Mentored (Part 7)
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.
I’ve received some emails asking what’s going on with the mentor sessions, and the book. It’s good news all around. With the help of my literary agent and Sally, I’ve been readjusting the structure of my jail memoir. Sally said her work is done on coaching me with that book now, and that we need to move on to what I’m going to write next. I only have a few more sessions left with her, so I hope to make the most out of them. My agent is giving the latest draft of the book a proof read, and if all is well he’ll be talking to publishers about it soon. I started taking jail notes back in 2002, so the book has been a seven-year work in progress. I’ve never spent that long on a single project before, so you can probably imagine how excited I am to be almost at the finishing line.
Before the latest revisions, the structure became problematic towards the end. Here are Sally’s comments on the end chapters of the book:
This section really doesn’t work as stands. The blog material is too patchy and interrupts the arc of the story – your relationship with Claudia and what is at stake with the plea bargain and sentencing hearing.
You need to concentrate on those elements which show the inhumane conditions of the jail – for once without the leavening of humour. You also need to show what has happened to people who don’t plea bargain and make it clear that one-by-one your codefendants are plea-bargaining. What’s at stake isn’t clear.
Make your feelings about the plea bargain much clearer. Why you took the decision. How it felt to do it. The letters you used are too distancing and abrupt.
You also need to show the aftermath of your break-up with Claudia. What you did during the next hour, day, week, month. Your reaction at the time. Not how you think of it now. Don’t worry about coming across as self-pitying. Stick to what actually happened as it felt at the time and it should not come across that way.
Disembowel yourself in those penultimate chapters. Don’t hide yourself behind letters and blogs. Show it through stories and incidents. Crank up the tension. Make it felt. Write it in the frame of mind from when it was actually happening, and you didn’t know what was going to happen next.
Then, when you have got everything set up properly, the last chapter [the sentencing hearing] can speak for itself.
Acting on that advice, I ditched all of the material culled from the blogs, and added anecdotes to show what was at stake with my legal situation, and how I felt about the break-up with Claudia. The blog material was written in a humorous voice that didn’t suit such a serious juncture of the book.
Sally also recommended I read The Gathering by Anne Enright, which won the 2007 Man Booker Prize.
The final thing the agent requested was a preface. He wrote:
Preface can be short - a couple of hundred words - just to familiarise the reader, at least in the UK, who will be unfamiliar with Arpaio and his jail system.
So this month’s excerpt is my draft of the preface:
Joe Arpaio of Maricopa County, Arizona boasts he is the most famous sheriff in the world. He feeds his inmates green bologna, and garbs them in pink underwear. He calls himself “America’s toughest sheriff,” but never mentions that he is the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by human-rights organisations including Amnesty International and the American Civil Liberties Union.
Arpaio was voted into office in 1992. He won four more elections, but his margin of victory plummeted – in part due to several highly-publicised deaths at the hands of his staff. They include Charles Agster, a mentally-challenged 33-year-old arrested for loitering. He was hog-tied, jumped on, punched and strapped into a restraint chair, where he stopped breathing. And Brian Crenshaw, a partially-blind shoplifter who the guards pulverised for failing to produce his ID. He was found comatose on his bunk with a broken neck, toes, and severe internal injuries. The list goes on, and Arpaio actually promoted some of the guards the court found responsible, earning him the “Angel of Death” nickname by his critics.
The majority of the inmates housed in Arpaio’s jail system are unsentenced. They have not actually been found guilty of the crimes for which they are being held. Yet the conditions in the jail system are far worse than those in the prison system where convicted criminals are housed.
Despite all of the adverse publicity and investigations by various departments of the federal government, Arpaio has managed to stay in charge and command a support base bordering on the fanatical. He’s had two books published, and was awarded his own prime-time reality TV show, Smile...You're Under Arrest!
Click here for Mentored Part 6
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Shaun P. Attwood
The Death of Marcia Powell and Outdoor Cages (by Warrior)
On the same day the cops at Perryville left Marcia Powell out in a cage with no water in 106 °F weather, until the heat finally claimed her, over here at Buckeye prison, two SSU guards left me and 25 other individuals outside in the cages for two hours. They gave us only one 8 oz cup of water and expected us all to drop UA’s. We all said, “No. No one can drop.” One prisoner had to be taken inside due to symptoms of heat exhaustion. We all got booked for refusing to provide urine samples, though no one had enough water to urinate.
Now, since Marcia Powell died, state-wide policy doesn’t allow any inamtes to remain in the cages whatsoever. All over the yard and on the prison directory channel on TV are warnings about heat exhaustion, and tips to stay hydrated along with detailed descriptions about what the Arizona sun can do to a person.
What about us on that day? I bet if someone died over here, none of us would be getting booked for a refusal ticket. Right now, the Arizona Department of Corrections can’t afford another scandal of the same caliber, so we’re all guaranteed to be guilty for refusing to urinate, so they can cover their dirty tracks over here.
The system is just as corrupt as the inamtes. The only difference between us and the staff is the color of the costume.
Click here for Warrior’s previous prison 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
On the same day the cops at Perryville left Marcia Powell out in a cage with no water in 106 °F weather, until the heat finally claimed her, over here at Buckeye prison, two SSU guards left me and 25 other individuals outside in the cages for two hours. They gave us only one 8 oz cup of water and expected us all to drop UA’s. We all said, “No. No one can drop.” One prisoner had to be taken inside due to symptoms of heat exhaustion. We all got booked for refusing to provide urine samples, though no one had enough water to urinate.
Now, since Marcia Powell died, state-wide policy doesn’t allow any inamtes to remain in the cages whatsoever. All over the yard and on the prison directory channel on TV are warnings about heat exhaustion, and tips to stay hydrated along with detailed descriptions about what the Arizona sun can do to a person.
What about us on that day? I bet if someone died over here, none of us would be getting booked for a refusal ticket. Right now, the Arizona Department of Corrections can’t afford another scandal of the same caliber, so we’re all guaranteed to be guilty for refusing to urinate, so they can cover their dirty tracks over here.
The system is just as corrupt as the inamtes. The only difference between us and the staff is the color of the costume.
Click here for Warrior’s previous prison 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
Guards Disciplined for the Death of Marcia Powell
Earlier this year, Renee, writing for Jon’s Jail Journal, revealed that her friend, Marcia Powell had died from heat exposure after being locked in an outdoor cage by the guards. Here’s today’s news story on what happened to the guards responsible.
PHOENIX (AP) - Sixteen Arizona corrections employees have been fired, suspended or otherwise disciplined for their roles in the death of an inmate left in an outdoor holding cell for four hours in triple-digit heat and for a "wait-them-out" practice at the prison where she died.
Three of those disciplined were fired, two stepped down in place of being fired, 10 received suspensions ranging from 40 to 80 hours, and one was demoted. Two others will be disciplined after they return from medical leave.
Arizona Department of Corrections Director Charles Ryan announced the moves Tuesday, calling the death the "most significant example of abuse" of an inmate that he's aware of within the department.
Marcia Powell, who was serving a 27-month sentence for prostitution, died from heat-related complications hours after she collapsed May 19 in an uncovered outdoor cell at the Perryville prison in the west Phoenix suburb of Goodyear. She had been in the cell for nearly four hours, despite a policy that set a two-hour limit.
Powell, 48, was being held in the outdoor cell while being transferred from one section of the prison to an observation ward after seeing a psychologist. An autopsy report showed she had first- and second-degree burns on her face and body and a core body temperature of 108 degrees.
"That is an absolute failure," Ryan said Tuesday. "The inmate should not have been left in the enclosure that length of time."
The autopsy also found that Powell's death was an accident and that she had anti-psychotic drugs in her system. Such drugs are known to make people more susceptible to heat-related illnesses.
Ryan declined to provide the names of the corrections employees who were disciplined, saying it would be inappropriate considering they have the right to appeal their punishments. Those disciplined included a deputy warden, a prison psychologist, a chief of security and various officers.
A call to the union that represents Arizona corrections workers was not immediately returned Tuesday evening.
During the administrative investigation of Powell's death, Ryan said investigators with the Office of the Inspector General uncovered a so-called "wait-them-out" practice at the Perryville prison that went on for about a year. Inmates were placed in outdoor and indoor holdings cells for hours at a time as an alternative to using force, he said.
While Powell was not in a holding cell under that practice, Ryan said, an inmate was left in an outdoor cell for 20 hours three days before Powell's death; she did not require medical treatment. He said no one died under the "wait-them-out" practice.
The state prisons system ended its use of outdoor prison cells weeks after Powell's death. Arizona's 10 prisons had 233 outdoor cells for temporarily holding inmates awaiting transfer to punishment wards, medical units, other prisons or work assignments.
Ryan said the cells at Perryville are now used as exercise or short-term waiting areas. They are now shaded, and have misters and benches.
The criminal investigation into Powell's death is finished and at the Maricopa County attorney's office, which will decide if any corrections employees will be charged.
Donna Hamm, director of Tempe-based Middle Ground Prison Reform, said the employees' punishment helps show other prison workers that they will be held accountable for their actions.
"There was an established policy, and had it been followed, Marcia Powell would be alive today," Hamm said.
She said County Attorney Andrew Thomas should charge the employees involved in Powell's death.
"If that happens, the message is crystal clear to department employees about their responsibilities and the consequences of not following their own policy," Hamm said.
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
Earlier this year, Renee, writing for Jon’s Jail Journal, revealed that her friend, Marcia Powell had died from heat exposure after being locked in an outdoor cage by the guards. Here’s today’s news story on what happened to the guards responsible.
PHOENIX (AP) - Sixteen Arizona corrections employees have been fired, suspended or otherwise disciplined for their roles in the death of an inmate left in an outdoor holding cell for four hours in triple-digit heat and for a "wait-them-out" practice at the prison where she died.
Three of those disciplined were fired, two stepped down in place of being fired, 10 received suspensions ranging from 40 to 80 hours, and one was demoted. Two others will be disciplined after they return from medical leave.
Arizona Department of Corrections Director Charles Ryan announced the moves Tuesday, calling the death the "most significant example of abuse" of an inmate that he's aware of within the department.
Marcia Powell, who was serving a 27-month sentence for prostitution, died from heat-related complications hours after she collapsed May 19 in an uncovered outdoor cell at the Perryville prison in the west Phoenix suburb of Goodyear. She had been in the cell for nearly four hours, despite a policy that set a two-hour limit.
Powell, 48, was being held in the outdoor cell while being transferred from one section of the prison to an observation ward after seeing a psychologist. An autopsy report showed she had first- and second-degree burns on her face and body and a core body temperature of 108 degrees.
"That is an absolute failure," Ryan said Tuesday. "The inmate should not have been left in the enclosure that length of time."
The autopsy also found that Powell's death was an accident and that she had anti-psychotic drugs in her system. Such drugs are known to make people more susceptible to heat-related illnesses.
Ryan declined to provide the names of the corrections employees who were disciplined, saying it would be inappropriate considering they have the right to appeal their punishments. Those disciplined included a deputy warden, a prison psychologist, a chief of security and various officers.
A call to the union that represents Arizona corrections workers was not immediately returned Tuesday evening.
During the administrative investigation of Powell's death, Ryan said investigators with the Office of the Inspector General uncovered a so-called "wait-them-out" practice at the Perryville prison that went on for about a year. Inmates were placed in outdoor and indoor holdings cells for hours at a time as an alternative to using force, he said.
While Powell was not in a holding cell under that practice, Ryan said, an inmate was left in an outdoor cell for 20 hours three days before Powell's death; she did not require medical treatment. He said no one died under the "wait-them-out" practice.
The state prisons system ended its use of outdoor prison cells weeks after Powell's death. Arizona's 10 prisons had 233 outdoor cells for temporarily holding inmates awaiting transfer to punishment wards, medical units, other prisons or work assignments.
Ryan said the cells at Perryville are now used as exercise or short-term waiting areas. They are now shaded, and have misters and benches.
The criminal investigation into Powell's death is finished and at the Maricopa County attorney's office, which will decide if any corrections employees will be charged.
Donna Hamm, director of Tempe-based Middle Ground Prison Reform, said the employees' punishment helps show other prison workers that they will be held accountable for their actions.
"There was an established policy, and had it been followed, Marcia Powell would be alive today," Hamm said.
She said County Attorney Andrew Thomas should charge the employees involved in Powell's death.
"If that happens, the message is crystal clear to department employees about their responsibilities and the consequences of not following their own policy," Hamm said.
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
Guest Blogger Submission Guidelines
If you are an ex-prisoner or know someone in prison with a true story that you’d like to share with the readers of Jon’s Jail Journal, here are the submission guidelines:
Please keep the story within the context of this blog. Only prison stories (and occasionally crime stories) are acceptable, and they must be written by the prisoner/criminal involved.
The readers of Jon’s Jail Journal like to make up their minds for themselves, so please don’t go overboard railing against your place of incarceration or the unfairness of the legal system. Detail your situation or environment, take the readers right there with you through your words.
To determine what has worked best in the past with the readers of Jon’s Jail Journal, please read the blog entries. Here are some of the blogs that have attracted the most comments:
Polish Avenger
Rapist on the Yard
Interview with a Blood
Stories that have worked have ranged from a gangster whacking a gangster to something as simple as a prisoner smuggling peanut butter into a classroom via his sock.
Along with the story, please send a short bio. Just a few sentences long describing your age, crimes, sentence length, and the name of your place of incarceration. If you wish your name and prison to remain anonymous, please state so.
