Running The Books : The Adventures Of An Accidental Prison Librarian Part 6

He shook his head, laughed, and walked away.

"Just trust yourself," yourself," he said over his shoulder. "That's hard enough around this place." he said over his shoulder. "That's hard enough around this place."

A New Sheriff in Town I did trust myself. I think. At least, I was pretty certain I did. I was confident, for example, that I wasn't anything like Mike De Luca, the daytime officer posted next to the library. He was a short, hot-tempered fellow, who bore more than a pa.s.sing resemblance to Napoleon, with a hint of Mr. Bean. De Luca liked to sing commercial jingles and to answer trivia questions. Wherever possible, he combined these interests into a round of Name That Tune Name That Tune, a game he played with gladiatorial zeal. De Luca's emotions were terrifying-but predictable. When the Red Sox had won the night before, he was charming; when they lost, he was Ivan the Terrible. It was that simple. You needed only check the sports page for the De Luca forecast. He held court at his post, usually flanked by a pack of fellow union buddies. The co-cantankerous. A prison gang, one of the oldest around. They called themselves "the Angry Seven."

In doing his job keeping order and directing inmate traffic in and around the education wing, De Luca had a tendency to work himself into an eye-bulging mouth-foaming frenzy. This he called his "style."

At the end of each period, De Luca would throw open the door and charge into the library. He'd stand there like a trapped fox, eyes darting around. He had no patience for inmates who had ignored his first call of "That's a wrap!" Arms in full swing at his side, fingers a-flutter, as though itching to punch someone, he'd rush at lingering inmates yelling, Get out, get out, getout out, out, out, right now, ri' now, ri' now! Get out, get out, getout out, out, out, right now, ri' now, ri' now! His advantage was always in the surprise heavily caffeinated attack. The inmates hated him, but for the most part, he was effective. His advantage was always in the surprise heavily caffeinated attack. The inmates hated him, but for the most part, he was effective.

Months later, after he'd been deposed, I overheard him sullenly tell another officer that "the bigwigs don't like my style but they can't say I don't get the job done." This was true.

A number of inmates and staff told me that De Luca would not have dared blitz the library during the Amato era. He respected Amato-and in any case, there hadn't been a need during Amato's iron reign. De Luca's rabid incursions pointed to a lack of leaders.h.i.+p in the library: Forest and I weren't commanding enough authority and the inmates were doing as they pleased. De Luca filled the gap with his verbal a.s.saults, leaving Forest and me looking even more powerless, and the library more like a prison block. Coolidge, now just a library patron, routinely mentioned this situation in order to needle me. When I finally told him that I had a different way of running the place than Amato, he raised a lawyerly brow.

"Yes, Avi, that's my point," he said. "And that's exactly what's gonna get you in the end. Listen, De Luca ain't your boss. But you don't take control, he will be. Yeah, Amato was an a.s.shole but he understood control; you ignore it and you'll get a hundred De Lucas in here carving the place up for themselves and having a big ol' barbecue right up on your desk."

Of course, Coolidge should know. He had done just that, which was his point. Ever since Amato had paid me a visit and warned me not to spare the iron fist, I had noticed some slippage. Both inmates and officers treated the library like a truck stop. Things were getting sloppy. There was occasionally an utter lack of decorum. Materials were disappearing right and left, including a good deal of materials that could be made into weapons. We were discovering a greater volume of graffiti, of notes relating to drug deals, prost.i.tution, and other illicit activities. After each period, there was a lot of trash left behind on the tables and floors. I noticed that some of the beefs from the prison units were playing out within the library s.p.a.ce itself. If the place was, at its best, a neighborhood pub, it was, at its worst, a frontier saloon. Something had to be done. The library needed a sheriff.

As luck would have it, one of the inmates had just returned our well-worn edition of The Prince The Prince. His bookmark slipped out. It was a list of the 48 Laws of Power, a distillation of the Machiavelli-inspired 1998 Robert Greene book of the same t.i.tle. Possibly the most requested book in the library. I read the list of the 48 Laws of Power and flipped through The Prince The Prince.

