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Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media XIV

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On August 20, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

Wow. As I’m writing this post, a glance at the title field reveals the Roman numeral “XIV”! I intended to write a kind of op-ed piece, not a TV series, but be that as it may…

So I was sitting in the dayroom listening to guys relate their stories. On my grandfather’s ashes, I was appalled. No less than 1/3 of the men on the intake unit were there for penny ante stuff related to alleged violations of Protection From Abuse (“PFA”) orders or child support arrears totaling less than $1,000.

Jail? For that? Really? Are they locking guys up for jaywalking, too?

Before I go on, I need to establish some things:

  • I relocated to the Lehigh Valley because it is a wonderful place to live and raise children;
  • People here are generally friendly, thoughtful, respectful and law-abiding;
  • At the time I relocated, I did not foresee any marital issues that would result in the morass in which I find myself enmeshed; and
  • My days of gambling with my life and liberty were over for more than a decade before I even considered leaving New York, which is to say that I do not flout nor do I intentionally run afoul of the law. I’m a father and, generally, a busy one — I try to set an example for my kids and I have no time to be running back and forth to court for nonsense.

Yet, here we are, or rather, there I was:

  • In jail;
  • Not convicted of any crime;
  • Taking up space;
  • Watching painfully bad TV;
  • Waiting for the results of a TB test;
  • Wearing a jumpsuit better suited for a scarecrow than a human being;
  • Eating foods of dubious origin;
  • NOT earning money for child support;
  • Missing my kids, friends and family;
  • Ordered to pay a fine, then incarcerated before I could even visit a bank or make a phone call;
  • At the mercy of people who would violate my constitutional rights because I had the nerve to point out that they were violating my constitutional rights;
  • Listening to other guys whose constitutional rights were violated, some of whom were held prisoner for failing to pay child support arrears when their incarceration had cost them their jobs, others because they were simply accused of violating PFAs, even if there was no evidence that they had done so and consequences be darned;
  • Stuck in Northampton County’s modern take on the debtor’s prison; and
  • In jail!

So I took notes, gathered contact information, jotted down ideas and cultivated strategies. The men on the unit might have been content to rot in jail while the creeps who put us there spent the weekend laughing it up somewhere, but I’ve worked too hard to have any kind of life to allow some good ol’ boys to rip it from my hands simply because they can. No sirree.

The take-aways:

  • The show performed the previous day in Room 8 went off without a hitch, as if the players had recited their lines ad nauseum over hundreds of performances;
  • Too many men on the unit were telling the same story for it to be a coincidence;
  • No one can be expected to pay off a debt from a jail cell; and
  • Karma is, er…not a friend of the unscrupulous.

Learn more…

The Womb Has Proven Mightier Than The Pen

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On August 18, 2016

In Rants, Uncategorized

What has happened to the media? How many new-school journalists actually apply to their craft what they’ve learned in journalism school? Why is it that truly socially relevant stories go ignored while platoons of writers and photographers rush to cover what some celebrity-of-the-moment is wearing to walk her purse-pooch through Central Park? I don’t know. What I do know is that, even in this age of virtually all nonsense all the time, a single person with uncommon resolve and the right approach can bring about monumental change. Sometimes, it boils down to that.

The welfare of my children is worth every abrasive post, reasonable reference, revelation, taunt or stunt or any other price I might have to pay to bring attention to our plight. The American divorce/support/custody complex is a largely outmoded, corroded, grotesque, asinine system that frequently denies involved fathers and their kids the right to be whole after the courts have arbitrarily torn them asunder. It is time responsible fathers of our era stopped paying the price for the deadbeat dads of the 20th century. Who of the media dare to address this topic proactively and extensively rather than allow it to remain the backstory to myriad examples of antisocial behavior?

I know that common sense today is as fashionable as top hats and tails, but the decades of evidence that broken families tend to produce broken people glow in the dark like plastic skeletons on Halloween! The American media need to wake up, pull their heads out of Kim Kardashian’s backside and do their jobs! Start observing, culling data and telling the truth about what divorce courts, judges and lawyers are doing to good fathers as a matter of rote rather than acting in the best interests of kids!

In many states, divorce, custody and support matters are churned through a feudalistic machine where gender, money, convention and the whims of lawyers and judges routinely outweigh truth and the actual circumstances of any given case. That people in position to make changes, including the media, legislators, lawyers, judges and even beaten down fathers, some of whom happen to be members of the aforementioned groups, do nothing to fix this dysfunctional system is positively shameful and contributes to the degradation of the American family.

