The criminal justice system wanted to smoke me. They wanted to make it painful. In November of 1998, Justice Marcy Kahn sentenced me to 25 years to life for robbery and murder. At age 19, my world went black.
I didn’t mind the pain. I deserved to hurt. Nothing was more punishing than my conscience, which I kept to myself. They threw me in a cell beneath the Manhattan Courthouse, called “The Tombs.” Dead men waited to die there. I sat alone wondering if I would do the same. While thinking, I smoked a spliff.
I retrieved a pinch of weed I had stashed. I then got a matchstick and striker from between my legal papers. I was all set, except for something to roll it up in. I looked at my envelope stuffed with legal papers.
“Fuck it,” I thought.
I tore a piece of paper from a corner of the third page. Then I measured it to the size of a rolling paper. I worked it between my fingers to get it soft. I proceeded to roll a spliff. It was sloppy, but it would hold under fire.
While licking the edges, I noticed the name “Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.” I remember my lawyers citing a case she wrote an opinion on. It was her belief that the State didn’t have the legal right to execute me.
I stood on the toilet under the vent. I lit the spliff. The embers of weed burned orange, red, and blue. Strange shit started happening. The words “Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg” were still legible on the elongated ash. Instead of the smoke going up the vent, it started swirling around the cell.
“Take two and pass, young man. You know the rules,” said a feminine voice.
That’s what we say in Bed-Stuy Brooklyn when we smoke weed. I passed the spliff without thinking. Then I thought, “What the fuck?” I had been alone in this cell.
A slim lace-gloved hand reached out. “Mr. Arthur, you’re wasting it. Haven’t you wasted enough?”
I hit the spliff again. The embers lit up with the words written on the ash, along with the shadowy figure. I just got 25 years to life. I was game to believe anything. But this was too much.
“Stop fronting. Is that really you?” I asked.
“Yep, it’s me. The Notorious RBG. Now pass me the spliff, young man. Spread love. It’s the Brooklyn way,” she quoted from the Notorious B.I.G. song, “Juicy.”
I passed RBG the spliff. She put it to her lips and inhaled deeply. She and the spliff became ablaze. I squinted my eyes but still saw her light. RBG played with the smoke between her lips and nostrils.
“Ah, it’s just as good as when I wrote it. The weed is bullshit, but the opinion is good law,” she said.
I went to sit on the bench. She kicked me in the shin.
“Ouch!” I yelled.
“Don’t play yourself. Only one of us belongs on the bench,” she admonished me.
“But I wanna sit down,” I pleaded.
RBG pointed to the floor. “There. That’s where you’ve been fighting to be your entire life. Isn’t it, Mr. Arthur?”
Defeated, I sat at her dangling crossed ankles and took the spliff. I took two pulls and passed it back. “I can’t do this time. It’s too much,” I said.
“Ain’t you supposed to be some kind of tough guy from Brooklyn?” she taunted.
“You don’t know my struggle. The system hates Black people. I grew up poor. My father was a crackhead. I didn’t have a choice. Yeah, I’m tough, but…” I choked.
I choked because the truth was coming out.
“But what? Say it. You’re a whiny little punk who threw his life away. Good people fought to give you that life. You ungrateful little shit. A good man tried to save you. He’s dead because of you. And all you can do is keep wasting time. You make me sick. Pass the spliff.”
I passed the spliff. I started to say, “I didn’t pull the trigger, I didn’t know it would end up like this.”
“You didn’t try to stop it either. You chose your stupid street code: Don’t rat. Was your code of the hood worth it, Mr. Arthur?
“I had to be tough,” she continued. “I grew up poor, too. Being a skinny, Jewish white girl in Flatbush Brooklyn wasn’t easy. I fought my way to the top against the same hateful, racist and sexist assholes that rigged the system against you. You played their game, and you let them beat you,” she said, wagging her delicate finger while swirling her head from side to side.
RBG passed the spliff. I took a toke. I was about to say something awful. I didn’t though, because I couldn’t. Instead, a long guttural sound of a man-child inside the adult body of regret, remorse, anguish and defeat came out. I trembled violently. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
RBG took the spliff. She smoothed down my wavy black hair. RBG’s compassion and the effects of the spliff dulled the razor-sharp edge of the truth.
“Yes, you’re a sorry young man. But you’re not really sorry yet. That will come later if you’re sincere. You can be more if you want to. You’re still alive. Tough people don’t make excuses. They take the best of what they got and make it the best the world has ever seen,” she said.
I took a pull and wondered about the future. Existing wasn’t enough. That’s about all I had figured out.
“You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll send you some help. You dug yourself in deep. You may never make it out. You killed a man. He believed in you. You’re a writer, so write. The written word is powerful. It saved your life, didn’t it?”
It was true. My lawyers cited a U.S. Supreme Court opinion RBG wrote. It was enough to convince the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office to not give me the death penalty.
“There’s good people in this world that could use your help. Fight back the right way. Prove yourself. Don’t screw it up this time,” RBG said and slapped the back of my head.
I nodded in agreement, but I needed more.
“It’s all good. Peep game. You owe a debt you can’t ever repay. You got to hold that down. Justice Kahn sentenced you to 25 to life to smoke your boots. I, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, just gave you 25 years to life to redeem yourself. Now who you rolling with? Her?” RBG said, flicking her head toward the ceiling. “Or me?”
“Brooklyn holds its own!” I said as my fist collided with the legendary legal-laden might of RBG’s gloved fist. The force of that collision would follow me throughout the next quarter century. Instead of dying that day in the Manhattan courthouse, I chose to live. I chose to make good on my promise to RBG.
Corey Devon Arthur is a writer and artist and a member of Empowerment Avenue. His writings have been published in the The Marshall Project, Writing Class Radio, and other venues. His artwork has been awarded, toured and featured in Apogee Journal and Witness Magazine. He recently launched a one-man art exhibit titled “She Told Me To Save The Flower” to honor feminism and advocate its use in the carceral state. Arthur received his Associates Degree from Nyack College. He’s currently auditing college classes at John Jay Prison to College Pipeline and continuing his restorative and social justice advocacy work.
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