Part 9 (2/2)

”Yeah, so I want to give Chrissy a letter from me before I go.”

”Okay.”

”Will you give it to him?”

I sighed, but agreed to do it. I was officially breaking with prison protocol and sticking my neck out.

”And a little gift.”

Again, I sighed. Pa.s.sing notes between inmates was already pus.h.i.+ng the boundaries, but pa.s.sing ”gifts” between inmates was courting serious problems.

”I can't do that,” I said. Then hesitated. ”What's the gift?”

”A drawing.”

”Fine,” I said. ”Of what?”

”Of me.”

Naming and Unnaming I went into the staff cafeteria for an early supper. The caf was self-segregated between officers and civilian staff members. In the evening, when the s.h.i.+fts were smaller, the officers sat on one end of the room and civilians on the other, with four or five empty tables between. It was as if each group was trying to sit as far from the other as possible. On rare occasions, an officer and civilian staffer would sit together. Food was prepared and served by inmates. It was a strange and subtly charged setting.

That night, it was more so. I detected a feeling of hostility emanating from the officers' table. A few officers I didn't know gave me dirty looks. Others with whom I was friendly simply avoided eye contact.

I took out my sandwich and sat with a colleague of mine from the Education Department. She was friendly with people all over the prison and was a fount of juicy gossip.

”What's going on here?” I asked her.

She knew exactly what I was talking about, and leaned across the table.

”Miller was named,” she whispered.

An inmate, she told me, was facing heat for something or had reason to believe his cell would be shaken down-a standard action against inmates for both official security reasons and officers' personal vendettas. This inmate, who was a student of Miller's, approached Miller with a shank, an improvised knife, asking him to dispose of it for him. Miller, probably thinking ”no harm no foul,” allegedly did exactly that, throwing the shank out in the trash bin of his cla.s.sroom.

Miller had known the inmate a bit, and perhaps they'd become friendly. Perhaps he wanted to help the guy avoid further trouble and stay in cla.s.s and earn a diploma. The inmate was, after all, one of his students. Or perhaps he was simply afraid to say no, fearing the possible repercussions of snitching on a violent criminal. Miller worked in prison. He knew the code: snitches get st.i.tches snitches get st.i.tches (if they're lucky). He also knew that inmates have friends on the outside. Or perhaps the inmate blackmailed him. (if they're lucky). He also knew that inmates have friends on the outside. Or perhaps the inmate blackmailed him.

Once the inmate had presented him with the shank, he couldn't pretend to not know about it: the choice was either to play along or to report the inmate. This itself was a form of blackmail. There could be no neutrality. Miller tried to compromise and deal with the situation quietly. This turned out to be a miscalculation.

When the inmate was brought in for questioning, he tried to curry favor with SID by offering them a juicy morsel: a staff member's name. Indeed that's likely why he'd strong-armed Miller into throwing out the weapon to begin with, something that he probably could have done himself: he needed some leverage for the interrogation he knew was coming. Miller's name was that leverage. And to make matters considerably worse for Miller, SID searched the trash bin. It was empty. The shank, it appeared, had been retrieved by another inmate and transferred back to the inmate population. The entire sequence may well have been orchestrated.

Soon thereafter, Miller had been summoned for questioning. That's when I'd witnessed Charlie telling him to go to SID. Word around the prison was that SID shook him down hard, reduced him to tears. But he repeatedly denied knowledge of the shank. Somehow-possibly by reminding him that he himself could do time for what he had done-SID had squeezed Miller hard enough that he confessed everything. Officers escorted Miller, red-faced and humiliated, from the facility. There is a protocol for officers' escorting staff out in this fas.h.i.+on. These incidents occasionally happen. A full investigation would follow.

I listened to the story with a sense of awe and dread. Poor Miller! His situation was a staff person's nightmare. A clear example of how being surrounded by criminals can easily turn you into one yourself, even with the best of intentions. And even if you typically made good decisions. What happened to him might have happened to any of us-who knows how we'd react if an inmate with a knife threatened us with blackmail or worse. My friend's phrase, Miller was named Miller was named, made me shudder.

A few days later, I was waiting for the front door to roll open, en route to a mandatory meeting for all non-uniformed staff. We were going to be collectively chastised for the Miller affair and rallied to the mission at hand. Eddie Grimes, the officer stationed at the front gate-a student of Zen Buddhism who always kept a book of Eastern thought at his post-dropped a piece of wisdom on me. As I waited for the heavy prison door to roll open, I asked Eddie for some insight from his studies. He thought for a moment and dangled a pen vertically between two fingers.

”The master teaches,” Eddie said, ”hold the pen with great care but hold the weapon with even greater care, for the weapon protects the pen.”

It was a statement that captured the essence of the officers' relations.h.i.+p to people like me. And it was a refutation of the cliche that the pen is mightier than the sword. Of course, in prison, where pens are turned into knives, this expression already holds a peculiar resonance.

