The prison blog of an Orwellian unperson. As shown on National Geographic Channel's Banged Up/Locked Up Abroad episode Raving Arizona.
From Renee (Letter 41)
Renee – Only a teenager, she received a 60-year sentence. Almost 20 years later, Renee is writing from Perryville prison in Goodyear, Arizona, providing a rare and unique insight into a women's prison.
I got moved to 18 yard, which I’m told has a lot of
drama. Not by chance, either. At least nine lifers were moved. I’m no longer in
a cell by myself. I have one roommate. Rumours from orange.com is they are
going to use 14 yard for minimum custody overflow, which is curious because I
really thought they could no longer have mixed custodies on a unit.
I can soon apply to the clemency board. I’m going to
ask to be paroled to my last number that is in only six years. So should the
universe decide to give me a break, I hope it is on the day of the hearing. I
have an attorney who says he has been successful doing this type of thing. It really seems the closer I am to my shot, the more
things seem to happen as if I am being tested. An example is the change in my
living situation and having a cellmate. My roommate works maintenance for most of
the day. When she comes back, I go out for a few minutes in the 109 degree heat
for her to do whatever she needs to do.
Two Tonys Prologue
I'm just putting the finishing touches to my book about Two Tonys, the Mafia associate who protected me in prison. Do you have any feedback or suggested improvements on the prologue below?
The
peep slot on my door slammed open. A pair of eyes gazed in. “You’ve got a legal
visit. Back up to the door and don’t try anything stupid.” A key rattled. A
latch clicked. A hatch unfastened.
I placed my book down, got
up from the metal bunk, put my hands behind my back and fed them through the
hatch. Handcuffs clicked on tight. Two pairs.
“Step away from the
door with your back to us.”
The metal door squeaked
open.
“Come out with your
back to us. Any sudden moves and we will face-plant you into the concrete.”
I ended up between two
guards packing pistols, trained to remain aloof, probably told, “If you slip
and fall, don’t think a prisoner won’t grab your gun and kill you.” Chains
jangled as they were secured around my belly and ankles. The door clanged shut
and was locked.
“Down the corridor.
Go!”
Curses and sewage
smells rose from the cells as the guards boots clunked forward.
When they guided me
past Visitation, I knew something was up. “Where are we going?”
“We can’t tell you for
security reasons.”
They brought me to an
office, and opened the door. “Can we bring him in lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“Go!”
I shuffled inside: beige walls, a fluorescent
strip light, no windows.
“Three homicide detectives
and a county attorney from Anchorage wanna talk to you,” said an overgrown
redneck sweating through a tan uniform. “Have a seat.”
The plastic chair slid
towards me scraped the concrete. Restricted by chains, I sat slowly. “Do I have
to talk to them, lieutenant?” I asked, playing dumb.
“No.”
“Then I don’t wanna
talk to them.”
“I’ll call the gate to
see where they’re at.” He got on his radio. “They’re on their way up. When they
get here, tell them you don’t wanna talk to them.” That was his ploy to get me
in a room with them.
With the three Alaskans
was Dirk Taylor, a Tucson homicide detective who I’d been jousting with for well
over a decade. In a beige shirt, brown pants and snakeskin boots, he tilted his
cowboy hat, revealing his face, leathery and tanned, and a bulbous burnt nose.
“How’re you doing?” Dirk
asked with a southwestern twang.
“Just fine, but I don’t
wanna talk to you people.”
“We’re just looking to
close some old cases,” the Alaskan attorney said. “We’re not gonna charge you with
any crimes. We know you’re never getting out. Indicting you would be a waste of
taxpayer’s money.”
Dirk steered his brown
eyes, small and severe, towards the lieutenant. “Can you make him talk to us?”
I kept my expression deadpan, but every fibre
in my body itched for me to say, “What is it you wanna talk about?” But if you
ask that question – I was taught a long time ago by the Mafia – you run the
risk of dialogue with them, so you say nothing. It’s always best to take the
Fifth Amendment, even if they only ask for your address. To come all the way
from Alaska to Arizona, it had to be serious. Someone must have ratted me out
for whacking members of The Brothers, a deadly biker gang that stepped on my toes
in the cocaine business.
