government. If members of the John Birch Society—a conservative, vehemently anti-Communist group—were called before Congress, I believe they too have the right not to testify.
“So, I refused to answer Senator McCarthy’s questions, and boom! I’m charged with ‘Contempt of Congress.’ It took over two years until final sentencing.” Dad folded his arms across his chest. “So, yes, I’d say it’s accurate to call me a political prisoner.”
84
Dad’s eyes half-closed the way they do when he goes off somewhere. I looked down at Scruffy, who had his head and one paw on my lap, the other paw tucked under his belly. His eyes were also half-closed, and he blinked.
Someone once told me that’s how cats send you a kiss.
I felt better.
“In prison, Mr. Morse,” Paul said, “was there a difference between how you and other prisoners were treated, since you were in there because of your ideas?” Here it is! All energy vacuumed out of my arms and legs. I no longer felt better.
A barbed-wired yard....
Tough-looking men in bunches, leaning against the wall....
Tight close-up on striped shirt with bull’s-eye on back....
Striped pants torn....
Two guards, grinning, walk slowly towards inmate....
“Behind bars is not a place you want to be,” Dad said,
“but the actual conditions in this minimum-security prison weren’t that bad.” His mouth curled in a half smile.
“Mind you, I’m not talking about the food. Dreadful.”
“So it wasn’t like in a James Cagney movie,” Paul said,
“with guards whacking their batons on the cell gates, itching to beat up inmates?”
85
Dad shook his head. “No, but I’m sure there are many prisons much worse than anything Cagney ever acted in.
Just not this one.”
Paul picked at the eraser on his pencil. At one of our first editorial meetings at the Record , he had told us about his interviewing technique: if there’s an awkward silence, let it happen. Don’t rush in to fill up the space. Let them .
You might get something really quotable.
But this isn’t a space; it’s a chasm. And it’s my dad.
Dad broke the silence. “We were a mixed bunch, and we all knew why each of us was there. Sure, there were some guards and inmates who’d yell ‘Better dead than red!’ And there was a little bit of shoving, but mostly we’d all spend our time getting through our time. And part of the daily routine was crossing off days on a makeshift calendar.”
Dad rubbed his hands up and down the arms of the chair. “I missed this.”
“Your chair?” I said.
He smiled again.
“Were there a lot of political prisoners?” Paul asked.
“Three of us. Most of the others had committed what they call ‘white-collar’ crimes. They’d stolen from a business, bribed someone, lied to stock investors, per-jured themselves about something, those kinds of non–
physically violent crimes.”
Paul stopped writing. “So the other inmates weren’t really scary-looking people.”
86
Dad tapped his fingertips together. “This wasn’t like a maximum-security prison where people are doing hard time. A lot of those inmates are not only tough, but they want to look that way. Offense, some say, is the best defense for survival. Very different from the group I was with.” Dad looked out the window. When he turned back to us, his voice wavered, his words no longer sharp and distinct. “The truth is there is something awful about prison.”
Run!
“But it wasn’t physical brutality.”
Scruffy leapt off the couch. Did he know what was coming? I watched him as he trotted down the hallway.
“It’s all about doors,” Dad said. “Opened and locked by someone you don’t know. And you don’t have the key.” Dad looked at me and Paul, but I don’t think he was seeing us. “Until I was behind bars, I never fully appreci-ated what it means to be free.” He leaned forward. “We make choices all the time. We walk down the street when we want. We eat when
“So, I refused to answer Senator McCarthy’s questions, and boom! I’m charged with ‘Contempt of Congress.’ It took over two years until final sentencing.” Dad folded his arms across his chest. “So, yes, I’d say it’s accurate to call me a political prisoner.”
84
Dad’s eyes half-closed the way they do when he goes off somewhere. I looked down at Scruffy, who had his head and one paw on my lap, the other paw tucked under his belly. His eyes were also half-closed, and he blinked.
Someone once told me that’s how cats send you a kiss.
I felt better.
“In prison, Mr. Morse,” Paul said, “was there a difference between how you and other prisoners were treated, since you were in there because of your ideas?” Here it is! All energy vacuumed out of my arms and legs. I no longer felt better.
A barbed-wired yard....
Tough-looking men in bunches, leaning against the wall....
Tight close-up on striped shirt with bull’s-eye on back....
Striped pants torn....
Two guards, grinning, walk slowly towards inmate....
“Behind bars is not a place you want to be,” Dad said,
“but the actual conditions in this minimum-security prison weren’t that bad.” His mouth curled in a half smile.
“Mind you, I’m not talking about the food. Dreadful.”
“So it wasn’t like in a James Cagney movie,” Paul said,
“with guards whacking their batons on the cell gates, itching to beat up inmates?”
85
Dad shook his head. “No, but I’m sure there are many prisons much worse than anything Cagney ever acted in.
Just not this one.”
Paul picked at the eraser on his pencil. At one of our first editorial meetings at the Record , he had told us about his interviewing technique: if there’s an awkward silence, let it happen. Don’t rush in to fill up the space. Let them .
You might get something really quotable.
But this isn’t a space; it’s a chasm. And it’s my dad.
Dad broke the silence. “We were a mixed bunch, and we all knew why each of us was there. Sure, there were some guards and inmates who’d yell ‘Better dead than red!’ And there was a little bit of shoving, but mostly we’d all spend our time getting through our time. And part of the daily routine was crossing off days on a makeshift calendar.”
Dad rubbed his hands up and down the arms of the chair. “I missed this.”
“Your chair?” I said.
He smiled again.
“Were there a lot of political prisoners?” Paul asked.
“Three of us. Most of the others had committed what they call ‘white-collar’ crimes. They’d stolen from a business, bribed someone, lied to stock investors, per-jured themselves about something, those kinds of non–
physically violent crimes.”
Paul stopped writing. “So the other inmates weren’t really scary-looking people.”
86
Dad tapped his fingertips together. “This wasn’t like a maximum-security prison where people are doing hard time. A lot of those inmates are not only tough, but they want to look that way. Offense, some say, is the best defense for survival. Very different from the group I was with.” Dad looked out the window. When he turned back to us, his voice wavered, his words no longer sharp and distinct. “The truth is there is something awful about prison.”
Run!
“But it wasn’t physical brutality.”
Scruffy leapt off the couch. Did he know what was coming? I watched him as he trotted down the hallway.
“It’s all about doors,” Dad said. “Opened and locked by someone you don’t know. And you don’t have the key.” Dad looked at me and Paul, but I don’t think he was seeing us. “Until I was behind bars, I never fully appreci-ated what it means to be free.” He leaned forward. “We make choices all the time. We walk down the street when we want. We eat when
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