Tag: prison stories

A Sex Offender Like Me: The New Kid in Town

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“I learned within a few hours that no one was judging me by my qualities as an individual and everyone was judging me by my pigment.” -John Howard Griffin  “Black Like Me”

“God alone, who gave the law, is the judge. He also has the power to save or to destroy. So what right do you have to judge your neighbor?” –James 4:12 NLT

      To a sex offender like me, simply existing in prison on a daily basis can be unnerving. But for many, nothing compares to the sheer terror of walking through the front door that first day and enduring the unabashed stares from those who have now become their neighbors.

      Large buses carrying new “residents” arrive with some regularity – usually weekly. Some of the passengers on those buses are moving closer to home; some are working their way down from a medium security facility; still others come from county or federal detention lock-ups where they have endured many months under lock and key as they moved  through the long process from their arrest to conviction or plea, on to sentencing and then finally being designated by the bureau of prisons to their ultimate destination.

      When news of a bus hits the compound, the collective antennae of all the various groups in each of the different housing units goes on high alert. They eagerly await the processing of the new arrivals who are soon escorted to their new “homes.” This usually occurs right after the four o’clock stand-up count or immediately after dinner, which means that most inmates are at “home” and can be counted upon to form an eager gauntlet of curious onlookers, anxious to size-up the new neighbors.

      No peeking through the curtains here. No sizing up the new arrivals by the types of possessions carried into the house or the cars parked in the yard. Here it is about the color of his skin, the language he speaks, the tattoos he displays and the charge that brought him here in the first place. It is all about adding numbers to your particular group and, ultimately, weeding out the outcasts – any new sex offenders, like me.

      If you are black, it’s … well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? After it is determined what state you are from, you are welcomed and situated by others from there. A lot of handshaking and hugging as introductions are made; perhaps some laughter and shouting as old acquaintances are rekindled or common threads in a particular city are unraveled; all of it very friendly, all very warm and welcoming.

      The same can be said for those of obvious Latino origin. They are lavished with warmth, friendliness and camaraderie by the Mexicans, Columbians, Puerto Ricans or any other group that may be a subset of the larger Latino community. As far as white faces are concerned, the dynamics are a little different. The desire to categorize is foremost in the minds of those who have proclaimed themselves to be superior. It is of paramount importance to them to cull the “undesirables” from the herd as quickly as possible in order that they can make a big showing of putting down and then ignoring those who are deemed unworthy. Then they can move on to the more pleasant business of giving a welcome and a tour to those who are socially acceptable. This tour includes unabashedly pointing out all of the resident “chomos,” enabling the newcomer to properly hate someone he has never even met. But the process serves its intended purpose: it lets the new people who are accepted into the upper echelons of the prison hierarchy know who not to be seen talking to.

      Most of the time, once the new arrivals have been properly “slotted” and the new sex offenders have been put together with those of their “own kind” and they have been given the “rules,” life evolves into more of a situation wherein they are ignored. For the most part, this means that we are pretty much left alone, provided that we don’t forget our “place.” In and of itself, this is not entirely a bad thing. But sometimes, the silence can be deafening. Sometimes what is not said speaks louder than voices shouted from a mountaintop. Sometimes an averted gaze or a cold shoulder can gnaw at a man’s dignity and self-respect, creating a wound that is every bit as real, every bit as raw and every bit as painful as if it were caused by a physical assault.

      But all of that comes after the crucial beginning; those critical first moments when you have arrived at the place where you will be staying for a while and your stomach is churning, your heart is racing and your mind is literally screaming at you for what you have done that has landed you in the midst of this surreal landscape.

      New arrivals who are white, heavily tattooed and in their mid-thirties to mid-forties are likely to be initially accepted as “okay” by the “Dirty White Boys.” Questions are asked that can further validate a claim that someone is a drug dealer, a methamphetamine “cooker” or maybe even a bank robber. Paperwork will probably be required to back up any of these claims but the initial acceptance will be there and at least that individual will be alright to talk to for the time being.

      On the other hand, older white males without tattoos are pretty much assumed to be “one of them,” and if you are a similarly unadorned younger white male who appears educated or perhaps slightly nerdy, the same net of suspicion is quickly cast over you as well.

      Most of the time, new sex offenders are identified and pulled aside quickly, quietly and without much fuss. They are then reassured by their “own kind” and made to feel safe and allowed to settle into their new “home” with barely a ripple on the waters of prison life.

       Other times, however, this crucial first step can be difficult. For some, it can be embarrassing or even frightening. I’ll tell you about one such experience when I continue relating the plight of “The New Kid in Town.”

A Sex Offender Like Me: Just Like Sticks and Stones

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“My revulsion turned to grief that my own people could give the hate stare, could shrivel men’s souls, could deprive humans of rights they unhesitatingly accord their livestock.”   John Howard Griffin –    “Black Like Me”

“Lord, you have heard the vile names they call me.” – Lamentations 3:61A NLT

      I have never been fond of the word “nigger,” but I suppose I never really gave much conscious thought as to what effect calling a person one could have on that person’s dignity either. That is, until I heard the word “chomo” -·used -by someone talking to me.

      Of course, I should have known that just like sticks and stones, names can cut; they can sting; they can bruise and make one bleed; just not in the conventional sense, such as physical objects that are wielded as weapons and used to strike someone and cause pain or physical injury.

      But the hurt is there just the same, perhaps in an even more painful and damaging way. Scars develop but instead of being physical blemishes that become items of curiosity and discussion, these scars mar the beauty and dignity of an individual’s soul. They are ugly and meant to be hidden, viewed only by the bearer and are best left unmentioned and undisturbed for fear that talking about them can somehow reopen the wounds.

      You see, being called “chomo” was not my first exposure to the indignity of hateful names wielded as weapons; names whose sole purpose was to hurt, embarrass, demean and diminish the recipient in order that the one wielding those weapons might somehow make himself appear to be superior.

      When I was in high school, I was the object of such weapons due to the fact that my hair was coarse, wiry and very curly.  One person began a hateful – and hurtful – “game” of singling me and my hair out for attention by calling me names such as “nigger knots, ” “Brillo pad, ” “pubic-head,” and a couple of other insults related to both male and female genitalia; all embarrassing, all hurtful and demeaning and all met with no response on my part which, I suppose, gave the one wielding those weapons the perception of power and superiority he sought. Perhaps he needed that perception to compensate for some feelings of diminished capacity or ability on his part. I don’t know. I never asked him nor did I ever respond to him. But after forty-plus years, I can still feel those words strike me with almost physical brutality. I can still remember his name and I can still see his face – full of meanness and ignorance – as he struck me with those weapons of words.

      In a way I think that injuries caused by those words were more debilitating than those caused by any actual sticks or stones I had ever been struck by. I feel this way because of the clarity with which they are remembered and the degree of hurt, embarrassment and shame that accompanies the memories.

      But all of that is nothing compared to what I, and sex offenders like me, face here in prison and will face in the future as we step outside these walls and attempt to move forward with whatever remains of our lives.

      In our present situation as men serving a physical punishment of “freedom denied” as prescribed by law we, as sex offenders, are reminded on a daily basis of our lack of status in the prison “food chain.” From the selection of tables in the dining hall that tend to identify an individual as “one of them,” to being unofficially but undeniably deprived of the right to work in certain areas or use certain recreational facilities without being confronted and intimidated; from the absence of sex offenders, like me, at the tables in the housing unit set aside for playing cards or engaging in a chess match; to the dictating of where “we” can sit while watching one of the four televisions recently moved out of the enclosed TV rooms (from which we were “banned”) into the common area. All of these things and more cry out to us a silent “chomo” that can be heard loud and clear even when the word is spoken with an averted gaze as opposed to an open mouth.

      It should come as no surprise that every restriction, every rule, every attempt to demean and diminish is prompted by the exact same types of individuals who fomented the hate, anger and violence toward African-Americans in the south in decades past. They exhibit the same white-robed, hooded predilection to press downward on a group, class, creed or race of people for no other reason than to feed the need to overcome their own ignorance by demonstrating self-perceived superiority.

      These weak-minded, loudmouthed individuals who publicly profess to being the true arbiters of law and justice within the confines of the compound cover the whiteness of their own skin with tattoos that reveal the blackness of their hearts. They have taken to preying upon sex offenders because, for the most part, they can spew their venom without fear of reprisal. After all, we are older, nerdier and less accustomed to violent ways than the average inmate.

      The perception of weakness is like the scent of fear to a junkyard dog to those whose need is to beat down another human being for no reason other than to cover up their own ignorance, insignificance and inferiority.

      It would be laughable were it not for the seriousness with which these peddlers of prejudice and hate practice their self-anointed supremacy.

