Minutes Before Six

Smiley

2012-01-05T23:39:00.000-08:00

By Michael Wayne Hunter

"One day you'll slip," Woody shouted at a guard up high, manning a control tower at Salinas Valley Prison, "and I'll get you."

"Yeah, yeah," the guard replied in a bored with it all voice. "Go about your business."

"I'm serious."

"Trying to get off the yard?" the guard asked calmly, casually.

"Punk ass bitch!" Woody shook his fist.

Sighing, the guard activated his alarm, the yard went down, and Wood was gaffled away.

"Drug debts," my cellie, Cannibal, clued me. "Guess he couldn't pay them, so he hit the gate."

Months later, I boarded the gray goose, the California Department of Corrections bus transporting me to Pleasant Valley Prison, resolved to keep quiet my eighteen years on San Quentin's Death Row. I wanted to just fade into the background.

"Death Row Mike," I heard someone say.

So much for obscurity. Looking around I saw Woody.

Going through the Orientation process at Pleasant Valley, I lost track of Woody and considered myself lucky.

"Death Row Mike," Easy got at me on the yard. Six foot five or so about 270 pounds, he was the dollar bill shotcaller. A white clique mostly from Sacramento and Stockton, they tatted dollar bills on their hands. Their motto: "WE GET PAID."

Although athletic as hell, dominating the handball wall, Easy walked with a limp courtesy of a 9mm capping his knee. Making his way to me, he said, "Got something going with Woody. Said you jailed with him at Salinas and would co-sign he's a good wood."

Silence reigned for a minute or two before I replied, "I'm not representing."

"Just you and me, Mike, no one else listening."

"Woody hit the gate owing."

Heard about all that. Woody said he was on a mission for the woodpile and they were s'pose to clear the debt."

"That so? Never heard of a mission that called for hollering at a cop in a tower."

"No, no," Easy interjected, "he hit a snake in the grass."

"All he hit was the gate."

"Sure?"

"Yep. Spoke harsh to a cop and was gone."

"All right." He tilted his head back and forth and then seemed to come to a decision. "Jus' keep this 'tween you and me."

Over the next few months, Woody was mixing with the dollar bills. Figured Woody had something they wanted, no doubt a drug pipeline. I waited for the wreck and all of a sudden Woody was gone.

"Woody screwed me," Easy got at me.

"That was predictable."

"Said he needed some sharpened steel to take care of some bizness."

"Didn't think Woody was really going to hit someone?" I tried and failed to keep the merriment out of my voice.

"No, thought he was just going to show it to someone, run a bluff. Showed it to someone all right, he turned it into the sergeant, gave up my name, and locked up."

"Why your name? There's a whole lot of guys I'd rather have mad at me than you?"

"Wants me on his enemy list, so we won't jail again. Rat bastard owes me. You screwed up, Mike."

"I told you he was no good."

"Shoulda pushed the issue."

"Told you what I knew. Next time you want me to make something up?"

"No, no, all you bring in here is your word. You're right."

Hesitating, he added, "Woody was golden, for awhile, any wood who says he needs a shank has one coming." Shrugging, he laughed and said, "I'm not locked up, so I guess they know he's full of lies. It's all good."

"Cool." I started to move away. "Catch you around, Easy."

"Wait up. Think you owe me one. Need you to move my homie, Smiley, in your house."

My cellie had just moved in with an ink slinger to have his chest blasted with tatts, so I had an empty bunk.

"My cellie is falling back after his tattoos are done."

"Take Smiley in until then."

I didn't want Smiley. Thirtyish, five foot seven or eight inches and about three to four hundred pounds. As wide as he was tall, a cube. Some of the worst jailhouse tattoos covered his face and body. My only contact with him to date was when he'd holler from another table in the chow hall, "Gonna eat that?" "Yes," I'd always tell him, even if I didn't want it. I hate bad manners.

Food sharking was more than a past time for Smiley, it was a primary aspect of his belief system. He didn't view it as bad manners. Living together would be a severe culture clash.

"Easy, I don't think we would be a good fit."

"Not 'zactly a News Flash, no one wants to live with Smiley. But he's my Sac homeboy, we jailed at High Desert. Jus' do me a favor and talk to him. Okay?"

Reluctantly, I nodded.

"Easy's my dawg," Smiley eagerly volunteered. "We were loaded 24/7 at High Desert."

"That's not my life style." I tried to get Smiley to reject me. "No alcohol in the house. If the cops crack it, I'll have to ride the beef with you and I'm not down for it."

"I'll take the heat," Smiley insisted.

"A bag of wine is too large, the cops won't b'lieve I don't know about it."

"How about substances?"

"Guess if I don't know I don't care. I'm gone most of the day to Office Services and when I'm home I'm studying college courses. I need a cellie that can chill. Are you able to kick back?"

"Don't have no appliances. Can I watch your TV?"

It's no disgrace to be broke. When I was at San Quentin, I went through a divorce. I had given control of my bank account to my soon to be ex-wife, so while we went through the divorce process I had no access to money for almost a year. I had a radio, TV, to fill the empty hours, but over the months my shoes got real beat up. Without telling me, my condemned buddies on Death Row had new ones sent to me. "Glad you got some decent kicks," my friend Bill, whose mom had sent the shoes, said, "you were a dam embarrassment."

"I have to watch college videos on my TV," I answered Smiley. "Easy asked me to get at you, that's done, I'll get back to him."

"We're definitely not a good fit," I laid it on Easy.

"Just bring him in for a minute." Easy clapped his huge paw on my shoulder. "If it's no good, I'll move him on."

"He has no appliances. I'll find him a TV, but his homies have to chip in."

"We got you. Smiley's got game, Mike, he'll find a hustle."

Taking precious time from my studies, I checked out some idiot boxes. First one I could have for free, but multiple patched together repairs made it a fire waiting to happen. Pass. The second was thirty-five dollars and a huge improvement, but all the buttons had fallen off, so a pencil turned it on and off and changed the channels. Maybe. The third was fifty dollars and was pristine. The guy selling was about to parole and wanted food for a farewell feast. I hit the prison store and traded for the set.

"Right on," Smiley said happily when I delivered the set. "Am I moving in?"

I shrugged, found Easy, and asked him for four jars of Folgers for his share. Taking them from his shelf, he handed them over.

"I'm not paying the clerk to move him in."

"Drifter's a homeboy. I got it," Easy assured.

Smiley showed at my door with the TV and damn little else, a couple of large plastic bags full of what looked like trash.

"What's that?"

"Hook up letters," he answered and slid the bags under the bed. "I have trouble getting onto the top bunk. Can you move up?"

"I'm old, not going to get any younger. 'You're fat, you can lose weight."

Disgruntled, he set his TV on the top locker and climbed onto the upper bunk.

"Coffee?" I asked. He brightened a bit. Filling my hot pot, I said, “You can use it, but it's got a short. When it's plugged in, don't move it or the power will blow. We have to be careful until the new one I ordered gets here."

"Mike," he said sarcastically, "I know how to use a hot pot."

"Just be careful. Don't blow the power."

"I won't. Hey, it's stuffy up here, can you move your fan so I can get more air?"

"No."

Smiley pouted but didn't say anything and sipped the coffee I handed up to him.

After awhile, dayroom was called and we went out. I headed for the phone, Smiley went directly to the officers' podium and started chopping it up with Officer Fernandez. The fat man was bouncing up and down like a beach ball, they were laughing. Smiley as court jester.
On the phone, I told Rene about Smiley's weight and request for air.

"If he'll exercise, just walk twenty minutes or so a day, I'll send him a fan," she offered.

"I'll let him know."

"Rene would do that for me?" Smiley exclaimed when we were back in the cell.

"Only if you exercise."

Settling onto my bunk, I started reading political science.

"Mike, where are soups on this canteen list?"

"There." I pointed.

"And coffee?"

Setting aside my book, I asked, "Can you read?"

"A little. Can puzzle things out."

We went over the entire list, and Smiley was able to memorize where every item was located. Amazing.

"My homie, Risky, is hooking me a case of soup and a jar of coffee."

"Good of him." I started to open my book again.

"What you reading?"

"How laws are made in Washington."

Hesitantly, he said, "I know Washington is up north somewhere, but sometimes on TV it seems it's way east."

"The state of Washington is north. Washington D.C. is east, it's the United States capitol.

"I seen it on the weather map," Smiley acknowledged. "But why's the capitol way over there? Sacramento is California's capitol and it's kind of in the middle. Why not put Washington in the middle?"

"It was sort of in the middle when there were thirteen states. George Washington was from Virginia, the capitol is near his home, Mount Vernon."

Smiley looked confused but didn't ask anything.

"How far did you get in school?"

"Not far. My dad was a biker, in and out of prison, so we lived in Section 8 housing in the ghetto. I was the only white kid in school, so I was in fights a lot. By the seventh grade, I stopped going."

"What did you do?"

"Ran the streets, shoplifted, sold drugs, when I got older stole cars. Wasn't 'til after my first term I started robbing. My dad died in prison from AIDS he got from a dirty needle. My mom went back to Iowa. I was in prison then, but when I got out I went there too."

"Why did you come back?"

"Robbed a liquor store. The cops that busted me found out I was wanted in California, so they didn't bother charging me. I was shipped on the first thing smoking back. All California wanted me for was failing to report to my parole agent, so I did a six-month violation and was back out. But my mom told me to stay outta Iowa," he said sadly. "Guess it was for the best, probably woulda charged me for the robbery if'n I'd gone back there."

"All right, Smiles."

It occurred to me that except for a side trip to Iowa, all Smiley knew was a few square blocks of Sacramento ghetto and assorted prison yards.

When I came to Pleasant Valley, they didn't have my education history, so they placed me in G.E.D. class. How in the hell did Smiley slip past?

Lying on his bunk, Smiley slid his hands under his belly fat and they disappeared from view. Black hole.

After dinner, Smiley peeled off to pick up his psych meds. "Get depressed sometimes," he said.

When he caught up to me, he reached under his belly and pulled out a clear plastic bag full of pills. "Like my safety deposit box?" He patted his stomach.

"Thought they were crushing pills?"

"Easy got a legal beagle in the law library to file some court papers. So far got back the Morphine pills and Neurotins. Not legal to crush time release meds."

In the morning, I made Smiley a cup of coffee and went out early with education release.

On the morning break from school, I saw Smiley spinning laps on the yard. "Tell Rene," he called as he sped by.

Right on, Smiley, I thought and went about my day.

After school, I went home to a dark cell. Power blown.

"Risky dropped off the soups and coffee," Smiley explained. "When I tried to use the hot pot, the power went off."

The guards won't flip the breaker unless you turn in the faulty appliance, so I took a toothpaste off my shelf and bought from Boxer a burned out homemade stinger. After I turned it in at the officers' podium, Officer Fernandez went into our cell's chase and flipped the switch.

"Thanks, Fernie," I heard Smiley say, "my cellie's fuckin' up." They laughed together.

Walking silently away, I hit the showers and tried to cool off.

"Look," I said to Smiley when we were back in the cell, "I told you the hot pot..."

"Been jailin' a long time," Smiley cut me off. "Don't need no schoolin’.”

About to go nuclear, I noticed for the first time his glazed eyes. Swiftly glancing around, I spotted at the end of his bunk pill residue left from smashed and snorted pills.

"Sure you're right," I rasped, "no use schooling a pill head. From now on don't touch my stuff or we're going to have problems."

"Got my own stuff coming," Smiley replied cryptically.

After dinner, our cell door popped open and Smiley seemed to be expecting it and took off. Looking out, I watched Officer Fernandez unlock the guards' office door and Smiley went in and started cleaning.

What the hell? Deciding just to feel blessed he was out of the cell, I started studying.

"Mike," Smiley was at the door. "Need to borrow a CD."

"No."

"It's not for me, Fernie has a boom box in the office and we're going to bang it."

I handed him my least favorite CD.

"Not that one," Smiley objected. "Fernie wants to listen to your Led Zeppelin CD.

"How in the hell does he know I got a Led Zep CD?" I asked sharply.

"Uh," Smiley stuttered, "you don't have to loan it."

"Oh, yeah, he can just come up here and take everything I got. Here!" I thrust mighty Led Zep at Smiley. "Do not come home without it!"

Smiley came back a few hours later with the CD and a hot pot and a fan.

"Where did the appliances come from?"

"Staff bathroom. They got all kinds of stuff they've confiscated in there."

Apparently cleaning the guards' office and staff bathroom made Smiley hungry, he cooked four Top Ramen noodle soups and then ate two more raw before he went to bed.

Since he had his own fan, Smiley stopped walking and seemed to grow bigger day by day. When I came home from School, he would be writing letters, seemingly copied from a form letter he got somewhere and then would post them nightly. Most of his letters came back marked UNDELIVERABLE, but when he received a response he'd quickly take it to Easy and they'd confer sometimes for hours.

After dinner, Smiley would fall by the pill line and come home with pills, sometimes several bags of them, hidden under belly fat. The nights Officer Fernandez worked, Smiley would head out and come home most nights with appliances such as fans, radios, TVs, hot pots, one time a typewriter. I was cool with it since he'd be gone and I could study in peace.

"Where are all the appliances going?" I asked, they were always gone by the time I came home from school the next day.

Smiley ran down all one hundred cells in our building, named the prisoners in them, what appliances they had in the cell and what they might want to buy. I was in awe. No doubt he would've been a great used car salesman, especially since he had a singular lack of ethics. Someone got at Smiley about a specific type of radio, he found one in a cell and had Fernandez confiscate it.

"Are you crazy?" I asked Smiley. "That radio is all that guy had in the world. Not only is it just plain wrong, he might get it into his head to stab you."

"Don't know I got it, it's sold and gone," Smiley said off-handedly.

When Smiley was making his rounds looking for product and customers, sometimes the tower officer would tell him to take it home. With a great flurry of arms and legs, he would look like he was obeying, but really wasn't moving at all. When the tower officer's attention went elsewhere, he would continue his rounds.

Drifter and Risky got at Smiley. "I want the digital radio you got last night," Risky said, "but ten dollars is too much. How about six?"

"Price is ten." Smiley was firm.

"Risky been buying you soups and coffee every month," Drifter argued.

"He's your homeboy, need to give him a break."

"Need to respect my hustle."

"The appliances the cops confiscate is my hustle," Drifter said sharply, starting to get angry. "I'm the damn building clerk. Only let it 'cuz you're a homeboy."

"I'm going to get Easy," Smiley threatened and took off.

"What's the deal with Easy and Smiley?" I wondered.

"Smiley's unsearchable," Drifter clued and Risky nodded.

“What?"

"If Smiley picks up dope in the Visiting Room, he's got so many folds in his fat he's unsearchable. Easy and Smiley had some hood rat muling at High Desert. They had it going on."

"Smiley hasn't been getting visits here."

"Smiley paroled and within twenty four hours strangled the mule. That's what he fell for this time. Now they got to find a new hook up to mule."

"So that's what all the letters are about?"

"Yeah, Smiley's writing every crack house in the hood, looking for a crack whore with a clean enough record she can be approved for visits. Once they find one, they'll be rolling."

"What's with Smiley and Fernandez? Is he telling?"

"Naw," Drifter denied. "Cops like a fool and Smiley plays one for 'em”

Easy came up with Smiley. "What's the problem?"

"No problem," echoed Risky and Drifter. Smiley looked on with a triumphant grin.

As the days passed, Smiley spun more and more wildly, loaded on Pharma Bliss. Often, I'd come home and he'd be sitting naked in the cell with the lights off, staring blankly at something only he could see. Disturbing.

"Bringing an ink slinger into the house on Saturday," Smiley let me know, "getting a dollar bill tatt."

"Go to his house."

"Not asking, tellin' you."

"And I'm telling you no."

"I'm gonna tell Easy."

"I'll tell him."

I caught up with Easy and let him know it's not working, he needed to find another place for Smiley.

"What's wrong now," he said with a deep sigh.

"Don't really care that much about the pills, but..."

“What pills?"

I ran down the story of a naked, spun Smiley in a darkened cell.

Face tight with anger, Easy sent Risky to find Smiley.

"Tol' you to stay straight 'til you get a hook up!" Easy got into Smiley's face.

"I'm straight," Smiley lied.

"Bet he's got pills hidden in his belly," I interjected. "Maybe we can find them there, maybe not, but check the end of his bunk. It's caked with crushed pills, he's too damn lazy to clean up."

"You crushed the pills," Smiley said desperately.

I shook my head, and Easy said, "Everyone knows Mike doesn't use. That's why I put you in there."

Turning toward me, Easy said, "I got this, Mike." I took off.

A chastened Smiley came home. "Easy tol' me I was wrong and I'm through if I lie to him again. Why'd you tell on me?"

"Wouldn't have to worry if you didn't lie to your homies. You're not bringing anyone in this house on Saturday or any other day. Hear me?"

Eyes on the ground, Smiley nodded.

Evil got at me in school. "Your cellie's been no paying on a fifty dollar paper of heroin. Know you weren't there when the deal went down, but you will be there when the vato locos come in your house to collect."

Just great, Smiley been doing big things. "Thanks for the head's up, Evil. Keep the vato locos out of my cell and I'll get back at you with something tomorrow."

"Taking over the debt?"

"No way." I shook my head. "Smiley will pay or I'll slow drag from yard and give the vato locos a clear shot at my cellie."

"Tomorrow."

Walking into my house, I pushed up on Smiley. "Clear your heroin debt now!"

“I need some time."

"Sell your TV, get at Fernandez for a boom box, borrow from your homies. Clear the debt and start looking for a new cell."

"No one likes to live with me," Smiley said ever so sadly.

"No kidding. Clear the debt or some really bad things are going to happen to you."

"I'll take care of it tonight, jus' don't tell Easy."

"lf I don't hear tomorrow morning the debt has been paid, I'm giving the vato locos a free pass into the house to collect and I'm going to tell Easy you're getting ill instead of taking care of business."

"I am takin' care of bizness!"

"Then where's your hook up? Guess it would easier to find one if you didn't strangle them."

Smiley's mouth dropped open, realizing I knew his one and only asset to the Dollar Bills was he's unsearchable, a talent that's worthless if no mule would come near him.

Smiley took off in a hurry when Fernandez let him out that night, and Evil confirmed the next morning he had cleared the debt. But I just wanted him out.

My friend John who I shared a computer with at school, showed up in class with a Dollar Bill tattoo on his hand.

"Always thought you had a good head on your shoulders," I spoke to him, "why in the world would you join the Dollar Bills?"

Looking kind of embarrassed, he just shrugged.

"Are you clean?" Easy asked Smiley at our cell door a week or so later.

"Yes, yes," his head bobbed up and down, "I told you I'd stay clean 'til I got a hook up. Bizness first."

"Fill this." Easy slid a urine sample vial under our door. "I'm on the random drug test list today. I need a clean sample."

A month went by and Smiley had written letter after letter, but still hadn't enticed a rock star, some burned out babe, who would do anything for rock cocaine to mule for the Dollar Bills.

"Depressed," he'd mutter and dig through his bag of letters, frantically searching for the right paper that would lead to treasure.

Spinning further and further out on substances, decompensating, his comic routine faded. Officer Fernandez stopped looking out for him. Still using despite his promises to Easy, his money started getting funny. Sharks circled wanting to get paid for fronted Pharma Bliss. I wasn't going to wait for the inevitable train wreck.

"Smiley's strung out, he's in debt to scum, I want him out," I laid it out to Easy.

"I'm dealing with him," Easy assured.

"Good. I'll tell him to pack."

"Don't!" Easy grabbed my arm. "If you kick him out, he'll hit the gate."

"That's fine."

Hand tightening on my arm. "You need to hear me and stay real quiet. Even the hood rats won't deal with a stranglin' Smiley, he's bad bizness."

"Cut him loose then."

"No. The lab report came back. The urine he gave me was dirty. I got a rules violation report, and I'm going to lose my visits for a year and have mandatory monthly drug testing. I tol' 'im if he lied to me again, he'd be through. Gonna git his face sliced up, so he'l1 remember me every time he looks in the mirror. Got me?"

"Got you, Easy."

Smiley had been basking in the Easy sun for a long time and if he got burned now, so be it.

Spinning laps on break from school, three Dollar Bills jumped on a random white boy. I had no idea of the why of the beat down.

Gaffling up the three Dollar Bills, the guards went looking for more. Every white hand was checked for a dollar bill, any found were off to the hole. Easy was escorted by two guards, followed by Risky, Drifter, John his hand still healing from the dollar bill tattoo, the entire crew went away.

After an hour or so, the yard came back up and I went home. Smiley was not there. I assumed he'd been taken in the sweep and breathed freely for the first time in awhile.

The door opened, Smiley came in and jumped on me while I was lying on my bunk. "Not getting my hand tattooed saved me. Thank you, Mike," he exclaimed and hugged me. Although I was grateful he was wearing clothes, his weight compressed, suffocated me.

"Get the hell off me, Smiley."

Beaming, he got to his feet and bounced around the cell.

Our cell door opened again, Officer Fernandez looked in. "Going with your homies?" he asked Smiley.

"Don't even know those guys."

After the door closed, I said seriously, "Easy's urine came back dirty and he was going to have your face sliced open. Everyone knew about it but you. You know I'm telling the truth because you knew you were dirty when you gave Easy the urine sample and lied and said you were clean. Any other Dollar Bills around like you without a tattoo? Seems like you still might get your face sliced open, Smiley."

Fear flashed, Smiley quickly went to the door, short stopped Fernandez and went away.

-The End-

Michael Wayne Hunter C83600
Pleasant Valley State Prison
P.O. Box 8500, A-5-206
Coalinga, CA 93210

Checkmate in Three

2012-01-01T21:22:00.000-08:00

(Admin Note: Thomas' Facebook page has yet again been disabled and deleted by Facebook. At this point in time I will not be starting a new personal Facebook page for Thomas. There will be a place on Facebook for us to share thoughts, links and ideas soon. Please keep an eye out here for when this is done. If you have other friends who were also friends of Thomas on Facebook, please pass this message on as well as share the link to this entry.

Thank you for your friendship and support - Ecla

Postscript: A Facebook page has been setup for the website and not for a single inmate. The link is to the right of this page or www.facebook.com/minutesbeforesix)

You are in the hospital. They found a lump, or a leak, or you have an arrow sticking out of the side of your head. Whatever. It’s bad. Everything in your little room is clean and antiseptic and a pleasant shade of taupe. Nurses come and go, taking blood and giving you comforting and sorrowful looks. They never say anything, except that the doctor will be around to speak with you shortly. When he does show up, he simply checks your chart, makes a little grunting noise, and remains inscrutable. When they come around in packs, what words they do use are as indecipherable as their handwriting. They might have your best interests at heart, but if they do, this is an item that must be taken on faith. Whatever is being done to help you is being done entirely out of your control, and usually entirely out of your knowledge. It’s your life, but it sure doesn’t feel like that anymore.

This is how most prisoners feel in regards to the court process, save that the environment is not clean, there are no nurses, and whatever contact you have with your attorneys comes almost entirely in the form of letters (and you are just as dead if they screw up as when the surgeon does). I met with my trial attorney a handful of times while in the county jail. I saw my attorney a handful of times while in the county jail. I saw my direct appeal attorney once – while I was still in the county jail waiting on the Bluebird to take me to prison. He never once came to death row. I met with my state habeas attorney twice, the first time for a brief introductory salutation consisting of a five minute speech about how my chances of surviving this experience sat somewhere around 4 to 5%, and a second time for about five minutes, due to the fact that my writ was due the next day and he needed my signature on something that he had procrastinated on for too long to simply mail. Since my conviction, I have spent less than an hour speaking with my actual attorneys of record about my case. Now that I am in the federal district court, my attorney is actually pretty good, but I have still only met with him once…for fifteen minutes. I had David Dow work on one issue of my appeal pro bono, and I have spoken with him for a number of hours, but he is not my official attorney. The sad part is, even with this dearth of contact, I have still spent more face time with my lawyers than most of the guys around me. Holding your client’s hand is not, apparently, part of the contract.

So you write letters. If you are lucky, you get some answered. If you are me, you write them incessantly and when you don’t get them answered, you send carbon copies of them to the judge to be posted on the docket sheet. Attorneys are aware that in Texas they can get away with pretty much anything when capital defendants are concerned, so they rarely have the motivation to answer what must seem like simplistic or naïve questions. Unless you pay them, of course. My friend Lester has a firm out of Washington DC working on his case pro bono, what has done millions of dollars worth of work in his case. My other friend M had a pen-pal pony up $250,000 for his defense. Both are still alive and kicking after a few decades, and both get stacks of attorney mail. I’m sure that is just a dual coincidence, though, right? Legal mail is passed out in the mornings (instead of at night like the regular mail), and when you hear them knock on your door your stomach automatically clinches up, the klaxons going off at full volume up in the hypothalamus. The other shoe doesn’t just drop around here. It kicks hard on the way down.

About two months ago I received the finalized copy of my federal writ of habeas corpus. For those of you not well-versed in the game of Three-Card Monty, that is the death penalty appeals process, the system works like this, briefly: first and foremost comes the direct appeal, which deals with the issues preserved in the trial transcript. The same judge that sat at your trial makes a recommendation to the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals on this, and since he was responsible for ensuring no hi-jinks went on in the courtroom, he is never going to recommend a reversal based on a point of law. That would be a tantamount to him admitting he wasn’t paying attention. Even if you have one of these moments, the final ruling is made by the TCCA, a body of judges entirely made up of conservative radicals who haven’t seen a death penalty conviction they didn’t approve of, save perhaps that of Jesus of Nazareth (but I am not entirely certain of even that). If you were to create a gigantic Rube Goldberg device which stamped appeals with denials, the TCCA judges could retire and no one would be the wiser.

In most states, after the direct comes the state writ of habeas corpus. In Texas, however, the writ and the direct appeal run concurrently. This prevents one from using errors in the direct in your habeas, of course, but this system was designed to speed up the process, not give careful and nuanced decisions. In this phase, you are allowed to address issues not directly noted in the trial transcript, like, say, your attorney was asleep (true story) or that the DA withheld exculpatory information that should have been presented to the defense (an event so common it has passed into the realm of cliché). Once again, the trial judge makes a recommendation to the TCCA, who almost always deny relief. The degrees to which the TCCA will go in order to approve of a death sentence are legendary in legal circles, and over the last few years even the 5th Circuit (the most consistently conservative federal circuit court, by far) and the SCOTUS (one of the most conservative in US history) have issued blistering rulings assaulting their competence. So far, they have not made any adjustments down here in the Lone Star State, probably because all elected officials here know exactly who to pander to in order to get elected. Remember, we’ve elected Mr. Can’t-Remember-A-List-of-Three-Things multiple times. I won’t even bring up good old GW.

After the state courts come the feds. Your first stop is the federal district court, which is where I currently find myself. Thanks to the Antiterrorist and Effective Death Penalty Act passed by Congress back in the 90’s, the capital defendants are severely limited in which issues they can address in this court, and one has only a short amount of time with which to investigate one’s claims. For most of us in Texas, the federal courts present us with A) our first contact with a qualified attorney, and B) a judge who *might* actually be willing to looks at one’s claims. Why? Simple: federal judges are appointed for life, not elected, meaning they can rule based on the laws, and not public opinion. Think about that when you vote for Newt, you nut-jobs. Anyways, if one loses at the federal district court level, one moves on to the circuit court, which in Texas means the 5th Circuit. The 5th has almost as bad a reputation as the TCCA, so the reality is that once you are denied relief by the fed district court, you are dead. The 5th is not going to help you, and the only step left after that is the SCOTUS, who only look at a tiny fraction of cases each term. Once you hit the 5th, in other words, it’s just a matter of time. This is analogous to the doctors telling you that they growth is cancerous, the stay IV kind, and that you have a few months to put your house in order.

Below I am including a copy of my federal writ for your consideration. It is a bit large, so I thought I would add a little table of contents for you. I am bringing up only four issues in this writ, a significant decline in the number found in my state writ. As I mentioned, the fed limits what issues you can appeal on quite severely. The first claim is found on page 5, and deals with a bad plea agreement the state used to con me and my trial attorneys. Claim 2 is probably my best, and starts on page 23; it deals with ineffective assistance of counsel at the trial level. Claim 3 can be found on page 68, and is a three-pronged attack on the concept of “future dangerousness”. The first two prongs are a bit complicated, so if they start to bore you, try to zoom in on the third (labeled “C”), which can be found on page 91. Claim 4 is found on page 95, and is the standard 8th Amendment objection to the lethal injection protocol found in all writs.

The rest of the writ deals with exhibits, a list of which can be found on page 98. I will leave it up to you to determine which of these merits your attention, but basically all of the errors in my trial are contained within this section. I would like to bring two of them to your attention, if I may. A few years ago, a major US “news” program went to Mexico and spoke with some of the people I lived and worked with during my time down there. The interviews shocked me, because I still write this family, and the things that were said in the interviews were diametrically opposite what I was seeing in the letters. Immediately after this program aired, I received letters from them which expressed their dismay at the way this program was misused, manipulated, and mistranslated their true comments. While it does me little good now, I was able to get affidavits from this family about what they really feel about me for this writ, and I want to post them separately so as to prove a point I have made here in the past, namely that the majority of the embedded media sources in this nation have long since lost track of what honest journalism is supposed to be about cold, hard facts, not super-sensationalized drivel. In any case, I am going to climb off my soapbox to let you peruse the writ, if you care to. A few of you made donations to my DEFENSE FUND to help me pay for this thing, and I truly thank you. If it is better than anything I’ve been able to submit in prior appeals, this is mostly because of you.

My federal writ of habeas corpus can be found HERE.

Exhibit P by Silvia Edith Salazar Toscano can be found HERE in English and in Spanish. For those of you who want to know who I really am outside of all this mess, these may be as close a set of accounts as you are ever going to find.

A Smaller Tail Wagging a Larger Dog (Otherwise Known As: I’m Not Going to Say I Told You So, Part II)

2011-12-25T11:00:00.000-08:00

It is Christmas morning on Death Row in Texas. Thus far, no fat men in red coats have been seen, though plenty of fat ones in gray coats are available. In any case, I suspect that the Polunsky Unit is not exactly old St. Nic’s pre-planned route. If those of us here don’t make the “naughty” list, I don’t know who does. I always hang a gray state sock outside my door, just to see how the guards will react to it. This is always illuminating, and I have actually seen several of them pause, connecting the dots leading them to places they had never wanted to go. The female working the pod this morning, for instance, won’t look me in the face. Just wait until I wish her a Merry Christmas later…In any case, I suppose the sock is also a bit of hedging on my part, just in case somebody decides to deposit some coal in there. Very useful stuff, coal, especially when the heaters “break” again, an event which seems to occur with an alarming regularity.

The natives are restless. Twice a year, the kitchen makes an effort on the trays, and today happens to be one of them. I have it on good authority that for the appetizer course we will be having a torchon of moulard duck foie gras from Élevages Périgord of Quebec, served with a crystallized apple chip, some celery-branch batons, Granny Smith apple marmalade, candied walnuts, frisée and juniper-balsamic vinegar, spread thickly on brioche toast that the guards will replace every few minutes. Brioche, you know, should never be eaten cold, which makes it grow heavy and stiff. For the main course…you know, as I write this, the realizations strikes me that the misinformation available to the general public over all things carcereal is so broad and deep (not to mention ridiculous) that I might actually be believed for writing this crap. Bloody depressing, that. We are having baked chicken, I think. So, like, relax, Senator Whitmire. You can lay off the tedious something-must-be-donery until the end of the year, thanks.

Politics and the law tend to take a breather during December, but this is by no means absolute. In a curious and lamentable coincidence, both of my neighbors received bad news from the courts over the past two weeks. My neighbor on the left was denied relief by the Federal District Court, and my neighbor on the right got shot down by the 5th Circuit, the last stop on the road to the Supreme Court. This was analogous to receiving an execution date, as the Roberts court has firmly and finally solved the centuries-old legal riddle about whether the SCOTUS was right because it was last, or last because it was right. We found out about his ruling yesterday, on Christmas Eve. I suppose that the ruling was probably issued on Friday, but the news media didn’t need filler material until Saturday evening. Merry Christmas, convict.

This man’s case deals with a drug deal gone bad. He was de-toxing something fierce (to hear him tell it), and was so jumpy that when his connection pulled a zip-lock bag from his pocket, it took on the form of a gun. Ten seconds later, a man was dead and another set his first steps on the path to the execution chamber. That’s what happens when you are a junky in America, I guess.

Unless your name is the state of Georgia, or South Dakota. Or Texas. Or Nebraska. A few months ago, I WROTE ABOUT the increasing difficulties that these ~~cartels~~, er, states, were having getting their ~~fix~~ killing juice. Georgia was caught red-handed skulking about the slums of London, purchasing smack from an illegal pharmacy operating in the back closet of a driving school. Texas was busted using a DEA identification number for a hospital that had ceased to operate about the same time I was learning to say “bullshit”. If these tales didn’t make you feel at least a little slimy, hold on. When addictions or Americans are involved, it almost always gets worse before it gets better.

Call it a moral awakening, if you like. Call it REPRIEVE kicking a little butt. Whatever the reason, a slew of pharmaceutical companies have put their European-styled loafers down and refused to export execution chemicals to the US. Words like “Nazi medicine” have been popping up in major Euro newspapers. Teva from Israel, Sandoz from Austria, Kayem Pharma from India…the list gets longer every few weeks. Earlier this month, the European Union officially banned the export of some barbituric acids, including thiopental. What’s a poor state to do?

Well, they could start by having a frank and honest discussion over the arbitrariness of the current system, like, say, they are doing in Connecticut and Oregon. Or, they could follow the lead of Nebraska and pay a shadowy operative to steal the chemicals. Enter Chris Harris. At one time, Mr. Harris was a broker for the Indian firm Kayem Pharma. Seeing a chance to make some spending cash, he illegally sold 500 grams of thiopental (enough to kill 166 human beings, by my count) to Nebraska and South Dakota, for the grand total of $2,000.00. (For those interested, that establishes the value of a human life at the astonishing sum of 12 dollars. Uplifting, isn’t it?) Keep in mind, Nebraska and South Dakota have managed to collectively execute precisely one person this century, so what exactly they thought they were doing buying 500 grams is an open question. Well, it turns out we have these pesky laws against importing just any old chemical, and the shipment was seized by Uncle Sam, who may have been morally opposed to the actionor simply looking to re-stock their own supplies. Kayem Pharma knew nothing about the sale, and expressed dismay over the whole affair, saying that executions violate the ethos of Hinduism, once again illustrating just how far behind the moral curve Southern Baptists are in the world of the theists. Ganesh pwns j00! Anyways, Kayem fired Harris, and fired off some emails that have become public. Calling him a “piece of shit thief” does not, apparently, violate the Hindu ethos, a happy and entertaining footnote to this sorry act.

Like any good peddler of narcotics, Harris would not be deterred by something as trivial as the law. He recently approached Swiss pharmaceutical company Naari, pretending to be in the market for thiopental which would be used during operations in Zambia. The company shipped some off, which were then diverted by Harris back to the state of Nebraska. This time around, he upped the price for 485 grams to $5,411.00. Who pays nearly three times more for some stolen property only months later? Addicts, of course. It hardly needs to be mentioned, but all of the states thus mentioned as addicts of death are firmly entrenched in the Red State category.

The men back here speak about such developments in excited terms. Hope is all too easy to grasp under these circumstances. I killed myself in my head a very long time ago, so from my remove the antics of Chris Harris and these stammering, red-faced Repubs are, well, humorous, sort of like watching a bunch of clowns cram into a 1972 Yugo. It is a little disconcerting to see the red, white and blue dragged through the mud like this, but after Iran-Contra, experimentation by US scientists on prisoners in Latin American prisons, Monica and her cigar, and eight years of Bush II, I have developed sufficient antibodies to protect me. Thus numbed, perhaps it is easier to see that all of the hullabaloo surrounding the drug cocktail is mere window-dressing the power of death. The polling numbers on this issue can be confusing. How the questions are asked makes all the difference, so I am not sure if anyone really knows the true level of support for capital punishment in America. I am painfully aware that America is basically a center-right nation, politically. We make some stupid decisions as people, but we are not a stupid people. Why is it that certain outcomes seem inevitable, when we move from polling small groups to large ones? It’s something about the shift from individual conscience to a collective one, meaning that it is the nature of our political system to corrupt the true desires of the populace. No matter what we believe individually, good ideas seem to die in House committees, while bad ones run rampant…

While the numbers of people who approve of the death penalty are dropping, a majority still supports it in most polls. What we say we believe and what we actually support through action are two different things, though, a subject I have always found curious. So I did a little number crunching on this subject, using 13 different statistical sources. What I found surprised me not in the least.

I started by looking at the numbers of death sentences and executions on a state by state level. Then I delved further, down to the level of the counties. What I found was that the death penalty in the US is actually a minority practice. In one report (A Broken System, Part II: Why There Is So Much Error in Capital Cases, and What Can De Done about It, by James S Liebman et al.), I found that 34 states sentenced at least one person to death, yet over 60% of the counties in these states did not impose a single death sentence in the 23 period of review. This, despite the fact that there were more than 332,000 homicides and 120,000 murder convictions occurring in these jurisdictions. When you look at actual levels of executions (instead of merely imposing a death sentence, which in many states are overturned a high majority of the time), the numbers are even more alarming. Only 454 (14%) of the nation’s 3,147 counties, parishes, and boroughs carried out an execution since 1976. In other words, six out of seven counties in this pro-DP nation haven’t carried out an execution in 4.5 decades.

Fourteen counties – representing about .4 percent of all US counties, encompassing less than 5% of the nation’s population – carried out over half (53%) of all executions. 23% of all executions came from exactly 6 counties, accounting for fewer than 2% of all Americans. 28% of Americans account for over 95% of executions. A clear majority (57%) of Americans live in counties that have not executed a single person in a half century. Over 70% reside in counties that have executed one person or less during that period.

Texas has carried out almost 500 executions since the “modern” death penalty era began the wake of the Gregg decision. The states competing for this dubious honor have a long way to go to catch up: Virginia in the number 2 spot, has killed 108 human beings. Next comes Oklahoma with 96, and Florida with 69. Harris County (the main county of Houston, Texas) has sentenced over 290 men to die, meaning that the # 2, #3, and #4 states on the overall execution list would have to combine just to compete with one single county in Texas. Adding to the confusion of all of this is that almost 2/3 of counties in Texas did not carry out a single execution in the past 35 years.

Zooming back out to the national level, I then focused on certain states where the death penalty seems to be in a state of suspended animation. What I found was that a death sentence in California, Connecticut, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Kansas, and Tennessee amounts to little more than a multi-million dollar cruel joke. In Nevada, for instance, there are 77 men on death row. They have executed 12 since 1976. 11 of these were volunteers – men who gave up their appeals. This means that only 1.2% of death sentences actually adjudicated by state courts have been carried out. The following chart will help drive this point home:

All of the numbers presented here cry out for an explanation. I have already waxed philosophic (or idiotic, at times) over many of them for years, and I won’t tread over old ground here. The main point that I am trying to make here is that whatever we claim, we are actually not a death penalty nation. We are a nation of abstainers controlled by a few rabidly pro-DP counties. If that doesn’t spell “arbitrary”, then I am badly in need of a new dictionary.

To my California-based readers:
For those of you on my side of the abolition issue, you will have an opportunity to participate in the death of the death penalty next year. Unlike in most states, the Lege cannot abolish capital punishment – it must be killed at the ballot box. The SAFE California Campaign will attempt to do this next year during the 2012 election cycle, and some polls indicate that this drive may actually have a chance. Doing so would count as one of the greatest victories for our side in the history of this issue, and will set the trend for the entire Western portion of the nation. The Act would replace capital punishment with life in prison without parole, require convicted murderers to work and pay restitution to a victim’s compensation fund and direct some of the money saved to solving more rapes and murders. If you would like to support this movement, you can find the website for the SAFE California Campaign HERE. Get to work!

Letters to a Future Death Row Inmate, Part 24

2011-12-07T22:41:00.000-08:00

by One Eagle

Part 23 can be seen here

YO – Future Death Row Inmate:

Allow me to welcome you to the insane asylum formally known as Florida’s death row, a place where abnormal behavior is the norm twenty-four hours a day, everyday for the rest of your life. The irony of that is you won’t remain paranoid, as you will eventually come to terms with the fact that society really is trying to kill you. Hey – how insane is that? Alright, let me tell you how insane it is so you might begin to adjust quicker.

