Hell on earth
In
2002, British stockbroker Shaun Attwood was arrested in Arizona,
charged with money laundering and drugs offences. He spent the next two
years awaiting sentence in Maricopa County jail, a cockroach-infested
hellhole run by the notorious Sheriff Joe Arpaio, where inmates endured
starvation and frequently attempted suicide. This is an extract from his
diary:
March 18 2004
One of the
unsettling things about cellular living is that the jail authorities can
randomly uproot an inmate at any time and transplant him into a new
environment. During my two-year stay at the jail, I have been rolled-up
(moved) several times. A new cell equals a new garrison of cockroaches
to battle and I have learned to travel armed with AmerFresh Fluoride
toothpaste, which blocks cockroach entry points very effectively.
On
Tuesday our whole pod was moved to a different floor and I used my
entire stock of AmerFresh to seal the numerous cockroach-launching
points. The new cell was quickly and expertly fortified against the
enemy. That night I slept soundly. Little did I know that the jail was
about to sabotage my hard work.
On Wednesday I was moved back to
my original floor and into one of the most cockroach-infested pods in
the building. I was completely unarmed and helplessly watched the
insects size me up from myriad cracks in the walls. The lights were
still on, but I knew that by night time I would be doomed. My new
cellmate and I didn't get much sleep, but lay awake watching the legions
of cockroaches conquer the room. Whirling around us, they swarmed the
floor, the walls, the ceiling, our commissary bags and, finally, our
bunks.
March 25
I am allowed out
of my cell for one hour each day to make a phone call and to take a
shower. During my first "hour out" in the new pod, I was serenaded by
the inmates, who performed a husky version of Yellow Submarine. I was
touched by their vocal efforts and their demonstration of high spirits.
My
new co-habitants are enduring the twin evils of a broken swamp-cooler
and a cockroach infestation. They are proving to be the creme de la
creme of good sufferers. A neighbouring asthmatic inmate happily
described how he inhaled a cockroach that had crept into his nebuliser.
He could feel the insect crawling around inside him and promptly vomited
his stomach contents. Unfortunately the cockroach was not ejected, as
it was lodged in his lung. He was subsequently awarded "sufferer of the
week" without any real competition. ("Sufferer of the week" was an idea
of mine that has delighted and distracted my fellow inmates. The title
is given to the inmate whom the rest of the pod feel has suffered most.)
My cellmate and I have used six tubes of AmerFresh toothpaste
and six ounces of Razorless Beard Remover cementing cracks in the walls.
The cockroaches still flood our cell every night and I have awoken
several times this week to observe my body hair stood up on end and a
cockroach crawling on my person. I had previously considered my ape-like
fur coating as one of nature's cruel jokes, but now I have discovered
that it is a useful defensive shield.
April Fool's day
My cellmate Mark is stuck at the "unable-to-eat-the-jail-food" stage.
Approximately three months ago, Mark suffered his first ever arrest,
and he has shed 30lbs while in the hoosegow [jail]. His main source of
sustenance is the inmate canteen order form, from which he mostly orders
Cheez-its, chips (assorted), Granola bars and mixed nuts.
Slimmed-down-Mark no longer resembles his booking photo, because he
barely touches the jail offerings.
Prison inmates who get
transferred to the jail joke about how luxurious prison food is
vis-a-vis jail meals. (Jail is where unsentenced prisoners are housed
and prison is where you go when you are sentenced.) In jail, chow is
served twice each day. Breakfast arrives at 8.30am and consists of six
slices of stale white bread (the probability of colourful mould growing
on a slice is 33%), raw breakfast meat (the probability of it being
bologna is 50%, green bologna is 25%), grapefruits or oranges collected
during neighbourhood refuse clean-up campaigns (the probability of them
being rotten is 50%), one packet of stale and bright orange-coloured,
bordering on luminous, cheese crackers, and a beverage, which is a
half-pint of fat-free milk.
