Saint Paulie and prison bells, Part 2
by Ray Ray Smith
For me, good things seem to happen in waves of three.
Two days before Thanksgiving, a lonely Tuesday morning, the rap on my front door was Maria Tremont, my elderly neighbor from the detached cluster on my left. Cradled in her paper-thin arms was Miss Pickles, a small dog that resembled Toto from The Wizard of Oz. An Uber idled in the lane near my tree lawn. Maria kissed Pickles on the forehead and handed the bundle of fur to me. Pickles must have recently had a bath, because she smelled like a bar of soap. Tears trickled down the creases of Maria’s beautiful, brave face. I wanted to hug her, but I had both my arms around Miss Pickles.
She took a deep breath, wiped away tears, and said, “Raymond, this is beyond neighborly. Of course, I hope the procedure goes smoothly, but, well, 83 and heart surgery is dicey.”
“Don’t worry about us, whatever happens, however long, Miss Pickles and I will be just fine.”
And we are.
From the moment Maria’s Uber pulled away, that little dog has taken the edge off an empty house. As Miss Pickles sniffed every nook and cranny of her new home on that Tuesday morning, I got the call from Parley Pauley from Pompano Park, pitching the idea that a few of the old racetrack crew get back together and buy into fractional ownership of a racehorse. Then, to complete that Tuesday trifecta, the instant I tapped the red off button on my phone from my chat with Paulie, a text from Alice Jacobs, a receptionist at the law firm, dinged in with a text message.
From Alice (To Ray S):
Ray, I hope you are enjoying retirement. We miss you! Just want to throw out something you may find interesting. At a wedding last week, I sat at a table with a guy who volunteers at the Everglades Reentry Center. He mentors a prison inmate, a role he has filled for years. While this is not a hardcore corrections facility, it is still a prison. The inmates are in the final year of their sentence. The guy at the wedding said he found mentoring challenging and fulfilling. For some reason, you popped into my mind. Google it.
And don’t be a stranger.
From Ray (To Alice):
Thanks for thinking of me. I will investigate. And we will do lunch soon.
Events moved quickly. Ten days later, my first visit to a prison felt less like entering a building and more like leaving planet earth. The officer at the front desk of the Everglades Reentry Center Control Room sensed my fear. When he took my driver’s license and placed my key fob into a plastic bin like the ones at airports, he asked, “First time?” I nodded. Then I took the large yellow lanyard with the word “MENTOR” and draped it around my neck.
He smiled, pointed at the full-body scanner, and said, “You’ll be fine, just follow the rules.”
On the other side of the scanner, an officer handed me a red Emergency Button to push if I had any issues. Then, he led me down a hallway, where, with just the two of us, I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. I noticed that all the knick-knacks, carpets, photos, and coffee tables we take for granted were missing. Everything was replaced by tile, cement, and high-ceiling bright lights. Every footstep echoed.
The guard stopped at a door and keyed it open. Inside were eight metal tables, each the size of a large desk, bolted to the floor. Each table had a chair at the opposing long ends, also bolted to the floor. Near the left wall was a platform, approximately a foot high. On the platform was a desk, a chair, and a guard. The guard gave me a welcoming nod. One of the tables across the room had two men who looked at me, then returned to their conversation. The saving grace of this sterile room was that the high-arched ceiling had a skylight with a thick pane of wire-encased glass. This light was a relief, but also a warning about the small distance between inside and outside.
The guard who escorted me said, “Take a seat, I’ll get Levi.”
I tried to listen to the men across the room, but they were out of range. I found myself taking deep breaths and trembling ever so slightly.
The door opened.
Levi stepped in – pale, with long, dark hair, a thin frame beneath orange overalls and a white, long-sleeved undershirt. He wore white socks with some slippers that flapped with each step. He did not look at me for more than a moment, then his green eyes surveyed the room, and returned to me.
“Ray?” he asked.
“Guilty.”
He gave a slight smile, “Sixteen hundred people in here and nobody admits they are guilty.”
I put my hands together under my chin, gave a nod, and said, “I’d shake your hand, but in my orientation, they said no touching. They gave about a hundred other rules, two orientations, and a thorough background check. It’s tough to get in here.”
As he eased into his chair, he said, “Getting out is tougher.” He steepled his fingers beneath the stubble of his scruffy beard, “Did they give you a script or anything?”
“I got nothing.”
“What do you know about me?”
“Nothing. Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. I’m not sure how inmates and their mentors are selected. There must be some reasons, maybe a computer program?” I was nervously rambling.
He shrugged, we had a momentary lull, then he asked, “How about I ask you some questions?”
“Good idea. Fire away.”
“Why are you doing this?”
The question surprised me, and I took a few beats to answer, “I’m not sure. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I took early retirement, the days seemed long with too much time to think, especially the holidays.”
He interrupted my ramble, “Retirement! What are you, like 45? Retired from what?”
“Forty-eight. I was a lawyer, not this kind of lawyer. I’ve never been in a prison, only been in a courtroom a few times. Most of my work was with contracts and legal shit.”
“Married? Kids?”
The thought of Nadine put the old lump in my throat, and this slowed my tempo, “My wife passed a few years ago. I have one stepson in Texas, about your age.”
Levi leaned back in his chair, thinking. I considered grilling him about his life, but letting him take the lead and just listening seemed like the better route.
“So, what does a retired, widowed lawyer do for fun, you know, like hobbies?”
I relaxed a little more, “Well, I jam in a band, a rock band.”
His eyes widened, “No way.”
“Way – friends from high school, Ray Ray and the Basement Ramblers. It’s been over 20 years. Three of the guys are local, one commutes, and we work around his schedule.”
His voice went up when he asked, “Like what do you play? Do you play for money? Are you Ray Ray? You use Techo? Record anything?”
“Mostly old school, Dylan, Springsteen, Kinks, Stones,” I said adding with a laugh, “We played out exactly once, at a Frat party, it didn’t go well, they threw things at us. We returned in shock and humiliation to the basement for two decades. We have improved and try to learn a new song each time we meet.”
“Cool, what else you got?”
“Horse racing, harness horse racing, the racing with the carts behind the horses. I enjoyed visiting the racetrack and spending time with friends. Did you ever see a harness race?”
“No. I mean, I’ve seen horses, seen the Kentucky Derby, but not horses and carts. So, you make money betting on the races? Are you a big gambler? A real player?”
“That’s a hard no. Once in a while, everyone has a good night betting on horses, but it’s a hard sport, interesting but challenging.”
“You said you enjoyed going to the track. Did you stop going?”
“Not voluntarily. The racetrack, Pompano Park, closed. It was the only harness track in Florida.”
“Not to sound stupid, but why do they call it harness racing?”
“The harness is the way the cart gets connected to the horse, part of the equipment.”
“Then they gallop around like hell?”
“Not gallop, they trot or pace, different methods of moving their legs. I prefer trotters; they move like horses pulling Cinderella’s carriage. If we had phones or the internet, I’d show you. Maybe next time, if you’d like, I can get clearance and bring some photos.”
“Yeah, sure, the mentor program may give you a little slack.”
I paused, then probed, “Tell me about you.”
“I’m Levi Thomas, 28, four years in, one year to go. Most of my screwed-up family is in Georgia, and my hobby and work were cocaine related.”
A slight shiver slid down my spine and made me question what I was doing here.
