Not on MY watch!

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Even more ludicrous by civilization’s standards might be to imagine covert maneuvers by prison staff resulting in reckless disregard for the sanctity of life itself. For the heck of it, we’ll consider an attempted-suicide “story.” It is time for cell raids. A notorious buzzing sound marshals the release of the thick metal mass enclosing each cell. The omnipotent C/Os enter and conduct their scrupulous search. Sheets, towels, blankets, clothing, and rolls of toilet paper go flying through the air. They are deemed superfluous to acceptable quantities. Haphazardly, they become graceful decorations on all block surfaces.

In the process a radio is discovered. It bears an engraved name different from that of the cell’s occupant. The apparatus was loaned with the consent of its rightful owner, who happens to be black. Borrower and borrowee get twelve days of lockdown. After six days into the restriction period, the borrower attends a scheduled court appearance. He gets a twelve-month sentence.

Driven by despair, during the quiet hours of the night, he slices numerous gashes through his wrists. In the sanctuary of his temporary tenancy, he lays to drain. Diligent first shift officer C/O Roberto, (the manikin-nurse’s brother), discovers him draining and gasping within a tick’s breath of animation. Roberto jerks and yanks the misguided martyr. The jostling and kicking is accompanied by shrills of demoralizing commands.

“Wake up you son of a bitch. Let’s go you bastard, you fuckin’ motha’ fucker. You’re not gonna die on my watch.” Heaven forbid! Imagine the disgracing reprimands, not to mention the dreaded publicity of another suicidal prison death. Moreover, the horrendous volume of paperwork would be overwhelming. By a narrow margin, thankfully, it is all avoided. The medical staff revives him.

Anteaters paradise

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Whatever happens to the bins of belongings that are locked up, awaiting their owner’s release from seg? Somehow, the contents disappear. It is possible—unlikely, of course, but possible—that a porter falls into the good graces of a C/O. They might stumble across some “unclaimed” booty. They share the wealth. Edible items are more likely to go right down their greedy, thieving hatches. Any item that looks relatively uncontaminated will do.

Heading out from the chow hall, we pass the blue bins. They contain prisoners’ personal belongings. There are a slew of them lined up along the stairway. Their owners, who have just returned from a day at court, are eating. An inmate stops alongside of one of the bins. He proceeds to stuff his shirt with various boxes of snacks and bags of chips.

“Hey, is that your bin?” a lieutenant calls out. That stops the pilferer cold. With an uneasy glance toward the officer, he is prompted to keep on toward his destination. Nothing is mentioned about the bulging sack full of prizes jiggling around his torso. A different culprit—for example, someone like me or someone black—would not have gone two inches before being pummeled and dragged off to seg.

Volumes sufficient to fill the Library of Congress to overflowing could be filled with equally bizarre scenarios. I present them as fantasy because the bottom line, for many who are victims of foul play on this fetid field, there is no recourse. A solitary ant to an army of anteaters is, to be certain, a snout-licking spectacle. Advocacy is as available and accessible as Atlantis. Your goose is carved before it is even so much as plucked. Fairness is a foreign concept.

Shock Therapy

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Paramount to the adjusting process is the foreboding feeling of displacement. None can avert its pernicious shadow. It pervades the murky, aggrieved climate of prison habitation. Adjustment is a vast undertaking. Yanked into this alien world, accosted by culture shock at its most extreme intensity, I have no alternative but to relinquish to its grip.

I can identify with circumstances in Outlander, a fascinating novel by Diana Gabaldon. The main character is a post World War II combat nurse. She unwittingly stumbles into a time warp, through a stone circle in the British Isles. Hurled back in time, she is shocked to find herself in the same location, but two centuries removed. Her life takes on a different dimension.

Demolition of life as I know it derives from being hurled not through time zones, but into foreign territory, a wretched chasm. Those consumed by it fall prey to whims, inconsistencies, and abuses which pathetically serve as barometers of normalcy. No boundaries are sacred.

Nut Cracker

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

A mother can describe the agonizing pain of giving birth. Someone who has never undergone the ordeal will by no means appreciate the agony. A man can express the torment of being smashed in the groin. Only those who have had their nuts crushed will ever know the excruciating sensation. And an inmate is the only variety of mortal who can identify with the uncertainty, despair, and inhumane treatment in holes of horror, the institutions of terrorism known as prisons.

Some distressing circumstances of lesser impact can also be disturbing nonetheless. For me, being referred to as “Pops” or “Old Timer” is one of them. My dad was called “Pops” for decades. He fit the image and the temperament. Behind bars, age is as identifying a factor as skin tone. Being white puts me in the marginal minority. Being over fifty nearly puts me in Intake Service Center extinction. When someone hollers “Hey, Pops,” I generally respond. I myself do not feel ready to be thought of grandfatherly, but my cohorts do.

Restriction is another difficult-to-swallow condition. The first self-study course I took on prison was Reminiscence 101. There, I was rapidly reminded that absence, as well as abstention, does cause the spirit to nurture fondness. Vicissitudes demand that ordinary endeavors such as driving a car or walking the beach are activities of a bygone era. The saliva stimulating sensation of eating a steak becomes a vicarious adventure. Dental floss and Q-tips are considered nonessential or dangerous, therefore deemed not available.

Flying Buffalos

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

In an endeavor to alleviate prison overcrowding and mitigate budget deficits, legislation is introduced in Rhode Island to increase “good time” allocations. That’s a rewards program which reduces the length of a sentence based on points earned for the lack of infringements while incarcerated. Each month of “gold star” behavior results in one day being reduced from the overall term of imprisonment. The proposed policy decreases the amount of time served by some convicts by greater amounts.

The Brotherhood of Correctional Officers is in dire opposition to the earlier releases. They are not the least concerned how any of this might impinge on their excessive overtime hours, and their main concern is the safety of the public once the thugs are released—and buffalos can fly.

Since when is it the C/Os responsibility to decide when and for how long prisoners should, would, could be incarcerated? How long will their ridiculous reign of terror and abuse run rampant? When will it happen that punishment and pain are no longer theirs to determine and administer? Their function is to maintain care, custody, and control, within prescribed rational guidelines. That is what they are paid for. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The Rookie

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

During my tenure in Hell mod there is a new block officer on the patty Patty Cake shift. He instantly attains the nick name of Rookie. All the while, I am a rookie jailbird, so I can empathize with his awkward unfamiliarity. Some of the well-seasoned, seedier convicts purposely razz him. They are like a bunch of kids pushing to see how far they can go.

He rises above their pettiness. He devotes his attention to the guys who have legitimate needs. He answers questions and attempts to respond to requests. Yet within a month he assumes the attitude of his mentor, dumb-fuck Penelope. He assumes the premise that all inmates are created equal—equal to what you scrape off the bottom of your shoe. He becomes cold, callous, uncaring, and unpleasant, a product of a pathetic system that cultivates hate mongers. Adapting to a rotten attitude in order to “fit in” on the job is one thing. Complacency with tolerance is the preliminary step. Resorting to cruelty is the final level, and entirely beyond acceptability.

One night someone shouts “Fuckin’ rookie.” He challenges everyone in that section of the mod to come forward. No one does. Everyone is locked in. Ten minutes later, he returns with a battalion of seven other monkeys. They raid every cell along that wall. Everything is smashed around and destroyed. Bedding and clothing are flung into the toilets. Kool-aid is splashed over everything in sight. The barbarians are like human tornados on a rampage of revenge. They complete their profane task and exit the mod laughing and joking. They look like they just attended a live Robin Williams stand up performance.