      It would be laughable were it not for the fact that being singled out for hate has an impact on one’s perception of oneself, even when the haters are as insignificant as cockroaches in the grand scheme of things.

      It would be laughable were it not for the fact that words – even those unspoken – can and do hurt, even when we pretend and profess that they don’t.

      Just like sticks and stones.

A Sex Offender Like Me: The Resilience of Hate

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me2 Comments

“Prejudices are rarely overcome by argument; not founded in reason, they cannot be destroyed by logic.”  – Tryon Edwards

“For they hated knowledge and chose not to fear God” – Proverbs 1:29 NLT

      What, or who, we hate seems to change with the times.

      Perhaps some of the change comes with laws that are written.

      It could even be said that some of our hate is directed by the media.

      One thing is certain; one thing remains constant: our ability to hate never diminishes and it appears that it will never die.

      To the extent that the human capacity for love can be awe-inspiring so, too, can the human capacity for hate be discouraging and repulsive.

      Just as the need to be kind and compassionate can spread warmth throughout our being, the need of some to loathe and despise other human beings can spread the chill of darkness over our hearts.

      To witness the effects of hate as a bystander can be troubling to the sensibilities of any decent human  being. But to experience that hate as its target – as its victim – can strip a person of his or her dignity and change that individual in ways one would never think possible.

      John Howard Griffin said it best in his classic book “Black Like Me” when he wrote, “I had seen them before from the high altitude of one who could look down and pity. Now I belonged here and the view was different.” The book itself was a chillingly glorious discovery I stumbled across as I explored new things in my quest to define who I really am and what I am capable of being. I have, in my time in prison so far, experienced an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and understanding of God, life, humanity and  many other things that my immaturity, self-pity and need for self-indulgence prevented me from discovering for much of my life.

      Now that I am awakening to the world around me, I find that there is an array of beauty, wonder and mystery around me.

      But there is also much to be found in the way of ugliness, despair and man’s general inhumanity to man.

      As I read a recent issue of Smithsonian Magazine, I found myself completely intrigued by an article on the 50th anniversary of “Black Like Me.” I was fascinated enough to ask that the book be sent to me and I remember the amused looks that were directed my way as the officer held it up to read the recipient’s name. Those close enough could read the title. I really wasn’t sure what to expect but I soon knew I had not wasted my money.

      In some ways, the book was a document of its time when African Americans were referred to as Negroes. But a more powerful book I don’t think I have ever read and it was made even more powerful by the fact that, as I read it, it quickly dawned on me that by substituting the words “sex offender” for “Negro” in many sentences, this book could almost be about a man who suddenly found himself despised as less than a man for mistakes he had made rather than for the color of his skin which is, of course, the central message of the book that every American should read.

      The inner discomfort that I felt as I tried to be Mr. Griffin while reading his account of temporarily  passing for black was amplified and rendered more real when I realized that they were the same feelings I get from being one who carries the label of “sex offender” – or worse – in a world inhabited by those who feel superior because their crime is more “honorable” or socially acceptable than mine and those of others like me.

      Mr. Griffin also wrote, “I learned a strange thing – that in a jumble of unintelligible talk, the word ‘nigger’ leaps out with electric clarity. You always hear it and it always stings.”

      In prison, if you have been convicted of a sex offense, to many you are no longer a man; you are no longer a person worthy of respect or the same treatment as the other men. No, you are a sub-class much as the “Negro” was treated as a sub-class in the segregated south of the 1950s. And just as the word “nigger” was always heard and always stung in John Howard Griffin’s world, so too does the word “chomo” always jump out with “electric clarity” and it always stings as well.

      “Chomo” is short for “child molester” and that is the generic label for any sex-related offense, regardless of the true nature of that offense. To illustrate just how ugly this word is, an individual who is active in the chapel here and considers himself to be a “good Christian” was overheard explaining what a  “chomo” was to someone who was unfamiliar with the term.

      He very matter-of-factly stated, “They are child molesters who like to have sex with three-year-old boys.”

      Yes it does sting and this is what we struggle to overcome while paying part of the price society has  imposed on us. This is the easy part, actually, because society holds the same perception, the same prejudices and exhibits the same hateful loathing and ignorance as do inmates and many on the prison staffs.

      Thus does our sentence continue to be served even after we are released back into society.

      You see, as politicians have sought platforms on which to stand, causes to which they can attach their names and emotions that can be played upon and parlayed into votes, a new and very rapidly growing group has sprung up and provided a socially acceptable target at which society can hurl its prejudice, hate, disdain, loathing and moral outrage.

      Welcome to “A Sex Offender Like Me,” a new multi-part series in which I will try to show you life in prison, and in the “free world,” from the perspective of one of the people everyone loves to hate.

      Without a doubt mistakes were made by all who are in here.

      But just as we all know in our hearts that the vast majority of African-Americans are average, everyday people and not the animals and the sub-class of humans that the segregationists of Mr. Griffin’s day would have had everyone believe, the majority of sex offenders, like me, are not the monstrous  predators that today’s frenzied paranoia, driven by the media and publicity hungry politicians, would have you all perceive us to be.

      As this series progresses, I will attempt to change perceptions and offer alternative methods of dealing with the problem of this rapidly growing new class of criminals.

      I may or may not be successful but time will tell.

      For now, I will end this first installment with more words I found in “Black Like Me.” They were spoken at Radcliffe College in 1960 by Justice Curtis Bok of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court:

      “I am annoyed by those who love mankind but are cruel and discourteous to people.”

Inmates – In Their Own Words; The Faces of Felons – Steve’s Story

On By Tony CassonIn Inmates - In Their Own Words1 Comment

HOLIDAY ‘ON ICE’ – by Steve Marshall

       My apologies to the venerable Ice Capades for filching the name of their evergreen winter extravaganza for the title of this article. It seemed appropriate.

       I’ve been dreading the approach of these last two months of the year because the holidays so thoroughly kicked my posterior last year. After the passing of Halloween, 2010, a mantle of depression settled over me that clung tenaciously until the dawn of the new year. It seemed so strange to lose touch with all happiness in a time of year that I have always embraced with such unbridled joy. Christmas for me was the aroma of a roasting twenty-five pound turkey permeating the house; the annual custom of spending the two days immediately after Thanksgiving decorating every room in the house, including three Christmas trees; the discarded detritus of colorful bows and ripped wrapping paper littering the living room floor; the joyous faces of grandchildren eager to share with me all the news of what Santa had brought them. Nothing else in the world was as capable of making me so happy.

       Now these occasions serve only to remind me of the enormity of what I have lost, squandered really, in the mindless pursuit of satisfying a horrific, out-of-control addiction.

       I’ve lost my freedom, of course, and that is important. I now live in a place where I have no authority or independence; where strangers have the right to run their hands over my body and do so every day, checking to see what I might have stolen or what contraband I might be secreting on my person; a place where I cannot perform the simple act of walking through a door without waiting for someone to come and open it. Here, my very existence is defined by the long list of things that I can no longer do for myself.

       But I’ve also lost something even more precious . . . my family. My arrest and the subsequent revelation of my wrongdoing blasted my family into two camps . . . those who still love and support me and those who cannot. Days after my arrest, my wife Patty informed me that our marriage was at an end. For her, the trust that I had so recklessly violated could not be salvaged. She remains my friend, sending me weekly letters with news of home and pictures of the growing grandkids. But one of those recent letters contained the news that she has found another love and is moving on.

       My son, who was seventeen at the time of my arrest, was so shattered and disillusioned that he could barely speak to me in the days, months and years that followed. This is a boy who, in the third grade, was assigned a three-paragraph essay on the person he admired most in the world. I was certain he would pick Arnold Schwarzenegger. . . but he wrote about me. The enormity of what I took from him is incalculable. Just two weeks ago, though, my son and I had a fifteen-minute phone conversation that was relaxed and good-natured in which he said he was looking forward to hearing from me again. So a little light is shining into that heretofore dark corner of my life.

       My granddaughter was ten when the blast came. She had thought the sun rose and set upon me. I had helped raise her and she was like a daughter to me. We haven’t spoken in two and a half years.

       My real daughter was pregnant with her first child when she was sucker-punched with the news of her dad’s arrest. But she came back swinging and has been my rock ever since. Her daughter was born without her Popi present as I was under house arrest at the time. It wasn’t until more than a year later that I was able to hold her in my arms for the very first time. It was in the visiting room here at Oakdale. Last week I applied for a transfer to California, where I might have the opportunity to see and hold her on a regular basis.

       In retrospect, I am astonished that during the entire time I was so obsessed with indulging my sorry addiction on the Internet, I never once gave any thought to what it would do to my family should these dark secrets be hauled into the harsh light of day. It’s a telling sign how all-consuming this sickness can be. But I honestly believe that if I had considered the possible consequences, it would have been enough to stop me.

