Read Part I

Sleep takes on a different meaning in jail. Sleep becomes an intermittent thing, something you dive in and out of, like a blissfully cool pool on a hot day. You surface to various sounds of reality: cell doors slamming, guards changing shift, boots clanging down a hall.

At 4:30 am breakfast arrives. The food is bland and cold, but I eat anyway. It's something to do. I save the juice for later. I'm dying for a cigarette.

I lie back in my bunk and stare at the graffiti covering the wall. It seems that there's not a single square inch that hasn't been marked, personalized, by the uncounted hordes who came before me. Most are gang signs and slogans. A few are religious affirmations and bible verses. One is a monotonous countdown to freedom, inscribed in a surprisingly precise hand with a felt-tip pen. "In 36 days, J.S.D will be a free man!", "In 35 days, J.S.D will be a free man!", "In 34 days, J.S.D will be a free man!" and on and on, until it ends with, "TODAY I AM A FREE MAN."

I admire this unknown chroniclers tenacity, and silently wish him well.

Before I dive back into sleep I find a stub of pencil, wedged between the thin plastic coated mattress and the bunk frame. On the wall, I add my own contribution to the mosaic: "George Potter Loves Lily Elizabeth Potter, now and forever." I laugh at my own sentimentality. I wonder what those who come after me will think of it?

* * *

Hours later the door to the cell opening wakes me. "You boys can come on out." says a Sheriff. "You aren't on lock down. Phones are out here. You can get a shower. Smoke ' em if you got em ."

Umberto ignores him, snoring. I emerge with the saved breakfast juice. "Who's got a smoke?" I ask.

Instantly, a small auction ensues, as various cells try to win the 6 ounce prize. I end up with two hand rolled cigarettes and a book with two matches. I later discover why the juice is so prized: it's used to make "hooch" – a crudely fermented alcoholic drink that is – in turn – used as currency by the inmates.

I discover that Umberto and I weren't the only newbies quartered in lock down. I greet two other faces I met in Receiving the day before. They are using the two pay phones, and the shower is occupied, so I lean against the wall and fire up one of the cigarettes. Relief floods my nicotine starved body and I relax, enjoying a slight buzz.

When the shower is free, I pass half the smoke to one of the guys on the phone. No sense in being stingy.

Hot water hits me like a blessing, washing the way the stink of two days of fear and anxiety. I stand under the high pressure water and let it wash away the caked blood on my face, reveling even in the sting of the opened scratches.

I emerge, feeling much better. The torment of the Receiving process had stifled my spirit, but sleep, food, a cigarette and the luxury of hot water has revived it. I am ready to fight again.

But I will remember to act broke.

* * *

A problem presents itself: the phone company that provides service to my home does not allow collect calls as a matter of policy. It's a pre-paid, local only service that allows 300 outgoing calls per month for a flat rate. I can't call home, and don't really know if there is much point. My family in Mississippi are internet junkies who log on at 11 am sharp every day – and it was 11:45 when we were let out of the cell. I try anyway, but get the expected busy signal.

"They'll put us on a permanent ward today, bro" I am told by a fellow temporary Lock Downer, whose name is Robert. "They pop the doors at 8 am on permanent wards. You can call your folks then."

The thought of spending another night in jail is disheartening, but there's nothing to be done about it, so it's a waste of energy to bother with cursing my luck.

An hour or so later, Robert and I are hustled out of Lock Down, and taken upstairs to a permanent ward.

I am nervous as we are ushered in, wondering what new situation I'll find myself in. My mind reels with possibilities. Will it be fighting gangbangers ? Some rules obsessed jail culture where newbies must be broken down, their food stolen and ghosts are reviled?

Imagine my surprised when I discover a group consumed almost entirely in the peaceful practice of capitalism.

* * *

They call it "The Old Timers Ward", for two reasons. The first reason is that it's made up of men over the age of 40. The second is that they are almost all men serving over 30 days – "old timers" in county jail parlance.

