In the Sanctuary of Outcasts (15 page)

On a crisp fall day, bundled in a heavy jacket, I waited in line behind four other inmates for the pay phone. Linda and the kids had returned to New Orleans from their trip to Oxford and I was anxious to hear about it. Linda accepted the collect call and spoke longingly of the simple life a small town afforded. She had so many old friends in Oxford. And her family was there.

“I’m moving back,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m moving to Oxford.”

I understood her impulse. She would be near friends, in a safe town, out of the French Quarter, away from my mother. Her family could help with Neil and Maggie.

I worried that a twelve-hour round-trip would keep Linda and our kids from visiting me. A move to Oxford didn’t make sense—the kids’ school tuition in New Orleans had been paid; Linda was living rent-free. Another move would be disruptive for Neil and Maggie. Not to mention the obstacles I would face starting over in a town where I had left such a mess.

“I can’t move back there,” I told Linda.

She didn’t answer.

“Why Oxford?” I asked. “What about some other small town?”

There was a long silence. Then Linda said, in a firm voice, “I’m filing for divorce.”

For all that I had done wrong, one part of my life had been uncomplicated and good: my life with my children. On any given morning, I would rouse from sleep before Linda. On some days, so would Neil and Maggie. To see them peek around the doorway wearing their footie pajamas was a treasure. Their hair matted from sleep, breath still sweet. I would put them on my lap to ask what I could fix for breakfast—cereal or oatmeal or their favorite, strawberry Toaster Strudel.

In our evening routine, Linda and I took turns bathing Neil and Maggie. On my nights, I used too much bubble bath, splashed too much water on the floor, and sometimes forgot to wash behind their ears; but to hold them close after a bath, to smell the scent of shampoo and powder was an escape from the frantic world I had built for myself.

On weekend mornings, when I didn’t rush to the office, I got down on all fours and pretended to be a horse. When my knees or back wouldn’t take it anymore, we would make a pallet in front of the television—a stack of quilts and blankets so thick it felt like a pillow—and watch their favorite Saturday morning shows. During commercials, I would balance them atop my feet so they could fly like Superman, or place them horizontally across my chest and use them like weights on a bench press, or I might stand and grab their hands while they walked up my legs and torso, then flip them backward to complete a “skin the cat.” Maggie called it “cat scan.”

In nice weather, we would go to Second Street Park to swing and slide and spin on the merry-go-round. For a special treat, we would
drive to Fun Time USA, an old-time amusement park with rides renovated from the 1960s.

At bedtime, I would read them
Corduroy
, the tale of a magical shopping trip,
The Cat in the Hat
,
Goodnight Moon,
or
Where the Wild Things Are
. When sleep escaped them, I would read the books over and over. Other times, lying in a tiny twin bed with my child, exhausted from my day at work, I would fall asleep midsentence, still holding the book above my face. Maggie or Neil would yell, “Daddy!” to wake me. And I would read on.

On nights when reading did not put them to sleep, I sat in the rocking chair that belonged to Linda’s family. I would hold them on my shoulder, rub their backs, and hum “Amazing Grace” or “Rocka-Bye, Baby” until sleep consumed us both. When Maggie was an infant, nursing from Linda’s breast and sleeping in our bed, I would put her on my stomach and rest my hands at her side. Her tiny head on my chest, our breathing synchronized, the warmth from my body like a heated blanket, Maggie would fall into a deep sleep.

Linda’s words—
I am filing for divorce
—stopped me cold. For the first time, I faced an unthinkable loss. My children. I looked for an abandoned hallway. A corner in the library. An empty television room. But inmates were everywhere. I couldn’t catch my breath. Air didn’t go deep enough. My hands trembled. I felt nauseated. I needed to cry. But I couldn’t let anyone see me. Not a guard or an inmate or a leprosy patient.

I sat on a bench in the corner of the inmate courtyard. Slumped over, I could feel my heart pound. That’s where Link saw me.

“Look at Clark Kent all sad and shit!” Link yelled, hoping to get the attention of some of his friends. “You step in some kryptonite?!”

