Paul Modrowski - On the Inside

Hostage Crisis -- January 27, 2012

2012-02-02T23:24:00.010-06:00

On Monday evening, a demand for all inmate workers to report immediately to their cells was sent over the cell house loudspeaker. At the time, I was carefully reading through a 100+ page corporate report of Enterprise Products Partners. As with all company statements, the devil is in the details, and an investor is wise to review all of these. The announcement, however, and the following commotion easily distracted me. Guards were soon thereafter seen outside my cell bars briskly walking about shouting at prisoners to go to their doors. They were acting urgently as if there was some great threat or impending danger. While guards ran about to secure the cell house, I heard prisoners say a Code 2 came over the radio. Inmates, including myself, did not know what this meant, and a guard was asked what happened. The guard just said, "A whole lot of shit." I assumed this meant there was an assault on staff, but it was odd that whatever occurred was in X House.

X House is currently the prison's Protective Custody Unit. It is not usually known for violence. Many of the men there have special security needs due to a variety of reasons. Some of the inmates there simply have high profile cases and seek to avoid harassment. For example, Juan Luna, convicted of the Palatine Brown's Chicken Massacre was there until media attention dissipated. There are state witnesses, men who have snitched on their gang, and a few former police officers. Some men are seeking sanctuary from drug or gambling debts. There are also men who think they are women, sexual predators seeking these sissies out, and pedophiles that have been victimized in General Population, or threatened. A number of prisoners just do not want to be at Stateville and approved inmates are eventually sent to Pontiac C.C. My current cellmate claims he sought P.C. status to avoid being transferred to Menard where he has had problems with guards. He also knows P.C. inmates at Pontiac have better living conditions and privileges.

Upon hearing there was an incident in X House, my cellmate was trying to figure out what occurred and who was involved. DD had spent several months in the unit before he became my cellmate. He knows many of the prisoners and guards there, and sometimes mentions checking back into P.C. although he was denied. Prisoners cannot be denied P.C., and those rejected can repeatedly try again. However, those inmates not approved remain in a type of limbo status. They do not have contact with approved prisoners nor with those in general population. Basically they are treated like segregation prisoners except they have the same privileges except for movement. They are confined to their cells, except for visitation, yard, and showers.

Although initially guards rushed to lock everyone in their cells, they later allowed some kitchen workers to take a shower. A few cell house inmate workers were also let out. My cellmate asked me if it was typical for kitchen workers to be given a shower although the prison was on lockdown or if I believed the lockdown was called off. It was difficult to determine, but my guess was that the urgency of whatever happened had ended and guards were just letting some men who slaved in the kitchen to take a shower. DD stopped a cell house worker to ask if the prison was still on lockdown. He said no, and we were led to believe there was once again normal operations. This was not incredibly surprising because X House is an isolated building.

Monday night, I watched the reality TV show "The Bachelor," believing only X House was on lockdown. It is difficult to ascertain whether there are normal operations at night in the cell house because there are no movement lines. Only a small contingent of cell house workers were out, but this could be because guards did not see a need to let the others out when there was only limited work to be done. I did not care much, one way or the other. I was more interested in the unfolding melodramatic romance show and thinking why there was so much competition and outflowing of emotions for a man I believed was an undesirable nerd. At times, I turned the station to the season premier of "House," whose main character I could more readily identify with.

It was not until 3 a.m. that I knew with certainty the entire prison was on lockdown. It was then a guard woke me up yelling "Trays." Half asleep, I got up to get my tray and that of my cellmate, along with some units of generic Cheerios. I glanced into my tray to see three small pancakes with no syrup or any other toppings. Syrup has long been discontinued at Stateville, but on occasion prisoners will get a package of peanut butter. As I went back to sleep, I wondered why the guard did not just put the food on the bars or on the table as the prison workers do.

Tuesday, the prison was on a full lockdown and no one was let out of their cells. I did not mind being locked in my cage and continued my reading of the corporate report that I was reading the night before. Enterprise Products is a pipeline limited partnership. With the increased production of oil and especially natural gas domestically, I know there will be a much greater demand for the transfer of these fuels. Pipelines pay an excellent yield or distribution and they also have the potential for enormous growth over the next decade. Although I listened to President Barack Obama's State of the Union address, I knew his rhetoric was largely deceptive, especially in regards to energy production. The halt of the Keystone Pipeline and many other projects demonstrates his true administrative policy. However I am willing to wager he will be a one term president. This will be a victory for not only Republicans, but energy investors too.

My new cellmate, while emotionally unstable and possibly mildly psychotic, is much less disruptive than the former man assigned to my cell. While I read and did other things, he mostly watched TV the entire day. He watched a number of true crime or prison shows such as "I Almost Got Away With It," "Gangland," and "Jail." He also watched "The Family Feud," "Cheaters," some black comedies, and even cartoons with much enjoyment. Many prisoners in the state's maximum-security penitentiaries spend vast amounts of time watching television. Although I find most television greatly unproductive, I sometimes question if I should join them. I study stocks, economics, history, astronomy, and other subjects. I pay attention to politics and significant news stories. I also regularly write, including this blog, but I wonder if my occupations are much more meaningful than those who live around me. At times when I read over the extensive corporate report of Enterprise Products, I paused to stare at the dreary cracked and peeling gray painted sides of my tomb and the bars which cage me. I share the same hopeless slow death as thousands of other prisoners, despite my innocence or what may be my aptitude or education.

A guard who I know and was working at the front desk came over to my cell. He leaned on my bars and asked how I was doing. What type of response was he expecting? I thought of saying "I live in a cage for the rest of my existence and my life is meaningless and torturesome." However, I simply said I was folding clothes. The guard has been employed at Stateville many years, and although he is free, I sometimes get the impression he is also burned out as well. He worked as a kitchen supervisor for a short time and also tried to change his job to a counselor. As I folded socks and engaged in trivial small talk, I thought of asking him if he had a spare bullet to put in my head. A truly empathetic counselor would do this, but prison policy would be to place me in an empty room, naked, under suicide watch.

As word traveled in the penitentiary, my cellmate and I learned more details of what occurred in X House. Apparently, a Level E inmate took a guard hostage with an improvised shank. The incident occurred while he was escorting the prisoner to one of the showers. X House does not have large shower rooms like in general population, but single shower stalls that can be locked. One of the showers is like a small dark closet and has a thick steel door. I do not know if the guard was taken to this shower or another, but he was held hostage until other guards came to his rescue. All guards wear a sophisticated walkie-talkie that not only has an alarm button but an automatic alarm. From what I heard, the prisoner destroyed the radio thinking this would prevent the guard from calling for help, but it triggered the automatic alarm or Code 2 that inmates heard Monday evening. There was a brief standoff, but eventually the prisoner was subdued without any serious harm coming to the guard.

My cellmate was greatly interested in who was involved, but initial sources did not know. For a half hour or longer he speculated with me and others. Eventually word came to my cellmate that the Level E inmate was Jeremy. According to DD, Jeremy was a strange short black man who often spoke in whispers but at other times would rant violently. He was also known to have strange behaviors while in his cell. From the description I was given, I wondered if the prisoner was mentally ill to some extent. Odd that my cellmate spoke of his volatility because he is also unstable.

I was informed of the guard's name, but I am not publishing it. I am not sure if I ever saw, met, or talked to the guard taken hostage and cannot even give a description of him. My cellmate theorizes, however, the guard may have provoked the inmate to "snap." Apparently, when men are let out for showers in X House, a guard will watch men to make sure they go directly to the shower without loitering on the wing. Many prisoners, though, want to stop at cells to talk or exchange books, magazines, etc. DD speculates the guard yelled disrespectfully at the prisoner or put his hands on him.

Interestingly, the P.C. unit at X House is being closed down to make room for inmates from Tamms Supermax. According to plans, P.C. inmates will no longer be kept at Stateville but quickly be transferred to Pontiac. Inmates waiting approval will be kept in the Roundhouse. X House will soon be called "Tamms Stepdown," which is a transition period before these inmates are allowed back into general population. The inmates at Tamms are supposed to be gang leaders, and the most dangerous or violent prisoners in the IDOC. If a guard is able to be taken hostage by a P.C. inmate, I wonder how staff will deal with exiting Tamms' inmates. I tend to believe added security, manpower, and rules will be imposed. Already a new rule has been announced in general population, although it does not prevent or deter hostage taking and probably will make the prison less secure, if anything.

This morning, inmates in C House were told they could no longer use a privacy sheet in the back of the cell when bathing or using the toilet. Shouts of complaints immediately erupted from the cell house. I did not join in the protests, but I also greatly disliked the rule. It will, in fact, make me the most uncomfortable and inconvenienced. Throughout the day, numerous guards and prisoners are standing in front of my bars or walking by. Without being able to prop up a privacy sheet, it will be similar to me showering or sitting on the toilet in the middle of an airport.

Even if there was not a great amount of traffic in front of my cell, I do not live alone. I am trapped inside this 6' x 10' cage with another man. In maximum-security prisons of Illinois men spend the vast amount of their time in uncomfortable close proximity. Lockdowns can keep cellmates trapped with each other for weeks or months. The Placement Officer does not care if cellmates get along or even try to kill each other. This often tense and hostile atmosphere can be aggravated if men cannot give each other the common courtesy of using a privacy sheet while they bathe naked or defecate. The cells in maximum-security were never designed to accommodate two men. It was only because of overcrowding that they were. However, at least years ago, prisoners were able to chose their own cellmates and this greatly reduced hostilities.

Not having privacy is not only disrespectful towards your cellmate, but staff who work in the prison. I am certain the change in policy did not come from guards but the administration. In fact, I tend to believe staff opposed the new rule. There are many female correctional officers and nurses who work in the cell houses. Nurses must do regular rounds on the galleries, and guards can spend every day and hour of their shifts where convicts are celled. I doubt they want to be exposed to hundreds of men using the commode, bathing, or changing their clothes. The male guards also would prefer if convicts had some privacy and manners. Inmates already live demeaning lives in cages like animals and the administration wants to take away what little human dignity they may have left. The administration also seems ambivalent to increased tension and animosity between prisoners and staff. I do not see how men being prohibited from having the slightest bit of privacy will prevent hostage taking.

Before the President's speech before Congress on Tuesday, he said "job well done" to Leon Panetta, the Secretary of Defense. No one at the time knew what he was talking about, but later information was released to the press. Twenty members of Navy Seal Team 6, the same unit which killed Osama Bin Laden, parachuted into Somalia and rescued two Danish hostages who were kidnapped. The mission was an impressive operation by the Special Forces, although I wonder if it was not used as a political tool to highlight the President's effective leadership as Commander-in-Chief, despite questions about major strategic policies. It reminded me, in a small way, to events at Stateville though the incident was definitely spontaneous. What I thought was similar was how the President used it to increase his prestige and the warden used it to make a change that seemed done only for appearances. Obviously, staff in X House made an error in following safe procedures, but the administration sought to seemingly act authoritatively. Not being able to see a man take a crap, however, will do nothing for security.

Earlier today, my cellmate left the cell on a visit, and I soon heard him arguing with a guard who is known to follow regulations like an automaton. All prisoners must be handcuffed behind the back during lockdowns, but this guard wanted DD handcuffed in a specific way where his hands faced outward. I believe the guard was following a new policy, but my cellmate has an injured elbow and shoulder making such handcuffing extremely painful. The argument intensified with them shouting at each other. The guard threatened to write him a ticket for calling him a "bitch coward", and a "house nigger". My cellmate did not care, however, and yelled to me to pack his property for Seg. I could see the incident unfold from my cell and thought it would turn into a physical confrontation until the sergeant came by and diffused the situation.

The administration seems bent on taking more and more away from prisoners until they are stripped of everything. Possibly, people will argue that convicts should suffer, but the increased oppression and tighter controls do not increase security. Contrarily, I believe at a certain point it diminishes it with a group of men who have nothing to lose. Recently, an inmate sold me a few tapes. One of them is "Nine Inch Nails--the Downward Spiral." A song I listen to now as I write is called "Piggy." I am not certain the pigs refer to cops, but the song ends repeating the same lyrics time and again: "Nothing can stop me now because I don't care anymore." The staff assaults, hostages, and other violence seems to embrace this sentiment of prisoners. Prisoners simply do not care anymore.

Rain, Sleet and Snow -- January 17, 2012

2012-01-28T23:50:00.009-06:00

For the last couple of days, I have been looking forward to going to the South yard. It is the only yard that has weights on it and plenty of space. Due to the week of lockdown, prisoners in my cell house have not had the opportunity to use the iron on the yard in nearly a month. Twice a week, prisoners here are given a "recreation" period which extends about two hours, unless there is no movement. These recreation periods are alternated between two small yards, a gym, and the large South yard. I typically only attend the latter two because the small yards are basically nothing but a couple of concrete basketball courts surrounded by fencing and razor wire.

I have been paying attention to the weather forecasts since the weekend. Years ago, I would attend any yard that had weights regardless of the weather, but now that I am older, I will not go out in freezing rain or subzero temperatures. Early this morning, I woke up to eat breakfast and prepare myself to make the morning recreation lines. As I did so, I paid close attention to weather forecasts while watching the news. At the moment, it was raining and I watched cars slowly moving on the main highways leading into Chicago during the traffic report. The weather was expected to become worse for drivers as the wind swept cold rain turned into sleet and then snow. Temperatures were predicted to drop quickly from the low 30's to 20 by the afternoon. I did not mind snow, and hoped that by the time yard lines were run the transition of precipitation had occurred.

While I was getting ready to go outside and bare the elements, my cellmate woke up. My new cellmate is unpredictable and does not have a set routine. Sometimes he will be awake before I am, other times he will sleep till noon, especially if he has taken all of his medications. I do not mind if he awakes before me, nor do I care if he sleeps much of the day. However, I do mind if he wants to share the floor with me at the same time. There is only one sink and toilet. Furthermore, there is only so much space to move around on. Annoyingly, my cellmate and I swapped places several times this morning, from the front of the cell to the back. As I expected, he was not going to yard and was unnecessarily in my way.

Stateville often does not have count cleared until 8:30 or 9 a.m. At the beginning of every shift every man at the maximum-security institution, the minimum-security unit, and the Northern Receiving Center is counted. The guards are not always very competent at counting and occasionally counts must be redone. When I see guards going cell to cell for a second or third time, I think "Vone bat, two bats, three bats", and so forth in my best Sesame Street Count Dracula imitation. However, today guards had completed count in a timely fashion and movement lines soon thereafter began. Unfortunately, the South yard line was the first to go out moving up the recreation period rather than back.

As expected, I was pelted with cold rain as I exited the cell house. It was not heavy, but the wind slapped it across my face. Once I was in the movement line, I turned away from the wind. I noticed only about 10 inmates came out for the yard. One of the men was Mertz, who is one of the few people I speak to in the cell house. He said to me that I did not happy. I said, "How often do you see me glowing with joy?" I went on to say I was hoping it would be snowing by the time we were let outside. If the precipitation does not change quickly, I said, we will both be very unhappy Popsicles upon our return to the cell house.

A well bundled guard let the prisoner line move out onto the South yard through a gate in the cyclone fencing topped with razor wire which encompasses the area. Mertz wondered if I was going to walk across the grass to the weight pile. I told him this would be unwise especially for him. The lawn was wet and we were in gym shoes. He was wearing a shoe that had a partially separated sole. I asked him why he had not purchased another pair, and was told that he did, but did not wear them because he did not want to get them dirty. I told him at the least he should get himself some epoxy from a prisoner who works in the furniture factory if he insisted on keeping those beat up shoes that looked like he stole them from a homeless man.

Instead of walking across the lawn, we traveled the asphalt track around to the other side of the yard. The rain and wind came directly at us, and I put my head down. I was dressed in thermals, sweat pants and a shirt, gloves, skull cap and my flimsy jacket the Illinois Dept. of Corrections was so kind to provide me. Despite this, the wind was able to transgress my clothes and I assumed it would only be a matter of time before the rain did as well. At least Mertz and I would have the yard almost entirely to ourselves. Only a few people went to the weight pile, and the rest walked around the track. I noticed one man was smart enough to make himself a jacket out of a clear garbage bag to keep out the rain and gusts of wind. I should have been resourceful enough to do this myself.

I did bring out a second pair of gloves and an extra skull cap to change into if necessary. As I began to place the extra clothing underneath a table, Mertz asked me to place his Walkman in my hat, and I did. There are about 10 steel tables bolted into concrete on the yard. On nice summer days these will all be filled with men playing cards, dominoes, or chess. However, on a frigid winter morning like today, they were all empty.

I have been lifting weights and exercising since grade school. Throughout my years of incarceration, men will often follow my lead or copy my exercise regimens, and Mertz was no exception. I did not bother to ask him what he wanted to do first, or even if he wanted to work out, but upon reaching the weight pile I rolled a bar with 150 lbs. to the incline bench and asked him to give me assistance cleaning it off the ground as I sat down. The bench has a broken arm, and prisoners are unable to rack any weight onto it. There are four benches on the yard in various states of disrepair. The iron bars which have welded plates to them are mostly rusted and bent. After I finished my set, I brought the weight down from my chest onto the concrete in a swift motion. I then quickly got up and picked up the weight to put in Mertz's hands.

During the two hours out on the yard, Mertz and I worked out the entire time, although my wing-man at times had to take breaks or could not do certain exercises. Occasionally, I would have to act as his drill sergeant and often I told him he was no marine. Mertz's only excuse was that it was years ago, but I would counter that once a man was a marine, he was always a marine. How did he even make it past basic training, I asked him. Between our sets, however, we spoke about a variety of subjects. There are only a few men in the entire cell house that I can have an intelligent conversation with. The yard can be the best place to talk because of the lack of crowds, noise, and distractions.

I asked Mertz what he thought about the John Howard Association's report on Stateville I had recently sent him. The JHA is a prison reform group in Chicago, and on July 13, 2011 they toured the prison. Late last year, they released a report about their visit which can be found on their website. I mostly agreed with the report especially the rapidly increasing prison population that needed to be curtailed, but there were some errors. One I thought was significantly misleading was the perception there was not enough security personnel. Never before in my near two decades of incarceration have I seen so many guards, sergeants, lieutenants and so forth do so little or engage in such redundant tasks.

From the South yard, the vacated H House building could be seen. Mertz mentioned how, contrary to the report by the JHA, it could easily be staffed with security personnel. However, the problem was that it could not be staffed with as many additional guards as the union demanded because of cost. Mertz was not aware, furthermore, that the building and others at Stateville were not used because they were condemned by the federal courts. The cell houses have now laid vacant and without any maintenance for years. In fact, the buildings have been gutted for spare parts. If the electric, plumbing, and heat did not work then, they certainly did not work now. Illinois recently had its credit rating dropped to the lowest in the nation. It faces well over $100 billion in pension obligations, and is in debt over $8 billion despite a tax increase.

Another error in the report was the number men at Stateville who were reported to have HIV, hepatitis C, cancer, and TB. The report stated only 5 people had cancer, and this number had to be a falsehood because I know 5 people offhand who have cancer, and this many men died of it just last year. The number of prisoners with HIV was reported to be only 16, and hepatitis 82. Both Mertz and I thought the number was at least twice that. I told Mertz how at the Cook County Jail a nurse told me that 8 men just on my deck had HIV. I wondered if it was just like the misinformation about toilets only being able to be flushed once every 10 minutes in the Roundhouse because of a deficient plumbing system, rather than the fact there are electric timers. I wondered if this was due to administrators lying to the prison reform group.

Working out on the other side of the weight pile was Tim, a stocky short black man. Tim was flat benching about 300 pounds, making Mertz and I look weak. However, I do a complete body workout, including cardio, whereas Tim and a number of other prisoners just do bench presses and arm curls. After an hour had passed, I told Mertz I was going to run, and asked if he could keep up. He told me he could for one lap, but not four. The rain had turned to sleet, and I mentioned to Mertz that I would probably not run as fast as I normally do because I was concerned about slipping. Already black ice may be forming.

The quarter mile track is not perfectly oval, and it also has an uneven surface. There are parts where you are running on an incline, and then other areas where it is declining. Sometimes, I will blame this for why I have yet to break a 5-minute mile. However just like in NASCAR, I like the road courses rather than "cookie cutter" tracks, even if speed is diminished. Despite the course and weather, I found myself losing my wing-man quickly. When I lapped Mertz I made fun of him, and later I continued to do so.

Before we had started the run, Mertz retrieved his Walkman. I told him that Bon Jovi was not going to give him inspiration and he needed to find it from within. Afterwards, I told him he was soft and instead of whatever light music he was listening to, he should have tried some "Godsmack." Afterall, it was their song "Awake" that was used as a recruiting tool during their commercials "An Army of One" when he enlisted. I told him I was incredibly disappointed by his performance. I expected him to be undaunted by the sleet. No weather or obstacles should stop a manna. Like in the move "Saving Private Ryan," I expected him to keep rushing the beaches of Normandy. If his arm was blown off, I expected him to pick it up and keep going undaunted, just like in the movie. Mertz said if he was in that point in history, he would have been one of the Wehrmacht machine gunners picking off U.S. soldiers. I told him from what I had seen today I doubt he had the fortitude to be on either side of WWII. With men like him, the Third Reich would have collapsed without the years of life and death struggle to protect the fatherland. Mertz did not seem to be a man of "blood and iron."

Back among the weights, I began to finish my workout. The bars were now icing and it was difficult to keep a grip. My gloves were soaked through and my hands were freezing. I exchanged them for my other pair and I also took my wet skull cap off for the dry one. The dry gloves allowed me to do shrugs, curls, and other exercises, but not without some slipping. I wish I had another jacket to put on as well, though, I was not going to be a "softy" like Mertz and I continued with ever more resolve. I have suffered through misery for most of my life and knew how to persevere.

As sheets of icy rain hit my body and I exercised using the most crude and debilitated equipment, I thought about a time before my arrest. I did not always have to work out under such poor conditions. At home, I had a set of chrome bars and enamel coated plates of iron a person could see their reflection in. All of my equipment was in perfect repair and condition. On occasion, I would travel to my friend's uncle's friend to use the impressive gym he had made of his garage. The man was a former professional wrestler and had at times been on television with the likes of Hulk Hogan. I cared nothing about his wresting career or semi fame, but I liked competing with the man who was over twice my age and made a living impressing people with his show antics and buffed physique. When I moved to Clearwater, Florida, my co-defendant and I lived at an exclusive apartment complex that had its own clubhouse, hot tub, heated swimming pool, and one of the finest gyms I have exercised in. My prosecutor would say to my jury that while the victim was lying dead in the snow, I and my co-defendant were living the good life and sipping Martinis pool side. Possibly, McKay is now pleased that I am now the one dead and freezing in the cold.

Between sets, I asked Mertz why he had joined the Marines. He told me it was mostly to acquire an education and skills. He came from an impoverished town, and before he completed his sentence, I completed it saying, "You wanted to be all you could be?" He said, "Something like that." Mertz also told me had he to do it over again, he would have joined the Army because it gave a person an opportunity to specialize in various fields. A person in the army could also join the rangers, Delta Force, the Green Berets, or other elite divisions unlike the Marines which was one unit. To mimic Arnold Schwarzenegger in the movie "Commando," I told Mertz I eat Green Berets for breakfast and added let alone creme puffs like you.

The sleet felt like sheets of hail when the wind blew. I knew that if I was not working out, my body temperature would have dropped. The earlier rain had mostly soaked my clothes and now it was freezing. I know when Bear Grills or other survivalists face similar situations if they cannot make a fire, they will do intense cardio exercises before putting on dry clothes. Dry clothing was not an option, but I could run some more. I ditched Mertz and began sprinting around the track. On my second lap, I hit a patch of ice and almost wiped out. I came back to the weight pile realizing running was no longer possible. Mertz said, "Only two laps?" questioning my ability.

I noticed that my workout partner bent his wrist while benching and thought it was a good idea if we did supersets of reverse and wrist curls to strengthen our forearm muscles. With the bars frozen with ice, however, these were very difficult to do. In fact, during one set, Mertz dropped the weight on the ground. I grabbed some stones nearby and clawed them into the ice. Then I grabbed some sand into my gloves to do my sets. Working out at Stateville often requires improvisation. Just living here requires alot of creative thinking.

The guard in the gun tower eventually opened one of his windows and yelled out yard was over. I noticed he quickly shut it though, and did not press the issue. Although I felt like getting inside as quickly as possible, I knew I did not often have the opportunity to use weights and did a couple more sets before heading towards the gate. The asphalt track was very slick and I had to be careful with my footing. As Mertz and I left the yard, the precipitation had finally turned to snow. I said, "Great timing."

From the yard, the men outside went into the chow hall. I preferred to go straight into the cell house, but we had no choice. In the chow hall, chili was being served and some people may think this was a good meal to have on a cold day, however, they have never eaten Stateville's chili. The chili here, and possibly at all prisons in IDOC, is made with processed turkey-soy. To give it flavor, beef salt is added and plenty of other seasonings, but none of it makes it taste any better. I ate my vegetables and pocketed my bread in a small plastic bag to bring back.

In my cell, my workout was not over. I still had to wash many of my clothes. I also had to scrub my gym shoes. Washing clothes in the toilet bowl by hand was not an easy task, but there was little alternative. I could not wait to turn in my clothes with the cell house laundry the following week because I only had one pair of sweatpants, two pairs of gloves, and two scull caps. My jacket was also dirty, but this would have to wait until Thursday when blue clothing was washed. I was hungry, cold, and dirty, and I attempted to remedy all of this at once. I boiled water for a meal as I washed clothes and then bathed from the sink. Despite my best efforts, I was not done for two hours, and even numerous hours later as I write this journal entry I am still cold. I am exhausted and I plan to go to bed early tonight. I will cover myself underneath two wool blankets, and hopefully, the chill I feel from a morning of rain, sleet and snow will finally dissipate.

Another Terrible Cellmate -- January 13, 2012

2012-01-25T23:07:00.005-06:00

Monday morning, the Sergeant told my cellmate it was time for him to move again. Ely told him, "Hell no! I won't go!" The Sergeant, accustomed to his antics, responded that he knew he could not refuse a level E move. It was security protocol that all designated extreme escape risk inmates be moved every 90 days. Ely asked where he was being moved and was informed 10 gallery, which is the fifth and top floor of the building. This was where he had been before he was moved into my cell, and he was glad to be returning to where his Islamic "brothers" were. I was also glad for him to be gone. For the last three months, he had been the source of much annoyance. Despite this, I was apprehensive of who my next cellmate would be.

Ely yelled upstairs from the bars in an attempt to learn who he was moving in with. The Sergeant had provided him with the cell number, but he did not know who lived there. When no one answered his shouts, he asked a cell house worker to find out, and he began to put his property together. Within a short time, the worker returned and told him the name of a man I never heard of but Ely did. Ely knows almost everyone and I was not surprised. I was also not surprised he had been celled with the man many years ago, considering how often Level E prisoners are moved. My cellmate has been incarcerated over 30 years and has had over 200 different cellmates during this time. Such great regular transitions would be greatly disturbing to me, but Ely is a very social and extroverted person who did not seem to mind.

The worker told him there was only one man in the cell he was moving into and there was no one trading places with him. This news was unwelcome to me because I knew my cell would be filled soon and probably from a man being released from F House kickout. There were many unruly, insane, or unstable men in the Roundhouse. Most of them were former segregation inmates, and if you ever were in the Roundhouse you knew how loud and crazy it was. I preferred to get a known person from within C House.

I was initially not going to chow because the kitchen workers were serving the Stateville special: "Sloppy Soy." Sloppy soy was the name I had given the imitation Sloppy Joes made with processed turkey-soy. However, I decided to leave my cell to see if there was any opportunity to request a specific inmate, as a cellmate was chosen for me previously. On the gallery, I spoke to a Caucasian man a couple of cells down. He told me his cellmate was planning to transfer soon and it would be better if I moved in with him to be away from the holding cage. Later, on the walk to the chow hall, I spoke with Anthony. He also did not want to move into my cell but told me because his cellmate was also a Level E, he would be moving soon and I could request to replace him. The issue was mute probably anyway. The Lieutenant rarely does someone the favor of calling the Placement Officer, and she was a difficult person to deal with, not only with inmates, but also staff. She does not care if inmates get along in the cell together and is unwilling to make accommodations.

On the return to the cell, Ely asked if I would assist him moving his property. I had been wanting him to be moved since he was assigned as my cellmate, and thus thought it appropriate that I help him leave. I also wanted to be walking the cell house for the chance I would be able to talk to the Lieutenant. My cellmate and I carried his large property boxes up the five flights of steel stairs. His box was not very heavy but it was awkward to carry. Arriving at his new cell, I saw who Ely's new cellmate would be. He was a fat black man about 40 years old. By the condition of his cell, I could tell he was a dirty and disorganized person, and this was after he yelled down to Ely that he was cleaning the cell before chow.

After helping Ely with his box, I went down the stairs to grab more of his property. I put his heavy workout bag filled with water bottles, books, and magazines over my back. The bag was three feet high and weighed well over a hundred pounds. As I went up the stairs, I felt the strain in my legs. I also felt the stares of numerous men from their cells. This may make those who have not been in prison before uncomfortable, but I knew it was common for convicts to size me up and be curious who I was. Many also are just bored and stare out their bars because they do not know how to occupy their time. Once again, I arrived at the dirty fat man's cell and he asked me what I carried. I told him it was Ely's workout bag and that exercising will now be mandatory as well as nonstop chatter. He said he didn't mind talking, but the only workout he did was feeding his face.

Ely gave me a fist bump as a goodbye when he took the last of his possessions upstairs. I closed the cell door behind him and wished I could prevent it from being unlocked. I did not want a cellmate. In maximum-security prisons where the vast majority of your time is spent trapped in a small space with another person, a cellmate can radically alter your life, and most often it is for the worse. I still had my gym shoes on and I tightened the laces. I also thought of strategies to combat a new cellmate if he was immediately hostile once the door was locked behind him and the guard was gone. I was not armed with a weapon, but the cell was a weapon in itself. The floor and walls were concrete, and the bunk bars, table and counter were steel. A prison cell is not like MMA Ultimate Fighting where men fought on a soft mat inside a mesh ring with cushioned top perimeters.

I thought about making use of my time alone to do some thoughtful writing or reading before my peace was disturbed. However, I was too concerned about what creature would be thrown into the cage with me. I was informed someone was already en route, and I just sat at my table waiting. It was not long before my cell door was opened and a stranger rushed in with his property, invading my space. The stranger was a black man about my age and height, but with a heavier less muscular physique. I quickly noticed that he had green stripes on his clothing, and could not believe I was being assigned another Level E inmate. As he arranged his property, I did not say a word. I was not happy and was not going to pretend to be. Finally, he asked me for my name, and told me he went by "DD." Later, I learned the letters DD were his initials.

Like my former cellmate, I had nothing in common with DD. Before his arrest, my new cellmate lived in the ghettos of Chicago. He is a gang member, although most men here are. He is currently serving time for attempted murder and a litany of other crimes he did not describe. He has been in and out of prison since about 1992. DD has very little education and I could quickly surmise his intelligence was below average. His speech is very rudimentary, crude, and vulgar. He also has a thuggish way of expressing himself which I suppose gains respect in his neighborhood or within gangs, but it means little to me. It may even be a sign of insecurity. Fortunately, my new cellmate does not have a radio, which would cause me to tell him how I refuse to listen to hip hop and gangster rap. He does have a television with a speaker to annoy me with. The current assignment officer at Stateville does not consider cellmates' compatibility at all, whether this be social, cultural, racial, or otherwise.

The largest difference between the two cellmates is that DD is not as friendly as Ely, but this is made up by the fact that he is not as social, loud and annoying. In fact, initially I thought I may have a decent cellmate because he sleeps or lays in bed most of the day. For the first time in months, I had some quiet and peace. My former cellmate was continually talking or yelling to various people on the gallery. However, as my new cellmate becomes more comfortable, he is exhibiting more inconsiderate and obnoxious behavior. The only reason I think we have been able to get along so far is due to the heavy psychotropic medications he takes which sedate him and I believe, moderates his mood.

My cellmate receives a handful of pills, not only during the evening but in the morning as well. He takes Trazadone, Remeron, Prozac, and a couple of other medications. These drugs I have no doubt are meant to treat strong psychological problems, including violent mood swings. I do not think he is technically crazy but he certainly has psychopathic behaviors that are much more apparent when he does not take his pills. Another thing I noticed about him is how quickly he can become frustrated, or become angry even if at nothing in particular, or for any reason. DD has a broken fan that is now behind the bunk. He told me it was this way because he punched it. He also told me how he fractured his elbow hitting it against a cell wall. DD is a very hostile and volatile person when not medicated. This makes living with him uncomfortable because it is difficult to relax, even if I believe I can defend myself successfully. I wish he was not able to refuse his medications.

It was extremely unusual that I was assigned another Level E. In my entire incarceration, I have only had one cellmate classified an extreme escape risk, and this was by choice while in Pontiac in the 1990's. Now I have been assigned two Level E inmates consecutively, and this is actually a breach of security. There is a rule that prisoners who are escape risks are never to be moved into the same cell without an intermitting period of time. This is done under the belief that a cell can be compromised. Possibly, Internal Affairs wants an excuse to keep extra scrutiny on me due to my blog writings. However, my editors tell me that my outgoing mail is no longer being intercepted or delayed.

Another unusual aspect about my new cellmate being assigned a cell with me is that he was moved directly from X House to general population. DD was attempting to be approved for protective custody, and normal policy if a prisoner is rejected, is for them to be moved to the Roundhouse. Everyone released from segregation, transferred from another penitentiary, or denied protective custody is sent to F House kickout temporarily until placement is found in G.P. Prisoners can sometimes wait up to a year on the upper floors of the Roundhouse.

This week a few men asked me if my new cellmate was any improvement over the last one. I told them only insofar as he does not have as much clutter and does not continually talk. Anthony wanted me to score DD from zero to 10, with a zero being someone I would immediately be fighting with and a 10 being the best cellmate I could imagine. I told him this was not a good scale because I can imagine a gorgeous dream girl as my cellmate. "No," he said, "the cellmate cannot be female and must be in the realm of possibilities." I asked if that parameter meant Stateville inmates or any inmates throughout the IDOC. He said, "Only Stateville," which greatly reduced my standards and expectations. I said, "On this scale, he will be a 3 unless he takes all his medications so that he is sedated and lying on his bunk 20 hours a day. Then he may be a 5."

The evening I received the new cellmate, I was watching the ABC reality TV show "The Bachelor" when I heard someone yelling my name. I turned around and saw my former cellmate in the holding cage. His cell, along with several others on 10 gallery, was being searched. The man is not even my cellmate anymore, but he can still disrupt me. I went to the bars to see what he wanted. He just wanted to see how I was doing and talk, as always. I told him I was OK, but I was not happy to get another Level E. My former cellmate was incredulous that they had placed another escape risk in the same cell. He said if the Security Chief was aware of this, he would be moved unless they are intentionally keeping their eyes on me. With this comment, my new cellmate broke out in anger, shouting that he was not here to watch anyone. I then explained to DD that he did not mean him, but that staff may want a pretense to monitor me. The Bachelor came back on after a commercial break, and I told Ely that I would talk to him some other time. He immediately began talking to my neighbor.

Over the several days that DD has been in the cell, I have spoken rarely to him. We have nothing in common to discuss. A couple of days ago he noticed that I was reading a corporate report, and he asked me if I buy and sell stocks. I told him, "No, but I advise family and friends who have investments." He told me he knew a great opportunity to make some money, and said I should buy stock in Ramon Noodles because all prisoners buy them. At first I thought he was trying to be funny, but he was serious.

While in the chow line, I spoke to Anthony about the incredible stupidity of my new cellmate. We were earlier talking about Mitt Romney, a Republican Presidential candidate who has oddly come under attack by conservative competitors for being "out of touch with average Americans" and being an alleged "corporate raider." I told him that I only expected such attacks from the likes of Barack Obama and his Marxist ilk, and this line of criticism only made me like Romney more. Thus, I wagered $10,000 that Romney would beat Perry during a debate. Anthony said he did not know if he could accept and will have to count how many Ramen Noodles he has in his box.

A large topic of discussion amongst prisoners this week was the retiring governor of Mississippi who pardoned over 200 people. The news media quickly condemned the use of executive power and focused on a few murder convicts, despite how the vast number of pardons went to people of less serious crimes and who had already completed their prison sentences. Haley Barbour was coming under enormous attack for this decision, despite how he has not been soft on crime and gave only a select few men a second chance that had life sentences. If anything, I thought the governor should be criticized for not granting more commutations or pardons to the prison population across the entire State of Mississippi. The criticism by the media will now make other governors think twice about using their authority to fix injustices or lessen the sentences of people given draconian punishments. I thought about discussing the issue with my new cellmate, but after a moment realized it would not be worth my time or breath. I could get better conversation talking to a sock puppet.

Later at the chow table, I spoke about the pardons with Anthony, Steve, his cellmate, and a kitchen worker I know. They agreed that there was no controversy, and if anything, the governor's powers should be used more often to commute the sentences made incredibly harsh by legislators and past governors, as well as to pardon the innocent wrongfully convicted who the justice system has failed. The controversy concerned the reasons why only convicted murderers who held assignments in the governor's mansion were pardoned at the exclusion of others. Also raised was the state requirement to have the request for clemency published in a newspaper, however, this was a ridiculous technicality being used by Mississippi's Attorney General to obstruct the wishes of the governor. Men thought it was funny that the man was calling for those already released to voluntarily turn themselves in, although the law prevented the state from arresting them. Only a complete moron would do such. I thought not even my cellmate would be so foolish.

On Wednesday, the Major made a tour of C House along with the Lieutenant. They stopped at my cell to praise how orderly and clean it was. Since Ely left, I have been able to keep the cell almost in impeccable order. Possibly, I have OCD as well as Aspergers, but I like everything put away and in a specific order. My volatile cellmate has yet to go ballistic on me for moving his things, and hopefully he will continue to let me keep the cell neat. The Lieutenant and Major after excessively complimenting my cell then joking said, "The floor needs to be waxed and buffed, and the walls painted." I told the Major that if I were given the supplies I would do that. The cells in C House have not been painted in years, and the dingy gray paint is cracked, peeling, or discolored. Before they left, I asked the Lieutenant if I got a gold star for the day, and he said, "Absolutely." I would like to trade that gold star in for a new cellmate.

My cellmate refused his medications today, and has been acting very unsettled. He is clearly disturbed mentally and is being loud, as well as obnoxious, although not as excessively as my former cellmate. I assume this is close to DD's natural self when he is not sedated or has his volatile mood moderated. To make matters worse, he drank some coffee. All I need is an unmedicated psychopath geeked on caffeine trapped in the cell with me. As I write this, I have my gym shoes on, just as a precaution. I wonder if DD stays off his meds if he will turn into a Dr. Jeckle type of personality or worse. Fortunately, he tells me his stay is not permanent.

