Women in Prison: From Lifer Helen (Letter 1)
The voices of women prisoners are seldom heard. You may be familiar with Andrea and Renee who write for Jon’s Jail Journal, and now I’d like to introduce you to Helen by way of her first letter.
My name is Helen and I’m housed in a Georgia State prison. First off, in Georgia some people go to prison for crimes someone else committed. I fall under that category. I dated a guy who killed my only son. It was hard enough losing my son, but then I was sentenced to 20 years.
The past 9 years have been the worst of my life. I have seen prisoners get sick and beg for help, only to be turned away. I’ve seen three women die because of this. I’ve seen a woman get her head bashed against the concrete floor over an argument about a TV program.
Back in 2005, the guards moved us to this prison. I have been moved from one dorm to another 34 times.
I was moved from a woman who wanted a relationship with me. When I refused her attempt in 2007, she choked me. The guards took me and put me in lockdown.
Then in June 2008, they put her back in as my roommate. I flipped out. They moved me again. I’ve had a few problems out of her since, but nothing major.
Now in 2009, this prison decided they can’t afford to give us but one roll of toilet tissue and one bar of soap per week. We have to get sanitary items from family. They only feed us two meals on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The amount is not enough to say you even ate. If they can’t afford to take care of us, why are they keeping us in prison? If you don’t have family helping you, you are out of luck.
Between my meds for being sick and seeing the doctor, I owe the State of Georgia $116.50. I have no family support, so I haven’t even been able to go to commissary since 2006.
It’s not easy being locked up. I read a lot of books and stay in my 8 foot by 12 foot cell all of the time.
Your friend,
Helen
As this is Helen’s first letter for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be appreciated. If you wish to write to Helen then email me your name and address. She does not have Internet access, so I will mail your comments and emails to her.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Will Sheriff Joe Arpaio Run For Governor Of Arizona?
From the news stories, it looks like Sheriff Joe is likely to run. The polls indicate he’d win by a landslide. As governor, he’d no longer be in charge of the jail system, but he’d be the most powerful political figure in Arizona. What next? The presidency?
Here’s one story from Fox:
How about Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio? It's not the first time Arpaio's name has come up for Governor, but a new poll shows he could win.
The first Rasmussen Reports telephone poll of next year's GOP Primary in Arizona shows Arpaio attracting 47% of the vote while four other candidates split another 44%.
In second place, with 22% of the overall vote, is state Treasurer Dean Martin. Brewer is third at 10%. Former state GOP Chairman John Munger and Paradise Valley Mayor Vernon Parker each attract six percent (6%) of the vote.
In another example of his potential to dominate the race early, 58% of likely Republican Primary voters have a favorable opinion of Arpaio. Just 16% say the same about Martin, while only nine percent (9%) are that upbeat about Brewer. The comparable numbers for Munger and Parker are two percent (2%) and (1%) respectively.
So will he run for office?
Here's what the Sheriff is saying on his Twitter page:
"If there ever was a time to consider a run, now may be the time. I continue to be asked by my supporters to step up and fill a leadership void."
"I can not ignore the results of this latest Rasmussen poll about the possibility of me entering the AZ governor's race for 2010."
Click here to check the news video out:.Could Sheriff Joe Arpaio be Arizona's Next Governor?
Click here for my video on surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system.
Click here for my jail survival tips.
Click here for a video of an Aryan Brother slaying another inmate at Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail.
By popular demand, I shall be posting Wild Man’s next prison story soon.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 5)
Well, I’m going on nine months in London, and my pie in the sky keeps getting bigger and bigger. Pleasingly so. I’ve been doing what Dr. O advised back at Tucson prison: make haste slowly.
I’ve been getting out and about in London doing presentations and attending fund raisers for two charities that help prisoners, Koestler and Prisoners Abroad. They both helped me over the years, and have played significant roles in supporting me as a writer.On November 19th, I attended a pledge dinner for Prisoners Aboard at a restaurant called The Orangery in Holland Park. There was an ex-prisoner at each table of guests and donors. I shared my story to give the attendees a better understanding of the ways in which Prisoners Abroad helped me and my family.
When I was a prisoner, Prisoners Abroad provided me with literature, including their own newsletter, and English newspapers the other prisoners fought over to be next in line to read. Literature is golden in prison, even old newspapers. They provided me with freepost envelopes, which I used to get some of my blogs out. They entered my short story in the competition that ended up getting me on Koestler’s mentor program, which has transformed my prospects as an author. They also offered massive psychological support to my parents, especially my mother who had a nervous breakdown after my arrest. Hearing how Prisoners Aboard provide food and medication in prisons such as Panama where you don’t eat or see a doctor unless you have money, or how they’re helping English citizens on death row in Thailand where they’re chained to a wall, reinforces how lucky I was, and what a great job Prisoners Aboard do.
The key speaker was Harriet Walter, a Tony Award-nominated British actress. Her uncle is Sir Christopher Lee, the actor perhaps most famous for playing Dracula. His vampire movies had such an influence on my childhood, I can only wonder if the comparisons of me and Nosferatu by a certain American newspaper stem back to them.
On November 18th, I spoke twice at a conference put on by the Arts Alliance (a network of arts organisations working in social justice settings). Each member organisation had its own room to present its work. I was in Koestler’s room, sharing my story with an emphasis on how Koestler’s mentoring scheme has played a major role in helping launch me as a writer.
In our room, Ben from Koestler started with a general presentation of what the mentoring project involves and why and how Koestler is running it. I explained my story, and talked about my mentoring relationship with Sally Hinchcliffe, and then answered questions. As most of the attendees work in prisons it was a captive crowd of interested and sympathetic parties. The room filled up so much for the afternoon talk, we had a second audience outside of the door.
In October, I attended the opening of the Koestler Art Exhibition at the Royal Festival Hall. This is where last year I got to read my short story that won first prize and first meet the Koestler people. I was a judge this year, and ended up reading out some of the winning poetry.
