In
the days when I was Catholic Chaplain at the Saginaw County Jail, I
knew an inmate named Quincy Jones. This wasn't Quincy Jones the
famous music producer, but Quincy Jones the gang-banger from the
notorious East Side Gang. I knew his brother Alex also, and this
Alex Jones is not to be confused with the caustic alternative talk
show host of this same name. In fact, Alex's full name is Alexander
Jennifer Jones III. I swear to you, I am not making this up. Both
Joneses were affiliated with the East Side Gang, and both cycled in
and out of the jail due to various offenses, most of which had to do
with the illegal drug trade. I actually knew Alex a little better
than I did Quincy, but I knew both well enough to know that they
spent their time in jail vowing that they were going to go straight,
and each time they would get the chance to do so, the lack of
opportunity in the economically ravaged ruins of the community of
Saginaw, Michigan would lead them back to the old familiar family
business of dealing drugs.
When
I became Catholic Chaplain in 2008, it marked the first time in the
31 years since I graduated from college that I actually worked
professionally in Christian ministry. This was my original career
goal, and when I did finally get the chance to pursue it, I
discovered that I was pretty good at it. This was gratifying to my
ego to say the least, and it fed into one of my great personality
flaws, which is that of believing that if I am good at one particular
thing, then I can do anything else I choose to do with the same high
expectation of achievement and success. This has the tendency to
lead me into situations in which I take on more responsibility than I
can easily handle. As a younger man, I could compensate for this by
just knuckling down and working harder, and being known as a
"workaholic" was something I actually took a perverse pride
in: it served to fuel my inflated ego all the more. I would soon
discover that in my mid 50's my stamina and enthusiasm for this sort
of thing was much diminished and this would lead to tragedy.
A
couple of blocks from the Saginaw County Jail was a failing nonprofit
called Partnership Center. The partnership was between the Catholic
and Lutheran Churches, and the purpose of the operation was to assist
the many who found themselves stranded in the dire economic straights
of poverty ridden Saginaw. Limited cash assistance was provided so
as to help with such crises as energy or water shutoffs. On the
opposite side of the building from where the office was that dealt
with this, there was a thrift store that offered various used items,
ranging from clothing to major appliances, for sale for very
reasonable prices. The challenges were many, the resources few, and
the demand for services far exceeded the supply of funds to provide
them. Due to the stress inherent in all of this, Partnership Center
tended to chew up and spit out directors, and when this happened in
October of 2009, I saw the potential, not only to serve the general
community as a whole, but specifically those coming home from jail
and prison, and I did a sales pitch to the board of directors that
would have made P.T. Barnum proud. And I soon found myself sitting
in the director's chair.
Egging
me on in all of this was a little man named Michael Geoghegan, who
had done 35 years in prison for bank robbery. When Mr. Geoghegan was
released from prison on parole, he showed up on the doorstep of the
Diocese of Saginaw. He was referred to my Jail Ministry office, and
we set about the rather daunting task of helping him rebuild his life
from scratch after three and a half decades in state and federal
prisons. Due to some very caring people who were drawn together into
an ad hoc
committee for the purpose of addressing his needs, Michael Geoghegan
was successful, and he was determined that he would turn this success
into an organization that would do the same for others. We asked the
committee that had come together to help him if they would continue
to serve in an advisory capacity, which they did, and we named the
fledgling organization that resulted "FAITH," an acronym
for "Faith Alliance Initiative for Transitional Healing." Michael
Geoghegan was certain that Partnership Center was the perfect
platform from which to launch FAITH into meaningful reality, and so
encouraged me towards the directorship in no uncertain terms, and
with all of the manipulative skills acquired during his long career
of incarceration.
