‘Thanks for coming. It’s been great seeing you.’
More hugs.
‘Goodbye, Shaun,’ Karen whispers, tears running. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you, too,’ I say, filling with sadness.
Putting on a brave face, I try to hold my tears in but some spill.
Saturday visits are cancelled. On Monday, I think about my dad and sister flying home, how much I miss them – and whether Jade will agree to meet Karen.
42
Dr Owen reads my thought journal, documenting my happiness at seeing my dad and sister versus the disappointment and tension surrounding the hostage situation and cancelled visits.
‘How did you deal with these feelings during that time?’ Dr Owen asks, elbows on the table, pyramiding opposing fingertips.
‘Using cognitive techniques,’ I say, hands on my lap. ‘I tried to look at it as an activating event over which I had no control. Something I shouldn’t get stressed about.’
‘Did that work?’
‘Yes and no. When it comes to things that upset my family, I get upset.’
‘Is that normal or abnormal?’ He drops his hands to the table and leans back.
‘Normal for most people.’
‘You were looking forward to those visits for a long time. Then something happened and you had no control over events. Your hormones responded. Did you cope with it?’
‘My anxiety was up. My thoughts became depressed. I felt lousy. But I wrote and wrote and wrote. I felt better towards the end of it. After the shock wore off, I tried to go with the flow.’
‘It’s more than just going with the flow,’ Dr Owen says, patting the table, eyes narrowing. ‘Going with the flow is what put you in prison. It’s about increased self-awareness. It’s about how you express your energy.’
‘How so?’ I ask, confused.
‘Let’s take a pilot as an example. If a pilot gets into a conflict at home, he’s going to take that negative energy with him. If he gets into a conflict day after day, then that negative energy is going to compromise his ability to fly safely.’
‘I see. So, did I express the negative energy of the hostage situation in a good or bad way?’
‘What did you do with the energy?’
‘I wrote.’
‘There you go. You answered your own question. Didn’t you thrive on chaotic energy in the past?’ he says, his voice speeding up. ‘Isn’t uncertainty a theme of the stock market? And partying? Couldn’t that have blown up in your face at any time?’
‘I do enjoy the wild fluctuations of the stock market. You’ve previously said a reason for my partying was the need for cheap thrills. But the hostage situation was different. My family suffered and that was upsetting.’
‘And how do you feel about that now?’
‘I accept what’s happened. Because I didn’t get to see Dad so much, he’s coming back in October with my mum and aunt. So now I’ve got something to look forward to again.’
‘When do you get out of prison?’
‘I’m eligible for deportation in November 2007.’
‘A year and a half. It’s time for you to start planning.’
‘Knowing it’s getting closer is reassuring. During the hostage situation, it was in the back of my mind that I’ll soon be out and won’t have to deal with all of this any more.’
‘All this what? The torrent of absurdities!’ he says, throwing an arm above his head. ‘If someone on the street had to deal with what you’re dealing with, they’d be running along, screaming, “This can’t be! Someone can surely fix this!” Yet in here, things that may be difficult for outsiders to deal with happen all the time. Because of this environment, you’ve gained skills that will help you when you’re released. Your level of resilience is way up. You’ve matured. You now have an ability to bounce back from all sorts of things. You’ve learned these things the hard way, but what’s important is that you’ve learned them. Some people may go through life never having learned the things you’ve learned in here. Something you have to consider when you hit the streets is that issues you had to deal with before your arrest have been on hold.’
‘Viktor Frankl compared release to a diver coming up with the bends.’
‘But his experience was in the late ’30s and early ’40s. He used his prison experience to help people when he got out. His techniques were nothing new. That knowledge has been around for millennia.’
‘Reading the Ancient Greeks, I see how the various contemporary schools of thought in psychology have recycled their wisdom.’
‘Which Greeks have you read?’ he asks, smiling curiously.
‘I can’t pronounce most of them. The Pre-Socratics and plenty of Plato and Aristotle.’
‘How does studying them work for you?’
‘It increases my critical-thinking skills.’
‘Excellent,’ he says, nodding.