If you are no longer in prison, the story should be typed up (preferably in Microsoft Word) and sent as an email attachment to attwood.shaun@hotmail.co.uk
If you are still in prison, my prefence is for you to mail it to a family member who can type it up and email it to attwood.shaun@hotmail.co.uk If you have no outside support, then I will accept the story via snail mail.
Please feel free to hyperlink your own website or blog to the story or bio.
Stories from female prisoners are also most welcome as there are few on the Internet.
Please keep the story within the context of this blog. Only prison stories (and occasionally crime stories) are acceptable, and they must be written by the prisoner/criminal involved.
The readers of Jon’s Jail Journal like to make up their minds for themselves, so please don’t go overboard railing against your place of incarceration or the unfairness of the legal system. Detail your situation or environment, take the readers right there with you through your words.
To determine what has worked best in the past with the readers of Jon’s Jail Journal, please read the blog entries. Here are some of the blogs that have attracted the most comments:
Polish Avenger
Rapist on the Yard
Interview with a Blood
Stories that have worked have ranged from a gangster whacking a gangster to something as simple as a prisoner smuggling peanut butter into a classroom via his sock.
Along with the story, please send a short bio. Just a few sentences long describing your age, crimes, sentence length, and the name of your place of incarceration. If you wish your name and prison to remain anonymous, please state so.
If you are no longer in prison, the story should be typed up (preferably in Microsoft Word) and sent as an email attachment to attwood.shaun@hotmail.co.uk
If you are still in prison, my prefence is for you to mail it to a family member who can type it up and email it to attwood.shaun@hotmail.co.uk If you have no outside support, then I will accept the story via snail mail.
Please feel free to hyperlink your own website or blog to the story or bio.
Stories from female prisoners are also most welcome as there are few on the Internet.
Question Time With Frankie
Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hit man 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.
Chris wrote: I know work is supposed to build character, but earning $6 a week is ridiculous. It's almost as though they wanted to create an irresistible incentive for drug trafficking. Nah, couldn't be. Anyway, good on you, Frankie, for resisting! Stay strong, get out, do good, do well.
Frankie replied:
Chris, I’m going to paint you a quick little picture of how corrupt this system is. The Arizona Department of Corrections is awarded $30,000 plus per year for each inmate. Times 40,000 prisoners equals over $1 billion. Are we to believe with this amount of money they can’t pay us more than $6 a week to live off? You tell me how is someone supposed to build character like that? In fact it’s the other way around, they force you and put you in a situation where you have to supplement your income with irregular activity. Not only that, this so called prison would rather spend money protecting child molesters and rapists.
Bottom line, I got busted for drugs in prison and I’m paying for it.
Chris, no disrespect whatsoever. Just thought I’d throw a little something your way. Much respect, Frankie.
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
Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hit man 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.
Chris wrote: I know work is supposed to build character, but earning $6 a week is ridiculous. It's almost as though they wanted to create an irresistible incentive for drug trafficking. Nah, couldn't be. Anyway, good on you, Frankie, for resisting! Stay strong, get out, do good, do well.
Frankie replied:
Chris, I’m going to paint you a quick little picture of how corrupt this system is. The Arizona Department of Corrections is awarded $30,000 plus per year for each inmate. Times 40,000 prisoners equals over $1 billion. Are we to believe with this amount of money they can’t pay us more than $6 a week to live off? You tell me how is someone supposed to build character like that? In fact it’s the other way around, they force you and put you in a situation where you have to supplement your income with irregular activity. Not only that, this so called prison would rather spend money protecting child molesters and rapists.
Bottom line, I got busted for drugs in prison and I’m paying for it.
Chris, no disrespect whatsoever. Just thought I’d throw a little something your way. Much respect, Frankie.
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
Two Tonys Reunited with Frankie (by Frankie)
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.
Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hit man 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.
I finally made it to Tucson prison with Two Tonys. The first day here I was sitting in the kitchen and one of my friends tells Two Tonys, “Guess who’s here?” And Two Tonys turns around, and starts looking, and once he sees me, his eyes got real watery, and he ho chokes up, went straight for me and we hug. He almost had me crying.
Two Tonys is very sick. He’s on medication. But since I’ve been here, I take him out for walks, out in the rec field, and we bullshit for the whole of rec. We’re back together like the old days.
Two Tonys told me if he dies now, he will die happy cuz he seen me again. He thought he wouldn’t have seen me cuz they weren’t letting me come here. But I’ve been behaving, and my score is 25-21, so they didn’t have a choice.
Click here for Frankie’s previous blog.
Click here for Two Tonys previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments or questions for Frankie and 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
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.
Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hit man 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.
I finally made it to Tucson prison with Two Tonys. The first day here I was sitting in the kitchen and one of my friends tells Two Tonys, “Guess who’s here?” And Two Tonys turns around, and starts looking, and once he sees me, his eyes got real watery, and he ho chokes up, went straight for me and we hug. He almost had me crying.
Two Tonys is very sick. He’s on medication. But since I’ve been here, I take him out for walks, out in the rec field, and we bullshit for the whole of rec. We’re back together like the old days.
Two Tonys told me if he dies now, he will die happy cuz he seen me again. He thought he wouldn’t have seen me cuz they weren’t letting me come here. But I’ve been behaving, and my score is 25-21, so they didn’t have a choice.
Click here for Frankie’s previous blog.
Click here for Two Tonys previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments or questions for Frankie and 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
From Xena (Letter 5)
Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on Xena’s penis and ant trails running up Xena’s legs. Cut off a testicle while in prison, and almost bled to death.
My Dear Friend Shaun,
I love and miss you! I hope that your new girlfriend is the one.
I have sworn off men, and now it seems I am very well hated in here. Ironic!
You are always on my mind. I have a little more than ten years left to do. Will you still be aware of me then? I hope so. I want to see you again. You changed my life dramatically, and when you left my life again was so bland. And now I feel the old anger and torment, which is a part of the prisoners’ deception of their likelihood, flowing back into my consciousness. I try to fight it. I have no friends in here to help me with the strain of its pull. I therefore must rely on memory of the one who knew how to live in here without becoming trapped by the sheer weight of time, and the pressure of its employees and other prisoners who look human yet under their skins lurk deformed atrocities, and whose purpose is to pick at the foundations of people’s faith and strength. I feel the temperament of pressure. It is heavy. It is cold, and yet I feel burned.
I am happy you are enjoying your life. I wish I could know freedom. I want to go swimming in a cold lake again, and to feel the shining of the sun on my skin afterward. The taste of honey dew and coconut with vanilla ice cream Yum! And I want you looking in my face, telling me I will be OK.
Love Xena ---XXX---
Click here for Xena’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Xena 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
Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on Xena’s penis and ant trails running up Xena’s legs. Cut off a testicle while in prison, and almost bled to death.
My Dear Friend Shaun,
I love and miss you! I hope that your new girlfriend is the one.
I have sworn off men, and now it seems I am very well hated in here. Ironic!
You are always on my mind. I have a little more than ten years left to do. Will you still be aware of me then? I hope so. I want to see you again. You changed my life dramatically, and when you left my life again was so bland. And now I feel the old anger and torment, which is a part of the prisoners’ deception of their likelihood, flowing back into my consciousness. I try to fight it. I have no friends in here to help me with the strain of its pull. I therefore must rely on memory of the one who knew how to live in here without becoming trapped by the sheer weight of time, and the pressure of its employees and other prisoners who look human yet under their skins lurk deformed atrocities, and whose purpose is to pick at the foundations of people’s faith and strength. I feel the temperament of pressure. It is heavy. It is cold, and yet I feel burned.
I am happy you are enjoying your life. I wish I could know freedom. I want to go swimming in a cold lake again, and to feel the shining of the sun on my skin afterward. The taste of honey dew and coconut with vanilla ice cream Yum! And I want you looking in my face, telling me I will be OK.
Love Xena ---XXX---
Click here for Xena’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Xena 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
Postcards from Long Island (7)
Long Island - Promising young cellmate I taught to trade the financial markets. Released on the 11th of December '05 and rearrested February ’08. Alleged to have committed forgery and hit an officer with a car. He’s writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
Shaun,
As for your questions about what it’s like at Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail. The pod has a blue and gray color scheme. The control tower is surrounded by windows with a little trap for mail. The cell doors slide open with an access button on the inside. There are 36 cells in each pod with 2 staircases to the upper tier. There’s a door in the pod that leads to a 10x10 ft concrete rec area. Two other doors lead to Medical and a classroom. It’s designed to keep the area completely contained. We don’t have to go anywhere for anything.
It’s alright in the pod, but Visitation sucks. Our visits are via a TV screen. They have little phone booths in the pod with cameras and TV screens in them. Our visitors stay downstairs and we never leave the pod.
I can think of only one noise and smell that stand out far above the rest. The noise is the unbelievably jarring sound of metal crashing against metal every time one of those doors opens and shuts.
The smell above all smells has got to be my celly. The Mariachi has a prostate the size of a cucumber, but refuses to go to Medical because he’s afraid he has cancer. So when he pees it sprays all over the place like a cat. He does his best to clean it up, but he never gets it all. It smells like a public restroom in my cell. He can pee when he sits down, but he doesn’t like to because I tell him he pees like a woman when he sits down! He gets so mad, it’s hilarious!
I’ll probably be signing a plea shortly. If the number is right that is. I think it will be. I’ll write again soon.
Your friend,
Long Island
Click here for Long Island’s previous blog
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Long Island 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
Long Island - Promising young cellmate I taught to trade the financial markets. Released on the 11th of December '05 and rearrested February ’08. Alleged to have committed forgery and hit an officer with a car. He’s writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
Shaun,
As for your questions about what it’s like at Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail. The pod has a blue and gray color scheme. The control tower is surrounded by windows with a little trap for mail. The cell doors slide open with an access button on the inside. There are 36 cells in each pod with 2 staircases to the upper tier. There’s a door in the pod that leads to a 10x10 ft concrete rec area. Two other doors lead to Medical and a classroom. It’s designed to keep the area completely contained. We don’t have to go anywhere for anything.
It’s alright in the pod, but Visitation sucks. Our visits are via a TV screen. They have little phone booths in the pod with cameras and TV screens in them. Our visitors stay downstairs and we never leave the pod.
I can think of only one noise and smell that stand out far above the rest. The noise is the unbelievably jarring sound of metal crashing against metal every time one of those doors opens and shuts.
The smell above all smells has got to be my celly. The Mariachi has a prostate the size of a cucumber, but refuses to go to Medical because he’s afraid he has cancer. So when he pees it sprays all over the place like a cat. He does his best to clean it up, but he never gets it all. It smells like a public restroom in my cell. He can pee when he sits down, but he doesn’t like to because I tell him he pees like a woman when he sits down! He gets so mad, it’s hilarious!
I’ll probably be signing a plea shortly. If the number is right that is. I think it will be. I’ll write again soon.
Your friend,
Long Island
Click here for Long Island’s previous blog
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Shaun P. Attwood
Wild Man Arrives at the Big House (Part 2)
Wild Man – My large and fearless raving partner from my hometown. He is one of the main characters in my jail memoir. He looked out for me in the jail when we first went in. He was sentenced before me, and ended up having various adventures in the prison system.
In Part 1 Wild Man knocked out an envoy from the Aryan Brotherhood who asked to see Wild Man’s charges. Now the Aryan Brotherhood intend to deal with Wild Man at recreation.
“Next day, I wake up for chow,” Wild Man said. “It’s breakfast. Rec’s at 10. After breakfast a couple of woods come up to me and say, ‘Put yer shoes on. You need to go to rec.’
I kinda thought about it, Do I go out swinging or listen to what they’ve got to say? I thought I’d just wing it.
I walk out to rec with three woods, and there’s six more waiting for me at the poker table. These six are the heads of the whites from all of the yards.”
“Hold on a minute. What do the heads look like?” I asked.
“Three of them are about my size. Bald heads. WHITE PRIDE on all of them. All affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“So they would do some serious damage if they started on you?”
“Definitely. I woulda took one or two out, but I woulda got severely hurt.
I walk up, and one called Boon says, ‘Alright, Wild Man. It’s been a long time. How you doin’?’ and gives me a hug. Boon’s running Building 5.
The main guy, Jody, says to Boon, ‘You know him?’
Boon laughs, and says, ‘Yeah. He fucked a lotta dudes up at Towers jail.’
Boon whispered something to Jody, and then Jody turns to me and says, ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’
I said, ‘I didn’t know where the guy was coming from. Whether he was asking me am I a PC-case, by asking for my paperwork. I didn’t wanna leave any unanswered questions, so I gave him a left. I didn’t mean to knock him out, and embarrass him. I’m English, and that’s what you do in English prisons.’
One – with WHITE PRIDE right on the back of his head in German – started laughing. Boon was laughing. But three of them shook their heads.”
“So they were split about what to do with you?” I asked.
“Yes. Then Jody said, ‘Are you willing to apologise to him? The only reason we are not dog-piling you right now is because Boon knows about you from Towers. He said you beat the shit out of a baby shaker, and that goes a long way with us. But don’t get things fucked up. You can’t just go around hitting our heads.’
So I said to the guy I knocked out, ‘Soz about that.’
He didn’t know what soz meant. He just shook his head.
After that, I was going to rec, kicking it with Boon and the heads. I did a couple of missions for them on big guys. I’d only work one-on-one. I don’t believe in dog-piling. They were impressed with my work. They gave me the go ahead, and material to make hooch for the heads and me. Then they give me the green light on the job of the guy I knocked out.
