Long Island arrives. Picking up on my agitation, he asks what’s wrong. We often discuss our relationships, so he knows about Claudia and Jade. He has an ex that he’s not quite written off. I tell him about Jade’s engagement and let him read my response. He says not to send the letter, to reread it tomorrow when I’ve calmed down. I don’t know what to do. When he turns his TV on, I reread the letter, growing uncomfortable at how I’ve expressed myself. If I don’t send it now, I’ll reread it in the morning and bin it. Still fuming, I storm off to mail it, convinced Jade deserves to read my gut reaction and not a diluted version. What does it matter if I’ve lost her anyway? After sending it, I march back to my cell, glad darkness has arrived to disguise the dampness of my eyes.
35
On the eve of Long Island’s release – he’s served 56 months – his apprehension and excitement, and my sadness at losing him, are palpable. He’s come so far in his stock-market studies, the profit in the account he trades on paper exceeds mine. When I announce the result, he stops doing handstand push-ups against the door and paces around the cell, yelling, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! I beat you!’ pumping his arms in the air, showering the cell with sweat, his head and neck roped with thick veins. Impressed by his enthusiasm, I hope that he puts the knowledge to good use and that the passion he’s developed for trading steers him away from crime.
‘How does it feel to be getting out?’ I ask, sitting at a desk scattered with stock-market newspapers, charts, books and our trading records. I wonder how I’ll feel when I’m getting out.
Long Island sits on the bottom bunk. ‘I’m extremely scared … anxious … nervous … more than I ever thought I’d be,’ he says, his face contorting, his eyes as wide and wild as when I first saw him – the stress of entering, exiting and changing prisons pushes inmates to psychological extremes.
‘Surely you’re happy?’ I ask, leaning forward, smiling. ‘Fuck, I’d be over the moon.’
‘Yeah, of course I am, but other emotions are overshadowing my happiness right now,’ he says, reaching to rub his neck, flexing a bicep recently tattooed with bright colours by Bud. ‘I’m not getting out expecting to fail like other guys who are happy to rob, get high and come back to prison. I’m happy to get out to build a life and that’s gonna take everything I have. Becoming a stockbroker is gonna take a lot of hard work.’ Inspired by chapters I wrote about my stock-broking career, Long Island is determined to repeat my success. ‘There are prejudices out there that I’m gonna have to face or manipulate my way around. I’ll need to keep my wits about me. I owe it to my family and others who’ve supported me financially and emotionally for putting trust in me. I’m wondering whether to contact the girl I was with, but I’m scared that might set off a chain reaction of things I don’t want to deal with right now.’ He puts his hands on his lap and stares blankly.
We discuss relationships. When I mention Jade, he shakes his head and offers sympathy. Not wanting my heartache to taint his release, I ask, ‘What’s the first thing you want to do when you get out?’
‘Have dinner with my family,’ he says, relaxing, turning his palms up. ‘And I’d like to sit at a bar and have a drink alone. Hopefully, a nice little barmaid will bring me a Stoli tonic.’ He tilts his head and smiles.
‘What’s the work plan?’
‘I want a stockbroker’s licence within six months,’ he says, wiping sweat from his head. ‘I’d like to be pulling six figures within three years.’
‘Are you staying in Phoenix?’
‘Absolutely,’ he says, nodding.
‘Any further education?’
‘I’ve got 65 college credits, which is an associate’s degree. I need another 60 to get a BA.’
‘Will you keep me updated on your progress?’
‘I sure will. You created me!’ he says, a smile lifting his eyes. ‘Now I just have to go.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I ask, grinning.
‘I tried to glean as much knowledge of the financial markets as I could from you. Now I just have to apply it. You’ve transferred a wealth of knowledge to me. It’s like you said, “Here, read these books and go and be successful.”’
‘But remember,’ I say, raising my brows, ‘there’s much more to life than the pursuit of money. Look what happened to me.’
‘I have a lot of catching up to do before I have to think about that.’
