Chapter 85: Drummer Boys Do The Time

This is a pretty long chapter, but it just didn't feel right to break it up, so settle in and enjoy!

Bodie, Two and Half Months Later

My alarm rings at 4:45am, and I'm off to the bathroom, quietly shuffling through my assigned dormitory at Camp Hotchkiss. The guard in the viewing room looks at me briefly through the glass, then returns to his Internet viewing. Technically, prisoners aren't allowed out of their bunks before morning count, but in reality he doesn't care where I go or what I do as long as I'm standing outside my cubicle at 5am.

I've been here two weeks, and I've been getting up at 4:45 every morning. I do not want to be standing behind a line of fifty guys after breakfast, all twirling their rolls of toilet paper, waiting, like them, for my turn to take a shit.

Knowing what I knew from juvi about all that, that was my first goal upon arriving here. Establish my early morning routine. I was actually already working on it while I was in custody before my sentencing.

For the first few weeks I was in Federal custody in some government building in Atlanta, I was confined to a room barely bigger than a closet, with a cot a sink and a toilet. I did nothing but sleep. I was that exhausted. The only interruptions of my sleep were the occasional meal, and trips to the interrogation room where I met with an endless stream of Justice Department officials and my legal team. Varrick's visits were also documented as "official".

They were not.

He and I would chat for about fifteen minutes, in which time he would assure me that my mom was holding up just fine and that he saw Marley and Darius every day and they were good, too, and then he would leave me in the interrogation room with his phone for about two hours. I mostly talked to Marley and Darius and my Mom, though I would have brief conversations with Leed and Madam too. Even Marcy and Riley a few times, though Riley's calls were extremely curt and only related to dissolving contracts and deals.

My time in the tiny holding room was thankfully short lived. At my indictment, I was deemed a flight risk and denied bail—a predetermined outcome to keep me safe in custody.

Now, I shoulda gone to a local jail at that point if I didn't have a special deal, but where I actually went was a safe house. It was a dump with roaches, and I couldn't go outside, and a starstruck female FBI agent who got on my nerves was my constant companion, but otherwise I was pretty free to roam around inside the little house, doing whatever I wanted to do. Varrick snuck me a burner and I could talk to Marley and Darius whenever I pleased.

There, I got somewhat reinvigorated. With nothing to do but cool my heels, argue with Darius about why now is the WORST time for him to start his career, and have as much phone sex with Marley as possible, I also managed to read a bunch of books on making prison productive, so I had a plan in place when I got here.

I won't lie, I am luckier than a lot of poor bastards here. I had a pretty good idea what to expect upon arriving, and unlike a lot of them, I wasn't worn down from a frustrating legal battle. The only reason it took two months to actually start my sentence was the slow wheels of justice waiting on my indictment and the tedious lawyering to arrange my final plea deal and surrender terms, plus negotiate me a few perks that admittedly, most guys in prison can't hope to have.

Not even most of the uber-rich hedge fund criminals managed to get a daily email time like I have. Even better than that, they worked me some additional visitation—though its framed as family counseling time with a licensed clinical social worker. The biggest hang up on the final draft of my Justice Department deal, and the one I honestly cared about least, was the film shoot for the Soundcrush documentary. I guess no one has probably ever negotiated a two day film shoot inside Camp Hotchkiss—although that won't happen for a few months. The lawyers and Riley and the warden here are still working out the permissions and the details.

So yeah, I'm unbelievably lucky. Even if I have to serve every day of my three year sentence—which hopefully I won't—I'm know how good I've got it.

I keep that shit on the DL, though.

In prison, if you want to get through easy—you keep your head down, your bunk free of contraband, and your mouth shut. You don't brag about privileges you acquire through legal maneuvering or bribes or because a guard likes you or however you manage them, you don't write up a bunch of cop-outs complaining about the racism of the guards that don't like, and you don't ever, ever, talk about how good you had it on the outside before.

Morning count is done. My cubicle mate—Greggs—is a repeat offender that's serving life for drugs. He nods at me approvingly when the guardssaunters through our bunk without rifling anything that we will have to clean up and leaves us in peace, recording two clicks on his counter.

That means I haven't annoyed them with too many questions about how shit works, or asked too many times when my commissary funds will come through, and my case manager hasn't told the guards I need to be humbled, either.

Greggs really appreciates my chill. I'm sure he hates participating in the orientation of a fish—a newbie to prison.

"You might as well go ahead and tell me. They told me I was getting a spoiled rich rock star to break in, but I know you been in before, you already got this shit figured out," Greggs says suspiciously.

I don't talk to him a lot, but I can't see any harm in telling the truth here. "Three years in juvi. Trap got raided and I got caught trying to save the case of blow."

He just nods respectfully and shuffles off to wait in the bathroom line. He ain't going nowhere else; he don't mind the thirty minute wait.

