I know it's human nature to sometimes feel like you are living in a rut, so whenever that does happen to you - and I sincerely hope it is infrequent - I want to offer several things you can try in order to "escape!"

First of all, take a good, hard look at yourself in the mirror, and realize that, to get to this current point in your life, you are already amazing, and full of unlimited possibilities.

Then, go for a walk, and just take notice of all of the beautiful things around you, like the warm sunshine, children playing without a care in the world, birds chirping, and your environment in general.

Next, make a list of all of the things you have already accomplished in life, and one that contains those that you still wish to get done.

Call it a bucket list, if you want, but make sure you think this through first, and include everything you always dreamed of since you were a child.

The point here is to realize that you are capable of doing anything you put your mind to, and if that includes something that has been on the back burner for years as a result of one reason or another, it is never too late to accomplish it.

I have learned through trial and error, and from experience, that if one is not happy in the activities that occupies his or her time, then it leaves a feeling of unfulfillment that cannot be counteracted by money, or other material things, such as cars, homes, jewelry, etc.

Simply put, happiness comes from within, so make sure you spend some time on introspection to find out what you true passion is.

You might also attempt something new - even if it is way out of line with your personality and comfort zone.

Hopefully, you will discover it to be totally enjoyable, and the start of more good things to come.

So, instead of waking up one day regretful over missed opportunities or chances never taken, make sure you leave no stone unturned in your quest for complete satisfaction in life.

Until next time, everyone, always reach for the moon, because, even if you miss, you will be among the stars!

Without a doubt, these past five years and nine plus months have been the best of my 51 year life so far.

Recovery has helped me reclaim my life, self-esteem, self-confidence, and purpose for being.

Even though I nearly died of an alcohol and drug overdose way back in 1989, and then also spent nearly six years incarcerated as a result of my past addictions to alcohol, drugs and gambling from 1998-2004, it wasn't until I woke up on the morning of October 31, 2007, and decided that I had finally had enough of the never ending maze that my life had turned into.

I was ashamed and embarrassed that, although I possessed a college degree in journalism and had worked for many prestigious media companies in the Tri-State area, I had succumbed to the disease of addiction.

However, not long after entering the Coney Island Hospital Chemical Dependency Outpatient Program, I learned that I was human and that recovery was indeed possible.

Today, after having graduated from the program in 2009, I am now the president of the alumni committee and speak to the current clients there, as well as recovering addicts at other programs, hospital detoxes, jails, schools, etc., and understand the importance of giving back to share the message to those who are still sick and suffering.

I also speak about the book I wrote while incarcerated, titled, Jew in Jail, to reinforce the fact that it is never too late to change, and that there is absolutely no shame whatsoever in asking for help.

Being clean and sober feels great - not only physically, but mentally, emotionally and spiritually - and provides me with the peace of mind and tranquility that is priceless.

Never will I take anything in life for granted, from a beautiful sunny day, to seeing children playing and enjoying themselves without a care in the world, and I owe it all to those professionals who work in the field, as well as the thousands of other grateful recovering addicts who share their stories and allow me to share mine too.

If there is one piece of advice I can give to those reading my story now who are still in the grips of addiction, it is to always keep in mind that, no matter what troubles you may be going through at any particular time in your life, someone else has already experienced the same problems and difficulties, and was able to persevere with the help of others and move on to lead a healthy and productive life.

In recovery, one is never alone, and I encourage those who are still battling this disease to always seek out someone to talk to, because keeping things bottled up is never the correct strategy.

In closing, this recovering addict wants everyone to know that they possess greatness, and no matter what anyone did in their past, it does not have to define who they are as a person.

Live recovery one day at a time!

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!

Please drop by and check out my book's webpage.  There you'll find excerpts, humorous anecdotes, videos and information about my book's recent launch and its immediate rise to NUMBER ONE on Amazon's most downloaded Biographies & Memoirs list.  It also reached number 8 in Amazon's Humor chart.HOLLYWOOD HUCKSTER

1. THE DAY THIS WHOLE NIGHTMARE BEGAN

My mother had asked me, the night before, what I was doing with that toy gun. She noticed it on the foot of the extra bed in my room, and I told her that I was going to give it to my friend Alan’s son as a birthday present. I lied to her. The truth of the matter was that I was an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a compulsive gambler, and I was planning to go into Manhattan the next day in order to rob a few dry cleaning stores.