Hmm, I thought.

After the rousing success of my creative writing cla.s.s for women in the tower, I decided to inaugurate my cla.s.s for men. The cla.s.s met every Monday and Wednesday in the back-back room of the library. Ten inmates signed up.

On a Wednesday afternoon, I was standing in front of the circulation desk, waiting for the inmates to file into the cla.s.sroom. Just then, the front door swung open and one of the inmates, Jason, strode in, looking straight ahead and perturbed. Officer De Luca appeared behind him, arms swinging, according to his style. His head shook as though it were about detonate.

"'Ey, get back here!" he shouted.

Jason glanced behind him. "I'm here for my cla.s.s," he said casually and proceeded to enter the room.

"Oh no you don't..." De Luca said. He was almost running now.

I decided to try to defuse the situation. "It's okay, Officer, he's in the cla.s.s. His name is on the list."

Without so much as glancing at me, De Luca said: "No, no, no, no...this guy punked me out, he's going back up to the unit. Or maybe the hole."

This was not what I wanted to hear.

I hadn't seen what had happened. Jason probably had said something stupid to him. On the other hand, De Luca's bellicose "style" no doubt provoked him. I knew Jason well. He was mild-mannered and perfectly respectful when respected. I also knew that the inmate had every right to be in the library and that by giving him a hard time and now kicking him out, De Luca was pulling a macho power play that had nothing to do with any immediate security concern. And if there was a security situation, it was because De Luca was escalating the situation.

I could feel myself getting angry. The edges of my ears began to tingle. I was sick of De Luca's style turning my library into Gitmo. Nor did I appreciate how he'd just blown me aside, without any attempt to give respect-you don't do that in prison. There were less rational things churning through my head, as well. I was still annoyed that Coolidge had conned and embarra.s.sed me. That my bosses had fired my employee without any regard for my position. I was generally sick of being messed with. And so, as my cla.s.s of ten inmates and the four members of the inmate library detail stood by, I was suddenly overcome by a spirit, the impulse to go rogue go rogue.

Every piece of prison swag I'd heard suddenly swirled into my head, and was absorbed directly into my bloodstream. The 48 Laws of Power. Law 17-Keep others in suspended terror; cultivate an air of unpredictability. Law 37-Create compelling spectacles. And the boasting of the kite writer: I'm never one that's lost for words. A b.i.t.c.h like me can't be stuck on chuck, the boss is lost, for nada. I'm a go-getter, and I go for what I want, and usually, I get what I want. Early! I'm never one that's lost for words. A b.i.t.c.h like me can't be stuck on chuck, the boss is lost, for nada. I'm a go-getter, and I go for what I want, and usually, I get what I want. Early! And not only that: The spirit of Don Amato himself descended upon me. My lips curled into a faint sneer, the haughty gaze of the prison's newest wise guy, the Sheriff Librarian. And not only that: The spirit of Don Amato himself descended upon me. My lips curled into a faint sneer, the haughty gaze of the prison's newest wise guy, the Sheriff Librarian. On the up&up and low low, you go for yourz On the up&up and low low, you go for yourz. Law 28-Enter action with boldness.

I looked squarely at De Luca.

"Okay," I said. "But now you're you're punkin' punkin' me me out. He's in out. He's in my my cla.s.s." cla.s.s."

De Luca looked at me as though for the first time. It wasn't a look of anger but of abject confusion, as though I'd just a.s.sumed physical form out of thin air. It suddenly occurred to me that he hadn't ever really noticed me. And now, out of nowhere here I was, some stranger, dressed like a first-week college freshman, talking at him like a tough guy. It must have been a bit puzzling.

"What? No, no," said De Luca. "He's coming with me." And to Jason: "You, up. You're going right back."