There were six female prisoner curators there on day release. One of them started crying when she was being interviewed. She said being a curator at such a big event had put meaning into her life. Even a prison governor got on the stage and commended Koestler. Can you imagine Sheriff Joe Arpaio doing that in America? Arts for prisoners. To hell with that!
Koestler is one of the rare organisations supporting prisoners in the arts. The mentoring scheme I’m so fortunate to be on provides the most intensive help for prisoners in the arts that I’m aware of. It’s a pity America has little to offer like that.
Also last month, I attended a Prisoners Abroad function at Lambeth Palace, where I got to mingle with an audience that included the Archbishop of Canterbury. According to a Quaker couple there, the ABC (as I like to call him, and why not if Two Tonys can call Arthur Schopenhaur the Schop?) is the guy who sits down after the Queen at dinner functions. He spoke eloquently about the work Prisoners Abroad does, and struck me as man of great intelligence.
Regarding my presentations to schools, I only managed to squeeze one in at the end of the last school year, but six bookings have come in so far for this school year. The next one is at Guildford High School for Girls, just a ten-minute walk from where I live. When the book comes out, I expect these bookings will surge.
Media attention seems to be heating up again. The Guardian was the first newspaper to write about Jon’s Jail Journal, and they’re about to run a story about my prison experience. As is, la Repubblica, the second largest newspaper in Italy. I’ve also got an interview going in Not Shut Up Magazine, read by prisoners in the London region.
My jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers, was sent to publishers a few weeks ago. It takes them a few months to read it and to express interest, so I’m hoping to report a breakthrough on that front soon.
Gym classes are my latest addiction and pretty much the extent of my social life. I’m doing up to thirteen a week, ranging from yoga to karate. My favourite is BodyCombat. It’s the closest thing to raving for adults who don’t want to do drugs. I’m basically jumping around to dance music for one hour, kicking, punching, getting hyper-hyper with up to sixty other workout freaks, mostly women, in a massive room facing a mirrored wall. It makes me sweat so much I drink up to two litres of water. If you give it your all, you can burn 1000 calories in one hour. I brought my friend and the man I live with, Mike Hotwheelz, and now he’s addicted too. I’m also working my way up the belts of karate. I go in for the blue one next month.
And finally, my sister has her own website now. Click here for it.
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Question Time with Shane
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. For stealing a few hundred dollars worth of goods, he was sentenced by Judge Ron Reinstein to 11 years. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. For stealing a few hundred dollars worth of goods, he was sentenced by Judge Ron Reinstein to 11 years. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
Chris H wrote:
Can I start a possibly controversial post?
Does anyone else agree that there should be different rules for different crimes?
Paedophiles, for example. I don't think that any punishment currently administered can make up for the crime these people commit, yet many cases in the UK get sickeningly short sentences and even then get the opportunity to apply for parole even sooner.
I know none of this applies to Shane - and I'm not implying anything like that at all - but I think that your average, law abiding citizen puts that kind of logic to all prisoner victories.
I agree that 11 and a bit years for stealing is ridiculous. People SERIOUSLY get less for child abuse/assault etc.. But do you not think that certain crimes deserve a lot harsher sentences than they currently receive, more so maybe than more lenient sentences for less serious crimes?
Shane replied:
Does anyone else agree that there should be different rules for different crimes?
Paedophiles, for example. I don't think that any punishment currently administered can make up for the crime these people commit, yet many cases in the UK get sickeningly short sentences and even then get the opportunity to apply for parole even sooner.
I know none of this applies to Shane - and I'm not implying anything like that at all - but I think that your average, law abiding citizen puts that kind of logic to all prisoner victories.
I agree that 11 and a bit years for stealing is ridiculous. People SERIOUSLY get less for child abuse/assault etc.. But do you not think that certain crimes deserve a lot harsher sentences than they currently receive, more so maybe than more lenient sentences for less serious crimes?
Shane replied:
I completely agree that there should be different rules for different crimes. A sex offender, for example, should not be getting less prison time than someone caught smoking pot. Of course society should be protected from all predators, whether sex offenders, murderers or burglars. But it seems punishment is the goal and not true public safety. Otherwise, we’d still have parole boards, instead of a mandatory early release date at 85%.
Instead of a board determining whether offenders have behaved, changed their ways and aren’t a threat if released early, Arizona simply makes offenders do 85% of their prison sentence and releases them.
In court, judges are bound by sentencing charts, and hand out prison and probation based on the class of felony, prior convictions, and other criteria. A judge doesn’t have much leeway.
Example: A man molests an 8 year old. The chart says he gets anywhere between 3 years probation and 6 years prison. I burglarise an apartment, but because I have one prior conviction the chart says I get between 8 to 16 years in prison. The child molester gets the middle sentence of 3 years and I get the middle, which is 11¼ years.
Judges should be able to hand down more severe or less severe sentences based on the circumstances of the crimes and other factors, and not be bound to ridiculous sentencing charts. It’s not the crime itself that should only be considered, but all the circumstances too.
Also, Shaun Attwood is right, all of those corporations and organizations that profit from prisoners and their families should have zero influence on sentencing laws.
Thanks for the question Chris H!
L&R
Shane
Here’s a link to Shane’s prison blog: http://shannoninprison.blogspot.com/
Shaun P. Attwood
The Attack on T-Bone (Part 2 by T-Bone)
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
“What’s up? What’s all this about?” I asked one of them.
He had a piece of paper with all this stuff written on it. It had my name on it besides some numbers. “You need to pay up, or else I’m gonna take it outta your butt.” He really used that word butt!
I looked at him and said, “You’re kidding me,” and laughed.
I feinted at him like I was going to hit him, not seeing the shank [knife] he had under his writing pad.
