My mother is the kind of woman who could stare down a hurricane and not flinch. She’s been my anchor through every storm—quiet, unwavering, and stronger than anyone gives her credit for. When the world turned its back on me, she didn’t. Not once. She stood firm, even when the headlines screamed, even when the charges stacked up like bricks on my chest.
I’ve always been the wild card in the family—the one who pushed boundaries, who danced too close to the edge. My father used to say I took too many gambles, that I never learned to play it safe. He wasn’t wrong. I’ve lived a life that reads like fiction: handshakes with presidents, nights with movie stars, deals inked in penthouses and backrooms. But now, I’m staring down felony charges—first and second degree. The kind that come with maximum sentences of life and no mercy.
Still, I don’t lose. I never have.
From the moment the cuffs clicked shut, I made a decision: From inception I told my lawyer, “I’m going to trial; I don’t want to hear, see, or even be told about any deals…” Her eyes lit up like I was a crazy person. She actually told me at the next meeting that we would need to make sure that I had a psychological exam, which in hindsight was the best decision that she ever made. No shortcuts. I told my mother, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll stay strong as long as you do.” I could hear it in her voice and imagined that she nodded, eyes full of steel. After every call with her, I’d ring my father. He was always calm, always calculating. “Relax,” he’d say. “Give me power of attorney. I’ll handle everything.”
I trusted him. Maybe too much.
I told him about the rent house—the Section 8 setup, the automatic payments, the tenants. Then I told him about my house and my roommate being in the home and knowing that I trusted him managing more tenants. He said he had it covered. I believed him. Meanwhile, life in the pod was a slow grind. A world of concrete and routine. I learned the rules fast. I wrote a book by hand, “The F&G Guide to Jail,” and handed it to my attorney. It was part survival manual, part psychological armor. I needed to understand the system to beat it.
The pod had its own rhythm. Its own code. Don’t eat the potatoes—they’ll wreck your stomach. Flush constantly while you’re in the bathroom. Hang your clothes on the edge of the shower stall to get next in line. It was jail etiquette, passed down like gospel. A crash course in how not to lose your mind.
The sergeants were characters straight out of a Netflix drama. O’Brien (female), the aging matriarch who barely glanced at the pod. Bullock, a six-foot female enforcer who confiscated soup cups like they were weapons. Rodriguez, the biker-chick ghost who drifted in and out without a word. Callahan, a mountain of a man whose silence was more threatening than any shout. And Young—the real boss. He didn’t wear the title, but everyone knew he ran the show.
But it was the female sergeants who left the deepest impression. They had a way of asserting their presence, a way of reminding you that you were under their watch. O’Brien would shuffle through the pod, her eyes scanning every corner, her demeanor a mix of indifference and authority. Bullock, on the other hand, was a force of nature. She didn’t just walk; she prowled, her boots echoing against the concrete floor. She had a knack for showing up at the most inconvenient times—like when you were in the shower, vulnerable and exposed. She’d walk through with that smirk, her gaze unflinching, as if daring you to complain.
Rodriguez was a mystery. She’d appear out of nowhere, her presence fleeting but impactful. She had a way of making you feel like you were being watched even when she wasn’t there. And then there was Callahan, whose silence spoke volumes. He didn’t need to say a word; his mere presence was enough to keep the pod in line.
Commissary day was the only break in the monotony. Tuesdays, like clockwork. Mike and Miss G rolled in with the goods, and for a few hours, the pod buzzed with anticipation. Orders had to be in by Monday night. It was the closest thing to normal we had.
Through it all, I held onto one truth: I don’t lose. Not in court. Not in life. Not in the pod.
Now, as I prepare for trial, with the weight of the system pressing down, I carry that belief like a shield. God has a plan. I may not see it clearly, but I feel it in my bones. And when the dust settles, when the verdict is read, I’ll still be standing.
“Because I don’t lose.”
LeRoy Nellis 
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