Hell on earth - American Prison - Jon's Jail Blog

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.






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 Read More at Source:
 http://www.theguardian.com/technology/2004/sep/08/g2.onlinesupplement