17 Feb 06

The Thunder Pot

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Arpaio Loses Again

Jury gives $9 million to estate of inmate

Restraint chair blamed in death
Michael Kiefer
The Arizona Republic
Mar. 25, 2006 12:00 AM
A federal court jury on Friday awarded $9 million to the estate and the parents of a man who died in 2001 after being strapped into a restraint chair at a Maricopa County jail.Charles Agster III died in August 2001 as county detention officers struggled to subdue him. But lawyers in the civil suit debated whether he suffocated in the chair or died from a reaction to methamphetamine.

It was the second time in a decade that the county and the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office have had to pay millions of dollars as the result of a lawsuit over the fatal use of the device, which is intended to restrain out-of-control jail inmates and keep them from harming themselves. "We hope this judgment makes it so that it won't happen to other parents in the future," Agster's mother, Carol, said.Her attorney, Michael Manning, hoped that the verdict would "shout from the roof" about "this culture that the sheriff has created in that jail.""This is not a Third World country," Manning said. "This shouldn't happen in a place like Phoenix, Arizona."

In January 1999, Manning reached an $8.25 million court settlement with the county in the 1996 death of Scott Norberg, who also died while being buckled into a restraint chair.Manning is also representing four other wrongful death suits involving county jail prisoners, two of them also related to the restraint chair.
Agster, 33, was mentally retarded. On Aug. 6, 2001, according to court pleadings, he was acting in a paranoid fashion after taking methamphetamine. His parents decided to take him to the hospital, but on the way, Agster asked to stop at a Circle K for a smoke and cup of coffee. When he refused to let go of a coffee stand there, the store managers called police, who took Agster to Madison Street Jail.
"He was in custody for 15 minutes," sheriff's spokesman Jack McIntyre said.When Agster continued to act erratically, detention officers strapped him into a restraint chair to subdue him. And when he stopped breathing, according to the lawsuit, jail personnel did not immediately administer CPR. Agster died three days later.An initial autopsy report said that Agster died of positional asphyxia, effectively that he had suffocated while being held down by detention officers. A later autopsy report said the cause of death was excited delirium consistent with methamphetamine abuse.
Dan Jantsch, one of the attorneys representing the county, said he still believes that the drugs caused Agster's death, not the restraint chair.The chair, he said, is used on only 2 percent of prisoners coming into the jails even if more than 50 percent are out of control.Manning's lawsuit named the Sheriff's Office, the county Department of Correctional Health Services, several detention officers and the nurse who recommended that Agster be strapped into the chair, charging them with violating state and federal statutes.

The trial began Jan. 31 before District Court Judge James Teilborg; the jury deliberated for a week before coming back with a verdict that totaled $10 million. The responsibility apportioned to Agster, his parents and the person who sold him the drugs, reduced the county's liability by $1 million. Each of the detention officers is responsible for a token $1; the nurse, Betty Lewis, for more than $2 million.Manning will also ask that the court award him $3 million in attorney's fees, also to be paid by the county.

Sheriff Joe Arpaio issued a statement after the verdict. "From the day this incident occurred, I have always said Mr. Agster's death was unfortunate, but my officers did not cause this man to die," Arpaio said. "In the end, the jury found many parties responsible for Agster's death. While they awarded about $4 million against this office, the jury found that Agster himself, his parents and Agster's drug supplier were responsible for his death as well."
Brian Kaven, the attorney for the Sheriff's Office, said the office would likely appeal the verdict.

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15 Feb 06

The Pigeon

After lunch, I noticed a group of inmates looking toward the roof of Building C. There was a pigeon trapped in the razor wire.
Holding a broom and a chair, Repo said, “I’m gonna nudge it out with the broom.”
“Watch it doesn’t shit on you,” warned a youngster called Smokey.
Standing on the chair, Repo raised the broom, but it didn't quite reach the pigeon. The movement of the broom brought more razor wire closer to the pigeon.
“Stop that! That bird’s through. You’re disturbing the razor wire,” a guard yelled from a distance. The inmates ignored him.
“Quick, Repo, let me get on your shoulders, and I’ll try and reach the bird with the broom,” Smokey said.
“Hurry, the guard’s comin’,” Repo said.
Smokey raised the broom. Razor wire moved dangerously close to the body of the bird.
“I’ve told you once, leave that bird alone!” Soon the guard would be impossible to ignore.
“Try a different angle,” Repo said.
“The bird’s scared. I think its gonna shit on us,” Smokey said.
The bird was trembling. The broom nudged the bird. It's trapped wing opened. It dived - awkwardly. Shedding feathers and faeces, it descended. It struggled to fly. It continued down. A few feet from the concrete it turned up and landed on the nearest roof.
The inmates cheered, then scattered as the guard arrived.

