Part 10 (1/2)

Fascination with Hasidim, I understood. But, admiration? That struck me as strange. Blacks and Hasidim, as I understood it, had a relations.h.i.+p of mutual suspicion. And then there was the issue of style.

”Really?” I said. ”Cool?” ”Cool?” It wasn't a word I had ever a.s.sociated with my Hasidic brethren. It wasn't a word I had ever a.s.sociated with my Hasidic brethren.

”Yeah!” said Teddy, who had never met a Hasid in his life. ”You ever see them dudes rolling, like four in car, matching beards, man, matching pimpin' hats, music b.u.mpin' ...”

Teddy, himself piously bearded, c.o.c.ked an imaginary hat on his braided head and nodded rhythmically to a nonexistent ba.s.s beat. He dissolved into laughter.

”Yeah,” I said, ”when you you do it, it's cool...” do it, it's cool...”

”Nah, man, I'm serious. I respect those guys,” Teddy said.

Pitts shook his head, ”Here we go again...”

”They know what they about,” said Teddy. ”Isn't that true, Kat?”

Fat Kat nodded earnestly. ”That's true,” he said.

As Teddy began to chide me for neglecting my Orthodox practice and for not dressing proudly as the Hasid I was meant to be, it occurred to me that Hasidim were, in ways that I had never quite appreciated, the epitome of gangsta. The inmates on the detail respected the Hasidim because, in their minds, Hasidim embodied the ideals of the thug life. Hasidim had a reputation of viewing the world as us-versus-them, and running their businesses and community inst.i.tutions without any regard for a system of law imposed by outsiders, persecutors of their community. And what's more, they did it in style. They dressed their own way, talked their own way, walked their own way; they wore distinctive, indeed, completely unique clothing, and they wore it with pride wherever they went.

But most of all, as Kat explained, based on his own experience in Brooklyn, ”You did not not f.u.c.k around in their neighborhood, unless you had the green light. If they caught you out of line, man, they'd f.u.c.k you up. Those dudes guarded their neighborhood by any means necessary.” f.u.c.k around in their neighborhood, unless you had the green light. If they caught you out of line, man, they'd f.u.c.k you up. Those dudes guarded their neighborhood by any means necessary.”

”Yeah,” said Teddy. ”That's what I'm talking about.”

That was the main job of a gang, after all. And that's what the Hasidim were to these men: an exquisitely well-organized gang-a gang with a long and ill.u.s.trious history, a proven track record.

Every gang ultimately strives to be a full-blooded tribe. Tribes-people share a common history and fate, expressed through religion. They are loyal to each other and to their families until death. And they would never, ever snitch. A gang wasn't just a group of guys roaming around wearing matching clothing; they were an attempt at a community. They shared a history, either real or imagined. It's not an accident that the Latin Kings gang attaches itself to ancient myths and observes their own holidays and fasts. Nor was it an accident that Teddy was attracted to Sunni Islam and to Hasidim.

I thought back to my Orthodox upbringing and how I was raised to say the line, part of the central prayer of Judaism, ”And may the informers have no hope...” I had said this prayer every day, three times a day three times a day. When I said it, I meant it. I knew more about gang loyalty than I had realized. Apparently I'd been raised with it.

I still cringed when I saw someone graffiti ”Stop Snitching” into a desk in the library or when Fat Kat went on a tirade against snitches. But I also understood it personally. I understood why Teddy wanted to respect Miller.

I wondered if, in some small way, I could help shape the library detail into a gang of sorts. In prison, where sharing is literally against the rules and community building is often seen as a threat to order, the library was a place built on the basic tenet of both a gang and of community: sharing resources. People share when they trust each other. And in respecting the library detail-by treating them like men and not prisoners-I hoped to earn their loyalty and to convert them to the cause of the library. And yet, Miller might well have thought the same thing about his students. I could respect the inmate library detail, but I couldn't let myself be deceived into thinking we were on the same team.

