Doctor Dealer, page 47
But Larry is a survivor. He remains resolutely cheerful, and does not seem bitter or angry about anyone. He has carved himself a life inside prison and talks about it as animatedly as he used to tell me about his exploits as a dealer. I get a Christmas card from him every year with a long letter updating his life and that of his children, and it’s no different than those I get from old friends living in suburbs and cities all over America. He participates in a book club and helps manage a small electronic cable-manufacturing operation at the prison that employs disabled inmates. Over the years he has taught computer skills and worked as an aide at a prison hospice. He runs a bridge group one night a week. “You would think that someone in prison has all this free time,” he says. “I am surprisingly busy.”
He had a parole hearing earlier this year, and the hearing officer recommended a slight reduction in the time he has left to serve. That recommendation must still be approved in Washington. Larry has become expert in the arcane bureaucratic algebra that determines time served, and he isn’t optimistic. Like most prisoners who have been locked up for a long time, he is inured to the casual unfairness of the system. He has seen violent criminals get out of prison. He has seen drug dealers who dealt in far larger amounts than he ever did come and go with lesser terms. He doesn’t complain. It is just the way it is.
Mark Bowden
March 2001
Mark Bowden, Doctor Dealer