DD plans to go on a hunger strike after he is able to receive his commissary order. Prisoners who declare hunger strikes are typically sent to F House and placed in a single man cell without any of their foodstuffs. After a few days, he will be interviewed by the psychiatrist and an administrator. They will determine if he is sane, and if his grievance can be resolved. If it cannot, the protesting inmate will be kept in the Roundhouse until he becomes ill or too weak, whereupon he will be put in the infirmary. Prisoners will eventually be given an IV, or even force fed. For some reason, the courts have ruled that wards of the state cannot be allowed to kill themselves. Oddly, this applies to men on death row, or who have life without parole sentences.

My cellmate has mentioned to me how he does not want to go back to Menard C.C., and thinks his Level E status should be changed. The last time DD was in Menard, he claims he was severely beaten by guards while in handcuffs. He believes he will be assaulted again if he returns, regardless if he provokes it or not. From how he has been acting without his medication, I can see how he could get easily into trouble, especially in Menard which is stricter. Despite this, DD has no choice but to be transferred back after his one year is up at Stateville due to his escape risk classification. This is probably why he was trying to be approved for protective custody because those inmates go to Pontiac C.C.

Whether or not DD succeeds, I believe he would rather be in F House. From what he tells me, some of his "homies" are there. Also awaiting him in the Roundhouse are commissary goods, including a new fan he is unable to transit to C House. I hope my cellmate does go on a hunger strike so I can be rid of him and take my chances with someone new. How many times can the Placement Officer roll me snake eyes? The odds are clearly stacked against me at Stateville. It is probably best that I try to transfer, even if it is a long way from home. I noticed today is Friday the 13th, a day considered unlucky by some superstitious people. However, almost every day at Stateville is an unlucky one for me.

Backlash to Tyranny -- January 6, 2012

2012-01-16T13:50:00.014-06:00

In the maximum-security prisons of Illinois, the number of staff assaults has been increasing. At the same time, although crime rates are down to 1950's levels, shootings of police officers are up. Ironically, the response to both of these developments has been the same oppression, laws, and brute force that caused the violent increases. For decades, the U.S. has moved towards a big brother government and police state. More prisons have been built, and more guards and police officers hired than throughout the history of the Republic. Laws and prison sentences have been exponentially expanded where several million Americans are in prisons and jails, either on probation, parole, court supervision or work release. I would like to think the Hobbesonian Leviathan which pervasively grips society can be slain heroically and in a decisive blow, but history teaches liberty and freedom are hard fought battles.

Since my last journal entry, I have learned more about the incident in E House that almost caused the prison to be placed on lockdown through Christmas. From what I have heard, a guard was beaten unconscious after a confrontation. The inmate was thereafter overwhelmingly subdued and pounced upon further in retaliation. Onlooking prisoners locked in their cages were not happy by the excessive use of force. In prison, a guard who fights successfully man-on-man is respected, however, a mob that stomps on an inmate after he is already handcuffed is looked upon with great disdain.

Not long after Christmas, there was a one-on-one fight in the shower of the cell house I reside in between two Mexican prisoners. The shower is a place many prisoners go to settle their differences without police intervention. There is no overlooking gun tower nor do guards go in the locked area. The fight probably would have went unnoticed by staff had the two not sustained visible injuries. One of the men was stabbed and the other had his head split.

Internal Affairs, the investigative unit of Stateville, does not usually become involved in isolated fights. Fights between inmates occur regularly in maximum-security prisons and are not taken seriously. However, because one of the combatants used a shank, I.A. conducted an investigation. Last Wednesday, late in the evening, a group of Hispanic prisoners were questioned. I saw them in the holding cage across from my cell, and they complained of racial profiling. Their complaints were half-hearted, and partly made in jest. Internal Affairs regularly uses specific group questioning and this policy is far wiser than a broad round up of prisoners.

The following morning, the prison was on a level 1 lockdown, and it has been so until yesterday. Various rumors have circulated about the reason for the lockdown. Some say it was due to the holidays. Many guards have taken days off work for Christmas and the New Year. On one of the days the prison was on lockdown, a guard informed me that 84 people did not show up for work. Numerous guards were working double shifts to make up for the lack of staff. Along with the decrease in manpower, the administration realizes many inmates and guards alike get drunk on New Years Eve. Considering the lack of staff and possibility of drunkenness, it was probably considered prudent to lockdown the prison, although I tend to believe the questioning of Hispanics the night before was at least part of the reason.

According to kitchen workers, who were unusually allowed to continue to work through the lockdown, guards reported knives were found in the cell house where the Christmas Eve incident occurred. It is no secret there is great animosity, especially amongst prisoners of E House, because a gang member was beaten in retaliation when he was defenseless. Prison shanks plus a threat of retaliation against staff, even if ambiguous or incredible, would be enough to make the administration cautious. I would not be surprised if one of the men questioned by I.A. did not have something to say.

After the lockdown, prisoners were surprised to be let out for showers and learn they could no longer take their laundry bags with them. Inmates do not have any benches or hooks to place their clothes, soap, towel, etc. in the shower area. Thus, everyone uses their mesh laundry bag to place those items in, and will tie them to the pipes or bars before showering. The reason for the new rule was apparent to everyone, and one prisoner yelled out of his cell, "You scary motherfuckers!" Administrators thought by not allowing inmates to bring their laundry bags this would prevent staff assaults. However, this rule would not have had any effect on the Christmas Eve incident where the prisoner used only his fists. The rule also will not prevent inmates from improvising or using other weapons. A sock, towel, pillowcase, or even the leg of a pair of pants knotted and filled with a bludgeoning object still can be used, not to mention knives. The security precaution will not lessen violence against staff or inmates for that matter. It is only another inconvenience and foolish rule, similar to those Americans experience when traveling by plane.

The initial rumor I heard about the Christmas Eve assault was that a prisoner who was fed up with living at Stateville and without any family to visit him, decided that he would rather be in Pontiac segregation or Tamms Supermax. The administration fails to realize that in maximum-security penitentiaries in Illinois there is little motivation to behave. No matter how many rules, new procedures, safeguards and staff, the tight fisted control imposed will not prevent violence. The poor quality of life and excessive repression only stirs greater resentment amongst inmates who have nothing to lose. The vast majority of men at Stateville or Menard are incarcerated for life. The threat of Segregation means little because there is little difference between being locked in your cage in general population or somewhere else. As it is, Menard spends half the year or longer on lockdown anyway. At Stateville, the situation was similar until a new warden changed policies of the previous administrations. However, despite this, Stateville remains a miserable and oppressive place to live. I often wonder why I continue to behave when a single man cell awaits me in Pontiac or Tamms.

Frequently, while reading or writing, I listen to WLS talk radio. Earlier today, I was surprised when Sarah McKinley called in to be interviewed by the Roe and Roeper Show. For those who are unaware, Sarah McKinley is the woman from Blanchard, Oklahoma who shot a man dead in her home under suspicious circumstances. Her 911 call to police has repeatedly been played on national television news networks this week. Photographs of her posing while holding the shotgun she used in the killing also have been shown. While some people, especially gun rights advocates, tout her as admirable for defending herself, others question her use of deadly force. The prosecutor's office has no intention of arresting her, and has publicly stated she was fully within her rights.

Sarah McKinley answered all of the questions posed by the radio talk show hosts, although her answers were not all entirely credible, in my opinion. She states on the afternoon of December 31st she heard a knock on her door and peered outside to see two men, one of whom she knew. Instead of answering the door, she retreated inside of her trailer with her baby and 21-month-old German Shepherd. She says she knew the men had bad intentions when she armed herself with a pistol and a 12 gauge hunting rifle. As she waited, McKinley called the police and asked for permission to shoot the men. The dispatcher would not authorize such action specifically, but said she should do what is necessary to protect herself. Soon thereafter, one of the men broke into the place and without saying a word, the woman blasted him. She was asked why she did not first give a warning or make a verbal threat. She simply stated that she did not want to give her position away. McKinley had intentionally been very quiet, even giving her baby a bottle so the man would not know where she was. Police came less than a minute later and found the dead man on the floor with a knife in his hand. The other man had already run off, but later turned himself in.

The man who fled said that they were there to procure pain medications. McKinley's husband had been prescribed these to help ease his pain before he died from lung cancer on Christmas Day. McKinley initially told people that she thought they were there for the drugs, however, on the Roe & Roeper Show, she changed her story and said she believed they wanted to rape her. I tend to doubt if this was the true reason. Pain medications are in high demand on the black market, and if she was known to possess them it would make her a target for a burglary. It is even possible that Sarah McKinley may have even sold the medications to them on another occasion. Despite not knowing exactly what occurred, I fully support gun rights. However, I believe the media has totally missed the real controversy of this incident.

The man who fled the trailer after his friend was shot was, incredibly, charged with his murder, and may even face the death penalty. It does not matter that he had nothing to do with the death, or that he did not even enter the home. Whether he was there to assist in a burglary, robbery, or rape also does not matter. Regardless of the felony his friend had intentions of committing, he was automatically guilty of it, and any death which occurred during the commission of the crime. This is the insanity of the felony-murder law which exists through much of the U.S.

Thousands of people across the nation serve lengthy prison sentences or life without parole because of the felony-murder law. There are also close to 100 men on death row who although they never committed a homicide or intended for one to occur, were made liable under the broad based statute. Just at Stateville alone there are over a hundred men convicted of felony-murder who will never see freedom again. They are all guilty of robberies, kidnappings, burglaries or other felonies, but none of them actually killed anyone. They are all held accountable for another person.

Many people have brought to my attention the conviction of Ryan Holle in Florida that is similar to my own case. On March 10, 2003, then 20-year-old Ryan Holle lent his car to his roommate to commit a burglary with some other men. During this burglary, one of the intruders killed a woman by beating her head with a shotgun found in the home. Despite not being present, and having borrowed his car to his roommate numerous times previously, Holle was convicted of felony-murder and sentenced to natural life without parole. The prosecutor justifies this conviction and sentence by saying the crime "would have never happened unless Holle lent his car," a proposition I highly question. He furthermore says, "He must be treated just as if he had done all the things the other four people did." The prosecutor sounds alot like mine who theatrically would shout "All for one and one for all. The actions of one are the actions of all," while moving across the courtroom during closing arguments pretending he was one of the Three Musketeers. The only distinctions between my case and that of Ryan Holle is that he readily admitted to lending his car, while I can prove mine was not used. Furthermore, Holle was convicted of felony-murder while I was convicted of murder via a theory of accountability. Interestingly, my case may also be similar to the one in Oklahoma because my co-defendant was acquitted of murder. No one is held responsible for the actual killing.

The felony-murder and accountability laws are just two examples of how absurd and draconian the criminal statutes in the U.S. have become. There has been a vast expansion of laws that are unprecedented in the history of the country. Furthermore, the punishments for these almost infinite laws are incredibly harsh. For example, in Illinois class X felonies carry 6 to 30 years imprisonment, however, there is little to prevent prosecutors from seeking aggravating circumstances that increase the range to 30 to 60 years. In addition to aggravating prison sentences is the cumulative sentences for other crimes committed in the same act. For example, a robbery sentence can be compounded due to the use of a gun. Armed robbery convicts can be eligible for over 100 years in prison and they must serve at least 85% of this time. By the way, people convicted of murder in Illinois must serve 100% of their sentences.

Also in the news this week, in addition to the Oklahoma case, were a number of cop killings. One Chicago police officer and several in Utah were gunned down. I do not watch much local news but I did learn about the out of state shootings. Apparently, a couple of men were surrounded when robbing a store. Instead of surrendering to the police, they tried to shoot their way out with fully automatic weapons. Police representatives later commented that their police force was outgunned and they needed to be armed just as the criminals are, or better. Unfortunately, this is the usual response by law enforcement. They need more money, men, or better weapons. I regularly hear calls to create soldier-like battalions in towns and cities of America. Already many cities do have heavy armaments like the military. These people, however, fail to understand that the police are there to serve and protect. They are not supposed to be a domestic military force. Americans do not need returning soldiers from Iraq patrolling their streets.

The police state and prison industrial complex is not only an assault of the U.S. Constitution and dearly held values of freedom, but counterproductive efforts to fight crime. As the story about the officers shot in Utah aired on television, my cellmate said contemptuously, "Fuck ya, dey tried to shoot dey way out. Dey had no choice." My cellmate was given 60 years for a home invasion and has now served half of his sentence. This was a harsh sentence back in 1980, but it is common now. Men are regularly given 60 or more years for class X felonies. Criminals who are aware of the penalties of their crimes are willing to do anything to escape. They also have no reason to show restraint. Killing a cop or several makes no difference because the punishment will be a protracted death sentence regardless.

Prosecutors and some legislatures often say the felony-murder law and other harsh criminal statutes prevent crime. The reduction of violent crime would seem to give credence to this deduction, however, I believe that other factors are at work and deterrence loses its effect after a certain point. Many people do not even know the law, or how greatly it has changed over the years. Does anyone think the man who fled from the trailer in Oklahoma could have been deterred or knew about the felony-murder law? Furthermore, those who know the laws when they break them will act with much more brutality and violence because degrees of guilt have diminished.

Prosecutors justify the felony-murder law saying it makes criminals plan their crimes with more care, makes them take more precautions to ensure that no one is killed, or even decide not to do the underlying felony. This is ridiculous on its face, but even statistical data collected by the federal government demonstrate the number of deaths which occurred during burglaries, car thefts, and rapes was the same. The incident of deaths after the new statute for robberies actually greatly increased, and this is to be expected.

The felony-murder law has been abolished, or never instituted, in all of Europe and the vast majority of other countries around the world. Canada, which derives its common law from Britain like the U.S., saw the error of the statute long ago. In 1990, their supreme court ruled the culpability of co-defendants under the statute violated the principle that the punishment must be proportionate to the moral blameworthiness of the offender. England no longer has the law, and European courts continue to hold the perspective that people should be responsible for their own acts and not those of others. I find this ironic considering how America touts individualism and condemns the collectivistic policies of Europe except for the extreme left of the political spectrum. America was founded on the principles of individual rights, freedom, self-determinaion, and responsibility. However, with respect to the justice system, prosecutors are socialists and quote the Three Musketeers with approval of the courts.

As in all repressive regimes around the world, oppression is met with resistance. Governments that seek to quell unrest, sedition, and violence against authority with ever more force often discover it leads to even more hatred and rebellion. It is particularly so in places where people live in squalor or have grim, miserable and bleak existences. There is only so much an oppressive agency can do to a people who already find their lives so worthless and terrible. Even a beaten, cornered dog will lash out despite impossible odds, and in American maximum-security prisons there are many cowering but growling canines. I would like to hope the prison and judicial system would be reformed, but I doubt there is political courage and leadership to undertake this massive overhaul.

I have been paying close attention to the Republican primary. Many of the candidates for President speak of reducing government, however, none so much as Ron Paul. He is especially committed to freedom and dramatic reactionary change. Disappointingly, Ron Paul is not a charismatic or effective communicator. He is unlikely to inspire the ideas and values long forgotten in the U.S. Next week on Tuesday, the Republican primary will come to New Hampshire, a state whose motto is "live free or die." Unfortunately, I have learned much of the sayings, symbols, and rhetoric in America are facades. The flames of liberty have long been blown out.

Thomas Jefferson wrote, "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants." In the maximum-security prisons of Illinois, I have seen blood spilled and it seems this blood is flowing outside of these walls. It is no surprise there is a backlash to tyranny, especially when the police state continues to grow while the citizens of America are increasingly oppressed, disenfranchised, and impoverished. Barack Obama has attempted to quell this discontent and even harness it with superficial economic stimulus and quasi-Marxist rhetoric. However, this did not fare so well in the former Soviet Union. Hopefully, America's descent into a repressive Communist state can be turned back, although I wonder if the spirit of liberty still lives on in the hearts of men or if they will only fight once their back is up against the wall.

February 3, 2012

Update: Apparently, the administration has reconsidered making X House Tamms Stepdown. Instead it is being made to house low aggressive inmates who have less than 15 years to do. The administration has also changed their policy of prohibiting men from using laundry bags to carry their shower supplies, and the privacy curtain rule has been rescinded or is not being enforced. I am impressed with the wisdom of policy makers and it is a contrast to the hard-headed wardens of the past.

The Ghosts of Christmas -- December 28, 2011

2012-01-07T21:22:00.041-06:00

Christmas was almost cancelled at Stateville this year. However, because the holiday is for the most part like any other day in prison, I cared little. The only distinction is a special meal, and for some inmates, visits from family or religious services. I was not expecting anyone to come to see me, and I have not been to church in over 20 years. Furthermore, a decent meal was not going to improve the years of oppressive captivity I have languished under and will continue to do so. It was like burning in Dante's lake of fire for all eternity, and being thrown an ice cube. Apparently, I was not the only one who thought little of the holiday, and a prisoner beat unconscious a guard on Christmas Eve. From what I have heard, he was never going to be released from prison and preferred to do his time in Pontiac segregation or Tamms Supermax. The only benefit of being at Stateville was being close to home for many prisoners. However, when his family abandoned him, there was no reason to be at this penitentiary, which is arguably the worst one in Illinois.

The prison was placed on a level 1 lockdown immediately after the event. However, late that night, kitchen workers were let out of their cells to cook and prepare the Christmas meal. In the morning, I was surprised Stateville had been taken completely off lockdown and there were normal operations. Visits and church services were called out from the cell house loudspeaker bright and early, and I mean this literally. It was 7 a.m. when a guard broke the morning quiet with the announcement which echoed off the stone walls. A most irritating beam of sunlight reflected off the edge of my cell wall. I missed the clouds and darkness of the last five days. It was unfortunate the days will only be getting longer from the winter solstice. I do not like Mick Jagger, but the Rolling Stones' song "Fade to Black" crossed my mind as I began Christmas Day. I suppose I was the epitome of Ebenezer Scrooge.

Prisoner lines for the Christmas meal began before 9 a.m. While most days only half of the gallery came out for chow, almost everyone left their cells for this meal. I stood next to Steve, and my only greeting was "baa humbug." It was crowded, and like a herd of animals we filed out of the cell house. As usual, once outside I weaved my way through people, occasionally bumping into the cattle to find my way to Anthony who was already in line. Steve followed in my wake. If I was forced to feed like livestock, I reasoned that I may as well be around those I liked or found least objectionable.

Thankfully, neither Anthony nor Steve were in a cheerful mood. I needed something to temper the bright winter sunshine and irrational merriment of other prisoners. While most everyone talked loudly on the way to the chow hall, we walked mostly in silence. Unlike other meals, the Christmas meal was served to us in two Styrofoam trays to take back to the cell. We were given turkey or pork, collard greens, instant mashed potatoes with gravy, and macaroni and cheese. The other prepared tray came with a couple of rolls, a small salad, peas, a small slice of cherry pie, and a half cup of sherbet. The inmate worker serving the meat on line was my neighbor, and he gave me such large portions that I could barely close the lid on my hot tray. I thought this will not only be my lunch, but dinner and late snack. Outside the serving circle, a guard looked down at us with a rifle. I set my trays down on a table next to Anthony and gave him my sherbet.

This was Anthony's first Christmas off death row, and I asked him on the way back to the cell house if it was as he expected. He said they fed better at Pontiac and he would prefer to be given his holiday meal in his single man cell. I told him at least he did not have such a disagreeable cellmate as I did. Steve asked me what I thought of a cassette tape he sent me which was a compilation of classical music. I told him it was rather light. Did he not have any Beethoven, Wagner, or possibly Mozart's "The Requiem"? He said it was supposed to help me relax, and upon hearing this, I responded that I did like the composition "Bach Air." It reminded me of the film "Silence of the Lambs." The character Hannibal Lector was listening to that piece of classical music as he killed two of his captors and escaped from his cage. Steve said maybe he should get his tape back, but I said, "No, it may go with my Christmas meal."

The ovens at Stateville have been broken for a few weeks. Kitchen supervisors originally were going to substitute the turkey and pork with fried chicken, but changed their minds or were persuaded otherwise by administrators. Instead of baking the meat, it was boiled in large pots. My cellmate and some others complained that it was dry, but I thought it turned out well. I mostly appreciated that it was real meat rather than turkey-soy loaf. For the last five years, Stateville has served the processed soy hybrid for both Christmas and Thanksgiving. As I told Steve, I did listen to his tape while eating part of my meal. Possibly, I thought Bach Air would have gone better with roasted lamb.

After eating lunch, I decided to take a nap. I have been sleeping poorly at night and therefore become tired, often by mid afternoon. The cell house was rather noisy, but I put my head between two pillows, and this, along with my ear plugs, kept most of the sound at bay. Thankfully, my cellmate was quiet for a change. Oddly, the hyperactive 55-year-old who is usually geeked throughout the day on caffeine and sugar also was lying down. I reasoned that he ate his entire meal in one serving and was now feeling not only stuffed, but sleepy.

Before I drifted off, I thought about Christmas as a child. I have many fond memories of the holiday before my mother went to college and studied many religions. When she began studying with some Jehovah's Witnesses, I became an atheist. My parents, throughout my grade school years, often went out of their way to make Christmas a special event. I will always recall the holiday decor, family, traditions, and gifts I was showered with. My father even dressed up as Santa Claus a few times, which was so out of character for him, I assumed it was an uncle masquerading as the jolly bearded man in a red suit. No, I never believed in Santa Claus despite how my parents tried to deceive me. At the time, we were living in a home without a fireplace, and I knew there was something greatly amiss when Santa appeared from a natural gas furnace room. The next year, St. Nick just came to our front door, but this did not fool me either, and thereafter presents were just placed under the tree. Although I never believed in the magic of Santa, Christmas as a child always had a magical quality I will always remember.

Not only did my family celebrate the holiday at home, but we also went to my grandparents' house on Christmas Eve. Their home is where many of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends of the family came together. My maternal grandmother was not only the nucleus of the family, but a professional chef. She, along with my grandfather who was a baker, made some of the best Christmas meals. However, what I miss and remember the most was not the food or presents, but the family and ambiance of the holiday. All my grandparents are now gone, and my mother recently reminded me that December 8th would have been my maternal grandmother's 84th birthday. I sometimes wonder if she would not have died so early, if not for my tragic arrest for a mass murder while she was recovering from heart surgery at my parents' home.

During my sleep, I dreamed my entire family passed away. Parents, aunts, uncles, sister, and all my cousins had died and I was left alone. I recall dreaming that I was in my family home and had a Christmas tree and other decorations displayed. The fireplace was casting a warm glow across the living room, but there was nothing warm or festive about the holiday. I was an old man all alone in a large house waiting to share Christmas with someone, but no one came. The grandfather clock could be heard ticking in the background along with a howling wind outside. From my arm chair, I got up slowly like an old man does, and went to the front door to peer out the window. It was pitch black outside and when I turned on the coach lights, they did not work. Reaching for the door handle, I discovered it refused to open. I walked across the house to another door and found it also would not budge. I tried time and time again to get out, but it was futile. Eventually, it dawned on me that I was dreaming and in prison. I woke up realizing I was in a cell at Stateville with a sentence of natural life without the possibility of parole.

On my table, I noticed an envelope that appeared to be a Christmas card. Sometimes guards passing out mail will just leave letters there if I am lying down or preoccupied. However, it was Christmas and there was no mail delivery. Taking the envelope, I saw written in calligraphy: "To: Paul Modrowski, From: Steve Zirko." Opening it, I found a Christmas card that had two snowmen on the front. One was tall and thin, and the other was short and squat. In pen, Steve had written "Paul" and "Steve" under the snowmen. On the inside the card said, "Christmas is a time to remember those we're fondest of. May your Christmas be special in every way." Steve then signed it "Your Friend, Z." Although I believe the card was sent partly in jest, it was an unexpected and sentimental gesture. I suppose even if all my family dies, I will still have convicts to keep me company. For many prisoners, this is all they will ever have.

Christmas evening, I called my aunt who was having the family over for the holiday. She placed me on speaker phone so I could talk with the many people there. Unfortunately, it seemed like I called at a bad time because everyone was busy filling their plates with food or were preoccupied otherwise. Apparently, my aunt had made an elaborate feast of ham and numerous side dishes that was just being served. In addition to all the people clustered in the kitchen and dining room, I also had difficulty hearing my relatives due to the cell house noise. The Chicago Bulls basketball team was playing and numerous prisoners were cheering and yelling. Plus, the prison phone had a short in it and occasionally I would lose sound. Despite all this, I was able to have a somewhat decent conversation with my cousin, Michael.

Mike was with me when I was arrested about 19 years ago. I asked him if he still remembered the incident. He asked how could he ever forget, and added it still seemed like yesterday. I told him that oddly, despite all the years that have passed, he still sounded exactly the same. When my cousin and I were surrounded by numerous gun wielding police, he was only 25. Now he was 44 and had a 14-year-old daughter I have never met. I heard her ask someone in the background if I had a life sentence. She must think it strange that I have been in prison her entire life.

I told Mike he sounded just like the actor Kiefer Sutherland. Indeed, two decades ago, Michael could have been his stand-in. They were almost doppelgangers when we were young. My cousin sounded, looked, and even had the demeanor of the actor in such movies as "Stand by Me," and "Lost Boys." A long time, however, has passed and from recent photos he looks nothing like he once did. He is now fat, and from what I am told, has a lazy eye from a bad eye surgery. Mike moved to Indiana, and I have not talked to or seen him in years. He told me he was going to get my address and write. I told him not to lie, and as soon as I hang up the phone I will be "out of sight and out of mind." He denied this, but I know it is true.

Much has changed over the near two decades I have been in prison. Almost all my cousins have children and are married. They have moved away and have their own homes. My aunts and uncles, like my parents, have aged greatly and have many health problems. When I spoke to my Aunt Mary, she said she looks forward to making me a Christmas meal. I did not say this, but I doubt if she will be alive in a few more years, let alone when I am freed, if ever. I was surprised she was even hosting Christmas this year.

I then spoke to my mother on the phone and after a few minutes asked her why we were talking. I called to talk to my various relatives who I do not see regularly. I wondered if my years in prison had made us distant or if people did not know what to say to me. Someone asked me if I was doing alright, and I said, "If you mean have I been stabbed, beaten, raped, or robbed recently, I suppose I am doing fairly well." Possibly those around the table or in the kitchen were expecting a "just fine" response, and there was a brief silence. Needless to say, no one wished me a Merry Christmas.

After hanging up the phone, I brooded about what Christmas was supposed to be like. I also thought regrettably about the years before my arrest when I did not participate in the holiday. Ironically, the last Christmas I had was with my co-defendant and his wife, Rose, at their Schiller Park apartment. Bob and I went out to buy a Christmas tree which we strapped cumbersomely to the top of of his Camero. Rose decorated the place with my help. I remember how she could not get the lights on the tree to cease blinking, and I remedied this. The apartment was small, but it was quaint and cozy around Christmastime. The Faraci's were friendly, hospitable, and tried to make me feel like I was at home.

In my prison cell, I did nothing special for Christmas. I watched the Green Bay Packers defeat the Chicago Bears, and thereafter went to sleep. I considered watching some type of festive television programming, but my loud and annoying cellmate, in addition to the rest of the convicts in the cell house, ruined any such inclinations. Two weeks ago, however, I watched a live broadcast of The Nutcracker from the Lincoln Center in New York City. The ballet is rather goofy now as an adult viewer, but I watched it anyway because it reminded me of being a child at Christmastime. On the last day of school before the holiday break, the grade school I attended had a semiprofessional ballet outfit perform The Nutcracker. It was an impressive event held in our gymnasium, and I still remember it to this day.

The following two days after Christmas, I was especially sullen and nonsocial. I was once again Caspar Friedrich's "The Monk at the Sea" and did not leave my cell except to go to the south yard where I lifted weights and ran the track with Anthony. Today, my parents visited and we were fortunate to get a 2-hour visit. The visiting room has been packed full the last couple of weeks. Many family members have been coming to the prison due to the holiday. For some prisoners, this is the only time of the year they will receive a visitor. The warden of Stateville was cognizant of this, and I suspect this is why he did not lockdown the prison.

On my visit, my mother informed me how she may be flying to Arizona to see my aunt and uncle. Apparently, my uncle is not well and is expected to die within weeks. Uncle Tadeusz is very old and turned 91 earlier this year. He is one of the few still living WWII veterans, and although he can tell you detailed stories of the war like it was yesterday, he will often forget where he is. Despite his loss of mental acuity, I very much like him and was unhappy to hear the bad news. It reminded me of the bad dream I had on Christmas Day.

I learned my mother also spoke to a woman who was best friends with the daughter of my original trial attorney, an attorney I wish I had not allowed my parents to switch. Jen claims to have met me before my arrest and not just at preliminary hearings, but I do not remember her. She wanted to visit me this week while she was in town staying with family. During my years in prison, she moved to Missouri and I have only exchanged a few letters and emails with her. My mother, not knowing a one time exception to the rules will be made for out of town visitors, told her she could not come until I submitted her name for approval, and the request was processed.

I was disappointed not to see the girl from my past, but mostly what weighed on my thoughts was the many missed opportunities I had as a teen. I met and dated numerous girls, yet nothing significant ever came of them. I regularly regret not developing or pursuing relationships. Now I am in prison and my life is over. All the girls I once knew have moved on in their lives and I often learn they, like my cousins, are married with children. My father says they are probably fat and ugly now anyhow, but this still does not make me feel any less of a loss.

Today is the 28th of December, the day the prosecution theorizes the victim in my case was killed. It is seldom this date goes by without my notice. One of my interrogating officers testified at my trial that I admitted to being told by my co-defendant that he was going to kill Fawcett, and I thereafter lent him my car. The trial attorney I had did not contest what he said, and even told my jury it was true. However, there was nothing true about it. Nineteen years can pass, or 39, and I will vividly remember my car was 50 miles away from the crime scene. Faraci never said anything to me about killing Fawcett. I know unmistakably where I was because while I was at my sister's home, she kept pestering me to talk to my father because it was his birthday. The cop is a liar and while I dwell on the past, I also dwell on the fact his testimony took away everything from me: Christmas, family, wife, children, and more.

In the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, he is visited by three ghosts: the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. I believe I have seen all of them this year. However, despite this, there is nothing to be learned. My fate is set. I can dwell about the past ad infinitum but it will not change. There is no time machine where I can alter past events, no matter how I may like to. There is also nothing I can do about my present circumstances and my future is as bleak as it was before. Possibly a ghost can spook the living to alter their life perspective, but not the live undead. They are tormented, regardless, and merriment at Christmas will always allude them.

Level E Cell Searches -- December 20, 2011

2012-01-05T17:35:00.008-06:00

Once a week, all inmates that are designated extreme escape risks have their cells searched. If you are in the cell with one of these inmates, your property is also looked through. Thus, not only am I blessed to live with this socially obnoxious man, but I regularly have my day or evening interrupted and my belongings tossed about. The cell searches can be done at any time from early morning to late at night, and prisoners are never given any advance notice. For a person who likes to plan their day and keep their property neat and organized, having your cell regularly ransacked is most bothersome and inconvenient. I will be glad to be assigned a new cellmate next month.

There are four security classifications for inmates in the Illinois Dept. of Corrections. They are abbreviated by staff as L, M, H, or E: low, medium, high, or escape. My cellmate, Ely, has a green colored ID card and is a Level E. He has been a Level E for most of his 31 years in prison for trying, or succeeding temporarily, to escape three times. Most inmates at Stateville have a high or medium security rating. I am classified as a moderate or medium escape risk, and have a blue ID card. There are approximately 50 Level E's here, but only three are in C House. C House has the oldest population of inmates, and it is considered the least violent and unruly of the general population units.

Cells are searched randomly at Stateville, regardless if an inmate is a Level E or has a cellmate who is. A prisoner can expect his cell to be searched on average once a month. Typically, these are brief cursory searches lasting no more than ten minutes. Because I have a Level E as a cellmate, I am subject to both random and targeted searches. The two months that Ely has been my cellmate, our cell has been searched ten to twelve times.

The targeted Level E cell searches were for a period time conducted by the Orange Crush Tactical Unit. These guards thoroughly ransack cells for a half hour, and leave it in great disarray. They also are more likely to confiscate property or write disciplinary tickets for trivial rule infractions. I am glad not to have my cell turned inside out by the Orange Crush every week. I dislike the disruptions in my routine and having to reorder all of my belongings. Unlike most inmates, I have my possessions meticulously ordered in my two boxes and throughout the cell. It will take me hours to reorder my property from a state of chaos. Fortunately, the special tactical unit no longer conducts the searches of inmates' cells who are designated extreme escape risks.

Internal Affairs also does searches of cells, but only for specific reasons. Their searches can be even more thorough than the Orange Crush, although typically they are looking for something specific. When I was sent to Segregation last year, I.A. searched my cell for an hour, and then took both of my property boxes with some of my cellmate's property to search further. Later I learned they had inventoried all of the commissary to determine what I had purchased in the prior 3 months. Everything I did not buy in this time period was claimed to be contraband, and procured through trading and trafficking, or gambling. I have not had my cell searched by I.A. since then, but I believe my outgoing mail has been targeted.

Outgoing mail typically reaches my family within a few days. However, in the month of November, my mail began to be delayed a month. I asked other inmates if their outgoing mail was being sent out as slowly to determine if it was a systematic problem. Often, incoming mail at Stateville will be behind a month, and this is not unusual. However, after speaking with these men and the cell house counselor, I discovered that only my outgoing mail was untimely. Initially, I thought it was due to my sharing a cell with a Level E, but this was also not the case. Other inmates who were celled with green ID inmates were not having this problem and had not in the past. Internal Affairs does not like that I have a blog, and on occasion they harass me with disciplinary tickets, Segregation, confiscation of property, or disruption of my mail. I assume they are responsible for not only the long delays in my outgoing mail but also destroying my posts "Sergeant Bludgeoned" and "The Lab," both of which I had to rewrite from memory. I also toned down the subject matter and rearranged it so these versions would also not disappear.

The Level E cell searches are done by regular staff working in the cell house. This is better than having guards who do not know you and are unaccountable for their conduct. Guards and prisoners assigned to the same cell house spend at least 40 hours a week together. Although there are about 500 inmates living in 250 cages on 5 floors, over a period of time a familiarity and rapport usually develops. Considering my cell is close to the guards' front desk and my cellmate is hyperly social, this significantly adds to our interaction. Cell house guards often have much more other work to occupy their time and do not care to be bothered by unnecessary cell searches which seldom uncover any serious contraband. If you or your cellmate get along with staff, they are less likely to be inconsiderate when searching your cell.

This week, my cell was searched without displacing much of my property, and while my cellmate and I were out to chow. Upon returning, I noticed the overhead fluorescent light was on, and my property boxes were left partially opened or moved. My cellmate's mattress was rolled up, but overall it was not so bad. I keep all my books, magazines, corporate reports, and a number of labeled 9 x 11 envelopes with various papers in my small box. I noticed that some of them had been taken out and put back in the wrong order. I also noticed my clothes had been sifted through in my large box. This did not take long to reorder, and I appreciated the courtesy of staff.

Before lunch, the other two Level E inmates and their cellmates had their possessions searched. I was bathing in the sink at the back of the cell when my cellmate told me they were in the holding cage across from our cell. Typically, all the Level E searches in C House are conducted simultaneously, and I was annoyed to be in the middle of washing up. I had a privacy sheet up across from the wall to the upper bunk. Water was all over the floor and I had soap all over my body. I said to my cellmate, "The guards have great timing." However, they never came into our cell.

While at chow, I mentioned to Anthony how I was fortunate not be inconvenienced earlier. Anthony's cellmate is a Level E as well, and noticed that I was bathing in the back of the cell when he was in the holding cage. He told me guards caught his cellmate though, in the same predicament. They did not want to wait for him to rinse and dry off. Despite this, Matt refused to immediately leave the cell without doing so. I was told the guards became angry by this, and demanded he hurry. They also threatened to ransack the cell, but did not carry through with their threat, and only left their belongings in a mild state of disarray.

Cell searches can come at many inconvenient times. Once I had already fallen asleep for the night when I was awakened by guards. Half awake, I put on my shower shoes and walked over to the holding cage across from my cell. One of the guards asked me how I was doing, and I responded, "Sleepy." He said I looked as if I was in bed, and I told him that I had been. The guard, who I have known since being here in C House, was a considerate man that I get along with well. He apologized for the late search. Although they had been given orders to conduct the Level E cell searches earlier, they had not gotten around to them until just then. Another guard was only in our cell for ten minutes or less. I walked back into my cage and crawled onto my bunk without bothering to reorder anything.

Earlier this month, I was eating a meal and watching the movie "The Fugitive," with Harrison Ford. I thought it was an appropriate film to watch after an inmate from Stateville had recently escaped. The man had jumped out of a moving transport van on the way back from a court writ. Unlike Harrison Ford, he was only on the loose for several hours before he was apprehended. I told my cellmate the Stateville escapee had a lot of spirit, but was not nearly as intelligent as Harrison Ford's character. My cellmate agreed that his flight was foolhardy, and went on and on about what he should have done differently. However, when the commercial break was over, I put my headphones back on and did not pay attention to him any more. My movie was interrupted not long after when guards came to the cell telling us they were going to conduct a search.

In the holding cage, I heard Matt gripe about when he was sent out on a court writ recently he was placed in the same van as the escapee had been. The van had not been cleaned and he was forced to sit on a bench that still had residual fecal matter and chemicals on it. The stench was overwhelming and he wanted to sue the transport guards. I had heard on television news that the escapee had been found hiding in a portable toilet, but I was not aware he hid down inside the noxious liquid until guards were laughing about it the day after. I assumed the van would have been cleaned or the entire seat removed, but it was not.

The holding cage across from my cell is about 10' x 10'. There is one door that can be locked, and one rectangular hole in the front to pass inmates food trays or to handcuff or unhandcuff them. The cage is made of interwoven horizontal and vertical steel bars separated by 3" squares and like most things at the prison, it is all painted gray. Buckets, or sometimes trash cans, sit on top of it and the adjoining cage to catch water when it rains. I can clearly see into my cell while a guard or guards are searching it, but seldom do. I care little about the search, just about how much guards will leave my cell in disorder. Although I will not say anything to them, my cellmate has no reservations about complaining.

A few weeks ago, a guard continued to search our cell well after the other guards returned from searching the other two Level E cells. Initially, my cellmate had wandered from the holding cage to talk to a man on the lower gallery. When Ely became restless, he returned to look and see what the guard was doing to take so long. The guard had inspected a set of my pens wrapped in a rubber band, a collection of items on my cellmate's bunk, the prescribed medication for my lower back pain, the underside of a mirror taped to the wall, and various other things and places.

When my cellmate returned, he was looking at the pictures in my John Wayne Gacy book. My cellmate yelled at him to quit meandering and hurry his ass up. There was nothing in the cell and he was just wasting time. When a different guard commented that this was the 2nd shift he was working, my cellmate really began to razz the guard in our cell. The guard responded he was just doing his job, but it was apparent he was tired and just filling time before his shift ended and he could go home. My cellmate is extremely hyper and obnoxious, and as we were walking back into the cell, the guard said he felt sorry that I had to live with him. I wish the placement officer was as sympathetic.

