The
restraint exercised by the deputies
is remarkable given the caravan of
whiners in here. When they bark out
an order in the face of petty bullshit, the inmates--out
of earshot--call them "haters." Most of the pod men
are in their twenties, but with all the moaning and
bitching going on, I feel as if I'm in a fifth-grade
classroom. Along with checkers and dominoes, F-pod
should have Play-Doh and a Lego bucket.
An
egregious write-up is coming down right now. Deputy
Hater, always on top of the beat, has called all of
us together in a pod meeting to ferret out the guy
who removed from the wall a daily list with the names
of all those scheduled for classes, court appointments,
and medical calls. "Who took that list down?" Deputy
Hater asks from the railing of the guard tower. "I've
been very kind to you gentlemen, but don't play
me. Who did it? Step out. Step out now."
The
Deputy stares down at the ranks, waits a while longer,
then sends us his bill: "So that's how it's gonna
be, huh? Okay, I'm writing up everybody in here."
Lots
of grumbling, guys yelling at Deputy Hater. Suddenly,
a tall, dignified black man of around fifty steps
forward and says, "I did it."
I've
gotten to know this man since I've been here. We're
both OGs and we both served in the Marine Corps in
Vietnam. After we blew home on the Freedom Bird, he
joined the Black Panthers and I joined Vietnam Veterans
Against the War. He has also told me why he is in
jail. His fifteen-year-old son was shot to death in
a gang-related dispute. The shooter got away. After
his
son's funeral the old Panther, seeking revenge, tracked
down the shooter and confronted him. The shooter started
running. The old Panther took three shots and missed.
The police arrested him as he was walking back home
with gun in hand.
I
hear the words, "I did it" and I see the old Panther
standing there willing to take the rap, and I wish
I had the guts to do that. Deputy Hater hand-waves
the old Panther away and says, "No, you didn't."
"No matter
how badly I fuck up,
women always go easy on me."
The
Deputy reconsiders, dumps the total write-up, and
takes away two hours of our "free time," meaning we
have to stay in our bunk areas and no Play-Doh. I
glance over at the old Panther. You can't cry in jail
'cause that's a sign of weakness, but it's hard to
hold back the tears after witnessing such courage
and pride in an orange uniform by a man still grieving
over the loss of his son.
I've
had several meetings with Marty Steinberg in one of
those little TV cop-drama rooms--one small table,
two chairs, paranoid visions of Three Strikes. He
has yet to give me any hint on how my case might turn
out. To calm me down, Steinberg will shift the conversation
in a bookish direction. One time we talked about the
snowy night on a New York subway platform when Mary
McCarthy and Hannah Arendt buried the hatchet and
became best friends after some kind of long-running
feud over the banality of evil, which is fine, but
Christ, Marty, does the Prosecutor Against the Penis
think I'm evil?
Today,
on my twenty-third day in jail, Steinberg's long,
usually melancholy face is graced with a smile. He's
worked out a deal. I plead guilty to one felony count
of pimping. I will get sentenced to three years' probation;
I will be released in a few hours. The drug charges
will be dropped.
I
withdraw all my earlier remarks about Wonder Woman
2 and the prosecutor. I should know by now that in
the hands of women, nothing can impede the
triumph of justice. With exquisite calmness and gravity,
these women weigh
the matter of the pimp adventuring too far in a drunken
folly. Their delicacy of feeling, combined with coolness
of judgment, just as nature prompted, reminds me of
my Mom, all the women who have passed through my life,
and the Zen dolls. No matter how badly I fuck up,
women always go easy on me.
