‘So how are you going to fix it?’ I ask, smiling.
Two Tonys puts the book down and throws his arms up. ‘Aurelius is gonna be my surgeon! Pascal is gonna be my surgeon! Emerson is gonna be my surgeon! Life is nothing but thought, is it? I could go to a restaurant and order a rack of lamb with mint jelly, rice pilaf, French bread, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and, for dessert, Kahlua parfait, and yeah, I’d enjoy it at the time, but I’d also enjoy thinking about it afterwards as well. Just like I can lay on my bunk and instead of hating on motherfuckers and thinking of ways to whack them, I can enjoy picturing when I was on the run in Waikiki and Maui, living in a house on the slopes of Mount Halakala, and how beautiful it was. It’s all about thoughts. This is an epiphany for me. Look, my goitre’s shrinking,’ he says, tapping his neck. ‘When I feel hate invading my space, I’m gonna combat it by reading this book or whatever else I can get my hands on.’
41
Having not seen my sister since she spoke in court on my behalf in June 2004, I’m counting the days to Karen’s summer visit in April 2006. Despite the hell I’ve put my family through, Karen – who was understandably initially angry – has stood by me. Although she has little money, she saved up to visit me twice at the Jail. She introduced me to yoga and has encouraged my writing. Dad’s coming as well, but not Mum, as it’s only been four months since she last visited and flights cost more than £700.
I arrive at Visitation to see Dad smiling, healthy and relaxed, and Karen, standing tall with long brown hair and a graceful poise from years of ballet, her big eyes the same steely blue as Dad’s and mine. It’s Friday, so Visitation is mostly empty, only eight tables in use. We hug, walk outside into the sunshine, sit at a picnic table and talk. We agree that my incarceration is a blessing. That it’s derailed me from a dangerous cycle that could have resulted in my death. Although I was stabilising prior to the SWAT team raid, maybe things would have spiralled out of control again. In the space of four years, I’ve gone from being angry at getting caught to acceptance to feeling saved. Dad and Karen are bookworms, so I tell them about my goal to read more than 1,000 books by my release, that I’ve read seventy-two in the last three months and that I’m on track to read over 200 this year. Dad enjoys Kafka and recently visited an exhibition in Prague in Kafka’s birth house in the Old Town Square next to the Church of St Nicholas. Karen, who spent four years teaching in Japan, prefers Haruki Murakami; we both praise the first book of his she sent me, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. Thanks to Two Tonys, we’re all fans of Tom Wolfe.
‘Heard from Jade since her engagement?’ Karen asks.
‘Nope.’ Even though it’s been months, I still feel the pain. ‘I wish she’d just let me know how she’s doing.’
‘The wedding’s going through, then?’ Dad asks.
‘I’m afraid so. He’s like a bad habit she has a hard time trying to break,’ I say, almost spitting out the words.
‘Where are they getting married?’ Karen asks.
‘They’re back in London now, but I think they’re getting married in America in a Catholic church.’
‘If she’s in London, why don’t I arrange to meet her?’ Karen asks.
‘What a great idea!’ While my mind ranges over the possibilities, I sit up straight. ‘Dad can get her email address. If she agrees to meet you, Karen, you can find out what the hell’s going on.’ The idea lifts my hope.
After the visit, walking across the yard, I hear someone yell: ‘Why the hell isn’t your sis here to visit me?’
‘Piss off, Ken!’ I reply.
Inside, I work on my journal for Dr Owen:
I have many pleasant thoughts of the visit today. Being in the presence of my sister, who I’ve been unable to have close contact with for years, has left me on a high. A combination of good company and sugar products caused my thoughts to race, making the last four hours of the visit seem like one. Departed feeling happy hypo-manic …
At 4.15 p.m., I hear Officer Rivero searching my neighbour’s cell, his radio crackling, keys jangling, metal banging, drawers opening and closing, and property boxes sliding across concrete with a grating sound. Assuming he’s coming to me next, I put the clutter from the desk – books, letters, paperwork, financial newspapers – into the drawers under the bottom bunk, so I can’t be issued a disciplinary ticket.
