‘This is a federal building. We can’t do that.’
‘I just really need a cigarette,’ he says, sobbing. ‘Please, anyone, someone, give me a cigarette. I just wanna cigarette,’ he says to passers-by. Guards grab and fling him into a Plexiglas cubicle. On the verge of mental collapse, I empathise with him pounding on the glass, lashing out to no avail at the system.
The driver explains that due to a clerical error he thought I was in the same situation as the Argentinian, but that’s not the case. There’s still time to make it back to the airport for my flight. The news resurrects me yet again. Galvanised by excitement layered on top of exhaustion, I shuffle back to the van. Every time we get stuck in traffic, I quake at the prospect of being rescheduled. Gazing at cars moving in fits and starts, bumper-to-bumper, I will them to speed up. When we arrive at the airport, I sigh and slump in the seat, satisfied we’ve made it in time. Trembling as if in the throes of drug withdrawal, I stare longingly at the vessel of my freedom: a United Airlines plane.
‘I’ve really got to pee,’ I say. ‘I’ve been holding it in for hours, but I’m about to pee my pants.’
‘You’ve been very well behaved so far. You’re not gonna try anything funny, are you?’
‘No. I’m not going to jeopardise my flight.’
‘I’ll take you, then.’
In the toilet, he says, ‘You pee first, then I’m gonna chain you to the rail in that toilet while I pee, so you can’t escape.’
He watches me urinate and chains me to a cubicle with men coming in and out, overstepping the boundaries of any S&M I’ve ever contemplated. It’s so surreal, I want to laugh aloud. Fearing an outburst might antagonise him, I behave myself.
The flight’s delayed. The guard says we can’t wait indefinitely. If his shift ends, I’ll have to be rescheduled. Too weak to respond verbally, all I can do is widen my eyes at him and continue to gag on my stale breath. Sitting in the back of the van for hours, bracing myself to be rescheduled, sweat leaking from my armpits, releasing a nauseating odour (having had no access to showers in days), my fingers and feet tapping and twisting and turning, I drift into a dream state, my proximity to freedom pulling me in one direction, the prospect of being rescheduled pushing me in another, ripping my mind in half. Seeing an imaginary cockroach crawl across the ceiling of the van, I fear my peculiar condition is increasing the likelihood of the guard quitting and going home, but I can’t stop fidgeting.
It’s dark when he says, ‘It’s time. I’m gonna put you on the plane first, so you don’t scare the passengers.’
Smiling, I still worry something may go wrong.
‘One time, I tried to put this big scary guy on the plane and the captain said, “No way am I allowing him on my plane.” He had to be rescheduled.’
The word ‘rescheduled’ zaps me like a bug killer. I jolt back and shake. ‘Tell the crew I’m a former stockbroker, then perhaps they’ll be less frightened and I won’t get rescheduled.’
‘Let’s get your cuffs off, then.’
Minus cuffs and chains, I’m lighter. To ease the pain they’ve caused, I rotate my hands and wrists. At the top of the stairs, the crew greet me.
A man in a white shirt, black trousers and waistcoat shakes my hand. ‘I’m Jonathan. If you need anything at all, Mr Attwood, just ask for me,’ he says in a warm London accent.
After being on the receiving end of condescension for almost six years, I’m overwhelmed by him talking to me as if I’m a person. ‘Thanks,’ I say, eager to soak up anything else he cares to say.
‘Angela will show you where your seat is. Have a great flight, Mr Attwood.’
Intoxicated by Jonathan’s courtesy and the trail of perfume Angela’s giving off, I find my seat.
The passengers board. A brunette with tribal tattoos on long, lithe limbs settles a few seats over. Her scent is such a contrast to the stench of sweaty, hairy men that my eyeballs flutter upwards as if I’m on Ecstasy. Conscious of appearing strange, I try not to gawk at people.
I raise my hand to get Angela’s attention. ‘Can I use the bathroom?’ I ask, immediately realising she’s not a guard and I don’t need permission. Passengers stare in disbelief. I blush.
