They’re Dying, and Nobody Cares!

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room for a moment, shall we? COVID-19 is sweeping through this country like a wildfire through dry brush, and while some people (you know who you are, and thank you), have attempted to defend those who were in prison, how many people have spoken up for the people who find themselves committed in California’s Department of Mental Health? (DSH) Specifically, for the guys in Coalinga State Hospital? (CSH)

Coalinga, in case you didn’t already know, is where people go once a court has determined that there’s “probable cause” to believe they’re a Sexually Violent Predator (SVP) under California’s SVP Act. Now, for those who didn’t already know, “probable cause” basically means “is there a warm body?” If the answer is “yes,” then the person is sent off to CSH, after they’ve served their prison sentence, in full, to await a full trial to determine whether or not they’re a Sexually Violent Predator. If such a finding is made, then they’re kept there, indefinitely, year after year, until 2 things happen. First, the people at the DSH have to determine they no longer meet the definition of an SVP, which is an extremely high hurdle to overcome, and second, the District Attorney’s Office believes their own evaluators when they say this person no longer meets the criteria. (Seriously, I know of many, many people who were told by the evaluators at the DSH that they no longer met the criteria to be committed, but the DA’s Office refused to accept their evaluation and ended up fighting to keep them there.)

Anyway, I digress. The point here is that, contrary to popular opinion, the people in CSH are not the “worst of the worst.” They’re simply people who’ve made a mistake, paid their debt to society, and then had the misfortune of having an evaluator who had a quota to meet, after which time they’ve ended in in purgatory waiting for their trial. In fact, I know of some people who have been there for DECADES, just waiting to go to trial. Think about that, for a moment: you’re in there for DECADES just waiting to go to trial, but because you’ve already been tried and convicted of a sex offense, nobody gives a shit about you, even if you did just finish serving 2 decades in prison for the crimes for which you were convicted, but it’s all “legal,” because you aren’t being “punished,” although, for the life of me, I can’t see how being put in a setting such as this isn’t “punishment.”

Whatever… I’ve gotten off topic again, which is easy to do when discussing this particular subject, but to get back on topic, let me say this: there are far fewer people in CSH than at any other facility secured by CDCR, and yet, they not only have one of the highest rates of infection, they also have the highest overall percentage of people dying from COVID-19 infections. The latest numbers, which aren’t always accurate, courtesy of DSH using HIPPA to withhold their numbers, has the latest death toll at 13, so why isn’t anyone saying anything about them? Do we truly not care about what happens to them, just because they’ve been committed of a sex offense? Or is it a combination of this and the fact that we’re only talking about 1,300 people? Either way, right is right and wrong is wrong. Or, to put it another way, how many times have you heard the expression, “two wrongs don’t make a right” (but two Wrights make an airplane), or said that same expression to your children? By not taking a stand and doing the right thing, we’re sending the message that it’s okay to repay one wrong with another, and that’s not the message we need to be sending to our children. And keep in mind that every single one of these people have already paid their debt to society, in full. We’re not talking about releasing a sex offender from prison early because we’re afraid he might get a flu, we’re talking about releasing people who have already served their time in prison, and then some, many of which DSH themselves has stated are no longer a threat to society.

No matter how you choose to look at it, it’s wrong to just sit by and watch as people are dying. These might not be the people we’d invite to our house for Christmas dinner, let alone ask to watch our kids, but at the end of the day, they’re still people, and I know of no religion that doesn’t discuss the possibility of forgiveness. Now, I’m not saying they deserve your forgiveness, merely that they don’t deserve to die because of an inability to practice adequate social distancing. They all have to wear ankle monitors anyway, so it’s not as if they’re being set free on an unsuspecting society without anyone to keep an eye on them, and they’ll all be under some form of supervision, in most cases, parole, with mandatory treatment afterwards. Hell, if you ask, I’d be willing to bet that most, if not all, would be willing to participate in some form of house arrest, and it would certainly be a lot cheaper to put them up in a hotel room, put an ankle monitor on their leg and bring them their meals then it would be to put them up in a prison, oops, I meant “mental health facility,” which costs far more than it does to incarcerate someone in a regular prison (something like $200k per individual as opposed to $35k per individual). It’s a better use of time and resources, I say, and has the added advantage of saving lives as well.

Shawn L. Perrot

826 4th St.

Eureka, CA 95501

shawnLperrot@outlook.com

My friend Carl

 

I’d like to introduce you to someone. He’s currently incarcerated, and if the State has their way, he’s going to be incarcerated for the rest of his natural life, and for good reason. You see, this guy was not the kind of guy you’d like to have met in a dark alley. Hell, he’s not the kind of guy you would have wanted to meet in a room filled with cops all armed and there to protect you. The simple fact of the matter is, this guy was a prick, in every sense of the word, and no one would agree more than him. Back then, he had a pretty nasty drug habit, which is a nice way of saying that he would have sold his own mother down the river if that’s what it took to get his next fix. But as the title of a popular book once said, “that was then, this is now.”

So this guy, Carl, goes to prison, and not for the first time, either, where he’s told by the judge that he’ll never, under any circumstances, see the light of day again. As I may have already implied, there was a pretty good reason for this. The guy had pretty much destroyed not only his life, but the lives of anyone and everyone he ever came into contact with, but then, that’s what drugs do to you. They ruin lives. It doesn’t matter who we are, or who we think we are, there are just some drugs that, from the moment you take your first hit, your first injection, your first snort, they control you. Metallica has a pretty good song about it, called Master of Puppets, that sums this up pretty well because, once you’ve tasted that first high, you no longer have any control over your life. You’re just a puppet under the control over your need to get high. You’ll sell off everything you ever owned, betray anyone you ever cared about, there’s no level too low for you to sink, so long as it means you can get high, yet, for some reason, we all seem to think that we’re going to someone be able to control a need that no one else has been able to. Anyway, my friend, Carl, found himself in exactly that same predicament. He knew the dangers of drugs, knew what he was up against, and yet, he somehow thought he’d be able to control the drugs, instead of allowing the drugs to control him. He’ll be the first to tell you that, looking back, he had no freaking clue.

