Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  To qualify for hepatitis C treatment, Shannon has to complete a therapeutic course. ‘I don’t need to be in these stupid support groups and courses!’ Shannon yells, frowning, negativity pouring off him. ‘How do I know it’s legit? The book says I sacrificed goals because drugs and crime were more exciting, but that’s not true because after a while drugs and crime weren’t exciting.’

  ‘I think it’s true,’ I say calmly. ‘My ex-wife was at the University of Arizona and she wanted me to go there to do a Master’s degree. And what did I do? I sacrificed a positive goal to run round Phoenix doing drugs, which seemed more exciting. Just because you disagree with the wording, do you really want to reject the whole course and any benefits it has to offer? People do drugs for excitement – especially in the beginning – and they sacrifice family, education and work goals.’

  ‘But it’s not because those goals aren’t exciting!’ Shannon throws the book onto the dirt.

  ‘Maybe not, but doing drugs and crime are more exciting. Why don’t you stop fighting the book? It’s not done anything wrong,’ I say, picking it up. ‘Why don’t you focus on helping yourself instead of finding small objections to reject the whole course? What disorders have they diagnosed you with?’

  ‘Bipolar. Antisocial. Borderline.’

  ‘Don’t you want to get the most from this course to help you stay away from crime?’

  ‘Sure. If it’s legit info.’

  ‘You’re familiar with the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then why don’t you stop seeking problems with the letter of the course and go with the spirit of it?’

  ‘I see what you’re saying,’ he says, easing up. ‘But why should there be double meanings to things?’

  ‘Your mind is creating double meanings. If you choose to get stuck on objections, you won’t benefit.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I am who I am?’

  ‘But don’t you want to change that? Isn’t that what this class is trying to achieve for you?’

  ‘I need a course that’ll teach me not to resist courses. Of course, I’d try and resist that course, too.’

  We laugh.

  ‘The bottom line is you’ve got to want to help yourself. It’s got to come from your heart,’ I say, patting my chest.

  ‘But it’s a joke how they’re doing courses here. It’s supposed to be done in a live-in community with in-house counsellors where everybody’s doing the same course.’

  ‘I’d like to do yoga in an air-conditioned fitness centre on a mat instead of the concrete floor. Do I quit because of these things? No. I adapt. With no mat, I do headstands off a deck shoe. Why don’t you try and make the most of the course in spite of the environment?’ I hold out the book.

  He takes it.

  Later in the evening, Shannon visits my cell. ‘I stand corrected. I’m a word quibbler. It says so in the book. I employed a diversion strategy – a way to divert attention rather than understand.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re doing better.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m gonna give it a try, but can I come talk if I need help?’

  ‘I’d be happy to help you,’ I say, smiling. ‘You want to read my blog entries?’ I hand Shannon printouts of Jon’s Jail Journal. He sits down and studies them, concentrating intensely, chuckling every so often. For hours, we discuss the blog readers’ comments.

  ‘What’s it cost to start a blog?’ Shannon asks.

  ‘It’s free. Anyone can start one, but you need outside help, and it’s a lot of work. My parents do it for me, typing blogs up, printing them out, moderating comments, responding to emails. You want to start one?’

  ‘Hell, yeah! I’d like to expose what’s going on, especially the lack of medical treatment for guys with hep C, and maybe get a few pen pals along the way. Has the prison ever tried to stop you blogging?’

  ‘A sergeant pulled me out and said the Deputy Warden had received complaints that I was using the real names of prisoners and guards. He’d been commissioned to read all of Jon’s Jail Journal. He said it took him a whole weekend; he laughed his arse off because he thought the writing was funny and it was interesting to see the prison through the eyes of a prisoner. He told the DW no real names were used. Besides, expressing ourselves like this is protected by freedom of speech under the First Amendment of the Constitution. The American Civil Liberties Union won a lawsuit against Arizona, enabling prisoners to write for the internet.’

  The first state to ban prisoners from the internet was Arizona – after the widow of a murder victim read an online pen-pal ad in which her husband’s murderer described himself as a kind-hearted lover of cats. A law passed in 2000 carried penalties for prisoners writing for the internet. Privileges could be taken away and sentences lengthened. The American Civil Liberties Union challenged the law. In May 2003, Judge Earl Carroll declared the law unconstitutional and no other state tried to follow suit. But, even with the law repealed, any inmate writing openly runs the risk of retaliation from staff and prisoners – a risk that I live with, as I feel it’s important to let the world know what’s going on in here.

  ‘What about problems with prisoners?’

  ‘I’ve had a few burst into my cell and say stuff like, “Don’t ever put anything on the internet about me or else I’ll smash you!” I always explain to them that whatever I put on the internet is with the full consent of the prisoners I write about. They read everything and usually a few changes are made before I mail the blogs to my parents.’

