The Carrier

Milo spoke no English. His chart said that he was nineteen but he looked twelve. Slim, small boned, frail, curled up in a fetal position on his bed weeping. I asked Joe, a twenty year old Latino to translate. Joe helped Milo into his wheel chair and came into my office. Between sobs, Milo told me that he had just arrived from Venezuela, his first time in the United States. He said that he collapsed in the airport. At the hospital they removed balloons filled with heroin. Two of the balloons had burst. Naturally he was arrested immediately. According to Milo, he had been forced to swallow the heroin by a drug dealer in Venezuela who told him that he had seen the dealer's face and now he had no choice. The dealer also told that there was a contract on his life if the delivery did not take place. The police told Milo that he would get a fifteen year sentence. Milo was terrified. His mother was hysterical. She had no idea that her son was carrying drugs. I went to speak to my friendly drug dealer in the next dorm. He said that it sounded as if Milo was carrying about a million dollars worth of heroin. He thought that it was possible that there was a contract out on his life but if he kept his mouth shut he would be OK because the danger came from the Venezuelans, not the locals. As far as the sentence, my friend said that it was more likely that he would get six months and then be deported because it was cheaper for our government than keeping him in prison. He said that he was pretty sure that Milo would be all right but he would check around outside. A few days later, my friend confirmed his information and that somehow he was allowed to talk to Milo and reassure him. It is important to know where to go to for expert advice.

This Hat Is Mine

Sammy was a very little man. He was not more than 5'3 inches. He was skinny with very knobby knees. He wore shorts although it was January when he was arrested. He had huge blue eyes and a very sweet smile. He wore a worn brown hat called a pork pie when I was very young. On the inside of the hat was were pictures of a very beautiful, very famous super model. Sammy loved her. Actually that was why Sammy was in jail. Although he would say that he just wanted to see her as often as he could, the police called it stalking. He admitted that he did wait at her apartment for her to come home. He made friends with the doorman so he could find out when she went out in the morning. "I don't stalk her. I just want to see her. Why couldn't she love me. I'm not a bad guy. I am a real gentleman. I know how to treat a lady. After all, I've got everything but money and hey, she doesn't need my money. She has plenty. I would never hurt her so what's the problem." Sammy had another problem. The problem was the hat. Someone in the dorm coveted the hat. This someone was used to controlling things and the hat became the object of his control needs. Sammy probably would have given him the hat to save his life. I could have come to that but Sammy was not going to give up the pictures of his fail lady. Sammy scratched his head. I thought that he was just thinking. Sammy continued to scratch his head. He took off this hat and peered inside. He spotted something. He picked it up between two fingers and then squashed. The person who coveted the hat watched in disgust and walked away. Sammy looked at me and winked.

The Woman's World

Although there are several hundred women at Rikers, I don't usually work with them. However there was one woman I do remember vividly. Bernice was a pleasant woman about forty-two years old. She looked like every third woman you see on the bus. She had brown hair, just starting to get gray. I thought that she would probably get a red color rinse to hide the gray when she got out. It is possible to dye your hair in jail, to bleach it, and to get any other cosmetic product. Most of it is illegal contraband but if you are really well connected you can get anything including drugs. Anyway, she usually wore a nylon sweat suit with sneakers. She always looked very clean and eager to please. Attractive, a little overweight and very pleasant. This was her first incarceration and she had never been in trouble before. She said that she was in jail for writing bad checks on her employer's account. "I was a bookkeeper for a small linen supply company and my husband was a machine shop foreman. My husband and I worked hard for everything. We bought a nice house; we had two cars and even managed a vacation once in a while. Everything was great until my husband got laid off. Then the bills started to pile up. I tried to pay everyone some of what I owed. I figured that before long Mike would go back to work and we would catch up. Then Mike hurt his back. My insurance didn't cover all the doctor's bills and I didn't think that Mike could do his old job even if they did call him back. Then I had some woman trouble and needed an operation. Even then there were problems because I don't think the doctors did the right thing for my condition. You know, when you are down, nothing seems to come except more trouble. The bill collectors were hounding us. We borrowed all the money we could but it still wasn't enough. We lost our house and I just didn't know what to do so I started writing some checks out of my office's accounts. Finally my boss caught on. He said that he was sorry but he called the police and I got arrested. " I guess that there are millions of people with the same stories. I really felt sorry for her. She didn't use drugs. She was so middle class and that is very unusual in the jail population. Even the Correction Officers felt sorry for her. The captain gave her a job in his office and told her that she could apply for a job as a civilian when she served her time. I saw her for the last time just before she went downstate for her prison assignment. Downstate is the processing facility. Sentenced inmates go to Downstate, from there they are sent to various prisons though out the state. She gave me a fond good-bye and thanked me for listening to her these past several weeks. "By the way, "she said, "you know, I just spoke to my husband and he said that the lawyer called and said that I would get a check for 11 million dollars for the surgery that the doctor's botched up." She was gone before I could ask any questions. I will never know.

