Hard Time (26 page)

‘How’re you doing, Peter? How’s the broken thumb?’ she asked, shaking her head at Wild Man’s thumb that had turned blue and shed its nail.

‘OK. Everything’s OK,’ Wild Man said.

‘As you know, the prosecutor’s offering eight years. Considerably less than the 25 you’re facing,’ she said in the tone of a used-car salesperson.

Wild Man nodded. ‘I never got busted with no drugs. Don’t you only get the 25 if they can show 25 grand in drug sales?’

She sighed. ‘Not necessarily. Who’s been telling you this?’

‘Co-defendants.’

‘I know Attwood’s telling you this,’ she said. ‘He has a paid attorney. He’ll tell you anything, but in the end you’ll be the one that ends up doing the time. You’re best taking the plea now. It’s the best you’re gonna get.’

Many of the co-defendants had told me that their public defenders were saying similar things, so I was unsurprised yet keen to hear what else she might say about me.

‘As this is my first plea, I’d rather roll the dice and see what happens.’

‘This is your life you’re gambling.’

‘It’s not like I haven’t heard that before.’

‘Quite frankly, I think your co-defendant, Attwood, is going to get a lot of time, and he’s going to take you down with him.’

As much as I expected her to say something like that, it was frightening to hear it.

‘Save yourself while you still can! I can get a settlement conference with the judge and prosecutor. See if we can work out a deal if you like?’

‘Uh, OK. But I didn’t get caught with any drugs. I won’t do more than five years.’

‘The prosecutor’s a very reasonable woman. But from eight down to five, I just don’t know. Let’s just go ahead and set the settlement conference, shall we?’

‘Uh, OK, if you ask for the five. I like the food here, me.’

‘The food?’ she asked, surprised.

‘In England, you just get bread and water.’

‘How about next month for the settlement conference?’

‘They feed you bread and water all week long. I love the food here, especially the potatoes. People complain about the food, but I love it. I can’t get enough of the red death.’

‘Peter, you’re completely crazy. Now let’s get back to the settlement conference. With good behaviour – do you think you’re capable of good behaviour, Peter?’ she asked as if talking to a child.

Wild Man looked over his shoulder as if she were talking to someone else.

‘If you sign for eight, with your back time and the 85 per cent kickout, you’ll actually do closer to five.’

‘Uh, OK.’

‘I’ll go ahead and schedule the settlement conference then.’

‘In England, they feed you porridge. This is like hotel food here. We had bean burritos last night. I love the food, me.’ Wild Man leaned towards her, his eyes demented.

‘Peter, you’re completely crazy.’ There was fear showing on her face now. ‘I have to go. I’ll be in touch. Bye!’ She stood, up and left without shaking Wild Man’s hand. She’d been paid to represent Wild Man, yet he felt that she had not properly defended him. He got the impression that she just wanted him to sign a plea bargain.

Big Wood was a shot-caller (one of the heads of the whites) from Buckeye prison. Caught with marijuana and facing new charges, he was sent to Towers and assigned to Nick’s cell. He was a massive man but had a mellow disposition that made him someone you could reason with. Nick and Big Wood got along. After breaking his hand on Busta Beatz’s face and losing pieces of his teeth, Nick was weary of being the head of the whites. He passed the mantle to Big Wood, who commanded respect due to his reputation in the prison system. Big Wood ordered the whites he didn’t like to roll out of the pod, got the rest to behave and then set about stopping the nightly fellatio shows in 2B, a neighbouring pod where after lockdown a Native American transsexual could be seen from our cells bobbing his head between the legs of a white inmate sat on the toilet at the front of the cell. Prior to Big Wood’s arrival, bored prisoners had enjoyed yelling running commentaries on these performances. But Big Wood sent a kite to the head of the whites in 2B saying the receiver of the oral sex was disgracing the white race and must be smashed if it continued. It stopped immediately.

Honduras, whose plea bargain had dropped from double-digit years down to five, notified us that he would be leaving soon as all of the witnesses in his case had disappeared. His prosecutor offered him a final plea bargain for two years, which he laughed at. He knew they had no evidence against him, so he called the prosecutor’s bluff. A few nights later at about 2 a.m., our cell door opened, and a guard shone a torch on us.

‘Jose! Roll up! Roll up! Immigration are here to pick you up!’

