As I await today's legal visit, I savor the silence, but wish I could know exactly why the shower construction appears to have more challenges than the Verrazano Bridge, the Great Wall of China or me finding an honest and fair-minded Judge to view all of the facts before destroying a company, attempting to destroy a personal reputation and giving me a two-week, or longer, hiatus which I hope will soon end.
Material for this diary comes faster at me than I could ever imagine. As you remember the elevator was "broken", (I am told today the builder of this building was arrested because of how poorly it was built). So after my legal visit on floor three I have to climb with a guard up to floor nine. No big problem, just another creative exercise in my Club-Fed diet program. Climb six stories with your hands cuffed behind your back. Upon arrival at the ninth floor I was put in a holding pen until one of the five eating and resting guards decides to move me to my cell.
Today was very eventful because Ms. Andrews et.al, my counselor, who to this date has not accomplished one of my requests, was walking about the Day Room, which is flanked by numerous holding cells. She saw me, and I silently stared at her. I stared because I knew she had decided to put me in "my place". She started down the stairs to lower cells (about 5-7 concrete steps). Either it was only justice or maybe it was Al who tripped her, but good old Ms. Andrews took quite a tumble.
That humorous tumble has consumed the entire staff for more than an hour. Their panicked reactions were comical and their ability to stand one very overweight 4'8" counselor up again could have been a comedy skit on late night British Television. I didn't say anything, but Ms. Andrews knows that my stare was the last thing she saw before she did a seven stair high-dive into the holding cells. Like Harry Potter, I'm feeling wizardly empowered. All I need now is a Potter escape from my cell beneath the stairs.
When I returned to my cell, my lunch was there (for hours) so I was very selective as to my eating choices. Of note, today is something new. Instead of milk for breakfast and nothing for lunch and dinner they gave me two small packets of granulated fruit punch. It is a very blood-like color when mixed with water. My mind is not a criminal mind, but the last thing I would give these prisoners is a substance that would resemble blood. I can think of too many reasons and ideas of how it could be used to keep a guard off-center. By the way, it's not very tasty anyway. No surprise there.
It sounds like they are finally taking Ms. Andrews away now. I don't know where they store 4' long x 12' wide stretchers to move her. Just my luck she'll be getting her disability checks long before my phone form gets processed. With no counselors there is another set-back on my "list" hopes. My only real hope is that they take her to one of the prison hospitals to correct her leg. From what I can observe, legs obviously can only handle a certain amount of "dead weight" for just so long. This hospital is probably run without patient rights and competent staff.
During that climb up to the ninth floor today, I had a discussion with one of the guards. This guard happens to be a sensitive and non-BOP loyal one. He is not a regular on my floor. He said something which got me thinking. He said when discussing the Justice Department system that it's all business. The FBI has to justify their budget. The Courts have to pretend they are dispensing justice. Even the prisons have to rationalize their respective budgets. No criminals would be like no war for the Pentagon budget. This can be a very interesting topic for one of my post publication debates, which should follow AFTER I win my Appeal because only then will anyone believe our side of this insanity. Another tier shower just finished, one more meal, sleep and I'm one day closer to being able to publish these stories.
Today I received an orange jumpsuit truly four sizes too large. Anyone looking at me would think I had lost 100+ pounds. I still have no clean socks. Was it King Richard who said "My Kingdom for a sock" or something like that? Maybe it was a horse.
Today I once again asked for a nail clipper. "We bite our nails here, bro" was the guard's response. I'm not surprised because a few more weeks here and nail biting may be the least dysfunctional behavior I can develop.
There's still no word on Ms. Andrews and her leg injury. When and if I ever find out, I'll share it with you directly.
After my shower, I did sneak my old socks in with my new underwear. Yeah I thought about leaving the old socks in the shower, but then I would have no socks at all and no pocket to carry anything in. This oversized suit doesn't have a pocket so the only way I can carry some of these diary papers to my attorney is in my socks. If clean socks ever come, I will give my old pair of socks to another inmate. No one has socks.
Four o'clock in the afternoon is the changing of the guards. I've previously described the changing of the officers’ precision, but today I listened to two guards talking about how last night they had to "mess one of the inmates up". That's all I could gather as I stood waiting to be returned to my cell. Some may wonder why I don't comment more. I have learned the rules and regulations here and additional time or penalties are like my incarceration …without due process. Each offense has a designated official number. For example, insolence may be a 312. The rules inside are too ominous to risk extra time after this Judge is finally finished with his teaching of one of "us" a lesson. I would be forced to extend my stay for alleged acts of insolence as defined by prison employees who need their customers to stay.
Chapter 6 – Today, I became a Prisoner
Yesterday, I tried to describe my evening symphony of noises. When I re-read it, I choked up with some degree of personal discomfort. As I sit in my cell tonight and dinner is a bit late (almost -2 hours by now), I listen to my solitary confinement neighborly orchestra gently reminding the guards of the lateness of the dinner. From "Where's my fucking food" to "you cock-suckers, did you fat fucks eat our fucking food?" All of the voices came to life. The two Jamaicans started arguing over whose fault the food lateness was. My newest friend called his imaginary alter-ego to start ranting about these white mother-fuckers who have taken his freedom and now have taken his food. The banger has been trying violently to break down the door - doesn't he realize that if an inmate breaks down the door, there are at least five additional locked doors which are worked by keys and others only by electronic central command. Hey maybe, that's the job they'll give Mrs. Andrews now that she is immobile. No doors will ever open. My Tourette syndrome neighbor seems to be quiet now - I guess he's waiting until the moon comes out. What I didn't remember (I think psychologically I blocked it out) were the other "sounds" which contribute to my Club-Fed nocturnal experience. The creatures that live in the walls are so very loud. I hope they are prison cats chasing the mice.
If this was your apartment house, you wouldn't sleep here. The running and scratching noises are continual and I can only imagine that the population of rodents is being handled as efficiently as they handle the prisoners. When someone knocks this building down, anyone in the area should go out to the Hamptons for a few weeks. These non-stop rodent noises must be added to my evening symphony. Lights remain on twenty-four hours a day in this writer's cell.
Normally after a two week vacation, I am anxious to go back home. The same is true of this incarceration vacation and forced diet program that the good Judge thought was important for my character and his ego. The fact remains that I have more character than both the agency and the Judge on this matter and other issues. Maybe someday they'll get a similar vacation, although now they think it is impossible. Life is funny and God certainly has proved He or She has a twisted sense of humor by what I have observed through only my little prison window and my abused inmate neighbors.
I am told that although the food is 2 hours late it has finally arrived due to the "elevator problem". Thank goodness I don't have to keep the broken elevator secret to myself any longer. I wonder today like Holden Caulfield would - how did they get Ms. Andrews down the stairs? That is a sight I would have paid to see. They probably have a freight elevator and that would have been an appropriately ignominious departure for the woman who has prevented telephone contact for me and everyone except my friend with the imaginary phone. He simply may