Everyone on death row has been judged unredeemable with nobody being special, not even the innocent, and I should know. But I’ll try not to digress on and turn your welcome into a diatribe about my situation. You already have enough problems of your own to deal with, having found yourself in this nightmare where finding redemption is a mockery. Your God might set you free but remember society holds the keys and the majority are apathetic to you, as they inadvertently accept that slogan of “Kill them all and let God sort them out.” Ah, you’ll learn soon enough as you go through the legal process, where the judges and attorneys claim the power of God, as it is their 51 million dollar a year industry here in the state of Florida and they have no intention of ending their profiteering off of death’s misery. Yo, I’m not going to sugarcoat things, as you’ll soon learn the meaning of false hope. When the attorneys begin selling their wares in the form of appeasement to you, your family, and anyone else close to you, who will say anything they believe will help prevent you from being executed. As the attorney’s seek to dictate your fate through selling what is and isn’t in your best interest.

Alright, I don’t know your story and really don’t give a damn. I have enough problems of my own. I’m sure you will find your way as others here offer you their insightful influence. I wish you the best as you go through the gamut of emotional shock treatments of this hellhole. Maybe we will meet again, but my death warrant can be signed at any time and after surviving for nearly three decades within this insane asylum shouting to anyone and everyone, “I am innocent!” don’t expect me to make any more sense out of this insanity than what I just shared with you. Keep it real and we’ll talk….

Later,
One Eagle

One Eagle is known by the Florida DOC as Milo Rose. To learn more about his case, please visit HERE

Join his Facebook page HERE

Milo Rose #090411
Union Correctional Institution
7819 NW 228th Street P3225
Raiford, Florida32026-4430

I’m Not Going to Say I Told You So, Part 1

2011-11-30T22:36:00.000-08:00

Really, I’m not. This isn’t me being smug, or some sort of willpower thing. It’s certainly not any form of noblesse oblige-inspired quiet dignity. It’s just that there’s no point in bragging. It’s like the guy who complains for months that the pains in his side are clearly cancer, only to have everyone smile and condescendingly pat him on the head and mutter under their breath about hypochondriacs. And they keep laughing, until he passes out at work and is rushed to the hospital where they find a tumor the size of a grapefruit in his liver that promptly puts him in the ground. Sometimes being right feels just as bad as being wrong.

So I’m not going to say it. It was an easy call to make, for anyone actually paying attention. A few months ago, I wrote at SOME LENGTH about the flawed logic behind the University of Texas Medical Branch’s $100.00 inmate co-pay program. The basic gist of my splenetic little rant dealt with the fact that A) the Lege which wrapped up its business this past summer grievously (and knowingly) underfunded the overall prisoner health care budget, and B) the co-pay program was a cynical attempt to pander to the Repub base to cover up this fact, and in no way actually invented to address a huge budgetary shortfall. I don’t have any illusions about my polemical (in)abilities, so I am certain that I was unable to convince many of you that were not already members of the choir that this mattered in the least. That said, the slash-and-burn tactics employed by the super-dominated Republican Legislature to evade the necessary realities of increasing rates of taxation did gut some pretty important programs, and you might be starting to feel the pain of this now. Maybe – in light of all of that – you will be able to summon up some minor levels of outrage, now that I have been proven correct.

Because it’s happened, just as I said it would: In October, the UTMB came out and announced that the 900 million (and change) allocated by the Lege for inmate care was not sufficient to cover basic costs. Shock! Leading up to the bi-annual circle jerk that is the Texas Legislative Session, the directors of UTMB explained – in great detail – why they needed more money. They didn’t get it, and are now threatening to ditch the contract and take their doctors, nurses, level 1 trauma hospital, and sundry mountains of equipment home with them. What we have here, ladies and Gents, is a good old fashion game of billon dollar chicken. Does anyone really have any doubts about who is getting to back down from this?

Of course not. We all know that it will be the spineless cowards in Austin who cave in. According to a story by Mike Ward of the Austin-American Statesman (which you can read HERE) the UTMB is currently running over their contractually covered costs by more than 2 million dollars a month. Ouch. And so they tossed down the gauntlet. They don’t really want to leave, of course. As the prison system ages, they get to keep charging more and more, and they know it. What they have to do, however, is establish who the boss of this relationship really is. And they do, quite literally, have a gun pointed at the head of the state. Long story short: the state caved, and rewarded them a gigantic sum of additional monies. Since this strategy worked so splendidly, you can be certain that they will attempt it again in another 6 to 8 months. Mark my words. That money, of course, came from you, though I haven’t the foggiest idea from which dark corner of The Land of Cooked Books they pulled the funds. There aren’t many social programs in the entire state of Texas that haven’t been gutted already, and we all know their stance on asking the super-wealthy to pony up the dough. Maybe they got it from the schools? What’s and additional 40 million when you have already taken nearly 5 billion from their budgets, I mean. Wherever they stole it, it’s going to end up hurting someone in a very real, very tangible way. Not that they care.

The problem is that all of this was avoidable. In the same Mike Ward article, House Committee Chairman Jerry Madden, R-Richardson stated that

We cut $100 million from correctional health care spending, so we knew there was a good probability there would not be enough money to cover everything…I’m not aware of an extra $100 million laying around anywhere, but we definitely need to find a way to resolve this so it doesn’t become a problem in court.

He goes on to say

We have these people incarcerated. We have to provide them medical care.

Oh. Well, I’m glad we are all clear on that point (and he’s right about the court thing: I’m about to fry them again in federal court over their denial of care to a man here suffering from the final stages of COPD, which, according to them, was due to a previously undiagnosed and recently acquired allergy.) Think through Rep Madden’s comments again for a second. This is analogous to a husband sending his wife to the grocery store with 30 dollars, knowing full well that the minimum she needs to purchase the family’s basic needs is actually 40 dollars. He doesn’t care where she gets the additional ten bucks, only that she had better do it. If this is irresponsible behavior on a micro level, it is even more revolting on a macro one. And those are the people that are supposed to be good with money.

The writing is pretty much on the wall here: there will come a time when the UTMB is going to be forced to back out of prison health care. It might be over the next few years as the coffers continue to dry up, or it may be ten years from now. Whenever this event occurs, the state will have to either find a new provider (which seems doubtful even when enshrouded by the most optimistic of naivetes), or handle care internally. Forced to take the latter path, they will bungle the entire operation, and bungle it in truly epic fashion. I know that most of you couldn’t care less about the actual human costs of such a move – patients in pain waiting months or years for care, patients dying – but surely you would balk at the costs, which would be astronomical (think billions with a very large “b”). There are two basic solutions to the problem. The first would be to increase funding to cover the UTMB’s costs. How? I have no idea. In theory, this move would require Governor Oops to call a special session of the Lege, a prospect which is politically untenable at present. Ultimately, this would require some form of new revenue, and the chances of Texan Conservatives approving a tax hike are worse than the probability of you getting mauled by a pack of juvenile Burmese Tree Sloths while fishing in Alaska.

The second option is to decrease the population of potential patients, ie, prisoners. Roughly 2/3 of all inmates held in the TDCJ are currently parole eligible. Read that twice: roughly 2/3 of the 156,000 inmates in the state prison system are already parole eligible. Since a little over 50% of all health care costs go directly to the 55 and older crowd, why not release some of them? Pick the ones with non-violent offenses, the ones with medical problems best dealt with by free-world providers that don’t survive by suckling on the teat of state governments (then again, I’m not sure those actually exist). Happily, the recidivism rates for convicts 45 and older happen to be the lowest of any age group by a fair margin (17.6% compared to 26.9% for those in the 25-29 age group). This seems like a no-brainer, but, again, this is the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles we are talking about here.

This illustrious body recently released a “self-evaluation report,” which documents the state of affairs in Texas prisons (and we all know how accurate self-evaluations are in any context when compared to those by a disinterested third party). You can read this ~~flaming pile of nonsensical propaganda~~ fine piece of journalism HERE. It shows that parole rates have inched up slightly over the past few years (roughly 5% since 2006), but are still nowhere near the levels needed to save the citizens of Texas any real money, or to bring parity to a system very much out of sync with prison systems in other states. Why? Beyond the conservative, hang‘em high ethos of the state, the board has basically reconstructed the process to revolve around one key phrase: the nature of the offense. Since this phrase encapsulates only the mindset of the offender at the moment of his crime, there can be no positive behavior ever engaged in during the prison experience which offsets the original act. Effectively, what the Board is saying is that people do not change, that there is no redemption, no growth. Well, you can’t have it both ways: if Newt can be the front-runner in the GOP race by claiming he redeemed himself through his relationship with god, then the same process has to be allowed to work for those not running for public office. And, I add, it’s the same types of voters responsible for this hypocrisy. In any case, since Texas offers few programmatic options for personal growth, this is an unfortunate example of a self-fulfilling prophecy. In criminal justice terminology, the mindset of the Board is firmly locked into a pattern known as determinate or flat sentencing. This is currently in vogue, as people have forgotten to care for each other in this nation over the past three or four decades. Under this paradigm, model prisoners are treated no differently from problematic ones. The keys to the gates are entirely out of the control of the prisoners, which flavors the entire process with a sense of arbitrariness and cruelty. Under this penal ideology, the only well-behaved convicts are those with incredibly fine-tuned internal moral compasses. It is a system designed for one purpose: to keep prison beds full. They might as well hang a sign at the exit gates which reads: See You Soon. You might reflect for a moment that this was not the original purpose of prison systems; you might also consider that sometimes systems develop in such a way that the primary goal shifts from serving the public to serving its own interests. A prison system designed to benefit only those who have chosen to work for it for the rest of their lives is not doing you, the public, any favors. Unless, of course, you decide to come to work here, that is.

Indeterminate sentences went out of fashion decades ago for two reasons. First off, people decided that the proper penal experience should center around warehousing people, not rehabilitation. Secondly, there were some public instances documenting how race played a huge factor into how inmates were judged for parole. Inmate X and inmate Y might behave exactly the same, but Y would end up serving twice as much time because he had the misfortune to have been born with darker skin. That is a real problem, and not one I take lightly. That said, this is ultimately an issue of oversight, not of the concept itself. Properly administered, this sort of sentencing gives the inmate some minor control over his fate: if he behaves and sincerely attempts to correct his deviance, he might shave some time off his sentence. If he doesn’t, well, he can rot in his cell forever. The choice is up to him. In all systems where this sort of carrot-and-stick approach has been reinstated, the violence rates inside of prisons have decreased, as have recidivism rates of those released. Again, this is a no-brainer.

So, where does that leave us? I don’t know. I sit here in my cell, and I read whatever reports manage to come through the mail-room gauntlet, and I cannot help but feel like I am in the midst of a gigantic running gag. Surely, I think, this cannot be right. We cannot really be this bloody stupid, can we? I may have once been laboring under the delusion that something I penned on this site would cause someone totally unconnected to anyone currently in prison to get involved in a real, tangible way. I tried to show how we are all connected to this, and that the system has been set up to broadcast the very opposite message, which makes it easier for them to get away with gross atrocities on a daily frequency. I think I was a little nuts for believing this. But a few of you do have husbands or brothers or fathers caught inside the beast, and I know that you often feel impotent to do anything to help them. I know that it doesn’t feel like calls to the ombudsman do any good, and that emails to other prison officials usually get a little but a boilerplate response. You are right: most of these actions don’t change anything. In my opinion, the activist community needs to stop doing two things. First off, stop preaching to the choir. You have your little get-togethers and speeches, but it’s the same people in the crowd every single time. Use that money instead to take out ads in newspapers. Draw people into discussion. Because when you are able to do this, we win. Secondly, stop complaining to prison officials. They are not interested in changing anything, no matter the platitudes they spout over the phone. You have to go over their heads. Start writing your state Reps and calling them. It doesn’t take but a few minutes each week to fire off an email, listing a new complaint each time. There is a basis for a legitimate complaint in this very article, and there are many more like it to be found here and on the blogs in the column on the right side of this page. You can find a list of your state Reps HERE. If you feel really committed to dealing with someone in the system, go as high up the ladder as possible. If you want to talk about parole, for instance, don’t waste any time dealing with low-level bureaucrats who don’t actually make any decisions. Instead, go right to the top. In years past, this was difficult, since they wisely guarded their email addresses from public dissemination. This is pure piffle: even in a formal (vs. a real) democracy like ours, you should have the right to contact state officials whose (exorbitant) salaries you pay. That wall has started to crumble of late, and I’d like to do my part. Ahem:

Agency Head, Texas Board of Pardons and Parole:

Rissie L. Owens, Presiding Chair

209 West 14th Street, Suite 500

Austin, TX 78701

TEL:(512) 936-6351

FAX: (512) 463-8120

Email: rissie.owens@tdcj.state.tx.us

Whoops. Have fun.

3 Moves

2011-11-20T01:32:00.000-08:00

By: Arnold Prieto Jr.

“Prieto, you’re moving so pack your things and be ready!” is what I hear from a pudgy male CO who’s gums are fighting a losing battle with snuff.

I was already expecting to be moved since the “Powers that be” here on the row started what they considered a “brilliant” idea by shuffling everyone on the row around.

Disappointedly, I yell down a couple of cells to my row dawg Thomas letting him know my name has been in that day’s shuffle, my mind set has been never get too comfortable in one spot, but damn it, my Row dawg and I were in the same living quarters for the first time in a couple of years. So I couldn’t help but to feel pissed for being part of the shuffle.

I did entertain the thought of refusing to move and stick around for a few more hours until the extraction team extracted me out using chemical agents (tear gas) and by force with their 5 – 6 man team in full riot gear. But being a logical convict, I opted to disregard that fleeting thought. Plus, we live in a small world so we’d probably meet up again before one of us is put down by the state. I’m going to miss our conversations and his tutoring which I could surely use right now with my Geometry Course! I will not fail the course though because by doing so I’d be failing him, Dina, the Swedish Stranger and everyone else who has encouraged me in my studies!! THAT is something I refuse to do. I know what it is like when those you truly care about fail you and I’ll be a monkey’s shaved butt before I fail those I care about. I’ll just have to work slower and study harder…nothing to it, but to do it.

A couple of hours into the evening, I hear the rumbling of the large laundry cart which will be used to carry my property to my new cell. I travel light so in my 2 mesh bags I carry all my property. Officer Lee’s eyes light up as she sees I do not have a lot of property to move.

“Thank Goodness you don’t have a lot of property!” she says. With my 2 bags of property and my mattress loaded into the cart, I was off to my new place…

Looking up to my new cell on the 2nd tier as I’m walking into my new living area, I hear ..

“Conehead!! Sup Mexican!?’ I instantly recognize “The Superfly’s” voice, my old cellie from the old unit Ellis-one. Seeing bodies fill up the door ways of cells as other convicts walk up to see who has arrived. Recognizing other voices like Catracho, Cobra, Shy and Shell, some of these guys I haven’t seen in years! Walking into 56 cell, I kneel while sliding my arms out through the door slot so the officer could take off the handcuffs from my wrists. Stacking my property bags and mattress on my bunk, I pull out my mirror to start my usual inspection of the cell. Looking under the bunk, toilet, locker, cracks and crannies for any “hidden contraband” left behind by the prior occupant! Followed by washing-down and cleaning the cell walls, floor and the sink/toilet unit. Three days after I moved in, we are put on lockdown for our 6 month building shake-down. The day we came off lock-down, I was once again notified that I was on the moving list! 8 days after my arrival…

So I reluctantly start packing my property back up again and holler down to Superfly letting him know I was moving again. A couple of hours later I hear the familiar rumble of the laundry cart rumbling my name out as if to say, “here I come for ya.”

Moving from my original housing, A-pod to B-pod, which are pods located in the front of the buildings. A-pod is the “show pod” where the Death Watch section is held for those awaiting execution and the pod where free-world tours pass through: Law students, future ranking officers who are in training, etc. Even the governor has reared his ugly head there. So A-pod was always in pristine shape!, with fresh painted walls and shiny mopped floors. Poor saps. If only they actually paid attention, they’d see the wool covering their blind eyes!

Now I was heading to the back of the buildings to F-pod. F-pod is where they house Level II and III status inmates who have their level status dropped from level one for catching a disciplinary case. So I knew the living area scenery was about to drastically change because the pod itself has been a place of fires, chemical agents, etc….But at the moment F-pod was basically empty!

Walking into F-pod, the smell of old smoke hits my nose, the kind of smoke that is part of the place…

“Prieto! Qué rollo Holms?!” I hear Pewee and Lil JoJo hollar out, I also hear Saint, Ghetto, Big Money, Smoke and Big Country. Walking up the stairs leading to the 2nd tier I see the wall next to a cell burned from the floor up to the ceiling leaving behind a wickedly looking collage of dancing shadows.

After they placed my bags and mattress into 14 cell I started to walk into the cell only to freeze in mid-step. Stepping back, the escort officer saw what had caught my attention. The bottom of the locker had a long piece of metal missing! The pod officer instantly said that it was already documented and that I had nothing to worry about.

Walking into my now cell with heightened senses, they rolled the door closed and opened the bean slot so I could put my hands through it.

Placing my bags and mattress on the bunk I quickly pull out my mirror to begin my normal inspection with a more précised intent. 5 razor blades and about 15 feet of wire later, I felt comfortable enough to start cleaning the cell and shelfing my property…

At exactly 8 days later, I am being told that I’m on the moving list once again! Crossing my arms, I look the CO in his eyes with the intention of talking crazy to him…but kept myself in check. He must of seen it in my face…

“Man, Prieto, you’re not the only one being moved after being moved…”

I start packing my property yet again and do so while counting to 10. As I am being escorted back to the front of the building to B-pod again, but on the other side of it, I shake my head and laugh to myself, thinking how these folks can’t make up their mind…

“SOBRINO!! What cell are you going into!!?”

The booming voice of Big Lou causes a small stir within the quiet section.

“5 cell, Big Homie!” was my response. I’ve known that man for years, a solid convict and the best chef on Death Row!

Soap and toilet paper was the first think I saw…up on the ceiling where our cell window is located. A leaky cell! Haven’t been around Big Lou for a couple of years. I bit my tongue and walked into my new leaky cell. Going from a pristine cell to a leaky cell 3 moves later. I know I would have to tear down all that build-up on the ceiling and re-do it properly ‘cause this was done by someone who really didn’t want to do it. I’ll have to do it right the first time because rain was expected a few days later and there had to be time for it to dry. Well, it did rain, but not a heavy rain pour. The good thing though was that it held good and water did not stream down my back wall flooding my floor. Constantly keeping an eye out for black mold catching on.

So far I have been in this cell for 3 ½ weeks and it’s looking like 5 cell, B-pod will be my permanent residence until my name comes up in the shuffle again.

***

Scars and the Path Northward

2011-11-15T12:46:00.000-08:00

I am supposed to be writing an essay on Henry V right now. That’s what it says right there on my To-Do list for today, my own temporary and careless scribble somehow converted into something of lapidary consequence, stern and inexorable. I love by my To-Do list, a development which originated after my arrival to death row (and which would greatly amuse certain people from my prior life, I am certain). If I haven’t crossed off every item on my list at the end of the day, the day very simply doesn’t end. None of that precludes a certain amount of dilly-dallying from taking place, mind. I procrastinate at a nearly Olympic level. All this really means is that I don’t get much sleep. In any case, I hate Henry V. Hold thy arrows of grave misfortune, rabid fans of the Bard. I’m a connoisseur of the Elizabethean cool-aid, so relax. There are a few scenes in modern lit more pregnant with humor than the one that finds Titania falling in love with the ass-headed Bottom, weaver and wanna-be thespian. I nearly spit coffee over my copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when Puck hits her with the fairy-land equivalent of MDMA. Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing is a far more attractive female to me than anything I see in magazines these days. I dislike Henry V because I am particularly psychologically ill-suited to polemical manipulation or propaganda, which is the way this place is: an unbelievable, historically-challenged, immoral puff piece for British imperialism. Sans Falstaff, the humor supposedly injected into the invasion of France by Pistol, Nym and Bardolph is merely yawn-inducing. Without an Iago, everything feels pre-ordained (which it is). In short, I am loathing the imaginative gymnastics I am going to have to summon in order to pretend that I find Henry’s “St. Crispin’s Day” pep-talk interesting. It is early in the day, and I’d pretty much rather do virtually anything else at this point.

Anything, that is, besides write an article for this site, apparently. I cannot even begin to describe to you the enormity of the writer’s block that has developed of late. I don’t understand it entirely. Burnt out, maybe. Feelings of literary impotence, of failing at my principle goals have been analyzed and admitted, but feel insufficient to explain why I cannot put pencil to paper. It may just come down to a function of time. I am really, really busy these days, and these entries pretty much kill off an entire day that I frankly need for other activities. Mea culpa, but the hourglass of my life is running short, and I am nowhere near content with the state of my bucket list.

Maybe my issue is the lack of feedback. I don’t know a writer who can live without this. There was a time that I received letters about this site. Most were the literary equivalent of a waterboarding, true, but on occasion I did receive something promising. I don’t know what happened. Some things may have vanished in transit. Maybe I became boring. Maybe my politics alienated people. Or maybe you found a better product. Whatever the root, as my current neighbor would say, I be stuck, yo.

This business of feedback is on my mind because I received my first piece of reader mail in…what, six months? last week. It made me realize how badly I missed it. I have a gazillion “friends” on FACEBOOK, (Admin note: This is Thomas' new Facebook page as the previous one was disabled without notice) but I think I actually only know a handful of them. Heh, if that isn’t fertile ground for an ironic discussion on the modern reinterpretation of social relationships, I don’t know what is. I wonder how many of them will actually mourn my death? Half? One can hope.

Anyways. This lady did ask me two interesting questions, and I think I ought to discuss one of them here. It’s a good one, something which I should have written about long before this. Sometimes you cannot see the forest for the trees, and sometimes you cannot see either because you have spent so much time studying the grass under your feet that you forget you can actually look up.

The question posed:

There is one other question I have. It has been bugging me forever! I have read over and over again how terrible it is in prison. This isn’t only from people living on death row, but all inmates from lifers down to a few years. So, what I wonder is, and would appreciate it if you could help me to understand: if prison is so terrible and you can’t stand having to live this way, why is it that almost every person who has been sentenced to death tries to get their sentence commuted to life without the possibility of parole? I know that death house and general population have their own set of problems. I mean, on death row you are sitting alone, basically waiting to die or for a miracle to happen. Don’t get me wrong, I know that some people (like you) are trying to figure out what happened to bring you to that point and have also taken the steps to educate yourselves to become the person you want to be. That doesn’t explain why it would be better to live the remainder of your life, and face it, a lot of these men/women on death row are just kids (18, 19, 20 years old), that’s a whole lot of life left. From what I’ve read, you may not be waiting for someone to come and take you to the gurney in general population, but there is a whole different set of problems. They have to face being killed on the yard, they worry about being raped by other inmates, the food still sucks and they can’t go back for more. Unless you have money to hire an attorney, you are basically forgotten by the justice system. Not like when you are sentenced to die, you are at least given an opportunity, no matter how small, to find a way out of the death chamber. I just wonder why spending the rest of your life behind bars is so much more appealing to someone who can’t stand to be behind bars on death row. I tell myself all the time, if I ever found myself sitting on death row for a crime I did commit, I would hate it so much that I would not fight the sentence and I would want my life to end as quickly as possible. Now, if I did not commit the crime, I’d fight like heck, but EVERYONE seems to fight their conviction and sentence even if they admitted their crime. I hope you’re not offended by my question. I don’t mean any disrespect but it has always bothered me and thought perhaps you could shed some light on that issue as well for me.

Fair enough, madam. Before I actually attempt to answer this, I’d like to make a simple point, one that meshes with a few comments I made in my letter to you. You state that if you were to find yourself in my world that you would hate your actions so much that you would welcome death. Don’t think such thoughts are not rampant back here, especially amongst those of us who have a tendency towards self-hatred. That said, it is very easy to say what we might or would do in situations that are far removed from our own experiences. Many men claim they would stand up to a bully or robber, but when the fists start flying, out comes the wallet and the hands hit nothing but the sky. People love to think that if they were diagnosed with cancer, they would stoically face the myriad indignities of treatment with composure and grace, but the second they actually feel the presence of a lump, they break into pieces on the floor. I have found that it is never wise to forecast what we would feel or do in a given situation until one has actually been through it, or, barring that, unless one has trained for that situation extensively. You say that you would capitulate to the desire for societal vengeance. Morally, I feel that view repugnant, but in any case, permit me to doubt you. Life fights for more life, even back here in a world of meticulously orchestrated pre-meditated murder. Your supposition rests on what you believe would be your feelings of extreme guilt. I humbly proffer the possibility that the best way to attempt to make up for one’s errors is not to simply give up, but rather to do the uncomfortable and difficult work of re-forging yourself, to prove your humanity. I believe guilt to be a useful tool, a means, not an end in and of itself. In my experience, the only people who actually do believe in guilt in this fashion are those who solely think in terms of black and white, and such people always annoy and terrify me. I also feel I must remind you that few people exist in a vacuum. Your death would affect other people greatly, especially your family. Whatever thoughts of defeat and suicide that come to mind, they are quickly overridden by the reality that my death merely re-victimizes my family, none of whom want this end. This is a point that the DA’s office in Fort Bend County (not to mention all of those so-called victim’s rights groups that consistently call for my blood) seems to conveniently ignore when they talk about my case. Texas as a “Victim’s Rights Paradise”? Tell that to my father, my grandparents, my cousins.

Another item to consider is this: most of the people currently on Texas’ death row should never have been charged with Capital Murder in the first place. Oh, sure, the law allows this to happen, but the law is merely the ideological view of those in power writ large. In Texas, the legal process has been hi-jacked by reactionary radicals for more than 20 years. This was a political tool for the re-election of conservative buffoons, nothing more. The death penalty is supposed to be for the “worst of the worst”. In any other state, 75% of the men here would have been charged with 2nd degree murder, and sent to prison for a decade or two. So, the view is prevalent back here of a sense of unfairness which totally overrides feelings of acceptance of just punishment. Most of the guys here will honestly tell you they deserve to be in prison. They are fighting because they got screwed up by a process interested only in preservation of status quo.

Pundits love to talk about how “if you kill in Texas, your life is forfeit,” but that is not what the law states. There are tens of thousands of murderers in Texas prisons not on death row. Most of the cases here on the Row are not factually different from these cases in GP. The only major difference is the geographical location of the crime. If you come from certain counties, you are dead. If you go to trial before a major election, you are dead. If you were to kill someone thirty feet over the county line instead, you might do thirty years. It’s hard for some men here to see this process as anything other than a judicial lynching, which short-circuits the progressive process one needs to walk in order to truly contemplate guilt, and what this means to moral and personal development. In any case, I will remind you that guilt fades over time unless you stoke the fires, and what you are usually left with after five or six years is not guilt, but rather shock at the continual legal defeats that go against decades of case law, but which nobody seems to care about. If you aren’t careful, what you end up feeling isn’t guilt, its anger.

Anyways, on to the meat of your question. I think it is best to start off with the general consensus of the men around me, before moving into my own thoughts on the matter. I didn’t exactly do a survey or anything that methodical, but I did ask a few neighbors about their motivations for leaving this place. It helps to remember that most of these guys have been in prison before. The “life” available in general population may seem dreadful to you, but it is a known environment to them, and what is known can be learned not to be feared. You would be amazed at the adaptations possible to you when you don’t have a choice. For most, population represents a definite step up from the current admin-seg environment. As you have seen from some of MWH’s writings, life in population has its positives and negatives. Sure, in Texas, there are far fewer positives than in California, and many more negatives, but when you consider that life in seg is entirely negative, it’s still and improvement. There, one has access to the craft shack and some real art supplies (they just took away our pencil sharpeners, killing art creation on the Row). One can program (there are no programs on the Row), and take classes (the only classes we get are the ones we pay for). Sure, it’s a stark life to you, but when your expectations for life are minimized, you can still feel some purpose there.

Your understanding of what exactly “life in prison” means is also erroneous. Most of us here currently would actually have a chance at parole if commuted. Had I been given a life sentence at trial, “life” would have meant 40 calendar years before parole eligibility. That would have put my first chance at parole at the age of 65. Now, true, everyone here knows that none of us would ever be given the green light on parole, whatever the eligibility. But that light at the end of the tunnel – no matter how dim – does help when enmeshed in the midst of so many decades of utter gloom. It wasn’t until 2005 that the Texas Lege approved Life Without the Possibility of Parole (LWOP), so the situation changes for crimes which took place after this date. LWOP is going to pose serious problems in a few years, when the numbers of LWOPers in the system reaches into the thousands. Just imagine entire units filled with men who have not chance of an out. You haven’t seen the type of super-predatory inmate that environment is going to breed. The guards here at Polunsky that currently have to attempt to control the GP Ad-Segers on E-Pod can tell you something about this. A few weeks ago, they had 15 “use of force” situations in two days. Five officers went to the hospital. This is going to be the norm. They didn’t come here like this; the system made them into this. And – lucky you – most of those guys on E-Pod actually have parole dates. They will be in your communities shortly. Think about that the next time you vote for “Law and Order” politicos.

Still, for most of the men currently on death row, the consensus is that they would throw away their rights at a re-trial and sign for LWOP just to get off the Row. This happens. They can’t give most of us LWOP, but they can offer it as part of a deal.

There really isn’t any way to say this nicely (and, boy, I am sure I am going to hear about this later from certain quarters), but this boils down to cowardice. Most of the men here are terrified of death, just like most of you are. Considering most here are supposedly dedicated theists, this presents one with a few interesting avenues of thought on the nature of fear and hypocrisy probably best reserved for another entry. Death holds no sting for me. After my arrival here, I did two things. First, I killed myself in my head, totally and completely. Second, I started putting my trust only in that which is quantifiable, eliminating all vestiges of superstition, long known as one of the great roots of fear. I find certain aspects of Stoic philosophy agrees with me, especially the part about the only true good being virtue, and since no enemy or event can deprive me of my virtue (or my Grand Indifference), there is no need to fear my enemies or any event. Thus, there are basically only two things which cause me to worry when it comes to the subject of death. The first is that I will have failed in my quest to have done damage to the political ideology that built this place. This is a fear known to all leftists, that through their action (or inaction) the forces of retrograde conservatism and traditionalism would have triumphed. I want to see the world take another step forward, toward a future where life is better for the most people possible. If I fail at this, I will see my life as having been bereft of purpose.

Secondly, while the concept of death holds no terror for me, dying poorly does. I desire to die with dignity, to be able to live in that moment of my end so that others can say of me later: well, he sure didn’t blink. He stared at La Santisima Muerte and calmly took her mask off and spit in her face. It makes me cringe a little when I hear the same incoherent mumblings coming from the death chamber in Huntsville, the same pointless regrets and wasted tears. The time for regret and reformation happens long before you take that final van ride to Huntsville. I many consider some of these men my friends, but I could never respect such behavior. We all die alone. Even in a room full of people, we die alone. We should all know that, and get the f-over it now while we have the time to analyze the event. This is the most intensely personal moment of our lives, the one time where you can think only about yourself, to indulge in the solipsisms which are distasteful in other contexts. This is the one moment of your entire life where you can stand up and be truly greater than fear, greater than all of the weaknesses that defined your early life. Most people cannot manage this. That I might not is constantly on my mind. I will know when I get there. In the meantime, I am doing my training for this. I will explain that one day, maybe after the fact. It’s not pleasant.

Needless to say, I wouldn’t ever sign up for LWOP.

Which does bring us back to the “point” of a life in prison. Let me flip the question around on you: what is the point of your life? You might be surprised to find that the answer doesn’t really change when you are a prisoner. We all want to feel useful, to know love, to find some source of joy, to learn a trade and excel at it. I am increasingly attempting to live in a world of principles, to put silly emotion behind me and adhere to what I believe in times of great testing. My options for a good life are different from yours, but they are comparable when talking about the desired ends. I don’t usually talk about such fantasies, but since it bears on the question, I can tell you that the possibility of being allowed to participate in the prison reform movement excites me. By my actions and beliefs, I hope to be allowed to have at least a minor voice in that conversation. With the education that I am currently amassing, I also believe that I will be well situated to serve in a position to teach in the prison system. As these fascist idiots in Huntsville and Austin keep cutting prison budgets, it will fall upon those of us in white to fill the roles of free-world instructors. Maybe this will mean GED classes; maybe it will mean college ones. Given sufficient time, I will earn my PhD back here. The path is already open to me. Though I will never be free, the act of participating in the renewal of men who will would be very rewarding. If I can help keep just a handful of men from venturing down the path of recidivism, perhaps my life will have had some meaning after all (and for the record, given the chance, I don’t think this number will be so minimal). Perhaps I will be able to own a mirror again, even. Maybe one day I would be allowed to speak to at-risk teens. There isn’t much that I haven’t done in the world of drugs, not much I haven’t experienced when it comes to the evils we can do to each other. I have been to hell, and I clawed my way out again. Putting me on a stage wrapped in chains and announcing that I have a doctorate in philosophy would present anyone with such a juxtaposition that I would be listened to. The point I am making is, finding purpose in life doesn’t depend on geographical location. It depends solely on will. And that is something only I have control over, not these pigs. In this, you and I are no different.

Perhaps it is easy for you to snicker at my modest goals. Fine. But I will remind you that less than five years ago, I came to the toughest death row in the nation. I arrived here with no money, and with a promise to never accept any more from my dad or other family members. I had no friends, no “supporters”. Neither did I have any real understanding of myself or my place in the social web. I was still basically a Republican suburbanite, convinced that some deity was going to swoop in ex machina and save me. All I had was the tiniest spark of will. Within two years, I had built a blog that still reaches tens of thousands of readers each week. By not wasting my money on food or magazines, I have saved enough to go to college, where after 104 hours my GPA is a 3.9. If I can maintain this through this semester and the next, I will graduate Summa Cum Laude. I have already gotten the acceptance from Cal State to enter their Master’s program next year. I’ve taken professional development courses in many areas, including drug counseling, achieving certificates that the drug counselors in the psych department even don’t have. I’ve learned enough of the law to become a certified paralegal, and participate in my own defense. Don’t doubt my will. Given a life sentence, you might be surprised at the good I can accomplish. All of the Thomas-haters out there might ask yourselves if you would have done as well in my shoes. Ah! Could it be that is why you hate my guts so much?

I think I will close with a story that bears on this. It’s an old one. You might be sick of my references to mythology by this point, but come on! Mythology lessons from a death row prisoner? The weirdness of that has to be humorous to somebody out there. Sigh. Anyways, mythology is full of tales of descents into the Underworld. Probably the best known deal with Odysseus and Aeneas, but these were somewhat patterned off of Persephone getting dragged into the realms of the dead by Hades himself. This story may have its roots in a short Akkadian poem called The Descent of Ishtar to the Underworld, itself a descendent of an earlier Sumerian work. Ishtar is a daughter of Anu, and is therefore one of the older sky-gods (she is somewhat analogous to Pallas Athena). In the Sumerian myth, she is called Inanna. In both cases, Inanna must visit the Underworld, where certain conditions are imposed upon her behavior. She is aware that she can be killed there, utterly destroyed. As she proceeds through the Seven Gates of death, she is divested of her royal garments and her jewels. In this utter darkness, she is no longer the definition of beauty. No reflections of her outward appearance greet her. Soon, she loses even her skin, her flesh peeled back and left behind. In the dark, in the depths, she was left to die, and in doing so discovered who she really was.

It is common to think that the Underworld is a place of decay and rot, the last place we want to venture. We forget that all life begins there, that without the roots of plants and trees sucking the nutrients off the dead our ecosystem would collapse and all life would end. Freed from sight, Inanna’s vision was fundamentally altered. Killed there, she was reborn and ascends towards the skies, where her skin is wrapped back around her. Her robes and jewels are returned to her. She notices as she dons these that she has been left a scar to remember her travels. The scar reminds her that the past is real; this was the cost of her rebirth. She returns to Heaven, but a part of her is forever touching the earth.

Right now, I am entombed in a place so far beneath the realms of the living that maps are pointless. Most have given up on me, and my previous sight has left me, as have all my prior images of who I was. But my roots are growing, and so am I. There will be no grand ascent to Heaven, but I am climbing. The knowledge of myself and the world that I have learned during my time here has changed me, given me a new perspective. I have my scars, more than any of you could possibly know about, some that you don’t even suspect in your wildest imaginations about why my case happened in the first place. I may not ever break the surface, but if I am given the chance, I want to make sure my work is able to feed others, and they might be able to. There is no substitute for hard work, and I have done and am doing mine. Do you see my point? The purpose of my life in prison is to help re-craft the penal environment into a place where this sort of evolution is not exceptional. I want journeys like mine to be commonplace, typical. How many times have I said that we all have more power to change the world than we realize? I am acting on mine. Are you?

Was Du erlebst, kann keine Macht der Welt Dir rauben.
(What you have experienced, no power on earth can take from you.)

- Dr. Viktor Frankl

Read this ARTICLE, please. Seems like *somebody* has been saying this sort of things for years.

© Copyright 2011 by Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved

An Awesome Visit and to the Swedish Stranger

2011-11-10T12:37:00.000-08:00

By Arnold Prieto Jr #149

I was a bit nervous because October 13th was quickly approaching! Not only was it my son’s 18th birthday, but the day of actually getting to meet a friend for the first time face to face!

On the said day of our visit, my nervousness quickly dissipated as I was escorted into the holding cage where our visit was to take place. Because on the other side of the shatterproof glass was a fiery red haired Dina with a warm and friendly smile! We ended up having an awesome visit and my nervousness was just simply unfounded! One of the greatest parts of our visit was that Dina is as talkative in person as she is in her most welcomed letters!! Which is a great thing of course! Dina is also intelligent, strong minded and sharp as a whip!! At the end of our visit, I felt as if I have known Dina forever and as she was leaving I know Dina had become my second adopted little sister! Yep, sister Dina :) I say little sister because all women stop ageing at 26! It’s true and I know so because someone very, very dear to me said so! :)

Unfortunately, I was not able to see her the following day before she left for home. But that’s ok because she was visiting with our good friend Thomas and I’m pretty sure their visit was just as awesome as our visit!

At about 14 days after my awesome visit I received a really wonderful and encouraging email from the Swedish Stranger! :) Thank you Monica for your thoughts and picture of you and your friend! Yes ma’am, the picture came through perfect. I wish to also thank you for your true kindness once again. A rose is missing this time, but that’s because I believe a more detailed piece is in order for the Swedish Stranger :)

You know I couldn’t help but wonder what your friend’s name would be? So far I have come up with “Patch” and “Diamond” Early in my childhood we had a mare named “Pamper” because she was brown with large white splotches on her hindquarters which made it look like she had a pamper on! I must have been about 7 years old at that time. I’ve had 2 other good friends as a child, a German shepherd named “Jumbo” and a crow named “Arturo”! They were the best. Probably wondering how a kid ends up with a pet crow. Oh well I basically grew up in farms and ranches because of my father’s skills so I was a Good Ol’ Country Boy :) When I was 11 years old, we moved to West Texas to a farm right on the Texas / New Mexico border. Seminole, Texas was the closest town so I went to Texas school.

Crows had a bad habit of making a nest in all the wrong places. In this particular farm they would make on the sprinkler systems that irrigated the land, so my father had to burn them out etc…

One day, a baby chick was out of its nest and was wobbling around. So I looked around and found what I was looking for, a worm and a bug. I went to the chick and crunched the beetle between my fingers and stuffed it down its gullet. I remember finding it quite fascinating how it ate and how I was able to feed it! The worm also went through the same process as the beetle and down its gullet with my fingers.

My father soon walked up to me and saw that I was feeding the baby crow with a grin on my face. I looked up at him figuring he’d be proud or something but my grin met a disapproving look. You see, old culture Mexicans tend to be very superstitious. I can only imagine what he was thinking of me at that time. I wasn’t a spoiled child, far from it, but I found myself crying and begging my father to let me keep it until it flies. After the “it’s your responsibility” talk I was allowed to rear Arturo. That’s how it came about to having a pet crow named Arturo :) Unfortunately, out of ignorant superstitions, my black feathered friend came to a tragic death a few months after I taught it to fly. We were not the only Mexican family living on that farm.