Anyway, my friend, Carl, goes on binge after binge, gets into trouble with the law time after time and runs around the kinds of people you’d see in some sort of movie portraying the evils of certain disreputable motorcycle clubs, if you catch my meaning. Finally, the judge has enough and throws the book at him, sending him to prison for the rest of his life. In doing so, the judge may have saved an untold number of lives, because my friend simply didn’t care about anyone or anything but himself and his next fix. This wasn’t because he was a bad person under the surface, just that the addiction has a tendency to override any and all common sense. Allow me to give you an example.

I grew up in Ohio, Akron and Cleveland, to be exact. Like many impoverished neighborhoods in the world, we had a crack-house on our block. The way it worked was that you’d go around to the back, known on the back door and wait for it to unlock. When it did, you’d step onto the back-porch and close the door and an electronic door lock would automatically lock you in until your business had concluded, for your safety as well as the safety of the occupants in the house. It was also a way of buying the dealers that extra couple of seconds to get rid of any evidence, in the event of a raid, something that had paid off, time and time again for them. Knowing they couldn’t ever get into the house in time to prevent them from disposing of the evidence, the cops decided to try a new tactic, which was to park their police cruisers on the street, right in front of the house during peak hours of operation, which was usually in the middle of the night. Now, what do you think happened? Do you think the addict seen the cop cap parked on the street and turned around to take his business somewhere else? Hell no. He’d walk back and forth on the street, all night long, if need be, trying to figure out if he should continue waiting, or risk it to get a fix, and  sure enough, it was only a matter of time until one of these idiots was dumb enough to walk right up to the back door, as if it was legal, and demand a fix for the wad of rumpled up dollar bills they’d managed to scrounge up. Needless to say, they were always sent away, empty-handed, which always led to the inevitable screaming and shouting from the addict as he scratched himself bloody into desperation.

My point here is simple: when that monkey climbs on your back, it’s a wrap. There’s nothing, and I do mean nothing you won’t do to get that fix. That’s the power of addiction, and that’s the power that had my friend Carl when he entered the prison system this last time. That is not, however, the Carl that I met, the Carl that’s there today. The Carl I met is one of the most responsible people I’ve ever met. He’s driven, goal oriented, conscientious, caring, compassionate, even religious, which is surprising because, as I may have mentioned already, he was a complete monster before his most recent imprisonment. In fact, I’d bet my life that, if some of his victims described him, they’d describe him as the devil himself. So, what happened to change him? The short story is that he reached rock bottom, and while down there, realized he needed to change his life. In other words, he realized that he needed to get off the drugs. Unfortunately, he arrived at this realization far too late to make any difference, as he’d pretty much been given so much time that he’d never see the light of day again, yet he still felt compelled to make a change, which is what makes Carl’s story so important. You see, anyone can pretend to change when they think others are watching, or better yet, when there’s something to be gained. Carl, on the other hand, changed when he believed, with every fiber of his being, that he’d never see the light of day again, that he’d never, ever even be considered for parole. He began attending 12-Step Programs while in prison, in both AA and NA, began participating in other rehabilitative groups, started working in one of the prison’s many, many slave shops and basically turned into the kind of man he always was under the illusion of the drugs. His progress is nothing short of miraculous, and made doubly meaningful because, unlike everyone else in prison, he underwent these changes under the belief that they’d never amount to a hill of beans, due to the way the laws were written at the time of his sentencing, but then something changed. For some reason, some people finally began to realize that human life is never beyond redemption, that people truly can change, and they began to push for the laws to change to reflect this. While we still have a long ways to go, there have been some rather significant changes for people like Carl, changes that will allow him to at least get an opportunity to be considered for parole. Will the changes he’s made in his life be enough? More than likely, not. The simple truth of the matter is that CDCR’s (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation) BPH (Board of Parole Hearing), rarely grants parole, particularly to those who truly merit it. For them to actually grant him parole would be nothing short of miraculous, but then, so was the chances that he’d become a better person. Somehow, despite the overwhelming odds against him, he managed to overcome his addictions and change, so if that miracle is possible, then perhaps the miracle of being granted parole will be bestowed upon him. And if not, he’ll continue to be the positive influence he’s now become because that’s who he always was. We just couldn’t see it under the multiple layers of addiction.

So, “where’s Carl at now,” you ask? At the moment, he’s in quarantine. You see, like many of the people (notice I said “people,” and not “inmates”), who are currently incarcerated, Carl is literally a slave, which is completely legal in the United States, under the 13^th amendment (Contrary to popular opinion, the 13^th amendment legalized the terms and conditions under which slavery could exist in this country), and like the rest of the slaves throughout the prison system, Carl had to go to work throughout the COVID-19 pandemic sweeping through the prison system like a wildfire through a field of dry grass. And Carl’s job wasn’t something “essential,” like making the food he, and everyone else in there, had to eat. He worked in a factory, producing products sold to the State of California for a profit, and now my friend has been infected with COVID-19 because of the failure of the CDCR and the CCHCS (California Correctional Health Care Services), to reduce the prison’s population, so as to allow for proper social distancing. Like many in Soledad, Carl lived in a dormitory, making social distancing absolutely impossible, and like many, Carl is now faced with the very real possibility that he’s going to die, alone. Visits have been canceled, phone calls are outrageously expensive for those few who can actually afford them, and in prison, there’s no such thing as Facebook or Zoom to allow us to connect with our loved ones in the outside world. As I sit here writing this letter, I can’t help but wonder how my friend is managing. Is he going to be one of the lucky to survive? Or will he be one of those who, because of his age and health issues, dies? Only time will tell.