I never referred to an inmate by his nickname. I was a public servant; I was expected to use an inmate's official name, his gov. Still, it was hard to resist. The nicknames were so descriptive of personality. When a guy comes into the library every day and speaks in an incomprehensible Mississippi accent, it's hard not to call him ”Country”-especially when that's what everyone calls him. If a name seemed appropriate for a person, it seemed inappropriate to ignore it. Months after an inmate left the prison, I often couldn't recall his gov. More often, I remembered his street name. But it was beside the point. In prison, when it came to naming, superior descriptiveness was irrelevant. Names expressed solidarity with a group; they were bound up in one's affiliation. I was on the sheriff's payroll and I had to show my solidarity with the law. If I used a street name both the officers and the cons would draw the same conclusion about my allegiances. There was no room for expressions of private relations.h.i.+ps that were neutral to the cop-con division. One had to choose sides. never referred to an inmate by his nickname. I was a public servant; I was expected to use an inmate's official name, his gov. Still, it was hard to resist. The nicknames were so descriptive of personality. When a guy comes into the library every day and speaks in an incomprehensible Mississippi accent, it's hard not to call him ”Country”-especially when that's what everyone calls him. If a name seemed appropriate for a person, it seemed inappropriate to ignore it. Months after an inmate left the prison, I often couldn't recall his gov. More often, I remembered his street name. But it was beside the point. In prison, when it came to naming, superior descriptiveness was irrelevant. Names expressed solidarity with a group; they were bound up in one's affiliation. I was on the sheriff's payroll and I had to show my solidarity with the law. If I used a street name both the officers and the cons would draw the same conclusion about my allegiances. There was no room for expressions of private relations.h.i.+ps that were neutral to the cop-con division. One had to choose sides.

In a culture like prison, which is about honor and shame, how you use a name matters. Honor systems are obsessed with public appearances, public actions. If you use a nickname, you honor both the individual person and the group that named him. If you use the name, you're part of the gang.

And that's where snitching came in. Snitching was, essentially, an act of unnaming someone, an undoing of a person's street name. By naming another person to the authorities, one, in fact, re-established that person's official ident.i.ty over and against his street ident.i.ty. Miller had refused to name the inmate and the result was, as my colleague had whispered to me that night in the cafeteria, he was named. His name became another prison commodity to be traded on the black market.

I decided to be more careful. It wasn't savvy to let inmates give me a nickname, even a wonderful one like Bookie Bookie. Nor, for that matter, was it wise to have my actual name broadcast over the radio by the L-Crew to all of Greater Boston. I had to avoid sending the message that I was somehow on the inmates' side in the prison war-especially if I also did stupid things like mouth off to Officer De Luca. Even if it wasn't my intention, I was misaligning myself by doing these things. The next thing I knew, I'd end up like Miller, a well-intentioned chump holding a shank for some inmate. If I allowed inmates to name me, I might eventually allow them to unname me. I couldn't get drawn in.

For example, with Jessica. By handing a ”gift” from her to her son, I wasn't really doing anything wrong. Or was I? Perhaps I was even doing something right. It was hard to tell. But I was doing something...with an inmate. This, as I was told during orientation, was how trouble started. The little transgression. I was moving into that gray area, into what I'd been warned against repeatedly by my coworkers, and by many inmates themselves, and now formally by the deputy. I knew what pragmatic union boss Charlie would tell me: keep your nose clean. Even if it goes your way this round, he'd say, next time you'll get screwed; that's how it goes here. How many times had I been told, ”Keep your distance” and ”Don't get involved”? With Jessica, I was now involved. And every time I convinced myself that it was fine, that I was doing something right, I remembered Miller's mortified face, drained of all blood, lying to Charlie and probably in denial himself. If these hesitations hadn't entered my mind, I'd already be in denial.

The good news: people still had no idea what to make of my name, Avi, itself a nickname for Avraham. This name, which is as common as Tom in Israel and Orthodox enclaves, was exotic in prison. Many people still had trouble saying it. I got called everything: Ari, Javi, Ali, Artie, Avery, Arnie, Alley, Arlo, Albie, Harley, Halley, Arfi, Advil, Alvie, Audi (as in the car), Arby (as in the fast food chain), A.V., Harvey, Harvin, and my personal favorite, which I heard but once: Ally. That name got right to the point.

I heard many of these names on a daily basis. It got to the point where I was given an incorrect full name, Arvin, and then an incorrect nickname for that name, Arvi. After some annoyance at the constant mangling of my name I'd begun to embrace the situation. It was like having fifteen aliases. My mysterious, protean name gave me a cloak of anonymity in the prison. I couldn't be easily named nor easily placed. While it hadn't been wise to give inmates my name for a shout-out, it was after all my Avery Avery persona who saved the day. I knew that at some point, perhaps, I'd have to choose sides. In the meantime, though, my name concealed more than it revealed. In prison, this comes in handy. persona who saved the day. I knew that at some point, perhaps, I'd have to choose sides. In the meantime, though, my name concealed more than it revealed. In prison, this comes in handy.

And there were other cloaks one could wear in prison. There were, for example, ways to diplomatically use an inmate's name without quite calling him by it. Buddha-whose actual name I've since forgotten-comes to mind. He and I hadn't gotten off on the right foot. In fact, we disliked each other immensely. One day, during a lull, I leaned over to Buddha in the library and said to him, ”So why'd they call you 'Buddha'? Is it because you're a man of peace?”

Buddha, clearly approving of this riff on his pot-inspired name, smiled widely.