So four weeks after knocking him out, I go up to him and say, ‘I’m having the dorm now. I’ve got the go-ahead from the heads. What you gonna do about it?’
He says, ‘You can have it. I’ll roll over. I’m going home in two months. But to save face, will you talk to me about what decisions you make, so the rest of the fellas still think I’m your right-hand man.’
Looking him dead in the eye, I tell him, ‘I’ll throw a dog a bone,’ meaning I’ll do that for him. That’s how I ended up running the dorm.”
“That’s incredible!” I said. “Only you can get away with beating up an envoy from the Aryan Brother your first day on the yard. I think they saw what a gladiator you are and figured they’d be better off putting you to good use. How many more stories you got like this one you can share at Jon’s Jail Journal?”
“About fifty.”
Do we want more Wild Man prison stories?
Email comments for Wild 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
Wild Man – My large and fearless raving partner from my hometown. He is one of the main characters in my jail memoir. He looked out for me in the jail when we first went in. He was sentenced before me, and ended up having various adventures in the prison system.
In Part 1 Wild Man knocked out an envoy from the Aryan Brotherhood who asked to see Wild Man’s charges. Now the Aryan Brotherhood intend to deal with Wild Man at recreation.
“Next day, I wake up for chow,” Wild Man said. “It’s breakfast. Rec’s at 10. After breakfast a couple of woods come up to me and say, ‘Put yer shoes on. You need to go to rec.’
I kinda thought about it, Do I go out swinging or listen to what they’ve got to say? I thought I’d just wing it.
I walk out to rec with three woods, and there’s six more waiting for me at the poker table. These six are the heads of the whites from all of the yards.”
“Hold on a minute. What do the heads look like?” I asked.
“Three of them are about my size. Bald heads. WHITE PRIDE on all of them. All affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“So they would do some serious damage if they started on you?”
“Definitely. I woulda took one or two out, but I woulda got severely hurt.
I walk up, and one called Boon says, ‘Alright, Wild Man. It’s been a long time. How you doin’?’ and gives me a hug. Boon’s running Building 5.
The main guy, Jody, says to Boon, ‘You know him?’
Boon laughs, and says, ‘Yeah. He fucked a lotta dudes up at Towers jail.’
Boon whispered something to Jody, and then Jody turns to me and says, ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’
I said, ‘I didn’t know where the guy was coming from. Whether he was asking me am I a PC-case, by asking for my paperwork. I didn’t wanna leave any unanswered questions, so I gave him a left. I didn’t mean to knock him out, and embarrass him. I’m English, and that’s what you do in English prisons.’
One – with WHITE PRIDE right on the back of his head in German – started laughing. Boon was laughing. But three of them shook their heads.”
“So they were split about what to do with you?” I asked.
“Yes. Then Jody said, ‘Are you willing to apologise to him? The only reason we are not dog-piling you right now is because Boon knows about you from Towers. He said you beat the shit out of a baby shaker, and that goes a long way with us. But don’t get things fucked up. You can’t just go around hitting our heads.’
So I said to the guy I knocked out, ‘Soz about that.’
He didn’t know what soz meant. He just shook his head.
After that, I was going to rec, kicking it with Boon and the heads. I did a couple of missions for them on big guys. I’d only work one-on-one. I don’t believe in dog-piling. They were impressed with my work. They gave me the go ahead, and material to make hooch for the heads and me. Then they give me the green light on the job of the guy I knocked out.
So four weeks after knocking him out, I go up to him and say, ‘I’m having the dorm now. I’ve got the go-ahead from the heads. What you gonna do about it?’
He says, ‘You can have it. I’ll roll over. I’m going home in two months. But to save face, will you talk to me about what decisions you make, so the rest of the fellas still think I’m your right-hand man.’
Looking him dead in the eye, I tell him, ‘I’ll throw a dog a bone,’ meaning I’ll do that for him. That’s how I ended up running the dorm.”
“That’s incredible!” I said. “Only you can get away with beating up an envoy from the Aryan Brother your first day on the yard. I think they saw what a gladiator you are and figured they’d be better off putting you to good use. How many more stories you got like this one you can share at Jon’s Jail Journal?”
“About fifty.”
Do we want more Wild Man prison stories?
Email comments for Wild 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
Wild Man Arrives at the Big House (Part 1)
Wild Man – My large and fearless raving partner from my hometown. He is also Hammy’s cousin, and one of the main characters in my jail memoir. He looked out for me at Arpaio’s Towers jail when we first went in. He was sentenced a year before me, and ended up having various adventures in the prison system. I recently asked him to share some of his prison stories. Click here to read the previous blog I did on him.
“So what was it like your first day arriving at a prison yard?” I asked.
“It was around July ’03,” Wild Man said, “and I’d just got 8 years. I’d already done 14 months at Arpaio’s jail, where I was with you. I’m sentenced, so I’m going straight to the big house. I walk into Steiner Unit at Buckeye prison, a high-medium yard, and go to the end of the dorm. It was a twenty-five-man dorm. Four bunk beds. The rest single cubicles. I put my net bag on the top bunk, and this big wood comes over all slung down with political ink, and a big WHITE PRIDE across his chest.”
“Someone the Aryan Brotherhood’s sent to check you out?”
“Yes. He walks up to me and says, ‘What’s up, wood! I’m the head of the white boys in this dorm.’
I say, ‘I’m Wild Man, and I’m having a bad day. I just got 8 years. I’ve been in transport all day. I’m going to get my head down for a few hours. Could you wake me up?’
He says, ‘I need to see your paperwork.’
I said to him, ‘What the fuck did you just ask me?’
He said, ‘You heard. Where is your paperwork? I need to see it.’
Well, the next thing you know, I swung a big ol’ left that caught him on the jaw. He fell like a bag of turd, and was knocked out.”
“Holy shit!” I said. “How were you planning on getting away with that?”
“He shouldn’t have come at me like that. I’d had a hard day in transport. You know how it is, Shaun.
So his boys come rushing in, saying, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You’re not gonna get away with that! We’ll handle this at rec.’”
“How did that make you feel?” I asked.
“I went to sleep for a few hours. I was tired.”
“Unbelievable!” I said.
“Next day, I wake up for chow. It’s breakfast. Rec’s at 10…”
Wild Man – My large and fearless raving partner from my hometown. He is also Hammy’s cousin, and one of the main characters in my jail memoir. He looked out for me at Arpaio’s Towers jail when we first went in. He was sentenced a year before me, and ended up having various adventures in the prison system. I recently asked him to share some of his prison stories. Click here to read the previous blog I did on him.
“So what was it like your first day arriving at a prison yard?” I asked.
“It was around July ’03,” Wild Man said, “and I’d just got 8 years. I’d already done 14 months at Arpaio’s jail, where I was with you. I’m sentenced, so I’m going straight to the big house. I walk into Steiner Unit at Buckeye prison, a high-medium yard, and go to the end of the dorm. It was a twenty-five-man dorm. Four bunk beds. The rest single cubicles. I put my net bag on the top bunk, and this big wood comes over all slung down with political ink, and a big WHITE PRIDE across his chest.”
“Someone the Aryan Brotherhood’s sent to check you out?”
“Yes. He walks up to me and says, ‘What’s up, wood! I’m the head of the white boys in this dorm.’
I say, ‘I’m Wild Man, and I’m having a bad day. I just got 8 years. I’ve been in transport all day. I’m going to get my head down for a few hours. Could you wake me up?’
He says, ‘I need to see your paperwork.’
I said to him, ‘What the fuck did you just ask me?’
He said, ‘You heard. Where is your paperwork? I need to see it.’
Well, the next thing you know, I swung a big ol’ left that caught him on the jaw. He fell like a bag of turd, and was knocked out.”
“Holy shit!” I said. “How were you planning on getting away with that?”
“He shouldn’t have come at me like that. I’d had a hard day in transport. You know how it is, Shaun.
So his boys come rushing in, saying, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You’re not gonna get away with that! We’ll handle this at rec.’”
“How did that make you feel?” I asked.
“I went to sleep for a few hours. I was tired.”
“Unbelievable!” I said.
“Next day, I wake up for chow. It’s breakfast. Rec’s at 10…”
.
Do you think the Aryan Brotherhood will retaliate against Wild man for knocking out one of their woods?
.
Email comments for Wild 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
Convictions of a Juvie (by Shane)
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. For stealing a few hundred dollars worth of goods, he was sentenced by Judge Ron Reinstein to eleven years. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
“This is your bunk,” the balding middle-aged man told me, his crooked finger pointing at an empty lower bunk.
As my tired eyes scanned the small bedroom containing four bunk beds, the smell of sweat assaulted my olfactories. “Can I get something to eat?” I asked, still unsure of whether the group-home parent was anybody to worry about.
His inebriated response told me how it was going to be with him. “No. Breakfast is a privilege here. You ain’t with your mommy and daddy anymore.”
As soon as John the house parent left the room, a toe-headed youngster sat up in the bed across from mine. “It’s OK, he’s an asshole to us all. I’ll get you something to eat.” He climbed out of the bed, and tiptoed to the door. He looked to be about ten-years old, which wasn’t a surprise to me. In my thirteen years, I’d learned that the world had unwanted kids of all ages.
Sneaking out of the room, he left the door slightly ajar. Minutes later he returned with a girl of around fifteen years with black hair.
“Jimmy says, you’re new here and hungry. My name’s Alexis. I live down the hall. Here’s a muffin. This should get you until breakfast.” She told me with a coquettish smile.
Accepting the muffin, I thanked her. The three of us sat around for a few minutes in whispered conversation before she snuck back to her room and we all went to sleep. Exhausted, I fell asleep fairly quickly.
Awoken by the sound of a loud menacing voice yelling, “Who the fuck did it?” I jumped up and quickly ran out of the door towards the racket. As I stood in the doorway of Alexis’ room, I saw four girls in their underclothes standing in a row with John before them, clearly in a rage. He had startled them awake and lined them up still half asleep. Scared, they hadn’t even noticed their near nakedness.
“Who ate my fucking food?” John yelled again, still unaware I was there.
I could see the fear in Alexis’ pretty hazel eyes as John approached her face to face. Looking at her up and down in a lecherous manner, John asked, “You ate my muffin?”
On the verge of tears, and now painfully aware of her near nakedness, Alexis looked ready to break.
Before I could even think it over, I blurted out, “I ate your stupid muffin!”
Surprised, John turned on me, dumbfounded. His look of astonishment quickly turned to fury. He took a step toward me, so I quickly turned and dashed down the hall, finding myself in a dining room. The house was foreign to me, making me that much more panicked.
When John quickly entered the dining room, my mind was already in flight mode. As he came around the table, I picked a candle holder off a table and flung it at him.
Ducking, it narrowly missed his head. Now even more enraged, he ran around the table, but I’d already shot out an open door into the kitchen.
Grabbing a small plastic jug sitting on the counter top next to the refrigerator, I threw it at the open door. Just as I’d hoped, the jug and its contents hit John in the chest as he entered.
“Get the hell away from me!” I yelled, watching the water soak his shirt. Spying a door that locked outside, I shot towards it. Please be open, I thought as I reached for the doorknob. Moving too frantically, I fell out the door as it opened, sending me stumbling into some bushes in the backyard.
Fighting back the tears from fear and the pain from the scrapes and scratches, I got to my feet and was gone. Hitting the back fence, I was up and over in seconds, sprinting down the alleyway.
Days later, I’d be arrested for being out past curfew. To my disbelief, I learned that John had filed a police report saying I’d stolen $20 from his wallet and assaulted him when he confronted me.
I was charged with petty theft, adjudicated guilty and sent to Juvenile Detention for this “crime.” I’ve committed my share of crimes over the years. I deserved punishment, but who doles out the punishment for those working the system for their benefit?
Click here for Shane's previous story
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Shane 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
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. For stealing a few hundred dollars worth of goods, he was sentenced by Judge Ron Reinstein to eleven years. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
“This is your bunk,” the balding middle-aged man told me, his crooked finger pointing at an empty lower bunk.
As my tired eyes scanned the small bedroom containing four bunk beds, the smell of sweat assaulted my olfactories. “Can I get something to eat?” I asked, still unsure of whether the group-home parent was anybody to worry about.
His inebriated response told me how it was going to be with him. “No. Breakfast is a privilege here. You ain’t with your mommy and daddy anymore.”
As soon as John the house parent left the room, a toe-headed youngster sat up in the bed across from mine. “It’s OK, he’s an asshole to us all. I’ll get you something to eat.” He climbed out of the bed, and tiptoed to the door. He looked to be about ten-years old, which wasn’t a surprise to me. In my thirteen years, I’d learned that the world had unwanted kids of all ages.
Sneaking out of the room, he left the door slightly ajar. Minutes later he returned with a girl of around fifteen years with black hair.
“Jimmy says, you’re new here and hungry. My name’s Alexis. I live down the hall. Here’s a muffin. This should get you until breakfast.” She told me with a coquettish smile.
Accepting the muffin, I thanked her. The three of us sat around for a few minutes in whispered conversation before she snuck back to her room and we all went to sleep. Exhausted, I fell asleep fairly quickly.
Awoken by the sound of a loud menacing voice yelling, “Who the fuck did it?” I jumped up and quickly ran out of the door towards the racket. As I stood in the doorway of Alexis’ room, I saw four girls in their underclothes standing in a row with John before them, clearly in a rage. He had startled them awake and lined them up still half asleep. Scared, they hadn’t even noticed their near nakedness.
“Who ate my fucking food?” John yelled again, still unaware I was there.
