of papers that would get an inmate released. Few managed that but on occasion it did happen. It was also a place where, with some assistance at a price, you could file papers to obtain a divorce. But none of those options interested me. I was there to write. For more than four years I recorded as many stories, as much dialog and captured as much information as possible — nearly 10,000 pages of a reality that I’d never known growing up.
But, there was danger. I was surrounded by killers and psychopaths who, had they seen what I was writing about — their conversations, actions and opinions, it could have hastened my release. Perhaps, In a body bag.
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“Remember,” said Lamont, the Administrative Clerk, the ‘anguis in herba’ who ran the Law Library, “shit flows downhill.”
He was referring to problems with paperwork coming from the Box, where the officers weren’t taking care of the distribution of legal materials. Legal materials were part of a court-ordered right that all prisons had to be careful not to violate.
We had several guys now in the Library. There was Rivera, a 40-something year old inmate with a shaved head which sported a 5 o’clock shadow. He was a bit chunky and had a perversely pleasant demeanor. He’d ask me how I was on a regular basis and then would make some kind of remark that would belie his subconscious intention, which was, essentially, to kick me in the head.
HIS original crime was the stabbing murder of a kid in his neighborhood who’d supposedly had been terrorizing some of his friends when he was a teenager. So, to “protect” them, he stopped the aggressor from doing any more harm. He stabbed him 35 times and left him to die.
Of course, there was no such explanation that made him look good with his second killing. THAT had taken place in a prison Law Library where he worked as a clerk, as he did now eight feet away from me, where I sat typing. A relaxing environment. Like SoHo or the Hamptons. Apparently, there had been words and Rivera decided that the guy wasn’t observing the usual rule to keep quiet.
So, he killed him by beating him over the head.
Both of his sentences were coming to an end at the same time and soon he would be dropped off at one of the New York City shelters.
Rivera was not a good prospect for living in the community. He took umbrage at the slightest remark that he interpreted as uncomplimentary. He was accusative and attacking and was surprised when anyone acted as if he’d made a disparaging remark.
He was a time-bomb ready to explode at any moment.
Then there was Charlie, a black guy in his fifties, who was affable and friendly at times. He was a bit stiff and wore his hair like Angela Davis. It was styled like a chia plant that was three or so inches high.
He handled the divorce packets in the Law Library. Like Charlie, many inmates no longer wanted to be married. So, he did the paperwork and charged $150 for his work. He managed this quid pro quo by arranging to have inmates’ families deposit money directly into his Commissary account.
HE, himself, was an expert on the subject of divorce and separation.
Charlie determined that his wife had been cheating on him, even though they were already divorced. So he decided to teach her a lesson. He shot three bullets into her vagina with a .357 Magnum destroying her internal organs. Her date escaped out of a window fully naked. Then Charlie wrapped her in a rug and threw her body in the East river.
This was his version of a “quickie” divorce.
He’d already done 30 years when I met him and Parole still had some doubts about the wisdom of releasing him. Among the clerks he became know as “the pussy killer.”
Charlie had earned a Master’s degree in Ministry while in prison and was planning to be a Preacher in the South where his uncle was a pastor. His plan was to take over the church when he was released. I wondered abut his sermons to the unsuspecting flock.
Tony also had recently joined us. He was a Carolinian. North we believed. And he had already spent 9 years in prison. He was about 55 and had a good legal work background. He’d already been to this facility where he’d spent 5 years. He was slow talking, mildly intelligent and, similarly, slow moving. He was in prison for manslaughter and once he got started talking, you couldn’t shut him up. So, I left him alone.
Lamont was the narcissist and had an ego diametrically opposite to his social skills.
He could rise to the occasion. When C.O. Emerson, the Law Library Supervisor, was on duty, Lamont was a regular Chatty Cathy. Otherwise, he demonstrated what it was like to work with a mute, bipolar robot, whose electronics had jammed. To say that he was bipolar was an insult to manic-depressives. But, he was my secret weapon. He didn’t like me because I had an education. Other than Emerson, I was treated as the resident Chief of the Library, no doubt because I was white. It certainly wasn’t because I was knowledgeable about the Law. I’d managed to find myself a very good slot where I didn’t have to do much EXCEPT write, which I did five hours a day. Had I any interest in being the Administrative Clerk, I would have had to work and be responsible for the operation. As it was, the job I had entailed making copies, giving out typewriter ribbons, and distributing divorce packets — very popular in the prison — and writing.
