Part 3 (1/2)

Officer Gilmore, and others, had told me to be on the lookout be on the lookout. That was the phrase he used. When I asked him what it meant, he indicated that it was a broad comment.

”I know,” he said, ”that this probably seems messed up, right, to be constantly watching other people.” He shrugged. ”I mean, it is is messed up. But you get used to it. There's no getting around it, though. In here, privacy is a problem.” messed up. But you get used to it. There's no getting around it, though. In here, privacy is a problem.”

In prison, where privacy is a problem, reading is considered a just bearable form of self-seclusion. And yet, after a few days, I was beginning to detect that there was a problem even with this abstract form of privacy-the kind that occurs when a mind sits alone with a book. It wasn't obvious, and certainly not to me, how to distinguish a Whitey from a Malcolm.

This was precisely the source some of my coworkers' skepticism regarding the prison library. And it wasn't anything new. Writing in 1821, prison chronicler George Holford noted that he couldn't discern ”whether the prisoners are working, or gambling, reading history books or Psalm books furnished by the chaplain, or legends and songs of a very different description.” The charged relations.h.i.+p between books and prison was probably as old as the inst.i.tution.

During lunch in the staff cafeteria, I asked Diana what she thought was the purpose of the prison library. She smiled.

”Oh no, silly,” she said, grabbing my wrist under the table. ”Don't think about it too much. These guys have a lot of time on their hands. Reading is just a good way for them to pa.s.s the time. That's the way it's always been in prison.”

As she tightened her grip on my wrist, her silver rings slowly digging into my radial artery, I nodded in complete and utter agreement. But her answer seemed too easy and left me even more curious.

The Hobbes Girls My first impression of the creative writing cla.s.s for women inmates, held up in the tower, was less than positive. I was looking at a pretty rough bunch. For a moment, I wondered if I'd accidentally walked into a neck scar convention. I counted three. The one who didn't have a neck scar had a neck tattoo. The one who had neither sported a lewd cupcake-shaped hairdo and looked just plain mean.

I was reminded of the famous line from Leviathan Leviathan, in which Thomas Hobbes envisions a grim world without a strong central sovereign, a ”war of all against all,” in which the life of a person is ”solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” Here they were, reunited in one room, sitting right in front of me: Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish, and Short.

The first to speak was Short. Short was both short and wiry, especially in her prison uniform, which appeared roughly five sizes too large. As is common for her kind, Short balanced a ma.s.sive chip on her shoulder. When I asked her to please join the small circle of seats, she leaped up, threw her chin forward, and said, ”You gonna make me?”

With my response, an equivocal ”uh,” she smiled and loosened up.

”I'm just playin' with you,” she said and bounded over to the circle.

But she wasn't. I already knew Short routinely looked for, and usually found, fights. In preparation for my cla.s.s, I had read her litany of prison disciplinary reports, many of which attributed to her such winning quotes as, ”b.i.t.c.h, I'm gonna cut your d.a.m.n t.i.tties off.” And: ”You f.u.c.king c.u.n.t a.s.s ho, you got the stinkiest d.a.m.n p.u.s.s.y in this whole place. b.i.t.c.h.” b.i.t.c.h.” This woman was a perfect fit for a creative writing cla.s.s. She had me at This woman was a perfect fit for a creative writing cla.s.s. She had me at t.i.tties t.i.tties.

And then there was Nasty. Nasty, unseemly cupcake hairdo upon her head, really was rather nasty. But mostly just morose. She'd stare ahead for periods of half an hour without saying a word, her face waxing bitterer with each pa.s.sing second. I could tell time by watching this woman's loathing grow. She usually said only one thing during a cla.s.s, always at the end, as a sort of summary statement, and always genuinely mean-spirited.

I have to admit I had a soft spot for Brutish. Sure, she was brutish. She behaved like a frat boy, displayed little to no socialization. She'd slump in her chair, drop her hands deep into her prison-issue pants, probe the region, make a little adjustment, cop a little feel. She said whatever came to mind. The profane, the foolish, the casually defamatory. ”Your s.h.i.+rt is old,” she'd say. Or ”Your hair looks like s.h.i.+t.” (At least, that's what she'd say to me.) Everything was s.h.i.+t-s.h.i.+t was her currency and her compa.s.s. Negative developments were bad s.h.i.+t; bad s.h.i.+t; positive were positive were good s.h.i.+t good s.h.i.+t. Her winters were cold as ____, and her summers hot as ____. She picked her nose, pa.s.sed gas, betrayed confidences. But she meant no harm, and it was a testament to her irrepressible good humor that somehow people forgave her for acting like a prize hog at the state fair.

She and Poor were pals. They were an odd couple: Brutish, fat and carnal, Poor, a stick figure-though st.u.r.dy in her boniness-constantly grubbing, ever fearful. A permanent expression of doom in her eyes. Brutish abused Poor's neediness, but also watched out for her. Or so it seemed.