‘It’s right there,’ she says, pointing, her face crinkling with amusement. ‘There’s no need to ask.’
In the bathroom, I urinate and use soap to give myself a prison ‘bird bath’ in the hope of improving my smell, but it’s ingrained in my clothes.
Seatbelts are checked. The engines roar. The plane accelerates. Lifts.
You’re free at last, free at last …
The plane banks, affording me an aerial view of LA, reduced to a grid of light in the shape of a chess board.
Even though I’m wary of the plane going down – To survive prison and die in a crash! – the flight is smooth. I try to distract myself by watching movies. Spotting the clouds over England, I start to unwind. The plane descends into mist, raising my high. Bumpiness and sharp drops. Almost home! Green fields. Minutes away! Roads and buildings. Seconds away! As the plane touches down, I push my back against the seat. The louder the brakes roar, the broader I smile. Yes!
I disembark with a small box containing the remnants of my 16-year adventure in America: some books, including Nietzsche, and legal paperwork. Walking through Gatwick airport, I worry the UK authorities might want a word with me about my crimes and lifelong ban from America. With the brusque demeanour of a prison guard, an official requests to scan my passport. Automatically, I tense up. I hand it over and gaze nervously. When he allows me through customs, I breathe easier. With blurred vision, I have difficulty locating my parents among the hundred or so people thronging around the gate. Out of nowhere, Mum runs at me, her jacket flying and landing on the floor, my sister behind, tears streaming. I drop my box and, with an adrenalin surge, I hug Mum off her feet, then hug my sister and Dad. After I reassure them that I’m OK, we make jokes about me looking like a Russian dissident due to my lengthy stubble, pale face and dark-ringed eyes.
On what feels like the wrong side of the road, Dad drives away. For the first time, I read Jon’s Jail Journal on a computer and post a blog entry myself:
13 Dec 07
I’m free!
This is Jon/Shaun.
I can’t thank you enough for all of your comments and support over the years. My prison journey is finally at an end! I’m at my sister’s flat in Fulham, London. Tomorrow, I’m heading for my parents’ house in Cheshire. Tonight, I’m being treated to Indian food with my family, and I hope to get a good night’s sleep after several harrowing days spent in transportation (no food, sleep, showers, etc.).
Soon I intend to post the blogs ‘On Shanks’ and ‘Two Tonys on Jesus Christ’.
Much love. Talk to you soon.
Shaun
Comments pour in from around the world, congratulations and well wishes, enhancing my mood. A documentary maker arrives to capture my return to society on film. In the evening, we go for an Indian meal. I order chicken tikka masala, my former favourite, meat in a reddish-orange sauce, but it activates my gag reflex. Flashing back to memories of red death, the mystery meat slop in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail, I decide to stay vegetarian. I devour chickpea curry and garlic naan twice as fast as the others are eating, unable to stop myself – as if I still only have 15 minutes to eat – my saliva gushing to the taste of turmeric and coriander, and the general spicy atmosphere.
The next day I do two BBC interviews, glad to be exposing the human-rights violations in Arpaio’s jail. We travel home along the motorway, a five-hour drive. We stop at a chip shop. I try to order curry and rice – popular in the north-west – but the young server’s thick northern accent is incomprehensible. He brings out a girl who speaks slowly and concisely, as if I’m mentally impaired. I smile at the staff with the amused curiosity of an alien.
We drive through my hometown. Memories surface, as if I’ve entered a dream. At my parents’ house, the feeling intensifies. Ch
ecking out each room, I feel as if I’ve regressed to childhood. I eat, read the latest blog comments and try to sleep. Wearing socks, a beanie and a dressing gown, and buried under two fifteen-tog duvets in a room with the radiator on, I can’t stop shivering, being used to temperatures of the Sonoran Desert. My ears turn to ice. I sneeze. My nose runs. I only sleep for a few hours and wake up with my vision still blurred.
