Walla Walla Flashback

   When I was a prisoner at the state penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington, living as a full out queen with my “man” in the same unit where they murdered the child-killer-rapist Westley Allan Dodd by hanging him in front of an “official” audience, three guards once took me down to the area where the death-chamber was located so one of them could threaten to “fuck me up” if I ever looked at him “funny” again. The same thing just happened here in Terre Haute, on death row (SCU) on my way to “recreation”.

   I had asked to use one of the indoor exercise rooms where a “TRULINCS” computer is located so I could download some songs I bought yesterday (but they weren’t “available” until today for some strange reason) onto my MP3 player. Two guards came and cuffed me up through the “bean-slot” of my door as usual (hands behind my back) then opened the door (from a control-box at the end of the tier manned by a third guard) and proceeded to escort me to the rec-room.

   The only thing strange was that I had asked for the upstairs “big-room”, which I was told was available (i.e. no one else had asked for it), but they were taking me downstairs instead. I thought maybe someone was in the upstairs room, but when I glanced in that direction on the way to the stairs I noticed the lights were off in that rec-room. Odd, but no reason for alarm.

   The alarm came a moment later though. As we (me and two guard escorts) were half way down the stairs, on the landing between stair sets going down --- a “blindspot” hidden from all the cameras in the unit --- the guard in front of me suddenly stopped, turned to me and calmly said, “Don’t you ever come out for rec on my shift again, I don’t like you.”

   I must admit I was a little confused and taken aback at first. His tone didn’t match the words I was hearing (I suppose he had rehearsed all this in his fantasies over and over, so in his mind the deliberate calmness contrasted by his threatening words was meant to be dramatically intimidating, like in the movies --- which is usually where someone like him gets all his social cues).

   But it only took me a second or two to piece together the puzzle and realize what was going on; it wasn’t my first “rodeo” after all. Then I asked him as incredulously as I could, “Are you serious?” At which point he turned and pushed me with his fat belly (which he had to do just to get his face “in” my face) and said something like, “Damn right I’m serious! I’ll chop your fucking head off and throw it down these stairs, you fucking sick bastard, fucking with children!”

   His calm-demeanor fantasy was quickly abandoned as soon as his intended victim (me) broke from the script in his head, and he began resorting directly to the bullying tactics he no doubt grew up relying on to make his way in the world (he clearly wasn’t relying on any thing passing for intelligence).

   At this point I said what I had wanted to say right off, but had to make certain of the circumstances first (i.e. by asking if he was serious). Once I knew he was indeed serious (which made the whole thing hilarious to me, like something out of a bad B-rate movie), I just smiled and said, “Well, fuck you too then.” As if I were an actor delivering the line I was expected to deliver but with no “heart” in it.

   The guard took the theatrical bait nonetheless, and pushed me again with his belly as he got closer to my face, so now I could clearly smell his breath (not minty, but not bad either like I almost expected), and said, “I’ll fuck you up…” Then talking to the guard behind me, “…take those cuffs off right here!” (he didn’t, of course).

   Talk about flashbacks! Well, I knew --- this time at least --- not to say anything the least bit “threatening.” Instead I just smiled and quipped, “That’d be fun,” to which he responded, “Oh, you think this is funny! I’ll kill your family!” (Yes, he really said that! Can you believe it?) “I’ll rip your fucking head off” (apparently that’s something he likes saying), and then, “I’ll fuck you in the ass!” at which point I really smiled and said (honestly), “Oh, I’d really like that!” To which all he could say was, “I bet you would!”

   “Yes, I would.” I said again. I looked around during all his commotion and calmly noticed that the other guards, including the one right behind me, were willing to condone, but not participate in this idiot’s shenanigan. So I knew I wasn’t in any real danger as long as I stayed calm and didn’t give him what he wanted (like I so foolishly did last time; see “What Happened In Prison: Part IV” in the “5NConfessions” section).

   Eventually they took me the rest of the way down stairs and to the rec-room without further incident. I downloaded my music, then browsed the books on the book cart (selecting one to take back to my cell with me about Islamic eating practices) and relaxed while I listened to my new music. I figured he would tear up my cell (i.e. “cell search”) to get even with me for not taking him seriously (and probably making him look foolish in his mind, but I hope not because that’s not what I tried to do at all). I thought if I saw him again when my rec-time was over that I would say something like, “Hey, you know, if you don’t want me to come out for rec on your shift all you have to do is ask and I’d respect that.” Then maybe add something like, “You don’t have to threaten me like a three-year-old.” (But then I decided I’d leave that last part out.)

   But, I didn’t see him again, and the other, more sensible (i.e. adult) guards came and took me back to my cell (which was not “trashed” after all --- big relief), in cuffs, without comment or incident. I think they were actually a little embarrassed about the whole thing. I certainly would have been if I were them.