One thing I do know is that Carl, like all of us, deserve to know that, no matter what we’ve done in life, we’re not beyond redemption. He deserves to know that his efforts to change, to redeem himself, are being recognized, if not by the prison or the judicial system, then by the rest of us. More importantly, those around Carl deserve to know this, because it gives them hope and incentive to continue to change, or in some cases, to decide to change, because, while Carl might not ever see the light of day again, either because he’s never given that chance by the BPH of because he dies of COVID-19, others in there will see the light of day, and the last thing anyone wants is someone getting out of prison who hasn’t changed. So, I’m asking you, take a moment and drop Carl a line to let him know that you’ve read a part of his story on my blog, and that you’re proud of him for having taken the incentive to change, not because it was required for him to parole, but because it was the right thing to do. His efforts deserve no less, especially right now as he’s struggling to live another day.

For those of you who are actually interested in writing to Carl, his name and address is as follows:

Carl Taylor CDCR# J-01025

CTF-FD 1L

P.O. Box 705

Soledad, CA 93960-0705

A postcard is such a simple thing, but in prison, it can make all the difference. It does something rather unusual in a prison environment, which is to say: it puts a smile on someone’s face.

As I go about concluding today’s entry, I just want to take a moment to express my sincere thanks to you for taking the time to read my entry. You could have spent these last few minutes doing anything, literally, and yet you chose to spend them reading this entry. For what it’s worth, even though I’m not out there at the moment to see you reading this or to interact with you directly, it’s deeply appreciated. When I was transferred from the prison system to the county jail to face civil commitment proceedings, I thought all was lost, but since coming here, I’ve been contacted by a number of loyal followers to tell me that they not only missed me, but that I actually made a positive impact in their lives. Trust me when I tell you, you could have paid me no greater compliment. The idea that I, using a contraband cell phone in prison, was able to have any kind of impact in your lives, let alone such a positive one, gives me such a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. I felt like the Grinch whose heart had just grown 3 sizes bigger that day he brought the presents he’d stolen back to Whoville. Poor metaphors aside, I wish there was a way to get the people in authority to understand that not everyone with access to the outside world uses it for evil, that most of us, if given half a chance, would use it for more meaningful things, from staying in touch with our loved ones, to speaking out about the injustices of the prison system. Either way, thank you.

Shawn L. Perrot

826 4^th St.

Eureka, CA 95501

shawnLperrot@outlook.com

Discrimination

 

So, I’ve decided that, from this moment on, I’m going to discriminate against people with blue eyes. I don’t care what color your skin is, if you’ve got blue eyes, you’re getting the cold shoulder from me. Drink from your own water fountain, use your own toilets, and whatever you do, don’t eat at the same table as me. From time to time, I might allow one or two of you to be near me, if you’ve got something I want, but as soon as I’ve got what I’m after, it’s straight to the back of the bus with you, so don’t get all offended when I suddenly get up and point. You knew what time it was before you sat down with me. And as far as “why” I’ve chosen to discriminate against people with blue eyes, the real question is “why not?” The way I look at it, I live in a society that’s chosen to discriminate against people based on the color of their skin, and those people had just as much to say about the color of their skin as you do over the color of your eyes. Was it right? Of course not, yet here we are, hundreds of years later, and we’re not only continuing to discriminate based on the color of people’s skin, we’re doing it live. People are running around with their little cell phones, capturing every racist moment, especially when it’s committed by one of the boys in blue, and nothing is being done about it, implying that we’re doing nothing more than paying lip service to our claims that racism is wrong. So, I figure, why not discriminate on something else, like the color of someone’s eyes?

Wait a second, my associate just informed me that my eyes are, in fact, blue. Having been in prison for so long, and not having access to a proper mirror, I kind of forgot about that little fact. Did I say “blue” eyes? I meant to say “green” eyes. Yeah, that’s it. We’ll all discriminate against people with green eyes, or better yet, maybe we could discriminate against people who no doubt deserve our contempt, people like the politicians who were elected to represent us, and who somehow can’t seem to be able to do the simplest of tasks, like passing a stimulus bill that actually helps their constituents in a way that makes a difference in our lives. Instead of expressing our hatred to them, however, we choose instead to express it to each other, for reasons far more frivolous. Why? Our politicians have a choice over how poorly they choose to represent us, but your neighbor had no more choice in the color of his skin then you did over the color of your eyes, so why have you chosen to hate someone whose presence has no impact over your life, someone who didn’t even know you existed until you started hurling racial epitaphs his way. Your elected official, on the other hand, goes out of his way to bend you over and give you a royal screwing, and doesn’t even have the decency to offer you a reach-around. Maybe, instead of being mad at someone based on the color of their skin, you can instead choose to be upset over someone who’s actually hurt you. Or we could just all hate each other because of the color of our eyes.

Shawn L. Perrot

826 4th St.

Eureka, CA 95501

It’s the Little Things...