My proudest moment with Arturo was on his first flight and when I’d call out to him he’d land on my arm!

Please find a photo of the Texas Stranger for you.

I wish you, your loved ones and every one on your side of the world a Merry Christmas and a safe, happy and prosperous New Year.

“Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light”

– Helen Keller

Letters to a Future Death Row Inmate, Part 23

2011-11-06T14:18:00.000-08:00

by Travis Runnels #999505

Part 22 can be seen here

Dear Mr Don’t Know Yet,

At this moment you're probably still wondering how you could have allowed yourself to end up in such a predicament. A piece of advice, the time for contemplating is over and living to survive has started. Grab my hand and let me welcome you to a place we call home. Never forget that no matter how depressing your surroundings may seem you have an adaptability about you that will kick in despite the hopelessness that may surround you. Steady yourself to wake up to the noise of doors slamming, men yelling obscenities at the top of their lungs at the guards who are coming around to feed breakfast at 3 AM in the morning. The same will make enough noise to wake the dead with the banging and clanking of keys, all for a tray of cold pancakes, lumpy oatmeal that’s really a solid mass, and cup of powdered milk. Say hello to prison catering.

"Offender! Offender! Do you want to take a shower? Offender?" Take a walk to a shower that you must share with a crowd of other men who leave their dirt and residue behind for the next in line to step over. You finish and try to find some form of fresh air that has been swallowed up by the steam from the shower that has no escape because the vents don’t work. Go back to a cell that is crowded with a toilet/sink combo, a table and a bunk. Sit at this table that is less than 3 feet away from the toilet you use to dispose of bodily wastes. Touch the walls that you feel closing around you 22 to 24 hours per day. Feel the pressure, suffer the aroma in the air of the humans who have come before you, who lived and breathed the same congested air. Open your hands and stroke the walls that hold the memories of the dead killed by the state in legalized murder. Your life is on the brink of being over and your surroundings will swallow you up if you are too slow to realize this. Inmates, officers, and lawyers can all be made to misuse you in your naiveté. Take a spoon of this food I offer you and taste the bitterness of a man converted into a number. We are all under the power and control of people indifferent to your cares or dreams. Watch with me as the sun goes down and take in that another day of life has passed you by. Mark it off in your soul but be ready for the sun to rise the next day because it starts all over again. The horror, the helplessness, the despair, the killings and all to do with the continuation of your confinement.

If you are not fortunate enough to have family that supports you the most important thing for you to do is gain as many penpals as you can to help support you and get others involved in your fight. Having people that believe in you that offer moral and mental support is very important for your own mind. Your hope will rise from those around you that believe in you and your right to live. So many guys are swallowed up by these cells, where they have doubts about their self worth and when there is no outside support it gets too much for them to bear.

Words are all I can give you but moving forward it comes down to you and how much strength you have within you despite how things may seem to be going. There have been those before you that were minutes from execution and never gave up and live now today to tell of the experience. So there's never a time to think that all is lost. Everyday in the outside society people are beginning to understand and realize the perils of the death penalty.

Keep your mind immersed in positive energy and people will come into your life to help you through the tough times and days that seem to go on forever. The hardest challenge you may face in life is living a life you don’t want to live, but have to live.

Travis Runnels

Not Waving but Drowning

2011-11-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

(Author's note: This is the second version of this entry, the first having been lost at sea in the dreaded Polunsky Triangle. In an effort to placate the obviously displeased gods of the mail room, I have removed roughly 30% of the content of the original. I don't think it holds together quite as well, so please forgive me. I just don’t have .the time to fight this battle again at the present. -TBW)

The seasons are changing, and so is the neighborhood. For reasons unfathomable to the lesser minds of we quavering mortals, twice a year or so the powers that be decide to initiate a grand game of musical cells. For a period of several weeks, the already overworked and underpaid night shift officers are forced to engage in an orgy of cell moves. Some nights, they may shift ten inmates from one pod to another, while on other nights the count may run to thirty. Ours is not to wonder why, because reason hasn’t got a bloody thing to do with it.

ARNOLD got shunted over to B-Pod on October the 7th. Most of the section soon followed, leaving behind me and four others. I suspect that we, too, will get our marching orders sooner or later, which is a pity because I really liked this• section. For starters, A-Pod is the administration's "show pod." Whenever a tour comes through, this is where they bring them. It's a bit humiliating to be gawked at by these slack jawed yokels, and I once, as a joke (which was not overly appreciated), hung up a sign on the dayroom' wall which read: Come See the Monsters in their Natural Habitats! Keep Hands Away from Bars When Feeding! The tour that day included visiting prison officials from Oklahoma, who apparently, had also undergone the same humor-ectomies as their Texan counterparts. Anyways, the upside to these penal safaris is that they at least make some minor efforts to keep this side of the pod clean. I’m not saying that I would eat anything off the floor, but the burn marks on the walls are quickly painted over, and they occasionally use bleach on the showers. For life in a prison located in a state where the majority of the populace cannot even spell the words "human rights," this is pretty much the Ritz-Carlton.

More importantly, this half of the pod is eerily quiet. Each POD is composed of six sections of I4 people on two rows. Dividing the pod in half is a concrete wall, so you are really only able to communicate with one half of the pod at any given time, and only then when you shout at the upper boundaries of your lung capacity. The ABC side of A-Pod is highly irregular. For starters, A-Section is where they house DeathWatch, the section for men with execution dates. Even when it is full (as it was this past summer), this is a relatively quiet subdivision of I2-Building, for obvious reasons. B-Section has only one cell occupied at present, in what these fascists call a "management cell." These oubliettes contain no electrical outlets or hot water, and you are allowed no property or even a mattress when placed therein. Sometimes, you are lucky even to be allowed to keep a t-shirt and boxers. These are not temporary placements: men spend months or years locked away like this. The current resident is a guy we call Lizard, who now has a date of February 1st. I just found out that they are not going to allow his wife to visit him, due to an event that occurred more than two years ago. I seldom condone violence, but sometimes this place becomes so tone deaf that….

Anyways. C-section is where I currently find myself. The environment is so muted over here in relation to my past experiences that it sometimes feels like I am living in a “management cell.” It’s great. The other benefits are notable: due to the lack of people on this half of the pod those of us in C-Section are usually able to claim the outside rec yards even on our "inside" days. Since I moved over here in March, I think I have been to the inside DAYROOMS four times.

As long as you have someone close to your housing that you get along with, this outside advantage is a big deal. Spending two hours outside locked into a cage next to another person gets old real fast if they are a jerk. This can be ... problematic, because I seem to be blessed with the ability to magnetically attract such asshole neighbors. Call it my super power. I’ve had more than my fair share of insane inmates as well, but these types live in their own world and, by and large, stay out of mine. I should qualify my labeling of such people as jerks. I know perfectly well that this environment puts an immense amount of psycho-social pressure on people. I do, believe me. Many of the things I write about become detestable to me in hindsight and I truly wonder just what the heck I was thinking when I put pencil to paper. So maybe these men I am referring to aren’t bastards at all deep down inside. I only know what they are here, and what I am talking about is simply behavior. There. Consider my grumpy complaints to be qualified. That doesn’t change the fact that their behavior is infuriating.

I have had at least one such nogoodniks as a direct neighbor since January of 2009, to the extent that even some of the officers have started to comment on the fact. You know; I consider myself to be a decently intelligent individual, at least in these later years. I can usually figure things out to an acceptable degree, given enough time. There was a time about a year or two ago when I calmly viewed these miscreants with patience, rightly viewing them as an opportunity to practice all manner of virtuous activity. That's wisdom, I think, and I am proud of myself for acting like this. Somehow over the past year I have lost this quality, this attempt at nobility. I got frustrated, institutionalized, discouraged. I am not going to say that I responded to their vitriol with like kind, because that sort of response was fairly rare. What I did do, however, was maybe worse: I 'simply disregarded them. I dismissed them as human beings, ignoring them entirely. I ceased to use them as chances to grow. Being charitable with myself, sometimes that is maybe the best we can hope for when confronted with truly unpleasant people. But if we allow this to become our normal states - as I did - we lose track of something vitally human.

Fortunately, life has a way of teaching us the things we need to learn. This works better when your mind is prepared to receive the lesson, or at least the process is more comfortable when this happens. When you are as stubborn as I am though, the moats must be crossed and the walls scaled before a lesson can truly sink in deep.

Based on the distance I had started to put between myself and others, it often happens that I am able to go outside by myself, especially first round (6:00 AM). It's not such a bad deal, hitting the yards alone. We all live in isolation, of course, so in a sense we are always alone, but even in the depths of an admin-seg unit you are never able to completely evade the traces of other people: their smells, their noises, their waste. Being able to take in the crisp morning air without the incessant prattling of some confused and discontented primate is amongst the rarest of pleasures inside the Yeehaw gulag.

The truth of the matter is that I have started to play the "my last" game. I was first told about this tendency many years ago by my friend and neighbor Robert Hudson (RIP). He said that when your time begins to run short, death row cons start to realize that this summer may be their last, this Christmas, this birthday. Once you hit the 5th Circuit, the whole time frame compresses, and this becomes your last time to hear a certain band on the radio, the last time to eat a certain food or hear from a certain pen-pal. Once you get a date, you start dealing with your last Saturday night, your last morning, your last whatever. (At least we no longer have the misery of counting our last MEALS, thanks Senator Whitmire. With Democrats like these, who needs Republicans?) I may have one more winter left, but then again, I might not, so I am not going to refuse a chance to get outside, even if it is in the 40's and Major McMullen won’t let us have our jackets.

I thought that I was going out by myself this morning. The officers seemed to be finished putting out recs, so I began my habitual run. I was about twenty minutes into this when my reverie was snapped by the sound of the external door locks popping open. The next time I passed by the wall of bullet-proof glass windows, I caught the tail end of a procession of officers, a dense stormcloud of gray and blue uniforms rendered into an impressionistic blur by the thickness of the glass. Walking in the middle of them was a large blob of white, but I couldn’t make out which inmate would soon be joining me. I wasn’t terribly pleased by this turn of events, but as long as it was somebody decent, this wouldn’t devolve into a complete waste of two hours...

The door snapped open and Polyphemus walked out.

Damnit.

That's not his real name, of course. Long-time readers will by now have become accustomed to my manner of creating pseudonyms on this site, but this one does not follow the same sort of coding. Mostly I named him thus because ever since I first met him, he has reminded me strongly of the cyclops that spent a few days chowing down on Odysseus’ men, at least until the rest of them managed to get him drunk and poke a flaming spear in his eye. Poly is a huge man, brutally grotesque in both his strength and his attitude. Most pedophiles fit a certain type: small of stature, antisocial to a huge degree, and all of whom somehow manage to leave one with the impression that they are actually invertebrates. Not so this ox. The first time I saw him in action, he was stealing someone's magazines in the dayroom rather than passing them along as had been intended. As he was in the midst of this, he made a point of informing the owner that he intended to cut out the photographs and advertisements of all of the children and do some rather unpleasant things with them. This rather incensed all of us, myself included. I rather prefer to stay away from the subject of sex on this site, so I will simply summarize the man with a highly technical phrase from the DSM-IV-TR and the ICD-I0: the man is as mad as a f-ing meat axe.

There is no way any human being could be this offensive without great effort. One look at him can tell you that he both desires and adamantly rejects the validation of others, a messy emotional confluence that always - without fail - manages to produce misery. It doesn’t help that he speaks with a bizarre epenthesis, inserting b's and m’s into the middle of words that clearly don’t need them. There no amount of artifice in my literary armamentarium capable of putting lipstick on this pig.

I immediately decided that I was going to ignore him. A bad situation, but I am no stranger to these and this seemed the only choice available to me where I wouldn’t get dragged into his vulgar little universe. I, who am so seeking compassion from others, had none for Polyphemus. He took the hint, and proceeded to walk around in circles. After awhile he stopped, and laid down on the cold concrete, looking up through the grate at the sky. The sun was cresting the horizon somewhere beyond this colossus of concrete, and we could see its pinkish rays start to hit the metal bars high above us. Something about his empty stare stirred the currents inside of me, but I went on ignoring him and continued my run. He laid like that for about an hour, and only sat up when I stopped in front of the sink to wipe the sweat off my face. He looked like he wanted to say something, and I was really concentrating, really pushing my will through the grate into his thick skull, begging him to just keep his bloody trap shut. I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to converse. He didn’t take the hint.

"This may be my last winter, so thank you for not kicking me off the yard”

Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Beyond having a conversation with Poly at all, the last thing I wanted to hear come out of his mouth was something that had so very recently been on my mind. It costs a person to identify with some people, some ideologies, and I didn’t want to pay it this time around. Five years ago, I probably would have gone on ignoring him. Ten years ago, I would have spit in his face and said something simultaneously theological and scatalogical. Today, I walked a few laps, and began what may go down as one of the strangest conversations of my life.

It wasn’t entirely a land of milk and honey. With all humans (myself most definitely included), you generally have to wade through, several miles of bullshit before you get to solid ground worth mapping. Polyphemus was no different. He is a confusing man to try to follow conversationally, his mind quick to follow a tangent to often bizarre conclusions. On several occasions his rage yawned and peeked out from under the covers. Most annoyingly, he pretty much gave an unintentional lecture on the cardinal thinking errors as they relate to criminality. These errors are manifold in number, ranging from the fifty-two postulated by Samuel Yochelson and Stanton Samenow in The Criminal Personality to the nine found in the psych, manual I procured from the GIDDINGS STATE SCHOOL. My list is a bit simpler, having, winnowed down the catalog to eight. With “mollification”, offenders point out the unfairness of life, and blame others for their choices. The "cutoff" includes some form of phrase or visual image (“screw it, let's just do this”) that short-circuits all thought on the matter, simply allowing offenders to act without worrying about the consequences. The “entitlement” error means that any actions are justifiable to achieve what is desired. “Power orientation” means that criminals feel that this is a dog-eat-dog world and those who are strong and smart can do whatever they please. “Sentimentality” is the error wherein criminals look back at the good things they have done in their lives and become convinced that they should not be held entirely responsible for the bad things. “Superoptimism” is the tendency to believe that nothing bad can ever happen to them, including punishment. “Cognitive indolence” means that they just don’t pay any attention to the details in life. Finally, “discontinuity” means that they fail to follow through on commitments, carry out intentions, and remain focused on goals over time.

Sometimes when talking to the guys back here, I will carry on a mental tally of these errors committed, shifting the little colored stones of an abacus inside my head instead of truly engaging. Poly managed to hit all of them but "superoptimism”' in less than thirty minutes, some sort of record. What really started to pique my interest were the continual references to something that had happened to him when he was younger, referring to it as if I knew what he was talking about. I sidestepped this, but couldn’t resist asking about his attraction to children. I can pretty much understand most every type of crime. I don’t condone it, I don’t excuse it or try to rationalize it away like Durkeim, but I can at least understand the faulty logic behind the man who robs a quickie mart and ends up shooting the teller. I've never been able to wrap my mind around the pedophile, though, and I didn’t think I would ever have a better chance to ask someone than right then.

I expected him to explode, but he did the exact opposite, sort of falling into himself to some deep place where he could stripmine memory for some sort of a response. He finally asked me to describe my "perfect" woman. I did so. He then asked me to imagine that the Supreme Court had outlawed heterosexuality, and required men to love men. Could I fake it? I said no, probably not. I told him that I suppose I could make the right comments at social functions if I had to, but that I could never actually be attracted to another man. He said that it was the same with him and kids, that he cannot see adults in that way. I basically called bullshit, and explained about how the roots of the sexual impulse clearly deal with the continuation of the species, whereas what he was talking about was an entirely different matter. He agreed, but said that he was simply explaining why he couldn’t change or be rehabilitated. I don’t know exactly how he got to where he is (I have my theories), but at least I understand the nature of his disease now. I tried to press him on some of this, and the conversation frayed quite a bit, but what I started to see behind his comments was uncertainty. We in America take it as axiomatic that when someone does something, they've thought the action out and believe it to be in their best interests. This rationalism is at the heart of classical criminology, long since discredited by academics but still the stubborn heart of American jurisprudence: we are totally responsible for our actions because we have totally understood them all. I think the reality is far different, and we all know this: most of the time, we simply act, and then try to rationalize our behaviors in hindsight. Polyphemus broadcasts an aura of rage and violence. What he really is inside is a maelstrom of confusion, regret, and, uncertainty. His anger, I realized, is analogous to my arrogance: a clever camouflage designed to transmit the exact opposite of what we are feeling inside.

TE Lawrence once wrote in The Seven Pillars of Wisdom that there sometimes seemed a certainty in degradation. One can never sum up the life of a human being with a few pages of text, but this at least seems like a good approximation of Polyphemus. It may equally apply to me, or at least to the man that I was. I understand now that his behavior isn’t a spear, but rather a shield. It's how he has dealt with this thing, this life. I think it's fair to say that I will never like this man. But whereas I had previously dismissed him because I thought I had him pegged to the wall and labeled, now I had to admit that he was more of a question, and I cannot hate something that I don’t understand. I suppose that being able to do so is about the best definition for ignorance that I am able to formulate.

After moments like these, I like to take a step back and evaluate the shifting fault lines in my perception of the world, and try to figure out where I screwed up. We've all heard the platitudes about trying to "walk a mile" in so-and-so's shoes. I hate clichés. They are basically just linguistic memes gone to fixation that allow users to perceive that they understand a point deeply, without ever having actually done the mental heavy lifting required. It's bloody hard walking in the shoes of someone like Polyphemus, but if I am going to condemn him I ought to at least make the attempt.

This lesson was quickly reinforced once I was open to paying attention to it. A few days after I wrote the original section above about Polyphemus, the world didn’t end. This is not atypical occurrence, the world not ending, except that it was supposed to. Tens of thousands (that may be a gross underestimation) of gullible buffoons truly believed that the world was supposed to bite the dust on October 21st, simply the most recent in a long tradition of religiously inspired Armageddons going back for two thousand years. The source of the current rumor was the same as the source of the last failed Rapture, a lunatic out of California named Harold Camping. Back on May 21st, me and Arnold had a jolly good time quietly mocking those who felt they were about to get "paroled to Jesus." In my defense, this is not the first end-of-the-world misadventure I have survived. Back in 1988, a very terrified and equally gullible 8 year old Thomas patiently awaited the fiery demise of planet Earth, as prophesized by the author and intellectual charlatan (not to mention grade-A idiot) Hal Lindsey. I think one must only be capable of experiencing that species of terror only once, before that particular spell is broken forever.

Alas, my current neighbor is also a hard-core theist, and spent all week making preparations for a swift departure to the next realm. I kept my commentary to myself this time, not wanting to produce friction between us. The day before the non-event, he decided that he was going to fast for the last 24 hours of life, and sent me all of the food he had in his house, along with his radio and cleaning supplies. He said he figured I might need such things during the Great Tribulation, which I guess means that skeptics were not invited to his heaven. I found all of this greatly amusing, and contemplated eating all of his food. I resisted - just barely- and put all of his property in the corner under a blanket to resist the "Satanic" forces of temptation.

When the great hour came and went, I listened for some sort of response from next door. After a few hours, I started to get a little concerned, but the officers said that he was alive and well seated at his desk, staring at his wall. Around 9PM I heard him quietly weeping, choking back great sobs. I have to tell you, I don’t think I have hated myself as much as I did in that moment in years. People on my end of the-god hypothesis can be so damned smug, with all of our science and proofs and hermeneutical criticism. It is so easy to forget the need, the utter desperation of belief, the confidence in knowing that the man upstairs has your back and then the silence of his inaction, the total and complete desolation of what that absence means. I quietly swung my line into his house and attached all of his things to it. After that, I wrote a quick note to him and sent it over. It read: "Nevermind what god is or isn’t doing. Just be good and live your life with honor. If he is who you think he is, that will be enough." I don’t know how I got so damned closed off and cynical, but I don’t want this to be me anymore. Realistic, yes. But not ... so alone.

The day after the Rapture That Wasn't, I was moved to D-Section, exactly one section over from where I was. The total distance moved was less than fifty feet, actually. The previous occupant of this cell was executed this past summer. I didn’t know him well, nor, to be honest, did I want to. The night I moved in, I spent about three hours cleaning every surface but the ceiling. The dead man left me a little drawing on the wall, which started with rain falling out of the clouds on a cactus. At the bottom of the cactus was inserted a tap, like a sink's faucet, basically. Coming out of the tap were drops of liquid, which fell into barrels, which then fell into bottles. Coming out of one of the bottles, was a tinier stream, falling into the mouth of a drunken Mexican vaquero, who was then urinating his own stream into the dirt. Profound or silly, I didn’t know which his point had been, but it was certainly one of the most curious pieces of wall art that I had seen in years. When I went to bed, I flipped off the light and was shocked to see that he had left me something else, as well. Above me glowed a small field of stars, impossible yet very much present. I quickly turned the lamp back on and climbed on top of my bed to get a clearer look. He had apparently been sitting on some star-shaped glow-in-the-dark stickers for years. I mean, they haven’t let stickers into the system for at least 15 years, if not more. He must have known that his time was short and this would be his last regular cell before moving to DeathWatch. Stargazing was about my favorite thing to do in the entire world in my former life, and I haven’t actually seen a real one since an irregular incident back in 2008. The mystery solved, I cut the light off again and counted them: 42 little glowing dots. Not quite the Milky Way, but a gift of incalculable worth nonetheless. I suddenly wished that I had gotten to know this man better, when I had had the opportunity.

I read a book in college one time on the Prisoner's Dilemma. You have probably heard about this game before, even if you know it by one of its many other names. The basic point of the exercise is to explain why two independent actors might not cooperate, even when it is in their best interests to do so. It is only a coincidence that its name applies to my situation so directly. The dilemma is usually expressed thusly:

Two men are arrested, but police do not possess enough information for a conviction. Following the separation of the two men, the police offer both a similar deal: one testifies against his partner (defects or betrays) and the other remains silent (cooperates or assists), the betrayer goes free and the cooperator receives the full one-year sentence. If both remain silent, both are sentenced to only one month in jail for a minor charge. If each “rats out” the other; each receives a three-month, sentence. Either prisoner must choose to either betray or remain silent; the decision of each is kept quiet. What should they do?

This exercise gets complicated very quickly, but in general terms you "win" the most when you betray the other person every single time. Consider the Cold War: in the arms race between the USA and the CCCP, both had the option to increase stockpiles of ICBMs or agree to reduce stockpiles of weapons. Both states would benefit from military expansion regardless of what the other does, so they both did. The paradox lies in the fact that this seems like a rational action, even though the result was both irrational and nearly suicidal for the entire species.

I think that this is what I have been doing the last I8 months or so: withdrawing from people, before someone else can stab me in the back. This is not how I want to end this life. I know the mathematics here. I know all about iterated strategies and Nash Equilibriums (if you saw the movie "A Beautiful Mind," you know about these, too, from the scene in the bar with the hot blonde and her friends). I know what it takes to win the Prisoner's Dilemma. If you choose to cooperate, you may lose, and lose often. What I had forgotten is, if you don’t take the chance on other people, you are guaranteed to.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

-Stevie Smith, I983

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© Copyright 2011 by Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved

Educatin'

2011-10-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

by Michael Wayne Hunter

"Are you going to graduation?" asked Miss Mills, a G.E.D. instructor and my boss.

"Probably not. Lopez is going. I don't want to leave you alone with the class."

"Go," she urged. "There will be cake and soft drinks. You can have a photo taken in your graduation gown for Rene."

"I graduated thirty years ago," I protested. "Only took the test again because my prison file didn't have my education history. It's no big deal."

"I'm your boss. Go."

Walking into the Chapel for the ceremony, I watched Officer Cope, the crusty, ornery Education Officer, cutting cake. "Congrats, Hunter." He even smiled. "Days like this make it all worthwhile."

Semi-stunned by Cope's smile, thinking the light might have created an illusion, I ran his words through my head while settling next to Stone Cold, my buddy I'd tutored in Geometry and Algebra. A passing mark in math is 410, after intense study Stone had received a 410. None of our time/energy had been wasted, he needed every bit of instruction and practice to squeak by.

Stone Cold handed me a Program. As I flipped to my name, two prisoners on electric guitars started playing soft jazz. Yea!

This is a big deal, I reflected, and I tucked away the Program to mail home to Rene.

Lucky, a tatted gangster, who had studied with Stone and me, dropped into a chair. "Wish my mom could see this," he said animatedly and then added slowly, "and wish Speck was here."

Speck was the most responsible for Lucky graduating, cramming lessons past the tattoos into his brain. Chemical substances had embraced Speck, holding him tight, squeezing his life away. Swallowing handfuls of pills, he had killed himself.

A representative from the Warden's office went to the podium and said our graduation was the first step toward something new and encouraged us to stay on that path.

One by one we were called to the podium to receive our diploma from the Principal. Cake and sodas were next, we milled around waiting for our photos to be taken. Prison isn't really about good experiences, but this was one.

Still jacked on sugar, I went back to work.

"How was it?" Miss Mills asked with a smile.

"Really glad I didn't miss it. Thanks for sending me."

"The Principal stopped by after the ceremony. A college program is starting up and I'll be the Proctor. I need a clerk. How does thirty-two cents an hour sound?"

Sounded great! I made eighteen cents an hour as a G.E.D Teacher's Aide.

"No more G.E.D. students?"

"I thought you liked tutoring?"

"I do..." my voice trailed off. "Uh, this term we graduated eleven of our twenty-seven students. How many of the sixteen left do you think will pass the test?"

"If they study, almost all of them are capable."

"How many do you think will start studying?"

Twisting around for a time, she finally answered, "One or two."

"Now we have eleven new students, how many of them are studying?"

Looking at the class roster, she ran her finger down the list silently counting before saying, "About four."

"So this cycle we might graduate five or six students and then we'll replace them. If the numbers hold true, next cycle we'll be lucky if two students are studying, preparing for the test. The rest of the class will be running wild. I'm ready for something new."

"Well, I'll try to find you something but not yet. The college position is only two hours a week, it's in addition to your G.E.D. duties."

"Okay, Miss Mills, you're the boss."

I went to tutor the golden two. Last term Adams and Lopez had been the golden two, and they had wings, soaring through their studies, the G.E.D. Prep Exam and easily graduating. Lopez is a Teacher's Aide with me and Adams enrolled in Graphic Arts. This term the golden two are Greg Frey and Jay Trejano. Frey had grown up off the grid in rural Washington state. Not only no electricity but no running water in the Frey hovel. The way he told it, a trailer park would've been a big step up and seemingly unattainable to the Frey clan. No one in his family had ever graduated from high school and earned a G.E.D. diploma. Greg studied really hard and I had no doubt he was going to pass. Trejano is a lifer with possibility of parole. Jay had been to the board six times and been denied. The board had repeatedly told him he needed his G.E.D. to be considered for release. Jay worked hard as well and would progress for several weeks but then it was like his brain reset to default mode and everything he had learned would be gone. I suspected long term crack use had damaged some sort of connectors in his brain. I suggested to Miss Mills that a professional evaluation of Trejano needed to be conducted. She agreed but said that no monies were available, so I should just do my best with him. Seemed that Trejano's chance for freedom rested with an eighteen cent an hour tutor with no special talent or training. Crazy!

The college materials arrived and it was a much more comprehensive program than I had imagined. A two-year Associate Degree was offered through a California Community College. Tuition and fees were waived, but students had to pay for their own books. Depending on the course, the cost per class was 120 to 200 dollars. The course work consisted of four open book quizzes, term papers, and a mid-term and final exam. In addition to the books, instruction included audio discs recorded by the instructors and weekly videos shown on the prison educational channel.

Registration day, Stone Cold was first in line.

"You parole next year," I said, "no way you will be able to finish your degree before you parole."

"There are colleges everywhere," Miss Mills interjected, "he can continue at home."

"Oh, yeah." I handed him a registration packet.

About seventy would-be students showed up.

"Mike, I'm taking Counseling 105," one of my former G.E.D. students signed the forms and handed them to me.

Glancing at them, "They're not filled out."

"You always filled out the forms in G.E.D."

"You're a college student now." I handed them back. "If you can't handle registering, you can't handle college level work."

That was a good speech, I thought to myself, but how do you know anything about college level work? Flipping through the catalog, I registered for United States History: From Reconstruction Through Present Day.

Miss Mills and I reviewed all the forms, correcting errors and stacking them for mailing back to the college.

Hanging back, Stone turned his forms in last. "Small business," I read. "Getting ready to crank up the old Meth Lab?"

"Didn't just cook dope, Mike, I turned a lathe and made hunting arrows for a guy who did real good selling them on the Internet, but he paid me only minimum wage. Couldn't support my family on that money. I know how to make the arrows. What I need to learn is the business side. If I can make a go of it, I won't have to cook meth. Jailing is getting old. My wife and kids aren't going to be there if I do another term."

Feeling like an idiot, I went over his registration forms and placed them on the stack.

I sent my bookstore order form to Rene, and my history books came in the first shipment from college. Everyday, Miss Mills would go by the mailroom and pick up whatever texts had come in and I'd deliver them to cells. Not every family came through, we ended up with about fifty students including Stone Cold.

I read three history essays before I got around to reading the syllabus and found out I was studying the wrong material. I was really glad I was only taking one class and had time to recover from my ignorance. I started my term paper and set up a study schedule and relentlessly stayed with it, fearful if I slacked at all I'd just pack it in and fail.

All around the yard you would hear prisoners talking about their studies. Things such as, “Socrates didn't write, he taught through persistent questioning. We only know what Socrates said through Plato's writings. Not only a scholar, Socrates fought on the battlefield for Athens." Another time I heard, "Mathematics describes the Universe in a way that transcends language. In fact if we had first contact with a truly alien species, we would likely communicate through mathematics because it describes universal physical laws."

This was a whole lot different than the usual prison conversations.

Out on the yard on break from school, the yard went down. About a dozen blacks and Mexicans jumped off on the basketball court, slam dancing with evil intent.

An hour or so later when the combatants had been gaffled off to the hole and the yard came back up, we were ordered to our cells. I took a left turn and headed for Education.

"Take it home, Hunter," Officer Cope ordered me.

"My college books are on my desk."

"They'll be safe there."

"If the lockdown lasts for a week or two, I'll never catch up."

Nodding, he unlocked the door and let me retrieve my books. The lockdown lasted three weeks but I stayed on schedule. From then on, I brought my books when I left the classroom on breaks or lunch.

Stone cleared the Small Business hurdle and I was switched on to school. Stone enrolled in Marketing while I added up the cost of books to complete my Associate's Degree, the final total was just about 3,500 dollars. Inexpensive for a two-year degree, but my eighteen cents an hour wasn't going to cover it.

At the final exams, Miss Mills asked students to donate their books for use by other prisoners next term. No one did but it gave me an idea. I got at some students and we agreed to trade books, and I also bought them at a discount. Sometimes that didn't workout too well.

Twisted had a 145 dollar Psychology text I needed and offered in trade a history book.

"No," he said. "I'm through with college."

"I'll buy the book."

"It's worth 145 dollars."

"No, it cost at the book store 145 dollars. If you try to sell it back to them, they will discount forty percent for books in mint condition and of course you have to pay shipping. lf you have court ordered fines, the prison will deduct fifty five percent from the cheque when it gets here. I’ll pay you twenty five dollars in canteen for your book."

We negotiated for a while and agreed on thirty-five dollars canteen. Twisted gave me a list and I went to the prison store and bought his items. But when I got back to him, he went sideways and wanted more.

"We had a deal."

"Thirty five isn't enough."

"Look, Twisted, the publishers have figured out if they come out with a new edition every year or two the old books are worthless and they can sell new ones to students. If you half step, your book might not be worth anything."

Not hearing me, Twisted killed the deal. When the new college catalog came out his book was out of date and no one wanted it.

At the next G.E.D. test, four of our students passed including Frey. Trejano failed and was reassigned to an English as a Second Language class which made no sense since his English was fine. New students filled the empty slots, and only one out of the twenty-seven students were actively preparing for the next G.E.D. exam. The rest went to break and didn't come back which was cool with me but drove Officer Cope nuts. He would have to go out to the yard and hunt students down. The new students stole pencils, paper, folders, books, some things they took, couldn't figure out what they wanted with them. The Captain walked by one day and caught two of our students hanging in the hallway staring out the window, he radioed Cope to come escort them back to class.

"Hunter, what the hell were these two doing out in the hallway?!"

"I've got no idea, Officer Cope."

"I just got my ass chewed."

"All right," I said but didn't have a clue what I could do about anything.

"I'm tired of herding cats," I complained to Miss Mills. "Trying to educate everyone makes no sense; people have to want to learn. Can't we just unassign everyone who won't study and start over with new students?"

"Can't unassign the students, but we can unassign ourselves. I'll be teaching a Pre-Release class for prisoners about to parole. I'll rotate each week to a different yard to teach, but my office will be on this yard. How would you like to be my clerk?"

"Cool."

"I'm only authorized one clerk, so Lopez will stay here and help the new teacher."

"We're kind of messing him over."

"He's paroling soon, so it won't be much longer for him. Lopez needs to go home, he has the cutest little boy who looks just like him."

I walked to work with Lopez everyday but had no idea he had a boy, much less what he looked like. Miss Mills seemed to be on top of everything.

Pre-Release was fantastic, everyday I went to an office, plugged my headphones into my computer and rocked out while putting together Parole Information Packets tailored to each parolees needs. I did Lopez's parole packet and later on, Stone Cold's.

Most days Miss Mills was away in a classroom and I worked alone, but sometimes she was in the office at a desk near mine. One day she was there and I had my headphones on rocking to Led Zeppelin at full volume while typing resumes for men about to be released when the door to the office crashed open and caught my eyes. A guard stormed in, our eyes locked together, and he started to run towards me followed by several more guards. Startled, I pulled off my headphones and heard the alarm. Suddenly, Miss Mills ran past me shouting, "I sat on my alarm button. False alarm! I sat on my alarm button."

Breaking off his run, the guard snapped at me, "When there's an alarm, sit on the floor."

They were about to kick my butt; the thought spun a time or two through my cranium chilling me. I didn't try to explain I hadn't heard the alarm, I simply said, "Yes, sir."

I turned down the volume from then on.

Waiting outside a classroom one morning to take a Philosophy final in Ethics, two cellies, Golden and Rundle, asked me to look over a practice test, they were a bit vague about where it had come from. Just like a real final, it had a hundred questions. Eleven of their answers I knew were wrong, and I was able to correct eight of them, but was unsure of the other three.

Miss Mills arrive, unlocked the classroom and passed out the exams. Looking at the first question, I laughed; the test was identical to the one I had just reviewed. Since I didn't look at any reference material after viewing the so-called practice exam, I didn't think I'd cheated. I received a 98 on the final.

"Why are you cheating?" I asked Golden and Rundle later, truly mystified why anyone would spend so much money on books just to cheat.

"We need passing grades for the parole board."

Since I'm Life Without Possibility of Parole, I have the luxury of taking classes just for my head.

Budget Cuts eliminated Pre-Release class, Miss Mills was assigned a G.E.D. class on another yard. I was unemployed except for my two hours a week as the college clerk. I still saw Miss Mills at registration, handed out the college books for her, and she proctored the exams.

A few months went by before I was assigned to Office Services and Related Technology class as a student.

"I'm not really interested in studying the Business Communication text or learning Power Point," I told Mrs. Cohen "Okay, if I just bring my college books to class?"

"Learning is learning," she said and let me use the computers to type my papers.

I was in Office Services for a year, and I was able to take five to six classes a semester.

Finally, I finished sixty units and sent in my Intent to Graduate petition and soon after a very small diploma came to my cell.

Not really a big deal, just one of the biggest in my entire life.

-The End-

Michael Wayne Hunter C83600
Pleasant Valley State Prison
P.O. Box 8500, A-5-206
Coalinga, CA 93210

Letter to a Future Death Row Inmate, Part 22

2011-10-12T13:08:00.000-07:00

by Rodrigo "H. Roc" Hernandez #999474

Part 21 can be seen here

Dear X,

My name is Rodrigo Hernandez, coming at you live from DeathWatch, slated to be killed by the State of Texas on January 26th, 20I2.

I was born in Crystal City, Texas, where I was raised by my grandmother. In I984, she moved me and my sister to Grand Rapids, Michigan. I am currently 38 years old, and the father of three daughters, all by three different women. Many here know me as H.Roc. l got this name as soon as I arrived. This sort of happens to everyone, so don’t get surprised when you pick up a nickname yourself. Its best just to roll with it, cuz if you get one you don’t like and you let people know it, it will only stick harder.

What defines me here through my journey is my Art. I'm the baddest artist on the Row. The 'key 'thing here is that one has to try to carry oneself with dignity. When I first was handed down the death sentence I made up my mind to mentally remove myself from that sentence. I did this in three ways: first, I dedicated myself to my family. Second, I tried to shield my daughters from what the state is trying to do with me. They simply shouldn’t have to deal with such horror. Third, I tried to surround myself with a strong support group. You are going to need this group to feed you the positive energy you are going to need in order to survive. Whatever skills you have apply them to what works for you; make detailed plans on how you intend to live back here, and stick to them. It will be difficult at times, but this is all about how strong you are mentally.

I don't know much about the law here in Texas, but I know having a lawyer appointed by the courts is a bad thing. Nine outta ten are in it for the money, and won’t shed a tear over your corpse. You will meet fellow inmates who can help you understand the law and you should start on this immediately.

Many come here with broken relationships with their family, and you will need to concentrate on fixing this. Even if you think there is no hope, you should at least try. There will be information available from other inmates on penpal organizations for death row inmates. You should reach out to these organizations and establish a group of people that will help you raise money for your defense fund. Don't rely on the state to give you the investigations that you need. Honesty is the key to long friendships, so don’t go thinking you won’t get caught it you play games with these. people. It happens a lot around here and it ruins it for those of us really trying to be honorable. Don’t take their help for granted. This seems simple but you wouldn’t believe some of the stories I have heard in my time. I have been blessed with the right people in my circle, and with my artistic talent. Family is the cornerstone of your survival in this harsh environment.

Stay active and do your exercises. This place can make you depressed real quick, and the next thing you realize is that you are over weight and have high blood pressure. Get motivated and this will make you feel great inside at heart and you’ll be on another level mentally. The food here is the best (haha), so it you get some support you need to spend that money wisely and eat healthy.

Don’t be a follower in here unless you are weak-minded. There's some bad people in here that love to have a pack behind them, but that will not benefit you any. Remember you are here to die so your focus should be on saving your life. Think about how you want to be remembered or you’ll waste your time away.

I pray no one heads down this road, and finds themselves in a terrible place with no hope. This aint up to no one but you. You pave your own road in here and you run your life, not the state. Either you will make it peaceful on yourself or the oppression will overtake your mind and the results can be a hard journey. It’s up to you!

Remember, I didn’t have to give you any advice on this. Go learn the hard way, right? Because growing up that was what we all heard all of the time: go learn the hard way. Forget that. Today you will tell yourself what will I do to save my life, or you give up any chance of surviving. There are people who care about you, my friend. Be real with yourself. What represents me is this: Hold My Own. Stay prayed up, keep positive energy in your life, and at the same time stand up tor yourself. May God bless you, X! I am in here with my head held high, and whatever awaits me I"II keep it to the sky. Peace,

Rodrigo Rey Hernandez
AKA H.Roc

Pharma Bliss

2011-09-29T14:59:00.000-07:00

by Michael Wayne Hunter

Awaking, my eyes red, tearing from pepper spray, I pulled myself slowly from my sleep rack. Stumbling to the stainless steel sink, I flooded my face with water, trying to wash away some of the chemical sting. Mirror reflected my swollen features and a half empty cell. My cellie had been locked inside the hole last night.

Yesterday, our housing unit clerk had dropped by the door and said, "Jack, your move's in. Going down after Count.

"What move? I wondered.

Silence reigned for awhile, filling the cell, suffocating atmosphere surrounded us. Finally, Jack said slowly in a semi-apologetic voice, "My homeboy, Biker Tony, is kidnapping me." In a rush, he added, "I'll refuse the move and stay if you want."

"Get out."

With no head's up, I hadn't recruited a new cellie and would be stuck with whatever unrepentant felon Orientation cut loose.

