By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 3: Ideas Have Consequences

When I was a freshman in college I went through the kind of depression that kids sometimes have when they’re away from home for the first time.  Finally I got myself out of bed and went to a counselor.  He told me that depression is anger and the way to escape from being angry is to express your anger.  Your anger is your truth, and you should release it.  I listened, and since then I’d never been depressed.  I’d lost some friends, but whatever.  They weren’t real friends; they were just people who wanted to control me.

The same with Gordy.  Call it disappointment, call it partnership envy, call it a frustrated dick—something was showing me that this guy was a control freak.  It wasn’t the job of Colonel One and a Quarter Drinks to make me pay for tales of his partner, or monitor my alcohol consumption.  I’d been drunk a thousand times before, and I’d managed to keep my car on the road.

But . . . on the other hand . . . .  A thought occurred to me.  Maybe I’d been too hard on him.  Way too hard.  Maybe this Patrick person wasn’t his one and only.  That was a thought!  Next time, I’d be nicer to the guy.  Much nicer.  And maybe he’d wear his uniform.  It must be more interesting than he was letting on.  I loved a man in uniform!  But I wasn’t fooled by Gordy’s superman act.  I knew how much civil servants made; I’d had enough trouble getting those dudes through escrow.  And here was a guy who had to live in a fuckin prison!  I’d have no trouble outbidding “Patrick.”

I was feeling a lot happier when I entered the curve on Prospect Street and found the construction crew dead ahead.  No time to slow, but I thought I could steer through that little gap in the barricade, the narrow space between those two dumb-looking orange men holding their signs . . . .   I was positioning the car to make it through the hazard when the floodlights hit me full in the face, and I lost control.

I woke up next morning in an isolation cell in the county jail, wearing pants stained with grease, a shirt stained with blood, and bandages on my arm and hand.  I learned from the deputy who woke me up that I had wrecked my car and a county truck, and I had sent two construction workers to the hospital.  They were expected to recover, he said contemptuously.  Then he conducted me to the place where you use a phone to call your lawyer.

Five hours later, the lawyer was driving me home.  Of course I’d had no trouble posting bail, although I had to swear I wouldn’t leave the state or use any “intoxicating substances,” pending my trial.  Which would be . . . . some time in the future.  “For God’s sake,” I was saying, “can’t we get this over with?  Can’t I just pay a fine?”

His head turned toward me.  “You don’t need my advice,” he said.  “You need a criminal lawyer.”

“Then what the fuck am I paying you for?  OK, get me one.  Get me an appointment for tomorrow.”

I was paying him, so that’s what happened.  I had a rough night, but the next day I was sitting in the office of Isaiah T. Yardley, Esq., a gentleman with an East Coast accent who told me I had “an inadequate idea” of the charges against me.  “You’re fortunate that the incident took place in the county instead of the city.  There are fewer cases in the county.  Things should move faster.  I’ll contact the district attorney and work on a plea bargain.”

“Plea bargain?  I want the charges dismissed.  I had an accident!”

It was as if I’d told him that the earth was flat.

“You were drunk.  You were speeding.  You violated the law in a Safety Zone.  You injured two people, both subjects of the laws protecting traffic construction crews.”

“OK, I’ll pay the fine.  I’ve got money.”

He smiled, as if he were about to say, “That’s the only way you got through my door.”  What he said out loud was, “Sorry, there’s no way to keep you out of jail.”

Naturally, I was astonished.  “I didn’t come here,” I said, “to be told I’m going to jail!”

“Look,” he said.  “There isn’t a schedule of fines for the kind of charges you’re facing.  And they’re not going to just let you out on probation.”

“But I can’t be locked up!  I can’t let that happen!  I’m about to go to Europe!”

“Mr. Perry, I don’t think you understand the seriousness of your situation.  You must realize that in this state we have indeterminate sentencing.  Are you familiar with that?”

“I’ve been told.”  My hands were clenched, my mouth was dry, my pits were dripping . . . .   How could things have changed so much in just a few hours?

