Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bro (78 page)

The girls admired their father’s biceps and made fun of his Afro. He’d
explained that he was growing it out until Giselle gave birth, just as he’d done before Nautica was born.

“I’m always going to be the oldest one,” Mercedes said.

Cesar smiled. Mercedes and Nautica picked his Afro with their fingers and twisted small clumps into ponytails. Coco couldn’t help but laugh.

“You find this real entertaining, right? Hilarious?” he said companionably.

The old Cesar wouldn’t have stood for it—not in public, in front of other men—his head sprouting a garden of dizzy antennae pointing every which way. When the girls performed songs and cheers, he clapped and sang freely. He danced, which sent his daughters into gut-clutching giggles, and played round after round of patty-cake.

He later said, “I don’t want to be on a visit with them and they want to play and I go, ‘No, sit down. No, be quiet. No.’ ” Everything was
Yes.
Yes to countless games of cards and checkers and tic-tac-toe. Yes to all the candy Nautica retrieved from the vending machine; at home, Nautica and her sisters only got a quarter, and she had to decide between the miniature bags of Skittles and the jellies she loved. Mercedes and her father shared four packs of his favorite barbecue chicken wings, which she heated for him in the microwave. They took pictures when the click-click came—all four of them, together. They acted like a family. Coco later said how strange it was—how if they’d been on the outside, even on a birthday, they would never have spent the day like this.

Toward the end of the visit, Nautica begged Cesar to give her a pony ride, as he had when she was little, where he bounced her like a piece of popcorn on his knees. He did—for a good ten minutes. Then he held her lengthwise like a barbell and pushed her into the air. Mercedes watched, her awe and longing clear. When Cesar began to spin Nautica around, Mercedes couldn’t contain her desire. “Can you do that to me?” she asked breathlessly.

She caught herself as quickly, and her expression turned stony. The hope became a dare. Since she was a baby, no one had been able, or willing, to carry her. She weighed 130 pounds now.

Cesar placed Nautica down and squatted before Mercedes. Drawing out the moment, he rubbed his chin. Then, very seriously, he examined his big hands. He measured the width of his grip below Mercedes’s knees. Mercedes had braced herself for rejection; then, the next thing she knew, she was up in the air. She went rigid with excitement and terror. “No,
Daddy!
” she shrieked giddily.

He adjusted her on his shoulders. She clutched his hair and dug her
legs into his armpits. Then he paraded his daughter around the honor room and into the regular visiting area, where they took another lap past the inmates, who smiled and nodded as Cesar introduced his oldest girl. He pushed out the door to the enclosed cement courtyard. An April wind had whipped up, and everything was flying, so he quickly ducked back inside, exaggerating the drop as they went over the threshold.

“Daddyyy!”
Mercedes squealed, nearly losing her balance. She regained it as he steadied. He headed back to their table, where Nautica grinned and Coco gazed up at them, like a little girl in awe of a Christmas tree. Mercedes was trying not to smile but she couldn’t help it. “I’m going to fall! Daddy! I’m too heavy!” she said urgently.

“Relax, I ain’t going to drop you, don’t worry,” Cesar assured her. He’d been lifting weights almost daily for the last five years. To himself, he said, “Listen, you light as a feather to me.”

T
his is a book of nonfiction. I was present for much of what is depicted here; some scenes were recounted to me. Hundreds of hours of written and tape-recorded interviews were supplemented with other research, including court transcripts; medical, academic, financial, legal, police, and prison records; and personal letters and diaries. I have generally referred to the Administration for Children’s Services by its former name, BCW (Bureau of Child Welfare), as that was the term commonly used by the subjects of this book. Most of the spoken words quoted here were uttered in my presence; the remaining direct quotes come from government wiretaps transcribed by me, and from recollected experiences and exchanges that were assembled and confirmed through overlapping primary and secondary-source interviews. In those cases where someone is said to have “thought” or “believed” something, those thoughts and beliefs were described and recounted to me by that person. Physical descriptions come from visits to locations. There are no conflated events or composite characters in this book. Only the names of some individuals have been changed, principally to afford the children a measure of privacy.

