Slim (Part 2 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
“What? What?” Charlie asked with an anxiety that said he thought he might be the target.
“They’re gonna get Slim right now.”
“Who? Who is?” Charlie asked, his voice growing more worried.
“Shhhhh…Not so loud. Calm down. Just pay attention.”
Charlie trusted me, and in prison trust is rare. No matter how much trust you put in someone, there’s still a part of your consciousness that never lets you forget you’re in prison and should trust no one. In here, your friend can be your enemy from one minute to the next. So I understood Charlie’s anxiety.
“Look! Look!” Charlie said, pointing at the pull-up bars.
Just then Casper threw a swing at Slim. Slim ducked as if he knew it were coming.
In prison you become more in tune with your instincts. As Stan Lee would say, you develop a “spider sense.” It’s as if our minds regress to the days when danger lurked around every corner, like saber-toothed tigers. So I wasn’t surprised by Slim’s response.
Lumpy was on the other side of Slim. Slim didn’t realize this as he began to run in Lumpy’s direction. Lumpy took a swing that barely clipped Slim’s ear. Slim flinched a little, but it didn’t stop his momentum. Slim began to run towards the middle of the rec yard. An older laid-back convict named Big Mike was in his direction. Mike saw him coming and threw his arm out to clothes-line Slim. Slim was running at full speed when Mike caught him. Slim’s head stopped, but his feet kept going. It looked like an old comedy skit from the sixties where a guy slips on a banana peel and his body flies horizontally. Dust billowed around Slim’s head as it hit the dirt. I hadn’t realized how much hate everyone harbored for Slim until Big Mike started to kick him.
As Slim struggled to get up, all the guys playing basketball stopped, ran over, and began to get their kicks in. No one wanted him to get up. Then, some playing cards and working out came for a piece of Slim. Two guys even dropped the telephones they were on. I’d never seen one man hated so much. I could hear the thumps from feet making contact, a few slaps as punches connected. Dirt and dust were flying through the air as Slim continued to struggle to get up and run away.
For a moment, I was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. The scene reminded me of a nature show in which a pack of wolves were trying to take down an elk that had strayed. No matter which way the elk turned there was always a wolf present at exactly the right time to deliver a bite. Its only option was to keep moving, hoping an opening would occur. It had fear in its eyes, like I saw in Slim’s.
Two explosions caused Charlie and me to flinch. Slim’s attackers dashed away. The officers in the watch tower launched tear-gas canisters at the center of the melee. The prisoners scattered chaotically, like ants reacting to an invasion of their hill.
One man named Happy continued kicking Slim despite the tear gas. The officer in the tower fired a warning shot. Everyone hit the floor face down because we all knew the next shot would be aimed at any man still standing.
Happy continued kicking. There was a shot. Happy fell.
Offended by one of our own getting shot, everyone got to their feet, and threatened to riot. We targeted our aggression at the officers in the area. But more officers came with shotguns, tear gas, and Tasers. We weren’t outnumbered, but outgunned. It was over.
Having been shot with rubber pellets, Happy was hospitalised. Slim was taken to the hole, too much of a liability to keep on the yard. Some guys were caught and taken to lock-up, others got away in the pandemonium. The rest of us had to wait out on the rec yard for several hours, cuffed with zip ties while investigators completed their investigation.
I realized that day what a fine line of violence those of us locked up have to walk. The guards have to be violent enough to set an example, yet not so much as to be labelled bullies and ignite the whole yard.
Aggression is inherent in human nature. It’s how we’ve survived for thousands of years. In modern society it’s more subtle though. But prison never lets you forget our potential for violence, whether as predator or prey.
Here’s the link to Part 1: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/slim-part-1-by-warrior-warrior-serving.html
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for Warrior below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Friday, November 06, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Tent City (Part 5 by Guest Blogger Daniel Horne)
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog
SRT is a serious menace to inmates at Tent City. Younger prisoners, if they’ve never been in the military, don’t tolerate the verbal and physical abuse of SRT well. They aren’t psychologically prepared to be screamed at, belittled, pushed, and threatened. Getting caught staring into the eyes of an SRT member is an invitation for serious physical harm followed by a month in the hole.
SRT is the sheriff’s attempt at the SWAT (Special Weapons & Tactics) concept police departments use. SRT members wear black uniforms, black flak vests, black shin pads, black helmets, black gloves, black combat boots, and black sunglasses. Most SRT’s are athletes who resemble professional football players in size and physique, a stark contrast to the doughy plumpness of most DO’s.
It isn’t fair to the police to call SRT a SWAT team. The differences are dramatic and distinct. The SRT personnel I encountered were in a perpetual bad temper. I believe it to be due to the side effects of bodybuilding steroids based on the size of some of these men, but whatever their drug of choice, it was not a laughing matter to cross their path.
The SRT hurt people, and, from my observations, they enjoy doing it. A few carry pepper spray in a quart size aerosol canister screwed into a large, reusable paint spray atomizer. Some tote large caliber shotguns filled with beanbag munitions. Most wear Uzi machinegun-like weapons strapped across their necks and shoulders that rapid fire teargas paintballs. In truth, they resemble the Waffen-SS, Heinrich Himmler’s Armed Schutzstaffel (Protective Squadron) in demeanor and action. They routinely hurt prisoners at any opportunity. To me, SRT appeared to be a brotherhood of sorts, a gang where ruthless behavior is the measure that earns the respect of their peers.