Now that count is over, a lot of the inmates will just go back to sleep until breakfast at eight, but I move to the door to wait with the other exercise junkies for the "yard open" call.

Yard is not really a euphemism. Camp Hotchkiss is a prison camp—the least secure of all minimum security prisons. Outside, there is a well kept field of green, a basketball court, a field house with weights and cardio equipment, and a large track encompassing both.

Beyond the track there are woods on all sides and a long drive that leads to a state highway...several miles away. There is a guard tower to oversee the yard, and I entered through a gate, but here on the track, there isn't even a fence visible. Just the solitude of woods.

That's why I run ten miles every morning instead of hitting the weights or shooting hoops. Running seems safer, anyway. In juvi, I saw a couple of guys get strains or sprains from vigorous workouts and they suffered with them pretty much indefinitely. There's no decent medical care, no rehab, no cortisone shots, no ice packs, nothing like that, even in a prison as "nice" as this.

Running, I mostly enjoy the woods, but I also observe the yard. There are two types of criminals here—white collar criminals and minor thugs convicted of non-violent crimes like drugs or racketeering. In other words...lawyers/hedge fund managers and gangbangers.

In prison, race always defines, but in a minimum security camp like this, class defines, too. The rich white guys stick together. They have to, no one else would have them. Even the guards hate them, because a guard makes crap money and works a dangerous job and those rich guys are mostly all here because they cheated the system and stole money out of working joes' pockets. Everybody else mostly shakes out on the color lines...the blacks, the browns, and the poor white drug dealer types all stick to their own groups.

Obviously at chow, I sit with the black gang-bangers, but it's kinda funny how the rich white guys all try to talk to me. Yesterday, during "music club"—which I'm about to take over, once I get acclimated—one of the white guys who plays serious classical guitar even gave me his old brokerage card.

"I'm stripped of my broker's license, of course, but my firm had a lot of celebrity clients. Some of the brokers did a better and more ethical job than I did. You might need a fresh perspective on your finances, considering all this..." he said grimly. "I imagine your income has been dramatically curtailed."

"You ain't wrong, but I wasn't one of those celebrities who blew through everything," I told him. "I'll be alright."

"Good for you," he had said neutrally. "I left my family practically penniless, after fighting my court case."

That gave me something to be grateful for, at least—that Marley and Darius don't have to worry about money. Although I won't lie and say I haven't been mildly dismayed at how quickly the bank account has been going down, down, down, instead of up, up, up.

It's been an expensive few months. I'm not incarcerated in Atlanta but in Maryland, and so I had to purchase a new property— a condo in a small city nearby for when Marley and Darius will fly up for our weekly visits. I also employed a housekeeper there, put a Mercedes sedan in the garage.

Varrick has had to triple security at home in Atlanta. Marcy has had to add to staff to better spin every official news report about my arrest, trial, and sentencing, plus keep press off Marley and Darius as much as possible.

I also added a "butler" to staff at home, but he's really just one of the security guys that I promoted—one I know I can trust to help Marley with the heavy lifting and any small things that go wrong around the house.

I know Marley could pick up a phone and call a plummer or electrician or carpenter or whatever, but I want Darius to be handy around a house, so I want someone there to teach him like I do, when things come up. Adam would step in to help, but he can't be running down to Atlanta from Nashville every time a toilet won't stop running.

So yeah, a lot of expenses I didn't even see coming. Not to mention I paid a legal team an unbelievable amount of money to do not much more than negotiate me email privileges while I'm sent up.

It's a good thing I'll still make royalties and income from my personal investments, because otherwise...my celebrity income has plummeted over a cliff. I lost money on the Dharma deal when Colossal bought B-side, and all the brands I sponsor dumped me, of course.

It's not just me. All Daemon's businesses—mine, since I was his partner—were seized and every Sixer put out of work, although I guess I should be grateful that none of them were prosecuted.

When my accountant told Marley that my available accounts were not projected to sustain the expenses over the next couple of years and wanted to know if I wanted to begin liquidating some other assets, I thought about selling the LA house, but Marley thinks we should just wait awhile, until everything settles down. We can pull out of some investments later if we need to.

I suppose it's not that big of a deal...if we live modestly, like regular people, money is never going to be a real problem, but I can't imagine going from jail to retirement at thirty three, or whenever I get out.

I honestly don't know what I'll do for a living, when this is over. I didn't really love the business side of owning a vanity label, although I enjoyed seeing my artists grow. I still have unofficial duties guiding a few of them over email, but I know over time their own management will take over my creative vision for them, and we will all go our own ways.

Maybe I will still be able to produce Evangeline's next album, if I get paroled. Maybe I'll just produce records as a career from now own. Honestly, I can't even conceive of ever joining another band. But maybe the "break-up" is just too fresh. I don't know.

I typically skip breakfast—I'm not missing anything—and hit the showers during that meal time. Everyone in prison works, and eventually I'll have a job to go too three or four days a week, but technically I'm still in my orientation phase so I haven't been assigned one yet.