Given what many young men have seen happen to their own families or those of friends, it’s a wonder any would want to walk off the same cliff that previous generations of men have. Family values are clearly in decline and the punishment meted out to fathers for simply having been part of failed relationships is often excessive and inequitable.

Am I just a disgruntled soul ranting about some perceived injustice, the kind of guy to be avoided when choosing a place to sit at a favored pub? No, because first, I don’t go to pubs and second, I’m addressing concerns that far outweigh my personal struggle. I’m challenging American journalists to investigate the decline of the American family and the alienation of the American father as aided by laws and the parties charged with upholding those laws. This is not only relevant news but a long-perpetuated social injustice demanding the kind of activism that spawned movements to protect women’s rights, civil rights, immigration rights or any rights systemically denied a targeted group in this country.

For the purposes of sports broadcasts and fantasy leagues, a legion of statisticians are making a very good living generating data that contribute as much to our society as, well, Kim Kardashian’s backside. What would happen if the same kind of focus were applied to something that actually mattered, like the emotional impact of court-imposed separations and lop-sided custody orders on kids and loving fathers? What story would 10 years of data tell about the effects of inflexible, arbitrary support demands on fathers forced to either abandon their pre-divorce standard of living or face incarceration? God knows the internet and social media are teeming with the testimonies of dads whose rights are not only denied, but practically extinguished. The only question is: Who in the media will finally stop pretending that this isn’t a national crisis?

Brother, You Wrote a Mouthful

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On August 18, 2016

In Uncategorized, Videos, Links and Resources

Dads, you’ve got to read this post. Though this dad retold a story many of us know all too well, what he DID NOT discuss is why there has been no change…we responsible fathers need to unite, regardless of race, religion or creed and lobby for our own cause!

Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media XIII

By

On August 18, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

There I sat in a dark cell all dressed up (in a county jail jumpsuit) with no place to go (because I was already in jail).

The light switch for each cell was positioned just outside its gate, but within reach of any inmate willing to stick his arm over his open cell’s threshold or through the bars of a closed gate. Most inmates never bothered to flip the switch. My cellie and I certainly did not. Why would we? There wasn’t a book or magazine of any kind on the unit and the prison handbook is hardly a scintillating read.

My cellie woke up in a bit of a mood, but I had learned enough about him to not take it personally. If I woke up in a dimly lit cell and saw me sitting on the opposite bunk staring into space, I’d be a little miffed, too.

Someone had changed the channel on the TV to ESPN. Faux-hip, frat boy banter over baseball highlights was drawing an audience in the dayroom. Guys were looking up at that TV with the kind of focus some retirees devote to slot machines. Had it been football season, I would have been right out there with them. Instead, I chose to take advantage of unstructured time; I took a nap.

When I woke up, it was readily apparent that not much had changed. A glance through the cell’s open gate revealed the same guys seated at the picnic tables watching maybe the fourth iteration of SportsCenter as intently as they had the first. Some had changed seats. Others propped their feet up on the bench of the table in front of them. None was nearly as interested in the program as his gaze might have indicated. Was this really how the men on the unit who bothered to leave their cells would spend the day? I had other ideas.

I rose (no pun intended) from my bunk, retreived an ink pen and some blank paper from my kit and marched through the cell’s gloom to the dayroom.

Struck with inspiration for future blog posts, I grabbed a seat at a random table and set to writing. As more men exited their cells, I picked up smatterings of chatter. Even as I jotted my notes, I tuned in to what I was hearing. Over time, I stopped writing my own thoughts and started writing those spoken by others.

I might have been the only man on the unit jailed for a civil matter, but according to several inmates, my story is hardly unique. What is unique is that I am compelled to address the insanity that led to me spending five days in jail. What is unique is that I wonder why all of these dads just accept utter stupidity as convention. What is unique is that I refuse to live my life under the thumbs of people who demand that I live by rules that they themselves do not.

There’s gotta be a better way. You can call me crazy, but you won’t call me miserable.

And there’s still more…

Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media XII

By

On August 17, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

God knows how, but I slept well my first night on the intake unit. The air conditioning was cranked so high, I hunkered down under the itchy old blanket I dug out of my county-issued bedding/toiletry kit. Ahh, that kit. Constructed of the kind of vinyl once used for slip covers, it is about the size of a new comforter as folded and packaged for sale in stores. In addition to the scruffy blanket, my kit held a pair of worn towels, a plastic pillow, a brown sheet set and what looked like a sandwich bag containing toiletries. These were a sawed off tooth brush designed to defy attempts to fashion it into a weapon, a tube of colorless tooth gel with no added flavor, a small bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap and a tiny comb. The quality of this stuff would draw complaints from even the guests of motels with hourly rates, but who were we, the dregs of society, to protest?