”Arlo, man, you're okay,” he said. ”You're an undercover playa- playa-I like that.”

Jessica's Portrait It was in this undercover playa persona that I arranged Jessica's portrait. I didn't have to look far for an artist. Turned out Brutish's filthy hands were also quite nimble with the sketching pencil. The portrait session was set for a Wednesday night in the library. I brought in some supplies: cheap and expensive coa.r.s.e grain paper, colored pencils, charcoal, one of those cool, triangular erasers that is in strict compliance with the standards set forth by the International Ergonomics a.s.sociation. While we waited for Jessica, Brutish told me that her drawing experience consisted mostly of sketches for tattoos. She specialized in skulls, she said, and was eager to ”draw one with skin on it.” Everything was set.

There was only one problem: Jessica didn't show up. I began to wonder if she'd changed her mind. A few minutes into the period, I noticed the officer on duty motion to someone outside of the library. Jessica had been loitering in the hall, hiding, too nervous to enter.

When Jessica walked in, the inmates hanging around the counter, the usuals, gawked at her.

”Whadaya lookin' at?” she said, as she installed herself into a little niche at the end of the counter, between the wall and a shelf.

It was pretty obvious what they were looking at. If Jessica wasn't quite made over, which would be a rather difficult enterprise in prison, she was dramatically touched up-and in a delightful array of improvised contraband cosmetics. Her hair, which usually fell in sorry knots just past her shoulders, was freshly shampooed, combed up into a cheerfully messy little nest, tied in place by a torn ribbon that looked suspiciously like the material of a prison uniform. Her lips and cheeks were rouged, too heavily, with some blood (which I prayed was her own). The eyebrows were plucked. The eyes outlined and lids shadowed jet black with an unidentified substance, and to Evil Handmaiden proportions. A flower-which, on closer inspection was construction paper and s.h.i.+ny gum wrappers carefully folded, origami-style, into six wide petals, symmetrical as a dahlia-was tucked into her hair. She looked pretty, and a touch loony.

The piece de resistance was her aroma. She was generously doused in some designer perfume clipped from a magazine. These were known around prison as ”smellgoods,” and prized by both male and female inmates for use during prison visits. Perhaps she hoped that some of that scent would come through in the drawing itself. She needed only a well-placed ostrich feather or two, and a crimson-dappled white rose, and she might have posed for Madame Vigee Le Brun in Versailles.

She didn't feel elegant, though.

”Quit starin',” she said.

Trying to keep things low key, I led her to a quiet spot in the book stacks-where I'd set out two facing seats-and produced the drawing materials for Brutish, who was thrilled to experiment with the new implements. There was a quick debate about the pose. The artist herself demonstrated one approach: chin down, eyes up, lids half-drawn, mouth slightly ajar. An alluring magazine cover shot.

”No f.u.c.kin' way,” said Jessica.

She sat down and adjusted her makeup.

”I look okay, right?”

”You look beautiful, baby,” Brutish replied.

”This is a pretty big deal, isn't it?” Jessica said to me.

”Definitely,” I replied.

I suggested she turn to profile, as though gazing out of a window. This was dismissed as artsy. No, she insisted on staring forward and smiling. I told her that looking happy was invented for snap photography. But she insisted. After righting her posture, adjusting her makeup yet again, and folding her hands on her lap, she produced a wide Christmas-card smile. Ten minutes into the session, however, her lips were quivering, the tendons in her neck had begun to strain, and her smile turned ghoulish. But Brutish carried on with surprising deliberation.

Jessica said she hoped her son would keep the portrait. Maybe he'd hang it in his cell. Or, one day, in his home. Maybe he'd make a tattoo out of it. Brutish told her to stop talking.

A Letter from Torchin It took two more sessions to complete Jessica's portrait. Then Brutish took it back to her cell and, with the use of a contraband sketching charcoal, touched it up. The next night she brought it to the library.

”s.h.i.+t looks good, right?” she said, sliding it to me across the library counter.

I had to agree. The blend of features that made it unmistakably Jessica had been executed perfectly, and a tad favorably. The proud, firm tilt of chin; the premature jowls; the adult exhaustion under child eyes; the faint and not so faint scars; the subtle mischief implied in the eyebrows; the failed attempt to straighten the curl of sarcasm from the lips. The embellishments of makeup and hairdo.

She handed the portrait to Jessica, who winced at it, but said, ”Looks great, hon, thanks,” and gave Brutish a big hug.

”I guess I can't give you a hug,” she said to me. She extended her hand with a smile.

Jessica wanted to hold on to the portrait while she finished writing her letter. The letter, she told me, was to include stories about her family. About her upbringing. Mostly the good stuff, she said. When she was done with that, she'd give the letter and portrait to me, to give to him.