The next morning I go food shopping, loading up on fruit, nuts, cheese, bread and beans. Browsing each aisle, even being able to buy a banana is the height of ecstasy for me. At home, I fill a spoon with peanut butter and a cup with milk, eager to consume my main sources of protein in prison. As soon as I put them in my mouth, I feel sick and spit them out.
Claudia calls to wish me good luck. She has a boyfriend now. One of my best friends, Hammy, shows up with champagne and offers to hook me up with a nymphomaniac so I can make up for lost time. My aunt Mo, still as generous as ever, takes me clothes shopping. A friend from high school, Aza, mocks my blue raver pants from America and buys me jeans.
In the day, my mood is mostly up, but exhaustion arrives in waves. The next night, I sleep for 13 hours.
Still traumatised by the entire experience, I sit down at a desk upstairs in my parents’ house and write about my release to the people who understand Arizona prison the most and with whom I feel a lifelong bond: Two Tonys, She-Ra, T-Bone, Shannon, Frankie, Weird Al, Jack, Iron Man … We dealt with so much. You helped me survive. But I’ll never see most of you again. Longing for their company, I fill with sadness. Tears pool. I almost want to return to prison just to be with them. An ache expands from my jaw up to my eye sockets and temples. Tears spill onto the paper, moistening it just like my sweat did when I wrote from Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail. My teeth chatter. My bottom lip quivers. I drop the pen. I miss them so much, I can’t stop crying – no matter how hard I try. I love you guys, and I’ll never ever forget you and everything we’ve been through.
EPILOGUE
12 August 2013
It’s the sixth year since my release and I’m visiting my parents’ house for the summer. A few minutes ago, I finished writing the last paragraph of Prison Time. Still overwhelmed by unexpected sadness, I’m sitting at the same wooden desk in the small room – my sister’s former bedroom – where I composed the release letters to my friends, starting with Two Tonys – who is no longer alive. Above the desk, there’s a wicker-framed mirror on the wall. Almost six years ago, I couldn’t see myself clearly in the mirror because my vision was so blurred from reading over 1,000 books in five and three-quarter years. The optometrist diagnosed permanent eye damage. I had to wear glasses in cinemas and when driving, but my sight recovered a year and a half later, having walked and jogged outdoors, staring at long distances, during that time. Looking in the mirror now, with Two Tonys’ death from liver cancer weighing on my mind, I see my eyes. Sad. Pink. Watery. Two Tonys was like a second father to me. He protected my life for no reward – as did the rest of my prison friends. Thinking about the times we shared – of which there’s only a fraction in this book – hurts me because I miss them so much. Two Tonys said that even if I didn’t succeed as an author, I would always be his horse. Hard Time was published before his death, but the Arizona Department of Corrections classified the book as a threat to the security of the institution and repelled multiple attempts to get it inside. I even photocopied it, took the title page out and had an American friend mail it from Pennsylvania, but it was detected. Two Tonys may be dead, but he lives on in Prison Time, at Jon’s Jail Journal and in the biography he dictated that I aim to publish in the coming years. Here are the last two letters he wrote before he died on 8 September 2010:
Hey! It’s me. Guess what? I fell off the john two nights ago. My pals got help for me. Bottom line is I’ve been moved up to a medical complex, a big building. It seems they have a wing of cells here for blokes such as I. I’m speaking medical talk. They’re doing things to me but not too much. I don’t know, bro. This could be the end of the road for me. Time will tell. They’re talking a lot of making-me-more-comfortable shit, but that’s OK with me. I’ve got my own room, TV, remote, change of diet, change of meds, more nurses on demand. I’m pretty well messed up now as I write. I would and should have wrote to you more, but I was lazy. You’re in my thoughts and prayers.
Good news on your speeches and come-up in the writing world. Know this, you’re a damn good man, and you’ve enriched my life and soul. Knowing you, I can feel your love and friendship even as I sit here waiting for my number to come up.
Hey, bro. I’m short on stamps till store day, so until then I’ll cut this off. I’ve got a few blogs left as soon as I get a little more energy. My daughter will get in touch if my number comes up, so you can have a pint on my sorry old ass.