The
stressful reality of Partnership Center quickly became apparent, and,
mind you, this was added to the hardly stress free circumstances
involved in being a chaplain in one of the most challenging county
jails in the United States. The crew I worked with there was
comprised of seasoned corrections professionals who were extremely
skilled in what they did, but the jail was perpetually overcrowded
and underfunded, its physical plant woefully dated and inadequate,
and the ability of the chaplains to provide meaningful programming
and counseling was severely limited, as was the staff's potential to
do meaningful rehabilitation. We all struggled on as best we could
in relation to the circumstances, and actually managed to do some
good, but it was never easy. I came to realize I had a tiger by the
tail trying to do both jobs at once, and I quickly proceeded to a
point where I was doing both of them rather poorly. My thought
originally was to break in a replacement chaplain at the jail, but it
soon seemed easier to do this at Partnership Center, and I suggested
having my title changed to interim director so this could be pursued.
In the meantime, I soldiered on in both positions.
After
a particularly grueling week at Partnership Center; a week in which I
was in constant conflict with the patrons seeking assistance, the
staff, the volunteers coming in on work release, and particularly
Michael Geoghegan for not pushing his FAITH agenda hard and fast
enough to suit him, I found myself entering the jail on Sunday to
perform my usual weekly routine both mentally and physically
exhausted.
The
first thing the sergeant who was shift commander that day hit me with
was an 18 year old young man whose mother had died suddenly. I made
arrangements with the tower to have him pulled from his cell and put
in a conference room so I could break the news to him before my
volunteers came in to do the women's and first of two men's church
services. One of the officers on duty that day was a big guy named
Tex. And I mean big like 6 foot 7 or 8, and 350 pounds or better. Tex
was as gruff as he was big. He usually just grunted his commands
to the inmates he moved around, and they all knew him as no one to
trifle with. I did too, for that matter. One of the jail rules was
that officers never physically touched inmates in the normal process
of escorting them from point a to point b, and everybody knew Tex as
a "by the book" kind of guy. Knowing the circumstances of
the young man I was going to talk to, Tex reached a big hand out to
the kid's shoulder and gave it an affectionate and understanding
squeeze as he put him in the little conference room with me. This
spontaneous act of compassion from such an unexpected source choked
me up, and also alerted the young man further to what he already
knew: the chaplain on a busy Sunday never pulls you out to give you
good news. After an emotional half hour, I was able to have this
distraught boy escorted down to the intake desk, and Sarge was
gracious enough to give him unlimited phone time to talk to his
family.
I
ushered my volunteers in, coordinated having the inmates for the
women's and first men's services pulled and placed in classrooms with
them, and went up to check with the tower to make sure they knew I
had a second service, and that the same officer who escorted the
inmates from the first service out would need to escort the new batch
in, while I coordinated a change of volunteers for the second
service. Usually, the volunteers stayed for both services, but this
was a day of complications and I knew the officers weren't going to
like it anymore than I did. They didn't but complied. I was told
that Bob Jankoviak, an inmate I knew from Partnership Center, was
insisting on seeing me, and this was just the icing on the cake I
needed. Jankoviak on a good day was a pain in the butt, and this
wasn't a good day.
Tri-Cap
was an alternative to incarceration program in Saginaw that provided
work release opportunities to jail inmates the judges selected for
the program, and to parolees from the Michigan Department of
Corrections who were assigned there for transitional housing. Bob
Jankoviak was one of these parolees, and had been sent to Partnership
Center as a volunteer laborer. I had requested two guys that I knew
from the jail, and was told that I could have both if I took
Jankoviak as part of the bargain. He was a rapist who looked like a
character from a horror movie, and no one else would have him. I
agreed and laid the law down that he had to work under staff
supervision at all times, and couldn't leave his assigned first floor
work area. When one of the women employees complained that he had
confronted her alone on the second floor, I had Tri-Cap come and pick
him up. Further investigation found that he had downloaded porn onto
a laptop computer, and for this he got his parole violated. He was
in the jail awaiting a ride back to prison, and he blamed me for
getting him busted.
The
gist of my conversation with Bob Jankoviak was essentially that since
I had gotten him violated, I in turn owed him a laundry list of
favors. He wanted me to go to some location and pick up a bicycle
and backpack that he claimed he owned, and he wanted me to store this
stuff at Partnership Center until this "misunderstanding"
with the Michigan Department of Corrections was straightened out. Five
years later, he remains incarcerated at the Newberry
Correctional Facility in the great frozen north of Michigan's Upper
Peninsula, so my point that this wasn't going to happen should have
been well taken. Our conversation turned rather animated as I
repeatedly refused to comply with his increasingly unrealistic
demands.
