T-Bone Attacked
I just received a letter that includes some details about the attack on T-Bone.
T-Bone is no longer at Buckeye prison. Some drama happened. Two guys tried to test him. They attacked him. He defended himself, and they were both seriously hurt. One is in hospital, needing reconstructive surgery on his face. I was shocked as he’s so laid back, but it wasn’t his fault. Because of the injuries, the staff are scared of him. They’ve rehoused him at the supermaximum-security prison in Florence.
Click here to read T-Bone’s previous letter.
If you wish to send a message to T-Bone post it below or email writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Central Unit (Part 6 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.
Central Unit began with Warrior discovering a race war is raging, and the guards are staging human cock fights. Part 5 left off with Warrior getting a new neighbour, Big Tigre.
I noticed a large arm, twice as big as Cowboy’s, holding a mirror and getting a view of my cell and me. I pretended not to notice. Hearing the rapping of the mirror, I turned and walked towards the bars.
“Q-vo, ese. Yo soy [I am] Big Tigre.” My new neighbor then put his hand out for me to shake. He certainly was a big man. His hands were more like bear paws in comparison to mine. But they were also oddly soft. Not what you’d expect of a man his size. He probably led a life of leisure on the outside.
We exchanged small talk, engaging in verbal chess as we attempted to feel each another out. He told me where he was from and how much time he had left: 3 years. I exchanged the same info. We touched upon a couple of names we both knew from other yards, along with who was here with us at Central Unit. Prison is one of those subcultures where everyone knows everyone, or that six degrees of separation ties you to someone somehow.
He had to organize his cell, so we closed the conversation.
Two weeks went by. We exchanged the usual prison banter, and accustomed ourselves to each other’s personalities. I maintained my workout routine and distance from Tigre. When we’d talk, Tigre had this ritual he’d do after each sentence when the topic was a serious one: a nervous compulsion of chewing the inside corners of his lips, as though he were in constant suspense. Little by little, I started figuring him out.
Within this time, several cells housing opposite races opened up. Due to the ongoing war, if a cell housed a Mexican national, a fight occurred. The question on my mind was, When will it be my turn?
Mexican nationals had their own version of nicknames, usually based on what region of Mexico they were from. If they were from Durango, they’d go by that. If Tampico, they’d be referred to as Tampico.
There was one Mexican national in particular I kept an eye on. His name was Chicali. He was popular among his race. I noticed him always unravelling or ravelling up his fishing line to receive or send out kites. By his size, it was evident genetics had smiled upon him. He must have weighed 225 to 250 pounds, bull-like with muscle just slabbed onto the bone. The tight cords of muscle in his neck told me he was consistent in his workouts. He wasn’t tall, about my height, 5’10”. His hair was black and feathered back, parted in the middle, like a style from the 1970’s. Probably in his mid 40’s. I kept him in focus because if my cell were to open at the same time as his, he was one individual I was uneasy about facing.
I woke to the sound of the steel doors of the chow carts being opened and slammed shut as two guards began passing out breakfast trays. It was about 5am, one hour left until shift change.
A short balding guard wearing the traditional safety glasses set my tray on the food trap of the cell door, then continued on his way. Breakfast was two pieces of bread, two hardboiled eggs, a scoop of potatoes, and a small carton of milk the size of what a school cafeteria would serve. The bread was dry and hard, the potatoes greasy, and the milk warm. Only fit to eat were the eggs, which I ate with small packets of salt and pepper.
I got up, put my shoes on, and began to wash up. I started to make my morning cup of hot water for coffee.
I wasn’t exactly sure what time it was when my cell racked open. All I became aware of in that instant was that I was more alert than what ten cups of coffee could have done for me. The separate pieces of steel that constituted my cell door quavered against each other, resonating a familiar clanking and grinding. As the iron bars opened, the concrete floor trembled from steel against steel. I felt my door open, in place of hearing it.
The unwritten law dictated I step outside. It was a good law in my eyes, as I’d rather clash in an open area than take my chances against an added adversary of a knife-edged desk or bunk. I stepped out and noticed that all of the prisoners were at their cell bars staring at me. Some had barely woken up, I could tell by their matted hair and red eyes, yet they were as alert as I was. Instinct adopted a cell opening as the warning signal to each man.
With my stomach knotted, my eyes narrowed as I glared at the cells, trying to discern another open cell or one that was about to open.
Click here for Central Unit Part 5.
Just received news that T-Bone was attacked by two prisoners. Will post the details in the next blog.
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.
Central Unit began with Warrior discovering a race war is raging, and the guards are staging human cock fights. Part 5 left off with Warrior getting a new neighbour, Big Tigre.
I noticed a large arm, twice as big as Cowboy’s, holding a mirror and getting a view of my cell and me. I pretended not to notice. Hearing the rapping of the mirror, I turned and walked towards the bars.
“Q-vo, ese. Yo soy [I am] Big Tigre.” My new neighbor then put his hand out for me to shake. He certainly was a big man. His hands were more like bear paws in comparison to mine. But they were also oddly soft. Not what you’d expect of a man his size. He probably led a life of leisure on the outside.
We exchanged small talk, engaging in verbal chess as we attempted to feel each another out. He told me where he was from and how much time he had left: 3 years. I exchanged the same info. We touched upon a couple of names we both knew from other yards, along with who was here with us at Central Unit. Prison is one of those subcultures where everyone knows everyone, or that six degrees of separation ties you to someone somehow.
He had to organize his cell, so we closed the conversation.
Two weeks went by. We exchanged the usual prison banter, and accustomed ourselves to each other’s personalities. I maintained my workout routine and distance from Tigre. When we’d talk, Tigre had this ritual he’d do after each sentence when the topic was a serious one: a nervous compulsion of chewing the inside corners of his lips, as though he were in constant suspense. Little by little, I started figuring him out.
Within this time, several cells housing opposite races opened up. Due to the ongoing war, if a cell housed a Mexican national, a fight occurred. The question on my mind was, When will it be my turn?
Mexican nationals had their own version of nicknames, usually based on what region of Mexico they were from. If they were from Durango, they’d go by that. If Tampico, they’d be referred to as Tampico.
There was one Mexican national in particular I kept an eye on. His name was Chicali. He was popular among his race. I noticed him always unravelling or ravelling up his fishing line to receive or send out kites. By his size, it was evident genetics had smiled upon him. He must have weighed 225 to 250 pounds, bull-like with muscle just slabbed onto the bone. The tight cords of muscle in his neck told me he was consistent in his workouts. He wasn’t tall, about my height, 5’10”. His hair was black and feathered back, parted in the middle, like a style from the 1970’s. Probably in his mid 40’s. I kept him in focus because if my cell were to open at the same time as his, he was one individual I was uneasy about facing.
I woke to the sound of the steel doors of the chow carts being opened and slammed shut as two guards began passing out breakfast trays. It was about 5am, one hour left until shift change.
A short balding guard wearing the traditional safety glasses set my tray on the food trap of the cell door, then continued on his way. Breakfast was two pieces of bread, two hardboiled eggs, a scoop of potatoes, and a small carton of milk the size of what a school cafeteria would serve. The bread was dry and hard, the potatoes greasy, and the milk warm. Only fit to eat were the eggs, which I ate with small packets of salt and pepper.
I got up, put my shoes on, and began to wash up. I started to make my morning cup of hot water for coffee.
I wasn’t exactly sure what time it was when my cell racked open. All I became aware of in that instant was that I was more alert than what ten cups of coffee could have done for me. The separate pieces of steel that constituted my cell door quavered against each other, resonating a familiar clanking and grinding. As the iron bars opened, the concrete floor trembled from steel against steel. I felt my door open, in place of hearing it.
The unwritten law dictated I step outside. It was a good law in my eyes, as I’d rather clash in an open area than take my chances against an added adversary of a knife-edged desk or bunk. I stepped out and noticed that all of the prisoners were at their cell bars staring at me. Some had barely woken up, I could tell by their matted hair and red eyes, yet they were as alert as I was. Instinct adopted a cell opening as the warning signal to each man.
With my stomach knotted, my eyes narrowed as I glared at the cells, trying to discern another open cell or one that was about to open.
Click here for Central Unit Part 5.
Just received news that T-Bone was attacked by two prisoners. Will post the details in the next blog.
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 questions raised in the comments on his $115,000 court victory over the Arizona Department of Corrections.
In response to the anonymous disgruntled taxpayer who opposes my financial settlement:
I am well aware that trust and redemption will not come easy, and I will need to earn it. However, some in society will never allow me to earn it, for one reason or another, be it due to warped ideologies (tough on crime, ie. Lock ’em up and throw away the key) or some form of psychosis caused by being victimized. It’s those people I will unfortunately have to disregard as requiring to earn from. It’d be futile to continue to try, as well as counter-productive.
For anyone to suggest that I deserved or caused the injuries I suffered while in ADOC’s custody and care is simply warped thinking, hateful and incorrect. Furthermore, the “legally correct” term of what I was required to prove was “deliberate and/or callous disregard” for my “serious medical needs.” A far higher standard of proof than mere negligence or malpractice. I basically had to prove the each and every defendant 1) knew I had hepatitis C, 2) knew it was causing pain, 3) knew it was going to worsen, 4) knew it would cause me permanent physical injury if not treated, 5) knew it put my life in jeopardy and 6) still denied/delayed me the necessary medical care. I proved all of this, thus after years of costly litigation, they settled.
I find it shameful and a perfect reflection of some people in society’s double standard when it comes to the law.
Some people are all for locking up every person who breaks the law, for long sentences, at taxpayers’ expense. Yet many of those same people think it’s just fine to break the law against a prisoner when you’re an employee of the Corrections Dept. or Police Dept. without any reparation or repercussions. To those people, I say that you are the minority in these changing times and it’s time to evolve or silence yourself to save face.
Finally…I do not “rail” against the establishment. “Railing” implies that I use theatrical language. I simply state the facts as they occurred, my opinions, etc. If it was baseless rantings I’d have been silenced long ago by the Establishment. I’ve kept my blog for nearly FIVE YEARS!
I’ve tried, and succeeded, to better myself while in prison. I was paid $115,000, as reparation, by ADOC. If this is a problem for you, contact your legislator, Gov. Brewer, Director Ryan, or A.G. Goddard and complain to them. We all know how concerned they are about your (taxpayers) economic complaints. (That’s sarcasm for those of you who missed it! LOL)
P.S. Ironman, Red & a few others send their love & respect to Weird Al. Hello, Al!
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 questions raised in the comments on his $115,000 court victory over the Arizona Department of Corrections.
In response to the anonymous disgruntled taxpayer who opposes my financial settlement:
I am well aware that trust and redemption will not come easy, and I will need to earn it. However, some in society will never allow me to earn it, for one reason or another, be it due to warped ideologies (tough on crime, ie. Lock ’em up and throw away the key) or some form of psychosis caused by being victimized. It’s those people I will unfortunately have to disregard as requiring to earn from. It’d be futile to continue to try, as well as counter-productive.
For anyone to suggest that I deserved or caused the injuries I suffered while in ADOC’s custody and care is simply warped thinking, hateful and incorrect. Furthermore, the “legally correct” term of what I was required to prove was “deliberate and/or callous disregard” for my “serious medical needs.” A far higher standard of proof than mere negligence or malpractice. I basically had to prove the each and every defendant 1) knew I had hepatitis C, 2) knew it was causing pain, 3) knew it was going to worsen, 4) knew it would cause me permanent physical injury if not treated, 5) knew it put my life in jeopardy and 6) still denied/delayed me the necessary medical care. I proved all of this, thus after years of costly litigation, they settled.
I find it shameful and a perfect reflection of some people in society’s double standard when it comes to the law.
Some people are all for locking up every person who breaks the law, for long sentences, at taxpayers’ expense. Yet many of those same people think it’s just fine to break the law against a prisoner when you’re an employee of the Corrections Dept. or Police Dept. without any reparation or repercussions. To those people, I say that you are the minority in these changing times and it’s time to evolve or silence yourself to save face.
Finally…I do not “rail” against the establishment. “Railing” implies that I use theatrical language. I simply state the facts as they occurred, my opinions, etc. If it was baseless rantings I’d have been silenced long ago by the Establishment. I’ve kept my blog for nearly FIVE YEARS!
I’ve tried, and succeeded, to better myself while in prison. I was paid $115,000, as reparation, by ADOC. If this is a problem for you, contact your legislator, Gov. Brewer, Director Ryan, or A.G. Goddard and complain to them. We all know how concerned they are about your (taxpayers) economic complaints. (That’s sarcasm for those of you who missed it! LOL)
P.S. Ironman, Red & a few others send their love & respect to Weird Al. Hello, Al!
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
From T-Bone (Letter 10)
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
6-6-09
Hello My Friend,
How are things over there? I hope this letter finds you in good spirits with a positive attitude and surrounded by love. Sounds like you had fun in Deutschland, with the lovely lady you went to see. Man, I can’t wait to get out and enjoy the natural things in life a man is supposed to enjoy.
Things here are the same. I am into helping people who are on edge because of their time and what not. I mentioned to you that I had a situation a few years back with another guy who did a lot of dope, but the guy blamed me, and I had to pay it off. The same type of people are here now, but I’m not looking after any of them. This place is really a joke, and the administration doesn’t do anything to help people with problems.
So tell me, what do you do for fun in England? It seems like such a small place. That pic you sent me of Hadrian’s Wall was cool. It looks like it might be an out of the way place. You know how it is in America, a man can get lost if he wants to. The things to do are endless. When I’m out of here, I’m going to do my best to get there and visit and learn. It’s such a place of history! After being here, how does it feel to be there? You have such a limited amount of climates. But then again, you could just drive through the tunnel and go to France and the Med for some real heat. Or Spain.