Some of the people in this book have not been charged with or admitted to crimes ascribed to them by others; Boy George was never tried for the murders attributed to him during his trial. Much of the information about those murders, as well as the heroin milling process, is culled from court testimony, with further independent corroboration from millworkers and other employees. I attended most of Boy George’s trial, two related trials, and several sentencings. For further background, I studied criminal law, drug policy, and the Federal Sentencing Guidelines during a year’s Knight Journalism Fellowship at Yale Law School, and spent a summer as an intern in a New York State court that handled only A-1 felonies. The majority of the fieldwork for this book, however, consisted of open-ended days and nights in those places where poverty took the people I was writing about: prisons, police stations, countless legal- and social-service institutions, homeless shelters, emergency rooms, the street.

Clearly, I could not have written intimately about this particular American experience of class injustice had the many people in this
book not opened their lives to me. While the telling of this story is, finally, my own, I hope it honors their insight and generosity. I met George at the start of his criminal trial. What began as a portrait of a remarkable young man became a complicated family saga, which engaged eleven years of my life. I’m grateful to George for his impatience—his repeated attempts to make me see the bigger picture. My immense gratitude to Jessica, who bravely shared the highs and lows of her extraordinary life. Coco, in the deepest sense, made a home for me. I cherish her friendship and her capacity for joy. Cesar educated me. Our conversations continue to stimulate my thinking about both the worlds he inhabits and the ones we share. I look forward to a day when we can talk freely on this side of the wall.

My decision to write about Coco’s daily struggles baffled her neighbors, family, and friends. “Why Coco?” I was asked again and again. “Coco’s just regular,” people said. “Plenty of girls is worse off.” Certainly, I have found this to be true. The hardships of these young people and their families are not unusual in their neighborhoods. Neither are their gifts.

M
any people and organizations, only some of whom I honor here, contributed to an environment within which my ability to do creative work was nurtured and sustained: Dorothy O’Connor, one of my earliest teachers; Richard Marchand; Sheila Rockwell, who literally drove me to Smith College, a rare institution whose tensions sharpened me and whose educators equipped me for a spacious world, especially Maria and Ron Banerjee, Martha Fowlkes, Carla Golden, Philip and Dorothy Green, and Marian Macdonald. Thanks to Richard Todd, my first editor, with whom I began this work; Roberta Myers, for giving me wide berth exactly when I needed it; Amy Virshup, for the initial assignments at
The Village Voice;
and Adam Moss, at
The New York Times Magazine,
for his ongoing interest and goodwill. Both the Barbara Deming Women’s Memorial Fund and Cottages at Hedgebrook believed in me early on; much later, at
The New Yorker,
Henry Finder reeled me in. Also at
The New Yorker,
I am grateful to Jay Fielden and Andrew Young.

The Knight Foundation and Yale Law School gave me a fellowship that armed me for one side of the legal world. Rona Jaffe, the Commonwealth Fund, the Carnegie Corporation and the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation made possible a critical year at the Bunting Institute under the artful directorship of Florence Ladd. There, my sister-fellows enriched my understanding of passion and community. The Radcliffe Research Partnership Program connected me with the inspiring Sarah Dry and Alison May. Jennifer Forrider and Robert Schirmer provided welcomed technical assistance; Hilary Russ, cheer along with the extra fact-checking. The Blessing Way Foundation, Echoing Green, the Richard Margolis Award, and the Open Society Institute generously gave me additional financial support. Edward Albee, Sophie Cabot Black, the MacDowell Colony, the Millay Colony, and Blue Mountain Center kindly provided me with necessary solitude.

