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.

Today, I bring you the fifth chapter of my book, “Jew in Jail.”

It was time to go to big, bad Rikers Island, and see if I was ready to spend time with the toughest detainees New York City had to offer!


5. THE MOVE TO RIKERS ISLAND

Even though the next day was Saturday, I was taken on the first bus headed for Rikers Island in Queens. I remembered being there once before, about five years earlier, but only for a week until my parents posted bail. This time, however, I knew that I wasn’t going to get out that soon.

I was full of anxiety during the forty-minute ride, and wished that I had some Valium to calm my nerves.

“Boy, do I really need this program,” I mumbled to myself, since I still had trouble coping with stress without trying to medicate my feelings.

As the bus pulled up to the prison, the first thing I thought to myself was how big and intimidating the whole place was. There was building after building, for what seemed like miles, completely surrounded by razor-sharp barbed wire. The bus finally came to a halt at C-73, the George Motchon Detention Center (GMDC), and we all got off and were taken to another bullpen to be processed all over again.

Since it was 3:30 PM, which was right in the middle of count time, when the jail does a tally of all the inmates—a security measure conducted at least five times every single day to ensure that no one has escaped—I knew that it would be several hours until processing was completed and I was finally taken to my new housing area—or even longer, depending upon the mood of the C.O.s. So I found a good spot to sit down and rest, full of anxiety over how I would fit into my new surroundings.

After we were fed dinner and handed a used pillow, pillow case, blanket, and two sheets (a “set up”), the C.O.s started to call names. One by one, we approached the C.O.s’ station, but just to see if we wanted to change our private access telephone code, which enabled us to make our two free daily calls. We didn’t have to be photographed again, strip-searched, or anything like before, which was a huge relief. Our I.D. cards from the Tombs were also good at Rikers Island, so that saved time as well.

Finally, we were led out of the bullpen, and ordered to proceed in one straight line.

This place is more strict than the Tombs, I thought to myself, so I better just pay attention and follow instructions. It was obvious that—being white, and Jewish, no less—I stuck out like a sore thumb, so I didn’t want to bring any more attention to myself than was absolutely necessary, in order not to be herbed (ridiculed) by the C.O.s, as well as the other inmates.

Slowly, but surely, each man was dropped off at his new housing unit, and the line, which began at thirty-five or so, was now down to just me and two other guys.

I was really starting to get nervous now.

Is being brought last over to the new housing unit a good or bad thing? I wondered.

I didn’t remember too much about the week I spent there five years earlier, which wasn’t in the drug program part of the jail, so this felt like a brand-new experience. And I continued to keep to myself and maintain a low profile, rather than asking another one of my fellow detainees for any information.

Finally, it was just the C.O. and I, walking the halls of Rikers Island. He was a big black man in his thirties, and I needed to take two steps just to keep up with his one.

“Officer, do they have a law library here?” I asked, understanding full well that I had a lot of work yet to do on my case.

“Yeah, we have two of them here,” he responded in an authorative, deep baritone voice, more out of obligation than anything else.

“What about a place to get clothes?” I boldly inquired next, figuring it was the perfect time to hit him up with another question.

“You can go to the clothes box on Monday when it opens back up,” he said. “Just ask the officer in your housing unit to call for you.”

Then I asked him the obvious question, one that he must have heard a million times on the job.

“Can you tell me where I’m going?” I sheepishly said.

“Let’s see,” he answered, looking over my paperwork. “You’re going to Sprung 2, which is the orientation house for the S.A.I.D. (Substance Abuse Intervention Division) Drug Program.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied, as if I actually knew what that meant.

We were walking outside to get to my destination, and the C.O. offered me one more piece of information without my having asked.

“This is a self-help program,” he revealed. “There’s less restriction on you guys out here, and you have more flexibility to move around. If you do the right thing for yourself and participate, your counselor will do things for you and it can only help you with your case.”

“I will, I will,” I fired back, as if he were also the judge, rather than just a decent correction officer who took some time to offer me hope and encouragement. It was right then and there that I realized that most C.O.s aren’t too bad. I knew that, just like on the street, if you wanted respect from someone, you had to show them respect as well. I figured that the reason the C.O. treated me like a man was because I handled myself well the entire time we were together.

I was still nervous, but at the same time, was also looking forward to being in the S.A.I.D. program, feeling that it was one step closer to coming home.

Finally, we arrived at the sprungs. There were six of them, all looking like giant army tents or tennis court bubbles. I walked into Sprung 2, and the C.O. gave my paperwork to the officer on duty. It was 7:30 PM, Saturday, June 20, 1998, my seventh day of incarceration.

What I saw, in my eyes, at least, wasn’t jail.

There was bed after bed after bed, all lined up in a dormitory-style setting, indeed like an army barracks.

One half of the dorm was the area where the program meetings were held, complete with stereo, television, VCR, and chairs. There was one large shower area, ceiling fans everywhere, a small fence around the entire circumference of the dorm to hang clothes on, and signs on all the walls pertaining to drug and alcohol rehabilitation.

