There are many things about my life that I’m deeply ashamed of–chief among them, that I left my only child behind when she was just an eight-day-old baby. Today, she’s 23 years old, and I’m still locked up in the federal prison system. Had I been sentenced under today’s laws, I would have received no more than a 13-year sentence (or 11 years with earned good time). I committed my crimes in May of 2002, however–roughly six months after 9/11, when President Bush’s war on terror was just getting underway. Because the country was going through a recession as a result of that attack, that was definitely not a good time for any would-be criminal to go on a robbery spree. Another major sin that I committed was not cooperating with the federal government against my codefendants. The words of then president Bush, “If you’re not for us, you’re against us!” were obviously taken to heart by my federal prosecutors, as reflected by the fact that my codefendant, Tarik Roberts, who did cooperate with the government against me, received only a six-year sentence, while I received a 33 year sentence for daring to exercise my Sixth Amendment right to a jury trial. The fact that my codefendant and I had the same charges meant nothing to the government or my judge. And neither did the fact that I was clearly suffering from severe mental health issues at the time of my arrest, which made it difficult for me to function normally in society. Let me slow things down a bit and tell my story with greater detail. Because, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of my 23 years of imprisonment in the federal system, it’s that my story is the story of a majority of the inmates that I’ve met over the years.
At the age of 19, I was already a homeless crack cocaine addict in Tampa Bay, Florida. To survive, I ate out of garbage cans, washed myself up in a McDonald’s bathroom, and, among other things, slept in dilapidated
abandoned apartments and houses. In 1997, a crew of heroin and crack addicts made a certain area of Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. in Tampa Bay, their main hangout–that is, in the back of a store that was across from the
above-mentioned McDonald’s restaurant, which itself was only a stone’s throw away from the Robles Park projects where we bought most of our drugs. By far, I was the youngest of the crew. Everyone else was around Will’s age (47)–my main “partner-in-crime” during my homeless experience. I’ve written a manuscript about this experience of mine, which I hope to one day publish, entitled: Children Of The Righteous Side Of Hell(*); so I won’t get into the details of my homeless experience in this article. But, needless to say, if I was already a homeless crack-cocaine addict by the age of 19, my childhood and teenage years in New York City leading up to that unfortunate experience of mine, were anything but normal.
My father, John (may he rest in peace), had a big heart for the poor. As poor as we ourselves were, he’d often hand me a few dollars while directing my attention to some homeless man or woman in/around the Staten Island ferry terminal or in the city, while saying: “Here, give this to him [or her].” But my deeply missed father never made it passed the 8th grade. I remember him attending a night school in a building near the Staten Island ferry terminal in an attempt to obtain his G.E.D.; but the poor man never succeeded in that endeavor. To make matters worse, not only was my Dad unable to impart to any of his children a strong awareness of the importance of an education (because of his own lack of education), but, due mainly to poverty, he even allowed and even encouraged my brothers and me to steal and even burglarize. Nothing was off limits–not even the offering box that we stole from a Catholic school/church one late night during the summer of ’89. We carried it into our apartment; my Dad broke it open with a hammer before separating the cash from the checks; then we placed
everything but the cash in a black trash bag and tossed the evidence into a nearby dumpster. The next day, Dad took my brothers and me to Action Park!
To my mind–the mind of a poor kid in a neighborhood devoid of positive role models– having a Dad who allowed me to steal and burglarize was the coolest thing in the world. But as I moved into my teenage years, at which
time the penalty for engaging in petty street crime was no longer a slap in the wrist, I soon found myself under the immense pressure of NYC’s criminal legal system. A pressure that I now had to deal with on my own, since my father, who once allowed and even encouraged my brothers and I to steal, now told us: “You guys can do what you want; but if you get caught, don’t call me–you’re on your own!”