I really do miss our conversations. I miss your smile, and I can’t wait to talk to you even if it’s on the phone. We can really get things together then.
Say hello to your folks and stay strong, my brother! Peace and happiness, Shaun!
Each one
Teach one
Strength and Honor
Yours,
T-Bone
ps) You stay strong, Shaun, and don’t ever give up, man. Positive thoughts, positive actions. Love ya, man.
Click here to read T-Bone’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for T-Bone to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
6-6-09
Hello My Friend,
How are things over there? I hope this letter finds you in good spirits with a positive attitude and surrounded by love. Sounds like you had fun in Deutschland, with the lovely lady you went to see. Man, I can’t wait to get out and enjoy the natural things in life a man is supposed to enjoy.
Things here are the same. I am into helping people who are on edge because of their time and what not. I mentioned to you that I had a situation a few years back with another guy who did a lot of dope, but the guy blamed me, and I had to pay it off. The same type of people are here now, but I’m not looking after any of them. This place is really a joke, and the administration doesn’t do anything to help people with problems.
So tell me, what do you do for fun in England? It seems like such a small place. That pic you sent me of Hadrian’s Wall was cool. It looks like it might be an out of the way place. You know how it is in America, a man can get lost if he wants to. The things to do are endless. When I’m out of here, I’m going to do my best to get there and visit and learn. It’s such a place of history! After being here, how does it feel to be there? You have such a limited amount of climates. But then again, you could just drive through the tunnel and go to France and the Med for some real heat. Or Spain.
I really do miss our conversations. I miss your smile, and I can’t wait to talk to you even if it’s on the phone. We can really get things together then.
Say hello to your folks and stay strong, my brother! Peace and happiness, Shaun!
Each one
Teach one
Strength and Honor
Yours,
T-Bone
ps) You stay strong, Shaun, and don’t ever give up, man. Positive thoughts, positive actions. Love ya, man.
Click here to read T-Bone’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for T-Bone to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
On Prison Ink Both Good and Bad but Mostly Bad (Part 2 by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger – A software engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary. In Arizona, if a burglar gets killed, the accomplices get 25 year sentences.
I do like gaol tattoos, and had planned on getting at least one or two. While in the Joe Arpaio Hilton we experimented with the low-tech method. No Walkman motors were available to make the usual powered gun, so we went Polynesian style. Sharpened up a staple, mounted it on a pencil, and started digging.
But that method doesn’t produce very good results. Sure it gets in there, but clean lines are nearly impossible. Still, it’s enough for a couple of starter tattoos.
Being scared of carcinogenic soot, I ground up some pencil graphite for ink. For my first tattoo, I decided to face my fear of the pain head on. Some places hurt a lot more than others: elbows, ankles, and the sides atop the rib cage are about the worst. I cut right to the chase, pulled out my penis and carved a smiley face into it.
Yes, seriously.
It actually didn’t hurt all that bad, just bled a lot. Like we talked about in Part 1, it has blurred and faded over the years, but Mr. Smiley still grins back at me every trip to the loo!
The second tattoo is one I regretted. Trying to impress an ex girlfriend, I drilled her name onto my ankle. Don’t ever do that. It just comes back to haunt you. Especially with a staple tack. It looked horrible. Of course she was unimpressed, and I was stuck with it for several years.
A normal person would have just got another tattoo over it, a “cover up,” which is a common thing. However the Polish Avenger can not be accused of being normal. No, I had to got he extra mile and erase it.
Erase, you say, how is that possible? Well, I don’t recommend this except as a last resort. When they really have to come off, there are ways. Our collective archive of prison lore turned up these methods:
1) Run an empty tattoo gun over it. Leaves a scar of the outline.
2) Tattoo lemon juice into it. Supposedly bleaches it out. I couldn’t find any.
3) Cut it off. Yikes!
4) Burn it off. Eek!
5) Sand it off.
Believe it or not #5 works pretty well. In the next instalment we’ll cover all of the gruesome details.
Click here for Part 1.
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. In Arizona, if a burglar gets killed, the accomplices get 25 year sentences.
I do like gaol tattoos, and had planned on getting at least one or two. While in the Joe Arpaio Hilton we experimented with the low-tech method. No Walkman motors were available to make the usual powered gun, so we went Polynesian style. Sharpened up a staple, mounted it on a pencil, and started digging.
But that method doesn’t produce very good results. Sure it gets in there, but clean lines are nearly impossible. Still, it’s enough for a couple of starter tattoos.
Being scared of carcinogenic soot, I ground up some pencil graphite for ink. For my first tattoo, I decided to face my fear of the pain head on. Some places hurt a lot more than others: elbows, ankles, and the sides atop the rib cage are about the worst. I cut right to the chase, pulled out my penis and carved a smiley face into it.
Yes, seriously.
It actually didn’t hurt all that bad, just bled a lot. Like we talked about in Part 1, it has blurred and faded over the years, but Mr. Smiley still grins back at me every trip to the loo!
The second tattoo is one I regretted. Trying to impress an ex girlfriend, I drilled her name onto my ankle. Don’t ever do that. It just comes back to haunt you. Especially with a staple tack. It looked horrible. Of course she was unimpressed, and I was stuck with it for several years.
A normal person would have just got another tattoo over it, a “cover up,” which is a common thing. However the Polish Avenger can not be accused of being normal. No, I had to got he extra mile and erase it.
Erase, you say, how is that possible? Well, I don’t recommend this except as a last resort. When they really have to come off, there are ways. Our collective archive of prison lore turned up these methods:
1) Run an empty tattoo gun over it. Leaves a scar of the outline.
2) Tattoo lemon juice into it. Supposedly bleaches it out. I couldn’t find any.
3) Cut it off. Yikes!
4) Burn it off. Eek!
5) Sand it off.
Believe it or not #5 works pretty well. In the next instalment we’ll cover all of the gruesome details.
Click here for Part 1.
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
From Iron Man (Letter 5)
Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.
Jun 16, 2009
Shaun,
Hello, brother. Thank you for your recent letter. It is always great to hear from you. Things are going fine for me, spending my time exercising, studying and making the most of every single moment.
It really does my heart good to hear that you’re practicing martial arts and that you are dedicated to your physical fitness training. Have you decided which weapon you will master first? My first weapon was the nunchaku, and like your first true love, the first weapon that you master will always hold a special place in your heart.
I am so looking forward to mastering the way of the sword. The Samurai sword is such a beautiful weapon, so perfectly designed. Did I ever tell you that I own an authentic Samurai sword? My grandfather brought one home from World War II that he took in battle from a Japanese soldier. He passed the sword to my father, and then my father passed it to me. It is my most prized possession.
It is 8:30am and I just got through with a 2 hour workout. I remember with fondness the evening workout we used to do on the big field. The burpee-run combo workout at sundown after doing an hour and a half of strength training in the 110°F heat. Great times. I miss you, brother.
My workout partner for the past year went home. He was in great shape. I walked him to the gate, and he said, “Check your watch today at 3:30. I’ll be on the golf course.” I know that he’ll fare well. He never let this place affect his mind nor his spirit.
Congratulations on getting the new literary agent. I know that your big break is coming. All you must do is stay the course.
Yes, brother, I can definitely almost taste the free air again. Just a few months to go…
A wise Samurai used to keep these words carved into a plaque on his wall: “Always on the battlefield.” Make success happen, my friend, and always remember to rejoice in the present moment, and live life in every breath.
Love and Respect,
Iron Man
Click here to read Iron Man’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Iron Man to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.
Jun 16, 2009
Shaun,
Hello, brother. Thank you for your recent letter. It is always great to hear from you. Things are going fine for me, spending my time exercising, studying and making the most of every single moment.
It really does my heart good to hear that you’re practicing martial arts and that you are dedicated to your physical fitness training. Have you decided which weapon you will master first? My first weapon was the nunchaku, and like your first true love, the first weapon that you master will always hold a special place in your heart.
I am so looking forward to mastering the way of the sword. The Samurai sword is such a beautiful weapon, so perfectly designed. Did I ever tell you that I own an authentic Samurai sword? My grandfather brought one home from World War II that he took in battle from a Japanese soldier. He passed the sword to my father, and then my father passed it to me. It is my most prized possession.
It is 8:30am and I just got through with a 2 hour workout. I remember with fondness the evening workout we used to do on the big field. The burpee-run combo workout at sundown after doing an hour and a half of strength training in the 110°F heat. Great times. I miss you, brother.
My workout partner for the past year went home. He was in great shape. I walked him to the gate, and he said, “Check your watch today at 3:30. I’ll be on the golf course.” I know that he’ll fare well. He never let this place affect his mind nor his spirit.
Congratulations on getting the new literary agent. I know that your big break is coming. All you must do is stay the course.
Yes, brother, I can definitely almost taste the free air again. Just a few months to go…
A wise Samurai used to keep these words carved into a plaque on his wall: “Always on the battlefield.” Make success happen, my friend, and always remember to rejoice in the present moment, and live life in every breath.
Love and Respect,
Iron Man
Click here to read Iron Man’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Iron Man to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 6)
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.
Here’s an article recently posted to Koestler’s website, that gives my mentor’s perspective on my writing development.
Mentoring Session One
“Mentoring is a strange balancing act: somewhere between befriending and tutoring, and one I'm still getting to grips with in my sessions with Shaun. I find it an interesting coincidence that we are the same age and we left university in the same year, but the paths of our lives since then have been radically different.
“Our first session was at Liverpool's Walker Arts Gallery Cafe, whose staff have an incredibly relaxed attitude to people occupying a table for two hours with nothing but a cooling cup of coffee. At times I am painfully aware that we are discussing the mechanics of 'keystering' drugs into prison while two immaculately dressed and blue-rinsed old ladies share a pot of tea and cakes across the room. Fortunately the acoustic in the cafe is echo-y and I hope our words don't carry too far beyond our table. Shaun initially sent me a mountain of stuff to read and I made detailed notes on the first three chapters. So much about developing as a writer is about having a sympathetic reader who can see what you're trying to achieve and tell you what works and what doesn't in that context. I'm trying to walk a narrow line – I don't want Shaun to lose his own voice and become a ventriloquist of mine, but then again, I can see how his writing needs to be sharpened and de-cluttered, so that his voice and his story comes through. I have marked up the text as I would a fellow MA student, holding him to the same high standards.
“We also discuss aims and objectives, filling in the planning sheet that Koestler have provided. Shaun is a man with a mission, and in a hurry. He wants to be approaching publishers within three months. I do a lot of expectations management about the pauper's life a writer leads. I'm hoping some of it sinks in. I walk out of the session feeling a little shattered, not helped by an epic four-hour, three-train journey home.”
Sally
“My first session with Sally went extremely well. Now that I have a professional pointing out the errors in my writing and coaching me on getting published, I feel I am about to make some serious progress. After reading the draft of my autobiography, Sally offered a variety of advice... She asked me to summarise the book in one sentence. I replied, “It’s the story of my rise, fall and redemption.” She asked me to write a brief synopsis, and recommended I read these two memoirs, Lucky by Alice Sebold and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and these two prison memoirs, Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory and A Life Inside by Erwin James. When I told Sally about my high hopes of getting published as soon as I got out of prison, she said that if I was seeking immediate results, I need to find another occupation. Getting published takes years and my book must be presented in the right way because I only have one shot with each publisher, and in its present format my story would be rejected.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Two
“Reading through Shaun's first blog, I find I have been cast as the dragon lady. His blog readers are appalled, but Shaun seems happy and more importantly the next tranche of work he sends me is radically improved, with all my comments taken on board. I realise the power of my position – the lightest word from me might send Shaun off down a wrong track; a worrying responsibility. We talk about the structure of the book and I find myself torn between making concrete suggestions and getting Shaun to make up his own mind. In the end we consider a couple of approaches for Shaun to try. I sometimes have to bite back my natural tendency to have and voice an opinion – this is not my book, when all is said and done. The mentoring relationship is strictly time limited, and at the end of this year he'll have to continue on his own, and fostering a dependence on me will not be helpful.”
Sally
“The second session started with Sally helping me restructure the draft of a short synopsis of my book. The short synopsis is just for my own use, and states the basic structure of my memoir. She also wants me to consider writing a long synopsis, breaking down each chapter to give the full arc of the story. The long synopsis will be a marketing tool. It needs to state why somebody would want to read my memoir, and what my book says about a larger world.
“For homework, Sally set me the task of critical reading. She wants me to look at some books, to find some good prose and some poor prose, and to explain what works and what doesn’t. I am also to study how authors transition back in time. We both agreed John Updike is a master of such transitions. She hopes this exercise will help me critique myself more.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Three
“Shaun talks in his blog about 'homework' making me sound more school-marmish than I hope I really am. But I am trying to give him the skills of self-critique, starting with critiquing others. It's easy to become dependent on the opinions of others and lose the ability to see one's own faults. Each tranche of writing Shaun sends is better than the last, and my own critiques have had to become more nuanced. Sometimes he's overshot – I asked him to put more of himself into the writing, now at times I suggest he puts in less.
“We talk about general techniques and I am impressed by how much Shaun has anticipated my own tentative suggestions and going beyond them. The research he has put in is amazing, relying not just on his memories but on letters, and going back to the characters involved and even recording their speech to make sure he's got the dialogue right.”
