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.
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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
Central Unit (Part 3 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
Part 2 left off with Warrior arriving at a lockdown run in Central Unit and two inmates, Mike and Wilo, getting out of their cells to fight each other.
Mike dropped his head and tried to rush Wilo’s legs. Wilo pounded the back of Mike’s head repeatedly. Mike struggled like a fish on the deck of a boat trying to stay alive, yet knowing it was only a matter of time.
Focussed on the combat taking place, I hadn’t noticed the two officers until they passed my field of vision. They both strolled by nonchalant. Like seasoned inmates, they appraised the violence without expressing any emotion.
Both of them were tall, about 6’3” give or take an inch. One Hispanic, the other white. In addition to the traditional officer getup – uniform, shank-proof vests, protective eye goggles – each wore two holsters. One for a state-issued Taser. The other for a monstrous can of mace that resembled a fire extinguisher. The mace canisters were so heavy, the guards were straining to maintain a smooth stride.
“Break this shit up you two, or we’ll fuckin’ mace and tase your fuckin’ asses!” said the Hispanic C.O. annoyed.
The redneck C.O. stood by with a mouthful of tobacco cud, chewing like a bovine. He followed with a “Yeah,” which sounded more like a bellowed moo.
Wilo looked up at the two no more than ten feet away. His eyes were saying, Quit pestering me! I’m in the middle of something!
The C.O.’s released the snap holding the Tasers in place. Their other hands seized the canisters and began shaking the mace.
Capitalizing on the time he had left, Wilo struck Mike again. He then headed to his cell, stepped in, and the bars racked shut.
The inmates on his side of the race war applauded and commended his victory.
The two officers sandwiched Mike in order to pick him up by each arm. At first, Mike’s legs couldn’t bear his weight. He struggled like a baby taking his first steps. When he was finally cognizant of reality, his legs locked in place and he stood firm.
“Get the fuck off me!” he roared, jerking his arms from the possession of both officers.
“Do you need medical?” said the Hispanic C.O..
“Fuck you!” he shouted, and headed back to his cell.
The Hispanic C.O. glanced at the redneck, who in turn just chewed his cud and shook his head.
“At least we ain’t got no paperwork tuh do,” the redneck said.
Both strolled away as nonchalant as they’d come in.
Voices jumped out from the crowd.
“Mike, I’m gonna get atya!”
“Orale, Wilo. Te voy amandar un mensaje!” I’m going to send you a message.
I kept thinking I need to be brought up to speed on what’s going down.
Cowboy lunged to the bars with a “Hey!” mirror in hand.
On edge, I flinched back, but played it off as best as I could that he hadn’t caught me unaware. Being a prison vet, he saw through me and basked in his minute victory. His smirking eyes told me so.
“Homeland Security is back to yella…ur green…ur whatever fuckin’ color is at the bottom. Hell, Bush don’t even prawbly know!” Cowboy said excitedly. “Never a dull moment in this bitch, Warrior. Ha…ha…whew!”
“What the fuck was that about?” I asked.
Cowboy leered to the left and then the right, trying to discover who may be listening. In an attempt to lean in closer and be hush-hush, his mirror substituted the action as he pulled it in. “Since yer peeps ain’t been able to get witcha, I’ll tell ya. Ya see, we on the same team, yer peeps and mines. Ya familiar with the race war right?”
“Yeah.”
Since the mid 90’s there’d been an ongoing war within the Hispanic race. Some considered themselves Mexican nationals or paisas. Others considered themselves Chicanos, raised in the States. Paisas looked at Chicanos as sell outs for embracing a U.S. mentality. Chicanos looked at paisas as sell outs for maintaining Catholicism and a partial European mindset. Chicanos in Arizona embrace and pursue their Aztec and Mayan roots, denouncing anything that isn’t Central American Indian. Ideologies weren’t the sole reason for the war, but made good propaganda for recruitment purposes. Drug and yard control, along with the money-making hustles were the real reasons.
“Well, we’re backing your people [Chicanos] up these days. The fellas [Aryan Brotherhood] and yer carnarles [La eMe/Mexican Mafia] decided to join sides to get rid of all of the paisas.” Given my light skin and no trace of a Spanish accent, Cowboy had assumed I rolled with the Chicanos.
I was torn, given that I was born in Mexico, raised in the States, and half white. But I knew I would eventually be forced to choose a side.
At this time, there were still a few of us able to maintain a sense of independence from it all. But we were dwindling fast. With the new pact with the Aryan Brotherhood, it would be just a matter of time before the masses questioned independent status as friend or foe. No in between allowed. Choose a side or else.
Cowboy continued, “Word hasn’t trickled down to the yards yet. Yuh know we hear it here first. So we at war with them, brother.”
“I’m rollin’ independent. I don’t believe in what’s going down right now.”
“I hear ya.” Cowboy shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time before yer people expect ya to pick a side to stand on. Independent status don’t exist no more really. In fact, the heads of yer peeps and mine are talkin’ ‘bout not recognizin’ independent status in the system. Them paisas is rollin’ with the Border Brothers [Mexican nationals’ prison gang]. They don’t give a shit ‘bout independents either. They stickin’ all of us. If I wur you, I’d pick a side. Before ya know it, yull be a man without a country. And that ain’t no place tuh be.” What Cowboy said was true.
“I hear ya, but I’ll take my chances. It’s carried me this far.”
Cowboy nodded his head with respect and approval.
“So what’s the deal with these cells opening?” I asked.
“Ah…that’s the fun part. Ya see, this here is gladiator school, and when the cell opens class is in session. These cops think it’s funny to open two cells at once. They get a kick out of it. Remember them cops stagin’ them human cock fights in Cali? Same shit. They bet and get a kick outta it. If they really don’t like ya, watch out. Ya might end up with two against ya. The rules is no sleepin’ durin’ the day ‘cause ya never know when it’s yer cell they gonna open. Stay a good distance from other cells where the enemy is at. They’ll try to cut or burn ya. By yer name, I’m guessin’ ya can chuck ‘em, and ya look like yer healthy and work out. So the rest…just be on point at all times. Or yull be like Mikey there.” Cowboy glanced at Mike who had washed up and was doing pushups. “Ya shoulda been doin’ that from the gate ya fat fuck!”
Mike pretended not to hear Cowboy and continued with his pushups.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 1, including a description of the cell just added on 1st June 09.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 2.
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.
Part 2 left off with Warrior arriving at a lockdown run in Central Unit and two inmates, Mike and Wilo, getting out of their cells to fight each other.
