{"id":117,"date":"2005-06-29T11:05:57","date_gmt":"2005-06-29T15:05:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.law.harvard.edu\/snarl\/2005\/06\/29\/using-my-get-out-of-jail-free-card\/"},"modified":"2005-06-29T11:05:57","modified_gmt":"2005-06-29T15:05:57","slug":"using-my-get-out-of-jail-free-card","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/2005\/06\/29\/using-my-get-out-of-jail-free-card\/","title":{"rendered":"Using My “Get Out of Jail Free” Card"},"content":{"rendered":"

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As most of you know, a friend of mine died in March and listed me as executor of her estate in the will. What I never mentioned is the very “Knott’s Landing” portion of this situation. I guess I didn’t share this information because my friend didn’t even share this information with her friends or family. She held this secret from everybody for 23 years. In fact, her brother just found out two weeks before she died. <\/P>
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The big secret is that for over two decades she religiously visited a man in prison every Sunday. After being diagnosed with breast cancer, and just weeks before having her mastectomy, she married this man so that he would be heir to her estate and could use this money to one day pay for lawyers to get himself out of jail. I was the first person she told last summer (right before the wedding). Since I was sworn to secrecy, I never mentioned it to anybody. Even though it became public knowledge at her memorial (not from me, I must add), I suppose I still felt uncomfortable writing about it here.<\/P>
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But since all of her friends and family are aware, and since in her last weeks on earth she was open about it, there really isn’t any need to hide it from you, my loyal readers.<\/P>
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Ok, so in addition to being executor of her estate, I was designated a trustee. This pretty much means that I’m taking all of the proceeds from her estate (car, real estate, life insurance, retirement, savings) and putting it into a trust for her husband. Since he’s in jail, I’ll continue managing it until either a) he dies, b) I die, c) he gets released from prison or d) I retire\/quit from being executor.<\/P>
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After months and months of coordination and delays, I was finally supposed to meet him at the prison last night.* My friends, Ben and Brad (also Regina’s friends) left work and spent an hour and a half in rush hour traffic to get to the Bay State Correctional Center in Norfolk. <\/P>
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I’d not been to a prison since 7th grade when I went to one on a school field trip (I was in a group for “advanced” students and our project was to come up with alternatives to traditional prisons). Over the past 20 years (ugh), I’d forgotten what it was like. Driving into the parking area we were presented with a campus of low-rise buildings behind 2-story high electrified metal fences with barbed-wire and warning signs. Brad commented, while walking from the car to the entrance, that it looked like a concentration camp.<\/P>
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He was right.<\/P>
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However, upon entering the prison, the atmopshere was more Studio 54, circa 1978. I approached the guards behind their bullet-proof glass wall and announced who I was there to see. The guard politely asked us to fill out a visitor information form. As we all backed up to get the forms, the guard started speaking.<\/P>
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“Oh, I’m sorry. You can’t come in if you’re wearing sandals.” I looked down and noticed that both Ben and Brad were wearing sandals. We began mumbling amongst ourselves and then Ben and Brad remembered that they had shoes in the car. But before we could retrieve them, the guard then announced “Oh, and denim isn’t allowed. In fact, neither are shorts.”<\/P>
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Have I mentioned that Ben was wearing denim shorts? And Brad (and I) were also in shorts. We continued talking amongst ourselves and Ben and Brad realized that they had some pants in their car, too (they’re cabaret performers and had a costume in the car because of an earlier perfomance). Still, that would mean they had something to change into, but I still didn’t.<\/P>
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Then the guard noticed me and added. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t come in wearing camouflage, sneakers, or collarless shirts, either.” Yep – you guessed it, I was wearing camouflage (shorts, no less), a t-shirt and sneakers.<\/P>
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At that point, the guard directed us to the vestibule where the dress code was “clearly posted.”. We took a quick look and it was a 13 page document tacked to a bulletin board. Apparently, we had violoted every single dress code rule in the state for gaining access to a prison. By this time, the three of us were laughing hysterically. I mean, of all places, who’d have thought formal attire was required in prison?<\/P>
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Rejected, we walked back to the car and drove away (still laughing hysterically) that we weren’t even welcomed in a prison. I’m not sure what the moral of this story is. Does this mean we dress worse than criminals? Is this a sign that three gay guys simply shouldn’t attempt to fulfill prison fantasies? I just don’t know. <\/P>
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But it did make me decide that I’m never going back – as vistior or resident.<\/P>
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 <\/P>
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*Nobody has met him yet – he wasn’t allowed to attend her memorial services. Prior to her death, my only contact with him was via phone at the hospital while Regina was on her death bed – I held the phone to her ear so he could speak to her.<\/P>
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 <\/P><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

As most of you know, a friend of mine died in March and listed me as executor of her estate in the will. What I never mentioned is the very “Knott’s Landing” portion of this situation. I guess I didn’t share this information because my friend didn’t even share this information with her friends or family. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":74,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-117","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/74"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=117"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/117\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=117"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=117"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.blogs.harvard.edu\/snarl\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=117"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}