 

I’ve been incarcerated for almost 18-years, and during that time, I’ve asked, and been asked, more times then I can count what I planned to eat for my first meal once released from prison. Without hesitation, my answer has always been the same: while lasagna is, hands down, my favorite dish, it’s pizza I truly crave. To be specific, a large with sausage and extra cheese. The cheese melted all over the place, and stretching from the pie to your mouth as you lift to the slice away from the box, the steam rising from the center as it separates from the pack. I also wanted some fried chicken, extra crispy and a 2-liter of Coke. My mouth waters just thinking about it and I knew, I just knew that, on August 7^th, 2020, I’d be out in the free world eating my first slice of pizza in well over 18-years, followed by an extra crispy drumstick and an ice cold Coke. Then COVID-19 hit.

I watched the COVID pandemic sweep throughout the world. No one, it seemed, was safe. Small “mom and pop” stores all over the world closed their doors, hoping and praying it was only temporary, only to later learn they’d been closed for so long there was simply no recovering. One after the other, businesses would shutter their doors, temporarily at first, and then permanently, and soon enough, bigger businesses were following suit. As I watched the drama unfolding, I began to realize that I’d be lucky to get a meal when I got out, let alone a slice of pizza, but then decisions were made by those in government that allowed restaurants, especially pizza places, to continue doing business during the COVID crisis, if they were willing to follow the guidelines. “All was saved,” I thought. In just a few weeks, I’d be out of here and having my first slice of pizza, sauce and cheese sliding down my chin as I stuffed 18-years worth of missed opportunities down my gullet, but then the prison system decided to have a laugh at my expense.

Some of my readers already know that I played a role in convincing the CDCR to give everyone a credit of 12-weeks towards our prison sentences. Naturally, I thought I’d be one of the ones getting the credit. After all, I hadn’t received a rules violation in well over 13-years, had been a model slave and was mere months away from the house as it was. Instead, they chose to sit on my credit issuance for a week, and then issued me only 48 of the 84 days, claiming they still needed to provide my accusers with 60-days notice. Well, not being able to access the law library, I had no idea they were full of it, but by the time I completed the appeals process, I would have been home anyway, or so I thought, so why bother. Don’t get me wrong, I filed anyway, I was just never able to  complete the process because, as I predicted, they refused to give it the urgency it merited and I was forced to stay in prison for another couple of weeks. No matter, right? I’d still be eating that slice of pizza, it would just take me a few more weeks. Did I mention that CDCR wasn’t the only one about to have a laugh at my expense?

So, there I was, just two days away from being released and I’m told to “roll it up.” “Roll it up? For what,” I wondered. Well, it turns out that my sentence may be ending in a mere two days, but the Humboldt County District Attorney’s Office had plans for me, big plans. Turns out that I fell into a category of people that, when their sentence expires, they’re subject to being put away for the rest of their lives in a mental health hospital. Well, shit, let’s call a “spade” a “spade,” shall we? You can call it what you want, but at the end of the day, it’s a secure facility with guards provided by the State’s prison system (CDCR), with rules and regulations out the wazoo, without any ability to come and go, let alone as you please, and with inmates serving prison sentences. No matter how you spin it, it’s prison. Anyway, according to the mental health evaluations served on the court, I suffer from something called an Antisocial Personality Disorder, which doesn’t mean someone who doesn’t like to socialize. Essentially, it means someone who doesn’t care about rules or regulations, someone who doesn’t care about anyone else’s feelings or rights, someone who, basically, can’t stay out of trouble to save their life, and since I was in prison for a sexually based offense (regardless of the fact that I was innocent of this particular charge), I fell into that special category meriting special attention once their sentence was complete. Never mind the fact that I haven’t been in trouble for well over 13-years, and forget about the fact that the “evaluator” didn’t even bother reading my mental health file. According to them, I was dangerous and the public needed protecting.

So, there I was, mere hours from tasting that first slice of pizza, only to have that melted cheese snatched away from my grasp at the last moment. The extradition officer was nice enough, even buying me 2 small cheeseburgers and a small fry from Burger King (were their small cheeseburgers always that bad?!), but it wasn’t the pizza I’d had my heart set on for so many years, and then HCCF decided to have a laugh of their own at my expense.

HCCF, in case you didn’t know, means the Humboldt County Correctional Facility. Now, technically speaking, they’re not allowed to subject me to punitive of confinement. The reason for this is simple. The U.S. Constitution prohibits double jeopardy, which is a fancy way of saying you can’t be punished twice for the same allegation. Since I’d already served my prison sentence, (in full), I couldn’t be punished again, but the law does allow for someone to be placed in a mental health facility because, allegedly, it’s not meant to be punishment. Well, someone clearly forgot to explain to the HCCF that I wasn’t supposed to be punished, because the first thing they did was throw me into solitary confinement. The first 14 days were for “quarantine,” never mind the fact that I’d been on quarantine for months, or that I’d just given 2 separate negative tests for COVID-19. I was in solitary confinement, allowed out for 30-minutes a day. When my quarantine ended, I was moved to the hole, where I was released a few hours later because there wasn’t an outlet for my medical device, but even then, I was just released to another building where I continued to remain in solitary confinement. After weeks of arguing, fussing and fighting, they finally agreed to treat me the same as any other person in here, which was a major step up from where I was, but still punitive.

So, I’m sitting there on the phone one day, and I hear the woman who runs the mental health program talking about how she’s going to throw a Christmas party for the guys on her wing. She’s bringing in pizza, chicken and their choice of soda. I’m guessing you might be able imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind in that moment. If they’re getting pizza, surely someone will slide me a slice, right? I mean, after all, I’ve already served my time, and they haven’t, but not a chance. They completely ignored me, and when I asked, I was told, emphatically, “no, not a chance.” Surely they’re joking, right? Surely they’re not going to bring in pizza, chicken and soda and not share, right? I mean, even if they didn’t know I was innocent, so what? I’ve paid my debts to society, in full, but they could have cared less. On Christmas Eve, she brought everyone on her tier pizza, chicken and soda, and I could only watch and drool as my dreams, once again, passed me by. This incident only reinforced something I came to realize some time ago: at the end of the day, it’s the little things you miss the most.