Mike dropped his head and tried to rush Wilo’s legs. Wilo pounded the back of Mike’s head repeatedly. Mike struggled like a fish on the deck of a boat trying to stay alive, yet knowing it was only a matter of time.
Focussed on the combat taking place, I hadn’t noticed the two officers until they passed my field of vision. They both strolled by nonchalant. Like seasoned inmates, they appraised the violence without expressing any emotion.
Both of them were tall, about 6’3” give or take an inch. One Hispanic, the other white. In addition to the traditional officer getup – uniform, shank-proof vests, protective eye goggles – each wore two holsters. One for a state-issued Taser. The other for a monstrous can of mace that resembled a fire extinguisher. The mace canisters were so heavy, the guards were straining to maintain a smooth stride.
“Break this shit up you two, or we’ll fuckin’ mace and tase your fuckin’ asses!” said the Hispanic C.O. annoyed.
The redneck C.O. stood by with a mouthful of tobacco cud, chewing like a bovine. He followed with a “Yeah,” which sounded more like a bellowed moo.
Wilo looked up at the two no more than ten feet away. His eyes were saying, Quit pestering me! I’m in the middle of something!
The C.O.’s released the snap holding the Tasers in place. Their other hands seized the canisters and began shaking the mace.
Capitalizing on the time he had left, Wilo struck Mike again. He then headed to his cell, stepped in, and the bars racked shut.
The inmates on his side of the race war applauded and commended his victory.
The two officers sandwiched Mike in order to pick him up by each arm. At first, Mike’s legs couldn’t bear his weight. He struggled like a baby taking his first steps. When he was finally cognizant of reality, his legs locked in place and he stood firm.
“Get the fuck off me!” he roared, jerking his arms from the possession of both officers.
“Do you need medical?” said the Hispanic C.O..
“Fuck you!” he shouted, and headed back to his cell.
The Hispanic C.O. glanced at the redneck, who in turn just chewed his cud and shook his head.
“At least we ain’t got no paperwork tuh do,” the redneck said.
Both strolled away as nonchalant as they’d come in.
Voices jumped out from the crowd.
“Mike, I’m gonna get atya!”
“Orale, Wilo. Te voy amandar un mensaje!” I’m going to send you a message.
I kept thinking I need to be brought up to speed on what’s going down.
Cowboy lunged to the bars with a “Hey!” mirror in hand.
On edge, I flinched back, but played it off as best as I could that he hadn’t caught me unaware. Being a prison vet, he saw through me and basked in his minute victory. His smirking eyes told me so.
“Homeland Security is back to yella…ur green…ur whatever fuckin’ color is at the bottom. Hell, Bush don’t even prawbly know!” Cowboy said excitedly. “Never a dull moment in this bitch, Warrior. Ha…ha…whew!”
“What the fuck was that about?” I asked.
Cowboy leered to the left and then the right, trying to discover who may be listening. In an attempt to lean in closer and be hush-hush, his mirror substituted the action as he pulled it in. “Since yer peeps ain’t been able to get witcha, I’ll tell ya. Ya see, we on the same team, yer peeps and mines. Ya familiar with the race war right?”
“Yeah.”
Since the mid 90’s there’d been an ongoing war within the Hispanic race. Some considered themselves Mexican nationals or paisas. Others considered themselves Chicanos, raised in the States. Paisas looked at Chicanos as sell outs for embracing a U.S. mentality. Chicanos looked at paisas as sell outs for maintaining Catholicism and a partial European mindset. Chicanos in Arizona embrace and pursue their Aztec and Mayan roots, denouncing anything that isn’t Central American Indian. Ideologies weren’t the sole reason for the war, but made good propaganda for recruitment purposes. Drug and yard control, along with the money-making hustles were the real reasons.
“Well, we’re backing your people [Chicanos] up these days. The fellas [Aryan Brotherhood] and yer carnarles [La eMe/Mexican Mafia] decided to join sides to get rid of all of the paisas.” Given my light skin and no trace of a Spanish accent, Cowboy had assumed I rolled with the Chicanos.
I was torn, given that I was born in Mexico, raised in the States, and half white. But I knew I would eventually be forced to choose a side.
At this time, there were still a few of us able to maintain a sense of independence from it all. But we were dwindling fast. With the new pact with the Aryan Brotherhood, it would be just a matter of time before the masses questioned independent status as friend or foe. No in between allowed. Choose a side or else.
Cowboy continued, “Word hasn’t trickled down to the yards yet. Yuh know we hear it here first. So we at war with them, brother.”
“I’m rollin’ independent. I don’t believe in what’s going down right now.”
“I hear ya.” Cowboy shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time before yer people expect ya to pick a side to stand on. Independent status don’t exist no more really. In fact, the heads of yer peeps and mine are talkin’ ‘bout not recognizin’ independent status in the system. Them paisas is rollin’ with the Border Brothers [Mexican nationals’ prison gang]. They don’t give a shit ‘bout independents either. They stickin’ all of us. If I wur you, I’d pick a side. Before ya know it, yull be a man without a country. And that ain’t no place tuh be.” What Cowboy said was true.
“I hear ya, but I’ll take my chances. It’s carried me this far.”
Cowboy nodded his head with respect and approval.
“So what’s the deal with these cells opening?” I asked.
“Ah…that’s the fun part. Ya see, this here is gladiator school, and when the cell opens class is in session. These cops think it’s funny to open two cells at once. They get a kick out of it. Remember them cops stagin’ them human cock fights in Cali? Same shit. They bet and get a kick outta it. If they really don’t like ya, watch out. Ya might end up with two against ya. The rules is no sleepin’ durin’ the day ‘cause ya never know when it’s yer cell they gonna open. Stay a good distance from other cells where the enemy is at. They’ll try to cut or burn ya. By yer name, I’m guessin’ ya can chuck ‘em, and ya look like yer healthy and work out. So the rest…just be on point at all times. Or yull be like Mikey there.” Cowboy glanced at Mike who had washed up and was doing pushups. “Ya shoulda been doin’ that from the gate ya fat fuck!”
Mike pretended not to hear Cowboy and continued with his pushups.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 1, including a description of the cell just added on 1st June 09.
Click here to read Central Unit Part 2.
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
A Doomed Sock (by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger is one of the brightest men I met during my incarceration. He is serving a 25-year life sentence. He recently agreed to start writing for Jon's Jail Journal.
While attending our local school of higher education, namely the Arizona Prison's Work-Based Vocational Training, I've found that trying to learn complex tasks is not helped in the least by the standard-issue sack lunch provided by the guards. Whatever brain food might be, it is definitely not processed turkey offal. Thus I try to provide for myself. For the last year, I have been smuggling in baggies of peanut butter, so I don't have to eat the rot-meat. Smuggling is required as we are officially prohibited from bringing food from our cells into the school.