  A pen pal of mine, Sue – who discovered Jon’s Jail Journal and wrote to me for advice after her son was arrested for accidentally killing his best friend in a drunk-driving accident – kindly offers to start a blog for Shannon called Persevering Prison Pages.

  In each other’s cells and walking to the chow hall, Shannon and I discuss blogging endlessly, which creates a special bond between us. He spends a lot of time working on a lawsuit against the prison. He introduces me to the prisoner who guides him on legal issues.

  Weird Al is short and grey and doesn’t seem to belong here. He has big blue eyes and a broad smile. Before prison, he was a real estate investor and flew planes.

  In his cell, Weird Al tells me how he ended up inside. ‘A failed suicide-by-cop attempt,’ he says, sitting on the bottom bunk, holding a bag of nachos. ‘It’s a coward’s way of committing suicide. You get the police to shoot you because you don’t have the nerve to do it yourself. My girlfriend had recently died from lung cancer and, over four or five months, I became increasingly depressed and crazy. I bought a book by “Dr Death”, Jack Kevorkian, and tried his method: a bottle of vodka, sleeping pills and a plastic bag over my head. It didn’t work. I woke up in hospital after my neighbours called the police because I was knocking things over. The police found me with a garbage bag over my head and, after a visit to hospital, I was sent to the nuthouse. After staying in bed for a few days, an idea came to me: rob the bank and the police will come and shoot you. I slept great that night. I woke up happy and watched a morning chat show, Regis and Kathie Lee, because my bank didn’t open until ten. I wrote a note: I have a gun. I am here to rob you. And I put This is not a joke, so they’d know I was serious. I went to my local bank, where I’d done business for eight years.

  ‘When I walked inside, there was a line of people. You’d think I would of gone straight to the front. If I was gonna get shot, why stand on manners? But I’m a polite person. I stood in the line, waited, wondering which teller I’d get. I got a familiar lady clerk. She said, “Hello, Mr Miller. How are you today?” I gave her the note and her eyes went as big as saucers. I kept my left hand in my pocket, pretending I had a gun. She opened the drawer real quick. I grabbed the cash, put it in my pocket and walked outside to sit on the kerb next to my car. I figured that the police would screech into the parking lot any second and shoot me.

  ‘But they didn’t come right away. It took them ten minutes. I was getting pissed
off. I was expecting a big scene and an adrenalin rush. I wanted to go out like Bonnie and Clyde. They didn’t screech into the parking lot. They calmly got out of their cars without their guns drawn. I thought, Wait a minute. Something’s not working here. One cop said, “Mr Miller, I’m telling you right now, we’re not going to shoot you.”

  ‘“But I have a gun,” I told him.

  ‘“You don’t have a gun.”

  ‘A second cop said, “What in the world’s going on here?”

  ‘“I robbed the bank.”

  ‘“Yeah, we know that. But why? You have more money in the bank than you stole.”

  ‘I had fifteen thousand in the bank and I stole seventeen hundred.

  ‘It got worse from there. They arrested me and took me to Tempe police department. The FBI came down, took one look at me and said, “Forget it. We don’t want him. He’s all yours.” I thought I had an original idea, but the police said it happens all the time. That people try to get the police to shoot them, usually in hostage situations. I thought, Son of a bitch. I should have took a hostage.’

  ‘How much time did you get for that?’ I ask, moved by his sad story.

  ‘Three-and-a-half years.’

  Almost daily, the three of us sit together in the chow hall. I warm to Weird Al’s intelligence and deadpan humour. He’s had hepatitis C for so long, he jokes that the first thing he’s going to do when he gets released is bid on eBay for a Chinese liver. He’s at an advanced stage of the same Siddha Yoga philosophy course that I’ve been studying for a year. Daily, I look forward to our discussions, which range from the pursuit of enlightenment to the latest scandal on the yard. With Shannon and Weird Al to talk to, I feel less lonely.

  24

  A week after Jade’s visit, I’m called for mail. At the control room, I shuffle through several letters. My eyes light up when I spot one from her. Fretting over whether she’s receptive to my outpouring or has backed away, I dash to my cell and lock the door.

  I can’t describe in words how great it was to see you and spend time with you. As nerve-wracking as it all was in the beginning, it was worth any trouble. I could never have imagined how much I would miss you until I had to leave you behind there. I was overwhelmed with unexpected emotions upon my departure. I was incredibly happy and there was gleeful anticipation of seeing you again and determination to make it happen. I even sat there thinking that I need to go shopping to find the perfect top for the next visit. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and wishing you were out and hanging out with me. I have missed you intensely since the visit.