I could see the fear in Alexis’ pretty hazel eyes as John approached her face to face. Looking at her up and down in a lecherous manner, John asked, “You ate my muffin?”
On the verge of tears, and now painfully aware of her near nakedness, Alexis looked ready to break.
Before I could even think it over, I blurted out, “I ate your stupid muffin!”
Surprised, John turned on me, dumbfounded. His look of astonishment quickly turned to fury. He took a step toward me, so I quickly turned and dashed down the hall, finding myself in a dining room. The house was foreign to me, making me that much more panicked.
When John quickly entered the dining room, my mind was already in flight mode. As he came around the table, I picked a candle holder off a table and flung it at him.
Ducking, it narrowly missed his head. Now even more enraged, he ran around the table, but I’d already shot out an open door into the kitchen.
Grabbing a small plastic jug sitting on the counter top next to the refrigerator, I threw it at the open door. Just as I’d hoped, the jug and its contents hit John in the chest as he entered.
“Get the hell away from me!” I yelled, watching the water soak his shirt. Spying a door that locked outside, I shot towards it. Please be open, I thought as I reached for the doorknob. Moving too frantically, I fell out the door as it opened, sending me stumbling into some bushes in the backyard.
Fighting back the tears from fear and the pain from the scrapes and scratches, I got to my feet and was gone. Hitting the back fence, I was up and over in seconds, sprinting down the alleyway.
Days later, I’d be arrested for being out past curfew. To my disbelief, I learned that John had filed a police report saying I’d stolen $20 from his wallet and assaulted him when he confronted me.
I was charged with petty theft, adjudicated guilty and sent to Juvenile Detention for this “crime.” I’ve committed my share of crimes over the years. I deserved punishment, but who doles out the punishment for those working the system for their benefit?
Click here for Shane's previous story
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Shane 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
Central Unit (Prologue 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.
In this story, the guards at Central Unit are staging human cockfights, and part 7 left off with Warrior almost getting attacked by a Mexican.
In my time at Central Unit, I saw a lot. The numerous ways of causing harm were unbelievable. From the physical to the psychological. I took advice from the wise, examined the minds of the sadistic, and observed the actions of the mentally ill. My comprehension began to blossom.
My time there reminded me of Plato’s parable of the cave. Few want to come out of their cave and question what they believe to be true.
It’s even worse when a system designed to serve and protect operates like Central Unit. Or when a system contributes to the maintenance of its own job security at the expense of lives, society and the innocent.
Jail a man, degrade him, harm him psychologically and physically, provide no rehabilitation, then release him out into society. What will he do? How will he survive? By the same brutal inhumane ways that sustained him in prison. When you don’t know any better, you rely on the survival skills that have always worked.
The unfortunate outcome is recidivism. Another crime or victim, lives damaged, lives lost.
In the end we are all held accountable for our works, the systems we design, even the subtle contributions we think are on the periphery of the universe’s vision.
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
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.
In this story, the guards at Central Unit are staging human cockfights, and part 7 left off with Warrior almost getting attacked by a Mexican.
In my time at Central Unit, I saw a lot. The numerous ways of causing harm were unbelievable. From the physical to the psychological. I took advice from the wise, examined the minds of the sadistic, and observed the actions of the mentally ill. My comprehension began to blossom.
My time there reminded me of Plato’s parable of the cave. Few want to come out of their cave and question what they believe to be true.
It’s even worse when a system designed to serve and protect operates like Central Unit. Or when a system contributes to the maintenance of its own job security at the expense of lives, society and the innocent.
Jail a man, degrade him, harm him psychologically and physically, provide no rehabilitation, then release him out into society. What will he do? How will he survive? By the same brutal inhumane ways that sustained him in prison. When you don’t know any better, you rely on the survival skills that have always worked.
The unfortunate outcome is recidivism. Another crime or victim, lives damaged, lives lost.
In the end we are all held accountable for our works, the systems we design, even the subtle contributions we think are on the periphery of the universe’s vision.
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
Question Time with Shane
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. For stealing a few hundred dollars worth of goods, he was sentenced by Judge Ron Reinstein to eleven years. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
Shane responds to the comments on his $115,000 court victory over the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Thank you Leigh and Chris Phoenix for your encouragement and support. I appreciate your comments. All those who recognize prisoners are human beings and must be treated as such under the law are wise.
In response to Sweet Kitty’s comments, I can only say that it’s a pity you hold these feelings/ideals. What message are you teaching children? Condemnation, unforgivingness, distrust, justice for some not for others…
I commend you on your contributions to teaching kids and cancer research. If nothing more, I hope that by reading Shaun’s and my own blog, you’ll learn something you can share with a kid. Try reading some of my past entries on drugs and my childhood.
Maybe one day, when Shaun or myself are speaking to your kids at their school auditorium, you’ll shake our hand on an even playing field. Don’t be surprised if they listen to me. I’ve been in prisons, jails, done the drugs, committed crimes, survived a rotten childhood…I speak from experience and knowledge.
In closing: I committed a crime and broke the law. I’m paying for this by being incarcerated for 11¼ years. Everybody who breaks the law should pay their dues – just like I am. Nobody is above the law. Call it hypocrisy or whatever helps you sleep, but it’s the truth.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Shane 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
Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs financed by burglaries. For stealing a few hundred dollars worth of goods, he was sentenced by Judge Ron Reinstein to eleven years. Shane is the author of the blog Persevering Prison Pages.
Shane responds to the comments on his $115,000 court victory over the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Thank you Leigh and Chris Phoenix for your encouragement and support. I appreciate your comments. All those who recognize prisoners are human beings and must be treated as such under the law are wise.
In response to Sweet Kitty’s comments, I can only say that it’s a pity you hold these feelings/ideals. What message are you teaching children? Condemnation, unforgivingness, distrust, justice for some not for others…
I commend you on your contributions to teaching kids and cancer research. If nothing more, I hope that by reading Shaun’s and my own blog, you’ll learn something you can share with a kid. Try reading some of my past entries on drugs and my childhood.
Maybe one day, when Shaun or myself are speaking to your kids at their school auditorium, you’ll shake our hand on an even playing field. Don’t be surprised if they listen to me. I’ve been in prisons, jails, done the drugs, committed crimes, survived a rotten childhood…I speak from experience and knowledge.
In closing: I committed a crime and broke the law. I’m paying for this by being incarcerated for 11¼ years. Everybody who breaks the law should pay their dues – just like I am. Nobody is above the law. Call it hypocrisy or whatever helps you sleep, but it’s the truth.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Shane 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
Words to Live By (by Rocky)
Rocky has just under a year left to serve at Safford, Arizona. He was sentenced for two separate cases: burglary and aggravated assault.
Last September we were out on a 4 yard for our 2 hours rec. The yard had been live for days because there was a lot of black [heroin] and almost everyone had been high for three days or so. 4 yards are dangerous anyway because they house the next highest classification inmates below 5. But it seemed to be really on edge that day.
Pokey, Taz and I were just sitting around shooting the shit. We were commenting on the thickness of the air on the yard. The dope debts were heavy at the time, which caused a lot of tension between the races.
Taz spotted a Native American walking into the gym with the straight end of a shovel sticking out by his boot and the handle rising up the pants’ leg. We knew it was about to get real live. We were working our way to the entrance of the gym, about 10 foot from the door, when three guys came out, all natives. They walked by us like they were on their way out of a burning building.
Taz pushed the door open and stepped into the gym as the door closed behind him. We stayed outside the door to keep point.
No sooner did the door close behind him, I heard “Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” at the top of the lungs.
I pushed the door open to see Taz flipping and flopping, sliding around, trying to get to his feet in the biggest pool of blood I have ever seen to date. Next to him was the headless body of a Mexican in the middle of the pool of blood with his head about 10 feet away, eyes open, mouth open, and staring straight at me with an expression on his face of terror.
The three Native Americans had held this guy down and chopped off his head with the shovel. You could see the hack marks on the chest and what was left of the neck.
I turned to help Taz get up, and got pulled down into the bloody mess.
Just then a C.O. busted through the door, and said, “Spread-fuckin’-eagle on the floor now!”
I couldn’t have ran if I wanted to. It was like being in baby oil on hard wood.
They cuffed us up, and took us to SMU1 where we sat under investigation for murder for 7 months. They saw the whole thing on camera, but tried for 7 months to tie us into it. We were finally cleared.
Now if a guy gets stabbed to death in front of me in the chow line, I know to just step over the body and go eat real fast because there will be lockdown coming for sure. Now I don’t see anything, hear anything, or say anything. These are words to live by in prison.
Click here for Rocky’s previous blog.
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Shaun P. Attwood
The Occult Killer Goes to Medical with a Rash (by Occult Killer)
Dubbed the Occult Killer by the media, Brandon is serving 6 to 12 years in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. His crime: he killed his best friend in a drunk-driving accident. When police investigators discovered Gothic paraphernalia in his bedroom, they naturally concluded Brandon had committed a sacrificial murder for the benefit of Satan.
Took a little adventure for myself yesterday. I’d been dealing with this rash on my hands for a little while that looks like hives or nano-bee stings or something. It never progressed from the back of my hands, so I tried to wait it out. Though it never got worse, it persisted even over the weekend, which began to spook me, so I finally talked to my boss in the prison laundry. To keep inconvenience to a minimum, I asked to go when we were on break after 1600 count. How long could it take, right? I went up at 1630 when count cleared, blasting past the chow halls, foregoing dinner. I wanted it addressed, ASAP.
I go to the waiting room adjacent to the dispensary (where the pills are given out, as the name may suggest) and check my pass with the cop on duty. And I wait. And wait. Insulin Line is called. I know those guys take priority, so I settle in further for a longer haul. And I wait. It takes so long, the cop tells me I should go eat before they stop running dinner, which happens around 6pm.
Upon returning from my hamburger, I’m called in. A nurse gets my info, looks me over, and takes my vitals. Before I know it, I’m sitting with my arms outstretched, a cuff on my right bicep, thermometer in my mouth, and a pulse clamp on my right index finger, cables all running into a single machine. Tests complete, she removes the apparatus and we discuss the possibilities of my ailment’s origin.
Her conclusion is constant exposure to something in the workplace, be it protective gear or chemicals and detergents, has garnered a spontaneous allergic reaction. I explain I’m not the allergic type and provide the anecdote that I’ve lived around and worked in a dental lab all my life, contacting all sorts of dangerous chemicals from irritants to carcinogens, AND all manner of gloves. This being my 1st run-in with medical, I’m trying to make the best of impressions. My demeanor is calm and mild, my manner, polite, i.e. nowhere near argumentative. After her services are rendered, I thank her for her time and she asks me to wait for the doctor outside, for only he can prognose and prescribe.
In the interim, a group of about a dozen have gathered for the optometrist, who isn’t here yet. Treatment Line guys come and go. 1900 Pill Line comes and goes. I see a few co-workers who, through the glass, contort their faces and raise their arms as if to say, “What the hell are YOU doing in there?” I convey my exasperation with the appropriate exaggerated head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging that can only mean “I don’t even know anymore. I give up.”
The optometrist somehow turns up, alive, and takes guys one by one for 15-min-long check-ups. Nearly everyone is gone by the time I see the doctor after EIGHT o’clock. Mind you, I still have to check back in to work to tie up loose ends, go back to the block to cross my name off the CI out-count list so 2100 count is right, and get a shower.
Finally seeing the doctor, rejuvenates my appreciative, easy-going side. He was an Indian guy, with only the thickest of accents. He looks over the nurse’s paperwork, gives me a secondary check-up, and provides his assessment.
DR: Okay, what you will do is apply cold compress, no ice, just cold water, and then some hy-dro-cor-ti-sone cream. (turns to the nurse) Do we have hydrocortisone?
NURSE: Yes, we do. (she hands me about 10 HC condiment packets)
DR: Okay, cold compress and hydrocortisone cream, twice a day. Now, I’ll give you a script for Benadryl…
NURSE: You’ll have to come to Pill Line for that, morning, noon, and night.
DR: …50 mg, forty times a day for three days…(I knew instantly is was four, but it sounded like forty).
NURSE: We can only give it three times a day.
DR: …3 times a day for three days, okay…
The whole time this is going on, I’m imagining him prescribing me pilgrimages to the Ganges, to bathe in it three times a day for three days, or plug my nose with cotton soaked in the urine of a pregnant cow. If I wasn’t wholly ignorant of the culture, I could more accurately and descriptively make jokes at its expense.
“You will journey to the ashram, and feed the holy stale bread to the sacred rats who divinely infest that hallowed place, then your hands shall be cured of their bumpiness.”
So, in the end, I got my creams, my pill pass for Benadryl super doses, two days off work, then went about my business. They gave me one for the road, said it might make me drowsy. There weren’t kidding. Couple hours later, I wasn’t any good to anybody, slurring my words and nodding out.
The whole deal took nearly four hours, too long really. It’s their policy to cover work-related injury, however slight, but they fight you sometimes. Plus I have to hash out my pay. With a medical lay-in as I’m on, you’re compensated for hours missed at the normal rate, minus the bonus. That’s great, I don’t expect a bonus for time I didn’t put in. What they in turn will claim is because I missed more than 10% of the work month, I’ll only receive a half bonus for the hours I did work. Sneaky, sneaky. I have no control over a medical lay-in, I can’t be punished for it, sigh…
Click here to read Occult Killer’s previous blog.
