Gary Goldstein's Blog - Posts Tagged "judge"
Facing The Judge For The First Time
2. MY ARRAIGNMENT
I didn’t sleep very well that night, and who could blame me? I kept playing back what I had done, and saying to myself, “I’m really in trouble now. I’m going to prison.”
The correction officers (C.O.s) came around and woke everybody up at 6:00 AM to get us ready to see the judge for arraignment. Breakfast was a small box of cereal and a container of milk. For those who were unlucky enough to have to take a crap, they had to do it in front of everybody else on a filthy, germ-laden toilet. And good luck trying to get toilet paper from the C.O.s. If they were in a decent mood, maybe you had a chance. Otherwise, you were better off trying to hold it in until we got upstairs near the courtroom.
Central Booking itself is part of the criminal court building. It’s the bowels (no pun intended!) of the building, located in the basement. By 7:30 AM, after the C.O.s called the first twenty names (I was one of them), we were transferred upstairs to another large cell, the “bullpen,” and the next stop would be to finally see the judge for arraignment.
But that was still two hours away. So it was either back to sleep, or begin staring at everyone else. I did the latter because I don’t enjoy lying on a bench or the floor with cockroaches and mice sharing my sleeping quarters.
In jail, there are always guys who know each other from the same neighborhood, and you could always count on them to share “war stories.” They seem to enjoy going through the “system,” and for them, it’s sort of a time to get together with old acquaintances and reminisce about the past.
“What’s up, son?” one black kid, himself not over twenty-three years of age, said to his brother.
“Ain’t nutin’,” the other responded. “These motherfuckers got me here off of a ‘sweep’ (a drug sweep in the neighborhood), but I was just hangin’ out with my man, and wasn’t doing shit.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” the first one acknowledged.
“Yo, Giuliani is off the hook,” chimed in Julio, a Puerto Rican with his name tattooed on his right arm, who, in his own eloquent way, was referring to how the mayor of New York City was seriously cracking down on crime.
From there, the bullpen became like a cocktail party, with guys sharing their views on everything from crime in the Big Apple, to the Mets and Yankees, to how the female C.O. who brought us upstairs had a nice ass. All the while, however, I just sat observing it all without uttering a single word. I kept pondering how I could have done this to myself, getting mixed up with these lowlifes. But the truth of the matter was that as much as I tried to deny it, I had become one myself. I was no better or no worse than Julio, or any of the guys I was sharing the bullpen with.
As the conversations continued, and loudly at that, I began to think how my life was ruined and where it was that I went bad. After all, I graduated from Long Island University, with a BA in journalism, and had worked for such prestigious companies as CBS-TV, NBC-TV, The New York Post, Madison Square Garden, and Major League Baseball Productions, just to name a few. But now, I had really sunk to rock bottom, and knew that I was going to have to pay the price.
All that talking that went on in the bullpen, as pretentious as it was, did succeed, however, to pass the time quickly. It was now 9:45 AM and the court-appointed attorneys had arrived, and began calling names. These lawyers are either from the Legal Aid Society, which means that they are totally paid by the state, or they are 18-B attorneys, private attorneys who take on some cases on behalf of the indigent, and whose fee is also paid by the state. Supposedly, the 18-B attorneys are better, but don’t ever cite my case as an example.
After about fifteen minutes, my name was called. I went into one of the three phone booth-type interview rooms that are set up for attorney-client meetings, which is the very last step before seeing the judge.
“Good morning, my name is Mark Jankowitz. I have been assigned to represent you,” the suit said, as he handed me his business card, which indicated that he was an 18-B attorney.
“Good morning,” I responded.
“Mr. Goldstein, if I were you, and had money, I would hire myself a private attorney,” Jankowitz offered, as this short, ruffled man with uncombed brown hair appeared to take pleasure in the fact that I was basically at his mercy as far as my eventual freedom was concerned.
But what was he saying? Was he hinting to me that he wanted some money under the table, or was he indicating that he just wasn’t a good enough attorney to handle my case?
“When we get into the courtroom, I’m going to ask the judge to release you on your own recognizance, or R.O.R. you,” Jankowitz said. “But since you confessed, there’s no way he’s going to go for it. Now, tell me what happened.”
Feeling a sense of urgency, and with my nerves doing the cha-cha throughout my body, I proceeded to tell my mouthpiece how, in the midst of a drug and alcohol binge, and feeling pressured to come up with the six hundred and forty dollars that I owed my bookmaker, I robbed three dry cleaning stores on the East Side of Manhattan.
“I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict, and a compulsive gambler, too,” I stated, as if he, the judge, and the assistant district attorney were simply going to excuse the whole incident as one big ill-advised act.
“But I see here from your rap sheet that you were convicted of robbery in the third degree in 1994,” Jankowitz replied. “That makes you a predicate.”
“What about the fact that Detectives Burns and Foley promised that if I confessed, they would see to it that I would go home and not be prosecuted?” I fired back.
“They’ll never admit in court to doing that,” Jankowitz answered. “I’ll see what I can do. But when we go into the courtroom, don’t say a word because you said enough already.”
. After having just referred to my loose-lipped confession, Jankowitz then turned and went back into the courtroom, as I departed the interview area to bury myself in my thoughts.
I remember hoping the judge was Jewish and a woman, just the type of mother-figure who could sympathize with my problems. And who knew? Maybe I would be released R.O.R. without having to post bail.
Minutes later, the C.O. opened the bullpen door and escorted me in handcuffs into the courtroom. Upon entering, I couldn’t help but feel that all eyes were on me, and how the judge, a man in his sixties, appeared to be in an unpleasant mood.
“Docket number 98N0639, the People of the State of New York versus Gary Goldstein,” the court clerk announced. “The charges are 160.10 (robbery in the second degree) and 205.30 (resisting arrest).”
“Resisting arrest?” I mumbled under my breath. “That cop tackled me and I didn’t resist at all. What’s going on here?”
“Mr. Goldstein, how do you plead?” Judge Kaufman asked. I had gotten at least one of my wishes granted.
As if I needed it, Jankowitz bent over and whispered in my ear, “Not guilty,” as I revealed the same out loud.
“Your Honor, the People ask for bail in the amount of ten thousand dollars,” Assistant District Attorney Lois Booker-Williams said.
