The Racketeer Read Free Page B

last night,” he says. “She’s doing well, says hello, says your last letter was quite funny.”
    “Please tell her the letters mean so much. She has not missed a week in five years.” Ruby is such a bright spot in our crumbling family. She’s a marriage counselor, and her husband is a pediatrician. They have three perfect kids who are kept away from their infamous Uncle Mal.
    After a long pause, I say, “Thanks for the check, as always.”
    He shrugs and says, “Happy to help.”
    He sends $100 every month, and it is much appreciated. It goes into my account and allows me to buy such necessities as pens, writing tablets, paperbacks, and decent food. Most of those in my White Gang get checks from home and virtually no one in my Black Gang gets a penny. In prison, you always know who’s getting money.
    “You’re almost halfway through,” he says.
    “I’m two weeks shy of five years,” I say.
    “I guess it flies by.”
    “Maybe on the outside. I can assure you the clocks run much slower on this side of the wall.”
    “Still, it’s hard to believe you’ve been in for five years.”
    It is indeed. How do you survive for years in prison? You don’t think about years, or months, or weeks. You think about today—how to get through it, how to survive it. When you wake up tomorrow, another day is behind you. The days add up; the weeks run together; the months become years. You realize how tough you are, how you can function and survive because you have no choice.
    “Any idea what you’ll do?” he asks. I get this same question every month now, as if my release were just around the corner. Patience, I remind myself. He’s my father. And he’s here! That counts for a lot.
    “Not really. It’s too far away.”
    “I’d start thinking about it if I were you,” he says, certain that he would know exactly what to do if he were in my shoes.
    “I just finished the third level of Spanish,” I say with some pride. In my Brown Gang there is a good friend, Marco, who is an excellent language teacher. Drugs.
    “Looks like we’ll all be speaking Spanish before long. They’re taking over.”
    Henry has little patience with immigrants, anybody with an accent, people from New York and New Jersey, anyone on welfare, anyone unemployed, and he thinks the homeless should be rounded up and placed in camps that would resemble, in his view, something worse than Guantánamo.
    We had harsh words a few years ago, and he threatened to stop the visits. Bickering is a waste of time. I’m not going to change him. He’s kind enough to drive over, the least I can do is behave. I am the convicted felon; he is not. He’s the winner; I’m the loser. This seems important to Henry, though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I had college and law school, something he never dreamed of.
    “I’ll probably leave the country,” I say. “Go somewhere where I can use the Spanish, somewhere like Panama or Costa Rica.Warm weather, beaches, people with darker skin. They don’t care about criminal records or who’s been to prison.”
    “The grass is always greener, huh?”
    “Yes, Dad, when you’re in prison, every place has greener grass. What am I supposed to do? Go back home, maybe become an unlicensed paralegal doing research for some tiny firm that can’t afford me? Maybe become a bail bondsman? How about a private detective? There are not a lot of options.”
    He’s nodding along. We’ve had this conversation at least a dozen times. “And you hate the government,” he says.
    “Oh yes. I hate the federal government, the FBI, the U.S. Attorneys, the federal judges, the fools who run the prisons. There is so much of it I hate. I’m sitting here doing ten years for a noncrime because a hotshot U.S. Attorney needed to jack up his kill quota. And if the government can nail my ass for ten years with no evidence, just think of all the possibilities now that I have the words ‘Convicted Felon’ tattooed on my forehead. I’m