Sally
“In the third session Sally offered this advice:
Make it clear to the reader how much time is passing and where you are. Try to remember the layout of the jail is confusing to the uninitiated...Consider stepping back at some point and describing how the jail works. Such as the layout, terminology, even the fact that it’s for prisoners on remand. Now that your disorientation stage is out of the way, give the reader some clues. There is a much better sense of yourself in these chapters, but be careful of editorialising. Tell us what you feel, but don’t tell us what to think... In general these three chapters feel solid and well realised, and would fit in well to the book however you slant it. Good stuff.
“Sally recommended I read The War Against Cliché by Martin Amis. It’s a book of literary criticism, containing pieces on some of my favourite authors such as Tom Wolfe and Don DeLillo.”
Shaun
“Every time I fill in my monitoring sheets after a session I have to count back to see how many we've done because I can't believe how far we've both come in a few short meetings. Half way through the project and Shaun is already producing writing that is both assured and at times powerfully moving. I'm fortunate in having someone keen to work hard and utterly dedicated – taking the few hints and tips I've made and running with them. I know I've been fortunate in my mentee (although I still don't believe that's a word) but the past six months have shown how effective this relationship can be.
“I said at the start that our lives had run along radically different courses but if they have diverged in the past, they are now converging. Increasingly we meet these days as writer and writer – sharing tips at our last session on avoiding the aches and pains of a laptop-bound sedentary life – rather than as mentor and mentee.”
Sally
Click here to read Mentored Part 5
Link to the original article.
I also received this email from the school I did my first talk about prison and drugs to:
You may remember coming to speak at Bishop's Stortford College earlier this year.
Our pupils rated your talk as the best one they had recieved all year !
I would very much like to invite you to give the same talk again next year.
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
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.
Here’s an article recently posted to Koestler’s website, that gives my mentor’s perspective on my writing development.
Mentoring Session One
“Mentoring is a strange balancing act: somewhere between befriending and tutoring, and one I'm still getting to grips with in my sessions with Shaun. I find it an interesting coincidence that we are the same age and we left university in the same year, but the paths of our lives since then have been radically different.
“Our first session was at Liverpool's Walker Arts Gallery Cafe, whose staff have an incredibly relaxed attitude to people occupying a table for two hours with nothing but a cooling cup of coffee. At times I am painfully aware that we are discussing the mechanics of 'keystering' drugs into prison while two immaculately dressed and blue-rinsed old ladies share a pot of tea and cakes across the room. Fortunately the acoustic in the cafe is echo-y and I hope our words don't carry too far beyond our table. Shaun initially sent me a mountain of stuff to read and I made detailed notes on the first three chapters. So much about developing as a writer is about having a sympathetic reader who can see what you're trying to achieve and tell you what works and what doesn't in that context. I'm trying to walk a narrow line – I don't want Shaun to lose his own voice and become a ventriloquist of mine, but then again, I can see how his writing needs to be sharpened and de-cluttered, so that his voice and his story comes through. I have marked up the text as I would a fellow MA student, holding him to the same high standards.
“We also discuss aims and objectives, filling in the planning sheet that Koestler have provided. Shaun is a man with a mission, and in a hurry. He wants to be approaching publishers within three months. I do a lot of expectations management about the pauper's life a writer leads. I'm hoping some of it sinks in. I walk out of the session feeling a little shattered, not helped by an epic four-hour, three-train journey home.”
Sally
“My first session with Sally went extremely well. Now that I have a professional pointing out the errors in my writing and coaching me on getting published, I feel I am about to make some serious progress. After reading the draft of my autobiography, Sally offered a variety of advice... She asked me to summarise the book in one sentence. I replied, “It’s the story of my rise, fall and redemption.” She asked me to write a brief synopsis, and recommended I read these two memoirs, Lucky by Alice Sebold and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and these two prison memoirs, Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory and A Life Inside by Erwin James. When I told Sally about my high hopes of getting published as soon as I got out of prison, she said that if I was seeking immediate results, I need to find another occupation. Getting published takes years and my book must be presented in the right way because I only have one shot with each publisher, and in its present format my story would be rejected.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Two
“Reading through Shaun's first blog, I find I have been cast as the dragon lady. His blog readers are appalled, but Shaun seems happy and more importantly the next tranche of work he sends me is radically improved, with all my comments taken on board. I realise the power of my position – the lightest word from me might send Shaun off down a wrong track; a worrying responsibility. We talk about the structure of the book and I find myself torn between making concrete suggestions and getting Shaun to make up his own mind. In the end we consider a couple of approaches for Shaun to try. I sometimes have to bite back my natural tendency to have and voice an opinion – this is not my book, when all is said and done. The mentoring relationship is strictly time limited, and at the end of this year he'll have to continue on his own, and fostering a dependence on me will not be helpful.”
Sally
“The second session started with Sally helping me restructure the draft of a short synopsis of my book. The short synopsis is just for my own use, and states the basic structure of my memoir. She also wants me to consider writing a long synopsis, breaking down each chapter to give the full arc of the story. The long synopsis will be a marketing tool. It needs to state why somebody would want to read my memoir, and what my book says about a larger world.
“For homework, Sally set me the task of critical reading. She wants me to look at some books, to find some good prose and some poor prose, and to explain what works and what doesn’t. I am also to study how authors transition back in time. We both agreed John Updike is a master of such transitions. She hopes this exercise will help me critique myself more.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Three
“Shaun talks in his blog about 'homework' making me sound more school-marmish than I hope I really am. But I am trying to give him the skills of self-critique, starting with critiquing others. It's easy to become dependent on the opinions of others and lose the ability to see one's own faults. Each tranche of writing Shaun sends is better than the last, and my own critiques have had to become more nuanced. Sometimes he's overshot – I asked him to put more of himself into the writing, now at times I suggest he puts in less.
“We talk about general techniques and I am impressed by how much Shaun has anticipated my own tentative suggestions and going beyond them. The research he has put in is amazing, relying not just on his memories but on letters, and going back to the characters involved and even recording their speech to make sure he's got the dialogue right.”
Sally
“In the third session Sally offered this advice:
Make it clear to the reader how much time is passing and where you are. Try to remember the layout of the jail is confusing to the uninitiated...Consider stepping back at some point and describing how the jail works. Such as the layout, terminology, even the fact that it’s for prisoners on remand. Now that your disorientation stage is out of the way, give the reader some clues. There is a much better sense of yourself in these chapters, but be careful of editorialising. Tell us what you feel, but don’t tell us what to think... In general these three chapters feel solid and well realised, and would fit in well to the book however you slant it. Good stuff.
“Sally recommended I read The War Against Cliché by Martin Amis. It’s a book of literary criticism, containing pieces on some of my favourite authors such as Tom Wolfe and Don DeLillo.”
Shaun
“Every time I fill in my monitoring sheets after a session I have to count back to see how many we've done because I can't believe how far we've both come in a few short meetings. Half way through the project and Shaun is already producing writing that is both assured and at times powerfully moving. I'm fortunate in having someone keen to work hard and utterly dedicated – taking the few hints and tips I've made and running with them. I know I've been fortunate in my mentee (although I still don't believe that's a word) but the past six months have shown how effective this relationship can be.
“I said at the start that our lives had run along radically different courses but if they have diverged in the past, they are now converging. Increasingly we meet these days as writer and writer – sharing tips at our last session on avoiding the aches and pains of a laptop-bound sedentary life – rather than as mentor and mentee.”
Sally
Click here to read Mentored Part 5
Link to the original article.
I also received this email from the school I did my first talk about prison and drugs to:
You may remember coming to speak at Bishop's Stortford College earlier this year.
Our pupils rated your talk as the best one they had recieved all year !
I would very much like to invite you to give the same talk again next year.
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
Central Unit (Part 5 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.
Central Unit began with Warrior discovering a race war is raging, and the guards are staging human cock fights. Part 4 left off with Warrior receiving some messages.
There were two kites [letters] folded to the size of a stamp. One had “READ FIRST” written on it. It was a basic introduction from Shadow, telling me who he was and stating his position. It was forceful, but courteous. He was doing life, which told me he was probably heading in the direction of becoming a fully-fledged gang member, and that’s where his loyalty would lie. He was making a future for himself, that’s how I saw it.
The next kite was from Tiger, who preferred the Spanish pronunciation Tigre. He told me he was holding it down [the local leader] for the carnales [Mexican Mafia], and that he reports to them. He also stated that all orders and moves come from and are approved by him. He’d run my information, and everything had come back clean, meaning I was on no hit list, I was no child molester or rapist, I owed no money. He ran down the latest about the war taking place. What I had to be careful for, and the times throughout the day when the drama usually occurs. I could tell that Tigre was a probate [a prisoner putting in work to become a full gang member] by the mannerisms in his letter. There was an impulsivity from him to puff his chest out and bark orders.
Lately, because of the war, the gangs had dismissed the quality of character in their prospects and were more focussed on the quantity of numbers. Due to the reduced recruiting standards, there were a lot of shitheads ready to bark orders, yet they could never order the coward out of themselves. All of the real killers I’ve known never threw their business or themselves out there in initial introductions.
The letter told me that Tigre was an egomaniac, intoxicated by power, and lacking leadership experience. That I had to be careful with him, as he was the type to abuse his authority, and put you in the crossfire to save himself or to score points, and look good by making you a casualty. A typical prison politician.
His handwriting also stood out to me. Every T was crossed perfectly, and every loop in his script was exactly the same angle, width and length. In some areas, I could see where he’d been a little off on a T or a loop, and he’d erased the letter to be sure they were all equal in size. This, in conjunction with what I’d already picked up on, told me he had obsessive-compulsive disorder, and cared extremely about what others thought of him. It was good info for me to have, just he case he became my enemy.
Cowboy rapped on the wall with his mirror. I glanced up at his tattooed arm extending out, mirror in hand, and I could see his serpent-eyed smile on the mirror. He waved for me to come over.
“I see yer boys got atcha,” Cowboy said.
“Yeah, Shadow and Tigre,” I said, looking for a cringe or facial expression their names might cause.
But Cowboy was a pro. His face didn’t give me anything. Not knowing how close he was to them, I figured I’d best tread lightly and indirectly. Since I’m half white, I played up the Anglo slang and accent just enough to affect Cowboy subconsciously, without it being noticeable. I needed him in a comfort zone to reveal information.
“They seem like they’re pretty cool dudes. Is Shadow half white by the way? Is he from Tucson?”
“Nah, he outta Phoenix. I don’t think he half wood [white]. I’m pretty sure he full ese [Mexican]. Why ya ask?”
“Oh, he looks like a Shadow I did time with back in the days. He was a half-breed like me though.”
“Ya half wood?” Cowboy said excitedly, head tilted.
“Yeah, Scottish-Irish on my pop’s side,” I said, equally excited. It’s rare that whites accept someone who isn’t fully white. But I’ve noticed over the years that they liked that I wasn’t pure Mexican. I’m guessing it was due to the I’m-purer-than-you mindset, but it never failed to help me with the whites when I needed it.
“Nah, you shitting me?”
“Seriously. Here, look at my ID.”
He took my ID, and read my last name. “Ya ain’t kiddin’, are ya?” He nodded in approval.
“Hell, I listen to rock too, bro. Don’t let this dark hair fool ya.”
We spent the next hour bullshitting over how Hitler would have won the war if he wasn’t an egomaniac trying to micro-manage everything, how every Metallica album after the black one was garbage, how Carl von Clausewitz’s book On War was one of the best books ever written on the subject.
When he was most comfortable, I asked, “So tell me, man, between you and me, what are Shadow and Tigre about?”
He was no dummy, and at that moment I figured he would catch on that I’d made conversation to pump him for information. Whether he realised or not, he didn’t let on. He went ahead and told me all I needed to know.
Shadow and Tigre were both probates. Tigre was higher up the ladder. Shadow had more sense, was humble and doing life. Tigre had five years left. Both were in their early 30’s. Tigre had the keys [head position] to the building I was in. He lacked humility, and everything I’d guessed so far was on point.
Just then an officer came in wheeling the customary steel feeding cart, overflowing with lunches in brown paper bags. Before he started feeding, he came over in between our cells. He glanced at his clipboard, and then the cell number above Cowboy’s cell. From behind dark aviator sunglasses he said, “Roll your shit up. You’re moving.” Then walked away.
“Where am I going?” Cowboy protested.
“I don’t know,” the officer replied.
“Well, Warrior, it’s been nice meetin’ ya. Ya take care, and be on yer toes.”
“You going to a yard?”
“Nah, probably another building. Administration does that around here. They moves us all around to break up the line of communication, especially with this war. It keeps the incident factor down if everyone’s too busy re-establishing positions and lines of communication.”
“Right. I see.”
“Jus’ be on yer toes. Ya never know who yer neighbor will be.”
“Take care,” I said. We shook hands and I left him to pack.
I figured it was a good time to start my workout. First, I grabbed my Sony radio and put in a new set of AA batteries. I put on my headphones and tuned into 98, a really good alternative rock station. I needed something fast to listen to for the workout. I put my shoes on, took off my shirt. At 5’10” and 175 ponds, I was confident about my size. I’ve always been cut in build. I did my stretches for 15 minutes. Legs, hamstrings, back, arms, chest, neck, the usual. I then tied an orange line twisted from an old state-issued T-shirt from one end of my cell to the other. A low-tech dummy line per se. I spent the next 30 minutes shadowboxing.
In the middle of my cardio, I saw Cowboy leave. We acknowledged each other with the raising of our brows in unison.
I finished my cardio, then started with pushups. 15 sets of 30’s, 5 with hands almost together, 5 regular, 5 wide, all within 15 minutes, 25 second rests in between each set. Then upside down pushups against the wall, 5 sets of 15 in 5 minutes. Next curls and back arms, super sets, one after the other. 5 sets of 12 curls and 5 sets of back arms in 10 minutes. Squats, 5 sets of 50. Lunges, 5 sets of 50 on each leg in 15 minutes. I ended with crunches and sit-ups, 500 in 15 minutes.
