Running The Books : The Adventures Of An Accidental Prison Librarian Part 2

When the head of personnel called to discuss benefits and payment plans she asked me point blank, "Are you going to pa.s.s this test?"

"Yes," I replied reflexively, "of course."

How did she know to ask, I wondered. Was there something about me? The nefarious moptop? Did she really want to discuss this issue openly? Blissfully ignorant of the prison's internal investigative division, and their habit of tapping phone conversations, I decided to level with her, thinking perhaps she'd give me a break.

"Well," I said, "I did...smoke. Once. I mean most recently, a while ago though-at a party. I mean, it was a wedding, actually. And it was obviously before before the wedding. The party at the wedding, I mean." I winced. "But that shouldn't be a problem, right?" the wedding. The party at the wedding, I mean." I winced. "But that shouldn't be a problem, right?"

Dead silence.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said.

"It's a heya tess," she said finally.

On the phone, and thrown off balance, I was having trouble with the Boston brogue.

"A what?" I asked.

I heard her sigh. She didn't want to discuss this further.

"Heya tess," she said and quickly changed the subject to dental plan options.

That night I searched online for information on drug screening. Within two clicks, I understood that the woman from personnel had been trying to tip me off: I was facing a hair test hair test. I delved into the minutiae of this screening method. In addition to being alarmingly accurate, it also covered a longer period of time than the imprecise, tamper-p.r.o.ne urinalysis. Apparently hair, even more than urine, is articulate of its master's misdeeds.

This didn't surprise me. I'd always held quiet beliefs about hair, vague but persistent suspicions of a treacherous, even demonic, aspect, the more sinister for its allure. It grows beautifully even though it's dead. That's creepy. I'd always sensed it wasn't to be trusted.

Now was the time to act. The incriminating data was hidden at a certain point in every strand of hair on my head. I had to locate, then remove, evidence-a wonderful start to a job at the Sheriff's Department. There was only one surefire way to accomplish this: to shave my head completely. But I'd been taught etiquette, and it was bad manners to arrive at a hair test with no hair. I'd have to take a risk, tell Manny the barber to go as short as possible, and hope the evidence ended up on the floor of his shop.

I emerged from the barber's-my exposed scalp cool to the breeze-with a chill of doom. Even if I pa.s.sed the test, I was marked as guilty. The moment my new bosses saw my drastic haircut on the day of the hair test, the sequence of events would be plainly obvious. I was a criminal applying for a job in a prison. I might as well walk into the joint festooned in oversized dollar-sign pendants, wearing an I Drugs I Drugs T-shirt. I felt so exposed I actually wore a baseball cap on the way to the prison, as though my guilt were apparent to all. I couldn't shake the feeling I was making a misstep in pursuing this. Maybe the woman from personnel had been trying to tell me to quietly drop out. T-shirt. I felt so exposed I actually wore a baseball cap on the way to the prison, as though my guilt were apparent to all. I couldn't shake the feeling I was making a misstep in pursuing this. Maybe the woman from personnel had been trying to tell me to quietly drop out.

The thought of turning and fleeing was unavoidable as I neared the front entrance. But before I could weigh this option, I was already walking fatefully into the lobby. Within a second, an officer told me to remove my cap. That was the rule, apparently. No headgear in prison. There was no anonymity, no hiding here.

I sat down on a bench, cap in hand-a gesture that felt comfortingly Victorian-waiting for my potential boss, poised to catch her reaction to my radical new hairdo. Would she smile? What type of smile would it be? Would it be better or worse if she said nothing? This was no way to begin a new job.

But the boss took her time. I had a moment to absorb the surroundings. The lobby was an acc.u.mulation of wide gray pillars, like somber votives, which alerted you to the immense weight bearing down from above, the concrete and steel tower balancing overhead. This was a very heavy building. From the moment you entered, you were being watched. You were on record and were meant to know this. You were dimly aware of a control room, which flickered and buzzed behind heavily tinted windows next to the door to the prison-or was it the door to the door of the prison?-located at the far end of the lobby. The officer guarding this door, identified by his name-patch as Grimes, fidgeted with his pistol holster and toyed with the metal detector. He kept a well-worn book of Zen Buddhist philosophy at his post.

It was the three o'clock shift change. Large groups of officers came and went, ribbing each other loudly, dodging children who were running around, doing silly dances, playing hide and seek, while their mothers or grandmothers sat by nervously. The children seemed intimately acquainted with the prison lobby, well-versed in the fun-making dimensions built into the wide pillars. This was, I gathered, where they waited to see daddy or mommy.

