[ "If ye love wealth greater than liberty,
the tranquility of servitude greater than the animating contest for
freedom,
go home from us in peace.
We seek not your counsel, nor your arms.
Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you;
and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen"
-- Samuel Adams ]
[ "It is time that we took the policies of the Republicans and Democrats
and ram them down their throats."
-- Jacob Hornberger ]
JUSTICE - AMERICAN STYLE
(The following documentary received from Bastiat Law)
Written from prison by
Gary B. Waid, #0-124551
New River C.I.(West) M-1
P.O. Box 333
Raiford, FL 32083
Recently the Federal Bureau of Prisons traded thirty minimum-security,
non-violent inmates to the Florida Department of Corrections in exchange for
thirty maximum-security state inmates. I am one of the thirty Federal
prisoners, a marijuana offender, used as barter.
I was moved in secret, in ignorance, in chains, from F.C.I. Texarkana,
through Oklahoma Transfer Center, to F.D.C. Miami, where on November 5,
1998, the Florida authorities took possession of my body. I had never been
convicted of a crime by this state. Nevertheless, they gave me a number and
processed me at a facility called North Florida Reception Center, a boot
camp for mostly violent offenders in Lake Butler, Florida. It was an
experience that shouldn't have been allowed to happen.
When I arrived, I still hadn't been told anything that wasn't a lie designed
to placate me and my family, so the shock of everything, of all the
violence, muted me, scaring me into compliance. There were fifteen of us in
that first batch, and no one had heard anything except false stories
released by the administrators to expedite things or for the "greater good."
We were mostly small time drug guys or money violators who's crimes orbited
one or another illegal drug. We had all done several years of our sentences,
which were long. In the Feds, long sentences are the norm. I, myself, am
doing a 9-year bit. None of us had been troublemakers, though. Evidently, we
had been chosen for our non-litigious, submissive natures. Cow-like, we
hunched our shoulders and squinted into the choreographed anger of the
guards in the reception bay.
Lake Butler Reception was a cold, brick and concrete room lighted with neon
and marked by rows of wooden benches. We were stripped, weighed, measured,
our hair removed and our property scrutinized then confiscated or boxed up
to be shipped home. We sat at attention for hours while a succession of
bully boys shouted at us. At midnight we were trundled off to lock-down
cells, then the next morning at 4:00 we did the whole thing once again, this
time in company with forty or fifty other mostly violent state offenders
just arrived from the county jails. Some of us had to scrub the floors with
toothbrushes, others had to stand at attention with noses pressed to the
wall or risk a beating. Screaming and head slaps were administered.
Occasionally a man was carted away. All of my group had been, until this
day, enjoying a certain incumbency as well-adjusted minimum custody guys.
Now suddenly, we were thrust into another world, a world where the guards
screamed and spit and cursed you, calling you names, exercising a sovereign
brutality as in: "Come on Fed boy, let's see what you got! Ain't no marshals
gonna protect you now, is there?" etc.
They dared us to speak or stare at them or suck our teeth or show any kind
of defiance. It scared me big time.
That night I was deposited in F-Dorm (I think), with five others of my
group. I was exhausted, afraid, my back hurt so much I couldn't climb into
the bunk, and I still knew nothing.
F-Dorm was less a prison wing, more a bizarre hospital set from some foreign
movie in which various war-wounded men limped and wheeled and washed body
parts and made sick, suppurating noises and spent a good deal of time
grossly, pinkly naked. There were a lot of A.I.D.S. patients, too, slowly
dying and unhappy about it, occasionally extremely sick about it. F-Dorm was
a well of lost souls, where all manner of personal frailties and tragedies
displayed themselves like balloons at a circus. We had a dwarf, a pair of
grossly fat men in wheelchairs awaiting heart operations, several cirrhotic
alcoholics with their frail limbs supporting distended, poisoned guts that
made them look comically like wading birds, and there was a guy with a drain
in his navel, which twice a day filled its attendant bag with a yellowish
opaque fluid that smelled of rot, like bad teeth. There were amputees and
multiple amputees, paralysis cases, imminent failures that bespoke gross
intemperance, wheedling, whining crybabies, insanely energetic sodomites
squabbling like strutting street hookers (excuse my alliteration), and we
had six federal inmates horrified at the thought of contracting whatever was
most contagious in the air.
I was there about ten days before they moved me, so, trying to be helpful, I
used to push a murderer's wheelchair to the chow hall and get his lunch tray
for him. He and I would eat quickly in silence, shoveling down as much of
the food as we could before one or another of the guards threw us out. The
man had been down 16 years of a 120 year sentence, and was so ravaged by
diabetes, his legs no longer supported him. I remember he took his showers
in the early evening with the other crippled men, all sitting in sling
chairs under the communal spray. I, myself, was reluctant at first to expose
myself to the guards and surround myself with so many sick men. I'd wait
until the freak show ended and wheeled or hobbled or slithered away to bed
or their card games. Then I'd go quickly, undress, bathe in the fluorescent
glare in front of the picture window where the guards stood watching TV, dry
myself, dress and run away.