Wham! He hit me in my chest. I knocked the knife up with my right hand, and hit him with a left hook. He picked up a cup full of piss and other things and threw it at me. Then he came at me again with that knife. I hit him with a right hand alongside the head. His celly came behind me and tried to hit me from the back. I sidestepped him and smacked him upside the head. I left the cell.
His celly tried to get a weapon from someone. They wouldn’t give him one. He tried to grab a mop handle, but I pushed him, and he dropped it. He went to another cell, and got a four-foot-long metal bar. He came at me and was trying to swing. I grabbed it, and kicked his inner thigh twice. He kicked me in the stomach. I stepped on his inner foot, and pushed him to the ground. I side-mounted him, held him down with that bar, and told him to let it go.
The end of the bar broke about four inches. How? I believe God did it. I picked that up and told him to let go of the rest of the bar or I would crush his skull. He let go of it.
I gave the two bars to a youngster standing behind me. He threw them in the trash. I stood up and hit the guy who’d let the bar go twice. Wham! He was on the ground when the cops came in. It was all over.
It all started because I tried to help a guy get straight. They saw it as a sign of weakness, but I don’t think they will anymore.
And as you know, I hate to see people take advantage of the weak. I told them to leave him alone, and as you can see, they didn’t listen.
I am OK. Everything worked out for the better. I am in good spirits.
Much love!
T-Bone
T-Bone has one week left to serve, so please feel free to leave greetings for him in the comments section below.
Here’s the link to Part 1: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/attack-on-t-bone-part-1-by-t-bone-t.html
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
“What’s up? What’s all this about?” I asked one of them.
He had a piece of paper with all this stuff written on it. It had my name on it besides some numbers. “You need to pay up, or else I’m gonna take it outta your butt.” He really used that word butt!
I looked at him and said, “You’re kidding me,” and laughed.
I feinted at him like I was going to hit him, not seeing the shank [knife] he had under his writing pad.
Wham! He hit me in my chest. I knocked the knife up with my right hand, and hit him with a left hook. He picked up a cup full of piss and other things and threw it at me. Then he came at me again with that knife. I hit him with a right hand alongside the head. His celly came behind me and tried to hit me from the back. I sidestepped him and smacked him upside the head. I left the cell.
His celly tried to get a weapon from someone. They wouldn’t give him one. He tried to grab a mop handle, but I pushed him, and he dropped it. He went to another cell, and got a four-foot-long metal bar. He came at me and was trying to swing. I grabbed it, and kicked his inner thigh twice. He kicked me in the stomach. I stepped on his inner foot, and pushed him to the ground. I side-mounted him, held him down with that bar, and told him to let it go.
The end of the bar broke about four inches. How? I believe God did it. I picked that up and told him to let go of the rest of the bar or I would crush his skull. He let go of it.
I gave the two bars to a youngster standing behind me. He threw them in the trash. I stood up and hit the guy who’d let the bar go twice. Wham! He was on the ground when the cops came in. It was all over.
It all started because I tried to help a guy get straight. They saw it as a sign of weakness, but I don’t think they will anymore.
And as you know, I hate to see people take advantage of the weak. I told them to leave him alone, and as you can see, they didn’t listen.
I am OK. Everything worked out for the better. I am in good spirits.
Much love!
T-Bone
T-Bone has one week left to serve, so please feel free to leave greetings for him in the comments section below.
Here’s the link to Part 1: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/attack-on-t-bone-part-1-by-t-bone-t.html
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Tent City (Part 7 by Guest Blogger Daniel Horne)
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog.
Then there was Russo, an ex-Marine Vietnam Veteran who suffered from a number of conditions related to his service in Vietnam during the 1960s. Russo took a number of psychiatric medications and he drank heavily. Russo had spent half his life since Vietnam in various veterans’ hospitals around the United States. The last one was in Phoenix.
He was going to prison for having a particularly bad day in his unfortunate life. Russo had lost his job that day and decided it was an acceptable reason to get stinking drunk. Russo had never been to prison. His crime was caused by a combination of prescription drugs and alcohol. One prescription drug reduced the chronic flashbacks of combat in Vietnam, and he ingested the other to numb himself unconscious. He had been riding home, sitting alone and semi-comatose in a seat on the local bus when he began having nightmares. An elderly woman heard his anguished mumblings and watched him moving about in the seat. She became concerned and woke Russo up. The first thing Russo saw upon opening his eyes was a strange face near his. He slugged the unfortunate woman and she fell to the bus floor unconscious.
The Russo I met wouldn’t intentionally hurt a little old lady. He was not a violent man; he was a Vet who needed help and perhaps different medication. In the pod, Russo was the librarian, having ten to fifteen old, worn-out paperbacks and any number of ragged magazines in his cell all the time. He was a quiet, soft spoken man who looked down a lot and bothered no one. Like a number of men who had patriotically serve their nation in time of war, Russo was missing in action for life. I vowed to order Russo some new books from Amazon.com if I made it to Work Furlough.
Here's the link for Part 6: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-6-by.html
Here's the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog.
Then there was Russo, an ex-Marine Vietnam Veteran who suffered from a number of conditions related to his service in Vietnam during the 1960s. Russo took a number of psychiatric medications and he drank heavily. Russo had spent half his life since Vietnam in various veterans’ hospitals around the United States. The last one was in Phoenix.
He was going to prison for having a particularly bad day in his unfortunate life. Russo had lost his job that day and decided it was an acceptable reason to get stinking drunk. Russo had never been to prison. His crime was caused by a combination of prescription drugs and alcohol. One prescription drug reduced the chronic flashbacks of combat in Vietnam, and he ingested the other to numb himself unconscious. He had been riding home, sitting alone and semi-comatose in a seat on the local bus when he began having nightmares. An elderly woman heard his anguished mumblings and watched him moving about in the seat. She became concerned and woke Russo up. The first thing Russo saw upon opening his eyes was a strange face near his. He slugged the unfortunate woman and she fell to the bus floor unconscious.