“Good.  Then I don’t need to provide a long explanation.  Briefly, it means that they often put ‘life’ at the end of a sentence, as in ‘five to life.’  Which means that they’ll let you out when they want to let you out.  Of course, if everybody who was sentenced to life actually served that sentence, the prisons would soon be full, several times over, but . . . .”

“They couldn’t give me a sentence like that!”

“They give those sentences every day.”

I sat silent, gritting my teeth.

“Look,” he said.  “My job is to meet with the DA and try to make your sentence as short as I can.  I’ll get back to you.  Soon, I hope.”

I won’t waste time describing my emotions.  The street in front of the law office of Toffmann, Combs, and Yardley had changed from a cheerful suburban landscape to the entrance of Dante’s hell.  There was still a Warbucks on the corner, and flowers next to the tables of the little Italian restaurant, but none of that was meant for me.  Not anymore.  It was meant for people who were not in danger of . . . going to prison!  Unbelievable words, “going to prison.”  You never think, “I could take that trip to France–or I could go to prison.”  You just never do.

Six days later Isaiah Yardley’s secretary called me to return to his office.  He appeared to be in an optimistic mood.

“Well, Mr. Perry, I talked to the DA, and he rejected my proposal of a plea bargain.  Now wait a minute!  Don’t start yelling right away.  I think he prefers not to wave a red flag in front of the construction workers’ union.  After all, he needs to be re-elected.  Nonetheless . . . . ”

“You mean I have to go on trial?  How long will that take?”

“Hold on.  He offered something else.  He agreed to make some sentence recommendations to the judge.”

“I’m already being sentenced?”

“If you WANT to go to a jury trial, we can.  In that event, I assure you, things will not turn out well for you.  But if you agree to a sentence recommendation, you will be pleading guilty to the charges, just as you would with a plea bargain.  You will escape the jury.  The whole thing will be handled by the judge.  And the recommendation will propose a much lighter sentence than you’d otherwise receive.”

“And what is that?”

“The recommendation I negotiated with the DA—pending your agreement, of course—is a sentence of one to five years in prison.  I think we can live with that.”

“I can’t live with . . . prison!”

“You’ll have to.  We’ve talked about this.  One way or another, you’re going to prison.  The only question is how long you spend there.  This is a very lenient proposal.  We talked about indeterminate sentences.  ‘Five years’ is only hypothetical.  And you can’t get less than one year, period.  Not for these offenses.”

I spent a minute staring angrily at the shelves of law books behind his desk.  Row upon row, rank upon rank, all sitting in judgment on me.  All saying that I had to go to prison.

“Two other things I need to say.  First, remember that this is a sentencing RECOMMENDATION.  Legally, the judge can reject it and impose his own sentence.  But he could, conceivably, do the same thing with a plea bargain.  Second, but this looks like a good thing: to get the first half of the sentence down to one year, I agreed to the specification that it be served in this new prison they have in Paris.”

“Paris?”

“Sorry, I know it sounds funny.  There’s a prison in Paris, 50 miles from here . . . .”

“I know.”

“Good.  I’ve heard that this facility does a lot of education and rehabilitation.  Sounds easier than a normal prison.  Anyway, the DA worked it out with the prison officials that there will be a bed for you there.  The good thing is that you’ll be close to home.  Easy for visitors.  It isn’t the Folies Bergère, but . . . .   I assume this part of the agreement is all right with you.”

I didn’t say anything, and he handed me the documents I needed to sign.  One was a guilty plea.  It listed the various charges, and I had to check a box next to each of them: reckless driving, vehicular assault with injury, and so on.  “And I hereby renounce all right to appeal or otherwise contest the decision of the court regarding any and all of these crimes, which I freely and with no reservation or purpose of evasion acknowledge and confess . . . . ”  The thing got boring very fast.  The other document was entitled CONSENT AND PLEA, RE ADVISORY OF SENTENCE.  By signing it I authorized “Henry R. Lewis, District Attorney of Montcalm County, to recommend to and advise the Superior Court of Montcalm County . . . . ”  This was my deed on a vacation home in prison.

