Every day, for the three weeks I stayed at the Chelsea
Hotel while waiting for my sentencing, I worked over my face in the mirror. I just couldn't believe how ugly I was becoming. At first I was horrified. It was as if I had contracted a disfiguring disease that was slowly but surely reshaping my face. Huge lumps heaved up under the skin. Blemishes surfaced. Brown marks appeared as if I were rotting fruit. I knew I shouldn't touch my skin with my fingers, but I couldn't help it. I discovered pools of oil and pus under my skin. They drove me into a frenzy. I went right at them. I squeezed down on the welts with my fingers while pressing up against them with my tongue. They exploded, and coils of yellow matter and blood streamed down my face. I squeezed until the cavities were drained. This was very satisfying, this cleansing ritual. I'd punish my face as if I were a cop roughing up a suspect for a confession. Then, after an intense session, I'd step out of the bathroom and pace the carpet while smoking my hash pipe.
I figured my face was the landscape of my attitude. Each
day I woke and asked myself what I should do to avoid the possibility of going to prison. I could go to Canada. But then I'd have to spend the rest of my life there. That seemed unlikely. I could alter my identity, but I didn't know how to change my face, or my fingerprints, or even how to get a fresh set of ID's. The only thing I could change was my attitude, and that was changing for the worst. My only sensible plan was to sit tight, go to court, and hope for probation.
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After Tepper had revealed all the government's super sleuthing, I figured they were still spying on me. And they were. In my room I kept the curtains pulled, the door locked, and the television turned up loud. I didn't like using my room phone except for ordering food. I'm sure it was bugged. And during the day there was always an agent camped out in the lobby, waiting for me, creeping up on me even as I called home from the pay phone by the back door steps. In the evening it was a different man. They followed me everywhere; if by accident or intent I lost them, we always met up again at the hotel. If I went to a restaurant, the agent stood outside. If I went to a bar, he came in. One night I read Dylan Thomas at the White Horse Tavern, the poet's favorite bar, and drank too much. On the way back to the hotel I staggered into an alley and began to vomit. At the end of the alley, leaning against a wall, the agent stood and watched me. “Leave me alone!” I spit out. He lit a
cigarette and didn't say a word. I was trying to kill myself and they were letting me have a go at it.
The next day I worked my face over so heavily it looked like I had been punched around. I didn't care. The only relief I had was the few moments each day when I could pinch and squeeze and knead the reservoirs of blood and pus from under my skin.
It didn't take long to learn how to shake the agents. I'd just get on the subway and dash from train to train a dozen or so times, and before long I'd lose them. I did this after I had set up interviews at Hunter College and New York University. Both schools had writing programs, and both asked me for writing samples to accompany an application. I lied to them. I filled out the applications and promised I'd mail the sample in. But I knew I wouldn't. I had never written anything that was finished. I felt like a fraud. I returned to my room and worked over my face. I didn't have a typewriter. I didn't have ideas. But I had my face. And when I finished punishing it, I settled down for a while and went for a walk to think about what I might write for a sample. But it didn't take me long to find a bar, and for my agent to find me.
I spent a lot of money on drinks and meals while reading books. I read as much jail literature as I could locate.
On the
Yard, Papillon, The Thief's Journal, Seven Long Times.
It was all depressing, but it was a distraction from obsessively picking at
my face. When I couldn't find jail books, I read concentration camp books and P.O.W. books. I read
This Way to the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen
four times in three weeks. I was living off the voices of other people's pain. Those writers had been worse off than I was now, and still they survived to write about it. I knew my fear was as real as theirs, but my words were still submerged. It was easier to pick at the scabs on my face than put pen to paper. Like those other writers, I figured I'd have to wait until the pain subsided and left the words behind.
One morning, for something to do, I lost my agent in the subway system and went to Lucas's apartment. We had sold him a hundred pounds of hash. He was a nice guy, and his apartment was filled with books, so I figured he was interesting, too. I knew he had been arrested and I was desperate to talk to someone who shared my messed-up feelings and situation. I thought he might be sympathetic. But Lucas wasn't home. His wife answered the door and invited me in. She informed me that he was in West Streetâthe federal detention center downtown. After his arrest she didn't want to bail him out. This was his second bust. They had two kids. She was pissed at him, and pissed at me.