I was dizzy. I wanted him to go away. “My wife is leaving me,” I said, hoping he would take the hint.

“Goddamn!” Link said, laughing, like he thought this was funny. “You been lying like a motherfucker, you lost two million dollars, and your ass is in jail—what the fuck you think she gonna do!?”

That night, I fought away the tears. I didn’t want Doc to see me break down. I lay awake, the light from the hallway shining directly on my face. I didn’t cover my eyes with my forearm, like most nights. The fluorescent light kept me up until almost 2:00
A.M
. Then the nightmare came.

I walked across a swinging rope bridge. Maggie walked in front of me; Neil behind. In the dream, I warned them both to hold tight to the guide rope. Suddenly, a wooden slat broke under Maggie. She fell through and grabbed onto a piece of dangling thread. I screamed and dropped onto my stomach. I crawled toward her when I heard the boards break underneath Little Neil. I turned to see his arms wrapped around a creaking wooden slat. Little Neil and Maggie screamed for me to help. I stretched out my arm toward Maggie, but I couldn’t reach her. She looked me directly in the eye. “Help me, Daddy,” she cried. I moved my body as far off the planks as I could without falling. As I reached out for her hand, everything went dark. I was completely blind. I waved my arm wildly, trying to find Maggie’s hands. I yelled for Neil to hold on. Then, in the dark, I heard the sounds of their screams falling far, far away.

I sat up in bed and yelled.

“Jesus Christ!” Doc said, sitting up. “What the fuck is going on?”

I put my hands over my mouth.

“Go back to sleep,” Doc said.

I was afraid to go back to sleep. Finally, 4:00
A.M
. came, and I went to work in the cafeteria. Chase and Lonnie didn’t report to work until breakfast time. Link, Jefferson, and other early-shift inmates settled into a deep sleep inside the cooler. I went to the empty patient dining room. Ella wouldn’t arrive until 5:00
A.M
.

At first the tears came slowly. Soon all that I had held inside gave way. I cried until I choked, until watery, clear mucus ran down to my chin. I cried until the tears wouldn’t come anymore, until I gasped for air and spasmed with each dry heave. I cried until I was exhausted and listless.

I used the leprosy cafeteria restroom, off-limits to inmates, to wash my face. My cheeks were covered with red splotches, like my skin was allergic to my own tears. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot. In the mirror, I stared at a face I didn’t recognize. The face of a man who had lost everything.

When I returned to the cafeteria, Ella was pouring a cup of coffee. I didn’t want her to see me like this, so I hurried over to the menu board, my back to her.

As I wrote the day’s menu, I heard the clanks of the chains turning on her wheelchair. “Hey, boy,” she said. I waved over my shoulder and went back to the board.

“You all right?”

I turned around, and Ella saw my face.

“Sit yourself down,” Ella said, touching the table.

I slid down into a chair next to her and told her about Linda leaving me. I told her I would never again live in the same house with my children. I stretched my arms on the top of the table and put my head down. Ella turned her wheelchair to the side and reached for my hand. Her palm felt cool and smooth. Her skin smelled like flowers. For nearly seventy years, Ella had suffered, and seen, heartbreak beyond anything I could imagine. She had been torn from her family and imprisoned as a child, but she offered me comfort without judgment or comparison. Ella sat with me, her hand on mine, in silent vigil.

I went to my room, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. I told the guards I was sick. I avoided everyone. I slept through meals and woke periodically in the night, disoriented, forgetting for a moment why I couldn’t breathe. I lost track of time. When I couldn’t sleep anymore, I sat up in bed. My frantic attempts to think of a solution to keep my children quickly gave way to crushing anxiety. For the first time, I faced losing the one thing I could not bear to lose. And no amount of charm or logic or persuasion or money would buy me out of it.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and remembered a day in May 1992, three weeks after the banks had frozen my accounts. We were living in a three-story, four-thousand-square-foot house with an empty refrigerator. And I was out of cash.

My family, and Linda’s, had already spent thousands investing in my business and retaining lawyers. I could not ask anyone for more. I saw the panic on Linda’s face.