Yardley looked at me very calmly.  He was tired of me.  He’d got his money; he didn’t need me anymore.

“Maybe a year in prison will be good for you, Mr. Perry.”

We stared at each other for a while.  Then he looked at his notepad and said, “I assumed you would sign, so I obtained a date for sentencing.  You’ll be sent a court order about this, but I can tell you now: you will be sentenced in Superior Court at 9:30 a.m. on Monday, March 10.  Show up 15 minutes early, and I will meet you in the courthouse lobby.  Your name will be called in court.  At that point you’ll stand and face the judge.  I’ll stand up with you.  When the judge asks if you have anything to say, tell him ‘No, your honor.’  That’s all you’ll need to say.  Have you got that?”

“Yes, but don’t you think I should say something from my own point of view?  Like . . . . ”

“No.  You’re much too voluble as it is.  You can only get yourself in trouble.  As soon as you’re sentenced, you will be taken into custody and walked over to the county jail.  I’m told that convicts being routed to Paris are ordinarily sentenced on a day when there’s a prison bus going in that direction, so you’ll probably leave immediately.  It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“But I . . . . ”

“Any property you have on your person will be held by the authorities, so take as little as possible.  Dress decently, like you’re going to the office.  I don’t want the judge to have a fashion reaction.”  He smiled at his little joke.  “Bring a picture ID.  You still have a driver’s license, right?”

“Of course I do.  But listen . . . .”

“Make sure you have that with you.  Otherwise you won’t be allowed on the prison tour.  You did say you were planning a trip to Paris, right?”

He was still chuckling when I left the office.

How would you spend the month before going to prison?  Needless to say, I drank a lot.  I went on the circuit of my favorite bistros.  I enhanced my cigar collection.  But the reality of the coming event kept getting stronger, spoiling any pleasure I could find.  I heard from a number of friends who “offered their support,” whatever that meant, which was nothing.  I talked with my brother, who was happy that the news reports had been “sporadic” and “hadn’t damaged business.”  He didn’t reprimand me, although I could see it was a struggle not to.  He already had my power of attorney, so he could do anything that needed to be done “in your absence,” as he put it.  He asked about renting my house, and we agreed it would be too much trouble for just one year.   He opined that my absence from the firm “wouldn’t make much difference.”  I found myself talking to fewer and fewer people and staying at home more and more.

What about the idea that I would soon be living in an institution operated by Gordy, of all people?  I gave as little thought to that as possible.  I did make one attempt to go online and look for information, but when I got to the sentence that said “the facility has a capacity of more than 4000 inmates” I knew I didn’t want to see any more.  Just thinking about myself as an “inmate” made me blank out.  As for Gordy himself—that was different.  I couldn’t not think about him.  I’d gotten mad at him because he’d turned into such a do-gooder and Boy Scout (“let me drive you home,” “my partner is a professor at the fucking community college”), but that was actually a benefit to me.  Since he was into rehabilitation and so forth, he’d undoubtedly forgiven my little fit of anger.  He’d hate himself if he didn’t.  During our quarrel he hadn’t even raised his voice!

So what kind of prison would a Boy Scout run?  The talk about “discipline” meant it would be run cleanly, efficiently, and all that stuff.  Like one of those cheap religious colleges!  You could ship your son there without any fear that something bad would happen to him.  Gordy apparently believed this was some kind of revolutionary idea, a “program” you had to import from some other country, but that just showed how naïve he was.  As much as I looked down on him, I could be sure he’d keep his prison up to the highest standards of a summer camp.  And if I had any problems, I knew I could see him and get them resolved.  Outside of that, with 4000 people to nursemaid, he probably wouldn’t even know I was around.