Everything had been going splendidly until last week. I was on my way to school, and for the first time, the baggie stashed in my sock gradually slid its way south.
Uh oh, I thought, trying to discreetly wriggle and squirm it under my arch, so it wouldn't burst. There were too many guards around for me to remove my boot and fix it properly, so I just had to roll with it, stepping gingerly all the while. About half way there - pop! Squish. Oh dear.
At school, I hobbled to the W.C. to inspect the damage.
Maybe it's just a pinhole, I thought.
Alas, it was anything but. Peeling back the elastic revealed the empty bag mashed up by my toes, and the entire underside of my foot heavily slathered with a thick coat of peanut butter. Hmph. It seemed lunch was no longer on the schedule.
I stripped off the oily befouled sock, flipped it inside out, and placed it lovingly atop the rubbish bin. It looked as if it had been used to mop up a bowel eruption with.
I went on my way, a bit hungry yes, but consoled by the thought of the poor soul who had to empty the trash that day.
As this is Polish Avenger’s first blog for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be greatly appreciated.
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
Polish Avenger is one of the brightest men I met during my incarceration. He is serving a 25-year life sentence. He recently agreed to start writing for Jon's Jail Journal.
While attending our local school of higher education, namely the Arizona Prison's Work-Based Vocational Training, I've found that trying to learn complex tasks is not helped in the least by the standard-issue sack lunch provided by the guards. Whatever brain food might be, it is definitely not processed turkey offal. Thus I try to provide for myself. For the last year, I have been smuggling in baggies of peanut butter, so I don't have to eat the rot-meat. Smuggling is required as we are officially prohibited from bringing food from our cells into the school.
Everything had been going splendidly until last week. I was on my way to school, and for the first time, the baggie stashed in my sock gradually slid its way south.
Uh oh, I thought, trying to discreetly wriggle and squirm it under my arch, so it wouldn't burst. There were too many guards around for me to remove my boot and fix it properly, so I just had to roll with it, stepping gingerly all the while. About half way there - pop! Squish. Oh dear.
At school, I hobbled to the W.C. to inspect the damage.
Maybe it's just a pinhole, I thought.
Alas, it was anything but. Peeling back the elastic revealed the empty bag mashed up by my toes, and the entire underside of my foot heavily slathered with a thick coat of peanut butter. Hmph. It seemed lunch was no longer on the schedule.
I stripped off the oily befouled sock, flipped it inside out, and placed it lovingly atop the rubbish bin. It looked as if it had been used to mop up a bowel eruption with.
I went on my way, a bit hungry yes, but consoled by the thought of the poor soul who had to empty the trash that day.
As this is Polish Avenger’s first blog for Jon’s Jail Journal, your comments and questions would be greatly appreciated.
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
Germany (Part 3)
The People
The Germans are friendly provided you are introduced to them, but initiating small talk with strangers is a no-no. When I said hello to an old couple walking a dog in the park, they recoiled as if I had pulled a gun on them. Kathi yanked my arm, and scolded me for behaving outside of the German norm.
The Peisnitz Insel
Is the park opposite Kathi's house.
"If a tick drops from a tree and sucks your blood, do not pull it out. We must see a doctor," Kathi said at the beginning of our first romantic stroll in the park.
"Why?" I asked, looking up at the branches and quickening my pace.
"If you pull the body out, the head stays under your skin, and you can get Lyme's disease. My friend's mom got very sick from this."
Through the forest, we descended down to the River Saale. Kathi bought me a delicious lemon ice cream. We stopped on a bridge to watch a beaver swimming by the bank. We took a mini train ride, the Peisnitz Express, operated by a driver and a little boy in a dark-blue GDR uniform who waved coloured signals, and frowned at all of my attempts to initiate small talk with him.
The Rote Ochse
This former prison, now a museum, is a ten-minute walk from Kathi's. The cell furniture and carpenter's workshop are decades old, but walking a run of cells reminded me of some parts of Joe Arpaio's jail system. Then I came to the execution room, death cell, and the room for the disposal of corpses. It was hard not to imagine what horrors had happened here. Outside of the routine torture in the Rote Ochse, the Nazis killed 549 people, and the Stasi an unknown number. Mostly political prisoners.
Kathi's neighbour, Mario, told me that the Russians transporting prisoners into the Rote Ochse were a prisoner short so they just snatched a local person and imprisoned him. "The Russians were not too nice," Mario added.
Food and Drink
Kathi is a vegetarian, a rarity here. So I've only viewed typical German meals such as bratwurst, schnitzel, and roulade from a safe distance in restaurants and they did not look inviting.
"All Germans love Sauerkraut," Kathi said.
"That's why the Americans call us Krauts," Paul added.
Kathi has catered to my vegetarian needs, even going so far as to cook curry for the first time. I've been trying many kinds of cheese. My favourite is Saint Albray mild & würzig. I can't get enough of the strawberries, salted macadamia nuts and flavourful yoghurts such as Landliebe Jogurt.
I like the paprika bread. In general, the bread is grainy, less processed and strong tasting. Germans do not go for sliced loaves, but for fresh bread from the bakery. Kathi thinks English bread is too sweet.
East Germans are serious beer drinkers. Two favourites are Hasseröder and Becks. But I prefer less manly drinks such as the fruity Eiswein.
I also like the blood-orange juice.
Sex on the TV
Breasts are prevalent on daytime TV. In the words of Jörg, Kathi's brother: "In Germany they only don't show the vagina and the penis when it is hard." Anything else goes, and at nighttime the commercials for sex 900 numbers are pornographic. I was quite enjoying this until an old age pensioner came on, fondling her breasts, giving them a good slow roll while urging me to pick up the phone to talk to a 60+ year old for 99 cents a minute.
"Look, Shaun, Look!" Kathi just yelled.
It's 11:21pm and Kathi's pointing at the TV: a couple are having sex on the bonnet of a car. And on another channel, four female tongues are licking a whipped substance off two pairs of pierced breasts. God bless German television.
Clothes
I set off for the high street in the hope of buying a distinctly-German T-shirt. I was delusional. All of the clothes are American and English. In every other store I could have bought a T-shirt with New York, Los Angeles or Chicago on it. I resorted to asking sales assistants where I could find German T-shirts, only to be laughed out of several stores.
