15 May 09

Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 3)

I was travelling most of yesterday as I just gave my first presentation to a school. 100 14 to 15 year olds at Bishop's Stortford College in Hertfordshire. The jitters began the night before. I kept jumping out of bed at all hours, writing down additional stuff to speak about. I knew if I failed, I would lose the job I’d just relocated to the other side of England for. The pressure was on.

Nervous about speaking to an audience, I only ate half of my breakfast before I set off. Dwelling on how this talk was my chance to raise myself in society, I was scared of sabotaging such a fantastic opportunity.

It took over two hours – two trains, two lines on the London Underground, and a taxi – to get to the school. Once there, I met the contact teacher, Claire, a wonderful woman who gave me an invaluable prep. She knew it was my first presentation, and she suggested various techniques to engage the students, such as asking some of them to volunteer to read excerpts from my blog and book. She said some previous speakers on drugs had glorified their crimes. One had even used the F word, and she had to stop the presentation. She advised me to keep emphasising how my decision to do drugs had led to the horrible jail conditions.

The room designated for my presentation was like a drama theatre. It consisted of a stage facing rows of seats that went higher towards the back. Claire asked if I needed anything, and we set up a table to put my water and reading excerpts on. I refused a podium as I knew I couldn’t stand still. I expected to pace.

When it came time to talk, my nervousness peaked. Facing all of the little people in school uniforms gazing at me was an experience like no other. I’d prepared a detailed introduction, but my mind went blank and I introduced myself in a few short sentences that lacked enough information. Faltering, I wondered if I was not cut out for public speaking?

Some students showed up late, and I’m glad they did. I pounced on the opportunity to start again:
“For the benefit of those students who showed up late, I’ll start my introduction again. I am Shaun Attwood. I went to school in Cheshire where I did well. I went on to Liverpool University and graduated with a business degree. I moved to America, became a top-producing stockbroker, quit that, and then became a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. But I lost everything because of drugs. On May 16th, 2002, a SWAT team knocked my door down, and I ended up in America’s toughest jail.
So how did I go from where you are today to getting a 9 ½ year prison sentence? When I was about four or five years older than most of you I took Ecstasy for the first time. The rave scene had just started in Manchester…”

I am pleased to report my speaking flowed better from there. I could still feel my tension, but I remembered the words of Dr. O at Tucson prison: “It’s all energy. Just channel it in the right direction.” Breaking it up with the students reading excerpts allowed me to take breathers, drink water, and mentally prepare what I was going to say next. Thinking on my feet, a lot of what I’d prepared to say never came out, but I had so much material to draw on I was actually still talking into the time allocated for Q & A.

The students at Bishops Stortford College were pleasant and bright. So many hands went up, there was not enough to time to answer all of their questions, ranging from the prevalence of prison rape to legal questions about my case.

Even with all of the applause, I wasn’t sure if I’d done well or not. That changed when the teachers surrounded me, and congratulated me on doing such a good job. Fascinated by my story, they had questions of their own.
The group of girls who had shown up late even stayed behind to apologise and ask me further questions.

I left on a natural high, and immediately called my parents, who popped a bottle of a champagne that night.

If you are interested in booking my presentation click here.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Halle (Saale) to visit Kathi for two weeks. She lives in the roof of a 120-year-old building in East Germany.
I’ll be blogging from Germany, including a letter from Two Tonys and the story of Smiling John, in his own words. He’s a murderer who escaped from prison and ended up on America's Most Wanted.

Click here for Dawn of a New Adventure part 2

Central Unit (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.
Part 1 left off with Warrior arriving at a lockdown run in Central Unit and being told about a race war and to be on guard.

Ten o’clock arrived, and I was awakened by multiple shouts on the run.
“Good morning, woods!” shouted a white prisoner with a southern twang.
“Excuse me on da tier! Yo, Conlow! Mornin’ nigga!” hollered an African American.
“As-Salāmu `Alaykum,” a voice replied, which is Muslim for “Peace be upon you.”
“Despensa [excuse me] on the tier! Buenos dias to all the raza [Good moring to all the Chicanos],” another voice echoed.
Every race had their own way about doing things, even when it came to “good mornings.”

I got up, washed, and prepared mentally for the long day I knew lay ahead. I’d been through what’s referred to as a “roll call” so many times, I wasn’t looking forward to it. It was more of an irritation to me if anything.

A roll call means the new arrival at the unit has to send his name and Department of Corrections number to whoever is holding down the run for his race, along with a brief summary of what yard he came from, who was there and running that yard, along with why he was moved. A check is run to verify all of the information disclosed.
A roll call is routine on every yard in order to weed out sex offenders, snitches, and dudes who are wanted by the gangs for whatever reason. It’s not uncommon for identities to be mistaken, especially if your name is a common one like Smith or Martinez, and the gangs may try and kill you for no good reason. But hey, that’s life in prison, and a test of how well you function under pressure.

I snatched my 4x6 plastic mirror and moved towards the bars. Mirror in hand, I slid my arm out and wielded my low-tech camera around to get a lay of the land. I noticed some others doing the same. I could tell by the positioning of their mini screens who was caught up in conversation. I readjusted towards my neighbor. He had his headphones on, watching TV. I reached in his cell and tapped my mirror against his wall to get his attention. Tap-tap-tap… He looked and headed my way.
“Good morning, Cowboy,” I said.
“Hey now! Mornin’, Warrior.” He had that southern twang too.
“Sleep alright?” he asked.
“Eh…it was OK. Long bus rides are a bitch.”
“I hear that. Where’d ya come from?”
“Up north. Buckeye.”
“That place is pretty crazy right now. Is Wild Bill up there?”
“Yeah, it’s off the hook lately. Wild Bill’s there. He’s holding it down for your peeps. I’ve taked to him a few times. He’s cool. Real quick to have a white boy smashed if he steps outta line.”
A half snicker and a laugh came from Cowboy. “Ha ha. That’s my dawg! We’ve done time since the Eighties.”
Just looking at Cowboy, I could tell he’d done a lot of time. He had squinty eyes, like he’d spent years staring against the sun. He had a weathered face and a huge horseshoe mustache. I wondered whether his face was like that due to the sun, prison stress, or living a fast life. Probably all three.

Without warning, I heard the clicking sound of a door being racked open. Cowboy’s expression went from friendly to shark-eyed. Not a good sign. “Look alive and be on your toes, Warrior. Shit’s about to go down. Suit up just in case.”
I knew what suit up meant. Tie your shoes on tight, and get the battle gear on. I rushed to suit up and returned to the bars wondering what might happen next.

Again, without warning, another door racked open. Out came Mike, a white man about 5 foot 8 with long hair. He had a pudgy face and body. He looked around, focussed and intense.
Wilo, a 6-foot Mexican, lanky with short hair, bolted from his cell, charging at Mike.
Warning shouts of , “Behind you! Watch out!” echoed from various voices, but they were too late.
As Mike turned, he was met with a perfect blow from Wilo.
The whole tier erupted with roars:
“Kill ’im, Mike”
“Matalo, Wilo!”
“Chingalo, Wilo!”
“Get his ass, Mike!”
The boom Wilo’s next punch made against Mike’s face sounded like a mixture of a slap and the thumping of one’s finger against a melon to check for ripeness.
I clenched my teeth in pain as though I were the one hit. I’m familiar with hits like that, and I knew it had to hurt. I knew that hit had made Mike gun shy – afraid to get hit again.
Mike dropped his head and tried to rush Wilo’s legs. Wilo pounded the back of Mike’s head repeatedly. Mike struggled like a fish on the deck of a boat trying to stay alive, yet knowing it was only a matter of time.