Criminally Retarded

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

They are called “environmentally retarded.” All of the men housed at the group home where Sid worked for six years had their front teeth removed. This had been done years earlier when they first entered state operated facilities for the mentally ill. Teeth impeded the shock therapy conditioning process. Particularly in the first half of the twentieth century, children who today might be diagnosed with autism or Tourettes or even ADHD may have been thrown into a cauldron labeled “retarded.” They were cloaked with shame and degradation. It was a common practice to commit them to institutions. In Rhode Island, the Ladd Center was one such place.

Draconian procedures such as shock treatment were generally accepted practices. Many of the guys would tell Sid the stories of being locked in “the blue room” without food or water. They were subjected to violence and sexual abuse. According to their rendition one woman was gang raped. Her child was boiled to death and hauled out with the trash.

By the 1970s and 80s those practices and facilities became obsolete. Most of the occupants were transitioned into group homes. Although many of the injured parties were not afflicted with retardation at the time they were committed, the process of living in that environment, and being exposed to those behaviors, eventually rubs off. They are classified as environmentally retarded.

A similar type of phenomenon occurs in the joint. Criminals locked in cells, as well as the ones who get to go home at the end of their double and triple shifts, are affected equally. After being exposed to an undesirable class of inmate population for a while, it becomes preferable to turn a deaf ear or a blind eye to their plight, whether real or imagined. There are users, whiners, and bullies, like anywhere else in the world. In prison, because of the oppressive environment and C/O intervention, it flourishes in concentrated doses.

Complacency can become as contagious as the common cold. My observation at the Intake Service Center is that many of the staff treat all prisoners equally as unworthy of respect or dignity. It creates a downward spiral of self-righteous, inhumane treatment.

Heaven Awaits

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

Mercury retrograde is a familiar astrological phrase. It refers to a period when Mercury appears to be traveling backwards on its orbit. That is not actually the case, of course. The illusion is created because it travels its ellipse disproportionately to its neighboring planets. Mercury retrogrades typically occur for three-week periods on three occasions during the year. They are associated with confusion and disruption. Since Mercury rules Gemini and Virgo, these two Sun signs are typically considered the hardest hit. Nevertheless, no one escapes the influence.

Coincidentally, Sid and I are both under Mercury’s rule. The timing of our births has us singled out. The sexual preference with which we come into this world categorizes us as well. Everyone, nonetheless, has his own particular set of characteristics. Some persons are born male, others female. Some people are short, others not. Some have curls, still others cannot get a curl to stick with crazy glue. The array of skin tones is more spectacular than the spectrum displayed after a rainstorm. It is all as wonderful as can be. Often, we choose not to see it that way. We have been domesticated by our “guides,” but we can choose to take on a different view.

Acceptance is the answer. Acceptance of self and of others, the way we are. Not the way Simon says we should be. Love is at the foundation. Kindness is at the helm. Joy is the rainbow of fulfillment. The Mastery of Love (Reprinted with permission of John Wiley & Sons, Inc.© 2002 by Miguel Angel Ruiz, M.D.) insightfully reveals an indisputable notion:

Truth, forgiveness and self-love…with these three points, the whole world will heal and will no longer be a mental hospital. We don’t have to suffer any longer…if all humans could be truthful with themselves, start forgiving everyone, and start loving everyone…they would no longer judge each other.

This was my greatest prison revelation: “Remember, when you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself as someone who needs to judge.” (From The Power of Intention by Dr. Wayne Dyer). Heaven or hell. The choice is ours.

Nuts please!

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

We each possess the power to determine if this lifetime will elevate us to the status of heaven or diminish us to the level of hell.

Many organized religions have fantasized heaven and hell as afterlife destinations. Don’t look now, but those obscure getaways are local attractions. Which destination you elect is a personal pronouncement not contingent upon the dictates of others. The option to be sucked down or to rise above is as elementary as “do I want the cream-filled chocolate or the one with nuts?” It is very simple, although it is not at all easy.

The ego is programmed to keep us in our furrows of judgment and persecution. Judging and Not Judging do not play fair. In our unawareness, Judging wins every time. By becoming aware of and choosing the alternative, we hold the combination to heaven’s gates. By remaining in our rudimentary ruts of criticism, we elect the penitentiary of hell.

Bestselling author Joe Vitale  (Permission to reprint granted, John Wiley and Sons, Inc.) tells of his struggle in Zero Limits. For ten years he attempted to avoid the trap of judging. He promised himself a “reward if I could get through one day without having some judgment of someone.” He has never been able to do it. Personally, I would be thrilled making it for a few hours. Habituation is difficult to beat.

Bitch, Moan, Complain…

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness.

Just because they’re not on your road doesn’t mean they’ve gotten lost.

—H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

After a few months of being in prison, I noticed a pattern. I became acclimated to the idea that everything happens for a reason. At the same time, I observed that I was doing exactly what I vehemently criticized the prison staff for: judging. It became clear that we do not have to be in prison to be imprisoned. Day after day I observed the prison staff imposing their self-righteous, chastising control strategies. I detected the resentment of the inmates towards them and the disdain that everyone felt toward one another. It is not the sort of environment I was used to, or so I duped myself into believing.

We all love to complain and condemn. It is what we do best. It is what we are trained for. We complain about the weather, our jobs, our neighbors, our kids, our partners. We criticize people we have never met. We sit in front of the news and wallow in condemnation. We have an opinion on everyone in town and around the planet. We do it to others; we do it to ourselves.

The way we treat other people is a mirror of how we self-flagellate. The degree of abuse that we tolerate from a mate exactly correlates with the amount that we are willing to internally inflict on ourselves. Our tolerance level is determined by what we have allowed ourselves to be trained for. Judging ourselves is normal. Judging others is normal. It is as ordinary as breathing. It is as normal as a plague of famished grizzles.

“…with Liberty and Justice for ALL."

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

Several months following our release, we contact the local branch of ACLU, the American Civil Liberties Union. Their mission is “to help preserve and protect the civil liberties of all Rhode Islanders against government infringement.” The right to due process of law is a specific issue with which they get involved. Our intention is to be re-tried fairly. They decline to help us. I then do some research online and discover a Providence-based lawyer specializing in post-conviction petitions for relief. I call to schedule a consultation.

Nearing the end of the meeting, we are geared up to proceed. Finally, this is our chance to reverse the travesty. He understands why we had to plead guilty to the false indictment. He believes we have a strong case. We feel like we have just been cured of cancer. We are going home to sleep
on it.

Then we are struck the fatal blow. He walks us to the door. “Who was the judge at your trial?”

“Judge Sour Clout.” He stops dead. He stares at us for a moment and shakes his head wearily. I cannot imagine what the problem is. The silence is deafening. It is as though we have jumped but the parachute fails.

“Have a seat.” We sink into the waiting room chairs and resume breathing. Sid speaks up. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s gonna be pissed that you’re busting his balls. There’s a good chance he’ll have you locked up again while awaiting trial.” We know that means we will not make it to the trial. We will probably be counted among the ranks of “suicide” victims. Worse yet, we might survive. We could end up a casualty, like one man I know who was castrated by other inmates in the yard while guards provided “adequate supervision.”

So much for liberty and justice, thank you very much.

