The Rat That Got Away: A Bronx Memoir

19. Do the Crime, Do the Time

19 Do the Crime, Do the Time Deep down señora where pot grows tall, Vultures fly and rattlesnakes crawl, Where scorpions creep over dead men’s bones, And coyotes yell out in bloodthirsty tones, It is deep down in this desert waste, Where I first came face to face, With the Queen of all whores, Señorita Esbanita, the Mexicana rose. Now I was traveling with my partner Smithy, And we were just two players from New York City, I wore a suit from Laythen’s, deep dark blue, And also had a pair of alligator shoes, My partner Smithy was also press, With his brand-new suit from Hamilton and Cress, He wore a deep dark Fedora with a fifty dollar band, And had an alligator wallet loaded with scag, He had a fair of gold cuff links he claimed cost a grand, But when I peeped in behind they was made in Japan, Move On was our motto, As we cruised along south in my Black Eldorado, As we got to the border and gave our names, I was Long Shoe Sam and he was Smithy Cocaine. —Jailhouse toast, anonymous There are plenty of stories, in prose and in rhyme, that tell of a life of crime. They talk about dealing and paying the price. But the story that follows is all mine. The night I spent in The Tombs was the longest of my life. I was locked inside a cell with 10 or 12 men, some of them 98 Do the Crime, Do the Time 99 pretty desperate looking and all of them claiming to be innocent. Some of the men were dressed well, and others wore sweats and tennis shoes. Some were sober, but most were drunk or high on drugs. The smell in the cell was overpowering: the smells of funk, piss, shit, and vomit all combined and mixed with alcohol and tobacco to create an odor that could make you retch. I had to breathe through my mouth to keep the contents of my stomach where they belonged. I passed the night waiting for the light of day and dreading it at the same time. Through all this, I felt powerless and strangely detached, as if none of what was happening was real. I kept thinking that at any time the bad dream would end and I’d find myself safe at home with my family, but the reality of my situation would then bring me to my senses. I had a lot to be anxious about, but nothing filled me with more fear than the knowledge that I would have to face my mother and father and that they would now know the truth about their son. The next morning arrived, at last, and they transported us to Rikers Island early. Rikers is the prison where people awaiting trial in New York City are held until they are freed or convicted and sent upstate. The sun was shining that morning, and as I saw The Rock from a distance, it looked like a school. It was built of red brick and was surrounded by high fences strung with barbed wire at the top. The closer we got, the more clearly I saw how isolated it was from the outside world. Yet, at the same time, everything seemed so open and exposed. I could see for miles around—a strange and unsettling feeling to a young man who had spent his whole life in the shadows of apartment buildings and high-rises. As we rode through the streets to get to the bridge that would take us to the prison, I looked at all the people going about their business and I yearned to be like them, free to be in the everyday world, to make my own choices, to go where I liked. But life had changed for me now. I entered the prison in handcuffs and was led to cellblock 5 and to cell 1B11. The reality was gradually dawning on me: This was my cellblock and my cell. This was home. I walked by lines of prisoners in their cells and felt them looking at me with predators’ eyes. Nothing had prepared me for the terror I felt as I walked down that cellblock, not even the menacing stares I got when I made my way through the toughest neighborhoods in Harlem or the Bronx. The terror was a kind of numbness at the core. Nothing moved me, but...