Prison Time Read online

  ‘No touching the quarters, Attwood, otherwise your visit will be ended!’ yells a guard in a beige uniform sat at a desk.

  I yank my hand back as if from fire. ‘How am I supposed to get food?’

  ‘Your visitors have to do it. You’re not allowed beyond the yellow line,’ he says, referring to a line painted on the floor several feet away from the walls all the way around the room.

  My mum buys me a bean burrito and heats it in a microwave.

  Aware that my parents are worried about the situation with Bud, I say, ‘I feel much safer now that I’m out of Bud’s cell.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Mum shifts in her seat.

  ‘When Ann rang us,’ Dad says, ‘she said your life was in danger. It took ages to get through to the Embassy.’

  ‘We decided that a mother’s pleading might work best, so I spoke to the consul,’ Mum says. ‘Initially they were unsympathetic. I told the consul that you were being threatened by your cellmate. She said prisoners never like their cellmates and are always asking to be moved, and they can’t get involved in petty squabbles between prisoners. Frustrated and angry, I asked to speak to her superior and, when she came on, I got the same story. I told them that in the two years you’d been incarcerated you’d never once complained about anything or caused any trouble, and that if you said your life was in danger, it was in danger, and that I wasn’t going off the phone until they assured me that they would get you moved. The terror in my voice must have alarmed her, as she told me she would do whatever she could.’

  ‘Neither of us could sleep after that, so we lay awake for the rest of the night waiting for the alarm to ring at 5 a.m., so we could get to the airport,’ Dad says.

  ‘It was the worst night of my life.’ Mum’s expression darkens. ‘Not knowing if they’d moved you, or if you’d been murdered by your cellmate. We’re just relieved that the Embassy got you moved.’

  Unsettled by their pain, I change the subject. ‘So, what do you think of the state prison versus Arpaio’s jail?’

  ‘It’s much cleaner,’ Mum says. ‘The guards are more polite.’

  ‘A prisoner on an old yellow bus drove us here. He was chatting and joking with everyone.’

  As the euphoria of the visit wears off, they look exhausted.

  ‘Did it take you long to get here?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ Dad says. ‘Just over an hour. It’s a picturesque setting for a prison. The sky was blood red before the sun rose over the mountains. Along the highway are instructions to keep headlights on day and night. The length of the road and its straightness make distant cars look invisible.’

  ‘And it was spooky,’ Mum says, ‘when we passed the road sign “STATE PRISON – DO NOT STOP FOR HITCH-HIKERS”. We knew we were getting close to your home.’

  My parents describe having to leave their belongings in the car before ID checks and searches. Their belts and jackets were X-rayed and they had to walk through a scanner. My dad’s belt buckle and shoes set an alarm off, so a guard ran a wand over him. They lined up against a fence while a sniffer dog jumped up and down behind them. They then had to go through two more electronic doors to get to Visitation.

  ‘Bloody hell! I had no idea you had to go through all that,’ I say. ‘So, how long did it actually take you to get in?’

  ‘Another hour,’ Dad says.

  ‘It’ll be worse on the weekend when the regular visitors are here,’ I say.

  ‘Have you heard from Claudia?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Her dad said she wants to visit, so I mailed her the paperwork.’

  We all smile.

  ‘If she’s going to visit, she must still be interested,’ Mum says.

  I beam.

  An alarm sounds, followed by an announcement: ‘Lockdown. Lockdown …’

  The Visitation guard scrambles for his radio. Guards run outside. The atmosphere charges up with danger. My parents shuffle in their seats.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask the guard.

  He leaps off his seat. ‘The whole complex is locking-down,’ he says, swivelling his head, watching guards run outside. ‘They’re sending back-up and a SWAT team to Buckley Unit. No one’s allowed to leave Visitation.’

  Better not tell them someone’s been stabbed, murdered or a riot’s in progress.

  ‘You’re officially imprisoned in prison,’ I say to my parents.

  We watch SWAT members in body armour march by with guns. The crisp bop-bop-bop of firing makes Mum jump.

