10.

After we do the paperwork and get patted down, Partner and I walk half a mile along sidewalks lined with chain link and razor wire to Camp D, a tough unit. We go through security again and deal with grim-faced guards who would like nothing better than to turn us away. Because Partner is a certified paralegal and carries the paperwork to prove it, he is allowed into the visiting wing with me. A guard selects a consultation room for attorneys and we take our seats facing a screen.

Attorneys can visit anytime, with notice, while the families are limited to Sunday afternoons only. As we wait, Partner, who says little, now says even less. We check on Jameel at least once a month, and the visits take a toll on my confidant. He carries heavy burdens because he blames himself for many of his son’s problems. The kid was headed for trouble, but after Partner’s acquittal the cops and prosecutors were out for revenge. Kill a cop, even in self-defense, and you make some nasty enemies. When Jameel was arrested, there was no room for negotiation. The max was ten years and the prosecutors wouldn’t budge. I represented him, pro bono of course, but there was nothing I could do. He was caught with a backpack full of pot.

“Only nine years to go,” Partner says softly as we stare at the screen. “Man oh man. I lie awake at night and wonder what he’ll be like in nine years. Twenty-eight years old and back on the streets. No job, no education, no skills, no hope, no nothing. Just another convict looking for trouble.”

“Maybe not,” I say cautiously, though I have little to add. Partner knows this world far better than me. “He’ll have a father waiting on him, and a grandmother. I’ll be around, I hope. Between the three of us we’ll think of something.”

“Maybe you’ll need another paralegal by then,” he says with a rare smile, though a brief one.

“Never know.”

A door opens on the other side and Jameel walks through it, followed by a guard. The guard slowly unsnaps the handcuffs and looks at us. “Morning, Hank,” I say.

“Hello, Rudd,” he says. Hank is one of the good guys, according to Jameel. I suppose it’s some sort of commentary on my law practice that I’m on such good terms with some of the prison guards. Some, but certainly not all.

“Take your time,” he says and disappears. The length of the visit is determined by Hank and Hank alone, and since I’m nice to him he doesn’t care how long we stay. I’ve had hard-asses say things like “You got one hour, max,” or “Make it quick,” but not Hank.

Jameel smiles at us and says, “Thanks for coming.”

“Hello, son,” Partner says properly.

“Great to see you, Jameel,” I say.

He falls into a plastic chair. The kid is six feet five, skinny, and seemingly made out of rubber. Partner is six two and built like a fireplug. He says the kid’s mother is tall and lanky. She’s been out of the picture for years, vanished into the black hole of street life. She has a brother who played basketball at a small college, and Partner has always assumed Jameel came from that gene pool. He was six three in the ninth grade and scouts were beginning to notice. At some point, though, he discovered pot and crack and forgot about the game.

“Thanks for the money,” he says to me. I send him $100 a month, which he’s supposed to use for canteen food and basics such as pencils, paper, stamps, and soft drinks. He bought a fan—Old Roseburg is not air-conditioned. None of our prisons are. Partner sends him money too, though I have no idea how much. Two months after he landed here, they raided his cell and found some pot hidden in his mattress. A snitch had squealed, and Jameel spent two weeks in solitary. Partner would have choked him if he could have penetrated the screen, but the kid swore it would never happen again.

We talk about his classes. He’s taking remedial courses in an effort to get his high school equivalent, but Partner is not impressed with his progress. After a few minutes, I excuse myself and leave the room. Father and son need time alone, which is why we’re here. According to Partner, the conversations get rough and emotional. He wants his son to know that his father cares deeply and is watching from a distance. Old Roseburg is full of gangs and Jameel is easy prey. He swears he’s not involved, but Partner is skeptical. Above all, he wants the kid to be safe, and membership in a gang is often the best protection. It also leads to warfare and revenge and the circle of violence. Seven inmates were killed last year at Old Roseburg. It could be worse. Down the road is a U.S. penitentiary, a federal joint, and they average two murders a month.

I buy a soft drink from a vending machine and find a spot in a row of empty plastic chairs. No other lawyer is visiting today and the place is empty. I open my briefcase and spread papers on a table covered with old magazines. Hank appears and says hello again. We chat for a few minutes. I ask how the kid is doing.

He says, “All right. Nothing great. He’s surviving and he hasn’t been hurt. He’s been here a year and knows his way around. Doesn’t want to work, though. I got him a job in the laundry and he lasted a week. Goes to most of his classes, but not all of them.”

“A gang?”

“Don’t know, but I’m watching.”

Another guard enters through a door far away and Hank suddenly has to go. He can’t be seen fraternizing with a lowly criminal defense lawyer. I try and read a thick brief, but it’s too boring. I walk to a window that looks out upon a vast yard lined with double rows of chain link. Hundreds of inmates, all in prison whites, are killing time as guards look down from a tower.

Young and black, almost all of them. According to the numbers, they’re in for nonviolent drug offenses. The average sentence is seven years. Upon release, 60 percent will be back here within three years.

And why not? What’s on the outside to prevent their return? They are now convicted felons, a branding they will never be able to shake. The odds were stacked against them to begin with, and now that they’re tagged as felons, life in the free world is somehow supposed to improve? These are the real casualties of our wars. The war on drugs. The war on crime. Unintended victims of tough laws passed by tough politicians over the past forty years. One million young black men now warehoused in decaying prisons, idling away the days at taxpayer expense.

Our prisons are packed. Our streets are filled with drugs. Who’s winning the war?

We’ve lost our minds.

11.

After two hours, Hank says it’s time to wrap things up. I knock and reenter the room, an unventilated little box that’s always stuffy. Jameel sits with his arms crossed, his eyes on the floor. Partner sits with his arms crossed too, staring at the screen, and I get the feeling that, though much has been said, no words have passed in some time. I say, “We gotta go.”

This is what both want to hear. They manage to say good-bye with some fondness. Jameel thanks us for coming, passes along greetings and love to Miss Luella, and stands as Hank enters the room from behind him.

Driving away, Partner says nothing for an hour.