Lockdown on Rikers (16 page)

“Maybe not.”

A bright man, Kirby Evans had worked as a bookkeeper before he made the mistake of dabbling with cocaine. His descent into the abyss of addiction left him alienated from family and friends, and now he was sick and alone. Still, he refused to view things tragically. Instead, he focused on his newly found drug-free existence. When his health deteriorated to the point that he was eligible for a transfer to the island-wide men's infirmary, Kirby declined, unwilling to give up his relationship with me and with the physician's assistant who was treating him. Meaningful relationships in jail are rare, and I understood this. His PA and I were dedicated workers, as were most of the hospital staff. But sadly, some in white uniforms were not. One night, Kirby became violently ill and his housing officers summoned a captain. The captain brought him up the stairs to the clinic, and, as Kirby told me the next day, the trek was horrific. “I could barely stand up—I don't know how I was able to walk.”

At the clinic, an overnight nurse sized up Kirby, who was slumped over on a wooden bench, and requested a particular form from the captain—something he didn't have. She said without that piece of paper, Kirby could not be treated. As the outraged captain told it the next day, he argued that Kirby was obviously very sick
and that due to the late hour, he was unable to access the form. He assured her he would bring it the next day. Incredulously, she refused to budge, saying they should bring Kirby back the next day—with the form. In the captain's log entry he wrote that he had no choice but to take Kirby back to the dorm, and that he and a couple of COs essentially carried him down the stairs.

The following morning, Kirby was rushed up to the clinic on a gurney, his condition so grave that an ambulance was already on its way. His PA and I sat with him during the wait. Though sweating profusely, he told us everything that had happened, including a surprising twist when he'd returned to the dorm. In a crude but caring way, his fellow inmates had taken over. Instinctively, they carried him into the showers and held his feverish body under the cool water. When chills set in, they carried him back out to his cot where they wrapped him in sheets until the fever shot back up. Again, they held him under the shower. According to the housing officers, this went on all night. Barely an inmate slept as this house of crooks, drug addicts, and thieves, in a moving display of humanity, nursed Kirby in a way that he'd been so cruelly denied.

When the ambulance arrived, I said good-bye to him, certain I'd never see him again. I tried to contact his family to let them know where he was, but I was only able to reach an elderly aunt and uncle, who were saddened to hear of his plight but were angered by his drug use and too saddled with their own health problems to visit him. Through phone calls with his lawyer, who did visit Kirby at the hospital, I learned that despite his critical condition, he remained upbeat and cheerful, joking with her and the officers who guarded him. I wasn't surprised. Kirby had always found a way to make me smile. A week later he slipped into a coma, and when doctors pronounced that death was imminent, the handcuffs shackling him to his bed were removed. Half an hour later he was dead.

Kirby's death hit me harder than I expected, and it was in a teary sit-down with Pat that she suggested I remember Kirby by starting a support group for HIV-positive inmates. Although the afflicted were treated medically, little was offered by way of
emotional support. Many learned of their diagnosis in jail; after that a referral to Mental Health was mandatory. Some agreed to follow-up supportive therapy, but most declined, usually out of fear of being identified as having “the monster,” the jailhouse term for AIDS. For this reason, I was skeptical about stricken inmates coming together as a group. Although the group forum would offer relief from isolation, there was always the risk that someone would violate confidentiality and disclose names to the larger jail population. It was a risk most were unwilling to take. But to my surprise, when the group was offered, I was given a list of interested inmates. For confidentiality reasons, I could not call it the HIV Support Group; instead, I came up with the title Healthy Lifestyles. Although no one but the members would know the group's real purpose, I thought it prudent to let the gruff Miss Edwards in on it. Although I expected little more than a perfunctory nod, I was surprised by her reaction. “Healthy Lifestyles . . . I like it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, that's good. It could be a drug recovery group, for all anybody would know.”

And so, with the unexpected support of our Mental Health officer, the group got under way with seven inmates showing up for the first session.

20

As my one-year anniversary approached, I'd met
with hundreds of detainees who'd been charged with crimes that ranged from trespassing to murder and never once had cause to push the emergency button behind my desk. The people on my caseload became a blur of faces that came and went quickly. A few were bailed out, and others died of AIDS. But the vast majority departed Rikers for an upstate prison. Sadly, Antwan Williams, my first case, simply disappeared one day from GMDC's census. Even though I was theoretically prepared for people vanishing from my caseload for one reason or another, the abruptness of it was still jarring. I just hoped that wherever Antwan was, he would continue to receive emotional support and that his case was resolving fairly.

Despite days that were long and draining, my decision to return to Rikers Island had been a good one. A big factor in my contentment was our mental health team. Pat, Charley, Janet, Dr. Delgado, and the rest of the crew were a special group. When we were meeting with the inmates, we were serious and professional, but behind closed doors we laughed, joked, and forged friendships that enabled us to go out into the jail to listen to, and care about, the woes of society's most disdained. Every Tuesday morning, we gathered in the conference room for breakfast. Huddled around that rickety table, breaking bread with jail-sanctioned plastic knives, I often felt
like I was in some remote outpost—certainly not within the midst of New York City.