Lamont’s conviction for a drug deal that had gone awry was the third in a series of maJor fuck-ups for him and the only thing he cared about was a good evaluation from Emerson so that he could attempt to shorten his bid. I didn’t want him to leave before me so I could continue my writing. Although he was insufferable in his obsequiousness towards Emerson I never questioned it and kept my head down since I was surrounded by killers.
Mel, the other Spanish guy, aside from my friend Cuba and Rivera, was someone who was a real risk for the outside world. The community was not ready for him and HE was not ready for the community. He’d recently won a $900,000 settlement after the prison fucked up his heart. He now wore a pacemaker at the age of 50. But the Attorney General who’d made the deal that he’d accepted was reneging on the agreement.
Mel was from Suffolk County on Long Island where it is known among inmates as a Police State and he had already done 20 years for armed robbery with an empty gun. Or, more correctly, as I later learned, the gun had bullets but was defective and couldn’t fire. You can take your pick about which explanation got him the 20 years, and counting. He’d already had five Parole interviews and was still here. HE, as well as the ineffective or defective gun — depending upon whom you believed — him or the Suffolk County D.A. that I was so fond of myself — apparently, had a hair trigger.
I knew that the entire Suffolk County D.A.’s operation was a criminal enterprise which depended upon attorneys, judges and indicted criminals paying off to get “JUSTICE.”
Mel was not in the habit of thanking anyone for anything. He had one mode. When others would thank you, he would attack you.
If an apology was in order, he would attack. If he made a mistake, he would point the finger at anyone else nearby, and attack. He was devoid of any social graces but on occasion would say ‘Hello,’ as painful as that might have been. I often wondered, since Rivera and Mel would both be eligible to be released around the same time, what it would be like when both were given their Exit papers. My fantasies included a series of knifings and beatings in New York City for having been denied extra sauce on a Big Mac.
The Law Library had been the subject of many problems for me and for Cuba, my friend, since none of the workers had any social intelligence.
No one said Hello when you arrived. Charlie was the most outgoing of the killers and often responded to my saying Hello with “Alright.” Lamont never spoke unless Emerson was on duty. Rivera only knew how to clumsily be insulting, with “Hi, How’ya feeling? You alright? You sure? You sure you’re alright? I’m here for you. You don’ look so good.”
By the time Rivera finished asking me if I was alright, for the 4th or 5th time, I just wanted to punch him in the face, but, of course, that was the point. That was what he did. He engendered hostility. And, then murdered you.
When he couldn’t get that reaction, he went on the attack. He had it all worked out.
The paperwork had been causing problems since the books coming back from the S-Unit, the jail in prison, were not consistently returned. This happened primarily because the cops on the S-Unit hated the inmates in the Box. They refused to give them food, stole their belongings, beat them occasionally, and routinely deprived them of their legal materials, not to mention violating their human rights. They were nothing but animals to most cops. Actually, animals were treated better. Especially in the Hamptons and in Manhattan.
But, the Law Library was at the bottom of the cesspool. My home away from home for exposing corruption.
If there were any question about who fucked up an order for guys that the cops didn’t give a shit about, they always had the Law Library clerks to blame.
“As I always say, th’shit flows downhill,” said Lamont. “Make sure you have backup to ya paperwork.”
He was right. But, of course, he was dealing with two angry, hostile Spanish guys, two killers, and Cuba and myself. I did not handle the S-Unit any more. As Senior Clerk, I only handled the small Box, known as the SHU. So, I wasn’t subject to the same fuck-ups and finger-pointing.
In essence, I was the proverbial fly on the wall. I sat and wrote about what they were doing, while they were doing it, and recording what they were saying to each other as they said it. It was a Seinfeld episode with a cast of convicted murderers.
Granted, I was only getting paid $4.74 a week for doing it. But the job did have perks that only I knew about. The Clerks were treated as if they were an intelligent group in a sea of idiots by the cops who were actually somewhat intimidated by us. Not for our physical strength, but for our presumed knowledge or intelligence. The fact that Rivera could engender awe for HIS intelligence or knowledge, of course, was an absurdity. But, certainly I and Lamont were treated that way. Even though I couldn’t draw up a motion or fill in the blanks on an Article 78 if my life depended upon it, unless I plagiarized it.