‘I’m interested in how old knowledge is recycled. The atomists seemed to be early physicists. The principle of conservation of energy – in that it cannot be created, destroyed or divided – ties in with the Hindu belief that everything just is.’
‘But there’s still plenty we don’t know. When we thought atoms were the smallest particles, along came electrons, protons, neutrons, and then stuff like quarks, neutrinos, muons, gluons, bosons and all kinds of obscure little elements. We revised Newton. We’re revising Einstein. It’s an evolving process. At least what you’re learning will help you when you get out. Most people go out with what they learn here and they don’t have a lot. If you’re willing to accept a broad-based view of yourself and take it to the outside world, you’re going to have a lot of potential to do well. It’s about accepting yourself, knowing when to hold your head up and when to be careful.’
‘I’m used to going overboard,’ I say, tight-lipped. ‘I start out meaning well, but I get carried away. Something inside of me that sabotages my intentions takes over.’ I want to tell him about the wolves. He’ll know how to handle them.
‘But you’re learning to affect yourself, to modulate who you are most days. You’re not trying to change the lives of thousands of people, which is what got you in prison.’
‘Isn’t that under control because of this environment? I keep myself to myself here.’
‘That’s here. If you ran around grandiosely in here, the thugs would just as soon crush you. It’s a good adaptation you’ve reached. You blend in. You’re learning to remain humble, which wasn’t your previous inclination.’
‘I still have to work on it.’
‘We all do. You have to allow yourself to have humility. You have to put it into practice and not struggle with it. Looking at your thought journal, I can see you’re making progress. You’re getting a grip on your natural inclination toward grandiosity. When you’re on the streets, do you want to be the person who runs to a window and jumps out or the person who walks to a window, relaxes and enjoys the view?’
‘I want to stay sane.’
‘Keep focused, day to day, on your ups and downs, realising your emotional shifts like you did during the hostage situation. Look at what DOC did. They stopped everything. They assessed the situation: is it safe or unsafe? They determined it was safe and eased up a little bit at a time, gradually. It’s the same for you, your gradual ease, your slowly increased ability to think more broadly. And you’re starting to do it. The results are clear in your thought journal. You’re showing a willingness to be who you are without having to dress yourself up.’
‘How far have I got to go?’ I ask, encouraged.
‘The rest of your life. We all continue to evolve, to observe and learn from life’s plusses and minuses. Take Viktor Frankl. He got out of Auschwitz. Not unscathed, but he took what he learned to help others. Everything you do affects your brain, including this talk therapy. Until next time, I want you to keep up the thought journal. You’re making progress. You’re reshaping your brain. And I’d like you to consider the dynamic interplay of en
ergy when you’re doing yoga.’
‘OK. I’m learning a great deal from you,’ I say. ‘You’re taking everything to deeper levels.’
‘No, the person taking it to deeper levels is you.’
The hair rises on the back of my neck. I was destined to meet Dr Owen.
I leave resolved to tell him about the wolves in the next session.
43
In June 2006, I’m hunched over my desk, writing, when a figure appears in the doorway behind me, completely blocking the sunlight out. I crane my neck and freeze. Wearing only orange sports shorts and shower sandals, the African-American is almost six-and-a-half foot, with a massive build, head shaved and scars so big it looks like someone chopped him up and sewed him back together again. He’s new to this yard. I don’t know his name, but in the chow hall prisoners were jokingly calling him John Coffey after the character in the movie The Green Mile. Tense, I squeeze my pen. What does he want? I drop the pen and stand.
‘Hey, man. I overheard you in the chow hall,’ he says in a deep voice, lingering in the doorway as if uncertain whether to come in. ‘Where’d you get that accent from?’
‘England,’ I say, motionless, hands at my side, pulse rising.
‘That’s cool, man,’ he says, nodding. ‘My name’s T-Bone.’
‘I’m Shaun. Pleased to meet you, T-Bone,’ I say, stepping forward cautiously.
He moves towards me, filling the cell with his presence. My hand disappears into his. He squeezes the blood from my fingers.
There must be some stories behind those scars. ‘How can I help you, T-Bone?’ I say, wondering if he’s on the hunt for food.
He leans against the wall and folds his arms. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by English history.’