Fingernails on Condoms

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

The SOCN, Sex Offender Community Notification board, is a pathetic joke. We have to undergo an interview to be classified as level one, two, or three. The levels rate likelihood to “re-offend.” The tests used are administered by SOCN. Results designate us as category one, the lowest level of monitoring and community notification. They decide to classify us at level three anyway. Naturally, we appeal the decision on the premise that high publicity does not equate with high risk. It is obvious that they are upset because we avoided many years of jail time. Their stance was: “There has GOT to be another way to punish them.”

Why do they even bother with testing if they are just going to override the results?

In its “Gay Marriage” special report published in 2004, the apostolate organization Catholic Answers explores the impact that marriage has on society: The evidence is clear. Married people are better off than single or divorced people are. The report cites every advantage possible, from longevity to sustained or improved health, to greater sexual satisfaction resulting in increased happiness. Yet, “There is no data showing similar benefits for same-sex couples. We don’t know whether same-sex couples would enjoy these benefits.” Unbelievable! Let us control the findings to substantiate the desired conclusion. That’s the exact philosophy of SOCN. It makes as much sense as fingernails on condoms, but people swallow that stuff.

Public Enemy

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

What the public perceives for me and Sid is what the media projects. We “operated a massage parlor for gay men.” The reality is that we offered massage services for people of any orientation. Equally available on the Web was “Healing Ministries of New England,” a curing modality for people and pets. That, however, didn’t make the news—it was not juicy or incriminating enough to qualify for “what sells.”

Prolifically mentioned was “rape,” “gay,” “abuse,” “scandal.” The masses would go bonkers to learn that we would be “getting away with something.” Ours was a very high profile case. Emotions and perceptions were based on information presented in the news, as inaccurate as much of it was. What was accurate was only that we were accused of child molestation. Following the mistrial, agreeing to a plea became our only viable option. That is not nearly the whole story, nor was justice or any version of it served.

“Give the people what they want.”

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

I get home and excitedly pass the information to Sid. A few days later, I run it by my probation officer. Alexis is a pleasant, devoted woman, close to my age. She is the type of person that I would like to stop by and visit with a homemade potpie or some Tollhouse cookies. Because of the relationship, I can never do that. Her reaction to my proposal is not favorable.

“You can go ahead and do that if you want but you’ll be wasting your time. I won’t recommend it. You need to be in counseling for many, many years before we could even consider something like that.” It makes no sense whatsoever; I have no choice but to accept her decision. When I think about it afterwards, I come to the realization that she takes that stand not because it is logical; certainly, it is anything but. She feels required to assume the stance because it is what the public demands.

FDR, one of the most beloved US presidents of all time, was sensitive to public perception. Appearances determined his inauguration to the presidency. He was a presidential hopeful with polio, confined to a wheelchair. He had no chance whatsoever of being elected to the prestigious office if he appeared even mediocre. Most of the country, however, was unaware of his plight because of the image he projected. The public saw neither a wheelchair nor infirmity. He was the picture of power and strength. He walked tall, using the strength in his arms to support himself with his son by his side as a brace. That is what he projected. That is what the public perceived.

Polygraph or Pollyanna?

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:


Besides registering as sex offenders quarterly, in addition to each time we move (which will be within the boundaries of Rhode Island for the rest of our lives,) we must report to probation regularly. We are required to attend sex offender counseling every week for twelve-plus years. What an astounding waste of time and money.

I have always enjoyed group sharing sessions. When assisting at Kripalu Center, for two years I voluntarily facilitated the men’s weekly sharing groups. I always appreciated the sessions and derived much inspiration. The idea of attending meetings geared to a subject matter that does not remotely pertain to me, however, does not hold the same allure.

I arrive early to my first sex-offender group session. My counselor, Margaret, is an over-retirement-age-but-probably-never-will-retire, wonderfully perceptive woman. At one time, she worked at the prison. Her opinion of C/Os is that they are “nasty shit-hole bastards.” The standard reaction by C/Os to anything Margaret recommended was, “She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.”

She sometimes takes the time to talk with me outside of the group. I explain to her the circumstances of my innocence. She inquires if I have ever considered taking a polygraph test. It would not alter the conditions of parole except for possibly being excused from attending group sessions. She has had clients who, when testing as non-deceptive, were exempted. I serenely tell her that I will think about it. Inside, my heart is aflutter. After all we have gone through, this is at least a bit of a breakthrough.

Plea bargaining -the ultimate fraud.

 The following is an excerpt from Part Two:



In matters of style, swim with the current. In matters of principle, stand like a rock.
—Thomas Jefferson

Sid and I have lived our entire lives based on this outlook. When we were first thrown in the clink, we concurred that copping a plea would be absolutely out of the question. Our wholehearted intention was to have a trial by jury and to defend our innocence. We both informed our lawyers not to bother bringing us a plea offer. That was before we spent all those months in “Alcatraz revisited.”

Following the mistrial, the judge presents us a plea agreement. “Are you signing this of your own free will?”

“Yes, your honor.” The situation is exactly like asking the question with a blade to our throats. There is no other conceivable answer except for someone with a death wish. Although the nolo plea to illegitimate conditions of release is ridiculous, it delivers us from an even greater, life-threatening evil—we had been assured by several inmates that murder was imminent.

“Grief makes one hour ten.”

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

I stand there pokerfaced, swaying gently in the confines of his ego-crazed domain. He rants about some other foolishness. Finally realizing that I am not going to react to his petty, nutso outburst, he has the door released. He does not curtsy, but I am free to go.

As the days pass, he attempts to devise further ploys to get me to snap: locking me in for yard; letting me out for yard, but not allowing me to associate with anyone; locking me in for chow; locking me in when I have a visitor. That one annoys me, so I research the grievance process. The informal request form, the “recommended method,” is available from any mod officer, theoretically. This standard request slip, preprinted with “I respectfully request,” can be used for any appeal. The signature of a C/O is required. The drawback is that no C/Os are willing to sign it for me.

The next choice is the formal, level one grievance. This is good. You get a Request for Resolution of Grievance form by submitting a standard request form. I finally find a C/O who is willing to sign that one, and submit it to Lt. Handjob. It is returned to me four days later, scribbled in red ink: Why? A Request for Resolution of Grievance form must be submitted within three days of the alleged incident, then allow thirty days for a response. The next phase is the formal, level two appeal to the director. There is no need to bother researching that process. I am resolved that the unwritten, and only truly effective, grievance policy is: do not grieve.

The ACI “Prairie Bitch”

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Secretly, we meet again in the caressing seclusion of his cozy-as-kittens vestibule. Tonight’s intriguing topic is library books! When I arrive at our usual rendezvous spot, he poses himself with one knee twisted in front of the other, as if he has to pee. I wonder if he is gearing up for a Shirley Temple-style curtsy following his performance. Holding out a mangled paperback, he fumbles with the curled pages that have come undone from the spine. Then he folds the cover open. His knees are still poised for the curtsy. Pointing to the label, similar to a mommy reading a bedtime story to her preschooler, he proceeds.
“The last time this book was checked out was in twelve, ninety-four!” Then he peeks over to see if I am paying attention. From where I stand, even without my glasses, I can read the name of the library that donated it, printed right on the label. All I can figure is that he is insinuating it is fourteen years past due. He is an absolute joke of a man, and that is aside from his ridiculous penis-shaped haircut.

With Nellie Olson singsong overtones, he whines, “It doesn’t say child molester anywhere on it, or little faggot. It says A, C, I, Li-berry. That means it’s mine, not yours!”