Click here to read Central Unit Part 1.

Our friends inside appreciate your comments. Email comments and questions for Warrior 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

I am presently a guest writer at Anne Mini’s blog Author! Author! which receives 100,000 hits a week, making it one of the most successful literary blogs in the world.
I’ve written about the challenges I faced, both from the establishment and prisoners, to keep Jon’s Jail Journal going. Anne Mini welcomes your comments at the guest piece.

Here’s the link to my guest blog: http://www.annemini.com/?p=4171

07 May 09

Mentored (Part 4)

Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read chapter 26 of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Here’s the start of chapter 26, followed by her comments.


I spent half a day in holding cells before arriving at a small two-man cell on the second floor of the Madison Street jail. It was about 2am. Light from the day room was filtering into the dark cell through oblong gaps in the door, illuminating my new cellmate cocooned in a white sheet, snoring lightly on the top bunk about two thirds of the way up the back wall. As I’d just come from a jail where men were prone to fight over the bottom bunk, I was grateful he’d taken the top. Delirious from two-days’ sleep deprivation, I was looking forward to a good rest. I thought my standard of living had improved – two-man cell, bottom bunk – until I noticed movement on the cement-block walls. Putting the movement down to hallucinations, I blinked several times. Still movement. Stepping closer, I saw the wall was alive with insects, and I flinched. So many insects, I wondered if they were a colony of ants on the move just like you see in documentaries. To get a better look, I put my face to within inches of the wall, and saw they were mostly the size of almonds and had antennae. American cockroaches! I’d seen them before downstairs in The Horseshoe, but nothing like this. A chill spread over my body. I backed away. As my night vision picked up, I spotted more insect shapes circulating on the ceiling, going in and out of the base of the fluorescent strip light. Every so often one dropped onto the concrete, and resumed crawling. Examining my bunk, it dawned as to why my cellmate had opted to sleep at a higher elevation: cockroaches were pouring out of gaps in the wall at the level of the bottom bunk. The area was thick with them. Placing my mattress on the bunk scattered them. I walked to the toilet, crushing some of them under my shower sandals. I urinated and grabbed the toilet roll. A cockroach darted from the centre of the roll onto my hand, tickling my fingers. My arm jerked as if it had a mind of its own, losing the cockroach and the toilet roll.

Using a towel, I wiped the bulk of them off the bottom bunk, stopping only to shake the odd one off my hand. I unrolled my mattress. They began to regroup and harass my mattress. My adrenaline was pumping so much I was losing my general fatigue. Nauseated, I sat on the stool and contemplated how best to get to sleep. I wondered how my cellmate was managing to sleep through the infestation and my arrival. I decided to copy his technique. I cocooned myself in a white sheet and lay down, crushing a few more cockroaches. The only way they could get to me now was through the breathing hole I’d left in the sheet by the lower half of my face. Inhaling their strange musty odour, I closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I could sense them crawling on the sheet around my feet. Worried they were infiltrating my breathing hole, I constantly opened my eyes. Cramps caused me to shift onto my other side. Watching the wall, I was repulsed by so many of them just inches away from my face. I returned to my original side. The sheet trapped the desert heat to my body, coating me in sweat. I grew so uncomfortable, I had to open my cocoon to waft the heat out. Trickles of sweat tickled my body, tricking my mind into thinking the cockroaches had infiltrated and were crawling on me. It took a while to drift to sleep, and I only managed a few hours. I awoke stuck to the sweaty sheet, disgusted by the cockroach carcasses compressed to the mattress.

The cockroaches plagued my new home until dawn appeared at the dots in the protective metal grid over a begrimed strip of four-inch-thick glass at the top of the back wall – the cell’s only source of outdoor light. Then they disappeared into the cracks in the walls, like vampire mist retreating from sunlight. But not all of them. There had been so many on the night shift that even their vastly reduced number was still too many to dispose of. And they acted like they knew this. They roamed around my feet with attitude, as if to let me know I was trespassing on their stomping ground.


Sally’s comments on chapter 26:

– Good stuff. Very strong.
– Takes you right into the moment.
– Ends at exactly the right place.
– The writing does service to the story.
– Not too much extraneous detail.

For our fourth session, Sally asked me to meet her at the British Library, a building in Central London that Prince Charles once described as a “monstrous ziggurat,” and a “school for secret policemen.”

It’s a library quite like no other. Let’s start with the collection: over 150 million items (including 14 million books), that require 625 km of shelves; over 3 million new items added every year, requiring another 12 km of shelf space. The library receives a copy of every publication produced in the UK and Ireland. Its treasures include the Magna Carta and Leonardo da Vinci's Notebook.

Entering the library, I felt small. It was the largest building constructed in England in the last century, taking up 10 million bricks, and 180,000 tonnes of concrete. It has nine floors above ground, and five below. The foyer was like the check-in area of a grandiose hotel. I crossed the polished stone floor, and joined one of the many trails of student-looking types disappearing into the building. Further inside, many people were sat on the floor. There were rows of them at the foot of every wall, with laptops on their thighs, and cables running into the wall sockets. The screen glow reflecting on their faces added a ghostly aura to expressions mostly within the range of deep-thinking to tunnel vision.

It took a few flights of stairs for my first sighting of England’s Grande Armée of literature. The books were on shelves enclosed in glass columns bigger than most buildings. Mini skyscrapers shooting up out of sight, with row after row of books pressed against the glass, like prisoners watching their visitors arrive.

I tried to enter one of the reading rooms, where older highbrow types with eccentric asexual faces were gravitating, but I was rebuffed as I had no ticket.

In the café, Sally bought me a delicious pear juice.


In the last three mentored blogs, I’ve been polishing up the opening of the book. Sally put that to rest with this comment: “This is fine now. Be careful of over-polishing the first few chapters. Better to press on and revisit the beginning in the light of the rest of the book.”

Now we’ve seen what Sally likes, let’s look at Sally’s comments on chapters 8 to 11:

– These four chapters all feel a little thin. Perhaps stripped back too much.
– Might be an opportunity to introduce more about the jail system and why it’s so brutalising.
– At this point you can afford to introduce some moral ambiguity of your own, taking the readers with you.
– It’s difficult to balance introducing your own personal changes with avoiding editorialising. Do this by making your emotions more directly felt rather than summarised.

Let’s concentrate on Sally’s first and last comment. The writing has been pared back too much in certain areas and I am making the reoccurring error of editorialising. I’ve found a specific paragraph in chapter 8 that incorporates both of these weaknesses. The paragraph is about Alejandro who has already been introduced to the reader as a four-hundred-pound youngster arrested for shooting a car full of rival gang members with an AK-47. Here’s the paragraph:


Some of Alejandro’s victims were in critical condition, and if any of them died, he would be facing death by lethal injection. For a week, the condition of his victims made nightly headline news. Stunned by the shock of this inextricable linking of his fate with theirs, Alejandro watched these reports on the lone TV affixed high on the day-room wall.

Sally underlined the sentence in bold and wrote: Editorialising. Instead show us Alejandro’s reaction. Make it real.