In the beginning, it felt a little odd to walk past Janet's desk to meet with Delgado, my new clinical supervisor. Janet and I were equals now, although she was still quite senior to me—something she liked to rib me about: “Remember, Mary Mac, I'm way ahead of you!”

“Yes,” I said, “but I'm catching up fast!”

“That you are,” she laughed.

Although Delgado was a consummate professional, challenging me to become an ever better therapist, he was also a bit of a mother hen, always fretting about germs. He was forever cautioning us to avoid the medical waiting room, where sick inmates coughed and shivered. His fears weren't entirely unfounded. Although the TB crisis had died down, AIDS, hepatitis, and various other maladies were still a concern. During that first year back, I found myself chronically fatigued, relying on endless cups of coffee to make it through the day. A visit to the doctor ruled out anything serious, but when I described my workplace and all of its ills, the doctor explained that my immune system was being battered. Janet told me it was two years before her immune system adjusted. I just hoped it wouldn't take me that long to feel better.

The only sad note was that by the end of that first year, Alex and I had gone our separate ways. He'd started a demanding new job, I was absorbed in mine, and we simply drifted apart. But I still had a circle of good friends, the camaraderie of my work family, and the support of my real family, although at family gatherings I found myself a little quieter at the dinner table, prompting my mother to ask, “Don't you enjoy your work anymore, honey?”

I told her that I did, and that in some respects I considered my mission with these inmates to be sacred work. But things were a little different now. I was becoming aware of a larger picture. Once, the world had faded away when I sat down with someone and sunk into my session. But now I had one ear out for a shriek or a stray cry. If I heard it, I flinched. Was someone being beaten?
What should I do?
Often, nothing followed but innocent laughter, and I exhaled.

But I wasn't only troubled by brutality. I was becoming more attuned to the criminal justice system's treatment of the poor. I had not forgotten my first-day encounter with Hector Rodriquez, who desperately wanted to return to a jail closer to home. He turned out to be just the first in a parade of detainees who flocked to the clinic, hoping we could influence a transfer back to a borough jail. Nothing had come of Rodriquez's efforts to return to the Brooklyn house, and I had since learned that no one is returned to a borough jail once they've been bused to Rikers to await trial. The traffic is one-way only. But sadly, Hector Rodriquez's worst fear was realized when his sickly mother died. The distraught man was brought to the clinic, where one of my colleagues tried to console him. Although I was in a session with someone else, I could still overhear him: “I didn't get to see her again—I didn't even get to see her. I'm here on some bullshit charge, and we just didn't have the bail money.
Oh, God—my mother is dead!
”

As I listened to his sobs, I felt terrible for him. If only Hector Rodriquez had had the few hundred dollars he needed for bail, he could have paid it and remained at home while his case was being resolved. He could have visited his mother in the hospital, held her hand, said good-bye. And yet he'd been denied these final moments because he was poor.

But banishment to Rikers Island during the pretrial period was just the opening volley for the poor. Incarceration means fighting legal charges from behind bars—a far different scenario than fighting from home. Whereas those who can afford bail simply take themselves to court for their hearings, the impoverished detainee is “produced” by the Department of Correction. The inmates described a miserable court day drill, of being roused at four in the morning, fed breakfast, and held in a bullpen until eight o'clock, then handcuffed to another inmate, loaded onto a bus, and shuttled to court to wait in more bullpens before appearing before a judge. A few narrow wooden benches line the bullpen walls, rarely enough
to seat everyone. The only other furnishings are a semiprivate urinal and a water fountain. The pens are dangerous, as fights and slashings are common among tense groups confined in small spaces. After being brought before a judge, which in the early stages of the case takes about five minutes—whereupon the case is adjourned for another month—they are brought back to the bullpen, cuffed, and returned to Rikers. If they're lucky, they'll catch the midday bus back, but most don't return till much later on, with many arriving back at the jails as late as ten and eleven at night. Court days were always characterized as grueling and dreaded.

But the bail fallout didn't end there. It continued in the unlikely area of clothing, something I learned about when I met Keith Bargeman. Referred for teariness and agitation, Bargeman told me he'd rejected a plea bargain offer and had already been on Rikers for two years, doggedly holding out for trial. As frequently happens during a lengthy pretrial incarceration, he'd been shuffled around the island from jail to jail. With each move, he packed up his “court suit.” Whether rightly or wrongly, appearances matter—especially in a courtroom, the epicenter of judgment. For those out on bail, clothing is a mere footnote to larger legal concerns. But if a detainee is lucky enough to even own a suit, he must fiercely protect it. Each inmate has a locker by his cot, but since they don't actually lock, securing the suit requires constant vigilance. Going out to rec, to the clinic, or the law library can be risky. Many refuse necessary medication if a side effect is drowsiness, as this makes them vulnerable to theft.

But earlier in the week, after a hearing where he hadn't needed his suit, he'd returned to Rikers to find it gone. When I sat down with him, the teary Bargeman twisted in his seat. “I need that suit for my trial, miss—I need it! Please help me with this! I've already waited two years!
Please! Please!
”

I felt awful for him, but his problem fell into the huge category of detainee heartaches that we couldn't fix, and I gently told him so. But I did walk him out to Miss Edwards, hoping she might lend a hand, which she did. She picked up the phone and called various
captains and housing units. But each time she hung up, she shook her head. “No—nothing.”