‘To succeed in business you have to be cut-throat, but crossing the line will land you back behind bars,’ I say, tilting forward.
‘That won’t happen,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’m looking forward to bringing my love for the financial markets and integrity to whatever brokerage position I’m fortunate to land.’
‘It’s been a real pleasure being your celly,’ I say, sadness welling up, my body leaning further forward. ‘I’ll miss you loads.’
‘Same here,’ he says, his eyes glistening with emotion.
‘And I’ll be disappointed if you get in trouble,’ I say, failing to sound stern.
‘Thanks. If Bud or Ken start any shit again, go to Two Tonys. He really likes you. He’s looking out for you in ways you don’t even know about.’ He smiles.
‘I really appreciate you introducing me to Two Tonys.’
We stand and hug. I pray to never see Long Island in prison.
The guards extract Long Island at dawn. I brace for Ken moving into my cell.
36
Resolved to release George from cleaning duties if I find out he was having sex with dead bodies, I say, ‘Jeeves, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘What is it, governor?’ He rests the mop against the wall.
‘What’s this rumour about you having sex with corpses?’ I ask, sitting at the desk.
‘Who told you that?’ he asks from the bottom bunk.
‘I can’t reveal my sources.’
‘I used to be a funeral director. I never had sex with dead bodies, but I went to the same embalming school as a high-profile necrophiliac in the 1980s.’
‘How did you know that person was having sex with corpses?’
‘She was on the news.’
‘She! How’s it possible for a woman to have sex with a corpse?’
‘She used the embalming machine,’ George says, his eyes lighting up, ‘which has variable rates of pressure and flow to isolate the arteries, so as not to swell portions of the body seen at an open-casket viewing. She used embalming fluid to enlarge the penis, which sometimes swells up much larger than normal – much more than when it’s engorged with blood – and she would get on top after the embalming had taken place and, I assume, ride herself to an orgasm.’ He narrows his eyes, as if gauging my reaction.
‘That’s insane!’ I say, shaking my head, patting my stomach, hoping he knows the mechanics from his profession, not from experience. ‘As a funeral director, did you see many aroused corpses?’
‘No. You’re not supposed to turn the machine up that high.’
‘So how do you know the penis swells up so much then?’
‘From my training and work, I know how embalming fluid affects all areas of the body,’ he says, stooping.
‘How did she get caught?’
‘She stole a body, a casket and a hearse. The authorities found her and the corpse naked in the back of the hearse. She confessed to having sex with over 20 corpses.’
I write home about his story. My dad googles the female necrophiliac, confirming what George said.
37
Dressed in my best clothes – a sweatshirt borrowed from Two Tonys, trousers hemmed by Long Island, sneakers cleaned by George, socks with no holes – I dash from my cell for the first Christmas 2005 visit with my parents and power walk towards Visitation. At the guards’ desk, I hug Mum, Dad, and Mum again. We sit and chat about how we’re holding up and the kindness of family, friends and blog readers. We praise my journalist sister, Karen, for getting an article published in Cosmo about having a brother in prison.
/> ‘Has Jade visited lately?’ Mum asks.
My stomach lurches. ‘Er … no. I don’t expect to hear from her again. She’s … er … getting married.’
Dad jolts back in surprise.
‘What?’ Mum asks, eyes wide.
I tell them the story. They sympathise.
‘It’s probably for the best,’ I say, not wanting them to worry. ‘The ups and downs of maintaining a relationship from prison are overwhelming,’ I say, even though I’d do anything to get Jade back.
Six hours pass fast. Before they leave, they ask if I’ve had any more problems with Bud and Ken. I say that Ken wants to live with me, but fortunately the counsellor is refusing to approve the move because of Ken’s numerous tickets for fighting and drugs.
Afterwards, I join dozens of prisoners cramped in an outdoor cage with no seats, awaiting strip-searches. Listening to their conversation snaps me back to reality.
‘I gotta take a shit!’