And that was that. I wasn't going to escalate things any further. I had made my point. (Law 47-Do not go past the mark you aimed for; in victory, learn when to stop.) It was important to let the officer save face. He was, after all, the officer; in prison, it was his a.s.s on the line.

As soon as De Luca had escorted Jason out, the other inmates commended me. "You go, Artie!," "You tell that m.u.t.h.e.rf.u.c.ka!" "We got yo back, bro"-all of which made me cringe. Nevertheless, it was respect, political capital that I could store away. And perhaps De Luca, the Angry Seven, and the inmates would think twice about crossing the Sheriff Librarian.

The Life-Skills Instructor's View of the De Luca Incident Yoni was getting rave reviews as a teacher in the 1-2-1 unit. The irony of his role as a "life-skills" instructor was of no consequence. When it came to teaching cla.s.ses on resume writing, job interview skills, task management, organizational methods, or any subject for that matter, he was a natural. Yoni's cla.s.sroom charisma, his native smarts, and his abundant dedication to his students compensated for his own loose organizational methods. He quickly won over his reluctant students. The inmates appreciated his ten-minute improvised stand-up routine on the potential drawbacks of listing "," as the contact information on your resume, as one inmate had proposed.

Outside the cla.s.sroom, he was having a bit more difficulty. The two women with whom Yoni shared an office were put off by his habit of clipping his fingernails at his desk, of listening to the Grateful Dead on his desk speakers, his tendency to conduct loud, badgering, interminably long, speaker-phone negotiations with box office managers, credit card people, bank tellers, and family members.

One of his officemates noted that Yoni seemed like a guy who might benefit from a severe beating. This was prison, after all; if you got out of line, someone would probably slap you down. For Yoni, it happened sooner rather than later.

He'd had a particularly egregious week. While on the phone with an important contact, Yoni had struggled to find a sc.r.a.p of paper with a phone number on it. Rifling his desk, he'd muttered, "f.u.c.k me." The contact had been offended and reported him.

But that was just the appetizer. Trying to make friendly conversation with his officemates, he'd asked one of the women who she thought was the s.e.xiest inmate in the 1-2-1 unit. She didn't appreciate the question and reported him, too.

But the low moment came when Yoni used the word n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r in his cla.s.sroom. He was teaching a cla.s.s on the economics of crime, trying to persuade the students that crime literally didn't pay. To make this point he read aloud from the chapter in in his cla.s.sroom. He was teaching a cla.s.s on the economics of crime, trying to persuade the students that crime literally didn't pay. To make this point he read aloud from the chapter in Freakonomics Freakonomics that explains why so many crack dealers live at home with their mothers. The book quotes a black crack dealer who uses the word that explains why so many crack dealers live at home with their mothers. The book quotes a black crack dealer who uses the word n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r. Yoni simply read these pa.s.sages in what was a clear educational context. But when a disgruntled inmate complained that he hadn't signed up for a cla.s.s in order to be called a n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r by some white guy, Yoni, like so many times before, realized he was in trouble. by some white guy, Yoni, like so many times before, realized he was in trouble.

No prison administrator would come to his defense. "You don't ever use that word in prison," he was told, "educational context or not." The director of the Offender Re-entry Program, the NGO who had hired him, was furious: he had inadvertently compromised the entire outfit.

Yoni was formally reprimanded, forced to sign an official doc.u.ment of censure that listed his offenses-from cursing on the phone, to the inappropriate question, to his use of the word n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r. The doc.u.ment would be placed in his employment file for eternity. It was that kind of week.

The punishment served its purpose. Yoni reined in his behavior, and his officemates were willing to forgive and forget. Things were just beginning to quiet down, and his coworkers and students were starting to like him and to appreciate him as a lovable eccentric. Then the garlic incident happened.

Yoni had recently bought a gallon tub of peeled garlic. This was done to save money. But of course he hadn't succeeded in eating it all, and the garlic had begun to turn. Ever eager to get his money's worth, Yoni fried the remaining garlic cloves in oil. Once sufficiently browned, he poured them into a bowl, sat down, and gobbled up every last one. Upwards of thirty cloves of garlic. That was his dinner, a pound or so of fried not-quite-fresh garlic, and nothing else.

