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I became interested in the study of human behavior while in prison. Personality typology, mental illness, genetic disposition. For example, I learned that sadism is the dominant personality trait for people whose lives are driven by revenge. To seek it, exploit it, obtain it. Therefore, I am a sadist. As is Dr. Harris Taylor and his neighbor, Gloria Lopez, apparently. Although I believe my motive is different than theirs.
I received my undergraduate degree in Psychology while in prison. Distance Correspondence Classes, it’s called. Aced every test, although I’d like to think I had an unfair advantage. There is no better place to observeauthentichuman behavior than a penitentiary. Reading people became my superpower, my way to survive.
I was called the smart guy in my cell block. I found this nothing short of hysterical. Never—not once in my life—had I considered myself to be smart. Nor had my mother, my father, my teachers, or anyone within a six-foot radius of me. Convicts, on the other hand? I’m a regular Stephen Hawking, minus the ALS. (Sidenote: my own personal form of ALS is coming, I am sure of this, as I have also studied karma.)
As my reputation of being “smart” grew, the interaction with my fellow inmates changed. They withdrew, excluded me from social circles, eyed me with wary interest. Like the nerdy guy no one wants to hang out with but is too muscular to pick on. I embraced it, embraced my new role in my new society.
Funny, now that I’m free, I’m realizing that being out of prison isn’t that dissimilar from being in. For example: Retribution, incapacitation, deterrence, rehabilitation. These four principals drive the justice system. They also drive every circumstance in life that we find ourselves in.
In prison, retribution serves as punishment, the sentence for the crime that was committed. Incapacitation is the removal of the “bad person” from society. Deterrence is the act of convincing the bad person that they should no longer do bad things. And finally, rehabilitation is the systematic approach of reprogramming the bad person’s behavioral patterns so that they do not repeat said crime.
In the free world, retribution still serves as punishment, but it represents howwechoose to punishourselves. Whether it be chemically, by drugs and alcohol; or physically, by overworking ourselves; or being addicted to sex, greed, lust, whatever. It is a subconscious need to forget a mistake or trauma that we cannot let go of, that we are somehow punishing ourselves for. Incapacitation is the consequences of this self-punishment, such as losing friends, families, and/or jobs.(“You’re a drunk, get the hell out.”)Deterrence is when you finally attempt to better your life through therapy, sobriety, whatever. And finally, rehabilitation—You’re cured. Now keep it up!
Spoiler alert. We don’t. We face another obstacle—whether at work, with family, with health—and loop right back around to self-punishment. And on and on we go.
Detective Stroud is currently stuck in retribution. This is one thing we have in common.
I glance around, gauging the reaction of the other men on site, though no one seems to give the truck that has just pulled up to the curb much attention. They are cliquey, these construction workers, and this suits me just fine. When I first started, a few would acknowledge me, but that stopped when I showed up with claw marks down the side of my face.
The truck door opens, the window dramatically reflecting the sunlight like a beam of fire from Zeus’s staff. The only thing missing is the cheering crowd.
Detective Stroud steps out in a navy blue suit and tie, loosened around the neck, suggesting a hell of day. Sitting behind a computer. In an ergonomic chair. In a heated office.
My teeth grind as I return to digging. I can actuallyfeelhim walking toward me. I canfeelhis eyes on me. Anddammitif a rush of nerves doesn’t get me. As much as I hate to admit it, the man has power over me. Stroud was the driving force behind my guilty verdict, my removal from society, my loss of life, the stain on my name, the twenty-year sentence. And today, he is the one man who could get me locked away again if I make one, single misstep.
“Mr. Cohen.”
MisterCohen. What a dick.
I continue to dig.
“Mr. Cohen,” he repeats.
The detective’s footfalls stop at my back and I get a whiff of cologne. Something musky, artificial. Suits him.
“Rhett,” he barks, not one to be ignored.
I glance up, under my lashes. The crew has now taken notice of the detective on the scene. They frown, squinty, judgmental eyes in my direction.What has he done now, that introverted ex-con?
“Rhett, Jesus Christ—hello?” Stroud steps around to face me, kicking a mound of dirt into the hole I’ve spent the morning digging.
I continue to dig.
But then, he says—
“Sylvia Stone is missing.”
The tip of the shovel spears into the dirt. I freeze. My entire body tenses.
There is no way I heard him correctly.
A long moment stretches between us, him staring at me, me at the shovel while my mind races.
There is no way this is correct.
“Mr. Cohen, I strongly suggest you give me your attention now because the last person Sylvia Stone was seen with was you. Literally, by my own eyes, three days ago in Deep Shadows.”
Heart racing, I straighten, give him my attention, full, undivided.