There was one memorable day in mid-February when the entire pod was suddenly locked down for no apparent reason. Soon, the door at the far end of the room slid open and a large SRT clothed black man walked through the entrance, the butt of a shotgun parked on his hip, the barrel pointing into the air. Soon afterward, more SRT’s wearing Uzi machine guns entered leading a line of naked inmates through the common area and into the open exercise yard outside. The men, hands on top of their head, were dressed in pink boxers, socks, and rubber slippers. It was cold in the pod; it had to have been below forty degrees outside. I counted sixty three men, most of them young, but a few were elderly, and one was in a wheelchair. They walked silently, their hands clasped on top of their heads, single file, as SRT personnel positioned themselves on either side of the line. The parallel to Nazis guarding POW’s was impossible to miss, as the prisoners disappeared through the doorway and into the exercise area beyond.
Thirty minutes later, another sheriff’s deputy, a man who resembled a trained police officer more than a DO based on his uniform and behavior, arrived. He moved two large cans of pepper-spray that were sitting on the table aside and sat down on one of the stools. Prisoners were brought in one at a time. SRT sat them at the table, and the mysterious deputy questioned each of them. Prisoners with tattoos had Polaroid photographs taken of each marking on their body. All the while, the SRT soldiers milled about the room, shotgun stocks on their hips or Uzis at the ready, menacingly peering into windows of the locked-down cells. Everyone in the pod was lying on their bunk, with eyes averted when an SRT walked by, pretending not to notice what was going on in the common area.
After ten interviews, the investigating officer was reviewing his notes when another man arrived dressed in plain clothes. Evidently, the police were looking for someone and believed him to be in jail among the naked men standing outside in the cold. The two policemen chatted for a few minutes and looked at the photographs. One of the inmates was brought in, handcuffed, and led away by the plain clothes officer. The other officer left shortly thereafter.
Thirty minutes later, the door to the exercise area was opened, and the freezing line of prisoners, some whose skin had turned from warm pink to an eerie blue, were brought inside and led out of our pod. The shotgun-toting SRT who had entered the pod first was the last to leave, facing the pod to survey the room one last time before stepping through the opening — a warning that he could come back. He stepped out of sight and the door clanged shut. Cell doors began to open. BAM! BAM! BAM! We emerged, whispering about what had just happened, but we were careful not to talk loud enough to be overheard by the DO’s above our heads.
Here is the link for Part 4: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-4-by.html
Here is the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog
SRT is a serious menace to inmates at Tent City. Younger prisoners, if they’ve never been in the military, don’t tolerate the verbal and physical abuse of SRT well. They aren’t psychologically prepared to be screamed at, belittled, pushed, and threatened. Getting caught staring into the eyes of an SRT member is an invitation for serious physical harm followed by a month in the hole.
SRT is the sheriff’s attempt at the SWAT (Special Weapons & Tactics) concept police departments use. SRT members wear black uniforms, black flak vests, black shin pads, black helmets, black gloves, black combat boots, and black sunglasses. Most SRT’s are athletes who resemble professional football players in size and physique, a stark contrast to the doughy plumpness of most DO’s.
It isn’t fair to the police to call SRT a SWAT team. The differences are dramatic and distinct. The SRT personnel I encountered were in a perpetual bad temper. I believe it to be due to the side effects of bodybuilding steroids based on the size of some of these men, but whatever their drug of choice, it was not a laughing matter to cross their path.
The SRT hurt people, and, from my observations, they enjoy doing it. A few carry pepper spray in a quart size aerosol canister screwed into a large, reusable paint spray atomizer. Some tote large caliber shotguns filled with beanbag munitions. Most wear Uzi machinegun-like weapons strapped across their necks and shoulders that rapid fire teargas paintballs. In truth, they resemble the Waffen-SS, Heinrich Himmler’s Armed Schutzstaffel (Protective Squadron) in demeanor and action. They routinely hurt prisoners at any opportunity. To me, SRT appeared to be a brotherhood of sorts, a gang where ruthless behavior is the measure that earns the respect of their peers.
There was one memorable day in mid-February when the entire pod was suddenly locked down for no apparent reason. Soon, the door at the far end of the room slid open and a large SRT clothed black man walked through the entrance, the butt of a shotgun parked on his hip, the barrel pointing into the air. Soon afterward, more SRT’s wearing Uzi machine guns entered leading a line of naked inmates through the common area and into the open exercise yard outside. The men, hands on top of their head, were dressed in pink boxers, socks, and rubber slippers. It was cold in the pod; it had to have been below forty degrees outside. I counted sixty three men, most of them young, but a few were elderly, and one was in a wheelchair. They walked silently, their hands clasped on top of their heads, single file, as SRT personnel positioned themselves on either side of the line. The parallel to Nazis guarding POW’s was impossible to miss, as the prisoners disappeared through the doorway and into the exercise area beyond.
