Hard Time (13 page)

We got naked.

‘You, turn around, bend over and spread ’em,’ he said to OG. When OG had complied, he said, ‘Put your boxers back on and go downstairs.’ Troll and I had to do likewise.

I was descending the stairs with my hands on my head when the K9 unit arrived. The dogs barked wildly, no doubt picking up the scent of drugs everywhere.

‘Keep your hands on your fucking heads as you line up against the day-room wall!’

I joined the line. Kingston emerged from his cell, his arms at his sides.

A guard shoved him from behind. ‘Put your hands on your fucking head now!’

Kingston spun around, raising his arms as if to defend himself. ‘Don’t touch me like that, man.’

The urge to attack the guards flared up on the faces of the inmates. It gripped me too. Kingston was a good guy, and if he could be victimised, any of us could. Sensing a riot about to ignite, the guards formed a row, facing us, intimidating us into thinking twice.

Behind the wall of guards, things were deteriorating fast for Kingston. His arms were half up, as if he feared being hit again and didn’t want to leave his midsection exposed. He was watching the guard who’d shoved him and didn’t see the one behind him draw a Taser. As the guard he was facing said ‘Do as you’re told! Put your hands on your fucking head!’, the Taser crackled before he had a chance to comply. The electroshock jackknifed Kingston. The guards threw him on the concrete, twisted his arms behind his back, and handcuffed him. We jeered as they dragged him from the pod. I had expected violence, but this added a terrifying new dimension.

The guards ordered us to leave the pod and throw our filthy boxers into a cart. We were herded naked down a dead-end corridor. I felt humiliated. Through the Plexiglas, we watched them search our cells. They rifled through our belongings. They dropped our bedding on the floor and trampled on it as they examined our mattresses. They flung stationery and books on the floor. They tore open our brown paper commissary bags. They confiscated our state food: fruit, bread, peanut butter, brownies (including the two Troll had hidden) . . . They checked every hiding spot with search mirrors and probe sticks. But no drugs were found, as they’d all been keystered. They did find hooch. The brewer and his cellmates were identified, cuffed and escorted to lockdown. I was worried they’d find a syringe or a shank belonging to OG, but they didn’t. He’d keystered all of his metal. They marched away with plastic bags full mostly of our extra towels, bedding and clothes – our sole means of remaining somewhat clean. When they were almost out of earshot, OG yelled something about a prisoner fornicating with the girlfriend of the Hispanic goon-squad guard. They heard him, stopped and turned around. As their eyes roamed over us, we held onto our silence. They looked eager to put someone out of his misery. When they couldn’t figure out who’d said it, they looked at each other, and moved on.

‘Got an attorney yet, dawg?’ Troll asked, breakfasting in our cell one morning in June.

‘No,’ I said, sat cross-legged on my bunk eating crackers.

OG was making a green-baloney sandwich on the table. ‘It’s gonna cost you, homey. You’d better have a lotta money stashed.’

‘They seized all my money.’

‘Ain’t that-about-a-bitch!’ Troll said.

‘You’re fucked then, homey!’ OG said.

‘You’re fucked, dawg,’ Troll said. ‘With your charges, you’ve gotta get a private lawyer. They’ve ganked your money so you can’t get a good attorney or bond out. Now they can really bend you over and stick it to you, dawg.’

‘What should I do?’ I asked, starting to worry. Every time I pondered a prison sentence, I felt ill. It was my second biggest concern after staying alive. I was good at thinking up ways out of situations, but the more I thought about this, the more trapped I felt. At night, I’d terrify myself over it for hours. I feared years of incarceration would bring about a heart attack or send me doolally. During the day, I tried to block it out so I could concentrate on survival. But deep down I knew I needed to deal with my legal situation in order to get the best possible plea bargain. Trials were rare, defendants winning even rarer, and those who lost at trial were punished with headline-making sentences designed to deter others from exercising their right to a trial.

‘My private attorney cost 30 gees,’ Troll said. ‘So far he hasn’t done shit for me either. I’d like to fire his ass. You’ve gotta be real careful.’

‘One of my security guys, G Dog, told me if I ever got in trouble, the best attorney to call is Alan Simpson,’ I said. ‘He’s supposed to know all the loopholes.’

‘He represents a lotta Mexican Mafia,’ OG said.

‘I’ve heard of him, too,’ Troll said. ‘He’s good. You should call him up, dawg. Maybe he’ll take over my case, too.’

‘But I’ve got no money.’

‘You’d better find some,’ OG said.

‘My grandpa’s paying for my attorney,’ Troll said. ‘Can your folks raise any cash? If this guy can slip you through the cracks in the system, it’ll save you years.’

I collect-called Alan Simpson’s office and gave his secretary my booking number and some brief information about my case. She assured me he would look at my charges and pay me a legal visit. When I asked about the cost of representation, she said every case was different and Alan would tell me in person. I dreaded having to turn to my parents for a large sum of money, burdening them on top of the shock they were going through.

Entering the visitation room, Alan Simpson was treated like royalty. The staff and attorneys stopped what they were doing to nod and smile at him. Some of the attorneys even rose from their tables to shake his hand and congratulate him on recently saving an innocent man, Ray Krone, from death row.

‘Alan Simpson’s your attorney?’ Officer Green gasped, and then politely showed us to a private room.