Ok, I’m going to expand it, and try to make it real. Here I go:


Every night, just in time for the beginning of the news, Alejandro emerged from his cell with a look of dread, and positioned himself at the back of the two dozen or so noisy prisoners clustered in front of the old TV set fixed high on the day-room wall. When the news started, he’d move forward as if yanked by its familiar jingle. Sweating far more than the rest, he’d urge everyone to hush. Out of deference for the gravity of his situation, the heads of all of the races would order their youngsters to shut up. By the time the condition of his victims was reported, the unusual quiet – which in the jail meant something bad was happening to somebody somewhere – had drew the attention of the card and domino players, and even brought the hermits from their cells, doubling the size of the audience. I was sure that all of the men watching from the balcony and every corner and table of the day room were thinking the same as me: Will a victim die? What’s it like to be facing the death penalty? Alejandro would stand there, arms folded, his bulk swaying slightly, with a fear in his eyes as if he were not looking at a battered TV set that barely tuned in, but at a gun pointed at him by an executioner. The prisoners usually remained quiet, except for the night a reporter revealed that one of Alejandro’s bullets had exited through a girl’s nipple. That caused many groans and other sounds of displeasure. The reports invariably ended with his victims in critical but stable condition, none dead. After digesting this, Alejandro would set off relieved. He’d trudge up the metal-grid stairs, the hermits disappearing into the cells in front of him and the noise in the day room picking up behind him.

I'd like to end this blog entry with a big thank you to the people at Koestler. The progress I've made with Sally over just these four sessions has exceeded my expectations. I couldn't have been assigned a better mentor!

Click here to read Mentored Part 3.

If you are a publisher or an agent and wish to read sample chapters from my jail memoir, please email writeinside@hotmail.com.

Email comments 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

04 May 09

The Cathy Licavoli Caper

Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Recently diagnosed with liver cancer, and is in chemotherapy fighting to prolong his life.

Back in 2006, I asked Two Tonys if he had ever run into any celebrities on his Mafia rounds.
“Yeah,” Two Tonys said. “I’ve gotta story for ya. Pete Licavoli – a mob boss from Detroit – retired out here in Tucson. He brought his crew with him, includin’ me.
I getta call from Pete’s son, Michael Licavoli, sayin’, ‘My fuckin’ sister ran off with a fuckin’ band. Cathy’s only sixteen. My ol’ man and the ol’ lady are goin’ bonkers. We’ve gotta find her.’
I asked him, ‘What band? Where were they playin’ at?’
He told me, ‘The Dollhouse.’
I called the owner of The Dollhouse, Barry – a motherfucker who, later on, we ran outta Tucson by puttin’ a bomb under his car – and asked him to call his bookin’ agent to find out where the group went. He called back and said they were playin’ next in Orange County, California, so Pete Licavoli gets me and Michael tickets to fly out there right away.
We know she’s hangin’ out with some rock ‘n’ rolla called Shaky Walls. He thought he was a Beatle, a blooty Beatul. He had the hair, the John Lennon boots, all that shit.

We called our connect in L.A., Terry Dean a.k.a. Freddy Few, an Englishman who we knew in Detroit. He was a good-lookin’ fella, a legit male escort for actresses and stuff, a floor walker at the Playboy Bunny Club. Terry says he’ll pick us up at the airport.

We get off the plane – and who’s there to pick us up? – Terry’s wife, Evelyn Silvers, the ex-wife of Phil Silvers, Sergeant Bilko. And she’s got all five of Bilko’s kids with her. She says, ‘Terry couldn’t make it. He’s at a meetin’. I’m supposed to take you back to the house.’
So here we are, two guys out to take care of business, in character, on a mission, and we’re cruisin’ down the freeway with five kids singin’, ‘McDonald’s is our kinda place.’ And we’re lookin’ at each other like to say, What the fuck kind of shit is this? while playin’ the role, gigglin’ with the kids and shit.
We pull up at her place in Beverley Hills, and there sits a Tudor fuckin’ mansion, with cut grass, and a Mexican gardener mowin’ the lawn and shit. It’s Phil Silver’s house. She got it in the divorce.”
“Where was Phil?” I asked.
“Runnin’ around L.A. and shit, you know, bein’ Sergeant Bilko. Finally Terry shows up and runs us down to some club in O.C. in his Lincoln. At twenty to nine who comes in the joint, but Shaky Walls and Cathy Licavoli. Michael grabs his sister, and tries takin’ her to the car.
She’s screamin’, ‘No, Mikey! I love Shaky! I don’t wanna go home! We’re in love!’

Shaky – the blooty Beatul – is standin’ there with a goofy look on his face. The tall skinny motherfucker doesn’t know what time it is. So I grab him – not rough stuff – I just grab him and say, ‘Hey, pal, lemme tell ya how the cow ate the cabbage. If ya know anythin’ about this girl, ya know who her pop is, and she’s only sixteen. Listen, if we’ve gotta come back, you’ll never see us comin’. And I can guarantee ya one thing: you’ll never be able to tie your shoelaces again much less play that guitar, Elvis.’
He didn’t want trouble. He was coppin; deuces all over the place, sayin’, ‘She told me she was eighteen goin’ on nineteen. Wah-wah-wah.’

We took Cathy Licavoli back to Beverly Hills, and me and Michael were gonna spend the night at some flea-bitten motel on Sunset Boulevard. But Terry decides to take us to dinner at La Dulce Vida.
We go there – me, Michael, Cathy, Bilko’s ex-ol’ lady – and it’s a nice fuckin’ joint, and everyone knows Terry and Evelyn there.
We’re on our way to a booth, and I hear Terry go, ‘Hi, Peter! Hi, Peter!’ I look across the room, and I see Peter Lawford goin’, ‘Hi, Terry! Hi, Terry!’
We sit down, and Terry says, ‘Look over there. It’s George Raft.’ He was the guy who always played a gangster in the movies. He had distinct aquiline features.

Raft had been a guest of Pete Licavoli in Tucson. Michael had met him, so he says, ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ go say hi to George Raft,’
I said, ‘I’m goin’ with ya,’
So Michael tells him, ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Pete Licavoli’s son, Michael. I met you at the ranch.’
Raft says, ‘I remember your dad. How is he?’
They small-talked for two minutes, but the motherfucker didn’t even ask us to sit down. So we went back to our table, and Michaels was slightly pissed.

After the meal, Terry takes us to a club called The Daisy. The one where O.J. met his wife who he had whacked. We sit down. Music’s playin’. It’s lit like a nightclub.
Then Terry points out a big football player, a black guy, Jim Brown, whose with some broad, and says, ‘Guess who that broad is?’ We dunno, so he says, ‘Tina Sinatra, Frank Sinatra’s daughter.’
Michaels had a few drinks. He’s a little schnockered. He’s got his Italiano whiskey muscles up, and for some fuckin’ reason, he gets it into his head, that the daughter of the famous ol’ crooner shouldn’t be messin’ round with a black guy, Jim Brown, who’s a big bad motherfucker. A black guy and an Italian broad was a no-no in his eyes. So Michael starts loud-talkin’. Sayin’ stuff like, ‘If her father could see her now.’
And I’m thinkin’, Oh no. Goddamit. Michael’s gonna get this place in an uproar.

Back then we called a gun a schubetzo. I’m strapped, and I’m thinkin’ Jim Brown’s gonna hear this drunk motherfucker, and he’s gonna do a number. Nothin’s gonna stop Brown other than a .38 in the jaw, which there’s absolutely no need for ’cause he’s only dancin’ and havin’ a good time. And so what if he’s pokin’ Sinatra’s daughter? I’m hopin’ I’m not gonna have to whack any motherfucker in The Daisy. It’d be all over the fuckin’ news.
Michael’s still loud-talkin’, and just when it looks as if all hell’s gonna break loose, Terry had the good sense to hustle us outta the fuckin’ joint.”

