‘He’s got the stick ’cause he’s turned kinky in his old age,’ a Native American transsexual says.
Two Tonys shakes his head. ‘It looks to me like you’ve got some of the kinkiest motherfuckers in captivity down here on Yard 1.’
‘Shit!’ Jim Hogg yells. ‘Just ’cause you’re a killer, and Yard 4’s the killers’ yard, you think you can come here and talk shit?’
‘So what if I killed a few motherfuckers?’ Two Tonys says light-heartedly. ‘So what if I left a few bodies along the highway? All those punk-ass bitches had it coming.’
A paint crew from Yard 3 arrives to work on the court.
‘I’m happy to see you motherfuckers,’ Two Tonys says. ‘Now, who’s gonna fix me up a sandwich or get me a honey bun or some shit?’
Jim Hogg fetches bagels smeared with peanut butter.
‘I salute you,’ Two Tonys says, raising his hand to his forehead. ‘You are my ace cool spoon, my pride and joy, my dawg, a big-headed motherfucker, but still my road dog.’
‘How come they’re all painting the basketball court and you’re walking around with your hands full of bagels?’ Midnight yells, pointing at Two Tonys.
‘Put your finger down, motherfucker,’ Two Tonys says. ‘You ain’t on the fucking witness stand. And I sure as hell ain’t your crime partner. I’m the supervisor of the paint crew – and it’s about time someone brought the boss a cup of coffee.’
‘Why’ve you got a stick?’ Max yells.
‘To bust a motherfucker in the jaw with,’ Two Tonys says.
‘Why don’t you lick my cock?’ someone yells.
‘I’d rather put a bullet in your head,’ Two Tonys replies.
Delighted to see Two Tonys in action, and eager to chat with him, I wait for an opportunity to steer him aside.
‘I miss you on Yard 4, little bro,’ Two Tonys says.
‘I feel the same,’ I say, wishing I was back on Yard 4 with my friends.
‘How’s Mom and Pops doing?’ he asks.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘They’re visiting soon. They told me you broke your blog-comments record with “Two Tonys on Drugs”. It got ten comments. That’s the one with your advice for me about staying off drugs, where you’re driving down the freeway, all high, after whacking someone and your decision-making is messed up.’
‘Yeah. That’s the time I had my .357 ready. If the cops had stopped me, I was gonna shoot it out with the motherfuckers.’
‘My mum said a guy who was going down the same path as you read that blog and emailed to say it’s changed his life. Maybe sharing your experience saved him.’
‘I often wonder late at night – after whacking some flies, lying on my bunk and staring at the motherfuckers on the ceiling – if I was put on earth to whack motherfuckers or save someone’s life. I wonder why I’m going through all this suffering and bullshit. Maybe this guy is saved. Maybe he’s gonna have a son or a grandson who discovers the cure for AIDS or West Nile virus. It might have been my calling in life to save that guy.’
‘My parents just mailed a stack of blogs with comments. I can’t wait to read them.’
‘You can’t wait! How the fuck do you think I feel?’ he says, beaming.
We chat until an announcement comes: ‘Yard 1! Lockdown! It’s count time.’
‘Take care, little bro.’ Patting a fist against his chest, Two Tonys says, ‘L&R’ – Love and Respect.
Watching him walk away, I despair over the limited time I get to see him.
59
Standing in the outdoor Visitation area, Auntie Lily – my mum’s sister by adoption – a short, round woman with silver hair who I haven’t seen in 15 years, appears to be rubbing tears from her eyes. I hurry to give her a hug but slow down when I see she’s pretending to shield herself from the glow of my clothes and the sun blazing off my head. ‘You look like a bloody Buddha in that orange!’
We laugh and hug. Mum and Dad seem happy, their faces more relaxed than at previous visits, which I credit to the chance of my immediate release if the clemency hearing they’ve flown to speak at goes well.
I’ve applied for a reduction in my sentence on the grounds that I’m a first-time non-violent drug offender with a good track record, extensive accomplishments, positive post-release goals and strong family support. The hearing has put us on a high.
