“With their mouths the godless would destroy their neighbors.” – Proverbs 11:9

The old inmate shuffled into the visiting room. His back was slightly bent in a permanent forward stoop. His head was covered with grey hair that seemed to grow in whatever direction it felt like. He had thick lenses in his glasses and an antiquated hearing aid protruding from his left ear. His maroon DOC jumpsuit hung loosely from his thin frame.

“That poor man,” Sonia said as the old man entered the visiting room and struggled to cover the short distance to the CO’s desk.

“That’s Old Man Frye,” I told Sonia. “He’s on my block.”

“He’s so old,” she said. “That’s just so sad.”

I knew what she meant. Sonia and I had both visited a lot of nursing homes throughout our lives. We had seen many people just like Mr. Frye shuffling up and down hallways in an environment of care and compassion, on carpeted floors that complimented the warm earth tones of the wall paint, where staff were there with smiles to encourage and assist. Plus we both had enough respect for our elders drilled into us from birth to know deep inside that Mr. Frye should be treated well and kept comfortable simply because of his age. And as much as we knew that he was likely guilty of some terrible crime deserving decades in prison, we both saw an old man that was no risk to anyone spending his final days stuck in this bleak, oppressive “correctional institution.” And so, not “so sad” that he was old, but that he was so old in here.

I don’t know if Sonia thought about it or not, but I instantly pictured myself in my 70’s (my maximum sentence at that time took me to age 72) with my aching joints carrying me into the visiting room to see Sonia, who by that time would be no spring chicken herself.

Old man Frye, as everyone called him, was well-known. He’d been down for 38 years, and had seen immense changes in the way the DOC operates. He remembered a prison system that was more like those shown in the movies. One day at pill line some young kid cut to the front of the line, three people in front of me and Mr. Frye. No one said anything to the line cutter, not even the CO who was supposed to be keeping order, although a few inmates groused to themselves. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, Frye turned and said to me, “Back in my day you’d have had guys lining up to stab him if he tried something like that.” I just couldn’t tell if he thought today was better or worse.

But Frye also remembered good things. Like when the chow hall served real meat. Hamburgers made with actual ground beef and not a meat-soy blend. Real roast beef and turkey and ham. Not “creamed meat” which used to be called “creamed beef” but now could be anything from horses to pigeons. And when inmates could pay for a premium channel such as HBO or Showtime as part of their cable TV. When families could bring in food from the outside and share it during their visit. When inmates wore clothes that looked and felt normal.

Old Man Frye had seen a lot of changes in nearly four decades of prison life, and he did not always respond well to them. Before they changed our phone system, a phone call worked like this: dial your numbers, listen to the line ring followed by a message that this was a call from a prison, and wait briefly for the tone when the person accepted the call. Now it works like this: dial your numbers and then hear nothing for two or three minutes while you wait in silence for the call to be accepted.

Because of his bad hearing, Mr. Frye could not hear much on a good day. So he did not hear the brief announcement that said there would be a short period of silence while his call was connected. He would wait a minute with nothing happening, then hang up and try again. After a few times he would growl and shuffle back to his cell. Several people tried to tell him what to do, but a) he couldn’t hear, and b) inmates hate to be told what to do by other inmates. Finally we had to sit him down and shout-explain the new system to him, telling him to be patient and not to hang up. He grumbled, but was able to call his family, although he still muttered about the stupid changes to the phone.

Although Old Man Frye was cranky, he was a “model prisoner.” In 38 years he had never received a single writeup for a rules violation. He was generous and shared coffee and tobacco with almost anyone who asked, and we kept an eye on things to make sure no one was exploiting his kindness. You especially had to watch the schemers who would offer to help Mr. Frye carry his bag of snacks, coffee, and tobacco back from commissary, and then rip him off along the way. So we took turns carrying his bag and making certain it remained untouched. He was asked dozens of times every day if he was doing all right, or if he needed anything.