The lack of space in other wards has worked in my favor. A few see the two young faces enter and look suspicious. Most of them smile and nod politely. A man named Lamar – a grizzled looking black man in his sixties – steps up and greets us.

"Welcome to the old timer's ward, brothers. Hope you get along here – and hope you don't have to stay too long, if you know what I mean." He grins. "Now, we got some rules here – intended to keep things peaceful. First rule is: If it ain't yours don't touch it. Second rule is: If you make a mess, clean it up. Third rule is: If you a gangbanger , that shit gets left at the door…understand? Ain't no "nations" in here. Ain't no "crews". You is you and I is me. Understand? Shower's over there, phone's over there. Bible study is every night at 8 at table 7, if you interested. Now, you got any questions, you feel free to ask, hear?"

Slightly overwhelmed, I look around. The Ward is large – probably 100 by 30 feet. The lobby area is a communal space filled with objects that resemble nothing more than plastic picnic tables. Unlike the rest of the jail, the Old Timer's Ward is meticulously clean. No graffiti adorns the walls, no dirt marks the floor.

The residents of this ward also have a different look about them. They seem calm and peaceful. Laughter is the prevalent sound as they pass their time playing cards, dominoes and chess.

A man steps up. He hands me a cigarette, which I accept with thanks. "No problem." he says. "You look like you had it rough. First time in?"

Within an hour, I have the system down cold. These men are traders. It's the way they keep their sanity in captivity, and the unwritten law that keeps the peace. I discover that my ability to hand roll cigarettes is a marketable commodity here – and I score myself the equivalent to a pack by trading my services. I roll an entire can of Bugler in half an hour. I am complimented both on my speed and the precision of the smokes I produce. I thank my older brother, who used to make me roll joints for him when he caught me snitching bud from his stash.

Everything is traded. Desserts for main courses, snacks for smokes, books for other books. I realize that you simply cannot kill the market. It cannot die. You cannot destroy the desire to trade that which you value less for that which you value more. This basis for interaction, this mother of civilization, this primeval tool of society – will live in any environment, route around any block, and eventually it will prevail.

This is the thing that gives men hope.

* * *

I spend the rest of the day talking to Lamar over a few games of chess. He trashes me soundly each time. I don't mind.

"You believe in God, George?" he asks at one point.

"I don't disbelieve in God." I reply.

"Good enough." he says. "What do you believe in?"

"The market." I tell him, and explain what I've seen in his ward that strengthens that belief.

He considers it. "So you don't believe in that socialism ideal? That men should care about their fellow men more than money and such?"

I assure him that I do not. I explain that the first two rules of his ward are a powerful anti-socialist statement.

He thinks about this for a minute, then grins. "I guess you'd be right. Damn. I never thought of it that way."

* * *

Lock down is called at 9 pm .

"Since they didn't assign anything, you can bunk in my cell", Lamar tells me. "Hell, I aint had a celly in weeks. I probably forgot how to talk to people."

After the doors lock shut, Lamar asks. "You said you were born in Kentucky , right?"

"That's right."

"Well, I'd like you to meet another fine Kentucky gentleman, George. This is Jim." he says, pulling out a pint bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. We have a few shots, and I am polite enough not to ask him how in the hell he got whiskey into the jail.

I sleep soundly, and Jim chases the nightmares away.

* * *

As soon as the cell doors unlock the next morning, I am on the phone.

Before allowing the collect call to be accepted, the jail system informs the receiver in agonizing detail that "This is a call from an inmate of Cook County Jail. All conversations are monitored."

"You OK, bro?" my brother answers.

I explain the situation, and ask him to get in touch with my woman, and inform her of the bail amount.

"Don't worry bro. If she doesn't have it or won't pay it, I'll make sure it gets wired up there, paid with a credit card or something. Call back in an hour and I'll let you know. Hey ..they said this call was monitored, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Listen up you fucking pigs. If you touch my brother again I'll fucking come there and kill every goddam one of you. I'll blow your fucking jail into rubble. I'll raze fucking Chicago to the ground!