Thirty minutes later, another sheriff’s deputy, a man who resembled a trained police officer more than a DO based on his uniform and behavior, arrived. He moved two large cans of pepper-spray that were sitting on the table aside and sat down on one of the stools. Prisoners were brought in one at a time. SRT sat them at the table, and the mysterious deputy questioned each of them. Prisoners with tattoos had Polaroid photographs taken of each marking on their body. All the while, the SRT soldiers milled about the room, shotgun stocks on their hips or Uzis at the ready, menacingly peering into windows of the locked-down cells. Everyone in the pod was lying on their bunk, with eyes averted when an SRT walked by, pretending not to notice what was going on in the common area.
After ten interviews, the investigating officer was reviewing his notes when another man arrived dressed in plain clothes. Evidently, the police were looking for someone and believed him to be in jail among the naked men standing outside in the cold. The two policemen chatted for a few minutes and looked at the photographs. One of the inmates was brought in, handcuffed, and led away by the plain clothes officer. The other officer left shortly thereafter.
Thirty minutes later, the door to the exercise area was opened, and the freezing line of prisoners, some whose skin had turned from warm pink to an eerie blue, were brought inside and led out of our pod. The shotgun-toting SRT who had entered the pod first was the last to leave, facing the pod to survey the room one last time before stepping through the opening — a warning that he could come back. He stepped out of sight and the door clanged shut. Cell doors began to open. BAM! BAM! BAM! We emerged, whispering about what had just happened, but we were careful not to talk loud enough to be overheard by the DO’s above our heads.
Here is the link for Part 4: http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2009/10/sheriff-joe-arpaios-tent-city-part-4-by.html
Here is the link to Daniel’s website and book: http://accidentalfelons.com/
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Saturday, October 31, 2009
From T-Bone (Letter 11)
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
How’s it going?
Man, you won’t believe the a-holes around this place, and it took the power of God to keep me cool and not do something terribly wrong to those two who attacked me.
As you may be aware, I’m doing OK. I didn’t write because I didn’t have any stamps, and, man, thank you so very much for the books. They are a godsend. I went through a lot to get them off the property officer, but I got them and that’s a blessing. Thank you!
Well, I’m down to 55 days and counting. You know the feeling and the feeling is unbelievable. I really don’t know where to start in this letter, so bear with me, man, and I’ll do my best to explain all that has taken place, and Shaun, I am sorry for not writing sooner. I know you care, brother. Let me say this, I am going to dictate a separate letter to you, so that I’ll be able to relate what happened [the attack] the proper way.
You mentioned writing a book about my exploits and life. Cool, I believe that’ll work because your style of writing is one that explains and gives insight and detail.
You stay strong and positive, and once again, I’ll be sending you the other letter, and I’m sorry for not writing.
Yours,
T-Bone
Each one teach one – Strength and honor!
Coming next week: the attack on T-bone and what happened
Click here for T-Bone’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for T-Bone to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
T-Bone - Radiating power and strength, this deeply-spiritual massively-built African American towers over most inmates. He is a prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.
How’s it going?
Man, you won’t believe the a-holes around this place, and it took the power of God to keep me cool and not do something terribly wrong to those two who attacked me.
As you may be aware, I’m doing OK. I didn’t write because I didn’t have any stamps, and, man, thank you so very much for the books. They are a godsend. I went through a lot to get them off the property officer, but I got them and that’s a blessing. Thank you!
Well, I’m down to 55 days and counting. You know the feeling and the feeling is unbelievable. I really don’t know where to start in this letter, so bear with me, man, and I’ll do my best to explain all that has taken place, and Shaun, I am sorry for not writing sooner. I know you care, brother. Let me say this, I am going to dictate a separate letter to you, so that I’ll be able to relate what happened [the attack] the proper way.
You mentioned writing a book about my exploits and life. Cool, I believe that’ll work because your style of writing is one that explains and gives insight and detail.
You stay strong and positive, and once again, I’ll be sending you the other letter, and I’m sorry for not writing.
Yours,
T-Bone
Each one teach one – Strength and honor!
Coming next week: the attack on T-bone and what happened
Click here for T-Bone’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for T-Bone to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Slim (Part 1 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
Seven times around the dirt track was one mile. Everything else was centered inside. Seven workout stations. Two basketball courts. Four steel picnic tables. Just outside the track were eight phones, a water fountain, and a urinal. No grass, trees or any other greenery on our rec yard. Just concrete and steel, desert dirt, and the traditional gun tower.
The temperature was in the hundreds, the sun beating down, giving no leeway to the breeze trying to keep us company.
Some guys were working out, others playing basketball, the rest gambling or caught up in idle chatter.
My earphones were blaring as I muscled out my last set of pushups. I began to make my way towards the next station to do dips and back arms. I walked the track, by two Native Americans sat at one of the tables.
“Warrior,” shouted Day, waving at me to look in his direction.
I barely caught my name through my blasting Walkman. I walked over to Day and Red Hawk. “Wattup, chiefs! How you two doing?”
“Jus’ chillin’,” Red Hawk said. They both greeted me with handshakes.