Addendum: Repo was released on the 15th of February as he had completed his sentence.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

“What do you think about all these books we’re gettin’ – Updike, Murakami, Rushdie, Bret Easton Ellis, and your favourite, Tom Wolfe?” I asked Two Tonys.
“Lemmetellyasomethin’, I’ve been doin’ time since I was a kid. Since 1958 – in and out, in and out. Thanks to these books by Wolfe, Updike and Murakami, this is the best I’ve ever had it. There was a time in my life when the fuckin’ TV meant everythin’ to me. I used to call it my wife – because it mind-fucked me every fuckin’ night. Now I’ve got these books, I don’t even turn the motherfucker on. The books are keepin’ me alive, keepin’ me from fuckin’ dementia. From this cell, I’m travellin’ the world: whether it’s Murakami takin’ me to the Gobi Desert where the Mongols and a Russian are torturin’ Japs, or Tom Wolfe takin’ me to a five-bedroom town house on New York’s Fifth Avenue with green marble floors, or Robert Fiske takin’ me to Tora Bora in the mountains of Afghanistan with Bin Laden and the Mujahideen – I’m there, bro. These books are getting’ me outta this fuckin’ cell.”

A big thank you and good lookin’ out to everyone who has sent books including Emily in WA, B3 in Phoenix, Mrs. Hemming in Reading, Barry in Tonopah, Andrea, Vaughan, and Oscar in Australia, Nicole in Surrey, Baudry in Paris (who also thoughtfully sent a Marquis de Sade collection to Xena.)

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
13 Feb 06

Frankie’s Chess Challenge

Yesterday’s chess score was 4-0 to Frankie. He annihilated my Australian Attack, crushed my Catalan Opening, dismantled my Tarrash Defense, and pulverised my Panov Attack.

This evening, to get motivated, I sat on my bunk reenacting grandmaster chess games, but Frankie’s words kept replaying in my mind: “Don’t you know who you’re fuckin’ with? I am the greatest.”
It took the arrival of Two Tonys to alter my mood. “Whaddaya doin’ up there?” he asked.
“I’m studying Kasparov. I got beat last night by Frankie. I’ve gotta get him back – soon.”
“Let’s go find the motherfucker then. And you give him some fuckin’ Kasparov.”

We found Frankie finishing off Big Man.
“Don’t you know who you’re fuckin’ with?” Frankie said. “Check – check – check –
“You ain’t shit!” Big Man said, and left in a huff.
“Hey, Frankie,” Two Tonys said. “Jon here’s gonna take ya down. I was just up in this motherfucker’s house, and he had a book out, studyin’ Kasparov moves. Now he thinks he’s in Kiev, on the Russian steppe, leadin’ the Mongol hordes into Europe. I bet he’s gonna kick you're fuckin ass.”
“You know what? I fuck Russians for breakfast.” Frankie said, and began groaning and thrusting his pelvis at us.
“You wouldn’t be sayin’ that if the KGB had you bent over some barrel in a basement, askin’ you where you'd hid your fuckin’ Mexican gold. Give this fucker some Kasparov, Jon,” Two Tonys said and departed.

