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Once the Coffee Man had caught up on his sleep, he began to talk. At first, he restricted his conversation to mild, rather creative epithets hurled at the guards. Some of these were good enough to elicit suppressed grins from their targets and absolute guffaws from detainees.

God, it was good to laugh. By this time, any doubt that I had fully emerged from depression dissolved like Alka Seltzer in water. Indeed, there was even an effervescent quality to the thoughts I tried to suppress in order to deal with incarceration. The key to navigating time in jail is to live in the moment. Any successful inmate keeps her/his thoughts of the world beyond the walls tightly controlled. Inside or out, it never pays to worry about things one cannot control unless there is a determination to make colossal change.

There I was in jail under the most ludicrous pretexts and my head was exactly where it should have been. And I was laughing. After so many months of emotional turmoil, this realization was like finding a strong box full of cash while digging up weeds in my backyard. I knew then and there that regardless of how long I was to be deprived of my freedom, I’d be OK. All I needed was to get processed and placed on a unit so I could start working the phone. In the interim, I kicked it with my cellies.

Over the years, I’ve talked with people who have had limited or no experience with the justice system. Many seem to believe that people in jail sit around feeling sorry for themselves and commiserating. That may be true for some prisoners, but most are preoccupied with either getting out or getting comfortable.

The routine pressures of life are amplified behind bars. Everyone has her/his own problems and those looking for sympathy are shunned. The exchange of information, however, is another matter. When an inmate decides to discuss details of her/his case with others, she/he tends to be analytical rather than emotional. Anyone angling to slip a legal snafu can best help her-/himself by conversing with those who have walked the walk, and one cannot expect truth if one isn’t willing to offer it. This is not to say that jail is some kind of wholesale confessional booth. No one walks around extending her/his hand to a total stranger and says “Hi! I’m Blankety-Blank and I’m totally guilty! Wanna play Spades?” Cagey detainees say only what they think is prudent at a given time.

On the other hand, any detainee obviously experiencing an emotional collapse can quickly find her-/himself sitting alone in the day room wearing a proverbial bulls eye on her/his back. Even worse, such a collapse can preclude one’s abilities to learn and adapt. While in the bullpen, I had a chance to observe every man that entered or exited the place. It was clear to me that, over time, some might fare better than others, but there wasn’t a rookie in the room.

The Coffee Man? He’d certainly been around. He was doubtless a student of the “When Life Gives You Lemons…” school of thought. When the guards served us what passed for lunch, his reaction to the substances in the styrofoam trays was hysterical. Most guys in the cell laughed themselves to tears, me included. What a terrific start to my stay.

Wait…there’s more!

The Northampton County Prison’s bullpen is oddly shaped. The gate opens onto the cell’s most expansive area, a rectangle roughly 10′ deep × 20′ wide.

Across the cell’s threshold to the immediate left is a 2′ recess abutting the left wall. Set into this recess is a 2′ deep × 2′ tall slab of concrete that runs the length of the left wall and follows a right angle to the wall opposite the gate. This slab serves as a bench/cot.

The 20′ wall opposite the gate is halved by a 4′ high cinder block partition that extends about 5′ into the interior of the cell. On the other side of this partition, set into the wall that forms the end of the main rectangle and just out of sight of the gate, is a metal commode/sink fixture that probably hasn’t been clean since it was installed.

Continuing to look in from the gate, a second 4′ high cinder block partition originates about 4′ right of and perpendicular to the terminus of the first. This second partition runs along the right side of the commode. The gap between the partitions serves as the opening to a kind of stall that offers negligible privacy.

For no reason evident to me, to the right of this “cat box” structure is a 10′ deep × 5′ wide alcove. Set into the alcove’s end is another 2′ tall × 2′ deep slab. The right wall of the alcove runs back past the cat box to the gate, which is built into the same wall. The topmost third of this wall is all fortified window panes that allow C.O.s to look in on inmates as they pass.

Essentially, we inmates sat in a kind of showcase equipped with a bench designed to promote hemorrhoids and/or lower back pain, a commode that would turn the stomach of the most seasoned plumber and an oddly designed alcove that would puzzle the architects behind the pyramids of Giza. Still, we had each other.

Over time, the Coffee Man dropped bits of information regarding his arrest and the charges he thought he might face. Without publicly declaring his revelations, I figured he should find different friends. Not necessarily better friends — this is not a class struggle — but friends with fewer, less violent enemies. Regardless, the Coffee Man seemed to be a decent guy, even if it was plain that he might prove a tad difficult if provoked. Considering that none of us in the bullpen that day was his enemy, he was quite jovial. He seemed to save his best improv for chow time. God knows he had lots of material to work with.

Most of us had been sitting in that cell for hours, hungry and swallowing our own spit to avoid drinking from that abominable commode/sink fixture and the metallic, sulphuric water it spat out. No one thought to complain about this as the C.O.s made it clear that, once secured in the bullpen, we were as amoeba: Simple, single-celled organisms too small to be seen with the naked eye and of even less importance. Still, we mustn’t count out the Coffee Man! It was he who dared to be counted…even with tongue planted firmly in cheek.

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.