Solitary intrigued me. She sat at the far end-alone, of course-staring out the window. Later, after everything that happened, I still held on to that first image of her: sitting very upright, legs crossed, hands folded neatly on her lap, squinting in the sun, a frowning, preoccupied Betsy Rossatwork air about her (if Betsy Ross had been a washed up ex-stripper). She was hard, proud, and prim. Didn't utter a peep during our first meetings.

The first words out of Solitary's mouth, however, immediately endeared her to me. For the first two cla.s.ses, I had brought in three short readings-poems by Philip Larkin and Amiri Baraka and a pa.s.sage from Beloved Beloved by Toni Morrison. We read and discussed each in cla.s.s. I did this mostly to get a sense of where these women were in terms of their reading skills and interests. The discussions were a bit forced but not entirely discouraging. Solitary, for her part, kept mum. by Toni Morrison. We read and discussed each in cla.s.s. I did this mostly to get a sense of where these women were in terms of their reading skills and interests. The discussions were a bit forced but not entirely discouraging. Solitary, for her part, kept mum.

Finally, I decided to up the ante. For homework-which, Poor corrected me, should not be called homework but ”cellwork”-I asked them to read a short story by Flannery O'Connor.

Solitary raised her hand.

”Can we see a picture of her first?”

”You won't read it until you see a picture?” I said.

”That's right,” she replied, unsmiling.

I flipped to the author's photo in the Library of America edition of O'Connor's collected works, and forked it over. Solitary examined the photo.

”Okay,” she said, handing it back, ”I'll read it.”

What in Flannery O'Connor's countenance met with Solitary's approval?

”I dunno,” she said. ”She looks kind of busted up, y'know? She ain't too pretty. I trust her.”

Details, Details On my first day flying solo in the library, I was met by five men in prison uniforms-one in a prison-issue fat-guy T-s.h.i.+rt-facing me, awaiting instructions. Only then, and with some dryness of mouth, did I realize what my job entailed: I was, first and foremost, a prison boss. My main task involved not books or teaching, but running a prison inmate work detail. I'd never been a boss to anyone, let alone a staff of convicted felons. During my initial interview I'd been informed of this responsibility, but hadn't known what it meant.

What it meant, at least at first, was that I stood helplessly behind the inmates, observing them do their jobs. The library detail was a group of six to eight inmates: four or five men, two or three women-of course, never remotely in the s.p.a.ce at the same time. For this detail, inmates were compensated to the tune of two dollars a day, funds that were deposited directly into their personal inmate accounts (unless they owed money). Inmates could use this account to order items from the prison's canteen, to pay medical co-payments and court fines, and, if they pleased, to disperse funds to parties outside of the prison. Outside parties could deposit money there for them. This was also the channel for illicit transactions.

The library offered the cus.h.i.+est detail. Working the prison library-with its stock of books, magazines, movies, and company-was an understandably more attractive option for the inmates than mopping the floor alone in their unit. To get the detail, one had to have some education, or at least relevant skills. In the words of the head cla.s.sification officer-a man who, incidentally, spent his spare time authoring erotic prison thrillers-the prison library was ”the elite detail.” Often an inmate came recommended by other staff members. Sometimes an inmate put in his own application.

I generally worked a 1:30 to 9 p.m. s.h.i.+ft; the day s.h.i.+ft, which began at 7:30 a.m., went to Forest, a man who, unlike me, was actually trained as a librarian and had worked in the New York City Public Library system. The library's daily schedule consisted of consecutive one- to one-and-a-half-hour periods organized by prison unit, from 3-1-i.e., the unit from the first floor of the 3-Building-to 4-3. (The units in the 1-Building, the Tower, were constructed to have more than one unit per floor, and went by numbers like 1-2-1, or 1-11-2.) During their designated period, up to thirty inmates were permitted into the library at once, which meant they had to get onto their unit's list ahead of time. Sometimes the demand was too high and inmates would have to wait a day or two until it was their turn.

At 3 p.m.-and, as Charlie ensured, not a second later-Forest and much of the civilian staff blew off for the day. Occasionally Forest and I would swap s.h.i.+fts, usually as the result of his charitable donation to my Friday night social life. But I was mostly in prison during the afternoon, evening, and night. Perhaps I felt more comfortable during the night s.h.i.+ft-all of my later problems occurred, or at least originated, during my rare stints on the early s.h.i.+ft.

It was the night s.h.i.+ft that brought me into daily contact with the women inmates. Every evening at 6:30 p.m. the men would be locked down in their cells, and the women would descend from the prison tower. For logistical reasons-namely their status as a minority population-the women were rarely permitted to emerge from their units and had very limited time away. And once out they were fired up. For an hour and a half each night, the library was engulfed by lively crowds of women inmates.

The women were much more social and talkative than the men. You could doc.u.ment on graph paper the cultural difference between the s.e.xes by the way in which each used the library s.p.a.ce: women would sit together in two or three big circles, while the men retreated to private corners, with only a small group surrounding the counter. There was a thick sense of group among the women-they didn't balkanize like the male prisoners. Same-s.e.x dating was common and openly accepted. Interracial friends.h.i.+ps were the norm. There was less gang activity, if any. Unlike the men, the women were all deeply involved in each other's business. Gossip was the standard currency. Even in the first few sessions, I could discern the differences. I had to break up a few s.e.x-acts in the corners of the book stacks, a few physical fights. The drama among the men did not play out openly like this, and certainly not in the s.p.a.ce of the library.