“Judge, can we approach?” Jankowitz responded, as he, Booker-Williams, and Judge Kaufman huddled up for a sidebar conference, leaving me alone and in the dark as to what was being discussed.
When the meeting broke up and all the players were back in place, Judge Kaufman simply said, “The People’s bail request is granted in the amount of ten thousand dollars.”
“Step back,” the burly and well-armed court officer ordered, as he and his female partner escorted me out of the courtroom and into another bullpen, this one undoubtedly for those who weren’t going home straight from court.
As I was led away, I made eye contact with Mr. Jankowitz, but he didn’t say a word, and I wouldn’t see him anymore that day.
I felt a strong need to call my parents.
I didn’t sleep very well that night, and who could blame me? I kept playing back what I had done, and saying to myself, “I’m really in trouble now. I’m going to prison.”
The correction officers (C.O.s) came around and woke everybody up at 6:00 AM to get us ready to see the judge for arraignment. Breakfast was a small box of cereal and a container of milk. For those who were unlucky enough to have to take a crap, they had to do it in front of everybody else on a filthy, germ-laden toilet. And good luck trying to get toilet paper from the C.O.s. If they were in a decent mood, maybe you had a chance. Otherwise, you were better off trying to hold it in until we got upstairs near the courtroom.
Central Booking itself is part of the criminal court building. It’s the bowels (no pun intended!) of the building, located in the basement. By 7:30 AM, after the C.O.s called the first twenty names (I was one of them), we were transferred upstairs to another large cell, the “bullpen,” and the next stop would be to finally see the judge for arraignment.
But that was still two hours away. So it was either back to sleep, or begin staring at everyone else. I did the latter because I don’t enjoy lying on a bench or the floor with cockroaches and mice sharing my sleeping quarters.
In jail, there are always guys who know each other from the same neighborhood, and you could always count on them to share “war stories.” They seem to enjoy going through the “system,” and for them, it’s sort of a time to get together with old acquaintances and reminisce about the past.
“What’s up, son?” one black kid, himself not over twenty-three years of age, said to his brother.
“Ain’t nutin’,” the other responded. “These motherfuckers got me here off of a ‘sweep’ (a drug sweep in the neighborhood), but I was just hangin’ out with my man, and wasn’t doing shit.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” the first one acknowledged.
“Yo, Giuliani is off the hook,” chimed in Julio, a Puerto Rican with his name tattooed on his right arm, who, in his own eloquent way, was referring to how the mayor of New York City was seriously cracking down on crime.
From there, the bullpen became like a cocktail party, with guys sharing their views on everything from crime in the Big Apple, to the Mets and Yankees, to how the female C.O. who brought us upstairs had a nice ass. All the while, however, I just sat observing it all without uttering a single word. I kept pondering how I could have done this to myself, getting mixed up with these lowlifes. But the truth of the matter was that as much as I tried to deny it, I had become one myself. I was no better or no worse than Julio, or any of the guys I was sharing the bullpen with.
As the conversations continued, and loudly at that, I began to think how my life was ruined and where it was that I went bad. After all, I graduated from Long Island University, with a BA in journalism, and had worked for such prestigious companies as CBS-TV, NBC-TV, The New York Post, Madison Square Garden, and Major League Baseball Productions, just to name a few. But now, I had really sunk to rock bottom, and knew that I was going to have to pay the price.
All that talking that went on in the bullpen, as pretentious as it was, did succeed, however, to pass the time quickly. It was now 9:45 AM and the court-appointed attorneys had arrived, and began calling names. These lawyers are either from the Legal Aid Society, which means that they are totally paid by the state, or they are 18-B attorneys, private attorneys who take on some cases on behalf of the indigent, and whose fee is also paid by the state. Supposedly, the 18-B attorneys are better, but don’t ever cite my case as an example.
After about fifteen minutes, my name was called. I went into one of the three phone booth-type interview rooms that are set up for attorney-client meetings, which is the very last step before seeing the judge.
“Good morning, my name is Mark Jankowitz. I have been assigned to represent you,” the suit said, as he handed me his business card, which indicated that he was an 18-B attorney.
“Good morning,” I responded.
“Mr. Goldstein, if I were you, and had money, I would hire myself a private attorney,” Jankowitz offered, as this short, ruffled man with uncombed brown hair appeared to take pleasure in the fact that I was basically at his mercy as far as my eventual freedom was concerned.
But what was he saying? Was he hinting to me that he wanted some money under the table, or was he indicating that he just wasn’t a good enough attorney to handle my case?
“When we get into the courtroom, I’m going to ask the judge to release you on your own recognizance, or R.O.R. you,” Jankowitz said. “But since you confessed, there’s no way he’s going to go for it. Now, tell me what happened.”
Feeling a sense of urgency, and with my nerves doing the cha-cha throughout my body, I proceeded to tell my mouthpiece how, in the midst of a drug and alcohol binge, and feeling pressured to come up with the six hundred and forty dollars that I owed my bookmaker, I robbed three dry cleaning stores on the East Side of Manhattan.
“I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict, and a compulsive gambler, too,” I stated, as if he, the judge, and the assistant district attorney were simply going to excuse the whole incident as one big ill-advised act.
“But I see here from your rap sheet that you were convicted of robbery in the third degree in 1994,” Jankowitz replied. “That makes you a predicate.”
“What about the fact that Detectives Burns and Foley promised that if I confessed, they would see to it that I would go home and not be prosecuted?” I fired back.
“They’ll never admit in court to doing that,” Jankowitz answered. “I’ll see what I can do. But when we go into the courtroom, don’t say a word because you said enough already.”
. After having just referred to my loose-lipped confession, Jankowitz then turned and went back into the courtroom, as I departed the interview area to bury myself in my thoughts.
I remember hoping the judge was Jewish and a woman, just the type of mother-figure who could sympathize with my problems. And who knew? Maybe I would be released R.O.R. without having to post bail.
Minutes later, the C.O. opened the bullpen door and escorted me in handcuffs into the courtroom. Upon entering, I couldn’t help but feel that all eyes were on me, and how the judge, a man in his sixties, appeared to be in an unpleasant mood.
“Docket number 98N0639, the People of the State of New York versus Gary Goldstein,” the court clerk announced. “The charges are 160.10 (robbery in the second degree) and 205.30 (resisting arrest).”