Ten minutes later, he walks in, his young friendly face struggling to appear serious. ‘Cell inspection.’
‘Uh oh,’ I reply, feigning surprise.
‘It’s quite clean in here,’ he says, rummaging around.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re in compliance, Attwood.’ He ticks my name on a clipboard and continues down the run.
At 4.25 p.m., I spot Officer Rivero sprinting away from the building, out of Yard 4 and into Yard 2. Guards appear from all directions, running towards Yard 2. The yard is locked-down.
There must have been a fight or an assault on a guard.
At 5.40 p.m., I overhear kitchen workers – ordered to return to their buildings – yelling at the prisoners locked in their cells:
‘We’ve got another hostage situation!’
‘A hostage has been taken on Yard 2!’
My pulse accelerates, palms moisten. Visits might be cancelled. During the 2004 hostage crisis at Buckeye prison, inmates were locked-down for days without food. How will my dad and sister feel if they’re turned away tomorrow? Why tonight of all nights? Months of planning and preparation and approval-seeking down the drain.
6.05 p.m. Guards, uniformed and plain-clothed, amass on Yard 2. Ladders are set up, stretching above the prison roof.
6.25 p.m. I try to read The Trial of Socrates, but the situation shreds my concentration. Stop stressing out. There’s a chance everything will be back to normal soon. What you worry about often never happens. Calm down. There’s nothing you can do. And what about the hostage? A person’s life’s on the line. Go back to reading. Take your mind off things over which you have no control. It’ll be resolved. What would Dr Owen recommend in this situation? To breathe.
6.34 p.m. After staring at pages but absorbing little, I climb off the bunk to watch developments through the window. Flatbed trucks arrive with members of the Strategic Response Team (SRT) in black battle regalia. They march into Building 2 like robots.
6.37 p.m. More SRT arrive.
6.43 p.m. A floodlight shines on Building 2 for ten seconds.
6.46 p.m. Another truck with SRT arrives.
6.54 p.m. The setting sun paints the mountain behind Building 2 pink like Mars. The SRT members unload weapons and equipment from the vehicles.
8.00 p.m. Darkness. Bats swoop around the yard lights, catching moths. More SRT arrive.
8.47 p.m. A guard appears at my window. ‘Are you a regular or a special diet?’
‘Diet. I’m a vegetarian,’ I reply.
‘We’re serving regulars right now, but I gotcha,’ he says.
Assuming I won’t be seeing him any time soon, I eat peanut butter and crackers.
9.30 p.m. I shove wet toilet paper in my ears and try to sleep.
5.50 a.m. I rise and rush to the window. Not a soul near Building 2. Good. No kitchen workers in our chow hall. Bad. Mixed signals. Are we still locked-down?
6.01 a.m. Two kitchen workers and a guard in the chow hall. Good. We must be off lockdown. Better get ready for the visit.
7.17 a.m. Why no announcement for chow? The hostage situation looks resolved. Are we going to be collectively punished with a long lockdown? Here’s the nurse distributing meds. A good sign.
7.21 a.m. Chow’s being delivered to cells. Not a good sign. We are locked-down.
7.30 a.m. A guard walks by, handing out red apples.
‘I’ve got a special visit today. Are we still locked-down?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘But the situation on Yard 2 is resolved, right?’
‘Yeah. But who knows if you’ll get your visit.’
I tense up.
‘Do you think I’ll get my special visit today?’ I ask the guard.
‘I dunno,’ she says. ‘I can ask.’
Knowing what ‘I can ask’ means, I frown and shake my head. I do yoga to reduce my anxiety.
9.00 a.m. If I’ve not been called by now, I’m not getting a visit. If I miss one, no big deal. There’s three left. Things could be worse. Perhaps they just need a day to get back to normal.
9.40 a.m. Two enormous white guards appear, collecting trash in plastic bags.
‘I’m supposed to have a visit today with my family who flew from England.’
‘You’ve certainly got the accent,’ one says in south-western drawl. ‘I can tell you’re not lying.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘The DW’s walking round right now. You can ask her.’