‘My sister-in-law wants me to hook up with one of her girlfriends. I told her, “Hell, no! Are you crazy? Why would I wanna have some chick doing time with me?”’
‘I’ve got three chicks visiting me – on rotation.’
‘If I need a girlfriend, I grab Playboy.’
‘My stomach’s killing. I really gotta shit.’
‘Why would I wanna put a chick through the misery of falling in love with me when my sorry ass is in here?’
‘I’ve got to get back to my house to take a shit. Would you fellas mind if I get stripped-out first before I have a fucking accident?’
‘Fuck that! I’m sick. You ain’t jumping in front of me.’
‘Yeah. What makes you think you’re so fucking special?’
‘Take a shit in Visitation, homey.’
‘I can’t shit in there. I’ve got standards.’
‘You don’t have to sit on the seat. Just kind of squat a bit.’
‘I’ve really fucking got to go. I’ll wait till all the visitors have gone. I don’t want them smelling my shit when I open the door.’
Thirty minutes later, I’m in a chilly room with a stocky Mexican-American guard wearing rubber gloves. He has a gentle coaxing voice, a stern expression and the watchful eyes of a bird. Facing him, I strip and hand over my sweaty clothes. Searching for drugs, he digs in pockets, runs his fingers along linings and examines my sneakers. He inspects my ears, mouth, armpits and below my scrotum. ‘Pull your foreskin back … OK. Turn around and spread them … OK. Put your clothes on and go back to your house.’
During the final visit ten days later, two visitors join my mum and dad: Pearl Wilson, one of the founders of Mothers Against Arpaio – a group of women whose loved ones have suffered or died in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system – and Linda Bentley, a reporter for Sonoran News. Since Mothers Against Arpaio discovered Jon’s Jail Journal, we’ve campaigned together against Sheriff Arpaio. Another founding member, Linda Saville – whose brother was coaxed into buying bomb parts by undercover police working for Arpaio in what a jury ruled as a blatant publicity stunt by the sheriff – mailed me testimonies from people affected by Arpaio’s jail. Before the visit, I read them and grew incensed:
… my fiancé committed suicide in Madison Street on 28 December 2004.
My brother … came into contact with what they call ‘Durango Rot’, a foot fungus. They refused him medical treatment for this until one toe became so large with disease that it literally exploded.
… my son has suffered constantly with anti-Semitism. He has been beaten, tormented and denied medical care after a beating by a detention officer … He suffered two herniated discs and nerve compression in his back. He is suffering from reoccurring staph infections … He has had heart surgery due to a staph infection that attacked one of his valves. His body is covered with scars due to these infections eating away at his skin.
… a very close friend of mine was beaten into a coma by other inmates in Madison Street jail and nearly died. Still today, he can barely walk.
My daughter … at Estrella [jail] … contracted an infection … She may lose her leg; they took her [to a hospital] with an open wound, a good eight inches long, two inches wide, cut almost to the bone and tissue …
… my daughter … saw a woman pepper-sprayed because she had been asking and asking for medical help.
My son … has been beaten (resulting in broken ribs, bruises, cuts) … The jail is overheated, overcrowded and infested with bugs and lice. Sheriff Joe has NO RIGHT … to run his jail as a NAZI CONCENTRATION CAMP!
Our grandchildren’s father died while in the custody of Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Our grandchildren are without a father now because of the horrific conditions that Eddie was subjected to.
One lady who was in the holding cell with me … [her] uterus fell out while in the tentsfn1. She was holding it and told the sheriffs … [she was told] it was not an emergency and she could push it back in.
