Running The Books : The Adventures Of An Accidental Prison Librarian Part 5

"Thanks," I said.

"I can help you, you know. I can go into the unit, get people to sign. No problem."

"That's okay. I'm all set."

"No, really, I can help you. I know how things get done in here."

"No, really," I said. "All set."

And I was. Despite the skepticism of my coworkers I'd actually begun attracting a few donors. Even a few who were almost broke themselves. I was feeling good. If it was radical to raise money from inmates, then I guess I was a radical.

The truth is, I'm nothing of a radical. I wouldn't be caught dead displaying a picture of Che. And though I was amused by a Wesleyan student I once met who told me that she funded a prison education program with the proceeds of her swift drug dealing business, I wasn't one for revolutionary action.

But I did have fits of ambition. Though the goals for fund-raising were modest enough, once the project was under way I wanted to do it right. To make as much money and reach as many inmates as possible.

Coolidge's offer intrigued me. He was right. He could reach those people who never came to the library and speak to them in a way that would be more persuasive than I, a fourteen-year-old-looking white boy. With his help, I could double (or more) the reach of this effort.

After a week of watching the donations continue to trickle in, fewer every day, I decided to give him a shot. I approached his "office," the back reference/computer room. Coolidge caught me hesitating at the entrance, wondering whether it was wise to proceed.

"Please come in," he said. "I'm not too busy."

"Right," I said. "I've got a job for you."

This was the formulation I'd chosen over I need your help I need your help.

"Oh really?"

"I thought about your offer to help with the Katrina thing and I've decided that I want you to collect signatures in the units."

"I told you."

And with that, he opened up a folder and pulled out smudgy sheets full of signatures.

"Already started," he said. He was pleased to the point of nausea. "How do you like that?"

I didn't like it at all. He'd gone behind my back. But I had to admit he'd secured an impressive number of donors.

"Good," I said, "keep it up."

Prison Doors: A Brief History The prison occupies a former dump and incinerator site. It is nearly impossible to reach by car. You must first navigate an Escher-like labyrinth of streets, in which a turn west lands you east, and a turn east lands you nowhere. To get onto Bradston Street, where the prison is located, you must make a sudden, impossibly sharp right turn. If you miss the turn, you're sent directly onto the interstate. It's as if the city planners are warning you: Trust me, you don't want to turn here, get away, far away, from this place Trust me, you don't want to turn here, get away, far away, from this place.

Not that I drove. I took the Ma.s.s Ave. bus line, which ferried me from the gates of Harvard Yard, near where I was living at the time, to the Boston Medical Center. From there, I walked fifteen minutes across the giant highway interchange, into the netherland of South Bay.

A street sign identified the area as Newmarket Square-though I'd never heard anyone call it that-an industrial zone sandwiched between some of Boston's toughest and fastest gentrifying neighborhoods: Roxbury, Dorchester, the South End, and South Boston, or Southie. Most of my friends and neighbors in Cambridge had never heard of South Bay even though it was a twenty-minute drive down the road.

It turned out the common metaphor of prison as a warehouse was actually not a metaphor. South Bay was a warehouse district. There were auto-body shops, mason depots, a methadone clinic, sundry bombed-out buildings, the headquarters of the Boston Fire Department, the Transit Police. But mostly just streets of warehouses and a chorus of beeping, produced by the backing up of delivery trucks. Sometimes it felt as though the entire place was inching backward.

And in a way, it was. South Bay is rumored to be sinking into the sea. Although a landma.s.s for generations-having been filled in a century ago-seagulls still swarmed the skies. Perhaps they sensed the rising tide.

Signs of the End were everywhere. In a large storage lot in front of the prison, an urban cemetery: street signs-some from familiar city thoroughfares, Commonwealth Ave., Beacon St.-twisted into tortured poses. Splintered telephone poles strewn about in haphazard mounds, battered streetlights, busted-up traffic signals, a perfectly new Fisher Price Talking Chef Magic Kitchen set.

