Justice Notes: More of Prison Jobs
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
JUSTICE NOTES: More Profiles
Since my early release in 2020, due to COVID-19, I’ve had time to reflect on those with whom I worked and who were a significant part of my experience. Below are more profiles of those inmates who remain a gravitational force in my life and continue to haunt me as I try, like all of them, to reassemble my life after prison.
THE DISHWASHER
I called him Primo, but I can’t remember his real name. I should because we worked together for six months. It seems like I can’t remember most names now; every day I forget more of them. I’m not sure why that is because I know they’re there; probably in all those dreams I have every night that I can’t remember in the morning.
I called him Primo because he reminded me of the legendary Italian boxer, Primo Carnera, a six-foot-five-inch heavyweight champion in the thirties. But he was a long way from there. He was a native Puerto Rican who had emigrated decades earlier. I’m sure he never heard of Primo Carnera, but he was almost as big as Carnera. A big man who filled a doorway: broad shoulders, thick chest, and muscled forearms that were tattooed from top to bottom and forever sticking out of his short-sleeved shirts that he wore in every season. He had a big personality and wore his heart on his sleeve. He had an ominous face, until he smiled and even less so when he laughed. And he liked to laugh. He was almost always upbeat. But he had a quick temper, and he was feared by the other Spanish guys—Black guys too. He called all the white guys “Papa,” except for me, whom he called Primo, probably because we worked together in the kitchen. He didn’t understand why I called him Primo; I think he thought it meant number one. All in all, most inmates liked and respected him. I think the staff did as well. He was never in trouble and worked hard. He would occasionally steal some food from the kitchen. But he was a small player in that regard. Although respected by the other Spanish guys, he was independent of them. At night, when all the Spanish guys gathered for a prayer, he was never among them. “They full of shit,” he told me. “I say my own prayer.”
He was in for drug dealing, but he had a real business as well. I don’t think he was ever a user. You couldn’t tell for sure. But he didn’t evoke one. The users were obvious in prison. He owned several two-family properties in West Haven, CT, and a bus service to the Connecticut casinos. While he was in prison, his son and wife managed the rental properties, and his brother-in-law drove the van. He had big plans after his release and was forever picking my brain about how to improve his properties. He thought of me as a real estate titan, not realizing that I had been wiped out by the courts. He still owned several two-family properties, all of which were leased up, and he operated a limousine service overseen by a loyal and competent family. I envied him.
He was a good worker. He said he didn’t care what job they gave him. He didn’t care that he was only a dishwasher; he could only work one way, “the right way.” He disparaged other inmates who weren’t like-minded. When he talked of the other inmates, he would lean in to you, look right and left, and then whisper his gripes about them. Gaming the work requirements was the attitude of most inmates, but not Primo. We connected as dishwashing partners on the morning shift. He liked working alone. I did too. It was possible to work alone on the morning shift because it was not crowded. I created a schedule for us so that we only worked together one day a week, and also included an extra day off for both of us. He loved that. The dishwashing area is separate from the rest of the kitchen—a small area where all the trays, pots, and pans are deposited to be scrubbed, sprayed, and deposited into a commercial dishwasher. Usually, two guys work there together to handle the flow. However, we arranged our shifts so that we could work alone, except on Thursdays, when the lunch service was hectic and we had to work together. He was hard to work with when we were together because he flew around the kitchen like a madman, grabbing trays, pots and pans, and the containers for the trays with abandon. You could get whacked in the head if you weren’t careful. He was determined to keep ahead of all the trays and dishes coming in.
He knew my business had been in real estate. He was always pumping me about his properties and how he could finance them or improve them. He’d come to my bunk just before count to pick my brain. I told him he was richer than I. He loved that. He had a big smile when I said that, as if he didn’t believe me for a second.
“Yeah, sure, Primo,” he’d say. “You broke…I know…ha ha.”
He said that he was giving up the drug business. I tried to convince him that his real estate and his limo service should be all he needs after he leaves prison. And I gave him some ideas on how to expand it. He only had another year or so before being released. He said that he would give it up. I’m not sure I believed him. I learned from other inmates that the money from drugs is so large that it’s hard to blow it off. It’s all around them and too easy to jump in. He told me he made $50,000 in a week, on more than one occasion.
He loved his wife—called her “Mama Sita.” His son had given him two grandchildren, and he missed them terribly. Like so many I met here, their humanity wins you over. Why are they here? What purpose does this serve? This is a good man. A family man. But like all inmates, prison wore him down too. You could see it when he got up from meal time and was walking out of the kitchen, and he didn’t think anyone was looking at him. He had a lumbering, staccato stride as he returned to the dorm, his face framed like all of us, in sadness and disgrace.
When he was released, he left me his contact information. He only gave me a phone number. Not even his name, only this, on a torn scrap of paper: “Partners in the kitchen.”
THE MENTOR
Tony was a complicated guy. He was friendly, helpful, and threatening all at the same time. He emigrated from Puerto Rico decades ago, starting as a dishwasher, then a landscaper, and eventually a drug dealer. The money was too good, he said. When he was arrested, they took two million in cash and ten guns from his house. They didn’t get the other million, he said. He’d been down ten years with three more to go. He tried to mentor me. But I wasn’t listening, he said. “In here, you forget about the outside. You can’t help anyone. Taking care of here takes everything. And watch what you say here. Everyone just wants to get out. All is on the table.”
When he worked, he had a manic style and pace. He was fussy too. If a pan wasn’t perfect, he would scold you for putting it away. Once in a while, I’d clean a pan, and he would clean it again. But he wouldn’t say anything. Just look at me crooked. Often, without saying anything, he would come to my bunk and hand me M&Ms, which were contraband. “Make sure you flush the wrappers.” All in all, I think he liked me. But you’re never sure in prison.
While working in the kitchen with Tony, one of the Spanish guys, called Robinson, didn’t like me. He called me Gringo. I tried to joke with him, but he waved me off. Tony said to ignore him.
“I don’t think he likes me,” I told Tony. “Maybe he doesn’t like my mug.”
“So, he doesn’t like you. I didn’t like you. Now I like you.”
“My Mug?”
“No. I still don’t like your mug,” he said, then smiled and punched my chest.
TONY
He comes to me always brooding.
Dark eyes like Black ice;
and just as dangerous.
But heat is the fear I
fear from him.
I can't figure if he's good
or bad, both or either.
Always lurking.
And that is the nature
of things here,
every moment a guarded
question: is he friend
or foe.
Tiptoeing back to my
narrow bunk,
I close my
eyes.
The above is an excerpt from an essay published in Minutes Before Six. It’s another firsthand account of my life and that of others, providing portraits of people most affected by a broken system. To look beyond the surface and into the heart of what incarceration really means. Here is a link to the full essay. A Muddled Brotherhood.
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