The Patty Cake Polka

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

In Hell, on most nights the second shift is officiated by a particularly deranged character. He can pass as the offspring of Benny Hill on stilts and Lily Tomlin on crack. Word is that this C/O, Penelope—“Patty Cake” as some of us refer to him—aspires to the ranks of state trooper. He obviously does not have what it takes to make the grade, by a long shot. That tidbit of information comes to me from his cousin, who is my first cellie in Hell. He calls Patty Cake a “sick fuck.”

…Whenever my pal Penelope comes to mind or in front of my face, I cannot help but smirk, at least internally. My first days in Hell mod become an opportunity for Patty Cake and I to bond. What begins as “special times” together develops into a nauseating nightly ritual.

He releases everyone for chow, except me. When the last straggler is out of sight, a familiar buzzing sound precedes the reverberating clink of my cell door. It rattles throughout the solemnity of the emptied block. Emerging from my closet, I proceed down the steps, over to the vestibule outside the bubble. Patty Cake stands silently glaring. We are closed in like high school sweethearts in a parked car, privacy assured. His first lecture:

“I’ll tell you the same thing that I told your faggy-ass boyfriend when he was in my mod. When it’s my shift, you don’t come out for rec.” He stares blankly for a while, anticipating a response. I wait, with thoughts of get a fuckin’ life, you pathetic excuse of a human being. I continue to wait, as one would stop at a red light. After a while he screams, “You understand?”

I wait. He rants. Eventually, the doorway glides open. Without expression, I turn and head to chow. While I am gone, he raids my “crib.” (My boys taught me that lingo.) He rips the place apart, throwing things all around to be sure that I know he has been there. Frustration or boredom eventually kicks in. Following a few evenings of the same ho-hum routine, the baboon adds more foolishness to the mix—he confiscates my library book.

Blarney Castle

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

H Hotel, more popularly called “Hell mod,” is the next fascinating block to reveal its untold pleasures. This block is larger than most in the north-side, newer section. It features sixty—rather than the standard forty—units designed with sliding electronic doors and no cable hookup or electrical outlets, for use as seg (segregation) cells. Seg cells are for the bad boys. “Administrative segregation” is the sophisticated lingo for solitary confinement. Now the mod is designated for new commits. The typical stay is from a day to a week, sometimes two.

I am moved from my first week-long location in E mod to N-Nancy because my new-found notoriety—compliments of C/Os, marshals, and the widely publicized bail hearing—agitates prisoners into a tizzy. My partner in “crime,” Sid, is being moved out of Hell. This is where he has spent his first two weeks. Our lawyer arranged court-ordered, protective custody (PC) which is located in a different building. We are encouraged by Captain Blarney to “roll with the punches.” Stay in a standard mod “for your own benefit.” We are instructed that we can override the requested court-order by signing a waiver.

That means that it is either too much trouble to arrange the transfer or, more likely, a budget strain. One thing I learn, even during my short introductory phase, is that nothing is contrived for the benefit of an inmate. The captain is coercive to a point that the message comes through loud and clear: insisting on PC is inviting self-inflicted misery. I agree to the former option of staying in a standard mod and they stick me in Hell, where the transients “won’t be as apt to notice you.” It is an interesting concept since they sure had no trouble noticing Sid, which I do not bother to point out to the illustrious captain. By now he was looking as though he wanted to send me to the guillotine.

WE are the victims

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

No one will ever hear the explanation as to why Cole’s grades, instead of declining after the dates of the alleged annihilation, improved dramatically. He had developed from a mediocre student to an above average performer by the time of the supposed crime. Then he progressed to High Honors. The “devastation” should have been driving his studies into the ground.

How does the prosecution account for why solid evidence never surfaces? Following the children’s removal from our home, they underwent examinations at Hasbro Children’s Hospital; no evidence was uncovered. None of the findings supported the alleged penile anal penetration. Laboratory testing was negative.

In a desperate effort to come up with anything concrete, DCYF later sent Cole for an evaluation with another agency. They reported the same negative findings. The DNA testing of our bedclothes proved nothing. Prosecution showed a slide presentation at the trial exposing the rooms in our home. When the police first searched the premises on the day of our arrest, they were “careful not to mess the place up,” according to the detective at the station. The pictures reveal a different picture: the entire place is torn to shreds. They were searching franticly. It was a total waste of their time. Evidence is not present anywhere on the planet. It does not exist. We are the victims, not the criminals.

Stories about alarming episodes executed by young people inundate the news. By a slim margin, Cole manages to escape the fate of his fellow sociopaths. The motivation of his supporters to “prove” his “credibility” soon becomes obvious.

Actions are judged by motives

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

Since a valid trial never comes to fruition, questions remain, destined to be unanswered. Why did we initiate counseling sessions for Cole just a couple of months before the allegations surfaced? Anyone with sexual abuse to conceal surely would be concerned that it might be revealed in a therapeutic setting. Anyone would endeavor to avoid disclosure. Once therapy sessions were over it became clear that he had lost the battle against us. We would not be discarding the two foster brothers or changing the rules. On the very next day, following that final counseling session, sexual abuse was reported.

Other clues of our innocence were to have been offered by witnesses on our behalf, but they will forever remain unrevealed in a court of law. The family counseling therapists, who anyone would think might be the first to hear the allegations, were shocked to find out about them. The DCYF investigator of the “Other Neglect” complaint, also scheduled to witness, alerted us that our kids figured their complaint would render them “out of here.” Their bags were packed prior to the investigation.

The local police officers were at our house so often that we nearly became a sub-station. They were to discuss the attempt to accuse us of unsubstantiated physical violence, and verify their recommendation for a wayward petition. They were all denied the opportunity to expose the details of Cole’s motivation to defraud.

Again, why are we here?

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:

During the somewhat-based-on-fact soliloquy, he speaks of how he has been “embarrassed to go to school.” We are well aware of that detail. Having same-sex parents is a highlight at the schools and in the community at large. We do not have the option however, of becoming un-gay. The issue remains a source of much distress for Cole. Having gay parents makes him angry, but that is not what he presented in the opening testimony of the trial: “We all got along fine.”

Now, in his final statement, he carries on about how we were “slave drivers.” Somehow, if I was exploited and driven to slave-like conditions, I don’t think I would be very pleased about it. For him, in his opening statements the day before, there was nothing disheartening about his happy home life. The truth, however, is that he despised us and was jealous of the two foster boys in our care. They were non’t required to contribute to household chores to the same extent as was expected of Cole and his sister.

In the final remarks of his rebuke proclamation he announces how he hates us “now and forever.” That’s nothing like the picture he attempted to paint for the jury. It doesn’t at all sound like somebody who is not distressed and has no issues with their parents. What the jury heard is how he would partake in family projects. How much he appreciates the fact that we taught him things. “We learned a lot about different species of birds and wildlife, and about gardening and how to care for the plants.”

His hate statement does not so much as allude to the slightest disturbance about sexual abuse. He doesn’t bring up a single reference to it. The extensive list of first and second molestation accounts that he had been carefully prepped for to present at the trial is by the wayside. The sordid details that he was so eager to shock the jurors with become a mute concern. Not so much as of a hint of it is whispered. Supposedly, that’s what the trial was about.

Mis-trial and Missed Justice

The following is an excerpt from Part Two:



The first day of our trial is devoted primarily to jury selection. The next day the actual trial begins. That is when the prosecutor’s star witness, who has already undergone five or six coaching sessions, introduces conflicting information to the jury. He is accompanied by his foster dad, the “mentor” from the high school. A newly-manufactured count of first degree molestation is introduced, yet it is inconsistent with the story he presented to the Grand Jury many months earlier.