Just being there was a miscarriage, I thought. Like an insult. I'm a
marijuana offender, right? I suppose some people might wonder why I expected
any consideration. Others might say I was intolerant. But they don't know;
they've never had to dance in the menagerie. I'm supposedly a well-behaved,
compliant man, now being punished for my good behavior these past 4 1/2
years. I was a pot guy, a Fed, not a wielder of weapons or a rapist. Why,
for political reasons unrelated to me, should I have to rot in this
stupefying hole? I don't deserve this, I thought, and the other federal
inmates with me agreed.
That week a counselor told me I was no longer a candidate for any federal
programs. Neither would I be allowed state credits or good-time incentives.
I was officially in limbo. Meanwhile, some of the guards accused me of being
a 'plant.'
I can understand it now, really. They were afraid of being ambushed. They
thought the feds were bushwhacking them and they knew their own bosses would
stay silent. It's odd how large, complicated institutions work to dehumanize
like that, but the most certainly do. If I and some of my confederates were
really F.B.I. agents, no one in the D.O.C. hierarchy would talk about it.
It's watch your own ass time, so benign directives passed down from on high
become sinister lies meant to ensnare a poor working man or woman for being
a mostly winked at bully or for breaking civil rights laws or for committing
more straightforward crimes like assault.
All of this drama served to anger the guards more, though, which made things
hard for me. I was asked point blank by more than one guy: "Who are you
really? Are you F.B.I.?" And the ominous stare-downs seemed dangerous, if
slightly comical. I and some of the other guys actually began to entertain
the notion that maybe we WERE a kind of double-agent plant system,
disposable chaff in a federal game of some sort. Lies are lies are lies, we
thought. Now would we know? After all, some of the staff at Lake Butler had
allegedly just killed an inmate, pushed him down the concrete stairwell. And
not long ago a genuine undercover agent was beaten to death, so they say. A
few years ago they killed a federal judge's son or nephew no less. The
Florida D.O.C. currently has ten officers charged with conspiracy to murder.
They allegedly beat a man, chained him to a bunk, and let him bleed to
death.
Considering all these stories, anything was possible. Every afternoon at
count time, I'd sit on my bunk and endure the stare-down from a pair of
hulking goons or uneducated women in uniform, and every afternoon I was
afraid they'd decide to chain me up and do me for sport.
I hated and hated and hated during my time at Lake Butler (about 3 week in
all). I kept thinking, "These men are family men. These guards and officials
and even the politicians who've looked this disgrace in the eye, they're
family men who are so dumb they don't see the recidivist irony. They don't
understand their poor rehabilitation record in Florida, but they were
surrounded by the reason. I wanted to shout it in their faces. "Hey stupid,
in a family, the violence visited upon the kids is ALWAYS returned in some
other way, at some other time, father to son to son to son....."
A prisoner who is violated, lied to, cheated, beaten, sooner or later will
strike back, usually on the weakest of his everyday encounters. Horrible,
horror-filled institutions like Lake Butler are factories of hate and
violence, especially when forced upon the non-violent inmates. Those guards
were creating thousands of guys who might decide to solve their problems (or
continue to solve their problems) like they were taught.
I'm at Florida State Prison Work Camp now, in Starke, Florida, awaiting the
results of my lawsuit. All my federal rights are gone. I've written 30
unanswered letters to the B.O.P., the Marshals, the Florida D.O.C. etc. I
was removed from my status in waiting for the D.A.P. (Federal Drug & Alcohol
Program, residential treatment), a program that offered a year off and six
months halfway house. My jailers have told me nothing and, indeed, stripped
me of my federal good time. My new out date, so they say, is unknown. They
issued me a notice, but the date is wrong. It must be. It says I do nine
years to the day now. They tell me if I don't behave, they'll send me across
the street to the big prison to be beaten up. I can't believe they say such
things, but at least I'm not at Lake Butler.
My family knows now why I think prison administrators are the worst of the
worst. It's because they use people like cattle. It's because they're liars.
It's because I'm a victim of a personal agenda. It's because I was trying to
do right, and they ignored it for "other reasons." If people think I deserve
to be brutalized, my questions ignored, my time increased, well fine. But
allow the judge to pronounce the sentence, not some baboon. There are 30 of
us in Florida State Prisons now, spread out across the state. But some of us
are trying to fight it. And I've heard rumors. Some of us are winning.
They call this place a camp. Fancy that. A camp with double razor fences,
patrolling perimeter trucks, and 14 counts a day. Fancy that.
NOTE: It is much too common for the outside to loose contact with prisoners.
B.O.P. moves them suddenly and often, usually in the wee hours of the night
with no advance notice to them or their families.
You pay for it. Shouldn't you want to know why?
These excessive and expensive relocations, along with other problems with
prison mail, media restrictions, high rates for collect calls, and increased
use of long isolations, has convinced me that the prisons would like to see
communication between prisoners and the outside severed.
If the rest of the country follows Florida's lead, it will make it harder
than ever to know where your prisoner is and what is happening to him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
----
Bastiatlaw comments:
* Where is Amnesty International?
* Where is the Clergy?
* Where is the ACLU?
* Where is the Media?
* Where are all those public servants and legal professionals who are sworn
or affirmed to uphold our Constitution?
* Whatever happened to our Bill of Rights?
* Is there really a growing Judicial Industry that rakes in $billions
annually?
* Should We, the People pay for government sanctioned crimes and subsidize
parasites?
If you don't know, I'll be happy to tell you.
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
http://www.jail4judges.org/index/justice.htm
Bard
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