What Goes Around

When I hold substance abuse groups, I often ask the members "what is the worst thing that would happen if you stopped using drugs?". I get some very interesting answers. Sometimes I even get the truth.
Jay told the truth, "when you get out of prison, you look good. You put on weight, you work out, build some muscles. Everyone knows you just came home from up north. Pretty soon somebody will offer you some drugs. They don't even charge you. They give them to you for free. When you get hooked, then they charge you. They know you are a customer again and you are theirs for life. It's never your men friends who will get you to go back to drugs, They may stay clear of you but they won't try to get you to use again. No, it is Suzy Hotpants who walks by. She says just buy me a little and I'll show you how wild I can be. She takes a hit on the pipe and just sets down where it is in easy reach. You are on your own then and it isn't easy. One day when I was on the block I ran into a real good friend of mine. He said "look, I've got $800. I remember allthe times you took care of me. I'm going to buy you some new clothes . I'm going to take you out for the best dinner. You are my best friend and I really owe you." Just then , Suzy Hotpants walks by. She is walking slowly, giving both of you time to see just how good she looks. In no time, she says to me, "let's you and me get together. Tell your friend that you'll be back later." My friend takes off. He says to me, "see you later". "It starts with getting her something. You may take a little hit and that's all it takes. That is the way it happens all the time. And that's the truth." I believe Jay and I know that he speaks the truth. He is a small man, missing more than a few teeth. In another life, he would have made a great stand up comic. His delivery and timing were excellent.

The Tattoo Artist

Timothy was a victim of drugs. He was 25 going on 50. His hair was red, balding on top, shaggy on his neck. His face was covered with freckles. Timothy had tattoos on his neck, shoulders, arms, chest and legs, and even on his ears. "Every time I got high, I got a new tat. Just imagine all the fun I had when the police asked me if I had any identifying marks. It took a whole page just to catalog my pictures. I'm some kind of an art gallery." "You know, " he said, "I used to be pretty good at my job. I learned electrical maintenance when I did a bid as a kid. They say that no knowledge is ever wasted. I put it to good use. I figured out how to pass alarm systems. That was my thing and I had been a pretty successful burglar. My specialty was robbing video stores and selling the tapes to other dealers. People placed orders with me and I would rob a store and sell them the videos they wanted. I was very reliable and I had a lot of steady customers. People liked me and they knew I could be trusted to deliver. I seldom got caught and I was pretty proud of my ability until I started to use cocaine. I got sloppy. I stopped going to see my parole officer, my urine was dirty. I had a bunch of warrants and the police were beginning to notice me and watch me. When I used cocaine, I thought that I was invisible. I was invisible until I used so much that I began to see things. One day I was so sure that I was being chased by tigers that I began to run frantically to find some place to hide and get away. I was so scared that I ran into the back of a police car to escape. Is that being scared or what? I got 9 1/2 to 18 years. No more tigers."