The morning of Saturday, July 23, 2016, I woke up to the sound of the television in the dayroom. It had been left on overnight which was not a problem, but of all channels, the C.O.s had chosen TNT. This must be the worst network on TV. Grimm, Charmed, Bones, Supernatural…no self-respecting inmate would be caught dead watching any of these shows. I’m sure every man on the unit would have preferrred watching the preview channel.

Eventually, the sounds of walkie-talkies and footfalls and buzzers and opening and closing metal gates drowned out whatever absurd dialogue the actors on these shows had actually been paid to recite. At last, I heard a key inserted into the lock on my cell gate. Seconds later, the gate slid open, a trustee shouted “trays up!” over the cell’s threshold and, out in the dayroom, breakfast was served. My cellie is a sleeper. I walked past his prostrate form into the harsh lighting of the dayroom.

I continued to observe the detention center protocol of walking with my head up and looking through people without looking at them. A number of faces were new to me. These men had been placed on the block before the group I was processed with had arrived. The intake block is a temporary housing unit for newly arrived inmates awaiting the results of medical tests, specifically that for tuberculosis. Each man on the unit would spend at least 72 hours there. TB? One guy cracked that he hadn’t heard of a single case reported in the U.S. in over 30 years. Sounded about right to me, but what did I know? I couldn’t even get anyone on the phone the night before.

I grabbed a seat at one of the picnic tables, wolfed down most of my breakfast, stashed the rest in my cell, then grabbed a shower. Afterward, I felt refreshed and ready to face my day. I draped my wet towel over my mattress pad, then sat down to think about what I’d do next. Let’s see…I could continue to sit in the cell or I could go sit at one of the picnic tables in the dayroom. Decisions, decisions.

A Birthday Post for My Darling Daughter

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On August 16, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

Joscelyn, this might be your special day, but it’s no less special for me. Nine years ago, I was there to greet you when you sucked in your first lungfuls of New York City air. Once exposed to the blinding, intrusive lights of the operating room, within seconds, you were screaming like a pterodactyl out of a ’70s Hanna-Barbera cartoon. In the wonder of the moment, a tender laugh escaped my lips.

I was granted the privilege of cutting your umbilical cord, one of the highlights of my life. A nurse carried you over to the bassinet or whatever it is they call that little bed/tub they take newborns to. They scrubbed you down like a Ferrari, slipped a little hat on ya, then wrapped you up like a burrito. There you were.

Nine years later, you’ve grown into an intelligent, talented, spirited, adventurous and beautiful young lady. I might be your father, but ultimately, you’re the product of a special kind of nature, a winning ticket of the genetic lottery. Imagine that I have a daughter like you.

Happy birthday, Joss.

Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media XI

By

On August 16, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

Smart phones are a blessing AND a curse. The conveniences they offer tend to make their owners lazy. For example, who memorizes phone numbers anymore? I don’t! Imagine that after waiting for hours to make a call, I sat in the bullpen staring at the phone as if it were some kind of sculpture at a museum. After several minutes of contemplation, I finally picked up the receiver and gave making a call my best shot.

Either the numbers I dialed were wrong or no one was taking my calls because I came up goose-eggs after about 10 tries. Would I have to notify people that I was in jail via *gasp* snail mail? Maybe. Considering that I had no access to matches or the roof, smoke signals were out of the question.

Fortunately for me, who had to be the friendliest C.O. in North America retrieved me from the bullpen to complete the intake process. She led me to a desk in an office adjacent to the cell. Lo and behold, the envelope containing my personal belongings, including my phone, sat on the desk. I was invited to take a seat. The C.O. asked me a series of questions and recorded my answers on a workstation that was also on the desk. Long story short, once the interview was done and the C.O. escorted me back to the bullpen, I was holding a slip of paper bearing several phone numbers. Before she had the gate locked behind me, I was working that phone like a telemarketer. Once again, even with valid phone numbers, my calls went unanswered!

But I still wasn’t trippin’. I just swore to God that someone somewhere was going to figure out that I was in the pokey and do what had to be done. In the meantime, I got “comfortable” as it were and swapped war stories with my remaining cellies. To the smiling C.O.’s credit, she was getting guys out of there at a pretty good clip.