As Jack carried his belongings from the cell, Fearless Phil flew over and begged to move in. I had done time with Fearless at Salinas, so there was a familiarity but nothing more. Still, I had no one else in mind, so I nodded, got at the housing unit clerk and gave him a jar of Folgers Classic Roast to make it happen.

Unpacking, Fearless started ranting about Dirt Bag, his former cellie. Seemed that Fearless had given Dirt Bag a dozen Ramen soups for a tab of Seroquel, anti-psychotic medication, but he hadn't delivered.

"Stupid ass Dirt Bag let the nurse check his mouth and caught him cheeking."
"Can't imagine how anyone would think someone nicknamed Dirt Bag would burn you."
"Shut up, Mike."
"Shut me the fuck up, Fearless. I'm only going to tell you once. The cell is the sanctuary. Leave all the madness outside."
"He owes me a tab."
"Seroquel doesn't even get you high. Just knocks you out for hours."
"I like it."
"I'd like to live with Rene, but I'm stuck with your sorry ass. Reality bites, Fearless."
"Not going to let him burn me."
"Here's your soups," I pulled a dozen from my shelf and tossed them on his bunk. "Now just chill."

In the chow hall at dinner, Fearless shouted threats at Dirt Bag sitting a few rows of tables away.

"Stop telling!" I got at Fearless semi-tough.
"Not telling, jus' handling bizness."
"The cops can hear you so it’s telling."

Fearless ate in a sullen silence, our table was released and just as we cleared the exit Dirt Bag came out of nowhere and busted Fearless' nose.

Alarm. Guards swarmed, drenching Dirt Bag and Fearless with pepper spray, coating them orange. Fearless and Dirt Bag proned out for handcuffs, but not before the overspray found my eyes.

On the ground, frantically blinking, I heard Fearless mutter, "Ain't over."

Glancing over, I saw Fearless nose geysering blood, mixing with orange spray in nightmarish abstract expressionism. Stop telling, I thought angrily, trying not to rub my burning eyes.

"I'll be back, Mike," Fearless added, drawing guards' attention to me.
Not Fearless, Brainless.
"You." A guard pointed at me. "Hands behind your back."
Handcuffed, I was marched and locked inside a cage.

An hour, two and then three dragged by before the sergeant reviewed the video from the yard cameras and cleared me. Unlocked, I went home, packed Fearless' belongings after taking back my soups. Fearless was ticketed for the hole.

Now, the morning after, I wondered what loser I'd cell with next. Fearless surely wasn't worth the jar of coffee I'd spent to move his Seroquel craving ass inside the house.

At early chow release for Education, I met up with Stone Cold, another prisoner I'd done time with at Salinas.

"I coulda told you Fearless was no good," he said as we headed towards the dining hall.
"Thanks but you’re late with that News flash."
"Jack wants to move back in."
"What? Why? He just moved out."
"Last night Biker Tony cooked up a tab of morphine and spiked a vein. Oh, yeah, he stole a jar of Folgers off Jack's shelf to pay for the high. Jack's freaking."
"Jack's always freaking." I shrugged. "His last cellie was always trying to touch his butt, so Jack literally begged me to move in and then bailed with no notice."
"Take him back. Why not? Don't got no one else in mind."
"Nope. Don't like bad manners, Jack can stay where he's at."

After breakfast, we grabbed bag lunches and Stone Cold went to class while I stopped at the medical clinic to pick up a thirty day supply of cholesterol medication. The pill line stretches a long ways, prisoners who receive controlled medication, psych or pain meds, have to take their pills under direct observation of medical staff. The nurses wage a losing battle trying to prevent felons from palming or cheeking Pharma Bliss, any tab that delivers a high.

"Got a guy who gives me three Neurotins a day for forty-five dollars canteen a month," a prisoner in line in front of me said to another. "I never feel any pain. Just float."

Forty-five dollars a month, I did the math, is over five hundred a year. The education clerks make twenty-seven dollars a month, hell the Captain's clerk makes fifty-six, some guy is making almost that much just by selling his medication.

"Man, wish I could get a deal like that!" the other prisoner responded. "I pay a dollar a pill."

That's more than a thousand a year, my mind half-blew. More than any pay number on the yard and no deductions for court ordered fines.

Alarm. We all sat down, and the guards jacked the prisoner at the medication window against the wall. Yanking a dental partial from his mouth, a morphine tab was stuck to it by a glob of peanut butter.

"Damn!" someone said. "Morphine pills go for ten dollars. There goes a helluva pay number."

Not even waiting for the alarm to clear, unstable, volatile pill heads all around me were talking deals, selling, trading medication. No way to eliminate the meds, I reflected, insanity and violence are part of the gangster lifestyle. Psych meds are prescribed for the craziness, pain pills for the felons that have been shot, stabbed, hurt due to reckless lives.

Why don't they just give everyone whatever pills they want? I wondered. That would kill the pill trade and calm everyone down.

Alarm over. We stood up, and the line started again. Eventually, I picked up my Lipitor and went to school.

Taking a math assignment off Mr. Yaz's desk, I took my usual seat. Stone Cold ruled our table. Do your work or go away. Stone's sons, teenagers, had sent some harsh letters, angry he'd fallen twice for running Meth labs. Lately, his boys had been acting out, not listening to their mother and cutting school. Stone had never graduated from anything except maximum security prison, so now he was grimly determined to master enough algebra and geometry to pass the G.E.D. He thought a diploma might give him a bit of moral equity with his sons when he paroled next year. Rounding out the table was Speck, a Kentucky hillbilly, who talked real dumb but wasn't even a little bit, and Lucky, a Sacramento gangbanger. I'd met Lucky's mom in the visiting room, and she had thanked me for helping him study. Although I do help him some, mostly I tutored Stone and Speck worked with Lucky.

Still tired, irritable from Fearless drama, I was showing Stone how to calculate the volume of different geometric forms, but Speck kept interrupting, hitting me with math questions about material he had easily handled in days past.

"Just wait, Speck," I cut him off and tried to get back in the flow with Stone.
"I don't get it, Mike, I need to know how..."
"What are you? Stupid today?!" I snapped.
Eyes flashing, Speck kicked his chair back and walked.
"What's his problem?" I muttered grumpily.
"He's spinning on Wellbies," Lucky clued me.
I went after him. "Hey, Speck, I'm sorry I..."
Harshly, Speck said, "We're s'pose to be friends."
"Thought you were clowning, and I m not in the mood. Didn’t know you been snorting pills."
"Not on pills," Speck denied.
"Hell, Speck," Stone Cold joined us, "still got some of the powder stuck to your nose."
Running his fingers over his nostrils, Speck saw white residue and silently nodded.
We went back to the table. "Mike's so damn innocent," Lucky said lightly, "he don't know a damn thing about getting ill."
"I was drunk for three years straight at San Quentin," I laid out some truth.
"No way."
"Had batches of wine going everyday. Bought caps of weed, papers of coke and speed. Never did heroin. Stuff scares me."
"What happened?"
"Long story."
"Go ahead and tell it," Stone rasped, but tell it short. Math is waiting."

"In '91, some guy on the yard put hands on me, and I put the smash down. Cracked him in the head, drove him into the ground and stomped him out before the gun officer snapped and racked his rifle on me. The guy was concussed and bleeding when he crawled to the sallyport."

"That's right," Stone said with approval.

"Broke my right hand on his skull, so I had a quick stop at medical, but no doctor was on duty so all I got was an aspirin and an Ace bandage. The cell they planted me in the hole had a crazy guy living there before me. He had blown the power, so the cell was pretty dark. The inside of the cell was eerie, the walls were moving, kind of waving really."

"What?"
"Yeah. The nut had smeared shit on the walls, all kinds of insects were crawling all over it."
"That's way, way out."
"Guess he'd been flooding, so the cops had shutoff the water. The toilet had stuff growing out of it. Anyway, I just sat on a filthy mattress in the dark in that sewer of a cell feeling my hand swell, thinking about how I got there. I blamed the guy I'd hit, I was planning in detail how I was going to rain some pain on his sorry ass."

"When someone puts hands on you," Stone stated, "got to put them down."

"That's what I thought for the first few hours. But early in the morning when the pain in my hand hit ten on the ten scale, I started thinking about all my interactions with that guy. All the missed opportunities, all the times I talked with him and coulda cooled things out but didn't. I'd been arrogant, stupid, the chemicals had dumbed me down. That's when I had a moment of clarity, an epiphany, that's the moment I stopped chasing Pharma Bliss."

"And now you're perfect," Speck said sarcastically, still a bit butt hurt with me.
"It's not about perfection," I was more abrupt than I meant to be, weary from last night, "it's about doing better. When I got off mind altering substances, my life slowly improved. Rene came into my life, and she makes me happier than any drug."
"Sure," Stone said impatient to start studying, "you and Rene will be together 'til one of you dies and then the other will die right after. Eternity together. But right here, right now, we need to do math."

All four of us together worked through the exercises. Breaking for lunch, we came back for individual computer instructions in the afternoon. Calling me up to his desk, Mr. Yaz asked, "Are you taking the G.E.D. this time?"
"I've only been in class a few weeks, I thought I'd wait until the next cycle."
"That's not for six more months."
"I'm a lifer, so there's no hurry. I get visits, so the weekends and holidays off in Education fits my schedule."
"A new class is starting up in the empty classroom next door. The teacher needs two Teacher's Aides. The positions pay eighteen cents an hour and you would still have weekends and holidays off. Interested?"
"Thought I had to have my G.E.D. to be assigned a job."
"You'll pass."
Thinking it over for a second, I said, "I'll give it a shot."
"I'll put your name in for an interview."
"Thanks, Mr. Yaz."
My table called me a traitor, thought I was abandoning them.
"I might not get the job."
"You'll get it," Stone said glumly.
"If I do get it, I'll be right next door. Get a pass, I'll tutor you over there."
They still weren't happy with me.
Chilling in my cell, fading early, my door popped open and Officer Gonzales appeared escorting a prisoner carrying a television set. The convict was in his mid-twenties, five foot seven or eight, lean, head shaven, sporting a droopy Pancho Villa mustache.
Glancing at me, the prisoner muttered to Gonzales, "I want to cell with my own race."
Startled, studying the cell move form, Gonzales asked, "What race are you?"
"Raza."
"But your name’s Samson."
"Raza," Samson repeated firmly.
"Uh, it's late, I have to house you before Count. Just move in and we'll figure this out tomorrow."
Samson stood like a rock, face impassive, didn't seem like he was going to reply or move. Ever. It was kind of awesome.
"Gonzo," I spoke up. "We got your word you will move him with a Hispanic tomorrow?"
"You do."
"If you half-step, everytime I see you I'll be calling you a liar. It's going to get ugly, it's going to be all bad."
"Got my word."
Samson moved in and started to set up his TV, but I was asleep before he finished, and he was still asleep when I left at Education release the next morning to meet up with Stone for breakfast.

On the yard outside of Education, Joey Mac, reeking of solvent, approached Stone Cold.
"Huffing?" Stone questioned.
Nodding, Joey Mac pulled a wash cloth from his back pocket, buried his nose and inhaled.
"Just being close to you is making me light headed," I complained and edged away. "Where did you get that stuff?"
"Got a job in the laundry. Dry cleaning chemicals kick my butt," Joey Mac answered in a half-dazed voice.
"You got to go before the Education Officer gets here," Stone said sternly.
"Got some whiskey for Speck," Joey Mac pulled an eight ounce plastic bottle from his pants. "Burned it last night."
Snatching the bottle from Joey Mac's hands, Stone told him to go before the cops snap to him.
"Just pour it out," I advised Stone.
"It's ten dollars," Stone replied. "Have to deliver it, but Speck has to go home. Tell Mr. Yaz he's sick."
Speck showed, cradled the bottle and went home to get ill.

Mid-morning, Mr. Yaz sent me to be interviewed. As I walked in, I heard Mrs. Lopez, the Vice-Principal, say about the last interviewee, "He'd be good, but we can't hire a first-termer for this position. The class won't respect him."
"I'm a first-termer."
"Twenty-two years in custody, eighteen of them on Death Row is a long first term," she answered. "I don't think the students will terrorize you."
"This's Miss Mills," Mrs. Lopez introduced a sunny, pretty woman.
"I've already hired a clerk to take care of the student files," Miss Mills said, "but I need a tutor."
"I can tutor."
"Yes, Mr. Yaz said you would be good. I need to know if you have any problem tutoring non-white students."
Shrugging. "I'll tutor anyone who wants to learn."
Interview over, I went back to class but didn't know if I had the job.

Officer Cope, the Education Officer, let me takeoff early at shift change, so I could get at Gonzo about Samson's cell move. Falling by my cell first to see if Samson had found a place he wanted to go, I saw that he had completely unpacked, scrubbed the cell, and had even woven and put up new clotheslines. Still a prison cell but a quantum leap better.

"Hey, Mike," Samson swung down from the top bunk like a gymnast. "Saw two of my homies at dayroom, Flaco and Chato. Those two knuckleheads said you lived half your life on Death Row and I couldn't find a better cellie. Mind if I just hang here?"

Chato and Flaco were a couple of characters, two of the biggest winemakers on the yard. But they had always been respectful to me and I kinda liked them.
"No alcohol in the house," I warned.
"Don't drink. Call me Happy."
Happy and I walked to dinner with Chato and Flaco, but our table had only three open seats so Happy bounced to the next one.
"Happy's father is a legend in our barrio," Chato clued me. "The feds caught up to him a few years back and he's doing all day in a super max."
"Samson is Mexican? How does that work?"
"Happy's Dad's half-Portugese, half-Mexican, but his Mom’s all Raza.
Her whole family is in the life. When we were kids, Happy maybe ten or eleven years old, his uncles used to load up his backpack with guns and dope and send him on the city bus to make deliveries. The cops don’t trip on a kid wearing a smiley face backpack."

After dinner, I kicked it with Happy as he built shelves with cardboard and glue he'd conjured from somewhere and attached them to the wall over the sink for our razors and toothbrushes.

"You got the job," Mr. Yaz said the next morning. "You're next door from now on."

Another prisoner and Officer Cope were in the hallway. "Hunter," Officer Cope said, "you and Tracy will always go in the classroom before the students. You will always wait until the classroom is clear of students before you leave, and then the two of you will leave together. Neither of you is to ever be alone with Miss Mills. If one of you steps out when no students are present, the other one will step out as well. Clear?"

Nodding, we entered the classroom and Miss Mills said the students would be reporting the next day. Tracy placed his desk adjacent to Miss Mills' desk and started putting together student files while chatting away with Miss Mills like old friends. Tasked with putting together lessons that conformed to the curriculum, an easy chore since I'd been studying them the past weeks, I thought about the meaning behind Officer Cope's words and setup my desk and computer as faraway from Miss Mills as possible.

After lunch, Tracy showed me how to maintain the student files. Seemed pretty easy especially since he told me that due to California's budget woes no one ever audited.

Leaving school with Stone, we spun a few laps on the yard before taking it home. "That’s my new cellie," I pointed to Happy, one of the few non-blacks on the basketball court. Six inches shorter than anyone else, he was a beast. Drilling three pointers from way outside when they finally came out to guard him he'd blow by and lay it in the hoop.

"He's not white," Stone objected.
"Part, but mostly Mexican. Northern structure."
"Watch yourself," Stone Cold advised.
In the morning before class, Miss Mills spoke to me. "Two of our students have exceptionally high test scores, I want you to spend an hour a day with them."
Studying their student files, I said slowly, "One's Mexican, the other one is white."
"I thought that wasn't a problem with you?" she said sweetly.
"Not with me, but maybe with them. Will they work together?"
"I'll talk to them," Miss Mills said confidently. "I imagine this's a lot different for you than Death Row. Everything okay with you?"

After living in the more than one hundred year old dungeons of San Quentin, escorted everywhere in chains by two guards, venturing off to a desk and computer to work for Miss Mills was an entirely different existence. But life really isn't all that bad on Death Row, as long as you can accept that every so often they're going to kill one of your friends and perhaps one day you as well. But I knew I couldn't explain any of that to Miss Mills, it's not that she was unintelligent it was just beyond the universe she lived within.

"Thank you. I'm fine," I answered.

When the class came and started their assignments, Miss Mills called Lopez and Adams to her desk. She simply smiled and told them they had a special opportunity and sent them to me. I found that Miss Mills used niceness as a weapon, she'd fix her eyes on someone, talk to them as if what she was asking was as natural as the sun rising in the East. Eventually, the most hard core gangster would cave and bend to her will. I started working with Lopez and Adams, they found the things they had in common: music, sports, tattoos were more important than their different races. They were smart and they were easy to tutor.

Tracy started hanging back when it was time for break or lunch.
"We're s'pose to go," I'd tell him.
"No, it's okay," he'd answer and stay.
"Where's Tracy?" Officer Cope would ask me.
"You know where he is," I'd answer without stopping and then would go hang with Stone.

After work I was jumping in the shower when a three-on-three brawl, three whites on three Mexicans, broke out in the dayroom, a dispute over who was next on the phone. All six went to the hole.

With the three white guys gone, no whites celled within four doors of me. When I stepped out to dinner, no one spoke to me, no one was meeting my eyes. Now wary, I kept my head on a swivel, looking for trouble.

"What's wrong?" Happy wondered.
"What do you think is wrong?" I mumbled.
Snapping to the tension, Happy immediately called Flaco and Chato over and told them to stay with me. Walking to every cell around us, he told the convicts if anything happened to me he'd put steel in them.
"Everyone likes Death Row Mike," Happy reported back, "they just thought you might be tripping about your homies going to the hole."
"Not my homies, bunch of losers wrecking over a damn phone. Guess what? No phones in the hole."

Over the next day or two, everyone in the cells around us came by to chat. Nothing substantial was said, just I'm okay -- you're okay. Tension bled away.

Tracy met me in front of Education one morning, he looked like he was going to cry. The Security Squad had gaffled him to an interview, he was under investigation for overfamilarity with staff and been unassigned from the Teacher's Aide position.

"Dumb ass," Stone stated his opinion.
I went to see Officer Cope. "Should I go into class alone?"
"Go ahead this once," he replied, "but keep it professional."
I nodded, hoping he didn't know about the home baked chocolate chip cookies that magically appeared in my desk from time to time.
"We need a new clerk," Miss Mills said brightly, she seemed totally unaffected by Tracy's departure.
"How about Lopez? He's doing really good work."
"He doesn't have his G.E.D."
"I don't either according to my prison file, but we'll both have it soon. Look, Miss Mills, I know you don't think this way, but our class has nineteen Hispanic students and they'd like to have a clerk they feel comfortable to get at if they have a problem."
"They can talk to me."
"Yes, and they like you. But if I were you I’d hire Lopez."

A little while later, Miss Mills called Lopez to her desk, offered him the job and he accepted.
"Are you moving to Tracy's desk?" Lopez asked me.
"No, it's all yours. I'm staying right here."
"I don't want to be investigated like Tracy."
"Don't hang in the classroom alone with Miss Mills, and you'll be fine
After going through the student files with Lopez, I went to lunch.
"Don't know if it's true," Stone Cold said seriously, "but the word is Speck's dead."
"What?"
"Heard he took a handful of pills last night, overdosed and died. Wasn’t in school today."
"Let’s get at a Program clerk, they should know what's up."
"The cops aren't s'pose to know about it yet, guess he's just lying on his bunk under the blankets."

Sitting on a bench eating lunch, felons kept coming by to tell us about Speck. Wasn't sure if it was true. If you don't hear a rumor by noon, start one, is the convict code.

Finishing lunch, we spun laps in the bright sunshine, it's about a quarter mile all around and takes five minutes. Happy was on the roundball court as usual, just wearing people out.

"Watch your cellie," Stone warned.
"Why? He's been a great cellie, clean, respectful, he's got my back."
"The vato locos idolize him, he's got to have something going on."
"You're trippin'. We're not in Salinas anymore, this's weak ass Pleasant Valley. It's all good."

Alarm. We all got down. Guards went into Speck's housing unit. A half hour went by and they didn't bring the yard back up. Eventually, we were simply ordered to get off the ground and go home.

We were cell fed dinner, and then the prisoners on the Men's Advisory Council hit cell doors to let us know Speck had taken more than seventy pills and died. Speck had left a suicide note, among other things he wrote who he had bought the pills from and how much he had paid for them.

We were locked down for a few days for the investigation, more than a few pill sellers were gaffled to the hole. Medical staff started crushing the pills and floating them in water to prevent the palming and cheeking.
Sure were a whole lot of angry felons when the psych and pain medication market went away.

"With that stuff gone, street drug prices will go sky high," Happy murmured, but I didn't really get what he was talking about.

On a Saturday morning, I was getting ready to visit Rene when Happy said off-handedly, "Flaco and Chato have visits too. Don't let the homies bother you and your girl. Tell them I said for them to stay away from you."
"Sure."
Waiting to be searched before my visit, I passed on Happy's message and expected them to laugh. But they just nodded in a serious way.
When I can see, touch, breathe Rene, it's like a bubble envelops us. I'm really unaware of everything around us.
Exiting from my visit at three and stepping onto the yard, Stone Cold asked me about Flaco and Chato being escorted by the Security Squad from Visiting to the hole.

"1 missed it," I confessed.
"Program clerks told me they're on the way to contraband watch, guess the cops think they're full of drug balloons."
"I'll go tell Happy."
"Squad took Happy too."

When I got back, my cell was half empty again. Slumping on my bunk, I waited for whatever came next.

-THE END-

Michael Wayne Hunter C83600
Pleasant Valley State Prison
P.O. Box 8500, A-5-206
Coalinga, CA 93210

© Copyright 2011 by Michael Wayne Hunter and Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved

And Besides I Gave Them Fire

2011-09-21T13:08:00.000-07:00

The blogosphere is a desperate, grasping realm, I tell you. No matter how pathologically self-absorbed you are, no one has a life sufficiently interesting to set under the spotlights at public scrutiny day in, day out. Before long, one begins to cast sidelong glances at other sites, other lives, in an attempt to stay relevant. From there, it is a short step to the place where you are co-opting pretty much any subject you can latch on to, in a desperate attempt to keep one's hit counts up. It’s a pathetic existence.

I don’t know how other bloggers do it. Maybe with access to constant news feeds, tweets, and Facebook, finding topics to write about becomes a straight forward task. I suspect that if they were to find themselves locked into their closets for a decade or two, they would quickly grow bored with the chore of penning articles on the subject of shoes, jackets, and lint. The introduction of a moth into the environment would be headline news, of course, and perhaps it would be a blessing not to be witnesses to the collective yawning going on in the ranks at the readership. Trust me, I get it. No matter how bored you get with me, I am way ahead of you on this one.

What you end up doing is performing a sort of Jungian or archetypal critique of one's life and the world around you, looking for recurring themes. Hmm, you say, that is sort of similar to that, and this looks kind of like that other thing, too. It there are enough links in the chain, the thing might be worth writing about, and - even better - it might be important enough to actually transcend the walls of this carcerian nightmare to impact the life of someone in the freeworld. Still, you have to be careful. Relevance is relative. No matter how omnipresent the appalling odors are that waft over from my neighbors cell, they clearly mean nothing to you. Relatable themes are, to be frank, seemingly rare.

And sometimes they just happen. As I write, I am listening to Amy Goodman, host of DEMOCRACY NOW, live from the state of Georgia. She is on the scene at what could be a seminal moment in the history at the death penalty, the execution of the demonstrably innocent Troy Anthony Davis

(If you don’t know the case, you SHOULD; pull your head out of the sand for a moment and give it a once over. It's not that Mr. Davis has a case that is any better or worse than many; men are executed in the state of Texas on similar paltry levels of evidence all of the time. What is different here is the attention Mr. Davis has gotten. It is safe to say that he is one of the most well supported inmates in prison anywhere. (It you do not know the DEMOCRACY NOW program, you ought to check it out. The embedded media doesn't dumb its stories down. No, they already assume you are incapable of rational thought, and stay away from "difficult" stories altogether. Thirty or sixty seconds is not enough time to even begin discussing the problems that confront us as a people. We all know that. So why let these corporations dictate to you the information you receive? DEMOCRACY NOW has no commercials. No program on the Pacifica Radio Network does, and there are therefore no corporate strings attached to any story. They spend the first 15 minutes of the program on the headlines, and then the next 45 discussing one or two stories in detail, really digging into the meat of the issue. You probably won’t ever go back to the other "news" CHANNELS again, once you have, tasted this fare.)

About fifteen minutes ago, a cheer went up amongst the more than one thousand protestors gathered outside of the prison, and it was assumed that a stay had been granted. "Then, swiftest of all evils, Rumor runs straightway through Libya's mighty cities - Rumor, whose life is speed, whose going gives her force. Timid and small at first, she soon lifts up her body in the air. She stalks the ground; her head is hidden in the clouds." Those were a few of the many lines Virgil used in the Aeneid, on the subject of rumors and they fit the situation pretty closely for a few minutes later, reality intruded - as it so often rudely does - and the jubilation turned to despair. I've seen this story, this archetype, before. Only last week, Texas inmate Duane Buck's execution was put on temporary hold (a "reprieve," in the parlance of the legal world, and quite a different thing from a "stay"), and his crowd of supporters outside at the Walls Unit in Huntsville reacted in the same way, with singing and dancing in the street, and with much praising of the Lord. In Buck's case, the letdown was only temporary, as the SCOTUS did eventually grant him a stay, but the same sense of anticlimax pervaded my mind then, as now.

Back to waiting, to hoping, then, for Mr. Davis. "Hope," wrote a good friend of mine from Tennessee recently, “is a real dirty bastard." I second the motion. My relationship with the concept is a contused one. I love her desperately, and when she shows up late on my doorstep smelling of booze and cigarette smoke and cheap motels, my heart folds and I take her back in, wash the grime out of her hair and hold her through the DT’s. A few nights later, she is gone, and friends tell me they have seen her at the bar with a gang of tattooed bikers. I hate her, but I also know that I cannot say no to her.

I think that the ancient Greeks would have agreed with me. The myth on the origin of hope is a pretty interesting one, and might be worth you time to inspect in detail. Much like their dusty desert contemporaries the Jews, the Greeks blamed pretty much all of the evils in the world on woman. It doesn't really matter what all of the exact details are of the myth for this discussion (because of course all religious myths at origin have long since been proven to be laughably false) but, basically, Zeus (the Greek version of Yawweh) got pissy about Prometheus (the very first humanist, and the archetype for the divine or heroic tricksters like Hermes and Odysseus) stealing "the fire of the gods" (a metaphor for knowledge and science and art and everything else that makes life worth living). In order to get back at humans for this act (which was in no way their fault, and is reminiscent of the stupidity at placing the "Do Not Eat Me" tree in the garden), Zeus ordered Hephaestus to make woman, and Pallas Athena and Aphrodite pitched in to make her pretty and talented. Finally, Hermes was ordered to put in her “the mind of a bitch and the character of a thief.” Argus then ferried Pandora (Eve) to be presented to Epimetheus as a gift, along with a jar containing all of the sorrows of man. These were, naturally, released, and flew out to infect mankind. Hope, for some reason, was also included inside at this damnable container, but when it escaped, it merely perched itself "under the edge of the jar."

What was hope doing in there in the first place, It hope is a good thing, this seems a bizarre inclusion. If it is evil, why did it not fly off to wreak havoc with the other sorrows! Hesiod doesn't say (and in any case, we probably ought to be skeptical at a man who's "Eden" consisted of a world populated by nothing but men ... whether he was a misanthropist or merely a misogynist, he was clearly an idiot.) Is hope a blessing or a curse! It does help us to survive the terrors of life on earth, and fuels the reactors at our ambition. But it is also by its very character delusive and blind, oftentimes prolonging or creating misery. Aeschylus seemed to get this, and provided a curious commentary on the matter in his play Prometheus Bound:

PROMETHEUS: I stopped mortals from foreseeing their fate.
CHORUS: What sort of remedy did you find for this plague!
PROMETHEUS: I planted in them blind hopes.
CHORUS: This was a great advantage that you gave mortals.
PROMETHEUS: And besides I gave them fire.

Clearly, the ancients were plagued by the same questions, so we will probably find no clear answers from their quarter. My personal thinking is that the character of our hopes relies on how we define them. When I say, "I hope to graduate next semester," what I really mean is, "barring some unforeseen calamity, I ought to graduate next semester." This is a very different thing from saying, "despite the fact that I have no appealable issues or attorney, I hope to survive my execution date next week." Maybe once our hopes are clarified and taken out of the clouds, we will be better able to see which are actually unrealistic expectations. Maybe then we will be less controlled by them. Easier said than done, though.

The science at hope and optimism is pretty clear, though. It is a known fact in social psychology that giving people the illusion of control over positive events gives people hope, and has many positive psychological and physiological benefits. In one study by Ellen Langer and Judith Rodin (1976), the effects on the perception of control were tested in a nursing home. On one floor, residents were given increased control over various portions at their lives, such as how their rooms were arranged, what movies to watch, and were also given a plant to care for. On another floor, residents were given no such choices. Questionnaires were given out periodically, and at the start at the experiment, no appreciable differences existed between the residents on both floors. Three weeks later, the differences were immense: nurses ratings showed improving health for 93% at the patients on the increased control floor. These same ratings showed decreases in health on the other floor for 79% of patients. In a follow-up study, things got even more impressive: those living on the control floor were significantly more healthy than those living on the no control floor, and a much smaller portion of those living on the control floor died during the next eighteen months. Happiness and optimism keep you alive, even when the source of that happiness is basically illusory.

Of course, there is another side to things. We all know that the "illusion of control over positive events'" is exactly that - an illusion. Sometimes your optimism can get you killed. Sometimes it can make you wish you were dead. The choices often seem to be between a happy delusion and a depressing red-in-tooth-and-claw reality. For most of my life, I have chosen to side with the latter. It may not be pretty, I told myself, but it is better to see the world for what it is.

Of course, pessimism can be an illusion, too, especially when you are a cynicism junkie like myself. In 1975 Martin Seligman developed his theory of “learned helplessness." When people see that their responses have no effect on a problem, they can learn not to respond to any problems in their lives. During the development of this theory, Seligman did some experiments with dogs. He would stick Rex into a specially designed cage, and give it an electric shock. The dog could escape that portion of the cage in order to avoid the shock, which was always precipitated with a loud signal. Fido, of course, high-tailed it to safer ground when the alarm went off. Then, Seligman transferred Sparky to a new cage, and was confronted with a no-win situation: no matter what the dog did, it could never evade the discharge. Later, Seligman transferred the dog back to the old cage, where the pooch could avoid the charge by jumping over a small fence. Only, it never did. He just sat there and got zapped. Fido had learned that the situation was hopeless. He had learned to be helpless. This happens in people, most notably in grumps like myself. When a situation arises, we make attributions that define the situation as negative, and fail to act. Intractable problems - like a bad economy or imprisonment - can generalize to other portions of our life that we actually do have control over, leaving us overwhelmed. "It’s a hopeless mess," we say. "Why do anything?” We become helpless and never solve our problems.

Despite this, I don’t know anyone who would call me helpless or hopeless. The balance that I seem to have struck is that when it comes to issues of “mankind” (or of principles), I am cautiously optimistic. As a progressive, I hold some concept of a human utopia in my mind, and the duty of my life is to attempt to lay down one brick in the road of the path to that place. I know full well that I will never reach it from here; I can’t even see it for the hills and the trees that stand in the way. But my stone will allow the next man to take another step, where he can lay down his own. Together, our species will get there, eventually.

When it comes to people, though, in the singular or immediate sense, I lose sight of this. I don’t know how it happens, exactly. The cynic in me crawls up out at the hole, and hops up on his soapbox, and I am overwhelmed. It doesn’t make any sense to have hope in mankind but not in man, but there you go. That is where I am, and like Rex, it is hard to believe in people after so many past experiences where my faith was misplaced. This is where I am, and I don’t really know where to go from here.

I have been witness to 87 executions, 6 suicides, and 4 "natural deaths" during my time here on Death Row. Of these deaths, 13 represent men that I consider to be close friends. Have you ever lost that many friends? I think not. We had four execution dates over the last nine days; two survived, two did not. What I am saying is, I have ample opportunities for re-enforcing the neural pathways for disappointment. When it comes to the matter of Troy Anthony Davis - a matter for which we are all waiting presently for a resolution - I have no hope for him as a man. I feel terrible for his family, for his friends, for his supporters. But this ain't my first rodeo, and experience tells me that if the SCOTUS has not helped him by now, they are not going to. As a symbol, though, I see him as a great beacon of hope and progress, the tender box that might ignite the conflagration that brings this system to its knees. I see myself in the same way, to a far lesser degree: I will be dead in a year or two, but I hope that over the last 4+ years I have swayed enough at you on this issue to have infused my life and my errors with some sense of meaning and purpose. I laid down my stone, or tried to. Hopefully, you will lay down yours.

How is any of this relevant to you? You don’t know me, or Troy Davis, or Lawrence Brewer, who was executed this evening in Huntsville. The more I learn about life, the more inter-connected everything seems. It is not always easy to see this. It's even more difficult to explain this sometimes, especially when you are trying not to look like some sort of hippie.

These last few weeks, I've been listening to the Republican debates. Actually, these aren't "debates" in any sense of the word. I was on debate team in High School, and what you see on television today are actually sequential position statements, where candidates use a series of rehearsed and vetted declarations to give the illusion of actually answering the question asked. If you pay attention, you will see that seldom does this actually ever happen; the candidate just sort of takes the issue where ever he knows the safe ground to be. There are many, many things wrong with America, but listening to these debates has caused me to focus on something that I have long suspected, something that is difficult to quantify. No, I am not talking about the now infamous comment by Rick the Right-wing Sprite about EXECUTIONS. That comment - and the applause that followed it - is a tale that I have been trying to tell you for the last four years. (Though, I hope at least that you are beginning to get a glimmer of what I mean when I talk about how the entire Texas "justice” system is corrupted; two decades of Perry and Bush appointing their friends and loyal henchmen into every nook and cranny of state government has resulted in a situation where there are no honest dissenters left to oppose the party line. No one wants to lose their job, and besides, everyone thinks the same way officially, so no one is actually looking at whether a man gets a fair trial or is innocent of the crime he is charged with.) This epiphany hit me during an exchange between the moderator (I think it was Wolf Blitzer from CNN) and Texas Congressman Ron Paul (there's that TX connection again ... you people starting to receive my SIGNAL yet?), when the latter was asked what we should do if a 30-year-old man who chose not to purchase health insurance suddenly found himself in need of six months of intensive care. Mr. Paul replied that "That’s what freedom is all about - taking your own risks." When the moderator asked him to clarify, pressing him about whether he meant that "society should just let him die,” the entire crowd erupted with cheers of "Yeah!" and other affirmative shouts.

I will be honest with you. When I heard this, I turned the radio off, and then the light, and just sat there in the dark. I will admit that some less than noble thoughts permeated the ether for a few minutes, and I wrote one very depressing letter later that evening. There is no point in going into that now, but just think about what was said there for a moment. No one likes freeloaders, people gaming the system. I am all for protecting the social safety net from those wanting to take advantage of it. But ... really! Let the man die! Somehow, over about the last 30 years or so, this nation has gone on an individualism bender. We always had the potential for this, as a nation of colonists and frontiersmen (an image Perry and his ilk are only so willing to manipulate for personal gain). We have taken this tendency, and made a religion out of it “There may be no 'i' in 'team',” went the shoe commercial, "but there is one in 'winner’.” It's all about your happiness, your success. You can’t be responsible for anyone but yourself, and so forth and so on. It was brilliant, really. Conservatism used the tear of communism to gut the moral arguments against the rise of Big Business, used the fear of socialism to deal a death-blow to the unions. And yet, by any measure, we are not a happy people. Scientists actually study societal happiness, did you know that? In survey after survey, we consistently rank farther down the list than countries like Malaysia or Costa Rica. European nations absolutely trounce us. Something is amiss, and we all know this, but still we hold on to our independence, our “personal freedoms at any cost."

My humble opinion is this: when you remove a human being from the social web, when you make him king at his own destiny and arbiter of his own morality, when you make him forget that there are other people out there just like him, you leave him something less than a human being. As unhealthy as my take on hope is, it is infinitely worse to be optimistic about oneself and pessimistic about mankind, which is what the spirit of conservatism is all about. Growing up, Ernest Hemingway was one of my favorite writers. I know it is not generally considered his best work, but For Whom the Bell Tolls is my favorite book of his, probably because I see so much of myself in the protagonist Robert Jordan. Briefly, this is the tale of an American professor participating as a partizan in the Spanish Civil War, blowing up trains and bridges behind the fascist lines. On one such occasion, he is sent to utilize a small group of guerillas in destroying a bridge ahead of a major offensive. The head at this group is Pablo, a once fearsome commando now infected by fear and the love of the horses he has stolen in combat (a metaphor for wealth and prosperity). In the debate over the planning at this raid, Pablo says: “To me, now, the most important is that we be not disturbed here. To me, now, my duty is to those who are with me and to myself." Pablo would have been a fine Republican.

The title at the book comes from a quote by John Donne. It is one that I have long had memorized:

No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as it a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

Do you understand what he meant there? Really understand it, Feel it deep in your bones? He wasn’t talking in hyperbole or lofty rhetoric; there is nothing more vital or more central to the human condition than the feeling behind these words. I think that my grandparent’s generation understood this, as constrained as they were by tradition and history. They never would have launched themselves into the trenches of WW1 or WW2 if they had not, and you know we wouldn’t do the same today. FDR got it, too. All leftists do. Of my father's generation and my own, I think not. Mankind evolved to depend on each other for survival. We weren’t meant to live alone, on our own islands. When you only care about you and yours (your "in-group"), you have lost something vital to what you are. You are no longer a participant in mankind, and when mankind acts against itself, it will die, as we are dying. Today, Troy Davis has his head on the block. Taken to its conclusion, this ideology will kill us all.

Listening to these debates has caused me to remember that the word "utopia" has two meanings. The first, "good place", is the one that comes first to memory. It also means “nowhere," though. I never believed that a human utopia would be perfect, but rather a place where people have a life filled with meaning, where senseless violence and pain are abolished, where people truly care about each other. I don’t know, or claim to know, the best way to get there. But I know that the ethos behind men like Perry and Paul take us farther from those lands. They tell you this in every speech, every comment. Just pick an issue, and really think about it. It will terrify you. Somehow, Prince Rick tried to tell you that the tact that 26% of Texans not having health insurance was a good thing, while the 5% rate in Massachusetts was evil, because this had been achieved through RomneyCare. Huh? Following this, Perry gave a frightening but mostly incoherent comment on what he would do it the Taliban gained control of Pakistan's nukes. Go… look the moment up. His answer is difficult to parse, but he is basically saying that this would never happen on his watch because unlike Obama, he would have sold F-16’s', to India. First, it was India who chose not to buy the planes. Second, he is basically claiming that the solution to the problem is to encourage India to preemptively nuke Pakistan. Which, in turn, would launch their own nukes against a nation of more than a billion people, which would bathe SE Asia in nuclear fallout for generations. Maybe you are ok with that; it’s not your family being melted into the concrete, is it? But I, for one, have already seen Dr Strangelove. Ignore that bell ringing. Ignore the screams.

Do you see what I am talking about? It is hard to care about the out-at-work auto-mechanic in Detroit, but it you forget how to have solidarity with him, we will be shredded up as individuals until none of us are left. I am about as anti-religion as a person can get, but even I am willing to admit that once you have peeled back allot the layers of bullshit (and there are many), what you find at the heart of each is a core doctrine about caring for other people. It is confusing, then, to see that it is the most pious amongst us who are pushing the individualist ethos. Your Christ wasn’t THIS GUY (only an American would be stupid enough to put the words "Mercy" on a pair of boxing gloves); he would have stood against everything Perry and his ilk stand for. If there is one single thing I have learned in the last six years, it is this: learn to care for others as you do yourself, or we are all screwed.

-Later-

The state at Georgia has just murdered an innocent man in the name of justice. The mood outside of the prison is dark. There was a time in my life when I was much enamored of the philosophy of Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. With age has come a new perspective, and I now find myself mostly frowning when I hear him quoted. That said, he did say something once that is appropriate to the moment. The measure of a society, he said, is how well it transforms pain and suffering into something worthwhile. Use this moment, activists, use this man’s life and death to ignite a bonfire of change. This world is not a hopeless mess; our problems are manageable. Look at Mohamed Bouazizi, Abu-Abdel Monaam Hamedeh, and Ali Medhi Zeu: three ordinary men whose deaths have ignited a movement that is sweeping the Arab world. Look at Jan Palach, and if you don’t know who that is, look him up for heaven's sake. Stand up. Be counted. Show your goodness, and don’t ever let anyone try to tell you that empathy and compassion are inappropriate in any situation. They will try to. They will tell you to worry about yourselves. Smile at them, and tell them that you are going to worry about them. Do that, and the city behind the hill that I mentioned earlier won’t stay hidden for very long.