“Resisting arrest?” I mumbled under my breath. “That cop tackled me and I didn’t resist at all. What’s going on here?”
“Mr. Goldstein, how do you plead?” Judge Kaufman asked. I had gotten at least one of my wishes granted.
As if I needed it, Jankowitz bent over and whispered in my ear, “Not guilty,” as I revealed the same out loud.
“Your Honor, the People ask for bail in the amount of ten thousand dollars,” Assistant District Attorney Lois Booker-Williams said.
“Judge, can we approach?” Jankowitz responded, as he, Booker-Williams, and Judge Kaufman huddled up for a sidebar conference, leaving me alone and in the dark as to what was being discussed.
When the meeting broke up and all the players were back in place, Judge Kaufman simply said, “The People’s bail request is granted in the amount of ten thousand dollars.”
“Step back,” the burly and well-armed court officer ordered, as he and his female partner escorted me out of the courtroom and into another bullpen, this one undoubtedly for those who weren’t going home straight from court.
As I was led away, I made eye contact with Mr. Jankowitz, but he didn’t say a word, and I wouldn’t see him anymore that day.
I felt a strong need to call my parents.
Go Directly To Jail!
Today, I bring you the third chapter of my book, “Jew in Jail.”
Although these events occurred nearly 15 years ago, they will always remain fresh in my mind.
I hope you all can get something out of reading this, as far as understanding how the correction system in New York City works, should you know anyone in the same position needing help.
3. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL
There was no way I was going to get out on bail. My parents didn’t have ten grand and even if they would try to borrow it from my sister and her husband, I wouldn’t allow them to. Maybe it was better that I sat in jail for a while to learn my lesson the hard way. Besides, in the back of my mind, I still believed that in the end, everything would work itself out and I would come home as if none of this had ever happened. Plus, I kept thinking to myself that Jews don’t go to jail anyway, so I was safe, right?
But I still was puzzled as to what took place in the courtroom at that sidebar conference. Surely, I reasoned to myself, Mr. Jankowitz would have come back to the bullpen to speak to me and explain what had happened. The bottom line, however, is that, in this world, you get what you pay for, and in Mr. Jankowitz, that meant not very much at all.
From the bullpen outside the courtroom, I had now been transferred to the Manhattan Detention Complex (“The Tombs”), which, like Central Booking, was also part of the criminal court building. There were guys here who had been locked up for months, and not just for the first time, so I figured I had better just keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.
It was now 11:30 AM and I wanted to call my parents very badly, but before I got settled into where I would be staying, I had to be processed with dozens of other guys. There were six bullpens filled with detainees and bench room was at a premium. I was tired, however, and, more importantly, have a bad back, so I had to find a way to sit down. I attempted to squeeze between two guys, one of whom was lying down and taking up three spots all by himself.
“Yo, man, ain’t no room here for you,” Rip Van Winkle said. His breath reached me before his words did.
Realizing that, as a white man, I was in the minority here, but also knowing that you can’t let yourself get intimidated or pushed around in jail, the Brooklyn in me came out.
“Oh, yeah, there is, so just move the fuck over and there’ll be plenty of room,” I ordered.
With that, a fight ensued, albeit briefly. Being that the bullpen was packed like a can of sardines, not much happened as far as punches being thrown. The C.O.s quickly came in and broke it up then separated the two of us by putting me into another bullpen. This is one little white guy who’s not going to get pushed around, I thought to myself, as I took a seat in my new cell, almost daring somebody else to try their luck with me next.
It was time for lunch and I was starving. The meatballs were hard, the spaghetti watery, and the bread stale, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get to my cell already and call my parents, who I knew were worrying about me.
After lunch was over and the bullpens all cleaned, processing began. If there’s anything more degrading than what took place next, I don’t know that it exists.
To begin with, you had to have your mug shot taken in order to receive an I.D. card. Then you had to be strip-searched, which included bending over and squatting to make sure you weren’t hiding anything up your ass. Finally, you had to take a shower with five or six other guys, provided you didn’t vomit from the overriding stench that permeated the area. And all the while, you had to put up with the ridicule and nasty dispositions of the C.O.s, who treated the inmates as second-class citizens. I remember thinking, Who the hell do these people think they are? Some of them aren’t even my age, yet I have to listen to them and do everything they say. But I also knew that I brought this entire thing on myself, and since I made my bed, I had to sleep in it.
When processing was completed, I was escorted to Housing Unit 6 West, which was to be my new home, at least for the time being. After cleaning my cell until I was satisfied I had removed every last germ brought on by its previous inhabitant, and taking a long, hot shower to try in some way to rid myself of the morning’s events, I finally called my parents.
I was surprised at how calm and concerned my parents, Irving and Judy Goldstein, were on the telephone.
“I’m so glad you called,” my mother said. “Your father and I have been sitting by the phone waiting to hear from you.”
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I squirmed like a coward. “This is the worst thing I have ever done in my life and I’m so sorry.”
“We just want you to know how much we both love you,” my father assured me. I lost all composure and broke down.
“I’m so sorry for doing this to you two, and I know now that I need help with my drug problem,” I admitted.
“Just take it easy, Gary, everything is going to be alright,” my father pleaded, the pain and hurt obvious in his voice.
After telling my parents what I had known up until that point, including the fiasco in court regarding Jankowitz and my ten thousand-dollar bail, I told them that I would call again that night, using my second of the two local free phone calls all inmates are allotted each day.
For the time being, however, I just wanted to lie in my cell and be by myself with my thoughts. Words alone could not express my disgust, embarrassment, shame, and disappointment with myself for what I had done. It was bad enough to put myself in this predicament, but to make my parents, not to mention my victims, go through such aggravation and heartache yet again was totally inexcusable. After torturing myself for over an hour, I was finally able to fall asleep.
***
“On the chow,” the C.O. from 6 West screamed a short time later, an expression I would be hearing three times a day from then on, which indicated that it was time to eat.
The food isn’t brought to our cell, I remember thinking, as I must have mistakenly thought I was at the Waldorf Astoria rather than behind bars.
With that announcement, the C.O. unlocked all the cell doors with the flip of a switch, and we all converged on the gallery area, complete with tables, chairs, and color television, to eat our dinner.
Religious meals were served first, so being the only Jew at 6 West, I received my kosher tray at the same time the Muslims got their halal meal.
