Criminal That I Am (30 page)

When the furry monstrosity makes her way to the next aisle—her presence in an aisle dedicated to menstruation is its own mystery—the defender in me emerges. I get up from the floor in solidarity with this young woman. “Don't listen to her,” I insist. “You can buy as many tampons as you want.”

She gives me an exhausted smile. “God, I hate it here,” she says.

“Me, too,” I say. I offer her the other socket in the wall outlet.

“This neighborhood is awful,” she says as she sits down.

“I know,” I say. “I don't understand why anyone would live here.”

“Yeah, I'd rather be without electricity than live up here,” she declares.

I don't know if I would take it that far. That's how badly I want the power to come back.

Without electricity to spare, I have no idea of the true horrors caused by Sandy. When I access news websites on my iPad, it is strictly
to see if there are any updates about the return of power. I don't know that whole areas of New York and New Jersey have been flattened, that thousands of homes are destroyed, that people are found drowned in their own homes. I have not yet read the horrifying story of a Staten Island woman who lost her grip on her two small sons while trying to flee, the storm sweeping them out to sea. I don't know that people have lost everything they owned.

But I am embarrassed to admit that knowing any of this probably would not have provided much perspective. I have always had a peculiar relationship with electricity, one that makes it supreme to everything else. I first learned this in Iraq, where I somehow managed to inure myself to the constant sound of machine-gun fire but felt the lack of electricity in the sweltering heat warranted my emergency airlift elsewhere.

I try to explain this to Best Friend, who lives outside of Sandy's path. “I don't think I can make it much longer. I feel as though I might be coming unhinged,” I tell her through tears.

“It'll be okay, Jen,” she says. “Everything will be back to normal soon.”

“But what if it isn't?” I say.

“What do you mean?”

As I say it, I hear my voice crack. “What if the lights never come back on?”

She laughs, not realizing I am serious.

“No, really,” I say. “How do we really know that the electricity will work again? What if they can never fix it?”

Best Friend is unfazed by my meanderings. “Jen, it's going to be fine. You know what they say. It's always darkest before the dawn.”

I
am on Day Five of my post-Sandy hysteria. Feeling stir crazy, I decide to buck authority and go out for a run. This does not just contravene the directive of my landlord. Technically, all city parks are closed. Also, because I will need to bring a flashlight to navigate the unlit stairwell of my building, I will need to stow it away in my mailbox during my run. This is technically against the law.

I weigh the costs and benefits and decide that for the sake of my sanity, I am willing to take the risk. Perhaps I am not as reformed as I thought.

By the time I make it to the front door of my building, I can't contain my excitement to get outside. But as I walk out of the building, I remember that all of the regular exits out onto the running path are closed. The exit facing the park is flooded. Another gated exit is locked. I feel myself begin to panic.

I walk back to the lobby of my building. Because the lack of electricity has disabled the key card entry system, the landlord has hired a security guard to monitor the entrance. This specific security guard is an interesting choice. I would approximate her age to be late forties and her height to be around five feet. She seems happily ensconced in the magazine that is strewn across her stout legs.

I am not quite sure how she is qualified to protect hundreds of residents from looting or robbery, but she seems pleasant enough.

“Excuse me,” I say.

She looks up distractedly from her magazine.

“How do I get out of here?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Her voice is low and boasts a heavy accent that is unmistakably Brooklyn.

“I mean, how do I get to the park? I want to go to the running path.”

“Ya know, you're really not supposed to go outside.”

“I do know that,” I say. My voice takes a pleading tone. “But please, I just want to go for a run, just for a little while.”

She opens her mouth as though she is going to object, but then thinks better of it. “Whadda I care?” she asks rhetorically. “Just go behind the other building, there's an exit over there.”

“Thank you so much,” I say.

“You'd better be careful. It's a mess out there.”

“I will, I promise.”

She shrugs and then goes back to her magazine.