All of a sudden he is “remembering more.” It is now a year later than when he “remembered” it the first time. The prosecutor admits he is fully aware that the testimony would be introduced. He corroborates that he instructed Cole to do so. They cannot keep track of which lie fits where. The result is a mistrial. (Not a single word about misconduct on the part of the prosecution makes the news, not one mention of it.)

During the preliminary stage-setting statements, Cole was careful to paint a scene of a pleasant home life. There is no dissatisfaction worth mentioning. Beaver Cleaver couldn’t portray more wholesomeness. It is not anywhere near the truth, as is evidenced when the mistrial is over and the pleas copped.

Cole is then given the opportunity to offer a statement to the court. The jury has been excused and we go through the rigmarole of signing agreements. The terms of our release and probation are clearly gone over (terms which we later discover change by the minute once probation begins). The final mockery on the agenda is to be subjected to Cole’s outlandish presentation, made from the witness stand. There is not much point to it except, perhaps, to admonish us publicly. The whole thing is a sorry joke.

Drip. drip, drip…

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Armed with a disposable BIC razor that comes in the prison “care package” (an oxymoron of preposterous proportions,), he deliberates the procedure. The exhausting process of getting warm water to the faucet begins. José pushes the button for a while with one thumb. Determined, with pelvis pressed against the front edge of the stainless steel basin, he shifts his weight from one leg to another. Periodically he switches to the other thumb. Every so often, he puts a finger against the trickle to check if it is tepid.

It’s a tedious process, but finally José with a J finishes shaving. His fuzzy little stubbles are gone, except for a sliver of coarse black bristles resting on the ridge of his upper lip. Dazzling, perfectly shaped white teeth appear almost incandescent in contrast to his rich, chocolate shake complexion. He pulls the hinged metal seat out from beneath the desk and sits with elbows resting on knees, chin propped onto one hand. He looks like he is setting himself up to absorb the warmth of a tranquil campfire.

Soon we begin to chat. I don’t know who starts, but we go on and on about everything from buttered popcorn to philosophies of the ages. José dreamily offers a monologue about being released from jail and making things right for his girlfriend and their three-year-old son. A tear rolls down his cheek. He brushes it aside with a finger. He conjectures about plans of returning to school and starting an automotive or electrical business of his own some day. He tells about his love for basketball and distrust for authority, his propensity for double cheeseburgers and disdain for pickled beets. In a moment of vulnerability, he delves into a confession about enjoying same sex encounters. The overcast sky relinquishes its vigil in time for dusk to announce its arrival.

Where’s my Sealy Posturepedic?

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

After chow, we return to our respective slots. The day is passing quietly. The second shift C/O begins the rounds for the afternoon count. As he comes into view, notepad and pencil in hand, I inquire, “Any chance I could get a mattress?” He glances up and stares past me, looking like he is gazing at TV, with no evidence that he is even awake. That is the extent of it. He drifts away into the ether. I cock my head over to the direction of my cellie and shrug my shoulders. “Is it me?” I whisper.

We both giggle and José interjects, “You can take my mattress for a while. I’m gonna stay up and do some stuff anyway.” Before I have a chance to react, the transfer is underway. When the heavy lump is positioned to satisfaction, he steps back and grins beatifically. He stretches his arms and spreads his hands, as though he has just performed a magic trick. I feel awkward about accepting his kind gesture.

“That’s nice of you, José,” I concede, returning the smile. “I’ll be sure to remember you in my will.” With an almost imperceptible wink, he swerves to step out of my way. I throw the sheet and blanket in place, and maneuver myself between them. José removes his navy blue, v-neck jump top, which is carefully tucked into the complementing, elastic-waist, non-hemmed, way-too-long jump bottoms. He faces the worn-out-beyond-use mirror over the mini sink. I had already applied a post card-size plastic mirror onto it, using the clear tape that came strapped to my VO-5 shampoo bottle.

The faucet in the sink is designed to work like a water fountain. It has a spring-controlled mechanism that shoots water into the air for fifteen seconds and then stops automatically. Our unit however, dispenses an almost non-existent dribble. It runs down the back of the sink and activates only as long as your thumb remains continuously, and painfully, pressed against the pushbutton trigger. How José plans to shave under these conditions is a feat that makes my anxious eyes wince yet eagerly anticipate.

Sully strikes again

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

“Stand by for chow,” blares the PA system. Electronic buzzers vibrate on door latches. Like starting gates at the dog track, they all pop open to release the animals. One of our neighbors flushes and their refuse fills our toilet. José and I almost collide as I hop up from my cozy cubby of comfort and he, down from his suspended steel stretcher of sleeping bliss. Everyone filters out to the landing in front of our rat holes, awaiting the queue.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” resounds a deafening roar from our beloved C/O Sulliman. One of his subjects has strayed from the first to the second level.

“Chill man, I’m jes borrowin’ a piece a papah.”

“You don’t belong up there!”

“Aight, dude. Chill. Man, you’re actin’ like a child, yo.” A couple of guys half-snicker. Most of us just hold our breath.

Sully stammers, stutters, and shakes all over. “Give me that ID,” he finally spits out. It’s amazing that he doesn’t lose his dentures. The unrepentant sinner removes the name badge from his chest while sauntering down the steps. Sully reaches out and yanks it from him. “You’re on lockdown for the rest of the week.” He fumes for a few more seconds and furiously calls out, “And the rest of you fuckin’ dummies are locked down for the rest of the fuckin’ day.” He goes slamming into the mod door, forgetting to signal its release. Then it buzzes; he pushes it violently with both arms and makes his exit. We all glance around at each other, some shaking heads, others emitting light laughter or quietly blurting hate comments.

Yuk! This is Sully!

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

This is that same stunted freak who greeted me when I showed up for admittance to the illustrious N-Nancy mod this morning. My bundle of belongings was bigger this time; a few days have elapsed since my arrival. I possessed my very own deck of chewed up playing cards, a bag of white cheddar popcorn, some toiletries, and an extra pairs of socks; mostly items abandoned by their previous owners. This time I knew just the right paper and just the right crack to use. My little friend was not at all impressed. He jolted the door open and stormed into the hall, huffing and puffing. “Put your stuff down over there.” He nodded to a small visitor’s cubicle behind me. I placed my pile on the square, Formica-topped table.

The first thing of mine he grabbed was a Tupperware-type, compartmentalized container. It held breakfast, which I had not consumed before departing from my first mod which is designated for new commits. “What the hell is this?” My mouth had barely opened to respond when the lid was ripped off; sweaty scrambled eggs and bread slices were wildly tossed in the trash can. With the grace of a street urchin rummaging through a dumpster for food, he proceeded to fling my meager stack of earthly goods. He was determined to disperse the playing cards haphazardly from their cardboard package. Like bamboo shoots in lo mein, they were tossed and jumbled with my things. “Grab it. Let’s go. Move it, move it.” I frantically tossed my meager belongings into my blanket and balled it up. Impatiently, he swung the mod door open and pointed to cell number twelve, in the upper corner. Away I marched as he slammed the door behind me.

Now the twerp is just outside my cell door, tallying the count. I shuffle a little closer to the doorway, raising my hand like a child in school. “Uuh. I, uh, I don’t have a mattress.”