In Summary
My vacation is almost over, and I've had a great time. Kathi has spoiled me in every way possible, and I feel fully revitalised after my workaholism in England. We only fell out two times. Once after I told a sales assistant with pink, red, and silver streaked hair that her hair looked cool: Kathi didn't take kindly to this. The second time was in the disco, Objekt 5, when Kathi introduced me to a friend, emphasising how handsome he was: I didn't take kindly to this but I guess it was her form of payback. So it looks like Kathi will be visiting me in England in late July to continue this romance.
A new writer: the next blog is from a lifer I met in prison who is joining our team at Jon's Jail Journal.
The People
The Germans are friendly provided you are introduced to them, but initiating small talk with strangers is a no-no. When I said hello to an old couple walking a dog in the park, they recoiled as if I had pulled a gun on them. Kathi yanked my arm, and scolded me for behaving outside of the German norm.
The Peisnitz Insel
Is the park opposite Kathi's house.
"If a tick drops from a tree and sucks your blood, do not pull it out. We must see a doctor," Kathi said at the beginning of our first romantic stroll in the park.
"Why?" I asked, looking up at the branches and quickening my pace.
"If you pull the body out, the head stays under your skin, and you can get Lyme's disease. My friend's mom got very sick from this."
Through the forest, we descended down to the River Saale. Kathi bought me a delicious lemon ice cream. We stopped on a bridge to watch a beaver swimming by the bank. We took a mini train ride, the Peisnitz Express, operated by a driver and a little boy in a dark-blue GDR uniform who waved coloured signals, and frowned at all of my attempts to initiate small talk with him.
The Rote Ochse
This former prison, now a museum, is a ten-minute walk from Kathi's. The cell furniture and carpenter's workshop are decades old, but walking a run of cells reminded me of some parts of Joe Arpaio's jail system. Then I came to the execution room, death cell, and the room for the disposal of corpses. It was hard not to imagine what horrors had happened here. Outside of the routine torture in the Rote Ochse, the Nazis killed 549 people, and the Stasi an unknown number. Mostly political prisoners.
Kathi's neighbour, Mario, told me that the Russians transporting prisoners into the Rote Ochse were a prisoner short so they just snatched a local person and imprisoned him. "The Russians were not too nice," Mario added.
Food and Drink
Kathi is a vegetarian, a rarity here. So I've only viewed typical German meals such as bratwurst, schnitzel, and roulade from a safe distance in restaurants and they did not look inviting.
"All Germans love Sauerkraut," Kathi said.
"That's why the Americans call us Krauts," Paul added.
Kathi has catered to my vegetarian needs, even going so far as to cook curry for the first time. I've been trying many kinds of cheese. My favourite is Saint Albray mild & würzig. I can't get enough of the strawberries, salted macadamia nuts and flavourful yoghurts such as Landliebe Jogurt.
I like the paprika bread. In general, the bread is grainy, less processed and strong tasting. Germans do not go for sliced loaves, but for fresh bread from the bakery. Kathi thinks English bread is too sweet.
East Germans are serious beer drinkers. Two favourites are Hasseröder and Becks. But I prefer less manly drinks such as the fruity Eiswein.
I also like the blood-orange juice.
Sex on the TV
Breasts are prevalent on daytime TV. In the words of Jörg, Kathi's brother: "In Germany they only don't show the vagina and the penis when it is hard." Anything else goes, and at nighttime the commercials for sex 900 numbers are pornographic. I was quite enjoying this until an old age pensioner came on, fondling her breasts, giving them a good slow roll while urging me to pick up the phone to talk to a 60+ year old for 99 cents a minute.
"Look, Shaun, Look!" Kathi just yelled.
It's 11:21pm and Kathi's pointing at the TV: a couple are having sex on the bonnet of a car. And on another channel, four female tongues are licking a whipped substance off two pairs of pierced breasts. God bless German television.
Clothes
I set off for the high street in the hope of buying a distinctly-German T-shirt. I was delusional. All of the clothes are American and English. In every other store I could have bought a T-shirt with New York, Los Angeles or Chicago on it. I resorted to asking sales assistants where I could find German T-shirts, only to be laughed out of several stores.
In Summary
My vacation is almost over, and I've had a great time. Kathi has spoiled me in every way possible, and I feel fully revitalised after my workaholism in England. We only fell out two times. Once after I told a sales assistant with pink, red, and silver streaked hair that her hair looked cool: Kathi didn't take kindly to this. The second time was in the disco, Objekt 5, when Kathi introduced me to a friend, emphasising how handsome he was: I didn't take kindly to this but I guess it was her form of payback. So it looks like Kathi will be visiting me in England in late July to continue this romance.
A new writer: the next blog is from a lifer I met in prison who is joining our team at Jon's Jail Journal.
Germany (Part 2)
I'am in the roof of a 120-year-old house in Halle, Germany, the birthplace of George Frideric Handel. I am in Paul's bedroom. He is Kathi's 18-year-old hippy son. He credits his fluency in English to playing Grand Theft Auto for up to 12 hours a day for the past 5 years. When he is not playing video games, Paul is an artist. He painted the bedroom walls lime green with white spots. There are two windows. They slope with the roof, and the blinds are pulled over them, so most of the illumination is coming from the 32" computer screen I am facing. I am sat on a tiny dark-blue sofa next to Paul's bunkbed. It is a metal bunkbed. Not unlike a prison one except it is twice as broad. His mattress is on the thin side. He is a man of simple sleeping needs. I can relate to that. I am typing slower than normal because the arrangement of the keys is not what I am used to and there are letters I am unfamiliar with such as ü, ö, and ä that I keep hitting accidentally.
When I first arrived Paul was eating cheese that made the whole apartment stink like feet that hadn't been washed in a decade. Let's go back to that day.
In order to get by the emergency door in the middle of the plane - surely the safest place to sit? - I was one of the first to board the Ryan Air flight. When the staff in blue uniforms demonstrated what to do in the event of an emergency landing, I sat there committing every instruction to memory. I even visualised myself in the water, pulling the correct chord to add extra air to my inflatable, before being rescued by heroic fishermen. Taking off, I hoped the effects of the alcohol I'd consumed would last for the one-and-a-quarter-hour flight. The sweet smell of wine on my breath reassured me.
The flight went smoothly until the landing. Descending over a forest, the plane wobbled a few times, sobering me up.
Formerly a Russian airbase, Altenburg Airport is tiny. It has one baggage-claim machine and two passport-control kiosks. Approaching the customs agent, I feared my FBI and Interpol records would show on his computer screen. That I'd be stripped naked and subjected to German shephards sniffing my backside. But he just looked at my passport and nodded me through.
