What Happened In Prison – Part V: The Merry-go-round

In early 1993, after thirteen years of imprisonment for a crime (rape) that I was supposed to serve only five years for, I was found paroleable (again) by the ISRB (the defunct parole board now called the Indeterminate Sentencing Review Board). But, this time they set conditions that I had to meet before my release.

These conditions were a part of their newly invented MAP requirements. The ISRB came up with these requirements ostensibly to help inmates prepare for the supposed „shock” of being set free after so many years in prison. The real reason of course had nothing to do with helping inmates at all. It was just another one of their ruses to delay the parole-release process as long as possible so the ISRB could keep their jobs. You see, they only had a fixed number of old guideline inmates (with indeterminate sentences) left in their charge after the SRA (sentencing reform act) laws went into effect. Once those inmates were gone (released or deceased) then so was the ISRB, along with all of its support staff and lawyers. They would loose millions of dollars that they raked in annually from the state coffers to pay their ridiculous salaries so they could continue flying arount the state going from prison to prison playing God.

It took nearly two years after I was found paroleable for me to meet all their MAP requirements so I could be released. It was only supposed to take nine months at the most. The system made it literally impossible for me to complete the requirements. It took an attorney working on my behalf just to get the ISRB to make the necessary arrangements that would allow their requirements to be met. Without the attorney I would have been stuck indefinitely.

The MAP requirements stipulated amongst other things that I had to complete a five week Victim Awareness class and spend six months at a minimum security institution. The minimum security stipulation was supposedly so I could acclimate to the fewer restrictions on my freedom in preparation for my release.

So, in the middle of the last semester of school at Walla Walla, which I needed to complete an associates degree, I was abruptly transferred to the Olympic/Clearwater Corrections Center (OCC), a work camp in the middle of the Olympic rain forest on the Washington state peninsula. The transfer of course kept me from finishing the last three humanities credits I needed for my degree. I don't have to tell you what a negative impact that was on my ability to get a job or even to continue my education after my release, not to mention what a huge let down it was for me not to get the degree after working so hard and so long on it. My g.p.a. was over 3.8, which would have easily gotten me accepted at a four-year University, if I had an A.A. degree. But, it seemed the ISRB thought cleaning bathrooms at a minimum security work camp and listening to victim sob stories for five weeks was more conducive to my success on parole. Yah, right. They consequently ignored my requests to delay the transfer for the few weeks it would have taken to complete the degree.

The reason I ended up at the OCC work camp specifically was because the Victim Awareness class was supposed to be there. Of course as it turned out wasn't there anymore. Apparently either someone didn't think to inform the ISRB (not likely), or the ISRB just wasn't doing the job they were so eager to keep (i. e. by reading the program status memos that are routinely posted on the DOC computer network bulletin board), which was almost likely the case.

Of course it seemed to me at the time that the real reason for this fiasco was that the ISRB was stalling again. I believed that they had deliberately sent me to OCC knowing full well that the Victim Awareness class wasn't there, just to piss me off even more than I already was. It was like kicking a mad dog for good measure before releasing it on an unsuspecting neighborhood. I was the mad dog, and it seemed the „kicks” came more and more the closer I got to that release gate.

As it turned out the Victim Awareness class was only available at two different institutions in the state. One was the Spokane Pre-Release, which did not accept sex offenders, and the other was at McNeil Island Corrections Center (MICC), the same medium security prison where I'd met my man, Big Al, and where I had previously served six years before going to Walla Walla. But, the MAP requirements stipulated that I remain at camp for six months. So, I was stuck cleaning bathrooms and „acclimating to the fewer restrictions on my freedom,” so I could later be sent back to a medium security prison with more restrictions again to take the Victim Awareness class. And all this was going to make me more suitable to be paroled. Yah, right.

The acting CUS (Custody Unit Supervisor) at OCC was a haughty and overly ambitious middle aged female counselor. As soon as I arrived she took me into her office for a little „girl chat”. Apparently she was expecting me and had a speech all prepared. This made me very uncomfortable right from the git. She told me that if I had any problems with any of the inmates because of my sexual disposition (I'm paraphrasing here) that I could confide in her and she'd put an end to it. I took this as an insult of course. The idea of asking for her help dealing with other inmates was as repulsive to me as asking a rapist for a back rub when he was done. I just smiled and nodded politely so she would continue. She told me that she was considering placing me in the medical room which was rarely used and would afford me some privacy. Translation; she wanted to seperate me from the other inmates, which I actually didn't mind. I still just smiled and let her continue. Then she told me that she was the head honcho at OCC and as long as I respected her (i. e. her rules) then she would respect me. Translation; don't mess with her and she won't mess with me. I think she was starting to detect my disdain. I bit my tongue and said nothing. But then she blurted out that, „Some of the inmates here call me mom...” and I couldn't help but laugh a little. Since the cat was now out of the bag I told her that I didn't need her help dealing with other inmates and by virtue of her „authority” alone I would never respect her; but the private medical room would be nice. Her reaction was predictable and she did exactly what she said she'd do; started messing with me every chance she got.

The first really mean thing she did was to have me assigned to an open bunk in the middle of the main dormitory right in front of a large picture window that gave anyone on the back porch a direct view of the bunk where I slept and especially the area in front of the bunk between it and the locker where I had to stand to get dressed (or undressed). The back porch area was where all the inmates congregated to play cards, smoke their cigarettes, or just hang out. It seems my privacy wasn't such a big concern for that acting CUS after all. She must have thought that staking me out for the wolves would make me regret snubbing the offer of her personal protection. But, wolves (predatory inmates) didn't bother me. My man, Big Al, and years as a queen in the penitentiary (i. e. real prison) had taught me how to handle them. It was her blatant renege on my privacy that pissed me off. I thought if that dominatrix bitch wants to play games, well then I would certainly oblige. I still wanted to get moved to the private medical room, which by now I had seen. It was spacious and comfortable looking with a read bed and even a private shower! I had an idea of how I still might get moved there, or at least have some fun trying.

On the very next workday morning I came from the shower wearing just all my white bathrobe with nothing on underneath (most of my personal clothes were white, which I considered Jazzi's signature color). I stood directly in front of the picture window between my assigned bunk and locker. Outside on the porch were about 30 or 40 inmates talking and smoking cigarettes as they waited for the DNR busses that would take them to work (planting trees). I couldn't see them very well because it was still dark outside and only a few relatively dim lights illuminated the porch area. All I could see was mostly my own reflection which i pretended to ignore as if the window weren't even there. I knew full well of course that all those inmates were out there and that they could see me as plainly as a mannequin in a brightly lit display window at night. I proceeded by opening the locker door so it would block the view from the dorm area. I didn't want anyone to see my privates from the front. That would have been embarrassing. Then I doffed the robe and stood completely naked with my backside to the window, reached into the locker and took out a bottle of lotion and began applying it all over my body with my hands, starting with my shoulders, arms, torso and working my way very deliberately down around my waist to my butt and legs. I was careful to keep my legs together so no one could see anything I didn't want them to see dangling between them. I might have spent a little more time than necessary applying the lotion and rubbing it in on the lower portions of my body (especially my ass) and bending over (of course) to do my legs, but I do that anyway, even when I'm alone and in private, just for the fun of it.

I didn't need to look out the window to know I had everyone's attention. The usual commotion that came from the back porch had ceased. I had a very sexy and effeminate looking body that I was proud of. From the back, my slender shoulders thin chest and narrow waist going to a pear shaped ass and long smooth legs, made me indistinguishable from a real genny (genetic female). I had actually expected some cat calls and whistles, but the silence from outside was even better. Those mostly short-timer inmates were completely stunned (or so I at least imagined). They didn't know what to think or how to react to such a blazon display of sociosexual contradiction. But, at least a few of them knew how to snitch, which I was counting on.

After finishing with the lotion I put it away and slipped into a pair of my panties (men's white bikini briefs) and, as discretely as I could, tucked my”embarrassment” between my legs, turning sideways to make adjustments so it would look like I was fondling my vagina (assuming I had one). I made sure right there in front of everybody that everything was securely in place, penis pulled back to the crack of my ass and testicles pushed up inside my body where they'd stay out of harms way. This arrangement allowed me to wear super tight pants pulled all the way up in the crotch comfortably with no bulge at all between my legs. I quickly finished getting dressed for work in tight fitting state khakies. It was eight o'clock sharp, time to go clean bathrooms.

Before I even get to the janitor's closet so I could start work I heard my name called over the camp's PA system, „Inmate Duncan, report to the front office”. I put on my best what'd-I-do? Face and walked into the front office (a.k.a. Segeant's office).

The acting CUS was sitting at the sergeant's desk. The sergeant and another unit officer were standing on either side. Their presence, positinos, and postures (not to mention facial expressions) told me that they were prepared to physically restrain me at any moment.

She told me to sit down (they never ask you to sit, they just tell you to), then she played her cards without further delay. „We have several reports from inmates and staff that you were seen exposing yourself to the work crews this morning.” she said.

My jaw dropped in feigned indignation. So that's what she was in the sergeant's office with her goons. She thought she had me on a major rule infraction, for exposing myself no less. In all my years in prison I had been infracted for just about everything, but never for anything sexual like this. Considering the sexual nature of my original charges and my subjection to the ISRB's arbitrary rule, this could be very serious. I would at least loose my minimum security custody and be sent back to a medium security prison on the next chain bus. So much for paroling in six months. The ISRB could add years for something like this; they'd certainly already done so for much less.

But, I knew i had done nothing wrong (as if that would really make any difference). So, I told her, „I have no idea why anyone would think I was exposing myself, unless they were peeping in the window next to my assigned bunk where I was getting dressed this morning after my shower. I opened the locker door to try to block the view as best as I could, but I couldn't block that window.”

She frowned. Apparently she didn't expect a ready excuse. Most likely she expected to see me squirm the way most duck inmates do when they've been caught. But, I wasn't squirming at all and that seemed to make her unhappy. She still had more cards to play though, so she followed suit with, „Two staff members said they saw you fondling yourself in front of the window.”