Day was an old guy about 60 who I knew from other yards. Light skinned. Long hair. Standing around 5’6”. Missing a few teeth. His face lined with wrinkles like an old boot. He’d spent 20 years in the system. Red Hawk was in his thirties, 5’10” and dark complected. His face clearly showed his native ethnicity, especially his nose shaped like an eagle’s beak. Both guys were Pima, one of the native tribes in Arizona. We respected how we each carried ourselves.
“Getting’ ready to watch da show,” Day said.
I immediately knew something was going to go down, and they were giving me a heads-up. “Ah shit. Something’s gonna pop off, isn’t it?”
Both guys looked at each other and laughed. My eyes sharpened between the two, attempting to gauge who’d tell me first. To a certain degree a little anxiety rose in the back of my mind. Instincts can’t help but raise caution because the “show” may well include you.
“Be careful,” Day said, leering around to see who was in earshot. “They’re gonna get Slim.”
Slim was a character no one liked. A few of the guys were already waiting for him to screw up. He was Mexican, stood 6’ and 180 pounds, with a shaved head, and tattooed all over. Some say he had mental issues. In reality though he would get spun out on speed or heroin and think he had courage, throwing out threats at guys he knew he could intimidate, steering clear of those he knew he couldn’t. The longer he went without sleep, sometime days, the worse he became. Everyone was tired of him, including me. Slim had recently picked a fight with a guy everyone was fond of for no reason. It was time for him to go. He was going to get run off the yard.
“Who’s gonna get ’im?”
“The homies, Casper and Lumpy. Check ’em out. They’re trying to get close to ’im.” Red Hawk nodded in the direction for me to look.
Casper and Lumpy were walking laps, each lap inching their way closer to Slim who was at the pull-up bars. They knew he was spun, he’d been up for days and was paranoid. They were trying to make their way close to him without raising suspicion.
“Good,” I said, “Everyone’s tired of his fucking shit.”
“Yep, that’s why,” Day said.
“I appreciate the heads-up,” I said.
“It’s all good,” Red Hawk said, “We seen you working out and know you always at the pull-up bars, so we figured we’d give ya a heads-up, so you’d not get caught in the crossfire.”
“Right on. Good lookin’ out,” I said. “Well I’m gonna go finish up my routine. Thanks again.” I shook their hands, and headed back onto the track towards the next workout station.
I approached the dip bar. No one was there except me. This station was located in the northwest corner of the rec yard, resting on an area slightly elevated in comparison to the rest of the yard. The high ground afforded me a better view of everything taking place, causing me to wonder how good the view was for the guard stationed in the gun tower.
I began my routine, but not with much intensity. I figured it best to stay alert and keep my eyes on Slim, so he didn’t by chance make his way to my area to work out. I didn’t want to find myself in the middle of the chaos. Small situations can escalate into full-fledged riots within seconds. So being alert can be the difference between life, death or harm.
Three sets into my back-arm routine, my cellmate Charlie happened to walk by. “Wattup!” Charlie said.
“Nothin’. What you doin’?” I asked.
“Nothin’. Jus’ walkin’ laps.”
“Hey, chill with me right here.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Some shit’s gonna go down right now.”
Charlie’s eyes animated, his attention picked up like the ears of a Doberman. We’d recently become cellmates, and got along great. We were both from the same hometown, and knew much of the same people. Charlie stood 5’4”, weighed 170 pounds and sported the customary fade haircut. He wore tortoise-shell designer frames a bit too large for his small round face. When he arched his back to look up at you through his lenses, it appeared as though his neck and face were struggling to uphold the weight of his glasses. I found this humorous as it was his signature.
“What? What?” Charlie asked with an anxiety that said he thought he might be the target.
Click here for a previous story by Warrior.
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.
Seven times around the dirt track was one mile. Everything else was centered inside. Seven workout stations. Two basketball courts. Four steel picnic tables. Just outside the track were eight phones, a water fountain, and a urinal. No grass, trees or any other greenery on our rec yard. Just concrete and steel, desert dirt, and the traditional gun tower.
The temperature was in the hundreds, the sun beating down, giving no leeway to the breeze trying to keep us company.
Some guys were working out, others playing basketball, the rest gambling or caught up in idle chatter.
My earphones were blaring as I muscled out my last set of pushups. I began to make my way towards the next station to do dips and back arms. I walked the track, by two Native Americans sat at one of the tables.
“Warrior,” shouted Day, waving at me to look in his direction.
I barely caught my name through my blasting Walkman. I walked over to Day and Red Hawk. “Wattup, chiefs! How you two doing?”
“Jus’ chillin’,” Red Hawk said. They both greeted me with handshakes.
Day was an old guy about 60 who I knew from other yards. Light skinned. Long hair. Standing around 5’6”. Missing a few teeth. His face lined with wrinkles like an old boot. He’d spent 20 years in the system. Red Hawk was in his thirties, 5’10” and dark complected. His face clearly showed his native ethnicity, especially his nose shaped like an eagle’s beak. Both guys were Pima, one of the native tribes in Arizona. We respected how we each carried ourselves.
“Getting’ ready to watch da show,” Day said.
I immediately knew something was going to go down, and they were giving me a heads-up. “Ah shit. Something’s gonna pop off, isn’t it?”