On a few occasions, guards will search the cell when showers for the gallery are run. By the evening, I have already bathed, usually because I exercise early in the norming and do not bother going to the showers. In maximum-security prisons in Illinois, many men think a shower is a treat, but it is not something I look forward to. The shower room is dirty and unsanitary. I also do not like bathing amongst a crowd of men, especially some of whom are homosexuals, mentally unstable, violent, or as socially obnoxious as my cellmate. Staying in the cell for me is a small period of time of peace away from Ely. When guards tell me they are going to search the cell, however, I will go to the enclosed shower waiting area to talk to Steve rather than stand in the holding cage. Sometimes, I will wait until most people have showered and then take my own, although this squanders a lot of time.

Now that Anthony has a Level E for a cellmate, I will usually talk to him in the holding cage when waiting for our cells to be searched. Last week, Anthony looked as if he had just rolled out of bed from a late afternoon nap. He seemed not to be in any mood for conversation, thus I did not bother him with any. Afterwards, my cellmate said that he thought Anthony and I could be brothers. This is not the first time he has said this, although there is little resemblance except that we are both white and are of the same approximate height and age. In the cell, I asked my cellmate why he thought we looked alike, and he said it was not so much our appearance, but demeanor. He explained that we were both quiet, sullen, and psychotic. Ironic how those who were clearly disturbed mentally would think that of Anthony and me because we are introverts, or normal. However, later that day, Anthony told me he had just learned that one of his sisters had died, and that was why he looked depressed in the holding cage. I suppose I look depressed often because I feel I have died.

My cellmate often harps on the lieutenant who oversees the inmates who are Level E's. Ely wants his security level brought down to "high". He continually tells staff, but especially the lieutenant, that he only has seven more years to do and he is the longest serving Level E that he is aware of. Time and time again, he will remind people of how short he is, and even if the doors were flung open he would not flee. His argument was made less convincing, however, when a man from Stateville with minor convictions and only a 7-year sentence jumped out of a moving van. I told my cellmate after this episode that the administration was not only unlikely to lower his security rating, but increase it. Instead of having just a green stripe down his pants and jacket, he would be given entirely fluorescent green clothes, including his underwear. My cellmate was watching "The Green Lantern" at the time, and I said the police are going to give him Green Lantern briefs, if not put a GPS tracking chip in his skull. Ely did not like any of these ideas.

Because my cellmate is so persistent and annoying, the lieutenant finally told him he would talk to the warden about his security level. This, I knew, was just a ruse to attempt to get Ely from pestering him continually. I am not present for their conversations, but my cellmate unfortunately tells me all about them. One time, he was very aggressive and was in the lieutenant's face arguing with him. From what I am told, another lieutenant stepped in between them to deescalate the altercation. The lieutenant's response was to order our cell to be searched as a form of retaliation. For about 15 minutes I waited in the holding cage with Ely, as a guard went meticulously through our cell and our belongings. He had a mirror with him, and used this to look underneath the bunk, sink, and stool. He carefully put his hand underneath the bars and the place where the door slides through. The guard even flipped through the pages of books to see if anything would fall out. It was obvious that he was looking for a knife. The lieutenant may have wanted to make sure my cellmate was not armed.

In the last couple of weeks, my cellmate has been given two sets of bad news. First, he was told that his Level E status would not be changed. Second, he was informed by the Illinois Supreme Court that his appeal was denied. I am suspicious if the high court even took his case, and this may have been a ruse to make others believe he had a chance of going home soon. With the lieutenant, warden, and even the director of IDOC flatly telling him he was going to stay a Level E probably for the rest of his sentence, there was no need to lie any further. I cannot fathom my extroverted cellmate not showing me his legal work. I am further convinced that he had no appeal pending. However, the bad news was offset by Ely receiving 90 days of good time back, and for me, the knowledge that I will only have to live with this man another month before he is moved.

Juveniles Sentenced to LWOP -- December 15, 2011

2011-12-27T18:30:00.016-06:00

Some people may think there is nothing worse than death. However, they could not be more mistaken. These people who fear dying do not know what true misery and suffering is. They have lived soft lives in Plato's allegorical cave of misconstrued perceptions. It is not death they should fear, but life--a life of continuous meaningless torment and anguish. Death is finite, however, misery can be drawn out for years upon years. Many seek the abolishment of capital punishment, especially amongst the political left who seek a utopian and illusionary world. However, if any sentence is so cruel that it should be abolished, it is natural life without the possibility of parole (LWOP).

This week, I noticed my cellmate holding a huge bound criminal appeal in his hands. As he was flipping through its hundreds of pages, he said that I may be interested in reading it. My initial thought was that I did not care to waste hours, if not days, of my time reading about an issue that did not apply to me. My cellmate has in the past given me legal papers thinking incorrectly that it was relevant to my case. This time would be no different, but what he told me greatly piqued my interest.

The appeal he held was an argument on behalf of a man sentenced to LWOP as a juvenile. My cellmate had the case because someone he knew outside of the prison was interested in advocating against that punishment, and he wanted to give her the names of organizations that were lobbying for its abolishment. However, he said it may be useful to me because I also was a juvenile when sentenced to LWOP. My cellmate mistakenly thought I was 17 at the time of the murder, and not 28 days past my 18th birthday. Although the issue did not apply to me, I have always had a hatred for the punishment smitten upon myself and numerous prisoners with LWOP that I have met or heard about over the years, especially those who were teenagers. For the last several days, I have spent the vast amount of my time reading and contemplating about the exhaustively comprehensive appeal.

The 4" thick legal document was a successive post conviction petition filed by a conglomerate of different groups, but mostly written by Amnesty International and the Human Rights Watch. The book my cellmate had in his hands was actually only Volume 5, and just an appendix to the appeal. However, most of it centers on one issue: juveniles should never be sentenced to LWOP. From every conceivable angle, the lawyers demonstrate how a protracted death sentence is an incredibly cruel and preposterous penalty for juvenile defenders, regardless of their crime. I was amazed by how well-written, researched, and comprehensive the appeal was. It was apparent this case was chosen to make a broad political and social statement, and not to simply support the individual defendant named on the front page.

Typically, copies of an appeal are only sent to the court and prosecutor's office. However, this appendix was sent to President Barack Obama and numerous governors across the United States. It was also sent to the Federal and State Congress, as well as the attorney generals of both levels of government. The material, furthermore, was addressed to judges and prosecutors throughout the country. All of these political offices were implored to change the law, commute the sentences of juveniles with LWOP, or do whatever they could in their capacity to stop adolescents from being tried as adults and punished with a sentence that leaves them with no hope. Although I was 18, I would have liked my trial judge to see this appeal before he told me he was giving me the same hope I gave the victim, Dean Fawcett. And that was none.

The appeal is written for Adolfo Davis, who was 14 years old when he was arrested for a double homicide in 1990. According to what I read, Davis was a lackey in Chicago's Gangster Disciples gang. Two older adult gang members brought him along to rob a rival gang, which was selling drugs out of an apartment. They used a buyer to gain entry to the residence, whereupon the older G.D.'s shot two men to death and tried to kill two others. They all then fled the scene of the crime together. Police soon thereafter arrested the trio. Davis confessed to being the guardian for the robbery, which turned into an assassination. Although he was armed with a gun, he did not intend for anyone to be killed, and he never fired a shot.

Davis was subsequently charged with two counts of 1st degree murder, two counts of attempted murder, and one count of home invasion. Although today all children 13 and older are automatically transferred to adult jurisprudence in Illinois, in 1990, the case was first heard by a juvenile court. This judge, however, quickly decided to have Davis tried as an adult. He did not apparently base his decision on the severity of the charges, as I would assume, but because of his belief that Davis acted aggressively and in a premeditated manner. He is also officially on the record as transferring the case due to Davis' significant delinquent behavior.

Other than arguing Adolfo Davis' sentence of LWOP is unconstitutional, the appeal sets forth new evidence that defense attorneys claim may have persuaded the original judge to keep his case in the juvenile court system. This evidence comes in the form of an affidavit from the man who was used to gain entry into the drug dealer's apartment. This man states that Davis seemed to be scared and was merely a "tag along." When he testified earlier that the group talked about murder, he did not mean to include the defendant. Davis did not say anything, and stayed outside the apartment in the hallway.

Adolfo Davis is in the same position I am in regard to seeking legal relief. All of his regular set of appeals have been lost or dismissed. The only option he has, other than a clemency petition to the governor, is a successive post conviction petition. These appeals, however, are incredibly difficult to succeed in just getting a court to review, let alone win. A defendant must either show actual innocence with new evidence not available at trial, or meet "cause" and "prejudice" requirements. "Cause" is defined legally as a reason why the issue was not able to be brought to the court's attention previously in a regular appeal. "Prejudice" is defined as an issue which likely would have altered the verdict or sentence. In Davis' case, the affidavit demonstrates cause because it was just obtained recently and could not have been presented earlier. His attorneys also argue it meets the prejudice requirement because, although it would not have altered the verdict, it possibly could have altered the sentence because, if left in the juvenile court, Davis would not currently be in prison. This is his 5th post conviction appeal, and all former petitions failed to be heard by the court.

By chance, yesterday, I had the opportunity to meet Adolfo Davis who is known in prison as Spooncake. While I was listening to talk radio, as usual trying to block out my cellmate's incessant chatter, he tapped me on the shoulder. I did not notice who he was talking to in the holding cage across from my cell, but there was the person I was reading about. I was not aware he even lived in the same cell house before Ely told me that was him. Once again, my cellmate mistakenly told Davis that I was also a juvenile who was given LWOP as an accountable party. Davis asked me if I was one of the numerous people interviewed by Amnesty International or the other groups which helped create the report. I told him no, but did not bother to explain my cellmate's error. Davis was a somewhat short, black man who was clearly in his mid-30's now. The 14-year-old child I had read about was in the past.

After my cellmate finished talking to Spooncake, he began to address me. I had already put my headphones back on, and had to take them off to follow what he was saying. He told me that Davis wanted to distinguish his case amongst the thousands of other juveniles sentenced to LWOP in the United States by making a point that he was found guilty of 1st degree murder via a theory of accountability, and not as the actual killer. Amnesty International and the Human Rights Watch were, however, only lobbying on behalf of all juveniles regardless of their crime or culpability, if they had no possibility of release. I told Ely this may be a wise strategy, but I understood that these organizations were not interested in individual people, but greater causes. No adolescent should receive LWOP, regardless of what they did.

Volume 5 of Davis' appeal was full of many statistics and charts. According to one of them, there were 2,300 men in the U.S. prisons serving LWOP who were 17 or younger at the time of the crime. Other than Israel, the U.S. was alone in the world with such draconian punishments. Most countries, in fact, have laws explicitly forbidding LWOP for minors, and some forbid it for adults as well, including Canada. It was interesting looking at a global map with dots representing all the juveniles who will never be let out of prison clustered in America, except for a handful on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean. The U.S. had so many dots that it was nearly a solid color, while the rest of the world's nations were clear.

I have known for quite some time how different the U.S. justice system is compared to other countries. Many years ago, when I placed personal ads on the Internet, I often met and wrote girls overseas. They were always incredulous that I had LWOP. Many could not even comprehend how I was even prosecuted for lending my vehicle, especially when the man who supposedly borrowed it was acquitted. Many women told me my case would not have been allowed to proceed to trial in their countries. I was also told how the maximum penalty in many of their countries was 20 years, or less, and life was always parolable. I never asked about their juvenile systems, but I assume they are also nothing like what exists in America.

The vast majority of juveniles with LWOP in the U.S. have been convicted of murder. However, I learned one-quarter of these are based on the charge of felony-murder. The felony-murder law does not require the defendant to kill anyone. It only requires the defendant to be proven of committing a felony where a person was killed. The prosecutor uses felony-murder laws to convict people who never had the intent to commit murder, and who did not. Unfortunately, statistics of how many minors were convicted of murder via a theory of accountability could not be ascertained. Prosecutors do not indict defendants of accessory to murder, but just argue it to obtain murder convictions. Like myself, Adolfo Davis was charged and convicted of 1st degree murder although it was a co-defendant who actually committed the crime. According to the charts I reviewed, a little over 90% of all juveniles with LWOP have been convicted of murder, but I am willing to wager less than half of them actually killed someone.

Volume 5 of Davis' appeal cites racial statistics of juveniles sentenced to LWOP, and finds black adolescents receive the punishment 10 times more often than Caucasians, and concludes from this that the system is racially prejudiced. Time and time again, I hear liberal groups make this claim, not only with regard to punishments within the justice system, but in regards to employment, education, housing, and so forth. However, I disagree with the associative deductions made. For example, just because there are more African and Mexican juveniles with LWOP does not necessarily mean they were not treated equally. The statistics do not take into consideration the types of crimes, the backgrounds of the convicts, including criminal records, or most importantly, the obvious fact that Caucasians commit fewer crimes to begin with. These social statistics are often used to promote a political agenda, and one I do not share.

Adolfo Davis is not actually the "poster boy" for the cause to cease the punishment of LWOP to juveniles. Davis readily admits to being a member of the Gangster Disciples since the age of 10. In fact, he states the criminal organization became his true and only family. From the age of 9, Davis had been in and out, but mostly in, Audy homes. He was arrested for numerous crimes, including armed robbery, as a child. According to his own words, he sold drugs for his older adult co-defendant from an early age and regularly robbed people with him or by himself. He thought nothing of the crimes he committed, and believed it was just a part of life. Many of the juveniles interviewed admitted openly their ceaseless criminality. I tend to believe the majority of these children came from the inner city ghettos, and were not Caucasian.

Apparently, the terrible background of juveniles with LWOP is used to support, rather than detract, from the argument that they should never receive the punishment. For example, lawyers for Davis greatly describe his abysmal home life, education, and intelligence. His mother is repeatedly reported to be an alcoholic and drug addict. He does not know who his father was and his primary caregiver was a grandmother who did not seemingly give much care or guidance. Davis' probation officer and the DCFS regularly noted the squalor and unsanitary conditions of the apartment he lived in, and that he had few clothes or food to eat. Davis regularly did not go to school, and after his arrest he was found to have the educational equivalent of a child in 2nd grade. His intelligence quotient was also found to be 82, well under average. All these details of Davis and other juveniles are provided to create sympathy and mitigate their behavior. However, I find that an adolescent who comes from a solid family, a good home, and has a high intelligence is less likely to recidivate. I also believe that those juveniles have a better chance to become productive members of society and their prospects are exceedingly higher.

The other arguments made by Amnesty International and others are profoundly more compelling, and I am glad that these are elaborated on at much length. It is obvious to me, and I assume others, that juveniles have considerably less maturity, and their culpability thus should be less than that of an adult. Most minors have an underdeveloped sense of responsibility, and are unable to foresee the long term consequences of their actions. Decision making is based on far less experience and wisdom, and the decisions made are often made precipitously. The impulse control of adolescents is far inferior to their adult counterparts. I also think most people will agree the susceptibility of teenagers to negative influences of peer groups are exceedingly higher. However, in my opinion, the greatest argument not to end a child's life is that their character and in fact their entire being has yet to be developed. This can be seen, not only physically and by behaviors, but by recent studies of the brain. The mind is not fully developed for many people until the age of 20. Because of this, it is absurd to believe that a crime of an adolescent is indicative of incorrigible depraved character. For most minors, criminal behavior is fleeting, and as adults, delinquents can become model citizens. Juveniles are enormously more able to change and be successfully rehabilitated.

In 2005, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Roger v. Simmons, that the execution of juveniles was unconstitutional. The appeal of Davis I believe correctly seeks to demonstrate LWOP is also unconstitutional. What is life in prison but a protracted death sentence? The punishment is infinitely worse because misery and pain continue decades rather than a few minutes, if there is any pain at all with modern execution methods. Instead of slipping away into darkness, a juvenile has a lifetime of punishment. If I live until I am 78, I will have endured over a half century of torment in maximum-security penitentiaries. It is grossly ironic the court believes a quick death is cruel and unusual punishment for a juvenile, but not a slow one.

Last year, the U.S. Supreme Court became a little more reasonable, ruling in Graham v. Florida that LWOP for adolescents not convicted of murder is also unconstitutional. I do not know why, however, the crime of murder makes the punishment valid, nor how this ruling does not distinguish those convicted via accountability or felony-murder. It is also interesting how this ruling has not apparently been made retroactive to all the juveniles sentenced before 2010. There are over 200 people currently with no chance of parole still in U.S. prisons, although they were minors at the time of their crime and their crime was not murder. The Illinois Supreme Court has also made a ruling prohibiting LWOP for juveniles, however, it is also not retroactive to the over 100 people sentenced before the ruling. Adolfo Davis tried in his 4th successive post conviction petition to receive relief under it, but was denied.

The U.S. Supreme Court looked at three factors that are the basis of punishment: deterrence, retribution, and incapacitation. The Court found that none of these applied to juveniles who had not committed a murder. The sentence of life in prison does not deter minors because they do not consider the ramifications of their actions. Even adults, furthermore, may be ignorant of the law, especially when it applies to obscure and vague statutes. Although I never lent my vehicle as falsely reported, I had never heard of murder via a theory of accountability, and I am sure the vast majority of people who read this blog never heard of the felony-murder laws either. To incapacitate a child by taking away any possibility of freedom, the Supreme Court stated it must be assumed the offender will forever be a danger to society. A child who has not yet formed an identity can never be said to be unrehabilitatable: LWOP "makes no reasonable contribution to acceptable goals of punishment" and is "nothing more than purposeless and needless imposition of pain and suffering." The Constitution of Illinois also says: "All penalties shall be determined both according to the seriousness of offense and with the objective of restoring the offender to useful citizenship," however, these wise words are not followed.

The groups that oppose life in prison for juveniles advocate an alternative sentencing scheme. Instead of a protracted death sentence, they want the minors to be eligible for parole according to their age, plus one year. For example, a 14-year-old such as Adolfo Davis, would be able to see the parole board after he served 15 years. Why the extra year, I do not understand, nor is it explained. I find this sentencing proposal, although better than LWOP, still absurd. A teenager under this system could continue to be denied parole indefinately. Furthermore, I do not believe adult offenders should ever do more than 20 years, and cannot justify a minimum 15 year sentence for a 14-year-old. Rather, I would suggest a sentencing range from half the minor's age to the age he or she was at the time of the offense. Illinois had indeterminate sentencing ranges for adults before 1980, and I believe the state should return to this for juveniles.

In today's Wall Street Journal, I read an article entitled "New Death Sentences Fall to Lowest Level in 35 Years" by Ashby Jones. The article gave credence to the decline to a number of factors. Violent crime, despite its attention in the media, has sharply dropped in the last 20 years, and is actually less than levels in the 1950's on a per capita basis. There are thus fewer occasions for prosecutors to seek the death penalty. The reporter also noted a shift in support of capital punishment and a change in state laws. Even the Governor of Illinois Pat Quinn, was quoted saying the death penalty system in the state was seriously broken. Other governors also concurred. Another reason for the reduction of executions is the expense. The average cost to prosecute a death penalty case in Maryland was $3 million, and I will estimate it is not much lower in Illinois. This was in fact a major reason for the legislature's abolishment in my state, despite what the governor said. Finally, the article noted how in 1970 there was no LWOP, but now it is an option.

This article was incredibly infuriating. If the justice system is broken, why is it not fixed? Why is not money used to give defendants more protections? Why is LWOP thought of as a substitute for execution? It is apparent that politicians do not want to fix the system. They would rather just let injustice continue and let thousands rot away in prison. Capital punishment opponents should not applaud the decreased use of the death penalty. It would be far better to fix the judicial system, increase executions, and abolish LWOP. State executions are not an abomination, but the draconian sentencing and criminal statutes are. Any day I would take death rather than a lifetime of suffering.

Arts and Crafts -- December 8, 2011

2011-12-22T23:25:00.007-06:00

On Monday, the prison was taken off lockdown status. After the brief escape of a Stateville inmate on Friday, the regular monotonous routine at this maximum-security penitentiary resumed. Men went back to work picking up trash, mopping floors, washing laundry, cutting hair, cooking food and scooping the slop onto trays. Those that did not have details were mostly confined to their cells, except for chow lines and an occasional yard, prison program, or religious service. Some prisoners made use of their abundant time making various arts and crafts and attempting to peddle their goods to make a buck. Others simply occupied their time creatively just for their own enjoyment. People outside these prison walls may be surprised by all the various things inmates make in their cells.

Earlier this week, I watched a program on Chicago's Public Broadcasting Station (PBS). The station often has travel programs such as "Rick Steve's Europe." On occasion, I will watch these to get away from Stateville. It is as close as I will ever come to a vacation. This week, a program about Christmas crafts made in the small medieval border towns of Germany and Switzerland was on. It was nice to see the warm and folksy ambiance of these towns. They have a tremendous amount of history, and their quaint cities were lavishly ornamented in Christmas decor. I do not care much for the consumerism of the holiday, but there were numerous shops offering various arts, crafts, and foods, especially chocolates. Although their craftsmanship was superior to what is offered in the penitentiary, inmates here at Stateville make a number of handcrafted goods that are reflective of their culture and talents.

My cellmate has thankfully continued to occupy himself making jewelry boxes. He has a variety of them made out of intricately folded and woven paper and cookie plastic wrappings on the cell counter top. Apparently, he is advertising them to passersby and inmates stuck in the holding cage across from our cell. The best of his jewelry boxes is at the far end, facing the bars for everyone to see. It is a 6" x 4" shallow box made with white and pink paper. He has added a paper pink rose to the front and an etched mirror on the front and back of the lid.

The cell I live in is in a high traffic area of the cell house, and many people have asked Ely about his boxes. It is as if they are window shopping, and although I despise the extra attention, my cellmate loves it. He now has yet another subject of conversation, and possibly a sale to be had. Men will ask to see his boxes, whereupon he will let them scrutinize his handiwork. Sometimes, they will offer a trade, but more often than not, they are just browsing.

Depending on the size of the box and the work that went into it, Ely will expect a certain payment. Usually, he will want $10 for one, and if it can be paid in coffee or sweets, that is better. The price of mirrors at Stateville has gone up to $2, and it is an additional $2 for Ely to have them engraved. My cellmate does not have a tattoo gun, nor does he know how to make designs with it. Hence, he charges extra to have another prisoner make these enhancements.

Tattoos are probably still the most lucrative and in demand artwork in the penitentiary. Those men who are well skilled as tattoo artists can make an excellent hustle. Recently I spoke to the man who was my neighbor in the Roundhouse and goes by the name Tattoo. His real name is Michael Knuth, and people can see his mugshot on the IDOC website under "inmate search." Michael's entire body and face are covered in tattoos. I asked him if he is making a good deal of money now that he is in general population. Although he was a tattoo artist before his arrest, he is not doing any tattoo work in prison. He tells me it is not worth the penalty of going to Segregation. Instead, he draws tattoo patterns for others to use.

While talking to Tattoo, he told me of a man in his cell house who is making miniature models of Harley Davidson motorcycles out of paper. I was told that the finished product is painted and looks almost like the real thing. The prisoner making them charges people $50. Although Tattoo tells me they are well worth the money, I tend to believe he does not have too many sales. Fifty dollars is a lot of money in prison, and there are not many here who are biker enthusiasts. He would do better selling his paper motorcycle models at Menard Correctional.

Most prisoners do not have a prime cell location to advertise their goods, like mine unfortunately has. Instead, they will have to rely on word in the cell house being passed around, or will have inmate workers go down galleries peddling their arts and crafts. Throughout the week, cell house workers have brought various handmade products to my cell. I have ignored them, but my cellmate will readily engage them, even though he has no commissary to trade. One of the most popular goods being sold by workers currently is Christmas cards. Using heavy paper or cardboard that can be used as cardstock, men will write messages and draw pictures on the holiday cards. They will typically use markers, colored pencils, or pens to decorate them.

This week, I wrote a number of my relatives letters, although I did not send any of them Christmas cards. I appreciate the culture and traditions of the season, so I add a little Yule decor to my letters such as a few snow flakes, some holly, or other ornamentation. A couple of letters I simply addressed the envelopes in green or red Gothic script. Considering that Internal Affairs is delaying and even destroying my outgoing mail, they will probably not reach their destinations before the 25th, if ever.

One of the men peddling his arts and crafts on the gallery was selling cloth bracelets. He had sewn these bracelets with string or yarn. The prisoner had a collection of various designs and colors for sale. My cellmate told him he had no money and was "po" (poor). The man said he will give him three for a jewelry box, and then offered four when my cellmate said no. Even four were not an attractive deal for Ely. Ely had already purchased a designer cloth bracelet from another man. It was made of white and violet string, and at one part of the band it had his name embroidered on one side and the name of the woman he was sending it to on the other. My cellmate only bought the bracelet thinking the woman would be so moved that she would send him money for his birthday or for Christmas. However, no money or even a thank you letter was forthcoming from her. Although initially my cellmate bragged that his investment would be returned at least ten fold, I believe he is now disappointed he wasted his money on an old fat woman.

At the chow hall this week, an old white man who walks with a crutch sat at the table with me. Upon the mentioning of the cloth bracelets being sold on the gallery, he pulled up the sleeves of his jacket and showed others his plastic bracelets. He had four shiny turquoise blue bracelets on his arms. They were intricately designed and stretched so he was able to take one off his wrist by bending it open. Those at the table could tell he was proud to display his work. However, although I am certain the man put considerable effort into making them, no one was interested in buying one.

Also of discussion at the chow table was former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich. This Wednesday, he was finally sentenced to 14 years in prison for numerous counts of corruption, including attempting to sell the vacated senate seat of Barack Obama. Prisoners commented on how the ex-governor would remain out of prison until well after Christmas and will go to a nice minimum-security federal penitentiary. The men were envious of what was seen as preferential treatment. Most men who are at Stateville are not given a bond, and those that were are immediately taken into custody upon their conviction. Men with over ten years are also sent to a medium-security penitentiary, not a minimum. Even medium security prisons are an enormous improvement compared to Stateville. There was talk about how Blagojevich will have a radically better life than any of us. Personally, however, I took notice how there was a distinction between convicted murderers and a man who abused his political office.

Last week, when old man Bruce died of cancer on my birthday, my cellmate told me that he used to make colored handkerchiefs and T-shirts. I do not recall prisoners making designer shirts, although I do remember how popular the handkerchiefs were. Many prisoners had these decorated with various designs years ago. Many black prisoners had their gang colors or symbols drawn on the cloth in dye, markers, or pen. Mexicans also used handkerchiefs to display their gang membership, but there were many green, red, and white flags with Aztec Indian motifs. Popular amongst Caucasian men were swastikas, rebel flags, or motorcycle insignias. Men also bought the artwork on handkerchiefs to send out to family or friends. Over the years I have been incarcerated, however, handkerchiefs have become obsolete and I rarely see one anymore.

Other than very basic education, there are no more school classes in maximum-security prisons in Illinois. However, there are a few programs inmates can attend led by volunteers. For example, there is a Long Term Offender and House of Healing Program, both of which are to help prisoners make the best of their time. There is also a Creative Writing and Art class. I have never attended any of these because I do not need assistance doing my time. I also know the latter two classes are not taught by professionals, and they do not have any skill. They mostly just play a supportive role and encourage convicts to write poetry or to draw and paint. I asked someone recently who is in the Creative Art class if he figured out how to finger paint yet, and he told me I underestimated his talent. I apologized and said that I did not know he had excelled to be a master of Jackson Pollock already. I do not think he knew who Pollock was, however, and believe my attempt at humor was unsuccessful.

Some men at Stateville, however, can really draw and paint well. I have seen a few almost professional looking paintings on canvas panels be sent out of the prison recently. Because they cannot go out with the regular mail, they are often given to counselors who bring them to the personal property office to be packaged and mailed out or picked up on a visit. Prisoners cannot have paintings on their walls.

Some prisoners who can paint or draw well sell their artwork online. I have heard the woman who presides over the Creative Art class will assist in having prisoners' art auctioned on websites. Some men will simply do paintings or drawings for other inmates for a fee. I have heard of paintings selling for $50 and more. A man I know, who goes by the name Spider, sells his oil paintings for sometimes $100. He once offered to make a painting for me of anything I wanted for free. I considered taking him up on this, however, I knew that my family or girlfriend at the time would not appreciate the work unless it was done by myself.

A couple of months ago, I read a book on John Wayne Gacy. In the middle of the book are a number of pictures, including a terrible portrait he made of his defense lawyer who later became my presiding judge. This made me recall in 1994 when the serial killer was executed at Stateville, many people burned his alleged artwork, thinking it would become valuable after his death. These people however, did not realize that Gacy could not paint or draw at all. His greatest efforts were not much better than a child's. All of those clown paintings were done by someone else, and he just signed them.

I have not bothered spending much of my time on arts and crafts while in the penitentiary. However, I remember when I first came to prison that I noticed how many prisoners lived out of cardboard boxes stacked along the walls of their cells or underneath their bunks. I began to make cabinets out of cardboard that looked like, and were as strong as, real wood cabinets. I supposed the enterprise came easily to me because I had spent time working at a cabinet manufacturer. While there, I worked every stage of the business from cutting the wood into proper lengths, and loading the final products on a truck for shipment.

After I made dressers, a desk, a sound system cabinet, a couple of clothing chests, and numerous shelving units for my cellmate and I, other inmates wanted me to make them furniture as well. For a short time, I mass-produced cabinets for inmates, but the time I spent on making them was not worth the commissary I earned. Just like when I worked for the cabinet business, I quickly learned my labor was not worth my salary. I still made furniture for the needs of my cellmate and I, or for the very few people I associated with, but that was it. Eventually the cabinet business was forbidden, when in the late 1990's, the IDOC supplied inmates with two plastic boxes to put all their property in. Even when I made two television shelves, I was brought into the Sergeant's office to be talked to.

I can draw very well, however, I have rarely done so in prison. I need solitude and quiet to focus on any art work. This is not commonly found in prison. At certain times when I have had my own cell, I have used colored pencils to draw. I have mostly drawn for my own enjoyment and not for any payment. The last picture I created was done years ago, and for my then-girlfriend. I drew a portrait of us together in black and white, except for the red in the charm around her neck and the blue in my eyes. She told me I made her look prettier than she was, but she was mistaken.

There are numerous arts and crafts being made at Stateville. This holiday season, I have seen an assortment being peddled: jewelry boxes, suckers made out of melted hard candy, cloth bracelets and necklaces, fake roses made out of toilet paper, Christmas cards and tattoos. There seems to be a lot of goods for sale in the penitentiary, although I do not know how much demand there is for them. Just like outside these prison walls, retailers pushed heavily for sales and were momentarily pleased by a record turnout. However, these bargain shoppers I believe were only a reflection of how many people have their finances strapped thin. The jubilation that began this holiday season will probably peter out, and this is just as well. Even Charlie Brown knows there is more to Christmas than exuberant consumerism.

The Lab -- November 18, 2011

2011-12-13T22:39:00.007-06:00

Grudgingly, I broke my regular routine this morning. Instead of eating breakfast while I watched the 7 a.m. news programs, I immediately began my workout after waking. Yesterday, I received a lab pass for 9 a.m. and I expected the nurse to enter the building about this time. I wanted to have completed my hour exercise regimen, bathed, and dressed before a guard opened the cell door. The pass notified me not to eat anything after midnight for a blood test and therefore I could not have breakfast.

This was the third lab pass I have received. The first appointment I missed because I went to the gym. The second pass was given to me on the day the prison went on lockdown. After learning a sergeant had been beaten unconscious, I crumpled up the pass and threw it in the toilet. I thought there was no way any health care passes would be honored just a few days after the institution was put on a Level 1 lockdown. I was surprised, however, when the Monday morning after the assault my name along with a number of others was called out on the cell house loudspeaker. The guard told us to get ready, but I ignored him. I had eaten a large breakfast and was currently working out.

When the cell house sergeant came to my cell to let me out, I told him I was refusing the pass. He wanted me to see the nurse regardless, and he told me she was in the building. I was dressed in gym shoes, shorts, and had a T-shirt tied around my head like a bandanna to help prevent sweat from running down into my eyes. After putting my shirt back on my body, I allowed the sergeant to handcuff my wrists through the chuck hole in the cell bars. Waiting in line sweating in damp clothes to see the nurse, I was not happy. My routine had been disrupted for nothing. The sergeant was standing near me and I do not think I could hide my animosity. Only drug and tuberculosis tests were mandatory. There was no reason for the sergeant to insist on me seeing the nurse.

The sergeant is a large white man with a beard and long hair kept in a ponytail. Although he can be stern, he usually has a calm, cool, collected demeanor. Keeping with his ZZ Top-like persona, he will wear sunglasses even on a cloudy day. The sergeant does not look like your typical guard who usually has short cropped hair or a bald head. I tend to believe he is a biker, and I can imagine him riding a Harley after work. The sergeant has been assigned C House for about two months. Despite how I have only spoken briefly with him and his insistence that I see the nurse, I tend to like the way he conducts himself. From what I am told from other prisoners, he is nothing like the sergeant who was severely beaten.

The nurse was in the sergeant's office which is at the far end of the cell house, opposite the showers. I sat down next to the nurse and explained that I had already eaten mistakenly thinking my appointment would be cancelled due to the lockdown. She said it was not a problem and she would reschedule me. I had considered letting her draw my blood however, just to see if medical staff actually analyzed it. I knew a man who had his bi-annual blood test taken and no one noticed his radically abnormal white blood cell count. The test was never reviewed until over a year later when he fell ill and was taken to an outside hospital. When those doctors diagnosed him with cancer, staff at Stateville finally looked at his blood work and discovered the alarming numbers.

Despite how I altered my routine this morning, I soon discovered my day was not going to go as planned. Over the loudspeaker a guard announced the prison was off lockdown. My cellmate who had formerly been snoring, abruptly woke up excited. He did not like lockdowns and was anxious to talk to people and leave the confines of the cell. Upon hearing our cell house was first for lunch and that we had gym in the afternoon, he was ready to climb off his bunk and get ready. He asked me if I was going to chow, and I told him I had a health care pass for 9 a.m. Since the prison was off lockdown, apparently, I had to walk over to the Health Care Unit. The nurse would not be coming to the cell house.

It was not long after my cellmate made himself a potent cup of coffee that another announcement was made. All 9:00 health care passes would be going out first thing this morning with details. Despite this, I continued to exercise. I knew that count could not clear until after 8, and I had time to get ready. My cellmate and I shared the same tiny space as well as the same sink and toilet. I did not swap places with him until he had finished what he was doing.

As I washed my face and brushed my hair, we could hear a lieutenant complaining loudly. She rambled on in a crackling voice about how convicts should be punished for what happened to Sergeant Johnson and not be let off lockdown. She went on to say she did not want to be in the cell house if prisoners were not locked in their cages. To this statement, I heard an inmate say "Then you should leave." Prisoners did not like this woman who on occasion substituted for the regular lieutenant, and it was no secret why.

The substitute lieutenant was very unprofessional, and had an unpleasant appearance and attitude. Personally, she reminded me of a witch, and not the seductively attractive type, but the squat, ugly type that one may imagine dwelled in a cave hunched over a cauldron stirring a bubbling brew of bat wings, eye of newt and children's body parts. Not long ago, I paged through the comics of the Chicago Tribune and saw a strip called "Broom Hilda." The green witch with a mole on her hooked nose wearing the characteristic black pointed hat reminded me of the woman who was in charge of the cell house today.

My cellmate, listening to the woman continue to speak negatively of prisoners, said to me that he has found my soul mate. I think he was trying to goad me into talking, but possibly he was also commenting that we shared a similar personality. I told him she was the exact opposite of the type of woman I sought after. I care less how aged, ugly, and bitter I become after decades in prison, I will never settle for an old hag. I will buy myself a pretty effeminate mail order bride from East Europe, and if I am penniless, I will prefer to just be alone. Ely was of the opinion that I will be alone, and he may be correct.

Outside of my cell amongst the men going to their assignments, I overheard the grumbling of inmates. It seemed many people were listening to the lieutenant rant. Someone said that she should also be beaten down like the sergeant a couple of weeks ago. However, it may be that she is intentionally trying to provoke a prisoner to assault her. Staff who are assaulted are paid generously while on leave. Those who have worked a number of years are sometimes offered early retirement with full pension and benefits. Furthermore, assaulted staff are often able to sue the IDOC for thousands of dollars, if not over a million. If this is the lieutenant's intentions, I think she should work in a different cell house. C House is considered the least aggressive, and many old men live in the lower galleries.

When I arrived at the prison's Health Care Unit, I noticed an older man I knew from a different cell house. He went by the name "Hawkeye," but because of his case and an odd story he related to me, I sometimes call him "Chicken Hawk." Chicken Hawk is in prison for vehicular hijacking and rape. I am not certain of the details because he has only vaguely referred to them. However, I do know how he paid for the address of a boy who sent a helium balloon aloft as part of a school project. The cord attached to the balloon asked the finder to write back so the class could learn where their balloons traveled. I reckon the boy or the boy's parents never thought he would be receiving a letter from a convict at Stateville. Hawkeye tells me he received a visit by a guard sent by the warden after responding. The boy's parents did not want him writing again. Despite the questions I have about Hawkeye, he is a very normal, down to earth person--a rarity at Stateville, and I said hello to him when entering the holding cage.

I did not stay long in the cage before my name and several others were called for lab. The lab is not actually a laboratory as someone may imagine. It is just a small office where a nurse takes blood samples. Outside the office I waited for my turn in a hallway. Just across from the lab is the dentist office, and one inmate peeked his head in there to talk with the females who work there. After chatting for awhile, he was asked what he wanted. He told them he wanted to know when he would be called to have a tooth pulled. This was an obvious ruse, however, and he was just looking for conversation.

Eventually, it was my turn and I walked into the small office. I sat down next to the nurse who inmates had begun to call "Casey Anthony" while her case was of prominence in the news. The nurse was about the same age and height. She was also a brunette, but other than this I did not see any similarity. I was not even sure it was her the men were referring to until I asked her out of curiosity when she was passing out medications on the second shift. She became very upset just by my inquiry for some reason. I still to this day do not know why. I said to my cellmate at the time, "I wonder if she would feel better if I tell her I also would have acquitted her"? He said he did not think so.

The nurse was friendly and casually social as she prepared some supplies. She asked me how I was doing this morning, and I answered, "Aggravated." She said she hoped it was not because I was there to give a blood sample. "No," I told her, "It was just my life at Stateville." The nurse seemed to genuinely empathize with what I said, and told me she was sorry to hear this. When she put on a pair of gloves, I told her she should probably put on several pairs considering where she worked. She did not seem too concerned about her work but I watched her carefully to make sure she used a new needle and was hygienic. Apparently, the nurse had done this so often it was rather routine for her. After wrapping my arm with a band she closed my hand to ostensibly have me make a fist to cause the blood veins to be more visible, but this was not necessary. I had over ten veins that were clearly seen in my arm.

