In The Sanctuary Of Outcasts_ A Memoir Part 12

On a Wednesday afternoon, after days of crippling despair, I climbed out of my bed. I stood under the shower until my skin turned a deep red, hoping the hot water would wash away the pain. Back in my prison room, towel wrapped around my waist, I leaned on the sink and looked into the mirror. I couldn't stand the sight of my own reflection. I needed help, but I didn't know where to turn.

I dressed and went to the Wednesday night Catholic church service. The stained-gla.s.s windows of the church, so brilliant in the sunlight, were dark. The altar was gently illuminated by candlelight. The service was small. A couple dozen inmates sat in the middle wing, along with Sister Margie. Five or six leprosy patients, the most devout Catholics, were scattered around their wing. Rosary beads in hand, the patients chanted Hail Mary and Ave Maria intermittently. Deep in prayer, concentrating on the great Christian mysteries, they stopped to kiss the crucifix dangling from the bottom of the string of beads, only to begin the ritual again. For nearly one hundred years, the leprosy patients at Carville had turned to the Catholic church for comfort. Counting rosary beads with numb fingers, listening to pa.s.sages about the unclean, and praying that they too would be healed.

I sat between two Mexican inmates who didn't speak English, but I watched the leprosy patients to my left. In medieval times leprosy patients had been banished from traditional churches. Sanctuaries were built with a "leper's squint," a narrow opening carved into the side of the church building where the afflicted could get a glimpse of heaven without endangering the congregation.

Father Reynolds stood before us. He began in his quiet, una.s.suming voice: "We are told to believe in ourselves," he said. "But I'm not sure that's what we are meant to do."

Father Reynolds had chosen that evening to talk about pride-the foundation from which all other sins arose. Pride, he said, was as an excessive belief in our own abilities. Lost in our own pride, he explained, we are unable to recognize grace.

I felt as if he were speaking directly to me.

Early in my career, when I launched my small paper in Oxford, I simply wanted to tell a good story, serve the town's need for a legitimate journalistic voice, and support my family. But along the way, good motives took a second chair to ambition and the accolades that came with success. I convinced myself that the good I was doing justified bending the rules. And I never seemed to suffer any serious consequences. My pride spread like a cancer.

I wrote editorials proclaiming to be a watchdog for the townspeople of Oxford. I reported on crime, corruption, and conflicts of interest. Then on some days, I would write myself a bad check and deposit it in my corporate account to create a temporary balance.

When my scheme was exposed, I convinced honest men to invest more money. In short order I'd run through it. Even the threat of an FBI investigation and the shame of bankruptcy did not curtail my ambition. Instead, I abandoned my dream of journalism for a business designed to make vast sums of money.

When I launched Coast Magazine, Coast Magazine, I was careful to feature only the beautiful people, places, and things in my hometown. We published positive stories about those in power. Huge amounts of money flowed through the business. But I was not satisfied. When I embarked on the five-year plan to build a publishing empire, expenses soared, and the magazine income could not support my dreams. To achieve my goals, I sold my invoices to third parties, a technique called I was careful to feature only the beautiful people, places, and things in my hometown. We published positive stories about those in power. Huge amounts of money flowed through the business. But I was not satisfied. When I embarked on the five-year plan to build a publishing empire, expenses soared, and the magazine income could not support my dreams. To achieve my goals, I sold my invoices to third parties, a technique called factoring factoring that enhanced cash flow. And I convinced small investors to place their trust in me. that enhanced cash flow. And I convinced small investors to place their trust in me.

And when that didn't cover expenses, I fell back on my old technique of kiting checks. It was my own secret energy pill. It set me apart. I succeeded where others failed. CEOs slapped me on the back. Restaurateurs refused to let me pay for meals. Junior Leaguers scrambled to make it onto the pages of my magazines. My system of kiting and refinancing and factoring and more refinancing created access to cash and an image of great business ac.u.men. It worked-and made me look successful.

To transfer hundreds of thousands of dollars between two banks across the street from each other depended on perception. The perception that my company was flush with cash, that the large checks written to my own accounts were simply transfers, that I had nothing to hide.