I had never been locked up for more than just one night before, and knew that since this was how my life was going to be played out on a daily basis, at least for a while, I had better try to get used to it.
But sitting at a table with total strangers, most of whom had never graduated from high school, held an honest job, or had all of their own teeth, was quite humiliating and extremely degrading. So I quickly finished eating and went straight back to my cell in order to be by myself again.
For the next two hours, I just lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling, crying and wishing that I could turn back the clock and erase what had happened.
“Yo, Goldstein, you aw-right?” asked the guy in the cell next to mine, remembering my name after having heard the C.O. say it earlier.
“Yeah,” I shouted back, as I quickly came to my cell door and wiped away the tears.
“What are you in here for, man?” my neighbor asked.
“Robbery,” I responded. I kept my answers brief and didn’t return the question, hoping that the conversation would come to an end.
“What’s a Jewish guy like you doing robbing somebody?” he chuckled, which was a question I was sure to hear over and over again in the days and months ahead.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I sternly replied, as I went back to lie down, knowing that I had finally put a halt to our discussion.
With that, I was able to resume my misery until eight o’clock arrived, which was time to call my parents again.
This time, things were different on the telephone. I don’t know what it was, but my mother and father weren’t as calm and reassuring as they had been earlier. Maybe because they had some time to absorb the gravity of the situation, or maybe because they were emotionally drained from the roller-coaster ride I had put them on, but in any event, what happened next was something that I had never experienced before.
For the very first time in my thirty-six years, I heard my father cry. After I told him that I was doing alright and explained that I was in my own cell and that everything would work itself out, Irving Goldstein broke down and let it all out.
“Gary, how could you do this to me and your mother? We have always given you everything you ever wanted,” he said, and his words made me lose it as well.
“I know, I know,” I responded. “I’m so sorry. I’m no good. But don’t cry, everything will be alright, you’ll see.”
“Gary, why did you lie to me?” my mother asked, referring to the night when she saw that toy gun on the bed in my room and I told her that I was giving it to my friend’s son as a birthday present.
“I don’t know,” I offered. “I was all messed up on drugs.”
After a few more minutes of give and take, my parents and I said our goodbyes, but not before I tried to reassure them once again that this ordeal of mine would work itself out, which was really how I felt.
So I decided to call it a night. I was very tired and knew that I could count on the C.O. to wake me up for breakfast in the morning!
Although these events occurred nearly 15 years ago, they will always remain fresh in my mind.
I hope you all can get something out of reading this, as far as understanding how the correction system in New York City works, should you know anyone in the same position needing help.
3. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL
There was no way I was going to get out on bail. My parents didn’t have ten grand and even if they would try to borrow it from my sister and her husband, I wouldn’t allow them to. Maybe it was better that I sat in jail for a while to learn my lesson the hard way. Besides, in the back of my mind, I still believed that in the end, everything would work itself out and I would come home as if none of this had ever happened. Plus, I kept thinking to myself that Jews don’t go to jail anyway, so I was safe, right?
But I still was puzzled as to what took place in the courtroom at that sidebar conference. Surely, I reasoned to myself, Mr. Jankowitz would have come back to the bullpen to speak to me and explain what had happened. The bottom line, however, is that, in this world, you get what you pay for, and in Mr. Jankowitz, that meant not very much at all.
From the bullpen outside the courtroom, I had now been transferred to the Manhattan Detention Complex (“The Tombs”), which, like Central Booking, was also part of the criminal court building. There were guys here who had been locked up for months, and not just for the first time, so I figured I had better just keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.
It was now 11:30 AM and I wanted to call my parents very badly, but before I got settled into where I would be staying, I had to be processed with dozens of other guys. There were six bullpens filled with detainees and bench room was at a premium. I was tired, however, and, more importantly, have a bad back, so I had to find a way to sit down. I attempted to squeeze between two guys, one of whom was lying down and taking up three spots all by himself.
“Yo, man, ain’t no room here for you,” Rip Van Winkle said. His breath reached me before his words did.
Realizing that, as a white man, I was in the minority here, but also knowing that you can’t let yourself get intimidated or pushed around in jail, the Brooklyn in me came out.
“Oh, yeah, there is, so just move the fuck over and there’ll be plenty of room,” I ordered.
With that, a fight ensued, albeit briefly. Being that the bullpen was packed like a can of sardines, not much happened as far as punches being thrown. The C.O.s quickly came in and broke it up then separated the two of us by putting me into another bullpen. This is one little white guy who’s not going to get pushed around, I thought to myself, as I took a seat in my new cell, almost daring somebody else to try their luck with me next.
It was time for lunch and I was starving. The meatballs were hard, the spaghetti watery, and the bread stale, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get to my cell already and call my parents, who I knew were worrying about me.
After lunch was over and the bullpens all cleaned, processing began. If there’s anything more degrading than what took place next, I don’t know that it exists.
To begin with, you had to have your mug shot taken in order to receive an I.D. card. Then you had to be strip-searched, which included bending over and squatting to make sure you weren’t hiding anything up your ass. Finally, you had to take a shower with five or six other guys, provided you didn’t vomit from the overriding stench that permeated the area. And all the while, you had to put up with the ridicule and nasty dispositions of the C.O.s, who treated the inmates as second-class citizens. I remember thinking, Who the hell do these people think they are? Some of them aren’t even my age, yet I have to listen to them and do everything they say. But I also knew that I brought this entire thing on myself, and since I made my bed, I had to sleep in it.
When processing was completed, I was escorted to Housing Unit 6 West, which was to be my new home, at least for the time being. After cleaning my cell until I was satisfied I had removed every last germ brought on by its previous inhabitant, and taking a long, hot shower to try in some way to rid myself of the morning’s events, I finally called my parents.
I was surprised at how calm and concerned my parents, Irving and Judy Goldstein, were on the telephone.
“I’m so glad you called,” my mother said. “Your father and I have been sitting by the phone waiting to hear from you.”
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I squirmed like a coward. “This is the worst thing I have ever done in my life and I’m so sorry.”
“We just want you to know how much we both love you,” my father assured me. I lost all composure and broke down.
“I’m so sorry for doing this to you two, and I know now that I need help with my drug problem,” I admitted.
“Just take it easy, Gary, everything is going to be alright,” my father pleaded, the pain and hurt obvious in his voice.