After the nurse completed taking two vials of blood from me, I asked her if anyone actually looked at the results of the tests. She told me they were, and apparently to assure me of this, she showed me a chart. Today, I was being checked for cholesterol, white blood cell count, and a number of other things. I did not think the list proved anything but I listened to her. Before I left she asked me if I could give a urine sample. I asked her how much of a sample, and she showed me a small jar. I told her I thought I could manage.

I walked down the hallway back to the area of the holding cages. Beside one is a bathroom and I stepped inside. The bathroom is odd because it has a real ceramic toilet and a separate sink with a polished steel mirror above it. I have become accustomed to the connected bathroom fixtures, and the only mirror I had in my cell was a little plastic one that had a poor reflective surface. I looked in the mirror to see my aged face. I looked even older, I thought. Outside the bathroom was a red bucket, and I dumped my urine sample in there before I was locked in the holding cage to wait for an escort back to the cell house.

Surprisingly, I returned in time to join the line to the chow hall. Usually, a health care pass will require hours of waiting. I am glad I did not have to endure so much annoyance, although the feed line was particularly crowded and noisy. Prisoners have been on lockdown for a couple of weeks and most were out of commissary food. They were eager to get outside their cells, talk, and even eat prison food. Most men spoke about the incident in D House. According to talk, the inmates who were in their cells and hit by buckshot were not seen by medical staff, or at least not for some time later. The guard who fired the shots may be under suspension. It is not proper procedure for a warning shot to be fired next to the incident because there is a great possibility of deflection.

Before gym, my cellmate was asking people for an empty bottle. The drinking fountain in the gym only gives forth rusty orange water. No prisoner who knows any better ever drinks from it. Instead, men bring bottles of water with them. My cellmate finally was able to get a bottle from a gallery worker. The gallery worker, however, has Hepatitis C, and I told Ely about this. He tossed the bottle out and thanked me. I did not tell him about it for his own benefit, but my own. If my cellmate has Hepatitis, then the chances of me contracting it are much greater. I noticed how he wipes off the sink, spreading germs everywhere, and I would not be surprised if he does not put his lips on the faucet when getting a drink of water. I thought about the nurse at the Health Care Unit who draws blood from inmates at Stateville who regularly have not only Hepatitis but herpes, syphilis, TB, and HIV. I wish she would be more careful.

Prisoners are never called back for a follow-up on their blood or urine tests. Purportedly, if something is wrong a man will be given further tests or be treated, however, I have not seen it done this way. Usually, the reverse is true. Once an inmate becomes severely ill, they will look at his blood work or the results of the urine test. Preventative care or treatment is too expensive. It is much more cost effective, from the prison's point of view, to wait until a prisoner keels over with a heart attack or has kidney failure, and then deal with it. Fortunately, I believe I am in good health.

Birthday Blues -- December 2, 2011

2011-12-11T23:43:00.013-06:00

This week was yet another of no significance other than to mark my slow death in prison. On Wednesday, I spent my 19th birthday as a captive. While many prisoners may count down their years to freedom, time only brings men with natural life closer to the grave. With every year I spend tormented in captivity, I only grow more miserable and bitter. The last several days I have dwelled on my age, injustice, and the distant past that has brought me here.

On Monday, I went to the Health Care Unit to see one of the prison psychologists. Recently, my doctor was changed, and the new one was interested about my case. I am not certain what good these doctors serve. They are unable to make my life any better, and I do not care to talk. Talking about my hell-like environment does not make it go away. I am told that it is therapeutic for some people to babble about their problems, but for me it has no consequential value. Talking about how I was wrongfully convicted and given the most severe punishment only made me depressed. In a monotone dead voice I related the facts, and she took notes. Possibly, she thinks this background information will serve some purpose.

My cellmate is attracted to the black psychologist I have begun to see. He has attempted to get into her anger management group just so he can flirt with her. However, when he met with the mental health care supervisor, Ely was told that he does not have any anger issues. I agree. My cellmate's problem is his hyperactivity and that he talks too much. He is annoying and does not know how to shut up. A bad case of laryngitis would be more productive than anything a psychologist could do for him.

After leaving her office, I sat in the holding cage. There was a man there whose court transcripts I have read. The man blew away his estranged wife and her new boyfriend with a shot gun. On the stand, he was asked if he killed them and he answered he did not know. Well, even if he does not, I do, and I did not care to hear about his legal troubles. Until I was given an escort back to the cell house, he told me about how his court appointed lawyer filed a motion to dismiss his appeal, and asked me what he could do about it. I do not like it when attorneys fail to defend their clients. Time and time again, defense lawyers failed me. However, the difference between "Tom" and me was that he was guilty and there was overwhelming evidence against him. Although I gave him advice, I thought how legal resources could be better used.

"Tom" has told me how on the night of the murders, he took the shotgun to a cemetery where his mother was buried. At her grave, he had intended to commit suicide. As I listened to him, I thought he should have. Now, he will suffer in prison the rest of his life. If I could go back in time, I would have let the arresting mob of police shoot me from every direction. I could have done without these 19 birthdays in prison and the numerous more to come.

As I thought this, I saw a white man who had a bloody-looking gaping scar that went down his cranium and split his nose. I have seen this man many times before at the Health Care Unit, and his story is well known at Stateville. He killed his wife and then put the gun in his mouth to kill himself. However, amazingly, he lived. I never spoke to him before, but on that day as I stared at his disfigured face, I told him, "Next time use a shotgun." He did not say anything and I said, "Just ask Tom. You would not have even had a head." Tom began to say I was "bogus" and continued, but my name was called and it was time for me to leave. As I put on my jacket, I encouraged them to talk. They had a lot in common. Unfortunate they did not compare notes before, I thought.

Back in my cell, my cellmate was eager for conversation. I obliged him but did not mention the psychologist. I do not want prisoners thinking I am a "bug." Furthermore, I did not want him aware that I had seen the woman he admired. Prisoners see the psych doctors for various reasons, including manic depression, schizophrenia, and other psychotropic disorders. Some claim they just like to talk with the females, although this may be a ruse. I never mention that I see a psychologist, and if someone finds out I just say it is for insomnia, which is partly true. I never mention being autistic, and I do not think it is readily apparent to inmates or staff.

Most of the rest of my Monday I spent reading. I read through a couple of newspapers before turning my attention to the mail I received. I had to sign for a letter from my attorney. All legal mail is delivered separately and opened by a guard in front of the inmate. The reason for this is that correspondence from attorneys is not supposed to be read by staff. My attorney wrote me a brief one page letter addressing my problem of sending out mail to her, affidavits, and that she will be ready to file my appeal this year. I am highly skeptical this is true. There is much more needed to be done and I must review, as well as edit, her petition to the court.

Tuesday was my cellmate's birthday. He was 55 years old and this was his 31st year in prison. There are few people who have served over 30 years in the Illinois Dept. of Corrections, especially that were not convicted of murder. If my cellmate was not such an annoying person, I might pity him. Throughout the day, he pressured people to send him gifts, specifically sweets. He also repeated to many that he is "short" now and has only seven more years to do. Seven years was a long time in my opinion, and with sadness I thought how if my appeal is successful, we will probably be released at about the same time. Not only were our birthdays adjacent to each other, but so may be our out dates.

My family came to visit me the day before my birthday because they were unable to come Wednesday. It was nice to see my father, mother, and sister together, but I was tired. I had been sleeping poorly because the nurses were failing to bring me Benadryl at night. Instead of melatonin or a real sleeping drug, the psychiatrist prescribes me the allergy medicine. The prison health care provider will not pay to treat sleeping problems. I have volunteered to pay for melatonin but she says it is still not permitted. In addition to waking up throughout the night, I have been worn down by my cellmate. He is a ceaseless distraction and irritant. After he bothered me much of the morning, I was not in the mood to be social on my visit.

My mother told me how I had dark circles under my eyes. I knew this already and she was not the only one to notice. A prisoner who is assigned a cell a couple of doors down from me has mentioned I look particularly haggard lately. He even went on to advise me not to exercise and just relax for a few days. Steve told me I need to take a vacation from prison. He also gave me some tips to make the skin around my eyes look healthier, but I was not listening. I told him it was impossible to relax or be comfortable with the cellmate I had, and this is what you look like after being in prison close to two decades.

When I returned from my visit, there was no guard to open up my cell door. I noticed the cell house laundry had been returned and was in large bags against the outer wall. I was not in any hurry to be locked in my cage with my obnoxious cellmate and therefore I sat on one of the laundry bags and eventually laid down on it. After resting there for about 10 minutes, I saw Steve in the shower holding area with Frank. I walked over to the far side of the cell house where they were and Steve said, "Shhh, here he comes." I told them I do not mind if they talk about me, but asked, "What is going on here? Is this midget shower time?" Both of them are very short, but I was also inferring something else.

Not long ago, Steve told me he had this odd wish to have sex with a midget. I asked him if he meant a dwarf with a big head or just a tiny woman. He told me a woman normally proportioned, but only four feet tall or less. Steve even said he had plans if he ever was released to go to a club in Chicago that catered to midgets on a quest to fulfill his fantasy. Frank was under 5 feet tall and is a known homosexual who likes white men. The inside joke was lost on Franky, but it was not lost on Steve who then explained to me why they were in the shower.

In my cell, I quickly told my cellmate that I did not want to talk. I was taking a nap. Closing my eyes, I thought about how I came to be in prison. My mind drifted back to my 18th birthday. It was on this day I had an argument with my father. Although we get along very well now and I wish I could spend time with him other than in a prison visiting room, we had a poor relationship two decades ago. After I had words with my father, my co-defendant happened to call me. He offered to let me move in with him and his wife. I quickly accepted his invitation, and it was while I was staying with them that he allegedly killed Dean Fawcett. Despite what my interrogating officer said, I never told him that I knew my roommate's intentions, nor that I had lent him my car.

A kitchen worker brought in a tray of sweet potato pie for my cellmate's birthday later in the evening. Ely told me that if I wanted, I could split it with him. My cellmate was very annoying, but he was generous with what little he had. I took him up on his offer instead of going to chow. For dinner, prisoners were being served "Sloppy Soy." This was IDOC's version of Sloppy Joes, and it was a distasteful meal. The pie came from the officers' kitchen, and my cellmate wondered if it was not the more expensive pumpkin pie. As I ate it, I told him I could not tell. I have been in prison too long.

The following day was my birthday, and after I woke up, my cellmate was singing "It's Your Birthday." I told him it was too early for singing. In fact, I thought it was too early for him to be speaking, let alone singing an annoying verse repeatedly. He stopped and said, "Happy birthday!" I told him it was not. It was just another day at Stateville.

As usual, I spent the day reading and writing. I blocked out cell house noise and my cellmate with music. Unfortunately, I was not able to pick up any rock radio stations. I was left with basically a choice between The Star or Mexican music. The Mexican station comes in so clear I sometimes think it is broadcast from the cell house. I have told Anthony, a prisoner here, that I believe one of the Mexicans incarcerated here must have his own transmitter. The Star fortunately played some music I could listen to, including Creed and Journey. The song by Journey reminded me of Susanna, a girl I wrote for several years. I had a CD made of songs for her birthday. It was a birthday and a goodbye gift.

When the details came in from assignments, I learned an old man named Bruce died in the prison. He died a slow death from liver cancer. I am told he was vomiting blood the last few days before he finally keeled over. I did not know Bruce, although I imagined that I was going to die a similar death in prison. I thought about how old I already am and how many more birthdays I have left. I despised my birthday, and other than my cellmate, I have told no one of it and he only knows because of my annual blood test. I feel like hiding the fact, as if I was in the movie "Children of the Corn," where everyone who turned 18 was sacrificed. I suppose I have already been sacrificed during my 18th year, however.

On Wednesday evening, an Islamic friend of my cellmate sent him some burritos in a greasy potato chip bag. Ely had someone put the bag on one of the hot water pipes to sizzle. He asked me if I wanted a couple, but I said no. I already made myself some chicken fajitas. Plus, I did not trust anyone to cook for me. I ate my fajitas while watching the movie "Stand by Me."

"Stand by Me" is a movie I remember watching as a kid. It was odd seeing Patrick Swayze also as a child. He was already dead. A couple of other actors in the movie had also passed away. At least Kiefer Sutherland was still here. I have enjoyed watching his acting career. The movie is somewhat eerie, due to all the people in it who have come and gone, and also because of the plot. In the film, a person was hit by a train and a group of kids went out looking for the dead body. Originally, there was also speculation that Fawcett was also hit by a train. His body was found not far from railway tracks in Barrington, Illinois, by a woman and her daughter. It was not until my co-defendant and his wife spoke to a mafia informant that police were certain the cause of death was definitely not an accident. Apparently, Faraci chose the spot because it was familiar to him. He formerly lived in Barrington and attended Barrington High School, both within a mile of the crime scene.

The movie ended at 9 p.m. and I prepared myself to go to sleep. My hyper cellmate said, "No, no, no, you cannot go to sleep on your birthday so early." Ely does not like when I go to bed because then he must be quiet. I told him the sooner this day is over, the better, and I meant it. Lying in my bunk, I thought about how my life was a meaningless existence, and I wished I had a Michael Jackson dose of propofol where I would never see another day in prison. Recently in the news, were reports how arsenic is in apple juice and Dr. Oz, who was originally ridiculed for stating such months ago, was vindicated. I always knew Dr. Oz was correct. However, I also knew the amount was minuscule. In the County Jail after I was convicted, I made a concentrate of the poison from hundreds of apples. The suicide attempt was unsuccessful. I probably needed a few thousand apples to make a lethal dose.

Today, I watched another movie. This film was on the prison's DVD system and my cellmate, as well as others, complained that it was a romance. Prisoners at Stateville typically want to see fast paced action flicks or slapstick comedy. They also like nudity and sex, regardless if the film is terrible. Unlike my cellmate, I was interested in seeing "Water for Elephants." I enjoy good romance films and I also liked the actress Reese Witherspoon, although she has starred in some very shallow and stupid comedies. Before I was arrested, I recall watching one of Witherspoon's first movies called "Man in the Moon."

"Water for Elephants" was about an educated Polish man who joins the circus during the Great Depression. He is unique among the clowns, freaks, lowlifes, and various hired hands and thugs employed there. The owner of the circus quickly takes notice of him and has the veterinarian care for and train an elephant which would become the show's main attraction. The owner's wife is played by Reese Witherspoon, and she and the man fall in love. However, she is hesitant to leave the circus with him. She tells him at one point, "If I only had met you when I was 16." This made me think about how my opportunity to meet my dream girl has long since passed. "Water for Elephants" has a happy ending, but at the Stateville Circus, there will never be one.

At about 2:30 today, the prison was mysteriously put on lockdown. On the guards' radios was a message to secure all inmates, but no reason was given. It was not until the 4:00 news came on that prisoners found out why. A Stateville inmate, Caesar Sanchez, escaped from a moving van while in route back to the penitentiary after attending a court hearing at Bridgeport. Chuck Goudie of ABC News was on TV reporting live. Orange Crush guards with fully automatic rifles were shown outside of a Walmart in Lockport. Later the news reported that state police and other agencies were involved in the manhunt which had now moved to Rockdale.

The news of the escape had many prisoners in my cell house excited. I could hear a number of televisions tuned in to the continuing updates. On occasion, I would hear a man shout, "Run Forest, Run!" No one knew who Caesar Sanchez was, and because of his criminal history of burglary, retail theft, battery, misuse of credit cards, and other minor offenses, people assumed he was in the Roundhouse as either a court writ or segregation inmate. My cellmate stated it was stupid that he would run when he only had a sentence of 7 years, the same amount of time he had left.

The escaped 37-year-old convict was apprehended only hours after he kicked open the van doors. He was found hiding in a porti-pod at a waste management facility. A helicopter camera showed him on the ground surrounded by police. I knew he was to be quickly captured. There was no getting away from Stateville. I recently had my 19th birthday in prison this week, and there will probably be no escape from many more.

Sergeant Bludgeoned -- November 11, 2011

2011-12-10T23:52:00.013-06:00

On Saturday afternoon, the prison was placed on a Level 1 lockdown. Initially, all I heard from prisoners returning from their assignments was that a couple of shots were fired in D House. I noticed the phone was not being used so I quickly made a call to my parents. I wanted to notify them that visitation may not be allowed in the following weeks and to inquire first before making the drive here. I was only able to speak to my father for a few minutes before a guard demanded I hang up. Phone privileges are taken away on the onset of a lockdown. Later this week, I learned more details of what occurred, and I was glad to have been able to make contact even if it was only for a brief time. It may be a long time before prisoners can use the phones or have normal visiting hours.

Upon hearing the prison was being placed on lockdown I was initially pleased. No longer will I have all the inmates outside my cell staring into my cell or talking and yelling. I also will not have to go out for meals, and will once again have the luxury of room service. Going to chow is a major aggravation for me, and something I liked to avoid. However, after thinking of these benefits, I realized I will now be trapped in my cell with my extremely hyper and obnoxious cellmate. He may be unable to talk and yell with all the prisoners outside of our cell, but he will be bothering me for conversation. My assumption was correct, and Ely has been regularly distracting me throughout the week. Fortunately, he was able to find himself some other way to occupy his time.

This week, Ely has been making jewelry boxes out of folded paper. It is a very time consuming process and has kept him from aggravating me continuously. The boxes require him to make hundreds of strips of paper. These strips are then meticulously folded and then woven with plastic cookie wrappers to make square designs. The bottom square and lid are solid woven squares, although the others are open to make the body of the boxes. Once these pieces are made, he sews them all together. Later, mirrors will be added to the inside of the lids.

I was impressed that my cellmate was able to craft these jewelry boxes. He has a short attention span, and I tend to believe he is not creative. When he gave me a completed box, I asked him how he came up with the idea. He told me he got it from another prisoner who was selling them. Ely bought a box from him, but instead of sending it out to a girlfriend or a family member, he disassembled the box to figure out how it was made. He told me it took him weeks to understand how it was created, but then he was able to make his own. The man he had bought the box from was furious when Ely began to sell his own and take away his customers. They fought over the matter, although it did not settle anything and my cellmate continued to make them. The story reminded me of how the Chinese continue to engage in corporate theft, espionage, parasitical business partnerships, and do not honor intellectual property rights. They do everything to abuse Western free trade policies and undercut their global competitors.

My cellmate was motivated to make his boxes, not only because I frequently ignore him, but because he has little to no financial support and cannot have a prison job because of his escape risk. He has been in prison over 30 years and will soon be 55 years old. His parents are dead as well as all his aunts and uncles. This week I have heard Ely complain that his siblings have forgotten him, and his box is empty of food except for one Ramen noodle packet. If this was a ploy to get me to give him a handout, it will not work. I will not give my cellmate any commissary, despite how he may grumble.

Not long after Ely was assigned to my cell, he told me how if I may ever need anything, he will share whatever he has. It is interesting how only prisoners who do not have anything make this offer. Recently, I have noticed how the Obama administration and liberals in Congress continue to press for increased taxes on the wealthy. Already there is a progressive income tax that stifles the country's growth, but this is apparently not enough for those who want increased wealth redistribution. Socialists seem to believe those who are successful must be penalized so that there can be more equality despite how the aggregate of this policy will be to the detriment of everyone. The rhetoric of Marxism is very enticing to those who are envious and poor. However, America was never about equality of result. It was about opportunity. My cellmate is wise to try to make a buck for himself instead of relying on others for handouts. He will be surely disappointed if he waits on me to embrace collectivism and the theories of Karl Marx.

On a Level 1 lockdown, guards pass out food trays to the inmates in their cells. In C House, the trays are stacked not far away from the front of my cell before they are brought to the upper galleries. More important for my cellmate is that leftovers are returned to the same place to be thrown out. Throughout the week, Ely has been pestering various guards for extra food. Sometimes they will hand him an extra tray or two. A few times he was given stacks of trays. My cellmate did not want all this food. He just wanted the cookies or cakes on them. Ely fuels his hyperactivity and ceaseless talking with sugar and caffeine. Hopefully, he will soon run out of coffee.

I do not care usually for extra prison food, especially on lockdowns. The food served on lockdowns is typically worse. Possibly, this is because the guards or administration wants to punish us collectively, however, I tend to believe it is more out of laziness. On a lockdown, Stateville's inmate cooks are not let out. Instead, kitchen staff must rely on the labor of inmates from the minimum security unit or their own. MSU prisoners do not know how to prepare food, and the supervisors thus make meals as simple as possible. I have a decent supply of commissary food to substitute for bad prison food when I want. However, I have run out of stamped envelopes and had to ask an inmate on my gallery to loan me some.

On Tuesday, my cellmate was relatively quiet and this gave me an opportunity to read without much interruption. Visitation, however, began again and the men who were called for visits were brought to the cage in front of mine. The people were too much of an opportunity for my cellmate to pass up, and he had to talk to them. He had nothing important to say and usually doesn't, but this does not stop him. I was listening to the radio while he yelled over my head to one man, and I could not help but hope the asteroid that was passing by Earth did not make a bullseye of Stateville. According to the news segment I was listening to, the asteroid was passing within the moon's orbit. Although this was still about 200,000 miles, it was very close on an astronomical scale.

I had read almost the entire day only taking time to work out. By the evening I was tired and looked for something to entertain myself on television. The movie "Bad Teacher" was being played on the prison's DVD system. I did not care for stupid comedies, but there was little else to watch. The movie had a few amusing parts, but was mostly a waste of my time. If I did not live such a meaningless existence in prison, I would have never watched it and learned who Justin Timberlake was.

Yestereday, I was amazed to see unionized state workers rush down the gallery attempting to fix the hot air blowers. Usually, these people go about their jobs at a tortoise pace and I can only imagine the administration told them they had to fix the heat before they left for the day. Temperatures are dropping below freezing at night, and guards would have several hundred very angry prisoners if they were made to suffer in frigid air the entire evening. The utility men, however, were unable to get the hot water pipes to work, and instead turned on the heat vents along the outer prison walls. Before they did, my cellmate was already complaining about how cold it was and if Ely is cold after drinking ten or more cups of coffee and eating twenty or more cookies, you know it is cold.

Today is Veterans' Day, but mostly the morning news programs were talking about how many people considered this day noteworthy because of its date: 11-11-11. Apparently, many thought the three elevens signified good luck. There was a disproportionate amount of weddings and births today. Thousands of women had even taken drugs to induce labor or had C-sections so their children would have the date for their birthday. At Stateville, however, there was nothing special about the date. It was the same as any other. Days often blur into one another. At times, I catch myself even losing track of what year it is, let alone the day.

Since the lockdown on Saturday of last week, I have learned from various sources what occurred in D House. I cannot be absolutely certain because I did not witness the events, but word travels fast in the penitentiary. If there are several credible people who tell the same story, it is usually correct. My cellmate talks to everyone he sees, including guards, nurses, and inmates. Unfortunately, I must listen to him, but on the other side of the coin, I am able to discern what has happened to cause the Level 1 lockdown.

While showers were being run on one of the upper galleries of D House, a prisoner struck a Sergeant repeatedly with an object in a pillowcase. The Sergeant who is known at Stateville as B.J. was beat bloody and unconscious. A guard ran to his aid, but the inmate began to pummel him with the weapon too. The guard retreated with a broken fist and a number of other injuries. Another guard on the catwalk fired a warning shot into the ceiling, and when the prisoner failed to stop, he fired another shot onto the gallery a couple of feet from him. The buckshot ricocheted off the concrete floor, and hit a few innocent inmates who were locked inside their cells.

The attacker was not subdued until a mob of guards and a Lieutenant rushed up the stairs to where the assault was occurring. They quickly brought the man down, cuffed him behind the back, and beat him severely. According to rumors, the inmate was forcibly taken to an area of the prison where there are no monitoring cameras, and was beaten some more. When the man was transferred out to Pontiac segregation, the administration there refused to take custody of him. They did not want any responsibility for the prisoner's condition. Since he is no longer here and Pontiac would not take him, I assume he is now at Tamms Supermax or a hospital.

It is not known why the inmate attacked the Sergeant, however, Sgt. B.J. is despised among most prisoners. Not a single good word or word of sympathy have I heard about the man. Rather I have heard he has had it coming for a long time. I do not know who Sgt. Johnson is, and I asked my cellmate. He told me I had to know him from being at Stateville for over 6 years. He described him as a pudgy black man of average height who was very loud, obnoxious and had a bad attitude. He continued to talk about him, but I still have no idea who he is.

Interestingly, years ago, Sgt. Johnson had a sister who also worked at Stateville. She was also brutally beaten while working in the Roundhouse. From what I have been told, the inmate who caught her locked her on an upper gallery. She was unable to escape the prisoner's wrath and for a long time she was beat with impunity. After her assault she was never seen again in the prison. I tend to believe we will not see her brother back as well. He may still be in the hospital.

Almost all of the prisoners in maximum-security have natural life without parole or a comparable sentence. There is also no reason to behave when segregation is very similar to being in general population. The difference is mostly just a change of cells because there is little movement other than feed lines. In fact, I often think being at Pontiac Seg or Tamms is better because inmates have single man cells. They even have better food, health care, mail service, and other accommodations.

This year there have been 15 staff assaults at Menard C.C., and the inmates have spent half of their time on lockdown. A couple of months ago, administrators in the state capital swapped who they deemed as dangerous between the downstate facility and Stateville. However, shuffling the deck of violent convicts with no chance of being released is going to make little difference. Some may believe the answer to the growing problem is for prison staff to be more strict and the maximum security prisons to be even more oppressive and redundant with extra security measures. This has been the policy for over ten years, though, and I do not see it as a viable solution going forward. There needs to be a fundamental reform of not only the Illinois Department of Corrections, but the judicial system as well. Only so many people can be crushed into the penal system until cracks start appearing in the walls.

Shopping at Stateville -- November 22, 2011

2011-12-03T18:10:00.010-06:00

The cell house I live in has not been able to make any commissary purchases in almost two months. The delay has mostly been due to state union workers who are trying to make administrators give them more overtime pay. The Illinois Dept. of Corrections, however, is no longer flush with money. Staff are actually expected to work now that state coffers are not overflowing with the cash of taxpayers. Even the Democrats' tax increase before Republicans gained more power is still insufficient to run business as usual.

Prisoners have been greatly bothered by their inability to shop. Even before the November 5th lockdown, many men's boxes were empty, or close to it. Inmates increasingly depend on purchased commissary food to supplement the poor and meager meals served at Stateville. They are also dependent on store bought hygienic items, clothes, and writing supplies. Fortunately, I was adequately stocked during the lockdown. All I had to borrow was five stamped envelopes.

Over the weekend, inmates heard rumors that men were going to be allowed to go to the prison store rather than having their orders brought to them. I was skeptical of a change in policy. For about a decade here, commissary has been brought to the cell houses by inmate workers. Order slips are filled out, and when staff feels like doing some work the orders are processed and brown bagged. Inmates actually do all the work except for using the scanners and computerized registers. Until a few years ago, orders were filled weekly but this changed to three times a month, then two, and now once a month.

The reason commissary orders are brought to inmates at Stateville, unlike all the other penitentiaries in Illinois, is because there was a great amount of trouble and mischief previously. Men were extorted, robbed, and beaten at the commissary building. There was also plenty of gambling and the use of drugs. Prisoners immediately after getting their store would play cards, dominoes, or roll dice. They would also purchase alcohol, marijuana, or other drugs. I was not incarcerated at Stateville in the 1990's, but I am told the commissary building was like the Wild West. Stateville in its entirety was very violent, wild, and unruly, but apparently prisoners with bags of store extenuated the circumstances.

I was in Pontiac most of the 90's after my conviction. I still remember my first time shopping at the maximum-security prison's commissary. I bought about $400 in store including a television, radio, deluxe headphones, blue jeans, a denim jacket, gym shoes, and plenty of food. The woman across the counter tallying my purchases and pushing it through the window was concerned about me. She asked me if I had just come to the penitentiary. When I told her I had, she told me to be very careful and wanted me to promise not to gamble.

Although I was a clean cut young Caucasian, I was not fearful. I had spent two years at Cook County Jail, and before my arrest I knew people who were just as ruthless, if not more. I also knew con men and was fully acquainted with gambling and loan sharks. My co-defendant and a friend at the time ran a small bookmaking operation. I also was very skilled at fighting. Finally, despite my age, I was very responsible, mature, and not foolish. I knew how to carry myself at the "Thunderdome," as Pontiac was nicknamed after the Mel Gibson "Mad Max" movie.

Commissary at Pontiac was often violent. I saw numerous men beaten bloody or even to an unconscious state. When the guard would unlock the door to let everyone out, on occasion there would be a man on the floor with blood pooled around him. Knives were sometimes utilized, but mostly men were intimidated to give up their store. If those men had enough courage to fight, they usually were left alone. Commissary sharks typically preyed on the weak.

Gambling was mostly done on the yard or in the cell house at Pontiac. There were card games at the commissary, but it was sporadic or in small numbers. The prison store was dangerous for people who had racked up debts and were unable or unwilling to pay. This went for gambling and drug debts.

Gangs dominated both maximum-security prisons and the Cook County Jail. I often noticed they would extort their own, or the "neutrons" (people who were not affiliated). Not long after being at Cook County Jail, I was amazed a black man I did not know asked me if I would hold his store after he shopped. He told me I could go ahead and take whatever I needed. I asked him why, and he told me if he did not, his gang would take all of his stuff and he would have nothing. He knew his store was safe with me, and for some reason he trusted me over his own mob or the other black men on the deck.

White men at the county jail did not usually fair too well. In prison, Northsiders often protected Caucasians from being victimized due to their race. However, at the jail, there were no white gangs. A Northsider, Gaylord, Aryan Brother, or biker was usually alone. On my deck, sometimes I was the only Caucasian and the few white men I met were usually like myself--unaffiliated. I did my best to help out those who were robbed of their store, even putting my life on the line between an entire gang and a mark. However, I could not always be present and if I did not hold their store, they would be robbed later. I was angry, and sad, but mostly disappointed that white suburbanites were so cowardly.

On Sunday, a worker who goes by the name "Little Man" passed out commissary order forms. He said they would be picked up later along with the mail. This made me think that the rumors of going to the store were false. What was the point of filling out order forms if inmates were to tell waiters what they wanted later? I could only speculate that possibly the shopping was to be implemented like it was done at Joliet C.C. before it was closed down. At Joliet, prisoners' orders were filled in baskets, and when you arrived the merchandise was scanned and given to you to bag yourself. The only advantage of this was if commissary was out of a particular product, inmates were allowed to substitute. Plus, this method would negate any mistakes. Many times prisoners at Stateville will not get products they are charged for, or will get products they did not want.

This morning, I was still skeptical that inmates were to be sent to the commissary despite continuing rumors. I stayed in from the small yard as well as lunch. My cellmate had two Health Care Unit passes, and to my great happiness was gone throughout this time. I did not plan to go anywhere while I could enjoy the cell to myself. However, having written this, I would not have gone out for hot dogs or an unappealing yard anyway.

When the chow line returned about 11 .m., Steve stopped by my cell. He asked me if I was enjoying my peace and solitude. Indeed, I was, I told him. Well, he told me to get dressed in my blues because the guards plan to run us to the store soon. I told him I will believe it when I see it, and he left to be locked in his cage a couple of cells down.

Close to noon, I began to make myself a meal that would serve as both my lunch and dinner. For breakfast, prisoners were given scrambled eggs, which was unusual. I had saved them and was going to mix them with a package of tuna fish. I had instant brown rice, tortilla shells, relish and ketchup packages. My plan was to make a poor man's tuna-egg burrito. As I boiled water to add to my rice, the sergeant walked by and told me to get ready to leave for commissary. I asked him how much time I had and was told about a half hour. That was long enough to cook my bowl of rice, I thought as I dressed.

This sergeant let me out of my cell with about 20 other inmates who live on the lower floor. Steve was there and he said, "Do you still not believe me?" I told him what I couldn't believe was that Joseph Mengele missed the creature standing in front of us. The man was a very extremely ugly white man some people refer to as Quasi-Modo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Personally, I did not think he even looked human. He was some abominable hybrid of species, possibly a cross between slug, pig, and human. Mark was undeniably ugly and even he will readily admit it is so. He has even told me and others that he was convicted just based on his appearance.

The cell house Lieutenant was very hyper and agitated. I could sense he did not want to be the first person to lead a line into the commissary. The major, warden, and Internal Affairs were all going to be watching and judging him. The Lieutenant yelled for everyone to listen for their name and to line up outside when they were called. One by one, he checked the inmates off the list he held. Outside on the walk, he was very concerned about order. Two lines until we came to the tunnel, and then a single line the rest of the way. Some kitchen workers joined us en route and the Lieutenant did not seem pleased with the additions. However, he made a sarcastic joke when inmates did not line up as he directed.

The commissary building does not look any different than the other stone buildings off the many pathways on the grounds of Stateville. It is a building I have passed by many times, but never entered. The interior is basically two holding rooms, an adjoining long rectangular check-out room and an expansive area behind the windows where prisoners are given their purchases. We were led to one of the holding rooms and ordered to take a seat. About 30 blue plastic chairs were set up neatly in rows. I am certain there were never any chairs 10 years ago.

The Major came to the waiting room and told us how the process was going to work. We were to wait quietly in our seats until our name was called. Then we were to go to a window to collect our purchases and bag them ourselves. When finished, we were to proceed to the other holding room and wait for an escort to bring us back to the cell house. A Mexican prisoner interrupted the Major to say, "No English," and she did not know if he was joking or not but said, "Someone, I am sure, can explain it to you." After the major left, the gate was locked, and we were left alone in the room.

Steve was sitting beside me, and I said to him, "This is when the Zyklon B is dropped from the ceiling and we are gassed to our deaths." The room was a very austere stone building with plumbing and electric lines exposed. I looked at Steve and continued by saying, "They lured us to the commissary building with the promise of merchandise, but it is all a ruse. As soon as the door in the ceiling opens up, scale the walls to the pipes. Possibly if we get high enough, the gas will disperse before we are killed." Looking around, I brought to his attention that the revisionists may be correct and the buildings are not sufficiently sealed to act as a gas chamber. Steve said we are probably better off if we die, and I agreed. I told him the first person to grab the gas canister is the winner.

From this conversation, we spoke about an article in the Wall Street Journal that claimed from the very beginning the Nazi hierarchy sought the death of all Jews. Usually, I think the articles in the paper are very well researched, but as a person who is very knowledgeable about history, I knew this was false. The ideology of the Third Reich was to strengthen the strain of the Aryan race, and not the execution of millions. It was only after certain party members realized the war was lost that "The Final Solution" was implemented. It was not called the final solution without reason.

The Wall Street Journal has a very interesting section in their weekend paper that deals with not only history, but culture, books, music, and art. Oftentimes, there are reviews of modern art which I despise, but I asked Steve if he recalled the full page article about Caspar David Friedrich's painting "The Monk at the Seaside." He is one of my favorite painters, and before and during my incarceration I have even copied his work in colored pencils and paint. He expresses a deep brooding romanticism, love of nature, and great nostalgia for a time past. "The Monk" is one of a number of paintings I consider masterpieces. In it, a solitude figure looks out into the vastness of the sea at what seems to be the edge of the world. As I told Steve about my appreciation of the painting he asked me if that was what I was trying to do earlier in the day. Yes, at times I wish I was "The Monk."

Surprisingly, the noise level in the waiting room did not escalate, and I was able to talk with Steve in a low voice. Possibly, this was because prisoners in C House were desperate to get their store and were on their best behavior. Steve has a Master's Degree in Music, and it is good that I can have someone to talk to about the finer things in life. Other than Anthony, I do not think anyone else in my cell house could understand or appreciate the subject matter.

My name was eventually called, and I was let out of the holding room. I walked up to open window number three and gave the woman my ID card. She began slowly at first scanning and passing me my commissary, but by the end she was going very quickly and I had to hurry to place things in my mesh laundry bag. A couple of times I told her she gave me the wrong product, and she took it back without a fuss. She even asked me if I wanted to add anything to my list which my cellmate and others told me the commissary supervisors were not allowing. I told her thank you, but I was fine. I had already ordered over $100 in store. It bothered me to spend so much money, not only because I am very frugal but because I knew 30% of the cost was going toward my own incarceration. How twisted, I thought, that I must pay for my own captivity and torture.

After I had my receipt, I heaved my bag over my back to walk over to the other holding room. I noticed some prisoners had a few bags, even heavier than my own single bag. I thought how they donated even more money to our collective incarceration. I also wondered about how these men planned to carry all their goods back. The cell house was on the other side of the prison grounds. As I thought this, a man came in almost falling over carrying his commissary. The Lieutenant asked him if he was OK, and when he said he was fine, told him, "Good," and grabbed a bag of cookies out of one of his bags. The inmate seemed not to care because he had so much stuff and was glad just to shop. The Lieutenant said he was just trying to help him lighten his load, but gave them back. He was only playing, as he commonly does.

The trip back to the cell house was a difficult one, as I imagined it would be. Again, I thought about how I preferred room service. The drizzle and wind had picked up and although the walkways are mostly roofed, gusts of cold rain hit us on the way back. Before we left the cell house, the Lieutenant had told us that if we could not carry our commissary back, we could not have it. However, some inmates used a cart to carry their bags. I carried my bag over my back the entire way, and it felt like 100 pounds. It was a good workout.

Once in my cell, I quickly added some refried beans and Velveeta cheese rice to my bowl of plain brown rice. After stirring in a little more hot water, I packed all my commissary meticulously and neatly away into my box. I wanted to be finished before my cellmate returned. I did not want him to see the abundance of the ant because sometimes the grasshopper becomes envious. Although I would not let him, I did not want him to get to thinking like Barack Obama or Occupy Wall Street protesters that wealth should be redistributed. When my cellmate returned, I was eating a good meal of tuna-egg burritos. However, because he also just returned from commissary, I do not think he cared about my food. He had bought donuts and coffee, and this more than placated him.

As I write this journal entry, I am listening to talk radio. Today is the 48th anniversary of the John F. Kennedy assassination by Lee Harvey Oswald. A guest on the Roe and Roeper show is debunking the conspiracy theories that there was another shooter. I am curious how Jimmy Files, a man upstairs from me, claims to have made the kill shot by himself. The thought of going out for chow to question him critically appeals to me, but letting him tell his more than rehearsed story will only make him feel self important. Instead, I will stay in from chow again and watch the DVD movie "The Rite" while I eat the rest of my commissary improved burritos. My box is so heavy now that I can barely move it out from under my bunk. If it could remain that way perpetually, I would consider being "The Monk" every day, and never talking to the likes of Jimmy Files.

The Dentist -- November 4, 2011

2011-11-10T23:21:00.013-06:00

This morning I read until the chow line was run for lunch. Lately I have been skipping many meals to have some peace away from my cellmate's almost ceaseless chatter and yelling. I was determined today he was not going to bother me, and I wrapped my headphone wire outside my bars so I could get better radio reception. I was successful in getting a few classic rock stations including Chicago's "The Loop." As my cellmate rambled, I listened to Led Zeppelin, Heart, AC/DC's "Hells Bells," and others. I even caught a vintage Metallica cut from the 1980's. I could hear my cellmate on occasion talking louder to get my attention, but I only turned up the volume on my Walkman. He began talking instead to a gallery worker.