I try to knock it out in an hour, sometimes I keep at it for 2 hours, depending upon my frustration level.
As I finished, I noticed a 6’2” Mexican in handcuffs being escorted into Cowboy’s old cell. He had a shaved head, and a wide forehead that made his eyebrows seem disproportioned. His frowning mouth was apparent behind his overgrown walrus mustache. His eyes were deep-set and scanning me and my cell as he passed by. He had to weigh at least 280 pounds, a cross between fat and muscle.
I glared back, not showing I was affected. He took his property off the moving cart, then his cell was racked shut. His cuffs were removed through the trap in the door, and the two officers left.
I began to wash up. I looked at my mirror hanging above my sink. I noticed a large arm, twice as big as Cowboy’s, holding a mirror and getting a view of my cell and me. I pretended not to notice. Hearing the rapping of the mirror, I turned and walked towards the bars.
“Q-vo, ese. Yo soy [I am] Big Tigre.” He then put his hand out for me to shake.
Click here to read:
Central Unit Part 1
Central Unit Part 2
Central Unit Part 3
Central Unit Part 4
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.
Central Unit began with Warrior discovering a race war is raging, and the guards are staging human cock fights. Part 4 left off with Warrior receiving some messages.
There were two kites [letters] folded to the size of a stamp. One had “READ FIRST” written on it. It was a basic introduction from Shadow, telling me who he was and stating his position. It was forceful, but courteous. He was doing life, which told me he was probably heading in the direction of becoming a fully-fledged gang member, and that’s where his loyalty would lie. He was making a future for himself, that’s how I saw it.
The next kite was from Tiger, who preferred the Spanish pronunciation Tigre. He told me he was holding it down [the local leader] for the carnales [Mexican Mafia], and that he reports to them. He also stated that all orders and moves come from and are approved by him. He’d run my information, and everything had come back clean, meaning I was on no hit list, I was no child molester or rapist, I owed no money. He ran down the latest about the war taking place. What I had to be careful for, and the times throughout the day when the drama usually occurs. I could tell that Tigre was a probate [a prisoner putting in work to become a full gang member] by the mannerisms in his letter. There was an impulsivity from him to puff his chest out and bark orders.
Lately, because of the war, the gangs had dismissed the quality of character in their prospects and were more focussed on the quantity of numbers. Due to the reduced recruiting standards, there were a lot of shitheads ready to bark orders, yet they could never order the coward out of themselves. All of the real killers I’ve known never threw their business or themselves out there in initial introductions.
The letter told me that Tigre was an egomaniac, intoxicated by power, and lacking leadership experience. That I had to be careful with him, as he was the type to abuse his authority, and put you in the crossfire to save himself or to score points, and look good by making you a casualty. A typical prison politician.
His handwriting also stood out to me. Every T was crossed perfectly, and every loop in his script was exactly the same angle, width and length. In some areas, I could see where he’d been a little off on a T or a loop, and he’d erased the letter to be sure they were all equal in size. This, in conjunction with what I’d already picked up on, told me he had obsessive-compulsive disorder, and cared extremely about what others thought of him. It was good info for me to have, just he case he became my enemy.
Cowboy rapped on the wall with his mirror. I glanced up at his tattooed arm extending out, mirror in hand, and I could see his serpent-eyed smile on the mirror. He waved for me to come over.
“I see yer boys got atcha,” Cowboy said.
“Yeah, Shadow and Tigre,” I said, looking for a cringe or facial expression their names might cause.
But Cowboy was a pro. His face didn’t give me anything. Not knowing how close he was to them, I figured I’d best tread lightly and indirectly. Since I’m half white, I played up the Anglo slang and accent just enough to affect Cowboy subconsciously, without it being noticeable. I needed him in a comfort zone to reveal information.
“They seem like they’re pretty cool dudes. Is Shadow half white by the way? Is he from Tucson?”
“Nah, he outta Phoenix. I don’t think he half wood [white]. I’m pretty sure he full ese [Mexican]. Why ya ask?”
“Oh, he looks like a Shadow I did time with back in the days. He was a half-breed like me though.”
“Ya half wood?” Cowboy said excitedly, head tilted.
“Yeah, Scottish-Irish on my pop’s side,” I said, equally excited. It’s rare that whites accept someone who isn’t fully white. But I’ve noticed over the years that they liked that I wasn’t pure Mexican. I’m guessing it was due to the I’m-purer-than-you mindset, but it never failed to help me with the whites when I needed it.
“Nah, you shitting me?”
“Seriously. Here, look at my ID.”
He took my ID, and read my last name. “Ya ain’t kiddin’, are ya?” He nodded in approval.
“Hell, I listen to rock too, bro. Don’t let this dark hair fool ya.”
We spent the next hour bullshitting over how Hitler would have won the war if he wasn’t an egomaniac trying to micro-manage everything, how every Metallica album after the black one was garbage, how Carl von Clausewitz’s book On War was one of the best books ever written on the subject.
When he was most comfortable, I asked, “So tell me, man, between you and me, what are Shadow and Tigre about?”
He was no dummy, and at that moment I figured he would catch on that I’d made conversation to pump him for information. Whether he realised or not, he didn’t let on. He went ahead and told me all I needed to know.
Shadow and Tigre were both probates. Tigre was higher up the ladder. Shadow had more sense, was humble and doing life. Tigre had five years left. Both were in their early 30’s. Tigre had the keys [head position] to the building I was in. He lacked humility, and everything I’d guessed so far was on point.
Just then an officer came in wheeling the customary steel feeding cart, overflowing with lunches in brown paper bags. Before he started feeding, he came over in between our cells. He glanced at his clipboard, and then the cell number above Cowboy’s cell. From behind dark aviator sunglasses he said, “Roll your shit up. You’re moving.” Then walked away.
“Where am I going?” Cowboy protested.
“I don’t know,” the officer replied.
“Well, Warrior, it’s been nice meetin’ ya. Ya take care, and be on yer toes.”
“You going to a yard?”
“Nah, probably another building. Administration does that around here. They moves us all around to break up the line of communication, especially with this war. It keeps the incident factor down if everyone’s too busy re-establishing positions and lines of communication.”
“Right. I see.”
“Jus’ be on yer toes. Ya never know who yer neighbor will be.”
“Take care,” I said. We shook hands and I left him to pack.
I figured it was a good time to start my workout. First, I grabbed my Sony radio and put in a new set of AA batteries. I put on my headphones and tuned into 98, a really good alternative rock station. I needed something fast to listen to for the workout. I put my shoes on, took off my shirt. At 5’10” and 175 ponds, I was confident about my size. I’ve always been cut in build. I did my stretches for 15 minutes. Legs, hamstrings, back, arms, chest, neck, the usual. I then tied an orange line twisted from an old state-issued T-shirt from one end of my cell to the other. A low-tech dummy line per se. I spent the next 30 minutes shadowboxing.
In the middle of my cardio, I saw Cowboy leave. We acknowledged each other with the raising of our brows in unison.
I finished my cardio, then started with pushups. 15 sets of 30’s, 5 with hands almost together, 5 regular, 5 wide, all within 15 minutes, 25 second rests in between each set. Then upside down pushups against the wall, 5 sets of 15 in 5 minutes. Next curls and back arms, super sets, one after the other. 5 sets of 12 curls and 5 sets of back arms in 10 minutes. Squats, 5 sets of 50. Lunges, 5 sets of 50 on each leg in 15 minutes. I ended with crunches and sit-ups, 500 in 15 minutes.
I try to knock it out in an hour, sometimes I keep at it for 2 hours, depending upon my frustration level.
As I finished, I noticed a 6’2” Mexican in handcuffs being escorted into Cowboy’s old cell. He had a shaved head, and a wide forehead that made his eyebrows seem disproportioned. His frowning mouth was apparent behind his overgrown walrus mustache. His eyes were deep-set and scanning me and my cell as he passed by. He had to weigh at least 280 pounds, a cross between fat and muscle.
I glared back, not showing I was affected. He took his property off the moving cart, then his cell was racked shut. His cuffs were removed through the trap in the door, and the two officers left.
I began to wash up. I looked at my mirror hanging above my sink. I noticed a large arm, twice as big as Cowboy’s, holding a mirror and getting a view of my cell and me. I pretended not to notice. Hearing the rapping of the mirror, I turned and walked towards the bars.
“Q-vo, ese. Yo soy [I am] Big Tigre.” He then put his hand out for me to shake.
Click here to read:
Central Unit Part 1
Central Unit Part 2
Central Unit Part 3
Central Unit Part 4
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
Guest Writer: Rocky – Tough Break
Rocky has a year left to serve at Safford, Arizona. He was sentenced for two separate cases: burglary and aggravated assault.
I was in Yavapai County jail in 2005, waiting for sentencing. There was a guy there just arrested for D.U.I. hit and run. One of the victims was a young boy, 10 years old, paralysed from the neck down from the accident.
The guy was looking at 25 to life as a sentence. He was on the second tier in my pod. I sat and watched him tie sheets together, and wondered what the hell he was up to. Just then, he walked out of his cell and tied one end of the sheet around his neck, and the other to the top rail of the upper tier.
The guy did a swan dive off the top tier. The length of the sheet was right to hang himself, but he didn’t take into consideration the 2 ½ foot high picnic table below. He hit the table with his knees. The sheet tied around his neck so hard it sounded like a shotgun blast.
The irony of the whole thing is the impact broke his spine. Now he is a quadriplegic. Is that justice or what?
As this is Rocky’s first blog for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be greatly appreciated.
If you know a prisoner who would make a good guest writer for Jon's Jail Journal, please email me at the address below.
Email comments and questions to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Rocky has a year left to serve at Safford, Arizona. He was sentenced for two separate cases: burglary and aggravated assault.
I was in Yavapai County jail in 2005, waiting for sentencing. There was a guy there just arrested for D.U.I. hit and run. One of the victims was a young boy, 10 years old, paralysed from the neck down from the accident.
The guy was looking at 25 to life as a sentence. He was on the second tier in my pod. I sat and watched him tie sheets together, and wondered what the hell he was up to. Just then, he walked out of his cell and tied one end of the sheet around his neck, and the other to the top rail of the upper tier.
The guy did a swan dive off the top tier. The length of the sheet was right to hang himself, but he didn’t take into consideration the 2 ½ foot high picnic table below. He hit the table with his knees. The sheet tied around his neck so hard it sounded like a shotgun blast.
The irony of the whole thing is the impact broke his spine. Now he is a quadriplegic. Is that justice or what?
As this is Rocky’s first blog for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be greatly appreciated.
If you know a prisoner who would make a good guest writer for Jon's Jail Journal, please email me at the address below.
Email comments and questions to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
On Prison Ink Both Good and Bad but Mostly Bad
(Part 1 by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger – Formerly an undergraduate in software engineering, he was sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary, and in Arizona if a burglar gets killed then the accomplices get 25 year sentences.
Prisoners are a heavily tattooed bunch. Several reasons include:
- work done in here is a lot cheaper – a couple of packs of smokes versus thousands of dollars out there
- we can express individuality through rebellion and unique markings – cue Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, “I am not a number. I am a free man!”
- we join gangs and have to show how down we are
- we get bored and have nothing better to do
It’s a shame that so much prison work sucks. Sure, there are a few exceptions, but by and large most of it is crappy. Most doesn’t start that way. Guys spend literally hundreds of hours under the artist’s needle, drawing some fantastically intricate and well-shaded designs. Just doing one shoulder to wrist can run upwards of 20 hours, depending on the design and artist. It’ll look great for about two years, after which the whole thing will turn blue and smear together.
A large part of the problem is the ink. Since they won’t sell us real tattoo ink we must rely on homebrewed versions. The basic recipe is to find some plastic (dominoes, chess pieces, etc.) or a tub of hair grease, light it ablaze and capture the resulting soot. Now those of you with a chemistry background will know that burning said compounds produces a whole range of delightfully toxic cancer-causing byproducts. So what to do with these byproducts, i.e. soot? What else, inject them into your skin! I honestly don’t know if inked-up cons have higher cancer rates – that would be an interesting medical study.
Other sources of ink I’ve seen over the years have included inkjet cartridges and even copier toner powder. We can only imagine the chemical soup in that stuff. Ah, well. The important thing is Get the tattoo done no matter what!
After all that, the curious thing is that once all the endless, agonizing hours are put in, nobody really looks at them any more. Maybe in here, we’re all so used to nearly everyone being “slung down” that we hardly notice. Hell, when I first came in it was a bit of a shock, especially seeing the fellows with the fully decorated shaved head and/or face. I’d think, Geez, that dude is hardcore! Now it doesn’t even warrant a second glance. About the only similar reaction today is seeing someone with no tattoos – and the thought is, Geez, what a sissy.
Click here for Polisher Avenger’s first blog.
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
(Part 1 by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger – Formerly an undergraduate in software engineering, he was sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary, and in Arizona if a burglar gets killed then the accomplices get 25 year sentences.
Prisoners are a heavily tattooed bunch. Several reasons include:
- work done in here is a lot cheaper – a couple of packs of smokes versus thousands of dollars out there
- we can express individuality through rebellion and unique markings – cue Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, “I am not a number. I am a free man!”
- we join gangs and have to show how down we are
- we get bored and have nothing better to do
It’s a shame that so much prison work sucks. Sure, there are a few exceptions, but by and large most of it is crappy. Most doesn’t start that way. Guys spend literally hundreds of hours under the artist’s needle, drawing some fantastically intricate and well-shaded designs. Just doing one shoulder to wrist can run upwards of 20 hours, depending on the design and artist. It’ll look great for about two years, after which the whole thing will turn blue and smear together.