“You'll both be sentenced on the same day,” she said harshly. “He expects to do time. And if I were you, I'd expect it, too. That prosecuting attorney, Tepper, is a rabid dog and he's going to take a bite out of you.”
“I know,” I mumbled, and I was filled with dread. Still, I didn't care how blunt she was. It was just good to talk to another person even if she was using me to get a load off her chest. But a baby began to cry and she asked me to leave. At the door she had a few final words.
“You like to sell it, but did you ever consider what it could do to the people who bought it?”
I didn't know what to say right off, and she wasn't waiting.
“Figures you'd be struck dumb with that one,” she said acidly, then slammed the door. I stood there for a minute. A minute was all I could endure because I was beginning to feel how I had screwed up more lives than just my own.
I went down to the corner and called Mr. Newman. I told him about Lucas expecting time. He probably knew this already, but I suddenly had the urge to keep talking.
“Don't worry,” he said. “He's older, and he's a two-time loser. You're a kid. They won't do much to you. I'm betting on probation. You'll get off, and then move on with the rest of your life.”
“Thanks,” I said. But I had a hollow feeling inside. Somehow I knew this would never be over.
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One morning I took a long walk uptown to the 79th Street Marina on the Hudson. I wanted to see the boat, but it was gone.
“Impounded,” the dock manager told me when I asked. “The police have a place where they hold them and then auction them off.”
I sat down on the dock. The river smelled like something dead. The sky was gray. I sat there and cried. I felt sad, and I hated myself for it. I felt beaten, and I hated myself for that. I didn't have one friend. I couldn't write one word. I was just waiting for the one day to arrive when my entire life would pivot. And I was sure things were not going to pivot my way.
Then the waiting game got worse. It was September 13th. I was watching the news. I had been following the Attica Prison uprising. Tom Wicker and William Kunstler had been reporting on the awful prison conditions at the big New York state pen. The place was horrifying. The guards were frightening. The prisoners were even more frightening. One guard had been killed in the uprising, and thirty-nine more were taken hostage. The prisoners had taken over the prison and were asking for amnesty. Wicker and Kunstler were helping to negotiate. But Governor Rockefeller was tired of talking and called in the troops. He had them ring the prison walls and fire down into the yard. Four thousand shots were fired in ten minutes. Twenty-nine prisoners were shot dead. The troopers also shot ten guards in the process. I sat there numbly watching the naked prisoners with their hands on their heads being lined up in the yard, poked with rifles, and shoved around by troops
who behaved like Nazis. I knew bad things were going to happen to me. Guards weren't going to protect me. Prisoners weren't going to protect me. I was screwed. I stood up and went into the bathroom and savagely worked my face over.
The days passed. My fear grew. My face remained an open wound. The night before my sentencing I wrapped my remaining hash, about two pounds, in plastic bags. I shoved it down my pants, turned out all the room lights, and opened the back window. I stepped onto the fire escape and worked my way down to the alley. A few blocks later I flagged a taxi and went uptown, to 50th Street. I went into a little variety store and bought a metal serving spoon. I had to bury the hash and I figured Central Park was the best place. I walked several blocks to the park entrance across the street from the Plaza. I was scared. I kept thinking someone was watching me. I kept looking around for any of the agents, and also for a place to dig a hole, a place that wouldn't be bothered if I had to do time. As I walked I heard the clomping horses pulling buggies on the street. Finally I looked around and saw a stone drinking fountain. I stood next to it. From there I could see the statue of General Sherman on his horse.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “Remember this spot and then this map.” I took thirty-nine steps to the west because I liked the movie
The Thirty-nine Steps
. Then I took twenty steps to the
north, one for each year of my life. That brought me into some bushes. “Take
Fifteen Steps to Better Writing
to the west then turn around and dig,” I whispered. I tramped fifteen paces through the underbrush. I squatted down and cleared the ground with my hands. Then I began to dig. The ground was filled with rocks and roots. It was slow going, and I couldn't see much of what I was doing. I just kept stabbing at the hole with the spoon, then clawing at the roots and rocks with my hands until I could get them out of the way and then stab at the ground some more.