The next day, when I went to Hancock Bank, I kept my head down, hoping no one would notice me. I checked the contents of our safe deposit box. An old Garcia & Vega cigar box held the silver coins my grandfather had given me on each of my birthdays, as well as about a dozen U.S. savings bonds held together by a rubber band. Two bonds had been gifts to me during my childhood; the others belonged to Neil and Maggie. On the envelopes were handwritten notes:
From Grandpa Burrell on Your Birth
;
From Granddaddy Ron
;
Happy Birthday, Love, Pappy
.

The denominations ranged from $25 to $50, and although the bonds were made out to my children, I was also listed. As guardian. The person who watches over and cares for their assets, who protects them from mismanagement.

I put the bonds in my back pocket and returned the box to its place in the vault. At the teller window, I endorsed the back of each one. The woman behind the window recognized me. She kept her eyes down. I slid the bonds toward her. “I’ll be right back,” she said, not looking me in the eyes. She gathered them together and disappeared.

I wanted to explain to Neil and Maggie what I was doing, but I didn’t know how to ask for their permission without shaking their sense of security. How could I tell them we were out of money? Out of food? How would I ever tell them I might go to prison?

The teller counted out $240 and change. I was ashamed to use their money. And I had expected more.

“Cashed before maturity,” she said. Her eyes said,
You should be ashamed of yourself
. She had no idea.

With my children’s money, I went to Delchamps. The smell of sour milk in the dairy section made me nauseated. I looked for the least expensive items. The ones that would stretch the farthest. Pasta, peanut butter, crackers. For the first time in a decade I paid attention to price and was careful not to overspend. I bought special treats for Neil and Maggie. Fruit Roll-Ups, Little Debbie Zebra Cakes, ice cream sandwiches.

At home, I put the groceries on the counter. Linda saw the junk food I’d bought for the kids and looked at me like I was an idiot. I shook my head and turned away.

Neil and Maggie were on the living room floor in their pajamas. I sat down in the leather armchair and held out two Fruit Roll-Ups. They jumped onto my lap and put their arms around my neck. Their hair was still wet from their baths, and I could smell the baby shampoo. They nestled into my arms. They were happy. Their father had brought them candy. They felt safe and loved and secure. Secure because they knew I would never do anything to hurt them.

The Catholic church at Carville.

On a Wednesday afternoon, after days of crippling despair, I climbed out of my bed. I stood under the shower until my skin turned a deep red, hoping the hot water would wash away the pain. Back in my prison room, towel wrapped around my waist, I leaned on the sink and looked into the mirror. I couldn’t stand the sight of my own reflection. I needed help, but I didn’t know where to turn.

I dressed and went to the Wednesday night Catholic church service. The stained-glass windows of the church, so brilliant in the sunlight, were dark. The altar was gently illuminated by candlelight. The service was small. A couple dozen inmates sat in the middle wing, along with Sister Margie. Five or six leprosy patients, the most devout Catholics, were scattered around their wing. Rosary beads in hand, the patients chanted Hail Mary and Ave Maria intermittently. Deep in prayer, concentrating on the great Christian mysteries, they stopped to kiss the crucifix dangling from the bottom of the string of beads, only to begin the ritual again. For nearly one hundred years, the leprosy patients at Carville had turned to the Catholic church for comfort. Counting rosary beads with numb fingers, listening to passages about the unclean, and praying that they too would be healed.

I sat between two Mexican inmates who didn’t speak English, but I watched the leprosy patients to my left. In medieval times leprosy patients had been banished from traditional churches. Sanctuaries were built with a “leper’s squint,” a narrow opening carved into the side of the church building where the afflicted could get a glimpse of heaven without endangering the congregation.

Father Reynolds stood before us. He began in his quiet, unassuming voice: “We are told to believe in ourselves,” he said. “But I’m not sure that’s what we are meant to do.”

Father Reynolds had chosen that evening to talk about pride—the foundation from which all other sins arose. Pride, he said, was as an excessive belief in our own abilities. Lost in our own pride, he explained, we are unable to recognize grace.