I had thought about doing this before, but this time, I had to go through with it—I already owed the bookmaker six hundred and forty dollars for the week that was about to end, and not only was I unlikely to get even, but I didn’t have the cash in my house. I gave my sister and her husband about ten thousand dollars of my money several months earlier to hold on to, and I was tired of calling and asking for some of it back, a little bit at a time, which I had been doing for a while now. Besides, what could go wrong? I was smart, and knew that all dry cleaning stores have old-fashioned cash registers, no video cameras, and are run either by women or Chinese people, and I would be in and out in no time at all. And once I stole enough money to pay off my debt, I would stop gambling for good. So there was no harm in doing this at all, right?

I woke up bright and early that next morning, which was Saturday, June 13, 1998 (I actually don’t remember sleeping at all the night before), and had breakfast: three Valium, three Tylenol #4 with Codeine, and a bottle of Heineken beer. Then I got dressed and hopped on the D train to Manhattan. I brought another Heineken along with me for the ride, but finished it before the train even departed the Brighton Beach station.

After transferring to two more trains, I finally arrived at my destination: the east side of Manhattan—First Avenue in the 60s, where there were as many dry cleaning stores around as any good thief could want. So I proceeded to walk up First, looking into each dry cleaning establishment I passed, until I found one that was empty and had a woman working behind the counter. I had a plan but needed a rehearsal, so I went into dry cleaning store number one on First Avenue and 67th Street.

“Good morning,” the woman behind the counter cheerfully said to me. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, could you please tell me how much it would cost to clean and press these dungarees that I am wearing?” I asked so innocently.

“Three dollars and fifty cents,” the shopkeeper replied, anxiously awaiting my decision.

“Oh, okay, maybe I’ll be back later,” I responded as I walked out the door, knowing very well that I had no intention of returning.

Still not feeling comfortable with my game plan, I went through my practice run at another place.

Then, after having swallowed my fourth and fifth Valium and Tylenol #4 with Codeine, and washing that down with yet another Heineken, my third of the morning (it was still only 8:25 AM), I conjured up enough courage and felt the time was right to go to work.

So I entered the next dry cleaning store that suited my needs. After asking my “how much” question, I allowed the woman behind the counter to start her answer before I began what later would be the biggest mistake of my thirty-six-year life to that point. She was Indian or Pakistani, just the kind of foreigner who would easily comply with my demands, I remember thinking at the time. As we made eye contact while she was telling me the price to clean and press my dungarees, I nonchalantly lifted up my shirt, thereby exposing the toy gun that was tucked neatly under my waistband, and calmly and methodically ordered, “Empty the money out of the cash register or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

I remembered the terror in her eyes later on while I was in my jail cell at the 17th Precinct, wondering how I could have done this to another human being, not once, but three times in all. This, after all, was the kind of thing that you only read about in newspapers or see on the news. But I was desperate. I was in debt to my bookie and was feeling nice from the pills and beer. Besides, I rationalized, I absolutely had no intentions of hurting anybody. Little did I realize at the time that the tables could have been turned, and I could have been blown away myself, with there being no repercussions at all to the store owner. However, my plan had worked like a charm, and I grabbed the loot off the counter and scurried outside to hail a cab.

I told the cabbie to drive straight down First Avenue and I’d let him know when to let me out. Being a neat freak, I began to straighten out the money, which I had balled up in my hand, and when it was finally arranged the way I liked it and safe in my pocket, I instructed the cab driver to pull over and let me out. “Two-seventy-five,” he said to me, as we approached the curb. “Here, keep the change,” I replied, as I handed him a five-dollar bill, feeling like a real big shot.

I got out of the cab and stood on the corner of First Avenue and 51st Street for a few minutes in order to psych myself up for my next robbery. Being intoxicated and high from the pills, I never stopped to think for a moment that the woman I just ripped off a few minutes earlier might have called the police, and that they were looking for me right now. I was only about fifteen blocks away from the first robbery, but we crooks are smarter than the cops anyway. We have to be!

I set my game plan into motion again, an exact replica of the first. And the results were the same as well. So I figured I’d try it one more time and that would be it. After all, I had to make sure that I got back home in time to study the baseball lines (odds) in the newspaper and call my bookmaker. Then I was going to take my radio and lie on the beach, it being a beautiful sunny day and all. You see, I was planning on making a whole day of it: the robberies in the morning, lying in the sun all afternoon, and then going over to O.T.B. that night to bet on the horses at Yonkers Raceway. This is what I had been doing pretty much every day (except for the robberies) since I was fired six months earlier for drinking on the job at Phoenix Communications (Major League Baseball Productions).

