Running the Books: The Adventures of an Accidental Prison Librarian by Avi Steinberg Read Free Book Online Page B

during one of these supposedly private performances. “You better not freak out on me. I know you.”
    T he next Monday I headed off to the prison—or to work, I wasn’t sure how I’d refer to it—with a brand new sheriff’s badge in my pocket. The photo on it had been taken by O’Shea the day of the hair test, when I hadn’t known the outcome, when I was feeling exposed, still feeling as though I were sitting for a mug shot. In the photo, I am captured with the buzz cut and a crooked, bewildered grin. This photo—which I was required to wear at all times—was to be my official image in prison.
The Tour
    In Boston, justice is a mom-and-pop shop. Bob throws you into the joint, Patti takes it from there. Patti, director of the prison’s Education Department, was my supervisor. She is married to Boston’s number-two cop, a perennial candidate for the police commissioner job. Patti agreed with the general perception that Bob was “too rough around the edges, too much of a street cop, not enough of a politician.” She said this with some resignation but mostly with pride.
    Patti herself was much smoother. She was friendly, smartly dressed, bobbed and highlighted, clearly the hip lady in her weekly fifty-plus knitting group in Dorchester. On my first day, I was an observer. Patti was my tour guide. After drifting through the classrooms, we entered the library. We immediately ran into an inmate, or rather he nearly ran into us. He emerged from the back room, walking briskly with a giant stack of papers tucked under his arm. Patti gave him a skeptical look.
    “Hello, Mr. Coolidge,” she said.
    Coolidge was a tall, stout man with a quick, peckish grin, and a pencil mustache mismatched, or perhaps, overmatched by a large, square head. Wide, intelligent eyes passed judgment with each blink. The tan prison uniform, from the 3-2 unit, was worn as though it were a business suit. Reading glasses dangled from the collar. A fragrant puff emanated from the square head. Could it be? Le parfum , in the joint?
    As soon as he saw me, he stopped in his tracks, a grand cartoonish gesture, almost hurling his papers into the air. He threw back his head demonstrably. To my surprise, he had a goofy, high-pitched snort of laugh. Patti shot him a look.
    Still composing himself, he said, almost shouted, “Are you kidding me?” And then to me: “How old are you? You in school?”
    “No,” I replied. “I’m done with school.”
    “Done with school already? Hey, congratulations!”
    Patti began to nudge me in the other direction. Coolidge took the cue.
    “Awright, awright,” he said. “Let’s be serious now. How do you feel about black folks? Ever spent time with black people?” This was making his day.
    “Um, I have,” I said awkwardly, unprepared for this much more pointed second interview. “I grew up in a mixed neighborhood in Cleveland. And at different times of my life. And a lot with my work as a reporter.”
    I sensed Patti fidget. I was divulging way too much personal info and walking into a variety of traps.
    “I’ve been around a bit,” I concluded, “Even though I’m young.”
    Coolidge desisted.
    “Just kiddin’ with you,” he said. He offered his hand, “Robert Coolidge …”
    With the handshake Patti shifted with noticeable discomfort. Did Coolidge notice this? Was that his intention? He flashed a warm, professional smile. His demeanor made me certain he would say, “attorney at law.” And I wasn’t far off. What he actually said was, “I work in this library. I run legal affairs.”
    Patti rolled her eyes.
    Coolidge proceeded to point out the salient features of the operation. The different sections of books, the organizational principles, the law library in the back, which he referred to as “the most important part of the library.”
    “It’s mandated by law,” he said of the legal shelves. “I’ll show you the case law sometime. I remember it personally.” He lectured us on the finer