Pressing my face to the window, I scan the yard and spot the Deputy Warden at Junior Bull’s cell, working her way along the run in my direction.
9.45 a.m. The Deputy Warden arrives, grim-faced, her big brown eyes turned to stone.
‘My family flew from England and I’m supposed to have a special visit today.’
‘You won’t have it,’ she says in a tone that leaves no room for negotiation before turning her feet and body away.
Frustrated, I ask, ‘What about the rest of the week? That’s all we’ve got left before they fly home.’
‘You’re gonna be locked-down for a few days,’ she says, walking away. ‘I don’t know about the weekend.’
Before I can respond, she disappears, leaving me with the same nausea I felt after being punched by Ken.
I might not be seeing my dad and sister for a while. If kitchen workers are out of their cells, walking around, why can’t I come out?
11.30 a.m. I reread yesterday’s mail, cheered up by comments from readers of Jon’s Jail Journal.
The next morning at 8 a.m., the same two big guards bring breakfast. Four pancakes. Hot cereal. Peanut butter. An apple. Milk.
‘Did you get your visit yesterday?’ the largest one asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘The DW said we’re going to be locked-down for a few days.’
‘Damn. That’s rough. And they came all the way from England, right?’
‘Yes. The trip cost thousands. They only came to see me.’
‘You should see if DOC will pay for the trip.’
‘We’ll see what happens. I’ve got visits until the weekend. Maybe we’ll get off lockdown by then.’
8.47 a.m. Reading, I hear an announcement: ‘Dog 11, stand by for a special visit. Get ready.’
What the hell! The DW must have reconsidered in light of how far they have travelled. Maybe they came down here and begged to get in. Whooooee! I throw my clothes on and dash to Visitation.
Sitting with their arms tight to their bodies, Dad and Karen try to smile, but their thin lips sink.
‘How did you manage to get in?’ I ask, sitting down.
‘I called down here and they said it was approved,’ Dad says. ‘The DW must have given her permission.’
‘What was it like when you showed up yesterday?’ I ask, wiping my sweaty palms on my trousers.
‘It was terrible,’ Karen says, rubbing her forehead. ‘My stomach was in knots. I was throwing up all day.’
‘We saw it on TV,’ Dad says. ‘A reporter was standing in front of the prison. I thought, Bloody hell! It’s going to be on lockdown and we won’t get in.’
‘What did the news say?’
‘A woman guard,’ Karen says, ‘was held hostage for six hours by a prisoner demanding to be transferred to Montana.’
‘Any weapons involved or did she get hurt?’
‘He had razor blades, but he didn’t hurt her,’ Dad says, scratching his neck.
‘It’s a good job nobody got hurt. Did the news say how it ended?’
‘They told him they’d move him to Montana,’ Karen says, ‘so he gave up. They moved him all right, straight to the super-maximum-security prison in Florence.’
‘Maybe he was doing a copycat of the Buckeye hostage takers. One got transferred to Maine. For raping a guard and a kitchen worker, he got seven consecutive life sentences plus 152 years. But if you’re already serving life, I guess the extra time is meaningless.’
‘Well, we got in today,’ Dad says. ‘We’ve only lost one visit, so we didn’t do too bad.’
‘How’s Mum taking it?’ I ask.
‘We told her we’d try and get in today,’ Dad says, ‘and that if we weren’t answering the hotel phone that means we got in. So by now she’ll know where we are.’
When the visit ends, Dad says, ‘Do you think I should ask Officer Conway whether we need to call the prison before we come tomorrow?’
‘If they let you in today, you should be all right for the rest of the week,’ I say.
‘That’s no guarantee.’ Karen says, her expression fearful. ‘We’d better ask.’
We approach Officer Conway, a polite middle-aged woman with long dark hair, a new guard with an air of empathy – which the environment hasn’t stripped from her yet.
‘Officer, do you think we should call tomorrow before we come out here?’ Dad asks.
‘Let me call the DW and find out.’ Officer Conway disappears into an office. A few minutes later, she re-emerges, her expression pained. ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the DW said no.’