The area around the prison didn't do a good job concealing its former use as a shipping yard. Antique train tracks a.s.serted themselves at odd intervals all along surrounding streets. The streets themselves appeared to have sustained a mortar barrage. You had to drive around the prison at a respectful pace. There were no quick getaways.

The current facility was designed in "pods"-smaller cell blocks, or "units," organized around dayrooms that allow the inmates to interact-and replaced the old Deer Island prison's Auburn architectural model, the notorious linear design of long corridors stacked into tiers intended to maximally isolate inmates. When this new, "state of the art" prison was built in 1990, William Weld campaigned against it.

"This Taj Mahal of a jail," then candidate Weld declaimed, "is an obscene symbol of everything that is wrong with state government and stands as a permanent insult to the taxpayers of Ma.s.sachusetts. I'd like to reintroduce our inmates to the joys of busting rock."

He was taking a traditional perspective of prison architecture. An encyclopedia entry from the early nineteenth century explains that a prison's design should involve "an effectual method of exciting the imagination to a most desirable point of abhorrence...the exterior of a prison should, therefore, be formed in the heavy and somber style, which most forcibly impresses the spectator with gloom and terror."

To Dr. Benjamin Rush-who in addition to signing the Declaration of Independence was also a prison reformer, and a bit of a drama queen-the door wasn't just a visual but an auditory feature: "Let the avenue to this house be rendered difficult and gloomy by mountains and mora.s.ses. Let the doors be of iron, and let the grating, occasioned by opening and shutting them, be increased by an echo that shall deeply pierce the soul." At the time, this was a progressive position. Piercing souls was a more humanitarian approach than carving up bodies.

The designers of the South Bay prison had a different perspective. During the initial stages of design, architects at Stubbins a.s.sociates-the firm responsible for the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston, the Citicorp building in New York City, and the Reagan Presidential Library-posted various images of old prisons in their sunny offices in Cambridge. All were too depressing. One stood out. The highly mythologized Bridge of Sighs in Venice. As a senior architect told the Boston Globe Boston Globe, the Bridge "connects a public building to a prison in the back of the Doge's palace and it points to the civic role of buildings like this...a bridge between the public face of justice and the reality of incarceration and punishment."

Though they disagreed on the purpose of the building's design, both the governor and the architects did share an old a.s.sumption: that a prison's architecture should affect the citizens on the outside as much as the prisoners on the inside. Both agreed that the prison's exterior matters, that it's an essential public symbol of...something.

One day before my shift started, I stood in front of the prison, looking at the facade. Probably hoping to put off work for another few minutes, I decided to do a little experiment: to close my eyes and open them, to allow the architecture to work its magic on me, to produce some emotional reaction, some sensation.

Here are my findings: nothing. No gloom, no terror. No echo. My soul was not pierced deeply. It wasn't a Taj Mahal of a jail, an obscene symbol, as the governor had quipped. Nor was it the architect's highly conceptual Bridge of Justice. There was no "effectual method of exciting the imagination" in any direction at all. The structure repelled all imagination. It was two cereal boxes. It left no impression, and asked to be ignored. It was purely functional. But what function-this was not made clear.

It wasn't always like this. In "The Prison Door," the memorable first chapter of The Scarlet Letter The Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne describes, or imagines, how this very same inst.i.tution, the Boston prison, appeared in its earliest incarnation, the very first prison in the New World. These are the opening words of the book (which sits on both the Cla.s.sics and Fiction library shelves in the prison's latest incarnation): A throng of bearded men, in sad-colored garments and grey steeple-crowned hats, inter-mixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded, was a.s.sembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes.The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison.... Certain it is that, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than anything else in the New World. Like all that pertains to crime, it seemed never to have known a youthful era.