The Russo I met wouldn’t intentionally hurt a little old lady. He was not a violent man; he was a Vet who needed help and perhaps different medication. In the pod, Russo was the librarian, having ten to fifteen old, worn-out paperbacks and any number of ragged magazines in his cell all the time. He was a quiet, soft spoken man who looked down a lot and bothered no one. Like a number of men who had patriotically serve their nation in time of war, Russo was missing in action for life. I vowed to order Russo some new books from Amazon.com if I made it to Work Furlough.
Here's the link for Part 6: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-6-by.html
Here's the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
The Attack on T-Bone (Part 1 by T-Bone) Letter 12
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
It started with this midget coming to me two weeks after getting out of the hole, and telling me he had a problem. Every day he would sit in my cell door and cry to me about wanting to change and how everyone was taking advantage of him.
I simply replied, “I know.”
He said, “It was thousands of dollars.”
I said, “Yes, I know.”
He asked, “What should I do?”
I told him, “Stand up and be a man. If you quit doing dope they can’t take advantage of you.”
He said, “Yes, but it is hard.”
I said, “Make a firm decision. You have to live life the right way.”
He said, “What you mean a firm decision?”
I said, “Make a choice based on what you want to do with your life.”
He said, “Every time I try to turn my life around, they get in my face and tease and tempt me with dope.”
I said, "No, you are teasing and tempting yourself.”
He said, “I’m just fed up. I don’t know what to do. I just need help.”
And as he sat there, a guy walked up with dope papers in his hand. I just looked at him to see what he was going to do. The two of them left.
The next day, I asked him, “What did you do?”
“I broke weak,” he said.
“Did you get high?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to pray. I’ll pray with you if you like.”
We prayed, but a few minutes later, he was in his cell getting high again, and he had a bunch of food. The next morning he was gone.
Two days went by and two guys came to my cell and said I owed them $25 for the midget’s food and $100 for his dope, and they wanted their money by Wednesday.
“What?” I said, but didn’t push the issue because I was in the middle of some reading, and at that time it was more important than anything they could say or do. I was fascinated by Caesar’s exploits. He built a bridge across the Rhine River in 10 days to deal with certain tribes. That was more important to me than dealing with these two dopeheads. They went back downstairs to their cell.
I followed them 45 minutes later.
“What’s up? What’s all this about?” I asked one of them.
He had a piece of paper with all this stuff written on it. It had my name on it besides some numbers. “You need to pay up, or else I’m gonna take it outta your butt.” He really used that word butt!
I looked at him and said, “You’re kidding me,” and laughed.
I feinted at him like I was going to hit him, not seeing the shank [knife] he had under his writing pad.
Part 2 coming next week.
Here’s the link to T-Bone’s previous letter: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/from-t-bone-letter-11-t-bone-radiating.html
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for T-Bone to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
It started with this midget coming to me two weeks after getting out of the hole, and telling me he had a problem. Every day he would sit in my cell door and cry to me about wanting to change and how everyone was taking advantage of him.
I simply replied, “I know.”
He said, “It was thousands of dollars.”
I said, “Yes, I know.”
He asked, “What should I do?”
I told him, “Stand up and be a man. If you quit doing dope they can’t take advantage of you.”
He said, “Yes, but it is hard.”
I said, “Make a firm decision. You have to live life the right way.”
He said, “What you mean a firm decision?”
I said, “Make a choice based on what you want to do with your life.”
He said, “Every time I try to turn my life around, they get in my face and tease and tempt me with dope.”
I said, "No, you are teasing and tempting yourself.”
He said, “I’m just fed up. I don’t know what to do. I just need help.”
And as he sat there, a guy walked up with dope papers in his hand. I just looked at him to see what he was going to do. The two of them left.
The next day, I asked him, “What did you do?”
“I broke weak,” he said.
“Did you get high?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to pray. I’ll pray with you if you like.”
We prayed, but a few minutes later, he was in his cell getting high again, and he had a bunch of food. The next morning he was gone.
Two days went by and two guys came to my cell and said I owed them $25 for the midget’s food and $100 for his dope, and they wanted their money by Wednesday.
“What?” I said, but didn’t push the issue because I was in the middle of some reading, and at that time it was more important than anything they could say or do. I was fascinated by Caesar’s exploits. He built a bridge across the Rhine River in 10 days to deal with certain tribes. That was more important to me than dealing with these two dopeheads. They went back downstairs to their cell.
I followed them 45 minutes later.
“What’s up? What’s all this about?” I asked one of them.
He had a piece of paper with all this stuff written on it. It had my name on it besides some numbers. “You need to pay up, or else I’m gonna take it outta your butt.” He really used that word butt!
I looked at him and said, “You’re kidding me,” and laughed.
I feinted at him like I was going to hit him, not seeing the shank [knife] he had under his writing pad.
Part 2 coming next week.
Here’s the link to T-Bone’s previous letter: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/from-t-bone-letter-11-t-bone-radiating.html
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for T-Bone to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Tent City (Part 6 by Guest Blogger Daniel Horne)
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog.
Each troublesome event in our pod brought me closer to the other prisoners and their stories. Most of the men were going to prison. Some told me that their transfer had been delayed indefinitely. Information learned from their attorneys was that the pipeline to prison was crammed to the bursting point. There was a backlog of bodies being kept at the jail until bunks opened at the prison’s in-take facility located in another area of Phoenix. It, too, was overflowing with prisoners waiting until a prison bunk became available. Word in the jail was that the state was working desperately to farm some of the existing prisoner population out to for-profit prisons with facilities in other states to handle the sudden explosion in the prisoner population over the last year. Andrew Thomas had single-handedly created a logistical nightmare for the state’s penal system with his ruthless abuse of justice. Like Steven King’s novel, Storm of The Century, Andrew Thomas seemed to say, “Give me what I want, and I’ll go away.” What he wanted, no one knew for sure, but based on his actions, it seemed clear to me that he was setting himself up for a future shot at the Governor’s job. I had come to believe that he was sacrificing thousands of county residents into the justice system to build a heretofore non-existent political base for his future aspirations.