I abandoned my usual openings, and adopted a queenside fianchetto, looking to establish my bishop pair pressurizing his kingside. Frankie began dismembering my kingside. Fearful of an imminent loss, I felt my anxiety rise.
“After I win this game are we gonna take a shower together, Englandman?” Frankie whispered in a sexy voice.
"No way," I said.
Frankie was about to win the game. However, overconfidence led him astray, and he made a mistake by placing his queen on the same diagonal as his king. I pretended not to see this vulnerability as I moved my rook to a square that would support my bishop in a queen steal. Frankie didn’t notice. I took his queen and finished him off.
“That was good, Englandman,” Frankie said. “Very, very sneaky.”
Two Tonys returned and asked, “What happened?”
“I gave him some Kasparov,” I said.
“That’s a good thing,” Two Tonys said. “Pretty soon, you’ll have Frankie eatin’ Russian fuckin’ caviar and cucumber outta yer fuckin’ hand.”
“I thought I told you,” Frankie said, “I bone Russians down for breakfast.”
“You wouldn’t be talkin’ shit like that if Stalin was your fuckin’ celly,” Two Tonys said.
“If Englandman thinks he’s the champ then maybe he’ll have a little wager on a game to make it a little more interestin'.” Frankie said.
“What kind of wager?” I asked.
“Whoever loses does twenty pushups.”
“Is that all? No problem.”
“You didn’t hear the rest – you do the pushups butt naked,” Frankie said, “And when you lose, Englandman, I’m gonna get a real good look.”
“With that attitude, you’re the one who’ll lose. You’re pissing off the chess gods. But if I did lose, I would be concerned about what you would be getting up to while I was doing the pushups.”
“You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, Englandman. After I get a good look, I’m gonna go home, put a blanket over me, and let my imagination take care of the rest.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll think about the bet, and let you know.”

Should I agree to the bet?

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Prophet has sent Jon another poem

Lost in Confinement

As the artificial lights starve me of sleep
I read the etchings of those who’ve suffered before me.
I wonder what stories lay within these simple scratches.
What act deemed as criminal brought them to this cell?
If they as I were brought within inches of madness?
After long these ghostly cellmates become my only comfort
To know that this struggle is far from one I bare alone.
I may not hear their voices or see their bewildered faces
Yet I feel the tremble of their screams of injustice.
For who’s right it is to take my spirit?
Strip it bare,
Naked in every essence of the word.
Violated by a system that pledges to protect and serve.
The eyes of the keepers look through me,
As if I’m so far beneath them I’m not worthy of the simplest consideration.
Torn between my own actions and the reactions of those whom wish to
Correct me.
How is it said? “For he who is without sin”I would laugh if the irony were not so jagged
Stabbing me through the reminisce of my heart.
Even now with freedom I taste this place
Like a film covering my entire body
I smell the concrete slab that which was my cradle
How if ever do these memories fade?
Is it possible to return to a life after having your spirit killed?
For that is my fate and the answer lays with tomorrows waking breath.

Copyright2005 prophet

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11 Feb 06

The Two Tonys

In the Mafia you can only be a made man if you are of one-hundred percent Italian descent. Two Tonys is Irish Italian. Although he was never a made man, Two Tonys was a Mafia associate, like Henry Hill, the protagonist in the movie Goodfellas. With his fuhgeddaboutits and giddouttaheres, Two Tonys talks like one of the old bosses.

Recently, I asked him how he came by the name Two Tonys.