The prison's door, the most ancient-seeming ent.i.ty in the brand New World, was such a potent symbol that Hawthorne began his story about the nature of sin and punishment by focusing the reader's attention on it, even before introducing his main character. The prison door itself is the protagonist as much as the criminal who walked through it.

From a dreadful symbol of sin, the prison had evolved into this: a building that doesn't say anything coherent, does nothing to announce its function, a prison designed to blend in, to be sped by on the highway. Was that progress?

In today's prison, there are no spikes, no grim iron-work, no castellated towers. And no ponderous door. Hawthorne's prison door, it would seem, exists only in words on the shelves of the prison library. The s.p.a.ce where this actual prison door used to stand is now a hollow entryway into a lobby.

In the absence of a symbol as concrete as Hawthorne's prison door, everyone is free to fill this hollow s.p.a.ce with private meanings. The literacy teachers and "re-entry" counselors, like Yoni, had their resource books. The officers and support staff had their retirement funds. Jessica, it turned out, had family drama. And what did Coolidge have? He filled the empty s.p.a.ce left by the prison door with, as usual, conspiracy theories. Like many inmates, he wondered aloud what this place was really really about. He would mock the American penal system's vaguely Orwellian nomenclature of "corrections": about. He would mock the American penal system's vaguely Orwellian nomenclature of "corrections": Department of Correction, House of Corrections, Correctional Facility Department of Correction, House of Corrections, Correctional Facility, and his favorite, Correction Officer Correction Officer.

"What does that even mean?" mean?" he said once. "Let me show you what a he said once. "Let me show you what a correction correction is." is."

On the back of one of his legal briefs, he scribbled: I like to right I like to right. Then he crossed it out, and rewrote it: I like to write I like to write.

"That's a correction," he said. "This here is a d.a.m.n prison." a correction," he said. "This here is a d.a.m.n prison."

There were often grains of truth in Coolidge's ramblings. n.o.body knew what "corrections" meant. It was a hollow word. Just like that empty s.p.a.ce where the prison's door once made its presence known.

In this prison, the door can be found safely out of public sight, inside of the building. One must strain to locate it. In the lobby, behind the metal detector one can see the steel and gla.s.s sliding double doors, transparent and inconspicuous. And yet heavier than the Puritans' oak by several orders of magnitude. This prison's door is a good deal more gloomy and a good deal less visible than the old door.

Charlie, taking his union-protected break, caught me staring up at the tower.

"You're late," he said, as always, half in jest. "What're you looking at?"

"Nothing, actually."

We walked through the hollow s.p.a.ce and back into the lobby.

Coolidge at the Helm Even before the Katrina fund-raising drive, Coolidge had been an exceedingly busy man, always the first in, the last out, of the library. In addition to being one of the great legal minds of his inmate generation, he held various self-appointed positions, complete with homemade t.i.tles: Law Coordinator Law Coordinator, which he sometimes called Legal Aid Legal Aid or or Law Advocate Law Advocate or or Law Clerk. Education Counselor, Re-entry Advisor, Baptist Services Coordinator Law Clerk. Education Counselor, Re-entry Advisor, Baptist Services Coordinator. Coolidge had enough fictional t.i.tles to compete with any cooked-up Harvard senior's resume.

All of these (non)positions qualified him for a yet higher (non) position as something of a prison chieftain, the representative of the inmate collective. El Presidente El Presidente, as some inmates called him in disdain. Coolidge's political moves were well doc.u.mented. When he wasn't drafting legal briefs, he composed various official memos, op-eds, formal queries, letters to the editor, progress reports. On special occasions, he'd put out a press release. If cameras had been permitted in prison, he would have arranged photo ops. Under the circ.u.mstances, he contented himself with the written word.

Though not the best writer, Coolidge always came out swinging. He was the Mark Twain of the memo, attacking even pedantic forms with verve and occasional wit. He'd ask me to edit his latest writings, then proceed to reject every single suggestion I made. When I advised him to spread the ! ! lightly, he became exclamatory. lightly, he became exclamatory.