       Perhaps a power greater than I will see to it that someone in a similar circumstance reads these words and finds a reason to rethink his behavior. I know such people are out there by the thousands. That would be a Christmas gift that I could really wrap my head around . . . saving someone from going down the same road I did.

       So I’m just a few weeks away from having made it past another holiday season. I have four more of those to make it through until my projected release date of July 19, 2016. By an odd coincidence, that will be my seventy-third birthday. It will begin a new chapter in my life. With my legal debt to society having been met, I can begin paying on the huge karmic debt that hangs over me. I plan to do so by living my life in such a way that I have nothing to hide from anyone and will take advantage of whatever opportunities I have to be of service to others. In so doing, I hope it will enable me to regain the sense of joy and beauty that Christmas has always held for me.

“Decisions, Decisions, Decisions: A Nap, A Party, and A Birthday Gift”

On By Tony CassonIn Volume 21 Comment

 “We make decisions, and then our decisions make us.”      R. W.Boreham

“Are any of you suffering hardships? You should pray.”     James 5:13a NLT

            Each one of us makes decisions many times every single day. Most of the decisions we make are very minor, inconsequential ones that have little, or no, real impact on our day-to-day existence. Still others have a slightly greater effect on the course we are on and then, at a few points in our lives, major decisions are made with prior, full knowledge of the life-altering potential of those decisions: decisions on which college to attend – or whether to go at all; to get married; to get divorced; to change jobs; start a business or even to start a family.

            And then there are those decisions that are born in the first category that – for some seemingly unfathomable reason – grow up having a totally unexpected, unplanned, and profound effect on the person making the decision and – usually – many others around that person.

            Most of the decisions that wind up in this category have tragic consequences. Some have criminal consequences. Still others have both.

            I am going to “introduce” you to several people that I don’t actually know. In one case, I don’t even know the individual’s name, but as the circumstances surrounding their decisions unfold, hopefully we will all realize that we do, in fact, know them (or someone just like them), and the names are not important, just as where they live is neither relevant or significant.

            What will be important is what each of us discovers about ourselves as we consider the circumstances of these people and the effects of the decisions that they made – on themselves and those around them.

            Teresa Chapin, 37, of Council Bluffs, Iowa made a decision to put a 5 month old child down for a nap at a daycare she owned.

            In Des Moines, Iowa, 17 year old KeeVon Bernstine, a prominent member of the Lincoln High School football team, made a decision to go to a party.

            And way over is Las Vegas, Nevada, the granddaughter of Claudette Porter, 75, made a decision to give a very special birthday gift to her grandmother.

            As a result of these three seemingly innocuous decisions, there were 3 deaths, 1 person was hospitalized, 2 people were jailed, and many lives were affected, several in ways that can never be adequately described through the black-on-white words of a man sitting in prison for decisions he made.

            Here, then, are the stories of a nap, a party, and a birthday gift:

            On August 17, 2011, Teresa Chapin put 5 month old Lane Thomas down for a nap. It was about 2:30 pm. When Ms. Chapin’s young daughter went to get him at 4 pm she “found his cold, unresponsive body lying face down.” Ms. Chapin performed CPR. Someone called 911.

            Lane had been placed on an adult bed for his nap. After an autopsy, the infant’s death was attributed to “sudden unexplained infant death.”

            Ms. Chapin voluntarily surrendered her license to operate her daycare on August 25. She was arrested early in October and charged with “neglect of a dependent person”, which carries a maximum penalty of 10 years in prison, and “child endangerment”, which is punishable by up to 5 years in prison.

            According to the story in “The Des Moines Register”, Sheriff Jeff Danker said, “Teresa is a licensed day care provider in the state of Iowa and has experience and education about child development needs. A provider should have been aware of the hazards of excessive bedding for an infant the age of Lane Thomas.”

            Teresa Chapin made a decision to place 5 month old Lane Thomas on an adult bed for a nap and, tragically, he died, and she now faces up to 15 years in prison.

            We will discuss this tragedy further, but right now, let’s tell the story of KeeVon Bernstine’s decision to go to a party.

            According to police, Bernstine had been at a party on July 17, 2010 when a 20 year old “female acquaintance” informed him that she no longer wanted to speak to him.

            In an article in the “Des Moines Register”, Bernstine “reportedly became upset and started yelling at her. When she yelled back, Bernstine allegedly slammed her against a car and punched her in the face knocking her out.”

            Witnesses reportedly saw the assault and took the woman to the hospital, but not before Bernstine had “kicked the alleged victim in the head twice while she was unconscious, authorities said, which caused swelling, bleeding, and numbness to the left side of her face.”

            He was not charged in this incident until early October, for some reason. Bernstine is facing 5 years in prison for “willful injury causing bodily injury”, a Class ‘D’ felony, as well as 1 year in prison or an $1875.00 fine for “assault causing bodily injury” which is a “serious misdemeanor”.

            KeeVon Bernstine made a decision to go to a party where he made another decision. He decided – “allegedly” – to react so violently to rejection by a “female acquaintance” that he punched her in the face, knocking her out. Then kicked her in the head twice as she lay there unconscious – absolutely, totally, completely defenseless.

            For these brutally violent actions Bernstine faces – if convicted – a maximum of 6 years in prison.

            It must be stressed, of course, that both parties are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Again, we will come back to Mr. Bernstine in a moment, but first, our third – and final story. The story of the very special birthday gift.

            According to Jim Porter, his wife Claudette, 75, had talked about going skydiving for 20 years. A granddaughter – for whom no name was given in the brief “USA Today” article I read – went to veteran instructor James Fonnesbeck to purchase a special birthday gift for her grandmother: A “Skydiving Adventure”.

            During the tandem jump – where the instructor and “student” are harnessed together, the primary parachute failed to deploy fully. The instructor pulled the cord to release the backup parachute, but it got tangled up and failed to open as well.

            Claudette Porter and Mr. Fonnesbeck plunged to their deaths.

            Fortunately, Claudette Porter’s granddaughter was not arrested. This fact is probably the only bright spot to be found in any of these stories.

            The article did not state who was present, but I imagine that, at the very least, Jim Porter and the granddaughter were there, sharing this special occasion with Mrs. Porter. What I cannot imagine is their shock and utter horror as the realization hit them that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

            I ask all of you to turn to the Lord with me and pray for the man who watched his wife, as well as another human being, fall to their deaths as a longtime dream come true turned into a nightmare of horror and a lifetime of loss. I ask all of you to join me in prayer for the granddaughter as well. She is undoubtedly devastated that her well-intentioned gift of love turned into a tragedy of death and she will probably claim responsibility for it, and suffer through it, for a long time to come.

            Obviously, this innocent decision to give a special birthday gift to someone she loved has altered the course of her life. It has altered the course of Jim Porter’s life as well as the lives of all the rest of Claudette Porter’s friends and family. Finally, it has altered the lives of the family and friends of the instructor, James Fonnesbeck, and we must also pray for them as well.

            In the case of Teresa Chapin, she made a decision that parents, grandparents, and babysitters have made for probably as long as there have been beds. I am guilty of doing the same thing with both my daughter and my son. Fortunately, the dozens of times I made that same decision did not result in the same tragic ending as Ms. Chapin’s did.

            A child is dead and his parents – well, suffice it to say that it is doubtful many of us can comprehend the depth of their pain. We can, however, offer prayers that God will wrap them up in His love and give them comfort in their time of sorrow.

            At the same time, we should also ask God to wrap Ms. Chapin and her daughter in that same love for this tragedy has effectively, irrevocably, altered the course of both of their lives.

            The article did not give the age of Ms. Chapin’s daughter, but given her own age of 37, most likely she is in her teens. Can any of us possibly imagine trading places with that young woman as she reaches out to wake Lane from his nap, only to feel his “cold, unresponsive body”?

            I shudder to the very core of my being as I try to envision what it must have been like as the reality of the situation began to sink in and reveal itself to her.

            I can almost hear the shocked screams of disbelief and horror as she cried out to her mother, and I can almost feel the ensuing chaos and confusion as CPR was administered and 911 was called.

            And I can almost feel their agonizing helplessness as the fact that this tiny boy was to never go home to his parents again began to penetrate and take root in their minds.

            There is no doubt that the effects of this tragedy will stay with all concerned for the rest of their lives.

            As for the decision to charge Ms. Chapin with a criminal act, I honestly cannot comprehend what possessed the local authorities to do so, but the only purpose that can possibly be served is to complete the devastation of Teresa Chapin’s life, to say nothing of her daughter’s.

            There will be no winners here, that she – her business – will be held liable for civil damages is a certainty, though obviously any settlement will fall pitifully short of replacing what was lost to Lane’s family.