There was some sort of a meeting taking place at the time. But it wasn’t drug and alcohol related. It was recreational—“Saturday Night Live”—and I was about to take center stage!

After the inmate in charge of logging in new arrivals gave me a brief rundown of the S.A.I.D. program and its rules, all eyes were on me. I was called up to the “stage” by a guy named Mike, who was the night’s “host.”

Mike was a dead-ringer for Wesley Snipes, almost like a twin, and I felt at ease with him immediately.

“How ya doing? My name’s Mike and I’m the host of the show tonight,” he said. “Tell everybody your name, where you’re from, and what you’re here for.”

“My name’s Gary, I’m from Brooklyn, and I’m here for robbery,” I responded sheepishly to my forty-nine new roommates, many of whom were sporting doo rags of one color or another on their heads in an attempt to look like real gangsters.

“And what do you hope to get from this program?” Mike asked.

“To stop drinking and taking fucking drugs!” The audience quickly erupted into cheers and applause to show me their support.

I was starting to feel good.

“Gary, do you have a joke for us?” Mike asked. “After all, this is Saturday Night Live.”

“Yeah, I have a joke for everybody,” I shot back. “You see my head?” I bent over and exposed my ever-expanding bald spot. “This is a real joke, huh?”

With that, everybody exploded into laughter. I had become the star of the show, and felt warmly accepted into the group. I knew then that I had made the right decision by signing that paper to come over from the Tombs.

After that, I went over to the telephone, a no-no during program hours, but okay for new arrivals, and called my parents to let them know that I was more than alright where I now was. They were at my sister’s house on Long Island, so I was able to speak to my sister, brother-in-law, niece, and nephews as well, and for just a moment, had actually forgotten that I was still incarcerated. I spoke to my family as if I were calling from some nightclub in Manhattan. I was relatively happy for the first time in quite a while.

My parents and I decided to tell anybody who called for me at home that I was away working in Washington, D.C. I didn’t want my friends to know that I was actually in jail.

After taking a shower and making up my new bed, I introduced myself to the guy lying down next to me.

“I’m Willie Maisonette,” he responded to my greeting. “If you have any questions about anything, just ask me.”

Willie was an older Spanish gentleman from the Bronx, who looked like he had been in the “system” most of his life, which, in fact, I would later learn he was. I also found out that in all his years, he had never even gone to a baseball game at Yankee Stadium or any other live sporting event, for that matter.

His five-foot, eight-inch body was covered from head to toe with tattoos he had gotten from all of his time spent in prison. But he was kind, and I trusted him. No matter what somebody may have done in their past, when you have to cohabitate with that person for a while, you build up a certain relationship, and for Willie and me, things would be no different.

Willie informed me that linen change was every Wednesday at 5:30 AM, and taught me how to make up my bed the correct way each morning, which most inpatient drug treatment programs are very fussy about. He also showed me how to fold my blanket military style, which was a requirement in the program, and otherwise showed me the ropes and made me feel quite at ease.

Sprung 2 was very different than the Tombs.

To begin with, it was a huge dorm, rather than individualized cells. There was a larger shower area, a bigger day room, and, most importantly, four drug, alcohol, and lifestyle meetings each weekday, and two each on Saturdays and Sundays, for a total of twenty-four group sessions every week, which I knew that I needed.

Since Sprung 2 was the orientation house for the S.A.I.D. Drug Program, I was only allowed to stay there anywhere from seven to twenty-one days. Then, like everybody else, except the guys who were helping to run the program for the counselors, I would be moved to one of the other five sprungs, each alike in structure and composition.

There was also one more major advantage to being in the sprungs on Rikers Island, as opposed to the Tombs in lower Manhattan. The sprungs were outside, apart from the rest of the inmate population, who were inside in various buildings throughout the facility. Everyone who was in the sprungs had to first be cleared as low-classification, meaning that they were less of a security risk to try to escape or otherwise cause trouble. There were three separate hours of rec a day out in the yard, where there were basketball courts, a track, and another sprung full of weight machines, ping-pong tables, and other games to play. And chow was served in yet another sprung—the mess hall sprung—so that with eight total sprungs outside, the whole setup looked like a Mash unit for detainees.

Being that Rikers Island is literally right next door to LaGuardia Airport, the constant sights and sounds of airplanes taking off and landing took some getting used to. However, since I lived with the never-ending rumbling of subway trains in Brighton Beach for over thirty-five years, it really was no big deal for me. In fact, I kind of enjoyed going to the yard every morning at nine just to see the airplanes take off and soar by directly overhead, wishing that I could somehow leap up and grab onto the tail of a plane and be transported away from my incarceration.

The yard also offered a beautiful panoramic view of the New York City skyline. I could easily see the World Trade Center, the Empire State Building, and just about the rest of Manhattan from beyond the East River, which was the only thing that separated me from my freedom. That, plus the charges of robbery and resisting arrest that I was still facing!