The evening's below-lukewarm
culinary delights consist of unsalted boiled potatoes (the probability
of receiving a mound of potato peel encrusted with dirt is 25%; of human
hair being discovered in the spuds is 25%), mystery meat slop (the
probability of a dead rat in the stew is minimal, though I did see a
rat's head served in 2002), a vegetable (the probability of leathery
eggplant is 25%), a small, undressed salad, more stale bread and a cup
of brightly coloured juice, which, if spilled, makes a permanent stain
on the table. As I am a yoga-practising vegetarian, I receive peanut
butter and veggie burgers as substitutes for the meat.
April 15
I
received lots of eggs on Easter Sunday: cockroach eggs. I noticed
something that looked like a piece of a worm glued to my dictionary. It
was full of cockroach larvae. I discovered two more empty egg containers
nearby. More nests were discovered in my legal file, and my commissary
bag. I poured the contents of one envelope into the toilet, but in the
time it took to press the flush button, las cucarachas had scurried out
of the toilet bowl and were scrambling around my feet.
They
were none too happy about their encampment being besieged on a Holy Day,
and as darkness came they began to rebel en masse. Numerous baby
cockroaches, tinier than ants, started a demonstration. They zigzagged
on every wall like minuscule bumper cars. They were soon joined by adult
members of their community. One about the size of an almond crawled on
to my foot. Several larger ones appeared on the blanket near my right
shoulder, and I had to sleep with a sheet wrapped around my head because
I feared they had performed a reconnaissance of my upper-body orifices.
Mark (my celly) was very disturbed. He stayed awake for most of
the night, but when his eyelids finally closed, he dreamed that they
were crawling all over him and woke in a terrible sweat, scratching at
his body, only to discover that his dream had come true.
The
law clearly states that "pre-sentence detainees" have the right not to
live in an insect-infested environment, but the jail continuously flouts
the law by showing the external referees their insecticide-spraying
records. In fact, the insecticide is sprayed on the inmates and the only
effect it has upon the roaches is as a temporary intoxicant. On spray
day they act like drunkards stumbling home from the pub, but they
quickly sober up.
I placed a whole green onion from my dinner
tray into a polystyrene cup. I half-filled it with water and, to my
delight, it started to grow roots. Now I have a plant of my very own to
love and care for! I haven't seen a plant for years! Mark is starting to
suspect I've been here too long.
April 22
I
am a bibliomaniac! I have read 29 books in the last three months, some
of which were more than 1,000 pages long. I read for up to 12 hours
every day. There are two difficulties associated with being a jailhouse
bookworm. The first is bleeding bedsores - I currently have one on my
left buttock - and the second is dealing with the mailroom.
My
first run-in with the mailroom occurred last year when they rejected
Security Analysis, a hardback book containing more than 1,000 pages. The
mail rejection notification stated that the book was not a book, but
actually a "weapon". Then last autumn I was denied some Karl Marx. The
mail rejection notification stated that I was "jeopardising the safety
of the jail operation". This past week, I was denied three books that
were ordered from
www.traderspress.com.
The mail rejection notification stated that "books must be delivered
directly from the publisher or online dist [sic]". As traderspress.com
is both a publisher and online distributor, I lodged a complaint, using
an inmate grievance form. I was visited by a friendly hearing officer
who stated that the mail room officer had made an error and that the
jail would accept redelivery. I reordered the books at the cost of an
additional redelivery fee and I thought that would be the end of the
matter. Unfortunately, the mail room officer had been offended by my
complaint and I received a retaliatory, threatening note taped to my
Wall St Journal. The note stated: "You need to contact the Wall St
Journal and advise them of your new facility/bunk no. All papers from
now on will be thrown away . . . Mail Officer."
Upon analysing
these notices, I have concluded that the mailroom has determined that I
am a weapon-seeking revolutionary. The threat to throw away my
newspapers seems to be a call to arms.
May 13
Frankie,
an alleged Mexican mafia contract killer, is the source of most of the
hullabaloo in our pod. Last month Frankie was calmly playing cards in a
maximum-security pod when an eight-inch shank was suddenly plunged into
the back of his neck. Unfazed, he extracted the shank, and was about to
return the gesture, when guards pepper-sprayed him, causing temporary
blindness. He was consequently promoted to our pod - a super-maximum
area, where inmates are confined to tiny two-man cells for 23 hours
every day.