Click here to read more from the Occult Killer at Prison Mom by Sue O.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for the Occult Killer 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
Dubbed the Occult Killer by the media, Brandon is serving 6 to 12 years in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. His crime: he killed his best friend in a drunk-driving accident. When police investigators discovered Gothic paraphernalia in his bedroom, they naturally concluded Brandon had committed a sacrificial murder for the benefit of Satan.
Took a little adventure for myself yesterday. I’d been dealing with this rash on my hands for a little while that looks like hives or nano-bee stings or something. It never progressed from the back of my hands, so I tried to wait it out. Though it never got worse, it persisted even over the weekend, which began to spook me, so I finally talked to my boss in the prison laundry. To keep inconvenience to a minimum, I asked to go when we were on break after 1600 count. How long could it take, right? I went up at 1630 when count cleared, blasting past the chow halls, foregoing dinner. I wanted it addressed, ASAP.
I go to the waiting room adjacent to the dispensary (where the pills are given out, as the name may suggest) and check my pass with the cop on duty. And I wait. And wait. Insulin Line is called. I know those guys take priority, so I settle in further for a longer haul. And I wait. It takes so long, the cop tells me I should go eat before they stop running dinner, which happens around 6pm.
Upon returning from my hamburger, I’m called in. A nurse gets my info, looks me over, and takes my vitals. Before I know it, I’m sitting with my arms outstretched, a cuff on my right bicep, thermometer in my mouth, and a pulse clamp on my right index finger, cables all running into a single machine. Tests complete, she removes the apparatus and we discuss the possibilities of my ailment’s origin.
Her conclusion is constant exposure to something in the workplace, be it protective gear or chemicals and detergents, has garnered a spontaneous allergic reaction. I explain I’m not the allergic type and provide the anecdote that I’ve lived around and worked in a dental lab all my life, contacting all sorts of dangerous chemicals from irritants to carcinogens, AND all manner of gloves. This being my 1st run-in with medical, I’m trying to make the best of impressions. My demeanor is calm and mild, my manner, polite, i.e. nowhere near argumentative. After her services are rendered, I thank her for her time and she asks me to wait for the doctor outside, for only he can prognose and prescribe.
In the interim, a group of about a dozen have gathered for the optometrist, who isn’t here yet. Treatment Line guys come and go. 1900 Pill Line comes and goes. I see a few co-workers who, through the glass, contort their faces and raise their arms as if to say, “What the hell are YOU doing in there?” I convey my exasperation with the appropriate exaggerated head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging that can only mean “I don’t even know anymore. I give up.”
The optometrist somehow turns up, alive, and takes guys one by one for 15-min-long check-ups. Nearly everyone is gone by the time I see the doctor after EIGHT o’clock. Mind you, I still have to check back in to work to tie up loose ends, go back to the block to cross my name off the CI out-count list so 2100 count is right, and get a shower.
Finally seeing the doctor, rejuvenates my appreciative, easy-going side. He was an Indian guy, with only the thickest of accents. He looks over the nurse’s paperwork, gives me a secondary check-up, and provides his assessment.
DR: Okay, what you will do is apply cold compress, no ice, just cold water, and then some hy-dro-cor-ti-sone cream. (turns to the nurse) Do we have hydrocortisone?
NURSE: Yes, we do. (she hands me about 10 HC condiment packets)
DR: Okay, cold compress and hydrocortisone cream, twice a day. Now, I’ll give you a script for Benadryl…
NURSE: You’ll have to come to Pill Line for that, morning, noon, and night.
DR: …50 mg, forty times a day for three days…(I knew instantly is was four, but it sounded like forty).
NURSE: We can only give it three times a day.
DR: …3 times a day for three days, okay…
The whole time this is going on, I’m imagining him prescribing me pilgrimages to the Ganges, to bathe in it three times a day for three days, or plug my nose with cotton soaked in the urine of a pregnant cow. If I wasn’t wholly ignorant of the culture, I could more accurately and descriptively make jokes at its expense.
“You will journey to the ashram, and feed the holy stale bread to the sacred rats who divinely infest that hallowed place, then your hands shall be cured of their bumpiness.”
So, in the end, I got my creams, my pill pass for Benadryl super doses, two days off work, then went about my business. They gave me one for the road, said it might make me drowsy. There weren’t kidding. Couple hours later, I wasn’t any good to anybody, slurring my words and nodding out.
The whole deal took nearly four hours, too long really. It’s their policy to cover work-related injury, however slight, but they fight you sometimes. Plus I have to hash out my pay. With a medical lay-in as I’m on, you’re compensated for hours missed at the normal rate, minus the bonus. That’s great, I don’t expect a bonus for time I didn’t put in. What they in turn will claim is because I missed more than 10% of the work month, I’ll only receive a half bonus for the hours I did work. Sneaky, sneaky. I have no control over a medical lay-in, I can’t be punished for it, sigh…
Click here to read Occult Killer’s previous blog.
Click here to read more from the Occult Killer at Prison Mom by Sue O.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for the Occult Killer 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
Top Ten Funny Prison Tattoos I’ve Seen (by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger - A software-engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary they were both committing. Author of the classic "Shit Slinger" series.
These all really exist – people put some strange things on themselves.
10) “F**** YOU” right across the knuckles of both hands. Hmm, what are you trying to say?
9) “F*** WHAT YOU THINK” in Old English letters across the neckline.
8) “F*** THE POLICE” on the back of the neck. This may affect one’s employment opportunities!
7) Barbed wire, gun towers, and chain-link fences. What, we don’t have enough to remember prison by already?
6) A person’s last name in huge letters across the back. Makes it hard to run from the police!
5) The telephone area code where you live. Did you forget?
4) The traditional hometown across the extremely tender strip above your belly button. The guy from Ohio gets off easy. God help the one from Massachusetts!
3) Spider webs – but not on the elbows like most cons. Nope, these were on the guy’s balls. Now that’s dedication!
2) An explicit scene from a porno book. Including a giant wiener. Seriously.
1) Anything misspelled. The very best was one guy with “F*** AUTHORITY” across his back in 2-inch lettering, and “F***” was spelled wrong! Ha ha ha!
Click here for Polish Avenger’s previous blog on prison ink.
Click here for some of the best stories at Jon's Jail Journal.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Polish Avenger 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 Attwood
Polish Avenger - A software-engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary they were both committing. Author of the classic "Shit Slinger" series.
These all really exist – people put some strange things on themselves.
10) “F**** YOU” right across the knuckles of both hands. Hmm, what are you trying to say?
9) “F*** WHAT YOU THINK” in Old English letters across the neckline.
8) “F*** THE POLICE” on the back of the neck. This may affect one’s employment opportunities!
7) Barbed wire, gun towers, and chain-link fences. What, we don’t have enough to remember prison by already?
6) A person’s last name in huge letters across the back. Makes it hard to run from the police!
5) The telephone area code where you live. Did you forget?
4) The traditional hometown across the extremely tender strip above your belly button. The guy from Ohio gets off easy. God help the one from Massachusetts!
3) Spider webs – but not on the elbows like most cons. Nope, these were on the guy’s balls. Now that’s dedication!
2) An explicit scene from a porno book. Including a giant wiener. Seriously.
1) Anything misspelled. The very best was one guy with “F*** AUTHORITY” across his back in 2-inch lettering, and “F***” was spelled wrong! Ha ha ha!
Click here for Polish Avenger’s previous blog on prison ink.
Click here for some of the best stories at Jon's Jail Journal.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Polish Avenger 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 Attwood
From Frankie (Letter 13)
Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hit man 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.
7-28-09
What’s up, Englandman?
Yes, it’s been a while my friend, but you’re not forgotten and the love will always be here. (smile)
How could I forget a hairy ass like yours?
Anyway, I’ve been real busy, going to school from 8am to 10:30am, then I go to work from 12:30pm to 8:30pm 7 days a week in the kitchen, so I really haven’t had any time for anything.
It’s not that I lost faith, I had to do something to survive in this place. I honestly stopped messing around with drugs, so now I’m living off of $12 every 2 weeks as I’m making 20 cents an hour.
At times some of my friends come by and try to put some stuff in my hands, so that I can make money, and it’s very tempting, but I continue to refuse.
I should have been out already if it wasn’t for that dope I got busted with, and when my release date came that’s when I felt it the most.
As of now, I have 16 months left on the 4 ½ years and I’m not messing that up. Unless in the next month Sept! they change the 85% release to 65% then I’ll be home a lot sooner.
My friend, I ain’t written a letter in such a long time that my hand is already hurting. Damn! I need to get back into it.
As always, I’m still the greatest in chess. Many have tried to take the crown, but haven’t been able to.
Well, my friend, I’m going to close for now. Give my L&R to your mom and dad.
Much Love & Respect,
Frankie
Click here for Frankie’s previous letter.
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Shaun P. Attwood
Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hit man 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.
7-28-09
What’s up, Englandman?
Yes, it’s been a while my friend, but you’re not forgotten and the love will always be here. (smile)
How could I forget a hairy ass like yours?
Anyway, I’ve been real busy, going to school from 8am to 10:30am, then I go to work from 12:30pm to 8:30pm 7 days a week in the kitchen, so I really haven’t had any time for anything.
It’s not that I lost faith, I had to do something to survive in this place. I honestly stopped messing around with drugs, so now I’m living off of $12 every 2 weeks as I’m making 20 cents an hour.
At times some of my friends come by and try to put some stuff in my hands, so that I can make money, and it’s very tempting, but I continue to refuse.
I should have been out already if it wasn’t for that dope I got busted with, and when my release date came that’s when I felt it the most.
As of now, I have 16 months left on the 4 ½ years and I’m not messing that up. Unless in the next month Sept! they change the 85% release to 65% then I’ll be home a lot sooner.
My friend, I ain’t written a letter in such a long time that my hand is already hurting. Damn! I need to get back into it.
As always, I’m still the greatest in chess. Many have tried to take the crown, but haven’t been able to.
Well, my friend, I’m going to close for now. Give my L&R to your mom and dad.
Much Love & Respect,
Frankie
Click here for Frankie’s previous letter.
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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
Prison Recipe for Tattoo Removal (by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger - A software-engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary they were both committing. Author of the classic "Shit Slinger" series.
15 little packets of salt
1 handkerchief
High pain tolerance
Willingness to act stupid
Hooch (optional, but strongly recommended)
Get plowed on hooch. Wet the handkerchief and pour salt on it liberally. Shave the tattooed area. Rub the handkerchief on it in a circular sanding motion. The salt acts as an abrasive, and quite literally eats the skin away as you rub. Oh yeah, that old expression about “rubbing salt in the wound,” there’s a reason why they say that. Yes, as you might expect, it hurts like a purple hairy bastard!
Continue sanding for about an hour until the area is an angry beet-red color. Rinse, bandage, and prepare for a solid month of excruciating and itchy recovery time. The recovery is even worse than the sanding. In my case, every little movement of my foot caused the edge of the scab to crack open again and leak out a thick custardy pus, and the itch was maddening at times.
The tattoo itself doesn’t come off during the sanding. Planing off the skin above it has the curious effect that as it heals, new tissue from below pushes the ink up and out.
On the happy day that the godforsaken scab finally comes off, you can hold it up to the light and see the tattoo suspended in it like a ghastly holocaust item. In fact, I kept part of mine in a photo album for years until the humidity made it all gooey and stinky.
In the end, it worked for me. She was gone. Unfortunately, I had gone a bit too deep, and had a blazing scar in her place. Whoops! The fellows assured me it would lighten up over time. It has – after about five years! Today, it’s still discoloured but nowhere as disgusting as it used to be.
Ever one for irony, I wound up getting another tattoo there anyway to cover up the scar! Ha ha! But no more girls’ names – this time it’s a memorial to my real true love: the caffeine molecule! Yes, on my ankle I have the molecular diagram and chemical formula for the greatest stuff ever invented. Now that’s ink I can live with!
Click here for Polish Avenger’s previous blog on prison ink.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Polish Avenger 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
Polish Avenger - A software-engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary they were both committing. Author of the classic "Shit Slinger" series.
15 little packets of salt
1 handkerchief
High pain tolerance
Willingness to act stupid
Hooch (optional, but strongly recommended)
Get plowed on hooch. Wet the handkerchief and pour salt on it liberally. Shave the tattooed area. Rub the handkerchief on it in a circular sanding motion. The salt acts as an abrasive, and quite literally eats the skin away as you rub. Oh yeah, that old expression about “rubbing salt in the wound,” there’s a reason why they say that. Yes, as you might expect, it hurts like a purple hairy bastard!
Continue sanding for about an hour until the area is an angry beet-red color. Rinse, bandage, and prepare for a solid month of excruciating and itchy recovery time. The recovery is even worse than the sanding. In my case, every little movement of my foot caused the edge of the scab to crack open again and leak out a thick custardy pus, and the itch was maddening at times.
The tattoo itself doesn’t come off during the sanding. Planing off the skin above it has the curious effect that as it heals, new tissue from below pushes the ink up and out.
On the happy day that the godforsaken scab finally comes off, you can hold it up to the light and see the tattoo suspended in it like a ghastly holocaust item. In fact, I kept part of mine in a photo album for years until the humidity made it all gooey and stinky.
In the end, it worked for me. She was gone. Unfortunately, I had gone a bit too deep, and had a blazing scar in her place. Whoops! The fellows assured me it would lighten up over time. It has – after about five years! Today, it’s still discoloured but nowhere as disgusting as it used to be.
Ever one for irony, I wound up getting another tattoo there anyway to cover up the scar! Ha ha! But no more girls’ names – this time it’s a memorial to my real true love: the caffeine molecule! Yes, on my ankle I have the molecular diagram and chemical formula for the greatest stuff ever invented. Now that’s ink I can live with!