At the meeting, we were told to, ”Give the inmates nothing. Nothing.” Nothing.” Forest and I were depressed by this formulation of the policy. We were, after all, in the business of doing exactly that: giving the inmates stuff. We were also told that we had no confidentiality whatsoever with the inmates and that our loyalty was to the sheriff and the sheriff alone. Forest and I were depressed by this formulation of the policy. We were, after all, in the business of doing exactly that: giving the inmates stuff. We were also told that we had no confidentiality whatsoever with the inmates and that our loyalty was to the sheriff and the sheriff alone.

”Your ID card,” said Quinn, the a.s.sistant deputy, ”has two names on it, yours and the sheriff's. Those are your priorities here. Got it?”

Snitching was serious business. When you entered the prison, you would be asked to name people. How you named those people made you either a con or a cop. There was no third option, no neutrality.

Back in the library things were returning to normal. The inmates needled me for information. Among their population, rumors were rampant: ”I heard this wasn't the first time that teacher guy did this.”

”I heard he knew the guy from the outs.”

”I heard that the teacher guy was selling drugs to guys in 3-3 and was scared that dude was gonna rat him out.”

Teddy, the ideologue, took a strong position on the issue.

”I respect that teacher,” Teddy said, as he helped Fat Kat enter new books into the library's computer database.

”'Course you do!” said Pitts. ”It takes a fool to respect a fool.”

”Nah, man,” Teddy said, ”he was trying to help a friend. And even when the dude ratted him out, he kept strong, proud. Your name name, man, that's all you got.”

”That might be all you you got,” said Pitts, ”but that teacher guy had a got,” said Pitts, ”but that teacher guy had a job job until he decided to be a d.a.m.n fool.” until he decided to be a d.a.m.n fool.”

As usual, Pitts got the last word. The conversation died there. After a few minutes of quiet, Teddy spoke again. This time he addressed me.

”You're Jewish, right?” asked Teddy. ”Is it okay if I ask?”

I was curious what line of thought had led Teddy here.

”Yeah,” I responded. ”I grew up Orthodox. Hard-core.”

Fat Kat's eyes widened when he heard this; he looked up from the computer keyboard where he had been working. Like Teddy, Fat Kat was Muslim. He, however, was not a convert but a born Muslim, raised by back-to-Africa black activists. A week earlier Fat Kat had told me, with a big smile, about the time his mother dragged him and his siblings to a demonstration in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. Young Kat had stood in front of the White House waving his fist and chanting, ”Reagan, Reagan's gotta go! We support the P-L-O!”

”I had no no idea what I was saying,” he told me. ”I was just repeating what they said.” idea what I was saying,” he told me. ”I was just repeating what they said.”

We had had a big laugh about it. Now Fat Kat looked at me.

”You was raised Orthodox? Orthodox? Like with the hats and the hair,” he said pointing to his sideburns, indicating the traditional long sidelocks of the Hasidic sects. I could see that he was trying to imagine me dressed in a black frock coat with matching black hat and curly sidelocks, stroking my beard and walking briskly down Lexington Avenue in New York City. I laughed. Like with the hats and the hair,” he said pointing to his sideburns, indicating the traditional long sidelocks of the Hasidic sects. I could see that he was trying to imagine me dressed in a black frock coat with matching black hat and curly sidelocks, stroking my beard and walking briskly down Lexington Avenue in New York City. I laughed.

”Not exactly,” I said, ”I was like a plainclothes Hasid.”

”Yeah, yeah, Hasids!” Hasids!” said Fat Kat with a big smile and a clap. ”I remember those guys from the Feds, man,” he said, referring to Federal Prison. I later learned that Fat Kat also knew them well as reliable clients of a s.e.x-for-hire business he once ran in Brooklyn. said Fat Kat with a big smile and a clap. ”I remember those guys from the Feds, man,” he said, referring to Federal Prison. I later learned that Fat Kat also knew them well as reliable clients of a s.e.x-for-hire business he once ran in Brooklyn.

”Those dudes don't f.u.c.k around, right?” Teddy, always the diligent disciple, asked Fat Kat. ”Pardon my language,” he said, turning to me.

”Yeah, they take care of they s.h.i.+t,” replied Kat. ”Man those dudes was funny, though. In the Feds, if the Hasids got upset with something, they'd swarm around the warden and start doing this...” He did an impression of a flock of nervous men chattering and furiously wagging index fingers. I recognized the gesture and laughed. Fat Kat was fascinated by Hasidim. I rarely saw him this animated.

”In the Feds,” he went on, ”there was this black dude-I'm talking, straight up black black guy-who dressed like them, the Hasids, and rolled with them. And we was just like, 'Okay, man, if that's how you gonna do it, that's cool.'” guy-who dressed like them, the Hasids, and rolled with them. And we was just like, 'Okay, man, if that's how you gonna do it, that's cool.'”

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