L&R,
Two Tonys
I’m still in the medical complex, but this is all up in the air. What makes me suspicious is they’re treating me too nice. (We’ll see.) They might send me back to a yard or keep me here. I can’t get to the decision maker.
Hey, I’m real proud of you. Not only as a true friend but also for your achievements. I know you’ll keep it up and the sky’s the limit. Maybe you’ll even make it to the Larry King show. Pond to pond, of course. All I ask is, as you struggle on, stop and give me a good thought. Now get your bald ass in there and get on with it.
L&R from over the Atlantic!
Two Tonys
T-Bone was released at the end of 2011 after serving more than twenty years – two decades of him protecting vulnerable inmates from drug-crazed psychopaths and rapists, getting stabbed and almost murdered, but continuing undaunted for no reward. For almost a year, I talked to him often on the phone, checking on how he was doing and working on his life story. Although T-Bone usually sounded level-headed, he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. A few times, he broke down crying. Some of our conversations are available on the YouTube channel Shaun Attwood. He said the highlight of his day in prison was receiving the printouts I mailed to him of comments and questions UK students posted to a Facebook page: T-Bone Appreciation Society. T-Bone desperately wanted to get a passport so he could travel to England and join me speaking to schools about the consequences of drugs and crime. Determined to help my big-hearted friend, I worked as fast as I could towards getting his life story published. I hoped such a book would give him the credibility to start doing talks to schools. But I knew I was in a race against time: publishing a book takes years and, in America, prisoners are set up to fail, especially black ones. There are more black men in prison than in college. There are more in prison than were held captive under slavery. A recent BBC documentary, Storyville: The House I Live In, about the War on Drugs and the prison industries, compared the US prison system to a form of racial control and extermination along the lines of Auschwitz but implemented in a more subtle way. With a criminal record, T-Bone couldn’t get a job. Having received no rehabilitation in prison, he allegedly went back to drugs. Hearing that he had been re-arrested made me so sad I almost broke down crying at my next school visit, when the students asked what T-Bone was doing now. I’m not making excuses for him. He should have known better. I spoke to his wife on the phone. She said T-Bone allegedly committed crimes to get money for drugs. He is considered dangerous due to his fighting skills, so it took 30 police with riot shields and shotguns to arrest him at his home. They even put a shotgun to the head of a neighbour who was paying a visit and asked her how she knew T-Bone.
T-Bone’s now in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail. He refused to sign a plea bargain admitting guilt to crimes that would have sent him back to prison for years. He demanded a trial. But, at every court date, the prosecutor has refused to allow him a trial by postponing the trial date. This is a common strategy used when there’s a weak case. It allows the prosecutor to buy time to build a case and to increase the pressure on T-Bone to sign a plea bargain. T-Bone and his wife both believe he is innocent of the crimes he was indicted
for. T-Bone is still trying to force the prosecutor to go to trial in the hope that he will be freed. I pray he gets released, but there needs to be a support structure in place when he gets out so that he doesn’t revert to drugs.
She-Ra attempted to castrate herself and almost bled to death. A helicopter airlifted her to a hospital just in time to save her life. She described the operation in a letter:
I removed all of my clothes and, straddling the toilet, I grabbed my scrotum with my left hand and with my right I cut the right side of my scrotum about one-and-a-half inches long. The pain was minimal. Blood began to run down the inside of my thigh. I glanced into the toilet and saw a steady drip, drip, drip from the wound. I placed the razor blade onto my table and reached into my scrotum with my thumb and forefinger. I grabbed my right testicle and pulled it to the surface.
The next step was a little more difficult, cutting the inner layer of tissue surrounding the testicle itself. Remembering what I had read in the Mosby Medical Dictionary, I separated my testes with my left hand, using my thumb and forefinger. I placed the razor at the top of the cut and buried the blade about one quarter inch into the testicle itself and began to cut down. The testicle came easily out of the skin. And, with great amusement, I realised that there was no pain.
Prison Time Page 34