It took forever. Probably an hour. When I finally shoved the hash down all the way I bent the spoon in half and left it in the hole. I filled it up with the rocks and dirt and stomped the mound down, then gathered leaves and spread them over the dirt. Then I began to march away. “Fifteen, twenty, thirty-nine,” I counted out, until I was back at the water fountain. I looked over to salute General Sherman and walked toward the park exit.
In the morning I woke up early and packed all my belongings into a bunch of cheap nylon bags I had bought from a street vendor a few days before. I took a scalding hot shower, worked over my face for the last time, and got dressed in my cheap suit. I was ready.
I checked my bags with the front desk at the hotel. I paid
for my bill in cash. “Either I'll pick my bags up later today, or I'll send someone around to do so,” I said.
The receptionist shrugged. He couldn't care less.
I looked into the lobby. There were two agents. It was sentencing day, and they didn't want to lose me.
I met Mr. Newman at Foley Square. I had one thing on
my mind. Probation. I didn't want to do time. Hamilton was right. I wasn't afraid because I thought smuggling hash was wrongâI was afraid because of the punishment.
“Your dad called my office,” Newman said. “He's going to be late but he'll meet us in the courtroom. He'll be there to make a statement if we need him.”
I looked around the square. I didn't see him. The agents stood a long ways off. I handed Mr. Newman an envelope with the last of my moneyâ$5,700 in cash. I had gone to a bank and changed the ten-dollar bills into hundreds. “Take your fee out of this and keep the rest for me in case I go away,” I said.
He nodded, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he looked at his watch. “You ready?” he asked.
We went up to the courtroom. We were the first case on the docket. The judge arrived and we stood.
The judge sat down and opened the top file on his desk. He read a page or so, then peered out toward us. “Does the
prosecution have anything to add to the pre-sentencing report?” he asked Tepper.
“Your Honor,” Tepper started, and he went on to once again give an outline of the operation. He revealed all the evidence proving my involvement, and outlined what laws I broke. Then he went a little further. “The accused has not cooperated in the ongoing investigation of others involved with this international operation. It is our belief that he is withholding information, and our office is in favor of incarceration.”
“I see,” the judge replied, and adjusted his glasses as he wrote something down. “And you, Mr. Newman, what do you have to say on behalf of your client?”
I looked at Newman. We had been hurt pretty badly by Tepper and I was waiting for him to battle back.
“Your Honor,” he said, “Mr. Gantos fell into this situation. He was hired merely to help sail the vessel to New York. He did not belong to an international operation, or in any way plan this failed smuggling trip. Mr. Gantos is a young man who has made a grown man's mistake. But unlike a grown man he has a full life ahead of him. He regrets his actions. He willingly admits that probation and a drug treatment program would be in his best interest. He has plans for college and a life free of future violations. Prison can only punish a young man with his background and future. We are asking for your consideration regarding his age andâ”
The judge had heard it all before. He was immune to the nice-young-man defense. He raised his hand and cut Mr. Newman off. “And, young man,” he said loudly, “what might you say for yourself?”
I stood there. Frozen. Now it was my turn. I looked at Mr. Newman. I turned to see if my father had arrived. He hadn't. I looked at Tepper and back at the judge. “I made a mistake,” I said. “A big mistake.”
I guess I didn't sound sorry enough, or speak quickly enough.
“A criminal mistake? Or just the mistake of getting caught?” the judge roared back.
And then I just stopped functioning. I stood there knowing the truth was that I was sorry I was caught, and if I hadn't been I would just have moved on to college and this would be a great story I could tell my friends after drinks and a joint.
“Well?” the judge asked. “Which is it? Bad judgment? Or bad luck?”
I hesitated. Maybe for only a second. But it was a second filled with a lifetime like it is for the condemned Southerner in
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,
whose life passes before his eyes from the moment the hangman pulls the lever until the rope snaps his neck. And while I was stuck within that endless moment, I was doomed. Tepper stepped forward and finished me off.