Click here for Polish Avenger’s previous blog on prison ink.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Polish Avenger 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
Smiling John (Part 7 by Smiling John)
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 6 left off with Smiling John on the run in Mexico.
I took a cab to Hermosillo Airport and charted a Cessna to fly me to San Carlos on the coast.
In the summer of 1982, I’d come here with my girlfriend’s family, and spent two weeks at the Club Med Resort.
Club Med – a fantasy Island for singles from 18 to 40 – was the perfect place to lay low. They cycled tourists on a two-week rotation every month, nine months of the year.
I arrived at San Carlos, and checked into a condo on the beach for 3 weeks, keeping to myself, swimming, surfing, snorkeling scuba diving and going into town to shop.
On 09-27-89, I woke up hearing someone in the condo downstairs rummaging around.
I grabbed my gun, tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, and found bags of groceries on the counter and suitcases in the hallway.
Realizing it wasn't a burglar, but thinking the club had over-booked the condo, I stepped into the kitchen to see Monica my fiancée, the ex prison guard.
She’d found me after the feds had booked her for aiding and abetting my escape. She’d bonded out for $2,500, and then shook her FIST/FBI tail to get down here.
After America’s Most Wanted and Unsolved Mysteries ran my story, my family, parents, brother and sister all went to Colorado to avoid the media. My wife and son flew back to Chicago from Dallas to get away from reporters. Everyone that knew me had disowned me except Monica!
The first thing she said when she saw me was “Who's Patricia?”
Monica and I stayed in San Carlos for almost 1½ years. We went to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico City, Belize, Cancun, Mazatlán and Costa Rico, but never back to the States.
On April 16 199,1 I got a phone call at 4:00am for the first time in 19 months from Paul Hatcher from Fort Bliss in El Paso, TX.
I’d sent Paul a postcard in March asking for a job. At the time he was in Iraq for Operation Desert Shield/Desert Storm.
Paul told me he had a job for me for six figures in my own area of operations, meaning El Salvador and Columbia. To meet him at the Pelican Club in El Paso at 6:00pm.
One guy I could trust was Paul Hatcher. I kissed Monica goodbye. Not telling her because she would want to come.
I flew by charter from San Carlos to Juárez by Piper, then walked across the border over the bridge into El Paso. “St. Paul, Minnesota!” was my reply to the U.S. Customs guy who asked where I was from.
I caught a cab, then got out at the Pelican Club and walked towards the entrance. It was just after 6:00pm. The parking lot was crowded and people were standing around.
As I grabbed the door to enter the club I heard a bullhorn blare. “Freeze, Eastlack! On the ground!”
There were 27 undercover cops all around me. FBI, DEA, CID and a FIST SWAT team.
I was tackled, slammed and cuffed – hands, feet and waist.
“John Eastlack, you’re under arrest!” said the head FBI special agent in charge of the fugitive internal search team.
Sitting in the back of the Lear jet flying back to Tucson with 8 FBI guys, I realized just how damned tired I was...
Epilogue
Pima County Jail,
Tucson, AZ 1991
By the summer, the jury had found me guilty on all charges and the judge gave me two death sentences, one life and 365 years.
In 1994, the State Supreme Court overturned my conviction due to my judge being charged with gambling and the lead homicide detective blowing his head off with a shotgun.
By 1997, I was given a 25 to life after it was discovered I was the first and only person in the history of the United States to get his case over turned for having FAE-FAS (Fetal Alcohol Syndrome) as mitigation.
My case was soon featured on a Discovery and TLC channel documentary called The Sins of Science.
But the Arizona prison system was not done with me yet. In the spring of 1999, a corrupt major set me up to get killed by 3 members of the Aryan Brotherhood.
While in shackles and handcuffs, I was stabbed 21 times with two nine-inch shanks.
Once again, I almost died.
Since then, the years have gone by. I got my health back, work, go to school, and keep in touch with my family.
After all these years, I've never heard from Monica, Patricia, Paul and yet for the postcard, Hilda.
Life goes on.
Click here for a news story on Smiling John.
Click here for Part 6.
If you wish to write to Smiling John please email me at writeinside@hotmail.com
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 6 left off with Smiling John on the run in Mexico.
I took a cab to Hermosillo Airport and charted a Cessna to fly me to San Carlos on the coast.
In the summer of 1982, I’d come here with my girlfriend’s family, and spent two weeks at the Club Med Resort.
Club Med – a fantasy Island for singles from 18 to 40 – was the perfect place to lay low. They cycled tourists on a two-week rotation every month, nine months of the year.
I arrived at San Carlos, and checked into a condo on the beach for 3 weeks, keeping to myself, swimming, surfing, snorkeling scuba diving and going into town to shop.
On 09-27-89, I woke up hearing someone in the condo downstairs rummaging around.
I grabbed my gun, tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, and found bags of groceries on the counter and suitcases in the hallway.
Realizing it wasn't a burglar, but thinking the club had over-booked the condo, I stepped into the kitchen to see Monica my fiancée, the ex prison guard.
She’d found me after the feds had booked her for aiding and abetting my escape. She’d bonded out for $2,500, and then shook her FIST/FBI tail to get down here.
After America’s Most Wanted and Unsolved Mysteries ran my story, my family, parents, brother and sister all went to Colorado to avoid the media. My wife and son flew back to Chicago from Dallas to get away from reporters. Everyone that knew me had disowned me except Monica!
The first thing she said when she saw me was “Who's Patricia?”
Monica and I stayed in San Carlos for almost 1½ years. We went to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico City, Belize, Cancun, Mazatlán and Costa Rico, but never back to the States.
On April 16 199,1 I got a phone call at 4:00am for the first time in 19 months from Paul Hatcher from Fort Bliss in El Paso, TX.
I’d sent Paul a postcard in March asking for a job. At the time he was in Iraq for Operation Desert Shield/Desert Storm.
Paul told me he had a job for me for six figures in my own area of operations, meaning El Salvador and Columbia. To meet him at the Pelican Club in El Paso at 6:00pm.
One guy I could trust was Paul Hatcher. I kissed Monica goodbye. Not telling her because she would want to come.
I flew by charter from San Carlos to Juárez by Piper, then walked across the border over the bridge into El Paso. “St. Paul, Minnesota!” was my reply to the U.S. Customs guy who asked where I was from.
I caught a cab, then got out at the Pelican Club and walked towards the entrance. It was just after 6:00pm. The parking lot was crowded and people were standing around.
As I grabbed the door to enter the club I heard a bullhorn blare. “Freeze, Eastlack! On the ground!”
There were 27 undercover cops all around me. FBI, DEA, CID and a FIST SWAT team.
I was tackled, slammed and cuffed – hands, feet and waist.
“John Eastlack, you’re under arrest!” said the head FBI special agent in charge of the fugitive internal search team.
Sitting in the back of the Lear jet flying back to Tucson with 8 FBI guys, I realized just how damned tired I was...
Epilogue
Pima County Jail,
Tucson, AZ 1991
By the summer, the jury had found me guilty on all charges and the judge gave me two death sentences, one life and 365 years.
In 1994, the State Supreme Court overturned my conviction due to my judge being charged with gambling and the lead homicide detective blowing his head off with a shotgun.
By 1997, I was given a 25 to life after it was discovered I was the first and only person in the history of the United States to get his case over turned for having FAE-FAS (Fetal Alcohol Syndrome) as mitigation.
My case was soon featured on a Discovery and TLC channel documentary called The Sins of Science.
But the Arizona prison system was not done with me yet. In the spring of 1999, a corrupt major set me up to get killed by 3 members of the Aryan Brotherhood.
While in shackles and handcuffs, I was stabbed 21 times with two nine-inch shanks.
Once again, I almost died.
Since then, the years have gone by. I got my health back, work, go to school, and keep in touch with my family.
After all these years, I've never heard from Monica, Patricia, Paul and yet for the postcard, Hilda.
Life goes on.
Click here for a news story on Smiling John.
Click here for Part 6.
If you wish to write to Smiling John please email me at writeinside@hotmail.com
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
Smiling John (Part 6 by Smiling John)
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 5 left off with Smiling John on the run in Texas, finding out he is about to be featured on America’s Most Wanted.
On 09-10-89 Sunday night at 6:00pm, I got a call from Paul at Fort Bliss. He told me my story was going to be featured nationwide at 7:00pm local time on America’s Most Wanted, and that I’d made number 7 on the FBI’s 10 most wanted list. I was wanted for murders in two states. Sources had spotted me everywhere from Hawaii to Miami.
At that second, Patty showed up with Lucy and Lucy’s boyfriend, Mario. We were all going to see Pet Cemetery, the new Stephen King movie.
I played it cool, keeping track of the time, planning my next move. For the past 9 days I’d been fooling myself thinking I could live the dream again.
After the movie, Patty took Lucy home, and Mario and I went to meet Hilda – a University of Texas at El Paso sorority girl and cheerleader – at T.G.I. Friday's for drinks, then to a pool hall. Eventually Mario crashed out and Hilda had her way with me in the truck, on the truck and the truck bed.
After we dropped Mario off at 4:00am, I asked Hilda if she could take me into Mexico and even down to Hermosillo.
Hilda was wild. She had an evil streak and loved living on the edge. I’d only known her for 6 hours, yet she detected I was on the run and wanted to run with me.
On 09-11-89 at approximately 08:00 hours, Hilda and I crossed back into Mexico after stopping at the Embassy Suites to get my tote and kit bag, and her UTEP sorority house.
At 2:00pm, we reached the city of Hermosillo and checked into the Azteca Hotel for 2 days.
Hilda called Mario and found out that the FBI and FIST (Fugitive International Swat Team) had raided the Embassy Suites, Patty’s house, Bonny’s house and Mario’s house all at once on 09-11-89 at 10:45am, El Paso local time.
Everyone now knew who John Eastlack was, and America’s Most Wanted had really played up the murders by making them look like assassinations because the first two victims were Lester and Kathryn Sherrill – white, Mormon, millionaires, including a superior court judge from Pima Country in Tucson, Arizona.
I had no idea, not that it would have mattered one way or another.
Now that she knew it would make her an accessory after the fact, I convinced Hilda not to toss her life away.
Hilda wanted to know who I really was and why I was in prison, so I told her. An army brat, grew up in California, Minnesota and Arizona. My mother was a doctor and father an army colonel. Grew up playing soccer and swimming, joined the army out of high school. Got out and went to prison for fraud in 1987 and escaped 2 weeks ago. She knew the rest.
She started crying, took off her Virgin Mary necklace, put it around my neck, kissed me on the lips and wished me good luck and safety, then walked out the door.
I never heard from Hilda again except for a postcard when I got off death row in 1997.
As soon as Hilda walked out the door I packed, and went out the back window 5 minutes later.
I trusted Hilda but did not want her coming back. Unlike Patty, Hilda had everything, she was just searching for something else.
I knew I couldn't take care of myself to follow a simple plan. In high school, sports, the military, prison, I had a structured environment, so I did well, excelled even. But my marriage, and relationships were all disasters. On leave I would mess up, getting involved in scams, robberies, cons or even murders. So I was far from having my shit together. I just acted like it.
I took a cab to Hermosillo Airport and charted a Cessna to fly me to San Carlos on the coast.
Click here for Part 5.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 5 left off with Smiling John on the run in Texas, finding out he is about to be featured on America’s Most Wanted.
On 09-10-89 Sunday night at 6:00pm, I got a call from Paul at Fort Bliss. He told me my story was going to be featured nationwide at 7:00pm local time on America’s Most Wanted, and that I’d made number 7 on the FBI’s 10 most wanted list. I was wanted for murders in two states. Sources had spotted me everywhere from Hawaii to Miami.
At that second, Patty showed up with Lucy and Lucy’s boyfriend, Mario. We were all going to see Pet Cemetery, the new Stephen King movie.
I played it cool, keeping track of the time, planning my next move. For the past 9 days I’d been fooling myself thinking I could live the dream again.
After the movie, Patty took Lucy home, and Mario and I went to meet Hilda – a University of Texas at El Paso sorority girl and cheerleader – at T.G.I. Friday's for drinks, then to a pool hall. Eventually Mario crashed out and Hilda had her way with me in the truck, on the truck and the truck bed.
After we dropped Mario off at 4:00am, I asked Hilda if she could take me into Mexico and even down to Hermosillo.
Hilda was wild. She had an evil streak and loved living on the edge. I’d only known her for 6 hours, yet she detected I was on the run and wanted to run with me.
On 09-11-89 at approximately 08:00 hours, Hilda and I crossed back into Mexico after stopping at the Embassy Suites to get my tote and kit bag, and her UTEP sorority house.
At 2:00pm, we reached the city of Hermosillo and checked into the Azteca Hotel for 2 days.
Hilda called Mario and found out that the FBI and FIST (Fugitive International Swat Team) had raided the Embassy Suites, Patty’s house, Bonny’s house and Mario’s house all at once on 09-11-89 at 10:45am, El Paso local time.
Everyone now knew who John Eastlack was, and America’s Most Wanted had really played up the murders by making them look like assassinations because the first two victims were Lester and Kathryn Sherrill – white, Mormon, millionaires, including a superior court judge from Pima Country in Tucson, Arizona.
I had no idea, not that it would have mattered one way or another.
Now that she knew it would make her an accessory after the fact, I convinced Hilda not to toss her life away.