A few officers stood nearby, next to a No Fumar No Fumar sign by the front steps, puffing cigarettes and ogling women. Speaking in semi-code, they gossiped about union matters. sign by the front steps, puffing cigarettes and ogling women. Speaking in semi-code, they gossiped about union matters.

"Hey, ya hear Fitzy's taking some heat?"

"Really? For..."

"Yup, that."

"No s.h.i.t?"

"Yah, no s.h.i.t is right right..."

Both laughed.

An officer approached me with a message. The boss was skipping our meeting. He told me to follow him. What was going on? Had my boss seen my crew cut on a closed-circuit security TV and decided I was a criminal? And if so, where was I being led? I followed the officer, though not without trepidation, into a back hallway. He directed me to some guy named O'Shea, who would administer the hair test. Nothing was wrong-the boss was merely overbooked. I would be spared the awkward encounter.

The hall led to the clubhouse of Local 419, the officers' union. It had vending machines, an empty lounge with a giant sheriff's badge painted on the wall, and a TV that beamed in a daytime talk-show in which a studio audience scrutinized a messy family drama.

Further on were unmarked offices, men's and women's locker rooms. A transistor radio blasted cla.s.sic rock from an unoccupied weight room. A gla.s.s trophy case displayed artifacts and photos from the old prison at Deer Island: a dusty set of nineteenth-century-era handcuffs, shackles-both of which called to mind Harry Houdini-an old-fashioned mug shot number sign, a billy-club and tear gas canister from the neolithic age. Nearby, plaques honored officers from the prison who were serving in the wars. And next to that, a handwritten sign: Inmates do only as much as you let them Inmates do only as much as you let them.

I waited a few minutes in front of O'Shea's office, cap in hand. There was no turning back now. Finally, the door swung open and a large man with a buzz cut and a mischievous smirk emerged. He winked at me and said "g' luck" as he walked by. He'd just taken the hair test himself.

The office was cramped, though there was nothing in it. O'Shea was a short, aggrieved man. After a quick how y'doin' how y'doin', he took a few snips of my hair, and sealed it in an envelope. It was an oddly intimate gesture, like he was taking a lock of my hair as a romantic keepsake. Perhaps that was why the conversation turned to sports. We reviewed the Red Sox's prospects. O'Shea was openly disdainful of my optimism.

"I don't care what they did last year," he told me, referring to the Sox World Series t.i.tle. "They're still the Red Sox and they'll always fold in the clutch. Any a.s.shole can get lucky once in a while."

Sitting in that office, anxious and radically shorn, I readily agreed. I myself was just such an a.s.shole, hoping to get lucky this once.

Two weeks of low-grade dread pa.s.sed. Finally I got a phone call from personnel. I was to begin ASAP, she said. There was no more talk about the hair test, no congratulations, you pa.s.sed the drug screening! congratulations, you pa.s.sed the drug screening! It was official. I was now on the side of angels. The Po-Po. The Fuzz. The Heat. The Big Blue Machine. It was official. I was now on the side of angels. The Po-Po. The Fuzz. The Heat. The Big Blue Machine.

The transformation was immediate. Over the weekend, I couldn't help spinning around quickly, scowling into a mirror and saying, "I'm with Johnny Law." Or simply, "Whada you you lookin' at?" This act was first performed for the benefit of my girlfriend, Kayla. But pretty soon I was doing it all alone, for the benefit of no one. lookin' at?" This act was first performed for the benefit of my girlfriend, Kayla. But pretty soon I was doing it all alone, for the benefit of no one.

"I heard heard that," Kayla shouted from the next room, during one of these supposedly private performances. "You better not freak out on me. I know you." that," Kayla shouted from the next room, during one of these supposedly private performances. "You better not freak out on me. I know you."

The next Monday I headed off to the prison-or to work, I wasn't sure how I'd refer to it-with a brand new sheriff's badge in my pocket. The photo on it had been taken by O'Shea the day of the hair test, when I hadn't known the outcome, when I was feeling exposed, still feeling as though I were sitting for a mug shot. In the photo, I am captured with the buzz cut and a crooked, bewildered grin. This photo-which I was required to wear at all times-was to be my official image in prison.

The Tour In Boston, justice is a mom-and-pop shop. Bob throws you into the joint, Patti takes it from there. Patti, director of the prison's Education Department, was my supervisor. She is married to Boston's number-two cop, a perennial candidate for the police commissioner job. Patti agreed with the general perception that Bob was "too rough around the edges, too much of a street cop, not enough of a politician." She said this with some resignation but mostly with pride.