I didn't save money. I spent it to impress. For me, money and image had become inseparable. Kiting checks afforded me the freedom to spend and buy and pursue wild dreams, and bring everyone else along for the ride. And I never had to wait.

I consciously acted in a manner to appear trustworthy. I looked and dressed the part. I went to church. I volunteered my time with charities. I proclaimed to be the journalist who would watch over criminals and politicians and casino owners. People believed I was honorable.

By the time I was thirty-one, ambition had become the driving force in my life. Even worse, I fell prey to my own mirage. Privately, I envisioned the figure I would become-owner of a huge network of city magazines, editor of a daily paper, holder of innumerable civic awards, owner of a fabulous yacht, and, of course, philanthropist. With these images fixed in my mind, I was able to overlook what I did to get there.

But the prospect of losing my children had stripped away every pretense. It did what bankruptcy, public humiliation, and imprisonment had not done. I could no longer stomach my own lies and delusions. For the first time, I felt the full weight of my crimes.

I had cost bankers who trusted me more than a million dollars. I left thirty loyal employees without any income. I put small-business owners in a deep hole. I lost most of my mother's retirement fund, money she had invested in my business. I had disappointed my friends and family. I had put my uncle Knox, Hanc.o.c.k Bank's lawyer, in a terrible spot. And I had allowed a woman, a single mother who couldn't afford to lose her investment, to put her money into my company. A year later, she and her two children were evicted from their home. I betrayed Linda and left her in debt, dependent on others, drowning in the shame of all my secrets. And I left Neil and Maggie, the most important people in my life, without a father in their home.

Even incarcerated, when I should have been most humble and reflective, I held on tight to my vanity. I wanted my shirts pressed; I h.o.a.rded scent strips to smell good; and I imagined myself winning a press club award before I'd done a moment's work. When I should have been trying to change, I grasped on to the image I'd held so dear. And though I had publicly acknowledged some of the bad things I had done, I had never taken an objective look at the person I had become.

Finally, in a sanctuary for outcasts, I understood the truth. Surrounded by men and women who could not hide their disfigurement, I could see my own.

PART IV.

Winter

My mother and me (in kilt) in Scotland, 1969.

CHAPTER 41.

I stood behind the barricade and waited for a guard to escort me to the visiting room where my mother was waiting for me. She had made the trip alone and, as usual, arrived forty-five minutes early.

During my first year of junior high, my parents divorced. I lived with my mother and my three younger siblings. My mother, perhaps to counteract any ill effects of divorce, reminded me almost daily that I had been chosen for an extraordinary path. I started to believe her. Not just that I could make a difference, but that I was special and had been called to share my gifts with the world. She believed her children's skills should be showcased at every opportunity. She registered me, as the eldest son, for races and contests and tournaments. A master at bolstering my self-esteem, she often reminded me of the meaning of my name. She would say the words like she was sharing with me my own destiny, "Neil means means champion." I believed what my mother told me. And I was certain we would make the world a better place. champion." I believed what my mother told me. And I was certain we would make the world a better place.

Mom started an alternative school for juvenile delinquents in Gulfport. She spent her days giving them the attention and praise and hugs they had missed in their homes. She lauded their talents, whether those came in the form of suggestive dance, graffiti art, or a knack for breaking into locked cars to retrieve keys.

To some, my mother was a saint; to others an enigma. She was on her fourth marriage; she held three graduate degrees; she had lived in twenty-seven different houses during the last three decades and had held no fewer than seventeen jobs. She had launched two magazines, founded three schools, self-published five books, served on the boards of four corporations. She had started a restaurant, a dress shop, a riding stable, a camp for disadvantaged kids, a nonprofit education company, and a low-income housing project. She had a house in Gulfport, an apartment in New Orleans, and a husband in Oxford. She took risks. She relished the unknown. She loved the limelight. She stood fearless in the face of change and approached her own life as if it were a thrill ride. And I had always wanted to emulate her.