"The people thought their enemies were in their bosom. Each breath and rumor made them start with anxiety. Like men affrighted and in the dark, they took every figure for a spectre ... common sense, and common humanity, lost all influence over them."

-Scottish skeptic, historian, philosopher David Hume

Put your MONEY WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS.

When Perry tells you he wants to turn the United States into Texas, THIS IS WHAT HE MEANS

149's Corner - A Journal from Death Row - Entry #6

2011-09-07T20:41:00.000-07:00

by Arnold Prieto Jr #999149

"My Hard Earned A's and B's"

The first seven courses of my home schooling program are now graded and complete! A “fish" I am no longer! To those who have forgotten, a "fish" is what the other high schoolers call members of the freshman class. Stories of taunting and even hazing have been passed down to me from others who attended high school in the world. I never had such a problem, until a certain smart-assed neighbor educated me in the wide world of life under the sea. It started simply enough, with him interrupting my chats with my other neighbors: "Hey, fish, how is your school work coming along?" I sighed, and went back to work. That soon bored him (he is easily bored), and got more complicated and subtle. Soon, mention of gills and fins and limbless coldblooded vertebrates was sneaking into conversations. Sometimes he wouldn’t even be talking to me: he and a guy upstairs were talking about the power of labels and the guy disagreed, saying that a thing was a thing no matter what you called it. Thomas explained that he used to be a restaurant manager, and gave an example. He said that years ago, you couldn’t sell a customer "Patagonian toothfish” to save a life. Only after they changed the name to' "Chilean Sea Bass” did the stuff become practically endangered. I didn’t even catch it, until his eyes flicked down to my cell and his annoying little half smirk floated up for a second. Jackass. Anyways, he can make no more such jokes again for I have made 6 A's and 2 B’s to end my freshman YEAR.

It was and is a good feeling to be able to spend my time studying again. The only difference of course is that I am having to do without a teacher and having the opportunity to work at my own pace this time around. That's why I spent 9 to 12 hours straight on each course some days, carefully reading through each lesson. The courses went by faster than I expected, and faster than they had planned, but when one lives in a box one finds ample time to spend on this. And holy moly was there ever a lot of reading! After I finished reading a lesson, an assignment follows within the textbook, which I answered and graded myself. I then move on to the workbook assignment, which I answer on a scantron sheet and mail in for grading at the end of the course. Normally there are like 150 total answers on the test by the end of the course.

Dr David H Henke was the author of my Earth and Space Science course. This was probably my favorite subject. Dr Henke broke every lesson down perfectly and made science fun to learn. There were five long lessons including some lab work which I was exempted from due to the fact that if I get my hands on lab equipment they would probably shoot me. But I have a good imagination, and Dr Henke's explanations made it so that I could see what he was talking about in my head. I learned a lot with this course, but what left me with the biggest impression is this: why isn't geothermal energy used more often as a renewable natural resource in this country? I guess the issue is more complicated than this budding mind can understand, but it seems stupid not to take advantage of the power all around us.

Both the World Cultural Geography and the World History course were authored by Miss Caroline Y Grant. The World History course had 8 lessons, and the Geography class had 7. Miss Grant did a very good job explaining her lessons. Both courses were good intellectual challenges for me.

The introduction to computers course was authored by Ms Brenda Remus. It was a cool and fun course, even though I had no access to computers. I learned a lot about the different kinds of hardware and software out there, as well as how spreadsheets and databases work. This lesson had 7 lessons to it.

The Life Management Skills course was written by Dr Lina Liken-Paske. This course had 13 lessons to it and was very informative, even if not exactly written for inmates. The “life lessons" one learns back here would probably scare the good Dr Liken-Paske.

Consumer Mathematics by Mr Leon Kiston was another fun course with 10 easy-to-follow lessons. This particular course was built around today's world. In other words, the lessons had to do with everyday functions like percentages, wages, insurance, house loans, etc. Knowledge I won’t be able to use anytime soon, but nevertheless good to know and· fun to learn.

The English 1 lesson I saved for last because I didn’t really want to touch it without a ten foot pole. This lesson was written by Patrick McCann, and consisted of 6 lessons and a written assignment. I also had to do some reading and write a 500-word essay. (Thank you Dina for purchasing the book for me!) I have always disliked English classes growing up. Well, Mr McCann made it a very exciting journey. A course that I for-sure thought I'd fail and one I wished that I did not have to take ended up being a blast! As you can see, I made an "A" on this course. I am pretty proud of myself, really, because my hard work and study paid off.

The authors of my courses are actual educators, which leaves me with a sense of great accomplishment. Not only this, but a real feeling of intellectual maturity. I think others have noticed this, too, and I wonder how different this place would be if everyone were spending more time with their faces planted in a book. I know that I am a 38 year-old man, but I now feel that it is never too late to educate and better yourself.

I have also just received my next seven courses, which include: Psychology I, Sociology, Geometry, English II, Ecology, American History and Art Appreciation, History, and Criticism. So, wish me luck!

In conclusion, I want to dedicate my 3.8 to the few people who have helped me pay for these classes, especially to Monica of Sweden. I don’t even know who you are, but the forty dollars you sent me paid for an entire month of my tuition, and I really appreciate the help! I do hope that you will accept this small GIFT.

Arnold Prieto, Jr

"I don’t run into, sunsets, I seek the sunrise of the new day.”

-Me

Ah Shucks

2011-09-01T23:19:00.000-07:00

I was informed recently that the quality and character of my writings had grown tedious of late. To be sure, this loathsome adjective was sandwiched between two somewhat more positive ones, though this fact made the entire experience even worse, sort of like being told that we like having you here Thomas, it’s just that we don’t really think you fit in very well. Best of luck, though, and please have your desk cleaned out by 5 o’clock, m’kay? In all the wide world of descriptors, writers - even monotonous hacks like myself - fear no label as much as the dreaded scarlet B: boring. Dress it up in formal vestments if you like; go with "insipid" or "stale" or even "wearisome", and it doesn't change the fact that you are now the Mayor of Dullsville, and the population is about to consist of a very lonely you. Enjoy the Humdrum Square and the Central Park of Blah-di-blah, and please don’t ever bother us again, thanks.

Alas! that such a turn could ever befall me. If only I could dress my words up in full motley and make them dance a silly jig for you! Writing simply doesn't mean as much to me as it once did, and what ego I have is less invested in the process. Perhaps as I have grown older and more jaded the more I realize that words are merely wind, and I am less enamored of them than I once was. Whatever the reason, my muses have turned into whores and have mostly left me for customers who can pay better. When I do write, I am having to drag my brain along for the ride, and a sorrier, more maladjusted child of a cerebral cortex is hard for me to imagine. Are we there yet, indeed.

Fortunately, I have good friends, and in this context I mean for good to equate to "clamorous, insistent, and nagging," and if there is a three-way tautology there it was intended. They entice me with carrots and seldom resort to the stick, which is more than I deserve. They are more than I deserve. Way back in the early part of 2010, one of these friends attempted to motivate me to submit something to the annual PEN American Prison Writing Contest. This is the largest such competition in the world, each year receiving thousands of entries. I mostly just attempted to pull the covers up over my head and go back to sleep, but she kindly prodded me for awhile and then dumped a bucket of frigid water on my head. I think little of my abilities, and the whole affair seemed like a waste of time, but I eventually threw something together in an attempt to get her off my back. I figured that when PEN told me to please return to whatever hinterland hovel I had crawled out of, she would catch the hint and there would be no more talk of contests.

No such luck. I bloody WON and now her smirk can be seen from the ISS. All kidding aside, I love you Dina, and I appreciate you using the cattle prod on me. I don’t know what you or the rest of the small gang see in me, but I really do appreciate it, even if I am too big of a grump to always let you know it. Next time all of you should pick someone other than a troll to stand behind.

The contest is divided into five categories. I participated in two; the essay field and the poetry one. Before you raise your eyebrows about the poetry thing, let me say this: however little I think of my narratives and diatribes, I think far less of my poetry, which is probably why I only write it at gunpoint. Poetry just ... how shall I put this? It annoys the f- out of me, conjuring up images of anemic, fashionably pale figures dressed entirely in black and sporting berets who sit in cafes in Montmartre for hours on end bitching about the dismal fate of the Poéte Maudit or the current lack of focus on Saussurean Linguistics in the academy. Ooh la lah! Shut the bloody hell up and eat your beignet, Baudelaire, why don’t you? Me, write poetry? Never, I cried, striking a heroic pose... And then, of course, I DID. Don’t be expecting any more in the near future. Or ever, for that matter.

The submission for the essay category (which you can find below) is actually a reworking of a series of posts on this site, cleaned up and with its hair combed. It was A bit longer than PEN cared for, but they were good enough not to make me pare it down any more than it already was. I am humbled to win, really, and beyond my typical levels of self-effacement, quite pleased with myself. It has been awhile since I had anything to feel proud about, so this felt nice. Never fear, it won’t take me long to morph back in the curmudgeon that we all know. Bah humbug, etc and so forth.

First place was worth two hundred bucks which was pretty nice, too. I was already spending the cash mentally, with visions of large commissary sacks and a new pair of tennis shoes predominant. Then a pesky mosquito of the ethical variety began to buzz about my ear, and no amount of swatting or cursing at it would make it leave me be. It is true that I accept donations on this site in order to take my classes and attempt to pay for investigations that the state won’t cover. I don't take in much at all and what I do take in I dislike (even as I know I need it), But I have somewhat grown numb to the constant feeling of being a cockroach. We have these laws in place that prevent a convict from being paid for writings or movies about his crime, oftentimes referred to as the “Son of Sam" laws. Before starting this site in 2007, I studied these laws so as not to run afoul of any of them. Gifts are legal, basically while selling the rights to my story to a TV station is not. Since the essay in question is about my incarceration and not my crime, there is nothing illegal about me accepting this award. The more I thought about it, however, the more it began to feel like I was stepping into a very gray area in regards to the spirit of the law, so I ended up asking my dad to cash the check and send the two hundred bucks to Doctors Without Borders. He did, and as soon as they send me something confirming this, I will post that below for those of you who seem to think everything I say is a lie.

Anyways. Thanks are due to the few of you that attempt to keep me moving forward and trying new things. If I can still be considered something relatively human after spending more than 1/5 of my life incarcerated (and more than 1/6 of my life in solitary confinement), it is entirely because of you. Thank you. You deserve better, but thank you.

To the rest of you, the typical longueur of MB6 will be back next week. Until then, you will have to get your fix of tedium somewhere else.

To read the 1st Place entry in the Essay category of the 2011 PEN Prison Writing Contest, click HERE.

First Week

2011-08-19T20:56:00.000-07:00

By Michael Wayne Hunter

On a department of corrections gray bus, hands and feet chained, I had been ordered to sit right in front of the gun officer. I’m a former San Quentin Death Row Prisoner, so they like to keep an eye on me. The gray goose rolled steadily south on Highway 101, away from Salinas Valley Prison, where I’d spent the past two years, toward Pleasant Valley Prison. Only when we turned East and topped the coastal range freewheeling down to the central valley, did I relax, now certain not even a bus breakdown would send me back to the Salinas war zone, a score of homicides during my term.

Off the bus, unchained, I was ordered to the Lieutenant’s office.

“What’s a death row prisoner doing here?” he asked quizzically.

I explained that the Federal Court has ordered a new trial where I had received a life sentence and then a transfer from San Quentin’s Death Row to Salinas. About a month ago I’d been escorted from my cell. The Program Sergeant had told me my cellie, the captain’s clerk, was in the hat, targeted by the woodpile, the white set, for a hit. I could sign a waiver releasing the Department of Corrections from any liability if violence engulfed me as well, or transfer. I transferred.

“We don’t want any problems here.”
“Good,” I replied to the lieutenant.

Locked inside a holding tank, a receiving guard said we’d be housed with a prisoner of our race from the bus we arrived on. Not great news. I knew the three white guys on my bus. At Salinas they had all turned themselves in to the guards saying they had safety concerns, specifically, they had racked up drug debts they couldn’t pay. Chasing a high was all that existed in their dope fiend fix-to-fix universes.

Eventually, we were locked to a chain and marched to housing. We passed by a green house, prisoners growing plants, learning landscaping. Past the green house was a large yard, about an acre of grass with a softball field and soccer nets. On the perimeter was a handball wall, volleyball and basketball courts. I was surprised to see whites playing ball with blacks and Hispanics. Maybe this yard doesn’t set trip. Our guards unlocked the chains and motioned us into a housing unit.

Ordered onto wooden benches, we got the “This’s our yard not yours” speech, one I’d heard a few times, a few thousand times, in my twenty plus caged years, and that we’d be confined to our cells until we appeared before the classification committee.

When my name was called for cell assignment, I pulled my property from a cart and went to the opening door, electronically unlocked from a control tower. No one from my bus came with me. Cool! Tranquilly solo. How long has this cell been empty? My eyes traced spider webs layering the back wall. Pulling down the spidy webs, they seemed old, abandoned. Using a damp towel, I scrubbed the steel bunks, lockers and the ceiling, walls, and finally, the floor. As I went, I looked for missing metal cut from the lockers or bunks. If the guards find metal missing during a search, I’ll be charged with weapons stock and tossed and lost in the hole for at least a year. I inspected the safety screws on the light fixtures. I didn’t see any scratched indicating they’d been tampered with or opened. Filling my hot pot, I plugged in and then set up my radio and TV before folding and stacking my clothes in the locker and making up the lower bunk. Settling, I sipped caffeine, listening to alternative rock beamed from Fresno while writing my daily letter to Rene. She’s been with me from San Quentin through Salinas. She fascinates me. Handing the letter to the guard at count time, I went under the blankets and faded. Sunlight streaming through the narrow window set in the wall above my head struck my eyes. Blinking a time or two, I focused on a brand new glistening spider web, intricately woven threads bent the light, scattering the visible spectrum from red to violet. It was beautiful, but perhaps dangerous. An unknown spider had been spinning shimmering silk throughout the night just inches from my face. I yanked down the web and searched for a spider. But found none.

Sliding a breakfast tray into the cell, a guard told me I was scheduled mid-morning for classification committee. In a chair outside of committee, I thought about my assignment. The green house looked way cool, but as a lifer without possibility of parole, the chances of assignment to vocational training was close to zero. I thought I’d ask to be a clerk. The captain has a clerk, so do the lieutenants, sergeants, every housing unit, the library, canteen, laundry, kitchen and education. The clerks have the most freedom of movement and are paid in the range of fifteen to thirty seven cents an hour, although any court ordered fines are deducted from the pay. My typing skills are good. I hoped to be given a chance.

The captain chaired classification. He was joined by a counselor, and representatives from Mental Health and Education. The counselor told the captain I had no documented enemies on the yard. I had a history of violent behavior, but the last incident was 1991 and my clean record since then warranted no disciplinary points. Mental health said I was clear. Education said there was a problem. My prison file had no record of my educational history. I could not be assigned a job without documentation of a high school diploma or G.E.D. Moments later I was assigned to G.E.D., not as a clerk, but as a forty five year old student.

In my way back to my cell, I asked my building floor officer, “I just transferred in yesterday. Any chance for a phone call?”

Consulting a clipboard, he said, “Phone three is open. From now on, signup the night before.”

“All right. Thanks.”

I call Rene at home. If she’s not there, the call forwards to her cell phone. Over the years I’ve only failed to connect a few times. Rene speaks quickly in a breathy voice; it took some time before I could catch more than every other word. Rene accepted the call and said she knew I was at Pleasant Valley Prison. I didn’t find out how she knew because she pressed on and told me she had scheduled a visit for Saturday. Much too quickly the fifteen minute limit was reached and the phone went dead.

Smiling, feeling happy and content now I had connected with Rene, I started for my cell but noticed the door to the yard was open. No one seemed to be watching me, so I darted out. Stopping, I surveyed the yard. It was mostly empty so I suspected it was closed. Making my way around the perimeter, I had the “I’m new and didn’t know” excuse at the ready while I searched and found the visiting room and education. I strolled past the chapel, laundry, library, canteen, the chow hall and the housing units. It took about 5 minutes to complete the circle back to my housing unit.

As I walked to my cell, the floor officer asked, “Where you been?”
“You said I could use the phone,” I voiced a selective truth.
“Done?”
I nodded.
“Take it home.”

Since I’d been to classification I was no longer confined to my cell. About 5:30, my door opened for chow release. Carrying my spork, cup and I.D., I came out tentatively. Locked up since 1982, I’d never eaten in a chow hall. Death Row prisoners are cell fed, and the few times they tried to use the chow hall at Salinas ended badly. Only a couple cells had been released before someone was stabbed. Warily, following the line of prisoners, I noticed they were lightly talking and joking. Relaxing a measure, I followed along, took a tray and sat at a stainless steel table for four. Two Hispanic youngsters joined me and began to argue heatedly about a wine deal gone south. Not sure how the exchange was going to end, my eyes found the gun officer at his post and thought about where I’d go if violence erupted. The dispute was simple contract law. Flaco had bought oranges and syrup from a kitchen worker and gave them to Chato to make Pruno. Alcohol fermentation takes three to four days and the guards had found the wine and dumped it.

“Owe me two quarts,” Flaco growled.
“Cops cracked the batch,” Chato responded. “We’re ass out. Tell him O.G. (original gangster),” he gestured towards me.
“No, tell him,” Flaco countered.
“You guys are going to decide this, not me,” I said quietly, cautiously. “So all I’m doing is talking. Don’t mean nothing, right?”
They both nodded.
“How big was the batch?”
“A gallon,” Chato answered.
“So you were in for half?”
Flaco nodded.
“How much did the oranges and syrup cost you?”
“Five bucks.”
“Quarts go for eight?”
“No. Ten.”
“You weren’t a customer,” I gave Flaco the bad news, “you were an investor. The batch wrecked and your two quarts are down the drain.”
“Without my five for the fixings there would be no batch,” Flaco argued.
“Sure,” I agreed, “That’s what makes you an investor. You put up the money against half the batch, but it’s gone so you have half of nothing. Now if you had paid twenty up front for two quarts, you would be a customer. You would be owed two quarts or your money.”
“That’s what I been telling you,” Chato jumped back in.
“Just put together another batch,” I suggested. “Burn the wine into whiskey and you can get twenty dollars for a tumbler, forty for a quart.”
“Burn it?” Flaco questioned.
“You wrap a jug of wine with a plastic garbage bag,” Chato schooled, “and then you drop a stinger into the wine and boil it. The steam is at least fifty percent alcohol; it rises and fills the bag. The steam condenses into liquid, runs down the inside of the bag, pools, and you collect it. White lightening.”
“Let’s do that,” Flaco laughed happily.
“Can’t,” Chato yawned. “It smells. The cops trip here.”
“Even at 2 a.m.?” I interjected.
“Yeah,” Chato answered and Flaco nodded in agreement.

The two started talking again absent the heat, working through the money lost and how to get back even or better. My drug/alcohol use ended more than a decade ago, but at Salinas I had made wine and distilled it into Whiskey right in front of the guards. Salinas was a war zone. The guards knew I was cooking for the woodpile, the white set, and didn’t want to face the fallout cracking a batch would cause. Seems Pleasant Valley was a different story.

Looking speculatively at the tables of hoodlums around me, I tried to find a prospective cellie. Someone to invite in before the guards assigned a random cellie, but the pickings were slim/grim. Our table was released and I went home. Thinking about sleep, my door opened and appeared a twenty-something year old skinhead, skull blasted with swastikas, my new cellie.

“Mike.” Reaching, I shook his hand.
“Demon.”

Loading up the locker with his belongings, Demon explained he wasn’t off a bus. He’d just been kicked out of the hole after being locked up for “cracking” someone.

“Do him any good?”
“Probably not.” Demon flashed an easy, engaging grin.

With a smooth seemingly effortless motion, Demon levitated onto the top bunk. Digging into his locker, he opened up a bag of chips, we munched, talked, while listening to rock. Demon planned to cell with Turtle, a skin of the same set, so we’d be together for just a moment.

In the morning, the web was back. We searched but couldn’t find a spider, but Demon found a spider bite on his knee.

“Better go to medical.”
“Naw.” Demon waved me off and climbed back into bed.

“Education release,” was announced over the building public address system. I went to breakfast, grabbed a bag lunch and reported to education. Taking my assignment ducat, Officer Cope, the education officer, pointed me to a classroom.

The teacher, Mr. Rey, wore his long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Probably ten years older than me, I suspected he was a survivor of the ‘60’s. Giving me a list of ten words, Mr. Rey told me to look them up in a dictionary and copy down their definitions.

“You’re joking.”
“You going to be a problem?!” Mr. Rey raged. “I’ll have you taken down and buried in rules violation reports. I’ll have you locked so deep in the hole you’ll never see sunshine. Try me and you’ll find out how I roll.”

Locking on his pinned eyes, clearly the sign of long term self medicated, I replied softly, “Don’t want no problem. But how is copying from the dictionary going to prepare me for the G.E.D.?”

“What the hell are you? A fuckin’ attorney?!”

Shrugging, turning away, all thoughts of trying to move from education student to clerk faded away.

“Death Row Mike.”
Looking around I saw six-foot-plus of redhead, “Stone Cold,” I answered and sat down next to him.

I knew Stone Cold at Salinas. While working in the laundry, he had been jumped by MS-13. Two Salvadorians came at him. After beating the bark off of both of them, he had gone to the hole charged with battery. The first two on one battery I had ever heard of where the one was charged with committing mayhem on the two.

“What you doing here?” He asked.
“My cellie was in the hat. I refused to sign and they shipped me. You?”
“Violated the no fist fight rule.”
At Salinas the woodpile had a no fist fight rule. You had to use sharpened steel with evil intent. Anything less, you were in the hat.

“You were jumped. What were you supposed to do? Call timeout and go get a shank?”
“I guess,” Stone Cold half smiled, “or ball up and let them stomp me out.”
“Crazy.”
“The Edge told me when I got to the hole, he had someone I could stab to clean up the violation. But I got a wife, kids and a parole date. I wasn’t going to stab someone and get life. I refused and was in the hat.”
“Edge is doing all day, he just wanted to wreck you too. Misery loves company.”
“Are you in the hat?”
“Probably. The captain put me on single cell status in the hole. The Edge wanted me to sign off and take a cellie. I refused. Edge didn’t press, said it’s all good.”
“Rocking you to sleep,” Stone Cold laughed.
“Yeah. Think the cellie The Edge sent me would’ve whacked me in my sleep.”
“You may have been the target The Edge wanted me to hit,” Stone Cold said.
“Get to work,” Mr. Rey growled at us.

We went quiet, but I didn’t copy the definitions. I wrote to Rene.

Lunch was outside on the yard. A fistfight broke out on the handball court, two whites raining blows. Alarms.
“Sit down,” Stone Cold clued me and we folded onto the grass, “We don’t run to the alarms here.”

At Salinas if white guys were involved in an alarm, you went to backup the woodpile. If you sat down before the shot callers gave the okay, you were in the hat. It was a really big hat.

Guards surrounded the handball court and drenched the combatants with orange pepper spray. Eyes streaming, coughing, they stopped fighting and went prone. Handcuffed, glowing orange, off they went to the cages. Alarm over.

“Violated the fist fight rule,” I messed with Stone Cold, “Joined you in the hat.”
“No rules here. A lot more violence, but it’s minor. Hardly no one dies.”
“Education recall,” came over the yard public address system.

On the tables were copies of a memo from Mr. Rey, leveling a dozen charges at the class including theft of a co-axial cable and spitting on his computer. Disturbing.

“What the fuck you got to say?!” Mr. Rey seemingly at random pointed a finger at a young Hispanic prisoner, who had been drawing tattoo patterns.
“What? Nothing,” the young man responded. Didn’t seem to me he had read the memo.
“Playing games!” Mr. Rey banged on his desk. “I’ll have your ass.”
“Doing three life terms. Stand in line.”
“Get out! Get the fuck out,” Mr. Rey bit off each word. Shifting, leaning forward, he lurched toward the prisoner.

Feet slapping the floor, the prisoner snapped out of his chair. “Back up,” he said coolly but with a razor’s edge, violence potential lurking in the shadows, ready to burst into the light.

Freezing for a long beat, Mr. Rey fled back to his desk muttering vague threats.

Collecting his drawings, the convict walked out. As he passed, I read “EVIL” tattooed on his face.

Without a word, the rest of the Hispanics walked as well.

“Stone?” I questioned.
“Yeah, we better go,” he murmured.
“Stay seated,” Officer Cope ordered, and all the Hispanics, including Evil, filed back in. When everyone had resumed their seats, Officer Cope took a copy of the memo off a table and said, “Outside” to Mr. Rey. They spoke in the hallway and then Cope keyed his prison radio.

As first a sergeant and then a lieutenant joined Officer Cope and Mr. Rey, I corrected Mr. Rey’s memo for spelling, punctuation, and grammar.

The lieutenant ordered the class to go home. On my way out I put the corrected memo in the assignments completed box. In the hallway, Mr. Rey was saying, “You can’t do this I want my union rep.”

At home, I found Demon hot, feverish, thrashing around on his bunk. The spider bite had swelled tennis ball-sized.

“Demon, you need to go to medical.”
“No, no,” he moaned but didn’t seem to understand me.

At release for dinner, I stopped and told the sergeant my cellie was ill from a spider bite.

“Did he put in a medical request?”
“No. But if he doesn’t get some medical attention, I think he might die.”
“Everyone dies.”
“True. But I think he might die tonight.”

Looking me over critically, the sergeant told me to lead the way. After just a glance, the sergeant immediately radioed medical. “Don’t wait so long next time,” he said with emphasis to me.

The medical tech came, requested an ambulance, Demon was wheeled away.

After dinner, I returned to an empty cell except for at least one elusive spider. Wrapping my hands with towels, I slowly went over every surface. On my back on the floor under the lower bunk where light really doesn’t reach, I found a slight gap between the bunk and the wall. Flicking a towel, a spider leapt out straight at my eyes. Screaming like a little child, I rolled out from under the bunk. Panting, heart pounding, cell walls seemed to compact, close, press on me. As I regained a small semblance of composure, I tried to think of an alternative to crawling back under the bunk to confront the spider. Seemed my only other option was to let the spider feast on me in the night. Reluctantly, I slipped down and whacked the gap ‘til the spider leapt and I reached out and killed it. I searched and found no other spiders.

In the morning, Demon was still gone. After breakfast, I reported to Education and ran into the convict with the evil facial tattoo, he was sweeping the hallway.

“Mike.” I introduced myself.
“Tomas or Evil,” he replied.
“What’s up with this?” Gesturing at the broom.
“Officer Cope called me out early. He said if I keep the hall clean, I can have a thirteen-cent pay number. Got a desk in the supply closet where I can chill and draw.
“Thought you had to have a G.E.D. to get a job.”
“They can do whatever they want,” Evil said lightly.
“Cope hooked you up tough.”
“Well Mr. Rey put a lot on how I told him to back up. Cope loved it.”
“How does that work?”
“Cope got cracked in the chow hall awhile back and Mr. Rey said he had it coming and more. Cope didn’t care for that.”

Shaking my head about how you score a pay number, I went and grabbed a seat next to Stone Cold.

Mr. Rey had been reassigned. The new teacher spent the day administering assessment tests in order to design an individual study program for each of us to prepare for the G.E.D.

At home, I found Demon weakly trying to climb onto the top bunk. A mere shadow of the beast who had leapt up in a single bound. Over his frail protests, I switched the mattresses and settled him on the lower bunk.

“Brown recluse spider,” he murmured. “Its bite kills flesh.”

Demon’s knee had been sliced open, drained and he was full of antibiotics. I told him the spider was dead and he gave me a pale smile and fell asleep. No new spider web the next morning. Demon was taken to medical for more treatment.

Washing up, I was smiling. Rene was on her way to me. Picking up a pass, I stepped quickly, lightly to visiting and found piercing green eyes framed by long blonde hair. Kissing me, she folded into my arms and I could feel her deep heartbeat. Bliss descended.

-THE END-

© Copyright 2011 by Michael Wayne Hunter and Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved

Life After Death

2011-08-03T03:17:00.000-07:00

By Michael Wayne Hunter

Michael Wayne Hunter spent 18 years on Death Row at San Quentin State Prison before his sentence was commuted to Life Without Parole in 2002. He is the recipient of awards from PEN America Center for fiction and non-fiction, and the William James award for prose. He currently resides at Pleasant Valley State Prison in California.

"Forget about trial," the Deputy District Attorney said to my attorney during one of those seemingly endless pre-trial hearings that stretch on and on prior to a Death Penalty trial, "Let's deal."

"What do you have in mind?"

Silver chains locked around my waist, wrists, ankles, accessorizing my red jumpsuit stenciled MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISONER, I sat a few feet away listening intently, but Hope did not rise within. Eighteen-Years warehoused on San Quentin's Death Row before this new trial ordered by the federal court for prosecutorial misconduct had pushed hope back inside Pandora's box whence it came, but still...

"If your client pleads guilty and waives all future appeals, we'll let him spend the rest of his life in prison without the possibility of parole."

"My client won't be interested."

"Saving his life," the prosecutor bit off each syllable.

"He's lived on Death Row longer than anywhere else, his friends are there, the ones that haven't been executed."

"Or suicided," I added silently.

"You're obligated to present the deal to him," the prosecutor insisted.

"Oh, I'll tell him."

"A month ago," I murmured, "they were trying to kill me. Now they want to give me life. They've done something and they're worried about appellate review."

"There's no way to know that at this stage, you willing to bet your life?"

Thinking it over for several minutes, I said slowly, "The time to scare someone about Death Row is before they live there. We're going to trial."

My second trial ended with a verdict of guilty, but this time I received a life sentence. I have another appeal wending its way through the courts once again alleging prosecutorial misconduct which didn't become apparent until well after I turned down the deal, confirming my suspicions, but this is about life after death, freefalling through the prison system, not the quiddities and quillities of trial.

Stepping out of the Sheriff's van into San Quentin's Receiving, "Hunter," Correctional Officer Gonzales called to me, "turn around and cuff up."

"I'm a lifer now, Gonzo," I protested.

"Congrats. But the Captain said to house you on the Row. Come on."

Puzzled, I was pulled from the mass of orange jumpsuited new arrivals appearing to all the world like a herd of wild carrots. Cuffed, I was escorted to a Death Row holding cage waiting housing. Calling up to my condemned buddies stacked in five tiers, dead men all the way to the rafters, I let them know I was back, and they pulled together a CARE package: radio, soups, coffee, and a hot pot.

The next morning, Captain Williams, who was just a tier cop when I fell inside SQ in the '8O's, clued me, "Hunter, if I move you to the Reception Center, we'll have to double-cell you and no appliances are allowed over there. I'll keep you here, and the Property Officer will deliver your television and radio. You'll transfer from here."

"Thanks, Captain."

Unpacking TV, radio, typewriter, I made my cell home, at least the only home I'd known for many, many moons. Over the next weeks I spent a lot of time saying good-bye, but finally I reluctantly packed and was escorted back to Receiving.

"Salinas Valley Prison, General Population," the Receiving Sergeant stated my destination. "Get ready to rock."

"Real deal?"

Nodding, he said, "Salinas is a war zone, good luck to you."

As the bus pulled away from the decaying castle nestled next to the blue of the San Francisco Bay, I felt alone, adrift, cut off from my day-to-day. Traveling the length of the bay from north to south, I tried to downplay the Receiving Sergeant's words of warning. Everyone associated with prison likes to tell and embellish a good war story, but still my pulse began to pick up the pace while I wondered about double-celling after celling solo on Death Row. Finally, the bus entered Steinbeck country, endless farming fields guarded by the brown hills of Monterrey County. The bus came around a corner and in the middle of a lettuce field sat Salinas Valley Prison. In contrast to the mythic fairytale San Quentin built in 1852, Salinas Valley, gray pre-fab, less than ten-years old had all the charm of a Soviet-Bloc ministry. The prison seemed somehow unfinished, built hurriedly and on the cheap to house California's bulging prison population.

"Grab a mattress," the Receiving guard ordered me, "we don't have a cell. You'll be sleeping here."

"Didn't they know I was coming?" the protest died before it made its way to my lips. It hit me I'm no longer among the hundreds on Death Row, carefully catered to like a Thanksgiving turkey 'til slaughter time. I'm now simply one of the 170,000 California prisoners. Salinas didn't know I was coming or care.

Unrolling the mattress on the floor, I fell into the slumber zone.

"Hunter," awoke me. Gaining my feet, a green uniform with Lieutenant's bars waved me over. "Remember me?"

"Sure, Sergeant Fields," I placed a Death Row Sergeant from the '90's. "I mean Lieutenant," I corrected to his new rank.

"Saw you on the movement sheet. What yard are you ticketed?"

"Really not sure." I wearily rubbed my eyes, and saw from the clock on the wall that it was around one in the morning.

Checking, Lieutenant Fields said, "B-Yard. That's not too bad."

"Soft yard?" I asked hopefully.

"There are no soft yards here," he said flatly. "Twenty three homicides in the past year."

"No joke?"

Shaking his head, he said, "A and B yards aren't too bad, well B-yard is locked down right now because of a black/white riot but no one died. C and D yards are off the hook, they're kick out yards."

"Kick out?"

"When prisoners finish doing hole time for misbehaving, we kick them out to C or D yard to see if they can program before letting them go to other mainlines. Most of 'em can't program, and they're right back in the hole. It's better this way, it keeps the program failures from wrecking programming yards. C and D yards have a level of violence you haven't encountered on Death Row, but you're going to B-Yard. I'll check on you from time to time," he said, but I never saw him again.

At 3 A.M., guards gaffled me to B-Yard. Pulling a prisoner out of the cell for transfer, the prisoner remaining in the cell said, "No-fuckin'-way. Got a homie moving in here."

Locking me in a shower, the guards called a sergeant who convinced him to let me move in for now and shift cells around in the daylight.

Cell door locking behind me, "Paperwork," my cellie demanded.

"Paperwork?"

"Your 128-G from Reception."

"I don't know what that is," I confessed with confusion.

"Every-Fuckin'-body gets a 128-G in Reception," he snarled. "Gotta check it to make sure you're not a damn pervert. The Woodpile don't allow creeps."

"I'm not a sex offender. I'll tell the whites on the woodpile, and I'll have my attorney..."

"Fuck that! Just give up your 128-G, everyone gets one in Reception."

"I've never been in Reception."

"Shit!" He pressed right up on me. "Everyone goes through Reception."

Long day, fatigue hit hard, and the last thing I wanted was to knuckle up seconds into my first double-celling. Going for calm, I explained in the easiest tone I could summon, "I just transferred from Death Row. Condemned prisoners are commitments to the Warden of San Quentin, not the Department of Corrections. My sentence was modified from Death to Life, so they transferred me here. I've never been to Reception and don't have a 128-G."

Twisting his head around, thinking, he said finally, "I knew a guy in the county jail who went to Death Row, Hudson."

"About six-feet, shaved head, killed a store full of people and made it look like a robbery. But it was personal, he had a grudge against the owners."

"He got tatts?"

"Two teardrops under his left-eye, something on his back I'm not sure what. His mom comes to visit him from somewhere in the valley."

"Clovis," he agreed with a nod. "You know him. Tomorrow, I'll tell the shotcallers your story."

"Cool," I said with a sigh.

"Matt," he held out a hand, and I shook and gave up my name.

"I'm not usually such an asshole," he explained with a small grin. "We just had a get down with the blacks over some white trash who didn't pay his drug debts. I was at ground zero when it jumped." Turning, he showed me a frisbee-sized bone bruise on his shoulder blade.

"Ouch."

"Got shot with the rubber bullet gun, hurts like hell. Bottom bunk is you," he gestured and climbed to the top one. Making up the lower bunk with sheets issued in Receiving, I started to fall out, sleeping for the first time double-celled, and missing mightily Death Row.

Making his rounds, the shotcaller came by the next morning, heard my story and Matt's co-sign, and he told me to request a copy of my 128-G when I went to Classification Committee. The shotcaller told Matt he'd been l.D.'d as a participant in the melee and was ticketed for the hole along with forty others. Finally, he said it was "On sight" with the blacks. If the guards slip, knuckle up and get busy.

Since he was off to the hole, Matt was no longer sweating to move his homie in the house. Tuning in the baseball playoffs, we went with the lockdown flow.

"Hunter," the loudspeaker blared, "pack your property you're moving."

When the guard showed, Matt told him not to move me, but the guard said l wasn't going to a new cell on B-yard. Salinas Valley had asked the Department of Corrections to reconsider my placement on B-yard, and they had re-endorsed me to D-yard. War zone.

Carrying my belongings to a van, I was wheeled over. Unloading, pushing a cart through an empty, ghost town, D-yard, I saw signs designating the gym, library, hobby shop. This yard has a lot going on, l thought. Entering a housing building dayroom, I saw a large screen TV mounted on the wall. Peeking through the window, l spied my new cellie, tatts blasted on his skull and face. Skinhead.

The door slid open and before I stepped in, I gave him the bad news, "I don't have a 128-G or any other paperwork."

"What the hell?!"

"I just transferred from Death Row. I've never been in Reception and won't have my paperwork 'til I go to Classification."

"Happens sometimes," he seemed to shrug it off. "Woods and skins get caught up, rolled up, and kicked out of the hole before paperwork catches up. Not a creep?"

"Nope."

"You're good 'til they take you to Classification." Stuck out his paw,

"Cannibal,"

"Mike."

"I passed through Quentin on my way from Folsom," Cannibal said so casually.

"Who was the white shotcaller on the Row?"

"It was The Edge 'til about the mid-'90's and he still has a lot of say, but he's getting older and turned most of it over to Cujo."

"Skins?"

Warily because I know Skinheads and Aryan Brotherhood have issues, I shook my head.

"A.B."

"You cool with the Brand?"

"We don't really talk beyond respect issues, my buddy Baron talks to them."

"I've heard of Baron. Hell's Angel. West Coast distribution of crystal meth."

"Meth, yeah, but he's just affiliated not a H.A. member." But I'm pretty sure you knew that, I thought, and didn't much like Cannibal.

Nodding, Cannibal climbed onto his bunk and out of my way, so I could unpack.

"What are you doing?" he objected, as I loaded up my locker. "Can't put hygiene with clothes."

"Been filling lockers since the '80's," I snapped.

"Then you should know to put your hygiene closest to the sink."

Living with Cannibal had to do with order, he would precisely organize his belongings in a fierce symmetry, and this extended to organizing his workouts, washing clothes, scrubbing the cell, all according to the clock. The only exception to his tick-tock routine was when he drank bootleg pruno 'til he was beyond drunk, and he'd vomit in or near the toilet. Once when he was passed out, I spun every item in his locker 180 degrees but otherwise left them in their same location. When he awoke with a mindbending hangover, he immediately sensed the disorder and blearily rearranged his locker and didn't mention a thing about it to me. It was kind of awesome. I still organize my locker the way Cannibal laid out to me.

Cannibal was doing 15-years to Life for beating a black Drug dealer/Pimp to death, trying to "rescue" a white, teenage hooker who didn't want to be rescued at least by Cannibal. She I.D.'d Cannibal to the police and testified against him, he was real bitter about that "Race traitor crack whore."

As time ground slowly forward, I found the gym, hobby shop, dayrooms never opened, constant violence kept everything shuttered. Cannibal called the white on white stabbings, "Taking out the trash."

I went to Classification and requested them to honor my original endorsement to B-Yard. "No," the Associate Warden replied. "We have no way of telling if you can program. Give us a year rules violation free and we'll move you back."

Giving up, I said, "I need a copy of my 128-G."

"It will be sent to you," the counselor informed me.

The notion of confronting Cannibal without the 128-G wasn't real comfortable, so I got stubborn. "Give me a copy now," I rasped, "or take me to the hole."

"Safety concerns?" the Committee mocked me, but a copy was made.