All right.  Now what do you do on the morning when you know you’re going to prison?  You wake up early, because you can’t sleep.  You shit, shower, and shave.  You put on the clothes you laid out for yourself the night before—gray slacks, pale blue shirt, dress shoes (black), professional-looking jacket (no sporty logos).  You wander through the house, making sure that everything will be in the right place when you return.  You keep checking the time that’s left to you.  Then, somehow, you find that you’re almost late.  You grab your phone and call for your ride from Gruber.  When the guy shows up, you realizing that you’re sweating.  Did you lock the door?  No time for that.  You hope your brother will come by to check.  But of course he will.  He’s that kind of guy.  He’s a Boy Scout too.

In fact, Robert had offered to drive me to court and “be with” me.  I turned him down.  You don’t want to be dependent on your little brother.  And I didn’t want to be with somebody that I’d have to talk to, be nice to.  I was happy enough to be alone.  When I’d ordered the car, I’d clicked “off” on the button that says “Conversation?”  No thanks.  Not till I get to the courthouse.

When I stepped out of the car it was like stepping onto another planet and watching my spaceship leave for earth.  I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping at home that night.  I’d be . . . somewhere else.  My possessions were limited to the ones I was wearing.  I was as light as air.  Maybe, if I wanted to, I could escape.  I could walk off down the sidewalk and disappear.  I thought about that.  Then I climbed the high granite steps of the courthouse.

Yardley met me in the lobby, and we walked to the courtroom.  There was a cop at the door, a big guy in a dark brown uniform and a silver badge.  Yardley told him, “Perry sentencing.”  To me he said, “He’ll show you your place.  Again, when your name is called, stand up, walk toward the bench, and face the judge.  I’ll join you.”

The courtroom was old, large, and complicated.  I saw the judge’s bench and something that I identified, from watching movies, as the jury box.  Both were empty.  On the opposite side from the jury section was another row of seats behind a wooden barrier.  Several young men were sitting there, dressed in orange jumpsuits.  “Sit,” the cop said, pointing to a chair on the end of the row, and walked away.  I saw that the guys dressed in orange were also dressed in handcuffs and shackles.  They looked at me like, where did he come from?  The other men in the courtroom were wearing coats and ties.  They also looked at me like I’d done something wrong–why was I sitting over in that section, where I clearly shouldn’t be?

I was glad when the bailiff called the courtroom to order and an elderly gentleman sat down on the bench.  Lawyers got up from their tables and conversed with the judge in low tones.  Then the bailiff called the first name.  An orange guy stood up, maneuvered past me, and shuffled into position before the judge, chained up and stiff.  The judge said something like, “In accordance with your plea, I hereby sentence you to nine months in county jail.  Credit for time served.”  A cop led the prisoner quickly out of the courtroom, his shackles jangling on the floor.

This happened until there was no orange left in the room.  Why, I wondered, did I have to wait till the local riffraff was rotated back to jail?  But it wasn’t pleasant to be alone in the prisoner zone while the judge ruffled through the papers on his desk.  Then I heard “Colin Perry!” and saw my lawyer moving toward the bench.  When I stood up, I had that strange sensation you get when you’re in the high school play and you come on stage and look out at the audience for the first time.  Strange and sickening.  Now I was glad I didn’t have a long speech to remember.

The judge straightened his papers and said, “Mr. Perry, I am in receipt of your plea of guilty and your application for sentencing to the State Penitentiary in Paris, pursuant to the District Attorney’s negotiated sentencing recommendation.  Do you have anything to say before I pronounce your sentence?”

My lawyer nudged me, and I answered, “No, your honor.”

“I approve your application to be housed in the Paris facility.  I am not, however, entirely persuaded by the District Attorney’s recommendation as to the sentencing itself.  The documents indicate that you hold a position of some prominence in the community, a position in which you might be expected to set a positive example for others.  Instead, you have arrogantly flouted the law and injured two public servants doing their work within a Special Protection Zone.  Video recordings of your apprehension show you shouting, ‘Do you know who I am?  You can’t arrest me!’, leveling further verbal abuse at officers, and resisting their attempts to restrain you.”

I remembered nothing of what happened that night.  Should I tell him that?  Would that help?  No, it would make things worse–it would make me pathetic!  And he was still talking . . . .   Something about my attitude . . . .