“Talk to the C/O on the next shift,” he grunts, without glancing up from his pad. Before he pivots to proceed down the steps, I catch a faint glimmer on the gold-tone name badge pinned above the chest pocket. I squint to focus in on the block style letters: SULLIMAN. I freeze. Yuk! This is Sully! That deranged piece-of-shit that countless men have come to disdain over the course of, god only knows, how many torturous years. I turn to my cellie who is still swaggering in an upright, semi-alert state of disinterest. “What’s a C/O?” I ask.

“Corrections Officers,” he mutters, yawning through the words. “That’s what we call ’em, C/Os.” José lazily flops back up onto his bunk. He covers himself completely with his charcoal-gray and speckled-white, woolen-blend prison issue blanket. I quickly scan our tomb like chamber. I need a comfortable spot to sit and compose myself from the attack by the creature from the black and blue abyss. An alcove created by the side of the desk and the corner of the room seems acceptable. I yank my crispy-crusty blanket from where I had begun to spread it on the slab and snuggle myself in.

The Hunchface of DOC

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

Gunfire cracks the air. My head jerks and spins in the direction of the blast. I crouch with my arms swinging to cover my face. Just as impulsively, my cellmate springs from his prone position. With precise and instantaneous Samurai-like fluidity, his feet are planted on the grimy cement floor. My heart is pounding in my throat. I focus, and discover that a guard is generating the clamor. He relentlessly slams the butt end of a steel flashlight against the ironclad entrance of my newly adopted echo chamber. My eyes bulge open, staring blankly toward the dizzying, explosive force puncturing the stillness. The unforgiving blasts persist while the monster at our doorway incessantly whacks metal on metal.

…. My pupils dart to the figure beyond the glass opening in the door. “Stand for the count!” it screeches. The figure looks like an apparition lurking in a damp and darkened dungeon: a stumpy old ogre with a full crown of silver-gray. His hideous grimace causes the platypus lips to contort like a wrinkled handkerchief at the bottom of a drawer. The Hunchface of DOC would be a fitting title for his biography. After peering briefly through the narrow aperture, he poises himself to record information on a clipboard—probably that he has counted two heads. Judging from his appearance, that is the extent of his mathematical skills.

I recognize this loathsome insect as the guard who greeted me at the mod on my first day. As I approached the window to the shadowy guard shack called “the bubble,” he was mumbling something about pushing my papers in through a slit in the wall. I pushed the wrong sheet of paper in through what was apparently the wrong opening. While he was going haywire, I managed to submit the correct paper but, as it turns out, in the wrong crack again. With the passion of a firefighter busting out of an enflamed building, he frantically smashed the door.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what are you? Some kind of fuckin’ dummy? ChrrrRRiiist!” His whole head and face were bright red; his neck muscles were bulging. His entire body began to tremor. Again, he yelled, “You got to be the stupidest god damn mothah fuckin’ dummy on the face of this god damn mothah fuckin’ planet.” He flung the first sheet that I slid through to him in my general direction. I stood with eyebrows lifted. He continued screaming, grabbing the door, and slamming it behind him. I retrieved my document from the floor and proceeded through the block entrance toward my assigned cell. All I could think was Wow!

Jack the Ripper

The following is an excerpt from Part One:

I am warned that I should never, under any circumstance, mention that I am in on a child molestation charge. It drives every lofty, self-appointed juror and judge—encompassing nearly everyone—to insane and belligerent behavior. A testament to that reaction occurs when we are initially incarcerated and dragged into court for the first time. We are conveniently arrested on a Friday afternoon. That way, there is no avoiding jail for at least a weekend. Monday is court. It becomes a succession of an absurd array of waste-of-time hearings. No audible mention of our charges is announced in the courtroom, due to the “sensitive nature” of the case. Yet mysteriously and miraculously, every one of the guards becomes aware of the alleged offenses. In turn, they publicize choice bits of information to the prisoners. Pandemonium breaks out in the holding cells beneath the courtrooms. Ultimately it swells to a near full-blown riot on the return bus trip to the prison. These guys go spastic. Like a wild cluster of chimpanzees on crack, they shake and rock the bus and try spitting at us through the sectioned-off crates that we are inserted into. The lashing out continues for the duration of the rush hour ride. “Ripper! Ripper! Ripper! Ripper!”

Particularly in prison circles the term is interchanged with the pseudonym of Jack the Ripper, a legendary serial killer. His notoriety as a brutal murderer is often inappropriately translated to mean “Rapist,” probably because his victims were prostitutes. The “Ripper!” intimidation is periodically interjected with select adjectives, profane and profoundly profane in nature. Not one of the state marshals or prison staff does a thing to abate the situation. Why would any of them? They instigated it in the first place.

Lotta bullshit

The following is an excerpt from Part One:



I end as abruptly as I had started. Immediately rolling my eyes upward, my chin drops and mouth opens slightly, as if to say Where did that come from? I know, and he knows too, that it is pent-up frustration. I look at him squarely, announcing, “My name’s Raymond.”



“I’m José. It’s with a J.” He smiles and winces slightly. With a little nod, he leaps onto the upper bunk, rolling lazily onto his back with his hands behind his head.



“That sucks men,” he says softly. “Once I had a cousin who was pissed at me for somethin’ an’ he started screamin’ that I molested him. Finally though, he tole his mother the truth. But damn, I was mad at hin for a lawn tine after that.”



I just stare out the window. In no time I hear the grumbling of easy afternoon snores emanating from my new compadré. Up until now I had chosen not to communicate with anyone, other than for mundane topics such as “I’m looking for the hospital,” or “Anyone wants my container of milk?” Many individuals have routinely approached me with the standard icebreaker, “Whadda ya in faw?” I usually retort, “Lotta bullshit,” attempting to avoid further interaction at all costs. If escaping interrogation is not automatic, I switch the subject as inconspicuously and graciously as possible. A theme like the weather often suffices.



I become adept at topic hopping. Soon I learn that introducing the ever popular, albeit stomach wrenching topic of prison food, provides a reliable exit into neutral territory. Reminiscing about the morning’s serving of cold clumps, aka oatmeal, or last night’s hockey puck supreme being passed off as a meatloaf usually does the trick. If not, I can rely on providing general descriptions about foreign objects found in the food. Hair is a favorite. Even better, the gut-curdling sight of swamp juice, oozing from under the kitchen door to the mess hall floor, definitely inspires a repulsed reaction. An effective encore theme is the slop-drenched woolen blankets, strategically tossed over forlorn spaces where mismatched tiles once adhered. The Exorcist-like, god-awful wretchedness conjures the desired reaction.

My day in court

The following is an excerpt from Part One:



A buzzing sound breaks the icy stillness. The barricade opens. A dozen feet scuffle up the cement stairs, in front of my home unsavory home. A handful of guys, the ones who were hanging around the day room as I passed through, make their way past. They disburse to the other five stalls that line the second tier of the notorious N-Nancy block. The name attached to the letter is to avoid confusion with the morbid M-Mary block at Rhode Island’s ACI Intake Service Center.

A handsome young Hispanic man brings up the rear of the group. He swings our door open and pulls it shut behind him. His clenched fist extends in the knuckles up position. “Hey, how ya doin’ men? We jus’ all saw you on TV.” The look on his face is cordial, but his tone is matter of fact. I return the gesture with my fist. As our knuckles tap in mid air, I respond, in equally as nonchalant a demeanor.

“Really? How’d I look?”