On my way to the running path, I can see the full extent of Sandy's aftermath. On the service road outside my building, three cars are smashed into one another. A tree trunk has been uprooted from the ground. Thick branches and debris are everywhere. The river, usually
calmly emitting a fragrant blend of fish, weed, and garbage, now bears menacing eddies. The waterline is so high that it seems to warn that Mother Nature is willing to do this all over again.

I start my run at the top of East River Park. I use the word “run” quite loosely. The pace at which I usually advance can be generously described as a “jog,” and more accurately as a “putter.” I only ever pass runners of the geriatric variety.

But today I feel a surge of energy. I find myself moving at a speed so unexpected that I look down at my feet to watch them work. I actually pass several able-bodied runners on a narrow path in order to make my way onto the wider thoroughfare.

The park looks as though its contents have been shaken in a snow globe. Trees are knocked on their sides. Park benches are ripped out. Heavy branches and trunks litter the running path.

The extent of the devastation causes me to think once again about Sandy, about the laws of nature. These laws are inalienable. When the rain pours, the river will flood. When the wind blows, trees will fall. When the storm is over, the sun will warm us with its rays. These rules do not bend. They do not vary by jurisdiction. They cannot be amended. We have no choice but to live within their lines.

Criminal law, on the other hand, is not natural. Our laws are man-made. They can be erased and rewritten and applied haphazardly. The law has no basis in science, it does not fully correspond to even the most basic moral code. All of man's worst evils—killing, torturing, pillaging—are crimes, except in the hundreds of thousands of instances where they are not. And though we are forced to conform ourselves to its mandate, the law sometimes creates the very wrongdoing it is designed to prevent.

The criminal law is not really of us. It is more likely upon us, covering us like an uneven coat of paint, applied too thick in some spots but barely touching others.

As I run, I find comfort in this thought. If the criminal law is something separate from who we are, then perhaps the urge to resist its directives is not necessarily unnatural. Maybe criminals stand apart from the human race only in our willingness to subject ourselves to painful consequences. Although it sounds like a platitude printed on the side panel
of a box of maxi pads, I consider the possibility that compliance with the law does not come from some innate love and respect for authority as much as it does from an established love and respect for yourself.

I'm running faster. I've been so lost in thought that I don't know exactly where I am. Because of the many detours I've had to take around the damage, I am away from the promenade, a few blocks inland. I slow my pace so I can get my bearings. The Williamsburg and Manhattan Bridges are behind me. I'm outside of the island's numerical grid, and so I try to find a street sign in the hope it bears a name I recognize.

I jog down a little farther. Here, the environs begin to look familiar. It takes me a moment to place them. I am a few blocks from MCC.

I have no great desire to revisit the scene of my crime, the place where I broke the law and ended up breaking out of my life. I lurk cautiously around a nearby block in order to catch my breath, conscious not to go any farther.

As I stand in MCC's shadow, I think about all of the days I spent inside its walls. Memories return as though they have been stowed away in this neighborhood. I remember my first day on Cameron's case, its steady procession from criminal case to circus. I remember the Sharpie marker, the newspaper articles and transcripts, waiting for the count to clear.

And then another memory: it was early into the case, long before my criminal exploits began. In the attorney room, I am explaining to Cameron how the sentencing guidelines correspond to drug weight. When I look up to see if he understands, his face is red and bears a look of concern.

“What's the matter?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I'm listening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I pause, giving him an opportunity to speak.

“This is not the most straightforward thing, so you shouldn't feel embarrassed if you have questions,” I say.

He takes a breath and asks, “Do you think I am a bad person for dealing drugs?”

I examine his face for a moment. Cameron is not a stranger to fish
ing for answers to make himself feel better. But his expression is grave enough that I think he is asking seriously.

“Cameron, it's not my job to judge you.”

“I know, but still.”

I think for a second. “Well, do I think it was the
best
idea to deal drugs? I mean, no, probably not.”

He laughs at my diplomacy. “Well, I know it wasn't the
best
idea.”

“Look, you did a not-great thing,” I say. “But it doesn't have to be who you are.”

He looks at me and says nothing.

I keep talking. “We can always be someone different from who we used to be. There's this quote my ex-boyfriend told me, I forget where it's from. ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.'”