One young man, Lee, had spent most of his adult life in the Florence prison. He was twenty-eight and had only been out of prison for a few weeks when he was arrested for a probation violation. Lee hadn’t finished high school, but other inmates in prison had taught him to read at the college level. His vocabulary was that of an eighth grader in ordinary conversation, but when the topic turned to government, Lee had a PhD’s scope of knowledge.
“This is all in the Bible you know,” Lee said.
“What’s that?” I asked. “You mean so many people getting locked up?”
“No, that the evil men are running our government. The angels of Satan walk among us. As public actors, they parrot the words that the public wants to hear, but behind the scenes they are destroying everything America stands for.”
“Humm... that’s an interesting proposition. So, you believe this is the end of the Earth, do you?”
“It’s the beginning of the end. One world government is beginning to form. It is the precursor to make way for the Son of Satan to come to the Earth and rule the world. Rome is forming again as was predicted in the prophesy of Daniel, Chapter 7, Verse 23. The European Union is predominantly the old Roman Empire being reborn. ‘The fourth beast is a fourth kingdom that will appear on the earth. It will be different from all other kingdoms and will devour the whole earth, trampling it down and crushing it. The ten horns are ten kings who will come from this kingdom. After them another king will arise, different from earlier ones; he will subdue three kings. He will speak against the Most High and oppress his saints and try to change the set times and the laws. The saints will be handed over to him for a time, times, and half a time.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way,” I said. “Where did you learn these things?”
“There’s not a lot to do in prison, so I read. I’m convinced that America will join the European Union in the next thirty years to avoid a takeover by China. The dollar will be dead, and we will be using the Euro as currency. The Euro has a similar image on it to the Mark of The Beast which Daniel foretold. I’ve got some books in my cell if you’d like to read them.”
“Thanks, Lee, but I’m reading the Gospels right now, and I want to finish the part of the Bible that brings hope and soft hearts to men, the part where Jesus tells us to love other people with as much heart as we love ourselves.”
The subject changed, and I was able to get Lee to tell me his story. When he was six, he ran away from home because his mother was a crack addict and her boyfriend beat him. He lived in a bad part of town, South Phoenix, and he spent months sleeping in parks or anywhere else he could find safety. He remembered being constantly afraid as a young boy. Lee started drinking beer when he was fourteen and eventually discovered street drugs. It wasn’t long until he was introduced to crystal meth, the drug of choice by many addicts in the low income areas of Phoenix. Of course, the price of drugs rise when the government cracks down on these illicit substances — which drives up property crime. That led to a car theft when he was eighteen to get drug money. He was sentenced to six years in Florence-West, a for-profit prison. Infractions of the rules had extended his incarceration for three additional years.
Phoenix police had happened upon Lee, searched his truck, and found a handgun inside. He was arrested for violating his probation and was waiting to be sentenced. He was told by his public defender that he might get as many as ten years or more. Lee was ambivalent about going back to prison. Life on the outside, what most people call freedom, had been a dangerous and scary place for most of Lee’s life. In prison, he had friends and he felt safe. He liked his time on the outside but was going home to see his friends. It didn’t occur to him that he might not be sentenced to the same facility or that the for-profit prisons were infamous for shipping prisoners out of state to meet their filled-bed quotas and keep Wall Street happy, and I didn’t see it as my job to tell him.
Here is the link for Part 5: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-5-by.html
Here is the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog.
Each troublesome event in our pod brought me closer to the other prisoners and their stories. Most of the men were going to prison. Some told me that their transfer had been delayed indefinitely. Information learned from their attorneys was that the pipeline to prison was crammed to the bursting point. There was a backlog of bodies being kept at the jail until bunks opened at the prison’s in-take facility located in another area of Phoenix. It, too, was overflowing with prisoners waiting until a prison bunk became available. Word in the jail was that the state was working desperately to farm some of the existing prisoner population out to for-profit prisons with facilities in other states to handle the sudden explosion in the prisoner population over the last year. Andrew Thomas had single-handedly created a logistical nightmare for the state’s penal system with his ruthless abuse of justice. Like Steven King’s novel, Storm of The Century, Andrew Thomas seemed to say, “Give me what I want, and I’ll go away.” What he wanted, no one knew for sure, but based on his actions, it seemed clear to me that he was setting himself up for a future shot at the Governor’s job. I had come to believe that he was sacrificing thousands of county residents into the justice system to build a heretofore non-existent political base for his future aspirations.
One young man, Lee, had spent most of his adult life in the Florence prison. He was twenty-eight and had only been out of prison for a few weeks when he was arrested for a probation violation. Lee hadn’t finished high school, but other inmates in prison had taught him to read at the college level. His vocabulary was that of an eighth grader in ordinary conversation, but when the topic turned to government, Lee had a PhD’s scope of knowledge.
“This is all in the Bible you know,” Lee said.
“What’s that?” I asked. “You mean so many people getting locked up?”
“No, that the evil men are running our government. The angels of Satan walk among us. As public actors, they parrot the words that the public wants to hear, but behind the scenes they are destroying everything America stands for.”
“Humm... that’s an interesting proposition. So, you believe this is the end of the Earth, do you?”
“It’s the beginning of the end. One world government is beginning to form. It is the precursor to make way for the Son of Satan to come to the Earth and rule the world. Rome is forming again as was predicted in the prophesy of Daniel, Chapter 7, Verse 23. The European Union is predominantly the old Roman Empire being reborn. ‘The fourth beast is a fourth kingdom that will appear on the earth. It will be different from all other kingdoms and will devour the whole earth, trampling it down and crushing it. The ten horns are ten kings who will come from this kingdom. After them another king will arise, different from earlier ones; he will subdue three kings. He will speak against the Most High and oppress his saints and try to change the set times and the laws. The saints will be handed over to him for a time, times, and half a time.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way,” I said. “Where did you learn these things?”
