Category: The Jail for Justice Series

As I’ve expressed, bullpens are typically barren of most human comforts. Northampton County Prison’s bullpen offers nothing, and I mean nothing, to stimulate mind or body and it’s relatively small. Inmates have the options of sitting on a concrete slab, pacing a concrete floor, looking through bars at passing guards or using the absolutely vile metal commode/sink unit in full view of a literally captive audience.

Anybody can wind up in a bullpen for any reason. An addict can find himself sitting next to a drug counselor or a burglar next to a cop. Out of sheer boredom, some people strike up conversations. Once guys get to talking, there is no telling where the conversations might go. On July 22, 2016, I spent about 6 hours chatting with as eclectic a cross-section of people as can be found in New York City’s Washington Square Park on any sun-drenched Saturday afternoon.

Speaking of New York City, I acted as if I were there during my first couple of hours in stir. Like any old school knickerbocker in unfamiliar surroundings, I kept my mind blank and my mouth shut while my eyes surveyed all behind a vacant stare. In a detention facility setting, it’s wise to get a read on the surrounding company before trying to get chummy with anyone. Fortunately for our group, one of the cell’s early inhabitants proved a real wit.

It might have been sweltering in the jail’s main corridor, but it was downright frigid in the bullpen. I was too busy suppressing a torrent of thought to notice the chill, but as more guys joined the party, many shrouded themselves under the wool blankets provided as part of our facility-issued personal kits. Those dudes had to be cold, I thought; the blankets offered all the comfort of a roll of fiberglass insulation. I guess the jail’s laundry had run out of fabric softener.

Under one of these shrouds, our jailhouse Katt Williams slept fitfully on the concrete slab, periodically sitting up to demand coffee from passing, notably disinterested C.O.s. It bears mentioning that C.O.s hear and see it all behind the gates. They are likely instructed from the day they are hired to ignore 99.99% of what they hear from inmates and maybe even more of what they see. They were as likely to bring this man coffee as toss him a spare key to the cell. Even now, I chuckle at the thought of this guy shouting and gesturing at the passing C.O.s who gave him as much consideration as a moisture stain on the concrete floor. Eventually, my audacious celly began to remind me of an X-rated jack-in-the-box. In the absence of even a sales circular to peruse just for laughs, I found his outbursts increasingly amusing.

The Coffee Man definitely broke the ice. His clowning led to each of us discussing why he was there. Some pretty good stories worked their way up from the depths of secrecy. Were they all true? Who knows? Who cares? Swapping tales helped us forget that we were stuck in a cell for what seemed like forever…and gave us insight into those with whom we would be sharing close quarters indefinitely.

The kids know all about me getting locked up, so I’ll dispense with the euphemisms. I’ll pick up the story from July 22, 2016 in Room 8 of the Northampton County courthouse. I forget the name of the “jurist” presiding, but for purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter. It took His Honor all of 10 minutes to sentence me to two months in the county jail, which is referred to in Northampton County as a prison for whatever reasons. His Honor’s obvious goal was to use the power of the state to collect a fee for opposing counsel, a rather curious circumstance discussed here.

Once sentence was imposed, a sheriff’s deputy asked with evident courtesy that I place my hands behind my back so that my wrists could be cuffed. I did so and with a final glance at His Honor, I asked if his decision is subject to appeal. He replied that it is and it was exit stage right for the deputy and me.

We walked through a long corridor to an elevator. On the trip down to the bowels of the court complex, the deputy asked me about the origin of my first name. With reciprocal courtesy, I told him it was Brazilian.

The doors of the elevator opened to yet more corridors that led to a station manned by a county corrections officer. He opened a gate leading to a kind of holding corridor with an identical gate at the other end. A bleacher type bench lined one side of the hall and short, frosted windows situated near the ceiling lined the other. I was walked into this corridor and patted down by the deputy. Once it was established that I carried no contraband, the escorting deputy bade me farewell. I was now in the custody of the Northampton County Department of Corrections.