“So was Pete Licavoli pleased you saved his daughter from Shaky Walls?” I asked.
“He was ecstatic, but he never so much as gave me an attaboy. All he cared about were the visions in his head of his wayward Mafia princess marryin’ a Mafioso. That’s how they unite their families.”

Click here for Two Tonys’ previous blog

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Two Tonys is dying from cancer. You can send well wishes for Two Tonys by emailing writeinside@hotmail.com or posting them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.

Shaun P. Attwood

Central Unit (Part 1 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.

I remember when I first pulled up. Central Unit reminded me of a cross between Alcatraz, and the prison in the Shawshank Redemption. It’s one of the oldest prisons in Arizona. Its reputation for violence and death has no equal.
You probably know that in all prisons a subculture of violence exists, but in Central Unit it is as acceptable as a morning cup of coffee – by guards and inmates alike. Even though it is 23½-hour-a-day lockdown. Anyone heading there has to get ready for battle.
The 1980 movie, Stir Crazy, with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, was filmed at Central Unit. These days its décor consists of rusted bars, cracked-moldy concrete, and generations of rats, roaches and feral cats. Rumour has it that the prison was to be condemned a long time ago, but the State of Arizona just has the health inspector and OSHA look the other way.

Standing in front of my new cell, I stared through the bars. It was early morning, about 5am. The other inmates on the run were still asleep as their lights were off, except for my neighbor’s. The escorting officer radioed the guard in the control tower to rack my new home [open my door]. He did, and I entered.
As the steel bars closed behind me, I felt somewhat more comfortable. I could let my guard down a little as a closed cell buys a little protection, or perhaps just piece of mind.

I turned on the light to get a better view. Tired blue paint was peeling off the walls, exposing the concrete underneath. The stress cracks in the cement floor were climbing up the bottom of the walls. There were leopard patches of rust on the steel toilet, sink and single bunk. The iodine and iron smell that only weathered old steel gives off penetrated my sinuses. The floor was filthy with dirt and little balls of lint and hair. I could feel the dirt against my sandals as if I were walking on sandpaper. A square 12x6 inch window was above the toilet. I hopped on the toilet, and discovered the window to be a square hole with bars that led straight outside. It had no safety glass, making my new place feel more like a dungeon. I didn’t even entertain the thought of bugs coming through it. I took a deep breath and exhaled, and told myself it was time to clean and christen this place my new home.

Tack-tack-tack-tack…I heard the rapping of a plastic mirror being tapped against the concrete wall. I turned and saw an arm stretched from around the cell next door. The hand was holding a mirror, in which I saw a reflected combination of a face and bars. The hand and mirror waved for me to come over. I motioned over to the bars, and the hand disappeared with the mirror and returned with a note. I took the note and went back to the light to read it.

The note read: I am Cowboy and I am white. The run has rules. No talking between 10pm and 10am, or when people are on the phone. He also warned me about a race war taking place, adding he would give me the scoop later.
I wrote him back, and made my introduction as well. What yard I recently came from. Who was there, and all of the usual idle chatter to let him know I was all good.
We shook hands and that was it as far as formalities. I went back to cleaning and organizing, then fell asleep.

Before Warrior’s story progresses, I’m wondering if any of you are aware of the ways prisoners who are locked-down in separate cells manage to fight each other?

Click here to read Warrior’s previous story.

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Email comments and questions for Warrior 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

29 Apr 09

Update on Two Tonys

Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Recently diagnosed with liver cancer, and is in chemotherapy fighting to prolong his life.

I received this yesterday from his daughter:

Two Tonys is doing good, so he says on the phone. My husband was in Tucson last weekend and they had a nice visit. Two Tonys is really skinny, but otherwise seems to be feeling OK. He calls every week and I am going to try to get my oldest son up there for a visit this Saturday. He called today - I wasn't home. That's so weird about your dream because he seems to be doing alright. Please let me know if there is any special message you would like me to tell him.

I received this letter from Jim Hogg, one of Two Tonys’ closest friends in prison:

I just wanted to drop a line and say hi. I’m here with Two Tonys, and taking good care of him. I’m kinda worried about him since I’m getting released soon. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m going to do, and you know if you don’t have family you have nothing coming from Arizona.

I remember when you moved onto my yard. Two Tonys told me to look out for you and I did! Just waited for someone to fuck with you, and “Big Jim Hogg” would have broke their backs. I was ready and willing to smash anyone who messed with you pal. I also remember all you told me about life and what it has to offer!

Well, it’s my turn to be released, and I feel so lost, and I’ve no where to go. Two Tonys worries about me, and wants the best for me. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t feel the pain I’m going to have when I say goodbye to him. I have a good heart and hope that God puts good people in my life. I’m so nervous on my release after 13 years.

I’m glad to hear you are doing great. You deserve it, Shaun!

Lots of love and respect from me, my friend.

Big Jim Hogg

ps) I still miss going surfing.


Click here for Two Tonys’ previous blog

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Email well wishes for Two Tonys 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

27 Apr 09

Article in Prisoners Abroad Newsletter

Prisoners Abroad is the only UK charity providing information, advice and support to Britons detained overseas, their family and friends, and to released prisoners trying to re-establish themselves in society.
Here is the article I wrote for the latest edition of their newsletter.


When I was in prison in America, Prisoners Abroad entered my short story “Amazing Grace” into the Koestler Awards. Then last summer when I was back in England, I received a phone call from their office in London congratulating me on winning a Koestler Award – the Hamish Hamilton prize for short stories. The award did much more than make my day, but I’ll get to that after I explain my situation.

I was a stockbroker gone wild in Arizona, arrested by SWAT as part of a series of dawn raids, and sentenced to 9 ½ years for money laundering and drug offences. Incarcerated in America, I started Jon’s Jail Journal, a blog that exposed human-rights violations at Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Madison Street jail, and attracted international media attention after excerpts were published in The Guardian.

I emerged from prison hoping to make a career out of the writing skills I’d developed, but I didn’t have any resources or effective connections. For months, I struggled to find professional help and guidance, all to no avail. Then I won the Koestler prize, and things changed overnight. I got to read my story to an audience at the Royal Festival Hall, where I also told the people at Koestler about my need for outside help. They immediately had me apply for their mentor program.

Meeting my Koestler mentor, Sally Hinchcliffe, for the first time, I knew she was the kind of no-nonsense person I like to work with. I’ve now had three mentor sessions, and thanks to her constructive feedback, the standard of my prose is coming along. She’s helping me improve my book about my time in the jail, and showing me how to approach literary agents. Thanks to the Koestler mentor program, I expect to be a published author in the next year or so.

For ex-prisoners looking to make a career the arts, finding help, guidance and resources is almost impossible. Koestler is one of the rare organisations
helping ex prisoners pursue their career ambitions in the arts and to become productive members of society. I deeply appreciate Prisoners Abroad introducing me to Koestler, and Koestler helping me pursue a career as a writer.

Click here for the Prisoners Abroad newsletter.

Click here to read about Koestler’s mentoring for released prisoners.

