You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
A pimple faced pepper spraying puke with a tear in his eye.
I have grilled a lot of jail house losers. Few of them cry.
Most of them lie and act like the jail house douche bags they are.
But this kid? Well this kid was different; sort of.
Did you pepper spray those kids because they were black?
“No way, man.” He is emotional. Genuine. “We definitely didn’t do that. It was not racial.”
The question rattles the young man. “It was a prank.”
He is physically shaking before me. Good. He needs to shake, he needs to be rattled.
This is the third jail house interview I have done in 30 days. Some reporters never do one jail house interview. I do them as regularly as Fed Ex at Christmas.
Once again, I am interviewing a lump of flesh charged with a crime of ignorance and social unacceptability.
You’d think I would be sick of talking to these transients of society. I am sick of it. But like a car crash in front of you, It’s strangely invigorating.
The jail house interview is like coffee in the morning. It gets your senses percolating and focuses the mind.
You need to be sharp, you need to be precise, you need to be ready for anything.
Doing a one on one with the criminal mind is a quick hit of adrenaline.
The detention center cat and mouse is a slow weird dance that excites while at the same time repulses.
The inmate before me is a boy. He is 19 years and one day old. He can barely vote. He can’t legally drink.
Except for the orange and white jump suit and leg shackles, this kid reminds me of my own kid. The tone of his words, the laconic way he carries himself, the simple look, the limited appreciation for life.
As I talk to the young man, the inmate has a tear rolling down his cheek. Over the course of the interview, he will wipe that tear away many times.
It’s like an atomic bomb blowing up an Atoll.
He has to raise his hands to wipe his tears. His hands are secured by heavy iron cuffs secured by a thick chain. The metal clanks like a bass drum on the hard wood table. The sound is so loud, so abrupt it eclipses all other audio in the room.
I stare at the young man wiping his eye with handcuffs.
What the hell is going on in this kid’s melon, I wonder to myself.
He sits before me, wearing a dull orange and white striped jail uniform. The fabric is worn, muted. Who knows how many imbeciles have worn this outfit before him. Were they baby killers? Were they DUI offenders? Did they write bad check?
Probably yes to all.
But now these clothes are his and he doesn’t like the way they feel, the way they look.
Yesterday was his birthday. He could have been celebrating with his girl friend and buddies at Pizza Hut. Instead, they were in a truck pepper spraying kids.
“So why are you here?” I say standing over the young offender. I am looking down on him. It’s a bad version of Perry Mason.
“That’s what I’m wondering,” he says.
I read the boy portion of the police report.
“The police say you told them that you leaned out the window and sprayed those kids with pepper spray. The police say you said that you only sprayed them once and you didn’t realize it would spray so far.”
I look up at the inmate who is listening to me with a blank look on his face.
“So either you are lying to me.”
I pause.
His eyes are blue and full of inexperience. I watch as they moisten.
“Or this police report is all wrong.”
He snaps to attention.
“Well some of it is right, he says. I just ain’t the one who sprayed them.”
He seems indignant, upset, confused.
Should he have a lawyer? Maybe? Too late now.
So if you didn’t spray them, then who did?
“Some other dude,” he quickly counters.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“So you’re taking the rap for a guy you don’t even know?”
He pauses.
“Well, I don’t want nobody in that truck to get in trouble.”
I shake my head. If true, that’s just stupid.
I don’t think it’s true. Why tell the police you did it when you didn’t?
“How old are you?” I ask, trying to ease the moment.
“19. I got arrested on my birthday.”
That’s when I change gears.
“So what do you want to do when yo grow up?
He cocks his head like a jail house puppy.
“It don’t matter. I got this other charge, I violated my probation,” he says thinking he is making a relevant point.
I look at the sheriff seated near me.
We both smile.
“Hey dude. Nobody stays in jail their whole life because they pepper sprayed someone. What do you wanna do when you get out of here?”
“I want to go to college. Be an X-ray tech.”
Signs of life I think to myself.
Like a stupid little flower, covered with dirt, this man-child just needs to be germinated. He needs a little sunshine and TLC and guidance, and with patience and care, he might just bloom into something worth looking at.”
But he needs to own up to his sins, first.
He tells me he is taking the rap for someone he doesn’t even know. In my mind, that’s B.S.
I’ve interviewed countless idiots, and I get a feeling for a liar. I feel like this kid is trying to play me.
The sheriff is sitting near me. He isn’t buying what this kid is selling either.
Sheriff Enoch George is a rock of a man. He is a concrete statue of sturdiness. He is iron, like a country anvil. His words are layered in southern syrup and old school wisdom.
I look to him. He takes the cue and speaks from the corner.
“You know what son. You are only 19 years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. But if you keep making the same mistakes over and over you will be in here a long time. You understand what I’m saying?”
I look to the 19-year-old who is now openly weeping across the table.
“Yes sir.”
“You can change your life, but you need to start now.”
Clank.
The boy is wiping his eyes again.
“How’d that make you feel?” I ask.
He surprises me. “It makes me feel good,” He says. “I need to hear that.”
I feel a little something for this misguided dumb ass.
Did he pepper spray four children on a city street? Probably. Did he do it because he’s white and they are black? I don’t think so. Did he do it because he is misguided and dumb and 19? Yeah, I think so.
I will talk to the 11-year-old boy who was pepper sprayed. He is a cute kid, in 5th grade. He is popping wheelies on his bicycle when I arrive. He will tell me that the pepper spray hurt and he had an asthma attack. He says the hospital had to come to his house and fix him. He means paramedics were called and they assisted him with his breathing issues.
I hold up the 19-year-old kid’s mug shot and ask the child “Is the guy?”
“Yes,” the 11-year-old says without hesitation. “That’s the man who did it.”
So either the police confession is a lie. Either the 11-year-old didn’t recognize the man who hung out the window and pepper sprayed him. Or this 19-year-old is a liar.
If I was a betting man?
I’d like to say this young man was going to turn his life around.
Sadly, I know the odds are long.
Jail will harden him. It will give him time to soul search. It will also surround him with influences that will continue to drag him into the abyss.
When you have to worry about dropping the soap in the shower, that tends to take your mind off rehabilitation.
This kid will need to be strong. He has to want to change. He will need help, inside and then when he gets out.
Recidivism?
You bet.
But he can succeed.
As the sheriff told him. “Son you’re just 19 years old.”
He is just 19 years old.
He has 60 more years of life.
What will he do with that time?
Clank.
Wipe that tear away young man.
It’s your choice. Choose wisely.
Life’s Crazy™