“There’s not a lot to do in prison, so I read. I’m convinced that America will join the European Union in the next thirty years to avoid a takeover by China. The dollar will be dead, and we will be using the Euro as currency. The Euro has a similar image on it to the Mark of The Beast which Daniel foretold. I’ve got some books in my cell if you’d like to read them.”
“Thanks, Lee, but I’m reading the Gospels right now, and I want to finish the part of the Bible that brings hope and soft hearts to men, the part where Jesus tells us to love other people with as much heart as we love ourselves.”
The subject changed, and I was able to get Lee to tell me his story. When he was six, he ran away from home because his mother was a crack addict and her boyfriend beat him. He lived in a bad part of town, South Phoenix, and he spent months sleeping in parks or anywhere else he could find safety. He remembered being constantly afraid as a young boy. Lee started drinking beer when he was fourteen and eventually discovered street drugs. It wasn’t long until he was introduced to crystal meth, the drug of choice by many addicts in the low income areas of Phoenix. Of course, the price of drugs rise when the government cracks down on these illicit substances — which drives up property crime. That led to a car theft when he was eighteen to get drug money. He was sentenced to six years in Florence-West, a for-profit prison. Infractions of the rules had extended his incarceration for three additional years.
Phoenix police had happened upon Lee, searched his truck, and found a handgun inside. He was arrested for violating his probation and was waiting to be sentenced. He was told by his public defender that he might get as many as ten years or more. Lee was ambivalent about going back to prison. Life on the outside, what most people call freedom, had been a dangerous and scary place for most of Lee’s life. In prison, he had friends and he felt safe. He liked his time on the outside but was going home to see his friends. It didn’t occur to him that he might not be sentenced to the same facility or that the for-profit prisons were infamous for shipping prisoners out of state to meet their filled-bed quotas and keep Wall Street happy, and I didn’t see it as my job to tell him.
Here is the link for Part 5: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-5-by.html
Here is the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Slim (Part 2 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
“What? What?” Charlie asked with an anxiety that said he thought he might be the target.
“They’re gonna get Slim right now.”
“Who? Who is?” Charlie asked, his voice growing more worried.
“Shhhhh…Not so loud. Calm down. Just pay attention.”
Charlie trusted me, and in prison trust is rare. No matter how much trust you put in someone, there’s still a part of your consciousness that never lets you forget you’re in prison and should trust no one. In here, your friend can be your enemy from one minute to the next. So I understood Charlie’s anxiety.
“Look! Look!” Charlie said, pointing at the pull-up bars.
Just then Casper threw a swing at Slim. Slim ducked as if he knew it were coming.
In prison you become more in tune with your instincts. As Stan Lee would say, you develop a “spider sense.” It’s as if our minds regress to the days when danger lurked around every corner, like saber-toothed tigers. So I wasn’t surprised by Slim’s response.
Lumpy was on the other side of Slim. Slim didn’t realize this as he began to run in Lumpy’s direction. Lumpy took a swing that barely clipped Slim’s ear. Slim flinched a little, but it didn’t stop his momentum. Slim began to run towards the middle of the rec yard. An older laid-back convict named Big Mike was in his direction. Mike saw him coming and threw his arm out to clothes-line Slim. Slim was running at full speed when Mike caught him. Slim’s head stopped, but his feet kept going. It looked like an old comedy skit from the sixties where a guy slips on a banana peel and his body flies horizontally. Dust billowed around Slim’s head as it hit the dirt. I hadn’t realized how much hate everyone harbored for Slim until Big Mike started to kick him.
As Slim struggled to get up, all the guys playing basketball stopped, ran over, and began to get their kicks in. No one wanted him to get up. Then, some playing cards and working out came for a piece of Slim. Two guys even dropped the telephones they were on. I’d never seen one man hated so much. I could hear the thumps from feet making contact, a few slaps as punches connected. Dirt and dust were flying through the air as Slim continued to struggle to get up and run away.
For a moment, I was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. The scene reminded me of a nature show in which a pack of wolves were trying to take down an elk that had strayed. No matter which way the elk turned there was always a wolf present at exactly the right time to deliver a bite. Its only option was to keep moving, hoping an opening would occur. It had fear in its eyes, like I saw in Slim’s.
Two explosions caused Charlie and me to flinch. Slim’s attackers dashed away. The officers in the watch tower launched tear-gas canisters at the center of the melee. The prisoners scattered chaotically, like ants reacting to an invasion of their hill.
One man named Happy continued kicking Slim despite the tear gas. The officer in the tower fired a warning shot. Everyone hit the floor face down because we all knew the next shot would be aimed at any man still standing.
Happy continued kicking. There was a shot. Happy fell.
Offended by one of our own getting shot, everyone got to their feet, and threatened to riot. We targeted our aggression at the officers in the area. But more officers came with shotguns, tear gas, and Tasers. We weren’t outnumbered, but outgunned. It was over.
Having been shot with rubber pellets, Happy was hospitalised. Slim was taken to the hole, too much of a liability to keep on the yard. Some guys were caught and taken to lock-up, others got away in the pandemonium. The rest of us had to wait out on the rec yard for several hours, cuffed with zip ties while investigators completed their investigation.
I realized that day what a fine line of violence those of us locked up have to walk. The guards have to be violent enough to set an example, yet not so much as to be labelled bullies and ignite the whole yard.
Aggression is inherent in human nature. It’s how we’ve survived for thousands of years. In modern society it’s more subtle though. But prison never lets you forget our potential for violence, whether as predator or prey.
Here’s the link to Part 1: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/slim-part-1-by-warrior-warrior-serving.html
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for Warrior below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
“What? What?” Charlie asked with an anxiety that said he thought he might be the target.