When I arrived in the visiting room, I saw Mom waiting at a table in the back corner. We hugged, and she said, "How are you, baby?" But she didn't need to ask. She knew I was in trouble again. That's why she was here.

The last time I was alone with my mother was April 9, 1992, about an hour after the banks had closed my accounts. When I arrived at her house, she tried to hide her dread, but she knew something was wrong. I wouldn't have been at her house, on her back porch, in the middle of a workday if the news were good. Mom lived in a house that had been handed down through three generations of her family. It was once my great-grandmother Floy's home. Floy was a teacher and missionary. In 1903, she moved to the Philippines. She educated the islanders about math and literature and G.o.d. Floy had retired by the time Mom was born, so Mom became Floy's student. She instilled in my mother a sense of service and selflessness. In the 1930s, Floy invited people of color to sit and eat at her dining table when integration of any sort in Mississippi was taboo. She fed hoboes who jumped off the train between New Orleans and Mobile. And she pa.s.sed along lessons to my mother: "If you have an extra dollar," Floy would tell her, "give fifty cents to someone who needs it more than you-with the remainder, buy a book." Floy's rules for living were pa.s.sed along to my mother on the very spot where we sat on that cool Thursday morning.

With the breeze from the Gulf of Mexico gently rocking her porch swing, I told my mother I was over $2 million in debt. I told her I had no idea how I would repay the $200,000 she had invested in my company. I told her the FBI would be investigating to determine if I had violated any laws. My mother pressed her lips together and started to cry. She hugged me, fighting tears, and said we would get through anything as long as we stuck together. I left her sitting in a chair on the porch. She put her head in her hands and let the tears flow. She was the strongest woman I knew, but this was too much. She cried for Linda. She cried for Little Neil and Maggie. She cried for me, her firstborn son, who might face prison. She cried because she had no more money to give me. She cried for all that we were about to lose.

Mom reached across the visiting room table and held my hand. Mom, at fifty-two, was still a striking woman, tall and fit, with auburn hair. She was strong and generous. She never once mentioned the money she lost investing in my company. And she still seemed to believe all those things she told me when I was a child. In spite of everything, she still believed in me, and that I would do great things.

"I talked to Linda," she said. "I'm going to bring the kids to visit as much as I can."

Stability wasn't Mom's strong suit, but no one was better in a crisis. From Oxford to Carville was a twelve-hour round-trip. But Mom lived in Gulfport. The drive to collect the kids, bring them to Carville, and then return home made it a twenty-four-hour ordeal in a single weekend.

Mom took a deep breath and rubbed her hands over the linoleum table like she might be sweeping away crumbs. "Baby," she said, "what are your plans?"

"I have no idea," I said. My postprison career plan had disappeared. Linda and I had discussed launching a small publishing venture. She would be the front person, we had decided, and I would work behind the scenes. But now, with an impending divorce, I didn't have a plan.

"Do you know where you'll live?" she asked.

Memphis seemed like a logical choice. It was the largest city near Oxford. I would live less than an hour away from Neil and Maggie. Surely I could find a job there.

Mom looked away like she was disappointed. "You need to think long and hard about that," she said. She put her hands together and leaned on her elbows. "If you live in Oxford," she said, "you could see them every day."

I could list a thousand reasons to not move back to Oxford. I reminded Mom that no good jobs existed in that small town, especially for me-an ex-convict who, five years earlier, had alienated so many in Oxford, ended up in bankruptcy, and moved away disgraced. Not to mention Linda, who would abhor the thought of my following her.

Mom swallowed. "You either live in the same town with your children...or you don't. There is no in-between." She talked about the reality of a seventy-five-mile separation. "If you build a life in Memphis, you will grow apart from your children. It breaks my heart to think about your living in a place where Neil and Maggie don't live."

I told her I would give it some thought over the next few days. She said she would bring Neil and Maggie to visit often, and she would make sure they were here for Kids' Day-a Sat.u.r.day when inmates' kids would be allowed inside the prison for the entire day.

When visiting hours ended we hugged and said good-bye. As she left, a middle-aged inmate asked if I would make an introduction the next time she visited.