Alan was a plumpish 50-something with a charismatic face. He smiled a lot, displaying braces. He was articulate, a quick-thinker, a born salesman. His charm put me at ease. He slapped some paperwork down on the table. ‘Here’s your grand jury indictment.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It’s a list of criminal offences the prosecutor presented to a grand jury to get you indicted before you were arrested.’

Bracing to learn the extent of my trouble, I imagined it contained every crime I’d ever committed and then some. ‘I see. How bad’s it looking?’

‘To be honest, I’ve read it, and it seems they barely have a case against you.’

Am I hearing right? Barely a case against me? Am I getting out of here?
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘They’ve had wiretaps set up since the beginning of the year—’

‘And I’ve been in Scottsdale Community College, concentrating on stock trading, pretty much laying low over that time,’ I said, starting to twig on.

‘Detective Reid even admits that you never talk on the phone, in emails, or have people at your home. That you’re beyond surveillance. They’re using the gist of the conversations of the co-defendants as the main evidence against you. The prosecutor’s trying to say the lack of evidence against you proves you’re a criminal mastermind, too clever to be detected. So the lack of evidence against you is actually evidence against you. Which is ridiculous!’ He laughed his irresistible laugh, and I joined in.

‘What crimes did you actually do?’ he said, switching back to serious mode.

‘OK. Starting in the ’90s, I threw raves and invested in club drugs, especially Ecstasy. It started out small at first, but by the time everything peaked we were bringing tens of thousands of hits in. I had a lot of money in the stock market around the time of the
dot.com
bubble, but when that collapsed, so did the size of my criminal activity.’ I braced for him to say something like, ‘If you were bringing that many hits in, you’re looking at doing serious prison time.’

‘Were you bringing drugs in this year?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Then they’ve missed the boat. Are you telling me the truth? I must know what we’re up against.’

‘I’ve seriously spent this year getting back to stock trading.’

‘And apparently your stock-trading data overloaded the police computers that were spying on your computer. They had to fly software engineers in from Washington.’ Alan broke into laughter. ‘This is a very flimsy case.’

‘So what am I looking at?’ I asked, my hopes rising again.

‘Anywhere from probation to five years is the norm for a first-time offender with these types of drug charges.’

I gave myself probation.

‘You’ll be better able to help me with the case if I get you out of this hellhole.’

I liked the sound of that. ‘How?’

‘Well, your bond is a steep $750,000, and I think I can get it down to $100,000. Can you manage that?’

‘They seized all my money.’

‘You’d only need to put 10 per cent down with a bond company.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

‘If you’re going to retain me, one of the first things I’ll do is file for a bond reduction.’

‘How much will it cost to retain you?’ I feared his response.

‘My retainer’s $50,000.’

I gulped.

‘It could cost more, but I imagine they’ll offer you a decent plea bargain within six months. I can’t see them wanting to drag this out and waste even more money on a flimsy case like this.’

I loved it when he said
flimsy case
. ‘I’ll have to discuss it with my parents. If it’s a flimsy case, why does everyone in here I show my bond and charges to get all worked up?’

‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anyone in here. The prosecutor’s overcharged you on purpose. The more mud she throws, the more she hopes will stick. This gives her plea-bargaining power. I respond by attacking the case with my motions. Because the case looks so weak, you should be offered a decent plea bargain. A plea bargain everyone is happy with.’

‘How soon do you think I can get my bond reduced?’

‘I can get a hearing within the next couple of months.’

Goodbye Towers!
I beamed at him.

‘Your next court appearance is a preliminary hearing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The prosecutor has to show probable cause to be holding you.’

‘She already slammed me at the first court I went to.’

‘She’s about to slam you again, and I won’t be saying anything till we see if there’s any more evidence we’re up against.’

‘If you can get me out in a couple of months that would be wonderful.’ I saw myself back at the apartment with Claudia. Eating Indian food together. Going to the gym. Making love . . .

‘Can you cope with this place for a few more months?’

‘I’ll try.’ Coping would be a lot easier now I was getting out.

After the visit, I called Claudia with the good news, and she relayed it to my parents. We were all thrilled.

June 2002

In the letters to my parents, I hid the dangers of the jail so as not to terrify them. I also had to be careful about mentioning my crimes in letters and phone calls because the jail had access to both and any admission of guilt could be used as evidence against me.

After sending that letter in June, I prayed my parents would find the money to retain Alan Simpson. When I learned my father had to cash in his retirement account to pay the $50,000, I was relieved but also plagued with guilt. Over the years, I’d spent a multiple of that amount on drugs and partying – one New Year’s Eve rave party alone had cost more than $50,000. It hurt that my parents were paying for my wrongdoing. Many of my neighbours had been disowned by their families, so I felt blessed to have such support.

The letter contained an accurate description of my involvement in drugs at the time of my arrest. The only person I could safely tell about the extent of my previous involvement in drugs was my attorney. I deserved punishment for my crimes, but for the first few months after my arrest I resented being held when no drugs were found. I desperately wanted to get out of such a dangerous environment. And if that meant beating the system due to the lack of evidence against me, then so be it. The visit from Alan Simpson reinforced my belief that I would not have to pay for my old lifestyle. Taking responsibility for my crimes was far from my mind. I still had a lot of growing up to do. I had no idea confinement was slowly mending my emotional immaturity and altering my destiny for the better.