The Death of Justice

The Death of Justice

In this corrupt, perverted society we live in, it's difficult to determine who is innocent and guilty. How do you decide who should take responsibility when there is enough blame to go around for everyone? The problem with accountability is that it is contingent upon a point of view and is subject to perspective. When urban tragedy is examined, logic suggests that the "blame game" has fingers pointing in many directions because of the different players' various perspectives.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Justice Jennings, and I am from Brooklyn, New York. This is the story of my life. You're probably wondering, "What would make a person tell his or her life story?" Good question. Sorry, I don't have a profound answer, I felt that my life was a story worth telling, so I'm telling it. My story is not the typical "black boy born in the projects" story. You know that story, don't you? Born in poverty, raised in a broken home, yet despite overwhelming odds overcomes tragedy…wait a minute…that is my story, but that is not the story I'm telling. I don't want to bore you by telling a story that has already been told countless times and in several ways. You know the story I'm referring to: A young black child brought into this world by a black man, neither prepared to be a daddy nor interested in being a father. This story is not about how a struggling mother and no father raised me. Like most African American children, that is my story, and there is a story there, but again, it has already been told. And as the cliché goes: No sense beating on a dead horse, or should I say a "deadbeat" father.

Let's go back to the year 2009; I was on the verge of being released from Clinton Maximum Security prison for possession of a controlled, dangerous substance with the intent to distribute. Wait! Wait Wait! Before you draw any conclusions about me or my lifestyle, let my story unravel in your mind. Don't judge me prematurely. I know it is tempting to categorize me as another black man who embraced the "fast-money" lifestyle that has dominated our culture and society and is now looking for sympathy, but before you indict me or sentence me in your mind. Before you gather stones to throw from your glass house, hear my story. Like most stories, mine is a complicated one. In 2005, I was sentenced to 7 years in prison for a very innocent crime. I pled guilty to Possession with Intent to Distribute a Controlled Dangerous Substance, Crack Cocaine. In prison, I could never get comfortable. Some guys just conformed and, at some point, became comfortable. I did not belong. I consider myself to be a victim of circumstances beyond my ability to control. Don't forget, don't judge me prematurely, because I couldn't control who my parents would be. I could not control where my parents would return after leaving the hospital with their newborn bundle of joy. I couldn't control what neighborhood I would grow up in. I could not control the financial economics of the inner-city community where I lived, which relied heavily on the sale of narcotics. In this type of corrupt structure, it's hard to determine who is innocent and guilty. It's easy to judge when you are on the outside looking in. But when you are on the inside. Born and raised inside, when you get turned out from living inside, your perspective is very different. You understand and have a sensitivity for why people do what they do. All that being said, I was innocent of the charge I pled guilty to. Truly, a victim of circumstances, Ill fill you in with the details later. But, Four years after my arrest, my parole hearing had potential compared to most other inmates. I kept clear of the perversion that contaminates most incarcerated individuals. Most prisoners come to prison and just pick up where they left off on the streets. If you were a drug dealer on the streets, when you come to prison, most likely you'll attempt to make a name for yourself as a petty, fast-talking, drug-peddling hustler. On the streets, if your thing was a steady intoxication of the mind, then in prison, you could maintain this state of oblivion. If you were a pervert, on the bricks, in prison, this perversion would bloom, like dandelions in the springtime. I could make other parallels, but you can use your imagination. So, I had a home willing to take me in, a clean record of incarceration, and my record was clean before the date of my conviction. After, 15 minutes I was told that I would be offered parole. I completed four years of a seven-year sentence. I had read a book every other every-other-day for years. Let's start the story here. I was in a prison bathroom, with a prayer group of prisoners holding hands in a circle in prison bathroom. It was almost time for lockdown, and the daily jobs had just been completed. The smell of disinfecting and Clorox, strongly in the air. Sure, there was plenty of macho bravado around the card table. A lot of confidence was communicated in the weight room. Brothers, pretending as if they don't have a care in the world. "Man, I might not ever get out, but I'm going to keep doing me, you know what Im saying!" I find that talk very funny because the judge always seems to get the last laugh. So, inmates who had court would sneak in the night before and join our circle for prayer. Hoping that, for the first time in their lives, the "tide would turn" in their direction…Leading us in this prayer was a former Minister, Ira Johnson, who was in prison for killing a crack-prostitute to death. I heard that he was once a well-known Pastor who had a thriving church of 1,000 members. The legend circulated the prison was that he began an affair with a choir member half his age. He introduced her to sex that was taboo, and she introduced him to the pipe. I heard that; he took one hit, stripped down naked, and ran to his church. The deacons found him Sunday morning, him and some junkies, in his office, passing a pipe around; he was still naked and clueless that Sunday school was beginning in fifteen minutes. For the next five years, he lived in his Lincoln continental. That was the legend, the oral history but Ira, once told me one day, I guess he felt the need to tell somebody that the prostitute, 18 years old, had taken the last hit of the pipe, while he was in the bathroom, so He strangled her to death with his bare hands. He was halfway through a 20-year sentence. Ira had been clean for years; now, here he was, organizing and leading a prayer group. After the group, we all sat down. There was a long bench adjacent to the bathroom wall, which contained a shower stall that could hold ten inmates showering at the same time. After a minute of quiet soul searching, Malik breaks the silence with, "You ready for the bricks, Justice." "As ready as I'll ever be." I said. I had been working out every day for four years, and I had studied a read a little bit of everything under the sun, at least 250 books. If I wasn't ready, then I don't know who would be. I stood up and started shadow-boxing. There was nervous energy running through my body, and in the last week, I had become very jittery... "Mentally, physically, and spiritually, I am in the best shape of my life." I said. "I'm never coming back to this place." "Don't jinx yourself." Malik warned. "I'm not a superstitious person." I shot back. "I'm never coming back!" At this point, the Minister decided to chime in. "The first 30 days will be important. Guard yourself against People, Places, and things. It's an AA philosophy, but it is useful. You on parole, so like they say, it's easy to get in the system, but it's damn near impossible to get out." I decided to switch the subject. "You ready for your hearing, Malik? Turning my head in his direction. Malik stood up and leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms. "They hold up is going to be an address… I think, well, see. Id' rather max-out my sentence so I don't have to deal with parole anyway." Malik was from my neighborhood. Our paths had crossed before, but we didn't know each other. We played ball together at the park, and we had been at the same block party once or twice. At the same time, we saw each other at the corner store, but we didn't "know, know" each other. We knew the same people, but we didn't start conversations until we came to prison. Malik sold crack to an undercover officer and was sentenced to 10 years. The most tragic part of Malik's story was that he couldn't read or write. I had taught the GED class for a year, and many brothers struggled, but Malik literally couldn't write his name. So, he hung around people like me. I, Malik, and Andrew were partners in a jail-house store that offered credit until commissary day. If you needed cigarettes and couldn't wait until commissary, which was once a week, you could get a pack from us, and on Commissary day, you gave two back in return. The same went for soups, candy bars, bags of potato chips, and cosmetics. I handled the inventory; Malik and Andrew handled the beatings, stabbings, and other forms of intimidation.