As things happened, Old Man Frye got a new cellie, a young kid that was up to no good. The problem with having a cellie is that your cellie can get you into a lot of trouble, even if you’re squeaky clean. If your cellie is operating a microbrewery under his bed, you can both get a trip to the hole. If your cellie plugs in a stinger (rudimentary, mildly deadly, hot water heater for cooking) and blows the circuit breaker, you can both get a writeup. If there’s contraband in your cell, you can both be investigated.

Security must have been tipped off by one of the many institutional rats, because the G-men and Fido the drug dog came on the block and went straight to Old Man Frye’s cell. The dog sat down, the search team tore up the cell, and they found drugs. Some said heroin, some said Suboxone. But Frye’s kid cellie refused to accept responsibility. He said he didn’t know where the drugs came from, in essence pointing the finger at Mr. Frye. Off to the bucket they both went, handcuffed and videotaped, with the shuffling, muttering Frye surrounded by four burly COs.

Everyone knew that this was horse excrement, that Old Man Frye had done nothing wrong. The guards knew it, and the administration knew it. He had not had a write-up for decades, for Pete’s sake. But the cellie, that “dirty rat bastard” (by unanimous decree), was within days of going home on parole. When the interrogators grilled the kid, he not only laid the blame on the old man, he created stories of Frye’s drug trafficking operation.

When security shined the spotlight on Old Man Frye, he refused to say anything about the drugs or about his cellie, because he was not a dirty rat bastard and knew from years in prison that “snitches get stitches.” He was following the old convict code – don’t tell the man anything.

As a result, the kid went home on parole a few days later, and Old Man Frye did 30 days in the hole. Frye was then moved a couple of times before landing back on the honor block a few weeks later, but on the “A” side of the block, opposite where he had lived and socialized for many years.

Prior to Old Man Frye becoming a drug kingpin, he had filed a petition for clemency with the Board of Parole and Pardons. Seriously, this guy couldn’t hurt anybody. And he hoped and prayed to live out his last days in the real world. As part of the application process, he had emphasized being a model inmate, writeup free. I’m not certain that his trip to the hole impacted his case before the state board, but a few months after he got out of the bucket he was notified that his application was denied. There would be no real world for him.

Soon after that, on a crisp fall morning, I was on my way to pill line when I met Old Man Frye coming the other way and hailed him with a “good morning.” As he shuffled by he returned the “good morning” with his usual half-smile, half-grimace. That was the last time I would see him alive. He had a pace maker, and something went wrong. He had used the phone (successfully) around eight that morning, and then went to his cell and lay down on his bunk. After a few minutes, his cellie noticed that something was wrong and asked the block CO for help. Twenty minutes later someone from medical came down to the block. Some say the CO revived Frye with CPR. Some say that no one did anything. An ambulance came about 45 minutes later. Old Man Frye was dead. The ambulance left, and the coroner came. We were all locked down during this time, and from my cell I saw the vehicles coming and going. And on the walk to lunch I learned that it had been Mr. Frye.

So what’s the moral to this story? Where’s the grace? I struggled to find a verse of scripture that would shed some light and positivity on this old inmate’s last days. Clearly, one of Moses’ Top Ten, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor,” stood out. But then in Proverbs I found this portion of verse 11:19, “With their mouths the godless would destroy their neighbors (and their cellies).” Proverbs is full of cautions about the godless, the wicked, the lazy gossiping slanderers, and other assorted ne’er-do-wells who spend their days wrecking the lives of their fellow human beings. This verse and others like it are God’s reminder that the world we live in is broken, where people really can be out to get us. Where just because we’re doing things the right way doesn’t mean we’re impervious to the harm of those doing things the wrong way.

In the long run, Proverbs does point out that God looks out for his righteous ones, for those who seek to follow his ways. But in this life, there’s bound to come some trouble. Trouble that we must endure and overcome as we await the day when all things will be made new, and all neighbors will love one another with God’s perfect love.