Letter to Jail and "7 Grams"

When I was in jail awaiting deportation, a woman I have known for many years wrote this beautiful story (with some minor inaccuracies) and a letter from her heart.

7 Grams
Vladimir Noskov's life is starting to sound like one of his beloved Bob Marley songs. Only he didn't shoot the sheriff. All he did was share a joint with an undercover deputy 21 years ago at a concert in San Francisco. A public defender put in a guilty plea for Vladimir for "possession with intent to sell," although Vladimir simply gave the officer his last 7 grams of pot and no further transaction took place. He completed his one-year probation and thought the charge was expunged from his record.
Freedom came my way one day?And I started out of town.*
Vladimir Noskov was born in Lvov, in western Ukraine. Jewish refugees escaping Soviet anti-Semitism, his family settled in St. Louis in 1976, when he was 14. Although his mother and sister became US citizens years ago, Vladimir preferred the romanticism of remaining a "man without a country." In a cruel twist of fate, he is on the verge of really becoming a man without a country as he faces deportation under the "Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996," which subjects all non-citizens who have been convicted of aggravated felonies to deportation, even if the conviction happened before 1996.
Over the years, Vladimir had become a fixture on the St. Louis music scene. Popularly known as the Mad Russian, he contributed interviews to music stations and hosted a reggae show on the community radio. He hit big-time as a roving correspondent for Howard Stern. His unrepentant left-wing politics, provocative questions, and bull's-eye observations earned him a few detractors in this conservative Midwestern city. But he also has many friends who value his good heart, honesty, loyalty, as well as picaresque tales that are too outrageous to believe but may very well be true.
On July 13, 2005, Vladimir had too much to drink at a bar. He caused a commotion and was arrested for allegedly assaulting a peace officer. But when he woke up in University City jail, he was turned over to the U.S. Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who carted him off to a detention center in Charleston, Mo.
Reflexes got the better of me?And what is to be must be.?Every day the bucket goes to the well,?But one day the bottom will drop out,?Yes, one day the bottom will drop out.*
As his sister and a group of supporters fight against his deportation, Vladimir faces a possible future in a country where he does not know a soul nor speak the language. We all make mistakes in our youth and Vladimir is not proud of what he's done. Yet he is not a threat to national security or a menace to society. He is an activities director for a group of Russian-speaking senior citizens. He loves this country and deserves a second chance. *Lyrics from "I Shot the Sheriff" by Bob Marley




Dear Vlad,
I've never written to anyone in prison before and wish my first-ever letter to you didn't have to be addressed to a god-forsaken correctional facility.
When my sister told me to find the Post-Dispatch article about your arrest, I was expecting to read a colorful narrative about your latest escapades. Then the reality of your situation set in and I became angry and frustrated at the absurdity of your predicament. Since when is it a crime to be a loud drunk and a pothead? You have a kind, loving heart and a mouth that gets you in trouble. The more I think about how you got nabbed and the treatment you're getting in prison, this only confirms that we live in a police state that is only slightly better than the one we left in the 1970s.
As a result of Bush's murderous rampage and the ensuing silence from the media, I no longer believe that I live in a democracy where people's voices are respected or basic rights observed. This country is convenient and offers unlimited opportunities to hard-working individuals. But it also chews up your soul and alienates you from other human beings who are equally in pursuit of the almighty dollar. I've always admired your independence and near-poverty. You live your life exactly the way you want without owing anyone apologies or explanations.
I vividly remember our first meeting in Columbia, Mo. You were a roadie (groupie?) with the Itals reggae group and someone told you that there was another Russian at the Blue Note. You gave me a T-shirt to commemorate our acquaintance. I believe this T-shirt is still stashed away with sentimental objects from my youth. You regaled me with stories about starring in a TV pilot, hanging out with the Grateful Dead in San Francisco, and living with musicians in Jamaica. I've held on to all your stories. It's been nearly 20 years since that night!
Then, a few years later, you set off a chain of events in my life that led to my current home and family. I'm sure you recall introducing me to S. at Edison Theater at Washington University. We went to see a show called "Romance, Romance," and then spent an afternoon at Venice Café. This hot July day led to an ill-fated marriage and my move to Virginia. I now have a new family and own a home in the same complex where S. and I rented our apartment. You see, you were a catalyst to one of the most monumental events in my life. At the time, our chance meeting at the Blue Note didn't seem significant and you provided much comic relief with your outlandish stories. But we ended up being connected on a metaphysical level that magnified with each passing year. It's almost like the saying about the flap of a butterfly's wings in Central Park could ultimately cause an earthquake in China. This is the chaos theory, which uses 'the butterfly effect' to describe how small and apparently insignificant incidents can set in motion a chain of events with far reaching consequences.
Your sister Faina is frantically working to mobilize support for your cause. I can't imagine how stressful this is for her and your mother. I hope the lawyer knows what she's doing and can work the system to secure your release. I worry about what the prison experience is doing to your psyche. How will your soul recover from degradations, beatings, and hunger?
One suggestion I have for you is to keep a journal. Do you have writing implements? If not, I'd be happy to send you whatever you need. First of all, writing is how most otherwise unstable people stay relatively sane. By putting your experiences on paper you'll feel more in control of your circumstances. You'll be able to analyze and make sense of what is happening. And perhaps eventually, this journal can find a publisher and readers. Think of yourself as the latter-day Solzhenitsyn. I recall that one of your favorite books was Deti Arbata, which deals with Stalinist purges and arrests of innocent people on trumped up charges. Isn't it a totally bizarre twist of fate that now you're a political prisoner?

Affectionately,
(name withheld by request)