When I saw the upper galleries going out for chow, I finally took my headphones off. Immediately, my cellmate began to address me. He asked me if I was going out for that fillet-o-fish. He repeated this as though he was a McDonald's commercial and until I told him I was going. Ely has done heroin and other drugs before. He may even be partially insane. He has told me a brother of his is crazy, and another is retarded. It probably does not help that he drinks coffee throughout the day. Many black people in prison are former drug addicts, mildly insane, greatly obnoxious morons with prison or ghetto etiquette. I wish I did not have to live among them.

Chow lines are particularly annoying. Numerous men are talking loudly to one another from the cell house to the dining room and back. It is enough that I wish I was deaf. I do not care to hear their screaming or most base and unintelligent conversation. Other than Zirko and Mertz, I did not speak to anyone at lunch. If I could wear earplugs all day, I would. Not only must I deal with all the noise but with the incredible aggravating behavior of convicts. A lieutenant this morning was threatening to take people to Seg. He may have not been serious, but I was thinking of volunteering so I could have room service again and get another cellmate, or better yet, be alone.

When I returned from chow, I had to take a nap. Despite tuning out my cellmate for most of the morning, I was very tired. I knew if I was to make my pass to see the dentist, I was going to need some rest. My appointment was for 2 p.m., and that left me a couple of hours for a nap. I told my cellmate I was laying down and to wake me up at 1:30, if I fell out. It seemed like I was only asleep for a few minutes when I heard Ely banging on the bunk. I thought about skipping my pass, however, dental appointments were few and far between.

At Stateville it is very difficult seeing a dentist. Men will have chipped teeth, fillings falling out, and be in enormous pain from cavities or infections, and will not be seen for months. The only reason I was being seen was because it was my bi-annual check up. Every two years, the Health Care Unit gives inmates a blood test and checks their vitals to see if they are not dying. Also included with this limited physical is a dental exam. I missed my pass to the lab last week. I doubt there is anything horribly wrong with my blood, and even if there was, it is questionable if it would be noticed.

After checking in at the front door, I went into the holding cage across from my cell. The guards were letting out all of the remaining Health Care Unit passes in the cell house to escort us all out together. Guards were also letting out evening kitchen workers to attend their detail. Those men are given a white uniform to wear, and I watched as they and the men going to the prison hospital slowly made their way down the flights of stairs. The cell house has five floors that extend upward about 70 feet. From the cell house wall in the holding cage, I could see all of the galleries except the one at the very top. I do not know why I was eager to leave because at the HCU I would only be put in another cage.

The prison hospital's holding cage was so full that when I and the other inmates from C House arrived, we were put in a cage outside. In the hallway that leads to the exit of the prison are two black cages. I usually see men who are being released or are from the Northern Receiving Unit in them. However, occasionally they are used to hold an excess of prisoners waiting to go on a visit or waiting to see a doctor in the hospital. After we were placed in one of the cages, men from other cell houses were also put in there with us and the cage adjacent. I was glad on the wall were two notices in bright red paint stating "Maximum Capacity of 10," although guards often dismissed the rule.

The prisoners seemed glad to be in the cages in the hallway despite how small and uncomfortable they were. Inmates watched all the female staff walk by and said greetings to them or tried to strike up conversations. Mostly they just stared and talked about them. Black men tend to like women that they describe as "thick," which I believe means overweight. A few spoke about how various women who passed by had a "big bootie," which apparently is appealing to them. A Mexican who stood beside me stared almost with his tongue out. It was all very odd to me how they spoke openly about their sexual desires and tastes. I also found their opinion of the women peculiar. These were very ugly women, and yet it seemed like they were surrounded by supermodels.

Also of discussion in the two cages was a couple of former Stateville inmates who had been in the news lately. A black man who lived in C House and went by the name "Baby Stone," was released from prison yesterday. Baby Stone was so named because he was in the Black Stones gang and also because when he was arrested he was only 14 years old. Baby Stone and his co-defendants were convicted over 20 years ago for a gang rape and murder in Chicago. Years ago, DNA excluded all of them and identified yet another man who was in prison. Despite this, the prosecutor did not want to release them and admit fault. However, a major reason for this was that they gave confessions. Their lawyers fought for years and just this week, Baby Stone, now in his mid-30's, was let go. Baby Stone's real name is Robert Taylor, and my attorney Jennifer Blagg helped the Innocence Project at Northwestern University work on the case. I do not feel any sense of optimism because of this, however. DNA cases are the easiest to overturn, and my case is not similar.

The other former Stateville prisoner of discussion was John Wilson, Jr. Wilson was the man who was recently arrested for stabbing to death a 14-year-old girl in the town of Indian Head Park. According to police, Wilson stabbed Kelli O'Laughlin when she returned home from school and interrupted him burglarizing her house. After the murder, the man used the girl's smart phone to text her mother a number of taunting messages. Wilson, Jr. had spent the last 17 of 20 years in prison and was paroled about this time last year. Many of the inmates in the two holding cages remembered him. They spoke about the case that has been in the Chicago area news alot this week.

One man in the cage defended Wilson Jr. and said he could be innocent. The others, however, quickly ridiculed this contention. Wilson Jr. used the gold coins he had just stolen to pay a taxi cab driver. His blood was also reported to be on the victim's clothing. Police also had traced the phone he had taken from the girl, and it was recovered when he was arrested. Finally, Wilson had put a rock in a skull cap to throw through a window to gain entry to the house. DNA from hair or skin takes time to match, but the police seemed confident they would soon have this evidence as well. I tend to be skeptical of media reports of suspects in high profile crimes, but in this case it seemed there was no doubt he was the killer and police had arrested the correct man.

Some of the men I was caged with expressed how Wilson Jr. should not have killed the girl. Rather, they said she should have been knocked out with a blow to the head or just tied up. I suppose this is the typical convict's perspective. No one said how he should have not been burglarizing the home in the first place, and there was little sympathy for the 14-year-old girl who was stabbed to death. Most of the talk focused on how the burglary should have been done better and how Wilson Jr., if he was not so dumb or high on drugs, could have gotten away with the crime. One man said he was just crazy.

Eventually the men in the hallway cages, including me, were let out to sit in the Health Care Unit's holding cage. I was not there long until my name was called for the dentist. The dentist area was part office and part working area. Like the rest of the hospital, it had painted white cinder block walls and gray tiled floors. There were four dentist reclining chairs, and after I gave my name, I was told to sit at one of them.

I did not like seeing the prison dentist. I assumed the people who worked at Stateville were not good enough to work in private practice. I also figured they cared little about their patients. Furthermore, I have read articles and seen televised programs about how unclean the utensils and hoses were in dentist offices. If private dentist equipment was so unsanitary, I reasoned the equipment here had to be much worse. Looking at the old equipment and chairs that were in poor repair, my perception was even more negative. I noticed there were even wires exposed underneath the chairs and much of what I saw looked dingy and unclean underneath the bright fluorescent lights.

I was sitting in a chair for about 10 minutes before I was attended to. During this time, I not only observed my environment but listened to the dentists working on other men. One man had seven cavities requiring the pulling of a few teeth and fillings in the others. From my vantage point, I could see how the man's teeth had already been drilled and been given numerous fillings. Many of his teeth were black, and I was disgusted by this. Another man had several cavities from various sides of his teeth including one that grew underneath a previous filling somehow. The dentist pointed these out to the inmate in a hand held mirror, along with the severe gum disease he had. The man's only comment was that she had a real mirror. Prisoners only have access to little rectangular pieces of clear plastic which have a reflective coating on the backside.

I brush my teeth after every meal and floss once a day. I am very meticulous about keeping my teeth healthy in part because I know how seldom prisoners have access to dental care. I also find cavities, missing teeth, and gum disease disgusting. Many people these days I notice have very white front teeth, but their molars will be filled with many dark or black fillings. I also have heard about people using not only whitening strips but having veneers put on their teeth. These practices make me think how superficial society has become. Their molars can be all black, but so long as their front teeth are shiny white, that is fine. It is not fine, in my opinion, and black molars are just as ugly as black incisors.

It is very difficult keeping my teeth healthy while at Stateville. Prisoners are only supplied with 3" toothbrushes. To reach the back molars, I must put my fingers in my mouth. If I am not careful, I will have toothpaste and drool over myself by the time I finish. Prisoners here are not allowed dental floss because the administration believes it could be a security issue. Purportedly, an inmate, after a few months or years, may be able to saw through a couple of bars in their cell. Instead, prisoners are sold "dental loops," which are small plastic bands that easily break. For $2, we can buy a package of 10 bands that are good for about 10 flossings unless you knot the bands back together after breaking.

Finally, a white woman came to my chair to take x-rays. When she asked me to put on a lead protector, I asked her if she was preparing to zap me with radiation. She dismissed my concerns and said there was more radiation emitted from a microwave and enormously more if I were to fly. If this was so, I asked her, then why is there a need for this vest? She did not have an answer and hid behind a wall to take the x-ray. After having this done four times, I was told to go to another seat.

While sitting at this chair, I listened to the Mexican who was in the cage with me earlier. He was trying to chat and flirt with all the female dentists in the room. These women, I noticed, all had a specific job, and the men were rotated between the four chairs. The older white woman seemed to do nothing but x-rays. A young black woman was mostly a receptionist and an older one with dyed frizzy hair looked at the prisoners' teeth. The women who worked in the dental office were friendly, and this seemed to make the Mexican inmate's day.

All dentist offices have background music. In the prison room was a small radio playing the pop music station "The Star," 96.7 FM. It was a station that I could get in clearly from my cell because it is broadcast from New Lenox, a suburb close to the prison. I hate pop music, and as I thought about this, Lady Gaga was introduced. I did not want to be at the dentist -- and now I had to listen to Lady Gaga. I do not know what is worse: the cacophonous yelling of numerous prisoners in the cell house, in movement lines, and holding cages, or her vile songs. At least the radio was on low, and her song was definitely the lesser of evils.

Moving to another chair, my teeth were examined. The woman picked around with a bright light and mirror. She eventually asked me if I grind my teeth, and I said no, but I tend to clench them when I work out. She told me a couple of my molars were worn down and eventually they may become sensitive. This was something I have been told many years ago, and I was unconcerned. What did concern me is when she gave me the hand held mirror and pointed out a molar that had a white discoloration on the top of it. She told me this meant there was a cavity underneath that could not be seen. I asked her if it could be seen on the x-rays, and she told me no, but she has been a dentist for 30 years and knew this was the case. I did not feel any pain, and I have noticed that blemish for years. When she asked me if I wanted an appointment to have it drilled and a filling put in, I hesitated but eventually said yes because I could always change my mind. It would not be for at least half a year before the procedure would be done. She asked me when I last had my teeth cleaned, and I told her not in numerous years. She said she would also make me an appointment for this as well. In prison, dentists do not polish teeth but simply pick tartar off.

While putting my jacket on by the door of the office, an inmate made the sound of Daffy Duck before entering. The young woman working the counter asked me if I heard that, and then she asked the man who entered. It was silly how the men in prison would do almost anything to get the attention of female staff. After the prisoner sat down in a reclining chair, he made the noise again to get all of the women's attention. The other inmate also vying for their attention was not happy, and as I left, I could hear them both talking.

I did not have to wait long before I was returned to my cell house. Close to 3 p.m. a long line is run back to the quarter units. These men all came from the visiting room. Visitation ends at 2:30 and the prisoners are sent to another large room in the basement to be strip searched in mass. There will sometimes be 30 or more men lined up naked having their clothes and bodies searched. From the strip search room, they will be taken down the hallway that the prisons' Health Care Unit is connected to.

My cellmate had just completed his workout when I returned and was going to wash up in the sink. I stayed at the table reading a paper until the local news came on. I was interested to see if I could hear more about the murder of Kelli O'Laughlin. The first story was about her murder and funeral. Many people came out to give their condolences in the small suburban town that has never had a homicide. On TV, a number of photos of the girl were shown including a high school freshman picture where she is wearing braces. The States Attorney of Cook County said that she would have sought the death penalty if Illinois still had capital punishment. In my opinion, lethal injection was too lenient. I also thought of the irony that this man will receive the same sentence as I, if not less.

The End of October -- October 27, 2011

2011-11-05T23:55:00.014-05:00

It is close to noon as I begin this journal entry. My cellmate, Ely, has just went out to the small yard. I hope guards do not bring in the recreation lines until after 2 p.m. to give me some time alone in the cell. My cellmate is extremely hyper and talkative, despite being 55 years old. It has been difficult to avoid his incessant chatter and disruptions. I typically enjoy this time of year, however, it has been rather unpleasant. I try to think of times before my arrest, but the monotonous misery of being a prisoner for nearly two decades weighs on me. It is the end of October and I wish it was the end of my captivity or even existence.

I like the cool weather of autumn along with its gray or dark blue skies that contrast with the foliage of deciduous trees. I am also glad that the days have grown shorter and I no longer have daylight streaming into my cell in the morning. Unfortunately, my new cellmate on occasion uses the bright overhead fluorescent light. He has a small lamp but because his eyesight is poor, it is not sufficient for him to shave his head or do other things. There is always fluorescent light coming into the cell from the gallery, and I wish there were times I could be in complete darkness. There are no trees inside the walls of Stateville, just shrubs and small hedges that do not obscure lines of sight. If I was still on the 4th floor of the Roundhouse, I could see over the wall from my cell window. In general population, however, I will not see any of the gold, orange, or red leaves of late October.

A couple of weeks ago temperatures dropped from daytime highs in the 80s to the 60s. At night, lows are currently near freezing. This week, maintenance workers finally turned on the hot water pipes along the outer cell house wall which feed the blowers. There are two hot water blowers in this cell house. One is near the showers. The other is by the front door, not far from my cell. Before these were turned on, I was wearing thermal underwear, sweat pants and a sweat shirt. I even put on a skull cap occasionally because I was still cold. I slept with all this clothing on and under a wool prison issued blanket.

This week, I was finally given a jacket to wear. I have submitted at least five clothing slips since last year, and complained to the counselor as well. The supervisor in charge of the issuance of clothing does not want to give any of it out. Increasingly, the Illinois Dept. of Corrections wants prisoners to pay for everything including essentials like clothing, food, and hygienic items. On Tuesday, a guard told inmate workers to only give one roll of toilet paper to a cell, forcing cellmates to split a roll. The inmates refused, however, and two rolls were passed out as is customary. At the Cook County Jail, I heard on the news the sheriff wants detainees to pay for the meals served. IDOC has not proposed this yet, but the quality and portion sizes of food has decreased significantly while prices on commissary have been increased.

The jacket I was given is basically a blue wind breaker. It is very thin and has little to no insulation. The coat is made with prison labor from Dwight Correctional Center. Most of the clothing given prisoners in Illinois are made at the women's maximum security institution. My cellmate tells me there is still a tailor shop at Menard, but I do not believe they supply much of the clothes amongst Illinois' nearly 50 prisons. I am told the clothing supervisor has written numerous disciplinary tickets for prisoners who were given a coat last year and have requested a new one this year. The accusation is "destruction of state property." Prisoners do not usually keep these cheap jackets from year to year, but throw them out or give them away after winter. Many jackets are also lost when prisoners are moved, sent to Segregation, or in the laundry which is not very reliable.

As with my former cellmate, I rarely ever get any peace. Ely continues to talk and yell to numerous prisoners outside the cell bars. When there are no prisoners to talk to, he will talk to guards or try to engage me. I have no time and care less for his banter. I thought I was fortunate he had no radio, but at times he sings to himself. I cannot fathom how anyone can ramble on the way he does. He is an old man, but is very hyper and obnoxious. Whenever I can, I have tried to get away from his presence. I have skipped numerous meals this week, although this has not been much of a sacrifice. I care not for much of the food served and the crowds of other obnoxious people that go to chow. I think the only way I have been able to keep my sanity recently is holing up in my cage and keeping my headphones on or earplugs in my ears.

I did go to the gym on Tuesday to use the few machine weights that are in working order. While working out, I spoke with Anthony Mertz. Mertz, as people call him, is a white man about my age. He was recently sent to C House after spending half a year in the Roundhouse. Mertz did not come from Segregation but Pontiac's death row. Governor Quinn signed legislation earlier this year abolishing the state's death penalty and the approximately 15 people on death row here in Illinois have been sent elsewhere. Mertz is a former Marine and was attending Eastern Illinois University when he was arrested. He is a person I can have an intelligent conversation with which is scarce at Stateville. Most of the men here are ignorant, obnoxious hoodlums like my cellmate. Although Mertz was convicted of strangling a woman, I think half the population of Stateville should be executed before him.

My cellmate played basketball with his other "brothers" at the gym. For an old man, he is in good shape. Throughout the week, he will exercise in the cell with his workout bags. He does not work out as intensely as I do, but his workouts last two to three hours. I will sit at the table by the bars and try not to look his way. Having a person exercise feet from you is not only uncomfortable but distracting if you are trying to focus on something. At least Ely is more respectful of my space and will not reach over or crowd me. I am very claustrophobic and hate being confined closely with other people. Any time the administrators want to send me to Tamms Supermax and give me my own cell, I am willing to go. I have listened to Damien Echols, one of the West Memphis 3 who were recently released, complain of the isolation on death row. However, in my opinion, he was fortunate to do that time there than in general population, although I am not certain what it is like in Arkansas' prisons. The prison system there may be very different than what exists in Illinois. Mertz tells me he would prefer to be back on death row.

I do not wish to bother a cellmate while they are working out or focused on some other task. Therefore, while Ely is exercising, washing clothes, shaving, or whatever, I will wait until he is done to move over to the other side of the cell. In a tiny cage, cellmates are continually moving around each other. Playing twister with a man is not a game I will play. This week, instead of interrupting my cellmate, I ate raw chicken and an uncooked package of Ramen noodles at the table. I wanted to make chicken soup, but this is not possible at the cell bars. Despite this, it was still better than the tamales and beans served in the chow hall.

On Wednesday, I left the cell to get a haircut at the prison's barbershop school. The men who cut hair at the school are terrible at cutting straight hair, but I thought I would get away from my cellmate for awhile. I would prefer to sit in the waiting room a couple of hours than listen to my cellmate. Plus, I thought I may be able to get one of the few white barbers to cut my hair. One of them is my former cellmate from Joliet Correctional Center, and he is the only man proficient at cutting straight hair since Jon, aka "Cracker," transferred to a medium security prison.

While Randy was cutting my hair, a tour came through. The tour was composed of men and women I assumed were from a college taking a criminal justice course. Tours are popular in October and especially around Halloween. Sometimes, I think people are interested in visiting some place scary around this time of year. Stateville may beat the haunted houses that I hear are popular, although I doubt visitors get any idea of what it is like to live here.

The black man who runs the barber school gave a long spiel to the students. He told them about the history of barbershops and the great value of this program. I thought even if I had an out date, cutting hair is not an aspiring career. I told Randy what a promising future he has. He, like myself, has natural life without the possibility of parole.

Not long after the tour left, I was told by a guard that I had a visit. I thought this was good because I could spend even more time away from my cellmate, but soon remembered how crowded and loud the visiting room was. My mother came to see me this week. She had disappointing news about my prospects of appeal. Possibly I will never get out, I thought, and seemingly because I have no future or present, our conversation led to the past. My mother began to condemn me for my past associations. I did regret some of my past friendships, but if I could do it all over again, I would have asked out more girls. My mother noted that the only steady girlfriend I have ever had was while in prison. However, I put an end to her critique when I asked her if she was happy I have not had sex in two decades.

On the news recently has been a female teacher who had sex with a few 17-year-old boys in her class. She was convicted of statutory rape and sentenced to four years in prison. I happened to see Bob on the way back to the cell house. Robert Mueller was convicted of having sex with two of his Naperville High School students, and sentenced to 38 years. Bob went on and on about how incredibly harsh his sentence was and that there was a double standard. I do not believe women and men are equal or should be judged the same. However, I did fully agree with Bob that his sentence was outrageous, and I hope he is able to gain a new trial so he can make a deal with the prosecutor for time served.

Back in my cage, my cellmate was waiting for someone to talk to. After being in social settings most of the day, I just wanted to be left alone. I told Ely I was taking a nap, and he quit talking. I pulled a blanket over me and thought about a time when I was free, including girls I dated or wish I had. The only escape I have from prison is when I shut my eyes and my cellmate shuts his mouth. I can then think about the past or a future I may have had. Late October settings filled my daydreams before I drifted off to sleep for a brief time. I was awakened by a man screaming outside my cell, and when I rose from my bunk my cellmate had plenty to say. From daydreams to dreams to Stateville was an abrupt and ugly transition. I can understand now why Michael Jackson took a lethal dose of propofol.

Ely told me how the queer Franky, who on occasion brings me commissary in an attempt to befriend me, was in the penitentiary before. This surprised me because I had specifically asked him if this was his first time incarcerated and he told me yes. From what Ely tells me, I can see why he had lied. Frank was arrested and convicted many years ago of killing his homosexual partner. He stabbed the man to death in a jealous rage. However, the federal courts for one reason or another granted him a new trial, and the prosecutor did not retry him. Years later, Frank was involved in another homosexual relationship, and he killed him as well. Both of the victims were white, and Ely said I should use Frank not for commissary but legal advice or to actually write my successive post conviction appeal. I told Ely I wanted to keep my distance from Frank and not give him any encouragement.

Ely, on occasion, likes to talk to the black female guards. He told me how he was mad two guards were recently set up by prisoners. The female guards were said to be bringing into the institution various things for inmates, and may have even been involved with them sexually. Years ago, sex between female staff and inmates was common, especially at Stateville. In the six years I have been here, however, there is only one or two women I may have considered just asking out.

Ely tells me female staff a couple decades ago even engaged in prostitution. I have heard this from many other sources before and it did not surprise me. In the 1980s, Stateville had more drugs and sex for sale than the streets of Chicago's ghettos. I asked Ely how the prisoners set up the guards last month. I was told that one was told to bring in a cell phone and then Internal Affairs grabbed her while she was working. The cell phone was allegedly found in her panties. Neither of the guards will be charged with a crime, but they were immediately fired.

Throughout this week, whether I am reading, writing, analyzing stocks, or listening to the radio or watching TV, Ely has bothered me with talk. Sometimes I will have the volume turned up on my Walkman too high to hear him and at the end of a song, I will hear him continuing to ramble. He does not even need interchange to talk. On Sunday, I was trying to watch the new ABC show "Once Upon A Time" to see if it was worth following, but his distractions left me undecided. Even during the World Series, Ely was talking, although the St. Louis Cardinals are his favorite baseball team. He would go from talking about the game to various other topics. He yelled out "Red Birds!", cheered, and cussed about game play of his team or the Texans. Then he would talk about his escapes, commissary, a former girlfriend, gang wars, or just about anything. Tonight is game 6 of the World Series and a must win for St. Louis. I am not betting on the game, but I will wager my cellmate will be geeked up on coffee and talking, shouting, and cheering to the last out.

I do not mind his excitement during the game as much as I did when he could not be quiet when an unusual October thunderstorm passed by Stateville. I very much like to listen to the thunder and watch the lightening without disruption. I suppose spending vast amounts of time in concrete and steel prisons has made me ever more so appreciative of nature, particularly impressive displays. In the past, I have made fun of Amanda Knox's desire to lay in the grass. However, in some way I can understand how she felt. While in the Roundhouse, I would spend time by the window to see out beyond the wall and feel the breeze of the wind. Thunderstorms were something I also looked forward to.

I am listening to WLS AM talk radio as I write, and I heard the Dow Jones Industrial Average is up over 300 points. This October is set to have the largest percentage gain than any other. The Dow was at a low early this month, even dropping below 10,500, but now it is over 12,200. Although I do not think it was a bad idea selectively buying stocks on the 4th and 5th, investors are clearly misguided to believe the U.S. is on the way to recovery and a bull market. The problems in Europe have by no means been resolved nor have they in the U.S., despite reports the country's 3rd quarter gross domestic product growth was 2-1/2%.

The Rush Limbaugh show is being played on the radio, and the talk show host is criticizing the occupation of Wall Street protesters. I cannot agree more with him and other critics. This loose assembly of divergent people and causes are very misguided and have little sense of individual responsibility. Paraphrasing Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain, "If you are poor, you only have yourself to blame." I was surprised that even the current socialist President Barack Obama not long ago told the National Black Caucus to "Quit complaining! Quit whining! Take off your house slippers and put on your marching boots!" Possibly, some protesters took this in context of his usual class warfare and Marxist rhetoric to march against the rich and demand a handout. Many of these clueless, unemployed, uneducated dope smokers need to get a job, go to school, or better themselves in some way. Americans have become spoiled, soft, weak, and degenerate. They are dependent on social subsidies and government egalitarianism. They do not know what being truly disenfranchised is. Being disenfranchised is being put in prison for the rest of your life for something you did not do.

The terrible state of the U.S. economy cannot be laid entirely at the feet of underachieving people, of course. However, if the country's financial problems are not to be found in the mirror, they are found in the government. Instead of occupying Wall Street, protesters should be occupying the national capital. It is the government-owned Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae that propelled the housing bubble along with incentives from the Federal Reserve. It is the White House and legislature that have spent trillions of dollars growing big government and supporting both corporate and social welfare. It is these politicians who have taken away the American Dream based on meritocracy and replaced it with socialism. It is also these same politicians in both parties that have pushed free trade deals that have decimated the wealth, employment, and living standards of Americans. Many people blame outsourcing jobs and the illegal immigrant invasion on corporate America, but this could not have occurred without the blessing of government. When the capitalist system had been properly directed, it made the U.S. the most powerful nation in the world.

October has not only been a month of whining about the rich, but also bullies. Somehow, someway, the liberal media has made October anti-bully month. If it was not bad enough to watch pro football players wearing pink clothes for breast cancer awareness, I now see numerous news groups focusing on the purported villainy of school bullying. Liberals are always seeking some Marxist Utopian crusade, but this cause is almost laughable. Bullying is not a crime and is a part of life, whether in school, on the job, in prison or anywhere. It will always be a dog-eat-dog world. These kids do not need to be taught to snitch on each other or have universal love for everyone but how not to be a sniveling victim. I suggest children read "The Lord of the Flies" and not about flower power.

Recently, I saw Jenny McCarthy on a couple of news programs talking about how to combat bullying. She told stories of how she was bullied on the south side of Chicago and maybe she should have changed that goofy, hairsprayed teased hairdo. McCarthy also spoke about one of her kids that has aspergers, and how these type of children need to be protected. I have aspergers and I was in many fights, but never did I whine to mommy or tell my teacher when I lost. No, I grew tougher, stronger, and smarter. My favorite movie as a child was "Conan the Barbarian," and at the beginning of the Arnold Schwarzenegger film was a quote from Friedrich Nietsche: "What does not kill me only makes me stronger." When I was arrested, many nerds, stoners, and other students complained to the newsmedia that I was a vicious bully. However, my philosophy has served me well and I do not think I would have survived all these years in prison had I not learned "The Riddle of Steel." When I see society complaining that someone has more money than them, more power than them, and every minority or special interest group deserves more rights and privileges, that is when I know Western civilization is precariously close to falling into the abyss. Pat Buchanan and his predecessor, Oswald Spangler, are certainly correct to predict its demise. Hopefully, the end of this month will be the end of the Wall Street and bully protestors, as well as muscular 300-pound pro football players wearing pink shoes and gloves.

The Roe and Roeper talk radio show is now coming on and they are advertising their presence at "CD and Me," a club or bar in Frankfort, Illinois, tomorrow. Despite having lived in the area before my arrest, I never heard of the place. It must not have existed then. So much has changed in the nearly two decades I have been incarcerated that I doubt I would even recognize my home town anymore. I wonder if I will even be able to fit in a world so changed. I may be like Brendan Frasier in the movie "A Blast from the Past," but hopefully I am more like Buck Rodgers or Sylvester Stalone in "Time Cop." I know one thing is certain. A man who has spent over half his life and all of his adult life in prison is not going to easily adapt. However, I would rather die a fish out of water than as a captive. Unlike Buck Rodgers or Stalone, I am not in suspended animation but slowing rotting away like an old Jack-o-lantern left out after Halloween.

The end of October was once the end of the year for most Europeans before the reign of Roman Ceasar Augustus had it changed to December 31st. I always like to believe change is imminent during autumn, but other than the weather, rarely is there anything that alters the ceaseless misery in prison. Change is something for those living beyond this wall, and not the walking dead behind it. Yes, I know what I will be for Halloween this year. It is the same I have been every year since I died in 1993: the tortured soul of the live undead, a zombie.

Level E Ely -- October 21, 2011

2011-10-25T21:04:00.016-05:00

When I returned from a visit on Wednesday earlier this week, I discovered I had a new cellmate. I did not notice the change of person immediately, but that the cell was rearranged. I always keep everything in the same spot, and when something is moved or out of order, it is immediately recognizable. After seeing the property moved, I scrutinized the person on the top bunk. The black man sitting there was not Cork. Cork had switched cells with a level E named Ely.

Ely is a 55-year-old man with a bald head. He is of average height and has a muscular physique for an old person. When I walked into the cell he introduced himself as "Ely," but I did not understand if that was a prison name or his real name. It happens to be his real last name which I thought was unusual until I heard his first name: Clifton. A black man would not want to be known as Clifton or Clifford in the penitentiary. I was surprised he had not been given a prison name, considering how long he has been incarcerated. Ely has been in prison for over 30 years. He was sent to the penitentiary in 1980. I told him I thought I had done a lot of time.

The reason why Ely was moved from a cell on the top floor and my cellmate was exchanged in his place was ostensibly because Ely is a level E. A level E is a person designated to be an extreme escape risk and they must be moved every 90 days. The administration believes by moving level Es, it prevents them from ever becoming situated long enough to plan and execute any escape. Numerous years of tunneling with a tiny rock hammer like in the movie "Shawshank Redemption" will not occur in Illinois. Level Es are not only moved within a cell house every 3 months, but every year they are transferred. Because there are currently only two general population maximum-security prisons, the high escape risk inmates are moved only between Menard and Stateville.

The day before I received a new cellmate, the sergeant asked me if I had a medical reason for being on the lower gallery. A long time ago when my lower back injury was bothering me considerably, the medical director ordered that I live on a lower gallery so I did not have to travel up and down multiple flights of stairs. I told the sergeant about the permit I have, but then regretted it. I wanted to leave this cell. This cell is situated at a place with a heavy amount of traffic moving outside of it. It is also very loud here and people almost continually are looking into it. I, furthermore, wanted to get away from Cork who was a loud and extremely social person. My new cellmate, I soon discovered, is even more social and has been almost continuously chattering. I just have the worst of fortune.

I greatly dislike having the cell not ordered properly and my routines disrupted. Every cellmate I am assigned is a major adjustment, even if I get along with that person. Ely had two huge laundry bags filled with clothes, books, and magazines. One of them had a rolled up magazine tied to the top as a handle. He uses this bag as a weight to do exercises. The other bag was his clothing bag. The administration has a rule that prisoners must keep the majority of their property in their two boxes when they leave the cell, but an exception to this is a dirty laundry bag. However, many prisoners have taken advantage of this to put their clean laundry in a bag to provide them more room in their boxes and for convenience. These two bags had to be moved and I was glad he did not mind putting them under the bunk.

Ely had a number of things in places I did not like. I noticed also my former cellmate had destroyed wall constructs I had made for wiring. I had to remake these things to accommodate the cable and electric cords my new cellmate and I had. Ely told me while I was doing this that he did not mind if I moved things so they were more convenient or out of my way. Possibly, he could sense how displeased I was with the change. I was glad he was willing to accommodate the way I liked the cell arranged. He may be more amicable due to how much time he has done, his age, and the numerous cellmates he must have had to deal with. I know that if I had to be moved regularly and was forced to continually readjust to new people and circumstances, however, I would be quite miserable.

While I was interested in reordering the cell, Ely was concerned with getting his digital TV and Walkman working. Fortunately, he did not have a radio or television with speakers. I had several confrontations with my former cellmate, Cork, playing his radio or TV without headphones. Because of this and other disagreements we had, he may have contacted the placement officer to be moved. I know I requested to be moved a few times, but was not accommodated. Possibly, placement was finally trying to move me earlier this week, but I foolishly told the sergeant about my medical permit.

Almost the entire second shift of cell house inmate workers were at my cell bars the first evening Ely was here. Like my former cellmate, he seemed to know everyone. The cell house help were trying to assist him with gaining digital TV reception. The prison commissary does not sell antennas and the cable system does not gain prisoners digital TV. Inmates, thus, design their own antennas, usually out of wires. However, on the first floor it is difficult getting any reception, whether that be radio or digital TV. My cellmate spent hours and possibly more hours after I fell asleep trying to get reception. The cell house help were not very helpful, and I was not going to assist. Already my cellmate's move and his ceaseless talking had annoyed and overwhelmed me. He was on his own, and I went to bed before 9 p.m.

I thought possibly I could not get a more talkative cellmate than Cork. However, I was wrong. Ely yelled and talked to numerous passersby. He seemed intent on declaring his presence to everyone and socially engaging them. When there was no one outside our bars, he began talking to me. It was an unrelenting talk and made me think he was nervous and his socialization was meant to somehow make him feel more secure. However, from my many years in prison, I knew that many incarcerated people had an insatiable need or desire to talk. It made me wish I had the deaf mute man on the gallery above me for a cellmate. I do not care to engage in chatter, nor did I want to listen to it.

While Ely talked endlessly, I thought I was fortunate he would only be my cellmate for 3 months, and possibly less. It was highly unusual for a level E to be placed in a cell on the ground floor, especially right next to the cell house door. The upper floors were generally where high escape risks were kept because it was believed it was more secure. Inmates on upper floors would have to go through two locked gates to make it downstairs. The lower floor is also where guards are more relaxed about movement, and a person intent on escaping could take advantage of this. My cellmate commented that as soon as someone of authority saw he was downstairs and by the door that he would be moved. However, he also speculated guards had become so lazy they did not want to go up 5 flights of stairs to check on him. Level E's are counted extra times throughout the day and night.

Ely told me the reason he was made a level E, however, I had my headphones on and was trying to ignore him. I believe he told me he had three prior escapes or attempted escapes. These occurred many years ago and eventually, he was allowed to go to a high medium-max penitentiary. It was at this institution that he was again designated an extreme escape risk and immediately transferred out. Ely complained that he did not try to escape there, but for reasons I did not hear, he was targeted by Internal Affairs.

Ely not only has tried to escape on a few occasions, but has a very bad disciplinary record. He told me about how he had been in numerous violent conflicts over the years. Inmates may make up such things to inflate their reputations, however, most anyone who was in maximum-security prisons during the 1980s and 90s has certainly been through brutal times. It was unavoidable back then when fights, rapes, and stabbings occurred regularly. Possibly, Ely's bad record including staff assaults helped cause him to be put back on a level E status.

A level E has a green colored identification card and they must keep it posted on the bars for guards to see. As I write this journal entry, it is clipped to a string tied to two bars at the front of the cell. My cellmate also has special clothing he must wear. On his blue pants are two green stripes, and on his shirts are a patch of green over the shoulders and across the upper back. He also has a green jacket while everyone else is given blue jackets. Whenever he leaves the cell house, guards notify staff in gun towers and on the movement team of his triple number by radio. A triple number is a unique set of three numbers, a designated high escape risk is given to identify him and is printed on the backside of their ID cards. My cellmate's triple number is 31-31-31, for example. Unfortunately for me, high escape risks have their cell searched every week, and guards do not make a distinction between his property and mine. I greatly dislike having my property ransacked and having to put it all back in order. Hopefully, the searching guards will not be as discourteous as the Orange Crush tactical squad.

Ely tells me he was sentenced to 60 years for a violent armed robbery. I am skeptical he is telling me the truth. In the 1980s, criminal statutes were not nearly as extremely draconian as they are now. Murder only carried a maximum sentence of 40 years and with good time, only 50% of the sentence had to be served. There was natural life without parole, but it was rarely used. Before 1979, there were no natural life sentences, and life was parolable after 12 years, although most men served 20 before being released. For Ely to get 60 years in 1980 for a robbery seemed highly unlikely. When I questioned this, he told me the court gave him such a severe sentence because the people he robbed were very affluent, and he came from the ghetto of St. Louis.

Ely would have been released next year if he had not lost so much good time over the years and also gained an extra 17 years for two escapes. Although under the old law, convicts only had to do 50% of their time, the prison administration could deduct good time credits for bad behavior. Over a decade ago, this was only done for very serious infractions such as stabbing another inmate. However, now good time is taken from prisoners who are eligible for almost any rule violation. Prisoners can try winning this good time back by applying for it after a period of time without a disciplinary ticket, and my new cellmate continues to do this when he is able. My cellmate tells me that his case is being heard in the Illinois Supreme Court which is highly unusual. The state Supreme Court does not hear many appeals. If I heard him correctly, the court is reviewing his appeal because the judge did not honor a plea agreement with the state's attorney. The prosecutor and Ely agreed that in exchange for him pleading guilty, he would be sentenced to 20 years. However, the judge refused and did not allow him to take back the guilty plea. If the ruling is favorable, Ely could be released. If he is unsuccessful, he will have to do 7 more years unless he gets back some more good time.

Ely tells me that during his 30 years of incarceration and before his arrest, he has never been a gang member. I do not know if he is being honest and almost all black and Mexican prisoners are, or were at one time or another, gang members. Gangs were not as prevalent in the 1970's, but Ely is a member of the Moorish Science Temple, which although an Islamic religion, is associated with Black Stones and certain other black gangs. In the 1970's, the Black Panthers were adherents of Islam. Later, followers of Louis Farrakhan were Islamic as well. If Ely is not a gang member, I assume he is from the same culture considering his conversion happened before his incarceration. Yesterday, he spoke at great length about the killing of Moammar Kadafi.

My gallery and the one above mine went to the large South yard in the afternoon yesterday. Ely lifted weights with a group of black men including Little Tim, who is a born again Christian. I exercised with two white inmates and did not pay much attention to the other group. However, every now and then I could catch words of Tim, Ely, and Jughead. It was apparent that Ely was not happy to hear Tim's Christian proselytizing. When we returned from the yard, I got an earful of complaints from my new cellmate. I am nonreligious and do not have a side, but I did think about how the areas in North Africa and the Middle East will ultimately be settled. With the numerous revolutions and Barack Obama's announcement to leave Iraq this year, there is a great probability of popular Islamic resurgence.

While I was trying to watch Piers Morgan's interview of Herman Cain, a Republican presidential candidate, my cellmate continued to interrupt me. He wanted to talk to me about stocks. My cellmate is in an investment class I tried to get in, but was unsuccessful. Stateville does not have any accredited schooling except a GED program. However, there is a man who volunteered to talk to inmates about investments. He was formerly an investment consultant, but now owns his own company called UBS. UBS is basically a small mutual fund that invests money for people. He intends to come to the prison 12 times over a period of three months. I am surprised administrators have permitted this and it is unusual, although he has helped out in a Christian service before.