"C'mon now!" he said, throwing up his hands. "I invented invented the d.a.m.n exclamation point! I made it a household name! I got it trade-marked, man. I make royalties off it!" the d.a.m.n exclamation point! I made it a household name! I got it trade-marked, man. I make royalties off it!"

With his schemes and his exclamation points, Coolidge pestered the courts, parole boards, newspaper editorial boards, noted authors, the prison administration, City Hall, celebrities, the clergy, and pretty much anyone with a mailing address. None of this bothered me. He was bringing in sheets of inmates' signatures. Money was rolling in to the Katrina fund-raising project. Everything was great.

My first hint to the contrary arrived, appropriately, by way of a memo. Or, to be more precise, a draft of a memo Coolidge had accidentally left lying around the library. It concerned the Katrina project. His His Katrina project. Katrina project.

In the doc.u.ment, addressed to the prison administration, Coolidge "respectfully requested permission to solicit donations in the units housing the female inmates (the Tower)." I couldn't help but smile at this modest proposal. Coolidge knew this request was both illegal and laughable. A male inmate requesting to visit the female prison blocks was like an inmate asking to be let out for the night to attend his buddy's bachelor party.

As "Program Organizer," Coolidge continued, he humbly offered his services-with, he conceded, proper "accompaniment of prison staff." This effort, he argued, would significantly increase the amount of money and the profile of the project, all of which would be great PR for the prison administrators themselves. On a more menacing note, he pointed out that it was imperative that inmates-who were furious at the racial injustice of Katrina-had a "peaceful outlet for their justified anger." And that failure to include the women might be perceived by many inmates as an attempt to stifle this effort. The implied threat of violence was clear enough.

Coolidge concluded the memo by stating that he was very proud to have conceived and planned this initiative and would like permission to organize a "media event" upon completion of the project. Again, he would be happy to offer his services and work up a press release. A list of expenses was included.

It was a thoroughly entertaining proposal, a masterpiece of delusional deadpan. Entertaining enough that I hardly cared that he was taking credit for my idea.

That Friday, during the morning shift, my office phone rang. I picked up.

Fire Coolidge.

It was Patti's voice.

Why? I asked. I asked.

Silence.

That's the order I got from above, she said finally. Fire him from the library detail. Effective immediately Fire him from the library detail. Effective immediately.

What do I tell him?

That he's fired.

Right, but...

And that he's got to go back to his cell immediately.

And what if he asks why?

There were noises of displeasure. A sigh, a sniffle, a tapping pen.

Tell him it's an order. He'll find out when he finds out.

This last comment was directed at me, as well, which I found irritating. But I had a more pressing concern: I'd never fired someone, let alone a violent felon. It was at these moments that I realized I hadn't undergone any training. That this was was my training. my training.

When Coolidge came into my office, he knew something was wrong. Even before I uttered a word, he pointed his big gloomy square head at me and made a bid.

"I don't need to be a part of the project," he said. "You can take all the credit and smile for the cameras. I'll sit on the side. It don't matter."

"Thanks for the offer," I said. "But there aren't going to be any cameras." Before he could say anything else, I just blurted it out.

"I got a call from the higher-ups," I said. "They told me to fire you. And they said you have to go back to your cell immediately."

Coolidge's face twisted into a snarl. I tabulated the odds he was going to rip the head off my shoulders. Perhaps it'd hurt for only a second. Perhaps it would be painless. A swift death: Always a good Plan B. But I needed a Plan A. I scanned my office for weapons. I'd pick up my giant computer monitor, crash it on his head, and run. Or use it as a shield. The trick would be in hoisting up the monitor and pulling the cord out of the electrical socket in one deft motion.