After a super fast shower, I put on the official prison uniform of Camp Hotchkiss—white t-shirts and get this...khaki pants, cause you know...all the white boys feel comfortable like that— and I'm on my way to check my email, when I'm accosted in the hall by a guard.

"Jamison! Report to Warren!"

Shit.

Joe Warren is my case manager. I don't know what this is about, and I don't mind going to see him, but my deal with email privileges is that it has to take place before the library opens to population—so that nobody sees.

Warren gave me the keycode for the library at my in-processing and set me up a Corrlinks account—prison Gmail--and warned me only to access it during breakfast chow time and to make sure to keep it discreet and follow the content guidelines in my handbook or the privilege would be revoked. There's a few of the rich white guys with the same privilege and we sort of do this look-out thing for each other, so that the gen pop doesn't see us going into the library when it's closed.

I knock on the door of Warren's office and he waves me in. He's a middleaged paper pusher type. Losing hair on top and gaining weight in the middle. He's alright, though. Maybe not the idealistic bleeding heart case worker I had in juvi, who forced an angry, bewildered boy into music therapy and came to Soundcrush's first big show years later, but so far, Warren seems to be fair with the inmates and knowledgeable about how to work the system for good outcomes.

"You seem to be acclimating well. Much better than I expected, considering your celebrity status," he says, looking over my file on his computer. "You haven't filed any cop-outs, you haven't gotten any shots from the guards, and I've seen you already developing a good routine for yourself."

"Ain't my first rodeo."

"Yes, I'm aware of your experiences in juvenile detention, just as I'm aware of your cooperation with the Justice Department and your subsequent deal." He takes off his glasses. "Did you read your policy handbook? You didn't return the signature page to me."

I grin. "Oh, I read it. I honestly didn't think you would give a shit, though."

He smiles and hands me another signature page and a pen. "I like to keep my files in order."

I sign carefully. Clayton Jamison. "It's okay to admit you just want my autograph," I tell him, testing a joke with him.

He laughs. "My daughter definitely would."

I cap my pen, handing it back. "A sharpie works better if you have something you want me to sign for her..."

He catches my vibe. "No, nothing like that. I haven't mentioned you to my family. Your privacy rights prevent me from discussing your incarceration here."

Wow. "My fiancée will be so proud to hear about your ethics." When he blinks at me, I expound, "She's a clinical psychologist. Or...she was. She doesn't practice anymore. Except informally, with crazy rock star clients."

He smiles and looks at my file again. "Ah. Dr. Marley Watkins. I see she's on your visitation list, and her application has been received. Along with...Darius Watkins...he's her son?"

"Our son."

"Your stepson?"

"No, biological. Watkins is his legal name though he goes by Darius Jaymes as a stage name—an tribute to my last name..."

He doesn't say anything, just types. Making a note of that, I guess.

"Okay. So, now that you've been here a couple of weeks, do you have any concerns you would like to tell me about?"

"Not really. I mean, this place is cake compared to the juvi detention center I was in."

"Yes. Teenage inmates can be very volatile and demonstrate it in a variety of aggressive ways. So no...personal safety concerns on your part, then?"

I grin. "Nobody's pushing up on my sexy rock star ass, if that's what you mean."

He raises his eyebrows. "That's good. Don't get too lax in your personal safety, however. This is still a prison environment where unexpected crimes do take place. There are several sexual violence complaints every year, and a murder couple years back. Poker dispute."

"Don't worry. I know how to watch my back."

"Good. So no other concerns?"

"Not really. I think the guards stole a couple of books that should have come to me in the mail. My commissary account hasn't come through..."

He shakes his head at my minor complaints, like I knew he would. "The commissary funding takes time to get set up. The funds go through a federal agency and a routing bank before they come here. Out of my control. Sorry. As far as the books, you didn't file a cop-out..."

"Cause I ain't stupid. I'm not officially complaining, I'm just letting you know. Your guards steal."

"All mail is screened. Perhaps there was a note written inside or the book material itself was deemed inappropriate." He leans across his desk, "But if you'll take some advice? Tell your famous friend to stop making jokes and signing Leed Lawson to them in the cover of the books he sends you."

"Ah. So that's why. Thanks for the tip."

"You're welcome. Okay, so..." he fills out my name on a pre-printed document. "Here's your work assignment. Officer Dorset supervises all clerical and educational work details, you'll report to him for your curriculum materials and class schedule."

I look down at the paper. "I'm a GED instructor? That does not seem right."

"Are you actually complaining about your work assignment?" He gives me a dry look. "You'd rather clean toilets? Or cook?"

"No, I'm just saying... wouldn't one of those homies in block B with a MBA be better at that?"

He smiles at my joke. The dormitories are unofficially segregated too, unless desegregation is applied by the guards as a punishment. Block B is where the white collar criminals reside with the poor white boys.