 

Shawn L. Perrot

826 4^th St.

Eureka, CA 95501

shawnLperrot@outlook.com

Bodycam entering CDCR...

California prison guards must wear body cameras after evidence of inmate abuse, judge says

by: Los Angeles Times

Posted: Sep 8, 2020 / 10:54 PM PDT / Updated: Sep 8, 2020 / 10:54 PM PDT

     For the first time, California correctional officers will be required to use body cameras while interacting with inmates inside a state prison, a federal judge ordered Tuesday.

   The ruling comes in a civil rights lawsuit over disabled inmates’ rights, in which a federal judge found evidence to support allegations of physical abuse of prisoners at the Richard J. Donovan Correctional Facility in San Diego. The order applies to interactions with all inmates with disabilities inside the Otay Mesa facility.

  Attorneys for the inmates with disabilities had asked the judge to issue an order mandating body cameras for correctional officers after documenting widespread physical abuse of the inmates.

     “Body cameras have never been used in California prisons. This is a very important order to help put an end to physical abuse and broken bones of those with physical disabilities at this most dangerous of prisons,” said attorney Gay Grunfeld, whose law firm, along with the Prison Law Office, represents the plaintiffs.

Read the full story on LATimes.com.

     So, exactly what does this mean? For starters, it means the CDCR is pissed, and for good reason. You're talking about an entity which has gotten away with so much, for so long, they truly believe they're above the law, and why wouldn't they? They investigate themselves, they have qualified  and a virtually unlimited defense budget, which means most attorneys won't even consider handling a case for us. When we do file for ourselves, the courts usually make it so difficult we eventually lose, but this could change all of that. Of course, this assumes the bodycams work as intended.

     Another point to consider is that this only impacts a select few. What we need to do is expand it to all facilities, but know this: you can bet your was that CDCR is going to contrive situations to force us to complain, ie, using bodycams on us as we're stripsearched, walking in on us in the shower, etc. These are issues that need to be addressed. I'd suggest doing away with the routine stripsearched, but that's just my opinion.

Various CDCR bills you should be aware of...

2019-2020 legislative index.

Here are the various bills for various parole issues.

AB-88

https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200AB88#:~:text=(13)%20Existing%20law%20establishes%20the,continuous%20incarceration%20on%20their%20sentence.

AB-965

https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200AB965

SB-118

https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200SB118

SB-411

https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201520160SB411

Contraband cell phones in prison...

     Let's talk about contraband cell phones in prison, shall we? To let government officials tell it, we use them to threaten and harass witnesses and victims in our case, extort money from New victims and smuggle drugs in or plan escapes, but the truth is anything but. This isn't to say that the occasional idiot hasn't used a cell phone to do this, only that these are exceptions to the rule, very rare exceptions. For the most part, those who were fortunate enough to get their hands on a phone use them to be a part of their loved ones' lives. The other day, I personally loaned my phone to a guy to call his granddaughter to wish her a happy birthday. This was an older guy, a veteran biker of numerous turf wars on the streets and even more in prison. I didn't think anything about it, but 2 hours later he hasn't returned, so I went down to check up on him. When I got to his cell, he was just hanging up the phone, and I was floored by what I seen as he turned to see who was at his door. This grizzled old convict, a man nobody would even consider disrespecting because of his reputation, was in tears, and I'm not talking about a single tear that silently runs down you're face. His face and beard were soaked with tears, his face all scrunched up in a hideous mask as he unsuccessfully struggled to contain his emotions.

     I broke several cardinal rules that day. First, I walked into his cell without asking. Not only was it a violation for anyone to do this, it was a bigger breach of protocol for me to do it, as I'm bisexual. My next violation was sitting on his bed, next to him, no less. He was in such pain and I wanted to comfort him, but the orison code of conduct had me hamstrung. Suddenly, without warning, he turns to me and hugs me, fiercely. Without thinking, I returned his hug and he lost it. He held me with all of his might as his body shook and heaved with his sobs. I don't know how long he held me, crying, but he clearly needed. Finally, the story began to emerge.

     Turns out that this was the first time he'd ever spoke to his granddaughter. Not only that, but it being her birthday, everyone was there to celebrate, so he'd had a chance to speak with people he hadn't spoken to in years, including a number of family members he'd abused for years, and during this call, he'd done something he'd wanted to do for years, but had never been able to because of the ever watchful eye of the prison guards. He not only acknowledged his misbehavior, he also apologized, and this was a man who'd never apologized for anything in his life.

     I'm not going to say all of his problems magically disappeared, because they didn't. I will, however, say that he got up from that bunk a changed man, all because if a contraband cell phone. He's been writing to the people he spoke to that day, trying to understand just how his actions impacted them, trying to many amends, and from time to time, I let him use my phone to call home. When I do, I send it with a washrag, my way of reminding him it's okay to cry.

     I haven't used my cell phone to reconnect with anyone, mainly because I never really had those kinds of connections, but I have used it in other ways. I've started a Twitter account (@F0Q_CDCR) which I use to tweet about the various injustices in CDCR. In just a little under 3 months, I've accumulated over 1,300 followers, a list which includes numerous reporters, lawyers, advocacy organizations, an occasional Senator and family members of the incarcerated. These people seem to want to know what's going on in here, so I try to answer their questions as honestly as I can.