Awakened by the guard, I shook hands with Honduras.

‘
Buena suerte
, Honduras,’ I said. Good luck
.

‘
Buena suerte, mi compañero de cuarto
.’ Good luck, my roommate
.
‘See! I told you,
tengo mucho suerte
.’ I have much luck.

‘
Si, que suerte tienes
.’ Yes, what luck you have.

‘
Que Dios te bendiga, Inglaterra
.’ God bless you, England.

‘
Que Dios te bendiga tambien
.’ God bless you also.

‘
Adios
.’

I was glad Honduras had beaten the system. Surrounded by mayhem, he’d kept his cool, remained sober, prayed to God and shown nothing but respect to everyone.

A few days later, Stalker was sentenced to three and a half years. He would serve just over two, which I hoped would be long enough for him to overcome his desire to resume stalking his wife. If you must stalk someone, I told him, do a celebrity next time and we’ll get you on
Oprah
.

April 2003

For months, I’d been using a laptop Alan Simpson had received permission to establish in the visitation room. Through a headset, I’d listened to the evidence against me: thousands of wiretapped phone calls. Whenever I heard a drug deal between any of the co-defendants, I documented the dollar amount. The total of all of the drug deals among all of the co-defendants was approximately $5,700. The prosecutor had never missed an opportunity to say we were a multi-million-dollar drug ring, so Alan was glad the calls didn’t offer any proof of her allegation. He said the total trumped her claim that I was a serious drug offender, which required proof beyond a reasonable doubt of more than $25,000 dollars of drug income received during a calendar year. As no one had yet agreed to cooperate, and the state’s own evidence now seemed to be evidence in my favour, Alan said he could file for another bond hearing and for a hearing to enable him to play some of the calls in court, so the judge could hear the extent of the drug dealing.

Stoked by this development, I called Claudia, and she relayed the news to my parents. Alan said it would help the bond hearing if people sent in letters of support. As I had family and friends around the world, the parents of my godchild, the Senns, set up a support website, including the format for writing a letter to the judge. My parents and sister contacted all of their friends – some of whom remembered me as a teenager before I’d left for the States – and hundreds of letters came in. Claudia’s family members and my relations in Arizona pledged to attend the hearing and speak on my behalf. Claudia’s parents, my second cousin Lorraine, my aunt Ann and her husband, Donny, offered their houses as collateral for my bond. Touched by the outpouring of support, I once again grew excited at the prospect of getting out.

I’d only been asleep for a couple of hours when a bright light startled me awake. Squinting at the source, I saw the flashlight belonged to Mr Big, a six-foot-four hulk of a guard whose outfit barely contained his muscles. He was standing outside my door, easily recognisable by his thick permed hair and old-fashioned square-framed glasses. He looked like he belonged in a 1970s magazine for bodybuilders. ‘Attwood, wake up! You’ve got court!’ His voice was as deep as they come.

I felt rough. ‘What?’ I said. I hated the monthly court appearances – a day in holding cells for a few minutes of the judge’s time that always ended with a continuance of the case – but today was different. If the judge reduced my bond, I could be out as soon as tomorrow. The prospect of freedom squashed my reluctance to get up.

‘You’ve got court! Take a shower! Be ready downstairs when you’re done. Here’s a razor.’

I slipped off my bunk and took the razor. Half asleep, I set off for the shower. The empty day room was quiet except for snoring and the flopping of my sandals. In the shower, I lathered soap on my face and began shaving by touch. No mirrors were allowed in the jail, so I had to feel my face to detect where the hair needed to be removed from. It had taken months to learn to do this without cutting myself too much. The quality of the razor was so poor it took a long time to shave. The water made me feel more awake and excited at the chance of getting out. When I was dried off, dressed and ready, Mr Big activated the sliding door and ordered me to wait in the corridor below the control tower. Other inmates arrived, all of them on the list of those scheduled for transportation to court.

Mr Big descended the control-tower stairs to escort us out of Tower 2. ‘Gentlemen, proceed down the corridor in a straight line, one after the other.’

Just as the prisoner at the front set off, a youngster turned to Mr Big and said, ‘This is bullshit. I wanna go back to sleep. You can tell the judge I’m refusing to go to court.’

Mr Big walked up to the youngster and inhaled loudly, expanding his massive chest well into the youngster’s personal space. He gazed at the youngster for a few seconds, his veins and tendons protruding from his neck like ropes. ‘You’re going to court!’