"You graduated from college Summa Cum Laude in a pre-law. You ran your own record label. You successfully survived two years as an embedded informant for the CIA. You are telling me you aren't qualified to teach basic math, reading, science and social studies?"

"Well, naw...I guess I can do that, if I brush up on photosynthesis and the quadratic formula and shit..."

He smiles. "You are one of only three minorities in this facility with a college degree. I think you could be a good role model for some of the younger inmates."

"Ok. Sure. Happy to."

Actually, Moran will be fucking thrilled to hear about me helping inmates get their GED. I don't say anything to Warren about the film shoot, though. I don't know if he's aware, and I want to build a better report before we start talking about my privileges that are going to disrupt the routine and cause hassles.

"Anything else?"

I saved the most important thing for last, because even though he seems nice, I know there are only so many hours in his work day. If he only does one thing to help me, this is the thing I want.

"Can you tell me if my visitor applications have been approved?"

"They have been approved by me. They have to go all the way up the warden's office, then come back down to the visitation center. It just..."

"Takes time, I know." Everything in prison moves at a snail's pace. It's frustrating, because nobody tells you anything, and nobody from the prison system communicates at all with family members on the outside.

The only way I will know when Marley and Darius and my mom are approved to come visit is when this guy Warren gets around to making a call to the guards at the visitation to see if my family has been put on the list. Then I can use my phone time to tell Marley when to come visit. If I don't get face time with Warren, or if he goes on vacation or something, I won't know for weeks if they have been approved.

I saw Marley and Darius for about an hour on the day I surrendered here, but before that I hadn't been in a room with them in over a month. I'm dying for a visit already.

"All right then. You can go. And..." he hands me another piece of paper. "Report to Dr. Prajna next Tuesday at 2pm in Counseling Room 4. She's your social worker who'll be doing your family therapy. This is an informal interview with just you to start, and this is your only notice. She won't track you down on the pod, she'll just use your time to make patient notes and move on to her next patient if you forget."

"Thanks for the heads up."

I have time to slip into the library and read a quick email from Leed.

In Iceland. Ollie has never seen snow before. Can you believe that? We made a snowman.

There's a picture inserted of a snowman in a leather jacket with a head scarf. A beer bottle wedged in one stick hand and a microphone in the other.

PS You should get up here and see these Northern Lights. Oh wait...I guess you are little tied down right now...

I actually appreciate the way Leed is not afraid to share his still fun and fabulous lifestyle or to make a joke of my incarceration. I refrain from responding, Fuck you, You Unfunny Fucker only because I figure my email might be screened too, and who knows what might get kicked out. Instead I type back...

Having too much fun at Club Fed to even think about roughing it in Iceland. Tell my little cuz Hi. Give Sunny a kiss for me. A hot one from me...not one of the sappy excuses you slap on her. Still no luck tracking down the books you sent. Maybe stop autographing them. That might increase the chance they don't get "lost" in transit.

Three days later, I receive three pieces of mail...a card from my mom, a long love letter from Marley, and a replacement copy of Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. The cover has no inscription but at the bottom of a chapter in the middle of the book, about a third of the way in, Leed has filled in the space with a note.

Remember the summer we met? I was reading this book. I said, "Fuck suffering, I reject that." I was a dumbass at fifteen. Seasons of suffering are inevitable. But seasons come and go. Rock stars never die.

#

Shadowing one of the current instructors in the GED course keeps me busy most of the week. He's boring a fuck and even though the guys in the class want to be here, they have a hard time staying focused on his lecture about the economic repercussions of WWII, followed by how to factor algebraic expressions.

Even I'm nodding off. I resolve to be a much more entertaining teacher. Make raps and play games and shit.

After class, I spend an hour in the commissary line but today it's worth it because my funds have finally come through. I give my list to the guy and and am soon strolling back to my cube feeling like a king, with a decent towel, peanut butter and crackers and ramen noodles and packets of oatmeal and tuna and a microwave bowl and jolly ranchers and shower shoes and a radio and earbuds and stamps.

The stamps I don't strictly need—I email Marley every day, but I thought it would be romantic to send her an actual love letter. She sends me one every week but until my commissary came through, I didn't have the stamps to send one back.

Greggs watches me putting my stash away in my cubicle. "You only get $300 dollars a month to spend. You are gonna run through it fast, rich boy," he warns.

"There's only one week left in the month. I'll get a new credit next week." I hand him a sack and his eyes go wide. It's filled with more groceries—dried shredded beef, refried beans, tortillas, velveeta cheese, spices.

"Will you ask that boy of yours to make those microwave tacos like he does for the brown birthdays?" I ask casually. Greggs has enough cred here to do what he wants, and he is friendly with one of the brown lifers. The guy in question is bunk mates with another Latino guy who is not half bad with a mandolin, and he thinks of himself as the music club leader. Obviously I need to get in good with him.

