Just Swim
Bobbi Cobaugh on the reality and radical care of life as a prison lawyer.
When I was five years old, my adoptive father, without warning, pushed me into the deep end of a pool. Gasping for air and flailing my arms wildly, I eventually found my way to the edge. After I caught my breath, I learned a valuable life lesson: this man assigned to protect me does not love me. It was up to me to sink or swim. I became a decorated swimmer in my adolescence.
When I turned 38, I was indicted in New York State on a first-degree murder charge. My early lesson of sink or swim resurfaced. Did I trust this man assigned by the state to protect me—to defend my innocence and freedom—with my life? As a single mother of a 16-year-old daughter, I was unwilling to roll the dice. Ultimately, I pleaded guilty to a sentence of 20 to life.
Fueled by the same sink or swim mentality, I entered the Bedford Hills prison law library in 2005 to learn everything I could about the law. This marked the start of my 20-year career as a jailhouse lawyer. I quickly learned that information was a precious commodity. For a bag of coffee, a legal clerk would explain how to win a disciplinary ticket. For a box of chicken, you could get a tutorial on how to make a claim of ineffective counsel (i.e. that your lawyer did not competently defend you). For a bag of Jolly Ranchers, you could take a book back to your cell for the night. During one lawsuit, I negotiated a deal to rent a typewriter in exchange for five Pepsis, so that I could type in my cell from 11 p.m. until 7 a.m.
I call what I do “legal triage.” I meet women in their darkest hour and turn them toward the hard work of healing their broken pieces and making amends to their victims.
Yes, you read that right, a typewriter! Female prisoners in New York are the only prisoners who have to use typewriters in their law library. Male prisoners in New York, on the other hand, have access to updated technology, including computers with word-processing capabilities, which are available to the general prison population. On facility tours, I have heard superintendents joke about the antique typewriters in our law library program. Visitors often giggle and ask if they can try them. Trust me, typing a legal brief on a prison typewriter is not for the weak. It is akin to writing the law in the sand with a stick.
As a seasoned law clerk, I rely on many props. I use sock puppets resembling prison administrators to help assuage women’s fears of speaking to authority. I use my candy dish as a buffer to break the ice, to mend a heart, or to buy some time if I do not know the answer to a complicated legal question (I buy a lot of candy!) I also have a bulb of garlic on my desk to help me navigate the most emotionally difficult of cases, like the one where nine children’s remains were unceremoniously dumped in a storage unit, or the woman who didn’t care to remember the names of the teenage victims she mowed down with her car while binge drinking. Or the young lady strung out on drugs, who brutally beat her mother to death to get at her credit card.
My challenge is to treat these women with dignity even though my heart breaks for their victims.
My challenge is to treat these women with dignity even though my heart breaks for their victims. What do you say to a woman who shares that her third DUI resulted in the death of one toddler daughter, but that her twin sister survived? How do you help a woman stop crying upon learning that her mother, her last living relative, has died alone because her daughter was in prison? You open your heart, print eleven pages of quotes to help your client find strength, reach for the box of tissues, dump the whole candy dish into a small baggie, and don’t let that client leave until they KNOW that you care. All lawyers are humans first, but many miss that question on the bar. (Is it even a question?)
One of my recent clients was a disbarred Ivy League lawyer whom I cheekily referred to as “Fancy Pants” (she reciprocated with “okay, bitch”). Although she hated me at first, in the end, she thanked me for being the only person, court-appointed lawyer included, who never lied to her. She was big on following precedent—they must really drill that home in law school. However, having learned in the trenches of the prison law library, I fondly refer to my style of practice as “guerilla law.” I told her, “We birth precedent here!” She laughed, but after a few weeks of watching me work, she understood. Frederick Douglass wrote, “Power concedes nothing without a demand.” As a female jailhouse lawyer, I demand a lot from my prison administration, central office, politicians, lawyers, courts, and judges on behalf of my clients. I struggle hard against a steel net of oppression, constructed of apathy, discrimination, and hate. I struggle against a system that is anything but “just.”
Twenty years after entering Bedford’s prison law library, I have helped countless women survive or amend their sentences. One of my most meaningful cases was a young woman who ended up becoming a second daughter to me. We spent an entire summer in the law library, working nonstop on her case in 100+ degree temperatures. We sweated, we cried, we laughed, and we did our best. I learned that she had lost her mother when she was 20 years old. I had lost mine when I was 20 to Lou Gehrig’s disease. Three years later, we won her release. We shaved 11 years off her sentence. Today we speak on a daily basis. She calls me ma; I call her hija.
In 20 years, I have never received a raise. I still earn 24 cents per hour, which amounts to $3.62 per week. However, my self-worth is not found in dollars and cents.
In another case early in my prison bid, a woman was facing an Anders brief, a motion filed by her lawyer asking to be removed from her case because any appeal would be frivolous. I asked the woman to write down how her crime occurred. She started her brief: On a sunny day in my one-horse town… I said, “What are you doing? This is legal writing—not Harry Potter!” I taught her how to write with purpose and authority. In the end, I helped her prove that she was unconscious in the back of an ambulance when she received her Miranda rights, which rendered her subsequent interrogation in the hospital illegal.
I call what I do “legal triage.” I meet women in their darkest hour and turn them toward the hard work of healing their broken pieces and making amends to their victims. William Shakespeare’s quote, “Indifference is the height of injustice,” hangs above my desk and informs all that I do. I treat everyone equally; everyone matters to me, and I give them my all. Whether I am seeking the return of a missing prosthetic (how does prison staff lose that?!), defending a drug ticket, stalling home foreclosure proceedings, or disposing of an out-of-state warrant, I strive to conduct myself with dignity and integrity.
But it is exhausting and undervalued work. A few years in, I found myself in a padded room in a psychiatric hospital. I later explained to my therapist that I felt like I was trapped in a desert (the law library) with only a tiny dixie cup of water (my assistance) to share with dozens of women dying of thirst. Legal aid that I was not formally trained in or qualified to provide. My therapist told me to breathe, think of solutions, and try to find wellness within my boundaries. “Your gift is to help others, not fix them,” he reminded me.
In 20 years, I have never received a raise. I still earn 24 cents per hour, which amounts to $3.62 per week. However, my self-worth is not found in dollars and cents. Rather, I have learned to value the divine spark in all of us. I have learned about true freedom. I know how to take someone’s hand, have them take a deep breath, jump into the deep end of life, and teach them to just swim with integrity—because I know I won’t let them drown.
How do we humans live with ourselves, showing such little empathy and care for those on the inside? Thank you for writing and giving us the opportunity to know what’s in your heart and soul. It is a gift. Your article should be required reading.
Such an inspiring read!