After a short wait, the corrections officer (“C.O.”) who opened the near gate walked me down the corridor to the far gate. Through still another gate, we entered the main concourse of the Northampton County Prison.

The place is at least as old as Alcatraz, maybe older. The ceiling is perhaps 40 feet up and each side of the concourse is lined with 2-man cells stacked 2 tiers high. The hall is about 20 feet wide and bisected by a traversing corridor that leads to the main gate at one end and parts unknown at the other. The decor is strictly 19th century institutional, the walls painted a soul-numbing gray. Despite the presence of two large, functioning fans that could double as airplane propellers on either side of the hall, no one had to hit up weather.com to know it was hot outside.

Yet another gate led us from the concourse to central booking, which is to a county detention center what a triage desk is to a hospital’s emergency room. After a second, more thorough pat down, including the old squat-and-cough, I was stripped of all personal property and issued a jumpsuit and a large, plastic kind of overnight bag. My next stop was a seat on a concrete slab in the “bullpen”, a relatively large, temporary holding cell.

It was 11:30 AM by the clock in the hallway. As it was early AND hot (triple-digit heat slows down even the most dedicated felons), only 3 guys were there before me. Two were sleeping and the third was visibly resigned to our shared fate. As is generally the case in a bullpen, there wasn’t a whole lot of conversation going on at first, but boredom has a way of loosening lips. Within two hours of staring at the same pair of C.O.s walking back and forth in the unadorned hallway beyond the cell door, the lumps of sullen flesh to my left and right evolved into Homo sapiens capable of at least rudimentary communication. Good thing, too. Those guys turned out to be real characters…

Yesterday, my daughter announced that she had read my latest post. She asked me why I had not discussed the issue of my incarceration with her and my son. I told her that I saw no need to worry them with such a thing. She told me that they already knew, but declined to mention the topic for fear that it might upset me. I chuckled and explained that if I were to be upset about anything, it would be the circumstances leading up to my five days in stir and certainly not answering any questions that my favorite 2 kids might ask. I assured her that not everyone behind bars belongs there and that the experience had not been traumatic for me. This seemed to allay her concerns.

Long after our discussion, however, I did consider the motives of the cowards behind my commitment, persons of privilege who lead what I assume are decent lives, persons with children, homes and some level of financial security. That such persons would use their influence to deprive me of the same in a pathetic attempt to show me who’s boss speaks so little of them as to render them beneath the contempt with which they had the gall to charge me. They don’t get that we’re not made of the same stuff. They couldn’t walk 100 yards in my shoes. I took the worst they could legally dish out without breaking a sweat. Now, it’s my turn.

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Who am I to argue? Rather than engage in some dopey revenge fantasy, I choose to help others who might suffer a fate similar to that they tried to hang on me. I choose to partner with organizations that are fully staffed, funded and empowered to fight the injustices I’ve heard of and experienced. I choose to turn what these saps thought would be a negative into a positive for good people facing what seem to be insurmountable obstacles. I choose to do my part to rip apart a tattered, medieval system that few have dared to challenge.

My children are pretty much my life. That three well-educated idiots prone to abusing their authority and their enablers would try to separate me from my kids or hinder me from doing what I must for them is motivation enough for me to shine a klieg light on the histories of my would-be tormentors. But each of them has been active for years in the Lehigh Valley. That means that somewhere out there, or likely IN there, as in the Northampton County Prison, there are any number of people subjected to some level of injustice at their hands. Bet I can’t flip a coin without hitting one of these victims square on the forehead.

Yes, I have emerged from a 4-year nightmare a stronger, smarter, more determined, motivated and organized man than before. I am grateful to family, friends, God and my children for all they’ve done to see me through. I am and will continue to be what you all expect. It’s the best way I know to say “thank you.”

Next up, a detailed discussion of my stay at the Northampton County Prison.