Seeing how wild we were becoming as the years rolled on, my father started to make some changes in his own life by, among other things, attending a
church service at the home of a Spanish man who lived in Mariners Harbor with his wife and family. He even handed down a rule around this time that banned my brothers and me from bringing stolen items into the apartment. And to make sure we were complying with his rule, oftentimes he’d even pat search my brothers and I whenever we entered the apartment. He’d half-jokingly say: “Alright, now spread ’em,” before patting us down the way a prison guard often pat searches an inmate.
Not having anyone in my life to teach me how to make it in life, I was absolutely clueless when it came to simple things like even filling out a job application. I once wore night club-like dress clothes (stolen, of course) to an office in a mall, where I filled out a job application to work as a toilet bowl-cleaning janitor! And I hardly even knew how to fill out the application. “Dependents? What the hell are dependents!” I remember thinking to myself as I filled or tried to fill out the application.
On another occasion, as I was passing by a new restaurant that was getting ready to open, something possessed me to get on the back of a long line of young individuals, male and female, who were waiting to be interviewed for
a job by the owner/owner’s agent. As soon as I got on the line, I thought to myself: “Now, why the hell did I just get on this line! But I felt stuck. And the closer I got to the table where the interviews took place in full view of dozens, if not hundreds of others, the greater my anxiety grew. I was happy to get the hell out of there when, not even a minute into my interview, when the interviewer realized that I had very little work experience, he said: “Well, we may have a position for a dishwasher. I’ll give you a call if I need you.”
I was a master at abnormal living. Living normally, however, was a totally different story. Having been raised as a petty thief/criminal, my mind had been trained for years to view normal, hard-working people as the “enemy”,
whose store items it was my goal to swipe without being seen. And this anti-social way of thinking, which was difficult for me to shake as I got older, was the chief factor, I believe, that ultimately led to my imprisonment.
When in the month of May 2002, a younger brother of mine and his friend (my codefendant) managed to pull off a scheme at a gun shop in Ephrata, PA, and walk out of there with a brand-new .44 Desert Eagle, I went from being a petty thief to an armed robber. Of course, nothing about my past excuses my crimes or makes me less worthy of a just punishment for my wrongs. But, because the average sentence in the Feds for murder is 22 years, a sentence of 33 years for several armed robberies in which no one was physically harmed (psychologically, yes, but not physically), was anything but a just punishment. And because of the mandatory minimum “stacking” scheme of the law I was convicted of of breaking–that is, 18 U.S.C. section 924(c)–, my judge was bound to impose on me, at the least, a 30-year sentence. (The only way I could have gotten under this
mandatory minimum sentence is by cooperating with the government, which I didn’t do. The fact that I suffered from severe mental health issues at the time of my crimes, was not enough.)
During the last 23 years of my imprisonment in the federal prison system aka “Prison Industrial Complex”, I can’t count the number of inmates who I’ve met who come from backgrounds similar to my own. Many actually
come from a far worse background. I’m fortunate in that, in prison, I no longer get high. The same can’t be said for many other inmates, however. The Federal Bureau of Prisons was always a sick environment, but in recent years, this sickness has intensified to extremes. The drug known as K-2 now has many inmates firmly in its grasp. And if members of free society could only see what I’m forced to witness every single day, they’d be absolutely horrified. The drug doesn’t discriminate. Black, White, Latino–all are its victims. Only a few hours ago, for example, an older Black inmate on my unit, B-2, here at USP Big Sandy in Kentucky, had an “episode” (aka overdose) after using K-2. He collapsed to the floor and started erratically kicking out his legs as if he was having a seizure. We inmates, were immediately locked into our cells; medical personnel arrived; the inmate was
escorted to the prison infirmary; 10 minutes later, our cell doors were reopened; and the inmate returned to the unit once he came to his senses.
Mind you, after a week of being locked down, our unit was just opened today so that we inmates could enjoy three hours of recreation outside of our cells–you know, to shower, use the phone and email, and walk around the unit. The entire prison was locked down last week due to a vicious stabbing incident that took place in my unit. And, today, the doors having just opened, several violent incidents have already taken place. The above-mentioned inmate passing out from a K-2 overdose was the least serious of these incidents.