He didn't die in his sleep. But he came close. On his way out to work the next morning, after a long, turbulent night, he emailed me a one-line update, "i smell quite putrid. interesting."

Perhaps to him, a future anthropologist, it was. To the rest of humanity, however, it was insufferable. Roughly twelve hours after his garlic feast, Yoni showed up to work at prison, where the windows are sealed shut, the air recycled. He walked into the prison lobby, the sallyport, up a few halls, through the 1-2-1 prison unit, into his small, shared office. Everything seemed fine.

Everything was not fine. Yoni did not appreciate the extent of the problem. The stench pumped out from every pore, follicle, and orifice of his body, and hovered around him in a hazy poisonous aura. Nor had the smell diminished over the hours. On the contrary. Yoni was a walking radiator of toxicity, filling every s.p.a.ce he entered with a wretched odor.

He walked into his office, sat at his desk, smiled, said good morning to his officemate, Peggy. She just looked at him in disbelief, covered her nose with her hand.

"Oh. My. G.o.d," she said. "Are you kidding kidding me?" me?"

Less than a month after he'd been formally reprimanded, he was called back into his boss's office. He was certain this was it. Holding her nose, a look of deep despair on her face, his boss said, "Yoni, I don't know how to have this conversation," and then quickly added, "You know what, we aren't even going to have this conversation." He a.s.sured her that this was really it. He was finally going to get his act together.

That afternoon, Yoni, with his toxic reek, thankfully did not make his usual visit to the library to say h.e.l.lo. But we spoke over the phone. He told me the pitiful tale of his day. The most surprising part, for me, was the moral of the story.

"The garlic was a really bad move," he admitted, "but you were much stupider, and f.u.c.kin' crazy crazy, for getting into a beef with De Luca."

I argued the point with him. But it was academic. A man who's recently consumed thirty fried garlic cloves has crossed over into some mystical realm few have entered and has achieved some kind of Zen-like understanding of human folly. You cannot challenge the master's authority. When he criticizes your behavior, you heed his words.

And he was right. I'd jeopardized my relations.h.i.+p with De Luca, who was after all a necessary ally. With a day's introspection, and Yoni's metaphysical guidance, I was able to admit that I not only behaved rashly, but out of weakness. And that De Luca, despite his contentious "style," and regardless of his a.s.sociation with the seedy likes of the Angry Seven, was really after all a decent guy who liked to sing jingles. I had to smooth things over with him. But before I had a chance, De Luca approached me.

I was standing behind the counter. No one else was around. De Luca seemed very uncomfortable, almost as though forced to talk to me. He addressed me by name-having clearly asked someone what to call me-and apologized for removing one of my students and for "stepping on your toes." He explained that he had to take action against the inmate. I agreed in principle, apologized for my rude comment, and reiterated that we needed to work together to avoid misunderstandings. It was all very statesmanlike.

For the next few days I maintained my Sheriff Librarian persona, enforcing the rules with gusto, banis.h.i.+ng inmates, speaking with authority to officers, and basically taking no s.h.i.+t from anybody, Amato-style. Fat Kat pulled me aside and gave me some advice.

"I know what you're doing," he said with a smile. "And I think it's a good idea. But watch yourself. And don't ever, never, do what you did with De Luca again, or you're asking for some serious trouble. And De Luca's okay, you know? Don't go crazy here."

I shrugged.

"Listen," said Fat Kat, "you might think you're a bada.s.s. You are not a bada.s.s, my friend. You're, at best at best, a punk. So why don't you just stick to being a librarian?"

De Luca and the inmates in the library probably thought of me as an overeducated young brat who didn't know the first thing about the real world of tough-guy prison combat. And they were completely right. But if they feared me a tiny bit or thought I might be a loose cannon, that was fine with me. I now knew the 48 Laws of Power.

