Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following is another profile from my prison memoir, A Muddled Brotherhood, a collection of portraits of the men with whom I served my sentence in a federal prison camp. Jack was the camp wise-man. Everyone went to him for advice at one time or another.
THE SAGE
Jack, known as the Seafood King, was the unofficial wise man of the camp. Most inmates sought him out for advice, including the Black guys. A burly, imposing former Marine, he quelled that initial impression with a radio voice and a welcoming expression. His voice had a baritone staccato rhythm that made you feel comfortable when he invited you into his bunk, always with a knowing smile. Dr. Phil would have been envious of his voice and demeanor, his calm reasonableness about all things.
He was in for income tax fraud, although he claimed it was merely a miscalculation by his accountant. It’s hard to know because all inmates edit their bios. I was no exception. But I always believed Jack because there was nothing phony about him. He bunked next to me upon my arrival. He offered me toiletries, snacks, and an extra blanket on my first night there, a freezing cold evening due to a howling snowstorm raging outside.
His wife, who lived nearby, visited him every visiting day, three days a week. She was a plump, dear, shy woman who Jack said was lost without him, rumbling around in a large colonial near Boston—the only asset the Feds didn’t attach—as FedEx packages and foreclosure notices arrived daily. Jack spent all of their visiting time walking her through them. She was in a constant state of high anxiety. On those visiting days, she always tried to be friendly to the guards who checked her in. It was sad to watch how none of that ever seemed to work. They greeted her each time as if they had never seen her before, while she endured all of the same protocols: searches, pat downs, and identifications.
Certain inmates are given a party before they are released. Jack’s was a notable one because every ethnic group contributed something, including tacos and enchiladas from the Spanish guys and a cake from Izzy the gangster rapper. The mess hall was packed for Jack, and he gave a lovely speech telling everyone that he had learned from all his interactions with others that “everyone deserves a second chance.” When he got out, he said, he would make sure that anyone who called him would have a job, once he got his company back. A lot of guys make those promises. Few ever follow through. But I believe Jack did. I never could find out because I’ve never followed up with anyone. That’s probably why there wasn’t a party for me when I was released. I arrived as a ghost and I left as a ghost.
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
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
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