He stares vacantly. “Like you, men.” A noncommittal grin spreads across his face while he leans his bottom against the desk.

“Hummmph,” I grunt, and wait patiently for him to take the next initiative. What is probably a few seconds seems like the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. At last, his sultry bronze-tone lips take action. “Well, aah, you got some a these guys ov’r her purdy worked up.”

“Really? How do you mean?”

“Didn’ chew hear ’em men? As you walked by? A couple of ’em was sayin’—”

“Uh, noooo, I didn’t hear them. Aaaaand, I’m not really interested in knowing what their comments were, if it’s all the same to you.” Abruptly, I raise an eyebrow and half smirk while shrugging my shoulders, as if to semi-apologize.

“Oh, sure men, no problem. Ahhh, they sain’ on TV that you an’ this other dude, men, you uh, you have some adopted kids. Uhhh, whuzit, a boy an’ a girl?”

“Yes, one of each.”

“Oh yeah, an they uhh, they sain’ you both molested ’em?”

“I have no idea; I’m not following the story.”

“Oh.”

Silence besieges us once again. We stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, his penetrating black irises slowly fade into a downward glance. He turns away and begins to fidget with some strips of paper and a two-inch pencil with no eraser strewn on the desk. I let out a little huff through the back of my nose and he glances up again. I go on.

“Aah, listen, I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” With a forced grin, I shift my sight away from him, and nod slowly. “You know, the media is having a field day with this, and everybody has an opinion and a comment. And believe me when I tell you that none of it is the least bit flattering. And yes, I do know what the accusations are; and no, I am not the least bit interested in what anyone’s opinion of the situation is, especially not these inmates and most especially not any of the assholes who work here. I have absolutely no idea whatsoever why I’m telling you all this, but we have never had any sexual interaction with any of our children. We adopted these two kids on nine-eleven, two thousand one, and in the…”

I spring each finger of my left hand out and then proceed to the ones on my right hand, counting, “two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; in the seven years since we’ve known them, neither one has been capable of telling the truth a day in their spoiled-rotten life. I have no reason to suspect that that would change now. They are dysfunctional, hate-filled children. They are angry because of some foster kids that we took in. The only thing I care about right now is to have my day in court, to set the record right.”

Sully’s Inferno

The following is an excerpt from Part One:


Smashing sounds of an enormous steel door clamping shut on my heels cause me to shutter. The crash reverberates throughout the expanse of cement and metal. Ten heads turn in unison. Motionless bodies seated along steel benches and propped against gray painted cinderblock walls begin to nudge each other with elbows and knees. I avert my glance to the foot-worn concrete path leading through the jumpsuit-clad brigade. Most are staggered in front of an overhead mounted television. A blaring news report pierces the pressure.

Blood-chilling stares pound at me like a relentless migraine. Twenty feet seems like a marathon. A plastic crate clasped in my arms helps to prevent my nervous spasms from being obvious. At least, I am praying that it does. At long last I reach the base of the steps leading to cell twelve. I start to breathe again. The electronically locked door drones open as I hop up the stairs. I scurry inside the cubicle, collapsing with my load and pulling the door shut nearly in one motion. I do not have the nerve to look back out at the festering mob.

The experience of seeing a prison from the inside looking out is new to me. I stand numbly, staring through the Plexiglas. It measures just slightly more than the width of my head by four feet tall, starting at around waist height. The double-paned glass extends to inches from the cracked and pitted, once-white ceiling. A steel bar, thick as a large toothpaste tube, breaches the length of the smoggy window which offers a strained view of the cold, hard asphalt below. The bar is securely bolted to the top and bottom of the weather-worn masonry that frames the parallel sheets of thick glass.

The edge of the parking-lot-style yard is enclosed by a double row of tall chain link fencing. The row closer to the building is densely garlanded along the top with Slinky-type attachments the size of hula-hoops. These metallic banana curls with razor like projections repeat in triple fashion ten feet away. The inside of the top, center, and bottom of a parallel outer fence is comparably fortified. I have seen them before from the highway. Now, here they are, up close and personal; so close, and so dreadfully personal.

Scratched onto the filmy surface of the narrow window, much like you might expect to see on the wall of a public toilet stall, are various slogans. “Sully sucks”; “Sully’s inferno”; “Bite my dick, Sully, you bastard.” I turn to face inward, tracking the etched Sully graffiti to the built-in metal desk, which sports several layers of designer prison décor. The base is worn and scraped down to the rusted metal surface. Over that, random blotches of Rustoleum Red bleed through to the next paintbrush-bristle-infused coating of stomach-churning cobalt blue. All of it is finished off with a putrid concoction of leftover paint from throughout the years. It creates an all-encompassing, dirty-underwear effect. Every inch is gouged, to various degrees, with dates and hearts, names, crosses, and messages. “God bless all. Release your hatred.” A litany of sweet Sully sentiments adorn the blasé, butter cream frosting shade of semi-gloss, semi-smut walls.

A similar motif is scrawled around the toilet/sink combo. It spreads to the no-longer-usable, steel wall mirror. The pattern continues, gouged into the industrial strength, steel door. The ceiling is not to be outdone by its surrounding menagerie of muck. Markings are splayed onto the fluorescent light box fixture and scribbled incessantly into its frosted Plexiglas cover. Sully hate scrapple inundates the six-by-ten foot cinderblock cell.

Nothing but bluebirds all day long

The following is an excerpt from Part One:



The Blue Jay, native to North America, is regarded as an aggressive bird. It is famous for chasing other birds from feeders and other food sources. It is known to even mob and chase predatory birds, such as hawks and owls, which occasionally feed on them. Even humans are not spared their aggressive treachery. This impressive-on-the-surface creature—with its white face collared by black, and plumage of lavender speckled on the wings and tail with black, white, and sky blue—are classified as omnivores. The Latin word omni translates to “all,” with vorare meaning “to devour.” The North American C/O can well be considered its human counterpart.

911 is all it takes

The following is an excerpt from the Introduction:


Our adopted son and accuser… alleged sexual abuse charges against us in retaliation for a perceived injustice. He fits the profile for ASPD, Anti-Social Personality Disorder... By the age of fourteen Cole displayed textbook indicators of ASPD, to the letter. The exception is that he was not failing in school…

By no means are we Cole’s original victims. We will surely not be the last. While in custody, through associations with other falsely accused “offenders,” it became obvious to me that manipulating the law can be an incredibly simple process. A disgruntled and less-than-sane or ethical individual can initiate retribution at the touch of a cell phone keypad. Scorned wives and girlfriends generate the majority of these accusations. They are well aware that a 911 call is all it takes. The “scoundrel” will be hauled off in handcuffs, thrown into a cell where he will “learn his lesson.”

Part One of this publication is a chronicle about the horrific battle behind bars. It is transcribed from a contemporaneous journal I kept while awaiting trial, through nearly nine months of confinement. There are minor alterations, mostly cosmetic repairs, completed in editing. My diary includes various accounts of episodes involving two young children, leading to our unjust arrest.