The main assignment of the teacher is for students to pick one or two investments and track it until the end of the class. Students are given a hypothetical $10,000 and the person who is able to make the most money is to get a prize. I assume the prize will be something like a pen or pack of cookies. However the men in the class seem to be very competitive and my cellmate wants to win. He has been persistently asking me to pick an investment for him. I do not invest, however, for the short term. I usually am thinking at least several years out. Finally, after he would not let the issue go, I told him to invest in Greek bonds. Two year Greek bonds are paying an incredible 84% yield. Not including the 6.4 coupon, a $10,000 purchase of Greek bonds would accrue $16,800, or over the period of his class, $2,100. Greece will most likely default on their debt, but so long as they do not before his last class, he will probably win.

Ely has bombarded me with various conversations. Usually I just listen or I put my headphones on. He said to me once if he is talking too much to just tell him, so I immediately said he was talking too much. He was quiet for a while, but soon he was talking again. At least he does not want to blast hip hop music like Cork, although he is unable to do so. He also is very good about giving me my space. I do not like being in close proximity to someone in a closed area for a long time. Ely will jump on his bunk or stay on the other side of the cell, and if need be, switch places with me. He is also respectful, other than annoying me with his incessant chatter and yelling. A man told me Ely was "old school," and this means in prison lingo that he has the values of convicts decades ago. The values in prison, as have the values in society in general, have declined. I am glad he is not like the young prisoners I often see coming in on the new.

I was surprised to learn Ely was once a college athlete and played football for the University of Missouri. Although we do not have much in common, we do share an interest in sports. Both of us played football for a number of years before our arrest. He was a linebacker while I usually played defensive end. I learned that he also played on wrestling and baseball teams as I have. I did not even know there were private league baseball teams in the inner city. He played in what he called "Pony league" while I played on Little and Babe Ruth leagues. I am told he likes to gamble also, and possibly I will not only help him pick a winner in his class, but on NFL games.

As I write this journal entry, Ely is quiet for a change. I do not know if I could have written these pages had he been his usual extremely gregarious self. I believe he is sick with a cold, or possibly the flu. Many people in the prison are ill and viruses spread quickly. It is nice that he has been less talkative today. I want to believe this is due to him settling down and not just a temporary respite. When you spend the vast majority of your time in a cage and have no relief from a very miserable environment, it is important to have a good cellmate. Hopefully, a level E like Ely can understand my need for escape.

Stateville Spiders -- October 13, 2011

2011-10-19T22:48:00.017-05:00

As I begin this journal entry, rain water is falling from the ceiling not far from my cell. The front door and holding pens are flooded with water. Inmate workers have put buckets on top of the cages as well as on the floor in a futile attempt to catch the water. I am pleased when it rains because then I do not have all those people outside my bars. Currently, my cellmate is taking a mid afternoon nap and it is relatively quiet. At times like this, Stateville can remind me of an enormous crypt. It is cold, dank, and dark on rainy autumn days. The concrete building houses numerous inmates with protracted death sentences and spiders spin webs over their tombs.

For some reason there is a tremendous amount of spiders on the grounds of Stateville. I see webs out on the yard, in the gymnasium, along the walks, throughout the cell houses, and in my cell. Lately, it is as though someone took a can of fake spider web spray and canvassed the prison for Halloween decor. There has always been a large presence of spiders here, however, and I have noticed them since arriving here six years ago. There are many common house spiders, but it is the more unusual or poisonous spiders that get my attention and that of other prisoners as well. Stateville has a broad range of spiders including boxer spiders, black widows, and the most startling spider, the brown recluse.

The brown recluse looks like a mini-tarantula. It is about two inches in diameter and has a thick harry dark brown body. Unlike most other spiders, it is fast and aggressive. It does not move slowly and with stealth. I do not think it relies on webs to catch prey but on its own quickness and relative strength. It also has pincers and a venom that can be deadly.

Throughout the years here, I have heard stories about men who have been bitten by the brown recluse. I have also seen the scars of prisoner's bites. One man, who goes by the name Slim, showed me his calf where there was an ugly crater that disfigured the tattoo he had to the point it was unrecognizable. The venom of a brown recluse immediately begins to eat away the surrounding tissue. By the time Slim was able to get to the Health Care Unit, doctors had to cut out almost a hockey puck's worth of flesh, and said he was fortunate not to lose his calf or be dead.

This week, I also heard from two other men who have been bitten by spiders in the last year. A 70-year-old white man who people call Doc was bitten in the butt. I asked him if the doctors had to cut out the surrounding tissue. He said that because he goes to the Health Care Unit regularly for dialysis, he was able to be administered an anti-venom within a few hours. The spider bit him in his sleep, and the bite quickly caused spreading inflammation. He said he still has a scar, but I did not care to look at his ass. I asked him how he knew it was a brown recluse, and was told that doctors were able to recognize the bite by its bullseye mark and quickly spreading venom. I was surprised doctors at Stateville were so competent.

My cellmate was bitten by a spider in the first few months of being here. Unlike Doc and Slim, he did not know what type of spider bit him. He told me the bite mark swelled up with puss. Doctors gave him regular antibiotics and those worked. Because he did not have a scar, I doubted it was a brown recluse.

A prior cellmate of mine, Cracker, once told me he saw a brown recluse in the cell while I was sleeping. Instead of killing it, however, he swept it out of the cell. I asked him why the hell he would do that. That deadly spider could have just come right back in. Cracker replied that to kill it would have been bad karma. He had this ridiculous religious and pacifist conversion where he would not even eat any meat. It was odd the former gang member who once had a total disregard for limb, life, and most laws, now cared about a dangerous insect. I wondered if Cracker was released back into the gang elements of Elgin, Illinois where he was from, if he would continue to live like a monk. Cracker, however, will not get out of prison until his mid-60s, and by then I doubt he will return to being a member of the Latin Disciples.

On Tuesday afternoon, I saw the mini-tarantula dart on the floor along the wall. Its size and rapid movement quickly caught my attention. When I turned toward it, the recluse stopped, possibly thinking it was camouflaged. The cell floor is a mottled brown concrete with specks of black and beige. However, the walls are painted grey, and because painters here do not care about precision, there is a strip of paint along the floor. The large brown spider was easily seen. In my hand I had a copy of my trial judge's new book "John Wayne Gacy: Defending a Monster" that a reader of my blog was nice enough to send to me. My initial thought was to splat the spider with the hard bound book. However, after I saw it stop, I slowly reached for my shower sandal and smacked it with tremendous force. I could not risk this little monster getting away.

Samual Amirante should be pleased his new book "Defending a Monster" may get more attention than it deserves due to renewed interest in the serial murders of John Wayne Gacy. Television news this week has been reporting that Gacy may have killed more people than initially thought. Police are reviewing old files to determine if other murders during that time period are attributable to him. They are also using DNA evidence not available in the 1970's to identify some of the remains found in his crawl space. John Wayne Gacy confessed to raping and torturing to death over 30 boys and young men. He spoke openly to police and others enjoying the attention given to him before and after his conviction. He also was on Stateville's death row for almost two decades before being executed in 1994. Although people now question if his confessions were complete or entirely accurate, I doubt there is anything new to be learned of the old case. I will be reading "Defending a Monster" in the coming weeks, but I do so more to learn about my former trial judge than the serial killer.

Last week, I went to the large south yard. For the first time in a month I lifted weights. My lower back, as I suspected, was the same, although my shoulder and knee injuries seemed to be better. While working out, I noticed streams of cobwebs glistening in the sunshine. There were webs between posts on the monkey bars, the benches, steel tables, and even one long strand coming off a basketball hoop beam. On top of the monkey bars, I noticed a stocky little black spider. He moved down a pipe to the end and hovered there. I imagined the spider was waiting for a bug, possibly, even a wasp, to fly in whereupon he would grab it. A man I do not know grabbed the bar where the spider was sitting to do some chin ups. I wondered if the spider would think of a finger as prey, but he did not move. I was amused, however, when another man asked me to spot him while he did bench presses, and cobwebs flew into his face.

Nearly every day, I clean the floor of my cell. Earlier this week, when I was cleaning underneath the bunk, I noticed a cobweb in the corner with a spider on it. Before I grabbed it, I took a good look. I did not want to be grabbing any venomous spider. I have seen black widows with their distinct bulbous black bodies and red hourglass shape. I have also seen similar looking spiders with red or orange dots on them. I do not know if those are dangerous as well, but from watching survivalist reality TV I have learned many creatures with bold coloration have poison. Most species have pigment to camouflage themselves from predators. The exceptions are those that want to attract a mate or detract a predator with a warning. This spider was harmless, though, and I grabbed it along with its web to toss into the toilet bowl. I thought about saying to my cellmate, "Look what I found," and then opening up my fist so the spider jumped out on him, but I had squished it.

There is a man I know who goes by the name Spider. Since I was in the county jail with him, I have always known him as Steve. While at Stateville many years later, I noticed people were calling him Spider. I asked him how he became known as Spider. He told me he used to collect various spiders and have them fight, or feed them flies or other insects. That reminded me of the character in the movie "Bram Stoker's Dracula" who was in the insane asylum. The man collected and fed spiders before eventually eating the spiders himself. The crazy man thought he was gaining power by consuming life that had consumed so many other lives. I asked Steve if he also ate his spiders, but he said no. Knowing his Michael Myers-like case, however, I would not have been surprised if he said yes.

On Tuesday, I went to the prison gymnasium and was not surprised to find numerous spider webs there. I do not know why, but gym workers never clean the networks of webs along the walls. Throughout the year there are vast clusters of cobwebs with numerous insects caught in them or wrapped up like cocoon presents for later appetites. I mentioned it to Doc, and he said they were good for eliminating all the mosquitoes or other bugs. Not long after he said this, I found a fly that was trapped and trying to get away. The fly buzzed and buzzed while a spider nearby seemed not in any hurry. The spider had plenty of wrapped up food already, but I sensed that if annoyed enough he would come and kill the pesky fly. I was reminded of the original black and white movie "The Fly," with Vincent Price. At the end of the film, the man who had turned into a fly was pleading, "Help me. Help me," but no one could hear him. A spider was approaching as the movie ended. Like Doc, however, flies were annoying bugs that I despised, and I only wished the spider would not be so lazy.

For dinner the day I went to the gym, prisoners were being served baked chicken. It was one of the better meals considering how often processed soy turkey or other distasteful hybrids were made into meals for us. Because of the number of prisoners that came out to eat, chow lines in my cell house were not run until late. F House Kickout is also now being fed in the chow hall, and the prisoners there would also come out in mass after just being taken off lockdown. On Saturday, guards found a few shanks on their yard and apparently they needed time to search to see if they could find any more. By the time I was returning to the cell house, night had descended upon the prison. I noticed just over the cell house wall in the distance a full Hunter's Moon. This picturesque Halloween scene was complete with spider webs hanging from the cyclone fence that followed the walk.

Yesterday, I was notified that I had a visitor and my barred door was opened. I thought I would quickly have an escort to gate 5, however, I was put in the cage directly across from my cell. While waiting in the holding cage, I was surrounded by a group of sparrows. Some sat on top of the cage and looked down at me. Others flew to the side and perched there to chirp. They flew about the cage, hopped around, and chirped some more. I felt odd to have all these little birds flocking around me and hoped no other prisoners noticed. I might be nicknamed The Bird Man of Stateville or Ace Ventura Pet Detective.

The sparrows have keen eyesight and are able to recognize me as the person who feeds them bread in the morning on occasion. They must be incredibly hungry to get so close. I could have even hand fed them. Although I was impressed by their ability to distinguish me outside my cell and amongst the hundreds of other prisoners, I thought they were not so smart to think I was a Pez dispenser of bread and kept food on me at all times to feed them. I also thought when almost backing up into a cobweb, why these birds did not eat all the insects that seem to be about. I suppose bread is better than spiders or flies though.

After my visitation, I came across a man I know who has tattoos of spider webs on his elbows. Spider web tattoos are common among white prisoners, particularly those who are or were in the Aryan Brotherhood or Northsiders. Some may think they represent stabbings or even killings, but they just usually represent time spent in prison. For every so many years another web is added. As my 19th year in prison nears, I thought about how many webs I would have. By the time I die, much of my body would be tattooed with cob webs.

Recently I read a newspaper article by Clarence Page addressing the need for alternative forms of punishment other than imprisonment. I almost always dislike what he has to say whether he is writing for the Chicago Tribune, the freelancing for the Wall Street Journal, or is a guest on the McLaughlin Report. However, on this occasion, I had to agree with him. The soaring rates of incarceration is as foolhardy as it is unjust, cruel, and unAmerican. Over 3 million people are caught in spider webs of U.S. prisons and jails. It is here that many of them die a slow death. Many people may think it is great to eradicate society of these loathsome criminals just like the spiders capture and kill many pesky bugs. At Stateville, I am certain many prisoners deserve incarceration and even death, especially the likes of John Wayne Gacy. However, many people are caught in the net who are innocent, or do not need to be incarcerated for decades. There are also many alternatives to incarceration that are overlooked and far more constructive, less costly, and appropriate. Clarence Page seems to joke about caning as a substitute at the end of his editorial, but even corporal punishment is oftentimes better than the human fly.

Amanda Knox Released from Prison -- October 4, 2011

2011-10-17T21:56:00.017-05:00

For the past week, I have been paying close attention to the appeal of Amanda Knox. As a person also wrongfully convicted of murder, I was interested in the aspects of her case that compared to my own and the numerous other cases I have become aware of over my years of incarceration. I was also interested in the Italian justice system as compared to that in the U.S., and specifically in Illinois. It was extremely difficult, however, sifting through all the melodrama, spin, and selective television reporting. I was amazed how enormously favorable and sympathetic the American news media was towards Amanda Knox. This is very rare and because of my own personal experience, I was bitter and envious. I nor many other murder defendants receive such preferential treatment. Despite this, I believe the American exchange student studying in Italy was not guilty, and I am glad she and her Italian co-defendant were released from prison yesterday.

I had woken up just before 7 a.m. and in time to watch ABC's morning news program. It was called "Judgement Day," and most of the first hour of reporting was about Amanda Knox. Reporters knew there would be a verdict in the appeal later in the day. The show went over many details of the murder case over the last several years. There was a discussion of the trial and appeal from the studio in New York and from reporters in Italy. There was also Amanda's father, Curt Knox, who has been his daughter's ceaseless P.R. spokesman. I was interested in how the appellate court would rule, but not enough to stay tuned to television all day. I had other things to do and at noon when there still was no verdict, I took a nap. When I awoke it was 4 p.m. and I turned on CNN's Wolf Blitzer's "The Situation Room" to see Amanda Knox being driven out of Campanne Prison in a van with dark tinted windows. Since then, I have continued to watch hours of television news coverage.

Amanda Knox was arrested in 2007 along with Rafaele Sollecito and Rudy Guede who had fled to Germany. The prosecution accused the trio of the brutal rape and murder of Knox's roommate who was also a foreign exchange student studying in Italy. Meredith Kircher, a 21-year-old from Britain, was found naked and stabbed more than 40 times, including a slash across her throat, in the cottage she rented with Amanda. In the small university town of Perugia, Italy. Rudy Guede was the first to be tried and he was found guilty and sentenced to 30 years, however, this was dropped to 16 years when he agreed to testify against his co-defendants. In 2009, Amanda Knox was tried jointly with her boyfriend Sollecito. Both were found guilty and sentenced to 26 and 25 years. The Knox family with the help of a very friendly U.S. media thereafter began a two year campaign to free Amanda that culminated in the appellate jury's acquittal yesterday. Within 8 hours, the jury found Knox not guilty of all charges except defamation of character.

After the verdict, there was a clear distinction in the reaction between the victim's family and supporters of Amanda Knox. Family and friends of Amanda erupted in cheers from the courtroom to Seattle, Washington, her home town in the U.S. At the same time, the Kircher family was shocked by the reversal. They wept and were very upset that two people they had been led to believe killed Meredith were being set free. This is a common occurrence in courtrooms throughout America in murder verdicts. There is almost always one family jubilant and another despondent. What was odd is how the media in the countries were divided.

In the U.S., all people seen was Amanda crumpled over crying and then being led out of the courtroom along with the cheers of supporters. The reaction of the victim's family and the crowds outside were not shown and only briefly mentioned. Americans may not even be aware how most Italians were angry and believed the court buckled under to international media pressure. A scene similar to that when Casey Anthony was acquitted existed outside the courtroom. People brandishing loudspeakers led mobs of Perugians in protest. Few people were happy by the verdict, although many expressed uncertainty and questioned their court system. The prosecutor gave a public address vehemently disagreeing and vowing to appeal, but this also was not shown on American TV. Instead, he was ridiculed as a superstitious zealot madman. Since the verdict, the news coverage of Amanda Knox's acquittal has continued to be one sided in the U.S. and it has only been by a determined effort I have learned of not only the reaction overseas, but what caused Knox and Sollecito to be convicted in the first place.

Certainly the Italian media has been most unfair in their reporting as well, especially in the beginning. Tabloid journalism in both England and Italy was terribly slanted against Amanda Knox. In their countries, she has been portrayed as a very sordid, promiscuous party woman. The labels of "Foxy Knoxy" and the "Devil with an Angel's Face" are weak compared to the thoroughly vicious and defamatory character assassinations. Much credence has been given to the prosecutor's theory of a Satanic sex orgy where Knox was to slay her roommate a night after Halloween, also considered a day when witches convene. There was almost a seething hatred created by the media calling for a witch burning. This type of malicious reporting reminded me of the press the West Memphis 3 received in their Christian town that demanded justice for three boys who were brutally raped and murdered in what was thought to be a Satanic ritual. As a person who has also come under the assault of massive prejudicial media coverage, I can relate to all of these defendants. The media can be a force to try and convict innocent people before a shred of evidence is ever submitted in court.

The Italian media was not completely off base in their portrait of Amanda Knox. She was certainly a promiscuous party woman, although I am not certain if she was as loathsome as Casey Anthony. Knox had only been in Italy for a short time before she met and was having sexual relations with Raffeale Sollecito. In a foreign country, she did not waste any time hooking up and finding drugs. Indeed, she admits to smoking marijuana and having sex with Sollecito on the night of the murder. While the U.S. media portrays Amanda as this very innocent, chaste, and angelic person deserving of her prison nickname "Bambi," I do not get this impression. She was at the very least a slutty, pot smoking hippie or stoner. However, this of course does not make her guilty of stabbing her roommate to death.

The Italian Paparazzi would capture photos of Knox kissing and being held by Sollecito as well as her buying some underwear after the murder. These, along with her going out for pizza were made out to be a big deal by tabloid news media which is, by the way, far more popular there than in the U.S. These sources seemed to suggest Amanda was making out, buying sexy lingerie, and having a good time, not at all concerned about the brutal rape and slaying of her roommate. Once again, I am reminded of perceptions of Casey Anthony. However, in Amanda's case, I do not see how the photos are meaningful in the same way. To me, she seemed to be being consoled by Sollecito, and I cannot say if the underwear she purchased was of Victoria Secret quality or just plain undergarments she needed to buy due to her apartment being a crime scene. Even if she was having lascivious sex and having a good time going out for pizza, I do not make a conclusion that she is a cold blooded killer. For all I know, she did not know or even like her roommate. It would be odd, however, if rumors she was doing cartwheels in the police station were true.

Curt Knox and supporters of Amanda that were televised would like people to believe there was absolutely no evidence, and the conviction was based solely on enormous media slander and an overzealous prosecutor. However, this is false. The most damning evidence came from her own signed statements to the police. In them, she stated she and Sollecito were at the cottage when Meredith Kircher was killed. Amanda even said she heard her roommate's screams in the room next door as she was stabbed to death. When police asked her who killed Kircher, Knox lied and said it was her former employer, Patrick Lumumba. Police immediately arrested the bar owner, but he had a solid alibi. He was at the bar the entire time and seen by numerous people. Many Americans may have missed this, but Amanda Knox was not acquitted of all counts. Her conviction for defamation of character for accusing an innocent man of murder was sustained. The court gave her time served, and unlike in the Casey Anthony case, the judge immediately set her free.

Supporters of Amanda Knox argue that her statements were due to Amanda being a young 20-year-old in a foreign country who was coerced and intimidated by police who were accustomed to interrogating the mafia. She was not given any water or food, and her Italian language skills were poor. She was a scared little girl interrogated for 14 hours. To this I say I was arrested by numerous gun wielding police, and whisked off to a secret location to be grilled for two days in connection with a mass murder where 7 people were shot and stabbed to death. My Miranda rights were ignored and I was not only threatened and intimidated, but struck and kicked by police intent on getting me to confess. I was 18 years old and not permitted to see or talk with an attorney, family, or anyone but them. The mafia? I highly doubt the little college town of Perugia has any mafia or any serious crime. However, those on the Palatine Task Force included FBI, Chicago Police, and many other seasoned law enforcement who dealt with murder cases on a regular basis. John Robertson, my main interrogator, was working for the Cook County States Attorney's Office and one must know he had a mission. Despite all this, I never made an incriminating statement or pointed the finger at an innocent man.

I do not know if true, but supporters of Amanda Knox say her words were manipulated. Police asked her to imagine what happened to her roommate. I do not put it beyond police to manipulate or fabricate statements. After all, John Robertson falsely claimed that I told him my co-defendant said to me he was going to kill the victim and then asked if he could borrow my car. However, unlike Amanda Knox, Robertson's claims were total fabrications and there is no signed statement because I never said this. Even had police asked me to imagine what happened if I did not continue in stoic silence, I would have said, "Imagine?! You are the police. You imagine what happened!"

The other evidence against Amanda Knox came from her co-defendant Rudy Guede. He testified he was present with Knox and Sollecito when Kircher was murdered. In detail, he told a story how Amanda stabbed her roommate during a drug fueled sex orgy. However, Guede's testimony is hardly credible. It was only after he was convicted of murder and sentenced to 30 years that he made a deal with the prosecution to testify against his co-defendants for a reduced 16 year sentence. Rudy Guede, a black immigrant from the Ivory Coast with a considerable criminal record, was clearly only trying to help himself. His semen was found in the victim and a bloody fingerprint of his was also discovered at the crime scene. There was no denying he was present for the murder, and I tend to believe he and he alone was there, much like my co-defendant.

Much of the news media centered upon the DNA evidence used to convict Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito. The prosecutor claimed a bra clasp of Kircher's had Raffaele's skin cells on it, and a knife found in his kitchen was said to have both Amanda and the victim's DNA on it. The problem with this evidence, however, was it was improperly collected, analyzed, and presented to the first jury. The minute amount of DNA found on the bra clasp was so small it could have easily been transferred by CSI technicians who left it on the ground for weeks and handled various evidence with the same gloves. The DNA off the knife said to be Kircher's actually turned out to be yeast from cutting bread. Knox and Sollecito were fortunate to have the state's DNA results retested by another lab.

The last bit of evidence I was able to discover against Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito was probably missed by most American viewers. In fact, I would not have become aware of it if it was not slipped out by one person on a news media program. Apparently, the two both conspicuously turned off their cell phones at the time of the murder, and a homeless Italian man told police and later testified that he saw the couple just outside the apartment on the night of the murder arguing. However, this evidence was also very suspect. I do not think a wino vagabond who claims he saw the two in the dark from a far distance where he was sitting or sleeping on a park bench is very credible. As for the cell phones, I do not know.

There are large differences between the court system in Italy and the U.S. One major distinction is the appellate process. Under Italian law all criminal defendants are entitled to a full review of their trial. Everyone is allowed to have an entire retrial and submit any new evidence. New trials in the U.S., contrarily, are very rare, and the appellate court only reviews errors. For example, in a case such as my own, I could raise as error the prosecutor lying about the law of accountability during closing arguments to my jury, or that my attorneys were at error for failing to provide an adequate defense. However, only if the appellate court agrees with these issues, finds them so egregious, and they were properly preserved and raised on appeal, will the court remand the case back to a lower court for a new trial. In Italy, I could have presented all of my issues and the evidence of my innocence not used by my trial attorneys or even new evidence. I would have had an entire new trial and the only drawback for a defendant is that he or she could be given a more severe sentence. However, because natural life without parole is now the most severe punishment in Illinois, there would be little to lose. Even if there was a death sentence, in my opinion, that would be more lenient, if not a blessing. Any time the state is willing to offer me a new trial with the threat of immediate execution if I lose, I will take it without hesitation.

Repeatedly, the news media spoke about how Amanda Knox faced the prospect of a life sentence by appealing. I suppose this was to add further drama. There is no life without parole in Italy or any European country that I am aware of. The U.S. is the only country in all of Western Civilization to have a prison sentence that is to death and not eligible for parole. Even the 26 years Amanda was sentenced to would not have had to be served in full and she may have been freed after a decade. Contrasted to Illinois law where all murder convicts must serve 100% of their time and are usually sentenced to 40 years or longer.

Another major difference between the two judicial systems is at trial the judge in Italy does not act as merely a referee between the prosecution and defense, but is actively involved. The judge in Italy can ask questions of witnesses and subpoena evidence or people. The Italian court system is considered "inquisitional" while the American system is "adversarial." A U.S. judge is allegedly impartial and rules on matters of law. I write "allegedly" because many judges, like the one at my trial, are not impartial, and are able to affect rulings by their interpretations of law or objections by the defense or prosecution. Many trials in the U.S. are not fairly adjudicated because of how judges become personally involved and are politically elected.

American viewers may have been surprised to learn that Italy has two judges on the panel of 8 jurors. This, again, is not a bad system in my opinion. Often jurors selected randomly from the community do not know the law, or even the Constitution. They are also not trained to sift through evidence and evaluate its probative value. Citizenship in the U.S. is given to any Tom, Dick, or Josey, and regardless of background, education, or intelligence, they can serve on juries and decide matters of life and death. Personally, I would like to see the status of citizenship changed. However, considering this is highly unlikely, I would not mind a couple of judges to serve on juries. I also think the Italian jury system of a majority vote where a split tie goes in favor of the defendant may be a good idea.

The last difference I noticed between American and Italian judicial systems is that evidence is sifted through and ruled upon before trial in the U.S., while in Italy, it is done on appeal. If Amanda Knox had been tried in the U.S., the unsound DNA evidence and, more than likely, the testimony of the homeless man would have been discarded. The defense would have also tried to suppress Amanda's statements, but this would have never occurred. As for the testimony of Rudy Guede, he would have also been allowed to testify, and on appeal it would not have been suppressed either. More than likely, just on her statements and Guede's testimony, Amanda would have been convicted and there would have been no hope on appeal. She would have been sentenced to possibly 60 years, life without parole, or even death. Italians and Americans questioned the due process Amanda received in Italy, but I think the Italians have more to be proud of than ashamed of. At least the system worked there eventually, and in record time. An innocent person in the U.S. can spend decades in prison if he or she is ever exonerated.

After watching Wolf Blitzer's "Situation Room," Anderson Cooper, Jane Valez, Piers Morgan, Dr. Drew, today's morning news as well as the countless guests on their programs, including OJ Simpson's prosecutor Marsha Clark who is touting her new book "Guilty by Association," I became fed up with all of the super nice and sympathetic news coverage that Amanda Knox aka Bambi was getting. I was actually hoping Nancy Grace would be on to give her usual universal condemnation and bitch attitude toward all defendants, guilty and innocent. However, the pig missed her show to be on "Dancing with the Stars." I do not know when she ever became a star or why anyone would want to see her body stuffed in a dress trying to dance nimbly except for a laugh. However, I notice the producers did not really pick any stars and there are a number of unattractive people.

The last couple of weeks I have heard almost nothing but overwhelmingly positive news coverage dripping with sympathy and support for Amanda Knox. Time and again I have heard how there is zero evidence, and how poor Amanda has suffered 4 years in hell for a crime she did not commit. The courtroom she attended is described as medieval and the Italian prison Campanne is made out to be a monstrously scary and cruel place because it only allows visits once a week and has 13 x 13 foot cells. Campanne is also rumored to be a place where Amanda faced unwanted sexual advances or harassment. Over and over again I heard about an overzealous prosecutor who will not admit fault, and relies on a psychic or his intuition to try cases. Then I hear how the poor 24-year-old has been away from family since she was 20, and all she wants to do when she gets out is lie in some grass. As Charlie Brown would say, "Good grief!"

The evidence presented in my case was less than that against Amanda Knox, however, the only publicity I ever received was the type Nancy Grace dishes out. After I was smitten with a protracted death sentence, I was then forgotten by the mass media, even after the Palatine Massacre was solved. I have spent almost two decades as a captive in truly violent and oppressive maximum security institutions where there are no piano lessons or spacious 13 x 13 foot cells with their own private connecting bathrooms and bidets. Sexual advances? That is just life in prison. If there was a man nicknamed "Angel Face" or "Bambi" at Stateville, he would be raped. Medieval courtroom? I rather like the Italian ambiance. It is better than a medieval judicial system or sentence. An overzealous prosecutor? I will swap James "Mad Dog" McKay any time for Guiliano Mignini, even if he shuffles tarot cards to figure out what happened. Being away from family since 20? Try 18. Longing to lie in grass? I guess she got me there. I can flop around on the Big Yard's lawn until my heart is content, at least during the 2 hour time period once or twice a month that I can go there.

As I was finishing this journal entry, prisoners are applauding the television news that showed my former neighbor, Jacques Rivera, being released from Cook County Jail. The man we called Jacob was wrongfully convicted of a 1988 gang murder. He spent over 22 years in captivity and his once 4 month old daughter and two toddler sons are now grown adults. If it was not for the eyewitness finally coming forward to say the prosecutor coerced his testimony and the 10 years that the Northwestern University Innocence Project spent fighting for him, he would still be rotting away in prison in the cell next to mine. Jacob is an old Mexican and no "Angel Face." He, like numerous innocent people in prison in the U.S. almost never get overwhelmingly good press or a new trial to prove their innocence. Although I am envious of Amanda Knox, I am glad she is home today. I hope she enjoys her freedom for the many of us who never will.

Visit With My Sister -- September 30, 2011

2011-10-07T23:45:00.045-05:00

This morning I was expecting my sister, Bernadette, to visit me. As noon approached, I increasingly hoped she would not show up. I felt like putting my ear plugs in and lying in bed for several hours. I would rather fall asleep or continue daydreaming about a time before my arrest. Yesterday, I thought about my time as a student at Lincoln-Way High School and was eager to continue doing so. My current life was miserable and it would be even more apparent if I left my cell. The last few weeks, I have holed up in my cell, rarely ever going out even for chow lines. The less of prison and prisoners I see, the better. Unfortunate that I cannot escape it altogether.

I was sitting at the steel table next to the bars reading an investment newspaper when a guard approached me. I took off my headphones to hear what he had to say, although I was practically certain it was to notify me that I had a visit. I was correct, and I told him to give me 5 minutes to change my clothes. Other than when prisoners go to yard, we must be dressed in state blues to leave our cells. One benefit of being only about 20 feet from the guard's front door desk is that I did not have to wait to be let out of the cell for visits. Many people shout out their cells for a half hour or longer before a guard unlocks their door.

I was sent out without an escort. The guard told me there was someone waiting at the end of the building to walk me the rest of the way. The building that houses prisoners in general population is a huge stone structure that is the length of city block. There was little chance of me escaping or going off route. Along side the building is a concrete walk with tall fencing on both sides topped with razor wire. A sergeant and a few prisoners were waiting at the end of it. They were going to the Health Care Unit which is on the way to the visiting room. One of the inmates who I did not recognize asked me if I was still a workout machine. I told him I haven't exercised in about a month because of a shoulder injury. The sergeant asked if I got it from all the headstand push ups he used to see me do on property boxes when I was in unit Bravo. I told him I did not know how I injured myself, but I think I tore a ligament.

At gate 5, I saw there was a crowd of inmates not only in the holding cages but outside in the adjoining hallway. I thought this is why I did not want to go on a visit. I did not want to be in a large crowd of loud, obnoxious prisoners. I also thought I may be waiting for an hour or longer, and my visit would be greatly curtailed. Fridays are usually extremely crowded. However today was the last day of the month and I did not anticipate it being so bad. Prisoners at Stateville are only allowed five visits a month, and most that receive them have used them up by the last week.

The guard at gate 5 took my ID and locked me in the hallway, but fortunately not in one of the cages. In the hallway I noticed Bob, who was my cellmate for a short period of time several years ago. He asked me how I was doing and who was here to see me. I told him his first question was stupid. I am at Stateville, and he knows I have a protracted death sentence. He is forever the optimist and overly friendly. He said that I was going to go home some day. I told him he was right, but in a pine box. Bob was a good cellmate, but I do not like people that are always rays of sunshine.

I asked Bob how his case was going after telling him my sister was here to see me. He told me he was still waiting for the prosecutor to respond to his post conviction appeal from the circuit court. The trial judge, not surprisingly, dismissed his claims as frivolous and without merit. This is usually what the trial judge does, despite what errors you bring to their attention. My trial judge, Sam Amirante, dismissed my appeal also. He ruled my claim of ineffective assistance of counsel was without merit. In his opinion, the lawyers who put on no defense at all, and even told the jury to believe the lying interrogating officer were exceptional, and even if that claim and others filed in my petition had merit, because the appeal failed to attach affidavits, it was a procedural default.

Robert Mueller was convicted for the statutory rape of a 17-year-old, and sentenced to an incredible 40 years in prison. The sentence went way beyond what statutory rape allows, but the judge gave him a consecutive sentence for every time he had sex with the girl. Bob was a high school teacher in Naperville, and probably had something to do with the severity of his sentence. I personally think he should not have been given 4 years, let alone 40. I do not consider Bob a pedophile by any means. For Bob's birthday, I sent him a cassette tape with recordings of nothing but the song "Hot for Teacher," by David Lee Roth. The next time I saw Bob, he had a big grin on his face and told me "Thanks for the tape," but I do not know how amused he was. He may end up dying in prison for having sex with the high school student.

I was waiting for a half hour before I was strip searched and then allowed into the visiting room. As I walked down the short flight of steps, I looked to see if my sister was there. She was not. There are about 40 tables in the visiting room, and almost all of them were filled. The sergeant at the front desk assigned me to one of the few empty tables. The table was against the wall and directly in front of me was the table Bob sat at. His ugly wife was not there, but two men he told me earlier were friends.

I did not wait too long before I saw my sister in a line of people coming down the stairs. She waved to me before checking in, and I gave her a brief hug when she got to the table. My sister and I have always had a good relationship that has persisted despite the nearly two decades I have been incarcerated. As a child, my sister and I got along well, although our age differences did not give us much in common and she left home when I was very young. I did not see her again until years later when I was a teen. She soon thereafter got married, and bought a home with her husband that was not too far away. I went to visit them from time to time, even after I moved in with my co-defendant who lived in Schiller Park. In fact, I was at their home on the day the prosecution speculates that Dean Fawcett was murdered.

The last time I saw Bernadette was when I was still caged in the Roundhouse, so she was interested in my new location. I told her about being moved to general population and being assigned an obnoxious cellmate. I also told her about where my cell was located and the great amount of traffic and noise just outside my cell. I used some napkins on the table to illustrate where my cell was in relation to the holding cage, guard's desk, and front door. She asked me if the noise was as loud as it was now in the visiting room, and I said it was. The only time that is quiet was between 10 p.m. and 7 in the morning. She said she felt sorry for me.

My sister asked if I had eaten lunch, and if I wanted some food from the vending machines. I told her I was not particularly hungry even though I did not go to lunch. She was thirsty and got herself something to drink. She returned with a couple bottles of green tea, and informed me there were only cheeseburgers and snack products available. Again I told her I was not hungry, but she said I was too skinny and brought back two cheeseburgers and a bag of Doritos. Dorritos has been her favorite snack since I could remember when I was a small child.

As we ate the cheeseburgers, I told her I was expecting her to be fat. Our mother had commented a few times on her expanding size, and I was led to believe she would be enormous. She said she only put on a few pounds and wondered why this would be said. I told her I did not know but I was glad she did not roll in like The Great Pumpkin, in reference to her choice of clothes. She was wearing black shoes, pants, and a jacket but had on an orange shirt. My sister mentioned how she thought she was dressed for Halloween, a month early. I noticed she did not eat her chips after opening the bag, although there were only about 10 chips in it. Women are incredibly sensitive about their weight, I thought.

Bernadette asked me what happened to "Lisa," a woman I had been in contact with for a couple of months. I said I didn't know. Possibly, I had hurt her feelings and was too insensitive to her problems. From the beginning, I told my sister, I thought she was too emotional. I also thought it was very odd that she spent so much time with my parents.

My sister and I shared a laugh after I told her how I spoke to "Lisa" about sharing finances. I told "Lisa" that I did not believe in marriage, and if by chance I ever married I would without question have a prenuptial agreement. Plus, we would never share any bank accounts or credit cards. All of this made her very upset, especially when I told her that if I ever bought her a ring, the stone would be a fake. My sister thought I was just playing with the woman, but I told her I was not. A lab created diamond is just as good as a real one. In fact, the only way an expert can tell the difference is a lab created stone is perfect whereas a real diamond has flaws. It is the diamond cartels that hoard the abundant rock, greedy stone cutters, and manipulative marketing that give diamonds their value. My sister said she wished she knew this before her husband spent so much money.

I was asked how I knew "Lisa" lost interest in me. I said it was readily apparent how she went from great infatuation to nothing. It was a night and day difference. The long letters I received regularly stopped. She also went from continually wanting me to call her to ceasing to add money to her phone card so I could not call her at all. She wanted me to call so often that I was regularly bored and had to make provocative comments to keep my interest. Finally, as my sister already knew, she always wanted to visit me, which meant my family could not visit. Then suddenly, she did not want to come to see me at all. She disappeared from my life seemingly overnight.

My sister expressed how it was not only odd, but in poor taste for her to abruptly cease contact without explanation. I told her that was OK because she was not close to the type of woman I liked. Even my parents noticed how radically different she was from Susanna, my last girlfriend. Regardless of how I thought, I did not blame any woman for not wanting to be with me. I am a prisoner who will probably die in prison. She was smart to so quickly make an about face.

We then talked about why my appeal was so delayed. It is extremely difficult to get a court to look at your case once you have lost all your regular set of appeals. My attorney believes the only way I may be successful is by offering the court new evidence that was not available at trial, and by making a strong actual innocence claim. All the evidence my trial attorneys had at their disposal and did not use cannot be submitted, however. I hope my attorney is busy collecting new evidence that can be used.

I then went on to tell Bernadette how incredibly slow the court system was in Cook County. Even if my appeal was filed today, and it was to ultimately be successful in gaining me a new trial, the odds are I will not see another jury until 2020. I know a few men in my cellhouse who have successive post conviction appeals based on actual innocence still pending 7 years after they were filed. I expressed my hope that Governor Quinn would grant my request for clemency because this would immediately set me free. The last I heard, however, this administration was still reviewing petitions from the last governor.

News from family members comes to me quicker than the mail. My sister told me a childhood friend of mine, Jeffrey, had made contact somehow via the Internet, and she asked if I remembered him. I do remember him, as well as his two brothers. She did not know anything specific, but I was glad to hear someone from my past had emailed me or posted something on the blogsite. Another man who said he worked with me at a cabinet business in Frankfort also made some contact. Unfortunately, his comment was posted as "anonymous," so she could not give me a name or a way to respond to him.