  ‘What if the prison gets overrun while we’re stuck in here?’ Mum asks, shaking.

  ‘It’s a different prison yard. They’re all self-contained. It could happen there, but not here,’ I say in a reassuring tone, yet unsure of the truth.

  For an hour, my parents sit uneasy, wide-eyed, their heads twitching and ears pricking up at every sound, until the lockdown ends and the guard says, ‘I’m pleased to inform you, you won’t be spending the night in prison.’

  Returning to my cell, I enter the day room. Hearing a scream, I look up and see the big biker Ken dangling a young person by the neck from the upper tier, his victim hanging onto the railing. While Ken throttles him, his legs pendulum above the heads of prisoners. Ken releases his neck and he falls against the railing with a clang, but he hangs on, coughing, gasping. Ken walks away, cackling. Straining to pull himself up, he clambers onto the upper tier.

  Nearly every day for the next two weeks I spend the permitted morning hours at Visitation, chatting with my parents, gorging myself on burritos, smiling, talking, exchanging views on crime and justice, life and death, sorrow and joy.

  Eager to make the most of the final visit, and sad my parents are leaving, I rush down a corridor crowded with prisoners returning from breakfast, paying little attention to the surroundings.

  ‘England!’ a voice yells.

  Trying to see who shouted, I scan the prisoners streaming ahead. That’s odd. Shouting my name and disappearing. Maybe he’ll shout again.

  Bam! A punch from behind almost knocks me off my feet.

  I spring into a defensive mode, spinning around, raising my arms. With so many prisoners scattering away, I can’t see the assailant. By the time I sense a figure approaching from the side – bam! – I’m struck in the torso. Breath is forced from me, scraping my windpipe. It’s Ken. I twist in time to prevent a kick from striking my crotch. It hits my leg. Fight back, fight back … With adrenalin flooding my system, I kick and swing, but his body absorbs my blows like a bag of cement. His punches spin me around. A kidney punch knocks me down. Ken raises a leg as if to stomp on me.

  ‘One time!’ yells a prisoner, warning of a guard.

  ‘You need to give me your fucking Walkman!’ Ken disappears.

  I scramble to my feet and dash towards Visitation, rattled, hoping to conceal my injuries from my parents. Catching my breath, I check in with the guard. With pain intensifying in my back and ribs, I sit down, sensing Mum’s concern.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I’m fine,’ I say, forcing a half smile.

  For the rest of the visit, I put on a brave face, hoping they don’t return to England as worried as they came.

  When it’s time to leave, Mum clings to me as if she never wants to let go. She trudges away, wiping tears. Heading back to my cell, I feel sick for putting my parents through so much. I brace for things to escalate with Ken.

  7

  A psychiatrist puts me on lithium (a mood stabiliser), Prozac (an antidepressant) and the waiting list for psychotherapy. Reluctantly, I swallow pills designed to smooth out emotional highs and lows. Nervous of the side effects, I jot down how I feel at hourly increments:

  1 hour: I can feel my heart pounding. My anxiety has increased – I am trembling and uneasy. My mind is clouded. Breathing feels difficult – slow and heavy. I feel dizzy. There is a strange taste in my mouth. My eyes are heavy.

  2 hours: I have urinated twice – long, clear jets. My eyes are aching and squinting, t
he book I am reading is going in and out of focus. I have a headache. My heartbeat feels odd and the left side of my chest feels tight.

  3 hours: I have urinated two more times – more clear pee. I threw up a small amount of vomit – it looked as if blood was in it, but it may have been the tomatoes I ate at lunchtime. My hands are trembling. My head is pulsating. My skin feels strange to touch. I am experiencing sudden flatulence. I have completely lost my appetite. I am feeling occasional stabbing pains in the right side of my brain.

  The pills sap my creativity and settle me into a stupor. Being more motivated to stare at a wall than pick up a pen scares me. A week later, when the nurse appears with a pill tray strapped over her shoulders like an usherette flogging ice cream, I wait until she dispenses a collection of pills in assorted shapes, colours and sizes to my neighbour, Slingblade, and I tell her, ‘I’d like to stop the meds because of the side effects.’