Patti herself was much smoother. She was friendly, smartly dressed, bobbed and highlighted, clearly the hip lady in her weekly fifty-plus knitting group in Dorchester. On my first day, I was an observer. Patti was my tour guide. After drifting through the cla.s.srooms, we entered the library. We immediately ran into an inmate, or rather he nearly ran into us. He emerged from the back room, walking briskly with a giant stack of papers tucked under his arm. Patti gave him a skeptical look.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Coolidge," she said.

Coolidge was a tall, stout man with a quick, peckish grin, and a pencil mustache mismatched, or perhaps, overmatched by a large, square head. Wide, intelligent eyes pa.s.sed judgment with each blink. The tan prison uniform, from the 3-2 unit, was worn as though it were a business suit. Reading gla.s.ses dangled from the collar. A fragrant puff emanated from the square head. Could it be? Le parfum Le parfum, in the joint?

As soon as he saw me, he stopped in his tracks, a grand cartoonish gesture, almost hurling his papers into the air. He threw back his head demonstrably. To my surprise, he had a goofy, high-pitched snort of laugh. Patti shot him a look.

Still composing himself, he said, almost shouted, "Are you kidding kidding me?" And then to me: "How me?" And then to me: "How old old are you? You in school?" are you? You in school?"

"No," I replied. "I'm done with school."

"Done with school already? Hey, congratulations!" congratulations!"

Patti began to nudge me in the other direction. Coolidge took the cue.

"Awright, awright," he said. "Let's be serious now. How do you feel about black folks? Ever spent time with black people?" This was making his day.

"Um, I have," I said awkwardly, unprepared for this much more pointed second interview. "I grew up in a mixed neighborhood in Cleveland. And at different times of my life. And a lot with my work as a reporter."

I sensed Patti fidget. I was divulging way too much personal info and walking into a variety of traps.

"I've been around a bit," I concluded, "Even though I'm young."

Coolidge desisted.

"Just kiddin' with you," he said. He offered his hand, "Robert Coolidge..."

With the handshake Patti shifted with noticeable discomfort. Did Coolidge notice this? Was that his intention? He flashed a warm, professional smile. His demeanor made me certain he would say, "attorney at law." And I wasn't far off. What he actually said was, "I work in this library. I run legal affairs."

Patti rolled her eyes.

Coolidge proceeded to point out the salient features of the operation. The different sections of books, the organizational principles, the law library in the back, which he referred to as "the most important part of the library."

"It's mandated by law," he said of the legal shelves. "I'll show you the case law sometime. I remember it personally." He lectured us on the finer points of the library's system of circulation. On the quirks of the daily schedule. But when he began to walk forward to continue his tour into the next room, his "office," Patti put her foot down. "That's okay, Mr. Coolidge," she said. "I'll show him around. You can go back to what you were doing."

Coolidge pursed his lips. The mustache twisted into a tiny, angry knot. I got the distinct impression that he was struggling to control his temper, which, judging from the rising tension in his shoulders, was considerable. As I'd later learn, years of hard time had taught him to pick his battles carefully, though rarely carefully enough. But, at that moment, he kept his cool and flashed us a false smile.

"Okay," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some motions to fill out. We'll talk later. Alvie?"

"Avi," I said.

"Halby?"

"No, Ah Ah-vi."

"Ah-vi. Got it. What is that, French?"

"No, Hebrew. It's a Jewish name."

"Uh-oh. We definitely definitely have to talk later." have to talk later."

As Patti's tour continued out of the library, to other corners of the Education Department, the fragrance that had radiated from Coolidge lingered. It was definitely cologne, and it was clinging to my right hand. The handshake. A minute in prison and I'd already been scent-marked.

Job Training During my first week, Patti alternated staff people in the library to keep an eye on me. They had their own agenda: to earn comp time.

My first tutor was Linda, a flirtatious (dyed) blond Italian-American woman who resembled a polecat cub and wore a leopard-print, faux fur-lined frock coat. There was talk of mafioso ex-boyfriends. ("Oh, Dino, Dino, n.o.body knew but he really was a teddy bear even though he had a terrible terrible temper.") Tilted at a clever angle, her mouth decanted gossip gently into your ears. She bore no grievance against inmates, nor much interest. Her job in the prison was to administer reading tests. temper.") Tilted at a clever angle, her mouth decanted gossip gently into your ears. She bore no grievance against inmates, nor much interest. Her job in the prison was to administer reading tests.

