31 Dec 04

New Year’s Resolutions

I have two New Year’s resolutions: firstly, I will try my best not to harbour ill-will towards people, no matter what they say or do; secondly, I will intensify my reading and studying. I hope to read 1000 books by the time I get out.

The first resolution necessitates I gain better control over my emotions. Yoga and meditation have made me a calmer person. I pay less attention to the drama here. I forgive those who have hurt me in the past, especially the people involved in my case.

From time to time I read something maddening – especially instances of injustice – and I feel compelled to write something scathing; however, by the next day, I've calmed back down, and if I’ve written something not lacking in emotional content I’ll tear it up. That’s one of the advantages writers have over public speakers.

For my second resolution, I intend to study six new subject areas: ethics, international business law, justice, military science, behavioural finance and commodity price behaviour. I concocted this list after looking at last year’s bibliography and categorising the hours spent on each subject. It became evident that my study program has been lopsided towards the stock market, history, philosophy, biographies and Spanish.

To where my fanatical studies are leading I do not know. I relate to how Jean-Jacques Rousseau claimed he felt in his youth when he had not yet solidified his opinions:

"…by collecting a store of ideas, true or false but all of them clear, until my mind is sufficiently equipped to be able to compare them, and choose between them."
My feelings about injustice grew stronger in 2004. This blog is a platform I will continue to use to highlight injustice. To end injustice we all need to speak out.

‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing.’Edmund Burke

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Poem about Jon by Prophet



Creative Isolation



These four walls surround my soul

but yet they've set my spirit free

with each passing moment inside this cube

another spark ignites inside me

burning a fuse that leads to a ballpoint

I explode on to the paper

all my sentiment

emotions not to be exposed

not while in this modern day dungeon

but I must have release

and these writings like the air I breathe provide me with survival

my hand sore from clasping pen innards

the only ventilation for my words to escape this musty chamber

once trapped in life now imprisoned in a cell

I transcend these walls through my written word

I rise above the wire fence to touch you with my intellect

for my arms may not grasp beyond this cage,

but my thoughts have traveled father than mortal limbs could ever reach

my mind-set entered homes I may never see

this so called 'correction' is nothing but my own creative isolation

and as long as there is creation there is life...

and I will,

live on



I'm a friend and faithful reader of Jon's Jail Blog. I recently wrote the above poem on a poetry forum I belong to based on your son's circumstance. I wanted to share it with you as well. I wanted to draw more attention to his ordeal so I added links to his webpages. I hope you enjoy and please tell Jon Happy New Year and that I pray for his safe return to you his family.

sincerely,

Prophet



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27 Dec 04

Escape

On the 8th of December, Maniac Mack was charged with Offence 009 – Attempted Escape from the Madison Street Jail. I obtained a copy of his Disciplinary Action Report, which contains the following Formal Statement of Charge(s):

While conducting a perimeter walk on 12.8.04 at approximately 0050 hours with Officer ------------, we noticed a Stream of Debris leading from-------[Maniac Mack’s cell]. Upon further investigation we located a hole leading through the wall to the outside. The hole appeared to have been on the exterior of the jail, apparently to facilitate an escape. Refer to IR #04-217500. These inmates were placed on the loaf program*** for the destruction of County property. [Sic]

Maniac Mack is housed on the fifth floor, and each floor consists of two stories, so his cell is ten stories above the surrounding streets. How was he going to escape from so high up? Perhaps the author of the Disciplinary Action Report had recently watched the Spiderman movie or maybe Maniac Mack had studied up on aeronautical engineering and had constructed a jet pack from his scant belongings. And let’s not dismiss the beanstalk theory: at visitation Mack met Jack and keystered beanstalk seeds.

Mack suspects that his outspoken nature – particularly his recent comments about the jail’s conditions – caused the queer charge. Mack wrote, “The gathering dark-side of this place rallied and attacked yours truly enmasse. Now I’ve got an additional and notorious charge: Attempted Escape, for which I could face up to 7 years if convicted!” The stresses and strains seem to be getting to Mack who ended his letter with, “Man is born to die. To wait around, in lines, for transportation to arrive, in welfare and unemployment offices, for toilet paper and chow, waiting, waiting for the mouse to sing….”

It is clear what they want you to do Mack: hand over the beanstalk seeds and the jet pack, confess your sins, yell your guilt from the roof tops, sign a double-digit plea bargain, and join Jon in the land of the throwaway people.

My former cellmate Mark signed a plea bargain and was put on house arrest. He now wears a device on his ankles that emits radio signals. He is allowed to travel to work and back, and to attend church on Sundays. He is due to be sentenced early in 2005 and he hopes to get probation. I hope he does. But in Arizona's legal system anything could happen between now and then.

*** The loaf program
Inmates on the loaf program are housed in two-man cells, which remain locked for twenty-three hours a day. They are served the loaf twice daily.
One morning, a young Chicano who had not been fed was offered the loaf.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
This occurred during my hour out. Sensing an opportunity to taste the loaf, I said to the Chicano, “Break bread, dawg. Gimme a little piece of the loaf.”
And he did.
The loaf's outer surface resembled burnt bread. It smelled like shoe polish. I snapped the hard crust and observed a mush with what looked like carrots and bean skins protruding from it.
“It’s yesterdays left-over food mixed into bread,” shouted one of the chow servers. It looked foul, but I was compelled to taste it so that I could describe the experience. The taste was bad, like eating burnt food. The taste overwhelmed my mouth, as if I had eaten a poisonous chemical. I swallowed a small amount and spat the remainder out.