  ‘Once you’ve started the meds, you can’t stop them. You have to request to see the psychiatrist and it’s up to him to stop them. In the meantime, you can sign a refusal every day and I won’t give them to you.’

  Off the medication, I increase yoga to reduce my anxiety. New to psychotherapy, I read up on it. I find the cognitive approach helpful. It states that our negative interpretations of events – not the events themselves – are what cause us problems. A chain of negative thoughts can be broken by replacing them with positive ones. In short, changing our reactions to situations. Relaxation through humour, conversation, yoga, meditation and listening to music are recommended.

  Since my arrest, I’ve been unable to listen to rave music. Hearing it on my radio at Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail in 2002 made me sad. Too many memories were released. I curled up on my side in the foetal position and pined for freedom. In jail, I discovered Vivaldi. I’ve continued to listen to classical on National Public Radio (NPR), which helps block out the din and enables me to concentrate on reading. Every so often, NPR plays music that energises my soul. To absorb its magic, I have to stop what I’m doing.

  I’m lying on my bunk, eyes closed, smiling, listening to a Beethoven piano concerto, when I hear my name yelled. Opening my eyes, I spot Bud’s murderer associate in the doorway. Fear and Beethoven’s rapid piano notes raise the hair on my forearms. Having been on guard since the attack by Ken, I curse my lapse into Beethoven. I jump up fast, scanning the space behind him to see if Bud and Ken are approaching.

  Bemused, he stares at my panicked expression. ‘You feeling all right, England?’

  ‘Yes. I was just listening to Beethoven.’

  ‘Don’t fucking go anywhere! I’ll be right back.’ He disappears.

  What’s going on? Another set-up? Unable to read the situation, I wait, breathing and sweating hard, my heart palpitating.

  A few minutes later, he returns and throws objects at me, which I catch. ‘I’ve got a fucking anger problem, so my doctor tells me that when I feel like hitting someone, I’ve got to listen to these.’

  There are two tapes: Mozart for Meditation and Bach’s Greatest Hits Volume 2. After he leaves, I play Bach, touched by his gesture, wondering whether – without the tapes – he’ll smash someone.

  In a tiny windowless office, I arrive to see Dr Austin, a middle-aged, bespectacled psychotherapist with friendly blue eyes and short brown hair. His tanned face is clean-shaven, his jaw square. He’s wearing a sky-blue shirt, jeans and smart tan brogue shoes. Having heard that some medical staff only resort to prison work after getting barred from public practice, I’m wary, but his sincere demeanour and soft, soothing voice put me at ease. Over a beaten-up graffiti-etched wooden desk, we discuss my background and medical history.

  ‘What’s your definition of success?’ he asks enthusiastically.

  ‘It was material success, but now I know that being mentally successful is what matters.’

  ‘Can you describe the cycles of success and failure in your life?’

  ‘I had two big runs. One when I was a stockbroker, and one when I traded stocks online. Both times, I thought I had it made. I thought I’d found the right woman. I had plenty of money, cars and gadgets. Then I self-destructed. I partied more and lost nearly everything – my wife, my house, my wealth. The peaks were so high that I felt on top of the world; the troughs were so low, I contemplated suicide.’

  ‘You seem to thrive during the building-up part – when you have a challenge. But when you achieve your goals, you look around and ask yourself, What do I do now? It’s almost as if you have no purpose when your goals are achieved, so you knock down everything that you’ve built and start all over. It seems as if you allow no happy medium between work and play. You work tirelessly to build, which seems to be your main drive. Then, when you’re successful, you switch to the partying and raving, which brings you down. You said that for the most part you lived reclusively, but on the weekends you’d go raving and be the life and soul of the party. When did you start living reclusively? At what age did you withdraw from your friends?’

  ‘As I became an older teen, I studied more and hung out less with my friends.’

  ‘Why did you stop hanging out with them?’