The noise in the visiting room was so loud that I often had to lean forward to hear my sister. Sometimes I noticed we were almost yelling at each other. The noise was irritating, and for a moment I stopped talking and just looked about the zoo. My sister noticed that we were the only white people in this crowd, so I pointed out Bob who was at a table behind her, and then spotted an old white woman near the back who was visiting a younger black man. My sister remarked that she was probably being used for her money. Probably so, I agreed. A Social Security check will go a long way in prison.

We talked about a CNN Piers Morgan interview that I watched last night. On the show, he had Damien Echols, his wife, and Jason Baldwin. The alleged near-retarded Jessie Misskelly who told police he witnessed his two friends torture and kill three boys in West Memphis was conspicuously absent. I am still intrigued by the case that in some respects reminds me of my own, although mine did not receive nearly the attention after my conviction. I told my sister I wish the judge had given me the death penalty so my case may have been scrutinized more on appeal. However, I doubt I would have garnered the support of capital punishment opponents or Hollywood liberals. I think the death penalty should be used much more often. The problem, in my opinion, is with the judicial process, the draconian sentencing, and vast criminal statutes.

Before the visiting room was closed, I told my sister I did not fail to remember her birthday earlier this month. I simply did not want to mention the subject in my last letter because of how old we are. There was nothing but sadness in my 30's, and I assumed the 40's would be even more depressing. She said that I am not that old and still have a baby face. I told her she was being ludicrous because I have creases throughout my face, pains throughout my body, and frequent thoughts of withering away. She told me everyone in their 30's has the lines and pains I have. I don't want to be in my 30's. I want to be 18 again. I want the life that has been stolen from me.

Although I was not very eager to go on my visit earlier today, I was glad my sister came to see me. Often I am left more unhappy than I was before a visit, and aggravated due to the prison conditions I must endure. However, it was nice to see my sister and I hope to see her again soon. Hopefully she does not visit again on my birthday.

Prisoner Exchange -- September 21, 2011

2011-09-28T21:40:00.013-05:00

Yesterday morning, there was a heavy fog that delayed movement and caused recreation lines to be cancelled. However, it did not prevent the transfer of close to 40 inmates to Menard C.C. The men were exchanged for 40 other inmates from the maximum-security prison down state, and they arrived at Stateville late in the afternoon. The swap was a surprise to many at the institution. None of the prisoners were told they were leaving until the night before. They had to hurry and pack up all their property and were given no explanation. Since then, however, various rumors have been circulating.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a gang fight on the way to the gymnasium. During the walk, a man severely beat another inmate in revenge for killing a relative of his on the streets of Chicago. When fellow gang members saw one of their own being brutally beaten, they attacked the aggressor. However, this only caused his mob to defend him. The result was a melee of about twenty prisoners fighting. Escorting guards were unable to break up the brawl and called on their radios for assistance. There was no gun tower capable of taking a shot, but eventually hostilities between the gangs were stopped and the entire line of men were placed in handcuffs to be taken to Segregation or their cell house. The prison was also placed on a Level 1 lockdown until last Wednesday.

While Stateville was on lockdown, a number of inmates on the gallery in E House that was headed to the gym were transferred to Tamms, Pontiac Seg, and Menard. A few weeks later, some people assumed the prisoner swap was an extension of the transfers which occurred earlier. Internal Affairs was assumed to target other people in the two gangs even if they were not involved in the fight or were even in different cell houses. Administrators may believe the gangs may continue to have animosity towards each other, so some were sent away as a precautionary measure. The Vice Lords and Gangster Disciples, however, are large gangs and shuffling the deck between two prisons may not have much of an effect if there are still strong grudges. The two gangs were enemies before the fight anyway, and regularly shoot at each other in the city.

During my time at Stateville, I have seen mass prisoner exchanges between the state's two maximum-security prisons before. Usually these involved the expulsion of the Latin Kings. The Mexican gang is probably considered the most dangerous gang in Illinois' penitentiaries now. Over the years, there has been an enormous increase of Mexicans incarcerated. These growing numbers along with a strong group identity, loyalty, and prevalence for using weapons has caused Internal Affairs to be diligent in trying to prevent their activity. The problem with swapping them for prisoners in Menard is that Menard officials do not want them either. Just like the Vice Lords and Gangster Disciples, shuffling the deck does not always change the hand a person is dealt.

As I reported in an earlier post entitled "Black Stones Raided," black gangs can often be the focus of large transfers also. The largest racial group in Illinois' prisons by far still are African-Americans, despite the fast growing population of Mexicans. However, the black gangs are not as organized or cohesive. There are many divisions among them, even within the same gang. Black prison gang members are also less likely to wield knives.

Caucasian inmates are a small minority in the IDOC, especially at Stateville. The only white gangs that have existed in the Illinois Department of Corrections are biker gangs and the Northsiders. The Northsiders is the largest of them, however, they have essentially disappeared in this decade. That is because the gang, unlike all the others, was formed in prison as a protective force against exploitation by the colored races. The Northsiders never existed outside these walls as a criminal organization, and once the enormous danger white inmates faced receded when guards took control of the prisons, the purpose of the gang faded. Despite the small minority of Caucasian inmates in prison, in the past they also have been the focus of Internal Affairs.

For a years in the late 1990s, I was incarcerated at Joliet CC. However, in 2000, I was transferred out with a group of other white men. The transfer was due to a prison snitch telling Internal Affairs that there was growing unity among the Caucasian inmates. A number of the men transferred out were Northsiders, but I and a few others were not even in gangs and were considered "Neutrons." Some men were sent to Menard, others to Pontiac, but unfortunately, I was sent to Stateville. I filed a grievance on the matter asking in part to be returned to Joliet. However, by the time the state supervising agency reviewed it, the old penitentiary in Joliet was closed down. It was emptied by 2001, and filming of the TV show "Prison Break" had began at the facility. Many men will be sent without warning to different prisons due to suspicions of conspiracy, and not for actually committing any infraction. Some will even stay at Tamms Supermax or Pontiac Seg for years.

Today, I was able to learn more about the men transferred to Menard. Earlier I went on a visit and afterwards I was made to wait in a crowded holding cage for a few hours before being returned to my cell house. The holding cage was filled to capacity with men standing shoulder to shoulder. They were loud, and some had sour body odors. While I was trapped in there, I overheard a number of conversations including talk about the inmate swap.

It has been a long day, and I look forward to sleeping after I write this post. Not only did I spend hours waiting in holding cages, but I was also given the 3rd degree by a lieutenant who wanted to know why I did not have a jacket. The IDOC is required to give inmates blankets and jackets for the winter. Increasingly, however, staff is reluctant to do so. It is even difficult getting socks, underwear, and T shirts now, and prisoners are expected to buy these items from commissary.

From what I have heard, only a handful of the men transferred yesterday morning were members of the gangs that fought on the way to gym a few weeks ago. Most of the men had been at Stateville for a very long time, even over a decade or two. Some had jobs, and this usually meant they had good disciplinary records. An inmate cannot have an assignment unless he has not been given a ticket in over a year. I have learned prisoners who had jobs in the kitchen, barber shop, print shop, and elsewhere were transferred. This information led people to speculate the inmates were not selected due to gang affiliation but for having too much influence with staff, or simply being just too comfortable. There was even speculation that one prisoner may have been transferred to discourage his appeal, although I am skeptical of this.

Many men in maximum security prisons have been incarcerated for numerous years, and have during this time built friendships with staff. A few men even have sexual relationships with female guards or nurses. If Internal Affairs ever suspects a sexual relationship, that prisoner will immediately be transferred. They also may spend a long time in Seg, depending on the level of proof. Men that simply have just formed a number of friendships also will be bussed out. I.A. will suspect those prisoners to have gained excessive influence, and this is taken as a threat. I have witnessed kitchen workers who I.A. would send to Seg for ambiguous charges, and who were then let out and given their jobs back. When I.A. noticed this, they were sent to Menard.

While in the shower area, I spoke to a couple of people about James who had been at Stateville since Joliet was closed. He had been working in the print shop since I arrived here in 2006, and probably long before, despite how wardens had decreed prisoners must be moved to different positions every six months and be laid off for a year after working a year. The print shop is not a job that can quickly be trained for, like someone who sweeps a floor or slops food on a tray. Despite this, the warden wanted the two print shop workers to be fired. Even Jimmy Files, who I now call "Operation Deep Throat" after learning of his claim to have killed President John F. Kennedy in a CIA-mafia conspiracy, and rumors he has French kissed men on visits, was fired. A person may think "Operation Deep Throat" would be reviled in prison, however, he has been at Stateville over two decades and has made friends with staff. The warden had to actually remove Jimmy Files from the print shop himself or he may still be working there. However, James continued to keep his detail and the supervisors refused to let him go. Even after Internal Affairs searched the print shop and discovered James had apparently made himself a second residence there, he was kept on. Apparently, I.A. thought this man was a little too comfortable and had a little too much influence, although there may be another reason for his transfer.

James has been stalled for years in a post conviction appeal. The prosecutor, time after time, has asked and been granted continuances. It seems that the State's Attorney's Office does not want the case to move forward. According to James, he is assured an evidentiary hearing and a new trial. His appeal accuses the prosecutor of withholding exonerating evidence of another man who confessed to the crime. It also encloses documents that the fire was originally determined to be an accident, and a retraction from a jail house snitch. The State's Attorney's Office never admits fault, and fights vehemently to prevent a murder conviction from ever being overturned, let alone an arson triple murder case. Although unlikely, it is possibly James was transferred to make it more difficult for him to meet with his lawyers and attend evidentiary hearing proceedings. Tomorrow, the prosecutor was supposed to give reasons why an evidentiary hearing should not be granted.

The prisoners from Menard are currently housed in the Roundhouse. I am informed most of them are gang members and were transferred due to a number of staff assaults that have occurred in the penitentiary recently. Inmates say the guards at Menard are regularly disrespectful, petty, and mean. They are thought to regularly try to instigate a fight, confrontation, or some type of trouble. They do not care if they are beaten up either because they know they will be paid well by the union and other guards will get revenge on their behalf. The men who have arrived at Stateville are perceived by Menard's Internal Affairs Unit as being influential gang members or possible leaders. I know little about various gangs' inner hierarchies and have not met any of the transfers myself.

My cellmate and others are trying to send supplies over to the men who just arrived. Apparently, the prisoners from Menard were sent without their property. In the middle of the night they were awakened and told to leave. They were bussed in only their boxers, jumpsuits, and open toed shower shoes on their bare feet. Eventually, I assume their property in Menard will be bussed to Stateville and they will be given it. In the meantime, people want to make sure they have some clothes, food, hygienic items, or other things.

As I write this journal entry, I have heard a rumor that many more inmates are planned to be exchanged with those in Menard. A lot of Stateville's population will not want to go to the downstate prison. Many Stateville prisoners are close to family who live in Chicago. A drive to Menard from the inner city takes about 8 hours. People also will not want to move because of stricter rules and the perception that many of the white guards are racist.

Being white, I am not concerned about guards who are in the Klu Klux Klan. Before the turn of the century, Stateville was often nicknamed the white man's graveyard, and to this day it is not a friendly place to be if you are Caucasian. I will not miss being one of a small handful of white men in a cell house. Menard has a higher proportion of Caucasian inmates and they are often not integrated. I have not seen the recent film "Rise of the Planet of the Apes" but I have seen the old movies. It is not fun playing Charlton Heston's character all the time.

Stateville is located in Cresthill, not far from many prisoners' families and friends. Stateville also is not run as strict as the southern Illinois maximum security prison. However, otherwise, Menard is a better institution to be at. The mail is processed timely, visitation is longer and more comfortable, and the health care is not as incompetent or negligent. There are also weights and exercise equipment on all their yards, including dumbbells, and they are always in good condition. Menard is, furthermore, quieter! Inmates are sent to Seg for yelling in line or in the cell houses. They also must use headphones when using their TVs or radios. There are no roaches, and the cells and cell houses are kept clean and in working order. No where in maximum security or prison in general is nice, but I will not mind if I am in a future prison swap.

October 5, 2011

There were no further prisoner swaps between Stateville and Menard. Unfortunately, it appears I am stuck here.

Dear Readers:

2011-09-25T20:35:00.010-05:00

Governor Quinn has nearly finished going through all the Clemency Petitions left behind by Illinois' former governor, Rod Blagojevich. Very soon he will begin making decisions on those filed since he became our Governor.

Although Gov. Quinn has granted many pardons, most have been given to clear those with minor convictions on their record. It is unusual for any governor to grant a pardon to a person who has been convicted of a serious felony, especially when no DNA evidence exists. Paul's situation is unique in that he truly is innocent. Like many others, he has not had full access to the courts because of lawyers' mistakes.

You can write a personal letter regarding Paul's request for a pardon, explaining this horrible miscarriage of justice, and asking for the Governor's intervention where the lawyers and courts have failed. Paul's petition was reviewed by the Prisoner Review Board in July 2010. They made a confidential recommendation to the Governor a month later.

Other than the link above to Governor Quinn's email, you can also write him at:

Governor Pat Quinn
James Thompson Center
100 W. Randolph, 16-100
Chicago, IL 60601

or

Governor Pat Quinn
207 State House
Springfield, IL 62706

Paul sends his heartfelt thanks and appreciation to all of you who have taken the time and made the effort to try to help him gain his exoneration and freedom. All of us want to thank those who also signed the online petition.

May God bless you all,

The Friends and Family of
Paul Modrowski

Remembering 9/11 and Moving On -- September 11, 2011

2011-09-23T01:08:00.015-05:00

Today is the ten year anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. The week leading up to the anniversary has been filled with an overwhelming amount of sensationalistic and alarmist news reporting. I have watched, read, and listened to parts of this blanket news media coverage, including this morning's "Day of Remembrance" event in New York City. Like many, I remember the airplanes' collision into the skyscrapers and their collapse. However, unlike many, I fail to see why it remains of great significance. I also believe the U.S. government has greatly overreacted and continues to do so at the detriment of the republic.

As I do every morning, I watch the news while I eat my cold breakfast which was served to us in the middle of the night. Since the prison has been on lockdown, I have taken my time eating and getting ready for the day. There has been no movement at Stateville since the gang fight a week ago, and I have been doing little over the past week. I have been resting and trying to heal from my numerous injuries. The news this morning was centered entirely on the events that occurred ten years ago and the memorial in New York. I changed channels from CBS, NBC, ABC, FOX, and CNN, but it was all the same coverage from one angle or another. Apparently, I had little choice but to remember 9-11 and 10 years of unnecessary war, scare tactics, and amassing Big Brother government.

The site of the Twin Towers has been remade into an elaborate memorial greater than any I know of in the United States. Where the two buildings stood are now large square waterfalls and reflective pools. News people were persistent to point out the water will be regulated so it is never too cold or warm. Around the circumference of the waterfalls are the names of all who died, similar to the Vietnam War Memorial for dead soldiers. Next to the waterfalls is a museum apparently designed to allow people to fully experience all the trauma of the attack time infinite, and remind them why Americans must continually live in fear and in a police state. The memorial and museum were a costly feat of engineering due to a railway that passes closely underneath. The missing buildings and surrounding park surrounded by skyscrapers in downtown Manhattan seem to create a void and a gaping wound in the city. If this memorial was not enough to remind the public of 9-11 in the daytime, two enormous lights on occasion send a beam of light skyward like a beacon for Batman to protect Gotham from the mayhem of the Joker.

One may ask where is the caped crusader and America's superhero? To seemingly answer that, this morning former President George W. Bush and President Barack H. Obama were presented to a crowd of families of the victims and, of course, the entire nation via television. Before they spoke, a slow solemn procession of men playing bagpipes and beating drums circled the memorial. People at the park were shown clutching each other, crying, or moving their fingers over the inscribed names of the dead engraved on bronze plates. Obama and Bush did not give political speeches, but instead read from the Koran, the Old Testament, and a letter written by Abraham Lincoln. I noticed that a bulletproof glass protected the current President, but not the former. I suppose his life is not important anymore, although I do not know how any harm could come to either one. There was such an overwhelming police and security presence that I do not think a mouse with a backpack explosive could get in.

Hopefully, I did not just give America's purportedly most nefarious, all pervasive, and ingenious zealot terrorists any ideas. These James Bond villains with their shoe/underwear bombs and use of airplanes as missiles cannot be underestimated. Currently, there is a nationwide alert of a plot underfoot to strike the U.S. on the 9-11 anniversary. It is not known where, how, or whom is behind this threat, but from government sources, it is credible. From coast to coast, America must be mobilized with massive police, government intelligence, and other resources to stop the ambiguous attack. Airports, railway stations, energy infrastructure, schools, football arenas, and entire cities are in danger. No place is safe, and Americans are reminded: "if you see something, say something." It is so dangerous out there, I am glad I am in this cage surrounded by numerous walls, razor wire fencing, gates, cameras, and hundreds of unionized guards. Unfortunate that all U.S. citizens could not have the same protections, but maybe they will some day have this privilege.

As I write this journal entry, I am listening to news radio. A couple of hours ago, F-16 fighter jets were scrambled to intercept and follow a commercial airplane. Apparently, two passengers had spent too long in the bathroom. I suppose if you had bowel troubles from bad airplane food, or want to have a cheap sexual thrill during a flight, that is unacceptable after 9-11. They could be making a bomb in there. Who knows? A chemical could be added to an explosive tampon or any sort of altered item still allowed on a plane. Whatever happened on board Frontier Flight 623 San Diego to Detroit, those suspicious lavatory users are now under arrest and being relentlessly interrogated along with a couple of other passengers from another flight who had also purportedly acted strangely.

During the week, I heard many people on television or news radio recount what they were doing ten years ago when airplanes were sent into buildings in New York City and the Pentagon. It seemed like everyone had a story to tell. It was similar to earlier stories a preceding generation had of when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Some people even tried to stretch a correlation with the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. I recall September 11, 2001, although I did not see life altering significance to it until government used it to change millions of lives at home and abroad.

Having been evicted from Joliet Correctional Center, I was sent to this most miserable maximum security prison in 2000. I spent a few years here before being able to transfer. It was while at Stateville that the terrorist attacks occurred. I was at the gymnasium when the planes hit and was not able to watch it live on TV. On the return, someone mentioned the U.S. had been attacked. I did not learn the details until I returned to my cell where my cellmate was glued to the television. I watched the prerecorded plane collisions into the towers and saw the buildings collapse. Although I am not a religious person, the destruction reminded me of the Biblical tale of the tower of Babel.

My cellmate seemed riveted by what had occurred. However, I continued about my routine as normal. In retrospect, it was like when I returned to the apartment I shared with my co-defendant and he told me about the Palatine Massacre that occurred the night before. He went on and on about the mass murders. It had little interest to me despite how he would try to impress on me the sensationalism of it all. Seven people had been brutally murdered at a Brown's Chicken and Pasta restaurant in Palatine, Illinois. A couple thousand people had perished in the Twin Towers. Yes, I heard this, but what apparently was lost on me was the emotional impact it had on the Chicago metropolitan area, or in the case of 9-11, the entire country.

The media coverage of the terrorist attacks and the Palatine Brown's Chicken murders in Illinois were very different in scope, but similar in the nonstop hyped emotional and sensationalistic news coverage. The public would demand justice and revenge at any cost. After the Palatine massacre, a task force of over one hundred police from various agencies was created. This police agency and the State's Attorney's office were under enormous pressure to solve the case. Politicians also sought to prop up their own elected office, and under no circumstance wanted to be seen as incompetent or less than zealous. Enormous sums of money and resources would be spent, and suspects' rights were of no concern. When I was arrested, I was denied a lawyer, intimidated, and roughed up. A statement was eventually fabricated, and I was presented to the public as a scapegoat for the Palatine Massacre while my co-defendant later walked free and the real Palatine Brown's Chicken killers were not apprehended until a decade later.

After 9-11, the Bush administration pursued a vague global war against Islamic terrorism. This strategic incoherence along with an emotionally enraged public allowed the U.S. executive to battle thinly accountable enemies, with or without credible evidence. Millions of people, trillions of dollars, and untold amounts of resources have been used in the vast war on terrorism whose battlefields have no boundaries. America itself has been turned into a police state with the rights and liberties of U.S. citizens being further curtailed. All the while, al Qaeda largely slipped through the cracks, their global support grew, the invasion of the U.S. southern border continued, and a vastly more dangerous threat in the East was ignored. Almost a decade later, Osama bin Laden, the alleged mastermind was killed.

"Strategory," as former President George W. Bush may say, was greatly missing. The ability of al Qaeda to take control of a few airplanes with box cutters and use them as crude missiles to plow into U.S. buildings never demonstrated their power, sophistication, or pervasiveness. Contrarily, it showed how impotent, crude, and insignificant they were. It was an enormous overreaction to send an invasionary force into Afghanistan. It was also unwise to attempt to defeat the host tribal leaders and Taliban in the extremely difficult mountainous terrain bordering Pakistan. It was almost tantamount to Bill Murray in the move "Caddieshack," bumbling about attempting to kill some gophers on the golf course. The British Empire tried this, then the Soviet Union, but Americans thought they could not only win at Whack-A-Mole, but succeed in putting together a united free democracy allied with the U.S. and embracing Western culture. No wonder the world views Americans as arrogant. The arrogance or delusion of the White House is almost laughable, if not for its serious negative consequences.

Former President Bush said we will bring the war to the enemy. However, instead of changing the way of life in Afghanistan, the way of life has changed in the U.S. The fear of terrorism and the growth of Big Brother government since 9-11 has further eroded the founding principles of America. I may have been in prison almost the last two decades, but I see how liberty and freedom have been lost at almost every turn. Homeland Security, eavesdropping on U.S. citizens, enormous police presences in public, police so heavily armed they may as well be soldiers, checkpoints, searches, seizures, arrests without cause, and the list goes on. You cannot even be in an airplane toilet too long or face arrest and interrogation. Bush and Obama have spoken about bringing freedom to the oppressed peoples of the world, but Americans should be more concerned about their own freedom. More and more, the maximum security prison of Stateville is a microcosm of the country around it.

In the Wall Street Journal, I read an editorial entitled "Ten Years Without an Attack." It seemed to argue that America is safer now than a decade ago, and this is worth being a police state. It is misleading to say there have been no al Qaeda inspired attacks because there have been mass and serial shootings. These, ironically, also were the cause of the government's overreaction to 9-11 and giving such a small terrorist group the prestige and recognition they desired. There is no question the U.S. should have retaliated with fierce vengeance. However, this retaliation should have been strategically focused. My father had a saying I recall from childhood that it was often "better to be smarter, not harder." This is advice the republic's executive should pay heed to. The fact there has not been a major terrorist attack on U.S. soil says nothing of the expensive and oppressive measures taken in security. The Gecko-like Cavemen could have carried out 9-11, and the fact it has not occurred again is not necessarily due to the trillions of dollars that have been spent, the wars, and massive human and other resources implemented, nor the country's oppressive police state. The threat of being harmed in a terrorist attack then and now is less than the odds of being hit by lightning. Possibly, I am biased as a prisoner, but I tend to believe the vast majority of Americans would prefer this risk of danger than live in an oppressive police state.

There are a number of more reasonable or smarter approaches that could have been taken by the U.S. to retaliate, deter, and protect the homeland. Precision bombings and special forces could have eliminated most of al Qaeda. Over the years, intelligence agencies could have located other members of consequence, and assassinated them like Osama Bin Laden. Hijacking of airplanes could have easily been thwarted by a locked reinforced cockpit door and armed pilots. The CIA and NSA could have been greatly expanded without causing unnecessary infringements on U.S. citizens' liberty and Constitutional protections. Border security and ICE could have been enormously increased also, not only stopping the invasion of the country by Mexicans and violent gangs or cartels, but scrutinizing non-Western foreigners' entry, visitation, and residency in the U.S. I agree with the Bush administration that foreign terrorists have no rights and can be squeezed for information, detained at Guantanamo without lawyers or civilian trials. I have no qualms with war. In fact, I believe the U.S. should have a powerful military and intelligence agency to not only defend the nation but to project its power globally. What I disagree with is how the might of the U.S. is used.

I find it ironic that while the U.S. continues to play "Whack-A-Mole" in Afghanistan, which is of no threat and is a barren wasteland that does not even have any oil, nothing is done about other enemies, most ominously China. It is clear the U.S. will soon be in a cold war with the Asian horde. While America has been recklessly spending trillions on homeland security, an unnecessary and futile war, wasteful consumerism, and a purported economic stimulus, China has been amassing a fortune. They are currently accumulating enormous assets around the world, especially natural resources, to build and sustain a technologically advanced modern national infrastructure, economy, and ominous military. It is no secret that China has been steadily cranking out submarines and stealth bombers, and recently an aircraft carrier was revealed to the world. The Asian menace also protects North Korea, engages in cyber attacks, espionage, and threatens their neighbors. It is only a matter of time until they are able to threaten the world with projected global power. While America continues to look back at 9-11, China is gaining economic and military parity that will soon eclipse the U.S.

China is not any joke like Osama bin Laden pretending to be an Austin Powers super villain from the caves of Afghanistan or the compound in Pakistan he was assassinated in. China is set to become as dangerous, if not more so, than the former Soviet Union at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Unlike the former Communist country that imploded from its own backwards socialist economics, the Chinese have largely turned away from collectivism. They are a virile hybrid dynamic, mixing capitalism and nationalism on the world stage. While liberals cling to the folly of tax and spend socialism, and neo-conservatives cling to the idea of global free trade, the U.S. continues to lose economically. The U.S. cannot compete with a country such as China that cheats, steals, subsidizes industries, lowers their currency, and sells the U.S. unsafe children's toys and foods with poison ingredients. I get the impression sometimes that Western leaders are not simply cowards or beholden to international business, but think they can cause a democratic revolution by letting them take advantage of open trade policies. However, they are only feeding the tiger.

Years ago, when the war against terrorism first began, some prisoners had a fantasy that possibly they would be released into the military. I do not know what these men were thinking, considering they were convicted murderers, rapists, and armed robbers. Possibly, they had watched the movie "The Dirty Dozen" one too many times. It was an intriguing daydream, however. I would most certainly love to be on a Special Ops team, and even die in battle rather than die a slow death in prison. However, I will not die in vain or for a counterproductive purpose. Although Americas are not imprisoned at Stateville for the rest of their lives, I believe they should nonetheless have the same perspective.

In the last decade, neither America nor any of the Caucasian nations of the world are any safer. The freedoms America purportedly fights for others have been taken away in their own land. The power of the nation has not been quantitatively increased, but seemingly diminished. The country is trillions of dollars in debt, the standard of living has deteriorated, millions are unemployed, the economy is on the brink of another recession. Furthermore, while the U.S. mobilized to fight terrorism, its other military hardware and preparedness has been left to atrophy, despite a greatly more powerful enemy emerging. Traditional Western values, culture, and its people continue a slow death. Does 9-11 mark the resiliency of the U.S., or its accelerated decline? While today is a day of remembrance, hopefully tomorrow is a day of ascension and moving forward.

Lockdown Respite -- September 8, 2011

2011-09-15T22:28:00.011-05:00

On Monday, there was a gang brawl on the way to the gym. According to guards and inmates, about 20 men from cell house E were involved in the melee. I have not heard if anyone was seriously injured, but I do know the dispute was between Vice Lords and Gangster Disciples. As I write this journal entry, the prison is on lockdown and over 100 tactical team guards from across the state are searching the prison for weapons and other contraband. They have not come to the cell house I am in yet, but they could be here tomorrow. The administration takes organized group activity seriously, and the entire prison will probably be searched. I assume men have already begun to be interrogated and transferred out to Pontiac, Tamms, and Menard's segregation. In the meantime, I have been taking this time to rest, daydream, and attempt to heal my many injuries.

Most inmates do not like when the prison is on lockdown and they must remain in their cells. However, for me this has come as a great blessing. Without any movement, there have been no prisoners walking by my bars or standing in the holding cage. It has been quiet much of the time, not only at night, but throughout the day. No longer do I have prisoners yelling and talking just outside my cell. Even my cellmate has been quiet since the prison has been on lockdown, as he has no one to talk to. On top of the relative peace and quiet, I once again have "room service." All three of my meals are brought to my cell by guards. The food may be terrible, but at least I do not have the aggravation of going to the chow hall.

Since I have been moved to general population, I have been at great unease. I am in a cell that is positioned on the ground floor, across from a holding cage, and near the cell house door. The enormous and almost ceaseless amount of traffic and noise just outside my bars is almost maddening. I hate prison and the vast majority of convicts here. This cell forces me to be a part of it and them every waking moment of my life. There is no privacy and no escape. Even from inside my cell there is regular aggravation. My cellmate is frequently talking and shouting to his numerous friends, gang buddies, or just about anyone who happens to want to talk. It has been great that lockdown has stopped all of this. Hopefully, the prison will remain on lockdown for the rest of this month.

For years, I have been dealing with a back injury. I have two crushed disks in my lumbar spine that cause chronic pain. Recently, I injured something in my left shoulder. I do not know what the problem is or how it occurred, but it is even more painful than my back. Oddly, the severity of the new injury often makes me forget about my back pain. Before the lockdown, I had submitted several requests to see a doctor, but I was never given an appointment. I do not know what the prison doctor would have done anyway other than give me ibuprofen. I already have stronger anti-inflammatories in my cell and they do not help. In prison, doctors do not normally attempt to figure out what your ailment is, but just give you cheap generic pain pills. It will be many months, if not years, until I see a specialist who will determine if I tore a tendon, pinched a nerve, or damaged my rotator cuff.

In addition to my lower back and shoulder injuries, I have a sore right knee. I tend to believe the problem is due to tendinitis or repeated stress to the joint. I regularly do intense cardiovascular workouts in my cell on the concrete, however, the injury could be due to the years I lifted heavy weights. Possibly I have disintegrated some of the cartilage in the knee. The pain only affects me when I exercise and has only been persistent for a couple of months. If the pain was due to power lifting, I would assume it would have stayed with me for years. I have never complained about the knee injury because, again, I know the response of prison doctors will be to give me Tylenol or Ibuprofen. If I want to see a specialist, have an MRI, or C/T scan, it will require persistent litigation. It took me years to see a specialist about my back, and it was not until I was unable to walk that I was sent out to the hospital to see a neurologist.

Regularly, people will comment on the intensity of my workouts. Prisoners and guards alike will stop and watch when I exercise in the cell. I hate the attention it draws and wish I had a curtain to block out the view of bystanders. Last week, I had a lieutenant standing at my bars as I did hyper extensions off a box stacked on my bunk. When I finished, he asked if I was all right. I said, "No, I am not. I have a natural life sentence and will probably die in prison." Apparently though, he was commenting on my strange setup and exercise. He likes to try to be funny. I suppose he also may have thought it was a way to open up conversation.

Over the weekend, I had the black inmate who is a fan of Green Mountain Coffee stock offerings at my bars. He asked me how I was doing. I dislike these ambiguous questions which I often do not understand. I do not know if the person is just saying this as some kind of a greeting, to be social, or if they actually want to know how you are doing in some degree or way. Instead of trying to figure it out, I just told him I was in a lot of pain. He said he could not tell by the way I work out. I told him I do not allow pain to stop what I want to do. He is not the only person to make such comments.

Not long ago when I was on the yard, Steve told me that for a man who is in so much pain, I certainly do not show it. I asked him if he ever saw the movie "Predator." When he said he had, I asked him if he remembered when a member of the Special Ops Team told Jessie Ventura he was bleeding, and Ventura dismissed his concern and said, "I don't have time to bleed." I told Steve, "I do not have time for pain." However, since I made this comment, I have reconsidered. I have nothing but time to languish in the maximum security prisons of Illinois until they shovel dirt on top of my body. I have been over training and taxing myself for years, if not decades. Now that I am old, I can no longer heal and rebuild muscle and tissue like before. It is time to take a break. I have time for pain.

Since the beginning of the lockdown, I have ceased to work out. For this entire month, I plan to rest, and nurse my injuries. I am not certain if it will do any good, however, because my problems are possibly beyond any natural healing. The disks in my back are never going to regain their height or structural integrity. If my shoulder injury is a torn ligament, it will most likely need to be sewn back together. If it is a nerve, this also may not heal with rest. Nor will my knee, if damage is irreversible wearing away of cartilage. Despite the uncertainty, I will give it a try. I regret not having done so with my back the first time I injured it. Possibly it would not ail me today, if I did.

It is difficult for me to assess injuries because of my insensitivity to touch. Yesterday, laundry was returned to prisoners in C House and I had to ask my cellmate if my clothes were damp. I cannot tell, and did not want to fold them in my box if they still had moisture. Indeed, they were wet, and I had to use my fan to dry them out. Sometimes, I will take the returned laundry and put it to my face because it is more sensitive to touch, but this does not always work. Not being able to figure out if something is wet or dry also applies to pain stimuli. I can push myself through pain or not even be aware of it. When I was a child, I burnt the skin on my back by leaning up against a hot popcorn maker. I did not realize my skin was burning until my mother and sister began to smell not popcorn but burning flesh. Being insensitive to pain can have advantages but also disadvantages. I often do not know how badly I have been injured. If I did not have this problem, upon hurting my back in my 20's, I may have stopped working out. With my shoulder and knee, I have no idea the extent of damage or how it occurred.

It is odd not exercising. I work out almost every day, and it is a part of my routine. I have played sports, lifted weights, or exercised almost continuously since I was a child. I have only been nonactive for four days, but already I feel the urge to do something. The man I talk to a couple cells away has told me just do a lighter workout. However, this I cannot do. It is everything or nothing. I hate half measures. Even in my attempt to rest and recuperate, I will do so with completeness.

Every day, I have been going to sleep at 9 p.m. and waking up at 7 a.m. I also lay in bed from about noon to 4, even if I do not fall asleep. I will just daydream for several hours. I daydream about a life I would have had if never arrested. Repeatedly, people ask me what I will do when I am freed. I tell them their question is ridiculous because they assume I will get out. Despite how my case and sentence may defy sensibility, the justice system is not about adhering to common sense. Odds are that I will never be given any relief in form of a pardon, commutation of sentence, or a new trial. Even if I was to be released, I do not know under what circumstances or when. A post conviction appeal in Cook County Illinois usually takes between 5 and 10 years if it is successful. Prosecutors and judges delay the process with numerous continuances and appeals. Even defense lawyers can be the cause of delays. I do not care to daydream about a life in my 40's and beyond. A life as an old man has no appeal.

I also daydream about the life I had before my arrest. My former cellmate, Josh, was always trying to figure people out with various stereotypes based on psychology all the way to astrology. He would tell me I was a "Crushed Star." A crushed star is someone who was full of promise and at a high point in their lives before having all of it destroyed by their arrest and conviction. He said he could tell by the way I spoke about my past before my arrest. I had a great nostalgia for it. My former cellmate is correct in that regard. I do often seek to remember my years as a teenager before my life was abruptly ended at age 18. I would not care if my entire prison years were erased from my memory. However, I treasure those years during my teens.

In my hours of lying in bed, I think of many hypothetical alternative realities. A movie people may have seen, "The Butterfly Effect," is commonly a type of theme in my daydreams. For those who have not seen the movie or are aware of the theory behind it, the smallest change in action can have a ripple effect that radically affects your life and numerous others', even those you have never met. Not only do I ponder how to alter my arrest or conviction but various parts of my teen life. Although I like much of the times before my arrest, it is greatly intriguing to think about even better scenarios. If someone knew me in the past, there is a good chance I have thought about you. Even those who only knew me from afar may be a part of my thoughts sometime in my nearly two decades of incarceration.

Also in my thoughts are totally fictional creations. Purportedly, those with Aspergers have poor or no ability to fantasize. However, I have always had a good imagination. The only problem I may have is with the enormous intricacy and desire to be realistic. Along with my daydreams of a future I could have had if not arrested or the past, I have thought of several themes lately, one of which I think could be made into a good romance novel. Over my years in prison, I have thought about writing numerous novels with subjects ranging from science fiction, horror, romance, history or war. If I had been inclined to put these ideas to paper, I could have at least written ten fictional books and possibly over 20. However, the amount of effort I would have had to use would be enormous. I do not have a word processor or computer or access to the Internet where I could do quick research or even make easy corrections. Like the blog posts I write, they would have had to be written slowly in dull pencil, then typed, and sent to publishers. I am confident at least a few of these works of fiction would have been successful, although I would have had to use an alias, such as I have in the past when writing political editorials for a few newspapers and magazines. Even fictional writing would be difficult being published when you are a convicted murderer.

As usual, I have read and listened to talk radio while on lockdown. I am limited in the music I can listen to now that I am on the ground floor of a concrete and steel monolith. FM reception is almost nonexistent except for pop and a Mexican music station, unless I dangle an antenna out of my bars. I care not to listen to pop or the carnival music Mexicans seem to enjoy. I have some heavy metal tapes, but most of my tapes were taken by Internal Affairs because they were copies. Inmates are not supposed to have recordings, but I refuse to pay $10, or up to $100, to order cassette tapes that are almost extinct. There are rumors prisoners may get MP3 players this decade, but there is discussion on how music will be recorded and controlled.

On talk radio was a brief mention of the Governor closing a prison or two due to budget difficulties. Apparently, television news has also reported it because while I was reading earlier today an inmate yelled out to guards, "Attention all correctional officers. Be prepared for layoffs." This was in response to a guard announcing to prisoners: "Attention all inmates. Be prepared for an Orange Crushing." It would be nice if Stateville was closed, but from information I have heard, Pontiac and either Vandalia or Logan C.C. are on the chopping block. At least the Governor is considering retracting the prison industrial complex, even if only marginally and because he is forced to. However, the problem needs to be addressed through the legislature with scaled back sentencing and criminal statutes. The judicial system also needs radical reform.

I believe the cuts to the IDOC have been under discussion by administrators for a period of time. Recently, counselors have been allowing prisoners with over 20 years remaining to serve to apply for medium-security transfers. Previously, no one with more than 2 decades was permitted to leave maximum-security (except for a privileged few). However, there are so many people with natural life sentences or other sentences which would never make them eligible, a change in policy had to be made. The only maximum-security prisons in Illinois are Menard and Stateville, which are already over capacity. If Pontiac segregation is closed, those fifteen hundred men must be sent to these two prisons, or Tamms Supermax. There is no way this can be accommodated.

Thinking I may have a chance to leave this place, even I requested a transfer. However, not long ago, it was denied. The brief memo I received from clinical services simply stated "offender is properly placed." This is a generic and arbitrary denial meaning the person who decides transfers at Stateville had no legitimate reasons. Despite this, I was not terribly upset. I have never had any optimism about the justice system or my incarceration in the IDOC. I will probably never see freedom or justice, or less miserable and oppressive living conditions while incarcerated. I am a "crushed star," and will just continue to rot away in my cage brooding about a life I once had, or should have had. Maybe, I will get up this evening to listen to the U.S. President's continued economic stimulus gimmicks or the NFL's season opener. I will not care however, if I do not wake up from my afternoon nap and sleep around the clock, or even this entire lockdown. In fact, I would prefer to be in a coma my entire captive existence.

