The scam.

The man who sentenced me to ten years in prison knew almost nothing about me at all.  He had his own life.  I was one case in thousands.  His impact on my life was quite detrimental.  My impact on his was a few hundred bucks for his time.  In total I do not think I spent more than fifteen minutes in his presence.  He barely talked to me at all.  The prosecutor did not ever talk to me.  They had no clue who I was at all.

That fact makes it arbitrary.  Hopeless.  A number.  A statistic.  A paycheck.  That makes them bigots.  This part of the system comes from kings and queens farming their people for money.  See that word 'their' implies ownership.  It means they own you.  It’s a broken system.  The judge is just like a king sitting up high behind his big bench doling out wrecked lives like his life depends on it.  Completely uninformed.  Those people are just doing what their told, no different than those convicted do, they just get paid to do it.  If those people cared for me at all they would never have sent me to prison. They would never send anyone there.    

It's no different in there either.  No different at all.  There is a booklet they hand out when you go to prison that explains the rules.  It had a chart that showed how much time a guy had to do before being able to see the parole board.  I had to do thirty six months on a ten year sentence.  I had been in long enough I had to find a new guy to double check the months.  Within the prison system is the parole system.  They had their own department and offices in the basement of the admin building.  I think there were five or six of them.  Let that sink in.  Five or six people for something close to a thousand inmates.  It's human farming without the physical brand.  With humans you don’t have to burn the skin to leave a mark. 

A guy gets to see their parole officer two times in prison.  Once before going to see the parole board, and once after to find out the results.  Two times; that’s it.  The first time it's basically a job interview.  Then she calls the various housing guards that you've spent time with.  Builds a profile of sorts, and makes a recommendation to the board.  The person who was in charge of my future barely had a thirty minute conversation with me one time.  That is a little better than the prosecuting attorney that is for sure.

As you can imagine, the weeks before the parole board meeting one is on another level.  The time between the interview and the meeting is quite tense.  I saw a lot of cats crack under the pressure.  It was almost a given that when a guy had a parole board meeting coming up everyone gave him some space.  Actually the whole game changes at that point.  Regardless of the result everyone always acted different after that meeting.  I wasn't the only guy in prison who self-sabotaged.  A lot of guys would fight because they couldn't handle the tension.  When one's future is arbitrarily in the hands of others who do not actually care about you at all; it is stressful. 

The parole board forced the one I hated more than anything back into my life.  She was insisting that because she had been working in prisons for so long, and knew some of the parole officers, that it would help me get out sooner if she was at the meeting.   I couldn't argue with that.  She showed up in her prison uniform like she was fucking proud of it or something.  I just wanted out of the ghetto really bad.  My contempt for her at this point was practically out in the room at all times.  I was only allowed to have one person with me when I went in front of the board.

I was anxious all morning waiting for the phone to ring in Stan’s office.  They had their own room in the same building as the visiting room.  Because JoAnn was going to be there I had to be stripped searched before and after.  Got to get that humiliation in; don’t want to skip that part.  The board consisted of three people.  Within the parole system were parole board positions.  They paid more than in prison officer positions, but they had to travel to all of the prisons, all the time.

They asked me some questions.  Another job interview basically except all the stuff my in prison officer asked me was in front of them on paper already.  Almost just like the fucking movies.  These people probably didn't even like their own lives, so I knew they didn't care about me.  They were just doing their jobs to get a pay check.  Who dreams of being a prison parole officer when they are a kid?  Who has that passion in life? 

That was it.  Didn't last fifteen minutes.  Then it became the same waiting game I had been playing for three years just much more intense.  Most of the guys who had crimes similar to mine were getting three and four year out dates.  They were being made to do over five years.  I was prepared for that too, but I still had hope.  For the most part I played all my cards right.  The fighting violations really weren't a big deal in their eyes because it was expected.  When I had my interview with my in prison parole officer she asked me if I had done any drugs while in prison.  I just looked at her and said if you don't the white guys who stand up for themselves won't have your back.  They won't let you in their circle.  That's just how it is.  She nodded in understanding and said thanks for not lying.  There would have to be something seriously wrong with a person if they didn't want to smoke cannabis while stuck in prison. 

In the interview with her it was the same with the fighting.  She literally said it to my face that if you’re on lower hill and you don't have any fighting violations you’re somebody's bitch.  I just started laughing with her because I wasn't anyone's bitch.  My efforts in the weight pile were pretty obvious at this point.  I was like a tree.  Lifting weights was my church.  That's where I prayed the most. Even without any knowledge of prison life, or me, not many would assume I was someone’s bitch.  I do have the crazy eyes after all. 

The kicker was that she was engaged to my boss Stan.  I'm not saying she did anything wrong.  From my perspective the advantage was that she knew me at all.  She had some idea of who I actually was.  There was a social connection.  She knew my struggle in life.  She herself went on to help kids.  I wasn’t just another face with a number.  She saw past my façade’s a bit.  She would come to the office to chat with Stan when I was there sometimes.  I am sure that she and Stan talked about me when I was not around, and I never really hid much from Stan.  In order for him to be able to best help me he needed to know the truth.  I wanted that help.  When I got the verdict back she told me that she wrote me a good report.  I worked really hard after that to earn that privilege.  I can't say she stuck her neck out for me, but I wasn't going to be the one who made her look bad for writing it.

Getting the results back comes on an unknown day.  The phone call comes randomly.  I paced a lot waiting on that.  When I am anxious and pacing people say I am like a tiger in a cage.  It can be felt.  The gangsters gave me my space.  I had other stuff going on too.  I hadn’t talked to Rachel for several months. I wasn’t going to crack though.  My whole life, my future, was riding on this.  I was aware of my own institutionalization, and was not sure what another two or three years was going to do to me.  It was giving me a sick feeling thinking about it.  Two more years in the ghetto?  There is no way that much time in there would not have had a negative impact on me.  It was dangerous riding hope like I was, but I had to.  Bad news would probably have ended with me in the hole for a while. 

I sat down in her office.  She hadn't even opened the envelope yet.  She was waiting for me.  As she opened it with her fingers the hair on the back of my neck stood up.  It was go time.  It's all riding on this.  I was at a fork in the road.  As she read it she smiled and told me congratulations.  I got a two year out date.  I asked her to re-read it to make sure.  I had to contain myself, but I was also stunned.  Something good had just happened to me.  That was a rare thing in my life. I’ve never been quick to believe good things.  I wanted to run screaming out of the building, but couldn’t.  I couldn’t openly celebrate at all.  I had to be super careful.  I could not fuck this up. 

It wasn't all good.  Cats that didn't get good outdates tended to want to take it out on cats who did.  I lost a lot of power that day.  A lot.  I went from being a guy with a ten year sentence, to a guy getting out in a year.  It's a big difference.  Huge. There were more than a few white guys really upset with me over it.  I shrugged them off.  I even told one of them who kept making comments right to his face, "I did the thing, I did what I had to do to get out early, and you didn't."  I told him, "I didn't hold you back."  He didn't really want to put me to a fight, he was just bitter.  Him and I had shoulder boxed a bit.  He didn't want to fight me at all.  The gangsters though were different.  They would be well aware I couldn't afford to fight as easily as I could prior to that verdict.

Luckily for me there was a work release program, and I was getting out of the ghetto for good.