  ‘I was into studying, whereas most of my friends frowned on higher education. They celebrated when they finished high school. They wanted to go out all of the time or they were with their girlfriends.’

  ‘Is it possible that your American raver friends were substitutes for those you separated from in England? As if when you went raving you were going back to your original friends?’

  There’s no way that I can tell him I used to hear wolves inside of me, howling to come out and party. He’ll think I’m crazy. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps you should organise your time better. What if you researched stocks until 3 p.m. and allocated time for social relationships? Wouldn’t you achieve a balance, instead of letting stress build up in your system and losing control of your life?’

  ‘Yes, I need to do that.’

  After the session, I return to my cell feeling unburdened, glad I’ve got someone to talk to. I’m hopeful for progress with Dr Austin, even though I know putting his advice into practice won’t be easy.

  8

  Standing in Visitation, Claudia is attracting stares from inmates and guards. In jeans, sandals and a pink T-shirt, she walks towards me, smiling, her blonde hair cascading towards her shoulders. Warmth permeates my body.

  As we hug, I relish her familiar perfume. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’

  Admiring her big Norwegian eyes and pale delicate skin, I think Claudia looks more beautiful than I remember. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious in my orange trousers and T-shirt. ‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ I say, my heart weighed down by the guilt of everything I’ve put her through.

  Although she came to my sentencing hearing eight months ago, I haven’t seen her since, but not a day has passed without me thinking about her. Our relationship was frozen in time at the moment the SWAT team smashed our door down. The night before, we’d discussed marriage, made love for what would be the last time and I’d held her in my arms as she had fallen asleep.

  ‘I still care so much about you, Shaun.’

  I want to believe she means more than just friendship. We sit at a table. I take her hands in mine. For the 26 months I had been on remand, facing a maximum of 200 years, it was torture for us, made worse when our visits were stopped as a result of legal manipulation. I don’t want to put Claudia through any more pain after all she’s done for me. And yet I can’t help but hope.

  ‘I’ve only got three years left, and I’ve got these long weekend Visitation hours now. We get to hug and kiss, and we can even walk hand-in-hand in Lovers’ Lane.’

  ‘Lovers’ Lane!’ Claudia shrieks as if surprised that such a place exists in prison.

  With her reaction making me aware of how surreal I sound, I point at prisoners walking in circles around picnic tables, holding their partners’ hands. ‘Lovers’ Lane is that out
door area.’

  Claudia laughs. Gazing down at her hands, she turns quiet and nervous. She raises her eyes. ‘When you’re finally deported, can you come back to Arizona?’

  ‘Er, not exactly. I could sneak back in through Mexico, but if I got caught I’d end up having to serve another five to ten years and I’d get deported again. It’s in my plea bargain that I’m banned from America.’

  Her face stiffens. ‘For how long?’

  ‘Life.’

  Claudia’s eyes bulge.

  She’s worried about not seeing her family if she comes to the UK with me. ‘I’m afraid there’s no way around it. The prosecutor insisted on putting that in my plea bargain.’ Seeing tears, I hope to calm her. ‘Maybe down the road, if I make a lot of money, I can pay an attorney to fight it.’

  She nods. I change the subject. We talk about her job. She updates me on her family. It’s incredible to be chatting to her so easily after so long. When it’s time for her to leave, I’m almost scared to ask if she’ll keep visiting.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she says.

  Warmth runs through me again. With my spirits raised, I return to my cell. Seeing her has reminded me of everything I lost – and how I didn’t appreciate the good things in life. Now I’m daring to hope that Claudia would consider getting back together and that I can make it all up to her somehow.

  9

  A young prisoner, tall, muscular, pale, head shaved, swaggers into Cell 2 and throws his mattress on the concrete. ‘I’m your new celly,’ he says with a New York accent. ‘Long Island.’

  Appraising his gang-style tattoos, his wild eyes with dark patches underneath, I think, Here we go again. The end of peace and quiet in this cell. ‘I’m England. Pleased to meet you.’ I grip his hand, staring firmly.