"Who you gon' invite to your little Taco Tuesday?" Greggs asks suspiciously.

I grin at him. "You obviously, cause you hookin' it up. The master chef and his boy Holmes with the mandolin. That white guy Hollingsworth? I know he's a rich thief but he plays good guitar, so he can't be all bad."

"You startin' a band?"

"Maybe."

At two o'clock I report for my interview with Dr. Prajna. She opens the door to her office, but I have no idea what she looks like, because the space is filled with the scent of jasmine and I'm already looking past the Doc.

Marley is the best thing I've ever seen. She's in jeans and a plain dark shirt, no heels, no jewelry, no LA makeup, but she's wearing the most beautiful smile.

I cross the room and catch her up in a gentle hug, only because figure if it's sweet and not sexy, Dr. Pranja might let it go on longer.

Marley's hands rub my neck, pat my back, and nothing has ever felt so good. That's the thing no one tells you about in custody, jail, prison. The lack of being touched is so lonely.

Finally, Dr. Pranja clear her throat tactfully and I release Marley reluctantly.

"Surprise," she whispers through her tears.

"It is," I agree. "A big surprise."

"I checked and her visitation status was approved yesterday. I called her on the off chance she could make our first session today," Dr. Pranja offers.

Marley and I are staring at each other. There is so much I want to tell her, but it's weird, with our stranger therapist in the mix.

"I'm so glad you are here," I whisper, squeezing her hands, then letting the go reluctantly. I know it's not allowed during regular visitations, I don't know about therapy visitation.

"Me too. Darius wanted to come, but..."

"I think it would be better to start with the two of you and add him into our sessions. He can come to your regular visitation next week," Dr. Pranja explains.

"Okay," I mumble, still drinking Marley's radiance in. I miss him too, but in a way I'm glad. This way I get to focus only on her, for an hour.

We sit, and Dr. Pranja begins to explain the rules—the same as contact visitation rules. A hug is allowed at the beginning and end, no kissing, no hand-holding. "I'm not a stickler for the hand-holding rule during our closed sessions," she smiles.

I take Marley's hand at once. She makes the sexy, snorty laugh. I laugh back. The hilarity goes on for minutes. We laugh until we cry.

Finally Dr. Pranja offers us tissues, and bottles of water. "I'm glad to see this is a happy reunion. Sometimes there is a lot of resentment and confusion when a family member becomes incarcerated."

"There's...some confusion," Marley admits. She's speaking to the doctor, but we can't take our eyes off each other.

"There's a little resentment," I confess.

"Okay, let's start there. Bodie why don't you tell me why you are feeling resentment and Marley then you can explain your feelings of confusion."

I play with her empty ring finger. I know she can't wear jewelry to visit, and I should have known that Doctor Watkins would have brushed up on all the visitation dress code rules and followed them to the letter, so I'm not bothered by her removing her engagement ring.

"I wanted to get married, before I surrendered. I knew I was coming to prison, we had the opportunity, the resources—Marley didn't want to." I'd given Dr. Pranja a cursory glance, and now I refocus on Marley. "It hurt, baby. I know you love me, and I know you were going through so much, but still...it hurt."

"I'm sorry it hurt you. But that's what I'm confused about. I'm scared of what this experience is going to do to us. Prison is so hard, it changed me so much. I didn't want to start our married life separated, both of us struggling, and have this fear hanging over me that you won't be the same man I married, when you come home."

"So...you've been to prison in the past, Marley?" Dr. Pranja probes.

"At seventeen. Bodie and I were both sent to jail in a drug bust in our neighborhood. Before that, we had had a brief secret relationship. I wasn't honest with him and he was angry with me when some truths came to light. Later, I gave birth to our son in prison. There were complicated circumstances but the incarceration was one of the reasons we lost contact and did not reunite. He didn't know about his son. We only found our way back to each other about two and half years ago."

"Well given that history I would say that both Bodie's resentment and your confusion are very valid emotions on both sides," Dr. Pranja says. "I think it's a very good place to begin."

And so we do. Once a week, we work through all our history, all our fears, all our hopes and dreams for the life we have. For the first time since we've been together, we can actually talk about everything. There are no subjects that are off limits like before, no places we can't go, no truths we can't tell.

Our therapy isn't limited to the one hour a week with Dr. Pranja. We leave emails, regular visitation and phone calls for the lighter news and domestic stuff, but we write long letters to each other, tearing down all the walls, exploring all the trauma we've endured together and separate, and giving each other our hearts, as if it were lover's blood and not ink spread on each page.

A few months into my sentence, even though we've shared no touches but brief hugs, I feel more in love with Marley and in more intimate possession of her love than I have ever felt in any sex or parenting act we have ever shared. I keep the letters in a spare pillowcase beneath my mattress and she is there with me every night when I go to sleep and every morning when I wake.

#

Four months later

"Open it, Dawg," I prod McAlister.

The dude rubs his gold grill and shoves the letter at me. "Naw, you open it."