Diana presided from afar. She was a tough, older, Albanian-American teacher, a formerly groovy 1970s feminist who now wore a windbreaker printed with pro-parenting slogans. She was a quirky matriarch with a wry smile-unless she got angry, and then she breathed fire. She didn't discourage dissent as much as strongly encourage a.s.sent. When she spoke, she'd grab my arm. At the imminent approach of a punchline, she'd squeeze my wrist with surprising might and wrench me, judo-like, toward the ground.

During my first days, Diana would pop her head into the library to "check my status." Which I took to mean, to see whether I was being beaten and/or stabbed. It was Linda, however, who was charged with babysitting me. But when the inmates came filing in, her affability evaporated. She sunk into a chair behind the library counter with a pile of Star Star and and Us Us magazines, immersing herself in a report on Tori's shocking weight gain. I was left to fend for myself. magazines, immersing herself in a report on Tori's shocking weight gain. I was left to fend for myself.

The next day, a new prison staffer showed up to help me. She looked like a friendly pigeon, middle-heavy, a small, smiling head. She was a butch woman who inhabited a crisp, tucked-in polo shirt and roomy khakis. An ID lanyard dangled from her neck, a plastic coffee cup was glued to her hand. From a hundred yards away, one could tell she was a prison caseworker. Her demeanor was business casual. She deployed a firm handshake, but otherwise didn't clutch my arm or confide past loves. I doubt she dated mobsters. My guess was school princ.i.p.als. She didn't divulge much. What she did tell me was that I had to be tougher than a prison guard to work this job.

"You're in a bind here," she informed me, "you don't have that uniform. Your authority comes from you you, your actions alone. In my opinion every staff person in here should wear a uniform."

The first few seconds of every prison library period were crucial, she told me. That's when you establish your authority. She showed me how to stand. Back straight, chest puffed out, arms crossed.

"Don't smile," she said. "This isn't The Gap."

That made me smile.

She had me practice. I put on a super-mean face. My much-rehea.r.s.ed Johnny Law scowl. After considering my style with a critical eye, she had only one suggestion.

"You want to look serious," she said, "not sad sad. You look like you're going to cry. No good."

Also, she wasn't happy with my height. I might want to wear clogs, she advised, or some shoe with a tall sole. I imagined throwing caution to the wind and coming into prison with a leisure suit and platforms. When she spotted the inmates en route, her smile faded. She tapped me. I knew what to do. Battle stations!

When the inmates stormed in, we were already standing in formation, shoulder to shoulder-or, to be precise, my shoulder a couple of inches below hers-our arms folded. She mowed down the first wave of inmates, sending them back to the block for running. When they protested, she clenched her teeth and said, "You either turn around or I'll send you to the hole."

The rest of the hour proceeded from there. She made a big scene with one of the inmate library workers. His uniform top was inside-out. She commanded him, loudly and in front of other inmates, to change it. In a clear effort to save face, he told her he'd do it when he went back to his cell.

"No," she said, "now."

They glared at each other for what felt like a full minute. Finally she said, "You want to go to the hole?" He continued glaring. I heard him mutter, "You can't treat me like a d.a.m.n child."

"And why don't you show me what you have in that pocket?" she said, referring to the bulging, now-concealed inside-out chest pocket.

He reached into his shirt and pulled out a little volume of Psalms. He smiled smugly. But before he could gloat, she said. "Go into the back and flip your shirt the right way, right now."

But he didn't go into the back. Instead, he walked to the middle of the library and, with dozens of inmates now stopping to watch, removed his uniform top, stood there for a moment pitiably half-naked-a silent protest-and finally flipped it the right way. He continued his protest by abandoning his post behind the library counter. He went to the other side of the library to shelve books, which he did furiously and, from what I could discern, in no particular order. Meanwhile, my caseworker tutor held her ground, arms crossed, jaw clenched. But the red in her face betrayed her.

The advice came from all sides. My friendly union boss, Charlie-a.k.a. Chah Chahlie-popped his head in one day during the first week. Though technically Patti's a.s.sistant, in reality he was no such thing. Charlie was what parliament-run governments call a "minister-without-portfolio," a staffer-at-large. He was an old patronage hire, part of the former system who arrived on the scene before the staff had professionalized, back when the prison was merely a junket of government jobs-when it was about who you knew, not what experience or training you had. He also happened to be a lovably politically incorrect grandfatherly gent. Charlie knew everybody by name and was a unifying presence, friends with officers and civilians alike.