Hilda wanted to know who I really was and why I was in prison, so I told her. An army brat, grew up in California, Minnesota and Arizona. My mother was a doctor and father an army colonel. Grew up playing soccer and swimming, joined the army out of high school. Got out and went to prison for fraud in 1987 and escaped 2 weeks ago. She knew the rest.
She started crying, took off her Virgin Mary necklace, put it around my neck, kissed me on the lips and wished me good luck and safety, then walked out the door.
I never heard from Hilda again except for a postcard when I got off death row in 1997.
As soon as Hilda walked out the door I packed, and went out the back window 5 minutes later.
I trusted Hilda but did not want her coming back. Unlike Patty, Hilda had everything, she was just searching for something else.
I knew I couldn't take care of myself to follow a simple plan. In high school, sports, the military, prison, I had a structured environment, so I did well, excelled even. But my marriage, and relationships were all disasters. On leave I would mess up, getting involved in scams, robberies, cons or even murders. So I was far from having my shit together. I just acted like it.
I took a cab to Hermosillo Airport and charted a Cessna to fly me to San Carlos on the coast.
Click here for Part 5.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
Smiling John (Part 5 by Smiling John)
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 4 left off with Smiling John on the run in Mexico.
Leaving the car in an alley, I knew it would be stolen and sold for parts in hours. I got out, and walked the strip into the exclusive Electric Q, one of the hottest clubs in all of northern Mexico. The cartels, corrupt cops, local models and movie stars all hung out there.
I walked in unchallenged by the bouncers and the VIP host with a clipboard.
Weeks later, witnesses and the club’s owners would tell the media they’d assumed I was a padrote, a hip Mexican slang word for a playboy.
I found a private booth overlooking the dance floor, entrance and exit, and chilled sipping strawberry daiquirÃs.
About midnight, when the club really started coming alive, my eyes settled on a woman who looked like Queen Isabella. She had long black hair with French bangs, almond-shaped green eyes, copper-cream skin and a full figure. I was floored.
Her name was Patricia and at 22 she’d just moved back to El Paso from Los Angeles after modeling for 6 years to help her father raise her two younger sisters. Maria 16 and Lucy 14.
She was sat there with a friend, Yvonne, both a league apart from the other woman in the club. Unapproachable because of a beauty most men find intimidating for fear of not measuring up.
I had a wife in Dallas, a fiancée back in Tucson, and was on the run, but all that went up in smoke as I got up and approached Patricia.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
Caught off guard by my question, they both looked at me as if they were expecting a punch line.
“Yes. Are you here by yourself?” Patricia asked, looking back to my booth where I’d been sitting alone for the past half hour.
I was glad they’d noticed me.
“Sit with us. My name’s Patty and this is Bonny.”
I shook their hands softly, and introduced myself. “My name is Vogue. Perry Vogue.” I said it just like James Bond, with a British accent and all. Once again I saw in the glint of their eyes that they were waiting for a punch line.
“Where are you from England, Australia?” Bonny asked.
“Actually, I'm from Port Stanley in the Falkland Islands off the coast of Argentina. It's an English territory.”
Once again they seemed to be judging me, weighing my words.
“Would you like to dance?” Patty got up and pulled me onto the dance floor.
Patty and I danced the night away. We went to two more clubs The Cosmos and Sesto Senso. She dropped me of at the Embassy Suites and we made plans for dinner at 9:00pm.
Woke up at 2:00pm. Went swimming for about an hour, worked out at the hotel gym, then showered. At 4:00pm, I crossed the I-10 and went into the Cielo Vista Mall where I bought some clothes, a Gucci watch, and roses for Patty.
At 5:00pm, I showed up at Fort Bliss Army Base and went to see Paul to pick up a tote bag, weapons, an ID plus cash.
He gave me a Beretta 92F 9mm, an M16A3 rifle 5.56mm, a battle dress uniform, a PV7, a rucksack, an EBL, ammo, an MK2 vest, 8 M28 fags, a Winchester M70 bolt-action rifle, and a Med K plus a pack. He also gave me a passport stamped USA, Mexico and Argentina from the Falklands (UK) for Perry Vogue 03-14-63, 6’2” 205lbs, been traveling for 60 days, expires on 10-01-89.
This did not dent Paul at all as he constantly set up kits for the Southern Command, covering Central and South America for the CIA, NSA, DIA, DEA, SOF and even Border Patrol, Joint Task Force 3, INS, and Customs.
My long-term goals were to freelance down in Mexico with some folks I’d met during Operation Snowcap, a drug-interdiction force still running at that time.
At 6:00pm, I went back to the hotel, stashed my gear and took a nap.
Patty picked me up 9:00pm and we went to the Red Lobster, then to a point that overlooked the city lights of El Paso, where we had a drink.
The rest of the week was a blur of clubs, movies, restaurants, sex and more sex. I was so caught up in the Vogue character I actually forgot who I was.
On 09-10-89 Sunday night at 6:00pm, I got a call from Paul at Fort Bliss. He told me my story was going to be featured nationwide at 7:00pm local time on America’s Most Wanted, and that I’d made number 7 on the FBI’s 10 most wanted list. I was wanted for murders in two states. Sources had spotted me everywhere from Hawaii to Miami.
Click here for Part 4.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 4 left off with Smiling John on the run in Mexico.
Leaving the car in an alley, I knew it would be stolen and sold for parts in hours. I got out, and walked the strip into the exclusive Electric Q, one of the hottest clubs in all of northern Mexico. The cartels, corrupt cops, local models and movie stars all hung out there.
I walked in unchallenged by the bouncers and the VIP host with a clipboard.
Weeks later, witnesses and the club’s owners would tell the media they’d assumed I was a padrote, a hip Mexican slang word for a playboy.
I found a private booth overlooking the dance floor, entrance and exit, and chilled sipping strawberry daiquirÃs.
About midnight, when the club really started coming alive, my eyes settled on a woman who looked like Queen Isabella. She had long black hair with French bangs, almond-shaped green eyes, copper-cream skin and a full figure. I was floored.
Her name was Patricia and at 22 she’d just moved back to El Paso from Los Angeles after modeling for 6 years to help her father raise her two younger sisters. Maria 16 and Lucy 14.
She was sat there with a friend, Yvonne, both a league apart from the other woman in the club. Unapproachable because of a beauty most men find intimidating for fear of not measuring up.
I had a wife in Dallas, a fiancée back in Tucson, and was on the run, but all that went up in smoke as I got up and approached Patricia.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
Caught off guard by my question, they both looked at me as if they were expecting a punch line.
“Yes. Are you here by yourself?” Patricia asked, looking back to my booth where I’d been sitting alone for the past half hour.
I was glad they’d noticed me.
“Sit with us. My name’s Patty and this is Bonny.”
I shook their hands softly, and introduced myself. “My name is Vogue. Perry Vogue.” I said it just like James Bond, with a British accent and all. Once again I saw in the glint of their eyes that they were waiting for a punch line.
“Where are you from England, Australia?” Bonny asked.
“Actually, I'm from Port Stanley in the Falkland Islands off the coast of Argentina. It's an English territory.”
Once again they seemed to be judging me, weighing my words.
“Would you like to dance?” Patty got up and pulled me onto the dance floor.
Patty and I danced the night away. We went to two more clubs The Cosmos and Sesto Senso. She dropped me of at the Embassy Suites and we made plans for dinner at 9:00pm.
Woke up at 2:00pm. Went swimming for about an hour, worked out at the hotel gym, then showered. At 4:00pm, I crossed the I-10 and went into the Cielo Vista Mall where I bought some clothes, a Gucci watch, and roses for Patty.
At 5:00pm, I showed up at Fort Bliss Army Base and went to see Paul to pick up a tote bag, weapons, an ID plus cash.
He gave me a Beretta 92F 9mm, an M16A3 rifle 5.56mm, a battle dress uniform, a PV7, a rucksack, an EBL, ammo, an MK2 vest, 8 M28 fags, a Winchester M70 bolt-action rifle, and a Med K plus a pack. He also gave me a passport stamped USA, Mexico and Argentina from the Falklands (UK) for Perry Vogue 03-14-63, 6’2” 205lbs, been traveling for 60 days, expires on 10-01-89.
This did not dent Paul at all as he constantly set up kits for the Southern Command, covering Central and South America for the CIA, NSA, DIA, DEA, SOF and even Border Patrol, Joint Task Force 3, INS, and Customs.
My long-term goals were to freelance down in Mexico with some folks I’d met during Operation Snowcap, a drug-interdiction force still running at that time.
At 6:00pm, I went back to the hotel, stashed my gear and took a nap.
Patty picked me up 9:00pm and we went to the Red Lobster, then to a point that overlooked the city lights of El Paso, where we had a drink.
The rest of the week was a blur of clubs, movies, restaurants, sex and more sex. I was so caught up in the Vogue character I actually forgot who I was.
On 09-10-89 Sunday night at 6:00pm, I got a call from Paul at Fort Bliss. He told me my story was going to be featured nationwide at 7:00pm local time on America’s Most Wanted, and that I’d made number 7 on the FBI’s 10 most wanted list. I was wanted for murders in two states. Sources had spotted me everywhere from Hawaii to Miami.
Click here for Part 4.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
Smiling John (Part 4 by Smiling John)
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
So far in this story, Smiling John's rampage includes escaping from prison, eluding the police by lighting a monster desert fire, and hiding in a house where he murdered the occupants. Part 3 left off with him hitching a ride from a pervert who took him to a trailer in New Mexico. He's trying to get to the region of Texas featured in No Country for Old Men.
I wasn't sure what to make of the turn of events, but alarm bells were going off. I reached in my tote, pulled out my .45 Ruger Blackhawk and set it on my lap with my shirt covering my hand. Just as I completed this task, I heard a door open. I turned to my left, stunned, transfixed, paralyzed by what I saw.
Wearing a purple satin bathrobe, with pink fluffy bunny-rabbit slippers with the black button eyes and furry ears was a 6’ foot 10” transvestite. With long black hair down to his waist, blue eyeliner, mascara, too much red lipstick and long black fingernails, this thing floated down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Of all the things in the world to come through the door this was not what I’d expected. I was frozen. I still could not process what kind of trap I’d fallen into, and wouldn't know the full extent until 1991 when my last chance to avoid the death penalty involved confessing to these events.
The transvestite came out of the kitchen with a 4 pack of Bartles & Jaymes Blackberry wine coolers. I caught a smirk as he transfixed me with his gaze.
Setting the coolers on the coffee table, he sat on the La-Z-Boy chair’s armrest, revealing his nuts and bolts.
At the exact same moment, a gleeful character came bouncing out of the same door the transvestite had come from. It was the fat man who’d picked me up, but wearing a pair of diapers and nothing else!
I reacted in flash, pulling the .45 Ruger Blackhawk up from my lap. I shot the transvestite three times center mass, flipping him backwards over the chair into the wall where he slid down headfirst.
The smile on the diaper bandits face froze, and he let out a yelp as he turned and ran back down the hall. I fired three more times, hitting his right hip and left shoulder. He spun and crashed through the goddamned wall out into the sunlight.
I opened my bag, grabbed a box of shells and put six new ones in, then went outside. It had been 30 to 45 seconds tops, but he was gone. I could see a blood trail and tracks going east towards town.
Going back inside, I got my tote and went to the bedroom, found the keys to the Mustang, some drugs, a tripod with a cam recorder, whips, chains, dildos, cuffs, masks – a total freak show.
Wanting to get away in a hurry, I left everything as it was, and ran to the I-10 and back to the 7-Eleven. In the dumpster were the car keys. I drove on the I-10 east towards El Paso, Texas.
El Paso, TX
Friday 09-01-89 7:30pm
I arrived in El Paso and pulled off the I-10 into Sundance Mall. Parking in a crowded lot, I switched plates with another Ford Tempo and then walked into a Broadway Department Store.
I bought a set of Polo boxers, socks, belt, pants, and a tote. I went into the mall restroom, and changed. I trashed everything I had in the employees’ dumpster in the back hallway. Everything except the .45 Ruger Blackhawk. The 9mm was damaged as the oak grips had cracked from hitting the lady I killed in the back of the head.
I put the gun back in my new Polo tote with my extra clothes, went back in the mall, got a haircut, facial and manicure. Really. It had been two years in the waiting.
On the way out the mall before it closed at 9:00pm, I bought a Gucci watch, Ray-Ban sunglasses and several issues of Guns &Ammo, Soldier of Fortune, and Condé Nast magazines to catch up.
I returned to the parking lot, and drove to the Embassy Suites across from Cielo Vista Mall and the I-10, checked in for six days and paid cash under the name of Perry Vogue.
I took a shower, unpacked then got back in the Ford Tempo. I drove across the bridge and into Juárez, Mexico, leaving the U.S.A. behind. For now.
Driving down the strip full of college kids from The University of Texas at El Paso and soldiers from Fort Bliss, I saw Juárez was jumping. T&A everywhere.
Leaving the car in an alley, I knew it would be stolen and sold for parts in hours. I got out, and walked the strip into the exclusive Electric Q, one of the hottest clubs in all of northern Mexico. The cartels, corrupt cops, local models and movie stars all hung out there.
Will Smiling John behave himself in the Electric Q? If not, what do you think he’ll get up to?
Click here for Part 3.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
So far in this story, Smiling John's rampage includes escaping from prison, eluding the police by lighting a monster desert fire, and hiding in a house where he murdered the occupants. Part 3 left off with him hitching a ride from a pervert who took him to a trailer in New Mexico. He's trying to get to the region of Texas featured in No Country for Old Men.
