monolith rising incongruously from the pastoral New England woods that surround it. The twenty-foot-high walls that form the rectangular outer perimeter are topped by coils of razor wire and electric fence, anchored at all four corners and both entrances by intimidating guard towers. Just inside the front entrance the main facility sprawls like a minicity, a series of two-and three-tiered cellblocks set at right angles off a four-hundred-foot long corridor. Beyond the cellblocks is a large exercise yard where the prison workshop is located. It’s a place I’ve come to know intimately over the course of several stays, mastering the nuances of the structure as well as the complex culture of those who inhabit it.
At the time of my first stay the cellblocks were divided between minimum-and maximum-security wings, each set at opposite ends ofthe central corridor, separated by the service facility, a large one-story building that housed the mess hall, auditorium, infirmary, and library, among other things.
One of the maximum-security cellblocks, Block Nine, was reserved for those in protective custody, mainly snitches or child molesters, who would have faced near-certain death in the general population. The other, Block Ten, housed especially violent or troublesome inmates. It was a foul place. Having been denied the most basic rights, the prisoners in Block Ten retaliated by throwing garbage, food scraps, and sometimes even their own feces into the long central corridor. The stench was unbearable, the cells crawling with every kind of vermin imaginable.
On the minimum-security end were three triple-tiered cellblocks, each housing seventy-two inmates. It was here, in Block B, in a windowed cell furnished only with toilet, sink, and cot, that I would serve out my sentence.
The daily routine at Walpole allowed us plenty of time outside our cells for both work and recreation. Employment was mandatory for every prisoner. Most inmates worked in either the kitchen, the laundry, the plate shop, or the foundry, and I fully expected to do the same. But the warden had other plans for me. Not long after my arrival I was appointed to the position of entertainment director.
My first order of business was to form a band. It was not a difficult task. Walpole was home to many talented musicians, all of whom were desperate to put their skills to use. I quickly assembled a top-notch backup group for myself. Our first show was a huge success, and we were soon playing every Sunday afternoon in the auditorium.
Our concerts were religiously attended, by both inmates and staff alike. As a rule, prison society is strictly segregated; it’s extremely rare to see everyone sitting down peacefully together. But on Sunday afternoons six hundred inmates of all races and religions gathered to hear us play. Not once was there an altercation.
W hen I wasn’t playing music I spent much of my free time in the gymnasium, lifting weights and keeping up with my martial arts practice. Already a serious student of Buddhism, I took advantage of the relative lack of distractions in prison to deepen my practice, reading whatever I could get my hands on through friends on the outside or the prison library, and meditating regularly in my cell.
Of course I continued my studies of art and antiques as well. Friends from that time often recall seeing me with my nose buried in the most recent Sotheby’s or Christie’s catalogue. I’ve always been blessed with a near-photographic memory. I’m able to digest and retain significant amounts of information. After that first stay in prison I probably knew more about art than most museum curators do.
As much as I loved reading about art, I was eager to try my hand at creating it myself. I soon became a frequent visitor to the crafts room. Over time I came to master the craft of scrimshaw, a painstaking art form most often associated with native Americans and nineteenth-century whalemen, in which detailed scenes are
At the time of my first stay the cellblocks were divided between minimum-and maximum-security wings, each set at opposite ends ofthe central corridor, separated by the service facility, a large one-story building that housed the mess hall, auditorium, infirmary, and library, among other things.
One of the maximum-security cellblocks, Block Nine, was reserved for those in protective custody, mainly snitches or child molesters, who would have faced near-certain death in the general population. The other, Block Ten, housed especially violent or troublesome inmates. It was a foul place. Having been denied the most basic rights, the prisoners in Block Ten retaliated by throwing garbage, food scraps, and sometimes even their own feces into the long central corridor. The stench was unbearable, the cells crawling with every kind of vermin imaginable.
On the minimum-security end were three triple-tiered cellblocks, each housing seventy-two inmates. It was here, in Block B, in a windowed cell furnished only with toilet, sink, and cot, that I would serve out my sentence.
The daily routine at Walpole allowed us plenty of time outside our cells for both work and recreation. Employment was mandatory for every prisoner. Most inmates worked in either the kitchen, the laundry, the plate shop, or the foundry, and I fully expected to do the same. But the warden had other plans for me. Not long after my arrival I was appointed to the position of entertainment director.
My first order of business was to form a band. It was not a difficult task. Walpole was home to many talented musicians, all of whom were desperate to put their skills to use. I quickly assembled a top-notch backup group for myself. Our first show was a huge success, and we were soon playing every Sunday afternoon in the auditorium.
Our concerts were religiously attended, by both inmates and staff alike. As a rule, prison society is strictly segregated; it’s extremely rare to see everyone sitting down peacefully together. But on Sunday afternoons six hundred inmates of all races and religions gathered to hear us play. Not once was there an altercation.
W hen I wasn’t playing music I spent much of my free time in the gymnasium, lifting weights and keeping up with my martial arts practice. Already a serious student of Buddhism, I took advantage of the relative lack of distractions in prison to deepen my practice, reading whatever I could get my hands on through friends on the outside or the prison library, and meditating regularly in my cell.
Of course I continued my studies of art and antiques as well. Friends from that time often recall seeing me with my nose buried in the most recent Sotheby’s or Christie’s catalogue. I’ve always been blessed with a near-photographic memory. I’m able to digest and retain significant amounts of information. After that first stay in prison I probably knew more about art than most museum curators do.
As much as I loved reading about art, I was eager to try my hand at creating it myself. I soon became a frequent visitor to the crafts room. Over time I came to master the craft of scrimshaw, a painstaking art form most often associated with native Americans and nineteenth-century whalemen, in which detailed scenes are
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