  Insanely happy, I want to leap up and down and run around the prison waving the letter in the air. It’s the best news I’ve had in years. My smile expands as I read:

  It was odd how normal it felt to sit and chat with you. I felt like we weren’t in prison at all. I am still amazed at how remarkable our conversation felt given the circumstances. I felt so at ease with you that the surroundings were only minutely noticed. I have not been in prison, nor deprived of attention from the opposite sex, and I still felt that way. It leads me to wonder if you would feel the same if you weren’t in prison.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am still in the process of analysing and sorting my thoughts and emotions. I apologise if this letter and its contents are somewhat incoherent and muddled up. I hope you understand the loop you have put me in. It seems appropriate to remind myself, and you, that although we could have some wicked times together and that there is definitely something there between us, it is something that shouldn’t happen. I could easily list why you are so wrong for me, but maybe that is counterproductive. At the same time, I feel like you have lit a spark inside me.

  I will undoubtedly be thinking of you and wanting you so much more than I should. Missing you loads! Hope you miss me, too.

  Take care of yourself,

  Jade

  PS. I was wearing Guess Perfume.

  PPS. This was sprayed with Hugo Boss Woman.

  Pondering her description of us as something that ‘shouldn’t happen’ – which I attribute to her boyfriend – takes the edge off my euphoria. But only for a minute. He treats her so badly, I have no respect for him. I reread the letter, soaking up every heartfelt sentence, my soul filling with joy to bursting point.

  I grab my notepad and frantically pen a response:

  Your letter received this evening managed to add to the intoxication I’ve felt for several days – SEVERAL DAYS! – since your visit. I’m feeling it right now, as I write this. The parallels in your letter and how I’m feeling are uncanny. Now a battle rages in our souls. You quite rightly pointed out that ‘us’ shouldn’t happen. So what happens now? Hmm … Here’s what I think about us not happening: you could put me in the Visitation room with 100 women and I doubt I would feel like I did with you. It was more than a deprivation reaction and it’s not just your beauty. It’s your personality and intelligence and much more that I can’t put into words. Also, look at what’s happening at your end. Why are we suffering joint madness? I can find no reasons to break us up before we even get together.

  I can’t stop looking at the pics you sent. I wanted to kiss you properly so bad, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous in any way. I’ve been fantasising about kissing you all week. I’m grateful you came and I’m happy about the madness raging in my heart because it’s added a new and unexpected dimension to my life. Every day this week when I went to mail call my heart sank until this evening.

  Although I’m physically unobtainable, you’ve obtained me mentally. I can’t deny that. Perhaps unobtainability has a role to play in all this?

  It’s late, so I’m going to wrap this up. Have sweet dreams. I hope I’m fortunate enough to dream about you.

  Each day drags until mail call. I feel the pain of the men hovering around the control room, pining for letters. If I wasn’t so busy reading and writing, I’d join them in the hope of spotting one from Jade. It takes a week for another to arrive. Opening it, I’m excited but worried her feelings might have cooled. I’m relieved to discover that she feels the same. I can’t believe my eyes when I read:

  I broke up with Theo. I told him that the only thing keeping me in England is my studies. Because he’s so controlling in our relationship, I only have a couple of friends there. He’s never allowed me to bond with other people. He never wants me going out.

  I know it’s selfish, but it’s one of the happiest moments of my life. I start counting down the days to her next visit.

  25

  In Dr Owen’s office, a mini metallic-blue boombox is playing a Mozart concerto.

  Nice touch.

  Dressed in a royal-blue shirt and black trousers, Dr Owen is about a decade older than Dr Austin. His brown hair, greying at the front and above the ears, is parted and flicked over at the fringe. His beard is white across a narrow chin, with traces of auburn above the mouth. His height and his dark hypnotic eyes give him a commanding presence. Under the influence of his penetrating stare, I instinctively feel that he’s observing things that most of us never will. He greets me slowly, concisely, and introduces himself as a cognitive behaviourist and neuropsychologist. He begins by reading the homework assignment he sent me after a brief chat we had at Medical. To the question he set – Look at what you are doing with yoga and how you use it to confront mental-health issues. How could you do better? – I have responded:

  My emotions seem to depend on two things: activating events and my interpretation of those events. Mental yoga has taught me that I have the power to choose whether or not I become upset about events over which I have no control and that activating events are necessary to restore karma. If something bad happens, I shouldn’t mope. If I suffer a depression, I can wallow in self-pity and exacerbate the condition or I can choose to recognise – and maybe even rejoice – that I’m restoring my karma.

  This approach is similar to the Stoic philosophy taught by Epictetus, who pointed out that people are disturbed not b
y negative events but by the negative views they take of them.

  If I feel stressed, I use yogic breathing (full belly with active exhalation as opposed to shallow chest breathing) to calm down. Concentrating on breathing instead of a stressful event enables me to relax.

  I am striving to do better by following Socrates’ advice ‘know thyself’. I’ve discovered that one of the causes of my wild partying may have been the need to self-medicate depression and anxiety problems I never knew existed until I received professional help after being arrested. I aim to do better by learning and putting that knowledge into practice.

  ‘Do you ever feel you’re a fish out of water?’

  Surprised, I pause. ‘In here or before my arrest?’

  ‘Whichever.’