"To quote Dirty Harry," I replied, "I work for the city."

"To quote Dirty Harry? Okay, Avi," Kat said, walking away, laughing, "I'll remember that."

Jessica Returns After the public embarra.s.sment of my tainted Katrina drive and of my scene with De Luca, I decided to keep a low profile. I turned to a quieter matter: Jessica. I'd been mulling over her situation for weeks, wondering what it was Jessica was really after. If she wanted to connect with her son, she could. She knew where he lived. She could send him a note. Perhaps she had. She may have left him a letter, a kite, in the library books, just like everyone else. But my guess was she hadn't and that her need to look out the window came in lieu of actually contacting him.

But what exactly was she doing in that window? Did she simply want to see what he looked like after all these years? Was she tormenting herself? Was she looking for some clue, some insight, some way to understand him? Everything about this scenario, this type of longing, was entirely beyond the scope of my life experience. It was inscrutable to me.

One thing was certain. When I saw her that first day, squinting in the sun, sitting with her perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, she seemed almost hypnotized by whatever it was she saw through the window. She was oblivious to the other people in the room. I'd had to rouse her. I'd been curt with her. I'd felt immediately bad for my impatience, and doubly so for wielding my authority crudely over someone older than I. But I think my regret originated from a less palpable source, from a sense that something else, something imperceptible to me, was happening. Even before I knew the truth, that I was interrupting her in some way.

But this remained a vague feeling. Even by the standards of this cla.s.s, I barely knew her. She'd spoken maybe twice in the cla.s.s, and almost always refused to hand in her writings. When she did, she rarely offered up more than a few stingy lines and was totalitarian in self-censors.h.i.+p. I remember the day I first got arrested I remember the day I first got arrested, she once wrote for an essay a.s.signment. It was cold and cloudy. I don't remember much else It was cold and cloudy. I don't remember much else. She didn't bother including a fourth sentence in this essay (which was more of a haiku).

But still, I knew her silences were not for want of perception. This after all was the woman who'd examined Flannery O'Connor's photo and, even before reading a word, clairvoyantly summarized O'Connor's sensibility: She ain't too pretty. I trust her She ain't too pretty. I trust her. The little I knew of Jessica indicated that she had a sharp eye and that she trusted her vision. Perhaps that's why I wanted to know what she saw through that window. I thought about this often. So often, in fact, I had to wonder further: Why did I care so much?

I decided to pay her a visit in the Tower. That was one advantage of teaching in prison. The inmate students could run but they couldn't hide. It was impossible to play hookie in the joint. But as I stood in the elevator, I still wasn't sure why I was pursuing this.

Even as the door to the 1-11-2 unit rolled open, I still didn't know what I was planning to say. Before I could think about it, dozens of eyes turned my way. The women inmates, suffering from annihilating boredom, began to approach me. In seconds I was surrounded. My first reaction was, Cool, I'm a rock star Cool, I'm a rock star. My second reaction was, Get me out of here. Immediately Get me out of here. Immediately. I found myself in yet another seagulling situation. This time, it wasn't reading material inmates wanted, but attention.

Somebody leapt out of the crowd-Short.

"Whaddup Harvey!" she said.

Another inmate, whom I recognized only by face, shouted toward me. "Hey library guy," she said, waving a women's magazine, "I'm learning how to be Forty & Fabulous!" Forty & Fabulous!" She beamed a big, semi-toothless grin. Short suddenly turned serious and began working crowd control. She jostled her fellow inmates and said, "Let the man through, let the man She beamed a big, semi-toothless grin. Short suddenly turned serious and began working crowd control. She jostled her fellow inmates and said, "Let the man through, let the man through." through." She escorted me. The world's smallest bodyguard. Finally, I managed to slip through the crowd. She escorted me. The world's smallest bodyguard. Finally, I managed to slip through the crowd.