It was more than he could bear. Out in the corridor, he became loud and agitated, and when officers told him to check himself, he didn't—or couldn't. A captain pulled out an infraction pad, and not only was his precious suit a lost cause, but because of the outburst, Keith Bargeman would now spend ten days in solitary.

I watched the whole hallway ruckus from Miss Edwards's desk, and as he was escorted down the hall, I felt sick. Had he been able to make bail, he never would have had to contend with any of this. His suit would have hung in a closet, ready for court.

With or without the suit, Keith Bargeman was one of the brave few who would actually make it to trial. I hadn't forgotten my first day at Rose Singer when Janet had surprised me by saying that most detainees never go to trial. I didn't understand it then, but I was starting to get the picture now. Though I'd sat with many an inmate who protested his innocence, vowing to see his day in court, I was learning that the odds of holding out till trial are poor. Before I came to Rikers, I, like most Americans, believed in the ideals of our criminal justice system and was shocked to discover that many of these ideals play out poorly in real life. Despite the Sixth Amendment's heralded guarantee of a speedy trial, trial is often years away. This would be a long wait for anyone, but for the impoverished detainee, the pretrial years must be spent behind bars. The only alternative would be the expedient plea bargain, frequently offered by the district attorney: If the accused foregoes trial and accepts some measure of guilt, he will typically receive a lighter sentence than what would have been handed down had he gone to trial and lost. But what it also means is that detainees will agree to it, not necessarily because they're guilty, but because the pathway to trial is just too daunting.

When I met an inmate named Chris Barnett, I was drawn into this issue more deeply. Chris hobbled into the clinic on crutches, and his referral read, “Just came from hospital—evaluate for depression.” A slight young man, the twenty-three-year-old carefully
eased himself into the seat across from me and tearfully told me that two weeks earlier, he'd been out for a carefree motorcycle ride when a teenager darted out from behind a bus. “It was like he fell out of the sky and was on top of my bike. Before I knew what happened, it was over.”

Chris sustained a broken hip, broken collarbone, and internal injuries, but the teenager was dead. Chris denied he'd been drinking, and a Breathalyzer confirmed it. He also said he hadn't been speeding, which was borne out by eyewitnesses as well as a police test on the tire marks. Though Chris had been neither drinking nor speeding, he still was arrested for vehicular homicide, which perplexed me, as this seemed like a clear-cut accident. But I assumed there had to be more to this. After all, I only heard the inmates' version of things.

In the sessions that followed, I learned that Chris, like most at Rikers, had been raised in a poor neighborhood, had dropped out of high school, and was involved in minor skirmishes with the law. But after a couple of misdemeanor charges, he went back to school, earned a GED, and was thrilled to have landed an entry-level position on Wall Street. The pay was low, but the future was promising, and Chris was smart enough to see the possibilities.

“They're still holding my job for me,” he said, proudly.

Chris's father was out of the picture, and his mother was not well. His family lacked the resources to pay his bail, but he did have a steady girlfriend who promised to see him through the ordeal.

Considering his life circumstances, Chris had done remarkably well. And on a personal level I liked him and felt for him and the predicament he was in. An accident like this could have happened to anyone. And based on his continued impressive behavior, I was convinced that this was, indeed, an accident. But what especially intrigued me about Chris was that he didn't have a prior felony. A lifelong black mark, the felony forever casts suspicion and serves as a permanent barrier to job opportunities, regardless of positive changes made as an individual matures. Virtually all the inmates had at least one felony, mostly for nonviolent offenses. Many had
ruefully told me it had been their dream to become a fireman, or even a policeman, only to realize—too late—that because of the felony, this could never be and that they were now permanently exiled to a fringe-type existence. This one difference set Chris Barnett apart from thousands of others.

The district attorney was offering Chris a plea bargain of two to four years. If he accepted it, he would serve two years in prison and remain on probation for the remaining two. But as part of the offer, he would also have to accept the felony. If he insisted on a trial and lost, his sentence could be in the range of eight to ten years. There was a lot at stake here. More than anything, Chris wanted to hold on to his job and the life he was creating. But if he accepted the felony, he could say good-bye to Wall Street, and frankly most other job opportunities, forever.

As Chris hashed it over with me, he became angry. “I'm sorry this kid is dead—but I didn't do anything wrong. He ran out from behind a bus. I wasn't drinking and I wasn't speeding. It was an accident! I'm not accepting this offer! Doesn't he have any responsibility for what happened? I got hurt too! I'll take my chances at trial.”

I was delighted by his decision. Although I knew that difficult days lay ahead for Chris, I vowed to provide the moral support he would need to see his day in court. “You're not alone in this,” I told him. “I'll help you in any way I can. If an issue comes up between our sessions, have your housing officer call me. I'm only a phone call away. Remember, you're not alone in here.”

We stood up and shook hands, and a determined Chris Barnett positioned himself on his crutches and was on his way.