The 128-G listed my commitment offense, history of prison violence, and no sex crimes. Showing it to Cannibal, I was all good.

"Everyone always says they got screwed over by The System," I said idly.

Cannibal nodded agreement.

"Ever think it odd the Woodpile relies on The System's paperwork, 128-G's, to decide if we're all good or not?"

"Mike," Cannibal muttered while shaking his head, "you come up with the craziest ideas. Loony."

Life trudged on 'til one day Cannibal tightly rolled some tobacco inside plastic and packed it up his butt. Tobacco isn't allowed in the hole, so I figured Cannibal was planning on crashing there and was smuggling his cancer habit along.

"Putting in work?" I questioned.

"Skin bizness," he gave me a non-answer.

Unlike Death Row yards where guards won't ever set foot, green uniforms did venture onto D-Yard. Slowly, six deep, they walked like British soldiers patrolling a Catholic neighborhood in Northern Ireland, two looking forward, two watching the flanks, the last two covering the rear. But mostly they stood directly under the gun tower, protected by a .223 rifle.

Almost immediately after we hit the yard, Snowman, a skinhead, jumped a new wood raining blows. Cannibal came from the oblique, shank in hand, looking to gut the wood. Spinning away, the wood broke and ran. Chaos reigned. "Yard down," was ordered. The .223 spat flat cracks, prisoners hugged the ground. Proning out, I saw Cannibal hurling the shank over the wall, he hadn't managed to cut the fleeing wood.

A keening cry pierced the air, I turned my head towards the scream. Wild Bill was kneeling on Dopey, pumping a foot-long shank into Dopey's back, neck, head. Blood spurted, filling the air with a crimson mist almost obscuring them from view.

The guards finally snapped they'd been okie-doked from the real action, and they slowly marched over while Wild Bill ignored their orders and continued to piston Dopey until baton blows laid Wild Bill low. Dopey was passed out, blood leaking from a dozen unnatural holes, as the guards tossed him onto a litter and away.

Cuffing a dazed, concussed Wild Bill, the guards left him where he lay.

More and more green uniforms poured onto the yard, all prisoners were cuffed behind their backs and left on the ground. Black wearing Security Squad members came and started to take photos, making measurements, drawing diagrams, putting together crime scene evidence.

An emergency medical evacuation helicopter lifted Dopey to the hospital where I later learned he survived but was paralyzed from the chest down.

As first one hour and then another passed by, my arms, shoulders, and back went numb. The sprinklers on an automatic system drenched us, and I just mentally checked out. Finally, they gaffled combatants to the hole and escorted the rest of us home.

I packed Cannibal's property and then the guards had me move into a new cell. I was now living with Lee, the Captain's clerk.

"I heard you spent a lot of time single celled on the Row."

"Yeah," I answered wearily, rubbing my still numb upper body.

"Good, I don't do the cellie thing."

"What do you mean?"

"You do your thing, I'll do mine."

Tired, I shrugged and went to bed, figuring I'd find out what he meant later.

In the morning, Lee was gone. Lee had worked for the Captain for years and went to his office at 6am and did not return until about 9pm, seven days a week. Even when the whites were on lockdown, the Captain made an exception for Lee. When Lee came home, he rarely spoke to me. The only person he seemed comfortable with was the Captain.

Once at noon count, a guard filling in asked, "Where's your cellie?"

"Work."

"Don't fucking lie to me," he barked, banging the door with his baton. "Whites are on lockdown."

"Guess he escaped then." I yawned, ignored the guard, eventually he went away.

Being solo most of the time again was sublime. I broke out my typewriter and banged out some words for a street sheet. I was a regular contributor to the paper sold by street people at mass transit stations.

The lockdown ended after a few months and I was called to a surprise visit. A five-foot blur flew at me, hugging me, she was cube shaped and purple from head to toe including her hair. "Michael," she sighed, her arms clamped around me. Glancing over, I saw the guard's frown and pulled away.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. _

"We're only allowed a brief embrace," I explained. "The guard is tripping."

"I'll set him straight," she raged. Startling how fast she went from pacific to stormy. Spinning, she started for him.

"No, no, sit down," I guided her to a seat.

"Okay, Michael," her anger blew away as quickly as it had blown up. "I'm May, I really admire you. I've read your stories on the Internet and I think you're the best person to write my story."

"Thank you, May, but why me?"

"I'm very intuitive," she purred. "You see I grew up in hell. My father was a doctor and never had time except for his patients and golf. My mother was an attorney, she'd speak to me like I was a hostile witness. Everyone thinks Beverly Hills is paradise, but it can be a nightmare."

Tilting my head, looking to see if this was a freaking joke, I said flatly, "I think I know what it's like to live in a challenging environment."

“But you're a murderer, you deserve it," she cackled with delight. "I'm a gentle soul in a quest for wellness."

I started to get up, get out, but she asked, "Would you like something to eat?"

Yes, I was bought or at least rented for a cheeseburger. Well I wanted a cheeseburger, but May was a Vegan. So nothing with meat, eggs, even milk including cheese. I got a wilting salad.

"You wouldn't have to do much," May explained. "Just write down what I tell you and add in the commas."

"This's about your quest for wellness?"

"My spiritual quest," she replied dreamily.

"Are you a Buddhist or something?"

"Michael, you're so naive," she shrieked crazily. "I'm a Wiccan."

I really didn't track the rest of her words, something about a coven and casting spells. All I'm sure of is I left and sent a note to the Visiting Lieutenant removing May from my visiting list.

Some purple envelopes started to arrive, but I tore them up without reading them. Perhaps she was intuitive and knew I wasn't reading them because she started writing on the outside of the envelope missives such as, "Michael, you're really not a nice person. NOT!"

No doubt, she's right, I reflected somewhat sadly.

I received a pass one evening to report to Mrs. Clark's class in Education for testing. Mrs. Clark was a middle-aged black women with a firm but pleasant manner. On the wall behind her desk were photos of Nelson Mandela, Bobby Kennedy, Caesar Chavez, and Martin Luther King Jr., among other notables. She handed me a reading comprehension test and I went to a desk and began, but after a few minutes I realized I was the only one testing. The rest of the prisoners were waving documents at her.

Patiently, she took one at a time, copied them, and sent the prisoner on his way. When I finished the test, they were all gone. So I asked her what that was all about.

"Oh, they're all worried they'll fail and end up assigned as students. What they want is jobs with pay numbers. So I just send them to my supervisor to verify. After all if they don't want here, I don't want them here."

As she spoke, her class mostly teenagers and barely twenty-something year old blacks and hispanics began to file in.

"Can I stay for awhile?"

"Certainly," she said.

On the chalkboard, she began to diagram a sentence. I noticed that the gangsters were attentive and respectful to her. A positive environment, rare in maximum security prison.

Stopping by her desk to thank her on my way out, I said, “I write a bit.”

"Send me something."

I sent my story about Mother Teresa visiting San Quentin's Death Row first published in Catholic Digest. In response, Mrs. Clark sent me another pass.

"I don't have an opening for a Teacher's Aide right now," she said, "but if you would volunteer to tutor writing I'll hire you when there's an opening."

The students were skeptical of the forty-something year old, gray haired white guy who was suppose to know something about writing.

"What's all this 'I see Spot' crap?" one of them demanded.

"It's an example of a complete sentence," I explained, "subject..."

"Verb and direct object," another one finished my sentence. "But people don't really write that way."

"How do you want to write?"

Pulling out a notebook, he started tapping a soft beat on his chest while rapping, "Locked Up, Locked Down, Jammed Up, Jammed Down," and then paused for a quick beat before picking it up again, "No Hope, No Dope, No Bail, Just Jail."

"That's not a sentence," someone objected.

"You can write that way," I replied. "I'm not sure if you call them sentence fragments or what, but the subject is implied. I'm locked up. I have no hope. You don't have to explicitly write the subject if it's clearly implied and communicated."

That was the beginning. We talked about 2Pac and Eminem. I brought them Hemingway short stories for his sparse but powerful prose. When they complained how hard it was to write in standard English because it wasn't spoken in the barrio or the ghetto, I brought them Conrad's Heart of Darkness. "Conrad grew up in Poland," I told them, "he learned English as a second language but wrote literature in it."

Class was a separate existence, we'd all work through language together there, and then hit the yard, split into our cliques and barely acknowledge each other's existence. It's so strange how prison shapes us, twists us.

I'd go in at 8am, tutor 'til 11am and then head to the yard to spin laps and soak up some sun with Kevin, one of Mrs. Clark's Teacher's Aides. An ex-Marine, Kevin was well read and we talked about celling together. Kevin told me the true story about Wild Bill and Dopey.

Wild Bill had been a shotcaller in his housing building until Bruno had come down from Pelican Bay, pulled the Original Gangster card, demanded his due and took Wild Bill's spot. Butt hurt, Wild Bill dreamed up some smut about Dopey not doing enough for the woodpile, so he could hit legit, pump up his points, and reclaim shotcaller status after his year in the hole.

Around noon, Kevin would head back to work but since I was just a volunteer I'd go back to my cell for count.

One morning the education guard stopped me. "You're not on the list."

I showed him the pass Mrs. Clark had gifted me.

"You're not on the list. Take it home."

I went home and at about 11:15 when I usually would be spinning laps with Kevin, an alarm went off and shots were fired on the yard.

Lee came home and told me the whites and Mexicans had rioted on the yard. My buddy Kevin had been stabbed, transported to the treatment center, and then housed in the hole. Most of the kids I tutored were caught up and gone as well, sixty prisoners ticketed to the hole. Lee stated matter-of-factly that he had thought I had gone as well. I looked closely but couldn't tell if he cared or not.

The shotcaller came by and clued it was "on sight" with Mexicans born in the United States, but the Mexicans born in Mexico were out of it. I didn't ask how to tell at a glance which was which since I had no plans of jumping on anyone. During controlled showers, my neighbor, Smoker came by and whispered, "Lee is in the hat."

"Why do they want Lee hit?"

"Not doing enough for the woodpile."

When Lee came home, I said neutrally, "Smoker says you're in the hat."

Spinning, Lee left and came back awhile later but didn't say a thing. The next day Smoker and a half dozen white boys were rolled to the hole. I kind of wished I was one of them.

Since the whites had kicked off the riot, we were on lockdown, month after month limped by. Eventually, I finished my year and went back to Classification and requested my original endorsement to B-Yard.

"Haven't proven you can program," the Associate Warden denied my request. "We can't let you go to a programming yard."

"You said a year rules violation free," I argued.

"You haven't been programming, you've been on lockdown."

"But I had nothing to do with it!"

Request denied.

More lockdown time passed and an inmate worker, a pacific islander by the name of Keeka, cleaning the tier, asked if I wanted to buy his boom box for fifty dollars. Since boom boxes are only authorized on A and B yards, not C or D, I was really interested in buying music to fill empty hours. Day after day I negotiated not the price but the manner of payment, money order, canteen, a package, but he kept changing up on me.

"What's the deal?" I got at his shotcaller.

"He can't sell it to you."

"Why not?"

"Keeka's into about a dozen drug dealers, each for fifty dollars, and is promising to pay them when he sells his boom box. If he completes the deal, they'll all want their money and he'd only be able to pay one. He can't complete a sale."

A few days later, a trio of 415 gangbangers jumped Keeka in the dayroom. No weapons but they beat him down and stomped him out. The guard in the building control tower looked on but did nothing.

When the beating was done, Keeka's cellie came and helped him back to his house. The shift ended, new guards came on, and Keeka's cellie called, "Man down." Guards came and carried Keeka out.

A few hours later, the security squad descended, sprayed luminol, black lighted the dayroom floor and blood glowed all around. Pulling 415 gangsters from their cells, the squad snatched their shoes and started matching soles to bloodprint patterns. All inmates including Lee were locked up while the investigation went on. The guard manning the control tower during the beat down was marched in, his locker cut open, and cell phones, drugs, and shanks were pulled out. Handcuffed, he was led away.

Interviews began. The squad had a lot of questions for me, and they were mostly about Lee, they thought he was involved with the cell phones. I told them the truth, "Lee barely speaks to me. He doesn't do the cellie thing."

Skeptical, they finally gave up and handed me a chrono to sign. lt stated I didn't have any safety concerns about celling on D-Yard.

"I'm not signing that," I half-laughed, "You're crazy! Of course I have safety concerns."

"lf you don't sign it, we'll have to house you in the hole."

"I don't have a rules violation, you can't keep me there long."

"We'll transfer you."

"Really?! I'm definitely not signing."

I landed in a cell to myself within the hole thirty minutes later. Cell door locked behind me, guard's footsteps echoing away, a bar of soap slid under the door with a line trailing behind. Pulling in the line, I tied my lockup order and sent it on to the tier shotcaller for the whites. (Lines criss-cross all over the hole, even under the doors that separate sections to keep communication open.) Two sharp tugs and a kite and a pencil flew back. The kite was skeptical and I knew why. My lockup order said I was being housed in the hole pending investigation into confidential information that if true could be a threat to institutional security. The white shotcaller for my tier suspected correctly I could've signed off. Refusal to sign was a violation of woodpile rules for which I could be put in the hat. Thinking over various responses for a minute and then two, I finally didn't address any sign off issues and simply wrote back, "Tell Scotty, Death Row Mike is here."

Scotty had been one of the shotcallers on D-Yard and had been summoned by the Lieutenant to a sitdown with the Mexicans to try and work a truce. A good idea except Scotty was in the midst of a week long meth run. When the Lieutenant peeped Scotty's wide eyes, pupils spinning wildly, he had him yoked straight to detox and then the hole. Door locked behind him, Scotty promptly beat down and strangled his cellie to death and anointed himself white shotcaller.

Awhile later, the line jerked. I pulled and read, "All good." Scotty had co-signed.

Housed all alone in the hole with only a pair of boxers and a T-shirt was very cool. Alone was magical. I hadn't slept that well since I left Death Row. Day by day D-Yard stress just fled away.

Lee's boss, the Captain, came to see me. "Sign," he urged, "and we can put you back in your cell right now."

“No.”

"Who are we going to house with Lee?"

I shrugged.

"This's how you act after all he's done for you? Smoker was going to stab you!" He was going to stab Lee, but I was gone, didn't care, and left it alone. With one last glare, the Captain left.

Mario, a Southern Mexican gangbanger, was housed next to me.

"He's no good," the white shotcaller gave me a head's up, "but don't let him know he's no good."

Mario had been sent on a mission by his shotcallers on C-Yard to check someone for breaking the rules. Mario had put hands on when he was s'pose to pull steel and yank/crank holes. After Mario did his hole time for Battery, he was kicked out to B-Yard, a programming yard when he should've gone back to C or D yard as a program failure. Knowing something wasn't right, the Southerners on B-Yard whacked him and now he was back in the hole as a victim with safety concerns. But Mario thought it was all a big misunderstanding, and he could work it out. WRONG!

Antonio was escorted by a guard from Receiving and housed with Mario. The Receiving Guard, perhaps naive, more likely with evil intent, read Antonio's lockup order aloud on the tier. Apparently, Antonio was cooperating in an investigation of two murders at Chino Prison and was being housed at Salinas until called to testify. The tier was deadly silent, listening to the guard read the order, placing a target on Antonio's back.

Mario started calling Antonio a rat bastard, sounds of body blows came through the wall. Listening, I wondered why the guard had put Antonio in with Mario, but then I realized Mario was in the hat, just like Antonio, although Mario hadn't figured out he had a target on his back.

As I watched guards flood onto the tier and pull Antonio out and away, I then wondered if I was in the hat as well, but didn't know it either.

When I finally went to Classification, they treated me with disdain but put me up for transfer. The Captain glowered at me, but didn't say anything.

About a month later, I was escorted to Receiving, and the guards were buzzing about the arrest of guards and mental health workers on D-Yard for facilitating 415 drug deals.

Boarding the bus, I went south for an hour along the Pacific Ocean and then east over the coastal mountain range and then the descent into California's central valley. Pulling up at Pleasant Valley Prison, I was ticketed for A-Yard that had been lower security but now was transitioning to maximum security. Although buses had been coming from all over the state bringing chained men, A-Yard was still only half filled. Lee had packed all my property, nothing was missing, and I moved into a cell that was empty except for a mass of spider webs. Pulling them down, shooing away the scurrying brown recluse spiders, I set up my TV, filled my hot pot with water, and settled down with a cup of coffee, wondering what was going to happen next. My door opened mid-morning the next day and a young skinhead walked in. Great, I thought, another Cannibal.

"Demon."

"Mike."

After helping him with his property, I pulled out my 128-G and started to hand it to him.

"What's that?"

"My paperwork."

"We don't do that here."

"No paper checks?"

"Your car will check your paperwork. Where you from?"

"Bay area."

"I'm in the Los Angeles car. Your homies will check your paperwork. We don't prey on each other here."

Actually, I'm from Sunnyvale, I thought, too small for a car. Maybe I'll just ride my own mo-ped.

Demon had been assigned to A-Yard when it was still a lower security yard, but had cracked someone, 96 days in the hole for a Battery had pumped up his points, so
he was kicked back out to the now higher security A-Yard.

I gave Demon my paperwork anyway, he checked it out and then seemed to levitate without any visible effort onto the top bunk. Digging into his locker, he broke out some corn chips, we munched and kicked it about where we'd been in The System and who we knew.

"Pleasant Valley isn't anything like Salinas," Demon said, "when the yard opens up you'll be out there sitting on the grass."

"Sitting! No way." The thought of leaving my feet on the yard was not a singularity on my event horizon.

When I finally was cleared for yard, I slowly made my way out of the building carefully watching, and saw a lieutenant walking by himself straight across the grass. "What's he doing," I panicked, but he finished his trip uneventfully and disappeared into a building. At Salinas the cliques would've taken it as an insult for a guard much less a lieutenant to walk the yard alone, he never would've made it.

I asked around and met the Bay Area car. They were friendly in an off-hand way, but they weren't interested in my paperwork and it seemed I could ride my Sunnyvale mo-ped all alone in peace.

Salinas guards were either ultra polite in a phony way or over the top confrontational, but in stark contrast the Pleasant Valley guards spoke to me in an almost indifferent manner.

Walking the yard, I watched men enjoying the sunshine, playing basketball, volleyball, throwing horse shoes, running laps, seemingly at ease with each other and the day. Although the groups were somewhat divided by race, all the sports were integrated to some degree, something that never happened at Salinas.

Settling onto a wooden bench, I watched the basketball game. I was off my feet although not sitting on the grass at least not yet. But thinking there just might be life after death.

Not Even the Right Hand Knows What the Right Hand is Doing

2011-07-29T15:56:00.000-07:00

As I write this, the federal government is only a few short days from defaulting on its loans, a first in US history. Soon, officials of all stripe are going to have to start turning out their office lights any time someone drives down the street, and shunting all incoming calls to the Congressional Cleaning Department. "No, no, Senior Paul no eez here. This housekeeping. We need more Lemon Pledge." All hopes of a sensible and balanced debt reduction package have been consistently gutted by House Republicans, and their sound bites about how it was actually the fault of everyone else are masterworks in Doublespeak so clever that I full suspect that had congressional staffers spent half the time on the actual bill that they spent planning their boss's camera time, we wouldn’t have to worry about the deficit for another decade. One would hope that the millions of people who voted with their adrenal glands and their fists instead of their cerebral cortices in the 2010 elections would now at least have the decency to feel some sort of shame or blame for the way things have turned out, but I haven’t actually heard anything approximating either over all of the whining and hand-wringing. What did you people expect? You got exactly what the Tea Party sold you: rabid, far-right reactionaries with zero experience in governance or logic and precisely zero lucid economic theories about the free market. That a significant portion of the Republican Party interprets the word "compromise" to be symptoms of heresy and decay is largely your fault. Stupid people usually can’t help it, and we usually give them the space to live out their delusions in peace, so long as they keep their vacuous tendencies to themselves. Then their ideas start to spread, we may feel a momentary sense of amusement on the nature of the folie á deux, until the deux becomes a crowd. Then we are all responsible for our complacency, and this is precisely what we should all be feeling at present. I've said this before: in a democracy, you get the government you deserve. We all deserve this mess, so stop kidding yourselves about blaming Washington. It's as broken as YOU allowed it to be. We did this. Now live with it.

Examples of the disastrous 2010 election cycle will be familiar to all. If you are a worker, you have probably seen your rights eroded or outright dynamited, all so that multi-national corporations can churn a slightly larger profit (and then not hire any additional workers). If you have a child in this nation, it is a certainty that in the 2011-2012 school year, they will receive a worse education than they did a year ago, thanks to the billions of dollars that Repubs slashed from state budgets (all instead of increasing taxes on rich people and oil companies, who can definitely afford it). I don’t suppose the fascists really care, since most of them send their kids to religious and private schools, but you should care enough to have known better. Environmental regulations designed to protect the earth for future generations are being eviscerated in favor of "increased economic activities", which, again, translates to big business crunching up the little guy so that some people at the top can have yet another million dollars to go with all of the rest. The wealth gap between rich and poor is now as wide as it has ever been - and it's still growing at a healthy clip. People, you can have a democracy, or you can have a nation where 5% of the population controls 70% of the wealth, but you cannot have both. As much as I dislike Repubs in general, John Boenher is starting to look downright reasonable to me of late. Too bad Eric Cantor and the rest of the American Taliban have stuck enough knives in his back to start a silverware business.

Convicts in Texas are never immune from Republican social engineering. We live in the society that the right dreams of turning the rest of the nation into. In every election cycle, we get to star as the great foil which right-wingers use to drive their campaigns: ok, sure, I don’t know anything about economics or ecology or science or even basic math, but I sure hates me some lawbreakers, and I promise to punish them mercilessly! Kiss the baby, strike a patriotic pose, and begin planning how to start bilking the public. They do this because it works: fear can always be counted on to motivate the shallow and the weak. We once had this governor here in Texas - maybe you remember him? - named George W Bush. During his campaign for the most powerful office in the State of Yee-haw, he promised to shut off all of the air conditioners in the TDCJ, a promise he fulfilled and which is still in effect, and for which several convicts ultimately lose their lives over each summer in the 130 degree dorms (including one 30 year old this very week). One of his good buddies named Alberto Gonzales - perhaps you recall that name, as well? - was his primary hitman in the attorney general's office of Texas, and was such a dedicated execution-assistant and lackey that he ended up getting a new job when the GW circus rolled into Washington. Remember how well that turned out? Quite simply, reputations are made by scaring people about crime so that they forget to think with their heads and opt instead for their "hearts." Your heart is for beating. Maybe you ought to stop taking orders from an organ that hangs out with a pair of windbags.

The fascists had a super-majority in both houses of the Texas Capitol this year, plus, of course, good old I'm-not-running-for-President-but-we-all-know-that's-a-crock-of-Texas-sized-horseshit Perry. So we pretty much all expected a rancid ball of redneck insanity to begin rolling down the hill in Austin aimed square at Huntsville. Fortunately for us, if there is one thing you can count on with the right, it is their inability to ·get much of anything done. They get elected complaining about how government doesn’t work, and then spend the majority of their time in office proving exactly that. Even with their overwhelming numbers, King Perry I had to call a special session just to get his main priorities completed. Thousands of decent bills died in committee or on the House floor, and if you were a backer or follower of one of these, what did you expect? You deserve this, when you vote for the GOP

One bill that did manage to survive the ~~Darwinian~~ not-Darwinian-because-evolution-is-a-liberal-lie-just-see-the~new-Texas-science-schoolbooks-for-proof jungle of the Lege was HB 26, created by Rep. Jerry Madden, R-Plano. HB26 contained the brilliant idea to begin charging Texas prison inmates 100 dollars a year for medical coverage. It is planned to work like this: for inmates with more than 200 dollars in their trust fund account, the full 100 dollars will be removed in one fell swoop. For inmates with less than that, 50 dollars will be removed at once, and the other 50 dollars will be taken out of each incoming deposit, in 50% increments. For people with no money at all, 50% of all deposits will be taken until the full 100 dollars is covered. Since most inmates in this system come from families in the lower rungs of the socio-economic ladder, it has been noted by many that this bill ultimately amounts -to a 100 dollar fee on the poor. I wont argue with that though, again, you should probably be used to that sort of thing by now if you live in this state.

The sad thing is, even if you ignore the fact that this bill is doomed to failure, it is only supposed to bring in 9.9 million dollars over two years. Sounds like a large amount until you learn that the Lege apportioned 900 million for prisoner healthcare in the 2010-2011 biennium. On top of that, costs ran over an additional 70 million, and that is a conservative estimate, pardon the pun. So, instead of lawmakers actually facing the failure of the prison system they created, they paraded out a bill designed to enflame hatred of inmates that was never intended to even cover 1% of the costs of inmate care. Ladies and gents, I give you the Texas Legislature.

Of course, like I said, the bill will never work as intended.

Since the right like nothing better than Big Business privatization, medical care inside of the TDCJ is handled by the University of Texas Medical Branch. I know someone who works for this organization, and she is a fine woman. I also know that UTMB does run some very decent hospitals in the freeworld, including the #1 cancer research hospital in the nation, MD Anderson. All of that makes it difficult for me to understand how the Corrections division has been mismanaged into the calamitous muddle that it is today. In the end, the issue at hand is oversight: when a doctor screws up in your world, there are avenues for you to take to address this. As a result, doctors and the departments built around them know the standard of care that they are required to give. When there is no path for grievance or redress, few people are capable of bringing their “A” game for very long. The worst soon learn they barely need to show up at all. What we end up receiving are the dregs of the medical world: doctors and nurses with too many Texas Medical Board complaints to work with customers in the freeworld. The best doctors we ever see are those men and women who are waiting on their immigration paperwork to be finalized; the current doctor here at the Polunsky Unit is one Syed-Saleem Shamsee, an excellent man of character who hates this place so much that he will be gone for greener pastures the second he is allowed to work in a real hospital. As for the pill techs and administrators, well, if they could work anywhere else, they would. That's not my assessment, by the way. That is a direct quote from several of the techs themselves. They say this as if it were a joke, but the strained look in their eyes always belies the truth.

In the past, when one wanted to see a doctor (or the Physician's Assistant, as in many cases there is no actual MD present), one had to wade through a labyrinth of nurses and forms. When one finally reached the inner sanctum and saw a physician, a three dollar co-pay charge would be deducted from your trust fund. You usually didn’t get three dollars worth of treatment, but I always considered the co-pay to be mostly fair. I actually don’t have any issue with paying for care; everyone else in the world does, and it seems irresponsible for me to expect something for nothing. I would prefer to be given a job where I could earn a few cents an hour and then pay for my treatment like everyone else, but I understand and recognize that it will be another 5 or 6 decades before Texas copies other states in this practice. My objection to HB 26 deals not with the cost, but rather with how short-sighted the lawmakers are who created and then passed it. I expect better from government. Even Republican government, from which I expect almost nothing.

There are basically going to be two consequences to this bill, and both were predictable enough to have given said lawmakers pause, had they bothered to stop salivating over the opportunity to attack illegal immigrants Arizona-style (read: pander to the base, which in this instance has the happy benefit of fitting both definitions of that word) long enough to chat with a single prison activist. For men who receive very little money from friends and family over the course of a year, these fees are going to produce a class of men who are forced to avoid UTMB at any cost. Arnold, is amongst this group. So long as he doesn’t submit a single sick call all year, he will not be charged this co-pay. To his view, his family is not wealthy, and he sees no reason why the state should get half of what they labor to give him. I see his point but this is very morally troubling, Healthcare is, to my way of thinking, not a luxury but a universal human right. Science has progressed far enough to grant that right to even the poorest of convicts. People get sick back here. They get cancer and diabetes and they get old. Some sicknesses are communicable, and since they warehouse us here like lab rats, when one person gets sick it can quickly become an epidemic. Being so poor that one feels he must refuse medical care creates unnecessary suffering, and this is a gift that keeps giving. Medications must be renewed in person once a year, so this bill also means that anyone who opts out of receiving doctor visits also opts out of any and all medicine. You ever been around a schizophrenic without his Haloperidol, his Fluphenazine, his Chlorpromazine? It is enough to make you want a shot of Litihium yourself. Or a shot of 12-gauge buckshot right in the face.

Quite a few of the men around me are talking about attempting this tactic. I suspect that this is exactly what Rep Madden and his cohorts had in mind, as immoral a hope as that is. Sadly (for them), their master plan is going to end up crashing and burning, and very quickly, too. A year is a long time, and at some point a tooth is going to start aching, or someone in the kitchen will come to work with the flu or the norovirus, or the lack of sanitation in the dayrooms will spur an outbreak of staph infections, and people will fold. They will resign themselves to the cost, and the poverty. And therein we find the problem with this bill, the stinking, festering, house-of-mirrors heart of it that proves nobody bothers to test concepts out in the real world before enacting them into legislation. Because once the 100 bucks is as good as spent, every single person in the TDCJ (155,000 and counting) is going to make damned sure that they get their moneys worth.

This tends to require some serious effort, as the care we receive is atrocious. I have mentioned this before, so I will be brief: in 2007, the metal tube inserted into my right humerus snapped, cracking the bone with it. This ultimately required two major operations to repair, the second being needed because the surgeons in the first were replaced with students (without my knowledge) who bungled the job. That I was given either surgery dealt entirely with my hard head and knowledge of §1983 suits and nothing to do with the Hippocratic oath. Even after X-rays confirmed a massive shattering of the humerus, Dr Porras refused me care, claiming "no acute injury." (He's since been "released.") Immediately after the nearly two years it took me to resolve this mess, I started taking calcium pills I bought off the commissary, thinking that I would speed up the healing process. I didn’t know any better, and in any case, there wasn’t anyone available to ask: aside from the one visit to the nurse to remove the 51 surgical staples from my arm, I never once saw a single doctor about postoperative care, or given any form of pain medicine for the wound. (The doctor at the time was one Dr Zond, also since "released.") Turns out, you can take too much calcium, as it builds up in the kidneys and produces stones. I don’t know why anyone calls them that. They should be called Satan's Cockleburrs of Agony and Much Cursing. I had no idea what was going on in my gut, as I had never felt anything like this before. I suspected that my appendix had gone thermonuclear, and it is a good thing that this was not the problem as it took a nurse almost 9 hours to make it to my cell. By this point I was urinating blood. She took one look at me through the metal door, and decided that I had a "stomach virus", for which I was given an antacid, Diotame. I was told not to worry about the blood in the toilet, as I "would make more of it." I eventually figured out what the culprit was when the bloody bastard came out of me and the pain switched off like a switch, but I was actually contemplating the merits of sticking a pencil through my brain for several hours there.

Basically, what I am saying is this: before the bill, if you wanted decent healthcare, you had to demand it with vigor. Many people were not willing to do this, due to the effort required. But the general attitude of the men post-bill is that, if they are going to lose that much money, they are going to demand adequate care for every single thing that ails them. No more generic Tylenol for the flu. No more diagnoses of arthritis or the gout for every single illness in the book. And since real care costs a lot more than 100 bucks, UTMB is going to end up losing money, and losing it in large amounts. Lawmakers would have known about this, had they bothered to talk to a unit level doctor or CO. I keep harping about, this point, but it bears repeating as we all know about the disconnect that exists between the real world and people who spend their lives in places like Plano. When UTMB starts to panic and begins denying care on a massive level, people who would not have been sufficiently motivated to file a lawsuit in the past will find their spark. After all, they paid for this. And, by a simple and pleasant coincidence, a certain inmate has arranged for thirty copies of The Jailhouse Lawyers Handbook to be sent to inmates here on death row, to confront this wave of denials head on. Titter, titter. (The JLH can be obtained for free from The Center for Constitutional Rights at ccrjustice.org.)

I heard about HB 26 months ago, when it was first a fledgling bill in the House Jurisprudence Committee. I knew it would pass, as all such bills always pass in this state. I have never been pleased with the level of care here, but my displeasure deepened when I realized that I was going to be 100 bucks poorer. For instance, I have been having problems with acid reflux for years. They refused initially to write me a script for Prilosec, which would have taken care of the problem entirely. Instead, they put me on the much cheaper generic of Xantac, which simply does not work very well, to the extent that I paid an additional 50 dollars over the course of the last year for antacids from the commissary. Now, Prilosec does actually carry an over the counter version of their drug, and I have mentioned before that the state could save a lot of money by simply stocking this for inmates to purchase. But since no one ever listens to me, and since I was paying for it, I put on my armor and went through the tasks necessary to get my prescription changed. I am now on the generic for Prilosec. I have also had issues with hypertension for the last several years, but resisted medication because I did not see the point in making taxpayers cover the cost for drugs when the state was going to be injecting me with another series shortly that will have the opposite effect. Still, HB 26 swayed me, and now I am on Metoprolol for high blood pressure. I don’t know what all of that costs, but I am quite certain that UTMB is losing money on me.

And they are going to lose it on everyone else, as well. Once people realize that the money is spent, they will fall in line. This could very well 'break the system. UTMB has been wanting out of their contract for years. Not too long ago, the head of the Correctional Division of UTMB admitted in a board meeting that they were straddling the line on unconstitutionality in regards to level of care. For the head quack to admit this in a public hearing pretty much tells you that in reality they crossed that line so long ago that they now couldn’t find it with a map and a GPS device. If UTMB folds, the state will have to take over care, as it is unlikely that anyone else will want to try to fix what UTMB so completely destroyed. I know that many of you are yawning to yourselves, thinking, well, why the hell, should I care? Because if the state is forced to tackle this issue instead of foisting the responsibility off on a third party, then you are going to be paying for their incompetence. The state wouldn’t have any more luck running a medical branch than they do running anything else, and the level of care will quickly drop below the levels cited in the case law as violations of the 8th Amendment. I don’t want to sound like a jerk when I say this, but we writ writers are watching. We are not always successful, but we are here and we have the knowledge and the empathy, and when some physician claims that the tumor sitting on your lung is "just a little fluid," we're on that. When a person is seriously diabetic and cannot seem to get his insulin in a timely manner, we're on that, too. (Those are both true stories, actually; the latter was filed last summer in federal court by yours truly.) The money that is ultimately paid out in damages comes from taxes, which means you. Now, you could get angry with those “damned inmates abusing the courts," or you could go after the source and demand that the state quit screwing up. That is ultimately your call, but I think I have proven my point that you have a vested interest in seeing that our care is legal and adequate, and I am not even going to bother mentioning the moral dimensions of this argument.

I keep showing you in these articles how my world is not disconnected from your own, no matter how high they build these walls. You pretend that it is, because crime and punishment are troubling conundrums of society, but when the system keeps some human being in a cage for decades and then paroles him to the streets with zero vocational training or psychological assistance, the fact that he then goes out and shoots someone becomes the fault of all of us. All the money that is wasted on holding tens of thousands of non-violent marijuana offenders could have been spent on avoiding all of these cuts to infrastructure or education. What is more important to you: keeping some guy who likes a joint at the end of a day's work in prison, or lab equipment for your daughter's chemistry class? In the midst of all of these budget woes, many states closed multiple prisons. New York has been closing them for years, redirecting men and women into treatment centers. And guess what? Their crime rate keeps dropping, and so does their recidivism rate, Texas, on the other hand, closed ONE prison, the Central Unit, and only because it was A) small, and B) sitting smack in the middle of Sugar Land, so the property value was off the charts. Many experts recommended closing ten to fifteen, but Governor Goodhair and his cronies know their ticket to reelection, and know that we in white can always be counted on to punch it for them. I keep waiting on middle America to get it: when you pick up a pitchfork and a torch and march off to the voting booths, you aren’t hunting for a monster. You are becoming one.

To get constant updates on all things death penalty related, see www.deathpenaltynews.blogspot.com or my Facebook page. There are also a few RSS feeds of some excellent sites on the right of this page.

A Compelling Option for Incarceration

2011-07-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

I watched a storm roll sluggishly through Livingston today. Not the sort of thing that I usually spend my time on, but this may have a lot to do with the fact that it hasn’t rained around here since like 1981, if the current wave of “Drought 2011” hysteria is to be believed. I was sitting at my desk typing a letter when the entire room got uncharacteristically dark. My lamp was still burning, its soon-to-be-extinct-thanks-to-those-damned-Democrats incandescent bulb smoldering inefficiently away, same as always. (Insert whatever level of Tea Party outrage you feel is justified at this point.) I hopped up onto my bunk to peer out of the window and was immediately confronted by a strange, menacing looking gray thingy up in the sky. It seemed vaguely familiar to me, and a few hours poring over my dictionary eventually led me to the term “thunderhead." Ah. Those. The storm came in slowly from the north, and the trees in the distance gradually faded from sight mere minutes before the drops began to splat against the parched ground outside my cell. Even the crows seemed exuberant, dancing a group waltz on the electrified fence, mocking us all, as always.

Later on during the evening news, the weatherman got himself worked into such a lather that you would have thought this was Genesis 7 all over again. And me without my two elephants.

The drought really has been a bad one, though I don’t suppose that is really breaking news to anyone living in the US, I think most of the southwest is having one of the worst dry spells in recorded history, though, of course, this has nothing to do with global warming, which is a liberal hoax. At least so says my friend, Mr. Biggus Bldnus, who is usually trustworthy on such matters. Proving just how damned un-American was this refusal of Mother Nature to play nice, Fourth of July celebrations were severely curtailed this year. In most (if not all) of the counties which make up the city of Houston, they were barred from sale altogether. Somehow, celebrating the independence of our nation from those bloody Poms just isn’t the same without setting fire to something, is it?

And that's the rub, it seems, for many. Never mind that in these conditions, setting fire to "something" could potentially translate very quickly into setting fire to everything. One lady being interviewed on the local news burst into tears, claiming that this is "supposed to be a free country and we should be able to buy fireworks if we want em!" Somehow, I am sure, this is all Obama's fault, or at least that of his socialist-atheist-Muslim secret backers, (Hey, Newt, out of curiosity, how exactly does one manage being an atheist and a Muslim simultaneously? Yeah, your campaign is doing well. Good job!) It came out later in the interview that the histrionic hick in question actually owned a fireworks supply warehouse in Conroe, Texas. Ah. Apparently, “freedom” in this sense really meant something akin to "the ability to have a fat wallet, and damn the consequences.” Seems to be an awful lot of that sort of thing going around these days.

I really did feel bad for this vendor, though. She was probably counting on this extra summer revenue, and she sounded pretty despondent. And for all of my jokes, I like blowing stuff up in the name of freedom as much as anyone. (My first run-in with the law came at the age of ten, actually, when me and my friend Matt C combined PVC pipes with Roman Candles to make a homemade bazooka; that was a long time ago, but I am pretty sure that there was no mens rea involved. Didn’t stop Mr. C from whipping our butts, though.) My pity for the fireworks lady was limited by the fact that she was effectively saying she was morally just peachy-keen on the idea of selling her product while the entire state resembles one gigantic tinderbox. There is no such thing as "perfect" freedom, at least not in the US. Perfect freedom would be total anarchy, and we all make a tacit agreement that such a system would not work when we agree to live under the rule of law. "Government interference" in this case was needed to save lives and property, and we can temper our sympathies for this small businesswoman by admitting to ourselves that she was just a little too interested in the subject matter to be rational. The closer you are to something, the more carefully you must check yourself to see if your connection is truly free from bias or benefit. We all know this.

And so I begin with a disclaimer. I am writing about private, for-profit prisons today, and it should be acknowledged that I am a prisoner. Perfectly obvious fact, of course, but it is only fair to say upfront that I am close to this subject. That said, I would like to offer up a few mitigating points which may grant me the appropriate distance needed to seem worthy of being listened to. First, as a death row inmate, I am not now housed in a private prison, and never will be. Even were I to have my sentence commuted to life in prison, I would never be housed at a private unit, based on my classification status. To state it plainly: you have a far better chance of being arrested and sent to a privately operated prison farm than I do, by many orders of magnitude. I will simply never have to deal with one of these places ever, ever again. Period. My interest in this subject therefore deals entirely with ethical and financial concerns, and should be seen as such.

