MI LIBRO
CHAPTER ONE: MAY 30, 1973
“You are to begin your sentence of two years on each count immediately. To be served concurrently.” And yes, Federal Judge Charles Metzner brought down the gavel. My hands were cuffed behind my back.
I turned to say goodbye to my family and friends. It was Wednesday, May 30th 1973. I was 22. The courtroom at Foley Square was packed. It was like looking out on an audience. Different though than the audiences I had looked at speaking in colleges or street rallies. Those always made me a bit nervous, even though people said I was good; I always got nervous. Now, I was more than nervous; I was scared. But, had to put up a front. Big time. Could not show fear. My parents, though divorced, were there together for me. My cousin Gil. Reporters I had dealt with the past four years. And about 150 colleagues and supporters. No time to be a punk.
At the railing I leaned forward. But two court officers grabbed me, one by the throat, and twisted me backwards. Though my Dad was not yet fifty-five, he was in good shape and took the railing, punching out first one officer and then a second. Amateur boxer. He came out of Spanish Harlem, and you did not fuck with those cats. As more officers swarmed, my father’s action was almost a signal to the many Young Lords in the gallery. After all, this is what we did for a living. In seconds the melee in court resembled one of the brawls in Errol Flynn’s Gentleman Jim, a favorite of my Dad and me. “The Corbetts are at it again!” Officers dragged me out of there and threw me in a holding cell. It’s true: when that cell door clangs shut, there’s no other sound quite like it. It fuckin’ rings in your head.
Sounds of the fight outside could still be heard. A bit numb by how fast it all happened, it took a couple of seconds for me to look around and get a read on where the heck I was. Did the dragons have a place to hide before jumping out in this dungeon? It was four walls, small, and a couple of benches. Smelled old. No hiding places. A year earlier, when I was sentenced, I was in a similar holding cell for a quick minute. A nerdy guy, with big round glasses that made him look even nerdier, sat. His case had been called before mine. “Did you just tell the judge to go fuck himself?” he asked.
“Not quite. He said he was giving me two years each on two counts concurrently when it could have been five each consecutively.” “Ten.” “Yeah. So I said if that’s supposed to be a favor, then you do it motherfucker.” You gotta act tough if you want to protect your ass. “What about you?”
“I got five years for publishing a magazine. Eros. It was a First Amendment case and I lost.”
“Hey! I’ve seen that! Good magazine.” I held out my hand. “Pablo ‘Yoruba’ Guzmán.” “Ralph Ginzburg.”
The day I actually started serving my sentence, appeals gone as we knew they would, Ralph was outside the courthouse shooting for the New York Post. He had done eight months and was now out on parole. He smiled and raised a fist in support. Prison can make for strange shared experiences.
This time, when I got thrown into the slammer, there were a couple of dudes already there who drew back a bit. Good. I was not some tough street guy. If I had been in a gang, my folks would have beat my ass. The brawl in court was putting a Colgate Gardol protective shield around me, and I needed it. I had been an altar boy in Catholic school, and was a neighborhood nerd who went to THE geek school, The Bronx High School of Science. Soon, more guys were thrown in the cell. The first was a wise-ass Italian from Queens with shaggy hair and a droopy moustache he thought made him look like Al Pacino in Serpico. “Holy shit,” he grinned, “They’re still fightin’ out there! Cops are coming in! They’re rushing all the other cases through. I’m stayin’ near YOU.” He extended a hand. “Mike Trotto.” Another guy. Skinny, tall, long blond hair. Also about our age. An aspiring filmmaker who tried financing a project smuggling hash. A play on his last name would later earn him the nickname The Krell. Which went along with his gangly frame. Then came Bobby. African-American; a bit older than us. Great smile. “I’m a nurse at Bellevue.” “What are you in for?” Mike asked. “Stealing drugs?” “Bank robbery.”
So far so good. No one seemed to be dudes I had to think about killing.
Because I’m not sure I could have killed anybody. Three of my guys, Cáno and Bobby and Little Man, had given me a pep talk before I went in. They had all done hard time. “Mira Yoruba, you just gotta be ready to go up against anybody who looks at you sideways,” Bobby said. “Somebody is always going to challenge you.” That was Cáno. “You have to respond right away. If you let it slide, everyone will think you’re a punk.”
“And then they will all try to fuck you in the ass. De verdad.” Little Man’s rasp. “You CANNOT let that happen. You WILL NOT survive. Everyone will take turns making you their fuckboy. That first guy: pick up a chair if you haven’t made a shank yet. Anything. And take him out.”
“Even if he’s bigger,” Bobby said. “Hurt him good. Take out an eye. Teeth. There’s no rules. Keep hitting him in the head with a chair until the hacks come. You HAVE to send a message. Right away.” Cáno patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, man.” My knees never stopped knocking.