Email comments and questions 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

23 Apr 09

Prisoner Updates

Jose in San Diego wrote: I wanted to ask you what happened to a few people we were introduced to over the years. What became of “Weird Al”? Any word on “Ogre?” There was an incident in the kitchen with a fellow by the name of “Magpie” a couple years ago. He had money, but believed he could not function on his own outside. Any word on him? What about that fella “Lurch”? And "Iron Man" as well. I hope most of them are ok. Just a quick synopsis of their current standing will suffice.


Ogre – In early 2008, Ogre was shipped to California to serve a sentence there. Two Tonys put it like this: “Ogre got out. Fuck him.”

Two Tonys – I haven’t heard from him in over a month. I’ve been worrying about him. Just last week, I dreamt I was in prison chatting with him, and he assured me he was in good health.
Just received this update on Two Tonys from his daughter: Two Tonys is doing good, so he says on the phone. My husband was in Tucson last weekend and they had a nice visit. He is really skinny, but otherwise seems to be feeling OK. He calls every week. That's so weird about your dream because he seems to be doing alright.

Iron Man – He is fast approaching his release date of 02/17/2010. He is working out fanatically, and staying positive as expressed in his most recent letter.

Magpie – He left Arizona after serving over thirty years, and no one has heard from him since.

Bones – This member of the South Side Posse Blood gang has five more years to serve for violent crimes. He is working as a barber for 35 cents an hour.

Bald Headed Fred – BHF has three years to serve for home invasions, assaults and kidnappings. He works in the inmate store for 50 cents an hour, and was ticketed for disorderly conduct in March.

Lurch – I wrote to Lurch but never received anything back. He has difficulty reading and writing.
Just received this update on Lurch from Weird Al: Lurch was involved, and charged with the murder of another inmate. He turned "states evidence" and testified against the others who were involved and was shipped out of state as a reward.

Max – He is still in Las Vegas. The economic downturn affected his job, and he has started his own business.

Savage (C Ducc) – This member of the Crips has four more years to serve. He has been assigned to a work crew, earning 20 cents an hour.

Xena – I suspect Xena is suffering from depression, and that’s why she doesn’t write often. She is working as an education aide for 30 cents an hour.
One of Xena's friends recently sent me his story. Dubbed by the media as "Smiling John," he is a murderer who was on America's Most Wanted. The story is a long one, and I hope to post it in the next few months. All I'll say is, it's quite unlike anything I've ever posted here before. Click here for a taste of Smiling John’s story.

Junior Bull – The son of “Sammy the Bull” Gravano was finally moved out of the state system to a federal prison.

Royo Girl – She recently broke her foot during a drunken wrestling match with her roommate. She knows I am dating Kathi, and she is dating a military man. She still intends to do a masters in criminology in Australia.

Slingblade – There is still no one helping this mentally-ill Vietnam vet effect his release. He is stuck inside, and according to the inmates, his mental condition is such, he’s beyond caring. He is a rec-field worker, earning 25 cents an hour.

Weird Al – He is on parole in Tucson. He has renamed himself Sorta Normal Al, and started his own blog, Pea Brain Speaks, which you can read by clicking here.

Here’s an excerpt from a recent email he sent me.
“You know, I got up this morning and it suddenly hit me how nice it was not to be in prison. I no longer have to wait for my door to be popped open in the morning to go outside. Being a Pea Brain, it sometimes takes me while to catch on. I'm going to try and spend the day being a little more grateful for what I have. Tomorrow I'll go back to being the greedy bastard I truly am. Hope all is well with you and yours today. Have some fun. I'm off to my gym to be punished by my personal trainer from hell. See Ya.”


If you have any further questions about these or any of our other friends inside, please post them as a comment, and I'll do my best to answer them here.

Email comments and questions 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

21 Apr 09

Guest Writer: Lifer David – Cretins in the Closet

Serving life in prison in Texas, David is the author of the blog Prison Proxy. This is his second guest post for Jon’s Jail Journal, and he once again focuses on the subject of prisoners performing acts of exhibitionist masturbation. He also responds to your previous comments at the end of this blog.

One of my former cellmates has hygienic and masturbatory issues. He got in school several months ago to take GED classes, and the other day, he got locked up (in the jail within this prison) for masturbating in front of one of the counselors.

When inmates do that in front of guards, it’s a quasi-serious case that can either go major or minor in terms of disciplinary sanctions. But when a “free-world” person is involved (in prison, there are three existential tiers of people: free-world people, officers and rank, and inmates), the offending inmate goes to jail and the case goes major.

Of course, handling the issue with the seriousness it deserves is right and proper. The masturbation problem is, to my knowledge, predominantly in prison culture. As young teens, it was a grossly embarrassing subject, and as adults it’s at the very least a pretty private one. Yet, here in prison, it somehow morphs into an honorable thing, for the vast majority, especially when exhibited to women!

So, it’s no surprise that free-world women who come to the school here to teach (and are more desperately needed than I can convey) will find masturbating cretins lurking in broom closets. Ironically, the only cure to this cultural problem is in more teaching!

Just last night, the female correctional officer on our wing was under a barrage of exhibitionist attacks. “Put it up!”, “I’m writing cases!”, “I don’t want to see you doing that!”, she kept pleading. Once, she even said, “Put your hands up!”

Put your hands up? That would be comical if weren’t actually happening! I mean, imagine some little doubled over devil who, locked in a vice of ignorance as he is, has hands with minds of their own, and simply won’t stop that juvenile jitterbug! Put your hands up (you dirty rascal), I suppose is a logical retort.

When she arrived at my cell, my cellie and I had our ID cards ready for her perusal (it was her duty to check them). Shockingly sweet (given all the screaming she’d just done), she simply said, “Thank you” and checked the cards. And with a smile, happy as she was to have a respite from the storm, even if it was merely the eye of the hurricane, she said, “Bless you.”

And with that, I immediately went to sleep. Just another day at the office.


Lifer David responds to your comments:

Responding to your comments about my Justice League of America post and your problem with my use of the term rape, you guys are correct. I, due to forgoing looking up the word intercourse, wasn’t aware that it necessitates physical contact. Hence “sight rape” is a contradiction in terms. My apologies.

Of course, actual rape is most often the logical end of such unabashed flagrant sexual harassment, and my awareness of this fact colored the rest of my argument.

That said, responding to anonymous “spin” is the last thing I want to do in any of my posts. And everything in existence either promotes life or death, to vastly varying degrees. Some rap music, due to the poisonous metaphysical views contained therein, does “kill” its listeners everyday. When I was but a wee impressionable lad of 16, I started using prescription drugs because my favorite rap artists validated said activity as “cool.” Did these pills not kill me daily?

Moreover, the Justice League of America is cheating the nurse out of the respect she deserves, and poisoning their own consciousnesses by acting grotesquely, and without integrity, intelligence, and honor! There’s no spin to that, buddy, as reality will so judge.

Thanks again for your comments!

Click here to read more from David at his blog Prison Proxy.

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Email comments and questions for Lifer David 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

18 Apr 09

From Frankie (Letter 12)

Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hitman and leader of prison "booty bandits" who has been proposing our gay marriage ever since he saw me rubbing antifungal ointment on the bedsores on my buttocks at the Madison Street jail. He was there on murder charges he subsequently beat.

April 5-09

Englandman,

What’s up fool?

Let’s get something straight. I’m the man in this relationship, and I’ll deee-cide! You’ve got your freedom and you want to wear the pants, it doesn’t work like that, my friend.

What happened with me? I lost your mom’s address, so I’ve been waiting on you to write, and it took long enough.