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26 Dec 04

Kitchen Slave

After today’s special visit, I was sent to work as a dishwasher in the kitchen that serves chow to the whole unit. For 20 cents an hour I emptied hundreds of trays containing left over food into trashcans, and then drenched them with a hose. After being locked down for so long, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen raised my anxiety.

Please Note Jon has changed cells and is now in 2D2 and not 2D22

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Boxing Day Punch
My honeymoon period seems to be over. Today, I discovered that one overgrown thug can cause serious problems. This morning, immediately before my visit with my parents, one of BHF’s cronies – who I’ll call Ogre to keep his identity secret – said he would spare my life if I gave him my Walkman. I declined his offer and later on he snuck up behind me and attacked me, smashing me in the back and knocking me down. I couldn't tell my parents what happened even though they could see I was injured.

The inmate who told me about his experience with a transsexual in Texas advised me that BHF had put Ogre up to this. There's also some inmates thinking I have a lot of money because the detectives told the media that I have hidden millions in offshore accounts, making me a target for extortion.

Cell Move

Yesterday I was moved from cell 22 to cell 2. BHF and I weren't getting along. BHF's robbery and torture anecdotes made excellent story material, but we had differences in other areas. On one occasion, I was returning to the cell after having a shower, and Greg (an Aryan Brother from California who murdered a child molester) blocked my entry and said, "You can't go in your cell right now 'cause the fellas are shooting up in there." I was also getting sick of pricking my feet on the needles BHF would leave out and the cell being full of smoke. And he was getting sick of waking up with my chest hair in his mouth. I was relocated to cell 2, which is downstairs in the same pod.
 

19 Dec 05

The First Visit: Two accounts by Jon’s parents …..

Driving south on Highway 85, Lewis Prison lies in the foothills of the Buckeye Mountains, a picturesque setting for a State incarceration facility.

Our first journey to the complex was enlivened by the sight of the rising sun to our left. The sky above the line of the Estrella Mountains became blood- red before the emergence of the Phoenix sun.

Along this stretch of highway are instructions to keep headlights on ‘day and night’, as the length of the road and its straightness makes it look as if distant cars are invisible without headlights on. As we passed the notorious road sign ‘State Prison – DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS’, we knew that we were getting close to our son’s new home.

Arrival at the facility brought the first of many ID checks and searches. A swinging barrier stopped all cars as a guard with a clipboard stooped to check our passports and driving licence. We were waved on to the visitor car park, where we deposited our valuables into the boot of the car, only being allowed to take in 1 watch, 1 ring, 1 car key with remote, prescriptions glasses only, and $20 per person in quarters (to purchase food and drink from vending machines). The quarters have to be in a clear bag for the guards to check that no other items are being smuggled in. We had no quarters and no plastic bag. Fortunately other visitors seeing our plight kindly offered change for dollars and gave us a plastic food bag to put them in.

At the next check point we filled in the paper work; queued to hand it in at the office with our ID and joined the numerous visitors to await our name call.

When the guard shouted, ‘Attwood’, we were asked to remove our jackets; empty our pockets; take off belts; and our belonging were sent through an X ray machine, as we walked through the scanner.

In spite of the bright sun, at this time of the year it is very cold early in the morning and with our jackets off we started to shiver. Visitors with high boots which could conceal a weapon, had to walk through the scanner bare foot.

With our items returned, we were moved on through a fenced passage where a guard with a large, sniffer dog shouted, “Backs to the fence and hands by your sides”. We followed his instructions, lining up against the chain mail fence while the enthusiastic Alsatian jumped up and down behind us.

Given the 'all clear', we filed through a turnstile whose melancholic sound resembled that made by the squeaking windmill in the opening sequence to Sergio Leone’s masterpiece ‘Once Upon a Time in the West”.

The turnstile led to a bus stop. A trustie driving an old yellow school bus around the complex picking up and delivering the visitors to the various units, gave us a friendly, "Hello". A short ride brought us to a vast iron gate with a buzzer which signalled to the guard that visitors have arrived. The gate clanked open and we walked passed the grassy visitation compound surrounded with razor wire.

Inside the unit our paperwork and IDs were checked once again and the guard picked up the phone and asked that our son be brought to the visitation area. We went through another scanner, and after setting the alarm off with my belt buckle and shoes, I was ‘wanded’ by the guard, who gave us back the paperwork. We went through 2 more electronic doors which slid back to reveal the visitation room.

Once again the paperwork was checked and the guard assigned us a white, plastic table. We sat down, looked at each other and waited for our son to come through a door.


..........Passing the desert scenery that Jon had described so well in his blog, I became him, looking out from the transportation van, longing to be free.

Scanning the horizon the desert stretched for miles, skirted by the Estrella Mountain range: there were no signs of the prison, as we sped further into the arid landscape.

I thought my eyes were deceiving me, as, in the far distance I spied what looked like rows of silver pods suspended against the dark hills. Blinking hard, I tried to focus my distance vision, and as we drew closer I realised that the pods were flood lights: luminous eyes surveying the scence.

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as the low sprawling mass of Lewis prison gradually revealed itself, and I wondered what part of the complex held my son captive…. …. …

… … …Chatting to Jon across the plastic table, we could have been in any café, in any country, smiling, talking, exchanging views on crime and justice, life and death, sorrow and joy. I stared at his animated face and time stopped. Glancing away, the walls of razor wire glistening in the bright Arizona sunshine remind me sharply of where I was.

Jon's parents would like to thank the prison authorities for granting us extra visits. After travelling 5200 miles this was greatly appreciated, as was the kindness and courtesy we received from all of the visitation staff.

Jon's impressions of our first visit have been held up in the Christmas mail and will be posted asap. He is doing well and sends everyone his regards.

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