A large part of the problem is the ink. Since they won’t sell us real tattoo ink we must rely on homebrewed versions. The basic recipe is to find some plastic (dominoes, chess pieces, etc.) or a tub of hair grease, light it ablaze and capture the resulting soot. Now those of you with a chemistry background will know that burning said compounds produces a whole range of delightfully toxic cancer-causing byproducts. So what to do with these byproducts, i.e. soot? What else, inject them into your skin! I honestly don’t know if inked-up cons have higher cancer rates – that would be an interesting medical study.
Other sources of ink I’ve seen over the years have included inkjet cartridges and even copier toner powder. We can only imagine the chemical soup in that stuff. Ah, well. The important thing is Get the tattoo done no matter what!
After all that, the curious thing is that once all the endless, agonizing hours are put in, nobody really looks at them any more. Maybe in here, we’re all so used to nearly everyone being “slung down” that we hardly notice. Hell, when I first came in it was a bit of a shock, especially seeing the fellows with the fully decorated shaved head and/or face. I’d think, Geez, that dude is hardcore! Now it doesn’t even warrant a second glance. About the only similar reaction today is seeing someone with no tattoos – and the thought is, Geez, what a sissy.
Click here for Polisher Avenger’s first blog.
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
Postcards from Long Island (6)
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 is writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
Shaun,
What’s up, bro?
I had a very successful court appearance last week. We were able to demonstrate some weaknesses in 2 of the main charges. After my lawyer spoke, he and the prosecutor ironed out plea bargains for 4 out of 5 of the charges, and for the fifth we got a verbal offer.
First, they’re going to run everything concurrent. I’ll be getting 4.5 years plus probation on the fraud cases. Only probation on the aggravated I.D. theft. And our verbal agreement for the aggravated assault is 6.5. I feel like I was given my life back.
Everything needs to be done by December 12th. That’s when my trial date is. By then I’ll have 2 years backtime. So, with the 2 years and the 85% to serve, I’ll be home in about 3 years.
Everything fell into place beautifully. The prosecutor is being very fair. My lawyer is brilliant, and the judge has been generous. She gave us 7 more months to work all of the details out.
I feel so blessed. No other words can describe my feelings. It’s been a long road, Shaun. This last year and a half has taken a lot out of me, but has also put a lot in. Facing being shot at by the police, then facing a 20 year sentence has impacted me in new ways that I discover every day. Maybe you understand what I mean.
All around me people are getting so much time. This new county attorney is relentless. Sentences are getting longer and longer. The State of Arizona developed a new plan to deal with the budget cuts. Everyone thought they would start with early Arizona Department of Corrections’ releases…wrong. ADOC has put up for sale every complex except for Florence and Buckeye. Privatization. So if you’re in the market you can buy your own prison complex. They say the sale will bring the immediate cash they need. So Arizona will continue to become even more of a police state than it already is.
Well, my friend, I’m happy to be able to finally share some good news with you.
Take care,
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 is writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
Shaun,
What’s up, bro?
I had a very successful court appearance last week. We were able to demonstrate some weaknesses in 2 of the main charges. After my lawyer spoke, he and the prosecutor ironed out plea bargains for 4 out of 5 of the charges, and for the fifth we got a verbal offer.
First, they’re going to run everything concurrent. I’ll be getting 4.5 years plus probation on the fraud cases. Only probation on the aggravated I.D. theft. And our verbal agreement for the aggravated assault is 6.5. I feel like I was given my life back.
Everything needs to be done by December 12th. That’s when my trial date is. By then I’ll have 2 years backtime. So, with the 2 years and the 85% to serve, I’ll be home in about 3 years.
Everything fell into place beautifully. The prosecutor is being very fair. My lawyer is brilliant, and the judge has been generous. She gave us 7 more months to work all of the details out.
I feel so blessed. No other words can describe my feelings. It’s been a long road, Shaun. This last year and a half has taken a lot out of me, but has also put a lot in. Facing being shot at by the police, then facing a 20 year sentence has impacted me in new ways that I discover every day. Maybe you understand what I mean.
All around me people are getting so much time. This new county attorney is relentless. Sentences are getting longer and longer. The State of Arizona developed a new plan to deal with the budget cuts. Everyone thought they would start with early Arizona Department of Corrections’ releases…wrong. ADOC has put up for sale every complex except for Florence and Buckeye. Privatization. So if you’re in the market you can buy your own prison complex. They say the sale will bring the immediate cash they need. So Arizona will continue to become even more of a police state than it already is.
Well, my friend, I’m happy to be able to finally share some good news with you.
Take care,
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
Polish Avenger
For those of you who asked for background info on Polish Avenger, here’s his response:
For those who requested. Thanks for asking!
Back in the year 1993, I was a fairly normal computer geek wrapping up a Bachelor’s in Software Engineering. To fuel long nights of study, I began dosing small amounts of methamphetamine. That actually worked well – the drug itself wasn’t the cause of my downfall, but rather my choice to associate with the underworld characters I bought it from. They saw my potential as a digital counterfeiter. Me being young and naïve, thought we could get away with it. Obviously, this was a mistake.
On our way to steal the required equipment, one of our crew was shot and killed by the owner. Unbeknownst to us, in Arizona, when one felon dies in the commission of a crime, all of the other felons get blamed, Thus the remainder of us were charged with murder. The fact that he was our friend and we didn’t actually kill him didn’t matter. Thus, I picked up 25 years for my first offence. However, I was guilty of lesser crimes, so it’s not like I was completely blameless.
In my travels here, I’ve learned how to live as free within myself as a person can – paradoxically more so than I did when I was out!
The handle of Polish Avenger reflects both my ancestry and daily quest to avenge the harm I caused and the path not taken. And I like the way it sounds!
Stay tuned for further instalments of Polish adventure.
Do you think Polish Avenger should be doing 25 years for murder or a short sentence for burglary?
Click here for Polisher Avenger’s first blog.
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
For those of you who asked for background info on Polish Avenger, here’s his response:
For those who requested. Thanks for asking!
Back in the year 1993, I was a fairly normal computer geek wrapping up a Bachelor’s in Software Engineering. To fuel long nights of study, I began dosing small amounts of methamphetamine. That actually worked well – the drug itself wasn’t the cause of my downfall, but rather my choice to associate with the underworld characters I bought it from. They saw my potential as a digital counterfeiter. Me being young and naïve, thought we could get away with it. Obviously, this was a mistake.
On our way to steal the required equipment, one of our crew was shot and killed by the owner. Unbeknownst to us, in Arizona, when one felon dies in the commission of a crime, all of the other felons get blamed, Thus the remainder of us were charged with murder. The fact that he was our friend and we didn’t actually kill him didn’t matter. Thus, I picked up 25 years for my first offence. However, I was guilty of lesser crimes, so it’s not like I was completely blameless.
In my travels here, I’ve learned how to live as free within myself as a person can – paradoxically more so than I did when I was out!
The handle of Polish Avenger reflects both my ancestry and daily quest to avenge the harm I caused and the path not taken. And I like the way it sounds!
Stay tuned for further instalments of Polish adventure.
Do you think Polish Avenger should be doing 25 years for murder or a short sentence for burglary?
Click here for Polisher Avenger’s first blog.
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
Central Unit (Part 4 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 Part 3, Warrior learned the guards are staging cockfights in lockdown among the inmates, and there is race war going on between the whites and Chicanos versus the Mexicans.
Still in shock over the fight that had just occurred, I was unable to move. Having to swallow the lump in my throat brought me back to reality. I couldn’t believe what Cowboy had just said. Are these guards that sadistic here? I asked myself.
My mind raced with numerous thoughts. Who will I be set up to fight? I need to pick it up on my workouts. Should I make a piece of steel? What if I get caught slipping? No sleeping in the day for starters. Must get an idea of who’s who.
“How long’s it been like this here?” I asked Cowboy.
“For a minute now. Before I got here.”
“So basically we’re always on our toes?”
“Yup. You gotta be.”
“So who do I got to watch out for around here?”
“Check it out. Right now, runnin’ your people is Tiger. He’ll get atcha, and run everything down, and pick ya up to speed. In the meantime, just sit tight. I’m sure he knows you’re here.”
“Alright then,” I said.
“Well, since the action is over with, I’m gonna make a swig of coffee. I need to write a coupla kites [messages] to the boys ’bout the latest. I’ll get witcha later.”
We shook hands and parted ways for the moment.
I headed over towards my bunk, and turned on the TV. I couldn’t focus on what was on because my mind kept replaying the recent bout. My thoughts were on what preparations I needed to make in case I needed to battle. I didn’t want to make a piece [shank] and take the chance of getting caught with it. I was already locked down for 23 ½ hours a day. I had 30 minutes to shower. I didn’t want to be locked down in the hole for 24 hours. Besides if I couldn’t get the piece quick enough, what was the point? That’s the risk you take with a shank. If you hide it half-ass, you’ll get to it quick when you need it, but so will the cops if they’re searching your cell. If you hide it good, no cop will find it, but unfortunately, you probably won’t be able to get it fast enough when you need it. I’ve never liked shanks much for this reason. My confidence and comfort came from being good with my fists.
As my thoughts rolled on, I was distracted from them by a voice shouting, “Ese, Warrior!”
I motioned over towards my cell bars. My cell was the lower corner cell. Three other tiers were above me. I looked around trying to locate the direction from where the voice came. I then noticed an arm sleeved with prison ink waving at me from two tiers up on the opposite side of my cell.
“I’m coming down!” said the owner of the arms. “Do you know how to fish?”
“Yeah,” I hollered back.
Fishing in prison is where one twists up some line made from the thread of boxers, T-shirts, sheets, even a towel. The line thickness and length varies depending on what you’re pulling towards you and how far you have to go. What you’re doing though, is sending or retrieving something from another’s line. It’s called fishing because you have to cast your line out several times in order to catch the other person’s. Weights like combs, batteries, bars of soap, are tied to the ends of the lines for greater manoeuvrability and retrieval.
Just then I heard Cowboy at the bars. “Hey, there’s a fishing line underneath yer bunk. The dude there before left it for the next guy.”
I went and looked below my bunk. Wrapped up in a hiding spot only those doing time are usually aware of was a white nylon line made from the polyester band that makes the elastic in boxers. Those lines are usually strong. I retrieved and began to unravel the line. It had the crimped half end of a toothpaste tube stuffed with cardboard for a weight. Perfect, I thought. It’s exactly how I would have made a line.
I then heard a soft thud hit the concrete just outside my bars. An orange line was stretching from the tattooed arms two tiers up to the floor just in front of me. At the end of the line was a sock stuffed with what looked to be a milk carton for a weight. The ingenuity of a prisoner’s weight says a lot about him when it comes to fishing. The more creative, the more disciplined he is. The more half ass, the more lazy.
I shot my toothpaste-tube weight out over the orange line. “OK! Pull your slack!” I yelled.
The tattooed arms pulled the slack, lifting my line high enough to yank the toothpaste weight underneath his, so I could pull his line and weight in. I had his line in my house. “OK! I got it!” I yelled.
“Pull!” he yelled.
I pulled in his orange line until I was met with a little plastic bag containing a kite for me.
“Orale, I got it!” I shouted.
“Orale, read the wila [letter] and get back at us!”
“Alright then!”
“Have a buen dia [good day], Warrior!”
“Tu tambien [you also].”
I detached the letter, threw out the orange line and began to read the message.
Click here to read:
Central Unit Part 1
Central Unit Part 2
Central Unit Part 3
More About Fishing In Prison
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 Part 3, Warrior learned the guards are staging cockfights in lockdown among the inmates, and there is race war going on between the whites and Chicanos versus the Mexicans.
Still in shock over the fight that had just occurred, I was unable to move. Having to swallow the lump in my throat brought me back to reality. I couldn’t believe what Cowboy had just said. Are these guards that sadistic here? I asked myself.
My mind raced with numerous thoughts. Who will I be set up to fight? I need to pick it up on my workouts. Should I make a piece of steel? What if I get caught slipping? No sleeping in the day for starters. Must get an idea of who’s who.
“How long’s it been like this here?” I asked Cowboy.
“For a minute now. Before I got here.”
“So basically we’re always on our toes?”
“Yup. You gotta be.”
“So who do I got to watch out for around here?”
“Check it out. Right now, runnin’ your people is Tiger. He’ll get atcha, and run everything down, and pick ya up to speed. In the meantime, just sit tight. I’m sure he knows you’re here.”
“Alright then,” I said.
“Well, since the action is over with, I’m gonna make a swig of coffee. I need to write a coupla kites [messages] to the boys ’bout the latest. I’ll get witcha later.”
We shook hands and parted ways for the moment.
I headed over towards my bunk, and turned on the TV. I couldn’t focus on what was on because my mind kept replaying the recent bout. My thoughts were on what preparations I needed to make in case I needed to battle. I didn’t want to make a piece [shank] and take the chance of getting caught with it. I was already locked down for 23 ½ hours a day. I had 30 minutes to shower. I didn’t want to be locked down in the hole for 24 hours. Besides if I couldn’t get the piece quick enough, what was the point? That’s the risk you take with a shank. If you hide it half-ass, you’ll get to it quick when you need it, but so will the cops if they’re searching your cell. If you hide it good, no cop will find it, but unfortunately, you probably won’t be able to get it fast enough when you need it. I’ve never liked shanks much for this reason. My confidence and comfort came from being good with my fists.