Anyway, where should I start? I don’t know if you heard, but come September, D.O.C in Arizona is releasing 9000 inmates, felony class 6, 5, 4, & 3’s drug offences, cuz AZ ain’t got the money to take care of us. I fit that law.

As for any adventures here in Buckeye prison, I honestly gave them cheetos [transsexuals] up. I’ve been going to school for my G.E.D.. I’m write-up free for 2 ½ years. My P.I. score [Public Institutional score] is 25-21. That’s the lowest I’ve ever been. I’ll be going back to Tucson prison really soon, in the next month or two.
I want to see Two Tonys before he dies. I’m going to give him a message to take with him to the grave.

Well, last week I came real close to getting into trouble. I’m walking the yard with a friend, and a fuckin cheeto, a black one, said something disrespectful.
I kept walking, but what I heard kept messing with me, so I told my friend, “You heard what that cheeto just said?”
He said, “Yeah, but he wasn’t talking to us.”
I said, “But he was talking about Mexicans,” and right there and then I decided to go and check this cheeto. So I go back where the cheeto’s at and I tell him, “If I hear that type of shit come out of your mouth again, I’m gonna bust it.”
And the queer said, “I don’t think so.” (No disrespect to all you queers out there, but some of you guys are full of shit. Ha ha!)
So I go to hit him in his mouth, but he jumps like a cat and throws a girl punch, and hits me in my arm, and takes off running to where the guards can see.
The next thing I see all my homies right there, and I tell them, “Bring the queer where the guard can’t see. I’m fuckin this boy off!”
My homies tell me, “This cheeto ain’t worth the trouble. He will tell on you. Better yet, right now, when we get back, we will send someone in his room to fuck him up.”
So I left it alone, and before we went in from rec, the cheeto comes and apologizes, and I felt sorry for him, and didn’t smash him, only cuz it was none of my business what he was talking about, and I felt I was in the wrong, so I accepted his apology, and he ain’t been to rec ever since.

Oh, you need to find me an I.D. card or a passport with someone that looks like me, cuz it’s not much longer and I’ll be walking out of these gates, and coming to England to show you who’s wearing the pants in our relationship.

Oh! Tell Kathi to find me a lady friend who’ll write to me.

I’m going to close for now. Tell Two Tonys I send my love and regards, and that I’ll be seeing him soon, and if he’s suffering, I’m going to help him leave this place.

Much Love & Respect,

Frankie

Click here for Frankie’s previous letter.

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Email comments or questions for Frankie 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

16 Apr 09

Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 2)

The company I am working for speaking to schools about drugs and prison has finally added me to their website.

Click here to see my web page at The McLellan Practice.

They’ve also sent out some advertising to 250 schools, so I am hoping to get some bookings before the school year ends.

The McLellan Practice deals mostly with private, independent, and public schools, but I would like to tell my story to state schools as well. My coworker, Emma, has advised me to advertise to the state schools on my own. She speaks to a dozen state schools about being HIV positive. So I’m going to have to get a directory of sixth-form college addresses, and do a mass mailing to the ones in my local area. Emma said I also have to set myself up as self-employed, and I need my own website, which the state schools can book me through. I had a website out of America, but the company hosting it went bust, so I’m unsure where to turn for that, and the costs involved. It’s like I’m starting my own business from scratch.

If you are a member of a private, independent or public school and wish to book my speech, please email: enquiries@mclellan.info

If you are a member of a state school and wish to book my speech, please email: writeinside@hotmail.com

To read Dawn of a New Adventure Part 1 click here.

Coming next: a letter from Frankie describing how he almost smashed a transsexual.

Email comments or questions 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

13 Apr 09

Jail Mail (by Andrea)

Andrea - A 29-year-old Scottish woman writing from a maximum-security prison in England. She suffered years of domestic violence, and was arrested for the attempted murder of her most recent boyfriend after he punched her in the face. She pled guilty to wounding, and is scheduled for release in 2010.

The unwanted attention started on the prison van heading towards my new home. Sitting quietly in a small compartment, I heard a male voice say, “What’s your name?” I replied, and a conversation began that lasted the whole journey. To be honest, if we hadn’t arrived when we did, I would have fallen asleep.
As my feet hit the prison ground for the first time, I heard him shout for my prison number. “No,” I said, as I didn’t know what it was yet. I never got a chance to see what he looked like, but as I made my way out of the van, he got a good look at me.

A week later, I received mail from him and a couple of other prisoners. I had no clue who they were. At first, the letters were nice to read, and gave me the ins and outs of prison life, which was a great help.
But things soon got out of control! As the days and weeks went on, I received daily letters from what seemed like most of the men’s side of the prison. My mind was blown by the contents of these letters: funny, sick, perverted…Now I know what they get up to at nights! Let me say for vivid imaginations, England 10-4 Scotland.

My details got passed around like tobacco. I received photos of some of these blokes. And cards. But mostly the contents of their vivid imaginations! One in particular who still writes, told me how he got caught tossing off in his cell. He must have been mortified. I mean, how could he ever look the officers straight in the face again? I wouldn’t!

As time went on I stopped writing to them. I just couldn’t take it any more. It was just too crazy! Writing filth to a person you’ve never met is too personal in my eyes.
I have kept contact with a handful of them, the ones who talk sense, mostly long-term prisoners.
-
Click here for Andrea’s previous blog.

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Email comments or questions for Andrea 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

10 Apr 09

T-Bone v Cannonball (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.

I woke one morning in ’06 to a sunny day, expecting to be left alone by all of the dopies and wannabees. But in prison there are always those who take kindness for weakness and mellowness as softness. Why? Because they have messed-up thinking, to put it mildly. Shaun knows my code: don’t put your hand or mouth on another man unless you are absolutely sure. When I say mouth, I mean speaking ill about him.

I did a lot of joking with a man called Cannonball. I should have known that he was using me to promote his image of being a tough guy. He did bulldog quite a few guys out of dope, and I personally didn’t care, but when he forced a youngster to give him a blow job, it made me sick. Then he went too far, and cornered the kid into giving him his store and threatening his family with a bunch of lies.
I reacted by cussing him. He didn’t like it and went on the rampage. It was funny watching him try to motivate someone to take me on.
It didn’t work, so he came up to me and the youngster and some other guy, and said, “I heard you’re a rat.”
I was more than shocked. I was at a loss for words at that moment, so I let him take two steps back, and said, “Who’s saying that?”
He knew I had every right to smash him, but he was counting on my spirituality. He said, “I’m not telling you, period!”
Now here’s the catch, I made a choice and God knows I didn’t have to do anything. Yes, Cannonball called me something in here that’s worse than being called a punk, but I thought of the youngster standing there looking at me, wanting help. I told the youngster to go to his cell and pray. I followed Cannonball to his cell and asked him, “Who called me a rat?”
“Get outta my house!” he yelled. He had a dirty needle in his hand, and I knew he had hepatitis C.
I said, “Cannonball, there’s gonna be blood for all of the crap you’re pulling here. I’m gonna check you story out to see what’s up.”
I went to three guys (you know them, Shaun), and each one said it wasn’t me who people were talking about, so I went back to Cannonball, and said, “Who said what?”
He got mad and cussed me loud enough for several people to hear, and went to get a weapon.
I tried to let it go, but I made a choice to stand up, so I did. I went back to his cell. He wasn’t there. I came around to C pod, and he was going into Bald Headed Fred’s cell. I followed him up there, and heard him disrespecting me to BHF. I went in, and said, “You need to stop molesting the youngster.”
He said, “What’re you his daddy?” Then his cellmate, Ogre came in, and he really started to act tough.
I said, “Man, you’ve been given several opportunities, to stop and leave, but you just won’t quit.”
Reading me, he tried to kick me in my privates, but he didn’t know who he was messing with. Wham! Wham! Wham! Just that quick and it was over. Right hand. Left hand. Right hand. He was on the floor, out cold. Then Ogre acted like he was going to try something, but looked me in the eye, and saw something he didn’t like, and it wasn’t fear. I gave him a chance to sit back down and he did.
Cannonball was on the concrete, mumbling, “Sir, yes. Yes, sir. Sir, yes. Yes, sir,” and I left.