The Appeal of a Double Homicide Convict -- Aug. 31, 2011

2011-09-07T21:40:00.017-05:00

Not long after I was moved to cell house C, a man a few cells down from me asked if I would read his appeal and give my opinion. Interestingly, he wanted my criticism, and to respond as if I was the prosecutor. Most men in prison want you to tell them how their appellate issues are wonderful, and that they will soon be going home. These people are always disappointed when I review their cases because I am brutally honest and have an unappreciated ability to pick apart and find fault in most everything. I am a cynical person, and even much of my humor is dry satire. Thus, I was looking forward to reviewing his case, however, I had many other priorities and did not have time to read his appeal until yesterday.

The direct appeal that I read and made comprehensive notes, comments, and opinions of belonged to Steve Zirko. Steve was convicted and sent to Stateville with natural life plus 30 years in 2009. It was not long after his placement in the same cell house as me that I began to talk to him. Coincidentally, he was assigned a cell two cells down from me in B House, and after my return to general population, we were again almost neighbors in a different cell house. I also was able to talk to him from time to time in the Roundhouse because he was a law clerk. The law library workers on occasion were sent to F House because they were in Segregation or could not go to the law library. When inmates in Kickout were finally allowed access to the library, I was also able to see Steve, but not very often. It was difficult making the library list in F House.

Steve Zirko is a squat 50-year-old man with an almost Mediterranean complexion. He looks like he would be Italian, and his last name led me to believe so until he told me otherwise. Steve keeps his hair very short or bald, and that is rightfully so. Except for some hair implants, he only has a horseshoe shaped growth of dark brown hair. Despite being much older than me, he is one of the few people I talk to. He is a good acquaintance because, unlike most people at Stateville, he is intelligent and educated. He also shares some of the same values as I have. In prison, I am surrounded by mostly ignorant, obnoxious, gang members from the ghetto.

Yesterday, I was very tired from working out and running laps on the prison's large south yard. I was also in a lot of pain, due not only to my lower back injury, but also some sharp pain in my shoulder and neck which I have been dealing with for a few weeks. At 36, I often feel like 56, and after bathing in my sink, I took a short nap. Steve's appeal had been put on my table by a cell house worker while I was sleeping. When I got up, I read his note which instructed me to read his appeal as if I were the prosecutor. It was going to be difficult judging the merits of his appeal without having read his trial transcripts. However, I was not going to read the vast pretrial and trial proceedings. His trial was a month long. I would have to depend on the Statement of Fact written by his attorney. Despite this, I was prepared to eviscerate the arguments put forth in his appeal. Steve had actually offered me some payment, but I was more than happy to crush any hopes he had of going home. Yes, misery loves company.

The week before, I had spoken to Steve about the basics of his case. However, now I had a much better understanding of what occurred. In 2004, his wife, Mary Lacey, and his mother-in-law, Margaret Ballog, were killed in Lacey's home in Glenview, Illinois. Both women were shot three times, but Lacey was also brutally stabbed 48 times. I thought only someone with hatred and who personally knew her would commit such a murder. Considering Steve and his wife were separated and still had animosity towards each other, there was no question he would be an immediate suspect. In my notes, I made a joke about how he could not be a more obvious suspect and he should have had an alibi.

The police, after finding the bodies, immediately went to pay Steve a visit. Steve had a few restraining orders against him. After he hit his wife, the court had him undergo anger management treatment. In my notes, I wrote: "apparently these did not help." I also made fun of his attorney's inference that police precipitously focused on him as a suspect. Lacey was already with another man of questionable character. However, the other man had an air-tight alibi. Before police start looking for the "one armed man," it made sense that they went to Steve. Other evidence would also make Steve the obvious suspect.

In prison, you rarely get to learn about a man and what he was like before coming here. Even when people tell you about themselves, I always have a high degree of skepticism. Although a defense attorney is going to want to portray their client in a good light, there are a number of undisputed facts I could learn about Steve from his appeal. For example, I learned that Steve taught band and music to high school and college students. He also was an entertainer on cruise ships playing the piano. This fact I already knew, and Steve likes to talk about the times he visited port cities in South America and in the Caribbean. I always questioned his ability to play the piano professionally, however, because of his short, fat fingers. I have told him on a number of occasions, "Those look like the hands of a bruiser and not an elegant piano player." "How do you even reach all those keys with precision?" I would ask him. He told me, "You would be surprised." He said his hands move very quickly and nimbly on the piano. I still insisted they would look better with brass knuckles busting someones teeth out.

While reading the Statement of Fact, which is a summation by the lawyer before arguments are given in an appeal, I knew why I never heard Steve talk about his wife and two sons. Most prisoners like to talk about their kids, if not their wife or girlfriend, who have usually left them. Steve not only had two sons with Mary Lacey, but had become a father to the two children she already had before marrying him. I was told that all of these children disliked or hated him. They probably went to live with his wife's family after the murders and never had any contact with him since. Ironic, that they were the cause of most of the friction, and if Steve killed the mother, now he has lost them completely.

While taking my notes, Steve came by my cell. He had been let out to take a shower. There was a grin on his face because I assume he knew I was being very blunt, critical, and derogatory in my writings. I told him he may want to take a Klonapin before he read what I was writing. He said, "No. I can take it. That is precisely what I wanted." He did not want anyone "blowing smoke up his ass". He knew I would tell him exactly what I thought and be very meticulous. I told him again that my opinion could only be of limited value without reading the transcripts from his trial. To help me get a better understanding, I asked him a few questions before a guard was at his cell door wanting him to lock up.

The first issue an appellate lawyer lists is usually the strongest issue the defense puts forth in a request for a new trial. The issue at the forefront of Steve's appeal was "Is it error for the court to submit to the jury instructions on the law of accountability?" Having been convicted on a theory of accountability, I was very knowledgeable about the issue. I knew that court instructions must be supported by some evidence and also must fit with the prosecution's argument.

Nowhere, according to Steve's attorney, did the prosecutor tell the jury he was guilty based on another person's actions. The prosecutor argued that he was the killer. The only way I saw evidence that could infer guilt by a theory of accountability was the testimony of solicitation of murder. In the law of accountability is the word "solicits," and Steve was not only charged and convicted of two counts of 1st degree murder but solicitation of murder. However, courts have ruled that when the prosecutor seeks a conviction based on accountability, they must identify the actual killer. In my case, it was my co-defendant, Robert Faraci (Faraci was acquitted). In Zirko's case, there was no one. Therefore, he had a decent possibility of a reversal on this issue, and in my notes to him I stated so.

Steve's second issue was that the court erred in allowing highly prejudicial evidence of his prior Internet searches. Like the Casey Anthony trial, prosecutors seized the defendant's computer as well as his new girlfriend's, and submitted to the jury Internet searches made in the past to prove their case. In Steve's case, they were even more incriminating and there was no one else who could have made those searches. Steve's girlfriend specifically testified that she did not make the searches. The searches were for "hire a hit man," "mercenaries," "guns," "how to destroy evidence," and many other very incriminating inquiries. Steve's attorney argued that these searches were a fraction of thousands made and just showed what type of fictional reading he liked. She also wrote that the most recent inquiry was made a month before the murder.

Courts are supposed to weigh the prejudicial impact that evidence would have compared to its probative value. For example, in my case, my collection of right-wing political books, newspapers, and writings as well as my VCR tapes of war footage was irrelevant to the murder. The state only sought to introduce them to tarnish my character. However, in Steve's case, the admission of these searches was relevant, and corroborated much of the prosecution's case. Despite the brutal murders that occurred, I mocked Steve in my notes for some of the ridiculous searches he made in his quest to hire a hit man. His attorney's attempts to make it sound like the searches were meaningless was almost laughable.

The third issue raised was the court's failure to suppress his statements to the police. This is an issue normally I can sympathize with due to not only my Miranda rights being violated, but being struck and held incommunicado for two days. When my interrogator could not get an incriminating statement from me, he simply made one up. He told my jury that I admitted my roommate told me he was going to kill the victim, and I lent him my car. Because the judge did not suppress the officer's claims and my trial attorney failed to contest this testimony, I was found guilty of 1st degree murder under a theory of accountability. I was sentenced to natural life without the possibility of parole, and I will most likely die in prison due to the lies of the police officer. Steve and I may share the same sentence minus 30 years he could never humanly do, however, we share little else.

Steve does not dispute what he told police, only that what he said should not have been used against him. Also, unlike me, Steve was never brought to a secret location so police could intimidate, threaten, and hit him without a lawyer ever being able to intervene. In fact, before Steve was taken to the police station, his parents were able to call his lawyer and tell him to go to the Glenview Police Department. Steve was not in any way abused nor does he deny being Mirandized. His lawyer, however, argues because Steve told his parents in front of the arresting police officers to call his lawyer, police should have never spoken to him. Also, his lawyer was apparently not allowed to see Steve for a period of time once he was at the station.

The reason Steve wants his statements suppressed is because he lied to the police about an alibi. This lie was used by the prosecutor to help convince the jury he was guilty of murder. "Why would an innocent man give a false alibi?" the prosecutor asked his jury. I can think of reasons why an innocent person would lie about his whereabouts when he is arrested for a double homicide. However, I do not know if the defense was able to demonstrate if his Miranda rights were violated and if the statements were prejudicial enough to deserve a new trial. In my writings to Steve, I told him I thought it was an important issue that should be raised, but I tend to think it will not be persuasive to an appellate court.

Issues number 4, and especially 6, I thought were totally without merit. These issues argued that the state did not prove their case of murder and solicitation of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. Whenever a defendant raises the insufficiency of evidence, the appellate court looks at the evidence in the light most favorable to the state. It is extremely difficult to win this argument unless there is virtually no evidence. In Steve's case, not one, not two or even three, but seven people testified that he asked them to kill his wife or find someone who would. Steve's attorney tries to discredit a couple of them, including calling one of them a "psychopathic drug addict." I can believe a few people may be lying about a defendant, but not seven. One of them was his chiropractor, and he actually went to the police a month before the murder. Steve's attorney says the chiropractor apparently was not too credible because no arrest was made. However, police at that time did not have the other six peoples' statements or two dead bodies. They also did not have Internet searches for a hit man.

The 5th issue was intriguing to me. In it, the appellate lawyer argues Steve's trial attorneys, Barry Spector and Stephen Richards, were ineffective for joining the murder and solicitation charges. There was an abundance of evidence that Steve solicited someone to kill his wife. However, there is almost nothing to show he committed the murder. If his attorneys had been able to defend him against the charges separately without evidence of one crime being used to convict him in the other, there is a very good possibility he would have been acquitted of murder, and thereby only face a possibility of 30 years of which he would only have to serve 85%, or 25 years. I was not able to watch Steve's trial like the Casey Anthony trial, but from what I read, absent the solicitation evidence, there was no case to convict him of the murders.

Issue #7 was that the trial judge did not completely comply with all of Illinois' Supreme Court rules as outlined in 431(b). According to the law, the judge must tell the jury the presumption of innocence, the defendant did not have to present any evidence including his own testimony, and the jury could not hold it against him. The judge is also then supposed to ask juror members if they understand and agree with these principles. According to a few cases the appellate lawyer cited, in a closely balanced case where there is a violation of Sup. Ct. rule 431(b), a defendant must be granted a new trial. I am not so sure how strong this technicality is, nor if the reviewing court will think the evidence was closely balanced. My reviewing court said the evidence was not closely balanced and there was much less evidence against me. However, my trial attorneys basically abdicated and told my jury the interrogating officer's testimony was truthful.

Steve's last issue was meritorious, but had little value. He filed a post trial motion telling the judge that his attorneys were ineffective for a number of reasons. According to law, the judge must address the motion, but his judge never addressed it. The appellate court may remand the case back to the original trial judge. However, he is most certain to deny it, and that is the end of Steve's direct appeal. The State Supreme Court is not going to look at his case.

During my reading and note taking yesterday, I was surprisingly not distracted much until a cell house worker came to my bars. He is the black man with a large mole on his chin who has bothered me before about investments. He wanted to know what I thought of the company Green Mountain Coffee Roast. He also wanted me to help him understand the literature and statistics in their 2010 annual report. I did not have time to indulge him. However, I did tell him that the coffee company's profits have grown enormously in the last couple of years, but its price has grown even more. It is now trading at 90 times trailing earnings. If he thought growth would continue at the same pace in the years to come for the single serve coffee distributor in the face of a recessionary or stagnant economy, he needs to quit talking to me and call his broker.

At chow time, I took a break from my work. I did not care to eat the sloppy soy that was being served for dinner, but to ask Steve some questions about his case. One question was how he managed to get the death penalty off the table before jury selection. In a death penalty case, every potential juror is asked if they are willing to render capital punishment. If not, they are kicked out of the jury pool. A number of my potential jurors were taken out because of this, and I felt prejudiced because those jurors were probably better for the defense. Steve said there was a talk between the judge, defense attorneys, and prosecutors outside of his presence, and the prosecution agreed to take it off the table.

Another question I had for Steve was if he paid for his wife's breast implants. According to the appeal, her body was cut so that her intestines and even breast implants came out. He told me she got the "boob job" done after they separated, along with some other cosmetic surgeries. Apparently, when she was back on the market again, she had to make some renovations to attract suitors. The man she finally met, though, Steve thought, was lowly.

Although I finished reading the appeal last night, I did not give it back to him until today when I went out on a visit. When I handed it to him with my writings, I said, "Here's the prosecutor's off-the-record thoughts of your appeal." He glanced at my 5 pages of tiny print before I left. On my return, I stopped at his cell again, and he began to tell me he was innocent. I told him to save it for his next jury if he ever gets a new trial. I do not know if he is innocent or guilty, but I did not care. Almost everyone at Stateville is guilty, and most have murder cases. I did not judge Steve solely on his conviction for a double homicide in Glenview, but who he was as a person in totality.

Story Time on the Small Yard -- August 24, 2011

2011-09-04T16:46:00.019-05:00

Prisoners in general population at Stateville are usually sent to one of two small yards for their recreation. The yards are adjacent to each other but separated by about ten feet, and two high cyclone fences. The fences have razor wire wound around the tops and enclose the yards. Each yard consists basically of two concrete basketball courts. However, there is a short walkway leading to the courts, and on each side there is a little grass. Not long ago, a chin-up and dip bar was set into the lawn.

I almost never go to the small yard. It is usually crowded, and I despise the lack of space. The small yards are similar to dog runs except they are meant for humans to run back and forth, or bark at each other. There is nothing for me to do on these yards. I care less to play basketball or socialize with the other animals. Contrarily, small yard is an opportunity for me to be in my cell alone. I am almost always trapped in my cage with my cellmate, but when he goes out to the dog run, I have time to be without his presence. Unfortunately, however, I am almost never blessed with solitude because this cell is directly across from the cell house holding cage, and there is almost continual traffic.

Yesterday morning, small yard was run for my gallery and two others in my cell house. I was glad to be rid of my cellmate for a few hours. It would give me some time to read and write without any distractions from him. Hopefully, the rest of the cell house would be relatively quiet with the majority of people leaving to recreation. Less than an hour passed however, when my cellmate and others on the yards returned. Thunderstorms were passing, and guards have been instructed not to leave prisoners outside when there is lightning. The chance of being hit by lightning was minute and probably a blessing for society, or the inmate. However, officials do not want the liability. Ironically, convicts at Stateville must languish in prison for most, if not all, of their lives, but they must be protected from a one in a million chance of being struck by lightning.

It rained for much of the day, and I thought possibly the evening yard would be cancelled as well. Yesterday, my gallery and the one above it were scheduled to be sent to the large south yard after dinner. The south yard with its weights, quarter mile track, and ample space was a place I could look forward to. Evening yard was only given to inmates once every other week, and it is over at the end of summer. At about 4:30 p.m., an announcement was made over the loudspeaker. Two and four galleries were advised to get ready for chow and that yard would follow. However, we were to be sent to the small yard. "Small yard" was repeated a couple times to the dismay of inmates including myself.

In the chow hall, I sat with a group of older white men. Much of the talk centered on commissary and the auditors from Springfield who were here for the week. I was not aware of any inspection, but that seemed to make sense. Last week, large contingents of inmate workers were given the task of cleaning and painting hallways and parts of the cell house. Commissary was on the minds of many people because the cell house had not been given a full shop in about two months. The computer system used at the prison store suspiciously continued to fail. Finally, however, commissary orders were to be given to inmates in C House that evening and the following one. While those at my table complained about their empty boxes, I thought how convenient the computer failures were for the unionized state commissary employees who have been demanding more overtime, or additional staff.

On the way out of the chow hall, a lieutenant I once debated politics with in a former cell house called me out of line. I knew he wanted to gripe about some Republican position. The lieutenant supports President Barack Obama and is a liberal on most issues. As expected, he asked me, "How come the Republicans refuse to tax the rich?" I told him, "The wealthy already pay the vast majority of taxes, and they are the job creators. It is they who are the engines of economic growth, and not the poor, especially those who leach off the system." These statements riled him up, and he said, "You and your conservative ilk are crazy. You must be drunk," and he asked me if I had alcohol in my bottle. The lieutenant loves to debate politics, but my line was leaving and I could no longer engage him.

Waiting in line outside the cell house, I was planning to go back inside. I had no intention of going on the small yard. However, Steve, who is one of the few men I speak to, asked me if I would go out to the yard with him. The skies had cleared and it was a perfect summer day to spend some time outside, he said. I did not care that the sun was out, but when I learned my gallery would be put on the yard all by ourselves, I changed my mind. There were only about five people who would be out on the yard, and Steve and I would have it almost entirely to ourselves. Unfortunately, a few men began to complain and convinced the guard to put us on the same small yard as the gallery above us. I had already walked well past the cell house door and could not return.

There were close to 20 men on the small yard. Half of them played basketball on one of the courts. The others played cards, dominoes, or talked. I walked around the basketball court that was not being used with Steve, and was glad the homosexual, Frank, did not attempt to join us. There was a younger white man that had Frank's attention. Frank was not thuggish or sexually imposing. In fact, he was polite, friendly, and soft spoken. However, I knew underneath this veneer was a twisted homosexual. He was also a known snitch. I did not trust or like the loathsome queer.

Steve is a short, stocky, 49-year-old man with a bald head. He looks as if he is Italian, but he is a mix of European ethnicities, mostly Hungarian. I suspect one of his ancestors was a non-caucasion gypsy. Despite this, I tend to like Steve because he is educated and more intelligent than most of the people at Stateville. He also shares some of the same values as me, and has strength of character that is lacking among most of those in prison.

For the first twenty or thirty circles around the yard, we spoke about stocks, particularly those companies that deal with natural gas and fertilizer. I told Steve that currently there is a glut of cheap natural gas in the U.S., but after 10 years the price will greatly increase as exporting LNG ports are built and the country begins to use more and more of the fossil fuel. He asked me about environmental concerns of new fracking technology, and I told him a story about a cousin of mine who owns land in West Virginia that has deposits of natural gas underneath it. A company paid them good money to drill, but now a lake on their property is dead of fish and their well water is undrinkable due to leaking methane gas. Despite this, I told Steve that natural gas was America's future energy source. I also told him about an excellent fertilizer stock company called Terra Nitrogen, which has enormous profit margins due to the cheap price of natural gas and the high price of nitrogen fertilizer they make.

After stocks, we spoke about the man who claims to have killed John F. Kennedy. On the gallery above us lives an old man with long gray hair and a mustache. His name is Jimmy Files, and in cooperation with a writer in Hawaii, he wrote a book about the assassination of the former U.S. president. Steve read the book, along with a couple of other ones with a conspiracy theme that named Jimmy Files as the shooter. Steve has spoken to him at length and told me he thinks Files is telling the truth. I have not read any of these books nor spoken to him about the assassination, but I told Steve, after a brief description of the conspiracy story, that I believe Files is a liar attempting to make some notoriety for himself before he dies in prison. Steve commented that an honest man he knows at Catholic Services told him he saw Files with "his tongue down the throat" of another man on a visit. Steve said after hearing that, he has stayed away from Files. I replied, "You never know about these men at Stateville." Then I commented, "I cannot even kiss a woman on a visit without being yelled at."

The next story Steve told me was about his double homicide conviction. As we walked in circles, he would stop in mid sentence when we would come close to Frankie and his new subject of interest. Much of what Steve told me was information I was not aware of, although I have known him for a few years. He does not talk much about his personal life, except for being a former teacher and a piano player. He also says even less about his case. Steve told me that he has his appellate brief in his cell and wants me to read it to give him my critical opinion of it. I told him I also wanted to read the state's reply brief. He said I could, as soon as he receives it, however, he told me never to say anything about what he told me or what I read to others in the prison. He said he did not trust anyone in here. I asked him if I could share the information with the paralegal I know. He said that was fine. I then asked if I could print his personal information on the World Wide Web. He said that also was fine, but I think he thought I was joking with him. So, possibly, I will have a post about Steve's case in the future.

I told Steve, "Let's go speak to Flanders and the Californian Meth Head." As we walked over to the gate where they were standing talking to each other, I was asked why I call Scott "Flanders." I told him he has the voice and demeanor of The Simpson's sissy Christian neighbor. He told me he noticed this, and speculated he had a "little sugar in the tank." I do not know if Scott is queer. I tend to believe he is just a very clean cut, overly friendly, soft spoken person from rural Illinois. However, as I said to Steve earlier, you never know about people at Stateville, and I do not know how Flanders could have survived when the prison system was much more violent. Either he only recently came to prison, or he was someone's "bitch," as convicts say.

The two men were speaking about the incident which occurred over the weekend. A man in E House disassembled his fan to take the metal motor out. He then put the motor in a pillow case and bludgeoned another prisoner over the head with it. Scott speculated the man was trying to kill the person. The man from California, who also goes by the name Scott, worried about the administration taking away all of the fans from prisoners. I did not say anything, but knew none of the sort would occur. A sock rock, batteries in a laundry bag, and even motors in pillow cases have been used as weapons since I could remember. I even heard of men slamming TV sets onto the heads of sleeping cellmates. There was nothing that could be done about the violence. I asked him for the time instead. I had to complete my workout out on the yard since I decided to come out and did not exercise earlier.

I picked six callisthenic exercises to do in a cycle for a half hour that included using the chin-up and dip bar. As I worked out, I listened to the three talk about women, and tell story after story. I thought I heard them talking lustfully about the news anchor woman Katie Couric. On and on they spoke about Katie until I interrupted and said they must have been incarcerated too long to have Katie Couric as their dream girl. They laughed at me and said, "Not Katie Couric. Katy Perry." I never heard of the woman, and I do not know if I spelled her name correctly. As I continued to work out, Steve said Katie Couric was nice looking too, and he would not mind being with her also. The others agreed. I did not think Katie Curic was unattractive, however, I forgot the men were 10 to 15 years older than me.

I was not trying to pay attention to their talk but they were close by, and every now and then I would catch part of their conversation. The next subject they spoke about was gorgeous high school teachers that had sex with their students. Flanders said, "How come none of that happened when we were in school?" I heard them talk about various teachers they wanted to have sex with. I happened to be walking by them to do my incline push-ups on the concrete when they were talking about the matter, and I was asked about my favorite teacher. I said I did not know what they were talking about. I had dated two of my high school teachers. This made them think I was an ultimate "stud," and they wanted details. I was too busy working out though, and in any event, it was none of their business.

Despite how I was tight-lipped about the two teachers, they were not about the women they dated and had sex with. The man from California captured the others' attention, however, the most. He even captured the interest of a couple of black men who were formerly playing cards. Scott talked about wife swapping, being in drug orgies, and even having sex with a woman with another man. I should not have been surprised. Scott was not only from California, but San Francisco. I think of San Francisco as not only a bastion for homosexuals, but sexual deviants of all kinds. It was Freak Central, U.S.A.

After I had completed a half hour of exercises, I left the area around the story group to go to the basketball court that had been abandoned. Before I left, however, I said to Steve in a low voice that I was ashamed of him. Steve was a Catholic, and I thought a more conservative person. I did not expect him to join in the stories of wild casual sex and drug use, although he mostly listened to the others. Possibly, I shamed him because he later was to leave them and come by the basketball court to walk around.

On the court, I was doing various high intensity cardiovascular exercises. One such exercise was to jog backwards and then sprint forward into the fence. Bouncing off it, I would begin to high kick the basketball hoop pole. Steve was walking by and asked, "What did the pole ever do to you?" I said, "Do you not see the face on the pole?" On the pole was a shape made from chipping paint. Steve looked at the pole for a moment and asked, "Is it Osama Bin Ladin?" "No," I told him. "It is Karl Marx. Can't you see his image?" He stared at it longer, but could not.

After I finished my workout, Steve wanted to hear a story from me. He said everyone had told stories except me, and it was my turn.

I told him a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away--actually only about 10 miles, I interrupted myself--I took out a group of girls I knew from Providence High School. I brought them to a forest preserve somewhere in the unincorporated area of the far southwest suburbs. I could tell I had Steve's attention, and he was probably anticipating another sex orgy. I told Steve that we built a fire in the woods, and before I could romance any of the girls, some stoners from Joliet found us. They were young men with floppy long hair like the Californian Meth Head had before cutting it. I think they wanted to share my girls, but they did not understand. There could only be one rooster in a hen house, and I hated stoners. When one of the men who looked like Kurt Cobain gave me his bag of marijuana for inspection and bragged about the quality of his reefer, I was unimpressed and tossed it into the fire. This, of course, set in motion a series of events which ultimately ended with the stoners being badly beaten and one with much of his hair singed. Steve asked if I then had sex with the girls, and I said no. He asked, "What kind of a story is that?" I said, "It's a war story. You will have to talk to the man from San Francisco for tales of Woodstock."

Steve told me I must have been one of those jocks who were always fighting with the stoners in high school. I told him, although I was athletic, I usually did not belong to any cliques and was mostly a loner. I then asked him what group he belonged to, and he said, "The band clique." I said, "There is no such thing. You must have belonged to the nerd herd. Only nerds played in the band." He tried to deny it, but it was futile. I told him that was OK. He need not fear me locking him in his locker or putting his head in the toilet. Steve replied that if I put him into the porta-pod that was out on the yard, that would clearly be cruel and unusual punishment and a violation of his Constitutional rights. I told him that no one cares about our Constitutional rights, and to come off the yard with shit, piss, and green chemicals on his face would only be expressive of how we are treated all the time.

The guards were heading down the walk to open the gate. Story time on the small yard was over. As we walked to the cell house, I told Steve that if I ever win a new trial and the prosecutor comes to talk to him, he must remember that the stoners started it, and I was only defending myself and the girls. He said, "Right. You threw the peaceful men into the fire before disposing of their bodies, and they were never seen again." I told him he was a smart ass, and he will not get any more stories from me.

West Memphis 3 Freed -- August 20, 2011

2011-08-23T21:13:00.012-05:00

Yesterday, three men were freed from an Arkansas prison by pleading guilty to the horrific murders of three 8-year-old boys in 1993. The plea agreement was unusual because while at the same time as formally entering guilty pleas, they also publicly maintained their innocence. The brutal triple murder created an enormous amount of publicity and led to a rush of judgement against the accused men who were deemed social misfits in the rural Christian town of West Memphis. After their convictions, the case continued to attract widespread attention due to an HBO movie, and a couple of books that were written questioning the evidence. A number of people, including celebrities, rallied to their defense. This outpouring of support and the possibility of a new trial from an appeal, led to the State's Attorney's office negotiating a cop- out. Finally, after 18 years, the men are free, and as I write this journal entry from my prison cell, I can in many respects identify with the recently released men.

On May 5, 1993, three 8-year-old boys were brutally murdered in West Memphis, Arkansas. During the day, the boys had gone out together to ride their bikes and play. They never returned, and police, family, and many townsfolk went searching for them. The boys were eventually found dead in a gully of a wooded area. They were hog tied naked with their own shoe laces, and were apparently tortured and sodomized in a ritualistic killing. Graffiti discovered nearby depicted Satanic and other occult symbols. The Christian town was shocked and deeply incensed. They wanted justice, and they wanted it immediately. A lynch mob mentality developed and overcame the public.

The murders occurred seven days after my arrest, and I did not learn of the events that took place until much later. In the Chicagoland area there was nothing but news about the Brown's Chicken murders in Palatine, for which I was a prime suspect, thanks to my former roommate and his wife. Even if the boys' murders were mentioned in the Midwest, I was too preoccupied with my own possible indictment in multiple murders and with surviving at the very violent and gang-controlled Cook County Jail. My life had been catastrophically turned upside down, and other news stories were of no interest to me. It was not until a few years ago, I became acquainted with the case in West Memphis.

Although I did not see the initial media coverage of the boys' murders or the prosecution of the West Memphis 3, I can imagine what it was like. I was the focus of an enormous, emotionally-hyped media blitz after my arrest. Seven people had been brutally murdered at a Brown's Chicken and Pasta restaurant in Palatine, Illinois. Not far away, a dismembered body was found in the woods of the affluent town of Barrington. The mass media was quick to try and convict me well before my trial ever began. Every day for weeks, local television news bombarded the public with sensationalistic, biased, and heavily prejudicial reporting. All the way up to my trial, the Palatine case was a major story. Hundreds of newspaper articles were published in the Chicago Tribune, SunTimes, and suburban Daily Herald that were often not much more objective than their TV counterparts. The news media was highly inflammatory and dependent on innuendo and questionable, or off the record, sources. Yesterday, I watched CNN's program "Presumed Guilty" about the West Memphis 3, and that title could as well have applied to myself.

Soon after the boys' bodies were found, West Memphis police went to speak with Damien Echols. It was understandable why local police would consider the 18-year-old outcast a suspect. He wore long black hair and dressed in all black clothes. He was a fan of heavy metal music and was gossiped to dabble in the occult. West Memphis was a town where people listened to country music, and attended church weekly. Other than Nashville, Tennessee, I can think of no other town known as a bastion of country music. Townsfolk were also highly religious, and at that time period, rebellious teens that found an affinity in Satanism or heavy metal were greatly mistrusted or even loathed. Damien Echols was a pre-Goth teen outcast. Just his name, Damien, probably drew suspicion. You did not want to be named Damien when a purported Satanic triple murder occurred in Memphis. Elvis was a good name to have, but not Damien, the Antichrist in the movie "The Omen."

Although Damien Echols seemed like an awkward nerd, was not athletic and, according to his own words, was "dirt poor," we shared similarities that would make us good scapegoats or fodder for the media. I also tended to wear black clothes often, and a couple of times I even dyed my then light brown hair black. The clothes I wore were usually much nicer than I saw Echols wear, and I also kept my long hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail. However, the effect at the preppy Lincoln Way High School in New Lenox was much the same. Some students, unbeknownst to me, would call me Satan behind my back.

Also, like Echols and his friends, I listened to heavy metal music. I noticed during Jason Baldwin's perp walk that he was wearing a Metallica T-shirt. I also had a couple of the metal band's T-shirts at one time. I only wore these shirts in 8th grade, and my first year of high school, but I know students at my former school recall me wearing them. The students and media who spoke with them probably did not know I also liked classical music. Furthermore, although I had long hair and was not religious, I was ultra-conservative. I did not read horror fiction such as Damien Echols supposedly read, but controversial right wing literature such as Friedrich Nietzsche. My politics were used just as effectively against me in the liberal dominated media. Fortunately, these matters could only be used to vilify me in the press, but were not permitted at my trial.

West Memphis police did not immediately arrest Damien Echols for the murders. It may have been an unsophisticated police department that was under tremendous pressure to make an arrest, but the police were not stupid. Police came to talk to Echols in a friendly manner. They asked him if, from his knowledge of the occult, he could possibly help them find the murderer. The 18-year-old was naive and cooperated, even letting police take a photo of him. He did not realize his conversation would later be used to incriminate him, nor did he know police would use his photo to show people around town. The townspeople had plenty to say about the odd teen and the police made them immediately aware he was a suspect.

Police also focused on the small group of misfits who were Echol's friends. When police questioned Jessie Misskelley, they got more than a lead. What he told them made police believe the crime was solved. Misskelley incredibly told authorities that he was an eyewitness to the murders. He claimed that their #1 suspect Damien Echols, and another friend of theirs, Jason Baldwin, beat, cut, sodomized, and ultimately killed the children. He also admitted to chasing down one of the boys when the boy got away from them, but he denied any participation otherwise.

Jessie Misskelley was a high school dropout who was only able to complete part of 9th grade. He had an IQ of 72, which made him only marginally smarter than a retarded boy. Not long after he made the statements to police, he retracted it all and said none of it was true. Apparently he only made his accusations and incriminations under duress. Crime scene analysis was particularly slow, but eventually the physical evidence did not match Misskelley's statements. However, none of this mattered to police or the State's Attorney's office. The prosecution was already fully committed to trying the town's repugnant outcasts. They were already thoroughly villainized by the media and the target of public hatred.

The statements of Misskelley somewhat reminded me of those of a former roomate of mine, Robert Faraci. No, he was not retarded, but he would also claim to have witnessed a mutual friend and I commit a murder in Barrington. He also told police he had knowledge that I and yet another man committed the Palatine massacre. His statements were inconsistent and at times when confronted with his lies, he would retract them. My co-defendant enabled police to find evidence undiscovered at the Barrington murder cite, however, much of what he said did not make any sense. Later, after he and I were indicted for murder and the prosecution was preparing for trial, his wife Rose spoke to police again. This time she confessed that all she and her husband said about me were lies intended to keep him from going back to prison. However, none of this mattered to police or the prosecutor. Like the West Memphis 3, they were committed and there was no turning back or ever admitting fault. Instead, the prosecutor simply altered his strategy and used the full resources of the state to convict me under a theory of accountability, even if it only hinged on me allegedly lending my vehicle.

In 1994, Jessie Misskelley was tried for the boys' murders. His defense lawyers argued that Jessie was marginally retarded and his statements could not be considered credible. He was scared, confused, and manipulated. He also retracted his confession not long afterwards and the evidence did not agree with what he said. The jury disagreed, and quickly convicted him. He was sentenced to natural life without the possibility of parole.

Damien Echols and Jason Baldwin were tried after Misskelley's conviction. The prosecution was not able to use the statements of Misskelley, however, and instead had to rely on dubious inferences of their guilt and the jurors' emotions for the most part. A knife that was located in a lake nearby Baldwin's residence was claimed to be the murder weapon, although little demonstrated it was used and no connection could be made to the defendants. An alleged expert in the occult was allowed to testify. He concluded the murders were ritualistic and done on the day of the full moon. He also testified that Devil worshipers were known to dress in black. Evidence of Echols self-professed knowledge of the occult and his reading of horror novels like that authored by Stephen King were introduced. The teenagers' penchant for listening to heavy metal music was also incredibly allowed. The strongest evidence was a couple of teens who claimed Echols bragged about the murders and a jailhouse detainee of questionable credibility said Baldwin admitted involvement. However, one of these people have since said they lied, and another has been discredited.

After the convictions, the public seemed satisfied that justice had been done. However after an HBO movie called "Paradise Lost" came out about the case, many began to question the guilt of the Memphis 3. Some very well-known celebrities began to speak out and lobby on behalf of them. Actor Johnny Depp, Wyonna Ryder, and musician Natalie Main, from the pop country music band, Dixie Chicks, were among their supporters. It was unusual that those people were trying to help the convicted child killers, and they were brought on the Larry King Show. I watched the program and speculated possibly "Edward Scissor Hands" could identify with the outcasts who were wrongfully convicted. I cite "Edward Scissor Hands" not only because of its relation to the movie, but also because when Johnny Depp toured through Stateville a few years ago during the filming of "Dillinger," many prisoners yelled at him: "Scissor Hands!" I only caught a glimpse of the actor as he walked by, but I will always remember the shouts of inmates.

While watching the CNN show "Presumed Guilty: Murder in West Memphis," I saw the mother of Stevie Branch, one of the murdered boys. She said she originally wanted to kill the teenagers accused of killing her son and was glad Damien Echols received the death penalty. However, as the years went by, she began to have her doubts. She now believes they are innocent and supported their release.

It is very odd not only to have celebrities supporting a murder convict, but to also have the support of the victim's family. The victim's family is almost always completely convinced of what the prosecutor tells them. They are also so emotionally invested and cannot be objective. They want justice so badly for their loved one. At my own death sentence hearing, I got to listen to the parents of Dean Fawcett. They told the judge they wanted me executed. There is nothing you can say or do to sway their opinion or make them feel better. In my final statement before the court, I simply said I could understand their anger, but I was not the one it should be directed at.

On appeal, Damien Echols was represented by Dennis Reardon. He said he normally did not take death penalty cases because usually the state had insurmountable evidence and conclusive proof that a defendant was guilty. Possibly, this is the norm in Arkansas, but on Illinois' death row numerous people have been exonerated before the death penalty was eliminated. Anyway, Reardon thought the evidence against Echols was very flimsy. He filed a motion to have a hair found on one of the shoelaces that bound a boy tested for DNA. The original trial judge denied the motion. However, the Arkansas Supreme Court remanded the case back to the lower court to reconsider. The tests showed the hair did not belong to any of the West Memphis 3.

Personally, I do not think a non match decisively proved anything. Hairs can easily be transferred by anyone who lived or had contact with the boy or things the boy touched. On the CNN program, it was mentioned the hair could possibly belong to the boy's stepfather. Although it, along with the discrediting of former witnesses, was certainly enough to warrant an evidentiary hearing where a judge could order new trials.

Gaining an evidentiary hearing on a post conviction appeal is what many prisoners dream of, including myself. The process of gaining an evidentiary hearing is extremely difficult, but once it is granted, a mini trial is conducted on actual innocence claims. A man who lives in a cell next to mine was on television news recently because he had an evidentiary hearing and the judge is now deciding whether to grant him a new trial. A witness to the murder recanted their testimony, and the prosecution is already talking to his lawyers about a plea agreement that will set him free. Another man upstairs in my cell house has already been offered a settlement of 20 years. He is considering the deal which will free him in a few years.

In the case of the West Memphis 3, they were offered a plea agreement even before the evidentiary hearing occurred. This was unusual, as were the terms. In exchange for their guilty pleas, they would be released with a 10-year suspended sentence. This means if any one of them commits a crime during this period of time, they can be made to serve 10 years in prison. It is almost like an extended parole.

I was listening to WLS talk radio yesterday when I first heard about the plea agreement. They only gave a brief news soundbite, so I turned on my TV for more details. I saw the West Memphis 3 at a news conference. The men, now in their mid-30's, look much older. I was struck by how much they had aged in prison and thought I must look the same. We have all spent over half our lives in prison and all of our adult lives. Although they were being released, they did not look happy, and I did not see anything joyous in the occasion. Someone in the media claimed it was a win-win proposition because prosecutors did not have to admit any fault and the defendants could go free. However, I did not see it that way, and by the look on the wrongfully convicted men, they seemed to share that sentiment. The West Memphis 3 may be free today, but they are far from being winners.