To avoid the sun, we sit indoors, away from the windows.
Auntie Lily points at the prisoners by the toilet. ‘That one’s waiting for a wee. The other’ll be wanting a number two.’
‘How do you know?’ Mum asks.
‘Because he’s letting people go ahead of him,’ Auntie Lily says.
‘They don’t do number twos in here, do they?’ Dad asks.
‘It’s got to be bloody urgent to do a number two in here,’ Auntie Lily says.
‘I couldn’t come here to visit and do a number two,’ Dad says.
Having paid $10 for five photographs, I flag down the inmate photographer. We gather at a wall designated for snapshots. A sign reads:
Photo Rules for Poses
Allowed:
Side by Side
One Arm Around Shoulders or Waist
Holding Hands
Absolutely No:
Hugging
Kissing
Kneeling
Signing
Failure to Comply May Result in Disciplinary Action
A prisoner takes the photos. Outdoors, I buy Mum and Auntie Lily flowers so rich in pink and magenta the colours look spray-painted on. For vases, empty water bottles are used. We chat for hours, mostly about the clemency hearing, my sister’s wedding and the return of Jade. At 2.30 p.m., we hug and say goodbye.
Heading back to my cell, I see Weird Al walking laps. ‘Did you have a good visit?’
‘Yes, very good,’ I say.
‘Did you ask Auntie Lily to marry me, so I can obtain British citizenship?’
‘Certainly did. She said yes, so long as you’re rich and she’s handsomely rewarded.’
‘I’ll make sure she’s handsomely rewarded.’
I laugh. ‘Mum warned me that Auntie Lily would be crying when I first saw her, but instead she called me a bloody orange Buddha.’
‘I’m starting to like the sound of this Auntie Lily. Does she have a hairy back?’
‘I can’t confirm it, but I’d bet money that she doesn’t. She does have silver hair like you, though.’
Running his fingers through his hair, Weird Al says, ‘Is hers as dignified as mine?’
‘Yes, every bit as dignified.’
‘Oh – I have a message for you from Yard 4.’ Weird Al grins. ‘Frankie asked me to tell you that at 6.05 p.m. you are to touch yourself and think of him and he’ll do likewise.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘What’s he mean, he’ll do likewise? Is he going to touch himself and think of himself?’
‘I’d rather not think about what you guys have got going on. Anyway, he said to tell you that you’ll be receiving a letter from him and not to think just because you’re on Yard 1 that the gay marriage is off. Perhaps Auntie Lily and me, and you and Frankie, can get hitched at a double wedding.’
‘That would be real nice, Al,’ I say, punching his bicep.
Outdoors at the next visit, we sit at a picnic table under a wooden roof. Weekdays show the prison at its busiest. Things I take for granted – prisoner work crews, medical callouts and prisoners flocking to pick up commissary – are a source of fascination for Mum, Dad and Auntie Lily. A short Hispanic wearing a hairnet brings two chow trays to the Visitation porters.
‘That’s Mochalicious,’ I say.
‘She looks bloody funny in the headgear and the plastic gloves,’ Dad says.
‘Chow servers have to wear them for hygiene purposes,’ I say.
‘She looks like a surgeon,’ Auntie Lily says.
After putting the trays down, Mochalicious spins theatrically, pivoting on a heel, swinging and swaying her hips,
and waves in a feminine way.
‘Good grief!’ Dad says. ‘Did you see that?’
She-Ra appears in the garden, tending sunflowers and zinnias, her presence exciting my visitors, who’ve read so much about her.
‘Do you think we could see She-Ra’s butterfly tattoo?’ Auntie Lily says.
‘No,’ I say, grinning. ‘She’ll get into trouble if she shows you that. And they might end our visits.’
A dozen Yard 4 prisoners heading for Medical spot us from the other side of the chain-link.
‘Englandman!’ Frankie yells.
We turn our heads.
‘Oh my God! It’s Frankie,’ I say.
‘What have you been suggesting to my son?’ Mum asks.
‘He left me,’ Frankie says, pouting.