Cannonball was hospitalised. I was locked down for two months, and was it worth it? Yes, to help someone who was weaker, and no, because I could have gotten more time because the guy told the C.O.’s who did what, and I was fortunate the C.O.’s didn’t like the guy, so I didn’t get charged for it. But hear me, this is a choice I made to help others. I could have walked away from him saying something about me because everyone knew what I’m all about, and his words had no weight, and they still don’t because I am outnumbered 30 to 1, but God has my back.


I’d like to add some details to T-Bone’s story.

When this fight occurred, I was in my cell in the building adjoined to BHF’s. My cellmate, Long Island, revealed some details about the fight, which I wrote down, but obviously couldn’t post to the Internet at that time.
Apparently, a punch from T-Bone detached one side of Cannonball’s lip, which ended up dangling down his chin. Also, Cannonball’s head hit the toilet with such force that water splashed onto the wall, restoring some of the wall to a cream colour.
When Cannonball regained consciousness, Ogre said, “Goddam celly, you’ve been fubarred!” – fucked up beyond all recognition. They dressed Cannonball in a hat, shirt, jacket and sunglasses to get him back to his cell undetected by the guards. But as he had a mangled lip, a squashed broken nose, a broken cheek, and a broken jaw he had to be hospitalised. For his own safety, when he returned from hospital days later, he was rehoused to an adjacent yard. I saw him wearing a neck brace with a face so swollen black and blue, he looked like he’d survived a severe car crash.

Click here for T-Bone’s previous fight story.

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

08 Apr 09

Question Time

I am grateful to T-Bone for the following questions.


How’s your work going? Are you speaking to the youngsters yet? Let them know about me, and I’ll try to get you a picture so they can see your B.G. [bodyguard].

One of the reasons I moved to London was to jumpstart my job speaking to audiences of youths in schools and colleges. My boss is based out of London, and he said if I moved to London it would make it much easier for him to send me to the schools as most of his business is in the southern counties of England. However, it’s not the case that he can simply send me out to the schools to talk about prison and drugs. He has to advertise my story to the schools and the schools have to book me to speak. In his office last week, I met Emma Cole, who is putting together a blurb on my story for the schools, and adding my story to their website, which I expect to be up in about two weeks time. Emma is HIV positive, and speaks to the schools on that subject. I’m looking forward to starting the job, and to being a positive influence in the lives of some youths, but there’s nothing I can do until the advertising is done, and I get some bookings.
When you make it to England, I would love to introduce you to the schools, and to many other people. It’s one thing to read about you, but entirely another to meet you in person. The first time I saw you, I thought you belonged in a gladiator movie. It takes some time to get used to being around a man of your size. I’m sure the youths would be impressed not only by your physique, but also the size of your heart.


How’s your family?

Mum and Dad are doing fine in my hometown up north. I visited them over Mother’s Day weekend last month. I introduced them to Kathi, and they like that I’ve found a kind-hearted woman. My sister and her husband visited me last Sunday. We had lunch in a pub overlooking the River Wey, which weaves by some golden sands. I also gave them a tour of the house I’m staying at. They’ve since flown back to Dubai for work.


Do you have any idea when you’ll get to the final draft of your book?

Green Bologna and Pink Boxers is at 91,198 words. The bulk of the draft is down. I wrote hundreds of letters from the jail, and I’m now going over those letters for added details. The polishing comes next. I expect the entire draft to be in a presentable form later this year. My mentor, Sally Hinchcliffe, wants me to concentrate on getting the draft done, and then to start polishing it up from the beginning, applying everything I am presently learning. Sally seems pleased with the progress I’m making. And just yesterday, I received a positive email from a literary agent who had read chapters 1 to 3, requesting to meet me in London.


How’s you love life?

Kathi visited for two weeks last month, and I’ve booked to go to Germany for two weeks commencing on May 16th, which is Kathi’s birthday. We haven’t known each other for long, but so far she has been wonderful to be around. She is caring, generous, happy, intelligent, and lives simply. She’s not a partier, or likely to lead me astray. She doesn’t do drugs, but likes her beer. Such a German!


And most importantly, how is your state of mind?

I am happy to be in the right place to be bringing my projects to fruition. I like the house I’m in, the town of Guildford, and my landlord, Mike Hotwheelz, who spoils me with his homemade smoothies and Indian curries. I am attending various classes at the gym – just last night I did some yoga, tai chi and light weightlifting – and all of this exercise is really keeping me in a good mood. My only worries have been over money, but other than that, I’m doing what I love to do, writing.


Have you been drinking or drugging?

Definitely no drugging. I did drink a few pints of cider when Kathi came, but not enough to feel the effects the next day. Hammy wants to visit Guildford, and there’s no way I can keep up with his power drinking.


So what are the U.K.’s laws on felons coming there for holidays?

I really don’t know. I’m hoping that one of the blog readers will post a comment with info on that. I know that you have to get a passport first, and that’s at the discretion of the Passport Authority, who can deny felons, but usually do so only if the crimes are extremely serious like international terrorism. I don’t know what checks they run for felons coming from America into Europe. It would be terrible if you arrived here, and they put you on a flight back to America.


Please tell me some of the ways they make fish and chips in merry old England?

The traditional English way is to deep fry battered cod. When I was a child, the fish ‘n’ chips shops (chippies) served fish ‘n’ chips in sheets from old newspapers. As a regular at Appleton Chippy, I was addicted to fish fingers and chips. I used to coat the fish fingers in salt and Daddies Sauce (similar to your A1 Steak Sauce).

Coming next: T-Bone v Cannonball

Email comments 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

06 Apr 09

From T-Bone (Letter 9)

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.

3-19-09

Hey Brother,

What’s crackin over there across the big pond, and please tell me some of the ways they make fish and chips in merry old England?

Shaun, I miss you, man, and guess what? The City of Phoenix is really getting it for allowing some guy to run raves in the warehouse district downtown where you threw some of your raves, and your situation was mentioned as an example during the newscast. They talked about the sex and drugs associated with raves, and that the City of Phoenix should have known better than to allow people to party like that.

I know I haven’t been writing to you like I should, but I’ve been giving quite a lot of time to staying “sucker free!” How’s you love life? How’s your work going? How’s your family? And most importantly, how is your state of mind? Have you been drinking or drugging? Are you speaking to the youngsters yet? Let them know about me, and I’ll try to get you a picture so they can see your B.G. [bodyguard] who kept that fact to himself. As for me, I am strong. I don’t need or want any poison (drugs).

Speaking of Strength and Honor, I had to put this guy on his back after he said something that wasn’t too smart on his part. And you won’t believe the amount of dope that’s here in this place. OZ’s [ounces] Shaun, I mean OZ’s.

So what are the U.K.’s laws on ex felons coming there for holidays? As you know, I am out of here this November, or maybe sooner. That’s what’s on my mind, and working. And, man, I can’t wait to taste the fresh air. Wow and hoorah!