Not On The Forbes List, But...

On of the most successful drug dealers I met was Joe. Joe did not look like anyone that Central Casting would send to a movie audition for the part. He looked like TV's idea of a very successful, well-respected business leader. And he was. His hair was dark brown and well timed as if he frequented and expensive stylist. And he did. His brown eyes were clear, alert and attentive. Despite his current address, he wore well-pressed slacks with a fit that was a tribute to his tailor. There was nothing on the rack that was good enough for this gentleman. If his picture were on the cover of a financial magazine, it would be appropriate. He might look a little younger than the average billionaire but not if he were a venture capitalist or a computer designer. He was not aggressive, he was just clearly in charge. The other residents knew it and so did the officers. The man had presence. He was shorter than average just like many financial tycoons and movie actors. His eyes were calm and all knowing. He spoke in a quiet, soft-spoken tone that one had to listen to very carefully or miss. Everyone listened very carefully because no one wanted to miss a word he said. His shirts were always ironed. Since there is no such service in jail, he must have has a special delivery service to send his laundry in and out.
Joe moved through the dorm as if he were on his own plantation. The residents moved aside in a natural way without seeming to resent or fear him. I thought that Joe probably provoked the same reaction wherever he was, in jail or on the street. Most successful drug dealers are not in jail but he was unlucky for the minute.
He explained that it takes a lot of hard work to run a successful drug business just like any other successful business. He said that that people didn't realize that it takes a lot more than guns to keep a territory and make it profitable. The competition is fierce, loyalty is problematic. Iimporting, manufacturing, and distribution had to be planned carefully. No detail was overlooked. He said that he knew his market and knew that he has to persuade consumers that his product was superior to other similar products. He told me that it took a great deal of research and development to produce a grade of drug that was sufficiently satisfying yet profitable. He was concerned about profit margins. He said that he also like the prestige of being successful because people in the community looked up to him when he walked down the street. People stepped aside and women were thrilled to be seen with him. I kept wondering what made him different from any other successful businessman, except for the product he was selling.
Joe told me that you can tell who is the salesman and who is the salesperson by the car he/she drives. You can also tell what product is being sold by the color of the car.
Joe said that there is a great of prestige is being a successful dealer. All he was doing was selling the wrong product because he could not go public. He may be a venture capitalist. He bailed himself out. As a parting message, he said that never underestimate the skills of a successful drug dealer. If you can sell one product, you can sell another one just as easily.

The Psychic Connection

When I first started to work on Rikers in 1989, I met Mason. He was about 30 years old but had no teeth. His hair was thick and classically shaped by the inmate barbers. Inmate barbers are literally the cutting edge. They are the point men of fashion or as they phrased it, they are on Avenue A (the front line). Mason's skin was smooth and if it wasn't for the small blue teardrop tattooed beneath is right eye, he would have looked much younger. The tattoo was in memory for a close friend or enemy who had been killed. Mason could neither read nor write but he never forgot anything. His memory was uncanny. He never forgot a movie he had ever seen, a television show, every piece of music and every lyric. He could repeat long passages from the bible and sermons that he had heard. More than remembering, he could also process the information and draw his own conclusions. His conclusions were sophisticated and erudite. His opinions were developed as a result of several different pieces of data he heard from different sources. People thought that he was stupid because he was illiterate but his memory was remarkable. However, Mason also told me about aliens, little green men who visited him in his cell. I listened, Then he told me stories about the affairs of celebrities who were having marital troubles, who was having drug problems, who would soon be indited for illegal activities, and who was going to jail. Since these events had not been reported, I took it about as seriously as the stories about the little green visitors. But every time there was a newspaper report of the event Mason had predicted, he brought me a newspaper article confirming the story.
Mason never predicted lottery numbers or stock tips but he was not wrong on the messages he did get from wherever.