            It seems sadly typical of today’s society, though, to label a tragic accident as a criminal act as if doing so can somehow help. We seem to do that more and more these days and use the law as if it were a magic salve capable of wiping away pain.

            Seriously – what victories are to be won here? What can possibly be achieved? I, for one, think the point has already been driven heartbreakingly home.

            May God bless, and help, them all. And may God also help a society that things making things worse somehow makes them better.

            Of course, now we are left with the story of KeeVon Bernstine.

            Although Lane Thomas died in August, charges were not filed against Ms. Chapin until early October. The day the story of her arrest appeared on the front page of the “Des Moines Register”, Bernstine’s story appeared on page two of the sports section under the heading “High School Football”.

            That fact told me that, perhaps this story was less about a brutal attack on an unconscious, defenseless young woman, and more about the impact of the arrest of the alleged perpetrator of that attack on high school football.

            Another testament to the misplaced priorities of this country. (Something I can certainly feel free to speak about since no one’s priorities were more misplaced than my own.)

            According to the story, Bernstine had rushed for 946 yards and 15 touchdowns in the first six games of the season. Quite impressive to say the least.

            The director of activities at Lincoln High School, Phil Chia, said that the incident was a Des Moines Public School “Code of Conduct” violation and that the punishment for a violation was suspension for a third of the schedule or, in this case, three games.

            The article went on to state that his coach was surprised with Bernstine’s arrest and that he was “disappointed” in him. “I know him real well,” the “Register” quoted Coach Tom Mihalovich as saying. “He’s got a good heart.”

            I would agree, coach. It takes an individual with a very good heart to punch a woman unconscious and then brutally kick her in the head – twice – as she lay there totally defenseless.

            I do hope, however, that his heart is now helping him to pray to God daily, thanking Him that the young woman didn’t die, asking for forgiveness, and also asking that there be no permanent physical damage to her although the fact that she will undoubtedly suffer long-term mental and emotional damage is a given. May God help her through all that she faces.

            Of course, all of this is only “alleged”.

            If true, however, Bernstine should spend a little time in prison, since prisons should exist only to house violent offenders, and if this is not a violent act, then I don’t know what is.

            I do pray that he can change, that he wants to change, and that he asks God to help him change, but it is important to note that this was not a little after-school fistfight in the parking lot that can be chalked up to “boys will be boys”. This was a wanton act of inexcusable violent behavior that could easily have ended with the young woman’s death, or permanent disability. It was an act that should require at least some length of incarceration combined with intensive anger management counseling and he should not be allowed to touch a football for any school again.

            But wait a minute! 946 yards and 15 touchdowns in 6 games? This is a young man who could go places! I mean, aside from his on-the-field performance he is already exhibiting the very unprofessional character of many of today’s professional athletes and sports figures.

            Perhaps his talent had something to do with why it took so long to arrest him in the first place.

            It must be noted that a follow-up article in the same paper (and also in the sports section) the day after the first article reported that he had been kicked off the team and not merely been suspended.

            That would be the least that the public could expect, I think, and I certainly applaud that decision, but one has to wonder if Bernstine’s obvious talent will somehow buy him greater consideration for his willful, violent criminal act, than will be given Teresa Chapin for her part in a tragic accident.

            Whatever the legal ramifications for his ‘alleged’ actions, I truly hope he fixes that which is broken within himself before it consumes him and defines his life. Hopefully he will learn that talent without character is nothing, although it sometimes seems that many in this country don’t seem to understand that.

            Quite often, in today’s society, the desire to win – at anything – trumps everything else. Athletics in particular these days appear to be less about character building than they are about winning at any, and all costs, and if we have to overlook bad – even criminal – behavior on the part of the very people our children look up to and desire to emulate, then so be it. In light of these all-too-permissive attitudes, it is more than likely that Bernstine will land on his feet and continue to play ball somewhere and, ultimately and unfortunately – if history has its way – the only lesson to be learned will be that if you have talent, anything goes.

            I pray I am wrong and I would like this prayer to be answered.

            The young man is in need of our prayers, though, regardless of the outcome of all this, as is the young woman who suffered his anger. Bernstine has a gift and when he realizes that his gift came from God, maybe he will pray, himself, for an opportunity to use it for God.

            As for the young woman, I pray that she has suffered no permanent physical damage and that any emotional damage goes away quickly. I also pray that she puts this – and Bernstine – behind her and finds a life of laughter and joy to replace the violence and pain she experienced.

            May each of us pause for a moment to pray for all of the people who have been written about here today: the three individuals who made these seemingly harmless, inconsequential decisions and the many, many more who, like the three, were changed in some way forever when those decisions grew into something very, very different from what was intended at the outset.

            May we also pause for a moment and look inwardly and consider the things that are happening around us as a result of decisions we have made. May we think carefully and ask God for His guidance in everything we do, and how we do it, for some things – once done – can never be undone.

            None of you wants to be the main character in any of the stories I have just told, and you surely don’t want to end up in a place like the ones in which these words were written as a result of a decision made.

            I thank you, as always, for putting up with me. May God Bless each one of you

Land of Lost Opportunities – by Richard Roy

On By Tony CassonIn Inmates - In Their Own Words, Richard's Corner - Posting by Richard Roy1 Comment

“I was naked and you clothed me; I was in prison and you came to me”.
Matthew 25:36

“The secret of success is focus of purpose”.  Thomas Edison

      The big time has come to FCI Oakdale. A local Toastmasters club, part of Toastmasters International, is sponsoring a club ‘Inside the Fence’.

      This is a huge commitment on their part. These unpaid representatives donate their time, subject themselves to background checks and undergo physical searches just to get in the gate. All this on the off chance there might be men on the inside worth reaching, and wanting to be reached.

      Over 120 inmates attended the information session; men hungry for opportunity. By the end of the meeting, 30-40 men expressed an interest in moving forward to form a club. Most of who fell by the wayside are challenged by the $36 semi-annual dues and a one-time $20 materials fee. Most inmates earn 12-17 cents per hour and work a lot less than 40 hours per week. Twenty paid memberships are required to establish a new club.

      Being in Toastmasters in the free world, I was sorely disappointed to find no formal social organizations exist behind the bars at FCI Oakdale. In the state prisons of Louisiana there are numerous groups allowed to organize as a way to normalize inmates back into society. Speak up Jay Cees, Veterans Groups and Toastmasters make their organizations available as a means to introduce inmates to opportunities they may not have previously had on the outside.

      Is it worth it? One study indicates an astonishing 1% recidivism rate for those inmates actively participating in Toastmasters while incarcerated. I’d settle for that.

      A large percentage of my fellow inmates will benefit greatly from a little constructive work on vocabulary and grammar. It is a constant source of dismay to hear virtually every statement include the analogy of intercourse with a parent: “Hungry as a m- -f- – er”, “Hot as a m- – f – -er”, well, you get the idea. Exposure to creative word choices abound. Should one choose to document, one would learn of a “squizz; “as in “can I get a squizz of that cheese”. Cheese purchased from the commissary comes in a squeeze bottle so a portion of squeeze cheese becomes a “squizz”. “Skrate”, as in “not left or right but skrate”, is another expression that grates like verbal sandpaper.

      The need for education as a method of rehabilitation stands readily apparent. GED  classes have a long waiting list. Conversations defy logic. Grown men are amazed that Thanksgiving Day this year again falls on a Thursday (actual conversation overheard in the chow line).

      In 1970, 73% of Americans thought the primary purpose of prison should be rehabilitation. By 1995, only 26% of Americans believed in rehabilitation (Hallinan, Joseph T.; “Going up the River: Travels in a Prison Nation;” New York: Random House, 2003).

      I admit it; I was naïve before coming into the system. I envisioned the opportunity to leave here armed with new found knowledge and introspection. I reasoned, surely the Bureau of Prisons is loaded with experts and the latest techniques to rid men and women of their anti-social attitudes and behaviors. The experts would be backed by officials, political and bureaucratic, eager to release productive citizens back into society to make amends. Just like Hokey Pokey Anonymous: A Place to turn yourself around.

      Instead, no support groups exist; Alcoholics Anonymous? Uh-uh; Al-anon? Nope; Narcotics Anonymous? Ha; Sex addicts Anonymous? Why are you even on my compound; serious psychological issues? We’ll try to squeeze you on the callout for next week. The little help that is available requires waiting months to move to another facility hundreds of miles away where you wait many more months to be accepted into the program; provided you meet the restrictive parameters for admittance.

      Even minimal education opportunities are squandered. Want to see a Vo-Tech program where building maintenance students never pick up a saw or turn a wrench? Or how about a Horticulture class that doesn’t grow anything? And how is it a population with a literacy rate of 47% produces class after class of perfect 4.0 students? What would you say to an adult education book, and test, on ‘Integrity” that has the answers annotated so the test taker is not required to actually read the material or engage in critical thought? Read the institution’s admission and orientation handbook. The A&O manual references an Apprenticeship Program in many areas such as HVAC and Plumbing. Now use the Freedom of Information Act to see how many graduates completed the program in the last two years. I’ll save you some time; the answer is none.