Maggie, me, Little Neil, and inmate Steve Read (in clown suit) (left to right) (left to right) during Kids' Day celebration. during Kids' Day celebration.

CHAPTER 42.

On a Sat.u.r.day morning in December, I waited with about forty other inmates for a guard to escort us to the ballroom for Kids' Day. I was almost giddy about spending the day with Neil and Maggie. For the first time they would be allowed beyond the visiting room. We would be able to spend time together inside the prison, and they would finally see where I slept and spent my days.

The guard who escorted us was overly polite. He said more than sixty children were waiting for us, their inmate fathers. A dozen guards and a handful of inmates had volunteered to run the activities for the kids.

When I walked into the ballroom, I saw Neil and Maggie standing with some of the other children. Maggie wore a denim jumper and a bright red Christmas sweater. Neil was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants. When they saw me, they both ran toward me and jumped into my arms.

Steve Read was one of the inmate volunteers. He was dressed in a clown suit. He set up a station where he made balloon figures for the kids. He made reindeer antlers for Little Neil and a sword for Maggie.

A female guard handled face painting. She painted Maggie's face like a cat. She painted Neil's nose red and gave him a huge circus-clown smile.

An inmate band of four Mexicans played the same song over and over. Two counterfeiters put on a puppet show for the kids. Even in prison, there was a carnival atmosphere. Throughout the morning the guards and inmates organized cake walks, a beanbag toss, and dizzy-izzy contests. Bean, the chubby Mexican inmate, took photographs of the inmates and children.

All the guards were exceptionally nice on this day. And I appreciated it. In fact, they served us. As we sat at tables with our children, guards brought us platters of hamburgers and hot dogs. They poured lemonade and mint-flavored ice tea from a gla.s.s pitcher.

After lunch, the kids were told to rest before the outside games began. Neil and Maggie wandered around the ballroom. Neil found one of the patients' bingo cards and asked if we could play. It was a specially designed card where chips weren't necessary. Patients who had lost feeling in their fingers couldn't handle the small chips. I imagined Ella had used this card on occasion. She loved bingo.

Then Neil saw the grand piano. He had just begun to have an interest in playing. I asked a guard if it was all right for the children to play it. She said yes. It was a full-sized grand piano, but it was in terrible condition. The ivory had fallen off some of the most-often-used keys in the center. As Neil and Maggie put their small fingers on the piano keys, I thought about how many leprosy patients might have placed their fingers in the same place. When the piano was first purchased, before there were medicines to stop the progression of the disease and when finger absorption was commonplace, sometimes two patients would learn to play a song written for a single pianist. They learned to play the songs as duets so they would have enough fingers between them to play all the notes.

Rain started to fall, and the outside activities were postponed. But the guards had a backup plan. They had rented a movie, Free w.i.l.l.y Free w.i.l.l.y. As the guard slid the VHS tape into the deck, the kids took their places on the floor around the large television. An inmate whispered in my ear. "What kind of f.u.c.ked-up people would show a movie about an imprisoned whale to a bunch of kids visiting their dads in prison?"

Steve Read, still in his clown costume, added, "Free Daddy must have already been checked out." must have already been checked out."

Two hours later, when w.i.l.l.y jumped over the barrier and swam away, the rain stopped, and the kids were allowed thirty minutes inside the inmate courtyard-and then, for a few minutes, inside our dorms. This is what Neil and Maggie had been waiting for. They didn't understand why, during their visits, they couldn't play in the inmate recreation yard. Maggie, particularly, didn't understand why she couldn't come to my room. Today, as I promised, they would play on our basketball court, run around our track, and try out my prison bunk.

We walked downstairs past the post office and the leprosy patient canteen. Ella was just making her last run of the day. I stopped to introduce Neil and Maggie to her. She smiled and held out her hand, but they had no interest in talking. They were impatient and didn't want to miss anything, especially the slam dunk promised by the six-feet, seven-inch inmate named Slim. Neil and Maggie ran toward the inmate side. I shrugged. Ella understood. For her to watch sixty young children running through the colony corridors must have been surreal. But she seemed happy to be in the middle of it. I left her sitting there like a boulder in the middle of a stream of children.

