Christopher Butters

Triumph

The Post won’t cover this,
nor will the Daily News,

the bridge officer calls the case,
Jose Lopez, 97K044456,
the defendant shuffles to the well
along with the TASC representative.

The judge says, good morning, Mr. Lopez,
the case is on for update and possible final.

The TASC representative reports
he has completed Phase Four,
having participated in groups
as per counselor, and all his
toxicology’s continue to be negative.

The judge says it is a beautiful report,
you are looking good and presenting well,
unlike the shadow of a man shown
in the arrest picture.

The judge asks if the program has helped him.
Mr. Lopez says the program has been great.
He says, in addition to becoming a peer counselor,
he has also become a dispatch coordinator.

The judge asks him
if he has any words to say
to others about his long journey
from hell and back. 

He says he just wants to thank the court
for giving him this opportunity.

The judge says don’t thank us.

Thank yourself for seizing the opportunity,
by choosing life over death,
by rejecting the glorification of thug life.
by entering the program and sticking with it.

Thank us by not coming back,
Thank us by not coming back,
unless, of course, you become a lawyer.

He laughs, the judge laughs,
then the judge says,
ladies and gentlemen, join me
in congratulating  Jose Lopez
for graduating from Phase Four!

I look out at the audience.

The only people in the audience
are his mother, sister
and 15 recovering addicts like him,
each waiting for their own case to be called,
on the same long and winding road as he is.

But what the celebration lacks in numbers
it makes up for with energy and pizzazz,
a wild Brooklyn cheer
as if one of their team had hit a home run
and just won the World Series

--no brass bands, no graduation gowns,
a strange graduation
in this brave, new hardscrabble land
along the road out from a crippling drug addiction
but in its own way a beautiful one –

because after all Jose Lopez has been through,
passing through the seven stages of rage,
the four hoops of paperwork,
the hard knocks of detox,

the blood, sweat and tears
of sinking roots in his support group,
rather than running to pick up
at the first sign of conflict,

all the while achieving  his GED
so maybe this  time, this time  
his reentry will not be
a set up for failure,

his walk up to the Bench
where the judge stands, beaming,
waiting to shake his hand,
holding

the certificate of completion
from the Phoenix House
Drug Treatment Program
is a triumph.

 

Don’t Talk

Don’t talk, I shout to the kid on the television.
They will use everything you say against you.
Ask for a lawyer, I tell him,
but he doesn’t hear me.

The light bulb shines down
upon the gloom of the station house.
A sixteen-year-old kid charged with others
about cocaine residue in a car stop. 

Still he could get off
with an ACD  
because of the questionable search
since it’s  his first arrest.

He is  hope, blood and shadow of the block
and runs with some of the minor brothers 
and won’t take instruction from no one
and so it is he thinks he can beat the rap.

He doesn’t  hear the Miranda warning
droned on
like a cigarette warning
on the back of the cigarette pack.

Anything you say may be used against you
in a court of law.
If  you wish to have a lawyer , one can be
provided, free of charge.

Which must be fine with the detective,
sipping his cup of coffee.
He has done five other cases today.
The bigger they come, the harder they fall.

The way they come in here, 
thinking they are the next Tupac Shakur, 
the less they bend,
the easier they crack.

Though the kid has the energy,
the detective must think that much,
lip like you wouldn’t believe,
racist cop this, racist cop that,

before  the detective clears the table,
says the  government takes possession 
very seriously, he is the only one 
preventing him from being fucked up the ass
by  the vultures at Riker’s Island:

you have to give something
to get something;
that’s what his friends
Pico and Jarmen did.  

Don’t fall for it, Jojo,  I shout out,
ask for a lawyer, everything is stacked against you 
on these cops shows, that’s what the rich white boys do,
don’t fall for the old divide and conquer trick.

But he  can’t hear me,
in this arena nothing has prepared him for,
in his world where asking for help is a sign of weakness,
going it alone is a sign of strength. 

He is JOJO
from 234th Street, 

he is fly and amazing 
and blazing and smooth,  
he has the look and the stare
and the strut down cold,

but still he worries
what  Jarmen said about him,

he was in a car to Thomaston’s 
when the stop and frisk thing happened, 
he  is on the road to a scholarship
if he doesn’t steer  his way into a ditch,

he is a crystal  teardrop
on the squad car window,

He is the leaking faucet
in the precinct bathroom
drip, drip,
drip, drip,

as he says
he doesn’t know
what the cop
is talking about ,

although later, much later, 
upon further questioning
he may say
that he did,

as long as he  keeps talking, talking,
instead of asking for a lawyer,

though everything he says
can be used against him,

unlike the rich white boys
who ask for a lawyer
and who walk out of the courtroom
with a slap on the wrist, 

which is why I keep
shouting, shouting
as the kid keeps on
talking, talking

don’t talk,
ask for a lawyer,
anything you say
can be used against you

on the television cop show
I am watching tonight,
though for the life of him or me
he cannot hear me

as he keeps on talking, talking
and as he keeps on talking,
the cop keeps listening,
listening, 

and as the cop keeps listening, 
all the while
the cop is busy spinning
his web.

 

Christopher Butters has recently been published in Rise Up Review, Mobius, Blue Collar Review and Untold Stories. My manuscript about the criminal justice system, First Contact With The System continues its quest for a publisher.