After telling my parents what I had known up until that point, including the fiasco in court regarding Jankowitz and my ten thousand-dollar bail, I told them that I would call again that night, using my second of the two local free phone calls all inmates are allotted each day.
For the time being, however, I just wanted to lie in my cell and be by myself with my thoughts. Words alone could not express my disgust, embarrassment, shame, and disappointment with myself for what I had done. It was bad enough to put myself in this predicament, but to make my parents, not to mention my victims, go through such aggravation and heartache yet again was totally inexcusable. After torturing myself for over an hour, I was finally able to fall asleep.
***
“On the chow,” the C.O. from 6 West screamed a short time later, an expression I would be hearing three times a day from then on, which indicated that it was time to eat.
The food isn’t brought to our cell, I remember thinking, as I must have mistakenly thought I was at the Waldorf Astoria rather than behind bars.
With that announcement, the C.O. unlocked all the cell doors with the flip of a switch, and we all converged on the gallery area, complete with tables, chairs, and color television, to eat our dinner.
Religious meals were served first, so being the only Jew at 6 West, I received my kosher tray at the same time the Muslims got their halal meal.
I had never been locked up for more than just one night before, and knew that since this was how my life was going to be played out on a daily basis, at least for a while, I had better try to get used to it.
But sitting at a table with total strangers, most of whom had never graduated from high school, held an honest job, or had all of their own teeth, was quite humiliating and extremely degrading. So I quickly finished eating and went straight back to my cell in order to be by myself again.
For the next two hours, I just lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling, crying and wishing that I could turn back the clock and erase what had happened.
“Yo, Goldstein, you aw-right?” asked the guy in the cell next to mine, remembering my name after having heard the C.O. say it earlier.
“Yeah,” I shouted back, as I quickly came to my cell door and wiped away the tears.
“What are you in here for, man?” my neighbor asked.
“Robbery,” I responded. I kept my answers brief and didn’t return the question, hoping that the conversation would come to an end.
“What’s a Jewish guy like you doing robbing somebody?” he chuckled, which was a question I was sure to hear over and over again in the days and months ahead.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I sternly replied, as I went back to lie down, knowing that I had finally put a halt to our discussion.
With that, I was able to resume my misery until eight o’clock arrived, which was time to call my parents again.
This time, things were different on the telephone. I don’t know what it was, but my mother and father weren’t as calm and reassuring as they had been earlier. Maybe because they had some time to absorb the gravity of the situation, or maybe because they were emotionally drained from the roller-coaster ride I had put them on, but in any event, what happened next was something that I had never experienced before.
For the very first time in my thirty-six years, I heard my father cry. After I told him that I was doing alright and explained that I was in my own cell and that everything would work itself out, Irving Goldstein broke down and let it all out.
“Gary, how could you do this to me and your mother? We have always given you everything you ever wanted,” he said, and his words made me lose it as well.
“I know, I know,” I responded. “I’m so sorry. I’m no good. But don’t cry, everything will be alright, you’ll see.”
“Gary, why did you lie to me?” my mother asked, referring to the night when she saw that toy gun on the bed in my room and I told her that I was giving it to my friend’s son as a birthday present.
“I don’t know,” I offered. “I was all messed up on drugs.”
After a few more minutes of give and take, my parents and I said our goodbyes, but not before I tried to reassure them once again that this ordeal of mine would work itself out, which was really how I felt.
So I decided to call it a night. I was very tired and knew that I could count on the C.O. to wake me up for breakfast in the morning!
"Court"ing Trouble!
Today, I bring you the sixth chapter of my book, "Jew in Jail."
By reading it, you will hopefully gain some insights into the insanity one deals with when he or she is a defendant going to court in the New York State judicial system.
Of course, had I not put myself in this predicament in the first place, none of this would have ever even taken place!
6. BACK TO COURT
Going to court from Rikers Island was an experience in itself. After attending my first two meetings in the S.A.I.D. Drug Program the day before, which consisted mainly of observing everything, and then going to bed at 9:00 PM, I was awakened at 4:30 AM by the C.O. to get ready for court on Monday, June 22, 1998. I had also spoken to my parents the night before and knew that they would be in court as well.
I shaved, took a shower, got dressed, and then went to the mess hall to eat breakfast. Then, everyone who was going to court was herded into the gymnasium, located inside the main building. One by one, the C.O.s called out the five boroughs of New York City—Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Staten Island, and the Bronx—and when the borough where you were going to court was announced, it was time to go to the bullpen, but not before getting searched.
I brought a manilla folder full of legal work, mostly cases, which I had researched and made copies of in order to show my attorney, Mark Jankowitz. So, after patting me down, the C.O. went through my folder as if I were concealing the plans for the atomic bomb. But I knew that he was just doing his job, and besides, it made me feel important in some strange way.
When the bullpen became full of inmates, we were all moved to a larger one, where we then had to wait ninety minutes or so until the buses arrived to transport us to the court building.
This was the time, at least for me, to ponder my situation, and try to figure out what was going to take place later in court. But for others, it was the perfect time to discuss the events of the week.
“Yo, son, the po-lice (C.O.) in my house is whack,” said one guy to his friend, who he probably hadn’t seen since the night before! “That motherfucker won’t let a nigga do his thing,” meaning that security is very tight.
“No doubt, no doubt,” answered his partner in crime. “They all on point.”
“Hey, yo, T, my man, Born came in yesterday from Brooklyn House (of Detention),” another pillar of the community shouted across the bullpen to his crony. “You heard?”
“Yeah, Tisha told me when I called the bitch last night,” replied this old-timer, who had all of his years of past incarceration etched on his wrinkled face.
With all of this high-level dialogue going on, it was virtually impossible to concentrate on the issue at hand, so I just tried to rest until it was time to get ready to load the buses.
But since the C.O.s failed to enforce the no-smoking rule, and the bullpen looked like a high-stakes poker game had been going on, the smoke, combined with the oppressive heat of the summer, even at seven in the morning, prevented me from doing anything else than just sitting and staring about.
Twenty more minutes and it was then time to load the buses. After hearing my name called, and walking over to the C.O. to give him my book, case number, housing unit, I was handcuffed to another detainee, placed on the bus, and locked in one of the steel cages, all set for the trip to New York State Supreme Court in Manhattan.
“There is no smoking or yelling out the windows,” announced one of the two C.O.s who were assigned to our bus, as we began our journey.