“Your Honor,” he began. “May I read to you something that Mr. Gantos wrote while on the ship?”
When I saw him holding the ship's log the shock of it pulled me out of myself. That's where it went! They must have found it when they searched the room. I knew what he was up to. He had the pages marked with ribbons as if it were a Bible marked for readings.
“Proceed,” the judge said.
“I believe this one section says it all about how Mr. Gantos feels. And I read from the ship's log:
Hamilton had read my mindâI'm not doing anything wrong. I'm just afraid of the punishment.”
He snapped the book closed, looked over at me, and smiled.
“Did you write those words?” the judge asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Then I believe we have gotten down to the truth of the matter,” he said. “And the truth is always in the motivation. You did it for the money. That much is true. Now the law must respond.” He paused, and in that moment I stood there as if my hands were already tied behind my back, waiting for the first blow of many. And it came.
“5010B,” the judge called out matter-of-factly. He lowered his gavel and a split second later bellowed, “Next!”
I turned to Mr. Newman. “What's a 5010B?” I asked.
“I don't know,” he said, puzzled. “I'll have to look it up.”
“So, what do I do?” I looked around. Everyone seemed to be standing still except for a uniformed court guard who was reaching toward me.
“You'll have to go with him,” Mr. Newman said somberly, and nodded toward the guard who had taken hold of my wrist. As he led me across the courtroom I passed in front of my father, who had just arrived. He looked stunned. For once he was speechless, and had I not been so entirely shocked and confused I might have paused long enough to realize the look on his face was from the anguish that his son was being marched off to federal prison. But I was overwhelmed by my own pain.
“I took a risk,” I said, and bit down on my lip. “It didn't pan out.”
I waited for him to say something and when he didn't, or couldn't, the guard tugged me forward and I turned away and followed. We went into an office and the guard patted me down, took my wallet and what change I had in my pocket, my watch and belt, then he locked me in a holding cell lined with wooden benches. I looked around. There were guys like me dressed in street clothes who had been out on bail and were now sentenced. And there were guys in prison clothes who hadn't made bail after their arrest and were now awaiting sentencing. One after the other the men in prison clothes were escorted into court, then returned to the cell. Not one of them
was released. Each time one returned he announced how much time he had received. Three years, five years, twelve years. One armed bank robber got twenty years. He sat and cried. Even the shortest sentence, three years, was more than I could imagine. Slowly, from watching the pain well up in those men, I began to feel the consequences of what had happened to me.
A couple of hours later the guard opened the cell door and called me out. For a fleeting moment I thought maybe the judge had changed his mind, or that there had been an awful mistake and everyone now realized that I was really a good kid and now they were going to give me a slap on the wrist and let me go. But I was dreaming. The guard escorted me to a room where my lawyer was waiting.
“I finally spoke with the judge's clerk,” he said. “Here's the situation. A 5010B is a youth sentence. It means you can do anywhere from sixty days to six years, depending on your behavior and what the parole board thinks.”
“What do you think?” I asked. “Do you think I'll just do sixty days?” I felt I could do that much.
“I don't know,” he replied, not sounding hopeful. “It will be up to the parole board. I'll look into it, but don't get your hopes up too high.”
As he left the room, my dad entered.
“What will I tell your mom?” he asked, as he sat down.
I hung my head. “Tell her I made a huge mistake,” I said. “Tell her I'll be okay. I'll be out soon. Tell her that.”
While he thought about it the air between us filled with quiet confusion. It was unsettling. I would rather have been in the cell than sitting silently with him. At least by myself I only had my pain to consider. But his silence left me feeling his pain, and that of the entire family. And in front of him I was ashamed, too. Then as if by magic he did something that turned all my feelings around. All the pain knotted itself up into anger.
He pulled a set of folded papers out from inside his jacket pocket. “I almost forgot. I need you to sign something,” he said, fishing around in his pants pocket for a pen.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Car insurance papers,” he explained. “Your car is totaled and I need you to sign this release so the insurance company can pay me.”
“What happened?” I asked. And suddenly I hated him, which was easier to do than feel the unrelenting weight of my shame. “What happened!”