Robert Simels good-naturedly let the story happen. My appreciation to the wonderful women of Thorpe House, especially Sister Christine Hennessy; Ramapo Anchorage Camp, for the staff training that taught me the magic of their pragmatism; Willie Cebollero; Henry DiPippo; Patrick Fitzgerald; Les Wolff; Vinny Lopane; John Harris; Leslie Crocker Snyder;
Steven Duke; Brett Dignam and the enlivening students of the prison clinic at Yale Law School, especially Jonathan Hafetz and Johanna Schwartz; Daniel J. Freed; Rick Mason; and the staff at the National Archives and Records Administration in New York. Many sources took real risks in talking with me whom I cannot mention by name—without your trust, this book would not exist.

Other courageous and patient people not only gave of their time but shared their lives. In particular, I would like to thank Mercedes, Serena, Iris, Elaine, and Robert, who revisited painful times in telling me what I needed to know. Warmest thanks also to Foxy and Lourdes, who raised me up by welcoming me into their families; to Milagros, for her friendship and hospitality; and to Rocco, not only for the pleasure of our countless interviews but for his wise counsel about my dad. May this book do some justice to your experiences.

At ICM, thanks to Katharine Cluverius. My agent, Sloan Harris, good-humoredly steered this project through its terrific travels, until it found its rightful home. At Scribner, heartfelt thanks to Nan Graham, for not needing to be convinced. Gillian Blake, my editor, saw the promise of a book long before it was one and expertly read countless incarnations of the manuscript. Her graceful ushering of
Random Family
through to its completion gave me all the elbow room I needed, and her guidance over these past years remains a balm. Also at Scribner, thanks to Laura Wise, who is a consummate professional. Leslie Jones saved me from my mistakes. My appreciation to Rebecca Sumner Burgos, Betty Kramer, Rachel Sussman, and Julie Truax for their helpful readings of the manuscript.

I am fortunate for the company who has kept me along the way: Laurie Abraham; Jane Evelyn Atwood; the Azzolini-Kirns; Brett Berk; Melanie Bishop; Kenneth Bobroff; Linda Bowers; Colleen Craite; Lori DiGiacomo; Beth DiNardo; Susan Eaton; Joanne Fedler; Gerald Freund; Amy, John, and Jillian Giangrande; Gus Giangrande; Lucy Grealy; Leston Havens; Lillian Hsu-Flanders; Sonny Kleinfield; Judith Lahti; Daniel LeBlanc; Gerard LeBlanc; Barbara Lewis; Linda Martin; Guy Mastellone; Jerica Mazzaferro; Tal McThenia; Victoria Shaw; Ilena Silverman; Dorothy Thomas; Susan Todd; and Kimberly West-Faulcon.

Special thanks to Pamela Talese, for her careful eye; Will Blythe, for his hunger; my mentor, Mark Kramer, for his delight in the arduous process of teaching me how to write and for championing my work these many years. All graciously read several drafts of the book.

My gratitude to the home team runs deep: Ann Patchett, for her
steady faith and humor; Kristine Larsen, for her playful intelligence; Laurel Touby, for her ready spirit; Edwin C. Cohen, for the many ways in which he has sheltered me; Deborah Gunton, for her precious drive; and my parents, for the lessons in their labors of love.

Dearest thanks to Alice Truax, my editor, whose involvement in this project has been a profound blessing in my life. She gave each line her full attention and brought out a better book from me. The failures are entirely my own.

How can I thank you, my heart and ally, Arthur Joseph Giangrande? I am a very lucky girl. And so glad that it was your strong hand, the one I held every step of the way.

A SCRIBNER
READING GROUP GUIDE

R
ANDOM
F
AMILY

1. At the beginning of the book, the author writes that “chance was opportunity in the ghetto and you had to be prepared for anything.” What opportunities did Jessica, Boy George, Coco, and Cesar consider significant, and how did they prepare for them? Did they have opportunities they could not see? Why?

2. Loyalty plays a crucial role in
Random Family
. What did it mean to each of the principal characters? How do their loyalties shape the course of their lives?

3. We are told, “For Jessica, love was the most interesting place to go and beauty was the ticket.” Describe the relationship between romance and money in the lives of the book’s female characters. Is this different, in degree or in kind, from the sexual economy in mainstream American life?