“They’re gonna get Slim right now.”
“Who? Who is?” Charlie asked, his voice growing more worried.
“Shhhhh…Not so loud. Calm down. Just pay attention.”
Charlie trusted me, and in prison trust is rare. No matter how much trust you put in someone, there’s still a part of your consciousness that never lets you forget you’re in prison and should trust no one. In here, your friend can be your enemy from one minute to the next. So I understood Charlie’s anxiety.
“Look! Look!” Charlie said, pointing at the pull-up bars.
Just then Casper threw a swing at Slim. Slim ducked as if he knew it were coming.
In prison you become more in tune with your instincts. As Stan Lee would say, you develop a “spider sense.” It’s as if our minds regress to the days when danger lurked around every corner, like saber-toothed tigers. So I wasn’t surprised by Slim’s response.
Lumpy was on the other side of Slim. Slim didn’t realize this as he began to run in Lumpy’s direction. Lumpy took a swing that barely clipped Slim’s ear. Slim flinched a little, but it didn’t stop his momentum. Slim began to run towards the middle of the rec yard. An older laid-back convict named Big Mike was in his direction. Mike saw him coming and threw his arm out to clothes-line Slim. Slim was running at full speed when Mike caught him. Slim’s head stopped, but his feet kept going. It looked like an old comedy skit from the sixties where a guy slips on a banana peel and his body flies horizontally. Dust billowed around Slim’s head as it hit the dirt. I hadn’t realized how much hate everyone harbored for Slim until Big Mike started to kick him.
As Slim struggled to get up, all the guys playing basketball stopped, ran over, and began to get their kicks in. No one wanted him to get up. Then, some playing cards and working out came for a piece of Slim. Two guys even dropped the telephones they were on. I’d never seen one man hated so much. I could hear the thumps from feet making contact, a few slaps as punches connected. Dirt and dust were flying through the air as Slim continued to struggle to get up and run away.
For a moment, I was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. The scene reminded me of a nature show in which a pack of wolves were trying to take down an elk that had strayed. No matter which way the elk turned there was always a wolf present at exactly the right time to deliver a bite. Its only option was to keep moving, hoping an opening would occur. It had fear in its eyes, like I saw in Slim’s.
Two explosions caused Charlie and me to flinch. Slim’s attackers dashed away. The officers in the watch tower launched tear-gas canisters at the center of the melee. The prisoners scattered chaotically, like ants reacting to an invasion of their hill.
One man named Happy continued kicking Slim despite the tear gas. The officer in the tower fired a warning shot. Everyone hit the floor face down because we all knew the next shot would be aimed at any man still standing.
Happy continued kicking. There was a shot. Happy fell.
Offended by one of our own getting shot, everyone got to their feet, and threatened to riot. We targeted our aggression at the officers in the area. But more officers came with shotguns, tear gas, and Tasers. We weren’t outnumbered, but outgunned. It was over.
Having been shot with rubber pellets, Happy was hospitalised. Slim was taken to the hole, too much of a liability to keep on the yard. Some guys were caught and taken to lock-up, others got away in the pandemonium. The rest of us had to wait out on the rec yard for several hours, cuffed with zip ties while investigators completed their investigation.
I realized that day what a fine line of violence those of us locked up have to walk. The guards have to be violent enough to set an example, yet not so much as to be labelled bullies and ignite the whole yard.
Aggression is inherent in human nature. It’s how we’ve survived for thousands of years. In modern society it’s more subtle though. But prison never lets you forget our potential for violence, whether as predator or prey.
Here’s the link to Part 1: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/slim-part-1-by-warrior-warrior-serving.html
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for Warrior below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Tent City (Part 5 by Guest Blogger Daniel Horne)
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog
SRT is a serious menace to inmates at Tent City. Younger prisoners, if they’ve never been in the military, don’t tolerate the verbal and physical abuse of SRT well. They aren’t psychologically prepared to be screamed at, belittled, pushed, and threatened. Getting caught staring into the eyes of an SRT member is an invitation for serious physical harm followed by a month in the hole.
SRT is the sheriff’s attempt at the SWAT (Special Weapons & Tactics) concept police departments use. SRT members wear black uniforms, black flak vests, black shin pads, black helmets, black gloves, black combat boots, and black sunglasses. Most SRT’s are athletes who resemble professional football players in size and physique, a stark contrast to the doughy plumpness of most DO’s.
It isn’t fair to the police to call SRT a SWAT team. The differences are dramatic and distinct. The SRT personnel I encountered were in a perpetual bad temper. I believe it to be due to the side effects of bodybuilding steroids based on the size of some of these men, but whatever their drug of choice, it was not a laughing matter to cross their path.
The SRT hurt people, and, from my observations, they enjoy doing it. A few carry pepper spray in a quart size aerosol canister screwed into a large, reusable paint spray atomizer. Some tote large caliber shotguns filled with beanbag munitions. Most wear Uzi machinegun-like weapons strapped across their necks and shoulders that rapid fire teargas paintballs. In truth, they resemble the Waffen-SS, Heinrich Himmler’s Armed Schutzstaffel (Protective Squadron) in demeanor and action. They routinely hurt prisoners at any opportunity. To me, SRT appeared to be a brotherhood of sorts, a gang where ruthless behavior is the measure that earns the respect of their peers.
There was one memorable day in mid-February when the entire pod was suddenly locked down for no apparent reason. Soon, the door at the far end of the room slid open and a large SRT clothed black man walked through the entrance, the butt of a shotgun parked on his hip, the barrel pointing into the air. Soon afterward, more SRT’s wearing Uzi machine guns entered leading a line of naked inmates through the common area and into the open exercise yard outside. The men, hands on top of their head, were dressed in pink boxers, socks, and rubber slippers. It was cold in the pod; it had to have been below forty degrees outside. I counted sixty three men, most of them young, but a few were elderly, and one was in a wheelchair. They walked silently, their hands clasped on top of their heads, single file, as SRT personnel positioned themselves on either side of the line. The parallel to Nazis guarding POW’s was impossible to miss, as the prisoners disappeared through the doorway and into the exercise area beyond.