Pearl and Linda mention having attended an Arpaio function. The sheriff was boasting about solving murders. Linda asked him about the unsolved murders in his jail. Arpaio said there are no murders in his facilities. Pearl stood up and said that her son was murdered in Tent City. Philip Wilson, a plumber with a degree in graphic design serving two months for violating parole for minor drugs possession, was beaten into a coma by the Aryan Brotherhood and died in hospital. The official version of events is that Philip was murdered for his onyx ring. Unable to contest Pearl, Arpaio slandered her and continued his speech. Listening to Pearl – one of the bravest women I’ve met – I’m on the verge of tears. Having seen people getting beaten until they looked dead in Arpaio’s jail, I’m aware of how easily and frequently it happens. I wish there was more I could do to get the conditions improved and maybe save some lives. I’m frustrated at how hard it is to expose the truth for us little people operating in the shadow of Arpaio’s multimillion-dollar media machine, but I’m hopeful that my writing will eventually expose his jail to the world. Pearl finishes with good news. The maximum-security Madison Street jail that my blog drew international media attention to is scheduled to be closed down; however, Arpaio runs six different jails, so we don’t see the human-rights violations ending soon.
When the visit ends, the presence of Pearl and Linda prevents Mum from getting too upset. Long hugs and farewells fill our final moments together in 2005. I leave the visit grateful for them travelling so far to see me.
* * *
fn1 Sheriff Joe Arpaio runs Tent City jail, comprising hundreds of US Army tents left over from the Korean war, holding around 2,000 inmates. [In summer, temperatures inside the tents have been recorded at 145 degrees Fahrenheit.]
38
At the end of the upper tier lives Jack, one of the few inmates who stands out for avoiding the drugs, drama and violence. He has short brown hair, a tidy moustache, no tattoos, a square intelligent face and blue eyes that gleam with curiosity and reflect a thirst for knowledge that I identify with. Even in the midst of the mayhem in the chow hall, his positive aura makes him a pleasure to be around. He speaks with a courteous southern accent and doesn’t swear. A former US Marine staff sergeant and air-traffic controller, his integrity stems from a strong mind resolved not to allow prison to strip him of his identity.
Several weeks of playing chess bring us closer together. Jack’s an aspiring writer, so we agree to proofread each other’s work. Reading chapters from his autobiography, I warm to his voice and self-deprecatory style. He starts editing my blogs, showing me how to tighten sentences, and helps rein in my recent tendency towards the surreal, including describing a storm with frogs parachuting to earth, and the flies in the chow hall as fighter aircraft …
Jack brings chapters to my cell, locks the door behind him and states in a serious tone that if we’re going to be working together, he wants to tell me how he ended up facing the death penalty. I sit, honoured by his trust, as he reveals that at 37 years old he was a sheriff’s deputy working undercover for an elite drug task for
ce called the Southwest Border Alliance. Formerly ‘rookie of the year’, he had a flawless record. His assignment was to infiltrate a biker gang involved in murder and the manufacture and distribution of crystal meth. In order to be accepted by the gang, it was necessary for him to use meth in their presence – an act approved by his superiors at the task force. Unfortunately, Jack got addicted to meth. To feed his habit, he started taking drugs seized from criminals. The depletion from the evidence room was noticed. On 4 July 1995, Jack was caught. During the ensuing shootout, he killed two colleagues and injured a third. His voice deepens, his face drops and the gravity in his eyes tells me that taking those lives weighs heavily on his soul.
Jack was arrested at the scene and remanded on a $15.5 million bond. With his story on CNN and his character demonised, sentiment was running high, with calls for him to receive the death penalty. Various character witnesses spoke at his trial, including a US Marine general, testifying to Jack’s exemplary contribution to the Marines, but he was found guilty. Judge Cole spent an hour explaining why he was sentencing Jack to life in prison – not the death penalty.
Deeply moved, I’m frustrated at the justice system and how unfair life seems to be for some people. Flabbergasted, I can’t comprehend the intensity of what he’s been through. He strikes me as truly remorseful, the kind of person that, if released tomorrow, would do everything in his power to make amends. In here, he spends most of his time teaching, even offering one-to-one tuition beyond his work hours, and helping others. If he hadn’t made such horrific mistakes, Jack believes he would have achieved the political office he aspired to. Instead, he’s an outcast in law enforcement, and is ostracised by some guards and inmates due to his history. He lost his wife; his children barely correspond with him.
Prison Time Page 15