My unit on a New Jersey prison’s west side is a hard place, both literally and figuratively. The unit was built in 1836, and it shows. The dense metal bars — no solid metal doors, like you find in more recently constructed units — form cages for rotting men. In my cell, I can feel the metal rack through the worn-out mat that I sleep on. Every day I wake up with a crick in my neck.
The unit is known as 2-right — an odd spelling given on the door leading to the unit.
The 2-right unit is a place where personal growth is hard to come by. Some here, probably most, stay the same.
If we’re going to change in here, we have to find purpose ourselves.
In February, after nine years in the south compound, I was moved back to 2-right, the same unit I first lived in when I arrived at New Jersey State Prison in 2013. I was surprised to see some of the same old heads who lived here more than a decade ago.
The first familiar face I noticed was Mr. Cherry’s. He was gray and bent-over old, just like he was when I first met him. Like me, he’s from Atlantic City. His case stems from a cop killing in 1970. He was a Black Panther and fled the U.S. to Cuba before being arrested in 1990.
Mr. Cherry has been in Trenton for 30-odd years. And in this city, one thing is for sure: They don’t let cop killers out of prison. (Isn’t there such a thing as mercy?)
Mr. Townsend is another old head whom I met when I first landed on 2-right. He’s in the same cell as he was then, and he’s still the tier runner responsible for cleaning the unit. In stature and manner, he reminds me of Stephen, a villain played by Samuel L. Jackson in the movie “Django Unchained.”
I don’t know what Mr. Townsend is in for, or how long he’s been here, but he’s old as dirt and still living in a cell no bigger than a guest bathroom.
Then there’s an older white guy; I never got his name. Back when I first met him, he looked about 40. Now, he’s frail and wrinkled. It doesn’t seem like it has been 10 ½ years since I first met him, so it’s as if he’s transformed from young to old overnight.
Some younger guys I knew are also still on 2-right.
When I first stepped back into 2-right, a kid named Mur said, “Damn, Kory, you been on the south compound for nine years.” Mur started at Trenton about a year before me, and he’s been counting my time to help make sense of his time.
When I first got here, I heard him tell someone he believed he was going to win an appeal and be freed. What happened to that appeal? I haven’t asked him because I’m afraid he’ll tell me his appeals have run out. My appeals are about finished too.
I’m now 38. I was 27 when I arrived. There are two guys my age from Camden — about 30 miles from where I grew up — who arrived at the prison a bit before me. Back then, when we were all young, ignorant and negative, they acted out.
When I returned to 2-right, both the Camden guys spoke to me on separate occasions and said the same thing: “I’m tired of this shit, Kory. … I just wanna go home.” They told me nothing in Trenton matters, only family and freedom.
If a decade in Trenton doesn’t change a young man, I don’t know what will.
A cell the size of two steps
2-right is like living in an abandoned building. I’m in a single cell about the size of a small walk-in closet — half the size of the cells in the south compound. With my books and coolers strewn around the cell, I only get two steps into my pacing before I have to turn around. The windows rattle, creak and swing back and forth when the wind blows. Guys holler all day.
When it’s time to eat, we have to leave the unit and walk past a bunch of guards holding batons to enter the mess hall. Some officers stop and frisk guys as they pass. “Next man,” they yell after they pat a guy down. This deters guys from going to the mess hall to eat.
In the south compound, there’s a pantry in the unit so that guys don’t have to walk by a bunch of cops to eat. The solid metal cell doors make that unit much quieter. There’s also central air and heat, so it doesn’t feel like you’re living amid the elements. And there are single-man showers.
When I first got to 2-right all those years ago, I was in Cell 127, above the shower waiting area. Now I’m in Cell 129, directly above an eight-man open-air community shower.
The water from the shower hits the cold concrete around 6 a.m. Then the conversations start. There’s no sleeping through the roaring water and morning voices. So I sit up and listen to the chatter.
I hear the Spanish-speaking brothers first. I don’t understand their language, but I have no choice but to listen.
The conversations held in English deal with sports and politics and thoughts of home and legal issues. Lately, people have been talking about how Pennsylvania and New York have managed to exonerate guys. In New Jersey? Crickets.
There’s a kid who’s been here since before me, and his conversations still haven’t changed. I heard him pose a question to two younger guys the other day while they were in the shower: “If a
The question resonates with youthful offenders because the spiffier the answer, the more gangsta they think they sound. Most kids say they would “never trade in their riches for a
Leaving the gangsta lifestyle
Many guys my age who have been here as long as me don’t want to be gangstas anymore. We don’t discuss guns and drugs; we talk about going home and being positive role models. But to change while in Trenton, a person must dig deep. This place isn’t giving anyone anything that will help them change except a cell.
In 2013, I was charged with double homicide and found guilty by a jury. I maintain I’m innocent. I believe the guilty verdict and my 130-year sentence is a result of me not telling the authorities who actually committed the crime.
When I first landed in 2-right, I thought I would win my appeal and be home in no time. Instead, I lost appeal after appeal. The pain and stress that has caused, in addition to the pain of my ongoing imprisonment, has strengthened my character and made me reconsider my lifestyle.
In the time I’ve been here, I have learned about myself and gained wisdom. If I would have won my appeals all those years ago, it would have been a disaster. I would have either been killed when I was released or sent right back to Trenton. Back then, I was young, still in love with the streets, and angry with friends who I thought turned their backs on me.
Now I’m no longer angry about my circumstances, but saddened by the friends I have lost to the streets. I have realized that life is short and you can’t get time back.
I had a friend whose name was buzzing in the streets five years ago. I was worried something bad was going to happen to him. We had had a falling out, but I tried to contact him. I just wanted to tell him to slow down, but my attempts were unsuccessful. Then one day in 2018, when I called home, I was told he had died.
I’m still alive and productive. I’m an award-winning journalist. I recently won a first-place award in a first-of-its-kind prison journalism contest. I’m also an active participant of Toastmasters and preparing for my third speech. And I published my first book “For Fiction,” featuring short stories and poems.
Sitting in my cell, watching time fly by, I’ve gained perspective. Trenton doesn’t encourage change, but it has taught me things. I don’t want to be a gangsta anymore. I want to be a writer.