I picked up Kathi and kissed her. She was with another MySpace couple, Nici and Stefan. We joked about us all having met on MySpace.
Outside was hot. Not Arizona hot, more like Spanish-summer hot. I regretted bringing three sweaters.
Through coutryside, Nici drove on the American side of the street. The cars looked different. Many BMW's, VW's, Daimlers, Opels, Renaults, and Skodas.
Getting into Halle, I noticed the abscence of houses as we understand them in the West. No single one- and two-story homes. All three- and four-story buildings joined in rows. I admired the old architecture and the sturdy character of the buildings. I hadn't seen so much graffiti since driving through South Central L.A..
There were many bicycles in Kathi's hallway. I wondered about the axe on the floor. With my 15 kilos of luggage permitted by Ryan Air, climbing the 63 stairs to get to her apartment was a workout. I arrived at her front door sweating, and obeyed her order to take off my sneakers. As soon as I walked in, her interior-design skills struck me. So many vibrant colours. It felt as if I were walking into a good mood. One that rubbed off on me right away.
I'am in the roof of a 120-year-old house in Halle, Germany, the birthplace of George Frideric Handel. I am in Paul's bedroom. He is Kathi's 18-year-old hippy son. He credits his fluency in English to playing Grand Theft Auto for up to 12 hours a day for the past 5 years. When he is not playing video games, Paul is an artist. He painted the bedroom walls lime green with white spots. There are two windows. They slope with the roof, and the blinds are pulled over them, so most of the illumination is coming from the 32" computer screen I am facing. I am sat on a tiny dark-blue sofa next to Paul's bunkbed. It is a metal bunkbed. Not unlike a prison one except it is twice as broad. His mattress is on the thin side. He is a man of simple sleeping needs. I can relate to that. I am typing slower than normal because the arrangement of the keys is not what I am used to and there are letters I am unfamiliar with such as ü, ö, and ä that I keep hitting accidentally.
When I first arrived Paul was eating cheese that made the whole apartment stink like feet that hadn't been washed in a decade. Let's go back to that day.
In order to get by the emergency door in the middle of the plane - surely the safest place to sit? - I was one of the first to board the Ryan Air flight. When the staff in blue uniforms demonstrated what to do in the event of an emergency landing, I sat there committing every instruction to memory. I even visualised myself in the water, pulling the correct chord to add extra air to my inflatable, before being rescued by heroic fishermen. Taking off, I hoped the effects of the alcohol I'd consumed would last for the one-and-a-quarter-hour flight. The sweet smell of wine on my breath reassured me.
The flight went smoothly until the landing. Descending over a forest, the plane wobbled a few times, sobering me up.
Formerly a Russian airbase, Altenburg Airport is tiny. It has one baggage-claim machine and two passport-control kiosks. Approaching the customs agent, I feared my FBI and Interpol records would show on his computer screen. That I'd be stripped naked and subjected to German shephards sniffing my backside. But he just looked at my passport and nodded me through.
I picked up Kathi and kissed her. She was with another MySpace couple, Nici and Stefan. We joked about us all having met on MySpace.
Outside was hot. Not Arizona hot, more like Spanish-summer hot. I regretted bringing three sweaters.
Through coutryside, Nici drove on the American side of the street. The cars looked different. Many BMW's, VW's, Daimlers, Opels, Renaults, and Skodas.
Getting into Halle, I noticed the abscence of houses as we understand them in the West. No single one- and two-story homes. All three- and four-story buildings joined in rows. I admired the old architecture and the sturdy character of the buildings. I hadn't seen so much graffiti since driving through South Central L.A..
There were many bicycles in Kathi's hallway. I wondered about the axe on the floor. With my 15 kilos of luggage permitted by Ryan Air, climbing the 63 stairs to get to her apartment was a workout. I arrived at her front door sweating, and obeyed her order to take off my sneakers. As soon as I walked in, her interior-design skills struck me. So many vibrant colours. It felt as if I were walking into a good mood. One that rubbed off on me right away.
16 May 09 12:42pm
Germany (Part 1)
The last thing you need when you are terrified of flying is a tall imposing black woman approaching you in the check-in line and insisting you carry things in your luggage for her.
Bomb came to mind as I told her no.
"Why not?" It was not like I knew this lady and had promised to carry things for her only to change my mind at the last minute, but by the way she was yelling at me, the ten onlookers probably thought so.
"It's a security risk."
Her face spasmed at my answer. Hissing all kinds of curses, she barged past me to the front of the line, and accosted the first available Ryan Air staff member. I hadn't experienced such behaviour since prison.
I'm writing this from Stansted Airport, London. I'm sat at the Globe Express Cafe + Bar, contemplating a glass of wine to settle my pre-flight jitters. I haven't flown since my deportation in December 2007. I am hoping my flight is a smooth one, and I attract no more lunatics with luggage problems. I am contemplating whether to get a medium or a large white zin. I take that back: I am getting a large. I'll be right back.
I haven't touched alcohol since March. I just took my first sip of white zin, and I already feel more confident about flying even though the alcohol could not possibly have pinged my brain yet. I am going to time my sips so the drink lasts until I have to board; that way I should still be tipsy during the worst time of the flight for me: the landing.
Through the full-length windows are planes docked at various gates. Further out is a control tower below low gray clouds. The smells of coffee and tea are wafting from the cafe. Sat around are couples and parties of British holidaymakers with pale pasty skin and lively southern accents. Most of them are drinking alcohol at much faster rates than me, including the tiny old lady sat at the nearest table who is half way through her second large red wine. I am telling myself they are all drinking because they are all as nervous about flying as me. I'm not sure whether I believe this or not, but it is making me feel better about my own nervousness and that I'm resorting to wine to deal with it.
The wine is affecting my brain now, and I'm pondering the fact that today, May 16th, is the day I was arrested by a SWAT team back in 2002. Today is also the birthday of the woman I'm on my way to see in Germany: Kathi. My mind is playing the linking game, for example, without my arrest, I would never have met Kathi, and I wouldn't be here drinking wine wondering if the black lady managed to get something explosive onto my flight, and whether there are sharks in the water I'm about to fly over.
I'm about to board, so I'd better head to Gate 56.
Germany (Part 1)
The last thing you need when you are terrified of flying is a tall imposing black woman approaching you in the check-in line and insisting you carry things in your luggage for her.
Bomb came to mind as I told her no.
"Why not?" It was not like I knew this lady and had promised to carry things for her only to change my mind at the last minute, but by the way she was yelling at me, the ten onlookers probably thought so.