‘You have to ask my permission for this gay-marriage thing,’ Mum says.
‘Mum, I’ll decide who I marry – and it won’t be no bloody man!’
‘He’s got it all wrong,’ Frankie says. ‘I’ll decide. I’m the man in this relationship. Did you get my message, Englandman?’
‘Yes. And I was thinking of J-Lo, not you.’
A hundred prisoners weighed down by net bags march across the recreation field towards Yard 1.
‘What are all those orange Santas doing?’ Dad asks.
‘They’re coming back from the store with the week’s commissary.’
‘It’s an amazing sight,’ Mum says.
‘The yard comes alive when they get back,’ I say. ‘People run around with commissary, paying off debts. Some pool food and have cookouts, making tamales, enchiladas, burritos.’
‘Is commissary the highlight of the week?’ Auntie Lily asks.
‘Other than visits and mail call, yes,’ I say.
Parting, Mum promises she’ll do her best at the clemency hearing the following day, 19 October 2006. I’m not allowed to attend.
‘Don’t worry, once they see us, they’ll let you out,’ Dad says.
‘More likely double your sentence,’ Mum says.
‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to speak up for you,’ Auntie Lily says. ‘I’ll probably be crying too much.’
‘Do what you can. You’ll be there for me, that’s all that matters.’
Walking back from Visitation, pumped up by the possibility of an early release, I spot my counsellor, CO3 Hepworth, a lanky man, well spoken, with thin grey hair.
‘I’ve got a fax for you,’ he says, his expression grave. ‘From the Arizona Board of Executive Clemency.’
‘What’s it say?’ I ask, afraid the date has been rescheduled beyond my parents’ visit.
‘The result of your hearing is you were not approved.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. The hearing’s tomorrow.’
‘Your hearing’s tomorrow?’ CO3 Hepworth replies, frowning.
‘Yes. My parents have flown all the way from England for it.’
‘Are you sure it’s tomorrow?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘How does that work? Could they have made a decision before the hearing?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just the messenger.’ He hands me the fax at arm’s length, as if the paper is poisoned, and strides away.
My breath shallow, I read, disappointed, frustrated, angry, shaking:
It was the decision of this board at your hearing on: 10/02/06 to take the following action: not passed to phase 2 commutation.
The bastards must have decided before the hearing, exposing the hearing as a sham. My poor bloody parents are just going through the motions. Surely this is illegal and my attorney can do something with the fax.
The next day at Visitation, my family look shell-shocked; their eyes downcast.
‘It didn’t go well, did it?’ I ask.
‘How do you know?’ Mum says.
‘I got a fax from CO3 Hepworth just after you left, saying I’d been denied clemency.’
They gape, perplexed, as if the notion is preposterous.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Mum says, frowning.
‘The whole thing’s a farce,’ Dad says, slapping the table.
‘How can they treat people like that?’ Mum says.
‘We’ve been treated like bloody morons,’ Dad says, shaking his head.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ Auntie Lily says. ‘But you could sense it. They didn’t have to think when the vote was called for. There was no discussion. It was cut and dried.’
Upset, I’m speechless.
‘I thought the sentencing was bad,’ Dad says, ‘but this was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. It was soon pretty obvious that the decision had already been made before we could even make our beggings and pleadings.’
‘I was crying the whole time,’ Auntie Lily says. ‘The atmosphere felt awful as soon as I walked into the room.’
‘What made it worse was that we were quite optimistic,’ Mum says. ‘We were told it would be informal and relaxed, just sat around a table. But it certainly wasn’t like that at all. The board were on a raised platform, looking down on us like judges. I felt there was something wrong. They were antagonistic. One of the first things the chairman said was, “We know you love your son, but we are here to address the harshness and suitability of the sentence. Anything else you say will be disregarded and I will stop you if you repeat yourself, or if any one of you repeats the same thing as a previous speaker.” I felt intimidated. The tone of his voice made it sound like he was reading us the Riot Act.’
‘It was as if we were on trial,’ Dad says.