      Congratulations to Chaplain Madrid for facilitating Financial Peace University. This is a 13 lesson program from common sense finance guru and national talk show host Dave Ramsey. But why are there only 15 men taking the course? Why isn’t this a prerequisite to release? Why wasn’t an announcement placed on every bulletin board in every unit? The bocce ball tournament announcement seems to make it there.

      There are many well-meaning people employed by the Bureau of Prisons; some of them work at FCI Oakdale. These individuals do their best to not become cynical in their daily interaction with inmates. The American public owes those employees a debt of support. We must change the political will of the people back to one of education as a method of rehabilitation.

      Educate, financially responsible people who have paid their debt to society can only result in a win-win for all parties. I do believe a rising tide raises all ships. But if the ship is still tied to the dock by a lack of education or understanding of debt then the ship will only rise so far before it takes on water and sinks.

      I send kudos to Warden Ask-Carlson of FCI Pollock (formerly of FCI Oakdale), unit manager Mr. Pierce, counselors Papillion and Smith and the others working to establish Toastmasters in this institution. There are men here who acknowledge we screwed up. Now we desire the opportunity to fix it. We need your help.

 

 

“Letters to Heaven” Dear God,

On By Tony CassonIn Letters to Heaven1 Comment

Dear God,

      Though the biggest challenges of my life lie off in the distance and are yet to come,  I feel more mentally equipped and spiritually prepared to be an active participant in my own small purpose within your creation than I would have ever thought possible.

      At this stage of my life, where I should  be “winding down”, looking forward to retiring, and enjoying the fruits of my labor, I am forced to acknowledge that I have put myself in a position where I must begin again, as if I were a young man – which I am not.

      Curiously enough, I find that I look forward to that beginning with no small measure of excitement and pleasure. And it is all due to the fact that, in an incredibly short amount of time, I have come to know you, to trust you, to love you, and to rely on you for everything.

      And for having the patience to wait for me to arrive at this point, I thank you, Lord, from the bottom of my heart.

      It may have been human hands that physically picked my body up from that blood-covered floor, but it was your love that caused it to happen – it was YOUR love that lifted me up and gave me life once again.

      For this, I thank You each and every day.

      We spend a lot of time together these days, and every second is – to me – a blessing. Indeed, every breath that I take is a gift from You and is one stolen from the hand of evil that were so tightly wrapped around me that they were nearly successful in squeezing the remaining life from my body.

      It’s a fantastic deal really, this arrangement You and I have, Lord. I give you all of my troubles, problems, worries and fears.

      I give You the burden of all of my sins.

      You give me forgiveness and – through the wisdom of your word and the power of your spirit – You give me the ability to forgive myself.

      I am thankful to You, Father, for ALL of this.

      Your light shines on the path that I walk and You illuminate all that is important.

      You open my eyes to the world you created, and all of the people in it, and You have taught me to ask several questions:

–          “What can I do for others to help them find what took me such a long and painful journey to find?”

–          ”How can I help others to understand what it means to know you without them needing to surrender to the same measure of sadness that I did before turning to you?”

–          ”How can I help others to experience the shear joy and feeling of freedom that comes from stepping out of their darkness and into your light?”

      For helping me to become someone who would even attempt to and answer to those questions, I thank You once again.

      These are very troubled times in the history of Your creation. This is a very troubled world.

      At a time when You are needed the most, people turn towards You the least; because to turn towards You means turning away from so many things that provide instant gratification, meaningless pleasure, and momentary satisfaction.

      Your apostle Paul could easily have been describing today’s troubled times when he wrote:

“For people will love only themselves and their money. They will be boastful and proud, scoffing at god, disobedient to their parents, and ungrateful. They will consider nothing sacred.

They will be unloving and unforgiving; they will slander others and have no self-control. They will be cruel and hate what is good.

They will betray their friends, be reckless, be puffed up with pride, and love pleasure rather than god.

They will act religious, but they will reject the power that could make them Godly.”

                                                                                    –2 Timothy 3:2-5a

      As the saying goes, “If You are not part of the solution, You are part of the problem.”

      Thanks to You, Lord, I am certain that I still have the time, and will get the opportunity, to be a part of the solution, and I guess I figured that by writing an open letter to You full of all the things I talk with You about daily, maybe – just maybe – someone else will stop and think and ask a few questions of themselves.

      There will be those who will read these words and will react skeptically, and with cynicism, thinking the worst and moaning about the insincerity of “prison converts”.

      I know this, and to them I will respond with, “obviously I am not trying to win the approval of people but of God.” Galatians 1:10A NLT

      And as I read more and more of Your wisdom, God, I learn, and as I learn I realize I must share what I have learned with others. “The man who had been freed from the demons begged to go with him. But Jesus sent him home, saying, ‘No, go back to your family, and tell them everything god has done for You.’”

      So here I am, and You have helped me again, Lord, and – with faith – perhaps I can help someone else.

      Even if it is just a little.

      Thank You,

-Tony.

“Crimes and the Punishments! Sometimes The Punishment Is The Crime.”

On By Tony CassonIn Crimes and Their Punishments2 Comments

“Man is unjust but god is just, and finally justice triumphs.”                                                         –Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“Your own actions brought this upon you. The punishment is bitter, piercing to the heart.”                       –Jeremiah 4:19 NLT

      The vast majority of Americans are decent, law-abiding, hardworking people who mind their own business, live their own lives, pay their taxes (albeit grudgingly, perhaps) and trust those who have been given the responsibility of protecting them and their loved ones, hoping – if not always believe – that those individuals are applying wisdom, education, research, experience, fairness, compassion and balance4 to the process of passing, enforcing and adjudicating the laws deemed necessary to fulfill that responsibility.

      Today we are going to take a whirlwind tour of the great country of ours and see how all of that wisdom, education, research, experience, fairness, compassion and balance comes together in real-life scenarios.

      While it is entirely possible that there is justification and ration although behind each of the sentences given in the situations that I am going to highlight for you here, in some cases it will be difficult to find any.

      In fact, in a few instances, I am sure that you will agree that the crime truly was the punishment given.

      The first stop on our tour is in Michigan where we find John Skelton, who was recently sentenced to a term of 10-15 years in prison after pleading “No Contest” to a charge of ‘Unlawful imprisonment.’ in exchange for that plea, kidnapping charges (punishable by up to life in prison) were dismissed.

      Skelton was involved in a contentious divorce and – to punish his ex-wife – rather than returning his 3 sons (ages 5, 7, and 9) after Thanksgiving last November, he “gave” them to an “underground sanctuary group.”

      He doesn’t know where the group – or his sons – are, nor can they be found.

      He had said he wanted to deprive their mother of memories of her sons.

      From Michigan, we wander down to Oklahoma where Lindsay Dawn Fiddler, 27, was sentenced to 15 years in prison. Ms Fiddler had pleaded guilty to 2nd degree manslaughter charges and child neglect after her 10 day old daughter was found, dead, in a washing machine.

      Fiddler maintained throughout that she did not know how little Maggie got into the washing machine.

      Next we are going to visit a federal courtroom in Minnesota, where we find Omer Abdi Mohammed of St. Anthony. He recently pleaded guilty to one count of “conspiracy to provide material support to terrorists, admitting he helped provide people as part of a conspiracy to murder, kidnap, and maim others in a foreign country.”

      At this writing, Omer was awaiting sentencing, but the maximum he can receive for his charges is 15 years in prison.

      Let’s slide way over to the east coast and visit Fairfax, Virginia where we encounter Carmela Dela Rosa. Ms Dela Rosa was angry at her Son-in-law who had gotten her daughter pregnant out of wedlock so she took it out on her 2 year old granddaughter, Angelyn Ogdoc.

      Prosecutors said she premeditatedly threw the little girl “like a piece of trash” off of a 45 foot high pedestrian bridge at a shopping mall.

      Little Angelyn died, of course, and for the premeditated, 1st degree murder of a 2 year old child, dela Rosa received 35 years in prison.

      But enough of these petty crimes. Let’s mosey on down to Texas, where we find Carl Wade Curry. Curry, the most dangerous, vile and despicable members of our first group was recently sentenced to 99 years in prison. For stealing cattle from a Mississippi rancher.

      The Recap:

–          3 boys, given away by their father and not seen for almost a year – 10-15 years

–          10 day old baby found dead in a washing machine – 15 years

–          Conspiracy to “murder, kidnap, and maim” – maximum 15 years

–          Throwing your 2 year old grand daughter to her death from a 45 foot high pedestrian bridge in a mall – 35 years

–          Cattle rustling – 99 years

WOW!