“Therefore, while I accede to the request that you be referred to the facility at Paris, your conduct deserves and must receive a more exemplary punishment than has been requested.  I therefore sentence you, Colin Kimball Perry, to a term of seven years to life in the custody of the Department of Corrections, your release to be contingent on the Department’s assessment and determination.”

He turned to the bailiff.  “Prepare for the next case.”

The judge was no longer looking at me.  “Sorry,” the lawyer said.  “It didn’t work out.”

“But this isn’t right!” I said.

“Keep your voice down.”

“Something’s gone wrong!”  A cop was advancing towards me.  “Start an appeal!  Get an appeal going!”

“You surrendered your right to appeal.  Don’t you remember?”

“When . . . when was that?”

The lawyer took a mincing step backward as the cop slipped a pair of handcuffs off his belt and clicked them onto my wrists.  “Come with me,” he said.  “You’re through here.”  I turned one more time to my lawyer, but he was already heading out the door.

My own destination was a room at the end of the long corridor that led from the dark wood of the courthouse to a steel door with COUNTY JAIL painted above it—gold letters, with a five-point star between the words.   Beyond the door was a white room with a counter across one wall, and a cop waiting for me to be delivered.

“Hey Gil,” he said.  “Just in time.”

“Yeah,” Gil replied.  “Thought that judge was gonna take all day.  Anyway, he’s ready, Bruce.”

“Right,” Bruce said, looking from my face to his computer screen and back again.  I’d never thought of it, but they must have taken my picture when I was arrested.  That must be a mess!   But he could see I was the same guy.  “151 N. Oakhill Way.  That your current residence?”

“Yes, that’s where I . . . . ”

“Gil, you wanna go ahead and empty his pockets?”

“Right.”  Suddenly Gil’s hands were digging into my groin, and my possessions were landing on the counter—keys, wallet, phone . . . .   The guy behind the counter picked up my wallet, pulled out my driver’s license, and put it through a scanner.  Then he pulled out my money and counted it.  “Five hundred and twenty-eight dollars,” he said.  “What did you think you were gonna do with it, anyhow?”  Apparently that was a rhetorical question.  He slid the license and the money and the wallet and the phone and the keys into a plastic baggie, stuck a label on it, and pushed a piece of paper across the counter.  “Sign this,” he said.

“What is it?”

He looked at me as if he was surprised that something like me had spoken.

“See the words on top.”

“DISPOSITION OF BODY.”

“When you die in prison.  Body’s taken by your next of kin.  Or somebody else.  Whoever.  Fill in the blank.  Or you can sign at the bottom.”

The line at the bottom said, “Department of Corrections is permitted to dispose.”

I signed there, what the hell, this is crazy.   Although it isn’t easy to sign things when you’re wearing handcuffs.

“Bus is here,” Gil said.

Bruce nodded and gave him the baggie with my things inside.  At the back of the room was a gray steel door, and Gil walked me through it.  Now there was nothing but gray concrete walls and the smell of gasoline and lines of police cars parked under a concrete roof.  I heard the huff of an engine.  A white bus pulled in and waited with its motor running.  Waiting for me.

A man bounded out of the bus, dressed in another color of cop suit—light blue shirt, dark blue pants.  He was a big man, but his uniform looked small . . . .   It looked like one of those things that the clerks wear in convenience stores.  You know, the short little shirt that doesn’t tuck in, that just squares off somewhere around the waist . . . .  But the attitude was not “Can I help you?”  He nodded quickly to Gil, who held up the plastic bag.  “Perry, he said.  “Right,” said the one from the bus, checking something with the phone enveloped in his enormous hand.  “You!” he said, meaning me.  “Up against the bus!”  I turned toward the bus and he pushed me until my nose hit the steel.  Something strange was happening to my legs.  Shackles!  One of them was shackling me!

“OK, Sergeant,” the bus cop said.  “See you on the next run.”  Two minutes later, my baggie had been thrown into a cardboard box at the front of the bus, I had been pushed up the steps and dropped into a seat at the rear, and the bus was pulling out of the garage.

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