“The name Two Tonys is an inside joke between me and some o’ the fellas back in the day. Lemme give you some background.
I came to Tucson in ’63 with fellas from Detroit, but they drifted back, and left me here scratchin’ shit with the chickens on my own; so, with my credentials as an associate of the Licavolis, I started puttin’ work in with the Bonannos – nothin’ heavy: just fuckin’ up a few guys here and there, bustin’ up a few pool tables, doin’ a couple of bombings.
That same year I was introduced to one Charlie ‘Batts’ Battaglia, who was runnin’ Tucson Vending Company for the Bonannos. Me bein’ a young guy, I was in awe of Batts. He was the epitome of a gangster: his hair was slicked back, he was always wearin’ dress slacks, alligator shoes and pinkie rings; he’d be chompin’ on a cigar, talkin’ outta the side of his mouth. If I’m Francis Ford Coppola, and I’m makin’ a gangster movie, I wanna guy like Batts in it.
Batts had a few whacks to his name. Back in the fifties, him and Jimmy the Weasel, workin’ for the Dragnas, whacked two guys named Tony. Batts and the Weasel got in the back of the car, and shot the two Tonys, who were sat up front. Now, remember these whacks, Jon,” he said staring intensely at me, "'cause they’re gonna come into my story later on.”
“Sure.” I nodded.
“My partner, Sal Spinelli, tells me that Batts wants to meet us about whackin’ the prosecutor on his extortion case – I think his name was Norman Green. Sal tells me that he told Batts we’ll do it, but Sal doesn’t wanna do it, and he tells me it’s up to me to get us outta it. Sal wanted to be a made man. He thought he was on his way, but his heart pumped Kool-Aid in tough situations – but I always forgave him.
We meet Batts at the Hilton Coffee Shop, and he looks at me, takes his sunglasses off, and says, ‘I’ve gotta guy in my way that I want outta my way. I want you to think about it, and I’m gonna ask you in a coupla days if you’ll do it.’
So far I’ve done no whacks. Sal doesn’t wanna do it, so, two days later, I told Batts, ‘I don’t think I can do anythin’ that heavy.’ He said, ‘No problem. It’s over. Fuhgeddaboutit.’
Now, let’s roll the clock forward to '77. Batts has just done six years for extortion. I’ve gotta fresh whack, and I’ve earned my spurs. One of my partners, Louis, owns the Sahara, where I’m livin’ in a suite with carte blanche on drinks. Me and Louis are drinkin’ and doin’ cocaine every night. Life is good. I’m wearin’ a Rolex and chains. I’ve got pockets full of C-notes. I’m drivin’ my El Dorado. I’m not the kid Batts tried to recruit ten years ago - I’m a formidable person.
Batts – using the same routine – sets up a meetin’ with me and Sal at eight-thirty a.m. at the Village Inn, on a Sunday mornin’. He tells us he’s not with those pieces-of-shit Bonannos anymore, and he keeps throwin’ out the name Lillo, who was Carmine Galante. I realise Batts is full o’ shit. He’s washed up. He’s got no power. So, at the Village Inn, I’m as mad as hell! I’ve been up all night, hustlin’, fuckin’ with broads, I’m high on coke – my nostrils look like the fuckin’ rims on margarita glasses. And I’ve got this fat greaseball motherfucker – who ain’t got no troops – actin’ the part, when he’s shrunk, he’s a skuzz. So, I’m gettin’ more and more pissed off at him, and he’s tryin’ to get me and Sal to jam some guy named Domenic, and throwin’ out Lillo's name.
The Village Inn is full of church-goin’ motherfuckers, and Batts – the loud talkin’ motherfucker – starts on about my business partner, Louis. He says, ‘Fuck Louis. I’ll grab his ass and shake him down.’ I’m strapped with a .38 in a Velcro holster on my ankle. Am I ready to turn the table over and whack the motherfucker?”
“Were you?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he replied. “I was so high, I mighta if he’d pushed the envelope.
What I did was slowly take my glasses off and said, ‘Look at me. Look at my fuckin’ eyes. Lemme tell ya somethin’ right now: if you or anyone else makes a move on Louis, I’m gunna take it as a personal attack on me.’
I could tell by his eyes that he thinks I’m a little umbatz – crazy. He backs way down, and starts talkin’ about us startin’ our own group with Lillo’s approval. He knows we know he’s a nobody, and the tables have turned.
Then, after the meetin’, Sal says to me, ‘At the Village Inn, when you got in that motherfucker’s face, I could feel the spirits of those Two Tonys at the table.’ That’s how I came by the nickname Two Tonys.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
09 Feb 06

Shane V ValueOptions (Update)

Shane filed a lawsuit against ValueOptions who denied him psychiatric medication when he was released from prison – an omission that contributed to him committing a theft for which he was sentenced to eleven and a quarter years. Shane petitioned the court for an attorney – one of the grounds being that he has a mental illness – and was denied because he can write.

Through legal action, Shane secured paperwork illuminating ValueOptions pattern of slipshod service to Arizona’s mentally ill, which includes some disturbing cases. The multi-millionaire boss at ValueOptions – Dr Ronald Dozoretz – often claims that the suicide of a mentally ill patient is one too many, yet suicides and deaths linked to his company are prevalent in Arizona.
Take, for example, Ed Lui, a schizophrenic ValueOptions patient who shot dead two Wal-Mart employees. Are those two too many deaths, Dr Dozoretz?
And there’s Doug Tatar, who was deemed to be nondangerous by mental-health workers and was not committed for evaluation. Doug shot four people – killing two police officers – before blowing his brains out. Are these deaths three too many, Dr Dozoretz?
Christine Meyers begged ValueOptions for help for two months, before walking down a ravine, putting a gun in her mouth, and ending her life. Is that one suicide too many, Dr Dororetz?
Peter Hookirk, a twenty-two year old college student, was accepted by ValueOptions and wrote, “they’ve classified me as SMI [Seriously Mentally Ill], dad, so maybe now they can help me get well and get a job so I won’t be a burden.”
How did ValueOptions help Peter? They gave him free tickets to the Arizona State Fair, and advised his parents to petition the courts to have him committed. Unable to get the help he needed, Peter hung himself in a lonely desert area where he had played as a child. Is that suicide one too many, Dr Dozortetz?
Let us not forget Loren Spellers, a thirty-nine year old schizophrenic, whose ValueOptions doctor advised her that “nothing could be done” and that “these are the symptoms of your illness”, these claims by the doctor after Loren, accompanied by her mother, presented with “increasing psychotic symptoms, including increased auditory and visual hallucinations.” The doctor refused Loren’s mother’s request for a change of medication, and just five and a half hours later, Loren Denise Spellers committed suicide by shooting herself in the head. Still counting suicides, Dr Dozoretz?