I had to assume that her statement was another authoritarian doublespeak question, so I answered her by explaining that I was in fact just putting on my body lotion and then adjusting my „privates” the same way I always do after a shower and while getting dressed. I told her that I didn't like having to get dressed in front of that window, but I had little choice. „You were the one who had me assigned to that bunk.” I said, letting the implication hang there. Then, in case the implication was not enough, I said, „If any other inmate had been getting dressed in front of that window no one would have paid any attention.”

She just looked at me for a moment, then frowned again and looked at the sergeant and raised her eyebrows. The sergeant just shrugged. It seems my cards played, but she still had her trump, so she laid it down, „From now on you will get dressed and undressed in the shower only. Is that clear?”

I had to concede of course. So, that was that. No medical room for me. But, I had managed to announce my arrival at camp in a way that now everyone knew who I was and, more importantly, that I was no snitch or anyone's punk. But, now „Mom” was out to get me more than ever. Someone like her would never let me undermine her „authority” (i. e. power trip) without retaliation. She did eventually manage to hang me in a paper noose, but it took her a few months to do it. And, in the meantime I had the run of the camp with certain liberties I hadn't had in a very long time.

As I've said, my job was cleaning the bathrooms and showers, twice each work day, once in the morning and again afternoon. I didn't mind the job at all, even though the bathrooms and showers were really disgusting, especially in the morning. I'd just put on a pair of thick rubber gloves and scrub practically every inch then hose it all down afterwards. At least I knew the bathroom was clean when I used it, and it was a lot better than having to trudge up and down muddy hills all day planting trees.

Some of the Mexicans would literally stand on the toilets then squat over them to take a dump. They frequently ended up getting more shit on the toilet than in it, and I had to clean that too. But, in the afternoons all I needed to do was just check the bathrooms to make sure they were still clean, which they usually were since nearly everyone was out of camp with one of the DNR work crews. So I had lots of time to myself in the afternoons.

I liked to go up to the „yard” behind the camp that was up on a hill and out of sight of the main buildings. There was no fence or any other kind of perimeter around the camp, not even the yard. If I wanted to I could easily walk off into the woods that surrounded the camp and bordered the yard, but I never did. Just knowing I could was exciting enough for me.

I almost always had the yard to myself, even in the evenings, and I enjoyed it thus even more immensely. I would just sit and watch the ravens, which were so numerous at times I felt like I was in a Hitchcock movie. I tried jogging around the mud track too, but my knees still couldn't take much of that. So, I'd walk for miles just in circles, frequently fantasizing that I was really free, walking in the forest. The yard was by far my greatest pleasure at camp. I never understood why no other inmates felt the same way about it (but in hindsight I realize that after working all day in the woods planting trees, the „yard” probably seemed like just another muddy trail to them).

From the yard I also had an excellent view of the surrounding hills, which would have been something beautiful to behold except that nearly all of them had been stripped by the logging operation called clear cutting. The only thing left were the ugly dead stumps of the trees that once dressed the hills in luscious green. The saplings planted in their stead didn't even begin to cover up the black and brown nakedness of the soil exposed by the violence I came to think of as the brutal rape of mother nature.

One day I found an editorial cartoon in the newspaper that ridiculed such logging operations, and I hung it up on the camp bulletin board near the front office. The cartoon showed a doe and her fawn standing in a natural forest looking out across a field at a tree farm with uniformly spaced trees and no undergrowth. The fawn was asking its mother in the caption, „Mom, what's wrong with that forest?” I made no effort to conceal what I did, but it was a good thing no one saw me putting up the cartoon because the next day it was gone, and in its place was a memo from the acting CUS („mom”), „ANYONE CAUGHT POSTING SUBVERSIVE MATERIAL ON THIS BOARD WILL RECEIVE A MAJOR INFRACTION FOR INCITING”. So much for free speech in that neck of the woods.

Another thing I liked about OCC was the kitchen and dining hall, which doubled for the visiting room on weekends. It was a modern building that stood seperate from all the other barracks-like camp buildings (dorms and rooms). It was like a campus cafeteria, not a prison chow hall at all. They even had a self-serve salad bar and all the peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches you could make yourself and eat. The good food was considered the main perk for being at a work camp, and the DNR crews claimed they ate even better out in the field, but I wouldn't know. For me the biggest perk was being able to sit alone in the yard area completely out of sight of everyone else with only trees around me.

During the few months I was at OCC I got visits from my mom, who drove from Tacoma over the Narrows Bridge, and from Dave, who came from Seattle across the Puget Sound on the ferry. Dave was the friend I had met in Walla Walla through a Gay newspaper (SGN) ad. He was also the one who hired the attorney that made the ISRB obey the law and find me paroleable, which is what got me sent to camp and which I was about to find out was really just a merry-go-round ride designed to get rid of Dave and the attorney.

I can't say that I was ever in love with Dave, but I certainly came to love him as a friend and eventually even as a lover. I respected him in ways that I don't think he ever really understood. To this day he thinks I used him from the start, which is what the ISRB and acting CUS and OCC wanted him to think back then, but try as they might, they only made him love me even more by attacking me and screwing me around the way they did.

The acting CUS knew of course that Dave was the one who hired the attorney that got me sent to camp (this information was communicated to her through my central file and flagged „confidential” so I would never see it). So, unbeknownst to me she started reading every letter that Dave and I exchanged as soon as I got to OCC. Her intent of course was to look for her chance to drive a wedge between us, or, in her mind, to „warn” Dave that he was being used.

I had written to Dave and asked him to make a copy of a computer printout (dot-matrix) hat I had changed so it would appear to say my original offense was assault, not rape. The document was an unofficial Earned time/Good time report that was essentially meaningless in my case since I was so far past my ETRD (Earned Time Release Date) that the numbers on the report made no sense. But, it did show my original charge, and by making the change I'd be able to show other inmates „proof” that I was in for assault. I had asked Dave to make a copy so the place where I made the modification would not be visible (I had used a razor to literally cut and paste the new information in place of the old).

I knew my mail was routinely scanned (i. e. read), but I didn't know the acting CUS was personally reading all my mail looking for anything she could use to screw me over. So, I thought nothing of asking Dave to make the copy, since I honestly did not think I was doing anything untoward. But, the acting CUS decided to arbitrarily call it an official document so she could then infract me for forgery! Forgery is a major infraction that would cause me to lose minimum custody and get kicked out of camp. She also took it upon herself to contact Dave to let him know how I had tried to involve him in a criminal act, and warn him about how inmates use people.

But, Dave took my side, especially once I explained to him what she was calling an „official document”. It was by now clear to him how the system was trying to screw me over every chance it get, all in the name of „Justice”, of course.

The acting CUS presided over the hearing and she completely ignored my observation that the printout I had modified was in no way marked „official” and even said, „unofficial” right on it. I pointed out that making a modified copy of a page from a book is not forgery, and neither was this. She reiterated that it was an official document (with no evidence) and found me guilty. I was on the next chain bus back to Clallum Bay Corrections Center (CBCC), which was the closest medium security state prison to OCC.

When I got to Clallum Bay I cried, literally. As soon as I arrived I went straight to the sergeant's office for the unit I was assigned and cried like a lost little girl and asked the sergeant to put me in protective custody. I didn't really need protection, but I was devastated by the sudden turn of events. One minute I was at a camp on my way to freedom, and the next I was back inside another cold concrete prison surrounded once more by posturing apes seeking precious status within the dregs of human society. The razor-wire and steel doors with shatterproof glass all reminded me of how hated and feared I was yet again. And if all that weren't enough, I was being punished again for something I didn't even know was terribly wrong. It felt like the nightmare of my incarceration was being revived all over again; and my fear that it would never end (i. e. that I would never get out of prison alive)was just too much for my poor lonely little girl heart.

In other words, I had let down my emotional defenses while I was at camp, thinking I'd never need them again, only to find myself right back in hell.

I desperately missed Big Al. When I got to the SHU (Special Housing Unit for PC inmates) I could see black prisoners playing basketball outside of the window from the solitary cell I was in. Seeing them play reminded me of the times Big Al and I had play HORSE while we were in adseg together at MICC. We'd talk as we played and tease each other over missed snots, letting each other win in turns because the score didn't really matter to either of us; the company was all that mattered.

In the SHU I cried off and on for a few days, then after I'd calmed down (and reinstalled my defenses) they let me back out into population. I stayed to myself and pretty much didn't talk to anyone except to let the convicts know who I was and who my representation was (i. e. Big Al). That was enough to keep the wolves and other predators off my back (literally), so I didn't have any problems in that regard, mostly thanks to Big Al's reputation, not my own so much. I wasn't interested in sex at all, I suppose my longing for Big Al pretty much squashed that need, not to mention that since I was throwing his name around as representation I had to honor our relationship even though technically we had already agreed hat all ties, other than our continuing friendship, were officially severed. I ate at a neutral table in the chow hall, and didn't make any friends that I remember (not that I tried not to, but I didn't try either).

Within a few weeks (as I remember) I got my minimum custody status back. It normally takes at least six months to get enough points back after a major infraction, but they had just opened a brand new minimum custody housing unit inside Clallum Bay and needed to fill beds. So they gave me an administrative override and moved me to the new unit.

It was exceptionally clean, and I had more so-called privileges, like a key to my cell, and no toilet in the cell. So the move was a step in the right direction, I suppose. But it was still inside the double razor-wire fence and didn't make me feel any closer to getting out. I still ate in the same chow hall and went to the same recreation yard to walk around the track with the medium security inmates. So why they called it „minimum security” didn't make any sense to me (I found out later that it was technically called „closed minimum”, as if that made any difference).

I passed the time mostly on the yard walking the track by myself or just sitting someplace looking out at the trees. At least I could see the trees, even if I could not be amongst them. I'd also go to the library and spend quiet time there reading. I checked the school offerings, but they had no college level courses (except vocational).