I found Jessica playing checkers. I thanked Short for her services and asked her for privacy. Jessica was not happy to see me. I cut straight to the point, even though I still wasn't sure what my point was.

"I want you to rejoin my cla.s.s," I said.

She shrugged.

"I know why you left."

She gave me a doubtful look.

"You wanted to see your son, right?" I said.

Again, she shrugged. Inmates rarely answered pointed questions, never sure if they were digging a grave for themselves or someone else.

"Okay, listen, I don't care if your son is out there or who he is or anything. But I'm willing to make a deal with you. You can sit by the window, but you can't stare out the whole cla.s.s. You need to look at me as much as you look outside, you need to do it quietly and not draw attention to yourself. And you need to partic.i.p.ate in cla.s.s. That means speaking up and putting real effort into your a.s.signments. And do me a favor," I said, with a sigh, "don't tell anyone, no no one, or I'm going to get every single person asking me to make deals. Got it?" one, or I'm going to get every single person asking me to make deals. Got it?"

She smiled faintly. We had a deal.

The Green Light Written words continued to wash up in the library. Each wave of inmates that crashed through brought forth more prison literary detritus.

At the end of a period the library would be littered with notes and shards of notes. I would walk around like a sh.e.l.l collector on a beach, gathering up legal doc.u.ments, love letters, queries, manifestos, grievances, marginalia, scribbled receipts, remnants of illicit transactions, wrap dates, rap sheets, rap lyrics, business plans, country songs, handmade advertis.e.m.e.nts for "entertainment" businesses, journal entries, betting lines, greeting cards, prayers, recipes, incantations, and lists. Many lists. The found poetry of the everyday: T-s.h.i.+rtssocksthe divorceUS v. FergusonM&Ms In their brevity, some of these notes possessed a wise cryptic quality, like a message from an oracle. A single suggestive word or phrase: No! No! or or Please Please or or It was his heart It was his heart. One that gave me pause: Take Heed Take Heed.

And plenty of new kites-aborted, shredded, completed. The inmate who described the terror of a recurring dream, a reliving of an actual trauma, in which he is caught in a house fire-only to wake up, in a fright, and realize, "Thank G.o.d, I'm only in prison." Sometimes a line or two would stay with me for days: "To Whom It May Concern: I am a 36 year old mother, grandmother and addict. The latter I'm not proud of."

The kites also brought new insights. That in the world of inmate dating, for example, a full set of teeth was a prized enough possession that it was often mentioned along with other relevant measurements. And as always, the kite writers introduced me to new, dizzying patois: "I miss u so much remenicen about them summer days buggin out bottles of henn purp hayes burning in the dutch us and the goonies...I wanna get dipped out and make my rounds yo! Saly laided up 40's bagged will actin up like he was contributing to me popin my tags..."

Among the staff, the library was synonymous with inmates leaving letters for each other. It was common for me to come across an officer in a far-flung corner of the prison-usually when I was making deliveries-who would smile upon learning that I was the prison's librarian. I always knew exactly what he was about to say: "Read any good letters lately?" And I told him the truth. "Yes, always."

The letters had clearly vexed hardline Don Amato. He had posted an enormous sign on the door leading out of the library. Like all of his signs, this was impossible to remove: BE AWARE!

LIBRARY BOOKS ARE NOT MAILBOXES.

IF CAUGHT, WE WILL TAKE AWAY ALL YOUR LIBRARY PRIVILEGES.

Although Forest and I didn't exactly allow letters, we didn't hand out punishments either. And so this was another immovable Amato sign unheeded. As usual, our semi-relaxed att.i.tude was perceived as a green light, and we were left with a steady flow of missives from the shadows.

CHAPTER 2

Books Are Not Mailboxes

I couldn't help myself. I saw an opportunity for Jessica. She was a woman in her late thirties; her son was an eighteen-year-old kid, her only child, whom she had abandoned when he was almost two, and when she had been roughly his current age. Their lives had brought them to this place, to this self-enclosed world, visible to each other through the window.

