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.