In or Out Of the Game?

A.J. has two cellphones, and calls are coming in on both simultaneously.

The conversation turns to prison -- who's in, who's out, how many lives have been wasted going in and out, in and out.

"That's a multibillion-dollar business, locking us up," James says.

The street philosopher, Jerome Jenkins, pipes up. Prison is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it takes incarceration to get your head right. But, he adds: "By the time we get the knowledge and understanding of being a man, a whole 'nother generation has died." Jenkins is 45, unemployed, well traveled, divorced, bitter. "My spirit as a black man growing up in the 'hood was broken long ago."

A.J. gets a cellphone call he doesn't like. It's from his community supervision officer, telling him he has to report to a residential treatment facility for a 28-day stay starting the next morning. He has not complied with the terms of his supervised release, A.J. is told, testing positive for drugs on several occasions, among other things. The Reentry and Sanctions Center, as it's called, is run by the Court Services and Offender Supervision Agency, the federal entity that oversees adult parole, probation and supervised release for the District. The center, on the grounds of D.C. General Hospital in Southeast , is a kind of last chance for offenders with extensive criminal histories and patterns of drug abuse. It offers an intervention, a comprehensive program of assessment and counseling designed to help offenders change their behavior. If they blow this opportunity, officials say, the next stop is likely a return to prison.

The call numbs James, then angers him. He doesn't like his community supervision officer, who has just told him he will miss Christmas with his family, meaning, most importantly to A.J., his teenage son who doesn't live with him. It is Dec. 11. Why didn't he get any warning? James wants to know. He is on the corner seething now.

"[Expletive] that . . . I might end up on the run, Joe. I ain't doing it." James is churning inside, trying to think fast, and thinking aloud. If he flees with a GPS tracking device on his ankle, they'll find him. If he cuts off the bracelet, he'll be in real trouble. James ponders his options. The neighborhood crew is urging him on, giving him ideas. There is a way to rub your skin red and test positive for the possibility of tuberculosis, someone tells him. A.J. has heard of this. That'll work, he concludes. He'll get up early, rub his skin nearly raw, go down to the medical clinic, get a tuberculosis test, bring the results back to his community supervision officer and buy some time. "Hey, I'm gonna win an Oscar, Joe."

The night is here, curfew is soon. A.J. decides he has been on the corner long enough.

"I'm going to go in here and lay down and put my master mind to work," he says, heading into his aunt's apartment building, trailed by a few of the crew on the corner.

In the end, even his master mind would not outfox authorities on this one. Tuberculosis test? A.J. would just have to do his 28 days.

* * *

Some Notoriety

Aging athletes often keep old news clippings to remind them of their sports triumphs. Anthony James has his own nostalgia file, a soiled, tattered manila folder highlighting his criminal history: grand jury indictments, police reports, bench warrants, even a prison commissary price list from 2004. James's name can be found in court records on at least a dozen cases from 1990 to 2002, most of them involving drugs and weapons. He has been more successful at eluding conviction than authorities have been at locking him up.