Because the housing unit I was in was considered minimum security, the time I spent there counted toward the six months minimum custody requirement for the MAP conditions of my parole release. That meant that after a few months the only requirement I had left before I could be paroled was the illusive Victim Awareness class. So I was chained up and put on yet another prison bus to be transferred back to McNeil Island (MICC) where the class I need was supposedly being offered. But, of course, once again no one bothered to check the current status of the program before I was shipped off. So I didn't find out until after I had arrived, just like last time, that the class had been discontinued at MICC as well. Oh, they had an active class just a couple of months before, while I was completing the six months of minimum security in a medium security prison, but that had been the last one before the class was cancelled. This of course was just another kick in the ribs of that already starved and mistreated dog; my soul, if you will. (I found out later that the counselors and ISRB were in fact conspiring to keep me locked up as long as possible, as if delaying the inevitable was somehow going to help anything more than their job security – if a mad dog bites a child, then the dog catchers get a pay raise, even is they're the ones who beat and starved the dog in the first place – it's what we call the justice system in this great country of ours).

The only place in the state that still offered the stupid class was Spokane Pre-release. But they refused to accept sex offenders (nothing like a little state sanctioned discrimination to make things even worse than they already are). So now I was stuck at MICC with no possible way of completing the last MAP requirement for my release. The counselor at MICC was no help of course. He literally shrugged his shoulders and told me there was nothing he could do (the proverbial „my hands are tied” excuse for injustice). I wouldn't be the first inmate forced to max-out (serve the full 20 year sentence for a crime I was only supposed to serve five years at most for according to the so-called SRA Laws) because the system set impossible to reach requirements for release. It was a trick that worked well under the old-guidelines (pre-SRA). But lucky for me there were new laws that the ISRB were still somewhat inexperienced at cirrumventing (my case was an early attempt to bypass laws requiring the ISRB to release inmates under specific conditions, but it ultimately failed only because I had a lawyer and they made mistakes, like keeping computer records of their communications regarding my case. But they've since gotten a lot better. My friend, Big Al, was found paroleable over nine years ago, and is still sitting at a so-called minimum security camp in Monroe, Washington, waiting to complete the very same last MAP requirement that I had; the Victim Awareness class. He has been waiting for years, because, guess what? The only place that has the class is still Spokane Pre-release, and Big Al is considered too violent for them too. He has lawyers trying to help him too, in fact MY lawyers, from my death penalty case, who are helping him pro-bono, out of the kindness of their hearts. My attorneys met and interviewed Big Al while preparing my case for trial. They were so impressed by him – one person said that out of the hundreds of people she has interviewed over the years for her cases, Big Al was one that impressed her the most, for his intelligence, and sincere compassion, and humble outlook – so they took it upon themselves to help him as they could. But so far, apparently, they haven't been having much luck.)

The lawyer that my friend, Dave, had hired for me back then filed a PRP (Personal Restraint Petition – which is a standard legal remedy for prisoners), and within a couple of months the Spokane Pre-release was somehow persuaded to accept at least one „sex offender”, namely me. It seems that the ISRB decided to quickly fix the problem rather than allow the PRP to go through the courts, since it contained evidence of their conspiracy to keep me locked up way past my legally sactioned release date. So the PRP became moot and was dismissed, but not before it had served its purpose; to make the ISRB, and DOC, at least pretend to obey the law. I found out later that there was another reason why the ISRB wanted this PRP squashed quickly; because it would have set a legal precedent that other prisoners (like Big Al) could take advantage of. Those board members are devious as hell when it comes to legal maneuvering, they manipulate the law more than they obey it, just to keep their jobs.

But, before I was chained up and shipped off one last time, I had a couple of months to get reacquinted with MICC. It had changed quite a bit in the four years I was gone, and was still changing quite drastically right before my eyes!

Summit House, the preferred housing unit that was nicknamed the Hotel, had been torn down and replaced by a modern SHU (thus replacing the most open living unit I ever know of in prison, with the most closed and restricted). They had also closed the main cellblocks and moved all the prisoners to brand new „medium security” units that had been built right next to where the old cellblocks stood. These new „medium security” units had all the same amenities and privileges as the so-called „minimum security” units I was in at Clallum Bay. In fact, the only difference I could see was that the actual shapes of the buildings and floor plans were triangular instead of square. Everything else was the same (i. e. dry cells, inmate keys, etc...).

I had arrived just in time to watch them tear down the old cellblocks with a wrecking ball and giant tractor mounted jack hammers and hydrolic pinchers for grabbing and tearing out all the steel bars and cutting the rebar. I couldn't help but feel that somehow fate was involved with allowing me to witness the destruction of such an icon from my past just before I expected to be released. I suppose I could have even taken it as an omen, but I didn't. My rational mind insisted it was pure coincidence, and I left it at that.

They were still using the old chow hall though, but i knew they had plans to build a new one in place of the cellblocks being torn down. I had actually seen the plans for the new chow hall, complete with a whole new kitchen, back before I'd left MICC four years ago. While I was working as an aide to the Food Services Manager (the last job I had at MICC before being sent to Walla Walla) he showed the plans for the new kitchen to me like a proud father. He explained how efficient the new serving line would be, telling me that each inmate will be served a tray through a slot in the wall, so everyone gets exactly the same amount of food. The servers never see who they are serving and the inmates never get to see who is serving them. „So there'll be no favoritism”, he boasted. I asked, „Doesn't that strike you as inhumane at all?” He just shrugged. This was the same man who liked to put prune juice in the juice machines when the menu from Olympia (his headquarters) called for orange juice. When I asked him about that he told me, „The inmates drink less prune juice than they do orange juice, so it saves money”. So I asked if he got some sort of an award or other incentive for saving money, and he said, „No. It's just my job to save money.” He also claimed that he knew for a fact that the WWF wrestling matches were real, because he used to be a professional wrestler (apparently back before it became a popular form of commercial entertainment for children and idiots).

Anyway, since I basically grew up at MICC I knew a lot of people there still. So I got to talk to a lot more people than I did at Clallum Bay, mostly old acquintances I met on the yard or in the chow hall. Though most of them didn't want to be seen hanging out with a queen, so they wouldn't talk for very long, usually just long enough to say hi and exchange a little news (i. e. gossip mostly).

I ate a neutral table in the chow hall like at Clallum Bay (at OCC camp, all the tables were „neutral” as far as I was concerned, in other words, no one was liable to smash you in the face for sitting where you weren't supposed to). But I usually took my time eating so people who knew me would have a chance to come over and say hi, and gossip if they wanted.

There were a lot of new faces too. I'd guess that there was about a seventy to eighty percent turn over in the time I was gone. For the most part all the ducks (newbies) left me alone because, like at Clallum Bay, they just didn't know me. But it was clear by the company I kept (or at least by the people I talked to, even if briefly) that I had been around for awhile and was known by all the old-timers. Only once did anyone try to mess with me. Some idiot duck in the chow hall scrape room (only ducks worked in the scrape room) apparently thought it would be funny to spray me with water as I dropped off my tray. Without even thinking about it I just threw my tray as hard as I could through the window, and was shortly rewarded by a huge crash as I had apparently struck a large stack of trays (and they were metal trays, so you can imagine how much noise they made). The whole chow hall seemed to just stop and everyone looked in my direction to see what happened. But, I just walked away calmly as if I had nothing to do with it. Everyone, even the guards apparently, just assumed some klutz must have knocked over a stack of trays in the scrape room. But word eventually got out (maybe I helped a little) and I never had anymore trouble from any ducks after that. (By the way, yes, I was aiming for the inmate, but the stack of trays was just as well).

There was only one staff member that I was interested in seeing while I was back on the island, and that was the vocational electronics instructor, Glen Backman. When I'd left four years before I was angry at him for letting the guards find me guilty for „stealing” items from the electronics shop where I worked at the time. This was the infraction that got me kicked out of Summit House, so it really hurt. Glen was supposed to testify at my hearing that he'd given me permission to have the items in question (some wire and miscellaneous jacks and resistors that I used to fix – usually quick patch jobs – other inmates radios and such). But he never showed up at my hearing and I was consequently found guilty for stealing (I had actually even paid money to the electronics shop for some of these items, and I would never have stolen from the shop out of respect for Glen and the other inmates who worked there. So to be accused of and found guilty for stealing from the shop was a blow to my pride as well). It was because of this infraction that I had quit my job (as lead technician with the most seniority at the time) and took the job for Institutional Industries as a computer programmer, which had been offered several months before but I had turned down, even though it paid four times more than what I made in the shop, out of respect and loyalty to the electronics shop.

But, over the years my steam cooled and when I thought through everything that happened back then it dawned on me that Glen had most likely been threatened with the loss of his job if he testified at my infraction hearing. So I forgave him and wanted to see him now so I could formally apologize.

So, I signed up for an electronics class in computer programming (even though I already had an AS degree in electronics from the last time I was at MICC). But the class was in the evenings and I found out that Glen only worked during the day now (he used to work evenings too) and a part-timer filled in the evenings. At least I got to snoop around the electronics shop, which actually wasn't a shop anymore, just a classroom in the basement of the building where the shop used to be. They no longer allowed inmates to repair other inmate's radios and such, so the shop was closed down, and much of the old equipment was just sitting off to one side of the classroom in stacks of boxes.

It was some of these boxes that I was rooting through one day when I found the actual very first book I learned to program computers from. It was the Apple_IIe_Programmer's_Manual that was like a bible to me when I had it back in the 80's. It was just laying by itself in a box of probes and other junk (the only book in the box) as if it was put there for me to find someday. This book had tremendous sentimental value for me and I could hardly believe I'd found it. So I commandered it of course, which was easy enough to do, and I still had that book with me when I was eventually released many months later.

I don't remember if I ever got a chance to apologize to Glen, but I'm sure I did. I do know that as of just a few years ago my attorneys confirmed that he was still working as an instructor on the Island and had even spoken to him about me. Surprisingly he had nothing but good things to say about me, despite knowing that what I had done after I got out of prison. That's what I always liked about Glen, he was honest and treated everyone fairly. I should never have gotten mad at him.

I don't recall exactly how long I was at McNeil Island this time, but it seems like it was six months or less before I was finally shipped off to the Pre-release in Spokane, clear on the other side of the state.