On my third day, he pulled me aside. He'd seen me from the hall, he said, through the library's picture windows (for security reasons, everything has to be as literally transparent as possible, every room in the prison has large hall-facing windows). He shook his head disapprovingly.

"You're moving around too too much, and you're moving much, and you're moving too too fast," he told me. "You trying to set a record? fast," he told me. "You trying to set a record? Don't Don't work so hard." work so hard."

Charlie was a relentless jokester, but he actually wasn't joking. I was on union time, union pay scale. I got paid the same amount regardless of how hard I worked or how well I performed. More important than achieving anything, as far as he was concerned, was to arrive and leave on time. Not a second earlier or later.

"Don't get fancy," he told me. "Just do your job, stay healthy, and keep your nose clean."

And take your union-protected break. Charlie had demonstrated this last one for me himself, during my initial job interview. In the midst of his tour, we'd stopped for a spell at the front gate. At the time, I had no idea why we were standing there, just staring at a chain-link fence and the sky. After about a minute of silent reflection, he'd announced, "This is where you come for your break. It's in the contract. So you take it." Running around like a waiter and "trying to set records," however, was not in my contract.

Gilmore, the night-shift officer stationed outside of the library at the time, also had advice.

"You need to have open eyes in this place," he said. "It's like boxing. The punch that knocks you out is the punch you don't see."

He'd taken measurements, he told me. The s.p.a.ce was outfitted with giant security mirrors, designed to see around corners. If you stood in a certain spot behind the circulation counter, you could see almost every inch of the s.p.a.ce. He even offered me pieces of tape to mark the spot on the floor.

"This is your post," he said. "Just stand here for the next thirty years and you'll retire a happy man."

He gave me a friendly pat on the back.

The opinions I encountered pointed to a larger question: What was was the role of the prison library? Almost everyone I asked during those first weeks had a different answer. Some thought it was a sham that, at best, served no function; at worst, coddled the inmates and gave them a place to plan and commit crimes. Some thought it was an effective way to numb inmates to the reality of captivity, to calm their nerves. The library made the prison safer for everyone, I was told. One senior officer mentioned that it was a good place to gather information from inmates who didn't realize they were being watched. As Coolidge liked to point out, the heart of the prison library, strictly speaking, was the law collection: Inmates had a legal right to it. the role of the prison library? Almost everyone I asked during those first weeks had a different answer. Some thought it was a sham that, at best, served no function; at worst, coddled the inmates and gave them a place to plan and commit crimes. Some thought it was an effective way to numb inmates to the reality of captivity, to calm their nerves. The library made the prison safer for everyone, I was told. One senior officer mentioned that it was a good place to gather information from inmates who didn't realize they were being watched. As Coolidge liked to point out, the heart of the prison library, strictly speaking, was the law collection: Inmates had a legal right to it.

Some staff believed it was a place to awaken, not numb, inmates. A place inmates might be able to change their lives, pursue an education, do something productive-though few actually did. There was the model of Malcolm X, who underwent a major transformation in a prison library, in the same Ma.s.sachusetts system in which I worked. In his autobiography, which sat on our shelf, he wrote, "Ten guards and the warden couldn't have torn me out of those books. Months pa.s.sed without even thinking about being imprisoned...I had never been so truly free in my life."

A young black officer told me he believed that prison libraries were lost on 99.9 percent of inmates, but for the chance of producing another person like Malcolm, it was worth it.

On the other hand, there was the model of James "Whitey" Bulger, the murderous Boston Irish crime boss-whose $2 million reward puts him second on the FBI's Most Wanted list, behind Osama bin Laden. Bulger refined his notoriously ruthless tactics, and his method of systematic, brutal repression, by making a careful study of military history. This also happened in a prison library. The FBI's wanted poster for Bulger indeed notes that he is "an avid reader with an interest in history. He is known to frequent libraries." Whitey, like Malcolm, first discovered books in the prison library. And it was there, in the quiet of its shelves, that he made his first and most diligent intellectual efforts. Both men had entered the prison library as unread young street thugs but emerged as leaders-with opposing visions of power.

During my first days of work I noticed that the names of Whitey and Malcolm came up often. People wanted to read about them, to read what they had read. Or just to talk about them. For each person seeking spiritual guidance or the development of his political conscience, like Malcolm, there was a cold materialist, studying how to employ violence more efficiently in the service of brutal criminal endeavors. Just like Whitey.