I continued to walk down First Avenue, this time oblivious to everything else around me, until I found another dry cleaning store that I felt could provide me with another success story. I stumbled (literally) onto a small mom-and-pop operation and went inside. There, I found the cutest little old Chinese man and woman going about their business, and by now, after having accomplished two robberies with relative ease, I felt like a seasoned pro on top of his game. So, again I went through my shtick of asking the price to clean and press my pants, but this time, I couldn’t wait. I immediately displayed the (toy) gun in my waistband and demanded the cash. Appearing frightened out of his wits, the elderly gentleman placed the cigar box he and his wife used as a cash register on top of the counter while his wife remained behind her husband for protection, and like a little kid rifling through the cookie jar, I grabbed its contents and fled.

Not knowing exactly how much money I had accumulated, I said to myself that three robberies were enough. But I wasn’t ready to head home just yet. Not until I had another beer or two. This was another of the many mistakes I made that day.

I began walking again until I came upon a little delicatessen that sold beer, not even grasping the fact that I had just committed three “armed” robberies, and that the police were probably hot on my trail at that very moment. But, hey, I earned this break for myself. I justified. I had just worked up quite a thirst, pulling off three robberies in the previous thirty minutes.

I went into the deli and grabbed an ice cold Heineken from out of the freezer and asked the owner what the price was, like any good Jew would have done. Then I walked out and proceeded to drink my beer as I leisurely strolled down the street. After downing it in no time flat and letting out a healthy belch, I remember saying to myself that one more cold one was in order before heading home. After all, my mission had been accomplished, and I was now hungry and tired. So I looked for another deli, all the while not caring one iota about the lowlife things I had just done to these innocent and hardworking shopkeepers.

It being Manhattan, there were many delis to choose from, and I decided to cut over to Second Avenue for a change of scenery. I found a store to my liking near the strip club Scores on 60th Street and took the Heineken out of the freezer and over to the counter. When the woman who worked there told me that I owed her two-seventy-five, I became enraged. “I just paid one-fifty two blocks away,” I shouted, as a small crowd began to form at the counter. After getting nowhere with my efforts at haggling, I paid her “extortion money” and walked out, slamming the door behind me.

I crossed the street and found a cozy corner in which to drink my beer before calling it a morning (it was still only nine-fifteen, and I wasn’t ready to “escape” into the subway system just yet). All of a sudden, from seemingly out of nowhere and coming from every direction, were the police. Before I knew what hit me, one cop tackled me hard to the sidewalk, knocking my bottle of beer high into the air; it came crashing down to the pavement.

“Where’s the gun?” the flatfoot demanded.

“What gun?” I asked, as he took the fake weapon from out of my pocket.

He then pulled me up off the ground and brought me over to one of the many squad cars that were now on the scene.

“We got him. We got Woody Allen,” the officer chirped as he handcuffed and handed me over to another of New York’s finest. “Don’t move an inch, you piece of shit,” the second officer ordered, as I finally realized the magnitude of what I had done, although still not believing that all of these cops had come just for little old me with the balding head and thick prescription eyeglasses.

After being positively identified right there in the street by my last victim, the elderly Chinese man, I was placed into the police car and taken over to the 17th Precinct, without even having had my rights read to me.

At the police station, I was immediately processed (photographed and fingerprinted), and then thrown into a filthy, stinking cell. Oh, yeah, and my money and pills were taken from me, presumably to be held as evidence.

“Now I’ve really done it,” I remember mumbling to myself, as the gravity of the entire situation began to completely sink in. Then, after lingering in my cell for over an hour, two sharply dressed detectives came to pay me a visit.

“How ya’ doing, Gary? I’m Detective Burns and this is my partner, Detective Foley,” the older of the two announced.

“Can I please have my medication back?” I asked. “I’m not feeling well, and my back hurts.” (I have scoliosis and a slipped disc, among other problems with my back, which is why I began taking these pills in the first place many years earlier.)

“We want to talk to you first,” Detective Foley responded, as he began to open up my cell.

I was then brought upstairs to the squad room and handed a cup of water as I took a seat in Detective Burns’ office. But my one free telephone call was still not forthcoming.

“You know, Gary, those were very nice people you robbed today,” Burns offered.

“Can I please have some of my medication back?” I tried again. “I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms and need some of my Valium and Tylenol #4 with Codeine because my back hurts.”