Spokane Pre-release was the least restrictive custody, between a minimum security camp and work release. The prison was located in an annex of Eastern State (mental) Hospital, comprised of an old hospital building surrounded by several portables that served as kitchen, chow hall, recreation center (gym), as well as administration offices and classrooms, and one extra dormatory unit. The entire complex (about two acres all together) was surrounded by a ten foot high chainlink fence topped with razor wire. Behind the main building there was a yard big enough for playing softball, with the obligatory track going around it. The even had an outdoor basketball court, though, strangely, no one ever seemed interested in it (I guess they preferred to play basketball inside the air-conditioned gym).

It seemed to me like I was the only prisoner there who'd ever seen the inside of a real prison. Almost everyone else had either been sent directly from Shelton (the state receiving and classification center), or from one of the minimum security camps. They were mostly serving less than two years for class „C” felonies.

I had no problem „adjusting” to this new social genre at all. I even befriended a few people I'd met with common intellectual interests. After the fiasco at OCC camp I'd toned down my flamboyant queen act, and though I made no deliberate attempt to conceal my sexual orientation, I was better at fitting in, even if as a „gay”. So nobody bothered me and seemed to think I belonged even (i. e. didn't stand out). I signed up for yoga and meditation classes, and of course, enrolled in the required Victim Awareness class.

The Victim Awareness class was just as pointless as I suspected it would be. We cut up pictures out of old magazines and made „victim” collages that were supposed to express how victims feel (or something dumb like that). Then we'd watch videos about victim impact (or something dumb like that). And occasionally a „guest” would come in to tell us what it feels like to be a victim (or something dumb like that). We weren't allowed to ask questions. The principles of the class were taught like a dogma; criminals are insensitive, and victims are innocent. I guess whoever thought up the class didn't think „criminals” knew what it felt like to be a victim. Imagine that.

After I finished the class, my counselor notified the ISRB and submitted updated parole plans. Everything went extremely well in this regard, especially considering that the counselor rarely ever had to deal with the ISRB or submit formal parole plans for most pre-release inmates. I suspect the pre-release staff wanted me out of their hair as quickly as possible, so they weren't about to play the ISRB's games.

My plans were to parole to Seattle. The Interaction Transition program House had already accepted me many years ago and their policy was that once someone is accepted (a process that can take years) then that person is always accepted, even if they don't have a room, they'll let the person sleep on a couch is necessary, until a room opens up. Fortunately for me they had a room available, and my friend Dave (who had become a regular face at the IT House on my behalf) had already paid the first months rent (about 300 dollar).

Surprisingly, my parole plans were quickly approved. I suspect that the ISRB had to call in some favors to get me accepted at Spokane Pre-Release in the first place in order to get themselves out of the legal bind my attorney had put them in. And my speedy release now was one of the conditions of their bailout imposed by the Pre-release officials, who I'm certain did not like having a „violent sex-offender” in their charge one bit. Within a matter of days I had an actual release date – my god, I get emotional even now just remembering that. A real honest-to-god release date! And I found out what the actual date was just weeks before it came, so I didn't have long to wait biting my nails.

Needless to say, those past few weeks passed by very quickly. In fact, I have no memories at all of the time even passing. The next thing I knew I was walking out the prison gate carrying a brown paper grocery bag with a few belongings in it (I had already sent most of my stuff, personal property, including the Apple IIe book I'd commandered from the electronics shop at McNeil, by mail to the IT House in Seattle a few days before so it wouldn't be a burden on my release day). A couple of prison staff (guards) were waiting in a state owned sedan to take me to the airport. My friend, Dave, had paid for the cost of a plane ticket ahead of time in order to spare me the long bus ride to Seattle. Dave himself would be waiting, with my mother, for my arrival at the Seatac airport.

At the Spokane airport, the guards handed me an envelope that contained my ticket and 20 dollar in cash (I was to get the rest of my 100 dollar „release money” when I checked in with the parole officer in Seattle). Then they let me out in front of the main entrance to the airport and drove off without any further instructions and without even saying good-bye. I suppose they were „just doing their job”.

I entered the airport terminal wearing all white, 505 jeans and shirt, with my hair pulled back and tied into what I'd hoped was an inconspicuous ponytail. I wasn't worried about people thinking I was gay, I just didn't want them to think I'd just gotten out of prison. So I tried to act as casual as I could as I found my way to the airport coffee shop. I desperately wanted a good shot of caffeine to calm my nerves.

When I asked the young woman behind the counter for a coffee she said, „Americano or Laté?” At the time I had no idea what an Americano was, so I ordered a Laté, and chose vanilla, thinking that would be the safest choice (I'd never had a Laté before, but had heard of them from TV and visitors in prison). After paying the shocking cost of the drink, I found my way to a tall coffee shop table so I could set down my bag and try the drink. A moment later the entire drink was in the trash and I was off to find someplace where I could sit and watch the planes on the tarmac; maybe that could calm my nerves, since I didn't know how to order a regular coffee and was too embarrassed to ask.

I eventually found my gate, and managed to board the plane for Seattle without any difficulty.

I was fortunate enough to end up with a window seat on the plane. I was looking out the window as the plane taxied to its runway for take off, and I remember thinking, it's not over yet. I knew that I wasn't going home, nor would I ever be able to. My mother had lost the house in Tacoma where I lived when I arrested as a kid. So couldn't pay the mortage, so the bank took the house shortly after my parole plans were denied for the first time many years ago. If I had been paroled back then I would have been going home, and I could have helped my mom keep the house. But not now. Somehow that lost home epitomized everything else the system had taken from me over the years, my youth, my future, even my innocence. So no, it wasn't over, because I could never go home again. And I thought too that I would never be free either, until the score was settled, and perhaps, even probably, not even then.

Inside, buried deep, I was one very mad dog, starved and beaten for years, both psychologically and spiritually. But outside, and on the surface of my mind, I was perfectly serene. I was biding my time as I wore the two-faced mask I had learned to wear, happy side out, just so I could have this day at all; my release day.

When the pilot throttled up the engines and released the brakes I leaned forward in my seat and pushed my face even closer to the window. Not so much so I could enjoy the view during take off, which I certainly did, but more so no one could see my face at that particular moment. I was afraid if they did that they might ask why I was crying.

Next stop, Seattle, and Part VI: The Streets.

About Jeff, Who Was Not Very Polite

When I was 15 years old, and my brother, Bruce, was 13, we lived in a suburb in Tacoma, Washington, called Lakewood (which has since been incorporated and is now its own city).

One day, while my brother ans I were out terrorizing the world together on our 10-speeds, we saw a black man flying a line-controlled model airplane in an empty parking lot of the local highschool. It was the weekend, so there were no students around.

Being the boys that we were, my brother and I were of course drawn to the scene like flies to well, you know. The man quickly befriended us and even offered to let us try to fly the plane. My brother and I had similar planes of our own, so we had no trouble getting the model into the air.

The man said his name was Jeff Polite, and he soon asked us boys if we wanted to go to his room to see his other model airplanes. He was obviously retarded and still lived at home with his parents though he was in his mid 20's.

Because he acted so much like a kid – like one of us – my brother and I accepted the invitation without apprehension. Jeff seemed a little weird, definitely not dangerous.

Jeffs parents were not home, of course. But, he invited us into his bedroom anyway, of course. The room was almost a typical of what you would expect of any teenager's room – there was nothing „adult” about it all. There was a made bed in the middle, a few plastic Revel model airplanes hung from the ceiling with fishing line, and more plastic models on some book shelves.

At the end of the bed was a desk that might have had a model airplane in the process of being assembled. The desk did have various impliments and gadgets used for building model planes, which my brother and I took an interest in.

Then for some mysterious reason Jeff became agitated with me and asked me to leave. But my brother was welcome to stay so Jeff could „show him something”. My brother and I were still completely unsuspicious of Jeff, so I just thought he'd decided he didn't like me, and my brother wanted to stay to look at the models and stuff some more.

So, I left, and my brother stayed. But, not for very long.

Before I got even halfway home on my bike (about a mile) I heard my brother calling from behind for me to stop so he could catch up.

When he caught up he just said, „Jeff's a weirdo”. Then we continued on together.

I asked him what Jeff wanted to show him, and my brother said he didn't know. He told me that Jeff just asked him to hold onto a two or three foot length of wire that went „inside his pants”.

This didn't make sense to either of us. But apparently Jeff made my brother nervous enough that Bruce quickly decided to leave and try to catch up with me after all. When I pressed my brother for more information he repeated what he'd already said, and we both shrugged it off as some „retardo” thing.

Less than two years later I was convicted for raping a 14 year old boy in the same neighborhood. I guess things change pretty quickly at that age.

Some fifteen years or so after that, while I was still on parole for the rape, my brother came to visit me at my Seattle apartment, and gave me an interesting update on the Jeff Polite saga.

Bruce told me that he had run into Jeff recently at a fast food restaurant, and decided to confront him about the incident back in 1978, when we were boys.

It seems that my brother had decided over the intervening years that Jeff was masturbating that day in his bedroom while he held onto the wire. It wasn't just a „retardo” thing; it was a „perverto” thing! So my brother asked Jeff for an apology right there in the restaurant.

My brother told me that Jeff very nervously denied even recognizing him. But Bruce was certain that Jeff not only recognized him, but was guilty as hell too, because of the way he was acting. „Scared shitless”, was the way my brother put it.

Bruce, unlike me, had grown into a fairly imposing man. He was over six feet and easily more than 200 pounds. He liked to keep scruff on his face (which made him look macho) and carried a concealed 38 automatic of some impressive sort, because he could. He was the type of person who would „accidentally” let people see he was packing heat, just for the fun of it.

But when I suggested to my brother that perhaps Jeff was just scared over being so rudely confronted by a scary man in public, my brother insisted again, „No, he's a perve, and he knew I knew it! I wanted to blow his stinkin' head off right there!”

That was just the way my brother talked, which after 15 years in prison didn't impress me very much. I suggested again that maybe Jeff genuinely did not recognize him, and even if he was masturbating back then, so what?

Big mistake on my part that, „so what?” bit. My brother got angry at once (which he tried to hide as usual, but I could tell as easy as I could when we were kids that he was about to be rash). So, I tried to clean it up by asking him to tell me again what actually happened back in '78 in Jeff's bedroom. What he told me was pretty much the same thing he told me back then, except now with a little more insite to Jeff's motives.