Here's the basic problem, and I am going to put on a little vignette to illustrate it, though the reality is almost too kooky to screw with. Johnnie Nogood commits a crime. He is arrested, and goes to court where he is sentenced to 15 years. While in the pen, Johnnie is - if he is lucky - given educational and vocational training, so that when he is released he has a better chance of staying out. This is option A. Option B goes something like: Johnnie is sent to a penal farm where he is simply warehoused, where he learns how to smoke dope and be an idiot, which he masters before he is paroled. Whether option A or B happens is due largely to factors outside of his control, such as whether he had the good sense to be arrested in the northeast or stupid enough to get popped in the South. Either way, prison serves the function of incapacitation: whatever Johnnie Nogood does with his time, he is not out on the streets mugging old ladies on the way home from church. Either way, prison is fulfilling the role of keeping the public safe. While there are people who benefit economically from Johnnie's actions (lawyers, prison guards, judges), most of those people are generally thought of as necessary to the safety of a well-functioning society, and do not celebrate each criminal act as a potential windfall. They are, in other words, mostly reactions to the existence of crime, the public consequence of idiots like me.

Private prisons are a third option, and one of a very different species altogether. They profit every single day from every single inmate that is placed into their care (and, as it happens upon closer inspection, even from empty beds where inmates were supposed to be kept, but were not for logistical reasons). They are not attempting to deal with crime as a social reality, and are not involved in any moral quandaries about the care that a society owes to offenders. They exist, very simply, to make money. And boy, do they ever. The Corrections Corporation of America made about 1.67 billion dollars last year; GEO made about 1.27 billion, and those are only two of the major players involved in this industry. About 8% (about 130,000 people in 2009, surely a low number for today' s statistics) of all federal and state inmates in America were housed in facilities created solely to make a buck. Think about that for a moment.

I see bitter articles and commentaries written about this subject all the time, but surely one of the most presentable that has come across my desk in months is a report recently released by the Justice Policy Institute called Gaming the System: How the Political Strategies of Private Prison Companies Promote Ineffective Incarceration Policies. You can read this report HERE or by checking the Facts and Statistics section of MB6 HERE. JPI does an excellent job of bringing one up to date on the subject, but I wont waste your time summarizing it; if this piece piques your interest in any way, you can go back and look at the facts later. Rather, I will simply explain to you why I think these types of prisons are bad for public safety and a bad deal for taxpayers.

Since I am writing from Texas, we will begin with the money, honey. As you can see from the map above, Texas is big on private prisons, the largest user of them, in fact, in the nation by a significant margin. The basic idea behind this model is that businesses would have a vested interest in lowering operating costs to a degree unmatchable in government circles, and would thus be more efficient. Some studies have, in fact, shown this to be the case. Some, like the General Accounting Office and the National Institute of Justice report (listed on page 32 of the JPI study) show little difference in costs. I think the more distant studies (like the GAO one) are quite a bit more believable than the ones paid for by the corporations in question, but let 's give them the benefit of the doubt and pretend that they actually do save some money.

I did time, pre-sentencing, at two privately run facilities operated by Civigenics, Inc. One thing I noticed during my time in these institutions was that there were few sick inmates. (Which was a good thing, because the prison infirmaries at these places were equipped only to handle minor injuries.) When an inmate needed serious medical attention, he was shipped off to a state run unit. You see the point? If you were running a construction company, and had the ability to rotate out injured or sick workers and replace them with healthy ones, of course your expenses would be lower, and your insurance rates more manageable. You would clearly outperform your competition in efficiency comparisons. Not having to pay for dialysis or cancer drugs or even anti-psychotic medicines would seriously affect ones total expenses. The ability for private facilities to do this sort of switcheroo on a daily basis comes from the contracts these companies sign with the states. Nobody ever seems to check these before they are signed, but come on, surely someone should have noticed that such an agreement would totally skew any and all future side-by-side comparisons, right?

Another advantage that private facilities possess is that they get to pick and choose inmates based on classification. They simply won’t accept anyone with a history of mental illness, violent disciplinary infractions, or political organizing. I myself was denied entrance at Grimes County before being sent to Limestone based on such a contract: they didn’t want to deal with anyone with a capital murder charge. Not worth the money. True, some of these types do slip through the cracks, but they are quickly identified and transferred out. Surely, we can all see how this ability gives private units a huge advantage in the sort of efficiency challenges favored by the corporations? It’s apples and oranges.

But it gets worse, of course (as it always seems to, in my articles these days). When it comes to services like drug treatment, job training, and mental health services, private prisons have a far worse track record than Texas-run institutions. Such programs are simply not "cost effective", which, again, is the entire point of these places. When it’s solely about profit, the well being of inmates - not to mention what they do when they are eventually released - is simply not a factor. These are not values you can express in P/L charts, quite simply. And so they are ignored.

While at Limestone and Polk County IAH, I never once saw a single class on any subject. The law library had few relevant or recent materials, and never once was I interviewed by anyone attempting to gauge my mental health status. All of these are required by law, but as I have noted before, a law is not a law if nobody cares about its implementation or enforcement.

One thing that Civigenic did do at both farms was write a lot of cases. I mean, for everything. Look at an officer wrong? Case. Your shirt came untucked? Case, and maybe a second one if you didn’t get the disorder squared away in a manner deemed sufficiently timely by the observing officer. Interestingly enough, you were never actually disciplined for anything, save fighting. They weren’t actually interested in fighting with you, as the low level officers at the unit were just trying to get through the day. They were simply under corporate orders to write a lot of cases. What Civigenics was interested in was in keeping you locked up. Every day that you were in their care, they were getting paid, so why would they ever want you to parole out? And trust me when I tell you that when you go before the Board with 70 or 80 cases (even cases where you did zero time in the time-out chair), you aren’t going anywhere but back to your cell. Try to file a grievance on anything like this, and it will be denied. There very simply isn’t anything like oversight in these places. Costs too much, of course.

Every once in a blue moon, one of these companies does get caught with their pants down, as in the case of Gregorio de la Rosa, Jr, an honorably discharged vet doing six months in a GEO facility for less than 1/4 gram of cocaine. A few days prior to his scheduled release, he was beaten to death by two other inmates. While GEO officers stood by and watched. While the unit's wardens smirked and laughed. Of course, then the company torched the evidence, including surveillance videos of the act. GEO was forced to pay 42 million bucks as a result of all of the lies. Doh. Of course, being the noble corporate souls that they are, they surely wont even think about passing those losses off to the state in the form of increased rates and fees, right? Wrong. In the end, you are going to pay that off. Hard to imagine that facility being cheaper than a comparable state-run unit for that year, eh?

While I was at Limestone, I personally witnessed a game of softball digress into a boxing match, all thanks to the prodding of the guards. Once the fray kicked off, the officers in the gun towers didn’t fire a single shot until more than 10 men were broken and bleeding on the ground. At IAH, all rec yards were indoors, but that didn’t stop a nice little observation party from forming any time there was an altercation amongst the inmates. It was all just a big party to them, entertainment in its rawest form. Had I known then what I know now about the law, I would have had a field day with §1983 on these people.

The end result of this strategy should be obvious: no one who spends any time at a privately run prison is going to be rehabilitated in any appreciable way, unless they undertake such measures on their own. The most the public can really hope for is that the criminal intentions of those incarcerated remain roughly static (though, of course, we know that the vast majority of men in this system actually increase in their propensities towards committing criminal acts). In short, these men are punted to the street no different (or far worse) than when they went in. That is no favor to the community. But, hey, you did save a few dollars a day, right? Right?

Surely, I am overstating things, right? Fair enough, Let's take a stroll through CCA's 2010 Annual Report for their opinion. Actually, let's hear from them three times, ahem:

“The demand for our facilities could be adversely affected by the relaxation of enforcement efforts, leniency in conviction or parole standards and sentencing practices or through the decriminalization of certain activities that are currently proscribed by our criminal laws. For instance, any changes with respect to drugs and controlled substances or illegal immigration could affect the number of persons arrested, convicted and sentenced, thereby potentially reducing demand for correctional facilities to house them. Legislation has been proposed in numerous jurisdictions that could lower minimum sentences for some non-violent crimes and make more inmates eligible for early release based on good behavior. Also, sentencing alternatives under consideration could put some offenders on probation with electronic monitoring who would otherwise be incarcerated. Similarly, reductions in crime rate, or resources dedicated to prevent and enforce crime could lead to reductions in arrests, convictions and sentences requiring incarceration at correctional facilities."

"We believe the long-term growth opportunities of our business remain very attractive as insufficient bed development by our customers should result in a return to the supply and demand imbalance that has been benefiting the private prison industry."

"Our industry benefits from significant economies of scale, resulting in lower operating costs per inmate as occupancy rates increase. We believe we have been successful in increasing the number of residents in our care and continue to pursue a number of initiatives intended to further increase our occupancy and revenue. Our competitive cost structure offers prospective customers a compelling option for incarceration."

I don’t know what normal people feel when they read things like that. It nearly makes me ill. Note we are not talking about the public good here. We are talking about locking people up for money. We inmates are products, and their lowest operating costs depend on scale: the more cons, the higher the profits. Any talk about getting “smart on crime" is therefore to be killed. See the line about "initiatives"? What they mean here is that they lobby like crazy. They have their own PAC's (Political Action Committees). They donate millions to politicians.

As you can see in the above graph, Republicans are the major beneficiaries of these donations, but Democrats have plenty of fingers in the cookie jar, too. Everyone is getting their share. Evidence for the effects of their efforts can be seen very simply by one key set of statistics: while nationwide the numbers of state inmates has decreased in recent years, the numbers of inmates in private facilities has increased. When many states are shutting down prisons (specifically because they have discovered that the sort of rehabilitative programs I have endorsed on this site for years actually work), private companies are paying politicians to keep their investments active. Never mind that these are people we are talking about. Why don’t you Tea Partiers get pissed about this? Seems like the type of thing that ought to make you apoplectic with constitutionally-inspired rage. Just Google it. You will see that the evidence is plentiful.

The connections made by the companies are deep. CCA, for instance, was started by Tom Beasley, who at the time was the chairman of the Tennessee Republican Party. Think he instantly lost his Rolodex when he switched jobs? In 2007, President Bush nominated Gustavus Puryear IV to be a federal district court judge in Tennessee. Puryear was CCA's general counsel at the time. This job would have been a lifetime appointment, and yet, he had no qualifications, little to no litigation experience, and very low ratings from the ABA. What he did have was a close relationship to Dick Cheney, an investor in CCA. And here was his friend, being asked to be a judge presiding over the very district where CCA has its corporate headquarters. Had it not been for Prison Legal News and Alex Friedman, this would have happened. Fortunately, in a rare win for the good guys, the appointment was killed off. There are other examples of this sort of hi-jinks in the JPI report.

Like the fireworks vendor, these corporations should not be involved in designing or implementing criminal justice policy. After all, what they would LOVE is for a million people to be locked up, right now, and who cares whether they are innocent? Their interest - mountains of cash - comes at the expense of taxpayers, and at the expense of the men caught in their machinery. Frankly, when cell bars start to look like the columns of a spreadsheet, something is very, very wrong.

If anything I have written here smells off to you, please, fact check me. If you then feel compelled to have your voice heard on this issue, there are many organizations out there which are committed to eliminating privatized penal farms. One which has had past success can be found at: grassrootsleadership.org

Beyond that, your state rep is just an email or phone call away. Of course, you might want to ask him or her how much they have received from private prison companies in the past. If the answer is more than zero, you have every right as a citizen to tell them what you think about that.

(Admin note: A list of the members of the Texas House of Representatives and their contact details can be found HERE)

For an excellent article written by Craig Malisow on GEO’s activities in Texas, please see this LINK.

My thanks to the JUSTICE POLICY INSTITUTE for the report, which can be found HERE.

If you would like to be notified when new material is posted on MB6, you can subscribe in a variety of ways on the right.

Life On San Quentin’s Death Row

2011-07-25T16:51:00.000-07:00

By Willie Johnson

Willie Johnson, who has been imprisoned on Death Row in San Quentin State Prison in California for more than 20 years, wrote the following essay. An Actual Innocence hearing for his case is scheduled this summer.

San Quentin State Prison in located in prime real estate overlooking the San Francisco bay. Designed to house five thousand inmates, it currently holds twice that number. Of these ten thousand or so inmates, seven hundred are on death row. Isolated from the majority of the general population, death row inmates are divided into three groups.

The main group is located in East Block and they are considered Grade A inmates. But they have their own exercise yard so they never come into contact with other inmates, while the rest of the East Block inmates are divided into five other groups and these groups share five yards. These inmates are divided for various reasons. Some because of conflict and others because of the nature of their cases. This is also done so that the prison staff can manipulate the situation. By having prisoners separated in this fashion, prison staff can maintain control by creating an environment of mistrust among the prisoners, which keeps the heat off of them.

On the yard, there are four card tables, a dip bar, pull up bar and single basketball court, which are shared by sixty to seventy inmates. Because of the racial factor, inmates have worked out a schedule so that each group gets a chance to use the dip and pull up bars, but anyone can play basketball. Each group has a card table.

The next group of Death Row is located in North Seg. North Seg is located on top of North Block. And it’s where the original death row was housed. It has sixty-four cells and all the prisoners are considered model prisoners. Although they are also considered to be Grade A inmates, North Seg inmates are considered to be “above’ East Block inmates.

All inmates are housed in single man cells. But North Seg inmates get more yard time than the others. Other than that privilege, their status is the same. Privileges consist of contact visits, phone calls and quarterly food packages. Inmates are also allowed a certain number of books in their cells. As for appliances, Grade A inmates are allowed a television, radio, electric fan, type writer and electric razor. If an inmate loses his Grade A status due to a rule violation, then all these items are subjected to being sent home. Commissary is another privilege given to death row inmates. Grade A inmates are allowed to spend up to two hundred dollars on commissary and Grade B inmates are allowed to spend fifty five dollars. Canteen consists of everything from writing materials to food items. As for Grade b inmates, they are considered program failures and most of them are housed in the adjustment center. There are also some housed in East Block.

The ones in the adjustment center are assigned to walk alone in small cages on the yard. Each cage has a sink and toilet. Lined up in three rows of nine cages, these inmates go outside every other day for four hours. Most of the inmates there are labeled gang bangers by the prison administration. Some of them have been there for over 20 years. The only way out is to snitch on their friends. While on Grade B, inmates are not allowed contact visits, phone calls, fans, electric razors or quarterly food packages, so most inmates try to avoid Grade B, which is really hard. Not only because of some asshole police, but also because of some knucklehead inmates. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between guard and inmate. That’s because some guards are infatuated with the criminal lifestyle and are known to mimic criminal behavior. Not to mention that many of them come from the same environment as the prisoners. What a lot of people don’t know about California prisons is that there’s a major rift between inmates from the north and inmates from the south. And this crosses all racial lines. The only way he different groups come together is when there’s a racial issue. Other than that, it’s a north/south thing.

There is another group worth mentioning. They are the mentally ill. Some were disturbed before coming to prison and others became ill while incarcerated. They are known to cause havoc with other inmates and guards alike. Some nights they bang on their bunks and scream at the tops of their lungs all night long. It’s not unusual to hear about them gassing (throwing a concoction of urine and feces on) police, or about guards setting one of the perpetrators up to be harmed. Although there’s a large number of psychologists assigned to death row, the mentally ill population on death row is continually growing. The number of suicides continues to increase as well.

The other thing that is killing prisoners at an alarming rate is the food. There have been more inmate deaths from the food than form execution. But the prison staff writes them off as natural causes. You would think the medical staff would speak out on this issue, but they continue to allow it to happen which speaks volumes about the level of health care that inmates are receiving on death row. Undernourishment and psychological deterioration are the natural causes for premature death on death row. So let it be known that the California Prison System is in violation of its citizens’ human rights. And no matter what a person has done to be sent to death row, they are still entitled to the right to be treated humanely.

Willie Johnson
C-35635 5EY55
San Quentin State Prison
San Quentin, CA 94974
U.S.A

Willie has previously written a Letter for a Future Death Row Inmate and can be read HERE

© Copyright 2011 by Willie Johnson and Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved

The Killing Machine

2011-07-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

By Ronald W. Clark Jr.

I arrived on Florida’s Death Row on Friday February 22nd 1991. At that time there had only been 25 executions since it’s re instatement in the 1970’s. That 25th execution was Raymond Clark who had spent 13 years on Death Row.

Several months after my arrival the Governor would sign Roy Harich’s death warrant and scheduled his execution for April 24th 1991 four days after my 23rd birthday. I didn’t know Roy but I was around guys who did know him and I could see how it affected them. Back in those days the Electric Chair called ‘Old Sparky’ was used. Weeks before the execution the generator would be started several times a week in preparation for the execution. This took a toll on a lot of men. The next three men who were executed while I was still in the building were number 27 Marion Francis executed June 25th 1991, number 28 Nollie Lee Martin executed on May 12th 1992 and number 29 Edward Kennedy executed on July 21st 1992. I saw the stress that it put on the men who knew them. We could smell burnt flesh during these executions. Guys that were located in certain areas could watch the vans filled with witnesses pull in and out, watch the hearse pull in and out and pick up the body. Witnessing that was even more disturbing but it would be some years later before I’d witness that.

On February 23rd 1993 I’d get transferred form Florida State Prison to the new death Row housing unit at Union Correctional Institution (UCI) and on April 21st 1993 the 30th man to be executed would be Robert Henderson. Again I didn’t know him but over here at UCI it was as different as night and day. You were separated from the experience of the execution. The only way you knew about it was if you were keeping up with it through the news or newspapers.

The 31st execution would take place on May 8th 1993. I knew this man and lived around him. His name was Larry Johnson who we called Timebomb. He was only in his late 40’s but looked like he was in his 60’s. Life had not been kind to him at all. Number 32 would be Michael Durocher executed later that year on August 25th 1993. He was only on the Row for two years. He arrived a few months after I did. I didn’t know him but I had passed him in the hall and had seen him in Medical. The next three men were Roy Stewart executed April 22nd 1994, Bernard Bolander July 18th 1995 and Jerry White executed December 4th 1995. I had seen these guys around, been on the recreation yard with them but I wasn’t close to them.

In October 1994 I moved to the top floor of C Wing and there I’d meet Phillip Atkins who lived several cells down from me. We called him ‘Bull’. Why? I DON’T KNOW. He was a puny little white guy, 5 foot nothing, 100 plus pounds. He played basketball and I’d talk to him on the yard. In mid 1995 as I’d pass his cell going to the shower or a call out or visit Bull would always be there sitting on the edge of the toilet smoking a cigarette. I could see the stress in his face, I could see the change. One day in September or October 1995 while on 2 wing recreation yard the basketball game had ended and he came over and began talking to me. He said ‘man they are fixing to sign my warrant any day now and he said ‘and I’ve got a really bad case’. I said ‘I don’t want to know what you are in here for. I judge you on who you are now not what you did’. We then got interrupted because the officers called me off the yard for a call out. Several days later his warrant was signed and on December 5th 1995 Bull would be the 36th man to be executed by the State of Florida. And only through the news coverage did I discover his crime. But I got to know the man not the crime.

John Bush, who we called ‘Little John’, would be the next man executed on October 21st 1996. And shortly after that on December 6th 1996 they would execute John Mills. Pedro Medina who we called ‘KC’ would be the 39th man executed by the State of Florida, on March 25th 1997. He was a black Cuban. This man was eating his own feces leading up to his execution yet they still murdered him under the mantle of Justice, for the sake of an eye for an eye, blood for blood. A year after KC’s murder the Governor would sign four death warrants. Gerald Stano who they would kill on March 23rd 1998, Leo Jones who they would murder on March 24th 1998. There are still a lot of unanswered questions concerning his guilt. And on March 30th 1998 Florida would execute the first woman since the re instatement of the Death Penalty making Judias Buenoano the 42nd person to die in Florida’s electric chair. The 43rd would be Danny Remeta. I had never lived around Danny but I had spoken to him and his wife in the visiting park on many occasions. They were both very nice people.

The last person to be murdered in Florida’s electric chair would be on July 8th 1999, Tiny Allen Davis. The uproar over this botched execution, being the third botched execution in a decade starting with that of Jesse Tafero, an innocent man that Florida murdered on May 4th 1990. Flames shooting from the top of his head, burnt flesh as he jerked against the straps that held him in ‘Old Sparky’. Seven years later they made the same mistake killing KC. Tiny’s execution threatened to shut Florida’s machinery of death down. So in January of 2000 Florida would reconstruct the death chamber and implement lethal injections.

In December 1999 I was moved back to Florida State Prison (FSP) and placed on Q wing on the second floor due to an incident I had been involved in. So I could hear the construction work being done in the execution chamber. And as soon as they had finished the Governor would re sign the death warrants of Terry Sims and Anthony Bryan, two men that I knew very well. I had lived around both of these men. I had met Tony’s family in the visiting park. When their 30 day warrants were signed they would be placed on the bottom floor of Q wing in a death watch cell. So for the next 30 days I would speak with them through a vent in the back wall. I’d see Tony in the non contact visiting park with family and friends and I could only imagine that their suffering was far out reaching his. For the survivors (family) would have prolonged suffering that would last for years as they slowly witnessed what is the greatest degree of pre meditated homicide to have ever taken place.

On February 23rd 2000 I would talk to Terry for the last time at approximately 6am an hour before his death. He said ‘I talked to my son last night on the phone and he sang me a song that he wrote for me’. He said for his last meal he had had fish (Grouper), French fries and a Boston cream pie which he shared with Tony. He said ‘They are here for me man, I’ve got to go. Ya’ll take care and I’ll see you on the other side.’ I got down stood at my cell door looking out across the hallway. I saw the van pull in through the window, I saw the white hearse pull up and stop in the parking lot outside the fence, waiting, preying over Terry’s dead body like a vulture. I knew what was going on under me. Murder in the fraudulent name of equal Justice! Bullshit!! It’s not Justice, it’s freaking revenge!! I watched the witness vans leave and the hearse pull in and within 15 minutes I watched it exit out of the back of FSP with the body of Terry M Sims the 45th person to be executed since 1976 and the first person to be put to death by lethal injection in the State of Florida on February 24th 2000.

I’d repeat the same thing. I woke up called down to Tony and we talked until they came to get him. He was preaching about his Christian faith. I just listened and agreed until he had to go. He spoke about the last visit with his family. So I imagined they were out there with the protestors. I thought of them as I stood over at the bars and watched the vans come and go. As I watched the hearse pull in and then leave. There was fog that morning and as that hearse sat at the back gate with Tony’s dead body I saw the sun shine down through the fog and it was amazing. From where I was standing that was the light that I needed to start my fight to educate people on the injustice of capital punishment.

The 47th execution was June 7th 2000. Bennie Demps who we called ‘Dezalene ‘ or ‘Dez’. I had spoken to Dez back in November or December 1999 in the visiting park after he had come back from an outside court and he was positive things were looking up and he was going to get his sentence overturned. So in April when I heard he got his warrant signed I was shocked that he was now downstairs. I would run into him in the hallway on several occasions and he would nod his head and say ‘take it easy’. I knew it was a long shot for him to get a stay. I could see the defeat in his eyes. He never got on the vent to talk. This was not the same happy go lucky Dez that I knew.

Fourteen days after they murdered Dez they would kill Thomas Provenzano. They had him scheduled to be executed on June 29th 2000. I never spoke to him on the vent. I had only seen him in passing at medical and legal call outs. I stood that morning and watched the vans pull in. I had seen the hearse out in the parking lot. Just after 7am I saw the vans leave and thought that’s too early. And then the hearse left which told me that he got a stay of execution. I learned later that he was strapped to the gurney, needles in his arms and at the very last minute the phone rang. It was the governor’s office and they issued a stay. However the stay was a 24 hour stay and the next morning June 21st 2000 he was thrown back on the gurney and killed.

Dan Hauser would be the next man executed on August 25th 2000 but I call this ‘state assisted suicide’. He terminated his appeals in order to escape this brutal world of the condemned. As would my friend, the 50th man killed by the state of Florida, Edward Castro who we called ‘Gato’. He was killed on December 7th 2000. By this time I had been moved off Q wing and on to G wing formerly known as R wing death row housing. There I could still witness the vans entering and exiting as well as that white hearse. Robert Glock who we called ‘Tattoo’ after the little guy on Fantasy Island would be the next man executed on January 11th 2001. He was on G wing several cells down before they killed him so I got to know him there. That’s tough watching a healthy human being be put down euthanized like a stray animal. The next man was even more difficult, for he was my neighbor Rigoberto Sanchez-Velasco, known as ‘Sanchez’. We used to gamble, play cards. He would do art work for me and we would talk. Again I knew the man not the crime and it was a crime that was eating him up inside. So he had dropped his appeals and Governor Bush and the state of Florida assisted Sanchez to commit suicide on October 2nd 2002. To this day I still have the cards we played with. One of the officers came over and told me that Sanchez sent his regards to you on the way out and he was joking with the officers as they passed the air conditioning unit saying ‘Hey can I take that with me. I might need it where I am going.’

A week later Aileen Wuornos would be the 53rd person and the second woman executed by the state of Florida.

On November 7th 2002 I was placed back on G wing with Linroy Bottoson who had gotten a stay of execution that year, as well as Amos King who I had known for over a decade. On December 9th 2002 Linroy would be executed and Amos King would be executed on February 26th 2003. I’d see him several days before his execution and again I saw that hopeless look in his eyes. The same look that I had seen Dez’s eyes. The next two executions would be Newton Slawson on May 16th 2003 and Paul Hill on September 3rd 2003. I had seen Paul Hill around and I knew his case, killing an abortion doctor.

The next execution would take place on February 4th 2004 Johnny L Robinson. I knew him well. I lived around him for two years on the old S wing at FSP. He used to do some beautiful crochet work. I met his wife in the visiting park once. She used to come down from Alabama to see him. His death was an emotional strain on me.

The 59th execution would be that of John Blackwelder on May 26th 2004. Although he had only spent just over two years on death row I had known him since 2000. I met him in the summer of 2000 while on Q wing. John did not commit the murder that he was executed for. I don’t think this I know this. See John was in the prison population and he was being sexually assaulted. Used as a sex toy. He had had enough of it so Charles Globe told him he could get him out of there if he was willing to take the blame. So Globe killed the victim who was another gay guy. John would take the blame and get a free ticket to death row, where he would drop his appeals and the state would assist in his suicide.

Glen Hocha who we called ‘Raven’ would be the 60th person executed on April 5th 2005. He also used the machinery of death as a tool to commit suicide. By this time I was back at UCI. Clarence Hill who we called ‘Mobile’ or his Muslim name Raizot would be the next man killed on September 20th 2006. I knew him well and played basketball against him over the years. Shortly after his death they would sign the death warrant of Arthur Rutherford who went by the name of Dennis. He would be put to death on October 18th 2006 and I knew him as well.

The 63rd person executed by the state of Florida would be one of the more famous Danny Rolling who would be put down on October 25th 2006. I knew Danny pretty well. I could see that he was mentally disturbed. I recall a disturbing conversation between him and another inmate over a K Bar knife and I knew then that he wasn’t wrapped too tight. I still have a drawing that he did for me.

Angel Diaz who we called ‘Poco’ was the next man to not only die in Florida’s death chamber on December 13th 2006 but to be tortured. The execution went terribly wrong. The IV that the deadly cocktail would flow through was put in wrong, they missed the vein and the poison was absorbed through the body tissue. Six years earlier they butchered Dez when they couldn’t find a vein in his arm.

Mark D Schwab would be the next man to be executed on July 1st 2008. I was on the bottom of one wing formerly known as A wing when they signed his warrant and took him by my cell. I had lived around him several times over the years. The 66th man to die was Richard Henyard on September 23rd 2008. I knew Little Rich well. I had lived on the same wing with him and Mark on two separate occasions. So these were extremely difficult executions to deal with. I am just glad that I wasn’t at FSP.

The next person was Wayne Tomkins who we called ‘Grey Cloud’. He would be killed on February 11th 2009 yet he spent a good five years on G wing with a warrant signed but no date. Which I’m sure was hard on him and his family.

The 68th man would be John Marek who would be executed on August 19th 2009. I didn’t know him, I knew people that did.

The 69th man and last execution to this date was Eddie Gross a man who we called ’Eddie Spaggiti’. I met him and his family in the visiting park. Luckily his mother passed away before they killed him.

These are the executions that I’ve experienced here on Florida’s death row. It would be a good thing if I never have to update this essay. Unfortunately I don’t see that happening. Human’s blood lust for vengeance seems to over ride human decency. And the death penalty is an act of revenge, the thirst for death. One day a time will come when a more civilized society will look back on us with the same contempt and disgust as we have looking back at the murders and executions of the Roman Empire. But until that day the killing machines in America will continue to spit bodies out because of our blood lust for vengeance.

Ronald W. Clark Jr #812974
Union Correctional Institution
7819 N.W. 228th Street
Raiford, FL 32036-4440 USA

Ronald has previously written a Letter for a Future Death Row Inmate and can be read HERE

He also has a website maintained by a friend:

http://www.thedeathrowpoet.blogspot.com

© Copyright 2011 by Ronald Clark Jr and Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved

Busy, busy, busy

2011-07-17T21:39:00.000-07:00

I know that it seems like I have been neglecting you lately. I haven't, really, but I know that it can seem that way. Later this year I will be publishing an account of all of the ... uh . . . "creative differences" I have been having over the past six months with a certain official here at the nuthouse. Things will become quite a bit clearer as to why so many of my articles have been vanishing in transit. I cannot do that until other activities are completed, activities of a legal nature. For the last year, I have been working on my opus, my last little love note to the TDCJ. I will be posting that material up here later this year, once the courts have it. Please have a bit of patience with me. This project has consumed many hundreds of hours of my time, and while it will not be perfect (and more than likely a total failure), I felt it had to be done. Forgive me all of the cloak and dagger junk. I've got good reasons. The purple eagle flies at midnight, wink and nod.

Honestly, my motivation levels in general are at a bit of a low-water mark recently, at least when it comes to this site. Tiny's death took a lot out of me. I suppose you do learn to grow some protective shells after a few years of all of this senseless violence, but every once in awhile an execution batters its way through and leaves you feeling emotionally sandblasted. I have been a bit distant from people of late, and when I actually do show up, my attitude is so bitter that I am sure everyone wished that I had left. A friend of mine here thinks that some part of my subconscious is aware that I will never get to be the crotchety old bastard at the nursing home that I was destined to be, so I am trying to make up for it in the present day. 31 going on 87, in other words. I'm working on it.

On top of all of that, my federal writ was due late last month. I have been working on this for quite awhile, as well, thanks to the donations that a few of you made late last year. I really do appreciate all of the help, and I must say, the thing turned out decently. Certainly better than any of my other appeals, even if it was not as complete as it might have been with a larger war chest. The federal writ of habeas corpus is, when you get down to it, the only real appeal a capital defendant has in the state of Texas. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals has only ever granted relief on two (not two percent, mind, but two as in 1 comma two) state writs. After the fed, you arrive in the 5th Circuit, which is by far the most conservative circuit court in the nation, and can pretty much be depended on to affirm any death sentence regardless of the facts. So this is it for me, really. It’s in the judge's hands. When I get the final go-ahead from my attorney, I will be posting everything up here for you to peruse. The mental health stuff is particularly humbling, and is sure to make everyone I know take me far less seriously than I'd prefer, but… think anyone who has read this site for very long knows that I am a little…off at times, yes? No sense in denying the obvious.

Beyond that, class is keeping me busy. I got a scholarship to take another Pathways program (www.philosophypathways.com), and am steeling myself for Dr. Klempner's oh-so-polite eviscerations of my carefully crafted essays. As I mentioned before, I am also a senior now, and these 400 level courses are demanding a lot more time and energy of me than the earlier stuff did. That said, I am really enjoying the coursework, lots of theory and grad school prep stuff. I feel very fortunate to have made it this far, and I will never be able to thank you five, the Big Five, for ponying up most of the cash for this. You deserve far better from life than you have gotten. Anyways, I am hoping to complete my BA next Spring. I should be able to manage that, barring any interference from the Gestapo. All of this is to say that when there is a better than even chance that anything I write to this site will never see the light of day, I tend to choose to spend my time on other projects. It's not you. It’s me. Sort of. Mostly it’s them, but we can blame me for now. I’m used to it.

At any rate, I am going to phone it in today, and reprint a very informative interview that was sent to me from www.alternet.org The subject is solitary confinement and the burgeoning movement to end this practice. Seems like someone has been saying this sort of thing for a few years, but I cannot quite put my finger on who that was…enjoy, and I’ll be back shortly.

The following interview with James Ridgeway and Jean Casella, conducted by Angola 3 News, appeared earlier this week on Alternet (where you can read the introduction, which includes background on the upcoming prisoner hunger strike at Pelican Bay.)

Angola 3 News: How did you first become interested in the issue of solitary confinement and ultimately become inspired to start Solitary Watch?

Solitary Watch: We started Solitary Watch because this issue grabbed us by the throats. The solitary confinement of tens of thousands of prisoners may be the most grievous mass human rights violation that’s taking place on American soil, yet it’s been largely concealed from and ignored by the public, and seriously under-reported by the press.

Solitary confinement is a hidden world within the larger hidden world of the prison system, and prisoners in solitary are an invisible and dehumanized minority within the larger population of prison inmates in general–who also remain remarkably invisible and dehumanized, considering that they now number nearly 2.3 million and constitute one in every 100 adults in this country.

We don’t mean to sound self-righteous about any of this, because until two years ago we were as ignorant about this subject as anyone. Like so many other people, we were outraged by the abuses taking place at Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib, yet we knew relatively little about the abuses happening here at home, in our own prisons and jails. What changed that was Jim’s reporting for Mother Jones on the Angola 3. To discover that there were men who had been living isolated in 6 x 9-foot cells for nearly 40 years—well, that clearly shocked the conscience.

That was the beginning of our education. We began to learn more and more about this torturous netherworld of solitary confinement that exists, in one form or another, in every state of the union. And we discovered that there were activists and lawyers and scholars and prisoners’ families and even a handful of journalists out there who were trying to draw attention to the issue, but no centralized, comprehensive source of information.

A3N: Can you please briefly tell us about your background before Solitary Watch?

SW: Jim has more than 40 years of experience as an investigative journalist, and Jean has been an editor for independent media and run small nonprofit organizations. It seemed like together we had the skills we needed to start up a web-based project that would serve as an information clearinghouse on solitary confinement, as well as a forum for whatever original reporting we might do on the subject. And we’ve been fortunate enough to get some funding from several generous donors. That was the genesis of Solitary Watch, which went online a year and a half ago.

A3N: What is a SHU?

SW: SHU is just one of many euphemisms prison systems have developed to avoid using the term “solitary confinement.” In California, it stands for Security Housing Unit; in New York it is Special Housing Unit. Elsewhere we see Special Management Units, Behavioral Management Units, Communications Management Units, Administrative Segregation, Disciplinary Segregation—the list goes on. There are nuances of difference among them, but they all consist of 23- to 24-hour-a-day lockdown. Most of these systems—including the federal Bureau of Prisons—deny that they use solitary confinement, even while they have tens of thousands of prisoners locked alone in their cells for months, years, even decades.

A3N: When was the first SHU made?

SW: Solitary confinement was actually invented here in the United States, in the early 19th century in Philadelphia, as a supposedly humane alternative to things like floggings and hard labor. Prisoners were locked up alone, with absolutely nothing to do but contemplate their crimes, pray, and supposedly become “penitent”—thus the term “penitentiary.” Of course, nothing like that happened. The U.S. Supreme Court looked at conditions in the Philadelphia prison in 1890 and found that “A considerable number of the prisoners fell, after even a short confinement, into a semi-fatuous condition, from which it was next to impossible to arouse them, and others became violently insane; others still, committed suicide; while those who stood the ordeal better were not generally reformed, and in most cases did not recover sufficient mental activity to be of any subsequent service to the community.”

For nearly 100 years after that, solitary confinement was rare; the famous Birdman of Alcatraz spent six years in solitary, and that was unusual. Things really began to change in 1983, when two guards at the federal prison in Marion, Illinois, were killed by inmates on the same day. That was the beginning of the notorious Marion Lockdown, where prisoners were permanently confined to their cells without yard time, work, or any kind of rehabilitative programming.

A3N: How have they developed since?

SW: Other prisons followed suit, and in 1989 California built the first supermax—Pelican Bay. There was a supermax boom in the 1990s, and today, 40 states and the federal government have supermax prisons holding upwards of 25,000 inmates. Tens of thousands more are held in solitary confinement in lockdown units within other prisons and jails. There’s no up-to-date nationwide count, but according to best estimates, there are at least 75,000 and perhaps more than 100,000 prisoners in solitary confinement on any given day in America.

Solitary confinement has become the disciplinary measure of first resort, rather than of last resort. Today you can be placed in solitary confinement not only for violence, but for any form of “insubordination” toward prison officials. Others are put there for having contraband—which includes not only drugs but cell phones or even too many postage stamps. Still others—including many of the juveniles in adult prisons–end up in solitary for their own “protection” because they are targets of prison rape. A lot of the men in Pelican Bay’s SHU are there because they’ve been “validated” as gang members, based on the say-so of inmate “snitches” who are rewarded for informing. The reasons are countless, and sometimes absurd. In Virginia, a group of Rastafarian men was in solitary for a decade because they refused to cut their dreadlocks, in violation of prison rules.

A3N: What are effects of the SHU on prisoners’ health and well-being?

SW: As one prisoner at the Tamms supermax in Illinois said, “Lock yourself in your bathroom for the next 10 years and tell me how it will affect your mind.”

If it weren’t already obvious enough, research conducted over the last 30 years confirms solitary confinement has an extremely damaging effect on mental health. One study found that a single week in solitary produced a change in EEG activity related to stress and anxiety. There’s evidence that long-term isolation profoundly alters the brain chemistry, and that longer stretches in solitary produce psychopathologies—including panic attacks, depression, inability to concentrate, memory loss, aggression self-mutilation, and various forms of psychosis–at a considerably higher rate than other forms of confinement. Yet we have prison systems that insist they are placing prisoners in solitary so that they can “learn self-control,” and many cases where inmates are released directly from long-term isolation onto the streets. Unsurprisingly, they have a notably higher recidivism rate than other prisoners.

It’s important to acknowledge, also, that a huge number of prisoners who are placed in solitary suffer from underlying mental illness. After 40 years of cuts to funding for mental health care, prisons and jails in general—and solitary confinement cells in particular–have become America’s new asylums. Prisoners are placed in solitary for being disruptive, when what they are doing is simply exhibiting the untreated symptoms of mental illness. One report by Human Rights Watch found that in prison systems around the country, one-third to one-half of the prisoners held in solitary were mentally ill. Other studies have found that two-thirds of all prison suicides take place in solitary confinement.

There has been less research done on the physical effects of solitary confinement, but evidence from recent court cases suggests a relationship to things like extreme insomnia, joint pain, hypertension and even damage to the eyesight—which makes sense when you are talking about not being able to walk or look more than ten feet in any direction for years or decades on end. We will clearly see more evidence of health damage as more and more prisoners grow old in long-term solitary confinement.

A3N: The hunger strike at Pelican Bay will begin on July 1, and the strikers have made five demands. Do you think these policies being protested are violations of international human rights standards? Of domestic US laws?

SW: First, we want to say what a remarkable document this is, remembering that it was written by a group of men who are largely unable to communicate with one another or with the outside world, and who have limited access to research materials. It’s a tribute to their perseverance and dedication to their cause, as well as their courage.

Second, we should emphasize how measured and reasonable their set of demands is. It draws heavily on the findings of the Commission on Safety and Abuse in America’s Prisons, which was a bipartisan, blue-ribbon commission that studied U.S. prisons and jails. As one of its three major findings on prison conditions, the Commission said that the growing use of “high-security segregation” was counterproductive and often cruel. The Pelican Bay hunger strikers have adopted the recommendations of the Commission for reforming and limiting the use of solitary confinement. Beyond this, they are simply asking for an end to group punishment and guilt by association, which are used to confine prisoners to the SHU indefinitely. And finally, they are asking for decent, nutritious food. This is hardly a radical agenda.

There’s no doubt that solitary confinement, as it’s practiced in the United States at Pelican Bay and elsewhere, stands in violation of international human rights standards, including the UN Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, and the UN’s Basic Principles for the Treatment of Prisoners. Recently, the European Court of Human Rights delayed the extradition to the United States of several British terrorism suspects, because of the possibility that they would be sentenced to life in a supermax prison, which was deemed to violate the European Convention on Human Rights.

