George Pelecanos - The Way Home

“Where I was,” said J. Paul Sampson, “in lockup? It was full of men who felt they’d been disrespected, and because of that, they acted on impulse and got violent. With the passage of time, as the years went by in prison, they couldn’t even tell you why they’d killed. Because what they did was unreasonable. You know what that means, don’t you, gentlemen? There was no reason.”

In one of the rows ahead, a young man in a gray polo shirt had turned his chair slightly so that he could look to the back of the room. His gaze was focused steadily on Ali.

“Why’s that dude eye-fuckin you?” said Chris, keeping his voice low.

“Calvin Cooke,” said Ali, leaning in close to Chris. “Boy’s from Langdon Park, over there off Rhode Island Avenue. It’s a Northeast-Southeast thing. I guess he feel the need to stare.”

“So?”

“He just bein unreasonable,” said Ali with a small smile.

Ali often got singled out for intimidation because of his short stature and, due to his eyeglasses, his studious appearance. Some called him Urkel as he passed. The ones who said nothing had taken note of his big chest.

“I’m here to tell you that the life I have now is better than the one I had,” said J. Paul Sampson. “I made a choice when I got out of prison, and I’m a successful and productive member of society today. You can make the same kind of choice.”

Luther raised his hand. “Do you get paid?”

J. Paul Sampson chuckled nervously. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you get pussy?” said another boy, and the auditorium erupted with laughter. A guard pulled that boy roughly out of his chair and led him from the room.

“Show respect to Mr. Sampson,” said the English teacher, McNamara. “He took valuable time out of his day to come here and talk to you. Listen to what he has to say.”

There were murmurs in the room, and the boys’ posture slackened further.

“I got a question,” said Lattimer, stepping forward from the back of the room. “I knew you were coming to speak, so I read one of your books. You know that one, Brothers in Blood?”

“Yes?”

“The boy in that book is bad, almost all the way through. He’s in a crew, he gives other kids beat downs, he drops out of school. To him, all the authority figures, including the police, is hypocrites and fools. Then in the last chapter, the boy comes to his senses and turns his self around.”

“That’s right. The message is, you can make many mistakes, but it’s never too late to change.”

“See,” said Lattimer, “I kinda figured out what you’re doing. What they call the formula. You’re getting kids all jacked up on one hundred and eighty pages of violence and disrespect, and then you add ten pages of redemption in the end that they not even gonna read. What I’d like to see is a whole book about a kid who doesn’t do any wrong at all. Who stays on the straight even though he may be living in a bad environment, because that’s the right thing to do. Because he knows the consequences of being wrong.”

Scattered mumblings came from the crowd: “You stupid, Shawshank,” and “Why you got to talk?” and “Sit down, Mr. Huxtable.”

“I try to tell the truth, sir,” said the author amiably. “My books reflect the reality of the street.”

“A little more respect for authority is all I’m looking for,” said Lattimer. “That’s what these boys need to read about and learn.”

“I appreciate your comments.”

“Got to give Shawshank credit,” said Ali, staring at the boy from Langdon Park, who was still staring at him. “Man believe what he believe, and you can’t move him off it.”

“Shawshank’s a rock,” said Chris.

Luther raised his hand. “Can I be a book writer, too?”

“You can be whatever you want to be,” said J. Paul Sampson. “If there’s one thing I want you gentlemen to take away from this today, it’s that.”

“I want to be one now,” said Luther.

“It’s a goal to strive for,” said J. Paul Sampson, exasperation replacing the fading brightness in his eyes. “But it takes time. Like anything worth having, you need to work for it. Being an author is like having any other job.”

“I don’t want no job,” said Luther. “ Fuck that.”

Lawrence Newhouse had been put on heavier meds, rumored to be in the lithium family, and when his behavior improved it became contagious. Unit 5 was more peaceful when Lawrence was subdued, and at times the atmosphere was nearly congenial. There were arguments, but the fire in them died quickly, and people laughed at Luther’s dumb jokes and listened patiently to Lonnie Wilson’s boasts and three-way fantasies though they had heard them many times before.

Ali and Chris were in the common room one night, Chris sprawled out on the couch. A guard was nearby, but he was sleeping. Many of the boys from the unit were in media, watching television, Joneing on one another, cackling at whatever was onscreen, debating whether the male actors were real or soft, talking about the girl actors and what they’d do to them if they had the chance. Someone was riffing on an actress, twisting her name, predictably, into something obscene, and Ben Braswell was laughing. Also laughing, in baritone, was Scott, the big guard.

“You high?” said Ali, putting the book he was reading down on the floor beside the ripped fake-leather chair where he sat.

“Nah,” said Chris. “Just chillin.”

“You look like you’re high.”

“I’m not.”

“ ’Cause you need to stop doin that shit.”

“I been stopped,” said Chris.

“You know they gonna make you drop a urine. And you got that level meeting comin up. Ben does, too.”

“I haven’t given Ben any weed,” said Chris. “Not for a while.”

“That’s good. Ben needs to drop a positive so he can get out this piece. Just like you do.”

“Ben gets out,” said Chris, “he’s just gonna steal a car again and come right back in. That’s who he is.”

“Ben wants y’all to think that. He tells everyone how he was born to hot-wire, how he loves to get behind the wheel of a vehicle, how he can’t stop himself, all that. Truth is, it’s a crime he can do where he doesn’t have to hurt no one. All he wants is to get his self put back inside these walls.”

“Why would he want that?”

“Because this is the only place where he feels right. I’m not talkin about that three-hots-and-a-cot bullshit you hear all the time. You notice nobody ever comes to visit him? I mean, we all got some one, right? Ben got nobody. His crackhead mother died young and then he got moved to foster homes, and everywhere he lived was shit. In here, at least he got friends. In the classroom, he listens, even though he doesn’t understand half the stuff the teachers be sayin, and you know he can’t read. The fact that anyone notices that boy or calls him by his name is good to him. Bad as it is, this here is his home.”

“He can’t stay, though.”

“No,” said Ali. “Neither can you. Won’t be long before I’m out, too.”

“You’re always saying how I don’t belong here-”

“You don’t.”

“What about you? How’d someone smart like you fuck up so bad?”

“Which time?” said Ali.

“I hear you,” said Chris, thinking on his many mistakes, how he’d piled them on top of one another without consideration or even a glancing thought.

“The last time, though,” said Ali, shaking his head, “with my uncle? That’s what got me put away.”

“Talkin about the armed-robbery thing.”

“Yeah. My mom’s half brother, he ain’t but five years older than me. He’s ignorant and weak, I see it now, but me bein a dumb-ass kid, I looked up to him at the time. He was more like a father to me than an uncle. I’m sayin, when he put his eyes on me, I wanted him to see a man. So when he asked me to come along with him, and told me I had to hold the gun and do the thing, on account of I didn’t know how to drive the car, I did it. You think I’m smart and maybe I am. But I wasn’t smart that day.”