I rip open the envelope. "Congratulations. You passed! You got your GED!"

He laughs and we clap it out. He tells me I'm the best teacher ever. A bunch of his homies start to holler congratulations and we catch the attention of a guard.

"Pipe down, fish are walking!" The guard yells, gesturing to the door where new inmates enter after their strip search and medical exam.

A lot of guys will hang on the wall and taunt new prisoners—still in their orange jump suits—or just give 'em the stare down, but I don't go in for that, so I turn to go, but then the door opens, and I do a double take as the first guy comes through.

"Son of a goddamn motherfucking whore!" I exclaim.

"You know that white boy?" McAlister asks. "He fuck your crew over?"

"Naw, he is my crew," I growl.

"What?" McAlister says.

"Yeah, we're real progressive down Atlanta way. We let white boys in my gang," I say.

He snorts. "We don't do that in here, B."

McAlister is the Big Dawg of the crew I loosely associate with. His words are more than words; they are warning to me, too.

I wait, as Preston is led by the guard down to the hall to "sick ward" where he will bunk the first couple of nights before he's assigned a cube. He keeps his head up, his eyes forward, his thug swagger.

Until he sees me. Then he stops, his eyes going round for one second.

"Bodie! Jesus fuck!" he exclaims.

"Keep moving." The guard pushes him down the hall.

Forty five minutes later, I stroll in the sick ward. Preston is sitting on the bunk like a zombie, staring at the wall. The other fish is much more relaxed. He's already asleep with his back turned.

"First time inside?" I ask Preston.

He nods.

"What the fuck did you do?"

"I...I thought I could do it myself. I didn't know what I didn't know. I didn't know about kickbacks to the beat cops or overstepping turf. Shit...it wasn't just me. I got five other Sixers and two white boys you don't know busted, too."

"You fucking idiot. You tried to restart Sixmob!?!?!" I hiss.

He rubs a hand over his shaved head. "I don't know why I got sent here. They all got jail down in Georgia."

I can guess why he got sent here. Varrick must have seen his arrest come over his vast ticker tape of criminal activity. He probably thought Preston would need a little help on the inside, skinny scared white boy and all.

"How long did you get?"

"A nickel."

"That's not bad. You could make parole in two and half..."

He nods, unconvinced. I sigh. The kid is barely twenty. Five years seems like a long damn time to him.

I shake the ziploc baggie I'm holding—containing a toothbrush, tiny tube of toothpaste, bar of soap, sample deodorant, and the worlds smallest towel in it.

"I'm so fucking pissed at you for going back to dealin' I am tempted not even to give you your welcome packet. But here it is." I toss it on his bunk. "Courtesy of Little White Smith's car. Be sure to thank him for it."

"Little White Who's What?"

"Little White Smith. He's in charge of the white boy dealer car—the gang of cats like you.He was gonna bring it himself, but I told him I knew you and he's in my GED class so I talked him into letting me bring it.

"Make sure you thank the right Smith for your toiletries. Little White Smith. Not to be confused with Fatty Black Smith. I know you don't see color, but you better learn to see it in here or you're gonna get your ass beat for oversteppin'."

He picks up the bag, "I...I don't understand. Why would anyone give me this?"

I sigh. He really is a scared fish. "This ain't the Hyatt, there ain't no little soaps in the bathroom. You won't get any more toiletries unless you buy them at commissary. It takes a while for your family to get your JPay account set up. So a few decent brothers in each crew run a hospitality service to get you started. So you don't stink up the pod."

He nods. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank—"

"Little White Smith, got it."

"Preston, you got any family that know you are in here?"

He shakes his head.

"Okay." I pull a pencil and notebook from my pocket—I always carry it to write down song lyrics or make little notes for my letters to Marley. "Write down your social. I'll have Marley set you up a JPay account for your commissary."

He tries to protest.

"Look, the case worker he loves me, if you make me I'll just get your social from him. You can't fucking survive in here without some commissary, man."

He writes down the digits.

"Thank you," he says with his head bowed.

I feel like shit. I can't be his BFF in here. It just don't work like that. But I can help him in other ways.

"Did you graduate high school?" I ask.

He nods. I figured.

"Good, you can join the college readiness program and start an online class. It's free and it's pretty basic...just an introductory course, to show you can do it, if you want. I help with getting guys started. Monday Wednesday Friday at 7pm in the library. You come, okay?

"And you come to music club— I'll teach you to play the drums, I finally got approved to donate a decent kit last month. Music Club is Tuesday and Thursday nights in the chapel. And if you wanna run, get your ass up by 5am for open yard and meet me on the track. Otherwise, for right now, you stick close to B block and you sit with Little White Smith's crew at chow and you don't bother me with questions, okay? You start off crossing too many lines at first, you're asking for trouble. Later on...when your crew accepts you, you can mix more freely. I'll see you more then, okay?"