Unfortunately, U.S. courts have been more reluctant to take a stand against solitary confinement. We are not Constitutional scholars or even lawyers, but to us it would seem obvious that long-term solitary, at least, violates Constitution’s ban on cruel and unusual punishment. However, the courts, with a few exceptions, have not found that to be the case. The exceptions for the most part have to do with prisoners with mental illness.

In a few cases, courts have found that holding prisoners in solitary violates their Constitutional right to due process, since they can be placed in isolation based on a system in which prison officials act as prosecutors, judge, and jury. Prisoners have no real opportunity to defend themselves, and no way to “earn” their way out of solitary through good behavior. That’s certainly the case at Pelican Bay, and it’s one of the things the hunger strikers are protesting.

At the moment there are two important cases pending in federal court, which claim that long-term solitary violates the Constitution. One is the case of the Angola 3, now in their 40th year of solitary in Louisiana; the other is the case of Thomas Silverstein, who has spent 28 years in extreme solitary confinement in federal prison under a “no human contact” order.

A3N: Looking beyond these specific demands, what are some other characteristics of the Pelican Bay SHU?

SW: California is particularly bad when it comes to holding prisoners in solitary confinement indefinitely based on highly questionable determinations of gang status, which as we said are often based on a system of snitching in return for various rewards. Otherwise, conditions in Pelican Bay are similar to those in most supermax prisons and SHUs.

These prisons have made a science out of isolation. The cells usually measure between 60 and 80 square feet, and those cells are a prisoner’s entire world. They are fed through slots in the solid steel doors, and if they communicate with prison staff, including mental health practitioners, that also takes place through the feeding slot. If they’re lucky they get to exercise one hour a day, alone, in a fenced or walled “dog run,” and leave their cells a few times a week to take a shower—in shackles, of course. In some cells the lights are on 24 hours a day, and there’s round-the-clock video surveillance.

Prisoners may or may not be permitted to have visits. They may or may not be allowed reading and writing materials, art supplies, or other things to help them pass the time, and they may or may not have television, with close-circuit programming supplied by the prison. At ADX, the federal supermax in Florence, Colorado, they have black and white televisions that actually had to be specially retrofitted for the Bureau of Prisons, reputedly because they didn’t like the PR implications of prisoners having color TV.

In fact there’s a lot of concern about inmates being perceived as having it “too easy”–so they often don’t have air conditioning in summer or enough heat in the winter, and the food is barely adequate. Some states still use “the loaf”—made of a tasteless puree of foods—as punishment.

A3N: For over 40 years, Hugo Pinell has been in solitary confinement, most recently at Pelican Bay. Considering the political context of solitary confinement in Pinell’s case, as well as that of the Angola 3, what do you think this says about how prison authorities have used solitary confinement as a political tool against prisoner activists and organizers? Is the practice widespread?

SW: There’s no doubt that solitary confinement is widely employed against prisoners who are perceived as representing any kind of threat to the absolute power and control of prison authorities. This is true even if inmates are seeking to organize for positive change and even if they are completely nonviolent.

In the case of Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox, the two still-imprisoned members of the Angola 3, and of Hugo Pinell at Pelican Bay, we are talking about men who have had virtually clean disciplinary records for several decades, and who are now in their sixties. The fact that they continue to be held in solitary confinement clearly has everything to do with their involvement as prison organizers.

We have the warden of Angola, Burl Cain, saying under oath in a deposition that Wallace and Woodfox have to be kept in solitary because they are still “trying to practice Black Pantherism,” and if he let them into the general population they would “organize the young new inmates” and “have the blacks chasing after them.” And we have a prisoner in California being sent to the SHU simply for having reading materials written by George Jackson and contact information for Hugo Pinell.

But you don’t have to be associated with the Black Panthers, or indeed any organized political group, to be punished for prison activism. In Massachusetts, an inmate named Timothy Muise was sent to solitary after he tried to expose a sex-for-snitching ring run by guards at his prison; they said his offense was “engaging in or inciting a group demonstration or hunger strike.” A prison journalist in Maine named Deane Brown was isolated and eventually shipped out of state for sending broadcasts called “Live from the Hole” to a local radio station.

Solitary confinement is routinely used to punish prison whistleblowers, and to suppress nonviolent dissent and free expression.

A3N: How well do you think both the mainstream and progressive media have covered the issue of solitary confinement in prisons?

SW: Well, there has actually been some outstanding reporting on this subject in the mainstream media. Of course there’s dreadful stuff as well, like the “Lockup” and “Lockdown” TV series. But as far as print media goes, there are a few of cases where journalism helped spur grassroots movements against solitary confinement. We are thinking, in particular, of the investigations by George Pawlaczyk and Beth Hundsdorfer on Tamms supermax in Illinois, by Lance Tapley on Maine State Prison, and by Mary Beth Pfeiffer on suicides in New York’s SHUs. Atul Gawande’s 2009 article in the New Yorker was excellent, as well.

In the progressive media, there’s been some powerful reporting by Anne-Marie Cusac in The Progressive, Jeanne Theoharis in The Nation, and Glenn Greenwald at Salon. And of course, Mother Jones has been extremely supportive of Jim’s reporting on the Angola 3 case, and on the broader issue of prison conditions as well.

The problem we have with media coverage is that there isn’t nearly enough of it. And it doesn’t get anything close to the attention it deserves or produce the kind of outrage it should, considering the fact that this is one of the major domestic human rights issues of our day. Our impression is that the media—including, to a lesser extent, the progressive media—is simply reflecting how effectively prisoners have been marginalized in our society.

A3N: Today, in the post-9/11 so-called “War on Terror” era, do you think that the US public supports the use of torture against US prisoners?

SW: We do think that the public is tolerating the torture of prisoners—some because they don’t know about it, others because they simply don’t care. But we’d actually like to turn your question around, because we believe that a tolerance for the torture of U.S. prisoners helped to produce a tolerance for the torture of foreign terrorism suspects, rather than vice versa. The “War on Crime” predates the “War on Terror,” and places like Pelican Bay and ADX Florence made it that much easier for Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib and Bagram to exist.

To discuss what produced this tolerance for torture in the first place, we need to return to the point we made at the beginning of this interview: Prisoners are today by far the most dehumanized members of our society. This has been the case to some extent historically, but the dehumanization has grown more intense since the advent of the War on Crime, which dates back to the 1960s but really heated up in the 1980s and 1990s. For at least the last 30 years, politicians from both parties have been cynically exploiting public fears about crime to win elections, and the prison population has grown by leaps and bounds with tacit public approval.

Racism clearly plays a role in all of this: A highly disproportionate number of prisoners are African American, and a majority of people today accepts the mass incarceration and abuse of black prisoners just as a majority once accepted racial segregation and before that slavery. Again, it comes down to depriving a certain group of people of their full humanity. Once you do that, it becomes a lot easier to deprive them of their basic human rights, not to mention their civil rights.

A3N: Strategically speaking, how do you think supporters of human rights can best use media-activism to challenge the powerful forces currently trying to convince the US public that torture is good policy? What are key points that we should be making?

SW: When it comes to solitary confinement, we probably need to emphasize different key points with different audiences. For those people who already have a firm opposition to all torture, we simply need to share information about the nature and widespread use of solitary confinement, and try to bring this issue out of the shadows and into the public square. The American Friends Service Committee has shown real leadership on this issue, and more recently the ACLU and the National Religious Campaign Against Torture have been trying to draw attention to solitary confinement, so that’s a positive development. We need to encourage people to see the torture of all U.S. prisoners as a human rights issue just as pressing as the torture of Bradley Manning, or of the captives at Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib—because torture is torture, and if you believe this, it shouldn’t matter whether or not the victim has committed a crime.

For those who think that prisoners are criminals who deserve whatever they get, we can still emphasize the fact that solitary confinement is not only cruel, but also costly and counterproductive. It can cost two to three times as much to keep a prisoner in a supermax, rather than in the general prison population. And it simply doesn’t “work,” in that it makes prisoners more likely to re-offend.

A3N: You have just released the first print edition of Solitary Watch. What are your future plans for this? Anything else coming up that we should be looking for?

SW: We launched the print edition, which includes just a small selection of our stories, because we began receiving letters from prisoners nearly every day, telling us about their own situations and asking for information. Prisoners, of course, do not have Internet access, so we needed to become more than just a web publication.

In addition, we’re going to be publishing a series of fact sheets on different aspects of solitary confinement; we’ve just posted the first one, and there are many more to come. We just began shooting our first video interviews with some survivors of solitary confinement. Along with the writings we publish under “Voices from Solitary,” we hope the videos will help provide a forum for a group of people who actually know what it’s like to be buried alive.

For those of you in the abolition crowd, the Death Penalty Information Center has released an excellent report on the arbitrariness of capital punishment 35 years after reinstatement. This is canon for the anti crowd, so be sure to check it out HERE.

Plus C' est la Meme Chose, Plus Ca Change

2011-07-05T03:42:00.000-07:00

There are strange developments afoot in the clumsy, twisted, atavistic world of state-sanctioned murder. You deserve a better, less caustically acerbic guide through all of this clutter than I, but I couldn’t find anyone more suited on short notice. I almost had Virgil on board, but he decided after consideration that giving his occasional tours through hell was less demanding. Go figure. I’d trade positions with him in a heartbeat. At least he has most of the interesting people who ever lived to chat with.

Anyways, over the past year, something unforeseen, something new has been brewing in the tepid, festering bog that is my world. Ever since the death penalty was reinstated, the abolitionist cognoscenti have debated about when and how the final nail might be inserted into the coffin of this system. There are effectively two camps. The first is what I like to call the "evolving standards of decency" lot. They view legalized homicide as a moral no-no, and think that once the public is made aware of the teachings of X (Jesus, the Buddha, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, whoever; insert your favorite ethical guru here at your leisure), they will decide that modern nations ought not to have the power of eliminating its own citizens. I like these people. I used to be one of them. I don’t think they are wrong, exactly. The world really is growing up, bit by painful bit, tossing out the stale, worm-eaten traditions left to us from the days of humanity's fitful childhood. My issue with this crowd is one of velocity: when you look at human history, the quickest and most effective way to change the character of the mobile vulgus is to impose order on it from the top down, not the reverse. Left to its own devices, its "freedoms." the mob seldom acts ethically. That's why we have laws.

That's the second crowd, the people who think that a landmark supreme court case will eventually rule the death penalty a violation of the 8th Amendment, We had a shot at such a ruling a few years back when Baze v Rees hit the SCOTUS, but the suit failed because Kentucky was one of the worst states in the nation to try to prove that hey had botched an execution. (Had the suit come from Florida or Ohio, the death penalty may very well be extinct today.) The argument here is that in some cases, the vox populi doesn’t know what it is about, and wiser, cooler heads must intervene. A good example of this is the tact taken by Dr Martin Luther King Jr during the civil rights movement. Most Americans felt that it was morally acceptable to negate the rights of an entire class of people based on their having had the poor taste to have lost the genetic lottery and been born black. The pundits of the day claimed that morality was going to shift, eventually, and that in any case "you cannot legislate morality." Beliefs and attitudes had to change first, and then behavior would eventually follow. King knew what William James knew: when you act as if a thing is real, it eventually becomes real. Reality is socially constructed: what people believe to be real is real in its consequences. King changed the laws (which govern behavior), and since most people want to obey the laws, their actions were modified. A funny thing happened: by pretending that - hey, what do you know? - black people were, well, people, attitudes and beliefs shifted. Besides a few hardcore southern racists, no one today believes that the everyday, mundane discrimination of the 1950's is socially acceptable. To wit: you change the laws, you change the thinking of the people.

I am a member of the latter group, though I will be the first to admit that abolitionists only win when both arguments are used in tandem. Look at Illinois: a tacit understanding that the law - even at the best of times, which seldom ever happens is imperfect melded with the moral argument against killing, and that state no longer has a death penalty system. Other states are moving in that direction. “Hold steady” seemed to be the battle cry in recent years. Same course. Full speed ahead. Then science got in the way. "Technical difficulties," if you like, at least from the position of the states who kill people in the name of trying to convince people not to kill people. You see, there has always been a problem at the center of the method of using complex chemicals to end life. Those chemicals aren’t made by the thugs who work in or run prisons. They are carefully constructed in expensive laboratories by smart people with PhDs. And these drugs, they weren’t made for this stuff. They were made to help people, not snuff them out. Most (if not all) of the makers of these products were very unhappy about having their inventions converted into a medicalized gibbet, but scientists are, by and large, a quiet crowd. So they didn’t make waves about the improper use of this stuff, at least not in numbers sufficient to deter its use. And somehow/the abolitionists failed to sense just what a weak point this was in the entire, global argument. Until now.

The first drug in the three drug cocktail used by most states used to be sodium thiopentol, a long-used and much tested short duration barbiturate. An old drug, hospitals seldom use it anymore, save for in odd cases where patients react negatively to newer, more advanced anesthetics. There was only one manufacturer of this drug in the states, Hospira. Well, they ran out of a vital chemical to manufacture this, and then decided not to ship it anymore to the states at all, due to the fact that their main customers were, well, prisons. There was also some pesky news from EUROPE, where abolitionists started barring sale of this drug to states. For the first time, a new specter coalesced in the arguments over the DP, the technical reality of not being able to kill people due to lack of supplies. Military tacticians and strategists have long known that one of the quickest ways to cripple an enemy is to cut off his supply line. Napoleon learned this the hard way. So did Hitler. My side seized on this and ran with it. I laughed, for a good long time. Surely, I thought, someone else will simply step up and start making more of this stuff. Seriously. Still, what a nice little development.

The news got progressively better, or worse, depending on your view of government. As states thrashed about, jonesing for more junk, suppliers began rejecting their advances. A firm in INDIA decided against selling their sodium thiopentol to states, and these same states then started to really freak out. Executions were postponed. New drugs were looked at. Then, states did what all other junkies do when their dealers get arrested: they found alternate sources on the black market.

One of the more popular of these was Dream Pharma, the Most Highly Respected Pharmaceutical Supplier in the World Housed in the Backroom Closet of a Driving School. You can see a photo of this altered state Mecca here:

Several states illegally smuggled this drug in, and, whew, criminals started dying again, even though this thiopentol was years beyond its shelf-life expiration dates. Because, I mean, these are criminals here. Who cares if the drugs work right, so long as their cold-blooded little hearts stop beating eventually, right? Then those communist, devil-worshipping, freedom-hating bastards in the federal government stepped in and seized the bad drugs, ostensibly because, well, state governments shouldn’t be acting like crackheads. Or maybe it was because Uncle Sam himself had run out of sodium thiopentol too. Whatever the reason, states were left to wallow in the mud of their creation without any killing juice.

Texas had about a gazillion doses left, of course, because they buy in bulk. Thus, they were not affected by most of this mess. Other states begged for a few hits – c’mon, man, just a few hits, I'm hurtin' bro! - but Texas wasn’t going to let a few whining neighbors interfere with its killin'. The fact that the Lone Star crew had all of this thiopental finally caused some people in calmer quarters to collectively scratch their heads. “Investigations” began, and, hey, what do you know, things really can get worse than having your government skulking around London's underworld in search at better dope. In order to purchase a drug like thiopentol, one must be licensed. Specifically, it is the Drug Enforcement Agency that issues the necessary registration certificates, the same DEA who permitted states to import expired thiopental (and then confiscated it) in the first place. Texas, it seems, couldn’t be bothered to comply with the law on an issue like this. Instead, Texas used a DEA registration number assigned to the system's HUNTSVILLE UNIT HOSPITAL, which is closed. Since 1983. Which means that nearly all of the 470-ish men legally murdered by this state were killed with illegally purchased smack, and not that it matters to any of the deceased (or to any of you, apparently, since this story produced precisely zero public outrage), but TDCJ also failed to follow the law and store these drugs in either a pharmacy or a DEA-approved handling facility, Whoops. Naughty rednecks, converting the state into the Lone Star Cartel. But, hey, if nobody cares about a violation of a law, is it really a violation: In the end, the more active death penalty states had little choice but to swap drugs. The anesthetic eventually selected for this ignoble end was pentobarbital, marketed as Nembutal, a drug designed for serious epilepsy, incidentally. The manufacturer of Nembutal is Lundbeck Pharmaceuticals, based in Denmark. Denmark is a staunchly anti-DP nation, as are all of the members of the European Union. As states began using their product, REPRIEVE went on the offensive, petitioning Lundbeck relentlessly to stop selling their drug in the US. Every time someone was executed, they put out press releases. Things got ugly. For their part, various figureheads within the company put together nicely worded press releases about how much they all regretted how those barbaric Americans were misusing their product, but their hands were tied. They didn’t sell anything directly, you see. They sold through suppliers, over whom they had no control. Reprieve was not impressed, and neither was Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International, who joined in the fray. Hedge fund managers and individual stockholders began dumping Lundbeck stock, and the company president was called in to manage the spin. Can you guess how this story ends? Of course you can: as of this week, Lundbeck will now institute some form of end-user certificate program with the three distributors of this drug in the US, designed to prevent sale of Nembutol to state governments. Reprieve fired a last salvo, making sure everyone else in the business knew that a similar fate awaited anyone that attempted to fill in the gaps. Not bad for a bunch of liberal pansies, eh?

So, now we are back to square one. Some states have plenty of Nembutol, and several years to use it before it expires. (Texas, for instance, has something like 10 men with dates in the next 3 months, all set to die with Lundbeck drugs.) The company did send out a letter to the states, informing them that they were using the drug improperly. This may end up playing a role in legal challenges to the use of Nembutol in executions. (Improper use is an argument that could not be leveled against sodium thiopentol, which really was designed to induce anesthesia, and which had plenty of history doing just that. It is quite a different thing to call an improperly used, untested drug constitutional.)

The states which did not have the prescience to buy a truckload of the stuff early in the game are now in the position of being able to hand out death sentences by the dozens, but no way to implement the orders of the court. For some of these states, this may prove to be the final, long-delayed straw that breaks the camel's back. For the death penalty cheerleader states (pretty much everyone in the south, plus Ohio, the Texas-wanna-be of the midwest), a new set of headaches might commence, if no other source of the drug can be located (in China, say). Hanging? Gas chamber? Electric chair? Firing squad? Guillotine? Hell, why not do executions in the town square again. The sacrificial altars to lex talionis have not been wetted with the blood of the guilty (or the not-so-guilty, as the case may be) in this nation for a long spell; why not bring all of that back, too?

They wont, of course. They can't. It's not a tragedy if there’s no blood on the floor, and they need you, the public, to see these deaths as something less than death. Start lopping off heads, and it gets just a little too real for everybody involved, even people who technically support capital punishment. “Succored” and “suckered” blend softly casual on this issue, and that blending can only happen when our killings are done in a nice, sterilized, private room in Bumsfuckville, Texas, miles from anything important. Even most at you pro-DP zealots know full well that if they start erecting scaffolds in your front yard, your enthusiasm for all of this would fade away. Once it moves from a theoretical topic to be discussed in the comfort of your living room to an oh-shit-this-stuff-is-for-real issue, attitudes change.

In the end, the "technical difficulties" argument gives support to both sides of the abolition movement, even if neither side really saw it coming, I constantly find myself bemoaning the fact that we don’t seem to make anything in America anymore, besides crackpot End Times fanatics and Global Warming Deniers. I never thought that I would live to see the day where America couldn’t even do its own killing anymore. For the one and only time in my life, I can say, without shame, three cheers for outsourcing!

Where would Christianity be if Jesus got eight to fifteen years, with time off for good behavior!"

- NY State Senator James H Donovan

Letter to a Future Death Row Inmate, Part 21

2011-06-29T20:44:00.000-07:00

by William “Big Will” Speer

Part 20 can be seen here

(Admin note: The author of this piece chose to write it in narrative form, rather than an actual letter. Here's to diversity!)

Voices overheard in dayrooms:

"Hey, who was that they just brought in?"

"I don’t know. He looked new."

"What cell did they put him in?"

"I don’t know what cell number it is but it’s the one that guy who just got executed used to live in."

"Oh, that's next to Big Will."

I hear the gate pop so I go to the door and look out. I see two officers bringing in some new guy. He's still wearing his county slides on his feet. It makes me think back to when I first came to DR, but at least I had property coming from population; this guy doesn’t look like he has anything.

He walks up to in front of my cell, looking at his empty cell. The officer is pushing the button to get the picket to roll the door, but the picket officer is looking the other way.

He looks up at me ... I see the uncertainty in his face. So I ask him his name, and he tells me. I say I'm Big Will. I ask him if he has any property. He says no, they took it all back in the county and wouldn’t let him bring it. I say, well, I don’t know what you lost but I can help you get what you need.

He looks at me and says, Oh no man, I aint gettin mixed up with none of that shit. I smile and laugh. No, man, its cool. Some of us know what its like to not have anything and know you need stuff. It aint no game you got to pay anything back.

Now, Speer, the officer chimes in, you can’t even wait for us to leave before you try to corrupt this guy. I smile as he says that trafficking and trading is against the rules. Now the door rolls and the officers go to put him in the cell and I tell him I’ll talk to him after they go. He says ok and steps into the cell. They remove the handcuffs and walk off. I say, ya'll make sure he gets his necessities. Don’t forget.

A few minutes go by and I hear the toilet flush and the sink water run, then a sigh. So, he says, this is it, huh? I say yeah, pretty much ... they'll bring you a mattress and necessities here shortly. He says, I hope so, cuz I had to sleep on steel in the county for over two weeks and that was some rough sleepin.

Well, they do that here, too, but that’s usually only when they want to punish you for whatever. Then they got every excuse in the book as to why they can’t find a mattress but they'll give you a. blanket to sleep on. He's quiet for awhile.

Well, how long have you been here? I tell him and he is quiet again, He then asks how long he's got. I say, honestly about 6 or 7 years but things could change for you. He asks how, and I say that laws sometimes change and I don’t know about your case but maybe you will get some action.

He said, yeah, I hope I do, cuz I don’t want to die here! I tell him that I know the feeling, and then he asks if this is where he'll stay until the end. I tell him that no, they move us once every six months to a year. Oh, cuz I heard that guy out there say I was going to the cell they just killed someone in. Its kind of creepy living in a cell they killed someone in.

I say, well they didn’t actually kill him in that cell but he did live there for a good year before they gave him his date and moved him to Death Watch on A-Pod.

He says it’s still creepy. I say, well, get used to it cuz every cell you go to will have had someone who lived in it and then got killed. He’s quiet again before saying, man, that’s depressing.

Yeah it is.

So, what do we get here? I say that I will show him my commissary list but I hope you got your eye-full of TV inside the county cuz there aint none here. And you don’t get to use a phone either. Not like in the county. You might get to make one 5 minute call every six months on a speaker phone with a ton of officers all round, but don’t count on it.

Man, that's all?

Yeah, and believe me they make it such a hassle so you don’t even try. I sure don’t, but then I don’t have anyone asking for a call either.

Yeah, I ran up some pretty high phone bills in the county so I know my people wont be asking for a while.

I say, speaking of your people, here let me give you some writing stuff and hygiene. I'll holler and see what else we can get you. Some guys have already got stuff together and are sending it to you. I’ll pick it up and get it over to you.

He says I sure do appreciate your help.

It's all good. I just ask to keep it real with me cuz all that what you did, who you were, don’t mean shit anymore. You are in a new world now and your word and respect is all you got.

I hear you man, he says. I did over a year in the county so I understand.

No, I say, in the county people are still trying to hold on to who they were. All that's dead now. Its brand new here: you can turn into a piece of shit or be cool and have your respect.

He shouts, hey, I’ll fight for my respect aint nobody going to disrespect me!

Well, you wont be doing any fighting with inmates cuz you'll never be around one to fight, "Cell Warrior" shit is about all there is and that don’t get no respect, not really.

Yeah, he says, that is not me, I was around a lot of that stuff in the county.

I send him my fishing line, Here, I say, get this. I slide him the bag with his stuff in it.

Thanks man. He says what’s your name again? Will?

Yeah.

Thanks, Will. I had a nickname I used to go by in the freeworld, but the guy who gave it to me snitch on me and then lied on me to help send me to death row. So I don’t go by that anymore.

Yeah, I say, nicknames can tell a lot about a person's character. I tell him that it’s real friendly here like an old folks home, really. For the most part you mind your own business, don’t look in people's cells, respect your neighbors and try not to yell or bang at night. The officers come around every 30 minutes sometimes. Sometimes its every hour or two, it sort of depends on what’s going on. You can ask them for whatever you need but if they are busy they will forget so you'll have to remind them ... a lot. Some of the officers got a real smart mouth, too. So watch yourself or you'll end up in a wreck. Try to keep things in perspective. Sometimes they just follow orders and don’t realize what they are saying or how it’s being taken. Like sit on your bunk; they only tell you that at chow time, but most will let you just stand back away from the door and then open the slot to feed you.

Oh, he says, so that’s how they feed us.

Yeah, I say, and the food is off and on one meal bad the next ok. But it's better than it was. Do you like to get out of your cell?

Yeah, but how he asks.

I tell him that you get to rec two hours a day, 5 days a week. The major is supposed to be looking at 6 days a week, but no word yet. They will come around each morning and ask you if you are going to rec and shower. You say yes, and they tell you the projected time. But know that shit changes around here so much don’t count on anything they tell you. Cuz some people verbally refuse or some other officer does not like the way the other officer set up the rec sheet and then they change it. Who knows; just know that it all can change. You'll strip out everywhere you go, going and coming. Get used to them seeing you cuz it’s your new way of life.

That sucks.

You get visits on a phone in a booth with glass between ya'll. No contact for DR. If you don’t know ask me and I will help you out. If you want to know about someone ask me and III tell you cuz there are some real pieces of trash around here. You'll see for the most part its best to be cautious and don’t take no cooked food from anyone until you get to know them if you care about what they might put in it. Again you got some real weirdos here. This place is nasty, too. Always wash your hands especially out in the dayroom and if you pick something up off the run. Sometimes you can catch the SSI wiping the table with the same rag he just wiped the toilet and sink with. Try to keep your shower slides on especially in the shower to prolong you from getting foot fungus. But you'll get it somehow anyway, be it through the socks or sheets. Once you do get it you'll have to put in a sick call form and well, good luck with all that is all I'll say. It takes awhile to get to get a sick-call answered around here.

If you like to read, your people can order you books and magazines from stores and companies out there. But most everything is bought off the commissary. It is a little deeper than the country for some stuff and a lot for others. They serve food around 3-5 AM for breakfast, 10:30-12:30 for lunch, and 5-7 for dinner.

How long will it take for me to get my ID card, he asks.

I tell him, oh, about 30 days or so.

Man, he whistles, now I can see why ya'll hooked me up.

I look down the run and see the guards coming our way. Well, I say, here they come with your stuff. I'll let you go make your bed, kick back and I'll holler at you later.

Yeah, he sighs. I’m tired. Thanks man.

Alright...

149's Corner - A Journal from Death Row - Entry #5

2011-06-20T21:35:00.000-07:00

by Arnold Prieto Jr #999149

"A Dream No Longer Deferred"

Since my very first day on Death Row, I have tried to get some type of formal education, namely my GED or my High School diploma. Normally, inmates in general population are given the opportunity to achieve his/her GED by attending classes offered by the prison system. With that in mind, I was already setting my goals of finishing high school way back in county jail. Coming from a city like San Antonio, I saw first hand how the gang culture snapped up "new boots” and hoped that spending my time getting my diploma would distance me from such activities. I simply didn’t want to deal with the typical prison drama; I didn’t want to be some "everyday" convict. I was intent on not becoming part of such a world. Yes, I might be forced to live in prison, but it didn’t mean that I had to become it. Or so I thought, way back in 1995.

I was basically laughed at by both inmates and guards when I asked about how I was able to go about getting my opportunity to go to school. I was quickly learning that there were no such avenues open for Death Row but it didn’t really sink in until I asked the property officer who \vas in charge of all "outside purchases." Figuring he would be the one to ask ... boy, was I ever wrong! His response was a heavy one and one that I still t remember to this day. Officer Gaylon’s words were: "What does a dead inmate want with education?" That was heart breaking, not his ignorance so much, but rather the fact that it was true. So I stopped asking my "stupid questions" about school.

A couple of years later, Officer Gaylon was nabbed as part of a statewide sting operation that arrested pedophiles with child pornography. There are far more criminals than you know in prison; many of them go home at shift change.

As time passed, I could not help but notice that the majority of Death Row inmates were very uneducated. To this day, I still notice it. There is so little change here, and to a normal person that is a scary thing. I was not nor am now a well educated man, but I could see the lack of education in people and what it has done to them. This is a path I did not want to tread on but it is a path that I had no choice but to be on… until now. I was swallowed up by the uneducated masses of Death Row. Yes, I had given up.

I think we all gave up when they moved us to Polunsky. Because this unit is a lot more restrictive than Ellis-1 ever was, what little hope I was still holding on to in the back of my mind became what it always was… a stupid pipe dream. True I had taught myself how to draw and to always be "on top of my game," but "prison" education is nowhere close to the real mental challenges of a formal educational environment. Achieving a degree is something to be truly proud of, and that is maybe one of the reasons they denied us that chance. There are reasons why no one ever fights being strapped to the gurney.

Giving up my dream created a hole in my being ... like something was missing. Humans need dreams to survive. You know what I mean? School is not and never was a part of death row. For what? As Officer Gaylon said, "what does a dead inmate want with education?" I wonder if his attitude has changed, as he himself rots in a cell.

Things changed two years ago. An "Interoffice Communication" was posted on all the dayrooms concerning this matter. Well, according to the IOC, we were able to purchase correspondence courses though the mail at our expense. At least one inmate that I know had worked out a method of taking classes before this, but now they were admitting that they never had a right to deny us at all! Included in this list were home schooling programs, which was never allowed even when we were back at Ellis. I, for one, was very pleased, though I was surprised by the lack of joy in the men around me. Immediately, I began to become concerned with the cost. At that time, I didn’t have anyone out there in the freeworld to do any research for me. Feeling helpless sucks hardcore! (Not playing the victim here, just stating a fact.) But then a certain gringo moved into my section, and the research began in earnest. Holy crap! The costs were much higher than I had expected. Some HS equivalency courses cost as much as $2000.00 The cheapest came in at around $850.00, and even then I was asking myself how on earth I was supposed to get that kind of dough.

If I added up my 17 years worth of funds in my account, I know I wouldn’t get past ¾ of the $850.00. I brainstormed on this with T, and we came up with the idea of writing the school, to see if they had any sort of payment plan. Actually, what happened is, he asked me what I was waiting for. He's always nagging people about this stuff. I mostly answered back in frustration, saying, "Sure, let me just bend over and pull that money out of my back pocket." Seriously. My gym shorts have a back pocket, not what you were thinking. Anyway, he asked me if I had written them about scholarships or financial aid, and I had not even thought of doing, that. As soon as I got back into my cell, I wrote a letter to the school in question.

That school is Continental Academy in Florida. Mostly I was curious about the aid, plus I wanted to know what the curriculum was like. They responded quickly and with loads of information! Apparently, I can make a monthly payment of a minimum of $40.00 and I will receive 28 courses to accumulate the credits I need to get my high school diploma. Each grade level would consist of 7 courses starting at the 9th grade. HERE you can see a copy of the classes I signed up to take.

Here we are at the end of June and I have already finished my first course, which has been graded. I am a proud owner of a "B" for the course of "Career Research and Decision Making." This is a 12th grade course, but one that they recommend you take first, in order to get back into the feel of "school," and to help you establish good studying habits. I have now received all of my 9th grade courses. Yes, I am a freshman. Boy-o-boy, did certain people around here have fun with that. As everyone knows, freshmen in high school are known as "fish," and are normally taunted as a way of entry into high school. Certain people ought to remember that in these more modern days, such behavior would be considered bullying and charges could be filed! Wow, how the times have changed.

Anyway, my freshman courses consist of: Introduction to Computers, World Cultural Geography, English 1, Health-Life Management Skills, Consumer Math, Earth Science, and World History.

Each course consists of a textbook with practice problems. Let's take my consumer math course, which l am nearly done with. The course was 10 lessons long, and after each lesson I would go to the workbook and answer the questions on a scantron sheet. (See lessons HERE) After I finished the 10 lesson course and my homework from my workbook, I read a booklet called "things to remember," which is a full preview of the entire course. Now, the workbook exercises are open book assignments, but the tests are not. The math "End of Course Examination" had 50 questions, and you are to record your answers on an included scantron. I was a bit nervous about taking the first exam. I haven’t been nervous about taking a test since Junior High! I’m pretty sure the Flintstones were still barefooting their car around in those days.

I know what you are probably thinking: that I might have cheated by going back into the textbook while taking my closed book exam. I honestly don’t blame you for thinking that because for one you really don't know me, and secondly, its something you'd have thought of doing. As for me? I have a challenge now, and I am finally able to have that challenge after a decade and
a half of waiting. Cheating would sully the dream. I earned a "B" in my first course, and whatever I get for the rest of them, I will wear that mark on my chest with pride.

What I like about Continental Academy is that they have highly accredited instructors designing each course. Like Mr. Leon Kiston, who authored my consumer mathematics course. He has a BS in mathematics from Purdue, and also a JD from Illinois State Institute of Technology/Chicago-Kent College of Law, and has taught for more than 30 years. And that makes me feel very good, because I don’t want anyone to say, "oh, well, anyone can get a diploma from a diploma mill." These people are for real, and that makes the challenge feel real for me.

So the gray matter between my ears which was nothing but a deflated raisin this time last year has started to pump itself up a little bit. Not where I want it to be yet, but already I have noticed that my memory seems sharper. Sounds of whistles and bells tell me the cog wheels are back in action again! I freaking love it!

Officer Gaylon: eat your hat, wherever you find yourself.

This far, my plans are to work daily on my courses, taking each one on before moving to the next. This way, I feel I will get a better understanding of the material, instead of trying to do them all at once. I have a good tutor a few cells down, if it comes to that, and I don't mind the potential headaches. This has been a long time coming.

I feel human again! I feel like I am finally walking out of a cesspool of stagnant thoughts, words and senseless actions. I feel alive again. No wonder they have such an issue with us trying to better ourselves. It destroys their entire image of us. I can only imagine how I will feel after I get my diploma, and what I can attain for myself afterwards. Thomas has already got my college course "plan" worked out.

I think that I can speak on behalf of death row here in Texas when I say that if we were given the opportunity to learn a useful skill, this place would be very different. People here have no hope, no dreams, beyond the petty. This place is designed to kill these things, to break the spirit. In the days of slaves and plantations, the owners kept their "property" illiterate and uneducated. They would say that a dangerous slave was an educated slave! It seems Texas is mimicking this behavior, because smart convicts let the world know just how corrupt this place is, and how the corruption comes not from the inmates, but from the system itself. They say that education is expensive, but it costs (on average) about 2.5 million dollars to kill each one of us. 2.5 million to put a hit out on one of its own citizens, while it costs me 850 dollars to find the sorts of skills needed to survive in the world. Makes a lot of sense. But then, we are in Texas. Sense never had much to do with anything around here.

Letters to a Future Death Row Inmate, Part 20

2011-06-07T18:36:00.000-07:00

by Bobby Fratta

Part 19 can be seen here

Greetings fellow Death Row inmate,

I'm sorry I don’t know your name yet, but mine is Bobby Fratta. I came to D/R in '96, so I know how things work around here; including the games people play. I am coming to you as a Christian, and have no ulterior motive. Since u are new - it will take several weeks for TDCJ to process your ID card. U will need that card to purchase food, stamps, toothpaste, fan, and other needed items from the prison commissary. So even IF u have any money to be transferred from your county jail account, it will be a while before u can buy anything here. I never have much money, but always try to help new and needy inmates.

So enclosed in the bag are some stamps, paper, pen, envelopes, ear plugs, and snacks. There's no need to repay me. I believe u will find yourself compelled to help some new boot in the same manner down the road. This is how many of us are around here. You'll see :) I've also included the addresses of some pen pal orgs for prisoners. Unless u have family and friends who are willing and able to support u mentally, emotionally, and physically, and, who will stick with u, u will need to write up an ad to acquire new friends. In case u haven’t experienced it yet, most of our friends and family disown us when we are accused of a crime; and especially if we are convicted. As time goes by - it gets worse. The tremendous stress of our situation affects not only us, but any family and friends who stood by us from the onset. Because of that stress, they end up leaving us in order to maintain their lives and sanity. The same applies to any new friends u may acquire thru ads on prisoner sites. Once people discover how "needy" we are, most quickly disappear. I advise u not to get mad about it, but rather be thankful for any love u can receive and give in here. And since u are young, I suggest u take advantage of your youth by seeking new friends now. People out there, especially women, will only write new and young guys. If u get to be my age and length of time here - u'll discover no one really cares :( So having loved ones to write to and help u is definitely a priority in maintaining your sanity; especially since there will be guys here u wont get along with. U see, this administration wants us to be in chaos and not get along with each other. They refuse to let us choose who we want to live around on a section, so they choose for us. Their choice is a forced diversity that will include racists, gang members, yellers, drummers, a few quiet guys, and guys who talk all night; hence the ear plugs! :) Then there are also a few guys who will shoot darts at u, or spear u as u walk past their cell. Such violence would be impossible if the administration would very simply put plexiglass over our cell door windows and sides. Then neither inmates nor guards could be stabbed or "chucked on". But administration wants that so they can keep telling the public what animals we all are, and justify all the excessive money TDCJ spends on unneeded salaries, video camera system throughout the building, equipment, etc. And to prove my point and the hypocrisy and fact they want to torture us, u'll notice they've sealed off the shower doors so we sweat our butts off and can’t breathe, yet they refuse to seal off our cell doors - and our cells have a circulatory Al/C and heat system. Plus our cells are approximately 6' x 10', whereas the showers are all 3' x 4' enclosed booths!

U'll also discover TDCJ allows the general population ("GP") inmates to have TVs, work program, church services, in-cell craft working, outside recreation, group recreation, much better quality meals w/larger portions, daily access to telephones, and other things they refuse to us here. I've heard even the D/R women at Gatesville have most - if not all those G.P. rights. How they treat us men on D/R is intentional abuse and mistreatment TDCJ enjoys inflicting upon us. U'll also discover how they violate state and federal laws, plus their own rules and policies - routinely. Then when we file grievances on them, the grievances are all denied by TDCJ employees. Then the citizens out there in the free world always wonder why there is such a high rate of repeat offenders~ It's due to TDCJ showing all of us inmates system-wide that it's "ok" to disregard all the laws and rules!

Lastly, it doesn’t matter if u are innocent or guilty. There's a big chance u will die here; whether by execution, health issues, or suicide. So we must strive to make things right w/God. If you're guilty, I can tell u that God will forgive u. (See 1 John 1:9). Also, Moses murdered an Egyptian (see Exodus 2:11-12), yet God exalted him to work miracles and lead the Israelites to the Promised Land. King David committed adultery w/Bathsheba and intentionally sent her husband Uriah into frontline battle to be killed (2 Sam. 11:1-17) yet God exalted him and called David a man after His own heart (Acts 13:22). And the Apostle Paul who wrote approximately half the books in the New Testament – persecuted the early Christians, overseeing and approving the murder of Stephen (Acts 7:54 - 8:3), yet Paul was still hand-picked by Jesus/Yahshua to be an Apostle (Acts 9:1-6 and 10:9). So if u haven’t already done so, I urge u to make Jesus/Yahshua Lord of your life. U may even become inspired to write articles based upon "revelations" and dreams as I have. I enjoy spending time fellowshipping w/God thru His Holy Spirit, and am hoping for someone out there to post my writings onto a website and be my webmaster. U are welcome to read my articles so we can discuss them and all the scriptures I quoted if u'd like when 1 of us gets to the dayroom outside our cells, or, if we can get out together in the atrium area.

I'm sorry, I have 1 more "lastly" :) U will hear alot of prison talk about someone being a snitch, "ho", etc. I suggest u take that kind of talk w/a grain of salt and change the topic to something pleasant. Simply learn to judge people for yourself based upon their actions, not their words. U'll see just how many liars and hypocrites there are around here, plus scam artists and those who wheel and deal and play games. This is yet another reason to seek fellowship w/God and people out there in the world. But for the most part, u will find the vast majority of guys here just want to get along w/one another. Do like me and look for the good in people here and focus on that. U'll be surprised at how much good u'll actually find here in Texas Death Row inmates :)

written by: Bobby Fratta
Polunsky Unit, #999189
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX. 77351