‘What?’ I ask, bewildered. ‘Why?’
He stands up straight. ‘What intrigues me is the ability of the English to adapt to invaders over the centuries,’ he says in a friendly tone, gesturing with his hands. ‘The Vikings came in several times, but the old English, they kept pushing back. And the Romans. Look at Queen Boudicca, a very powerful woman who almost kicked the Romans out of Britain. The Picts and Gauls sent tribe after tribe. The English maintained who they were, even though they were subjugated. They showed a lot of fortitude to not be completely enslaved while at the same time maintaining their identity. Do you know what I’m saying?’ he asks, his professorial tone switching into a deep intimidating voice.
‘Yes, I love reading history, especially the Romans,’ I say with emphasis to show he has my full attention. ‘Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire is one of my all-time favourite reads. I was fascinated by how the leaders were knocking each other off left and right, with no scruples whatsoever, and the public never had a clue.’
‘That stuff still goes on,’ he says with certainty. ‘You English are a mixed lot like most cultures in Europe, but the island has kept you guys to a certain way of thinking.’
‘You calling me a resilient island monkey?’ I ask, smiling.
He laughs. ‘The Brits are definitely not island monkeys.’
Emboldened by his friendliness, I say, ‘I’ve never seen scars so big. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but were you in some kind of fight?’
He frowns, tilts his head back, folds his arms and gazes down disagreeably. The atmosphere thickens.
Oh shit! ‘I’m only asking because I write stories about prisoners that I post to the internet. I bet you’ve got some good ones. If you’d be interested in sharing them, I’d be happy to work with you. I don’t get paid, but the prisoners get pen pals and books sent to them sometimes.’
‘You know what, let me pray about that and I’ll get back to you.’ He shakes my hand and leaves.
The next day, T-Bone returns. ‘I’ve done a bit of checking around on you. You’ve got a good reputation. I hope no one here’s been giving you any shit.’
Briefly, I visualise T-Bone smashing Ken and Bud, but I don’t say a word, as I believe in handling my own problems. In the last four years, I’ve seen prisoners stir up drama and suffer the consequences. ‘I’m doing fine, T-Bone.’
He agrees to tell stories for Jon’s Jail Journal and starts with background information. Before moving to Arizona, he was a Marine. In South America, he saw fierce action, people getting killed. His pained expression makes me curious but afraid to pry. He stresses that he doesn’t want to talk about the Marines. He moved to Arizona, made money as a bodyguard and invested it into cocaine. Due to crimes revolving around cocaine, he’s served 18 years since 1986.
‘How many riots you been through?’ I ask, sitting in the chair, taking notes, aiming to gauge his experience.
‘Four big ones,’ he says from the bottom bunk, fingertips on thighs.
‘There must have been some terrible injuries.’
‘Yeah. I saw people lose their lives,’ he says, wiping sweat from his face onto a forearm. ‘Heads get bust open with weights, pipes, baseball bats, picks, shovels. People getting shanked in their eyes.’
‘In their eyes! Holy shit!’ I say, shaking my head. ‘How did it feel for you being in a riot?’
‘You gotta do what you gotta do. You’ve gotta get down.’
‘Have you noticed how the atmosphere changes just before something’s going to happen?’
‘There’s a smell of fear, doubt and stress. There’s an instinctual change in body movement and body language. People start positioning themselves in groups on the yard.’
‘It’s hard for me to convey to people outside of here the effect of a prisoner calling another prisoner a punk-ass bitch. If someone calls you that, how does it make you feel?’
He inhales loudly, expanding his chest. ‘Right away, I’m thinking of death. I’m not gonna go berserk. I’ll wait and catch the person alone. The guards can’t see it, but I’ll deal with it.’
‘How?’
‘It depends on who’s saying it. If someone calls me a punk-ass bitch, that’s like saying I’m a piece of nothing. I take it up the ass in here. That I’m subhuman and have no honour or self-respect. That I need to be killed. In prison you have two things: yourself and your word. If someone calls me out, I’m gonna handle my business.’
‘Whites, Mexican-Americans and Mexicans make up most of the prison population in Arizona, so you must have endured a lot of racism?’
