The portraits in A Muddled Brotherhood aren’t only of the inmates I admired or befriended. They’re portraits of the men who, for one reason or another, stayed with me.
THE CODFATHER
Tiago, known as the Codfather, was in his mid-sixties, thin and balding, with a crackled, continual scowl. He was a legendary fisherman who had recently dominated the “ground fishing” industry in New England. “Groundfish” refers to haddock, flounder and cod. Hence, he earned the title of “Codfather.”
He was an immigrant of Portuguese origin who emerged from hardscrabble beginnings to dominate fishing on the East Coast. His flagrant overfishing had made him notorious. His investigation and prosecution were high-profile events and resulted in his company’s forced liquidation and the termination of his license. He was of such a high profile that many of the inmates, most of whom were from New England, were acquainted with his crimes.
He achieved legendary status almost immediately. He had a loud, gravelly voice that penetrated the entire dorm. You could hear him from one end to the other. He was continually complaining or holding court with every demographic of the inmate population. Mother Fucker this and Mother Fucker that constantly blared through the dorm.
And if not complaining, he could be found telling tales to a crowd of inmates about his incredible rise from poverty, how he started as a low-status cleaner of the catch. He said that he was especially good at cleaning and boning, and in fact loved doing it. Tough, fearless and frugal, he saved his pennies to buy his first boat. Then, during a particular period of economic disaster, when everyone had bailed from the marketplace, he purchased a vessel portfolio that resulted in his emergence as the dominant player in New England.
He was an incorrigible smoker. He had cigarettes smuggled in every week and could sneak in his smoking while walking the track. In fact, he never really walked the track; he only did so to get in his smokes. His gravelly voice was evidence of his habit. It was a penetrating croaking whenever he opened his mouth.
He was a frequent purveyor of the “ala carte” menu—food stolen from the kitchen by other inmates—and he was outrageously open about it. He was that way about everything, even his smoking. He’d try to mask it while on the track, but without much effort.
There was not even a hint of remorse in him about anything. The COs were cock suckers and mother fuckers, and I’m sure so were the IRS agents, his prosecutors, the Warden and any other law enforcement or institutional representative. He was a model of pure self-aggrandizement and personal enrichment.
Apparently, his family continued to support him; he always had many visitors on the weekends. They arrived in groups, and you could see them listening with apparent deference as he held court there too.
I never engaged him. He befriended my bunk mate Lumi for a time. They played cards almost daily and played with relentless aggressiveness. I could just never get myself to break the ice with him. I sensed that he wanted to reach me.
One morning, I almost engaged with him when he was cleaning the small dorm kitchen, and I was in there by myself, my tea in the microwave. That was his only job at the camp. But I passed on it.
I don’t think I missed anything by doing so. You feel bad enough about yourself in prison. I didn’t think he’d lessen the burden.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
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