When I arrived on the scene there were two women working the library detail, a young pregnant woman and an older ”madam” who went by the name Momma D. During my first week there, the pregnant woman tried to persuade me to hire one of her friends for the library detail. If I failed to do so, she threatened to name her child after me.

”You don't want people to start talking, do you?” she said, in what I believe was a joke.

She also informed me, in praise of her friend, that ”hoes make the best librarians.” Why? ”Because they know how to be sweet but they will bust yo' a.s.s if you get out of line.” I agreed that this profile fit the qualifications of an effective librarian. Overhearing this conversation, Momma D, however, demurred. Madams are the best librarians, she argued. They know how to ”run an operation.” It all sounded plausible to me.

The men's library detail was also already in place when I began working. Coolidge-veteran thief, flimflam man, and law clerk-was the self-appointed elder statesman of the group. He helped me steer the s.h.i.+p at the beginning. Coolidge was a large-scale talker and four-time religious convert. He'd alternated between various streams of Christianity and Islam. He was an autodidact and prison diploma holder. The staff member who actually ran legal affairs, a certified lawyer, told me that Coolidge truly did maintain an impressive grasp of the law. Coolidge's vocabulary was extensive, though he often stretched it beyond its limits. In conversations, he quickly turned bully. But I enjoyed talking to him-at first.

His knowledge of the library and of the prison was indispensable. He knew more than my bosses about the actual, day-to-day operation of the library, and he took the time and interest to explain things to me. As a result, I was slightly under the sway of his paranoid delusions.

”Everyone's gonna want a piece of you in here,” he warned me. ”Watch yourself.”

When I asked him what he meant, he just said, ”You'll see.”

In addition to his current sentence, Coolidge was facing another robbery charge that could tack on a few decades to his countless years as an adult in captivity. He was busy preparing a vigorous, full-scale legal defense.

”It's not a legal defense, Avi,” he said, as we waited for a legal brief to print. ”It's a legal offense offense. I will will be taking umbrage, you understand? It's gonna be like Napoleon's invasion of Russia, except I'm gonna win.” be taking umbrage, you understand? It's gonna be like Napoleon's invasion of Russia, except I'm gonna win.”

I wasn't sure what a Napoleon-complex would look like in a man over six feet tall, but was confident I would find out.

Coolidge's focus on his own legal matters kept him removed from the rest of the detail, an arrangement that seemed to suit everyone. He'd set up shop in the back room, the computer room. Other inmates were not to interfere with him back there. He was magnanimous, though, and held office hours to help inmates with their legal questions.

Fat Kat was over ten years younger than Coolidge, but probably a generation or so removed. He was a child of the chaos of 1980s Boston, the first generation to run serious drugs and guns on the streets. He and his buddies had been rounded up in the nineties by the Feds, in a historic sweep of Boston's street gangs (meanwhile, Irish Southie mob boss and FBI double agent, Whitey Bulger, continued running his rackets miraculously unabated). Many of Kat's friends had done or were doing serious time. Some of them were beginning to hit the streets again. Kat had a couple of years left.

Coolidge and Kat got tight and bonded over a shared pa.s.sion for case law. Coolidge once told me that he viewed Kat as a son. It wasn't clear to me that Kat saw it this way.

Cherubic and clever in equal measure, Fat Kat never boasted, but also never bothered to conceal his large aspirations. He could tell you which boutique designed which NBA players' plus-sized custom-tailored leather tailcoats. He could expound upon the logic of each cut, b.u.t.ton, and stud, could make the structural argument for fusible interfacing, for the need of contrast st.i.tching. Kat's collection of couture sneakers went into the hundreds of pairs. He could talk shop about yachts. But, touched by the curse of self-awareness, his flourishes of connoisseurs.h.i.+p always amounted to sorrow.

”I grew up poor,” he told me, with sigh. ”I need need this stuff. At least that's how it feels.” this stuff. At least that's how it feels.”

Fat Kat also said he wanted out of ”the game.” How these wants and needs would sort themselves out in the future was unclear. If there was a way, he was certain he'd find it. The respect accorded him by both inmates and staff was real. His playfulness, his vegetarianism, his love of National Geographic National Geographic, his fantasies of relocating to the woods of Quebec, all complicated the stereotype of the street thug.

Elia was a quiet, lumbering man in his mid forties. Hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail, deep creases in his forehead. A shy smile, missing some crucial teeth. There was a faded bohemian smoothness to him. His demeanor was gentle, courtly. Born in Alabama and shuttled to Boston at a young age, he used to hang out with the musicians of Harvard Square, where he helped found Spare Change Spare Change, the local street newspaper written and sold by homeless people. He wasn't ashamed that he'd stayed in shelters, he told me. Or that he struggled with a drinking problem. He was trying to patch things up with his wife. He missed the way she dragged him to ballets and plays. A photo of their beautiful four-year-old daughter was always with him in his prison uniform.