The lieutenant
shrugged. “OK, you can go.”
Glad to get away from
them, I stood.
“Wait! Don’t you wanna
save yourself from the death penalty?” Dirk busted open a manila folder and
slapped down a photo of a big bald dude on a hotel-room bed, a fucking mess,
blood coming from his mouth, some of it congealed, his eyes closed, one foot on
the floor, one on the bed, the majority of his brains on the ceiling. “We found
your prints at the scene. Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”
Gazing impassively, I
thought, Who’s Dirk trying to fool?
Dirk slapped down
another photo: a biker stabbed to death in a prison cell. “How about this one?”
I shook my head.
Slap!
Slap! Slap! Bodies unearthed from the Tucson
desert. “How about these?” Dirk snatched a folder from the county attorney. He slapped
down another photo: a biker frozen in Alaska with a chunk of his head missing. “How
about this one?”
I shrugged.
Slap!
Another frozen biker. “And this one?” Slap!
A biker with his throat slit. “This one?” Dirk gathered the pictures together
like a hand of cards and waved them in my face. I savoured his desperate
expression. “You left a trail of corpses from Arizona to Alaska. Tell us
something, anything.”
“OK. I have something
to say.”
They gazed at me intensely.
The detectives’ eyes were as cold as the corpses I’d left behind in Alaska. I
wondered if hunting motherfuckers like me had injected ice into their hearts. “Don’t
ever show up here uninvited without bringing me a soda and a burger.” I smiled
at Dirk, who scowled. “Can I go back to my house?” I asked the lieutenant. He nodded at the guards
with the pistols to return me to maximum security.
As if he’d got his
fucking swagger back, Dirk said in a wise-guy tone, “When they sentence you to
death, would you prefer the gas chamber or lethal injection?”
Some vintage Two Tonys blogs:
Bad Weather
Stoicism
Solving the Murder of Joe Hootner
Goiter
On Jesus Christ
Exorcism
On Friedrich Nietzsche
TV Mourners
Little Chickadees
On Solzhenitsyn
Literature and Schlongs
Versus Ogre
Bad Weather
Stoicism
Solving the Murder of Joe Hootner
Goiter
On Jesus Christ
Exorcism
On Friedrich Nietzsche
TV Mourners
Little Chickadees
On Solzhenitsyn
Literature and Schlongs
Versus Ogre
Shaun Attwood
From T-Bone (Letter 43)
T-Bone is a massively-built spiritual ex-Marine, who uses fighting skills to stop prison rape. T-Bone’s latest letter:
In supermax today, I got some legal mail,
and the guard stood right in front of me and read it which is illegal. He stood
there, right in my face with an evil look, and tried to lie about his
behaviour. He wanted me to cuss him out, but I didn’t take the bait. There are
always people who try to do all the unnecessary things to make it hard for
everyone, who get off on being evil.
A new guy just showed up who they gave
twelve years for killing someone. They gave me thirteen years for something I
didn’t even do, and they had no evidence at all in my case. The new guy is
white. If I had his case, they would have given me the death penalty.
The racist attitudes that drive these
places are so messed up. The guys don’t realise that the hate, confusion and
fear only lead to more problems. The system encourages the racism, so they can
control everyone, and they never stop the drugs, the rape or the illegal
activity.
Shaun Attwood
Kill The Messenger - CIA Drug Trafficking
It's now declassified that the CIA was one of the biggest importers of cocaine into America in the 1980s that spawned the crack epidemic. The federal government under Regan and Bush Sr raised prison sentences for drugs while shipping the drugs in to finance a war in Nicaragua. The journalist who exposed this Gary Webb was labelled a conspiracy theorist and murdered - all in the movie, Kill the Messenger.
Shaun Attwood