The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [117]
And so the months dripped by, bracketed by books, breakfasts, and a little piece of Bridgeport in the pen.
SENIOR WOUND UP at the FCI in Sheridan, Oregon, a combination medium- and minimum-security camp about ninety miles south of Portland. Counting Leavenworth, this was his second stint in federal prison. Almost as soon as he arrived, he and Art began writing each other on a regular basis. Sadly, none of their letters survive, but Art remembers many of the words he and his dad exchanged, at least the parts that mattered most to him.
“We did pretty much forgive each other,” he says. “Both of us recognized that the way we made contact again was destructive. He blamed himself for not being a good father, I blamed myself for exposing him to my lifestyle. We both made huge mistakes. But the important thing about those letters was that they were full of love. Yeah, it had come at a huge price, really too much, but we did start to have a relationship again. We talked about picking up where we left off once we were both out. He wanted to see me. He told me that he didn’t want anything to come between us again.”
Chrissy, who visited Senior once at Sheridan and spoke to him on the phone frequently, echoes that sentiment. “He held absolutely nothing against Art for what had happened. He loved Art. His only regrets were for the choices he made. He accepted responsibility for his own actions.”
Wensdae saved every letter Senior wrote her from prison. They are among the most valuable pieces of paper and ink she owns, and in many of them he evinces a desire to become the father he never was:
5-27-03
. . . God, honey, I can’t express how happy I am knowing you’re back in my life. I’ve missed you so very much. You’re right about never being apart again. These days are over. . . .
I realize today that what pulled your mother and I apart were the world’s persecutions, and because we were so young we let others in the world divide us and go our separate roads. When you talk to her again, please give her my best wishes.
Honey, I wanted to ask you again how Jason is doing? Have you heard from him? Is he still in prison in Illinois, or is he out now? I’d really like to be back in his life. I know it would be really hard for him to accept me, but I feel in time God can heal all things. Jason and I need to open that door and take it from there.
I’d love for you to send me some pictures of all of you kids. I got your picture hanging right next to my bunk, so when I get up in the morning I see my beautiful daughter. I even say good morning to you every day. . . .
Wensdae mailed him pictures, and Senior indeed sent a letter to Jason. According to Wensdae, the pair’s correspondence was minimal. By the time he and his father connected, Jason had spent most of his twenty-four years in institutions and become more a child of the state than a son of Senior’s.
COMPARED WITH HIS EARLIER PRISON STINT IN TEXAS, Art’s time at Waseca flew by. He had already been credited with about six months of time served before he arrived, and with good behavior he was eligible to spend the last six months of his sentence at a halfway house in Chicago. And so less than a year and a half after he entered Waseca, he was walking toward the main gate, on his way back into the world.
Jerry Scalise and the rest of Art’s breakfast crew, along with a few other friends, lined up near the exit to see him off. As each man hugged him good-bye, one of the men (he won’t say who) handed him a letter for someone on the outside. “He told me not to read it and asked that I hand-deliver it,” laughs Art. “I remember being scared, thinking ‘What the fuck am I doing? I’ve gotta be out of my mind