Although the Tylenol #4 with Codeine was indeed prescribed for my back pain by my personal physician, Dr. Gencer Filiz, and the Valium for my nerves, due to my anxiety, at this point in my life I was merely only taking these pills to get high because I was an addict.

“Gary, you tell us what happened, and we’ll give you back some of your medication,” Foley guaranteed.

“What happened?” I asked, as if I had no idea of what Burns and Foley were inquiring about.

“Look, Gary,” Burns said, “we were out there in our car and we saw you darting across First Avenue. You almost got yourself run over, you know. But we don’t want you…we want the bigger fish out there. You tell us what we want to hear, and then we’ll speak to the assistant district attorney, whom we are good friends with, and we promise that she will let you go home today and you won’t even be prosecuted.”

“Can I have some of my pills back first?” I bargained yet again. “I’m a drug addict and I need to take the edge off.”

Detective Foley removed three Tylenol #4 with Codeine and three Valium from my pill bottle, which he now had in his possession, and gave them to me. I quickly threw all six pills into my mouth and washed them down with a big gulp of water before Burns and Foley could change their minds.

“Now step up to the plate and be a man,” Burns implored of me, in a slight variation of the normal good cop/bad cop routine. “Tell me what happened from the very beginning.”

As I began spilling my guts, I noticed Burns was writing everything down like a secretary taking dictation from her boss. And whenever I got stuck or was unsure about some of the details of my crime, Burns didn’t hesitate to put his two cents in and volunteer information.

When my statement was complete, Foley told me to sign it at the bottom, and I complied, without hesitation. After all, he and Burns promised that I would be back home by the end of the day, and when you are as high and drunk as I was, you tend to believe the words of two experienced detectives. Another of my many mistakes on that fateful day.

But the deal wasn’t completed yet. Not by a longshot. I was then taken by another detective, Hackett, to the 19th Squad, where I was to give another statement, this one written by me. Detective Hackett, on the car ride over to the 19th Squad, told me that after I write this second statement, using my “own words,” I should add a paragraph or two explaining how sorry and remorseful I was for what I had done, and that he would see to it that I was placed into an inpatient drug treatment program to get the help I needed. That all sounded good to me, since I really did want to get my life straightened out once and for all, so I did exactly as he instructed.

In all honesty, and even looking back at it now, although he lied and set me up like the rest of them, Hackett really wasn’t a bad guy. He did feed me McDonald’s after I completed that second written statement, which was more than Burns, Foley, or anyone else did for me.

I still had one more confession to give, and it was a big one. Alan Daab, who was the arresting officer, then took me over to One Hogan Place, where Assistant District Attorney Lois Booker-Williams was waiting.

In the squad car, Daab said to me, “Gary Goldstein, what’s a nice Jewish guy like you committing robberies for?”

“I don’t know. I’m a drug addict and a gambler,” I answered, as if he even gave a damn. I then asked him if I could use the telephone to call Sportsphone when we arrived at our destination, because I needed to double check the scores of the previous night’s ballgames, and he very patronizingly said that I could.

The woman, who I was led to believe was eventually going to send me home as if nothing had ever happened, had Room 1209 all set up for me to give a videotaped confession.

By now, it was 1:15 PM, and I was no longer drunk or high, but very, very tired. I just wanted to get this whole thing over with, and presumably go home. So, after receiving my Miranda warnings for the very first time, I looked straight ahead (the camera was behind a one-way mirror) and, in essence, hung myself out to dry. When Lois Booker-Williams had what she needed, she stopped the tape and nodded at Daab.

“Let’s go, you piece of shit,” Daab ordered.

“What about that phone call I need to make?” I inquired.

“They’ll let you call after you’ve been processed at Central Booking,” Daab said.

“But Detectives Burns, Foley, and Hackett all told me that I would be going home after I confessed,” I insisted. “Can I talk to you, Ms. Booker-Williams?”

“I said let’s go, and I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth until we get to Central Booking,” said Daab.

When we arrived at Central Booking, it finally began to sink in that I was tricked, manipulated, and used. After processing was completed, which included removing my shoelaces to prevent suicide, I was permitted to call my mother and father.

I told them everything that had happened, and that I was sorry. It was yet another case of my causing my parents so much unnecessary pain and aggravation. After telling them that I would call again the next day, when I knew more of what was going on, I curled up like a fetus, and went to sleep on my part of the bench in the cell that I had to share with eleven other guys.