On the Run: Fugitive Life in an American City by Alice Goffman Page A
Authors: Alice Goffman
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age, the drama with the mother of his two children and his
frequent brushes with the authorities had caused Miss Regina “a lifetime of grief.”
By twenty-two, Mike had been in and out of county jail and state prison, mostly on
drug charges.
When we met, Miss Regina was working for the Salvation Army as a caretaker to four
elderly men and women whose homes she visited for twelve- or eighteen-hour shifts
three times a week. She had moved to Northeast Philadelphia a few months before we
met, noting that the 6th Street neighborhood had become too dangerous and dilapidated.
The house she was renting was spotless; she even had a special machine to clear away
the smoke from her cigarettes.
Miss Regina had just gotten home from work, and had started a load of laundry in the
basement. Her mother and I were watching the soap opera
Guiding Light
on the plush loveseat in the living room when thephone rang. From the kitchen Miss Regina yelled, “I don’t believe this.” She passed
me the phone; it was Mike, who told me his PO (probation officer) had issued him a
warrant for breaking curfew at the halfway house last night. He had come home from
prison less than a month ago; this violation would send him back for the remainder
of his sentence, pending the judge’s decision. When we hung up, Miss Regina lit a
cigarette and paced around the living room, wiping down the surfaces of the banister
and TV stand with a damp rag.
“He’s going to spend two years in prison for breaking curfew? I’m not going to let
them. They are taking all our sons, Alice. Our young men. And it’s getting younger
and younger.”
Miss Regina’s mother, a quiet, churchgoing woman in her sixties, nodded and mumbled
that it is indeed unfair to send a man to prison for coming home late to a halfway
house. Miss Regina continued to pace, now spraying cleaning solvent on the glass table.
Let me ask you something, Alice. When you go up the F [local slang for the Curran-Fromhold
Correctional Facility (CFCF), the county jail], why do you see nothing but Black men
in jumpsuits sitting there in the visiting room? When you go to the halfway house,
why is it nothing but Black faces staring out the glass? They are taking our
children
, Alice. I am a law-abiding woman; my uncle was a cop. They can’t do that.
On seventy-one occasions between 2002 and 2010, I witnessed a woman discovering that
a partner or family member had become wanted by the police. Sometimes this notice
came in the form of a battering ram knocking her door in at three in the morning.
But oftentimes there was a gap between the identification of a man as wanted and the
police’s attempts to apprehend him. Before the authorities came knocking, a letter
would arrive from the courts explaining that a woman’s fiancé had either missed too
many payments on his court fees or failed to appear in court, and that a bench warrant
was out for his arrest. Or a woman would phone her son’s PO and learn that he did
indeed miss his piss test again, or failed to return to the halfway house in time
for curfew, and an arrest warrant would likely be issued, pending the judge’s decision.
At other times, women would find out that the man in theirlives was wanted because the police had tried and failed to apprehend him at another
location.
In fifty-eight of the seventy-one times I watched women receive this news, they reacted
with promises to shield their loved one from arrest. In local language, this is called
riding.
Broadly defined, to ride is to protect or avenge oneself or someone dear against assaults
to person or property. In this context, to ride means to shield a loved one from the
police, and to support him through his trial and confinement if one fails in the first
goal of keeping him free. 4
It may come as a surprise that the majority of women I met who learned that a spouse
or family member was wanted by the police
frequent brushes with the authorities had caused Miss Regina “a lifetime of grief.”
By twenty-two, Mike had been in and out of county jail and state prison, mostly on
drug charges.
When we met, Miss Regina was working for the Salvation Army as a caretaker to four
elderly men and women whose homes she visited for twelve- or eighteen-hour shifts
three times a week. She had moved to Northeast Philadelphia a few months before we
met, noting that the 6th Street neighborhood had become too dangerous and dilapidated.
The house she was renting was spotless; she even had a special machine to clear away
the smoke from her cigarettes.
Miss Regina had just gotten home from work, and had started a load of laundry in the
basement. Her mother and I were watching the soap opera
Guiding Light
on the plush loveseat in the living room when thephone rang. From the kitchen Miss Regina yelled, “I don’t believe this.” She passed
me the phone; it was Mike, who told me his PO (probation officer) had issued him a
warrant for breaking curfew at the halfway house last night. He had come home from
prison less than a month ago; this violation would send him back for the remainder
of his sentence, pending the judge’s decision. When we hung up, Miss Regina lit a
cigarette and paced around the living room, wiping down the surfaces of the banister
and TV stand with a damp rag.
“He’s going to spend two years in prison for breaking curfew? I’m not going to let
them. They are taking all our sons, Alice. Our young men. And it’s getting younger
and younger.”
Miss Regina’s mother, a quiet, churchgoing woman in her sixties, nodded and mumbled
that it is indeed unfair to send a man to prison for coming home late to a halfway
house. Miss Regina continued to pace, now spraying cleaning solvent on the glass table.
Let me ask you something, Alice. When you go up the F [local slang for the Curran-Fromhold
Correctional Facility (CFCF), the county jail], why do you see nothing but Black men
in jumpsuits sitting there in the visiting room? When you go to the halfway house,
why is it nothing but Black faces staring out the glass? They are taking our
children
, Alice. I am a law-abiding woman; my uncle was a cop. They can’t do that.
On seventy-one occasions between 2002 and 2010, I witnessed a woman discovering that
a partner or family member had become wanted by the police. Sometimes this notice
came in the form of a battering ram knocking her door in at three in the morning.
But oftentimes there was a gap between the identification of a man as wanted and the
police’s attempts to apprehend him. Before the authorities came knocking, a letter
would arrive from the courts explaining that a woman’s fiancé had either missed too
many payments on his court fees or failed to appear in court, and that a bench warrant
was out for his arrest. Or a woman would phone her son’s PO and learn that he did
indeed miss his piss test again, or failed to return to the halfway house in time
for curfew, and an arrest warrant would likely be issued, pending the judge’s decision.
At other times, women would find out that the man in theirlives was wanted because the police had tried and failed to apprehend him at another
location.
In fifty-eight of the seventy-one times I watched women receive this news, they reacted
with promises to shield their loved one from arrest. In local language, this is called
riding.
Broadly defined, to ride is to protect or avenge oneself or someone dear against assaults
to person or property. In this context, to ride means to shield a loved one from the
police, and to support him through his trial and confinement if one fails in the first
goal of keeping him free. 4
It may come as a surprise that the majority of women I met who learned that a spouse
or family member was wanted by the police
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