I wasn't sure what to make of the turn of events, but alarm bells were going off. I reached in my tote, pulled out my .45 Ruger Blackhawk and set it on my lap with my shirt covering my hand. Just as I completed this task, I heard a door open. I turned to my left, stunned, transfixed, paralyzed by what I saw.
Wearing a purple satin bathrobe, with pink fluffy bunny-rabbit slippers with the black button eyes and furry ears was a 6’ foot 10” transvestite. With long black hair down to his waist, blue eyeliner, mascara, too much red lipstick and long black fingernails, this thing floated down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Of all the things in the world to come through the door this was not what I’d expected. I was frozen. I still could not process what kind of trap I’d fallen into, and wouldn't know the full extent until 1991 when my last chance to avoid the death penalty involved confessing to these events.
The transvestite came out of the kitchen with a 4 pack of Bartles & Jaymes Blackberry wine coolers. I caught a smirk as he transfixed me with his gaze.
Setting the coolers on the coffee table, he sat on the La-Z-Boy chair’s armrest, revealing his nuts and bolts.
At the exact same moment, a gleeful character came bouncing out of the same door the transvestite had come from. It was the fat man who’d picked me up, but wearing a pair of diapers and nothing else!
I reacted in flash, pulling the .45 Ruger Blackhawk up from my lap. I shot the transvestite three times center mass, flipping him backwards over the chair into the wall where he slid down headfirst.
The smile on the diaper bandits face froze, and he let out a yelp as he turned and ran back down the hall. I fired three more times, hitting his right hip and left shoulder. He spun and crashed through the goddamned wall out into the sunlight.
I opened my bag, grabbed a box of shells and put six new ones in, then went outside. It had been 30 to 45 seconds tops, but he was gone. I could see a blood trail and tracks going east towards town.
Going back inside, I got my tote and went to the bedroom, found the keys to the Mustang, some drugs, a tripod with a cam recorder, whips, chains, dildos, cuffs, masks – a total freak show.
Wanting to get away in a hurry, I left everything as it was, and ran to the I-10 and back to the 7-Eleven. In the dumpster were the car keys. I drove on the I-10 east towards El Paso, Texas.
El Paso, TX
Friday 09-01-89 7:30pm
I arrived in El Paso and pulled off the I-10 into Sundance Mall. Parking in a crowded lot, I switched plates with another Ford Tempo and then walked into a Broadway Department Store.
I bought a set of Polo boxers, socks, belt, pants, and a tote. I went into the mall restroom, and changed. I trashed everything I had in the employees’ dumpster in the back hallway. Everything except the .45 Ruger Blackhawk. The 9mm was damaged as the oak grips had cracked from hitting the lady I killed in the back of the head.
I put the gun back in my new Polo tote with my extra clothes, went back in the mall, got a haircut, facial and manicure. Really. It had been two years in the waiting.
On the way out the mall before it closed at 9:00pm, I bought a Gucci watch, Ray-Ban sunglasses and several issues of Guns &Ammo, Soldier of Fortune, and Condé Nast magazines to catch up.
I returned to the parking lot, and drove to the Embassy Suites across from Cielo Vista Mall and the I-10, checked in for six days and paid cash under the name of Perry Vogue.
I took a shower, unpacked then got back in the Ford Tempo. I drove across the bridge and into Juárez, Mexico, leaving the U.S.A. behind. For now.
Driving down the strip full of college kids from The University of Texas at El Paso and soldiers from Fort Bliss, I saw Juárez was jumping. T&A everywhere.
Leaving the car in an alley, I knew it would be stolen and sold for parts in hours. I got out, and walked the strip into the exclusive Electric Q, one of the hottest clubs in all of northern Mexico. The cartels, corrupt cops, local models and movie stars all hung out there.
Will Smiling John behave himself in the Electric Q? If not, what do you think he’ll get up to?
Click here for Part 3.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
Smiling John (Part 3 by Smiling John)
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 2 left off with Smiling John breaking into a house to avoid the police, and deciding to kill the occupants.
The old man who attacked me with the fireplace poker was just standing there and threatening me to get out of their house before he called the police.
Yes, really! At this point a kind of out of body experience came over me and I decided right then and there I was going to have to kill them. The choice was just self-preservation. They were simply a threat that had to be eliminated or simplified. I was not going to tie them up, or shoot them due to the noise. I owed them a piece of mind not to kill one in front of the other.
I hit the old man with the poker and he went down. He was bleeding from where he fell into some chairs and cut his face, head and arms.
At this point the lady said she was having an asthma attack, so I asked her husband where her inhalers were. He told me down the hall in the master bedroom on the nightstand.
As I went to get them, her husband ran out of the TV room for the front door.
I felt bamboozled.
I caught up to him and kicked him in the back, smashing him into the wall, tearing his arm and face. He then started yelling and flopping around like fish.
I'd seen all kinds of agony and death in the U.S. Army. In 1983 with “Operation Urgent Fury,” the invasion of Granada, then again in 1986 with the mobile-training teams in El Salvador, and “Operation Snowcap” in Columbia, but this was like in Blade Runner when Harrison Ford shot Joanna Cassidy the android in the back and she fell through three plates of glass and started flopping around.
It was just too weird, so I pierced him through the throat with the fireplace poker, pinning him to the oak floor.
I went back to the TV room and she was still and quiet, looking at me. “Where is my husband?”
“He's in the kitchen, getting you some water,” I told her.
I can only hope she believed me.
I then asked her if she could hand me the bowl of M&M’s on the bookshelf behind her.
As she turned, I hit her nine times in the back of the head with the butt of my gun, killing her.
Nothing seemed to be going right today.
The house was once again quiet, except for the damned phone. The cab guy had heard everything. He wouldn’t be coming to pick me up.
Hanging up the phone. I noticed for the first time that my right arm was a bloody mess and also my right rib cage.
Why, that old man had kicked my ass. I almost smiled for the first time of the day.
Cleaning myself up, and searching the house, I found about $300 cash and two cars in the garage.
I was not in fire mood, so I went through all four bedrooms, three bathrooms and turned the H2O on full blast and flooded the house.
I then got in the red Ford Tempo and drove right past the roadblock manned by two cops.
Like I said, that wanted poster looked nothing like me.
Due to the turn of events, I no longer wanted to involve Monica, Ben or Paul. So as soon as I got to the Arizona-New Mexico border, I stopped at a payphone and told everyone I fucked up and to forgot about me.
It was a tough call, but I was morphing by the hour losing my mind and myself.
09-01-89
Friday 2:00pm
Pulled up into some rundown cow town just passed the state line in New Mexico. Drove off at a 7-Eleven and trashed the car. Plates, ID, tags all went into the dumpster.
Walked into the 7-Eleven, bought some orange juice and a few bags of beef jerky, then walked out to the I-10 east and started hitchhiking.
Like a moth to a flame, a 1967 grey Ford Mustang pulled up. All smiles, I leaned in the window and told the driver I was on leave and returning to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas.
This fat, short, four-eyed, bearded guy gave me a shit-eating grin and said, “Hop in.”
Climbing in the passenger seat and chilling for the first time in 8 to 9 hours, I actually felt as if I’d reached sanctuary.
Looking around the car I noticed trash, beer cans, candy-bar wrappers and the whole back seat was packed with pornographic magazines.
What the fuck!
Right as I'm on the verge of adding this up, he asked if it was okay if we go back to his place. He’d forgotten something and it would just take a minute and then he’d drive me into El Paso, or he could drop me off right here on the I-10 in 110° heat and I could try to catch another ride.
He thought he was a wise guy, if he only knew.
“Sure,” I said. “I don't have to report back until 21:00 hrs.”
We drove back to that cow town, and I saw my red car still parked next to the 7-11 untouched.
He drove to the north of the town about a mile off the I-10 to a trailer park.
I saw a trailer on stilts with a staircase. About 60’x15’. He said, “Would you like to come in for a cold drink?”
“Sure. It's hot as hell out here.” I grabbed my tote bag and follow him up the stairs and into the twilight zone.
As I entered the trailer the first thing I noticed was how clean the place was.
I sat on the couch and set my tote next to me on the right side.
He then walked to the TV, put on a VHS tape, then walked down the hall, entered the last room and closed the door.
I turned my attention back to the TV and saw an underground S&M tape of two girls in a bathtub having sex with each other.
I wasn't sure what to make of the turn of events, but alarm bells were going off. I reached in my tote and pulled out my .45 Ruger Blackhawk and set it on my lap with my shirt covering my hand.
Just as I completed this task, I heard a door open. I turned to my left, stunned, transfixed, paralyzed by what I saw.
Click here for Part 2.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
“Smiling John” Eastlack escaped from prison and was featured on America’s Most Wanted. He was sentenced to death for the murders he describes. When it was discovered that he has fetal alcohol syndrome, his sentence was reduced to life in prison without parole.
Part 2 left off with Smiling John breaking into a house to avoid the police, and deciding to kill the occupants.
The old man who attacked me with the fireplace poker was just standing there and threatening me to get out of their house before he called the police.
Yes, really! At this point a kind of out of body experience came over me and I decided right then and there I was going to have to kill them. The choice was just self-preservation. They were simply a threat that had to be eliminated or simplified. I was not going to tie them up, or shoot them due to the noise. I owed them a piece of mind not to kill one in front of the other.
I hit the old man with the poker and he went down. He was bleeding from where he fell into some chairs and cut his face, head and arms.
At this point the lady said she was having an asthma attack, so I asked her husband where her inhalers were. He told me down the hall in the master bedroom on the nightstand.
As I went to get them, her husband ran out of the TV room for the front door.
I felt bamboozled.
I caught up to him and kicked him in the back, smashing him into the wall, tearing his arm and face. He then started yelling and flopping around like fish.
I'd seen all kinds of agony and death in the U.S. Army. In 1983 with “Operation Urgent Fury,” the invasion of Granada, then again in 1986 with the mobile-training teams in El Salvador, and “Operation Snowcap” in Columbia, but this was like in Blade Runner when Harrison Ford shot Joanna Cassidy the android in the back and she fell through three plates of glass and started flopping around.
It was just too weird, so I pierced him through the throat with the fireplace poker, pinning him to the oak floor.
I went back to the TV room and she was still and quiet, looking at me. “Where is my husband?”
“He's in the kitchen, getting you some water,” I told her.
I can only hope she believed me.
I then asked her if she could hand me the bowl of M&M’s on the bookshelf behind her.
As she turned, I hit her nine times in the back of the head with the butt of my gun, killing her.
Nothing seemed to be going right today.
The house was once again quiet, except for the damned phone. The cab guy had heard everything. He wouldn’t be coming to pick me up.
Hanging up the phone. I noticed for the first time that my right arm was a bloody mess and also my right rib cage.
Why, that old man had kicked my ass. I almost smiled for the first time of the day.
Cleaning myself up, and searching the house, I found about $300 cash and two cars in the garage.
I was not in fire mood, so I went through all four bedrooms, three bathrooms and turned the H2O on full blast and flooded the house.
I then got in the red Ford Tempo and drove right past the roadblock manned by two cops.
Like I said, that wanted poster looked nothing like me.
Due to the turn of events, I no longer wanted to involve Monica, Ben or Paul. So as soon as I got to the Arizona-New Mexico border, I stopped at a payphone and told everyone I fucked up and to forgot about me.
It was a tough call, but I was morphing by the hour losing my mind and myself.
09-01-89
Friday 2:00pm
Pulled up into some rundown cow town just passed the state line in New Mexico. Drove off at a 7-Eleven and trashed the car. Plates, ID, tags all went into the dumpster.
Walked into the 7-Eleven, bought some orange juice and a few bags of beef jerky, then walked out to the I-10 east and started hitchhiking.
Like a moth to a flame, a 1967 grey Ford Mustang pulled up. All smiles, I leaned in the window and told the driver I was on leave and returning to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas.
This fat, short, four-eyed, bearded guy gave me a shit-eating grin and said, “Hop in.”
Climbing in the passenger seat and chilling for the first time in 8 to 9 hours, I actually felt as if I’d reached sanctuary.
Looking around the car I noticed trash, beer cans, candy-bar wrappers and the whole back seat was packed with pornographic magazines.
What the fuck!
Right as I'm on the verge of adding this up, he asked if it was okay if we go back to his place. He’d forgotten something and it would just take a minute and then he’d drive me into El Paso, or he could drop me off right here on the I-10 in 110° heat and I could try to catch another ride.
He thought he was a wise guy, if he only knew.
“Sure,” I said. “I don't have to report back until 21:00 hrs.”
We drove back to that cow town, and I saw my red car still parked next to the 7-11 untouched.
He drove to the north of the town about a mile off the I-10 to a trailer park.
I saw a trailer on stilts with a staircase. About 60’x15’. He said, “Would you like to come in for a cold drink?”
“Sure. It's hot as hell out here.” I grabbed my tote bag and follow him up the stairs and into the twilight zone.
As I entered the trailer the first thing I noticed was how clean the place was.
I sat on the couch and set my tote next to me on the right side.
He then walked to the TV, put on a VHS tape, then walked down the hall, entered the last room and closed the door.
I turned my attention back to the TV and saw an underground S&M tape of two girls in a bathtub having sex with each other.
I wasn't sure what to make of the turn of events, but alarm bells were going off. I reached in my tote and pulled out my .45 Ruger Blackhawk and set it on my lap with my shirt covering my hand.
Just as I completed this task, I heard a door open. I turned to my left, stunned, transfixed, paralyzed by what I saw.
Click here for Part 2.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments and questions for Smiling John 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
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