Part Two recounts particulars of court proceedings and behind-the-scenes developments that led to plea-bargaining and reentry into society. What lies beyond that cannot even be speculated. Characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s memory. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and shield the guilty.

deNile is not a river

The following is an excerpt from the Introduction:

An October 2008 article in Rhode Island Monthly magazine cites the disparaging handling of visitors at the ACI. (Reprint permission granted by Rhode Island Monthly Communications, Inc. ©2010.) In her report Outside These Walls, which was published deliberately after her brother-in-law’s release, Gail Braccidiferro explains, “…the rules defy logic. The only one that was hard and fast: Whatever a guard—or ‘correctional officer’ as they prefer to be called—says, goes. Their word is law, and it’s a law that changes from visit to visit.” Furthermore, as a seasoned reporter who has previously visited and interviewed inmates, she felt “stereotyped, belittled and punished by association.” That is the miniscule tip of an insidious iceberg. She slammed the nail on its proverbial head: “…protesting or asking to talk to a higher authority figure feels not only fruitless, but dangerous. How can I be sure a complaint won’t result in harassment, not for me, but for the person waiting inside?”


The following month, responses printed in the letters to the editor section were varied. One sensible reaction was submitted by a veteran volunteer at the prison: “…belittling treatment…is simply not necessary, when administrators set and enforce standards of good behavior by staff, the public gets good behavior (the reverse is also true).” From another respondent, “Until you’ve walked in their shoes, it’s not fair for her to judge the correctional officers.” This writer clearly is misinformed or simply naïve. In either case, she no doubt is related to someone on the prison staff. The ultimate response is by the Department of Corrections (DOC) director (warden) A.T. Wall: “Our staff repeatedly answered his [Ms. Braccidiferro’s brother-in-law’s] questions.” Conspicuously omitted from his response: “and took action to resolve the issues.”


The director’s remarks state that the rules “may seem strange or illogical to lay people. However, the policies work.” Historically, tyrannical policies worked for many regimes—but to what end and at what cost? Is it possible that this man is so removed from reality that he is living in “deNile”?

Mercy please, Percy.

INCITE—A true story of two men betrayed by their adopted children and tortured for a crime they did not commit.

The following is an excerpt from the Introduction:
 
 
Not all of the correctional officers were berating, obnoxious swine. Out of hundreds, there were a handful of civilized, conscientious staff members. I could count them on two hands, with two fingers to spare. Those five men and three women represented respectability. An emotional conversation with one heroic officer revealed his relentless disapproval of the inexcusable, intolerant conduct that permeated the penal complex. Hostile colleagues routinely harassed him. They went so far as to send threatening Christmas mail to his family. With tears in his eyes, he stated that not a night passed when he did not cry himself to sleep. I know of other novice employees who quit after their exposure to the horrid reality of inner prison dictatorial insanity.

During my eight and one-half month interval at the ACI, I was transferred to eight different modules (mods). Only once did an officer offer a “care package” and towel. By that gesture, I felt I could trust him to help resolve an issue which had arisen with one of his belligerent coworkers, but he was not willing to get involved. I quickly learned that his opposing someone on the prison staff was not prudent, even among his peers. Nevertheless, this persevering soul had a tremendous positive impact on the behavior of inmates in his mod. Respect breeds respect.

The Green Mile, starring Tom Hanks in a brilliant performance as a sane and compassionate prison guard, depicts the attitude of the miniscule minority whom I had the honor of associating with at the ACI, as well as the antagonism of the majority. Percy, a guard, is portrayed in the movie as a mean and rotten psychopath. He exults in inflicting misery at every opportunity. He squashes the life from a circus mouse that belongs to inmate Eduard Delacroix, who is slated for capital punishment. Eduard’s only earthly friend is the furry little rodent. Percy later assists in Eduard’s electric chair execution. He deliberately does not soak water into the sponge, which is to be placed between the skullcap conductor and the victim’s cranium. Percy relishes the thought of watching his prey crisp like blackened catfish at a Cajun cookout.

For the better part of a year, I endured and witnessed similar cruelty. I was haunted by the sight of “Percy.” Even though he assumed many different shapes and sizes. As it is with sand in a dessert windstorm, I was continually accosted by a familiar, unrelenting malice.

That was not as much the case with the RI state marshals. Many of them appeared to be diligent, respectful people. They generally operated in the public view, which may have been a factor contributing toward their acceptable behavior. A select few were fascist monsters, an absolute embarrassment to humankind. We had trouble in a series of incidents involving three different sheriffs. Each occurred in areas where the only witnesses were prisoners. When the prison staff were in public view, as in the visitors’ area of the Intake Service Center, the general level of their conduct was more restrained than when behind barriers.

Corrections?

INCITE—A true story of two men betrayed by their adopted children and tortured for a crime they did not commit.





The following is an excerpt from the Introduction:





For most of my life, I was a member of the elite, holier-than-thou crowd. I was blind to the abject abuse and inhumane treatment of the admitted and the presumed guilty. Amazingly, even in this era, cruelty rages within the penal system. “To understand the humanity of a society, look to their prisons,” said the Russian writer Dostoevsky.



Our institutions are inappropriately labeled as a “corrections system.” I can speak with certainty only about conditions at the Intake Service Center at the Rhode Island Adult Correctional Institution (ACI). We were victimized by the prison staff and state marshals, and underwent unspeakable exploitation. I became privy to many horror stories from other inmates, many of whom I am proud to consider friends. I heard about scores of life-threatening maneuvers occurring in other ACI buildings and at numerous prisons throughout the country.



Although closed circuit cameras were in use in the unit where I was housed, the surveillance was not sufficient to restrain the C/Os (Corrections Officers) from unsavory practices. Spitting in the food trays was routine. Drenching guys with pepper spray was just a teaser: they then got dragged into the elevator to have their daylights pounded out. Guards incited attacks on inmates by their peers as standard procedure. Unkind conduct was unquestionably the norm. Malice and a dictatorial philosophy colored every insalubrious facet of daily “living.”

...it became personal

The following is an excerpt from the Introduction:



What are the implications of being cast into the hell we call prison? Imagine getting a phone call announcing that a loved one is arrested and confined without having broken the law? How might it feel to learn that your partner is locked up in the “care” of barbaric goons for having been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Your husband is crouched naked in a desolate, near freezing, padded cell. In retribution for a perceived indiscretion, someone arbitrarily accuses that “he did this to me,” or “she did that to me.” Your child lies in a puddle of his own blood, teeth smashed out. It is a case of mistaken identity but prison personnel will be certain that he “learns his lesson.” Your dad, accused of a crime not committed, is emotionally browbeaten on a daily basis. Your brother is tortured in solitary confinement because someone has decided to get even.

These are not comforting thoughts. They are, nonetheless, latent realities. It is easy to look at the corrections system with the attitude that “they made their bed, let them sleep in it,” or “they deserve whatever harsh treatment they get, they brought it upon themselves.” It is all too easy to adopt a position of “I do not give a shit what goes on behind bars.” When it is not personal, it is easy to not care. At least for me it was.

Then it became personal.

Behind Bars

The following is an excerpt from the Introduction:



Not in a million lifetimes did I ever imagine myself in prison. The idea never surfaced. Hopping on a space shuttle to Mars or having a second head surgically implanted would have been more conceivable to me. As with unanticipated life events such as car accidents and cancer, the majority of individuals who are conscientious, law-abiding citizens do not commonly consider the prospect of doing time. Nevertheless, it can happen.



I am living proof.



Many people are not disposed to a criminal life and they do not think about the prison experience, not from a personal perspective. Approximately one in every thirty-two Americans gets a shot at having the handcuffs shoved on. The scratch ticket average payoff, according to Wikipedia, is less than one in five. If the criminal justice system were a game—and to many who implement it, it is—I sure would put my effort into selling Jail Bird chances. It would be a great way to cash in on what is rapidly becoming a booming, multi-billion dollar industry.