‘No what?’ Dad asks, his nose crinkling. ‘That we don’t need to call or we can’t have the visit?’
‘That you can’t have the visit.’
Dad’s and Karen’s faces scrunch. The corners of their mouths turn south. Their shoulders slump. The stress I’ve felt for the past few days redoubles. Speechless, I stand, trembling, frustrated.
‘I’d like to speak to the DW,’ Karen says in a faltering voice, eyes misting.
‘Let me call her again. Actually, there she is,’ Officer Conway says, nodding towards a set of electronically activated metal and Plexiglas security doors. ‘Maybe she’ll talk to you in person.’ Officer Conway hand signals the Deputy Warden, who walks through the doors and joins us.
‘Thank you very much for allowing us to visit today,’ Dad says, his tone pained.
‘You’re welcome,’ the Deputy Warden says, hands on hips, thumbs to the rear.
‘Is it not possible for us to come tomorrow?’ Dad asks, interlacing his fingers.
‘The prison is going to be locked-down for the next few days while we do our investigation. I spoke to Shaun and I was able to give you today’s visit, but tomorrow’s isn’t possible.’
My dad and Karen both speak.
The Deputy Warden steamrolls right over their words with, ‘One at a time, please!’
Karen sobs. She raises her fingers to her forehead, shields an eye with a cupped hand and bows her head. ‘I’ve not seen … my brother in two years … That’s all I’m here for … just this one week … to see my brother.’
‘We’ve had this trip planned all year,’ Dad says, holding his palms out. ‘We came 5,000 miles, at considerable cost, just to see Shaun. All of these visits were approved by the prison and we’ve already lost one visit.’
‘Which visit did you lose?’ the Deputy Warden asks, raising her chin, dropping her hands to her sides.
‘Yesterday’s,’ Dad says, hitching his thumbs into his pockets.
‘And when do you go back to England?’
‘Monday,’ Dad says, his eyelids twitching.
The Deputy Warden stares over our heads, as if running a calculation. ‘Right, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll authorise tomorrow’s visit, but if anything, and I mean anything, goes wrong on the yard during the visit, we’ll have to send you home.’
‘I understand that,’ Dad says, his lips reappearing.
With our postures easing and smiles em
erging on our shell-shocked faces, we thank the Deputy Warden. She departs. We discuss our luck and say goodbye. I head for a strip-search.
The next morning, the two oversized guards appear at my cell.
‘I’m ready for the visit,’ I say.
‘Hold on. We’re gonna have to strip you out.’
That’s odd, being strip-searched going out. It must be an additional security measure.
After the search, they escort me to Visitation.
‘He can’t come in here! This is my command post!’ a burly sergeant yells.
Shit! They’re going to cancel the visit.
Officer Conway appears. ‘I’m going to escort you to a different room, a conference room. And the visit has only been approved for three hours.’
The plush conference table in the room brings to mind stockbroking. Pitching shares to clients. The view of Camelback Mountain from the high-rise. Power sales meetings. Rowdy New York Italian co-workers. Receiving awards for setting record commissions. The window overlooks a garden and a section of desert under excavation, including a series of ditches. Hummingbirds are darting from flower to flower, hovering to sip nectar, competing for air space in the oasis against bumblebees and menacing elongated wasps called mud daubers. As if desperate to join them, a trapped fly is beating itself senseless against the window.
My dad and sister arrive, their faces grey. We hug.
‘I thought I wasn’t going to see you again!’ I say, resolved to bolster their spirits and make the most of things.
‘I noticed,’ Dad says, sitting down. ‘You should have seen your face yesterday. You turned as white as a ghost; if you’d have had hair, it would have stood on end.’
We laugh.
‘We’ve only got three hours,’ I say.
‘It’s better than nothing,’ Karen says.
When the visit ends, I say, ‘This might be the last time I see you in a while. They may not allow your final visit.’
Their expressions say they’ve reached the same conclusion. We hug.
‘I’ll call the prison on Saturday and we’ll see if they’ll let us in,’ Dad says.
Prison Time Page 17