Forty minutes later, after we battled through morning rush-hour traffic on the Grand Central Parkway, we arrived in lower Manhattan. It felt good to be out amongst the throngs of people, even though I was caged in like an animal on the bus.
It was a few more blocks to the court building, and the natives were getting a little restless.
“Yo, baby, I should be home in five to ten,” shouted a big, fat black guy a few rows in front of me; he was not only trying to make a date with a pretty lady on the street for 2008 or so, but was also ignoring the C.O.’s earlier order not to yell out of the bus when we first departed Rikers Island.
We finally pulled up to 100 Centre Street, the Supreme Court Building, and took our place in line in the parking lot, behind the first three buses to have already arrived from the island and other jails throughout the city.
About an hour and a half later, the C.O.s received the word to bring us into the building through the back entrance, as usual. Still handcuffed to a partner, we all had to walk two flights up a narrow staircase until we reached the elevator. Then we were crammed inside and taken up to the twelfth floor.
We were released from our bracelets, passed through a metal detector, and put into a giant, noisy, and filthy bullpen. A few minutes later, my name was called, and I was taken to yet another bullpen, this one smaller and right outside the courtroom, where I would soon be facing the judge. The C.O. gave out cold baloney-and-cheese sandwiches and a cup of Kool Aid, both of which I took a pass on.
An hour later, Mr. Jankowitz arrived, and we had a brief get-together.
“Gary, you’ve been indicted,” he revealed to me.
“What exactly does that mean?” I asked, knowing the answer full well, but wanting my mouthpiece to earn every last cent that the state of New York was paying him to defend me.
“It means that the Grand Jury found sufficient evidence to charge you with robbery in the second degree,” he said.
“But I wanted to testify in front of the Grand Jury as to the fact that I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict, and that I was intoxicated and high on pills on the day of the crime,” I asserted.
“I waived your right to testify before the Grand Jury,” admitted Jankowitz.
“You had no authority to do that without checking with me first,” I shouted.
“Trust me, Mr. Goldstein, I know what I’m doing,” he replied. “You were better off staying away from the Grand Jury.”
“Well, I Xeroxed these cases here for you to look at,” I quickly fired back, “and they show how the police are not supposed to make any promises in order to secure a confession. I want you to ask for a Huntley hearing to have my confessions suppressed.”
“It’s too early for that right now,” Jankowitz informed me. “When we go out into the courtroom and the clerk asks you, ‘How do you plead?’ I just want you tou say, ‘Not guilty.’ That’s it. You’ve already said enough by confessing.”
Several minutes later, the court officer took me out of the bullpen, and escorted me, without handcuffs, into the courtroom. As I entered, I immediately saw my parents and waved. There were only three other people, besides my mother and father, sitting in the audience, and it felt a little intimidating knowing that everyone in the courtroom—the judge, assistant district attorney, court officers, clerks, stenographer, Mr. Jankowitz, and my parents—were all directing their attention on me.
“The People of the State of New York versus Gary Goldstein, indictment numbers 5013/98 and 5013A/98,” the court clerk announced. “Mr. Goldstein, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” I asserted.
Then, after a few minutes of legalese among Mr. Jankowitz, the assistant district attorney, and the judge, I was escorted back to the bullpen. As I walked out, I motioned to my parents that I would call them later that night.
I was expecting to see Mr. Jankowitz again to ask him what took place after I pled not guilty, but I never saw him anymore that day. (I also never got a chance to ask him about my arraignment, when, after that sidebar conference, the judge ordered my bail at ten thousand, so I was left puzzled as to what exactly had transpired that day as well.) But, of course, as with anything else in the great U.S. of A., you get what you pay for, and since his fee was being paid by the state of New York and not me, Jankowitz refused to go that extra mile.
All I learned from the C.O., as I was then taken from the small bullpen outside the courtroom back to the main one where I was earlier in the day, was that my next court appearance was going to be in three weeks, on July 13, in Part 71.
Since it was now 12:15 PM, and I missed the first bus going back to Rikers Island (the first “go-back”), I had to return downstairs to wait in another bullpen until four-thirty, when the afternoon buses would be ready to leave.
After passing through another metal detector, and again refusing to take a baloney-and-cheese sandwich, I took a seat in the bullpen. I was hungry but was planning on going to “sick call” the next morning at Rikers Island in order to be put on a low-cholesterol, special diet, so I wanted to get a headstart on watching what I was eating. I knew that I would be getting dinner later anyway upon my return to the island, so I decided to wait.
For four hours, I just sat and stared at what was going on around me. As the bullpen became more and more crowded, the noise level increased to a deafening pitch.
Guys were letting off steam after having just seen the judge, and now was the perfect time to discuss the events of the day with each other.
“Yo, son, my lawyer’s trying to get me to cop out (plead guilty) to a five to ten (a five- to ten-year sentence),” said one guy to his friend. “Aint no motherfuckin’ way it’s gonna happen. I told him I’m going to trial, you heard?”
“No doubt, I know what you sayin’,” said the other guy. “But at least you saw somebody. My lawyer didn’t even show up, so I came for nothing.”
Then I focused my attention in another direction.
“They’re trying to charge me with a body (murder),” claimed this obese, biker-type white man, to whoever would listen.
“They like to bluff,” responded the guy sitting next to him, as if this were just a game. “I bet the next time you come to court, the charges will go down.”
I couldn’t believe I was right in the middle of all of this bullshit. I had such disgust and disdain for all of these animals I was locked up with. But mostly, I was mad at myself for getting arrested in the first place.
A few minutes later, the C.O. came around with a basket full of extra sandwiches to give away and everyone ran to the door to get one. Except me.
“Yo, my man,” said this old, sickly looking Puerto Rican fellow. “If you don’t want your sandwich, can you get it and give it to me?”
After thinking for a moment, I said, “If you hold my seat, I’ll get you a sandwich.”
I got him the sandwich and proceeded to watch him devour it like he hadn’t eaten in days, which was a good possibility. Thinking that he might have AIDS, I tried to avoid looking at him anymore, fearful that he may come over to talk to me and inadvertently spread his germs. From that day on, I became even more obsessed about cleanliness than ever before.
So I just closed my eyes and pretended to be sleeping until it was time to load the buses for the trip back to Rikers Island.