At least Governor Janet Napolitano lambasted ValueOptions in a letter to Dr Dozoretz. She wrote about “the unacceptable courses of dealing (or more accurately, a lack of dealing) between ValueOptions and Arizona’s mentally ill.”
The doctor’s response to the Governor was long on spin and statistics, and read more like a bullish stock analyst's report on his company.

How many more people must die unnecessarily before this company’s contract is granted to a service provider who will operate for the good of mentally-ill Arizonans – not for the good of Arizona’s money?

Props also to Shane for his battle against ValueOptions.

Reader’s comments and advice for Shane would be appreciated.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
07 Feb 06

Odds & Ends

Drunk on hooch and wielding a shank, a Chicano took control of our prison yard for a couple of hours. When the Strategic Response Team lined up and aimed their shotguns at him, he surrendered.

A clogged-up kitchen toilet caused our chow hall to flood with five inches of water and sewage. For one day, we ate at Yard 1's chow hall, while ours was drained and cleaned with dishwasher sanitizer.

We were recently allowed a one-time purchase of two pizzas for $10 each from Hungry Howies. I ordered a veggie pizza with green peppers on it, which, although cold by the time I received it, was appreciated.

Anyone who acted on my recommendations to purchase gold, copper, and oil has now made a fortune. My advice is to take some money off the table, as, short-term, the prices look overbought. Look at healthcare, biotech, nanotech and Asia for above average growth. I like Radvision (RVSN on NASDAQ) in the high teens.

Thanks for sending books. After I have read them, they are donated to the libraries here, so other inmates can read them.

I have applied to do Psychology 101, a correspondence course with Rio Salado College. I’d also like to do Modern Fiction.

My sister and father are travelling to visit me at the end of April. I’m excited about seeing them – especially my sister, Karen, who I haven’t seen for a few years

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

Jon's address

Santa Rita Unit
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160,
4-D-11, PO BOX 24406
Tucson, 85734, Arizona
05 Feb 06

Cult Of Xena (COX)