I felt as if he were speaking directly to me.

Early in my career, when I launched my small paper in Oxford, I simply wanted to tell a good story, serve the town’s need for a legitimate journalistic voice, and support my family. But along the way, good motives took a second chair to ambition and the accolades that came with success. I convinced myself that the good I was doing justified bending the rules. And I never seemed to suffer any serious consequences. My pride spread like a cancer.

I wrote editorials proclaiming to be a watchdog for the townspeople of Oxford. I reported on crime, corruption, and conflicts of interest. Then on some days, I would write myself a bad check and deposit it in my corporate account to create a temporary balance.

When my scheme was exposed, I convinced honest men to invest more money. In short order I’d run through it. Even the threat of an FBI investigation and the shame of bankruptcy did not curtail my ambition. Instead, I abandoned my dream of journalism for a business designed to make vast sums of money.

When I launched
Coast Magazine,
I was careful to feature only the beautiful people, places, and things in my hometown. We published positive stories about those in power. Huge amounts of money flowed through the business. But I was not satisfied. When I embarked on the five-year plan to build a publishing empire, expenses soared, and the magazine income could not support my dreams. To achieve my goals, I sold my invoices to third parties, a technique called
factoring
that enhanced cash flow. And I convinced small investors to place their trust in me.

And when that didn’t cover expenses, I fell back on my old technique of kiting checks. It was my own secret energy pill. It set me
apart. I succeeded where others failed. CEOs slapped me on the back. Restaurateurs refused to let me pay for meals. Junior Leaguers scrambled to make it onto the pages of my magazines. My system of kiting and refinancing and factoring and more refinancing created access to cash and an image of great business acumen. It worked—and made me look successful.

To transfer hundreds of thousands of dollars between two banks across the street from each other depended on perception. The perception that my company was flush with cash, that the large checks written to my own accounts were simply transfers, that I had nothing to hide.

I didn’t save money. I spent it to impress. For me, money and image had become inseparable. Kiting checks afforded me the freedom to spend and buy and pursue wild dreams, and bring everyone else along for the ride. And I never had to wait.

I consciously acted in a manner to appear trustworthy. I looked and dressed the part. I went to church. I volunteered my time with charities. I proclaimed to be the journalist who would watch over criminals and politicians and casino owners. People believed I was honorable.

By the time I was thirty-one, ambition had become the driving force in my life. Even worse, I fell prey to my own mirage. Privately, I envisioned the figure I would become—owner of a huge network of city magazines, editor of a daily paper, holder of innumerable civic awards, owner of a fabulous yacht, and, of course, philanthropist. With these images fixed in my mind, I was able to overlook what I did to get there.

But the prospect of losing my children had stripped away every pretense. It did what bankruptcy, public humiliation, and imprisonment had not done. I could no longer stomach my own lies and delusions. For the first time, I felt the full weight of my crimes.

I had cost bankers who trusted me more than a million dollars. I left thirty loyal employees without any income. I put small-business owners in a deep hole. I lost most of my mother’s retirement fund, money she had invested in my business. I had disappointed my
friends and family. I had put my uncle Knox, Hancock Bank’s lawyer, in a terrible spot. And I had allowed a woman, a single mother who couldn’t afford to lose her investment, to put her money into my company. A year later, she and her two children were evicted from their home. I betrayed Linda and left her in debt, dependent on others, drowning in the shame of all my secrets. And I left Neil and Maggie, the most important people in my life, without a father in their home.

Even incarcerated, when I should have been most humble and reflective, I held on tight to my vanity. I wanted my shirts pressed; I hoarded scent strips to smell good; and I imagined myself winning a press club award before I’d done a moment’s work. When I should have been trying to change, I grasped on to the image I’d held so dear. And though I had publicly acknowledged some of the bad things I had done, I had never taken an objective look at the person I had become.

Finally, in a sanctuary for outcasts, I understood the truth. Surrounded by men and women who could not hide their disfigurement, I could see my own.