     I also have a Facebook account, John Imprisoned Smith. I participate in a number of Facebook groups, run a few of my own, including Destiny's Story, which is a story about the impacts of or incarceration on our loved ones. Most of what I do is helping the people in the outside world navigate the complexities of the ever changing CDCR, but I also run an underground free law clinic where I poi t my followers in the right direction, help them with research, etc. I've used these platforms to push for a number of changes in the CDCR, including the retirement of CDCR's current secretary, Ralph Diaz. With my cell phone, I've been able to become politically active in ways previously unimagined to somebody in prison.

     Finally, for almost 20 years I worked with my counselors and case managers on my parole plans, and at every step of the way, my plans were approved. Noe, at the last possible second I'm told my plans are unacceptable, that I'd have to parole to a different county as a transient instead of to one of the counties I had a place to stay, employment and a support group. Not being one to take defeat lying down, I started a fundraiser, and while I'm still woefully short of what I need to do what I'm trying to do, I've managed to raise enough to cover a month's rent in a motel room, so I can't complain.

     At the end of the day, a cell phone is just another tool. The technology exists to allow people in prison to safely use cell phones and social media, but they Choose not to, not because of the dangers our having a cell phone poses to people in the free world, but because of the danger it poses to the prison. With a cell phone, and freedom to use it, we'd expose the corruption in CDCR in a nanosecond, which is why they've never allowed us anything with recording capabilities, not even a cassette player.

Sick with COVID 19 in prison...

From an inmate in a GA Prison: 

LEFT TO DIE

On July 3, 2020 I knew I was in trouble. I had been sick for a couple days and now had most of the known symptoms. My roommate had the same thing. I tried to fight it off because most people were beating it in 3 or 4 days. I spiraled out of control until Sunday the 12th and couldn't take the pain anymore. I told my roommate that I was going to go to medical to get help. When they called pill call Monday morning I went out with them to medical.

The Lieutenant wouldn't even let me in, but made me wait outside for about an hour before telling me I had to go back to the building and they would call me back at 1:30. I told her that would not be a really good idea if I in fact had Covid 19. She told me firmly to "go back to your building, NOW!" This was July 13th.......The nightmare began that afternoon and escalated throughout the night.

Went back to medical at 1:30 and sat out front about half an hour before being called to the back. Two doctors came in the room and talked to me. I told them what symptoms I had, some that are not publicized much or not in here anyway. After I finished they both got up and left the room. I remember thinking, Man, they must be going to call the morque or maybe an ambulance. When they came back they brought a surgical respirator, told me to put it on and not to take it off unless I was in my cell by myself. One of them wrote me a prescription for 4 different drugs. Then I was taken to the hole and put in a cell by myself.

I never received the medication that the doctors prescribed. Did it get turned down? Did a nurse take it home just in case they or their family might need it? I never did find out even after questioning one of them a month later.

The next 10 days were hell.

It was unbearably hot in the cell, I would say at least 100 degrees maybe 105 through the daytime. The window has a shroud over the outside and the only thing visible is a little patch of sky, 1/2 inch, right at the top of the window. There is very little air flow coming in the window and when an officer leaves the front door to the cell house open the little air flow that the exhaust fan draws through the room stops. The rooms here only have maybe a 1 inch gap under the door for air to flow anyway.

I made a chute to put on the inside of the window to direct what little air flow there was down to the floor, that's where I was most of the time.

I couldn't and didn't eat for twelve days altogether, was only able to drink water, ice cold water when I could get it.

I lost my sense of smell the same evening, but did not lose the sense of taste per se. I could taste but I tried to eat every day and everything, even the stuff I liked the most tasted like CRAPPOLA. Swallowing even a miniscule amount of anything brought on puking episodes that would last for hours at a time.

That evening I began to cough up blood clots, and it continued for ten days. Coughed and coughed and coughed around the clock, usually until I passed or blacked out. I woke up 4~5 times a day laying in various places around the cell, usually face down, in a puddle of regurgitated water filled with spots of blood. I beat on the door for hours at a time to no avail, screamed when I could. I was so weak for a few of the worst days that I could not stand, but had to crawl around on the floor on all fours. During that time if I could have made it to the top bunk I probably would have hung myself, that is how bad the pain was, and I could not even isolate where it was.  It was like it was coming from outside of me and effecting all of me at once, very scary. I knew, KNEW, I was dying and I knew, KNEW, NO ONE...........NO ONE ..........gave a flying crap either.

I began to hallucinate on day two, the 14th. First I saw colored globes floating around the room, the kind you might see while you are tripping on LSD with the vapor trails behind them. Like the cheap movies from the seventies.  When I was still able to get on the bunk I looked at the floor one time and it was completely covered with cockroaches. The entire cell floor was covered with them, thousands of them. I stomped my foot on the floor to begin killing them and poof, they vanished.

Another time the walls were covered with ants. Not just a line of ants, the walls were covered. Millions of them. But there wasn't a single ant on the floor. Oh, another hallucination.

After that I learned to ignore the hallucinations.

I NEVER received chemicals to clean the room.

Since I didn't have anything to clean the room with I just pushed whatever I vomited up out under the door. The outside of my door was a hotbed of COVID 19. The orderly that worked the hold eventually caught Covid.

I was coughing up so much blood, and most of my intake of water, that i stayed dehydrated all the time. Waking up in a sweat soaked bed did not help with that either, or waking up face down in a puddle of dried puke and blood.

I was tested for COVID on the 13th of July and was not told the results until the 30th .............of August.