      Well – It’s a big country, so let’s move on shall we?

      From Texas.  We’re going to head up to Ohio. But first, let’s stop off in Ft Carson Colorado, to see how PFC David Lawrence fared in military court not too long ago. Private Lawrence pleaded guilty to “premeditated murder for killing a Taliban prisoner who was sleeping in his jail cell.

      He got 12 ½ years in prison.

      I guess it’s no big deal, though, the man Private Lawrence killed in cold blood, as he slept, unarmed and locked up, was just a prisoner. And a terrorist to boot.

      Leaving Ft. Carson, we head to Lucas County, Ohio, where Sheriff James Telb and three other sheriff’s employees were indicted on criminal charges related to the death of a prisoner.

      Carlton Benton, 25, died on June 1, 2004.

      His death was believed to be the result of a beating and ‘Sleeper Hold’ administered by guards in his cell where he was left, unconscious, without medical attention. The sheriff and an internal affairs investigator were charged by the FBI with lying about what happened and covering it up. They were acquitted in December of 2010.

      Two guards, Jones Gray and Jay Schmeltz, faced charges stemming from the incident. They were convicted of civil rights charges and falsifying reports and were sentenced to 1 year and 1 day in federal prison. Gray received a 3 year sentence.

      Carlton Benton received a death sentence, but that too, was no big deal I guess. He was, after all, just a prisoner locked behind bars.

      While certainly not representative of the overwhelming majority of people in positions of power and authority, Gray and Schmelts are the first examples I am going to use of those who abuse their position, power, or authority and violate the public trust.

      In previous posts, I highlighted abuses by corrections officials and other officials in privately run institutions in this country. The next few stops on our tour will show that bad behavior is certainly not the exclusive domain of the private prison industry. Officers other officials and employers of state and federal institutions sometimes succumbing to greed or are guilty of abusive treatment towards those they are charged with guarding.

      Some certainly do raise an eyebrow and cause one to think that, in some cases at least, the bigger crime is, indeed, the punishment.

      We continue on to Fairton, New Jersey to the Federal Correctional Institution. (FCI)

      Brian Walters, the former chief Pharmacist for the FCI pleaded guilty in August of 2010 to charges of theft of government property. Said property was a narcotic pain reliever, which he stole from July 2008 to July 2009, along with needles and other supplies.

      Walters was sentence in December of 2010 to 3 years probation, $7014.44 in restitution, and $1000 fine.

      Down the Eastern seaboard a little, in Baltimore, Maryland, Alicia Simmons, 34, a former guard at a prison facility there, was sentenced to a total of 37 months in federal prison, followed by 36 months of supervised release.

      Simmons has ties to a group called “The Black Guerrilla Family” and had been accused of smuggling drugs, cell phones, and other contraband in to the prison where she worked as well as allowing gang members to fight and attempting to identify police informers.

      Back up the coast, in Providence, Rhode Island, independent Governor Chaffe signed into law a bill that would make possession of a cell phone by an inmate punishable by up to five more years in prison.

      Hmm…… smuggling drugs, cell phones, other contraband into prison, 37 months. Possession of the cell phone that was smuggled into prison, 5 years.

      As Ace Ventura would say, “Alrighty then!”, let’s head on over to the Trumbull Correctional Institution, located in Ohio, where we find Christopher Ellis.

      Ellis pleaded guilty on April 26, 2011 to charges of “possession of cocain and illegal conveyance of drugs of abuse onto grounds of a correctional facility.”

      His sentence? One year in prison.

      In the great state of Texas, Daniel Melgoza, a 54 year old former Jail Guard from San Antonio was sentenced in April of 2011 for an incident that occurred in December of 2004.

      Melgoza was charged with depriving a prisoner of his constitutional rights and obstruction of justice for kicking a prisoner in the head with pointed cowboy boots (are there any other kind?) and then writing false reports to cover it up.

      Melgoza received 27 months in prison.

      As long as we’re in Texas, let’s walk our pointed cowboy boots over to Beaumont where Joseph Christopher Roberts was stopped in April of 2007 for making an illegal u-turn. At that time, it was discovered that Mr. Roberts had outstanding traffic warrants and he was taken into custody.

      In an apparently unprovoked attack that was captured on videotape, while he was being processed in the Jefferson County Jail, Jail Officer Rodney George Cloe II punched him in the face several times and slammed his head in the booking counter.

      The incident  was witnessed by several other jail employees, who did nothing, and was placed in a holding cell without medical attention being given to the injuries which ultimately required stitches.

      Roberts was assaulted again later as he was being photographed and fingerprinted this time by Johnny Lynn Nickery, Jr. this incident was also videotaped and witnessed by other jail employees, who – once again – did nothing. In fact, they were all videotaped high – fiveing one another in apparent celebration.

      Both Nickery and Cole were convicted of misdemeanor official oppression in 2008. Nickery paid a $4,000 fine. Cole received  the same fine plus one year probation.

      Roberts filed a lawsuit naming the county and the 2 jail employees. A judge dropped the country from the suit and even though a jury deliberated only 6 hours before returning an award of $16 million dollars, it is doubtful Roberts will collect much from the 2 guards.

      Of course, one has to question the amount of the award just as much as one must question the leniency of the punishment.

      Meanwhile, over in Georgia’s Fulton County Jail (FCJ), incidents of prisoner abuse at the facility resulted in sentences for 3 guards late in 2010 on federal charges, resulting from those incidents.

      In one of those incidents, Richard Glasco was being “loud and unruly” in his cell. FCJ Guard Mitnee Markette Jones, Derontay Langford and Curtis Jerome Brown, Jr. Entered Glasco’s Cell to “subdue” him.

      They were Successful. An hour after the trio left Glasco’s cell, he was discovered “unresponsive and not breathing” on the floor of his cell. He was pronounced dead at a local hospital.

      The group of guards filed false reports in regards to the incident. All omitting one important fact – that they had entered the cell and had “physical altercation” with Glasco.

      Langford cooperated with the prosecutors in the case and received 4 months house arrest as part of his 3 years of probation. Brown was sentenced to 27 months  in federal prison for various charges including lying to a federal grand jury and lying to a FBI agent. Jones was sentenced to 15 months.

      Glasco remains dead.

      I cannot stress enough that the vast majority of corrections officers and employees are not viscous, sadistic, bullies. It is also true that their job is sometimes dangerous and there are numerous instances of assault against guards and employees by inmates. I do not intend to imply that this a a one way street.

      That said, however, we should all take issue with some of the sentences metered out  when a few individuals cross the line and become no better – and in some cases worse – than those they are guarding.

      We should never forget that the incarceration itself – the loss of liberty, loved ones, and the rights and privileges enjoyed by free individuals – is the punishment imposed by the court and mandated by law.

      Not the physical abuse a few misguided individuals may think it is their responsibility to hand out.

      Assault is Assault – and murder is murder – no matter who the perpetrator is or the location in which it occurs.

      That said, let’s head to Illinois where 25 year old Emmanuel Chapple was awaiting trial on robbery and sexual assault charges. While in the jail, Chapple committed “aggravated battery” against Jail Guard Craig Wakefield.  And since this was Chapple’s third “class 2 felony or more offense” he was therefore sentenced as a “Class X” felon.

      Chapple had been charged with aggravated battery for spitting on Officer Wakefield.

      For another case of inmate-on-guard assault, let’s jet over to California where, on January 3, 2011, the California court of Appeal for the 5th District upheld a 25 year–to–life sentence given to an inmate convicted of assaulting an officer while confined in a security housing unit – the SHU, the Hole. . . the place reserved for people who still don’t get it while incarcerated- at the California State Prison in Corcoran.

      Mane Dixon, 48, has a criminal history dating back to 1980. the severity of his sentence was due to his being convicted under California’s “Three strikes you’re out” law.

      Dixon is, as you will see, definitely one of the people prisons are intended for. His actions in the past would make him appear to be nothing more than a brutally vicious, violent animal who probably never should see the outside of a prison again, but it is how this “life sentence is arrived at that will raise an eyebrow or two.

      In 1980, Dixon was convicted of “numerous felonies including rape, sodomy, robbery, and burglary.” For all of that, Dixon received 100 years in prison.

      Oh! Excuse me….. I read that wrong. For all of that Dixon received 10 years in prison! (This portion of his life will appear again in a later article I have planned.)

      In 1987, While serving the sentence for these offenses, he was convicted of assault (in prison, of an inmate) and received a 6 year sentence added on to what he was serving.

      The year 2000 finds Dixon on parole. It also finds him on his way back to prison for violating his parole when he is convicted of “attempted forcible sodomy of a minor”, and resisting an officer. In 2005, while serving his sentence, he was convicted of battery by a prisoner on a non-confined person (a guard) and sentenced to 8 more years.