‘I felt panicky. My mind was racing,’ says Mum, spilling coffee on her blouse.
‘You all right, Mum?’ I ask, riddled with guilt because my situation continues to hurt my loved ones.
‘Yes … But I cried when I spoke to the board.’
‘Alan Simpson did a great job,’ Dad says, referring to my attorney. ‘And he did it free of charge. He answered the questions raised by the board, but it didn’t seem to matter. There wasn’t a lot of eye contact from any of them. It was a very strange business. It was as if an iron curtain had been slammed down on us.’
Hours later, a guard announces visits are over. Mum’s eyes water when we say goodbye.
‘No need to be upset, Mum. The next time you see me, I’ll be a free man.’
Sad, ashamed, I watch them exit through the set of security doors.
60
‘Standby for chow, Yard 1. You’re getting breakfast first.’
On a cold, crisp Christmas morning, below a pink-and-blue sky, I join the prisoners drifting towards the chow hall, mostly depressed, as if suffering a winter virus. A few swap gang handshakes.
‘Merry Christmas, homey!’
‘Happy Hanukkah, you sarcastic motherfucker.’
‘Happy Kwanzaa, dawg!’
‘Feliz Navidad, ese.’
Breakfast is pancakes, scrambled eggs, cinnamon rolls, cereal and an apple. A guard with a clipboard checks off names and boasts how hungover he is, antagonising the prisoners. The din is lower than usual, our expressions rueful. The rising sun floods the room with light, illuminating dust motes dancing over our food. After 15 minutes, the guards order everyone out. The prisoners rise from tables strewn with spilt milk and cornflakes, and apples stabbed to prevent hooch-brewing.
We retire to our cells. While I reflect on being absent from my loved ones, a sad silence spreads across the yard. No basketball. No pull-ups or dips at the workout stations. No squabbling. No motherfucker this or dawg that. No announcements.
At least it’s my last Christmas here. I read to take my mind off the mistakes I made that have cost me almost six years of my life.
At Building B, a guard starts a security walk. ‘Put away your hypodermic needles! Don’t let me catch anyone drinking hooch!’
By the time the swing shift arrives, the sun is shining through a sky mottled with clouds like the hide of a cow.
; In a slow, sarcastic voice, an announcement comes: ‘We would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very merry Christmas and to thank you for providing us with such a wonderful 2006!’
The yard animates:
‘Merry fucking Christmas to you, too!’
‘Shank you very much, motherfucker!’
‘Come and say that to our faces, bastards!’
The guard continues: ‘And you’ll all be pleased to know that we fully intend to keep up the time-honoured Christmas tradition of shaking your houses down.’
Two guards – a female and a Mexican we call the ‘Fruit Nazi’ for overzealously confiscating apples and oranges from inmates exiting the chow hall – raid cells, scattering property, confiscating food, thwarting hooch operations and doling out disciplinary tickets.
Late afternoon, we emerge for a surprise. The Gatekeepers – a young and high-spirited choir – sing carols from the other side of the fence. Briefly, I’m not a prisoner any more; I’m someone’s son, brother. I’m human again.
At dinnertime, skimpy portions of roast beef, broccoli and watery mashed potato that reeks of bleach provoke outbursts that unsettle the guards. Tension remains high.
After eating, I join a queue for phones that barely work. Written on the faces of the prisoners are the usual concerns. Will our loved ones be home? Will they accept the expensive call charges? Unable to get through, some prisoners hang up, cursing life.
Nearby, a demolition team of pigeons is pecking the cling film off chow trays abandoned by the guards. From a gust that deposits sand in my mouth, Chihuahuan ravens descend – a vortex of big black birds with a purple-and-blue iridescence – scattering the pigeons and ravaging the spoils.
A final announcement at 7.55 p.m.: ‘Yard 1, rec is over. Take it in and lock down.’
The atmosphere is so heavy, I’m thankful that Christmas Day is nearly over.
On Boxing Day, I meet Two Tonys at the fence. ‘How the fuck was your Christmas?’ he asks.
Prison Time Page 25