"It's a security risk."
Her face spasmed at my answer. Hissing all kinds of curses, she barged past me to the front of the line, and accosted the first available Ryan Air staff member. I hadn't experienced such behaviour since prison.
I'm writing this from Stansted Airport, London. I'm sat at the Globe Express Cafe + Bar, contemplating a glass of wine to settle my pre-flight jitters. I haven't flown since my deportation in December 2007. I am hoping my flight is a smooth one, and I attract no more lunatics with luggage problems. I am contemplating whether to get a medium or a large white zin. I take that back: I am getting a large. I'll be right back.
I haven't touched alcohol since March. I just took my first sip of white zin, and I already feel more confident about flying even though the alcohol could not possibly have pinged my brain yet. I am going to time my sips so the drink lasts until I have to board; that way I should still be tipsy during the worst time of the flight for me: the landing.
Through the full-length windows are planes docked at various gates. Further out is a control tower below low gray clouds. The smells of coffee and tea are wafting from the cafe. Sat around are couples and parties of British holidaymakers with pale pasty skin and lively southern accents. Most of them are drinking alcohol at much faster rates than me, including the tiny old lady sat at the nearest table who is half way through her second large red wine. I am telling myself they are all drinking because they are all as nervous about flying as me. I'm not sure whether I believe this or not, but it is making me feel better about my own nervousness and that I'm resorting to wine to deal with it.
The wine is affecting my brain now, and I'm pondering the fact that today, May 16th, is the day I was arrested by a SWAT team back in 2002. Today is also the birthday of the woman I'm on my way to see in Germany: Kathi. My mind is playing the linking game, for example, without my arrest, I would never have met Kathi, and I wouldn't be here drinking wine wondering if the black lady managed to get something explosive onto my flight, and whether there are sharks in the water I'm about to fly over.
I'm about to board, so I'd better head to Gate 56.
From Two Tonys (Letter 11)
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Recently diagnosed with liver cancer, and is in chemotherapy fighting to prolong his life.
Hey,
That Johnnie Bennett Battaglia that left a comment is the kid of Johnnie the Bat. The Bat came in my club one night with Charlie Batts’ wife and entourage, and had a drink. Charlie was in prison at the time. I didn’t pick up good vibes, so we all just glanced at each other. They didn’t stay long. He was over in Arizona on parole from California. He was doing a diamond score and a good one at that. Me and my partner turned it down. But the Bat did it and got away with it. Then they got him for violating his parole by going to another state. We heard he died in prison. The heist involved a jeweller named Newt Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer did a swan dive off the Pioneer Hotel without a parachute. That’s what happens to gangster groupies. Keep you day jobs, folks!
You remember my main guy, Jim Hogg. Yeah, the 280 lb hunk of rock some refer to as Rolling Thunder. Well, he’s always looked out for me in here. You know that. When I come back from the hospital, he meets me at the gate and tells me I’ve been moved to his pod. He is right across from me and he is godsent. He does so much for me, I feel both guilty and old. He’s my big-headed boy, and I got big-time love for him. But he goes home soon and I’ll miss him a lot.
Ya know, as screwed up as my life has been, I’m very fortunate with friends who actually want to look out for me. There’s a group of good solid nasty white boys I’ve known for quite a while who came to me and wanted me to move to their pod. Jim Hogg was with me, and told them I’m staying with him till he leaves. They put up an argument, but to no avail.
Hey! What can I say? Good guys all of them. Maybe society doesn’t care for them and probably with their own good reasons. But these are my people, and everyone knows it. I earned their respect and love not by being here, but by my conduct.
And while I don’t want to make this the T.T. loves T.T. blog, I’ve done some reflecting and pondering of my life’s journey. And as fucked up as it is now, there’s poor souls out there in the same boat as me who have worked, paid bills, raised families, went to church…. But are lonely and don’t have nowhere near the love and moral support I’m getting. As I reflect on this life, I realize, yes, I’ve taken guys out and they didn’t get 6-7-8 months to reflect on their fucked-up deeds. It was 1-2-3 – see ya – bam, it’s over.
Ok, moving on. If you read my Bad Weather blog, I’ve done that several times. Interfered in hits when possible or when I thought they were out of line. From prison yards to gangster business. I even talked up for a guy scheduled for a hit, and got it cancelled. And I was going to be part of the whack. Just the set-up guy, but I knew him well. I had just been a pallbearer at his baby’s funeral. Now I’m supposed to bring the guy in for slaughtering. That’s another blog. But that’s saving a life ain’t it?
Pulling a 3 year old from a ranch well, and assisting in his resuscitation. That’s like saving a life. A life on a child, that’s a good life. I don’t want a medal or any of that shit. What’s funny about the kid and the well is that his mom made me a whole chocolate pie, my favorite, the next day. But within 3 months, the kid’s old man is putting out word he’s going to blow my head off if I step on ranch property. Once again, I refer to Old Blue Eyes, “That’s life.”
But when I get up and read these blog comments from Ghost, Jose in San Diego my ese, Jayne, Barry from up there in Tonopah, Will, your Mom and Dad, Geoff, Big W., Cindy, Sue O, August, Hammy, all of these folks have inspired me with good advice, strong-hearted advice, fuck-the-odds advice, and I don’t know what to say.
I don’t consider myself a religious man. I’d like to have that blind faith that’s sang in songs, written in books, shouted about on street corners. But I can’t honestly say “Oh yeah!”
I’ve lived this life of robbing, stealing, killing, fucking over the weak and now as the moment nears, I can’t jump up and say, “OK. Forgive me. Sorry about all the sadness I caused families. I’m now a good Christian.” I’m having trouble in my mind with that. Sure I can say it.
You know, since word hit the yard I’m on my last legs or soon will be, I’ve had at least 5 inmates come up to me. 2 gave me books on Jesus and 1 on Jehovah. One had his people send me a student bible to study. Their thoughts are nice.
Now these ain’t pooty-butt guys. They’re guys you would get scared about if you run into them in an alley. They’re not chomos or rapos [child molesters or rapists]. They’re guys, I guess you would say, who’re all looking for change and answers.
I’m not rude, I take their books out of politeness. But to be honest, I haven’t cracked one of them open.
I told the cancer oncologist last week as we met over the TV-set hook up, “Hey, Doc, let’s keep it on the up and up here. I’m not afraid of death. In fact I’m trying to look at it as a possible new journey.” I’ve faced death before, but adrenaline was flowing, survival value was full-tilt boogie. There was never time for reflection or pondering. Now this is all I have time to ponder and reflect. I sure had a lot of fun, and an issue of sadness that never lasted long. Fun always seemed to override the sadness. I told the Dr. what I fear is the pain. He told me they can and will handle the pain. We’ll see.