You are fucking with the wrong people! "

As I hang up, I have to laugh. Because I know he means it.

* * *

An hour later, I am relieved to hear that my woman is on her way to pay my bond. Apparently, she freaked out when she heard that I was in County. She had assumed that I was I-bonded from the police station the next morning and was simply pissed off and avoiding her. I do not know whether to believe this or not, but really can't muster the energy to care. Being set free is the only thing that matters to me. All other considerations are, for the moment, swept away.

When the Sheriff calls out "Potter! You made bond!" I nearly scream with joy. Instead, I simply accept the congratulations of the Old Timers and say my goodbyes.

Robert makes bond a few minutes later, and joins me in the hall. "Soon as we're out, bro, we're hittin ' Popeye's for some real food. Then I'll call my boy up and get us a ride."

The process of being released is nearly as time consuming as being taken in. It has a whole different feel, however, and the attitude is a polar opposite.

Three hours later, after a final agonizing lineup to receive our property, we step out of the doors of Cook County Jail – back into the sun.

* * *

We make our way a block up the street, to the Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits franchise. Robert phones his boy from the parking lot and gains us transportation. We walk into the nearly deserted restaurant and order.

As we are eating, two Sheriffs walk in, on lunch break.

One of them is the Pigman .

Their laughter ends and their faces grow sullen. There they are, and here we are. In a place where they have no authority, no truncheon, and no backup.

I just grin at him. Grin and wolf down the greasy, delicious chicken. Staring. They order and wait for their food, eyes down. I will be pissing pink for the next two days.

"Might wanna stay clear of the Northwest side" Robert says casually, and winks. We laugh.

The Sheriffs receive their food and scurry out. It may be petty, but I hope we ruined their fucking lunch. No doubt they wanted to eat it inside the air-conditioned comfort of the restaurant. But we prevented that. They can either stand in the sun or take their food back to the pit where they belong.

Sometimes the small victories are the best.

* * *

Robert's friend pulls up just as we finish eating, and we pile into a battered 87 Corolla. As we race through the streets, Robert tells the story of our time inside as if it were an action film, complete with brawls that never happened. I just nod, and enjoy the air from the rolled down window, and think about the Old Timers. I wish them a speedy release.

We arrive just off Division and Cicero, at a small, rather seedy used car lot Robert's friend runs. Our reason for stopping is to "switch cars" because the Toyota is almost out of gas. Unfortunately, some crisis has come up and I sit waiting for awhile.

I am sick and tired of waiting.

I say goodbye to Robert, tell him to look me up sometime, and head for home.

* * *

I find Cicero Avenue and head north, and I feel as if the sun is shining just for me, and that the air is especially sweet and clear. That grand river of cars takes on the aspect of poetry – chrome glint and windshield reflection a tribute to my perseverance; the muted roar of their passage as beautiful as a Strauss waltz.

When I arrive home there will be tears and apologies, and forgiveness will be begged. My daughter will stride up to me and punch me on the kneecap and try to look angry, before collapsing into a laugh and hugging my leg and saying "Where you been, Dada?" There will be a cold six pack in the fridge and a bath drawn and great deference paid. It will be an illusion, but I will immerse myself in it nonetheless, and be grateful for it.

But I will not allow myself to be fooled. I will not allow myself to be pushed into captivity again. To return me to that cage they will have to beat the fight out of me and carry dead weight. They will have to make me a ghost in more than name.

I toss these thoughts aside as I stride down these Chicago streets, my healing face drawing stares, the smile I can't repress unsettling the drivers of cars and the people who glance out the windows of storefronts and happen to see me pass.

It is the smile of a free man, realizing that freedom is relative. It is a smile of the damned who have found forgiveness. It is the smile of the animal released from its cage.

The smile of a ghost, back in the land of the living.

July 1, 2002