When I was beginning to have real difficulty breathing, I put a note out the door. It works like this when you are in the hole. You write a note on a piece of paper or whatever and slid it out the crack of the door about head high. It sticks out like a flag and the next officer that comes by gets it. I wrote on a manilla legal envelope ( 9.5 x 13 inches) "My name is ...... I have Covid 19. I am dying. Is there anyone out there who can help me get to a doctor or to a hospital....PLEASE." Two days went by and the note was still sticking out the door. An officer finally got it and called the evening duty officer to come down.  It was a lieutenant.  He opened the metal flap over the door window and spoke to me a minute. He told me I was not sick enough to go to the hospital. I told him that if I died, I hope the man upstairs would allow me to come back and haunt him every day for the rest of his life. He said, "fuck you" and slammed the door flap. Of course I said, "fuck you too." The officer logged all this in the log book.

One day the door flap was open and I could look out into the day room area. They started passing out ice. What they do is bring a cooler of ice around and fill up your cup, bowl, or both if you are lucky. The inmate that was filling the cups with ice had an ice scoop in his hand, but the first room he got to he just took the cup and scooped it into the ice to fill it. On to the next room, this one was a bowl and, yep, it went into the ice to be filled as well. Guaranteed that neither the cup, or the bowl, nor the rest of the cups and bowls in the other 46 rooms were sanitized on the outside or the inside for that matter.

After the talk with the lieutenant, I remember I was sitting in the floor across from the toilet with my back against the wall. I couldn't get up. I was struggling to breathe. It's hard to explain on paper, but imagine getting a little gulp of air like a fish does when it is out of the water, but having to get it through a ink pen tube. Gulp, gulp, gulp, so little air each time. About 3 hours later I woke up face down in a puddle of vomit water. I had literally blacked out from lack of oxygen and this wasn't the first time, nor the last.

If I had passed out and fell on my back one time, I would have drowned on my own vomit. The reported cause of my death would have been drowning, not COVID!

On the 10th day back there, the 23rd of July, I woke in the morning and felt a lot better, and by the end of the day felt almost better except lungs and chest and throat were very sore and stayed that way for weeks. I lost 22 pounds during those 10 days. The 24th came and I felt even better, was able to get up and walk for about 10 minutes at a time. Stayed in the hole until August 12th before being let out. The pain is the hardest thing to explain. I've been shot in the head with a handgun, almost had my hand cut off with a machete, and had several broken bones, but those pains were nothing compared to Covid.

During that time I also prayed to every God I knew the Name of to stop all this, especially the pain, or to take my life, either would be better then what I went through. I feel so lucky to be alive, even in here.....the weight is still off and I feel better than I have in years because of that, but.......I am haunted......every waking second.....that it may come back.....I'm sure I wouldn't survive round two of that.....But, I KICKED ITS ASS THE FIRST TIME!!!!!!!!!

Well, it may have won 14 rounds but I went the distance and am still standing!

Depression...

     Let’s talk about suicide, shall we? Let’s talk about our reasons for not wanting to go on any longer, shall we? On any given day, I have to find a reason to get up, to find a reason to want to make it, through this day, To find a reason to make it to tomorrow. On any regular day, it's a challenge. On a day like today, after being locked down for months, with little to no privileges, It’s almost impossible. The things that I’ve seen, the challenges that are before me, the things that I know that are to come, the defeat that I’ve suffered, they all weigh upon my soul. Each moment before me, that weight grows, and I’m reminded of a story. It was of a soldier in the Vietnam War. He was returning to base after a long time out with the rest of his platoon. He was walking point, and the guy behind him noticed how slow he was walking, how it was a struggle to pick up each foot. It was as if the weight was simply too much. As he continued to watch, a butterfly landed on his backpack. The moment the way to the butterfly rested fully on the backpack, the soldier fell to the ground, as if the weight was simply too much. This is the way that I feel every day, Waiting for the weight of the butterfly to knock me to the ground. It’s not about being depressed per say, it's about having so many burdens thrust upon my shoulders that the weight becomes unbearable.

     My recent burden is self imposed. For almost 20 years I’ve watched the CDCR violate our rights over and over again with absolutely no consequences. They treat us worse than animals, they disrespect our loved ones when they come to see us, and they do it all knowing that they can, knowing they can get away with it, because we’re nothing more than inmates to them, not even worth the of the decency given to an animal. This, by the way, Is literal not figurative. Many of these prisons have something called a dog program, where we take dogs and train them to do various tasks for their owners. Some dogs are trained to be seeing eye dogs, some dogs are trained to be assistance for the physically disabled, And some dogs are trained to provide comfort for those suffering from PTSD. The training we’re taught to give is based on positive reinforcement, where we reward the dogs for doing things they're supposed to, for doing things we teach them, not negative reinforcement or we punish them for doing things wrong. We train the dogs this way because it works. Positive reinforcement will always work better than negative reinforcement, and yet, even though CDCR teaches this to us to utilize on the dogs were training, They turn around and use negative reinforcement on us every opportunity they have. So as you can see, these dogs truly are treated better than we are. It’s not just a positive reinforcement versus negative reinforcement, is the fact that these animals are loved and cared for by anybody and everybody who comes into contact with them. Their handlers are selected with the utmost care, the dogs get out of their cell even during lockdowns, dogs are taken out on a regular basis for grooming, veterinarian appointments, they are given plenty of food and exercise, cold water when it's hot, all the things that were not given. So you see, when I say the animals are treated better than us, I mean it truly.

     So there I was, close to getting out. I’d served close to 20 years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit, for a crime that never happened. With only months to go, COVID 19 made its way into the prison system. I seen it coming from a mile away. I yelled, I screamed, I wrote letters, I found 602’s, I did everything in my power to prepare my facility for what was to come. Nobody listened. When people finally took notice it was too late. When the first case was diagnosed, it was too late. The damage was already done, the infection was rampant, and yet the prison still refused to listen. It was then that I decided to take matters into my own hands, that I decided to borrow a friend’s cell phone and use it to make a difference. It was the easiest decision I ever made.

