This is Entry 6 of an ongoing serialized memoir.
Start at the beginning → Superpower
Two white kids occupy one of the cells adjacent to ours. They make an odd pair. The tall and lanky one has long, greasy hair that straggles over his bad acne and thick prison-issue eye glasses. The other has the face of a cherub on an oversized body. His crew cut makes a dash over his wide, scared eyes- at any moment verging on deluge over his porcelain skin and ruddy cheeks. Tail calls them: Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
Tweedledum paces the perimeter of the pod incessantly pleading his case to anyone that will listen. Everyone hears snippets as he walks past.
Probation hold, driving while under the influence, fifteen day transfer…. At worst, he’s looking at thirty days in jail.
Tail’s happy to lend an ear and offer advice. But you know he’s getting ready to eat this kid for lunch.
Even still, there are times where Tail’s patience wears thin.
Boy! Sit!
You realize you are only looking at days?
People here are looking at years.
Remember how I told you that you have to have a Lakota heart?
He thumps his finger hard on the boy’s solar plexus.
That starts here.
You gotta quit whining.
Get strong.
He sweeps his arm across the room.
Look around!
You see any of my people sniveling?
It’s true. The Lakota don’t complain. Jail seems all too familiar — even for the young bucks.
Each time a new batch of inmates arrive it’s all dap ups and chest bumps. Jail just another rite of passage. A reunion at the bottom of the ditch.
Wang? Wang? Wang?
The garbled voice of the adults on Peanuts.
I step out of our cell and towards the control desk. .
The guard juts his chin toward the line of prisoners forming at the exit to the pod.
Wang. Arraignment.
Joining the line, I follow the inmates through a maze of elevators and unmarked doors. It’s Monday, so there is a back log of people needing to be processed.
At an open door, a man with a shiny, shaved head confronts us — droning while handing each of us a yellow copy of our charges. His dispassionate monotone worn flat from repetition. Days, months, years on the job.
Rise when the judge enters. When the judge reads you your charges and asks what you plead, you are to say ‘not guilty’. This is only a formality not necessarily what you will or should plea in court.
Wait. Wait. What?
But Slick Bic makes it clear that there is no space for questions.
I follow the herd in and wait to be called to the front of the room. There, through an overhead monitor, I face Judge Erickson for the first time. An older man with white hair and a squared jaw. Through the monitor and over his reading glasses he peers at me and then back down at the file.
Mr. Wang, the grand jury has charged you with two class three felonies: Possession of a controlled substance over 10 pounds and possession or a controlled substance over 10 pounds with intent to distribute. Each or these holds a maximum penalty of fifteen years and $30 000 fine. How do you plead?
Not guilty.
Do you have any questions?
I have scrabbled on the back of my indictment some notes which tumble chunkily out of my cottoned mouth. I hear myself say “travesty of justice” in reference to me getting caught with a car full of drugs. In front of eight incarcerated Lakota men.
Judge Erickson’s jaw doesn’t budge.
Due to the severe nature of this crime, I’m setting your bail at $100 000 cash or surety. The gavel falls.
Next.
Back in the pod, Tail is waiting —pacing and rubbing his giant palms together.
Well, Wang? How’d it go?
I read my charges from my yellow sheet and tell him my bail.
Ohhh shit. Two class 3s? A hundred Gs?
He lets out a low whistle.
You in it now, cousin.
A hundred G’s?
That’s ten to walk.
And you won’t get that back.
Gone.
He shakes his head, almost smiling.
Half these fools in here can’t scrape together two, three grand.
You sittin’ on a hundred?
He squints at me.
Time to lawyer, Waaang. You can call ’em collect.
After lockdown, I ask the control desk for the phone book.
He pushes forward the chunky tome - the section I seek marked by a ragged dog ear and smudgy finger prints. With my own, I follow the crumbs.
“Attorney”
“Criminal Defense”
Tail gave me two names: Lawrence Kline and Bruce Ellison.
I call Lawrence Kline first.
A recording plays and asks for a message.
Straight back.
Eye-contact.
Enunciation.
I provide a clipped summation, hang up, return to my perch, and wait.
Wang? Wang? Wang?
The cell door clicks open.
I poke my head out the door.
The C.O. juts his chin towards the entrance.
Lawyer.
I peek around the frame to see a man in a dark brown trench coat. Tall and drawn thin, cleft chin, brown walking shoes, leather satchel. He reminds me of Pryzbelewsky from The Wire.
Firm handshake.
Eye contact.
He’ll do.
He directs me into one of the side rooms of the pod as he warns me that, although not admissible in court, it is quite possible - even probable - that our conversation is being recorded. Sensitive material should not be spoken out loud. He takes out a pad of paper.
So… tell me what’s going on?
I pour out the abridged of my arrest, only stopping after I’ve relayed the issues that I’m having with reaching people because of collect calls and cell phones.. While talking, I wave for him to hand me the pad and I write down a list of safe phone numbers and emails that he can use.
As I start to dive deeper in detail, he raises a hand.
Retainer first.
I slide the paper across the table.
Contact one of these people. That will get the ball moving..
Starved for human contact, I drag out our conversation. Ask him where he went to law school. As it turns out he went to Georgetown Law.
I lean in.
I spent my first couple semesters of undergrad at Georgetown.
Oh cool! Why’d you leave?
I lie.
I felt like I needed to be in a smaller school.
Lawrence Kline assures me that, although he’ll be out on vacation for the upcoming week, he’ll reach out to my people and, once payment is arranged, he can get to work on next steps.
Feel free to check in with my secretary for updates from time to time. Meanwhile, try to write down everything that you can remember. Even the smallest details will matter. You’ve got plenty of time. Use the time to keep at it.
We shake hands and he knocks firmly to have the guard let us out.
The guard pats me down and I reenter the pod floating on hope.
Tail concurs.
Oh, yeah, Wang, Lawrence Kline’s a good one! He’s going to cost you plenty but he’s one of da best. See, Ol’ Tail wouldn’t steer you wrong! Anybody else and that’d be costin’ you two trays for sure.
I’m smiling and nodding as I rise to my bunk, lie down, and exhale.
Click there to go to the next installment —> Omerta