Bruce said that Jeff „molested” him, even though he kept his privates in his pants, and never touched my brother on his.

I tried to question my brother about what he meant by „molested”, but he could only tell me the rote responses that someone might get from a book, or magazine article.

„He used me”, my brother said.

„He asked you to hold a wire. You didn't even know what he was doing then, even if you do now”, I retorted.

„It doesn't matter if I didn't know. I was just a kid and he molested me!”

We clearly weren't communicating. To me my brother was just spouting off all the classic „victim” expressions but saying nothing about the reality of what happened at all.

What I wanted to do, but sensed danger so I didn't, was remind my brother of the times he himself „molested” younger children even before we ever met Jeff. (By my brother's own definition of course. As far as I know, my brother has never really molested anyone. But, as kids we sometimes „played doctor” or „spin the bottle” with other children, which involved a bit more explicitly sexual behavior that what Jeff had done with the wire. Jeff was, after all, mentally only a kid himself even though he lived in a man's body.)

So, instead I reminded my brother about the time he was „molested” by George Worley, who pumped air up his butt with a bicycle pump. George was 15, and Bruce was 10 at the time. George became an „Eagle” in the boyscouts, which is how my brother and I knew him, he was in our troop 462, and at least I heard George was some sort of commander in the U.S. Navy stationed in Hawaii.

I asked, „How come you don't go demand an apology from George?”

That was enough to send my brother storming out the door of my apartment. I guess I'm lucky he didn't „blow my stinkin' head off”.

(No disrespect, bro'! I just never could take you seriously; you were my younger brother after all! I love you and miss you dearly!!)

My brother died from a sudden heart attack in 2006. I learned after his death that he believed I „molested” him too, and was even going to write a book about it. I wish people could see how victim hysteria creates more victims than it will ever help. My brother's emotional trauma was real. The reason for his trauma was a fabrication of the worst kind, and not real at all.

(Originally written by Joseph E. Duncan III - March 31, 2011 – 1 am

Nine Lives And An Evil Monster

When I was living in Fargo I once saw a cat get hit by a careless taxi driver while I was on my way home from a movie with a lady-friend. The incident took place on a residential street, with no other traffic. The cab obviously did not try to avoid hitting the cat, and then afterwards didn't even slow down, much less stop to see if the cat was okay. My reaction was to immediately slam on my brakes, even though I was not the one who hit the cat, and I tried to jump out of my car to help so quickly that I got tangled by the seat belt, which I had forgotten to unfasten. When I finally managed to get to the cat laying in the middle of the road it was still trying to run, even though its head was completely caved in and one eye was hanging by the nerve outside its socket. Needless to say, for all its effort, the poor cat only managed to move its legs in jerky sporatic motions, as if it were trying to run in its sleep. My lady-friend, Joni, was soon approaching from the other side of the car, and when I heard her ask if the cat was okay I bid her desperately to stay away, knowing she was a cat lover too, like me. I didn't want her to see the terror of what I was seeing. I asked Joni to get an old towel out of the trunk of my car, which I then used to wrap the cat up and carry it on the side of the road. By that time the cat had stopped trying to run, but I could tell that it still labored to breath for several minutes more. I cried silently to myself as I waited with my hand on the cat's fir for it to stop breathing. I wanted to comfort it, and contemplated breaking its neck in order to end its misery. But, fortunately, the cat stopped breathing on its own before I could even figure out the logistics of doing so. I then picked up the dead cat and carried it back to my car, where I placed it, still wrapped in the old towel, into the trunk. When Joni asked me what I was doing with the cat off to the side of the road, I told her that I was just waiting for it to die. In truth, I didn't want her to see that I was crying. We ended up taking the cat to a small strip of woods next to a cemetery for people, where we buried the cat, towel and all, in a shallow grave. We made a hurried marker out of some sticks, said a prayer, then left. Joni and I both watched the classifieds for a few days, looking for any ads for a lost cat. We also drove through the neighborhood where the cat had been hit looking for any lost cat signs, but saw none. Of course, this entire time I was only pretending to be concerned about the cat and its possible owners, all the while fantasizing secretly about raping children and terrible things like that. I don't actually remember any of these fantasies, or feeling like I was faking anything, but I must have been, because I am an evil monster after all, or so they tell me.

What Happened In Prison – Part IV: The Queen

„I will remember, because a queen can never forget.” - Juana of Castile, in The Last Queen, by: C.W. Gortner

By the time I arrived at WSP (Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington) in early 1990, I was a full-fledged and completely weaned prison queen. All my nervousness about being seen as queer had left me, and was replaced by the more normal social nervousness over meeting new people and adapting to a new environment.

As strange as it may seem, I was actually looking forward to Walla Walla, even though it was reputedly one of the most violent prisons in the country. I was fed up with all the petty games and attitudes from the wannabe prison (MICC), and hope WSP would be better. I had no concern at all for my safety because I was, after all, Big Al's girl and nobody messed with a fully represented queen in a real prison.

Right away as soon as I stepped off the chain-bus I knew things were going to be different. The guards actually treated me with politeness and respect. They even took me into a private area in order to strip search me out of view of the other inmates. And I could have sworn the guards themselves were looking at me lasciviously, though that was possibly just my own devious imagination at work.

From the intake processing area all the inmates from the chain-bus were taken to a temporary housing unit for a few days of observation before we would be classified for regular housing in the prison.

As we were being dressed out in the temporary unit (given clothes to replace the orange transport coveralls) an inmate I'd never met before covertly gave a full pack of cigarettes along with a message from Big Al that he would see me at mainline (in the chow hall).

I passed some of the cigarettes out to other inmates who I had befriended on the bus and they in turn passed them out to their friends. Suddenly I was very popular and it felt strange.

As a queen I had to get used to people I'd never met before talking to me as if they knew all about me. I was a celebrity of sorts since people talked about almost everything I did. For example, almost everyone I met had heard about how I „dumped” Kato, the kung fu expert and asian gang leader at MICC and „lived to tell about it”. They also knew that I had broken into the furniture factory offices at McNeil Island and „planted a computer virus” in order to avenge Big Al.

Usually it was the things people „knew” about me that I didn't even know about myself that were the most interesting. Things like:

„Hey, Jazzi! I heard you turn tricks with the turn keys!”

Oh, I didn't know that.

„Hey, Jazz! I heard you got AIDS...”

Oh, really?

That AIDS rumor actually followed me all the way to Kootenai county jail in Idaho in 2005. The FBI asked my attorneys to get an HIV test for me because they „heard” that I was HIV positive from a former cellmate of mine. Ya, right. (That particular inmate used to sit on his bunk and masturbate while he watched me exercising in the cell. He was not my cellmate for very long – after I told Big Al what he was doing)

All this attention was a bit disconcerting for me at first, especially considering my so-called „antisocial” propensities. But I ultimately learned to relish it as much as anyone would, revelling in all the positive attention while ignoring the negative; usually.

I got almost no harrassment at all from the other inmates. The worst insult I got came from a prison guard who waved a hot dog at me as I was going through the serving line in the chow hall to get my food one day.

„Do you like weaners?” He asked, apparently to get a laugh from the other inmates around because there weren't any other guards within earshot.

If an inmate had been stupid enough to attempt to insult me like that I probably would have picked up one of the hot dogs off my own tray and thrown it at him while saying something like, „sure, but I like to share!”

Something like that might have been what flashed through my mind as I stopped and just glarred at him. The guard must have seen something in my eyes at that moment that frightened him, because I remember seeing the fear flash just for a moment on his face before he covered it up with a nervous laugh and a sudden order to, „keep moving!”

The fear on his face, even if just for a moment, told me he was a coward. So I dismissed him and the entire incident. By the time I got to my table, in the „blacks only” area of the chow hall, I had forgotten all about him. But he unfortunately didn't forget about me.

Later that night I was called out of the unit six dayroom and escorted by a group of three guards down into the counselor's office area; a secluded area after hours with all the lights turned off. I didn't understand why I was there until one of the guards turned on me suddenly and glowered in my face.

He said menacingly, „If you ever look at me like that again I'll find a way to mess you up!” (an exact quote by the way)

It took me a full second or two to realize that I was being threatened. And then another second or two to figure out who the guard was and why he was threatening me.

„Oh!” I said „You're that guard from the kitchen!” I was smiling at my own realization.

Yes, smiling. I thought the threat was funny because it was so pathetically childish. I actually chuckled, as I said, „Is that all you want?”

The guard said, „Yah, just remember what I said”. Then he ordered me to return to the unit dayroom unescorted. So, I turned and started to leave.

But, as I walked away I couldn't resist a parting shot, I said over my shoulder, „You don't know who you're messing with; I'm not some duck...”

...that you can intimidate, is what I'd meant to say. But, before I could finish the guard cut me off by yelling at me – he had just gotten exactly what he wanted from me all along; a „threat”. In that „authoritative command” voice, that cowards like him love, he screamed, „Lock up! Now!”

I had fallen for the same kind of trap that got Big Al shipped out of MICC. It's an easy trap to fall into, even if you know about it. Fortunately I was already in a maximum security prison so I couldn't be shipped out. But I could go to the hole, and that's exactly what happened. I returned to my cell and after a few minutes the goon-squad arrived, and cuffed me up to take me to segregation. The guard from the kitchen was with them and kept making comments that were intended to get me to „resist”. But I knew better than to give him a chance to „goon” me also. (Getting „gooned” is prison slang for getting beat up by the guards. All they need is the smallest excuse in order to make the paperwork look good and then they can beat you up all they want. But they need that excuse, however small, before they can get away with it. And don't think for a moment that it's just a few „corrupt” guards that do this. It's part of how „the system” works, and just one of the hypocritical aspects that made me hate it so much. Rodney King knows what I'm talking about!)

At the disciplinary hearing the guard from the kitchen denied waving the hot dog at me and threatening me, of course. And so, more evidence of my „antisocial” behavior in prison was added to my official record.