From the balcony in front of Frankie’s cell, Xena was preaching to a growing crowd of listeners: “Soon you will all be members of COX - Cult Of Xena!”
Frankie’s cell door opened and out came his cellmate, Speedy, who looked up at Xena and said, “Xena, will you breast feed me like a baby?”
Xena did a pelvic thrust, and said, “You can suck this nipple.”
A skinhead in the crowd glowered at Xena and Speedy, and said, “Fuckin’ queer asses.”
“You bald bastard,"Xena said. "You look like a penis. How about I tattoo a slit on your head and call you Xena’s forbidden?”
While Xena was ranting, Pops, looking like a frozen cadaver, shuffled along the balcony towards Xena, and said, “I told Queen Elizabeth Xena’s hung like a donkey, and she hasn’t been the same since.” With cane in hand, Pops did a little dance.
“This is Pops the stripper,” Xena said. “He started The Chippendales in the twenties. My grandparents used to get down at his show.”
Pops chuckled and ambled away.
Xena stepped in front of a youngster who was hurrying along the balcony, and said, “What do you know about COX?”
“Say what?” the youngster said, grinned, sidestepped Xena, and vanished.
The audience was still laughing when George appeared.
“Georgie,” Xena said. “Has the cold made your nipples hard?”
George raised his top, revealing his nipples.
“Do you wanna make your nipples bigger?” Xena said “Mine used to be really small until I started wrappin’ rubber bands around them.”
“My nipples are perfectly fine,” George said.
“You sound testy, George,” Xena said. “Haven’t you been spanked lately?”
“Last night, in my dreams, I was getting spanked by you, while I was rubbing Jon's head.”
“Last night, in your dreams,” Xena said, “did you rub Jon’s prostrate?”
“No, silly.”
“Have you ever rubbed someone’s prostrate while making love?” Xena said.
“No, slut,” George said.
“Have you ever licked butt, and rubbed someone’s prostrate at the same time?”
“Only yours, honey,” George said.
Xena turned, faced the crowd, and said, “Soon you will all be COX members, wearing white robes opened around the waist like gunslingers, and pink tutus and spandex tights.”
A guard shook his head at Xena.
Nodding at the guard, Xena said, “You too are a COX member. Don’t stress out, you’ll get your pink tutu tomorrow.”
The guard hurried away.
“When I tell you all to spread, spread real wide. Now spread 'em!” Xena said.
“You go girl,” Frankie said, emerging from his cell.
“See what I have to work with! That’s why I need enforcers.” Xena said. “Who wants to be enforcers and who wants to be spreaders?”
“Can I be a shooter?” a Native American known as Bobbus yelled.
“Yes, you can be a salad shooter,” Xena said.
“Put me down as a tosser then,” Bobbus said.
“I heard all about you and Yum-Yum,” Xena said to Frankie.
“Quit tellin’ on me, Englandman,” Frankie said.
“Was Yum-Yum pretty? Did she have tatas?” Xena said.
“Aw, man," Frankie said. “Yum-Yum looked and sounded like a girl. I woulda kissed the shit outta him. I shit you not. I woulda put some serious tongue in that dude’s mouth. Englandman knows, he used to watch me stroke it to Yum-Yum at the Madison St jail.”
“I lived next door to Yum-Yum,” I said. “Everyone was hitting on her, and Frankie was leading the pack.”
“Rec time is over. Lock down everybody. Rec time is over,” came the announcement over the speaker system.
“Rectum is over. Rectum is over,” Xena said. “Did everyone have a good rectum?”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
02 Feb 06

Odds & Ends

My bleeding eyeball has made a full recovery. I’m unsure of the cause, so, as a precaution, I’ve dropped my headstand time from fifteen to five minutes.

Ashtanga yoga has become a bigger part of my daily practice. This particular type of yoga involves a swift series of poses, with each pose flowing into the next. I’ve also been doing lots of sun salutations.

According to kitchen workers, the kitchen is infested with cockroaches and it has to be periodically bombed with chemicals to keep the cockroach population down. A kitchen worker disclosed that recent ceiling repairs dislodged a mouse cemetery, causing the food-preparation area to be showered with decomposing rodent parts. Apparently, we all got a little extra something in our soup because the kitchen contractor (Canteen Corporation) refused to recook our food.

Under the new reclassification system, I should be moved to a minimum yard this summer. Will being moved put my anal virginity in less of a danger? Maybe not, because Frankie, has been reclassified to minimum, and he expects to be moved before me.

The transition of the inmate store to Keefe Kitchens continues to cause inmates needless hardship. Items we are still unable to buy include underwear, prestamped postcards, international stamps, replacement shaver heads, and replacement light bulbs for reading lamps.

T-Netix continues to overcharge for prison collect calls. To save money, family members and friends of prisoners here may want to look into purchasing a remote call forwarding Tucson number through a local phone company, or, more expensively through www.inmatephoneservices.com/.

I received a letter from Mark, my former cellmate at the Madison Street jail. Mark was sentenced to five years probation, five hundred hours of community service, and he received a fine of $13,600. Mark’s crime was being asleep in a car when someone got shot. For two years of monthly court appearances finally resulting in a plea bargain, his family suffered various hardships and had to sell their home. Mark, who had worked for the State, is now having difficulty finding employment because of his record, and his mother is struggling to pay his fine. On a more positive note, Mark wrote: “I have this really hot Mexican chick teaching me Spanish.”

Thanks for the books, comments, emails, letters and occasional (mostly Cockney) slander. I’ve recently received books from Mary in NC, Luke and Michael in AZ, Nancy in Liverpool, Sandrine in Paris, Misty in NY, Gavin in Toronto, Terry in Hants UK, and Eric in MA.

Good lookin’ out, dawgs!

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood