13 Jul 04

Sweat, suicide and death

I am still at the jail. A sudden spate of tragedies has compelled me to write this entry.
At the weekend, two inmates on my floor attempted to commit suicide. One threw himself off the balcony and survived. The other was discovered trying to hang himself.
Sadder still, an inmate housed in a medium-security pod was found dead in the shower. Inmates are often "smashed" in the shower area because it is out of view of the cameras. The jail has refused to release the cause of his death.

The temperature outside is 114 degrees. The trickle of air into our cells feels like hot air blowing from a hair dryer. We are soaked in sweat all day and night. It is difficult to write on this sweat-moistened paper. The majority now have skin infections and rashes, which persistently itch. My skin is so soggy from perspiration that when I scratch it the skin detaches and I end up with clumps of it under my fingernails. Between the sweat trickling down my body and the cockroaches tickling my limbs, it is impossible to sleep properly. Last night, while sleeping on my side, my ear filled up with sweat, and when I moved my head, the sweat spilled onto my face. I woke up, startled. It felt like someone was touching my cheek.

I once asked a guard how the jail’s administration gets away with this and his response was, "The world has no idea what really goes on in here."

When I was a small child, I imagined hell consisted of caves in which the damned were trapped, tortured and burnt. I imagined serpents and indescribable creepy crawlies tormenting the captives. I never imagined man's nature could be so hateful as to recreate these conditions on earth.

2 Jul 04

Final Entry from the Madison Street Jail.

Periplaneta Americana, more commonly known as the American cockroach, has an average lifespan of 440 days. As of today, I have been a resident of this crowbar motel for almost two cockroach lifespans. I have endured enough. It is time for me to move on, so I have signed myself over to the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Shortly, I will be shipped to Alhambra Unit, an intake facility, where they will decide which prison in Arizona I am to be housed at.

Parents of inmates, horrified by the conditions in the jail, have directed this blog to local groups who are working to get changes made.
Winston Churchill – once a POW in South Africa – stated, "The treatment of prisoners is a good indicator of how civilized a society is.”

Although I shall soon be gone from here, I hope that changes are made so that other unsentenced inmates – who are supposed to be presumed innocent until proven guilty – do not have to be warehoused like animals in such subhuman conditions. When a society treats its prisoners like animals they will behave like animals when they return to society.

During my stay, I have experienced medium security, maximum security, general population and lockdown housing. Outside of lockdown, inmates are warehoused like battery hens. Intravenous drug use is rife (see blog entry 03.06.04 ‘Wedded to Dope’). Hepatitis C, TB, and MRSA proliferate due to inmates being packed together, the high levels of violence, the sharing of needles and tattoo instruments, the unsanitary conditions, and the lack of medical treatment. A racist thugocracy that controls the drug trade regularly holds kangaroo courts; inmates are "smashed" on a daily basis by goons known as "torpedoes."

Temperatures reach over 100 degrees in the summer months, but the air conditioning is rarely active. Throughout the jail labyrinth inmates are deprived of air. Presently, it is hard to stay conscious because the swamp cooler is barely blowing. Inmates are getting sick and being taken for emergency medical treatment. A fellow pod member collapsed earlier today. Here, filth, squalor and disease are the norm. Utilities that are permanently broken, magically work for a few days when the county health inspectors do a "walk through."

Protests were recently held outside of the Madison Street jail because of the conditions. The local news stations countered with some pro-Arpaio propaganda and specifically reported how good the food is. They displayed some carefully-staged fresh and appetising chow. In reality, for the past three weeks, our one lukewarm daily meal has consisted of rotten potato pieces and potato peel (see food blog entry 06.04.04 ‘April Fools Day’ and the incident of the rat’s head, which I saw). I survive by eating nuts that I purchase from the jail, thanks to the generosity of my family and friends who put "money on my books" every week. Most inmates are indigent and have no support from the outside. They exist in a constant state of starvation and are willing to fight over scraps of food.

I have tried to write a frank, first hand account of what I have experienced. Whilst doing so I have also tried to remain upbeat and humorous, and I hope I have not detracted from the suffering here. I would rather cut off my little finger than go through this again.

Suicidal thoughts seem normal for most inmates, including me. But with the support of my family and friends, I have managed to keep such thoughts in the realm of fantasy. Many in here are not so fortunate. They are the lost and forgotten souls you never hear about. Some do take their lives and their voices remain forever unheard of.

Epicurus:

"Pain is neither intolerable nor continuing, provided you remember its limits and do not let your imagination add to it."

Marcus Aurelius:

"Delve within; within is the fountain of good, and it is always ready to bubble up, if you always delve."

Bye for now! When I am resituated in prison, I will resume blogging. Thank you for all of the kind letters of support from all over the world and the visits to the jail I have received. I would like to thank my Aunt Ann for transmitting the blog entries on a weekly basis to my mum who edits and types them out – good lookin' out, Mum! - and my dad, who posts them in as timely a fashion as possible.

24 Jun 04

AK’s Karma

Frustration with AK climaxed on Monday morning. No one could sleep thanks to our resident cantante singing musica romantica for hours on end, interspersed with gunshot sound effects and feminine shrieks of "Sinaloa!" Enough was enough.

At the behest of the majority, Frankie implemented a plan to oust AK from our pod.
He had Cupcake borrow AK’s most valuable possession: a new radio. When Cupcake refused to return it, a dispute ensued. Frankie and Cupcake cackled at AK’s invective, and AK exploded. Pounding on his cell door, he yowled at the two unsympathetic guards, “They stole my fuckin’ radio!”
“Why’d you lend it to 'em?” enquired Officer Bloch.
“I thought they’d give it back,” AK said, emphasising each word.
“Lending your stereo to other inmates is against the Inmate Rules and Regulations!”
“Roll yer stuff up! You’re being moved!” Officer Perez ordered.

Walking toward the pod door, AK suddenly dropped his mattress. Before the guards could stop him, he dashed to Cupcake’s cell and yelled, "Gimme my fuckin' stereo back, you scheming fuckas!”
The guards restrained him. As they briskly steered AK out of the pod, applause from the cells rose to the ceiling of the day room.

My right shin looks like I spilled battery acid on it. A cluster of thirty or so red sores emerged last week when we were denied showers for four days. Some are bleeding, but I’m reluctant to make an appointment with the penis-grabbing Filipino doctor.

Half of the shower area is refusing to drain. Hair matted with semen has clogged it up. To shower, I had to step into the puddle of scum. This disturbed the multitude of tiny black flies ensconced on the white clumps and they formed a cloud around my head. Fortunately, they bolted when the shower was turned on and migrated to the dried fruit peel in the trashcan. When the water was turned off, they abandoned the fruit peel and returned to the shower. The flies prefer the semen.

17 Jun 04

Frankie’s Proposal

On Friday morning, the guards thwarted an escape attempt by two inmates, and the jail administration decided to punish everyone. We were placed on security override for four days, confined to our cells, unable to shower, make phone calls, dispose of our trash and dinner trays. Soaring temperatures and a purposefully low trickle of swamp-cooled air quickly caused us to reek like wet dogs. Our cell soon stunk like a cheap restaurant's dumpster on a hot day. The filthy conditions were received enthusiastically by las cucarachas. They launched their most aggressive offensive yet. Around the clock, they plundered the red death Mark had left. At night, they crunched under my shower sandles when I visited the toilet.

The lockdown and AK’s bop-bop-bopping undoubtedly contributed to the nervous breakdown of Eric (AK’s fifty-year-old cellmate).
Early Monday morning, Eric yelled, “Get me outta here!" repeatedly for fifteen minutes. His voice inflection ranged from that of a demonically-possessed man - worse than something from The Exorcist - to that of a sobbing child. The guards removed Eric from AK's cell, and after undergoing a psychiatric evaluation, he was moved in with Blueberry.

On Wednesday morning, I was summoned to the Medical Unit. I had entered a Correctional Health Services Inmate Medical Request on the 1st of June:
“Blisters have formed on the bedsore on my left buttock. Requesting cream.”

Due to the amount of bedsores I've had while jailed, the medical staff regularly inspect my behind. But Wednesday morning's encounter with the new Filipino doctor was somewhat disturbing. After dropping my pants, the doctor perused my foresty posterior and stated, “You have scaling on both left and right sides.”
I thought the exam was over, but the doctor said, “How about the front?”
”The front?” I asked.
“Yes, the front. Just turn around,” he said, his eyes animating.
Wondering, Who am I to question a professional? I turned around. I was expecting a positive comment on the health of my reproductives, but he suddenly lunged forward as if to grab my them. I automatically jerked backwards. To fend him off, I grabbed and raised my scrotum. Shaking it at him, I yelled, “Look! The front's fine!”
”Yes. They look quite OK to me,” he replied, softening his voice.
I emerged from the doctor's with Clotrimazole Anti-Fungal Cream.
After seeing the doctor, the next patient returned to the Medical Unit holding cell and blurted out, “That doctor just grabbed my dick without any gloves on!"
”He tried to do the same to me,” I said.
The rest of the inmates either sniggered or exchanged nervous looks as the prospect of receiving the same treatment dawned on them.

On Wednesday night, Frankie peeped through my cell window when I was rubbing the anti-fungal cream on my left buttock. His eyes smouldered with desire. I received a love letter from him the next morning: "...looking forward to our upcoming gay marriage in San Francisco, and shampooing your hairy ass on our honeymoon.”

Frankie was delighted that the solitary witness in his double-homicide case was recently deemed "mentally incompetent" causing his proposed sentencing range to drop from twenty-five years to life, to six to ten years.

10 Jun 04

AK and Blueberry

Young AK was arrested after pointing an AK-47 at his stepfather. He is now my noisy neighbour. From Sinaloa, Mexico, he fancies himself as a troubadour. In Spanish, he is constantly singing romantic songs, but he ends each verse with:

Bop! Bop! Bop!
Gimme liberty or gimme death!
Bop! Bop! Bop! Bop!

His bop-bop-bopping has annoyed everyone. And usually, when everyone gets annoyed, someone gets hurt. I suspect he will be getting bopped soon.

On Saturday morning, the jail was placed on "security override," and all of our cells were searched. We later found out that a drug ring was arrested here at the Madison Street jail. It included one guard, one nurse and ten inmates. Supposedly a Mexican Mafia operation. The Mexican Mafia is one of the most powerful prison gangs in Arizona.

On Tuesday morning, Frankie hollered into the vent,"Got any jelly, cell 15?"
"I do not,” I said.
"Does your celly?" Frankie asked.
"I do," Mark said.
"He does," I yelled.
"Slide it under your door and I'll send Blueberry up to get it," Frankie said.
"OK," I said.

Blueberry climbed the stairs to get the jelly.
"Thanks, cell 15," Frankie shouted.
"You're welcome,” I said.
"Look out of yer window. Someone else wants to thank you," Frankie said.
Through the window, I saw young Blueberry bent over with his pants pulled down, his hands spreading his buttocks as wide as they'd go.
“Do you like it?" Frankie asked.
Silence.
“Do you like it?" Blueberry said, imitating a woman's voice.
“No me gusta,” I responded in Spanish to Frankie, so as not to dampen Blueberry's spirit.
Frankie cackled impishly.

3 Jun 04

Wedded to Dope

In this Hades, the hobby of the majority is injecting drugs. Dozens of men eagerly share one syringe. Diseases, especially hepatitis C, are commonly transferred. They store ("keyster") their drugs, mostly heroin and crystal meth, in Saran Wrap, balloons or condoms shoved in their behinds.

The illegal drug use is only half of the story. Three times a day, a crotchety nurse goes from door to door dispensing "meds." Up to one third of the inmates are recipients of these pills. The most common are Wellbutrin, Klonapin, Prozac, Cojetin, Loxieen, Paxil, Haldol, Elovil and Seroquil.

The inmates snigger at how easy it is to obtain these free drugs. They simply tell the "psych doctor" they are hearing voices or are unable to sleep. Inmates use the pills to vary their highs, or trade for food and illegal drugs. Sheriff Joe Arpaio regularly appears on TV boasting that it costs the taxpayer a pittance to feed us society’s refuse, but he never mentions the millions of dollars being spent on expensive medications, which the drug companies are profiting handsomely from. I wonder whether these companies make political contributions to Arpaio.

It's been an infernally normal week. Outdoor temperatures are approaching 110 degrees. At night, I watch las cucarachas scurrying to and fro, convinced they are waiting for me to go to sleep to get at my earwax. Mark and I now catch one another chasing imaginary cockroaches.

The dirty potato peelings are back in the evening chow. Dry citrus fruit are the new additions to breakfast. The stench of filth and sweat pervades the air. The bedsore on my left buttock cheek is blistered and bleeding. My mouth and tongue are ulcerated. These conditions were designed to break the human spirit. As the periodic suicides indicate, death is a more attractive place for some inmates.

"What is important in life is life and not a result of life."
Goethe (1749-1832)

27 May 04

On Sunday morning, I awoke to find two cockroach corpses crushed on my mattress. I must have rolled on top of them in my sleep.

Two more inmates collapsed and were stretchered to the Medical Unit. Including Jose from cell 1, who, during a shootout over drugs with fellow Mexican Nationals, had received seventeen bullet wounds. The stitches holding his stomach in had loosened, and it appeared his internal organs were about to spill out.

Rumour has it the diabetic who entered a coma last week died, and the jail is under investigation.
We have been told for the past three months that the swamp cooler is "broken" and that a "work order" has been entered, but when the County Health Department inspected the jail on Tuesday and Wednesday, the air was blowing at gale force and the water in the shower was running hot enough to redden my skin. After the inspectors left the building someone immediately switched the air back to the broken setting. And it didn’t take long for the inmates to replace the semen that had been cleaned up from the shower floor.

Frankie is always in a high state of sexual arousal. He has solicited most members of our pod, including me, to be "boned down" and "turned out." His boldness has increased due to his followers egging him on. I am convinced that if all of our cell doors were simultaneously opened, half of the inmates would form an orgy.
Frankie now proclaims, "I'm takin' us back to the fuckin' Roman days! Call me Caeser the booty teaser!” One of Frankie’s new tricks is to have a neighbour throw him a "fishing line" (a long piece of string which inmates use to pass contraband from cell to cell with) so that he can tie it to his penis while his neighbour pulls on the string.

I received a large photograph in the mail. It exceeded the 4 x 6 inches allowed by the jail, so I was pleasantly surprised that it was not rejected by the mail officer. It was a picture of a bespectacled President Bush signing some documents. In the lower margin was a personalized message with my name on it: "Thank you for your support of the Republican National Committee. Grassroots leaders like you are the key to building a better, stronger, more secure future for our nation and all Americans... Best Wishes, George. W. Bush."

Now that the president has discerned my true nature, I am hopeful for a pardon!