Both guys looked at each other and laughed. My eyes sharpened between the two, attempting to gauge who’d tell me first. To a certain degree a little anxiety rose in the back of my mind. Instincts can’t help but raise caution because the “show” may well include you.
“Be careful,” Day said, leering around to see who was in earshot. “They’re gonna get Slim.”
Slim was a character no one liked. A few of the guys were already waiting for him to screw up. He was Mexican, stood 6’ and 180 pounds, with a shaved head, and tattooed all over. Some say he had mental issues. In reality though he would get spun out on speed or heroin and think he had courage, throwing out threats at guys he knew he could intimidate, steering clear of those he knew he couldn’t. The longer he went without sleep, sometime days, the worse he became. Everyone was tired of him, including me. Slim had recently picked a fight with a guy everyone was fond of for no reason. It was time for him to go. He was going to get run off the yard.
“Who’s gonna get ’im?”
“The homies, Casper and Lumpy. Check ’em out. They’re trying to get close to ’im.” Red Hawk nodded in the direction for me to look.
Casper and Lumpy were walking laps, each lap inching their way closer to Slim who was at the pull-up bars. They knew he was spun, he’d been up for days and was paranoid. They were trying to make their way close to him without raising suspicion.
“Good,” I said, “Everyone’s tired of his fucking shit.”
“Yep, that’s why,” Day said.
“I appreciate the heads-up,” I said.
“It’s all good,” Red Hawk said, “We seen you working out and know you always at the pull-up bars, so we figured we’d give ya a heads-up, so you’d not get caught in the crossfire.”
“Right on. Good lookin’ out,” I said. “Well I’m gonna go finish up my routine. Thanks again.” I shook their hands, and headed back onto the track towards the next workout station.
I approached the dip bar. No one was there except me. This station was located in the northwest corner of the rec yard, resting on an area slightly elevated in comparison to the rest of the yard. The high ground afforded me a better view of everything taking place, causing me to wonder how good the view was for the guard stationed in the gun tower.
I began my routine, but not with much intensity. I figured it best to stay alert and keep my eyes on Slim, so he didn’t by chance make his way to my area to work out. I didn’t want to find myself in the middle of the chaos. Small situations can escalate into full-fledged riots within seconds. So being alert can be the difference between life, death or harm.
Three sets into my back-arm routine, my cellmate Charlie happened to walk by. “Wattup!” Charlie said.
“Nothin’. What you doin’?” I asked.
“Nothin’. Jus’ walkin’ laps.”
“Hey, chill with me right here.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Some shit’s gonna go down right now.”
Charlie’s eyes animated, his attention picked up like the ears of a Doberman. We’d recently become cellmates, and got along great. We were both from the same hometown, and knew much of the same people. Charlie stood 5’4”, weighed 170 pounds and sported the customary fade haircut. He wore tortoise-shell designer frames a bit too large for his small round face. When he arched his back to look up at you through his lenses, it appeared as though his neck and face were struggling to uphold the weight of his glasses. I found this humorous as it was his signature.
“What? What?” Charlie asked with an anxiety that said he thought he might be the target.
Click here for a previous story by Warrior.
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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Tent City (Part 4 by Guest Blogger Daniel Horne)
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog
“Nothing, but it’s all part of their game, man. Almost everyone I’ve met in this place is here for using drugs, DUI, or a probation violation. So, what’s your story?”
“I’m here for Aggravated Assault.”
“You? Man, there must be something I don’t see. Who’d you shoot?”
“Nobody. I was in an automobile accident.”
“Was somebody maimed?”
“No, but the county attorney got pretty crafty with my case, too. I ended up taking a plea. I call it ‘Trial by Prosecutor’. The County Attorney charged me with crimes that carry mandatory minimum sentences. There was no way I could get a fair trial. It’s interesting how he does that. He holds a gun to your head and says ‘Sign here’. Then he hangs your reputation on his wall like it’s a trophy to prove how many bad people live here.”
“Trial by prosecutor... I like that,” William said. “That’s pretty much what it’s become these days with mandatory sentencing, hasn’t it? I’m sorry dude. How long are you going to be here?”
“A year, but I’m supposed to get Work Furlough. I’m worried about that. I don’t seem to be going to Work Furlough, unless this is a stop along the way, and I’ve been away from work for a week.”
“A year! Christ, dude, get yourself another attorney. You don’t want to be in this place a whole year. Why didn’t you go to prison? It’s safer in prison.”
“My family, man. I’d go through hell for them.”
“Well, that’s pretty much what you’ve chosen to do. This is as close to hell as it gets in America. I admire your courage.”
“No courage to it, William. I didn’t do it for me. If I’d gone away for ten years, it could have destroyed my marriage, and who knows what would have become of my children.”
“Man, that woman you ran into must have wanted your balls hung on a stick,” William said.
“No, actually she was quite gracious,” I replied. “She didn’t show up at sentencing, and she told the prosecutor that she didn’t want me to go to jail. They didn’t charge her with anything, so my guess is that she wanted to stay as far away from these people as possible. I can’t blame her, and I’m glad they didn’t go after her. She might have gone to prison if they had, and that would have been as wrong as this.”
“I know. This county has gone to hell.”
