Prison Camp: Daily Life
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following is the original introduction to A Muddled Brotherhood, a collection of portraits of the men with whom I served my sentence in a federal prison camp. Over the past several weeks, I’ve been publishing some of those portraits here.
A MUDDLED BROTHERHOOD
When I arrived at federal prison, a minimum-security camp north of Boston, a muddled brotherhood was waiting for me. It was a diverse group of one hundred and twenty inmates, comprised of Hispanic drug dealers, Black gang members, violent offenders, insurance fraudsters, internet scammers, income tax cheats, sex offenders and white-collar offenders like me. Those with more serious violations had earned their transfers to the camps through good behavior at higher security prisons, and most were serving the last few years of their sentences. I was the oldest inmate at the camp, having turned seventy-six a few months before my arrival.
At first, it was more wilderness than community. But over time, we coalesced into a community, a true melting pot if there ever was one. Since my release, I’ve had time to reflect on those who were most impactful, whether they were friends, inmates I worked with or those I didn’t interact with but were present for me in some fashion and were a significant part of my experience.
Below are portraits of those inmates who continue to haunt me as I try, like all of them, to reassemble my life after prison.
THE SALESMAN
Jimmy worked at a family company that sold sea-food internationally. He had been good friends with Jack, the Sea-food King. They also owned some restaurants. Jimmy was a principal and head of sales. I never knew what actually happened except he was in for wire fraud and some kind of financial malfeasance. There were a lot of us. Jimmy was the quintessential salesman, full of stories, personality and fun. He had been in the main prison for a few months when he arrived.
“No fuckin way you want to get transferred there,” he said. “This place is the Four Seasons compared to that.”
“That bad?” I asked.
“Shit yeah. But I learned a lot of things there.”
“Like what?
“Restraint. Most important lesson in prison. Restraint. I come across easy going here. But believe me, I was a pain in the ass in my old life. Doesn’t work here.”
Jimmy transferred to the kitchen when Eddie, the baker, left and he showed a lot of restraint there. He knew nothing about baking, but he taught himself somehow. He was always joking and making light of everything. He gave no shit to the staff or anyone else. He’d give me a fresh muffin during my shift.
“Hey Big John. You look like you eat too many salads.” And he’d slip it on top of the washing machine so the CO wouldn’t see it.
But one day, he crossed a line and showed us his teeth. Shaw, a prickly Black guy who was in kitchen maintenance for a while, had a problem with the TV in the mess hall. There were two TVs there. Usually set to news on one and sports on the other. Shaw would turn the sports TV to a Black talk-show when he arrived in the kitchen. The rest of us just put up with it. Jimmy too. Except one day he called Shaw out. Shaw was in the mess hall taking a break. The kitchen TVs hung from the ceiling. There was no remote for them. A pole from a broom lay in the corner under the TVs to change the channels. Jimmy came out and without saying a word, grabbed the pole, shut off the TV and went back to the kitchen. Shaw just sat there for a minute like he couldn’t believe what happened. I was washing trays and was the only guy to witness this. Finally, Shaw reacted and stormed into the kitchen after Jimmy. The CO was in his office and never came out. Shaw didn’t touch him but went nose to nose while everyone stopped in still frame.
“Hey you little fucker. I’ll waste your fucking ass you do that again.”
Jimmy didn’t push back, walked away and, fortunately, Shaw went back to the mess hall and turned his program back on. Shaw was serving his last year. Guys don’t want to scuttle their release. Especially long-termers like Shaw who was in for twelve years. That was the end of it. The whole episode didn’t make sense and Jimmy never talked about it. Something about it I admired, but it didn’t change any of my ways. If anything, I just committed to low profile all the more. It didn’t make me feel any better about myself though. It’s almost an oxymoron in prison. Feeling good about yourself. There were a lot of moments like that. Opportunities to reframe the narrative about yourself. Do something heroic. Defend Jimmy. Confront Shaw. But nothing like that ever happened. I just knew I let everyone down in my former life. So much money lost, lives shattered, especially people I loved the most and those who most relied upon me. It didn’t seem like I could ever make up for that. And the worst part, I didn’t even try.
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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