CHAPTER 43.

Outside, in the inmate courtyard, Slim waited for the children to join him on the basketball court. He performed a series of basketball dunks. He palmed the basketball and then let the children compare their hands to his. Maggie ran through the sand on the volleyball court. Then, we bounced a ball against the wall of the outdoor handball court.

A guard warned us that we had fifteen more minutes before the kids had to leave. I led Neil and Maggie up the stairs to my room. Doc had gone to the library to give me some privacy with them. The kids were excited to see my room, even though there wasn't much to show. I opened the closet door to show them the huge piles of Doc's medical journals. I sat at the desk to demonstrate where I sat at night to write them letters. I put them both on my bunk and opened my locker door to show them how I had a perfect view of their pictures.

I pulled a chair over to my locker so Little Neil could stand on it and explore its contents.

I put both my pillows against the concrete wall, took off Maggie's sandy shoes, and propped her up against the pillows. She put her hands behind her head, stretched out her legs, and closed her eyes.

Neil rummaged through my locker, hoping to find some undiscovered possession. I remember doing the same thing to my father's armoire. Neil discovered the chocolate cookies and fudge that Sergio, a Cuban inmate, had made. Maggie, her faced still painted like a cat, stretched out on my bed. She moved her tiny feet across my gray wool bedspread. "Can we spend the night, Daddy?" Maggie never had understood why she couldn't spend the night.

"I wish you could, sweetheart. I wish you could."

Maggie let out a sigh, the kind I made in my own bed after an exhausting day. She looked content, as if she never wanted to leave this spot.

Before coming to Carville, I had worked to pay for vacations and expensive toys. I thought a fabulous home and fast boats would make us a happy family. But Neil and Maggie felt completely at home in a tiny room that was designed for leprosy patients and now housed federal convicts.

As I watched my son dig through my paltry belongings, excited to discover any new treasure, no matter how small, and Maggie, completely content, resting on my prison cot, I made myself a promise. I would never let anything prevent the three of us from having a life together. A simple life with time to play.

Chains rattled as a guard walked toward my room. Our time was up. I held hands with Maggie and Neil as we walked the corridor where leprosy patients had walked before us. Mom was waiting in the visiting room. She would drive the kids back home. One of the happiest days I could remember was coming to an end.

But it seemed like the beginning of something wonderful.

CHAPTER 44.

A few weeks later, Steve Read finally invited me to partic.i.p.ate in his Friday night Monopoly game. "There are two house rules," he said. "I'm the sports car. And there is no limit to how many hotels you can put on a property. Oh, and don't even think about buying Boardwalk."

Steve's room had been totally rearranged for the game. He had finagled a card table from the recreation department. The cash and properties had been spread out on a side table. Steve had everything planned. He pointed to me. "Hey, you check-kiting, overdraft-king motherf.u.c.ker, you can be the banker." Then he pointed to Gary. "And you, mortgage-fraud sc.u.m-broker, you are in charge of the property deeds."

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Win," he said, "and keep the game moving."

Steve was in his element. High finance, wheeling and dealing-at least as close as you can get to that in prison. He was on an adrenaline high. He moved the game pieces for all the players. If we didn't grab the dice in a timely manner, he rolled for us. He couldn't wait for his own turn to come around. He was impatient with us. Even when he did let us roll, he calculated where the game piece should be on the board, grabbed it, and moved it to its appropriate spot without counting.

Steve had something clever to say about every move. When Gary read aloud the "Go to Jail. Go Directly to Jail" card, Steve asked, "Is anyone else having deja vu?" And when he drew his own Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, Steve said, "I wonder if the warden would accept this."

In short order, Steve took a lead in the game. We were all out of our league. He had more money than the rest of us. He had purchased Boardwalk and Park Place, and he gloated about the ensuing slaughter. Soon, Gary and the other player were eliminated. I was once again on the brink of bankruptcy.