And that was the story of the worst insult I received. But the greatest compliment came from a young inmate in the unit six shower room.

The showers were only open for a couple of hours each evening after mainline (chow). It is a single large tiled room with about 25 or 30, or so, shower heads spraying water from the walls. No stalls, of course, and a guard booth right there in the shower so there'd be no funny business. There was always a crowd in the showers.

I used to usually go with Big Al as my „escort”, more for symbolism than because there was any real danger from other inmates. Sometimes I'd even go by myself, but I liked having my „man” with me.

I'd always be sure to prepare ahead of time by putting on a pair of jocky underpants in a way that allowed me to keep my „embarrassment” tucked up between my legs in the shower, with my testicles actually held up inside the abdomen.

I wore these „panties”, as I called them, for the whole time that I was in the shower, and would discretely wash under them to get myself clean.

So, anyway, one day, as I was drying off and getting ready to leave the shower room, a young inmate standing next to me who was also just getting out of the shower, suddenly asked me a question completely out of the blue.

Shyly, he asked, „Do they let you take female hormones here?”

I answered in my girliest voice, „I wish!”

Then I wondered why he would ask a question like that. I didn't know him and have never spoken to him before. And I thought it was obvious, by how flat chested I was, that I'd never used female hormones. So, out of curiosity I asked him, in turn, „Why do you ask?”

Without hesitation he answered, „Because you look so much like a real woman with no clothes on”. And then he quickly moved away, apparently embarrassed by his own comment.

It was obvious that he did not intend to flatter me. I could have kissed him right there in the shower, if he hadn't run away so quick. To this day I can think of no time that I was ever more proud of how my body looked.

I just realized that I forgot to tell about how I got moved into the same unit, and even the same cell, with Big Al.

At first they put me in a special unit that was still in general population but had only one-man cells. It was in that unit that I got to meet and know a legendary prison queen named Star.

There's really not much to tell about my meeting Star, except that she was past her girly prime and no longer bothered to even try to appear effeminate, though everyone still called her Star and refered to her in the feminine.

In her day Star was a legend. Not for her good looks (she was too big and muscular to ever pass for a real girl) but because of her principles – you couldn't be a more „solid” convict than Star was – and her exploits.

Once Star grabbed a guard and put a shank to his throat and paraded him around the prison demanding „justice” for some violation of her principles. (Perhaps he made the mistake of waving a hot dog at her provocatively!)

Needless to say, Star was one of those people who was never going to get out of prison. But I loved and respected her as a human being all the same. She never once ever tried to disrespect me and she taught me a lot about what it was like to be a queen in the „old days”.

She befriended me more out of love and respect for Big Al than for me, I suppose. But that was because she knew that if Big Al respected me (and he did) then that meant she should too. So she did.

Well, as much as I appreciated being in the same unit with a legend (I'd heard a lot about Star long before I ever got to Walla Walla) the only unit I wanted to be in was the one Big Al was in. So, the first chance I got I requested to be moved to Six Wing.

That chance came at my first „unit team” hearing about one month after arriving at WSP. They asked me about how I intended to protect myself from other inmates and I told them that I had „a friend” who would make sure nobody messed with me.

Then they asked, „What if someone bigger than your friend comes along?”

And I looked them straight in the eye, and said, „There is no one bigger than my friend”. And I meant it, though I was thinking more about Big Al's reputation than the size of his arms.

The move was not only approved, but they actually moved me directly into Big Al's cell, even though I never once told them who „my friend” was. Like I said, everyone knew I was Big Al's girl!

So, sans the first month, the entire time I was in WSP I lived with Big Al. We had a four-man cell all to ourselves for almost the entire time, with only a few brief interruptions – one of which I've already mentioned (the masturbator who thought I had AIDS).

Our cell was in the middle if a bottom tier and directly in front of a guard both. But the guard both was empty and locked up every night after lock down at nine o'clock. So, the guard both never seriously interfered with our love making at all.

And we certainly made love. Almost every night after lockdown, I would start by giving Big Al a therapeutic back rub (his huge muscles almost demanded to be massaged) that would always end up being a sensual back rub. I'd rub his back before we had sex, and he'd rub mine afterwards, if I wanted him too. But usually I'd be so wore out that all I wanted to do was climb into my own bunk and go to sleep (or masturbate alone, see below).

In case you're wondering how two people with male „equipment” can make love as a man and a woman, then let me tell you. After Big Al was good and relaxed from me rubbing his back (actually, shoulders and arms mostly) he would roll over onto his back and I'd spend some time working on his chest and arms from the front.

I'd usually be either naked with my penis out of site between my legs or wearing a sexy pair of women's panties (I had several pair that were more or less homage gifts from another inmates, who were lucky if they ever even got to see me wearing them). So Big Al would be at full attention in anticipation of what was coming by this time.

After working his front muscles for a while I'd begin massaging his legs and groin area, then bend over and begin giving him a dick massage with my tongue and lips. This was more for his pleasure than mine though. I got my pleasure soon enough.

Then after we were both so hot with anticipation that we could hardly contain ourselves, I would lay down next to him with my back to his front, „spoon” style and we'd entangle our legs together in a special way that we both agreed was „the best way”, then I'd reach back and guide his manhood into my „pussy”.

And he would fuck the hell out of me. But not violently, just passionately. All the time kissing on my neck, my shoulders and even my ear. I would also frequently twist my upper body around, while he was still buried deep up inside of me, so we could kiss, deep and wet, on the mouth.

We'd fuck like this for up to a half an hour, sometimes even more and then Big Al would release inside of me, usually in the midst of a deep passionate kiss, which was how I liked it. And then we'd sometimes just lay together while he went semi-soft with his dick still inside my ass, enjoying the profound intimacy of it. This was the human intimacy that the „system” had tried to rob from both of us, but which we difiantly stole back every night we could.

As for my own orgasm; I would usually wait until after I'd climbed into my own bunk then slowly stroke myself to an orgasm while I could still „feel” Big Al inside of me. This bothered Big Al because he wanted to be sure that I was being satisfied too, and he always would assure me that he didn't mind if I masturbated while we were together. But, he himself would never touch me „down there”.I think it was because he wouldn't touch me there that I prefered to wait to pleasure myself alone. I wanted to be his woman, and jacking off in front of a man just didn't „feel right”. So, I prefered to do it alone.

These were my happiest days in prison, easily. Big Al and I shared a special status in WSP that most staff and inmates seemed to respect. It was as though everyone knew what it was we were „stealing back” from the system and honored our courage for doing so.

It took courage because the one thing the „system” tries to destroy more than any other is the human spirit. So Big Al and I were making ourselves targets by simply daring to express our love for each other out in the open.

We were together as much as we could be, on the yard, in the gym, in the chow hall. And most people seemed to appreciate what we represented. Even the guards (usually) and especially the higher ranking guards (sgts. and lts.) who had been around in the „old days”, seemed to really understand the value of what Big Al and I stood for. Which is why I was moved directly into Big Al's cell, and why, unlike at MICC, we were seldom harassed as a couple.

Big Al would go to work during the day out in the Industries administration offices (they'd hired him right away because of his experience – and connections no doubt – in Industries at MICC). So we'd always have money to keep extra food and cigarettes in our cell (I didn't quit smoking until I got out to WWCC about a year later). I even kept track of big Al's money (or „finances” if you can call an inmate account that) since I had so little „money” of my own.

I did not have to work because I have a „bad back” (I have a very slight curve in my spine, a.k.a. scoliosis, that can only be seen by measuring an x-ray. It never really bothers me, but it makes a great excuse for getting out of work in prison). So, I'd stay in the cell and read, or watch TV. Or, I'd go to the library or big yard for something to do. I also attended weekly Yoga classes and an occasional college course if I saw one that interested me on the school schedule.

It was a stress free existence and with my „man” always by the side it was as close to freedom as anyone will ever get in prison. Maybe even freer in a way than what many people have outside of prison.

But I was only inside WSP (the actual penitentiary) for a little more than a year before I'd gotten enough security points back to be transfered to a „medium security” prison again. Big Al took longer to get his security points back for some reason, but I don't remember why.

So, I got transfered by myself to WWCC, which is literally right next door to WSP, though in a completely seperate compound. Big Al and I decided to accept this temporary seperation because we knew it would only be for a few months.

Because WWCC was medium security instead of max, I had a few more privileges and a little more freedom (not much) than inside WSP. But, without Big Al around, I also had more time on my hands (alone time), so my deviant fantasies came back (which had all but left me while I was with Big Al, that is unless you consider transexuality to be „deviant”). I had no real interest in having sex with other inmates, since none could approach what I had with Big Al. So my fantasies turned once more to children, only this time I didn't even try to resist them. I had no reason to.

And since I couldn't just stay in my cell and masturbate all day, I ended up enrolling in school fulltime (at WWCC I was required to „program” in one was or another, „bad back” or not). They had much better college level course offerings from the local community college. So I started work on an AA in general studies and got straight 'A's” and on the Dean's list frequently.

The only thing interesting that happened during this alone time (without Big Al) was that I managed to catch a mouse in my cell with a homemade „humane” mouse trap, that actually worked. I had made it out of two one-pint icecream containers, a rubber band and a paperclip. I was proud of this feat, though the mouse soon escaped to be never seen again. Apparently some mice at least can learn quicker than most humans.

Oh, I also saw a full grown tomcat attempting to mount a very young kitten just outside my cell window once. I thought that was interesting; a child molesting cat, in prison! Hmmm, go figure that one out!

Westly Allen Dodd, a man convicted for raping and murdering young boys, was hanged inside WSP while I was at WWCC. The execution was meant to send a „message” to other would be child-killers; like me. I got the message all right, loud and clear. But I don't think it was the one I was supposed to get. The execution only strenghtened my resolve to get even with the "System".

After about six months Big Al got moved out to WWCC and directly into my cell. I'd been living alone with no cellmate until Big Al came... and came... and came... (joke).

While I was still inside WSP I had taken out a free personal ad in the SGN (Seattle Gay News) and started writing and occasionally calling the men who answered my ad. That's how I met Dave.

Dave drove across the state (from Seattle) to visit me for the first time while I was at WWCC. We became fast friends.