     The first thing I did was create a Twitter account. I struggled long and hard to come up with the name, but at the end of the day I found one: @F0Q_CDCR. It said exactly what I wanted to say: FUCK CDCR! I wasn’t trying to be a smart ass, I was trying to prove a point, the point being that this place was so corrupt it was not worthy of even the smallest amount of respect. Honestly, I think I proved my point.

     Once I had my Twitter account, I had learned how to use social media. This was where my difficulties began. I hadn’t been online in 20 years, all the technology had changed, and social media was almost nonexistent when I was out. I was terrified that I would do or say the wrong thing, terrified that my mistake would harm my peers. There were so many things I had to tell the world, so many things that were going on behind bars, I simply didn’t know where to start. If I told the average person what really happened in here, they would never believe me. I also had to worry that I might inadvertently say something to reveal my location, it might be something as simple as an event that happened in the prison, an event that didn’t happen anywhere else, or it might be taken a picture of my dinner and posting online, which would in turn reveal my location. And then people started asking me who I was, where I was incarcerated, and other questions that, intentional or not, would reveal my location if I answered. I tried to explain my situation, tried to explain my dilemma, trying to explain the importance of maintaining my secrecy to protect their loved ones as well as myself. Most got it, but some didn’t. I also had to contend with CDCR. By now they’d learn it there was somebody online disclosing their secrets, airing their dirty laundry, trying to expose all of the dirt they’d done for years. They began to write incessantly, seeking clues about who I was, where I was incarcerated, anything that might disclose either. When I didn’t answer their questions, they resorted to other tactics. I was offered bribes, immunity, I even had money promised for information. I turned all of these offers down and so much more, because it wasn’t about me. It was about doing the right thing. Each day I grew more and more terrified, not about getting caught, because I had made up my mind from day one the any punishment would be worth it. No, my fear was failure. If I failed, it meant the very real possibility that others would be hurt, possibly even killed because of CDCR incompetence. And then the loved ones on the outside learned of my existence, learned of my skills, and learn to my willingness to help. Every day I was besieged with requests to help, And I did it all willingly, happily. I was finally making a difference, I was finally helping out, I was finally giving back, I was making indirect amends, and for the first time in my life I thought my life had meaning. Unfortunately, I thought the burdens continue to grow. Each person that came to me had a story that was both unique and tragic and a repeat of the one I’d heard before. I wanted to help them all each and everyone, but I’m not a lawyer, I don’t have the experience that a lawyer has, I’m just a guy in prison with a little bit of knowledge, a guy in prison trying to use that knowledge to make a difference. What if I gave the wrong advice? What if that one piece of information they failed to give me made a difference in how they should proceed? All I could do was my best, and that’s what I did. I pray it was good enough, but the burdens continued to mount.

     Let me be clear, I’m not frustrated the people needed help, I’m frustrated because they deserve more than I could give, I’m frustrated at the  harm I see caused by the justice system, I’m frustrated because nobody else seems to see the damage that I do, and I can’t fix it. With that said, this has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. These are some good people out there whose only crime was falling in love with somebody in prison, or somebody who went to prison. The pain and the suffering did these people endure are almost as bad at that inflicted on the people in prison. The pain and suffering inflicted on their children are even worse.

     Going back to what started this topic, suicide, I, like everybody else, deal with depression on a daily basis, but the lockdowns, the uncertainty, the loss of  the inability to earn time off of our sentences, visitation, the inability to earn time off of our sentences, all work together to increase that depression exponentially. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to kill myself, people rarely want to kill themselves, I just want to convey the pressure that I’m under, I want you to understand because my pressure is nothing compared to theirs. I get out in a matter of weeks, many of them have no such hope. And now, without the support of their loved ones, The depression they felt has increased exponentially. So tonight, after you finish reading my post, take a moment to write a letter to your loved one, and if you don't have a loved one in prison, find a website advertising people in prison who need somebody to write and write to them. That letter that you sent tonight, may just ease some of the burdens that we feel, and it only takes a little easy to get us from today to tomorrow. If I, somebody who’s about to be released from prison in a matter of weeks, feels this much depression, and imagine the depression those who are left behind are feeling.

The Forgotten...

      Let's talk about something nobody seems to be talking about, shall we? Let's talk about the men and women in California's Department of State Hospitals (DSH). For those who aren't aware, these people are not being held because they're being punished (or so the court's have consistently said), they're being held because they have a mental health condition of some sort that necessitates them being placed here. Personally, I disagree with the assessment that this isn't punishment, but today, I'm not here to discuss whether or not it's right to put somebody in prison for being mentally ill, I'm here to point out how these people are suffering because of COVID19, suffering in ways even we're not dealing with in #CDCR.

     So, I called one of the units there. Apparently, these guys have phones on their units that allow incoming calls. According to the guy I spoke with, not only do they face more restrictions then they would in prison in many areas, but all treatment stopped in March of this year. This means that their sole reason for being in prison, mental health trsatment, no longer exists, and they can never be released. To make matters even worse, these guys only get out of their rooms twice a week for 50 minutes each time right now because of the COVID19 lockdown. So, you've got people with mental health conditions serious enough to warrant a civil commitment,  but instead of allowing them out on a regular basis for fresh air, they're locked up almost all week long. If you're having problems with sheltering at home, imagine how many issues they're having, how much worse their mental issues are becoming.

      As of this writing, 3 people have died, and 31 are currently infected, but unlike CDCR, I didn't see a patient tracker showing the totals infected or dead. Why? Does nobody care? Have we become so callous that we carelessly disregard our loved ones because of a mental health illness?