He nods but his glassy gaze is completely unfixed. I'm not sure he's taken in half of what I've said. I hope he's not one of those cats that fucking loses it and tries to hang himself with the bed sheets.

"Preston. Look at me and tell me what the fuck is in your head right now."

His gaze moves slowly to me, like he's in a dream. Or a nightmare.

"When I was a little kid, I always wanted to be an engineer. I was sure I was gonna work at NASA. I don't know how my life ended up like this," he whispers.

I smile. Well, well. Preston had a dream once upon a time, that wasn't dealing drugs.

That's the best thing I've heard all week—since Darius sent me his latest demo.

"Your life ain't over, Prez. I ain't gon' lie—you're not gonna work at NASA now, with a criminal record, but there are other kinds of engineers. Sound engineers, for example," I throw out, knowing how much he loves music, how easily he picks apart the elements, how good his rhythm and ear and pitch are, even if he never really had the opportunity to learn to play.

I think I see a little spark of interest behind the scared mask.

"Music club. College nights. You come. Once you complete the college readiness course, we'll talk about some online music producing programs."

He nods. "Okay."

#

Christmas Day

"Mele Kalikmaka, Jasmine," I say as soon as she answers.

"Mele Kalikmaka, Baby!" she sing songs back. She puts me on speaker right away, and a chorus of Darius, my mom, and Varrick all parrot back the holiday greeting.

"How are you enjoying your gift?" I ask. I sent them all to Hawaii for Christmas. I got the idea from Leed, who said SCIC was headed to Australia. I thought my own crew deserved a tropical Christmas. Ashlynn and Kat were more than happy to help me plan the trip via email.

"It's nearly perfect," she says with meaning.

"Then we should make it a tradition and do it again next year."

"And you'll be here, and it will be perfect," she says.

God I hope so. I'm ten months in, I'm hoping to be up for parole in late summer next year. But parole boards sometimes move slowly. Even when I qualify, it can take months to get a hearing. I don't tell Jaz that. She knows. Instead, I join her in hoping for the best. "We could make it a honeymoon," I suggest.

"Sure, we'd all love to come on your honeymoon. Right Vare?" Darius teases.

"He messed with mine, I think turn about's fair," Varrick agrees.

"Oh hush, we had a wonderful honeymoon," my mother says. "Paris in the spring was even better than the honeymoon we had planned."

"True. I'll never forget that those afternoons in the Shangri-La..."

"Okay okay, I only have a few minutes here and I don't care to waste it on that kind of talk..." I joke.

"Baby, did you get your care packages?"

You can't really receive personal Christmas gifts in prison, but at this camp you can receive some pre-made care packages...basically like a stocking. Candy, toiletries, small comfort items like nice socks, that kind of stuff. They all sent me one, so I got four. I kept one, gave one to Prez and divied the rest up to the guys who never get shit from home.

"Yes ma'am, I sure did, thank you, I'll have socks and beef jerky for the whole year," I lie. I don't think they would understand that I got more pleasure giving their gifts away than I would from utilizing them myself.

They tell me a little more about their vacation, and my time is soon up. Marley feels guilty about not coming to visit next week, but I insist they stay the full two weeks, through New Year.

Love and more Merry Christmases are shared and then they are gone. I stroll back to the chapel feeling empty. I settle at the old piano. My fingers drift aimlessly over the keys for a while, playing nothing.

Eventually they find their own rythym and before long I realize I am playing The Long and Winding Road. I fumble...I can find the accompaniment but I can't remember all the lyrics after the first verse.

The wild and windy night

That the rain washed away

Has left a pool of tears...

I nod, smiling down at my keys. That's Hollingsworth—the guy that plays classical guitar—singing as he picks up the new guitar I managed to get us. We start again, but are quickly interrupted.

Preston sticks his head in. "We having music club tonight?"

"Sure why not," I say. I give Holls the nod and he starts on the guitar as I teach Prez a quick and easy pattern for this song. Then I'm back on the piano.

We play it obsessively, like a mantra. Soon we have an audience of about the half the camp.

After about the fifth time we play it, somebody yells, "Goddamn don't y'all know anything happy? It's Christmas!"

The mandolin player joins me and Holls and we play Feliz Navidad, with Preston doing his best, keeping a back beat and improvising a few fills. Not bad for a kid that's only been playing a few months.

After a half a dozen more Christmas songs, somebody comes up to throw in a free-style. The show show gets raunchy from there, basically turning into a rap-off, me using one of our precious mics and our only amp to drop a beatbox for the contestants. When the crowd starts to really cheer in enthusiasm, the guards come to bust us up.

I get a shot for an unauthorized club meeting—wrong day, wrong time.

"Merry Christmas to you too," I say cheerfully to the guard, crumpling my disciplinary slip. A shot like this means nothing. I'm almost positive he won't even file it, because it would be more paperwork for him than it's worth.