As my thoughts rolled on, I was distracted from them by a voice shouting, “Ese, Warrior!”
I motioned over towards my cell bars. My cell was the lower corner cell. Three other tiers were above me. I looked around trying to locate the direction from where the voice came. I then noticed an arm sleeved with prison ink waving at me from two tiers up on the opposite side of my cell.
“I’m coming down!” said the owner of the arms. “Do you know how to fish?”
“Yeah,” I hollered back.
Fishing in prison is where one twists up some line made from the thread of boxers, T-shirts, sheets, even a towel. The line thickness and length varies depending on what you’re pulling towards you and how far you have to go. What you’re doing though, is sending or retrieving something from another’s line. It’s called fishing because you have to cast your line out several times in order to catch the other person’s. Weights like combs, batteries, bars of soap, are tied to the ends of the lines for greater manoeuvrability and retrieval.
Just then I heard Cowboy at the bars. “Hey, there’s a fishing line underneath yer bunk. The dude there before left it for the next guy.”
I went and looked below my bunk. Wrapped up in a hiding spot only those doing time are usually aware of was a white nylon line made from the polyester band that makes the elastic in boxers. Those lines are usually strong. I retrieved and began to unravel the line. It had the crimped half end of a toothpaste tube stuffed with cardboard for a weight. Perfect, I thought. It’s exactly how I would have made a line.
I then heard a soft thud hit the concrete just outside my bars. An orange line was stretching from the tattooed arms two tiers up to the floor just in front of me. At the end of the line was a sock stuffed with what looked to be a milk carton for a weight. The ingenuity of a prisoner’s weight says a lot about him when it comes to fishing. The more creative, the more disciplined he is. The more half ass, the more lazy.
I shot my toothpaste-tube weight out over the orange line. “OK! Pull your slack!” I yelled.
The tattooed arms pulled the slack, lifting my line high enough to yank the toothpaste weight underneath his, so I could pull his line and weight in. I had his line in my house. “OK! I got it!” I yelled.
“Pull!” he yelled.
I pulled in his orange line until I was met with a little plastic bag containing a kite for me.
“Orale, I got it!” I shouted.
“Orale, read the wila [letter] and get back at us!”
“Alright then!”
“Have a buen dia [good day], Warrior!”
“Tu tambien [you also].”
I detached the letter, threw out the orange line and began to read the message.
Click here to read:
Central Unit Part 1
Central Unit Part 2
Central Unit Part 3
More About Fishing In Prison
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
The Crackhead Mariachi (by Long Island)
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 is writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
My cellmate is a paisa from Acapulco, but he’s been in the States for 25years. He’s a mariachi. He plays the bass guitar. He also smokes a lot of crack.
One night after performing at a restaurant, he started smoking crack and drinking. He blew all of his money by about 2am. He called a taxi driver he knew, who was also his crack connection. She came and picked him up. He tried to get her to give him some dope on credit and she refused. He then stabbed her four times, tied her up, put a plastic bag over her head, put her in the trunk of the cab and drove off in her car.
While she was in the trunk, she chewed a hole in the bag , so she could breathe. He took all of her dope and the $60 she had in her purse.
When he stopped the taxi, he opened up the trunk to check on the poor woman, pulled the bag off her head, and said, “Are you still alive, you ugly bitch?” He then closed the trunk again, and ran off in his mariachi suit.
He ran into South Phoenix, carrying a huge bass guitar. He was covered in blood and the cops were after him. He mugged a bike off a homeless guy, and took off to his brothers’ house.
The cops were already at his brothers’, and they both told on him and are going to testify against him. Near his brothers’, he got arrested.
The victim has showed up at every court date, begging the prosecutor to put him away for life. So far they’ve offered him 18 years.
We’ve been cellies for almost a year now. Despite what he did, he’s really a nice guy.
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 is writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
My cellmate is a paisa from Acapulco, but he’s been in the States for 25years. He’s a mariachi. He plays the bass guitar. He also smokes a lot of crack.
One night after performing at a restaurant, he started smoking crack and drinking. He blew all of his money by about 2am. He called a taxi driver he knew, who was also his crack connection. She came and picked him up. He tried to get her to give him some dope on credit and she refused. He then stabbed her four times, tied her up, put a plastic bag over her head, put her in the trunk of the cab and drove off in her car.
While she was in the trunk, she chewed a hole in the bag , so she could breathe. He took all of her dope and the $60 she had in her purse.
When he stopped the taxi, he opened up the trunk to check on the poor woman, pulled the bag off her head, and said, “Are you still alive, you ugly bitch?” He then closed the trunk again, and ran off in his mariachi suit.
He ran into South Phoenix, carrying a huge bass guitar. He was covered in blood and the cops were after him. He mugged a bike off a homeless guy, and took off to his brothers’ house.
The cops were already at his brothers’, and they both told on him and are going to testify against him. Near his brothers’, he got arrested.
The victim has showed up at every court date, begging the prosecutor to put him away for life. So far they’ve offered him 18 years.
We’ve been cellies for almost a year now. Despite what he did, he’s really a nice guy.
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
Guard Peppersprays Female Prisoner's Corpse (by Lifer Renee)
Renee - She was only a teenager when she received a sixty-year sentence from a judge in Pima County. Fourteen years into her sentence, Renee is writing from Perryville prison in Goodyear, Arizona, providing a rare and unique insight into a women's prison.
I was walking back to the yard after work. My heart was heavy. The yard was silent due to a lockdown.
At about 7am, I heard a panic-stricken voice over the radio. “This is 30 Yard to Main Control. I am initiating an ICS. I have inmate Soto in her cell. She has something tied around her neck. She is unresponsive. I need Medical and an A-Team response.”
Moments later: “The nurse is administering CPR.”
The next afternoon, we were released from lockdown status, so I went to see my friend, Cletis.
I asked her, “Friend, what happened? Please tell me she didn’t die.”
“Oh my God! Yes, friend, she did die.” Looking at me dead in the eye, she grabbed my arm. “Friend, they couldn’t get her down. Officer A. is traumatized. They said Soto, was blue and they couldn’t cut whatever was around her neck.”
“Where did she hang herself from?”
“The ladder.”
“Where the hell were the Suicide Prevention Aides?”
“They lost their jobs because of the budget cuts.”
“Where the hell were the cops?”
“Well, Macey was showing her ass again, causing all kinds of trouble. All of the officers on 30 Yard were dealing with that.” Cletis then asked, “Friend, do you know they sprayed her?”
“Sprayed her for what?”
“To try and get her to move. They unloaded a can of pepper spray in the room.”
“They sprayed someone who was dead!”
“Yes, friend. Then Johnson set her room on fire. She lit the place up. That’s why we didn’t come out last night.”
“How sad,” I said. “They keep those girls back there entirely too long.”
“I know, friend.”
Silence fell between us as we watched the women on the yard.
Click here for Renee’s blog about the death of Marcia Powell.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments. Email comments for Renee 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
Renee - She was only a teenager when she received a sixty-year sentence from a judge in Pima County. Fourteen years into her sentence, Renee is writing from Perryville prison in Goodyear, Arizona, providing a rare and unique insight into a women's prison.
I was walking back to the yard after work. My heart was heavy. The yard was silent due to a lockdown.
At about 7am, I heard a panic-stricken voice over the radio. “This is 30 Yard to Main Control. I am initiating an ICS. I have inmate Soto in her cell. She has something tied around her neck. She is unresponsive. I need Medical and an A-Team response.”
Moments later: “The nurse is administering CPR.”
The next afternoon, we were released from lockdown status, so I went to see my friend, Cletis.
I asked her, “Friend, what happened? Please tell me she didn’t die.”
“Oh my God! Yes, friend, she did die.” Looking at me dead in the eye, she grabbed my arm. “Friend, they couldn’t get her down. Officer A. is traumatized. They said Soto, was blue and they couldn’t cut whatever was around her neck.”
“Where did she hang herself from?”
“The ladder.”
“Where the hell were the Suicide Prevention Aides?”
“They lost their jobs because of the budget cuts.”
“Where the hell were the cops?”
“Well, Macey was showing her ass again, causing all kinds of trouble. All of the officers on 30 Yard were dealing with that.” Cletis then asked, “Friend, do you know they sprayed her?”
“Sprayed her for what?”
“To try and get her to move. They unloaded a can of pepper spray in the room.”
“They sprayed someone who was dead!”
“Yes, friend. Then Johnson set her room on fire. She lit the place up. That’s why we didn’t come out last night.”
“How sad,” I said. “They keep those girls back there entirely too long.”
“I know, friend.”
Silence fell between us as we watched the women on the yard.
Click here for Renee’s blog about the death of Marcia Powell.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments. Email comments for Renee 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
Mentored (Part 5)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read the middle section of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Several of the chapters cover a period when the Italian Mafia took over our pod in Towers jail. From that period, Sally likes a particular anecdote about Paulie.
Here’s the introduction to the Italians:
Young Marco was a new arrival to our pod. Within days of him moving into cell D15, he had the guards fetch two of his friends, Paulie and Hugo, from other parts of the jail to join him. No one was quite sure how he’d arranged this – I was flabbergasted – but rumours soon spread that he was the son of a Mafioso and bribery was involved. It also circulated that he’d won trophies for kickboxing, but he didn’t look the fighting type. He was short, with a happy innocent look about him. He had large affectionate eyes, and eyelashes long enough for women to envy. His thick brown tresses and olive complexion made him look unlike anyone else in the jail. From a distance, he seemed unimpressive, but close up, the self-confidence he radiated swept you away. He was in for punching someone. We shared the same attorney, Alan Simpson.
Lanky and with stately slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, Argentinean Hugo idolised Marco and acted in the capacity of his butler. The son of Italian immigrants, he spoke Italian, Spanish, and English fluently. Although in his forties, he was prone to emotional outbursts, which he put down to his South American upbringing. He wrote love letters to his wife signed in his own blood. Listening to inmates tell sad stories and during church services, he often wept. He was facing deportation to Argentina where he claimed he was blacklisted as a political dissident and the government would execute him on arrival. I paid him cookies to teach me Spanish, a language I was determined to master.
The stocky Italian-New Yorker Paulie looked like a typical Hollywood Mafia goon. He had beady brown eyes, a boxer’s flat nose, and hairy sausage fingers that dealt out a nutcracker of a handshake. Every few days, he vented his anger on Hugo much to our amusement. But like Hugo, he was prone to crying, especially when talking about how much he missed his wife and kids.
Much to the astonishment of the guards and inmates a drawing of the Italian flag and a sign went up on the door of D15: LITTLE ITALY. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and laughed out loud the first few times I saw it.
Here’s the anecdote Sally likes:
“’Ey, England,” Paulie said, entering D10 with a scowl that made me squirm on my bunk. “I’ve come to you ’cause I know you’re the only one in here that’ll give me a straight-up fucking answer.”
“What is it, Paulie? You know I’ll help you if I can,” I said, sitting up fast to give him my full attention.
“You promise me you’ll tell me the truth no matter what I fucking ask?”
“Of course I will.”
“Well then. Tell me this then: do I have a fucking anger problem?” He stared at me as if he were a lie detector equipped to punish a wrong answer.
I pushed thoughts of Why me? out of my head and searched for something safe to say. “Here’s what I think, Paulie. You’re a really nice fella, but you do get a little excited every now and then. You’re an emotional person, and everyone likes you.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.
“So you’re saying I do have a fucking anger problem then?” he grunted.
I paused to find a better answer. “I try and stay as calm as possible during stressful situations, but I can see how you handle things a little differently and like to speak what’s on your mind.”
He looked up as if in deep thought. “So are you saying I do or do not have a fucking anger problem?”
Cornered, I risked being more specific: “I’d say that you don’t have an anger problem, but you do get angrier than most of us.” I studied his face.
He scratched his chin. “So you’re saying I do have a little bit of an anger problem?”
The jokey high-pitched way he’d said a little bit encouraged me to mimic him. “Maybe a little bit of an anger problem, but nothing to lose any sleep over.”
He leaned toward me and I flinched. His hand appeared to be coming for my face, but instead it found my shoulder. Rocking my shoulder, he said, “Thanks, England. I really appreciate your honesty.” Much to my relief, he marched out of the cell. He stomped down the stairs into the day room toward Hugo who was stood watching the TV. He stopped when his face was inches away from Hugo’s, and yelled, “England said I don’t have no fucking anger problem!” He thrust his palms into Hugo’s chest, knocking Hugo over a table. I felt partially responsible. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!” Jabbing his index finger into Hugo’s face, he yelled, “Don’t ever talk shit to me again about no fucking anger problem!”
Here are Sally’s comments on the middle section of the book:
– Overall the writing in these chapters flows well, and it’s nicely paced.
– Not sure entirely that your chapter divisions work. Still feel too short, but it’s not a big deal at the moment.
– Thinking about the structure overall, you may need to cut some of this, but for now write it down and think about shaping and pacing later.
– Try reading some passages aloud to others, e.g.) the anger-problem conversation with Paulie. Do less and let the dialogue and situation speak for themselves.
– Overall this is better, but it shows signs of hasty editing.
– The letters you wrote from the jail work well in this context.
– Now need to look at the overall structure of the book. I’m beginning to lose track of what’s in and what’s been taken out.
Sally went on to explain that completing the book is not the end of the work. To market a book to agents, you need essential marketing tools such as a pitch letter, a chapter outline, a synopsis, a proposal… I’ve found writing these things to be more difficult than writing the book itself.
Here’s my attempt at a pitch letter:
Dear (agent’s full name),
I am writing to you on the recommendation of xxxxx. I have been approached by a number of literary agents, but she told me you are a wizard with memoir. Having read your site, I was pleased to see you have a prison writer in your client list.