   (Note: One of the reasons I have avoided going to “rec” in the past was precisely to avoid confrontations like this one. I had to look at the name on this guard’s shirt because I honestly had no idea who he was, much less how obsessed he is with child molesters, or me for that matter. And though I never noticed him specifically before, I know well enough, from years and years of experience, that prisons are full of his “type”, on both sides of the locked doors. The only truly amazing thing about all this --- in my experience --- is the relative INfrequency of such encounters; both with the guards, and prisoners, here in Terre Haute. I’m still trying to figure out why that is.

   I have no good theories, yet.

Unconscious “Watcher” Comes To The Rescue, Again

   I requested to use the room with a computer that has a printer attached yesterday. This so-called “law library” (it used to have bookshelves full of law books, but they were all removed and replaced with a computer) also has a copier that prisoners can use (at fifteen cents per copy) if they have a copy card (purchased on commissary). I needed to make some copies of documents for an appeal I’m working on concerning the prison’s decision to restrict me from using the e-mail program that other prisoners, even on death row, are allowed to use. Like an idiot I left the last document I was copying in the copier; which is the kind of mistake that I almost never make.

   I did not even realize my error until today, just a couple of hours ago. I actually might have realized it a little earlier, when I thought about the documents that I re-filed in my locker I couldn’t remember the forgotten document being there. I think this was my unconscious mind trying to get my attention, but my conscious mind clearly remembered making a copy of the document, so I assumed I must have just filed it without remembering. The possibility that I had left it in the copier never occurred to me; like I said, it was the kind of mistake I just don’t make.

   But then shortly after lunch today I got a note passed to me from the prisoner who lives across the hall from me. He had fund the document (which had my name and number on it) when he went to use the law library this morning, and was returning it to me. Along with my document was this note: “FYI – I have litigation being drafted against these people’s blatant skewing of the applicable BOP Policy’s promulgation of the e-mail access policy. If you want some aid with you circumstances give me a holler.”

   I had to look up the word “promulgation”, but this prisoner is one of those prison lawyer types who spends all his time fighting the System. I can really use his help, and since he has offered to help I intend to accept. But, I would never have asked on my own. In fact, just a few weeks ago this same prisoner offered to let me read his “Prison legal News” issues if I wanted (something he values highly), but I politely declined, explaining that I prefer not to play the System’s sick game. (It may seem now that I’m contradicting myself, but the way I see it is that the System is the real criminal, and while begging it for my life – i.e. filing appeals against my death sentences – is demeaning, asking it for a drink of water, metaphorically speaking, isn’t.)

   If I hadn’t “accidentally” left that paper in the copier he would never have known I was appealing the e-mail restriction. But when I look at all the evidence, there were plenty of indicators that I could ask him to help me. And even if my personal principles would not allow me to ask for help, I think my unconscious mind very cleverly found a way to get it! 

Contentment

I often wake up, as I did this morning, and for several seconds, maybe ten or fifteen, I have no clue where I am. But, instead of panicking, I feel just mild curiosity that seems to arise from a deep calmness.

This morning when I awoke my cell was fairly dark (one of the nice things about life here on Federal death row, i.e. no annoying lights shining into the cells all night) and I was lying on my side facing the wall. So opening my eyes didn't clarify my situation as it usually does. But, I still felt no panic. Instead I actually enjoyed the puzzle; was I in a bedroom? A cell? A hotel?

Where I was wasn't nearly as interesting to me as the mere fact that I had no idea about where I was.

I knew that this curious type of innocence wouldn't last long. And, sure enough, as soon as I turned onto my back I suddenly knew exactly where I was. The memory came all at once, not gradually or piecemeal. But, it took a small clue, like a speck of dust in a snowflake, for my memories to crystalize around. I was in a prison cell on death row in Terre Haute, Indiana.

Along with the "where" also came the "who, what, when, and why". (Most interesting perhaps was the "who", because before the memory came I honestly didn't know who I was and didn't seem to care any more than I did about where I was!) I was a convicted serial child rapist/murderer with three Federal death sentences and a good chance I could be killed within a few years.

Now, you might think this sudden realization would hit me hard, the way it does for people like me in the movies and on TV crime fantasy shows. But it didn't strike me at all. Instead I just felt satisfied that I had remembered where I was; and an underlying contentment with the entire situation.

I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I want to say that, "I felt like everything was going according to plan." But, that only works if I emphasize that it's not MY plan, at least not as an individual named Joseph E. Duncan III and called "Jet" by friends and family.

And the mere fact that I can't remember what the "plan" is matters no more to me than when I couldn't remember where I was.

Somehow I know, on a level clearly beyond all thought and memory, that everything is going to be okay, no matter wjat I can, or can't, remember!