Thirty minutes later, another sheriff’s deputy, a man who resembled a trained police officer more than a DO based on his uniform and behavior, arrived. He moved two large cans of pepper-spray that were sitting on the table aside and sat down on one of the stools. Prisoners were brought in one at a time. SRT sat them at the table, and the mysterious deputy questioned each of them. Prisoners with tattoos had Polaroid photographs taken of each marking on their body. All the while, the SRT soldiers milled about the room, shotgun stocks on their hips or Uzis at the ready, menacingly peering into windows of the locked-down cells. Everyone in the pod was lying on their bunk, with eyes averted when an SRT walked by, pretending not to notice what was going on in the common area.
After ten interviews, the investigating officer was reviewing his notes when another man arrived dressed in plain clothes. Evidently, the police were looking for someone and believed him to be in jail among the naked men standing outside in the cold. The two policemen chatted for a few minutes and looked at the photographs. One of the inmates was brought in, handcuffed, and led away by the plain clothes officer. The other officer left shortly thereafter.
Thirty minutes later, the door to the exercise area was opened, and the freezing line of prisoners, some whose skin had turned from warm pink to an eerie blue, were brought inside and led out of our pod. The shotgun-toting SRT who had entered the pod first was the last to leave, facing the pod to survey the room one last time before stepping through the opening — a warning that he could come back. He stepped out of sight and the door clanged shut. Cell doors began to open. BAM! BAM! BAM! We emerged, whispering about what had just happened, but we were careful not to talk loud enough to be overheard by the DO’s above our heads.
Here is the link for Part 4: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-4-by.html
Here is the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog
SRT is a serious menace to inmates at Tent City. Younger prisoners, if they’ve never been in the military, don’t tolerate the verbal and physical abuse of SRT well. They aren’t psychologically prepared to be screamed at, belittled, pushed, and threatened. Getting caught staring into the eyes of an SRT member is an invitation for serious physical harm followed by a month in the hole.
SRT is the sheriff’s attempt at the SWAT (Special Weapons & Tactics) concept police departments use. SRT members wear black uniforms, black flak vests, black shin pads, black helmets, black gloves, black combat boots, and black sunglasses. Most SRT’s are athletes who resemble professional football players in size and physique, a stark contrast to the doughy plumpness of most DO’s.
It isn’t fair to the police to call SRT a SWAT team. The differences are dramatic and distinct. The SRT personnel I encountered were in a perpetual bad temper. I believe it to be due to the side effects of bodybuilding steroids based on the size of some of these men, but whatever their drug of choice, it was not a laughing matter to cross their path.
The SRT hurt people, and, from my observations, they enjoy doing it. A few carry pepper spray in a quart size aerosol canister screwed into a large, reusable paint spray atomizer. Some tote large caliber shotguns filled with beanbag munitions. Most wear Uzi machinegun-like weapons strapped across their necks and shoulders that rapid fire teargas paintballs. In truth, they resemble the Waffen-SS, Heinrich Himmler’s Armed Schutzstaffel (Protective Squadron) in demeanor and action. They routinely hurt prisoners at any opportunity. To me, SRT appeared to be a brotherhood of sorts, a gang where ruthless behavior is the measure that earns the respect of their peers.
There was one memorable day in mid-February when the entire pod was suddenly locked down for no apparent reason. Soon, the door at the far end of the room slid open and a large SRT clothed black man walked through the entrance, the butt of a shotgun parked on his hip, the barrel pointing into the air. Soon afterward, more SRT’s wearing Uzi machine guns entered leading a line of naked inmates through the common area and into the open exercise yard outside. The men, hands on top of their head, were dressed in pink boxers, socks, and rubber slippers. It was cold in the pod; it had to have been below forty degrees outside. I counted sixty three men, most of them young, but a few were elderly, and one was in a wheelchair. They walked silently, their hands clasped on top of their heads, single file, as SRT personnel positioned themselves on either side of the line. The parallel to Nazis guarding POW’s was impossible to miss, as the prisoners disappeared through the doorway and into the exercise area beyond.
Thirty minutes later, another sheriff’s deputy, a man who resembled a trained police officer more than a DO based on his uniform and behavior, arrived. He moved two large cans of pepper-spray that were sitting on the table aside and sat down on one of the stools. Prisoners were brought in one at a time. SRT sat them at the table, and the mysterious deputy questioned each of them. Prisoners with tattoos had Polaroid photographs taken of each marking on their body. All the while, the SRT soldiers milled about the room, shotgun stocks on their hips or Uzis at the ready, menacingly peering into windows of the locked-down cells. Everyone in the pod was lying on their bunk, with eyes averted when an SRT walked by, pretending not to notice what was going on in the common area.
After ten interviews, the investigating officer was reviewing his notes when another man arrived dressed in plain clothes. Evidently, the police were looking for someone and believed him to be in jail among the naked men standing outside in the cold. The two policemen chatted for a few minutes and looked at the photographs. One of the inmates was brought in, handcuffed, and led away by the plain clothes officer. The other officer left shortly thereafter.
Thirty minutes later, the door to the exercise area was opened, and the freezing line of prisoners, some whose skin had turned from warm pink to an eerie blue, were brought inside and led out of our pod. The shotgun-toting SRT who had entered the pod first was the last to leave, facing the pod to survey the room one last time before stepping through the opening — a warning that he could come back. He stepped out of sight and the door clanged shut. Cell doors began to open. BAM! BAM! BAM! We emerged, whispering about what had just happened, but we were careful not to talk loud enough to be overheard by the DO’s above our heads.
Here is the link for Part 4: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-4-by.html
Here is the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
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