“It’s not just Andrew Thomas. This sort of abuse is growing all across America. People like Andrew Thomas are rising to power like weeds. It’s the damned mandatory sentencing that’s the problem. It provides a shield for political predators like him to hide behind. Almost everyone is afraid to go to trial. I know; I studied this shit for eighteen months while I was trying to figure out what happened to me. You and I are part of a bigger plan, my friend.”
“Speaking of plans, I have to go pick up the Lizard’s mail — Later.” William exited the tent to get the mail for the day.
‘Lizard’, I learned, is the male inmates’ affectionate term for women inmates. They call the women ‘Lizards’. Don’t ask me why. I can only guess what the women call the men — ‘Dumb Asses’ probably. The mail system in Tent City is clever. The mail is delivered each afternoon when the DO’s are changing shifts by tossing a sock filled with letters over the fenced barrier separating the men from the women. It starts off as a pen pal thing but often turns into a love affair between two lonely, desperate people who’ve never met, both of whom are saturated with feelings of helplessness.
William returned a few minutes later with a pink sock laden with tightly folded sheets of paper and some rocks for weight. Our tent was the mail tent, so there were plenty of visitors coming from across the yard to see if they had mail. Some of the men didn’t yet have a Lizard. They were hoping for a letter from a woman looking to hook-up or a reply to their inquiry tossed across the razor wire a few days earlier. It was an exciting time of day when William picked up the mail.
“Horne, get your gear and report to the bubble,” a guard’s voice boomed over the loud speaker.
“Dan, that’s you,” William said. “I guess you’re going to Work Furlough after all. Leave your blankets and sheets, okay?”
I gathered my few belongings to carry to the office. There wasn’t much. “William, I don’t know how to thank you enough. You guys saved my life. I owe you, but I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Don’t worry about it, man,” William said. “You’ll help other people too when you get oriented to this shit hole. We help each other, dude. It’s for sure no one else gives a rat’s ass if we live or die in here. You’ll get your chance to pay it forward. Now go, or the bus will leave without you.”
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for more information on Daniel’s book, Accidental Felons.
Click here for more on Tent City by Pearl Wilson whose son was murdered there.
Jail Survival tips.
Survival Tips Video. BBC Video.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Daniel Horne spent almost a year in Tent City. He is a business executive, husband, and father of two. Following a car accident, Daniel was not charged with drunk driving, but with aggravated assault – in Arizona’s legal system a car can be classified as a weapon you assault someone with. He is the author of the book, Accidental Felons and blog
“Nothing, but it’s all part of their game, man. Almost everyone I’ve met in this place is here for using drugs, DUI, or a probation violation. So, what’s your story?”
“I’m here for Aggravated Assault.”
“You? Man, there must be something I don’t see. Who’d you shoot?”
“Nobody. I was in an automobile accident.”
“Was somebody maimed?”
“No, but the county attorney got pretty crafty with my case, too. I ended up taking a plea. I call it ‘Trial by Prosecutor’. The County Attorney charged me with crimes that carry mandatory minimum sentences. There was no way I could get a fair trial. It’s interesting how he does that. He holds a gun to your head and says ‘Sign here’. Then he hangs your reputation on his wall like it’s a trophy to prove how many bad people live here.”
“Trial by prosecutor... I like that,” William said. “That’s pretty much what it’s become these days with mandatory sentencing, hasn’t it? I’m sorry dude. How long are you going to be here?”
“A year, but I’m supposed to get Work Furlough. I’m worried about that. I don’t seem to be going to Work Furlough, unless this is a stop along the way, and I’ve been away from work for a week.”
“A year! Christ, dude, get yourself another attorney. You don’t want to be in this place a whole year. Why didn’t you go to prison? It’s safer in prison.”
“My family, man. I’d go through hell for them.”
“Well, that’s pretty much what you’ve chosen to do. This is as close to hell as it gets in America. I admire your courage.”
“No courage to it, William. I didn’t do it for me. If I’d gone away for ten years, it could have destroyed my marriage, and who knows what would have become of my children.”
“Man, that woman you ran into must have wanted your balls hung on a stick,” William said.
“No, actually she was quite gracious,” I replied. “She didn’t show up at sentencing, and she told the prosecutor that she didn’t want me to go to jail. They didn’t charge her with anything, so my guess is that she wanted to stay as far away from these people as possible. I can’t blame her, and I’m glad they didn’t go after her. She might have gone to prison if they had, and that would have been as wrong as this.”
“I know. This county has gone to hell.”
“It’s not just Andrew Thomas. This sort of abuse is growing all across America. People like Andrew Thomas are rising to power like weeds. It’s the damned mandatory sentencing that’s the problem. It provides a shield for political predators like him to hide behind. Almost everyone is afraid to go to trial. I know; I studied this shit for eighteen months while I was trying to figure out what happened to me. You and I are part of a bigger plan, my friend.”
“Speaking of plans, I have to go pick up the Lizard’s mail — Later.” William exited the tent to get the mail for the day.
‘Lizard’, I learned, is the male inmates’ affectionate term for women inmates. They call the women ‘Lizards’. Don’t ask me why. I can only guess what the women call the men — ‘Dumb Asses’ probably. The mail system in Tent City is clever. The mail is delivered each afternoon when the DO’s are changing shifts by tossing a sock filled with letters over the fenced barrier separating the men from the women. It starts off as a pen pal thing but often turns into a love affair between two lonely, desperate people who’ve never met, both of whom are saturated with feelings of helplessness.