The youngster jumped and complied.

‘Proceed, gentlemen!’ Mr Big followed us out of Tower 2 and along the breezeway where crickets were chirping so intensely they sounded like an English pedestrian crossing. He deposited us with the 100 or so groggy prisoners from various towers congregating at the back of the reception area. The guard at the door was shouting surnames, letting a few inmates at a time into the building and ticking names on his clipboard. Upon hearing him yell Attwood, I stepped forward.

‘ID.’

I fished my ID from my top pocket.

‘Go on in. Strip down to your boxers.’

I joined the back of the line of men in pink boxers, holding their bee stripes, about to be strip-searched, and removed my filthy clothes.

When I got to the front of the line, a guard said, ‘Throw your stripes in that basket and step into that room.’ When I was undressed, he said, ‘Now hand me your boxers.’ Standing naked, I watched him feel the lining of my boxers for contraband. ‘Raise yer balls . . . Very good. Pull back yer foreskin . . . OK. Now turn around and spread ’em . . . OK. Put ’em back on,’ he said, returning my boxers.

I exited the room and continued down the corridor. A trusty handed me a new set of stripes, which I put on. I turned left and walked down a stretch of corridor with a few cells. The two holding cells were full to capacity, so I joined the inmates collecting in the corridor.

Ten minutes later, a guard appeared. ‘What do you stragglers think you’re doing out in the walkway? Get into those cells now! Do you hear me? Now!’

The men cussed and groaned.

‘Inmates inside move all the way to the back of the cells so these fellas can get in!’

It was a slow process, like trying to squeeze into a mass of bodies at the front of a concert. The stench of sweat, bad breath and cheap deodorant was inescapable.

Spotting me, Wild Man bulldozed in my direction, knocking everyone in front of him out of the way. ‘Hello, la’!’ His eyebrows had hardly grown back, so he still looked like a monster.

‘How do, la’?’

His bear hug and the force of the men pressing against me made it difficult to breathe.

‘There’s way too many Englishmen in here!’ someone yelled. ‘That’s what the fucking problem is!’

‘Wild Man alone’s more than enough,’ I said, raising a few laughs.

‘If you have a fucking problem with the English, come and fight us right now,’ Wild Man said, generating more laughter even though he sounded serious.

I was glad of Wild Man’s company. He was pleased about the developments in the case and how the calls getting played in the courtroom would help us all. The men around us grew bored and testy. They stared at the walls, the ceiling, the back of each other’s heads. When the cell door opened an hour later, we all cheered.

‘When I call your name, step out of the cell with your ID in your hand!’ said a guard. Eventually, he called six names, including Wild Man’s and mine.

‘Stand in a line!’ yelled a guard standing with two others jangling leg chains in the corridor. ‘Now face the wall!’

A guard came up behind me and said, ‘Raise your left foot towards me.’ He secured a chain around my ankle. ‘Now the right foot.’ When all six sets of leg chains were on us, a guard yelled, ‘Turn around!’ They put handcuffs on us, starting with Wild Man, who was first in our line of six. Then they chained our handcuffs together. I was chained to Wild Man and an old Mexican with boils on his face.

‘Bet you never thought we’d end up chained together like this,’ Wild Man said, grinning.

‘It’s my worst nightmare, la’,’ I said.

‘Welcome to my world, la’. You’ve gone from stockbroker to criminal all within three of my visits to America.’

‘Go and wait in that cell!’ a guard yelled.

The six of us penguin-shuffled towards a large holding cell at the end of the corridor. The leg chains only permitted half steps, and everyone on the chain gang had to take care to step in sync so we could move as one. We joined the other chain gangs in the holding cell. When all of the prisoners going to court were packed into the cell, the guards locked the door and clustered around a small isolation cell opposite us. In the isolation cell, an irate prisoner with a freckly face and red hair in a ponytail was scowling through the Plexiglas at the guards.

‘Are you gonna behave yourself and go to court?’

‘Fuck you!’ the redhead yelled, narrowing his eyes.

‘Looks like he doesn’t want to be a good boy.’

The redhead headbutted the window, provoking laughter from the guards. ‘Fuck you!’

When the guards laughed even harder, he spat on the window. The thick glob of phlegm crept down the Plexiglas, leaving a trail glistening in its wake.

