Essay by Ray James
Prisons – October 2005 – Colorado Central Magazine
WHEN U.S. District Judge Richard Nottingham sentenced me to 70 months in prison on June 27, 1997, I did not realize that his tough, but fair decision–his words, not mine–represented a pivotal, perhaps even life-saving, action. My court-appointed attorney, Terri Harrington, asked the judge to allow 15 days before I surrendered to the U.S. Marshals to begin serving the sentence.
Judge Nottingham responded quickly with words that continue to reverberate through my life: “Mr. James, I am determined that you will change your life,” he intoned somberly, “and I am determined that change will begin today.” Someone with a transcript might correct me a jot or whit on that quote but that’s what I remember him saying and that is what happened.
At the time I didn’t comprehend the meaning of “…you will change your life…” but from my current vantage point in time, space, and circumstance, I do.
A few months before that keenly remembered day, I had pleaded guilty to one count of “conspiracy to commit conduct in support of a Racketeer Influenced or Corrupt Organization,” better known to those of us in the criminal-law enforcement complex by its acronym, RICO. The court dismissed all other charges involving cocaine and methamphetamine transportation and sale, but those crimes still impacted the length of the sentence. “Relevant conduct,” it’s called in the lingo of the federal system. Naïve in the ways of my new world, I really didn’t know what the sentence meant but I would find out, oh yes indeed, I would find out.
After the sentence pronouncement, I handed my good glasses and my sport coat–which remains somewhere in the ether–to a friend, hugged some other friends, and shook hands with yet more well-wishers who were there for moral support. Right then the changing began. The marshal whispered that if I’d be good he would wait to cuff me until we were out of sight of my people. I was good.
After seven hours in a holding cell at the federal building in Denver, the marshals moved me to the Denver County Jail. Changes started pounding over me there, in the Zoo, a well-earned appellation for three tiers of low-ceilinged cells packed with assorted gang bangers, players, murderers, rapists, and litterers, all giving voice to their caged misery at once. After three days in that place I knew I would never, ever, commit another crime. To this day I don’t: cross the street until the white walking figure appears; spit on the sidewalk, or take God’s name in vain.
With the advent of July of 1997 I was reformed, rehabilitated, and right with the Lord. Amen. Send me home to Salida, I shouted, I am a changed man! They didn’t. Stripped naked and dipped into a purgatorial bath, I, at least, was ready for change.
IN JUNE 1996 I worked at Safeway in Salida, performed the occasional wedding, wrote the odd newspaper story, and delivered cocaine and speed to drug dealers here and there in the Upper Arkansas Valley. I weighed almost 300 pounds and sported white hair, which had appeared in the span of a few months. One flight of stairs posed a serious challenge for me, forcing a rest stop before proceeding farther up, back down, or just staying level. I drank myself silly and/or unconscious on scotch and soda about once a week too often.
In May 2005, I’m just a few weeks shy of completing my bachelor’s degree–English major, psychology minor–at the University of Texas at Austin. Toting 15 to 30 pounds of books, notebooks, water, and sometimes an old Toshiba laptop, in a somewhat worn, green JanSport backpack purchased at the Trailhead in Buena Vista back in 1996 when I didn’t need it, I walk with no discernable breathing problems, the three blocks from Little Salida, my third-floor West Campus apartment, to the 40 Acres. Actually it’s much bigger than that these days. It has to be to house the third largest public university in the country — with 50,000-plus students.
Occasionally I walk five or six miles on a single weekend in this Texas Hill Country metropolis. Once or twice a month I drink a little wine with a meal for enjoyment and for the tannins; I sip no more than one beer for the good cholesterol (doctor’s orders) twice a week, if I remember to do so; and I have a martini with my rich, Republican brother every other weekend. For Christmas last year, he gave me a bottle of good single malt scotch, an acquired taste we share. Four months later most of that nectar sits unmolested on a shelf in my closet.
In May, 2003, Howard College at Big Spring, Texas, awarded me an associate’s degree I earned while in prison. At the camp there I took every class and program the Bureau of Prisons offered and helped get a few started to gain more solid footing. That included a Toastmasters chapter and a life skills class, taught by inmates for inmates. We had bank presidents talking about balancing checkbooks and getting loans; multi-millionaires discussing investments; lawyers informing on the system; and preachers and philosophers enlightening the spirit. You meet all kinds of people in prison.
TO ME ALL OF THAT constitutes substantive change for me. I’m in better health, better spirits, better economic condition, and feel much happier now than before I left Salida. I confess a homesickness that’s not likely to get cured, at least any time soon, but some afternoons I listen to KRCC over the Internet while I work. Just hearing the Upper Arkansas weather gives me a fix that gets me through the day and that’s the only fix in which I have any interest.