You can tell I like that word ponder. I’m using the hell out of it. I hope this didn’t bore you. C’mon, let’s get back to having fun at the blog. What do you want to kick around? War? Politics? The Mafia? Prison?
Shaun, I’m really happy with your progress. Now get to work.
L&R,
Two Tonys
ps) Jim Hogg wanted to write to you so I told him to have at it. I’m worried about him and his release. But what the fuck? Look at the adventure. This place becomes a nest and some of these guys are like baby birds. My advice: Fly, motherfucker, fly.
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Recently diagnosed with liver cancer, and is in chemotherapy fighting to prolong his life.
Hey,
That Johnnie Bennett Battaglia that left a comment is the kid of Johnnie the Bat. The Bat came in my club one night with Charlie Batts’ wife and entourage, and had a drink. Charlie was in prison at the time. I didn’t pick up good vibes, so we all just glanced at each other. They didn’t stay long. He was over in Arizona on parole from California. He was doing a diamond score and a good one at that. Me and my partner turned it down. But the Bat did it and got away with it. Then they got him for violating his parole by going to another state. We heard he died in prison. The heist involved a jeweller named Newt Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer did a swan dive off the Pioneer Hotel without a parachute. That’s what happens to gangster groupies. Keep you day jobs, folks!
You remember my main guy, Jim Hogg. Yeah, the 280 lb hunk of rock some refer to as Rolling Thunder. Well, he’s always looked out for me in here. You know that. When I come back from the hospital, he meets me at the gate and tells me I’ve been moved to his pod. He is right across from me and he is godsent. He does so much for me, I feel both guilty and old. He’s my big-headed boy, and I got big-time love for him. But he goes home soon and I’ll miss him a lot.
Ya know, as screwed up as my life has been, I’m very fortunate with friends who actually want to look out for me. There’s a group of good solid nasty white boys I’ve known for quite a while who came to me and wanted me to move to their pod. Jim Hogg was with me, and told them I’m staying with him till he leaves. They put up an argument, but to no avail.
Hey! What can I say? Good guys all of them. Maybe society doesn’t care for them and probably with their own good reasons. But these are my people, and everyone knows it. I earned their respect and love not by being here, but by my conduct.
And while I don’t want to make this the T.T. loves T.T. blog, I’ve done some reflecting and pondering of my life’s journey. And as fucked up as it is now, there’s poor souls out there in the same boat as me who have worked, paid bills, raised families, went to church…. But are lonely and don’t have nowhere near the love and moral support I’m getting. As I reflect on this life, I realize, yes, I’ve taken guys out and they didn’t get 6-7-8 months to reflect on their fucked-up deeds. It was 1-2-3 – see ya – bam, it’s over.
Ok, moving on. If you read my Bad Weather blog, I’ve done that several times. Interfered in hits when possible or when I thought they were out of line. From prison yards to gangster business. I even talked up for a guy scheduled for a hit, and got it cancelled. And I was going to be part of the whack. Just the set-up guy, but I knew him well. I had just been a pallbearer at his baby’s funeral. Now I’m supposed to bring the guy in for slaughtering. That’s another blog. But that’s saving a life ain’t it?
Pulling a 3 year old from a ranch well, and assisting in his resuscitation. That’s like saving a life. A life on a child, that’s a good life. I don’t want a medal or any of that shit. What’s funny about the kid and the well is that his mom made me a whole chocolate pie, my favorite, the next day. But within 3 months, the kid’s old man is putting out word he’s going to blow my head off if I step on ranch property. Once again, I refer to Old Blue Eyes, “That’s life.”
But when I get up and read these blog comments from Ghost, Jose in San Diego my ese, Jayne, Barry from up there in Tonopah, Will, your Mom and Dad, Geoff, Big W., Cindy, Sue O, August, Hammy, all of these folks have inspired me with good advice, strong-hearted advice, fuck-the-odds advice, and I don’t know what to say.
I don’t consider myself a religious man. I’d like to have that blind faith that’s sang in songs, written in books, shouted about on street corners. But I can’t honestly say “Oh yeah!”
I’ve lived this life of robbing, stealing, killing, fucking over the weak and now as the moment nears, I can’t jump up and say, “OK. Forgive me. Sorry about all the sadness I caused families. I’m now a good Christian.” I’m having trouble in my mind with that. Sure I can say it.
You know, since word hit the yard I’m on my last legs or soon will be, I’ve had at least 5 inmates come up to me. 2 gave me books on Jesus and 1 on Jehovah. One had his people send me a student bible to study. Their thoughts are nice.
Now these ain’t pooty-butt guys. They’re guys you would get scared about if you run into them in an alley. They’re not chomos or rapos [child molesters or rapists]. They’re guys, I guess you would say, who’re all looking for change and answers.
I’m not rude, I take their books out of politeness. But to be honest, I haven’t cracked one of them open.
I told the cancer oncologist last week as we met over the TV-set hook up, “Hey, Doc, let’s keep it on the up and up here. I’m not afraid of death. In fact I’m trying to look at it as a possible new journey.” I’ve faced death before, but adrenaline was flowing, survival value was full-tilt boogie. There was never time for reflection or pondering. Now this is all I have time to ponder and reflect. I sure had a lot of fun, and an issue of sadness that never lasted long. Fun always seemed to override the sadness. I told the Dr. what I fear is the pain. He told me they can and will handle the pain. We’ll see.
You can tell I like that word ponder. I’m using the hell out of it. I hope this didn’t bore you. C’mon, let’s get back to having fun at the blog. What do you want to kick around? War? Politics? The Mafia? Prison?
Shaun, I’m really happy with your progress. Now get to work.
L&R,
Two Tonys
ps) Jim Hogg wanted to write to you so I told him to have at it. I’m worried about him and his release. But what the fuck? Look at the adventure. This place becomes a nest and some of these guys are like baby birds. My advice: Fly, motherfucker, fly.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Two Tonys is dying from cancer. You can send well wishes for Two Tonys by emailing writeinside@hotmail.com or posting them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
15 May 09
Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 3)
I was travelling most of yesterday as I just gave my first presentation to a school. 100 14 to 15 year olds at Bishop's Stortford College in Hertfordshire. The jitters began the night before. I kept jumping out of bed at all hours, writing down additional stuff to speak about. I knew if I failed, I would lose the job I’d just relocated to the other side of England for. The pressure was on.