I am the author of the blog, Jon’s Jail Journal (http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/), which attracted international media attention to the conditions in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail in Phoenix, Arizona. My blog only documented the final few months of my stay, so I have written a book about the twenty-six months I spent there.
Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail describes my journey through America’s most notorious jail system. It provides a revealing glimpse into the tragedy, brutality, comedy and eccentricity of jail life and the men inside. It is also a story of my redemption, as incarceration leads to introspection, and a passion for literature, yoga, and philosophy.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio is the most famous sheriff in the world, and seems to be at the peak of his fame with a book published last year and his own reality TV show. He makes his inmates wear pink boxers, puts them to work on chain gangs, and feeds them green bologna. But he is also the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by various human rights organisations. No book has yet been written from the point of view of one of Arpaio’s inmates. Most inmates are only there for a few months awaiting sentencing. During the twenty-six months I was there, I developed a deep understanding of the jail. This book would expose the inhumane conditions he has created, and could possibly save people's lives.
My crimes: I was convicted of money laundering and drug offences. I immigrated to Phoenix, became a stockbroker, and then a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. I brought my love of the English dance scene with me, and threw raves. But I also used club drugs, and invested in them, especially Ecstasy. I was deported in December, 2007. I recently moved to London to start a job speaking to audiences of youths about drugs and the bad choices I made that led to prison.
If you think you might be interested in reading some chapters from my memoir, please let me know and I will send them on to you as soon as possible.Hoping to hear from you soon,
Shaun Attwood
I’m pleased to report that I’ve finally signed with a literary agent out of London. I met him last month. We got along really well. He has an impressive client list, and the right contacts to market my book in America. As many of you know, my original agent died of cancer last year at age 41, which was a great shock. With Sally and now this new agent helping launch my career as an author, I’m confident of achieving my next goal: getting a publishing deal.
Click here to read Mentored Part 4.
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
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read the middle section of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Several of the chapters cover a period when the Italian Mafia took over our pod in Towers jail. From that period, Sally likes a particular anecdote about Paulie.
Here’s the introduction to the Italians:
Young Marco was a new arrival to our pod. Within days of him moving into cell D15, he had the guards fetch two of his friends, Paulie and Hugo, from other parts of the jail to join him. No one was quite sure how he’d arranged this – I was flabbergasted – but rumours soon spread that he was the son of a Mafioso and bribery was involved. It also circulated that he’d won trophies for kickboxing, but he didn’t look the fighting type. He was short, with a happy innocent look about him. He had large affectionate eyes, and eyelashes long enough for women to envy. His thick brown tresses and olive complexion made him look unlike anyone else in the jail. From a distance, he seemed unimpressive, but close up, the self-confidence he radiated swept you away. He was in for punching someone. We shared the same attorney, Alan Simpson.
Lanky and with stately slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, Argentinean Hugo idolised Marco and acted in the capacity of his butler. The son of Italian immigrants, he spoke Italian, Spanish, and English fluently. Although in his forties, he was prone to emotional outbursts, which he put down to his South American upbringing. He wrote love letters to his wife signed in his own blood. Listening to inmates tell sad stories and during church services, he often wept. He was facing deportation to Argentina where he claimed he was blacklisted as a political dissident and the government would execute him on arrival. I paid him cookies to teach me Spanish, a language I was determined to master.
The stocky Italian-New Yorker Paulie looked like a typical Hollywood Mafia goon. He had beady brown eyes, a boxer’s flat nose, and hairy sausage fingers that dealt out a nutcracker of a handshake. Every few days, he vented his anger on Hugo much to our amusement. But like Hugo, he was prone to crying, especially when talking about how much he missed his wife and kids.
Much to the astonishment of the guards and inmates a drawing of the Italian flag and a sign went up on the door of D15: LITTLE ITALY. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and laughed out loud the first few times I saw it.
Here’s the anecdote Sally likes:
“’Ey, England,” Paulie said, entering D10 with a scowl that made me squirm on my bunk. “I’ve come to you ’cause I know you’re the only one in here that’ll give me a straight-up fucking answer.”
“What is it, Paulie? You know I’ll help you if I can,” I said, sitting up fast to give him my full attention.
“You promise me you’ll tell me the truth no matter what I fucking ask?”
“Of course I will.”
“Well then. Tell me this then: do I have a fucking anger problem?” He stared at me as if he were a lie detector equipped to punish a wrong answer.
I pushed thoughts of Why me? out of my head and searched for something safe to say. “Here’s what I think, Paulie. You’re a really nice fella, but you do get a little excited every now and then. You’re an emotional person, and everyone likes you.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.
“So you’re saying I do have a fucking anger problem then?” he grunted.
I paused to find a better answer. “I try and stay as calm as possible during stressful situations, but I can see how you handle things a little differently and like to speak what’s on your mind.”
He looked up as if in deep thought. “So are you saying I do or do not have a fucking anger problem?”
Cornered, I risked being more specific: “I’d say that you don’t have an anger problem, but you do get angrier than most of us.” I studied his face.
He scratched his chin. “So you’re saying I do have a little bit of an anger problem?”
The jokey high-pitched way he’d said a little bit encouraged me to mimic him. “Maybe a little bit of an anger problem, but nothing to lose any sleep over.”
He leaned toward me and I flinched. His hand appeared to be coming for my face, but instead it found my shoulder. Rocking my shoulder, he said, “Thanks, England. I really appreciate your honesty.” Much to my relief, he marched out of the cell. He stomped down the stairs into the day room toward Hugo who was stood watching the TV. He stopped when his face was inches away from Hugo’s, and yelled, “England said I don’t have no fucking anger problem!” He thrust his palms into Hugo’s chest, knocking Hugo over a table. I felt partially responsible. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!” Jabbing his index finger into Hugo’s face, he yelled, “Don’t ever talk shit to me again about no fucking anger problem!”
Here are Sally’s comments on the middle section of the book:
– Overall the writing in these chapters flows well, and it’s nicely paced.
– Not sure entirely that your chapter divisions work. Still feel too short, but it’s not a big deal at the moment.
– Thinking about the structure overall, you may need to cut some of this, but for now write it down and think about shaping and pacing later.
– Try reading some passages aloud to others, e.g.) the anger-problem conversation with Paulie. Do less and let the dialogue and situation speak for themselves.
– Overall this is better, but it shows signs of hasty editing.
– The letters you wrote from the jail work well in this context.
– Now need to look at the overall structure of the book. I’m beginning to lose track of what’s in and what’s been taken out.
Sally went on to explain that completing the book is not the end of the work. To market a book to agents, you need essential marketing tools such as a pitch letter, a chapter outline, a synopsis, a proposal… I’ve found writing these things to be more difficult than writing the book itself.
Here’s my attempt at a pitch letter:
Dear (agent’s full name),
I am writing to you on the recommendation of xxxxx. I have been approached by a number of literary agents, but she told me you are a wizard with memoir. Having read your site, I was pleased to see you have a prison writer in your client list.
I am the author of the blog, Jon’s Jail Journal (http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/), which attracted international media attention to the conditions in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail in Phoenix, Arizona. My blog only documented the final few months of my stay, so I have written a book about the twenty-six months I spent there.
Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail describes my journey through America’s most notorious jail system. It provides a revealing glimpse into the tragedy, brutality, comedy and eccentricity of jail life and the men inside. It is also a story of my redemption, as incarceration leads to introspection, and a passion for literature, yoga, and philosophy.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio is the most famous sheriff in the world, and seems to be at the peak of his fame with a book published last year and his own reality TV show. He makes his inmates wear pink boxers, puts them to work on chain gangs, and feeds them green bologna. But he is also the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by various human rights organisations. No book has yet been written from the point of view of one of Arpaio’s inmates. Most inmates are only there for a few months awaiting sentencing. During the twenty-six months I was there, I developed a deep understanding of the jail. This book would expose the inhumane conditions he has created, and could possibly save people's lives.
My crimes: I was convicted of money laundering and drug offences. I immigrated to Phoenix, became a stockbroker, and then a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. I brought my love of the English dance scene with me, and threw raves. But I also used club drugs, and invested in them, especially Ecstasy. I was deported in December, 2007. I recently moved to London to start a job speaking to audiences of youths about drugs and the bad choices I made that led to prison.
If you think you might be interested in reading some chapters from my memoir, please let me know and I will send them on to you as soon as possible.Hoping to hear from you soon,
Shaun Attwood
I’m pleased to report that I’ve finally signed with a literary agent out of London. I met him last month. We got along really well. He has an impressive client list, and the right contacts to market my book in America. As many of you know, my original agent died of cancer last year at age 41, which was a great shock. With Sally and now this new agent helping launch my career as an author, I’m confident of achieving my next goal: getting a publishing deal.
Click here to read Mentored Part 4.
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
Mental Warfare (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.
“He isn’t in place, you fuckin’ Nazi! He’ll be in place when the fuckin’ door opens for the transfer!” Mark screamed at the guards, spittle spraying from his mouth and frothing at the corners of his lips.
Pushing the food tray through the slot in the door, the guard was patient. “It’s dinner. Grab your tray.”
Mark grabbed his styro-tray and quickly moved away from the door defensively., flinching when the guard shut the trap.
I’d been in the hole for a week doing 30 days Disciplinary Isolation. Mark lived one cell down from me. Although the cell block was for disciplinary, Mark wasn’t a disciplinary prisoner per se. Mark was mentally disturbed. He appeared to have a psychotic disorder.
Sadly, in prison, mentally-ill convicts oftentimes end up in lockdown for much of their sentence. It’s the cheaper and easier way for the Department of Corrections to deal with the mentally ill.
“Shane, I need you salt packet,” Mark calmly whispered to me after the guard left.
“Here ya go, Mark,” I responded, reaching my hand out beneath my door and sliding the salt packet in front of his door.
He cackled under his breath as he retrieved the salt. Suddenly, Mark screamed out in terror, and I could hear the dull thud of his fists impacting the solid concrete wall. The sounds of a struggle, more hard impacts and then silence could be heard from his cell.
“You alright, Mark?” I asked.
Silence.
“Mark, what’s up?” I asked, knocking on the wall.
“Shhhh… I chased him away. He’s still watching though,” he whispered to me. “Give up!” Mark yelled at the top of his lungs.
“What the fuck?” a guard yelled, entering the cellblock, heading directly to Mark’s cellfront. He looked inside the cell, pulled out his radio, and called a medical emergency, explaining, “I have an inmate with bloody hands, and a bleeding contusion on his head!”
A few minutes passed by. A nurse arrived. Behind six guards in riot gear, clad in black.
“Rack cell 4!” the lead guard shouted.
The door slid open, and I could hear the scuffle and grunts as Mark tried to fight off his attackers.
“He’s fuckin’ biting me! Sonofabitch! Get him off me!” a guard yelled in pain.
Minutes later, the guards carried Mark out. He was cuffed and shackled. His head had a huge lump, seeping blood where he had head-butted the wall. His fists were swollen and bloody from pummelling the wall.
The last guard to exit the cell held his right forearm where Mark had bit him in the mêlée.
Mark perceived the world around him differently than others. He was fighting for his life.
Mark was doing six years for burglary. His court-appointed public defender got him to sign a plea agreement despite his mental incompetence, His burglary was nothing like mine. Mark was found hiding in his neighbors apartment from “men” who wanted to hurt him. How do I know this? He would write me notes – often just gibberish – on the backs of his legal documents.
When the prison shirks its legal, ethical and moral responsibilities to care for its mentally-ill inmates , by simply keeping them locked away, it only compounds the inmates’ problems, further debilitates weakened minds, and taxes the public even more so later on. Most of us in prison will be released one day, including the mentally ill.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Click here to add your comment to the debate raging about Shane’s $115,000 court victory over the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Email other 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.
“He isn’t in place, you fuckin’ Nazi! He’ll be in place when the fuckin’ door opens for the transfer!” Mark screamed at the guards, spittle spraying from his mouth and frothing at the corners of his lips.
Pushing the food tray through the slot in the door, the guard was patient. “It’s dinner. Grab your tray.”
Mark grabbed his styro-tray and quickly moved away from the door defensively., flinching when the guard shut the trap.
I’d been in the hole for a week doing 30 days Disciplinary Isolation. Mark lived one cell down from me. Although the cell block was for disciplinary, Mark wasn’t a disciplinary prisoner per se. Mark was mentally disturbed. He appeared to have a psychotic disorder.
Sadly, in prison, mentally-ill convicts oftentimes end up in lockdown for much of their sentence. It’s the cheaper and easier way for the Department of Corrections to deal with the mentally ill.
“Shane, I need you salt packet,” Mark calmly whispered to me after the guard left.
“Here ya go, Mark,” I responded, reaching my hand out beneath my door and sliding the salt packet in front of his door.
He cackled under his breath as he retrieved the salt. Suddenly, Mark screamed out in terror, and I could hear the dull thud of his fists impacting the solid concrete wall. The sounds of a struggle, more hard impacts and then silence could be heard from his cell.
“You alright, Mark?” I asked.
Silence.
“Mark, what’s up?” I asked, knocking on the wall.
“Shhhh… I chased him away. He’s still watching though,” he whispered to me. “Give up!” Mark yelled at the top of his lungs.
“What the fuck?” a guard yelled, entering the cellblock, heading directly to Mark’s cellfront. He looked inside the cell, pulled out his radio, and called a medical emergency, explaining, “I have an inmate with bloody hands, and a bleeding contusion on his head!”
A few minutes passed by. A nurse arrived. Behind six guards in riot gear, clad in black.