Please be careful and stay away from crazy people. Sat Hi to your folks, and you had better send me some pictures, my Brother, and know that you are on my mind, and yes, Shaun, you’re in my heart, my friend. Be strong and hold your head up high. Look North and think about how the Picts came running out of the hills to fight the Romans. Determination and Fortitude. Strength and Honor. Each one, teach one.

Steel embrace,

Yours,

T-Bone

ps) Thank your readers for their prayers. They have my respect and heart. Tell them I said to stay strong and live right. To be happy and of good courage

Click here to read T-Bone’s previous letter.

Coming soon: My response to T-Bone’s many questions and T-Bone’s next fight story.

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

05 Apr 09

Supporting Prisoners

In a sham on the taxpayers of Arizona, the State of Arizona is slashing spending on education to spend more on prisons. Misty, author of the blog Arizona Prison Widow, wants her fellow taxpayers in Arizona to take a stand on this issue. Like Misty, I support a reduction in prison sentences to address Arizona’s budget crisis, and I am appalled by the planned cuts in prison education.

Misty is calling on residents of Arizona to email the following message to the list of Arizona representatives by copy and pasting the message and the email addresses into one email:

Subject: Cut the mandatory time served for inmates in our state prison system

Recently, there has been talk of a budget proposal to reduce the mandatory time served for inmates in Arizona. I completely support this proposal, and I strongly urge you, as a representative of the taxpayers of Arizona, to implement this plan by whatever means necessary. There is too much spending in corrections and not enough on education and other important agencies. It's time that the mandatory minimum time served of 85% be reduced for those qualified inmates.

spierce@azleg.gov; ahale@azleg.gov; rgould@azleg.gov; jharper@azleg.gov; sallen@azleg.gov; pgorman@azleg.gov; jwaring@azleg.gov; callen@azleg.gov; rburns@azleg.gov; lgray@azleg.gov; bleff@azleg.gov; jnelson@azleg.gov; rmiranda@azleg.gov; dmccunedavis@azleg.gov; kcheuvront@azleg.gov; llandrumtaylor@azleg.gov; mburtoncahill@azleg.gov; rpearce@azleg.gov; cgray@azleg.gov; jhuppenthal@azleg.gov; jtibshraeny@azleg.gov; tverschoor@azleg.gov; rrios@azleg.gov; aaguirre@azleg.gov; malvarez@azleg.gov; amelvin@azleg.gov; jgarcia@azleg.gov; paboud@azleg.gov; llopez@azleg.gov; jpaton@azleg.gov; lmason@azleg.gov; atobin@azleg.gov; tchabin@azleg.gov; cdeschene@azleg.gov; dgoodale@azleg.gov; nmclain@azleg.gov; tboone@azleg.gov; jburges@azleg.gov; jbrown@azleg.gov; bkonopnicki@azleg.gov; scrump@azleg.gov; cseel@azleg.gov; rbarnes@azleg.gov; nbarto@azleg.gov; jkavanagh@azleg.gov; mreagan@azleg.gov; dlesko@azleg.gov; rmurphy@azleg.gov; dquelland@azleg.gov; jweiers@azleg.gov; adriggs@azleg.gov; emeyer@azleg.gov; smontenegro@azleg.gov; jpweiers@azleg.gov; mgarcia@azleg.gov; atovar@azleg.gov; chcampbell@azleg.gov; rmeza@azleg.gov; dlujan@azleg.gov; ksinema@azleg.gov; clcampbell@azleg.gov; bmiranda@azleg.gov; eableser@azleg.gov; dschapira@azleg.gov; cash@azleg.gov; scourt@azleg.gov; kadams@azleg.gov; rcrandall@azleg.gov; jmccomish@azleg.gov; rwaters@azleg.gov; wnichols@azleg.gov; syarbrough@azleg.gov; abiggs@azleg.gov; lhendrix@azleg.gov; bmcguire@azleg.gov; fpratt@azleg.gov; rjones@azleg.gov; lpancrazi@azleg.gov; pfleming@azleg.gov; dstevens@azleg.gov; vwilliams@azleg.gov; nyoungwright@azleg.gov; ocajerobedford@azleg.gov; plopes@azleg.gov; dbradley@azleg.gov; sfarley@azleg.gov; mheinz@azleg.gov; dpatterson@azleg.gov; fantenori@azleg.gov; dgowan@azleg.gov;

Lady Arkles is campaigning to save the life of Jose Garcia Briseno who is on death row in Texas. She has provided these videos for me to share:

Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9Gu99DZj8A
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAOVYEV1R5g&feature=related
Part 3: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuEQ0rgZXII&feature=related
Part 4: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIUlhxOMHCk&feature=related

Email comments 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

02 Apr 09

From Iron Man (Letter 4)

Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.

March 14, 2009

Hello Brother,

I hope that this letter finds you well and that you are even now working toward the accomplishment of your goal of making success happen. I read you recent blog about your move to London. It is an excellent move. My compliments on your opening paragraph. Very strong. Inspirational, in fact.

Things are going fine for me here. Remember the air-conditioning class I was taking when you were here? Well, I’m teaching it now. Still working as a tailor four days a week. Only a year left to go and I’ll be free again.

It is 10am right now, and I have a big workout coming up at 11:30.

The overcrowding problem here in the Arizona prison system is getting out of control. They are going to double bunk this entire yard starting next month. The dorms here are designed for 48 men. Soon they will house 96. Oklahoma is currently housing 4,000 Arizona prisoners, but is sending all of them back almost immediately. Texas is also sending all of their Arizona prisoners back. This is the deal: every time I turn on the local news all they talk about is the fact that the State of Arizona is $2 billion in the hole. Because of that, the legislature has slashed the State Education Fund. £400 million has been raided from the 4 universities in Arizona, and the kindergartens through 12th grade have had their budgets slashed by about another half a billion. What they don’t say on the news is that the legislature is secretly building 4400 new prison beds at the Douglas, Yuma, and Tucson prison complexes. They have gone to a new type of housing unit. Huge steel warehouses that hold 330 prisoners per warehouse, stacked up like cordwood. Warehousing of prisoners is no longer a figurative term. I say it is a criminal act to deprive the children and college students of Arizona from gaining the education they need to survive in today’s world. The flawed logic that says, “Let’s build more prisons instead of a better education system,” will be the downfall of the next generation of Americans. It makes me sick.

On to happier subjects. I am happy to hear about your new love interest. Kathi sounds like a cool chick. Thank you for sending me a copy of The Great Thoughts. It is an excellent book. I really appreciate it.

My family is well and growing steadily. My youngest son and his fiancée are going to have my 3rd grandchild in September or October. My sons and grandsons came up last month with a food visit. It was great. We ate steak, BBQ ribs, boneless pork chops, homemade mashed potatoes, bread with real butter, and a homemade pecan pie. .

Did you know that Two Tonys has terminal liver cancer? He was diagnosed a couple of months ago. I’m not sure of the details, but the rumor is that it won’t be long. Sorry Brother, I know you like Two Tonys a lot.

Well Brother, I will close for now. You are often in my thoughts, and I look forward to seeing you again. Stay focussed and stay strong, keep your heart firmly fixed on your goals and before you know it you will have made success happen. There is no doubt in my mind.

Love and Respect,

Iron Man

Click here to read Iron Man’s previous letter.

Our friends inside appreciate your comments.

Email comments for Iron Man 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