My father knew how rough it could be for me. I was completely unathletic and so skinny you could count the ribs. I was the target of every bully in the Melrose Projects in the South Bronx. I even got beat up by my friends. There is a misperception among non-Latinos that the whole machismo thing is passed on to sons from the fathers. Bullshit. It’s the mothers. Once, I ran from a pack of like six sons of bitches who wanted to kick my ass. I was about eight. Something about me being tired of turning over my money. Or maybe I just took off when I saw the leader of the group. The first time we saw each other, he just comes up, pokes me hard in the chest, and says “All I find I keep.”
“Wh- what?” I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about but it didn’t sound good. He smiled sarcastically. I had just proven how stupid I was. Recognizing I was mentally deficient he said patiently “I go through your pockets. And whatever I find, I keep.” He pulled that shit twice. The third time he took my jacket. It was a gray zipper jacket for spring. With a patch on one arm saying I was a Ranger. Once I had pointed at that patch to a girl, illustrating why I was cool and not to be messed with. She just laughed and nearly knocked me down. I would not be able to explain the disappearance of my jacket to my parents. So I ran after the guy. Not to catch him. Because, then what. Just enough to stay with him. And figure something out.
First we ran the width of the projects, from 156th Street to 153rd. Then up towards Courtlandt Avenue. I never won a race. Slowest kid in the group. But to compensate, I had taken to running distances on my own. Doctors had said I was anemic, and had been born with a heart murmur. I thought maybe gaining stamina might count for something. That maybe being able to go long would show I did have some heart. That I could do at least one thing. He kept looking back, and I knew I had gotten into his head. “Go away!” “Give me my jacket!” “It’s my jacket now!” Okay, he hasn’t stopped to fight. People in the street were staring, trying to figure this “chase” out. He seems a bit nervous about all this. But he can still kick your ass. I saw a small pipe in a garbage can and took it mid-stride. He started slowing down around Courtlandt and 150th. “You’re crazy!” he yelled. A block later he took off the jacket and flung it. “Take your stupid jacket!”
I won.
That lasted about a week. Now this bastard had a group of guys. And I had to be as fast as I could to get to the safety of my house. Up the stairs to the eleventh floor. Thank God for the small lead I had. A lead that shrank fast. From the staircase to my door like a bullet, the pack barking. Made it! Quickly locking locks as they beat on the door and tried the knob. My chest was pounding, breath heavy.
“What’s going on?” Mom. “Who’s that pounding on the door?”
“Remember that guy I told you who took my jacket but I got it back?”
“No.”
“Well he’s outside with his friends. They want to beat me up.”
“Y tu, cobarde! Your father and I are tired of this! Go out there and fight back!”
“MOM! There’s six of them!”
“Tu no es macho?! Do you want people to think I raised a man or a sissy?” She grabbed me, opened the door, and shoved me into the hallway. They were actually licking their chops. I could hear the locks clicking shut.
School was worse. Our Lady of Pity. All Italians, one Irish kid in my class and one Black kid. My parents, who wanted a solid education, pulled me out of P.S. 3 after kindergarten and half of first grade. Where I was happy. My first day at Our Lady of Pity, Sister Mary Cecilia sat me behind Harold Harris. “You’re a nigger!” That was hello.
I was five and had not heard the word yet. My parents had taught me, if I hear a new word, look it up. The closest I found was “niggardly.” So when my Dad got home and said brightly “How was the first day at the new school?” I answered “A kid called me a nigger.”
“WHAT?”
“Yeah I didn’t know what it meant either so I looked it up like you and Mom said and the closest I found was ‘niggardly’ which means cheap. Why’d he call me ‘cheap’ Dad? I would’ve given him a nickel if he asked.”
“ ‘Cheap?’ You thought it meant ‘cheap?’ ” My Dad smacked himself in the face.
Mom came running in from the kitchen, with a spatula. “You are NOT a nigger! You’re Puerto Rican and Cuban!”
The next day, on schedule, Harold Harris turned around. “You’re a NIGGER!” he hissed.
“I am NOT a nigger! I’m Puerto Rican and Cuban!”
“Then you’re a nigger and a SPIC!” Game set and match. Catholic school.
At first I was beat up because I looked African-American. Then, they found out I was Puerto Rican (and Cuban). And then, because I was the smartest kid in the school. Meanwhile, when I walked back home, the mostly Latino and Black kids in the projects beat me up in my school uniform and shouted “See if the bitch takes Pity on you now, stupid!”
So before I went to prison, Dad looked up two of his brothers. Pete and Orlando. “Please. He’s never been to jail. Please. Spread the word to your friends.”
This pleading was intense on Dad’s part on many levels. Though I had heard stories about my uncles, Dad had stayed away from his family. Partly, he said, because I didn’t want to expose you to that life. Orlando and Pete were mob associates and also had their own rackets. They grew up in El Barrio when it was a lot more Italian. Not to say that “Italian” means “Mafia.” But Pete and Orlando didn’t exactly seek out people who became doctors and teachers. Pete was the youngest and had the brains and connections to set up deals. Orlando was the enforcer. There was also some history. My father’s mother had given him to the next door neighbor soon after he was born. She had already had Harry and Letty and César. Cesar would die of tuberculosis in Puerto Rico when he was 22. So Dad grew up without a father; and not with his own mother. He came to rely on that neighbor, Maria Román, as his Mom. And for quite some time, I thought she was my grandmother.