Dave ended up hiring an attorney to „look into my case”. The attorney began reviewing my prison records and basically learned what I already knew; I was being shafted by the system.

So the attorney started writing some letters to the ISRB, to basically let them know that he was representing me and that they had better start obeying their own directives (i. e. the law).

With the help of letters written to the ISRB by the attorney that my new friend, Dave, hired, I was finally found parolable again in the Summer of '93. But, this time there was a catch. I had to "map out" before my parole. That meant that there was a list of supposedly progressive steps to more freedom, and programs to prepare my for the streets, that I had to take before actually being paroled.

Needless to say, it was years yet before I get paroled. And even then it took many more letters and actual litigation (to procure an order from a judge) before the ISRB consented to my release. In the mean time I was being transported (i.e. shipped) all over the state from one institution to another, supposedly to fulfill my "map" requirements.

This "merry-go-round" ride (a tactic they use to try to keep inmates from being able to file litigation) kept me from completing the one program that would have really helped after I got out. I was on my last semester of classes needed to complete an A.A. degree in General Studies when the merry-go-round ride started. So, it didn't keep me from filing litigation (Dave's lawyer was doing that for me), but it did keep me from finishing the three-credit English class I needed to get my degree. And, it also interrupted the Spanish II class I was taking, which would have been directly transferable toward a university degree years later. With those Spanish credits I would have a B.A. in Computer Science today. But, instead I had to go for a B.S. degree instead which took more time (and money, of course). Apparently their "map" program - slash,merry-go-round - was more important.

And so began the next chapter of my prison adventure, where I managed to fight my way out at last, with the help of a friend on the outside, a lawyer, and no small deception.

To be continued in... Part V: The Merry-go-round

What Happened In Prison – Part III: The Transition

It has been several months since my last "What Happened In Prison"-posting. I have been working on this, "Part III: The Transition", during that time, having thrown away at least three nearly complete attempts and starting over from scratch each time. This has been the most difficult time in my life. It was the period between 1987 and 1990, when the circumstances of my incarceration finally forced me to accept that I would never go home again, and in my mind: never go free.

My chains had become psychological, and they were forged as surely as carbon steel to be completely invulnerable to any attempt on my part to break them. And it was against these invisible bonds that I began to rebel, and hence unwittingly define my identity and role in society; that of a social outcast, a pariah, and a "dangerous monster". It was a painful time of transition for me, filled with the raw (newly formed) emotions of betrayal, and the beginning of my desire for revenge against "the machine".

Revenge was the only salve available to me that could ease my pain. In this premable I wish to achieve two things: First to explain why this posting has been so long in coming. And, second, to establish the proper mood (solemn) and perhaps add a little deserved gravity to the events that follow. You are about to read (or not) about the actual birth of a real life "monster" from the very womb of social ignorance. Or, to put it a bit less delicately, what follows is a description of the Beast itself, taking a shit.)

"Ignorance is the womb of monsters." - Henry W. Beecher

In 1987, seven years after my arrest and incarceration for forcing another boy – two years younger than me – to take off his clothes and put my dick in his mouth (rape) I got an unexpected break in the fifteen-and-a-half-year-sentence imposed by the Parole Board. The Parole Board was ordered to adjust the sentences they set, and to bring them within the sentencing range set by the Sentencing Reform Act (SRA) in Washington state. The SRA would have set my range at five to seven years, maximum (under no circumstances was I supposed to serve more than seven years, according to the SRA).

I had already served over seven years under the "old guidelines", so the Parole Board (now called the ISRB, or, Indeterminate Sentencing Review Board) was forced to reduce my time and find me parolable. All I needed was an approved parole plan and I could go home, three years sooner than expected! Or, so I was led to believe. It would end up being more than another seven years before I managed to "fight my way out" of prison with the help of litigation filed on my behalf by an attorney. But that comes later in this story.

At the time when I was found parolable, in 1987, I still believed that someday I would be able to go home and the nightmare that began because of what I did when I was a confused 16-year-old boy would then come to an end. Yes, I was still that naive.

So, I submitted parole plans to live with my mother in the same house where I was arrested in the front yard seven years earlier. My plan was to get a job, working with computer and/or electronics repair work – skills I had learned in prison – and to pay my mother rent. This would have allowed my mom to keep the house which she was otherwise losing because of unpaid mortage, assuming the plans were approved. My counselor, Mr. Dennis Wheeler (a name I came to remember because of the subversive role he played in bringing about the addition of many more years to my already extraordinary sentence) assured me that these were good parole plans. He also assured me that all the subsequent plans I submitted through him were all good as well, while he simultaneously and covertly recommended to the Parole Board that all my plans be denied - which I didn't learn about until years later when a lawyer disclosed to me Mr. Wheeler's "unofficial" reports to the Parole Board that I had no way of knowing about. In these reports Mr. Wheeler recommended even that my parole plans to the Interaction Transition House ("I.T. House") also be denied. His recommendations were not based on disciplinary problems or even because of lack of structure in the parole plans. The I.T. House plans were considered the best parole plans a person could have at that time.

It took up to two years to be accepted by the program and I had to participate in the weekly I.T. House meetings inside the prison to win their acceptance. But Mr. Wheeler was "concerned" about my "unstable sexual behavior", which is prison-admin-speak for "flamboyant homosexuality". Even though I never got in trouble in prison for having sex. Most "out" prison homosexuals have more "504's" - sex infractions – than they can count. I never got one, not even after over 17 years in prison population, most of the time being "out" as a homosexual a.k.a. "queen". Yes, I had sex in prison. But not lasciviously. Most of the time I only had sex regularily with just one person, "my man". I maintained and adamantly respected a monogamous relationship for almost the entire time I was out of the closet in prison. I was "Big Al's girl", and everyone knew it.

Apparently, Mr. Wheeler and later the I.S.R.B. decided that flamboyant homosexuals were dangerous to society. Even though the prison psychologist, who in her official report to the I.S.B.R., wrote that because of my efforts to confront my sexual identity, I was a "much smaller risk to re-offend" than I was before. The psychologist's name was Dr. Sally Sloat, a name I remember because of her persistent efforts to convince the I.S.B.R. that I was not "sexually unstable", but actually a better candidate for parole than I had ever been.

When the I.S.R.B. first found me parolable in 1987, my first concern was to make sure that I would not re-offend. So, on my own initiative, I began meeting with Dr. Sloat regularly in order to discuss my treatment options on parole, and my current attempts at self-treatment. The prison had previously turned down all my request for treatment because I had "too much time left". So, seeing Dr. Sloat was my only option, which I took voluntarily, and under my own initiative. When I told Dr. Sloat about how my fantasies of letting men use me as a woman seemed to make my fantasies about children go away, she revealed to me that all of my "psych-tests" (e.g. MMPI) indicated that I had "strong feminine characteristics". She encouraged me to "explore my sexual identity", as a way of understanding and controlling my deviant sexual fantasies about children. So, with the help and support of Dr. Sloat, and "my man", who Dr. Sloat knew about, I came out of the closet, specifically as a transsexual, which translates as "queen" in prison.

My man, Big Al, was an intelligent, well-educated (with a BA in psychology that he earned in prison) and highly respected convict throughout the state prison system at the time. He was also the prison imam (muslim leader) and devoutly dedicated to his beliefs. The entire time I lived with Big Al, he always performed his daily prayers and observed all of the other muslim religious conventions, except one: he fucked the hell out of me almost every night that he could, and I loved it! As for how a devout muslim, an imam no less, could possibly reconcile such a serious offense against muslim practice as homosexuality, all I can say is that Big Al was not homosexual at all. To him, I was just a "female trapped in a male body", but I also had a very female-ish body and he never treated me as anything but a female. When other muslims confronted him about his relationship with me (which he never tried to hide) he would tell them: "It's between me and Allah”. In other words, none of their business. And he backed this up with several sutras straight from the Qur'an.

Big Al took a huge risk to his reputation as a muslim in order to represent me (be "my man") in prison. But he did it because he supported Dr. Sloat's idea that I needed to establish my sexual identity if I wanted to have any hope of escaping my deviant sexual past. He knew all about my crime and about how I was bothered so much by persistent sexual desires for children. In fact, he was the one who initially suggested I go see Dr. Sloat, and told me I could trust her. He did not pretend to be qualified to give me the help I needed. But when Dr. Sloat suggested that coming out of the closet would help me get over my pedophilia tendencies, Big Al cared enough to support my efforts, even though he knew well that he was risking more than just his reputation; a lot more! Because of his open relationship with me, Big Al lost his prefered housing status at McNeil Island. He also ended up losing his custody security level (from medium to closed), which caused him to be transfered back to the state penitentiary on the other side of the state (away from his family). And he is still in prison to this day, having been found parolable himself more than six years ago, but yet to be released on parole, perhaps again because of his relationship to me. But, the thing that impressed me the most, personally, was when he risked his life in order to protect me.

In a move clearly intended to separate me from "my man" and thereby putting me in danger from other inmates, prison officials placed me in a unit where Federal inmates were being housed (on a contract with the BOP). Even though Big Al could receive none of the conventional benefits of representing me any more (namely, sex) because of our seperation, he nonetheless let it be known that I was his girl, and if anyone messed with me they would answer to him. He did this after I had made a mess out of trying to solicit the biggest, baddest, and handsomest Federal inmate in my new unit to be "my man", and represent me. His name was Kato (or at least that was what he liked to be called), a tall and muscular half-Asian, half-black man who lived in Korea as a youth and studied Kung Fu since childhood. He was an enforcer for the Asian mafia in America (not necessary the U.S.), or at least that's what he and his "crew" claimed. Whatever he was, he was clearly a dangerous man. He practiced his Kung Fu Katas (fighting exercises) every day, but was forbidden by the institution to teach other inmates. He talked all the time about Kung Fu, and about his time in the Special Forces, and about all the special training he received. He was especially proud of a form of Kung Fu called "Praying Mantis" that he claimed to have learned while he was AWOL in Cambodia, from traveling priests who took him in to exchange styles (he taught them several of the styles he learned as a kid in exchange for being taught the Praying Mantis style). He claimed that he also taught Kung Fu in America, and he himself had learned from various masters, though he always insisted that he was not a master because of his lack of spiritual reverence, not because of his lack of skill. I believed all of it.