The quote—I later look it up—is from
The Go-Between
by L. P. Hartley. It is somewhat misplaced, given the fact that the protagonist wishes he could return to the past. But perhaps the longing for innocence is all the same.

Cameron thinks about this. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says.

As I say it out loud, I become more convinced. “I'm not just trying to make you feel better, I do really believe that,” I tell him. “I wouldn't work in the law if I didn't.”

“But you know what, Jen?”

“What?”

“I think your ex-boyfriend had it wrong. I don't think the past is a foreign country. I think the future is a foreign country. Because we don't know what's going to happen. It's totally new.”

His one-upmanship makes me smile. I don't bother explaining to him that the quote did not belong to my ex-boyfriend.

I think about this. “I guess that's true, too,” I finally say. “Maybe the future could be a new country that you are moving to. And all of this can just be what you leave behind.”

He is satisfied by this answer. He nods in agreement, and we return to discussing the sentencing guidelines.

My walk down memory lane is over. I have caught my breath. As I ready myself to run home, I turn around for a moment. For good mea
sure, I walk to the end of the block. And then, with MCC at my back, I begin running.

W
hen I reach the end of my run, daylight is disappearing. Wanting to savor every moment before darkness falls, I stand along the river's edge. I observe the surrounding wreckage with renewed optimism. The damage is extensive, the park grounds will have to be completely cleared. But once the fallen trees and orphaned branches have been removed, once the broken benches and trash cans are replaced, there will be an opportunity to build something new. Maybe even something better.

I walk back to my apartment and find the same security guard sitting in the lobby, still reading her magazine. She glances up at me for a split second and returns to its contents.

“You made it,” she says with disinterest.

“I did,” I say.

I wait for a moment to see if she might look up. She doesn't. I retrieve the flashlight from my mailbox. Then I begin the long climb home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

F
or all of their talent and hard work in helping to bring this book together, I give great thanks to Kathy Anderson, Brian Belfiglio, Ilsa Brink, Caitlin Dohrenwend, Diana Jiminez, Mark Melnick, Emily Reimer, Mike Ricca, Lisa Rivlin, Katie Rizzo, Isabelle Selby, Elizabeth Serrano, Gwyneth Stansfield, Kate Watson, and Shannon Welch. I am particularly grateful to Katrina Diaz at Scribner for such careful and considered editorial assistance, to Terra Chalberg for gracious support and guidance, and to my amazing agent, Rachel Sussman, for absolutely everything.

I am profoundly thankful to Shaina Oliphant for unwavering loyalty and support, both in the creation of this project and in the unfortunate events underlying it. Her good humor and spirit have gotten me through many a difficult day, and her love has taught me what friendship truly means. Special thanks, too, to Sebastian Moultrie for all-around goodness and sweetness to his aunt Jen.

I will forever be grateful to my parents, who somehow managed to provide their love and support even when the things I've done have been mostly incomprehensible to them, including, I should add, writing it all down here. (“If anyone asks,” my mother recently told me, “I am just going to tell them that I didn't even know you wrote a book.”) I can't help but love them terribly, and I have come to see that it was only by abandoning the lessons they spent a lifetime teaching me that I was able to stray so far, and it has only been by adhering to the values that they instilled in me that I have been able to bring myself back.

In this book and in life, I am always thankful for the works of Michel
Foucault, a self-described “delinquent” whose books have greatly enriched my thinking on matters of crime and punishment. Most of the philosophical meanderings contained in this book can be traced to one extent or another to his writings, in particular
Discipline and ­Punish
(1977), “Governmentality” (in
The Foucault Effect
, 1991), and
Wrong-­Doing, Truth-Telling
(2014).

Finally, my deepest gratitude goes to my editor, Colin Harrison. Working with him on this project has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life, and I feel blessed every day to have had this opportunity. By never settling for the surface, by always pushing me toward the truth with a capital “T,” Colin has made this a better book and me a better writer and, quite possibly, a better person. It isn't a moment too soon.