“S’not my fault,” said Rivera. He looked like he was about to have a coronary when Emerson told the guys that the paperwork sent to the Box was fucked up.
“I don’ do the B side,” he said.
The A side and the B side were different locations in the S-Unit.
“Lissen’, I don’ care WHAT happened. Get the paperwork tagether so I can show the Sergeant and we’re good. I jes don’ want no bullshit. Remember, shit flows downhill.”
Everyone looked at him. That meant that if he got any grief we all were all in the line of fire no matter who was at fault unless we could PROVE that the fuck-up was not our responsibility.
If I heard that “Shit flows downhill”one more time, I was going to give someone a very snarky answer. Like, “How do you know that? You been sleeping with your mouth open next to a cesspool?”
“Charlie’s a piece of shit,” said Cuba. “Lamont says he and Charlie closed up the Library, y’know, stayin’ behin’ when we was closin’ up th’ otha night, an’ Charlie tells C.O. Lalone, that I’m chargin’ for my legal work. The fuckin’ guy, HE’S chargin’ $150 tado a divorce, an’ he tells Lalone I’m chargin.’ What the fuck is wrong wid ‘im, bro’?”
Of course, Cuba was also charging for his work.
“No shit?” I said.
“He’s senin’ me to a very dark place in my min’ bro’, he betta be caful. All I gotta do is drop a slip. Y’know — sen’ a note toda MH Unit sayin’ Charlie is talking about hangin’ ‘imself.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
He laughed. “Dey’d have a unit come pick ‘im up an’ he’d go right to Dannemora. Y’know, the Office of Mental Health at Clinton. They’d take care a him there, bro’, trust me.” He continued to laugh. His Tony Montana side to side dance was underway in the Rec room as he spoke.
“S’not a pretty place, bro’, trust me.” He laughed again. “He’d be one unhappy niga’.”
“I never heard of that place?”
It was called Dannemora because it was located in the Village of Dannemora. But, it was Clinton Correctional Facility.
“How do you know about it?”
“I was at Dannemora fa Reception and I foun’ out about the OMH, Office of Mental Health. It’s a central Mental Health facility fa the whole State prison system.”
“It’s not a pretty place, lemme tell ya. All the nuts an’ anyone who don’t cooperate geds sent ‘ere. You ged there and ‘ey shoot you up, an’ you can jes wave goodbye. Makes ‘One Flew Ova Th’ Cookoo’s Nest’ seem like ‘Alice in Wunnalan,’ bro’.”
I was visualizing Jack and Nurse Ratched having sex after a shot of thorazine.
Charlie had made a mistake ratting out Cuba who was charging for his work as all of the other clerks did. Except me. I did no work for anyone because I knew how dangerous it was besides being incapable of doing it. Cuba, for example, was doing a 440, an appeal intended to overturn a conviction.
It was a mistake. The guy STILL wanted to do it but Cuba was sorry he’d taken the case.
“Eva notice that some guys have their DIN blacked out on their shirts and pants?”
“Yeah, what’s that about?”
“Sex Offenders. Dey don’ want someone lookin’ up the conviction.”
“Really?”
“Like the guy I’m doin’ the 440 for. He’s got a conviction for 92 counts of child molestation. He’s a fuckin’ pedophile, bro’.”
“What’s his case?”
“Fuckin’ guy started sodomizin’ a 3 year old an’ kept it up until ‘ey arrested him, when the kid was almost 16.”
“He’s the kid’s uncle too, fa Chrissake.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Gave’im 5 years. A fucking gift. He loses this appeal, he’s good. He wins the appeal an’ they re-try him? Dey gonna give ‘im 25 years. He should do the 5 an’ shut the fuck up.”
“Why’d you take it?”
“Money, bro’. But, I’m gonna hafta tell him I cain’ doodis. The kid he did it to is fucked. His life is shot. He’ll be a pedophile or worse. Maybe a serial killer.”
“He’s ruined the kid’s life?”
“Dat’s a fact, bro’.”
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