It’s fair to ask: “What happened?” I’ll try to answer.
Six months into my sentence I made whatever “change” that was going to happen mine rather than the judge’s — although I do owe him a nod of gratitude for getting me going. In a class called Commitment to Change, I realized that a serious fault in my character led me to try to make an economic leap forward by snubbing the laws of these United States.
At the time I began my criminal career I remember thinking two things. The first was that my cohorts had escaped justice for 20 years, so why suppose they (or we) were in any jeopardy? Second, I figured I’d get two years, at the most, if arrested. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Let’s put aside the argument about the value of or cost/benefit analysis of the War on Drugs and save any debate on drug laws for a quiet evening at the cabin.
If someone has escaped apprehension for violating any law, much less the drug laws, for any period that is measured in year(s) then they are due. The lawmen are looking or they are knocking at the door. On punishment: federal criminal prosecutions are based on preponderance of evidence not on that old “beyond a reasonable doubt” principle. Something like 93 percent of people accused of a federal crime plead guilty or are convicted. Most federal drug crimes carry mandatory minimum sentences of five years. More than a smidgen of drugs gets you 10 years, minimum. Carrying a gun? You’ll get five more years. Deal large quantities? Prepare for a long sentence, probably life. In the federal system you must complete 85 percent of your sentence before any chance for supervised release happens. Let’s see, 85 percent of the rest of your life is … There is no such thing as parole. If I had known then what I know now, I would not even know any drug dealers, much less….
IT WAS REALLY STUPID not to expect to get caught and not to expect punishment. It was equally stupid not to see the harm my activities were inflicting on friends, their families, and society. Once in prison, however, the task wasn’t self-flagellation over my ignorance but rather how I could make the most of my time and prepare to never return to prison once released.
I read over 500 books, some pretty darn good. I lost over 75 pounds, twice. I wrote some poetry and some non-fiction. I worked on my college degree. I tried to help others less fortunate than me. I taught some English, wrote some letters, and fixed typewriters for inmate use. I took fitness classes and drug classes. I lucked into a prison job that let me save some money. Most of all I kept in contact with friends and made amends with my brothers. I networked, learned, studied, worked, exercised, and opened my heart. I dreamed. And I dedicated myself to one basic goal: I would never take any risk that could lead to another imprisonment.
At some point I read a study that reported 90 percent of inmates who take college classes don’t return to prison once released. With recidivism running over 60 percent I figured the more I could do to bolster my chances of not going back, the better off I’d be. So far, so good. More than avoiding prison, I think now about how I can do something to help other people.
Writing is one way, my friends say. Another, my idea, is to become a librarian. Stopped laughing yet? Here’s my take on it: I have a knack for finding information. Information and ideas delivered to those who need them help people survive, prosper, stay free, and, perhaps, be happy. If I can help people find the information they need, I can help people stay free. By the time this is printed I’ll know if I made it into grad school at UT’s School of Information. Ray James, librarian. I like the sound of it.
Those who are reading closely may be wondering why I call my apartment “Little Salida.” Other than what may be a complete collection of Ah!s, many Colorado Centrals, and a few Mountain Mails, there is what I suspect is the largest collection of FIBArk memorabilia in Texas, as well as artwork by many current and past Salida and Chaffee County artists. I would list them all but I’d leave someone out.
I do have an almost 30-year-old color cartoon by Monika Griesenbeck that may be among the first of that genre by her. My pride comes not just from its framed possession but also because my geeky behavior inspired it back in the ’70s.
I’M NOT GLAD I went to prison, don’t get me wrong, but I am glad I came back to UT. I’m glad to earn a degree and for what I’ve experienced and learned earning it. I am pleased to get along well with my family and still have close friends in Salida, Poncha Springs, Buena Vista, rural Chaffee County, Alamosa, Saguache, Villa Grove, Denver, Indiana, and in Texas. I’m overjoyed to be alive and in pretty good shape for a man in my condition. Maybe all of this would have happened without the arrest and conviction but it wasn’t going that way.
All in all, if you need to do a life makeover I cannot recommend the prison plan. Better you should just get a grip, stop digging the hole, consider all of the options, even the unlikely ones, find a path and follow it. Oh, and be sure to ask a librarian; he or she will be happy to help.
Ray James lives in Austin, Texas, now. During his days in Central Colorado, he was managing editor of the Mountain Mail, news director of KVRH Radio, editor of the Alamosa News, chair of the Chaffee County Democratic Party, publisher of Ah! weekly, and commodore of FIBArk, among other things.