‘Here, blacks are always at the bottom of the totem pole. I’ve experienced pure hatred ’cause of the colour of my skin. People seething with vile contempt and hate, looking at me like they wanna kill me ’cause I’m black. But I’m wearing the same clothes, doing the same time.’
‘How do you stay strong?’
‘The truth is: I turn to God. God helps me mind my Ps and Qs.’
Surprised, I pause. ‘How cheap is life in prison?’
‘It means nothing. I’ve known people killed for $40 worth of heroin.’
‘You must have lost count of the fights you’ve seen?’
‘I’ve seen so many people get annihilated, it’s unreal.’
‘You must get sick of it?’
‘The raping annoys me the most,’ he says, brow furrowed. ‘It’s the foulest thing anyone can do to anyone. Back in the day at The Walls every single night someone was getting brutalised. You could hear male flesh pounding male flesh.’
A sickly feeling rises in my stomach. ‘And nobody stopped it?’
‘You couldn’t snitch. If you couldn’t fight back, you were game. Some of the rapers were the size of apes. They’d squeeze the back of the victim’s neck to put them unconscious. There was a smell of crap on the run from so many dudes taking it up the ass. Regular dudes, not homosexuals, getting brutalised, punked, and scared to admit they were getting raped. You’d also see big dudes kissing little white boys like they were women. Kissing them on the lips and neck. Then all night long you’d hear the punks getting fucked up the ass, going huh-huh-huh.’
‘It sounds like a nightmare,’ I say,
revolted.
‘Worse. Gang members would hold someone down and stick things in his ass.’
‘Things?’
‘Cans, soda bottles, shampoo bottles, broom handles or metal shanks.’
Squirming, I exhale as if to get rid of the thought. ‘Unbelievable! How many fights you been in?’
He laughs. ‘I lost count.’
‘Got a good one for the blog?’
‘Yeah. I had a celly who was 6 ft tall and about 230 lb. He had gold teeth and long greasy hair. He was a strong man. A cut-up dude. He was benching 385, squatting 475 and dead lifting 400 or more.’
‘Holy shit! Why’d you get into it with him?’
‘It came about ’cause he was raping people on the yard. He raped a retarded kid with mental problems in our cell. I said to him, “It smells like crap in here. What’s been going on, man?” He said, “What do you think’s going on? I just got me some.” I told him, “Man, you’ve got to get your nasty tail up out of here.” He said, “No, you got to get your tail out of here. You ain’t nothing but a punk anyway and I’m gonna cut you.” He stood up, looking at me all crazy. I hit him with a straight right and broke his jaw in two places. He lost four teeth. Another blow fractured his eye socket. I hit him flush and he was out.’
‘What’s flush?’ I ask, scribbling fast.
‘Flat. Like this.’ T-Bone flexes a bicep as big as a soccer ball and punches my arm, almost knocking me off the chair.
‘I get it,’ I say, wincing, trying to ignore the pain to keep writing and not appear weak.
‘I thought he was dead. I laid him on his bunk and took a shower. When I came back, he was still on his bunk, calling for his mama. Some white guys, Aryan Brotherhood, came over, wanting to kill him ’cause the dude he raped was white. I stopped that. He was alone on his bunk, bleeding and groaning, and I looked in his eyes and saw a spark like he was becoming more aware.’
‘Was he regrouping?’ I ask, gripped.
‘He had regrouped. From the top bunk, I moved my right leg. He jumped up. He had a rod of finely sharpened iron; an eight-inch blade with a rag on one end and a real nice point on the other. I backhanded the wrist of the hand holding the shank. He came at me. His eyes were red with rage. His jaw was swollen up. Blood was coming out of the corner of his mouth. He had death in his eyes: black pupils totally empty and void of emotion and feeling. I still have nightmares about the way he looked. He made his move: a lunge. I hit him in the right eye and he stumbled back. I kicked him in his right thigh and I felt my foot penetrate the muscle down to the bone. I knew I had to disarm him. His leg was momentarily numb, so, in a split second, I grabbed his right hand with both of mine and twisted his wrist. I broke his wrist and elbow, and kicked him in his lung.’
Prison Time Page 18