"You don't have anyone to vouch for you in terms of an address," I said to Malik. "I burned a lot of bridges." He announced, "My mom got a new dude, my pop been deceased for five years, and you know...My family jacked up. We don't stick together. I'm basically on my own." He looked down in shame and stuck his chest out in strength at the same time. "I hear you... I'm trying to believe it, but life is telling me something else. When I get out of here, what am I going to do? Really. Go work on wall-street? Get a job at the phone company? I have been selling drugs since I was 12. You know…" He chuckles slightly" My uncle gave me a bundle of crack…" Hearing Malik talk made me think about my situation, and I just stated, "I never sold drugs, and when I get out, I'm not going to start." To which Malik quickly responded, "I don't plan to sell drugs, but self-preservation, man… Am I supposed to starve? If I can't find a job…what else am I supposed to do? Before anyone could answer him, The correction officer came in. Thank goodness because how do you answer Malik's question of "what else am I supposed to do?" A great question considering he was a convicted felon that couldn't scribble his own name. "Break it up; it's a lockdown, time for the count," C.O Flynn said. We all slapped hands and went off to our cells. In minutes, the strong steel doors came sliding closed. Locking us in, the CO passing by moments later with a clipboard counting us through the thick Plexiglas window. My lexicon is not deep enough to describe that feeling I felt every night for four years. I was being counted. I was being reduced. It was coming to an end, though. I had been granted parole. And soon, my name would be called over the intercom system. The words every inmate dreamed of hearing. Justice Jennings. Inmate number 53762, released…To Be Continued