Bruised Fruit Hiding the Truth Column 9

Bruised Fruit: Hiding the Truth Column #9

In May 2004, I was 29 years old, hitchhiking back from Catskill with a pocketful of pills, zonked out of my mind. A driver picked me up and dropped me off at Story’s Corners, and for some reason, I still don’t understand, wandered away from Route 23A and headed up to a house. When no one answered the door, I broke in. I roamed around inside the home and eventually lay down and fell asleep in the homeowner’s bed.

Hours later, I woke up, a strange unease creeping over me. I suddenly realized what I had done, and panic set in. My gut sank, my mind raced. I opened a second-floor window, jumped out, bounced off the carport, and hit the ground. A neighbor saw me and asked what I was doing, but I barely muttered something about cutting trees before taking off running. Unbeknownst to me, the older woman who lived there—a woman in her 80s—had returned, gone upstairs, and found me, shirtless and wild-looking, snoring in her bed. She ran out, told her neighbor, and called the police. As I ran through the woods, I heard officers yelling, “Stop right there!” but I kept running until I came to a cliff I couldn’t jump off. That’s when they tackled me—rightfully so—and took me to jail.

I still don’t fully understand why I did it. Had that woman been hurt, I could still be locked up today, almost 20 years later. The shame I felt then hasn’t faded even as I write this. I’d been to jail before for minor offenses, probation violations, things that felt different in severity and consequence. This was the big leagues. My family was disappointed in me, and I was deeply disappointed in myself. I received letters from them, their words expressing sadness, disbelief, anger, and worry. Seeing the impact I was having on the people who loved me hurt more than any punishment.

We often see prison in pop culture, shows like OZ, and countless movies, but nothing really prepares you. For some reason, my case dragged on in County court, leaving me in the Greene County Jail for nearly nine months, charged with a Class C felony. Luckily, it was a non-violent offense; that label would make a difference later. Any felony sticks with you, but a violent one can strip away more than you can imagine.

The county jail was rough; fights were expected and frequent, but the worst thing about it was the boredom and isolation. Day after day, I read, wrote a journal and poetry, and watched TV. Sunday church services were the only offerings remotely related to addiction recovery. I met people who’d seen the worst of life, including Mike Tyson’s former trainer. I heard about brutal crimes and rapes that happened in the cells around me. Outside, life went on, but in jail, time stood still.

When my sentencing day finally came, I was asked by the presiding judge if I had anything to say. I apologized to the homeowner and her family, which brought ridicule from fellow inmates. I received a 1-3 year sentence and was transferred downstate to Fishkill Correctional Facility for processing. The experience left an impression I’ll never forget. Fishkill was where new inmates were processed, received their prison IDs, went through medical testing, and got the mandatory lice bath—a truly degrading experience. We lined up, completely naked, were given a powder to rub on our bodies and hair, and then ushered into cold showers. I understand that Fishkill closed in 2021, but the process left scars on many of us who went through it.

After a month in Fishkill, I faced my first parole board meeting. Standing before a panel of four, they asked if I felt I’d served enough time for my crime. Of course, I said yes, but I was surprised when they granted me parole a few days later. Though technically “free” on paper, I wasn’t going home immediately. I would still be transferred to Franklin Correctional Facility in Malone, New York, while my parole was processed. Franklin was a medium-security prison with a rough reputation, and my arrival there was unforgettable.

On my first day, I got off the bus shackled hand and foot to another inmate, eight hours on the road without food or water. It was recreation time at Franklin when I arrived, and they needed a body for a softball game, so I volunteered. But in my first run to first base, I collided with the pitcher and was knocked out cold. When I came to a couple minutes later, there were shouts of “Welcome to Franklin, motherf***er!” That pitcher later turned out to be a kitchen worker who would sneak me extra food—gold in a place like that.

Fights at Franklin were intense, with homemade shanks made from toothbrushes, pieces of sharpened plastic, and even metal shards. Some inmates bore the “Buck Fifty,” a brutal scar that ran jagged from eye to mouth and required at least 150 stitches. To survive, I knew I needed to toughen up. I shaved my head, grew a beard, and bulked up to look intimidating. I avoided gangs and steered clear of the Aryan Brotherhood and other cliques. There were rules, too: in the chow hall, we had to hold our sporks in the air and wait to be called on by a guard before we could leave. Defying that rule led to brutal punishment dished out by the miserable COs.

Some guards were terrifying, drunk on power. I saw officers drag inmates behind buildings to beat them senseless for sport. I could smell the alcohol on their breath. In that kind of environment, we were under their control completely, our lives often at the mercy of people who enjoyed being as brutal as any inmate, if not more so.

Eventually, I befriended a group of Latino guys who invited me to their daily soccer games. I was one of the only “gringos” on the field, but soccer was a welcome distraction from everything else. I was pretty good, and it became part of my routine, a small thing to look forward to in a world where almost nothing could be anticipated. I never went near the softball field again.

After nearly 14 months of incarceration in both County Jail and prison, I was finally released on July 17, 2005. They handed me a bus ticket to Catskill, and I found myself on that bus next to a man who’d been “down”—locked up—for 15 years. He looked overwhelmed, wide-eyed, and bewildered, buying a beer at the first stop. When I arrived in Catskill, I was given a room at a cheap, run-down motel, the Catskill Inn—or, as locals called it, “The Crackskill Inn. Despite everything I’d been through, all the time locked up, I still hadn’t learned my lesson. I called up an old associate and his girlfriend—the same woman whose house I’d been hitchhiking home from the day I was arrested—and that night, we did cocaine until dawn.

It’s hard to describe the shame, knowing I’d come so far only to throw it away once again. I was free, but in many ways, I was just as trapped as ever.