“It went down the cliff,” he said. “It's a good thing. Look, with everyone fleeing nobody would buy that car. An accident is the only way you can get some money for it.”
“How'd it happen?” I asked.
“Your sister was driving and knocked a hole in the oil pan
and the engine seized up when she was climbing the hill. So I got the pickup and drove down and gave your car a shove off the edge. She drove the pickup home, and I kind of rolled down the hill a bit and got myself dirty to make it look like I had been run off the road and managed to bail out. The car was pretty amazing. It bounced down the hill on all fours until it hit the lower road. The damn thing bent in half and skidded across the road into someone's yard and wouldn't you know it, they were having a barbecue.” He grinned and shook his head back and forth. “You should have seen them scatter as that car came through their front yard,” he said with a laugh. “Lordy, it was funny.”
“That's my insurance money,” I said.
“I need it to pay my air fare,” he replied. “Business is bad. Plus our lives have been hell. We've all been followed around by the cops. They searched the warehouse. They were even up in the yard looking for plants. I don't think you realize what has been happening to us, so the car money will help.”
He had me there. I hadn't realized what had been happening to them. I had been entirely involved with myself. I signed the papers. “Sorry,” I said, as I pushed them back to him. “I'm sorry about all of this. Tell Newman to give you a thousand dollars, but now it's time for me to get on with it.”
He looked at me. “I should have known that Rik guy was no good. I never should have let you get on that boat. I blame
myself. I just thought it was your ticket out of the mess down thereâI didn't see that it would lead to all this.” He motioned to the walls and bars.
“This is all my fault,” I said. “Not yours.”
I stood up and signaled with my hand for the guard. He opened the door. I turned and walked off. I didn't look back because no matter how disappointed I was with my car or my life, if I saw him crying I would, too, and I knew I couldn't cry because I had to enter a roomful of men who were watching me very closely. And I figured they were not looking for signs of friendship. They were looking for signs of weakness.
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The first night was the worst. After waiting all afternoon at the Foley Square courthouse holding pen, we were handcuffed together and lined up in the hallway. There must have been two dozen of us. A guard led us down a long passage to a freight elevator. We all squeezed in. When the door opened we stepped out onto a loading dock. A black bus with open back doors backed up to the loading dock, and one by one our handcuffs were unlocked and we shuffled aboard, filling up the bus benches front to back. There were windows with bars and chicken wire in the glass panes. Nobody talked. There was a lot of sniffing. Not crying sniffing, but sniffing like dogs as if you could smell everyone's fear, everyone's sour sweat, the smell of our exhalation, the lunch, the bile, the illness in everyone
all breathing out and filtered back in. Outside, New York only seemed to exhaleâhorns, voices, machines, tires, sirens, helicopters, music, protests, advertisementsâall pushing out the air, all selling noise. But we weren't buying anymore. We weren't selling anymore. Now all our robbing and scamming and dealing and running would take place on the inside. Now we only had each other to deal with and we were all busy sniffing each other out and coming up with some sense of who was dangerous and who was not.
We pulled up to West Street. It was a federal holding prison built inside Dutch Schultz's old liquor warehouse, which had been confiscated during Prohibition after Dutch was arrested.
I got lucky. I was one of the last in the prison bus so I was one of the first ones off, and immediately directed to the ARRIVAL office. There I gave up my street clothes and was given a set of old army fatigues with the insignias ripped off. We were allowed to keep our shoes, so I kept my Frye black boots.
I was given a washcloth and towel, extra underwear and socks, and was assigned to D-10. It was a large, barred cage, like the elephant's cage at the zoo. There were eighteen military bunk beds inside for thirty-six men. Because I was the next new man assigned to the tank I had the choice of the two empty bunks. I choose the top bed in a corner under a blue fluorescent light. It seemed the safest. The other bunk was in the
middle, on the bottom, where I knew it would be dark at night and without a corner to protect my back. Lucas got that bunk. He must have been sentenced in a different courtroom and he arrived after me. It was late when he checked in and I was already up on my bed like Quasimodo guarding Notre Dame.