Imagine my surprise a few hours later, when Warren, red-faced and harassed, hustles into the chow hall during Christmas dinner and yells at me.

"Jamison, my office. Now!"

The whole room erupts into boos, but I hold out my hands, encouraging calm. "Chill, chill," I warn them. I don't them all in lock down, faces on the floor while they should be enjoying the best meal we've had since Thanksgiving.

"Merry Christmas?" I venture to Warren, catching up with him on the way to his office.

"It was, until I got a very urgent call from the Warden."

"Look, if this was about the shot I got earlier over my little Christmas show in the chapel, the guards completely overreacted. It was orderly. No fights, no destruction of property...it's fucking Christmas, Warren..."

"What? You got a shot? You never get shots," he says blankly.

"I know, right? That guard Brownley is a dick."

Warren waves his hand to shut me up, he's opening drawers, pulling files, throwing them on his desk. "This is not about the shot..."

Suddenly my heart starts to race. Of course not. I've lost all perspective in here. Why the hell would he get an emergency call from the Warden on Christmas if it wasn't an actual emergency?

"What's it about then? It's not my family, is it? I just talked to them this morning. They were fine. They were all fine—"

"Relax, I'm sure they are fine." He says, pulling more files.

I watch him. He paws through several folders divides his stack, sorting them into two piles.

"Well? What the hell is this about?"

"Budget cuts. The Warden says the new budget wasn't approved and the cuts go into effect January 1st. Which means I have a helluva lot of work to do between now and then. And I need your help. You, and Hollingsworth and Dietrich and Walton can all take a group."

He pulls more files, checks them for some mystery item and then sorts them into to piles, but I'm still not following.

"Are you trying to tell me the music program is being cut? Because hell, I pay for the music program?"

He looks at me in exasperation. "I'm trying to tell you we have to grant parole to ten percent of the inmate population." He hands me five files. "These guys have, in my opinion, served their debt to society and should strongly be considered by the parole board. Help them get their parole packets in shape, will you? Start with your own, of course, but it shouldn't take you long to churn it out."

My file is on the stop of the stack. "I'm not eligible for parole for another eight months," I remind him.

"Nobody gives a shit, Jamison. All that matters is that we have to cut staff. That means we have to release inmates—early parole. By January 1st. Do you want to go home or not?"

I break out into a grin. "Warren, I'm gonna hug you. I might even kiss you."

He grins but he holds out a warning finger. "Take one step toward me and I'm going to write you another shot. You don't want to explain that at your parole hearing. In two days."

#

It's totally fucked up that I am processed out four days later, and I am standing outside this prison in the cold gray morning, and nearly everyone I know and love is in a foreign country.

I decided not to tell anyone about my parole hearing, because I couldn't quite believe it was happening, and I didn't want to get their hopes up, and even if I was paroled, I had no idea how long it would take to be released. But it happened like magic. It's funny how everything take an eternity on the inside, until the money runs out. Then the government can turn out inmates out onto the street with shocking swiftness.

The hardest part of all this? Saying goodbye to Preston last night. But I promised him I would apply to visit him and I would write him with my mobile—I can't believe I've forgotten my mobile number in this year I've been without it.

It feels so weird when the guard escorts me out and turns on his heel, leaving me completely alone and free.

For a long moment, I just stand there stupidly, disbelieving. Then a familiar older man gets out a generic rental car.

"Bodie?" He says mildly to get my attention.

I roll my shoulders and experimentally lift my chin, trying to become Bodie the rock star and not Jamison the inmate again.

I smile, wondering if my teeth are still anywhere close to white. "Reverend," I put out my hand. "Thank you. So much. I mean it. I...I didn't know who else to call."

"Of course," He puts my hand smoothly in both of his. "I am glad to be of service. Always. You know that."

I nod. We make small talk in the car. He asks me if I want to go to get some food. I must have said yes, which is how we end up in a diner in Maryland. It hits me then—I have no phone, no credit card, no money, and I've just asked Adam's father to fly emergency from Nashville to Maryland...the last minute flight probably cost two large, and I have no way of reimbursing him.

"Peter, I...I don't know exactly what to do here...I don't really have a plan...everything has happened fast."

"You bet it has. Like a Christmas miracle," he says with a smile.

"Yeah," I respond. "Or like a...dream...that isn't quite making sense?"

Peter reaches out and grips my forearm.

"All you have to decide is where you want to go right now. You can come to the Farm, you can go home to Atlanta, or to your home in LA. You don't have to worry about anything else right now. Everything else can be worked out later. Either way, I'm with you until you find your balance."

So I make one simple choice to restart my life. Atlanta. It feels most like home.

I am standing under the mistletoe in my own house in my own clothes in my own unfamiliar life two days later, when Marley throws open the door and rushes into my arms.

I'm not sure what it says about me, but I loved writing this chapter. Not sure if that's because it was just something different, or maybe I would thrive in prison, bwahahaha....