About 8:30 PM, I was finally transferred from the bullpen to the intake cellblock. Like the bullpen, intake is well air conditioned. The block is shaped like a “T” with a wide stem. Four metal picnic tables sit parallel to eachother in a row down the middle of the stem, forming aisles on either side. These aisles are lined with 2-man cells as is the very top of the arm of the “T”.

At the base of the “T”, suspended from the ceiling is a flat screen TV with a very limited channel selection. There is no HBO or Showtime, which has to be some kind of human rights violation.

I was directed to my assigned cell and waiting behind the gate was one of my bullpen cellies. “Not this guy again”, he quipped. I chuckled as I walked past him into the cell and began to make myself at home. The entire jail was on lockdown, a condition under which all inmates must be locked in their cells, and intake was no exception. The C.O. slid the gate shut behind me with a loud metallic clang. It was definitely bed time.

The cell is maybe 10′ deep × 8′ wide with another of those infamous concrete slabs lining the left and rear walls. My cellie had already taken the slab on the left wall. This cell was an improvement over the bullpen in one regard — a 4″ thick vinyl mattress pad was there for either the relative comfort of inmates or to save wear and tear on the slabs. I don’t typically suffer from chronic back pain, but after a night on that thing, I suspected that might change.

It’s Supposed to Be About the Kids

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On August 15, 2016

In Rants, Uncategorized


Without question, the worst aspect of modern divorce is the impact it could — and usually does — have on any children involved. As our society moves further away from the paradigm of the American family as established in the 20th century, it would appear that the personal interests of adults have superseded those of the innocent offspring who never asked to be dragged to the depths of the divorce cesspool.

I am a child of divorce. My parents split before I turned one. I spent much of my childhood bouncing from home to home. The little time I spent with either of my parents that I can remember was fraught with upheaval and confusion. For me, “consistency” and “stability” were merely vocabulary words to be studied for homework in fifth grade. Though I didn’t suffer the kind of abuse that might have turned me into a sociopath, for years, I had serious difficulties bonding with people and once lacked any type of parental instinct. As a young adult, I could not conceive of fathering children.

Over the years, the influences of romantic love and other external forces changed my way of thinking. Against all odds, I wound up getting married and having kids. At first, I had no clue how to do the job that nature drafted me to. The learning curve was steep, but I adapted. Not only did I become a hands-on dad, but I morphed into a corporate cog so that I could provide for my young family.

This transformation was, by far, the greatest achievement of an otherwise rudderless life. My family gave me purpose. I took great pride in establishing a foundation for us, keeping us afloat and planning for our future. Then, just when we were moving from establishment to development, the rug was pulled from under my feet. It took maybe 2 years for 12 years of hard work to come toppling down like Las Vegas’s Riviera Hotel.

Fine. As my family and friends constantly remind me, I have talent, health and relative youth on my side. I have a proven history of rising from the ashes. But that’s me. What about the kids?

They have been through the ringer. There is no obfuscating this. Though I would do — and have done — anything to protect them from the emotional turmoil they continue to suffer, the courts have literally and figuratively cuffed my hands. I must tip-toe through a mine field in order to do for my flesh and blood what comes naturally, what is a function of my love for them. It’s extremely frustrating, disheartening and depressing that I have changed my life to be, have been and continue to be a good father, but the only people to acknowledge this are those not empowered to change what “the system” has put in place. Regardless, I will soldier on. My kids are my world. I will never stop doing what I must to provide for them, to nurture them, to encourage them, to teach them, to advise them and above all, to love them. Whatever it takes. Whatever.

Joscelyn and Julien, never doubt me, my love for you or my dedication to doing what is best for you. For me, it’s always been about you.

Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media X

By

On August 14, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

Every man in the bullpen with me had been there before. Once lunch had been served, a couple of veterans advised me to hold on to any food I had left;  there was no telling when we would be fed again. Most stacked their picked-over trays by the gate. I couldn’t get down all of my gray rice, so I kept the remainder beside me on the slab.

Coffee Man’s antics had opened the flood gates to conversation. I was listening but not yet talking. After most of the guys had run down their cases, it became clear that I was the only person there for a civil matter. When the focus turned to me, I related as much. Eyebrows were raised in surprise and many guys parroted “you’re here for what?” My cellies confirmed for me what I already knew: I had no business in jail, especially when so much was at stake in terms of time with my children, my finances and even the roof over my head.