‘We’ll just tell the judge you refused to see him then. I’m sure that’ll make him happy.’ The guards smiled at him mockingly and walked away.

It was another hour before a transportation van parked outside the jail. The exterior door buzzed open, and two transportation guards came in.

‘OK. Any chains with green-coloured padlocks on them, get on your way!’

The lead person in every chain gang looked at the colour of his padlock.

‘We’re green!’ Wild Man said, and pushed through the prisoners to get to the door.

We shuffled out and down a ramp to the van.

A guard opened the back doors. ‘Get in slowly! One at a time! Watch your heads getting in! Slide all the way down the seat! Squeeze in there!’

The six of us cramped together on a narrow ledge on one side of the van. Six more sat opposite. Two groups of four sat in the space between the driver and us. Plastic mesh separated each group. The van doors slammed shut, and the trapped air stifled us.

‘Can you get some air blowing back here?’ Wild Man yelled.

A guard in the cabin adjusted one of the vents so it aimed to the back of the van. But the trickle of air struggled to reach the van’s hindquarters. Every time the van turned a corner, the six of us slid along the ledge to the back of the van, crushing the man at the end of our chain gang. I took the brunt of Wild Man’s 280 pounds. The atmosphere and the swerving of the van made me queasy.

When we arrived at the Madison Street jail, the first rays of the day were illuminating the sky, tingeing the sparse clouds an orangey-red. The van went through a security gate and parked in a lot below the building.

The doors clicked open. ‘Get out! Watch your heads!’

Each man stepped down, almost falling over, tugging the men on his chain gang.

‘Slow down getting out!’ The guard led us through an exterior door into a holding cell, brightly lit, with many security cameras, where we waited for a few minutes.

The interior door opened. ‘Proceed to your left!’ yelled a large guard with a shaved head.

We exited the cell, turned left and shuffled down the corridor. The babble of many prisoners yelling grew louder.

When we arrived at a space facing four adjacent cells crammed with noisy prisoners, the guard yelled ‘Stop here! Line up!’

The prisoners had been transported from various local jails to wait in the Madison Street jail’s dungeon before going to court. The guards removed our chains. There was a sound like sandpaper scraping against a wall as a trusty slid a plastic barrel full of Ladmo bags across the concrete towards us.

A guard opened one of the cell doors. ‘Get a Ladmo bag, and get in there! Fellas in the cell, make room! Push back against that wall!’

I took a Ladmo bag and followed the ultimate space-maker: Wild Man. The walls in the dungeon cells were some of Sheriff Arpaio’s worst. Multiple layers of filth had smothered the original paintwork. The colour now was a dull yellowish-brown, dappled with dark-brown raised patches of God knows what. The floor belonged to the cockroaches. Any we trampled, the living quickly ate. The toilet at the back reeked like a dive-bar’s urinal at closing time, a smell that I gagged on as I made my way further in. The area around the toilet was coated in urine from the countless men who’d missed their aim over the years. Wild Man kicked a few pairs of legs out of the way as if they were sticks on a forest path. He power-gazed the men he’d disturbed into conceding his space requirement. We squatted down. Pushing a sleeping man out of the way, Wild Man stretched his legs out.

Waking up, the man yelled, ‘What the fuck!’

‘So what?’ Wild Man leaned his large head towards the man, who flinched and wriggled away.

‘It’s only fucking six o’clock!’ announced an inmate at the front of the cell, looking at the clock in the guards’ room.

‘Court’s not till ten,’ I said to Wild Man. We chatted to pass the time, shifting positions when our pins and needles were too uncomfortable, occasionally raising our shirts over our faces to protect ourselves from the stink of inmates defecating. Spotting cockroaches venturing into our neighbours’ clothes broke up the monotony.

At 7 a.m., a chain gang arrived outside our cell, 12 men from the maximum-security quarters of the Madison Street jail. They were unchained and ordered to enter our cell.

‘There’s no fucking room in here!’

‘Then make some fucking room!’ a guard yelled. ‘Push all the way to the back!’

The weary crowd further compressed itself. I was pushed closer to one of the walls at the side. The 12 entered, trampling on the tangle of limbs below them. But no one spoke up because the medium-security prisoners feared the maximum-security prisoners, many of whom were murderers.