Nervous about speaking to an audience, I only ate half of my breakfast before I set off. Dwelling on how this talk was my chance to raise myself in society, I was scared of sabotaging such a fantastic opportunity.
It took over two hours – two trains, two lines on the London Underground, and a taxi – to get to the school. Once there, I met the contact teacher, Claire, a wonderful woman who gave me an invaluable prep. She knew it was my first presentation, and she suggested various techniques to engage the students, such as asking some of them to volunteer to read excerpts from my blog and book. She said some previous speakers on drugs had glorified their crimes. One had even used the F word, and she had to stop the presentation. She advised me to keep emphasising how my decision to do drugs had led to the horrible jail conditions.
The room designated for my presentation was like a drama theatre. It consisted of a stage facing rows of seats that went higher towards the back. Claire asked if I needed anything, and we set up a table to put my water and reading excerpts on. I refused a podium as I knew I couldn’t stand still. I expected to pace.
When it came time to talk, my nervousness peaked. Facing all of the little people in school uniforms gazing at me was an experience like no other. I’d prepared a detailed introduction, but my mind went blank and I introduced myself in a few short sentences that lacked enough information. Faltering, I wondered if I was not cut out for public speaking?
Some students showed up late, and I’m glad they did. I pounced on the opportunity to start again:
“For the benefit of those students who showed up late, I’ll start my introduction again. I am Shaun Attwood. I went to school in Cheshire where I did well. I went on to Liverpool University and graduated with a business degree. I moved to America, became a top-producing stockbroker, quit that, and then became a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. But I lost everything because of drugs. On May 16th, 2002, a SWAT team knocked my door down, and I ended up in America’s toughest jail.
So how did I go from where you are today to getting a 9 ½ year prison sentence? When I was about four or five years older than most of you I took Ecstasy for the first time. The rave scene had just started in Manchester…”
I am pleased to report my speaking flowed better from there. I could still feel my tension, but I remembered the words of Dr. O at Tucson prison: “It’s all energy. Just channel it in the right direction.” Breaking it up with the students reading excerpts allowed me to take breathers, drink water, and mentally prepare what I was going to say next. Thinking on my feet, a lot of what I’d prepared to say never came out, but I had so much material to draw on I was actually still talking into the time allocated for Q & A.
The students at Bishops Stortford College were pleasant and bright. So many hands went up, there was not enough to time to answer all of their questions, ranging from the prevalence of prison rape to legal questions about my case.
Even with all of the applause, I wasn’t sure if I’d done well or not. That changed when the teachers surrounded me, and congratulated me on doing such a good job. Fascinated by my story, they had questions of their own.
The group of girls who had shown up late even stayed behind to apologise and ask me further questions.
I left on a natural high, and immediately called my parents, who popped a bottle of a champagne that night.
If you are interested in booking my presentation click here.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Halle (Saale) to visit Kathi for two weeks. She lives in the roof of a 120-year-old building in East Germany.
I’ll be blogging from Germany, including a letter from Two Tonys and the story of Smiling John, in his own words. He’s a murderer who escaped from prison and ended up on America's Most Wanted.
Click here for Dawn of a New Adventure part 2
Dawn of a New Adventure (Part 3)
I was travelling most of yesterday as I just gave my first presentation to a school. 100 14 to 15 year olds at Bishop's Stortford College in Hertfordshire. The jitters began the night before. I kept jumping out of bed at all hours, writing down additional stuff to speak about. I knew if I failed, I would lose the job I’d just relocated to the other side of England for. The pressure was on.
Nervous about speaking to an audience, I only ate half of my breakfast before I set off. Dwelling on how this talk was my chance to raise myself in society, I was scared of sabotaging such a fantastic opportunity.
It took over two hours – two trains, two lines on the London Underground, and a taxi – to get to the school. Once there, I met the contact teacher, Claire, a wonderful woman who gave me an invaluable prep. She knew it was my first presentation, and she suggested various techniques to engage the students, such as asking some of them to volunteer to read excerpts from my blog and book. She said some previous speakers on drugs had glorified their crimes. One had even used the F word, and she had to stop the presentation. She advised me to keep emphasising how my decision to do drugs had led to the horrible jail conditions.
The room designated for my presentation was like a drama theatre. It consisted of a stage facing rows of seats that went higher towards the back. Claire asked if I needed anything, and we set up a table to put my water and reading excerpts on. I refused a podium as I knew I couldn’t stand still. I expected to pace.
When it came time to talk, my nervousness peaked. Facing all of the little people in school uniforms gazing at me was an experience like no other. I’d prepared a detailed introduction, but my mind went blank and I introduced myself in a few short sentences that lacked enough information. Faltering, I wondered if I was not cut out for public speaking?
Some students showed up late, and I’m glad they did. I pounced on the opportunity to start again:
“For the benefit of those students who showed up late, I’ll start my introduction again. I am Shaun Attwood. I went to school in Cheshire where I did well. I went on to Liverpool University and graduated with a business degree. I moved to America, became a top-producing stockbroker, quit that, and then became a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. But I lost everything because of drugs. On May 16th, 2002, a SWAT team knocked my door down, and I ended up in America’s toughest jail.
So how did I go from where you are today to getting a 9 ½ year prison sentence? When I was about four or five years older than most of you I took Ecstasy for the first time. The rave scene had just started in Manchester…”
I am pleased to report my speaking flowed better from there. I could still feel my tension, but I remembered the words of Dr. O at Tucson prison: “It’s all energy. Just channel it in the right direction.” Breaking it up with the students reading excerpts allowed me to take breathers, drink water, and mentally prepare what I was going to say next. Thinking on my feet, a lot of what I’d prepared to say never came out, but I had so much material to draw on I was actually still talking into the time allocated for Q & A.
The students at Bishops Stortford College were pleasant and bright. So many hands went up, there was not enough to time to answer all of their questions, ranging from the prevalence of prison rape to legal questions about my case.
Even with all of the applause, I wasn’t sure if I’d done well or not. That changed when the teachers surrounded me, and congratulated me on doing such a good job. Fascinated by my story, they had questions of their own.
The group of girls who had shown up late even stayed behind to apologise and ask me further questions.
I left on a natural high, and immediately called my parents, who popped a bottle of a champagne that night.
If you are interested in booking my presentation click here.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Halle (Saale) to visit Kathi for two weeks. She lives in the roof of a 120-year-old building in East Germany.
I’ll be blogging from Germany, including a letter from Two Tonys and the story of Smiling John, in his own words. He’s a murderer who escaped from prison and ended up on America's Most Wanted.
Click here for Dawn of a New Adventure part 2
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