The criminal justice system had it out for me. They wanted to make me suffer. It was November of 1998 when Justice Marcy Kahn handed down my sentence – 25 years to life for robbery and murder. At just 19 years old, my world went dark. But I didn’t mind the pain. I deserved it. Nothing could compare to the punishment I inflicted on myself through my own conscience. And I kept it all to myself.
They threw me into a cell beneath the Manhattan Courthouse, known as “The Tombs.” It was a place where dead men waited to die. And as I sat there alone, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would meet the same fate. Lost in my thoughts, I reached for my spliff. I had stashed a bit of weed away and now I retrieved it, along with a matchstick and striker from between my legal papers. I was all set, except for something to roll it up in.
I looked at the envelope stuffed with my legal papers and thought, “Fuck it.” I tore a piece of paper from the corner of the third page and measured it to the size of a rolling paper. Working it between my fingers to soften it, I proceeded to roll a spliff. It was a sloppy job, but it would hold up under fire. As I licked the edges, I noticed the name “Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg” written on the paper. I remembered my lawyers citing a case she had written an opinion on. She believed that the state did not have the legal right to execute me.
Standing on the toilet under the vent, I lit the spliff. The embers burned orange, red, and blue, and suddenly, strange things started happening. The words “Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg” were still legible on the elongated ash. But instead of the smoke going up the vent, it began swirling around the cell.
“Take two and pass, young man. You know the rules,” a feminine voice said. It was a phrase we often said in Bed-Stuy Brooklyn when smoking weed. Without thinking, I passed the spliff. And then I thought, “What the fuck?” I had been alone in this cell. But then, a slim, lace-gloved hand reached out to me.
“Mr. Arthur, you’re wasting it. Haven’t you wasted enough?” the hand said. I took another hit from the spliff, and the embers lit up with the words written on the ash, along with a shadowy figure. I had just been sentenced to 25 years to life, so I was game to believe anything. But this was too much.
“Stop fronting. Is that really you?” I asked.
“Yep, it’s me. The Notorious RBG. Now pass me the spliff, young man. Spread love. It’s the Brooklyn way,” she quoted from the Notorious B.I.G. song, “Juicy.” I handed RBG the spliff, and she put it to her lips, inhaling deeply. As she and the spliff became ablaze, I squinted my eyes, but I could still see her light. RBG played with the smoke between her lips and nostrils.
“Ah, it’s just as good as when I wrote it. The weed is bullshit, but the opinion is good law,” she said. I went to sit on the bench, but she kicked me in the shin.
“Ouch!” I yelled.
“Don’t play yourself. Only one of us belongs on the bench,” she admonished me.
“But I wanna sit down,” I pleaded.
RBG pointed to the floor. “There. That’s where you’ve been fighting to be your entire life. Isn’t it, Mr. Arthur?