Frankie looks and acts like Joe Pesci in a mobster
movie. He wears his thick, black hair slicked back, and his arms are
heavily prison-tattooed. He overcompensates for his Napoleonic height
with a cocksure manner, but the inmates have warmed to his lewd
wittiness. He has previously served a 17-year sentence, and during that
time he became a chess heavyweight. During my one hour out, I usually
play a game of chess with him, through his cell window. His piercing
hazel eyes and fiendish grin animate his attempts at psychological
warfare . . .
"Eat dat fuckin' pawn!"
"Let me fuckin' teach yer somethin'!"
"Eat dat fuckin' bishop!"
"Watch dis! Check! Trick move! What'd fuckin' tell ya!"
"Don't do it!"
"Move my bitch (queen) all da way up!"
"Check-fuckin'-mate! Boo yah!!"
"Nobody fucks wiv da champ!"
My green onion plant, which had sprouted six inches, suddenly wilted and died.
May 20
Hue
and cry outside the jailhouse on Saturday morning - a public protest to
bring attention to the jail's "character-building" conditions. The
sheriff's [Maricopa county sheriff Joe Arpaio] swift response was to
serve us with tasty mashed potatoes instead of the usual boiled potato
peelings. On Sunday night we actually received a scoop of ice cream.
Unfortunately, the ice cream was served on top of warm cabbage, causing
it to metamorphose into cabbage soup. No matter, we appreciated the
gesture, and we are still being served the delicious mashed potatoes.
The
daily temperatures are now in excess of 38C (100F) and rising. The air
is stale and debilitating. On Monday an inmate told a guard that he felt
ill and requested medical treatment. The guard told him to drink plenty
of water and to lie down. The inmate persisted, stating that he was a
diabetic and really needed to see the doctor, but the guard continued to
fob him off. On Monday night the inmate slipped into a diabetic coma
and was rushed to the hospital. He has not been seen since.
May 27
Two
more inmates collapsed and were taken to the medical unit. Rumours
abound that the diabetic who entered a coma last week may have died, and
that the jail is under investigation. We have been told for the past
three months that the swamp cooler is "broken" and that a "work order"
has been entered, but, lo and behold, when the county health department
inspected the jail on Tuesday and Wednesday, the air was miraculously
blowing at gale force and our shower water was running hot enough to
redden my skin.
When the inspectors left the building someone
immediately switched the air back to the "broken" setting.
I
received a large photograph in the mail. It exceeded the 4 x 6 inches
allowed by the jail, so I was pleasantly surprised that it was not
rejected by the trigger-happy mailroom. It was a picture of a
bespectacled President Bush signing some important-looking documents. In
the lower margin was a personalised message with my name on it. It
read: "Thank you for your support of the Republican National Committee.
Grassroots leaders like you are the key to building a better, stronger,
more secure future for our nation and all Americans . . . Best Wishes,
George W Bush."
June 3
In this
Hades, intravenous drug use is the hobby of the majority. Dozens of
haunted men eagerly play Russian roulette by sharing one "rig"
(syringe). Deadly diseases, including hepatitis C and TB, are common.
The illegal drug use is only half of the story. Three times a day, a
crotchety nurse goes from cell to cell dispensing "meds". Roughly
one-third of the inmates are recipients of these pill cocktails. The
most heavily pushed prescriptions are for Wellbutrin, Klonopin, Prozac,
Paxil, Haldol, Elavil and Seroquel.
The inmates snigger at how
easy it is to obtain free drugs. They simply tell the psych doctor that
they are "hearing voices" or are "unable to sleep". The jail's Big
Kahuna [Arpaio] regularly appears on TV boasting that it costs the
taxpayer a pittance to feed society's refuse, but he never mentions the
millions of dollars being spent on expensive "meds", which the drug
companies are profiting from handsomely.
It's been an infernally
"normal week". Outdoor temperatures are approaching 110F, and we are
slowly being brought to the boil. Mark and I now catch one another
chasing imaginary cockroaches.