Coolidge a.s.sumed a variety of extreme poses in rapid succession. He jumped out of his seat, paced, punched his palm, ran his hand roughly through his hair, slumped back in his chair. Finally, he sunk his face deep into his hands.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know. They didn't tell me why. I figured you'd know."

He glared at me. I put a hand on my computer monitor.

"Please don't do this," he said, almost in tears. "I need this. I gotta work on my case or I could go away for a minimum of seven years. Minimum! It could be up to twenty. This isn't a joke, man. This is my life. I got a right to defend myself."

I thought about the promise he'd made to his daughter, to be there when her daughter, his granddaughter, was born. I remembered the inmate Coolidge had taught to read, and how he'd helped me during my first weeks.

"It's not my choice," I said, miserably.

As he walked out, he said, almost in a whisper, "If you don't stand up for yourself and your detail, man, everyone's gonna walk all over you."

Later that day, another inmate told me that Coolidge had gone into his cell and wept.

After a few days, I finally discovered the reason for the sacking: the notorious memos. Coolidge had finally crossed the line. He was sounding more and more like a staff member. The prison administration had become alarmed. The final straw was a letter-in which he wrote "Internal Memo" on the header-requesting an extension of religious programming, complete with extra towels and white bathrobes for the Baptist services that he had (supposedly) planned. The staff minister who was paid to organize Baptist programs was furious that Coolidge had gone over his head. Apparently it hadn't been the first time.

I was mostly amused by Coolidge's memos, annoying as they sometimes were. Coolidge could be a bully and wannabe, but at least he was actually trying to do something something. That was more than could be said of other inmates and some of the staff. I couldn't help but feel that Coolidge was, in effect, being punished for showing initiative.

I also felt bad for him. It was true, he had been working tirelessly on his case. For the robbery charges, he could do serious time-the law is not lenient with "career criminals" like him. I saw inmates who were on trial for murder, facing possible life imprisonment, who spent their library time playing chess or watching Ben Stiller movies. Coolidge had made a mess of his life. But at least he had pride enough to give himself a serious defense.

And I had to admit there was some truth to what he'd said to me as he walked out: I'd been a bit of a dupe. After firing Coolidge, I'd walked over to Patti's office and made the case to restore Coolidge's job, on the grounds that his knowledge of the law was a major a.s.set to the library. But this had been rejected without a moment's deliberation. I didn't appreciate that the administration would fire a valued employee of mine without my input, without even the courtesy of an explanation. I mean, it was like I was working in a prison.

But, at the very least, I'd made some headway by raising a couple thousand Katrina dollars-thanks largely to Coolidge's legwork. At least I could point to that success.

As I readied my final report for the Katrina project, an inmate handed me a typed note. He said it was from an inmate in his unit. The note claimed that Coolidge had engaged in some funny business during the fund-raising drive, that he had stolen funds and some inmates' ID information for illicit purposes. That he had strong-armed some inmates into donating money. The note ended by offering to detail these claims-if I were willing to put some money in his his prison bank account. prison bank account.

I wasn't about to pay this guy for information. But his claims were disturbing. I recalled my conversation with Coolidge a couple of weeks earlier. Our business had been running swiftly.

"This isn't a con, is it?" I'd said. This was meant as a joke.

"Ah man," he'd replied. "You serious? I wouldn't bring that s.h.i.t in here, man. Into the library? library? C'mon! Please." C'mon! Please."

I now turned to some of the other guys on the detail. I asked them if the charges were true. None of them answered. They were bound by the convict code of silence. But they didn't deny it, nor offer up any defense.

Later that day, a member of the detail walked into my office and told me that he "didn't know nothing" about what Coolidge had done, but advised me with a knowing sort of nod that it'd be wise to not finalize the transfer of the inmates' funds. Thus my Katrina donation drive was officially tainted by corruption. All my remorse over firing Coolidge left me in a split second.

"That's the way it goes in here, man," the detail member said, trying to console me. "Can't trust n.o.body in here."

"Can I trust you?"