Bob
Jankoviak was being housed on the 5 East Rock (row of cells) at the
Saginaw County Jail, which was reserved for juvenile offenders, and
which we referred to without affection as "Kid Rock." The
idea was that judges would assign youthful offenders here to teach
them a lesson for misbehaving in juvenile detention, but the reality
was a "Lord of the Flies" atmosphere that was loud and
unpleasant in an environment that was largely loud and unpleasant. When
cells were open on this rock, older offenders were placed in
them, and, at this time, Jankoviak was in number one and Quincy Jones
was in number two.
I
felt for Quincy being housed between the obnoxious Jankoviak in one
and the even more obnoxious 15 and 16 year old's who occupied the
rest of the rock. Understandably enough, he looked miserable, and
when I was finally able to get Bob to shut up long enough, I looked
over at him and asked, "You all right, Quince?"
"Yeah,
Chap, I'm okay. Just a little down I guess."
I
wasn't surprised to hear this. Shortly before Quincy had been
arrested yet again, his mother had been found dead, presumably after
freezing to death in a swing at a local elementary school playground
in Saginaw. It turned out she had committed suicide. One of the
officers told me that the toxicology report done at her autopsy
showed something like 17 different controlled substances in her
system at the time of her death. She had gotten into an argument
with Alex and Quincy's dad, and ended it all by ingesting enough
pills to prove fatal several times over. Alex was in jail when this
happened and learned about it watching the news on TV. He was
understandably freaked out about it. The Protestant Chaplain, Sue
Jones (no relation), and I had both spent a considerable amount of
time with him, and this is why I knew him better than I did Quincy. At
Alex's request, I had called his dad and had talked to him about
all of this, and let's just say that this conversation revealed how
dysfunctional the Jones family really was. It certainly didn't come
as a surprise.
I
looked at Quincy Jones and told him, "There isn't anything I can
do today, but when I come in tomorrow, I'll pull you out and we can
talk somewhere where it's quiet."
"That'd
be good. I'd like that," he said.
As
I was walking away, I could hear Jankoviak loudly complaining that he
wanted me to pull him out and talk to him in a conference room, too.
I
couldn't wait to get my second service over with and get the
volunteers out. I climbed into the '99 Mazda Miata we owned back
then and hit the gears hard all the way back home to Alma.
Partnership
Center was closed on Mondays, and I usually went to the office in the
morning to catch up on paper work and prepare and plan my week at the
jail. In the afternoons, I would go to the jail and do some
individual counseling, like I planned to do with Quincy. On this
particular Monday, Michael Geoghegan was waiting for me when I
arrived and proceeded to let me have it for not promoting FAITH in
the aggressive manner he thought we should be pursuing. We were
actually using some acquired funding to provide much needed
assistance to individuals as they were coming through Partnership
Center after their release from the jail or from prison, but Michael
was concerned that we were doing so without sufficient fanfare and
publicity. "We have got to get that FAITH name out there!"
he insisted. I suggested a more low key approach that didn't have
him assuming the role of well heeled spokesman for the organization,
complete with a FAITH purchased new suit or two, and sans the laptop
computer he wanted. We went round and round about all of this until
he grew frustrated with me and left, and, after finally getting some
work from the week before caught up, I decided to call it a day
without going into the jail and with out seeing Quincy Jones as I'd
promised.
The
next day I put in my usual morning hours at Partnership Center, and,
as soon as I could in the early afternoon, I went over to the jail
with the intention of pulling Quincy and talking to him. The mood
inside the jail was unusually somber and I could sense something was
wrong. One of the officers gave me a curt greeting and hurried off
down a hallway. Chaplain Sue came out of her office, grabbed me by
the arm and pulled me in.
"What's
going on?" I asked.
"One
of the inmates tried to commit suicide!" she told me excitedly. "Orders
from upstairs are that nobody is to say a word about
it. He's in the hospital, but the rumor is he's in bad shape and
isn't going to make it."
"Oh
my God!" I exclaimed, "Who is it?"