Was I angry? No. I’ve already walked that road and it leads nowhere. I was mulling over every morsel of information fed to me by my cellies and weighing my options. I wouldn’t hand my enemies the hammer to nail shut my own coffin.

At about 4:00 PM, the slow wheels of justice at last began to turn. A new shift of C.O.s had come on duty and they seemed more energized and capable than those they relieved. Now, a young, female C.O. with a ready smile was in charge of intake. The first of us to be processed was…Coffee Man! Though he never did get that cup of joe, he was finally booked and moved to a unit. Bully for him. As for the rest of us, we missed the distraction of his running commentary. His case was by far the most interesting of any discussed and his blatant disregard for the authority of cops and C.O.s was vaguely comforting. I guess he channeled the simmering anger any person in our predicament would feel, justified or not, which relieved a certain pressure we all suppressed.

As our numbers decreased, conversation became more subdued and serious. Most detainees were there for drugs. I’ve seen — and been affected by the behavior of — plenty of addicts. Their stories were familiar to me, as were their regrets and concerns about getting and staying clean. Jail is not a place for pity or judgment or any of the ideological luxuries freedom affords the unfettered. I listened impassively and kept my thoughts to myself. I never met an addict that didn’t know exactly what she/he needed to do to straighten out her/his life. The last thing addicts in jail need or want to hear is a lecture from a square who isn’t sitting on the other side of a desk.

About 7:00 PM, the C.O. with the ready smile came to the gate and called my name. She escorted me from the cell to be fingerprinted and photographed. When this was done, she issued me paperwork bearing a unique inmate number and commissary PIN, then returned me to the bullpen.

There were two phones in the cell, but they were useless to anyone not in possession of a commissary PIN. Now that I had mine, it was my turn to make that fabled jailhouse phone call…

Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media IX

By

On August 13, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

Between 11:30 AM and about 3:00 PM, the guards brought in five other guys. Two of these were as rustic as I had ever been in prolonged contact with. The third was a one-time jock derailed by drug addiction. The fourth was an obviously seasoned con from Newark and the fifth was a teen surfer from out west. The new arrivals plus the four already there made 9 souls crammed into that oddly shaped cell. There we were: Northampton County’s own Breakfast Club, less the pretty girls, pop tunes and funny clothes.

The Newark kid (“Newark”) had already spent some time in the jail and was dumped in the bullpen to await transfer to another facility. Out of jail house courtesy, he gave the rest of us a rundown on this joint’s inner workings. As jails go, he didn’t reveal anything earth shattering, but it was good to know what to expect.

It turns out that the jail has a relatively new annex. Newark told us that the annex was the place to be in summer because temperatures on the top tier of the main gallery seldom dip below 85º. ¡No bueno!

Alas, Newark’s ride came before the guards delivered lunch so we were denied the chance to break bread. Nevertheless, he left us with a warning that we shouldn’t get our hopes up about chow. Newark didn’t discuss why he was locked up, but he definitely wasn’t guilty of lying about the food! OMG!

A C.O. wheeled down the hall a utility cart laiden with styrofoam containers. My cellies seemed excited about this. I was hungry, too, but as much as those trays looked like Applebee’s takeout, I so knew better!

The Coffee Man? I cannot post much of what he said about anything, much less the food, but he let the C.O. have it for keeping us waiting so long. Then he demanded a cup of coffee.

The delivery C.O. was young and inexperienced. He wasn’t intimidated by Coffee Man’s challenge, but he seemed a tad embarrassed that the food hadn’t arrived sooner. He opened the gate and grinned sheepishly as he handed out trays as quickly as guys could grab them. Coffee Man opened his tray and, with a look of mock astonishment, exclaimed “What the ____?”

Coffee Man shouted at the C.O. a stream of expletives occasionally broken by a noun or verb. I laughed so hard, I almost dropped my tray. The cell was transformed into an echo chamber by the laughter of several men bouncing off the walls. When I regained enough composure to open the tray, I beheld some sort of patty that superficially resembled meat, a brown, liquidy substance that could have been gravy or pudding, an ambiguous block of yellow cake or cornbread, a huge helping of gray rice and a portion of dry, unseasoned sweet peas. At least they threw in an apple for good measure.

As I’ve written, it was good to know what to expect.

Beggars can’t be choosy. I had only eaten a banana that morning before the hearing. I scarfed that stuff down as if Gordon Ramsay himself grilled it up in front of us hibachi style. Oddly enough, they brought nothing to drink. As one might expect, this did not please Coffee Man, and God did the C.O.s hear about it!

Excuse me…I’m not finished.

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