      Such a pleasant individual Mr. Dixon is.

      On October 15, 2006 while in the Security Housing Unit, Dixon threw his food tray at Prison Guard Richard Trait as the officer was attempting to retrieve the tray through the “food port” of Dixon’s cell. The tray struck Officer Trait “on his hands and forearms” and he bumped into the food cart as he jumped back from the cell door. Dixon also spat at Officer Trait and “swung a towel” into the food port.

– Rape, robbery, sodomy, burglary – 10 years

– Startling a guard – 25 to life

– Cattle rustling – 99 years

– Richard Glasco and Carlton Benton – they are still dead.

      And in New York, at the Erie County Correctional Facility, there was a fight over a bag of potato chips on April 21, 2011. Erie County Under-Sheriff mark Wipperman called the incident “an embarrassment”. The two people involved in the fight were guards at the facility. An inmate tried to break it up and required medical attention.

      I just couldn’t resist sharing that with you.

      To close out this article, I would like to spend a few moments on Deer Hunting.

      In a post on June 14, 2011, I mentioned a Florida man, Jeffrey Dickman, who was arrested in Boise, Idaho and sentenced to 18 months in federal prison for guiding a deer hunt without a license and for illegally shipping deer meat across state lines.

      From Eugene, Oregon, comes the story of a father and son who were convicted of leading the state’s largest deer poaching ring and were sentenced to jail. Due to overcrowding Rory Donoho and his 37 year old son Shane will spend 90 days under house arrest , monitored by ankle bracelets.

      It seems that lane county can’t afford to staff it’s entire jail. The space they do have is reserved for people convicted of violent crimes.

      How silly, that actually makes sense.

      I have, however, saved the best for last, and I am going to dub this “The Case of the Gun Totin’ Granny.” While most of the stories, for this article were pulled from “Prison Local News”, “USA Today”, “the Des Moines Registrar” and the “Arkansas Democrat Gazette”, the story of this dangers menace to society is base on a first-hand account from Alan, who shared a little bit of himself with you all not too long ago.

      After Alan’s arraignment in Federal court he was taken to be processed by the U.S. Marshall’s. This involved fingerprinting, photographing and the like and Alan, in a suit and tie, stood in stark contrast to a couple of other “guests” of the marshal’s who were dressed out in the bright orange jumpsuits of the Polaski County Jail.

      Also in the room was a woman in her 60’s looking very out of sorts, and of course she received curious glances from the rest of the people in the room.

When “Granny” was taken and placed before the camera, the U.S. Marshall taking her picture       asked politely, “Ma’am, may I ask what you’re here for?”

It seems that this woman was from the woods of Northern Arkansas and was an avid hunter, as are many women in this southern state. One day, while hunting, she spied a buck and shot him.

      Her shot alerted a game warden who happened to be in the area, and when she returned with her “boys” to retrieve the carcass, found the warden writing her a ticket. “What as all this about?” she wondered. She had a legal license, she had placed her deer tag on the carcass before she went to get the boys. What could possibly be wrong?

      According to the warden, she had shot the deer on federal land which abutted her land. She had hunted these woods for decades – no way was this federal land.

      Well, according to the surveyor hired to ascertain who’s land it was, it did, indeed, belong to the federal government and now a federal prosecutor was arresting our Gun Totin’ Granny for poaching on federal property.

      According to Alan, even the U.S. Marshall’s charged with fingerprinting her and taking her picture were shocked that this “Gun Totin’ Granny” was being prosecuted over a deer shot and killed 15 feet over her property line.

      God Bless America.

      And, until next time – God Bless You All.

Inmates – In Their Own Words – A posting from Steve

On By Tony CassonIn Inmates - In Their Own Words, Volume 21 Comment

      My name is Steve and I’m sixty eight years old. I never dreamed I would be spending my “golden years” behind the chain link and razor wire fences of a federal penitentiary.

      I had the great fortune of being successful in two separate careers; first in radio where I was credited as the inventor of the soft rock format in the 1970s. Later, I turned my efforts to television and feature films where I worked for the better part of twenty years as a writer and producer. I officially retired in the late 90s and in 2007, I moved with my wife and son to Little Rock, Arkansas. My wife had a daughter there who was spitting out babies like popcorn and we wanted to be a part of those grandbabies’ lives.

      Life was good there. We adjusted from the hectic pace of Los Angeles to small town southern living. I had intended to spend my retirement years devoting my time to my writing. But I fell into a malaise that seemed to keep me from those creative endeavors. Instead, I gave over more and more of my time to Internet chat rooms and the endless explorat10n of the world of online porn. I had done something similar some ten years previously but had managed to break the cycle by joining Sex Addicts Anonymous. Unfortunately, I did not have the good sense to remain active in the program and over the years, I drifted back into this self-destructive behavior.

      In the chat rooms, I channeled my aesthetic energies in to the creation of dark and frightening characters. I made up scenarios in which I portrayed murderers, rapists, wife-abusers and pedophiles. It seemed as though I was interested in depicting any behavior that society considered taboo. I reasoned that since this was all made-up and worlds away from who I truly am, there was no reason to place any limits on whatever behavior I could imagine and, in those chat rooms, claim to have engaged in them.

            As these less-than-healthy activities progressed, I was sent some child pornography. This should have had the effect of being doused with ice water. It should have functioned as a wake-up call. But  in the state of mind I was in, it only served to spur me forward. After all, what could be more taboo than child pornography? I had had a brief brush with it a couple of years earlier but I scared myself away from it. This time, however, such common sense did not prevail and I soon found myself searching for illegal images and trading them with others. The content of the pictures themselves was not what attracted me to this behavior. It was the raw excitement of the hunt. Indeed, I never kept the pictures I collected. Every few days, I would purge the flash drive of all its contents and I would invariably feel all the better for having done so. But a few days later, the cycle would begin again. At this point, I had lost my moral bearings. To my way of thinking, the children in those photos weren’t real. They were merely pixels on a screen. It was all still just in my head and I wasn’t hurting anyone. I failed to see that trading in those awful images was not an act of the imagination. It was real world behavior.

      On January 19, 2009, I traded photos online with someone who called himself “Mike.” In truth, he was an undercover sheriff’s deputy in Missouri and the wheels of my destruction were set in motion.

      Just before 6:00 a.m. on April 15, 2009, my wife and I were awakened by the insistent ringing of our doorbell. I stumbled downstairs to find our front window bathing the living room in flashing red and blue lights. I opened the door and ten uniformed police officers stormed in, their guns drawn. My mind was clouded by both sleep and denial and my first reaction was that this was one of those misbegotten drug busts where the police had the wrong address. It would all be cleared up in a few minutes and we could go back to bed. But when one of the officers announced that they were from the Little Rock Police Department’s Internet Child-Abuse Task Force, reality hit me like a sledge hammer. I could barely breathe as I was presented with a warrant to search our house. My seventeen year old son was awakened and he and my wife were placed in separate rooms and questioned. Of course, they were totally blindsided, unaware of any of my activities. In an act that I still feel was morally and legally wrong, they showed the pictures to my minor son, askin? if he knew anyone in them. Why they felt the need for this step, I 11 never understand since they had already determined that all of the pictures in question already existed in the FBI database. Needless to say, my son was traumatized.

      For five hours, we sat in those rooms while they searched every inch of our home. They then carried out all of our computers, cameras and iPhones. I was read my rights, handcuffed and frog-marched out of my home. I never saw the inside of it again.

      I was arraigned later that day with my lawyer son-in-law representing me. It was determined that I would be placed under house arrest but I would have to be housed outside the home because of the presence of a minor, my son who would turn eighteen in one more month. I spent two nights in county jail while an apartment in my son-in-law’s offices was readied. It was the most frightening two days and nights of my life.

      Once I was in my temporary home, fitted with an ankle bracelet, I began to shake off the horror of the past forty eight hours. I first located a twelve-step group; Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, and secured permission to leave the apartment for meetings four times per week. I then found a therapist and began meeting with him twice a week, desperately searching for what led me to such insanely destructive behavior. It was at this point that the therapist, a sensitive and caring man, succeeded in getting me to view the children in those photographs as flesh and blood human beings. I was utterly shattered as I came to realize that these girls and boys were all too real and had been abused, violated and exploited, sometimes by the very people who were supposed to love and protect them. Worse yet was the realization that I had participated in their exploitation by continuing the cycle of their photos being exposed to new eyes. I still think of those children often. Some of them probably aren’t even children anymore. But they will bear the emotional scars of their abuse and exploitation for the rest of their lives.