"Quincy
Jones!"
My
head spun and it felt like the floor rose up underneath me.
It
seems that Quincy this last time around really had tried to
straighten his life out. The death of his mother and the
circumstances around it strengthened his resolve, and he was in a
relationship with a young woman who was adamant that she would marry
him only if he truly did make a break with the East Side Gang and
lead a crime free life. He tried and he did all right for a while. But
then there was a favor called in, he muled a delivery of cocaine,
and he took the fall in the bust that ensued. He was looking at a
felony conviction as a habitual offender, a long, long time in
prison, and his girlfriend, true to her word, had dumped him. And
so, that Tuesday morning, he had tied his sheet around his neck...
It
was Tex who walked by on his rounds and found Quincy hanging there. He
pulled him out of his cell and started CPR while calling for help.
According to protocol, the jail's CPR instructor arrived and took
over from Tex, and soon the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took
over from him, and away they went to the hospital. Somehow in this
process they got Quincy's heart beating again. My theory has always
been that it was likely Tex who accomplished this through sheer
strength and force of will, but that's speculation on my part. Quincy
was put on life support and it was soon determined that his
brain activity was nil. The decision was made to pull the plug, and
the official word came back to the jail that he was dead. I saw Tex
in a hallway with tears streaming down his cheeks and didn't have to
be told what the news was. Quincy Jones was 31.
Once
again, Michael Geoghegan was waiting for me when I got back to
Partnership Center, and he picked up on the same theme he had been
harping on the day before. He suddenly noticed that I had just
slumped into my chair and was still clutching my briefcase.
"What's
the matter with you?" he asked.
"We
had an inmate commit suicide." I said wearily.
"Ah,
so what?" Michael replied. "Guys in prison off themselves
all the time!"
At
this point, the wind left my sails and the ship of my deflated ego
now stood becalmed in the sea of my own incompetence and failure. I
was done and I think I knew it at that moment. I would shortly
resign both positions and retreat to a life in Alma that entailed no
direct pastoral responsibilities. In the course of long and
prayerful night time walks, I sorted out my life and decided to
continue, and expand upon, the correspondence ministry I had started
with some of the men I knew from the jail who subsequently had gone
off to prison. After six months I found a part time job with the
City of Alma as a custodian. I made good money for the work
involved, and found myself working with, and for, very nice and
decent people, and this proved to be very good for me if not
downright therapeutic. I worked half days answering letters and
solving various problems for inmates as best I could, and was able to
direct some parolees to meaningful assistance through my old
connections in Saginaw.
After
Quincy's death, I had received some counseling from my boss and
friend at Catholic Family Service, Tom Conklin. Until recently, I
had never told him the full story of breaking my promise to Quincy,
and when I did this recently, it felt pretty good to finally get it
off of my chest. I told the entire tale to my pastor and spiritual
director, the late Father Will Prosepero, SJ. We began this
discussion during the Sacrament of Reconciliation in the form of one
of his famous "take a tissue" confessionals, and beyond
this he was kind enough to counsel me further in weekly sessions that
helped me come to terms with what had happened, and which cemented my
decision to leave my jobs as Catholic Chaplain and Partnership Center
Director. Over the past five years, life has gone on like this, and
I conveniently put the incident with Quincy behind me and went about
my business as described above.
During
the past year, events began to happen that slowly, and imperceptibly
at first, would push our life in a new direction. In the spring our
youngest daughter, Martha, graduated from high school. At about this
same time, my wife, Jean, and I, began participating in regular
Eucharistic Adoration. And anyone who has followed what I have been
writing in this space every month since is aware that this is
something that has been life changing and transformational.
The
more recent events I am about to describe will illustrate just how
much this is so.
Martha
left for college in the fall, and Jean and I suddenly found ourselves
alone in the house and realizing that the absence of children in our
lives wasn't all we had cracked it up to be. In October, we learned
that Jean was about to inherit some money from an unexpected source,
and we would be able to payoff some long term debt and gain a level
of flexibility in our lives that we haven't enjoyed in many years.