William returned a few minutes later with a pink sock laden with tightly folded sheets of paper and some rocks for weight. Our tent was the mail tent, so there were plenty of visitors coming from across the yard to see if they had mail. Some of the men didn’t yet have a Lizard. They were hoping for a letter from a woman looking to hook-up or a reply to their inquiry tossed across the razor wire a few days earlier. It was an exciting time of day when William picked up the mail.
“Horne, get your gear and report to the bubble,” a guard’s voice boomed over the loud speaker.
“Dan, that’s you,” William said. “I guess you’re going to Work Furlough after all. Leave your blankets and sheets, okay?”
I gathered my few belongings to carry to the office. There wasn’t much. “William, I don’t know how to thank you enough. You guys saved my life. I owe you, but I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Don’t worry about it, man,” William said. “You’ll help other people too when you get oriented to this shit hole. We help each other, dude. It’s for sure no one else gives a rat’s ass if we live or die in here. You’ll get your chance to pay it forward. Now go, or the bus will leave without you.”
Click here for Part 3.
Click here for more information on Daniel’s book, Accidental Felons.
Click here for more on Tent City by Pearl Wilson whose son was murdered there.
Jail Survival tips.
Survival Tips Video. BBC Video.
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com.
To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Friday, October 23, 2009
From Iron Man (Letter 6)
Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.
Shaun,
Hello, Brother!
I hope that things are going well for you, and you are seizing the day, every day.
That is exactly what I am doing. I’ve got a sweet gig here. I am the unit’s Personal Fitness Trainer, and I also teach a yoga class five days a week. The Iron Man Training program is in full swing here.
I’ve set up an Iron man Challenge, and it is scheduled for November 5th. It will be a timed event and quite intense.
The yard they have moved me to is located between some small mountains and large hills. Lots of saguaro cactus and desert foliage. It is a beautiful place.
I had my own room for a couple of weeks, and now I have a roommate who has a Master’s degree in Business Administration. We immediately worked out an exchange of knowledge, and now I am giving him intensive one-on-one physical fitness training, and he is giving me Business Management classes six hours a week.
All of my time is spent with extreme focus, and the pursuit of excellence in every area of my life.
Just a few more months and I will be breathing the free air once again.
So what is going on with you these days? Are you close to getting your book published? How is the martial arts training going?
My third grandson was born on September 17th. He entered the world at 9:30am and kept his eyes open most of the day, just looking around and taking in the world. He is growing steadily and is in perfect health. I can’t wait to stand holding him in my arms, a free man on February 17th.
It is going to be good to talk to you again. The Book of Proverbs teaches that “as iron sharpens iron, a man sharpens the countenance of his friend.” The time you invested teaching me yoga was time well spent, and continues to benefit me and my students.
Take care of yourself, Brother.
Love and Respect,
Iron Man
Click here to read Iron Man’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Iron Man to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.
Shaun,
Hello, Brother!
I hope that things are going well for you, and you are seizing the day, every day.
That is exactly what I am doing. I’ve got a sweet gig here. I am the unit’s Personal Fitness Trainer, and I also teach a yoga class five days a week. The Iron Man Training program is in full swing here.
I’ve set up an Iron man Challenge, and it is scheduled for November 5th. It will be a timed event and quite intense.
The yard they have moved me to is located between some small mountains and large hills. Lots of saguaro cactus and desert foliage. It is a beautiful place.
I had my own room for a couple of weeks, and now I have a roommate who has a Master’s degree in Business Administration. We immediately worked out an exchange of knowledge, and now I am giving him intensive one-on-one physical fitness training, and he is giving me Business Management classes six hours a week.
All of my time is spent with extreme focus, and the pursuit of excellence in every area of my life.
Just a few more months and I will be breathing the free air once again.
So what is going on with you these days? Are you close to getting your book published? How is the martial arts training going?
My third grandson was born on September 17th. He entered the world at 9:30am and kept his eyes open most of the day, just looking around and taking in the world. He is growing steadily and is in perfect health. I can’t wait to stand holding him in my arms, a free man on February 17th.
It is going to be good to talk to you again. The Book of Proverbs teaches that “as iron sharpens iron, a man sharpens the countenance of his friend.” The time you invested teaching me yoga was time well spent, and continues to benefit me and my students.
Take care of yourself, Brother.
Love and Respect,
Iron Man
Click here to read Iron Man’s previous letter.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Email comments for Iron Man to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Year of the Voodoo Bomb (by Polish Avenger)
Polish Avenger – A software-engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary they were committing. In Arizona, if a burglar gets killed, the accomplices get 25-year sentences.
Obvious question number 1: What the hell is a voodoo bomb?
Glad you asked! It’s an individually wrapped single dose of instant coffee. To prepare one of these little gems, take one square of single-ply toilet paper (used here in prison) and place a generous scoop of freeze-dried java (bought from the commissary) in the center. Wrap like an egg roll, moisten with tongue to seal, and stash in a little baggie. Four of these generally suffice for one day. When the time for a voodoo break rolls around, quietly slip one out, pop it in, and chase with a swig of water. The bomb bursts in the stomach and the caffeine express rolls on!