Pete and Orlando went to their friends, who went to their friends behind bars. It wasn’t clear yet what prison I’d be in, so the word really went wide. The first three months I was locked up, I was moved around. From the old West Side House of D in New York to Lewisburg to Petersburg to Atlanta and finally Tallahassee. At each place, right after I arrived, a wiseguy would show up. “You the MARINO kid?” That’s how they pronounced my uncles’ surname (Moréno). “Need anything?” Then: “Is it true you’re in because you tried to overthrow the government?”
The first time I had this conversation was in the West Side House of Detention. Where I was taken after court. Two years later it was replaced by the MCC, or the Metropolitan Correctional Center. A few minutes after I was taken to my cell, a couple of Nation of Islam members showed up. “A Salaam Alaikum, brother,” one said. “Wa Alaikum Salaam,” I answered. “We know who you are, brother. We respect you and your organization.” “Thank you.” “You will have a lot of time here to study and read. Do you know the word of the Prophet?”
“It’s time for you to get out.” A deep baritone. Flanked by three young men I’m sure also had deep voices. The Muslims left, staring. “Good seeing you, brother.” I think — memory trying to kick in here — that was Richard “Dhoruba” Moore, whom I knew from the Black Panther Party. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
“This is your first time, right?”
“I’ve been picked up a couple of times in the Lords. Like after we took the People’s Church or Lincoln Hospital. But those were nothing. Not like this.”
“We got your back. There’s a few of us. And we organize in here. Just like we did ‘out there.’ ” He smacked my belly. “And we gotta get you in shape, brother. Maybe you could coast on the outside. But we at war. And in here is no bullshit.”
He was right.
“Seven-eight-six-two-zero dash one-five-eight!” A prison guard. The number I had been given. “Come with me!” Dhoruba whispered, “This could be your welcome. Keep your head down, brother.”
The hack led me on a walk through a maze of shadows. I was sure I was about to be tuned up. Finally, I heard boisterous voices. And saw a bit of light. Wait: boisterous?
We reached a large cell. And a group of Italian prisoners were having a party. Years later when I saw a similar scene in Goodfellas, I jumped out of my seat in the theatre and said “That’s exactly how it is!” One guy slipped the guard some bills, who then left. Another was cooking sausage and steak in a frying pan, with sauce in a large pot. Salami and cheese were hanging from a gate. A large trunk had bottles of wine. This was another universe inside the prison. A radio played something.
“Hey kid: you wanna eat?” This was clearly the guy in charge. They all looked out of central casting. And like men I knew from Our Lady of Pity. “No thanks, I’m good.” “Come on, kid!” Someone shoved a plate at me. “You don’t want that prison shit!”
Guy in charge: “You the MARINO kid?” “Yeah.” “Your uncles are good people. I think I know your mother too. From 115th, right?” “Yeah.” “Beautiful woman. Hey: is it true you’re here for tryin’ to overthrow the government?” All eyes stared.
“Nah, come on. You get killed for that. Have I criticized the government? Yeah. Do I have a problem with the Vietnam War thing? Yeah. Do I want equal rights for Puerto Ricans? Yeah.”
“What the fuck is the matter with you? This is a great country!”
“Well for you…” I gestured around the room. Cell. “For you, it’s great.”
About the only other semi-interesting thing that happened while I was there was they cut my Afro off. And I had gotten to know a few guys who I’d be thrown in with for a few months. Like Lenny. A hustler from Newark. Very dark. Slim. Street. A pimp who parlayed his money into a few bars and drugs. Then parlayed that into guns. And financing a few heists. “Listen man. If your people got any pull, get your ass into a maximum security joint.”
“They’re trying to get me into Danbury. It’s close; my family can visit.”
“Fuck your family! They ain’t doin’ the time! YOU are! Get your head right! Outside is gone! THIS is your world! Look: you hip to Rikers, right? You know why Rikers is fucked up? Because everybody is in there. Especially young punks looking to make a reputation. In max, everybody’s doin’ serious time. They all know they can kill each other. They just want to do their bid and be left alone. Even if they doin’ life. You want to get your ass to Lewisburg.”
At the end of the second week, a Saturday, I was expecting a visit from my mother. Except early that morning, the guards tossed some of us out of our bunks. “Let’s go! Time to get on the bus!”
What?
“We’re being transported,” Jimmy said. I had to get word to my mother. I begged two guards. One finally let me use the phone in the warden’s office. Thank you God. “Hello?” My grandmother Belén. My mother’s mother. “Abuela! Soy yo, Pablo!” My hard-of-hearing grandmother. “Pablo? No, it’s very sad. He’s not here. He’s in jail.” Click. “Belén!”
“All right, get on the bus!”
“But — ”
“Tough shit, you’re lucky you got that! Move!”
They shackled our hands and feet, and to a person in front. And there was the bus.
“Where are we goin’?”
“Lewisburg.”