“Rack cell 4!” the lead guard shouted.
The door slid open, and I could hear the scuffle and grunts as Mark tried to fight off his attackers.
“He’s fuckin’ biting me! Sonofabitch! Get him off me!” a guard yelled in pain.
Minutes later, the guards carried Mark out. He was cuffed and shackled. His head had a huge lump, seeping blood where he had head-butted the wall. His fists were swollen and bloody from pummelling the wall.
The last guard to exit the cell held his right forearm where Mark had bit him in the mêlée.
Mark perceived the world around him differently than others. He was fighting for his life.
Mark was doing six years for burglary. His court-appointed public defender got him to sign a plea agreement despite his mental incompetence, His burglary was nothing like mine. Mark was found hiding in his neighbors apartment from “men” who wanted to hurt him. How do I know this? He would write me notes – often just gibberish – on the backs of his legal documents.
When the prison shirks its legal, ethical and moral responsibilities to care for its mentally-ill inmates , by simply keeping them locked away, it only compounds the inmates’ problems, further debilitates weakened minds, and taxes the public even more so later on. Most of us in prison will be released one day, including the mentally ill.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Click here to add your comment to the debate raging about Shane’s $115,000 court victory over the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Email other 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
09 Jun 09
Shane’s $115,000 Court Victory against the Arizona Department of Corrections
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.
Here’s the news as told by Shane:
In 2006 I sued because the Arizona Department of Corrections’ doctors and top administrators wouldn’t treat my liver disease, which they diagnosed me with in 1998. In 2005, I had a liver biopsy, and was diagnosed with early cirrhosis caused by chronic hepatitis C. In 2007 I was given chemotherapy to eradicate the hepatitis C. I took shots weekly in the abdomen and pills daily. It was like I had the flu for a year. It was successful and the hepatitis C is undetectable in me today. Only after I sued did they treat me.
I litigated my own case for a year until the law firm Snell & Wilmer, L.L.P. accepted my case pro bono. I defeated the Assistant Attorney General’s motions and was successful in litigating my case in Federal District Court.
After deposing more than 30 members of ADOC’s medical staff and administrators, including the director, Dora B. Schriro (now working under Janet Napolitano in the U.S. Department of Homeland Security), and hiring two medical experts, my attorneys advised me to accept what the Attorney General’s Office offered, as it was the highest amount ever offered to a prisoner for a non-death medical case in years. $115,000!
After fine-tuning the wording of the legally binding agreement to insure I continue to be given proper medical care while in ADOC custody, the Arizona Attorney General Terry Goddard – who will likely run for governor next year – had to authorize the agreement.
Many inmates in Arizona would be interested to learn that the proper standard of care for my hepatitis C is the same they are entitled to legally as ADOC can not have a different standard for individual prisoners. That’s be preferential care, which is illegal.
With the money, I’ve decided to use some to help a couple of good friends and to invest in my future. I’ll finally have a stable foundation to start over with.
I think Shane deserves at least an “Attaboy!” for pulling this off.
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’s $115,000 Court Victory against the Arizona Department of Corrections
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.
Here’s the news as told by Shane:
In 2006 I sued because the Arizona Department of Corrections’ doctors and top administrators wouldn’t treat my liver disease, which they diagnosed me with in 1998. In 2005, I had a liver biopsy, and was diagnosed with early cirrhosis caused by chronic hepatitis C. In 2007 I was given chemotherapy to eradicate the hepatitis C. I took shots weekly in the abdomen and pills daily. It was like I had the flu for a year. It was successful and the hepatitis C is undetectable in me today. Only after I sued did they treat me.
I litigated my own case for a year until the law firm Snell & Wilmer, L.L.P. accepted my case pro bono. I defeated the Assistant Attorney General’s motions and was successful in litigating my case in Federal District Court.
After deposing more than 30 members of ADOC’s medical staff and administrators, including the director, Dora B. Schriro (now working under Janet Napolitano in the U.S. Department of Homeland Security), and hiring two medical experts, my attorneys advised me to accept what the Attorney General’s Office offered, as it was the highest amount ever offered to a prisoner for a non-death medical case in years. $115,000!
After fine-tuning the wording of the legally binding agreement to insure I continue to be given proper medical care while in ADOC custody, the Arizona Attorney General Terry Goddard – who will likely run for governor next year – had to authorize the agreement.
Many inmates in Arizona would be interested to learn that the proper standard of care for my hepatitis C is the same they are entitled to legally as ADOC can not have a different standard for individual prisoners. That’s be preferential care, which is illegal.
With the money, I’ve decided to use some to help a couple of good friends and to invest in my future. I’ll finally have a stable foundation to start over with.
I think Shane deserves at least an “Attaboy!” for pulling this off.
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
07 Jun 09
Postcards from Long Island (5)
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 is writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
What’s up bro,
I’ve moved. The ACLU came into Towers jail and forced the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office to stop housing inmates 3 to a cell. So they moved us all to Lower Buckeye jail. Towers is under construction.
We’ve been locked down all weekend due to protesters in the parking lot. The feds are all over Sheriff Joe Arpaio regarding his illegal alien sweeps. His sheriffs are going Gestapo style into neighbourhoods and arresting anyone with brown skin.
You asked me to report the violence. How about someone getting killed and thrown off the top tier in 4th Avenue jail? His name is Robert Cotton. The Arizona Republic covered the whole story about the guard that let it happen. [Click here to see the video of an Aryan Brother slaying Robert Cotton.]
I’m in a real scary legal situation here. I think I’ll probably get a plea in the next couple of months. I don’t think I’m going to like it though. My lawyer is good and I trust him 100%, which makes things a lot easier.
Have you been paying attention to all of the attention that Arpaio and our county attorney have been getting lately? That’s where your story is, bro. The Department of Justice is here right now going through Arpaio’s office. People are tired of those two S.O.B.’s. The Arizona Republic is following the stories closely.
I worry about Two Tonys too. I’d like his DOC number if you could send it to me, so I can write to him.
Here’s to your success in London, my friend!
Take care,
Long Island
Click here for Long Island’s previous postcard.
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
Postcards from Long Island (5)
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 is writing from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Lower Buckeye jail.
What’s up bro,
I’ve moved. The ACLU came into Towers jail and forced the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office to stop housing inmates 3 to a cell. So they moved us all to Lower Buckeye jail. Towers is under construction.
We’ve been locked down all weekend due to protesters in the parking lot. The feds are all over Sheriff Joe Arpaio regarding his illegal alien sweeps. His sheriffs are going Gestapo style into neighbourhoods and arresting anyone with brown skin.
You asked me to report the violence. How about someone getting killed and thrown off the top tier in 4th Avenue jail? His name is Robert Cotton. The Arizona Republic covered the whole story about the guard that let it happen. [Click here to see the video of an Aryan Brother slaying Robert Cotton.]
I’m in a real scary legal situation here. I think I’ll probably get a plea in the next couple of months. I don’t think I’m going to like it though. My lawyer is good and I trust him 100%, which makes things a lot easier.
Have you been paying attention to all of the attention that Arpaio and our county attorney have been getting lately? That’s where your story is, bro. The Department of Justice is here right now going through Arpaio’s office. People are tired of those two S.O.B.’s. The Arizona Republic is following the stories closely.
I worry about Two Tonys too. I’d like his DOC number if you could send it to me, so I can write to him.
Here’s to your success in London, my friend!
Take care,
Long Island
Click here for Long Island’s previous postcard.
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
19 May 09
The Death of Marcia Powell (by Lifer Renee)
Renee - She was only a teenager when she received a sixty-year sentence from a judge in Pima County. Fourteen years into her sentence, Renee is writing from Perryville prison in Goodyear, Arizona, providing a rare and unique insight into a women's prison.
“Did you hear Marcia died?” Sally asked.
We were perched on a slope because there is no shade on the yard whatsoever.
“No,” I replied, shocked by yet another death. “I heard they took her to the hospital. What happened?”
“Yesterday, Marcia was in the rec cage, and the property clerk was down there, and Marcia asked her, ‘Hey, can you tell Officer A****d I need some water?’ Well, you know it was 107° yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know. I came outside for a minute. I couldn’t take it. It was too hot.”
“The property clerk goes and tells the officer, ‘Hey, Powell is asking for water.’ And he said, ‘Yeah, I’m busy right now.’ That was at 11, and no one knows how long she’d already been in the rec cage. So anyways, another girl that was working down there, the same thing happened. Marcia asked her to tell Officer A****d she needs some water. So the girl goes to the control box, and says, ‘Officer A****d, Powell is asking for water.’ He says, ‘Yeah, I’m busy right now. I’ll get to it.’ Anyways, the call came over the radio sometime close to 3pm that she was passed out in the rec enclosure. No one knows how long she was in there because it wasn’t logged. She died of heatstroke.”
I went to say something and heard the click of the intercom. “Lockdown! We’re under ICS!”
I’ve been doing time with Marcia now for 15 years. She had no one. No home, family, that I know of. On the streets, she was always homeless. She was mentally challenged, but she was always nice, always smiling.
When she would see me: “Hi, Renee! Hi, Renee! Renee, hi! How’re you doing?”
“Great, Marcia, how’re you?”
“You’re so pretty, Renee. Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“If you’ll comb your hair for me today.”
“OK. OK. I will sing for you. Do you want me to sing for you?”
Sometimes she would sing to me just because, but it was always the same song. “Rappers Delight” by the Sugar Hill Gang. She knew every word and never missed a beat. It is sad.
There was chatter that our deputy warden was escorted off the property today.
I hear the helicopters flying over right now. I wonder if it is the news. Looking out of my window, I see the women who live in Building 23 gathered outside, waving towards the sky.
Hold on, I just looked at the TV and our prison is on the news. Will they spew lies or tell the truth? It turned out to be a little bit of both.
Our deputy warden, captain, and shift commander are on administrative leave. I don’t know why them and not the officers who were working the yard. CO2 M**a, CO2 A****d, and CO2 M****s.
The news said the temperatures that day were between 105° to 110°. The director, Charles Ryan, stated there may have been negligence and they are investigating. Marcia was in the cage waiting to be transported to CDU [Complex Detention Unit]. She was in the cage for more than two hours longer than the maximum amount of time the Arizona Department of Corrections’ policy allows for an outside enclosure. They also said they are investigating how an inmate died in his cell at the Lewis prison, Buckeye.
It’s crazy. But it is life, at least the one I know.
Click here for Renee’s previous blog about a woman prisoner with AIDS biting another prisoner.
Click here for the news story on the death of Marcia Powell.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Renee 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
The Death of Marcia Powell (by Lifer Renee)
Renee - She was only a teenager when she received a sixty-year sentence from a judge in Pima County. Fourteen years into her sentence, Renee is writing from Perryville prison in Goodyear, Arizona, providing a rare and unique insight into a women's prison.
“Did you hear Marcia died?” Sally asked.
We were perched on a slope because there is no shade on the yard whatsoever.
“No,” I replied, shocked by yet another death. “I heard they took her to the hospital. What happened?”
“Yesterday, Marcia was in the rec cage, and the property clerk was down there, and Marcia asked her, ‘Hey, can you tell Officer A****d I need some water?’ Well, you know it was 107° yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know. I came outside for a minute. I couldn’t take it. It was too hot.”
“The property clerk goes and tells the officer, ‘Hey, Powell is asking for water.’ And he said, ‘Yeah, I’m busy right now.’ That was at 11, and no one knows how long she’d already been in the rec cage. So anyways, another girl that was working down there, the same thing happened. Marcia asked her to tell Officer A****d she needs some water. So the girl goes to the control box, and says, ‘Officer A****d, Powell is asking for water.’ He says, ‘Yeah, I’m busy right now. I’ll get to it.’ Anyways, the call came over the radio sometime close to 3pm that she was passed out in the rec enclosure. No one knows how long she was in there because it wasn’t logged. She died of heatstroke.”
I went to say something and heard the click of the intercom. “Lockdown! We’re under ICS!”
I’ve been doing time with Marcia now for 15 years. She had no one. No home, family, that I know of. On the streets, she was always homeless. She was mentally challenged, but she was always nice, always smiling.
When she would see me: “Hi, Renee! Hi, Renee! Renee, hi! How’re you doing?”
“Great, Marcia, how’re you?”
“You’re so pretty, Renee. Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“If you’ll comb your hair for me today.”
“OK. OK. I will sing for you. Do you want me to sing for you?”
Sometimes she would sing to me just because, but it was always the same song. “Rappers Delight” by the Sugar Hill Gang. She knew every word and never missed a beat. It is sad.
There was chatter that our deputy warden was escorted off the property today.
I hear the helicopters flying over right now. I wonder if it is the news. Looking out of my window, I see the women who live in Building 23 gathered outside, waving towards the sky.
Hold on, I just looked at the TV and our prison is on the news. Will they spew lies or tell the truth? It turned out to be a little bit of both.
Our deputy warden, captain, and shift commander are on administrative leave. I don’t know why them and not the officers who were working the yard. CO2 M**a, CO2 A****d, and CO2 M****s.
The news said the temperatures that day were between 105° to 110°. The director, Charles Ryan, stated there may have been negligence and they are investigating. Marcia was in the cage waiting to be transported to CDU [Complex Detention Unit]. She was in the cage for more than two hours longer than the maximum amount of time the Arizona Department of Corrections’ policy allows for an outside enclosure. They also said they are investigating how an inmate died in his cell at the Lewis prison, Buckeye.
It’s crazy. But it is life, at least the one I know.
Click here for Renee’s previous blog about a woman prisoner with AIDS biting another prisoner.
Click here for the news story on the death of Marcia Powell.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Renee 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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