Obvious question number 2: Why the hell go through all of that?
Why not just drink a normal cup o’ bean like everyone else? That part is a bit more complicated. The bombs arose out of unfortunate necessity. Here in our beloved prison, we have a particular tribe of lowlife affectionately referred to as the mooch. I’m sure you know one also! The person who, despite being at work alongside you and earning the same paycheck – in my case, 36 cents an hour as a hazards materials clerk – or earning even higher – yes, some prisoners have been known to make up to 50 cents an hour – never has his own coffee, and he just has to have some of yours. It’s even worse here in close quarters as fellows make an entire lifestyle out of mooching. Of course you can just say no, but that puts you on the blacklist, which means the next time the mooch gets in trouble, he’ll be quick to throw an accusation your way to get off the hook.
And so, having become thoroughly fed up with those who spend all they have on drugs, and yet rely on everyone else for coffee among other things, there came the year when I made a public declaration that I was committing the unspeakable sin of quitting. You could hear several mooch hearts shattering at the news that Polish Starbucks was closed. Yes, I had gone underground, and my coffee fix was now a matter of voodoo stealth and subterfuge.
Sadly, it really had come to that.
I stayed under nearly one year. Never once was I caught doing the ritualistic bomb swallow. The only concern was the amount of bizarre chemicals I was ingesting via the institutional toilet paper. Doing the math at four squares per day. That’s 120 a month, or about one giant industrial roll in a year. That just can’t be good for a person! Were the blinding headaches and spastic colon somehow related? Am I supposed to taste blood when urinating? Is that a toe-nail fungus shaped like the Virgin? Nagging issues, to be sure!
Happily, in a drug-user dragnet 90% of our mooches got shipped out. A joyous day it was when I came out of the java closet and could openly express my coffee sexuality. No more bombing, no more sneaking. I’m here, I’m wired, get used to it!
My question to you is: would you have done the same? Which is better, to systematically poison yourself and live a lie, or continue to shove you hard-earned prison paycheck down the bottomless mooch hole?
There are no easy answers…
Click here for Polish Avenger’s previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for Polish Avenger below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Polish Avenger – A software-engineering undergraduate sentenced to 25 years because his friend was shot dead during a burglary they were committing. In Arizona, if a burglar gets killed, the accomplices get 25-year sentences.
Obvious question number 1: What the hell is a voodoo bomb?
Glad you asked! It’s an individually wrapped single dose of instant coffee. To prepare one of these little gems, take one square of single-ply toilet paper (used here in prison) and place a generous scoop of freeze-dried java (bought from the commissary) in the center. Wrap like an egg roll, moisten with tongue to seal, and stash in a little baggie. Four of these generally suffice for one day. When the time for a voodoo break rolls around, quietly slip one out, pop it in, and chase with a swig of water. The bomb bursts in the stomach and the caffeine express rolls on!
Obvious question number 2: Why the hell go through all of that?
Why not just drink a normal cup o’ bean like everyone else? That part is a bit more complicated. The bombs arose out of unfortunate necessity. Here in our beloved prison, we have a particular tribe of lowlife affectionately referred to as the mooch. I’m sure you know one also! The person who, despite being at work alongside you and earning the same paycheck – in my case, 36 cents an hour as a hazards materials clerk – or earning even higher – yes, some prisoners have been known to make up to 50 cents an hour – never has his own coffee, and he just has to have some of yours. It’s even worse here in close quarters as fellows make an entire lifestyle out of mooching. Of course you can just say no, but that puts you on the blacklist, which means the next time the mooch gets in trouble, he’ll be quick to throw an accusation your way to get off the hook.
And so, having become thoroughly fed up with those who spend all they have on drugs, and yet rely on everyone else for coffee among other things, there came the year when I made a public declaration that I was committing the unspeakable sin of quitting. You could hear several mooch hearts shattering at the news that Polish Starbucks was closed. Yes, I had gone underground, and my coffee fix was now a matter of voodoo stealth and subterfuge.
Sadly, it really had come to that.
I stayed under nearly one year. Never once was I caught doing the ritualistic bomb swallow. The only concern was the amount of bizarre chemicals I was ingesting via the institutional toilet paper. Doing the math at four squares per day. That’s 120 a month, or about one giant industrial roll in a year. That just can’t be good for a person! Were the blinding headaches and spastic colon somehow related? Am I supposed to taste blood when urinating? Is that a toe-nail fungus shaped like the Virgin? Nagging issues, to be sure!
Happily, in a drug-user dragnet 90% of our mooches got shipped out. A joyous day it was when I came out of the java closet and could openly express my coffee sexuality. No more bombing, no more sneaking. I’m here, I’m wired, get used to it!
My question to you is: would you have done the same? Which is better, to systematically poison yourself and live a lie, or continue to shove you hard-earned prison paycheck down the bottomless mooch hole?
There are no easy answers…
Click here for Polish Avenger’s previous blog.
Our friends inside appreciate your comments.
Post comments and questions for Polish Avenger below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