The sound of handcuffs jingling from the C.O.’s belt loop alerted me that the time had finally arrived, and a short time later, the buses departed.
The same rules were in effect for the trip back regarding the restriction of smoking and noise, but guys still had a lot of stress to get off their chests. Besides, they knew that since they were already in jail, what more could the C.O.s actually do to them?
As soon as the bus left the parking lot and we were on the streets of lower Manhattan, the shenanigans began.
“Hey, baby, you’re looking good today,” one guy hollered to a woman apparently on her way home from work.
“I’ll be home in three to six,” added another, as the woman continued to ignore it all. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
After a few more minutes of the same, we approached the highway, and by five-thirty, were back on Rikers Island.
I was starving by then and knew that as soon as we were all registered back into the jail, dinner would be served. Since it was also count time when we returned, I realized that it would be about an hour until we were all taken back to our housing units, and I was finally able to take a shower and lie in my own bed.
Everyone else must have been hungry and tired as well, because we were all put back onto the count and registered in no time at all.
I sat in the bullpen and ate my chicken, bread, and peas, and washed it all down with a small container of milk then sat and waited for the C.O.s to call names for the walk back.
The first thing I did when I got back to Sprung 2 was sign the sick call sheet for the next day to get on that low-cholesterol diet. I couldn’t eat kosher anymore like I did in the Tombs because it was too high in fat and salt content, and I found out that my total cholesterol level was two hundred and forty-two when I was still there.
Then I went to my bed and told Willie what happened in court.
“You should fire your lawyer,” Willie advised, “because he doesn’t appear to be working with you.”
“I’ll see what happens in court next time,” I said, as I proceeded to take a much-needed shower.
I had some questions that I wanted to ask Willie when I returned from the shower, but when I got back to my bed, he was reading.
So I just lay down and went to sleep.
By reading it, you will hopefully gain some insights into the insanity one deals with when he or she is a defendant going to court in the New York State judicial system.
Of course, had I not put myself in this predicament in the first place, none of this would have ever even taken place!
6. BACK TO COURT
Going to court from Rikers Island was an experience in itself. After attending my first two meetings in the S.A.I.D. Drug Program the day before, which consisted mainly of observing everything, and then going to bed at 9:00 PM, I was awakened at 4:30 AM by the C.O. to get ready for court on Monday, June 22, 1998. I had also spoken to my parents the night before and knew that they would be in court as well.
I shaved, took a shower, got dressed, and then went to the mess hall to eat breakfast. Then, everyone who was going to court was herded into the gymnasium, located inside the main building. One by one, the C.O.s called out the five boroughs of New York City—Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Staten Island, and the Bronx—and when the borough where you were going to court was announced, it was time to go to the bullpen, but not before getting searched.
I brought a manilla folder full of legal work, mostly cases, which I had researched and made copies of in order to show my attorney, Mark Jankowitz. So, after patting me down, the C.O. went through my folder as if I were concealing the plans for the atomic bomb. But I knew that he was just doing his job, and besides, it made me feel important in some strange way.
When the bullpen became full of inmates, we were all moved to a larger one, where we then had to wait ninety minutes or so until the buses arrived to transport us to the court building.
This was the time, at least for me, to ponder my situation, and try to figure out what was going to take place later in court. But for others, it was the perfect time to discuss the events of the week.
“Yo, son, the po-lice (C.O.) in my house is whack,” said one guy to his friend, who he probably hadn’t seen since the night before! “That motherfucker won’t let a nigga do his thing,” meaning that security is very tight.
“No doubt, no doubt,” answered his partner in crime. “They all on point.”
“Hey, yo, T, my man, Born came in yesterday from Brooklyn House (of Detention),” another pillar of the community shouted across the bullpen to his crony. “You heard?”
“Yeah, Tisha told me when I called the bitch last night,” replied this old-timer, who had all of his years of past incarceration etched on his wrinkled face.
With all of this high-level dialogue going on, it was virtually impossible to concentrate on the issue at hand, so I just tried to rest until it was time to get ready to load the buses.
But since the C.O.s failed to enforce the no-smoking rule, and the bullpen looked like a high-stakes poker game had been going on, the smoke, combined with the oppressive heat of the summer, even at seven in the morning, prevented me from doing anything else than just sitting and staring about.
Twenty more minutes and it was then time to load the buses. After hearing my name called, and walking over to the C.O. to give him my book, case number, housing unit, I was handcuffed to another detainee, placed on the bus, and locked in one of the steel cages, all set for the trip to New York State Supreme Court in Manhattan.
“There is no smoking or yelling out the windows,” announced one of the two C.O.s who were assigned to our bus, as we began our journey.
Forty minutes later, after we battled through morning rush-hour traffic on the Grand Central Parkway, we arrived in lower Manhattan. It felt good to be out amongst the throngs of people, even though I was caged in like an animal on the bus.
It was a few more blocks to the court building, and the natives were getting a little restless.
“Yo, baby, I should be home in five to ten,” shouted a big, fat black guy a few rows in front of me; he was not only trying to make a date with a pretty lady on the street for 2008 or so, but was also ignoring the C.O.’s earlier order not to yell out of the bus when we first departed Rikers Island.
We finally pulled up to 100 Centre Street, the Supreme Court Building, and took our place in line in the parking lot, behind the first three buses to have already arrived from the island and other jails throughout the city.
About an hour and a half later, the C.O.s received the word to bring us into the building through the back entrance, as usual. Still handcuffed to a partner, we all had to walk two flights up a narrow staircase until we reached the elevator. Then we were crammed inside and taken up to the twelfth floor.
We were released from our bracelets, passed through a metal detector, and put into a giant, noisy, and filthy bullpen. A few minutes later, my name was called, and I was taken to yet another bullpen, this one smaller and right outside the courtroom, where I would soon be facing the judge. The C.O. gave out cold baloney-and-cheese sandwiches and a cup of Kool Aid, both of which I took a pass on.
An hour later, Mr. Jankowitz arrived, and we had a brief get-together.
“Gary, you’ve been indicted,” he revealed to me.
“What exactly does that mean?” I asked, knowing the answer full well, but wanting my mouthpiece to earn every last cent that the state of New York was paying him to defend me.
“It means that the Grand Jury found sufficient evidence to charge you with robbery in the second degree,” he said.