Christmas came and went, and the long and brutal winter that settled
in got us thinking about our intention to go back to Florida once the
kids were gone. This time was suddenly upon us, along with the
resources necessary to actually do it. We were unhurried in this,
and thought that if we were down south in time to avoid another long,
cold Michigan winter, that would be plenty soon enough. It was more
of a daydream to combat the winter doldrums than anything else.
We
entertained ourselves by looking at housing opportunities online in
and around the Safety Harbor area where my mother and sister live,
and by checking out potential employment opportunities there just to
see what might be available. In doing this, I came across an ad for
"cottage parents" with the Florida Sheriffs Youth Ranches. This is a
position in which a couple works together in providing a
loving and nurturing home environment for kids removed from their
homes due to abuse or neglect, and when I bookmarked the link, and
later showed it to Jean, her response was, "This sounds like
what we ought to be doing!" There was a line in the ad that
said simply, "We need you." I told Jean that I thought
maybe that worked both ways. She agreed, and we decided that we
would apply for the position. After scrambling to update resumes and
pull together the required references and associated materials, we
mailed our packet in on a Thursday and got a call back the following
Monday. And the following Tuesday, we were interviewing for the
position at the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch in in Live Oak, Florida.
Understandably
enough, my time with Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament lately has been
concentrated upon discerning the will of the Father in all of this. I
began to realize some things in retrospect that had never
consciously occurred to me before, such as the fact that my job as a
janitor with the City of Alma was actually something of a self
imposed penance for leaving the Jail Ministry and Partnership Center.
And then suddenly I realized that it was for the way that I had
failed Quincy Jones. I hadn't thought of this in a long time, and I
had conveniently forgotten about my short conversation and promise to
him on that Sunday afternoon five years before. The Lord put it upon
my heart in no uncertain terms that this was a self inflicted wound
upon my soul that needed to be reopened, cleansed and dealt with if
it was to heal properly, and that this proper healing was necessary
if I was to move forward and be a cottage parent for the Florida
Sheriffs Youth Ranches. And so, I have dealt with this in the
confessional, in a long conversation over lunch with Tom Conklin, and
in sharing this story with other key people in my life. I told this
story in our interview at Live Oak. I am sharing it here with you,
dear readers, in full view of the public today. And this feels good.
In
Matthew 13:45-46, Jesus describes His kingdom in this metaphor:
"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking
beautiful pearls, who, when he had found one pearl of great price,
went and sold all that he had and bought it."
Perhaps
that pearl of great price can be many different things to as many
different people. For me, I have discovered that it is an unexpected
second chance to make a living doing work in Christian service to
others, and especially to children. Perhaps the best way to save
those like Quincy Jones, his brother Alex, and the many young men
(and women) who have had their lives so tragically ruined by drugs,
and the dead end life of the street gangs, is to put these lives on
another path that leads in another direction, and do this when they
are kids -- to change their future rather than attempt the more
challenging task of helping them overcome their past. That's what I
want to do. That's what Florida Sheriffs Youth Ranches does. That
is why in them I have found my pearl of great price.
When
one finds that pearl of great price, one sells all that he has and
buys it. For me, that means ending my ego involvement in all of
those things that seek to my own self aggrandizement, which in the
past led me to tragically turn my attention away from someone who
needed me -- someone God put in my path. Never again must I do
this. And so I have quit updating the Radio New Jerusalem web site
and it will cease to exist all together by October. I have closed
the antique radio rebuilding hobby business that bears my name. I
have ended my correspondence based prison ministry, which had come to
largely outgrow its usefulness. And, finally, I end this column with
this story and my best wishes and sincere and heartfelt prayers for
you, my loyal and gentle readers. May each of you find your own
pearl of great price as God so intends.
Somewhere
over the rainbow, and in a time and place that only God knows, I
believe that Quincy Jones knows that I seek his forgiveness. Somehow, I
believe that I have it. And somehow I think he knows that
I want to go to Florida and help boys like he once was avoid the life
that cut his short. And, once again, I can hear his last words to
me:
"That'd
be good. I'd like that."
And
this time, by the grace of God, I'm going to show up.
Scripture
taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by
Thomas
Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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