The dirty potato peelings are
back as the main course among the diarrhoea-inducing expired eatables.
Bone-dry citrus fruits are the new additions to breakfast. The stench of
filth and sweat pervades the air. The bedsore on my left buttock is
blistered and bleeding. My mouth and tongue are ulcerated. This joyless
maltreatment is clearly designed to chafe one's happy-go-lucky
disposition. The allure of being consigned to the grave can become an
unremitting thought, as evidenced by the periodic suicides.
June 17
On Friday morning, the guards thwarted an escape attempt by two
inmates. Despite the fact that they had botched the job, the jail
administration decided to punish everyone. We were placed on "Security
Override" for four consecutive days, during which we were confined to
our cells, unable to shower, make phone calls or dispose of our trash
and dinner trays. Soaring temperatures and a purposefully low trickle of
swamp-cooled air quickly caused us to stink like wet dogs.
Las
cucarachas launched the most aggressive offensive that I have ever
witnessed. I observed several divisions besiege our cell, consisting
mostly of large, brown foot soldiers, a few white colonels, and one
pregnant queen, carrying a dreaded baby capsule.
The conditions
have tipped Eric, a 50-year-old inmate, into a nervous breakdown. Early
Monday morning, he started yelling, "Get me outta here!!!" repeatedly
for 15 minutes. His voice inflection ranged from a demonically possessed
adult male - worse than the Exorcist! - to that of a sobbing young
child.
June 24
My right shin
looks like I have spilled battery acid on it. A skin infection formed
last week when we were denied showers and a cluster of approximately 30
bright-red sores has appeared. Some of them are bleeding.
Half
of the shower area is refusing to drain. Hair matted with semen has
clogged it up. To shower I have to step through the odoriferous scum
floating in the water. This disturbs a multitude of tiny jet-black flies
and they form a cloud around my person. Fortunately they bolt when the
shower is turned on, and migrate to the dried fruit peel in the
trashcan. When the shower is turned off they return to the shower. They
prefer the semen.
July 2
Final entry.
Periplaneta
Americana, more commonly known as the American cockroach, has an
average lifespan of 440 days. As of today, I have been a resident of
this crowbar motel for almost two cockroach lifespans. I have endured
sufficient suffering, and, following in the footsteps of most
pre-sentence detainees, I have signed myself over to the prison
industrial complex. Shortly, I will be shipped to a Department of
Corrections processing facility, where they will decide which state
penitentiary is to become my new abode.
July 13
I
am still at the jail. A sudden spate of tragedies has occurred,
compelling me to write this entry. At the weekend two inmates on my
floor attempted to commit suicide. One threw himself off the balcony and
survived. The other was discovered trying to hang himself. Sadder
still, an inmate housed in a medium-security pod was found dead in the
shower. Inmates are often "smashed" in the shower area because it is out
of view of the cameras. The jail has refused to release the cause of
his death.
The temperature outside is currently 114F. The
trickle of air into our cells feels like hot air blowing from a
hair-dryer. We are soaked in sweat all day and night. It is difficult to
write on this sweat-moistened paper. The majority now have skin
infections and rashes, which persistently itch. My skin is so soggy from
perspiration that when I scratch it the skin detaches and I end up with
clumps of skin under my fingernails.
Between the sweat trickling down
my body and the cockroaches tickling my limbs, it is impossible to sleep
properly. Last night, while sleeping on my side, my ear filled up with
sweat, and when I moved my head, the sweat poured out on to my face. I
woke up, startled. It felt like someone was touching my cheek.
When
I was a small child, I imagined that hell consisted of caves in which
the damned were trapped, tortured and burned. I imagined serpents and
indescribable creepy crawlies tormenting the captives. I never imagined
that man's nature could be so hateful as to recreate these conditions on
earth.
In June, Shaun Attwood pleaded guilty. On July 16, he was
moved to a secure processing centre, waiting to be moved to a prison
where he will serve the remainder of his nine and a half year sentence.
Conditions there are much better.
http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com
Read More at Source:
http://www.theguardian.com/technology/2004/sep/08/g2.onlinesupplement
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