And they were even nearer to each other than that. There was a portal through which they could almost touch. The library. It was a s.p.a.ce they shared, though not at the same time. The place-ness of the library-that dynamic physical quality that made it somehow different than a pushcart of books wheeled to cells-created many unforeseen possibilities.

For a Sudanese woman awaiting deportation, for example, the library was a place for prayer. She'd find a quiet spot between the shelves, facing Mecca, p.r.o.nounce the shahada shahada, and prostrate herself before Allah. I asked her why she chose the library. There were two reasons. First, it was simply that time of day. And the second reason: "This," she said, indicating the library with a sweep of her hand, "book place, holy place. Good place for pray."

Perhaps, like creating a mosque, or using books as mailboxes, this was one of the unique improvisational properties of a library in prison: a s.p.a.ce in which to reconnect, in some way, a mother and son.

When Jessica showed up to cla.s.s again, I adjusted the seats so that the group was situated closer to the windows, and Jessica seated strategically. As the session went on, she gazed down eleven stories, watching her son walk circuits around the prison yard, shoot hoops, crack jokes with the officers. She kept her end of the agreement, humoring my a.s.signments and bringing her attention into the discussion.

I rolled with the window-gazing concept, even integrating it into the cla.s.s. I asked the women to observe and describe the view through the window. A similar a.s.signment had previously borne some fruit with the men, when I had asked them to describe the scene through their cell windows. With a painterly eye for detail (the single perk of being a jilted lover) one inmate described a crus.h.i.+ng scene. It was a late afternoon in February. The city was enveloped in a bright white cloud. It was beginning to snow. Big, succulent, slow-drifting flakes. It must have been at just the freezing point. From his cell window, which faced the front of the prison, he saw his woman, who had just brought their five-year-old son to visit. Her new boyfriend walked with her and the boy. They stopped momentarily. She said something to the new boyfriend. He leaned over, unzipped the purse she was holding, and pulled out a scarf for her. A scarf that he, the inmate watching this, had given her. Then the new boyfriend combed back her hair with his fingers, wrapped the scarf around her neck, and zipped up the purse. The three of them walked away. Witnessing this tiny moment of intimacy destroyed him, he said. He cried, he confessed, "like a little b.i.t.c.h."

Jessica dutifully described her view through the window. The pigeons, the seagulls, the tiny birds whose fearlessness she admired. (Sometimes too fearless for their own good.) She described the sky, the moon, the clouds. Anything but her son in the yard below.

Short said she "wasn't in no mood" to look out the window. This was not uncommon. Inmates were often ambivalent about windows facing the world. Window gazing in prison is not neutral. From up in the Tower, one could see not only the yard but the world beyond prison, the city's buildings, and even some details from the city streets. It was just too tantalizing to be reminded of what you couldn't have. In the library, Pitts had told me he was happy to have a cell window that faced the yard. He didn't want to look at the world while he was in prison.

And then there was Tanisha, a nineteen-year-old gang member and library regular. A window view inspired her to begin writing a book. It happened during her first week in prison. From her cell window in the prison tower she could see her entire neighborhood in the distance. She'd never had a bird's-eye view of it. But there it was-the whole picture, her entire life framed in a single window. A prison window. Perhaps it was the sudden experience of objectivity, of seeing the familiar places of her life at once-the churches, the corners where she used to hang out, the high school where she'd nearly graduated, the houses of friends and enemies, streets where she'd witnessed shootings, the building in which her mother, a homeless addict, once showed up to buy drugs from her, unaware that this particular drug operation belonged to her own teenaged daughter. Seeing everything suddenly small and silent. Something about this new vantage point, this literal new perspective, made her life and those places seem like a story story-and she, standing in that tower, its narrator. After seeing her neighborhood from up there, she told me, she'd immediately opened up a notebook and didn't stop writing until lights out. Four hours straight. And then every day since.