“But I wanted to testify in front of the Grand Jury as to the fact that I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict, and that I was intoxicated and high on pills on the day of the crime,” I asserted.
“I waived your right to testify before the Grand Jury,” admitted Jankowitz.
“You had no authority to do that without checking with me first,” I shouted.
“Trust me, Mr. Goldstein, I know what I’m doing,” he replied. “You were better off staying away from the Grand Jury.”
“Well, I Xeroxed these cases here for you to look at,” I quickly fired back, “and they show how the police are not supposed to make any promises in order to secure a confession. I want you to ask for a Huntley hearing to have my confessions suppressed.”
“It’s too early for that right now,” Jankowitz informed me. “When we go out into the courtroom and the clerk asks you, ‘How do you plead?’ I just want you tou say, ‘Not guilty.’ That’s it. You’ve already said enough by confessing.”
Several minutes later, the court officer took me out of the bullpen, and escorted me, without handcuffs, into the courtroom. As I entered, I immediately saw my parents and waved. There were only three other people, besides my mother and father, sitting in the audience, and it felt a little intimidating knowing that everyone in the courtroom—the judge, assistant district attorney, court officers, clerks, stenographer, Mr. Jankowitz, and my parents—were all directing their attention on me.
“The People of the State of New York versus Gary Goldstein, indictment numbers 5013/98 and 5013A/98,” the court clerk announced. “Mr. Goldstein, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” I asserted.
Then, after a few minutes of legalese among Mr. Jankowitz, the assistant district attorney, and the judge, I was escorted back to the bullpen. As I walked out, I motioned to my parents that I would call them later that night.
I was expecting to see Mr. Jankowitz again to ask him what took place after I pled not guilty, but I never saw him anymore that day. (I also never got a chance to ask him about my arraignment, when, after that sidebar conference, the judge ordered my bail at ten thousand, so I was left puzzled as to what exactly had transpired that day as well.) But, of course, as with anything else in the great U.S. of A., you get what you pay for, and since his fee was being paid by the state of New York and not me, Jankowitz refused to go that extra mile.
All I learned from the C.O., as I was then taken from the small bullpen outside the courtroom back to the main one where I was earlier in the day, was that my next court appearance was going to be in three weeks, on July 13, in Part 71.
Since it was now 12:15 PM, and I missed the first bus going back to Rikers Island (the first “go-back”), I had to return downstairs to wait in another bullpen until four-thirty, when the afternoon buses would be ready to leave.
After passing through another metal detector, and again refusing to take a baloney-and-cheese sandwich, I took a seat in the bullpen. I was hungry but was planning on going to “sick call” the next morning at Rikers Island in order to be put on a low-cholesterol, special diet, so I wanted to get a headstart on watching what I was eating. I knew that I would be getting dinner later anyway upon my return to the island, so I decided to wait.
For four hours, I just sat and stared at what was going on around me. As the bullpen became more and more crowded, the noise level increased to a deafening pitch.
Guys were letting off steam after having just seen the judge, and now was the perfect time to discuss the events of the day with each other.
“Yo, son, my lawyer’s trying to get me to cop out (plead guilty) to a five to ten (a five- to ten-year sentence),” said one guy to his friend. “Aint no motherfuckin’ way it’s gonna happen. I told him I’m going to trial, you heard?”
“No doubt, I know what you sayin’,” said the other guy. “But at least you saw somebody. My lawyer didn’t even show up, so I came for nothing.”
Then I focused my attention in another direction.
“They’re trying to charge me with a body (murder),” claimed this obese, biker-type white man, to whoever would listen.
“They like to bluff,” responded the guy sitting next to him, as if this were just a game. “I bet the next time you come to court, the charges will go down.”
I couldn’t believe I was right in the middle of all of this bullshit. I had such disgust and disdain for all of these animals I was locked up with. But mostly, I was mad at myself for getting arrested in the first place.
A few minutes later, the C.O. came around with a basket full of extra sandwiches to give away and everyone ran to the door to get one. Except me.
“Yo, my man,” said this old, sickly looking Puerto Rican fellow. “If you don’t want your sandwich, can you get it and give it to me?”
After thinking for a moment, I said, “If you hold my seat, I’ll get you a sandwich.”
I got him the sandwich and proceeded to watch him devour it like he hadn’t eaten in days, which was a good possibility. Thinking that he might have AIDS, I tried to avoid looking at him anymore, fearful that he may come over to talk to me and inadvertently spread his germs. From that day on, I became even more obsessed about cleanliness than ever before.
So I just closed my eyes and pretended to be sleeping until it was time to load the buses for the trip back to Rikers Island.
The sound of handcuffs jingling from the C.O.’s belt loop alerted me that the time had finally arrived, and a short time later, the buses departed.
The same rules were in effect for the trip back regarding the restriction of smoking and noise, but guys still had a lot of stress to get off their chests. Besides, they knew that since they were already in jail, what more could the C.O.s actually do to them?
As soon as the bus left the parking lot and we were on the streets of lower Manhattan, the shenanigans began.
“Hey, baby, you’re looking good today,” one guy hollered to a woman apparently on her way home from work.
“I’ll be home in three to six,” added another, as the woman continued to ignore it all. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
After a few more minutes of the same, we approached the highway, and by five-thirty, were back on Rikers Island.
I was starving by then and knew that as soon as we were all registered back into the jail, dinner would be served. Since it was also count time when we returned, I realized that it would be about an hour until we were all taken back to our housing units, and I was finally able to take a shower and lie in my own bed.
Everyone else must have been hungry and tired as well, because we were all put back onto the count and registered in no time at all.
I sat in the bullpen and ate my chicken, bread, and peas, and washed it all down with a small container of milk then sat and waited for the C.O.s to call names for the walk back.
The first thing I did when I got back to Sprung 2 was sign the sick call sheet for the next day to get on that low-cholesterol diet. I couldn’t eat kosher anymore like I did in the Tombs because it was too high in fat and salt content, and I found out that my total cholesterol level was two hundred and forty-two when I was still there.
Then I went to my bed and told Willie what happened in court.
“You should fire your lawyer,” Willie advised, “because he doesn’t appear to be working with you.”
“I’ll see what happens in court next time,” I said, as I proceeded to take a much-needed shower.
I had some questions that I wanted to ask Willie when I returned from the shower, but when I got back to my bed, he was reading.
So I just lay down and went to sleep.
