By
the time Antuan was arrested for the third time. He was no longer officially in
the program. He was eligible for the monthly appointments, but not for any
financial support or my time.
But
I just couldn't turn him away when he called me from jail.
I
drove over after work and went through the procedure: secure my briefcase in a
locker and step through the metal detector before a county sheriff ushered me
into the visiting room.
Antuan
was waiting for me. “I really did it this time Stace. He's gonna send me
back.”
The
‘he” was Daniel Perry, who had been on the bench in the Violation of Probation
court for over a decade and ran a very tight ship. He had no tolerance for
shenanigans. I sat in his courtroom both times Antuan had been arrested and saw
him verbally eviscerate those whom he felt weren’t taking things seriously.
Watching
the tears stream down Antuan’s face, I wanted to offer him encouragement. But I
knew he was most likely right. Judge Perry was probably going to send him back
to prison.
“I
just want to go home, Staci.”
I
knew Antuan would be better off living where his family was in Las Vegas.
Support is crucial for people coming out of prison. I had tried several times to
arrange for his probation to be transferred to Las Vegas where his mother and
brothers were. But his moving home meant that Clark county, where Las Vega is
located, would have to assume the financial responsibility of supervision, minus
the fee Antuan would pay every month.
Each
of the three requests I’d submitted through the Interstate Compact for Adult
Offender Supervision, the organization that oversees those on probation or
parole traveling or moving to across state lines, had been denied.
I
promised to be in court for his hearing, which was scheduled for later in the
week, and told him I would do whatever I could to help him stay free. While I
understood why he smoked, I told him that this time he would have to find
another way besides marijuana to calm his nerves and function. At least for the
next nine months until his probation was finished.
When
Thursday morning rolled around, I told my supervisor and told her I was out
visiting probation offices because officially I could not spend time with Antuan
any longer.
I
arrived at the court at 8 AM knowing there was no way for me to know what time
his case would actually be called. After I introduced myself to the public
defender and told her I would help in any way I could, I sat in the last bench
of the gallery. I watched a stream of prisoners, all dressed in orange jumpsuits
with FDOC stamped on the back and shackled at the ankles, shuffle into the jury
box that had been surrounded in Plexi glass.
Six
cases were called and adjudicated while I wrestled with the reality of Antuan’s
situation. I knew that going back to prison could literally be the end of him.
Things had gotten so bad before he’ was released that he picked a fight on
purpose to get sent to solitary because his nerves literally couldn’t handle the
interactions with other prisoners.
Out
of the blue, a thought popped into my head. I
remembered a book by a woman named Catherine
Ponder. She had been a Unity
teacher, a non-denominational spiritual organization I had been a part
of when I lived in New York City. She recommended an interesting exercise when
faced with conflict, which was to write to the higher self of the person with
whom you had the struggle. In the letter, she said to affirm the truth, not the
appearance of the situation.
I’d
used this technique several times before, and it helped me resolve situations
with much less tension. At this point, I was willing to try almost anything, so
I opened my briefcase, took out a notebook and a pen and wrote a letter to the
higher self of Judge Perry.
I
know you know that Antuan is not a bad person. He has no support and has been
diagnosed with a mental illness that he doesn't even have. I know marijuana is
illegal, but it's what helps him function and get through the day. I trust you
know what is for his highest good and that you will find a way to help
him.
I
heard the bailiff call Antuan's name. He was escorted out of the enclosed jury
box and clumsily scuffled over to stand in front of the judge. I watched as the
public defender frantically searched through the file boxes on the cart next to
her table. After several minutes she looked up helplessly at the judge and told
him she could not find his file. Then she turned around to me and mouthed, “I’m
sorry.”
Antuan
found me in the back of the courtroom and looked at me with those giant brown
eyes, confused and helpless. Judge Perry granted a delay until the next morning
and Antuan went back to Falkenberg for the night. I didn’t know what was
happening, but I decided to trust the process.
The
next morning, I made another excuse to my boss and returned to the courthouse. I
went through the same procedure – keys and phone in the plastic bin, briefcase
on the conveyor belt, walk through the metal detector. Collect my
belongings.
I
slid into the last bench of the gallery again and watched another half dozen or
so cases be called and processed. My insides were tied in knots because I knew
the odds of Antuan going back to prison were high, even with the public
defender’s best effort. And the odds of him not doing well there, even
higher.
After
what seemed like an eternity, the bailiff called Antuan’s name.
The
public defender turned around and asked, “Will you stand next to him?” I walked
through the swinging door that separated the gallery from the court and took my
place next to Antuan.
He
looked so thin and fragile standing in front of the judge, who sat a good three
feet above him. His ankles were shackled and his hands cuffed. The prosecutor
read the charges while the judge looked over the paperwork.
“Son,
this is your third offense.”
“Yes,
your honor.”
“You
can't seem to stay away from the marijuana.”
“No
sir.”
“Do
you have a job son?”
“Probably
not since I've been in jail for a week.”
The
judge was quiet while he continued reading through Antuan's file. Finally, he
looked up from the papers and said,
“Are
you from Florida, son?”
“No,
sir. Las Vegas.”
“You're
a long way from home.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
have family in Las Vegas?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Then
what are you still doing here?”
The
public defender nodded at me. I explained to the judge who I was and that I had
tried to get permission from Clark County for him to move home. “They need to
agree to supervise the rest of his probation, your honor. I’ve pleaded with them
several times, but they have refused.”
Antuan
stood silently while the judge thumbed through his file.
“You
have nine months of probation left. Is that correct?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Can
you get this man a bus ticket to Las Vegas?” the judge asked me.
I
was confused but knew I could figure out a work around to pay for it. “Yes, your
honor.”
“I
hereby declare all charges against Antuan Jackson are forthwith dismissed.”
He
banged his gavel, and looked down at Antuan, who stood in complete disbelief.
Dismissing the charges meant he was no longer on probation, so he didn’t need
permission to go back to Las Vegas.
“I
do not want to see you back in my state, son. Do you understand me?”
Antuan
nodded.
“I
can’t hear you.”
“Yes,
sir. Thank you, sir.”
All
the prisoners were required to bring their belongings with them to their hearing
so that if they were released, they didn't have to go back to the jail. I waited
for Antuan outside the door where I was told he would come out.
As
soon as he saw me, he threw his arms around me.
“I
don't understand how that happened.”
“I
do,” I responded as I handed him the letter I had written to Judge Perry's
higher self.
“What's
this?”
I
explained what I had done. Tears hovered in the corners of his eyes as he read
it. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket.
I
met him at the Greyhound station in downtown Tampa that evening and bought him
the ticket to Las Vegas. We gave each other a big hug before he boarded for the
two-and-a-half-day journey. He was a free man.
With
a little help.
RIP
Judge Perry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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