      I still shake my head in wonder that I, a person who has always loved, nurtured and protected the children in my life, could have sunk so low. I hold out hope that someday I might be forgiven for what I have done. But I must first find a way to forgive myself and I’m still not there yet.

      After my nine months of house arrest, I pled guilty to a single count of distribution of child pornography and was sentenced to seven and a half years in a federal prison. Following my sentencing, my case was publicized nationwide because of the high profile jobs that I had held in Hollywood. Worse yet, the local paper in Little Rock quoted liberally from chats that my computer had saved unbeknownst to me and that had been recovered by the FBI. The paper never bothered to clarify that the content of those chats was complete fiction nor did they report that the prosecution had stipulated in court that there had never been any improper actions with a child by me. Those who read the front page of their morning paper were left with the impression that there had been a monster living in their midst.

      So now I spend my days and nights living in a bizarre world dominated by career criminals. These are people who, for some sad reason, never developed emotionally beyond the level of small children. If they see something they want, they take it. If something upsets them, their first instinct is to hit someone. As I watch them jostle each other and engage in physical horseplay, it’s like watching little boys in the playground.  

      There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel like a stranger in a strange land. It is only at night when I close my eyes and drift off to sleep that my soul can soar over the chain link and razor wire as my dreams carry me back into the free world where my life can feel normal once again. And then I awaken the next morning, taking just a split second to realize anew where I am and then go through the motions of living another day.

Letters to Heaven – Dear Mom

On By Tony CassonIn Letters to Heaven

“Memory is the treasure house of the mind”        Thomas Fuller

“May she who gave you birth be happy”      Proverbs 23:25B  NLT

Dear Mom,

Of all of the words I have written in my life, I have written the least number of them to you.

For this, I apologize, and I will not add insult to injury by offering any excuses. 

In death you remain larger than life, and the words “I miss you” are woefully inadequate to describe the feeling of emptiness that moved in when you left and which has remained there for 3+ years.

I know you are happily at home with God and I am grateful that your long-time suffering has ended. When I see you in my dreams, I see a younger, healthier version of you with your eyesight, hearing and other physical ailments restored.

And, of course, I see that radiant smile of yours that so many people over your lifetime were able to see directed at them, making them aware that true goodness does exist on this earth.

Or did, anyway.

My time spent in prison, so far, has not been spent in vain, I don’t think, Mom. I know you cannot be happy with my being in prison, but I also know you can’t possibly be disappointed by how things are progressing so far.

Since the Lord saw fit to save me from death 2 years ago my heart has been filled with a faith that grows stronger daily. My love of the Lord, and recognition of all he has blessed me with, has led me to peace and contentment, even in this – the most impossible place imaginable where one would think those things could be found

And yet, I have found those things, and I know this is just the beginning; that the best is yet to come.

Sometimes I can almost feel the warmth of your smile as you look down upon me. From that warmth I gather the strength to resolve the past, and find the courage to face the future. I love the time I spend reminiscing; reliving various times in our lives together, both the good – and the not-so-good.

In fact, just the other day, I was thinking about the time, – ok, the first time – I ran away from home on a dare by the next door neighbor.

I was 13.

It wasn’t until I stood in the doorway of Anthony’s bedroom when he was 13 (Can you believe he just turned 24??)and I was watching him sleep (my goodness – did I look that innocent and young at 13?) and for some reason, as I stood there that whole incident popped into my head and I thought “Oh, my God! I was the same age as this precious young man sleeping peacefully before me when my mom woke up one day and I was gone!”

I remember calling you that day and tearfully apologizing, explaining that it wasn’t until the moment I looked at Anthony and I imagined myself waking up and finding him gone that I realized what a horrible thing I had done so many years before. It struck me with substantial force just how frantic you must have been and how much you must have ached inside wondering where your little boy had gone and whether I was safe.

 You reassured me that it was ok, and I felt your teary smile coming through the telephone, but I know that while you were reassuring me, you too were remembering that agonizing sense of panic and loss when my disappearance was discovered.

By the time or conversation ended, we had both laughed and both cried, and I believed you when you said that I had been forgiven long, long ago.

Your capacity for love and forgiveness was greater than that of anyone I have ever known and I believe – now that I know a little more about Him – that you got that directly from God.

Sometimes I am glad that you were not here on this earth to witness my final tumble from grace. That you were not alive to be given the news of my near-successful suicide attempt and the circumstances surrounding it. But I also think that if you had been alive to get up and speak about me to Judge Cohn, perhaps he would have been more lenient with me, for surely you would have convinced him of that, while damaged, I was not broken beyond repair.

He might, however, have sentenced me to more time for having the audacity to cause pain within someone so obviously full of love and goodness as you.

None of that matters, of course, since you were with me that day, in other, more wondrous – and powerful – ways and you remain with me today.

 When ‘Pop’ had his stroke and it was decided that I would move to Florida and hang out with you two and help out where I could, it was as if the Lord was orchestrating all of it as he foresaw what would eventually happen to you, to ‘Pop’, and then to me.

I am very thankful for the time we shared, the three of us, and even though there were rough spots, there were also beautiful moments, happy moments, and humorous ones as well.

When we were 1st together I remember the frustration at the difficulties presented by your hearing problems.  Remember when we finally made that appointment, had you tested and fitted and ordered your new hearing aids?

What a beautiful day it was when se went to pick them up.  The pleasure in your face was a joy to see. You could be so much like a child in your excitement sometimes.

Remember driving home after we left the store?  The conversation in the car was at normal level – no repeated words – no “what did you say?” – no raised voices.  Just the three of us, talking normally.  The joy you felt at being able to hear was evident in your radiant smile, and I’ll never forget what happened when we pulled in the driveway:  I helped you out of the car and you stopped and cocked your head – a puzzled look on your face.  I asked “What’s the matter?” 

“What’s that sound?”, you inquired. 

I listened for a moment, chuckled, shook my head and said, “Those are birds, Mom”.

It was wonderful to be part of that and to see at least a small portion of the quality of your life improve.

Of course, your eyesight had deteriorated much more than your hearing, and there simply wasn’t much in the way of mechanical aids to help you see better.  You had your ‘talking’ watch and ‘talking’ clock both which, with the push of a button would announce the time. Of course, your clock – which was next to your bed – was set to announce when it as 7AM. I remember how it freaked me out when I first moved there and would hear the voice.  That “voice” now announces 7AM for Kathy each and every day.

And let’s not forget your lighted magnifying glass – probably the single most important aid.  Goodness me! I was just sitting here remembering the time I took you to Penny’s so you could get a birthday gift for one the neighbors’ kids and started crying as I recalled watching you struggling with that thing looking at sizes and prices and insisting on being independent and self-sufficient.

It embarrasses and shames me how selfless you were and how selfish I was.  If only I had learned from you sooner, but you know me – “I knew it all”.

Now that’s  funny, right there.

Actually, though – speaking of funny – I get a chuckle recalling the time I planted flowers along the fence in your backyard.  You came to the back door and announced how pretty they were. Laughing, I said, “What are you talking about? You can’t see them!”  You insisted you could, so I just kissed the top of your white-haired head and said, “Yeah, right – but thanks.”

My favorite story is one told by ‘Pop’ and happened long before I got there.  You remember your blind dog, Teddy, of course (What is with that place, something in the water?).

Anyway,  the story goes:

One day you ‘looked’ out the back window and ‘saw’ Teddy lying by the pool. (He never fell in, did he?).  You opened the Florida room door and called out to him, but he laid just there.  You called him again with the same result, so you called out ‘Pop’ – “Roland! Roland!. . .  come here please!”

       ‘Pop’ walked up next to you and asked what you wanted.  You told him that you were calling Teddy to come in, but he wouldn’t come, whereupon ‘Pop’ told you that Teddy was in the living room, lying on the floor. You pointed outside and asked him, “Then who is that by the pool?”  Pop looked past you to where you were pointing, looked back to you and said, simply, “An iguana”, and turned and went back in to join Teddy in the living room.

Kind of glad he didn’t come when you called, weren’t you, Dear?

For the most part though, you were incredible to watch in your own home. One would never know you could hardly see.  You could bake, cook, clean, wash clothes, iron – you could do it all. You were an amazing woman and I’m sorry it took me so long to notice.

Well, Mother, I could go on and on. I guess what I’m trying to say through all of this is that I love you, I miss you and I think of you all the time.

I also want to reassure you that, while I would definitely rather be somewhere else, I am using the time that I have here constructively and in a positive way to strengthen my faith in God and to work on His plans for my future.

I’ll write again and let you know how things are going – maybe share another story or two.

Until then, know this: God will help me set this right. I remember the past, but I spend my days now looking forward and looking up. 

I look forward and I look up to my future and my hope, and my future and hope are with God.

I’m okay with that, and somehow I think you are too.

I love you, Mom.

Tony