So, I considered having Kato as my "man" a step up from Big Al; at least that's what I thought at first. But Kato was (surprise, surprise) only interested in using me for sex (and letting his "crew" use me). It didn't take me long to figure that out and as soon as Kato made a clear breach of contract (by not defending my honor as he should have), I bravely dumped him. I say "bravely" because getting dumped by a prison queen is a hundred times worse than getting dumped by a real woman, and Kato totally did not expect me to do it. When I told him to his face that I no longer considered him as my "man", I saw that same demon flash behind his eyes that I came to know so well behind my own not much later. He would have killed me right there, if he could have gotten away with it. But instead, he ordered his "crew" to teach me a lesson on his behalf. I found out later that he was under "orders" from his mafia bosses to stay out of trouble, which is why he did not just "bitch slap" me right then and there. And that was when Big Al stepped back into the picture. But when Kato found out that "some state inmate" was speaking up for me he sent his "crew" after Big Al instead. But, what he didn't realize (and neither did I at the time) was that Big Al had a "crew", too - a much bigger "crew"! So, Kato and Big Al ended up negotiating peace terms (that amounted to an apology to me, but without reparations, from Kato for allowing his "crew" to disrespect me) down in a back room of the prison laundry (Kato's turf). I was genuinely afraid for Big Al, and warned him not to negotiate on Kato's turf. But Big Al assured me that Kato only thought it was his turf. Well, things worked out, or at least Kato and his "crew" never messed with me after that (and neither did anyone else).

For a while at least I was probably the most chaste "queen" in prison population in the whole country! Big Al and I could only see each other on the prison big yard, where we met almost every day, and spent hours, just talking, as we sat on "our throne" (a bench seat that overlooked the yard) that other inmates left open for us. He agreed to be my "man" only if I agreed to give him say about who I had sex with, and I could only have sex with people he knew well enough to know for sure that they did not have AIDS, which was almost nobody. I only had sex with one other person on one or two occasions during this time, but I won't say who, though Big Al, of course, knew.

The harassment from the prison officials kept up. As part of my transition from convict to prison queen I had quit my job in the electronics shop in order to take a job in Institutional Industries, so I could work with Big Al. He was a data entry clerk and I became a programmer in the same office. But no sooner than it took for me to establish my ability to run circles around the other so-called programmers (I single-handedly cleared out the six month backlog of dBase report requests in less than a month), I was "fired" by the institution. Not because of anything I did – the industries staff loved me since they could now request complex reports that they could never get before. But, I was fired because I "knew more about computers than the institution's go-to-guy" which made me, supposedly, a "threat to security". Of course, the real reason, again, was a thinly veiled attempt by prison officials to seperate me and Big Al. Even though we weren't in the same living unit any more, our reputation as a couple (i.e. lovers) was growing stronger all the time. And that, for some reason, bothered the hell out of the prison officials. Also, around this time (1989), I was scheduled for another parole hearing.

My counselor (no longer Mr. Wheeler) assured me that it was a necessary routine hearing to reconfirm my paroleability status after having all my parole plans denied over the last two years. So, I was completely unprepared to defend myself when the board members started asking questions about my "risk to re-offend", questions they had never asked before, not even when they found me paroleable two years earlier. Dr. Sloat was at the hearing (she insisted on being there, even though my counselor tried to discourage her from appearing – apparently, she understood the real purpose of the hearing, even though I did not). But, even though she adamantly backed up her report, saying that I was a much less risk to re-offend than before, the ISRB revoked my paroleability and added the first of several more extension years to my sentence!

I would say that this was the proverbial "straw that broke the camel's back", but it was more like a ton of bricks when a straw might actually have been enough! After all my efforts over the years to straighten out my life were thwarted, by one broken promise after another by the "system" to "help me get better", and after I was betrayed by the sex offender therapist who tried to use his authority to coerce my mother into having sex with him, and after this same therapist wrote an almost completely fabricated report to the court (in order to protect himself from backlash) that caused me to get such an extreme sentence for such a juvenile crime, and after I was then repeatedly raped and assaulted by other inmates (until I learned how to protect myself) while prison officials denied my requests for protective custody, and after I did everything I could to "heal myself", even going to the prison psychologist as a last resort, and after my mother lost her house because my parole plans to help support her were denied, and long after the rest of my family had pretty much given up on trying to support me; after all that, the ISRB dropped this ton of bricks on me out of the blue.

I couldn't "go home" after all. I snapped. To say the least, I snapped. And the stress of trying to identify myself as a woman in a male institution didn't help. I had very little information about what it meant to be a transsexual and the only support I got was from my "man" and from Dr. Sloat. Many of my "friends" stopped talking to me. And most of my new "friends" only wanted one thing (need I say what?). There were times when I was so nervous about trying to appear effeminate in the prison population that it felt like there was a physical force surging through me that made me so stiff I was afraid I'd fall over. I never felt that kind of stress ever before, or ever since. Not even at my death penalty trials or hearings; not even close.

It was around this time that I also started having my first "paranoid delusions". But my rational mind, and self-education in psychology, kept me from letting the delusions take control. No matter how convincing the delusions seemed – and they were very convincing – I was always able to reason them away. Or, at least out of my conscious mind. Who knows what havoc they might have wrought unconsciously.

When I mentioned these delusions to Dr. Sloat, she recommended that I see the prison psychiatrist. Which I did, and he prescribed some kind of psychoactive drug. But I didn't like how the pills made me feel (like my brain was being mildly electrocuted), so I stopped taking them and rarely spoke of my delusions with anyone after that. They didn't seem to interfere with my ability to function, or at least so I thought. Even when I did talk about them I always played them down by calling them "paranoid thoughts", even though I realized they were much more than just "thoughts"; they were a part of my reality (or, a significant aspect of my overall experience at least). So, when the ISRB yanked my paroleability and added several more years to my sentence because of my attempts to understand who I was - and hence, why I was in prison (i.e. why I raped a 14-year-old boy), so that I wouldn't reoffend - yes, I snapped. I cried. I screamed. And I mourned. But, I kept it all inside.

Showing such emotions in prison was a sign of weakness, even for a queen. But Big Al saw my feelings, though at that point I stopped seeing Dr. Sloat and was never honest with a prison psych-doctor ever again. My "man" watched helplessly as all the hurt, and frustration, and betrayal, congealed at last into a dense ball of rage that I buried beneath thoughts of revenge and vindication so that I wouldn't have to feel the pain. It was the only way to make the pain go away, other than religion I suppose. But as much as I respected Big Al's faith in Allah, and as much as I myself had even come to acknowledge a conscious force much greater than myself in the universe - to me, religion was just another "delusion" that I ignored or rationalized away just like all the others. The consolation of revenge became the only source of relief I had.

When I was 17 years old sitting in Pierce county jail awaiting to be tried as an adult for raping that other boy, I wanted to die so bad that I cried for days, almost non-stop. But in lieu of picking up a razor or rigging a noose, I made a pact with myself instead. I always remembered this pact very clearly, because it let me live with what I had done. In the pact I swore to myself that no matter what happened (as a result of the charges against me) over the next several years and that no matter how much I changed as a person, or who I became, that I would never, NEVER, under any circumstance or for any reason, cause such harm to my family again. You see, I wanted to die not because of my shame, or even because of what I faced. I wanted to die because of how I hurt my family, my father, mother, sisters and my brother. For the first time in my life I realized how important my family was to me. So I swore that I would die (kill myself) before I ever did anything to hurt them again. But, when the ISRB revoked my paroleability in 1989, I realized that it was a pact that was impossible to keep. The system would not only never allow me to heal, but my mistake as a 16-year-old kid would be used to keep hurting my family for as long as I lived. And I couldn't kill myself either, because that would hurt my family even worse. So, I changed my original pact to say that I would never hurt my family directly. In other words, neices and nephews and even "friends of the family" were all "off limits" to my "sickness". And I have always honored this version of my pact even at times when it would have been extremely easy not to. But, after 1989, when I realized that my best efforts to fix my life were a vain dream, and that I would never be allowed to stop paying for the mistake I made, I also made a new pact that the modifications to my original pact now allowed, even demanded in a way: I would make society pay, even if that meant I had to die in order to do so.

The purpose of my life changed at that point from repairing the damage I had caused my family (which I finally saw as impossible), to causing as much damage (pain and suffering) to society (which I blamed for not letting me heal) as possible. So now, instead of educating myself to work towards "getting better", I would from now on educate myself to work toward "getting even". In the past, my reason for living – my "pact" for life – was to heal myself and my family. My whole life centered around this effort. Even when things seemed impossibly difficult, I kept going for this hope, this goal.

In 1989, all that changed. My life now centered around a new goal, and a new "pact". From now on I would not only stop trying to "heal" but I would strive to become the "sickest sicko" alive, so I could hurt society with the very "sickness" that it would not let me escape. And, just so the reader understands: I did not blame the ISRB or people like Mr. Wheeler. They were just ignorant servants of "the Beast". And I did not blame the men who raped me at Shelton Corrections Center. They were just victims themselves, even if they didn't think so. I didn't even blame Mike Shepherd, the therapist who sexually assaulted my mother, and lied about me in his "official" report in order to protect himself. No, I blamed the entity that gave rise to all these ignorant people. I blamed the "system", which is the name I gave to the faceless masses usually called "society". I blamed no one person, or group of persons, more than I blamed society itself. I didn't even blame the "secret government" that my mind convinced me (to this day) was behind all criminal behavior and sexual perversion in society. Even if it wasn't a delusion (I still can't honestly say if it is or not), it still could not be held accountable for all of my pain and suffering, because it was "super-secret" after all. But, in my mind at least, society had to held accountable. The "system" could be hurt, if not damaged. I could at least make it cry, to feel some of the pain that it caused me and others like me. If I was never to be allowed to heal, then neither would I let "the Beast" live in peace.

With as much vehemence and emotion that I put into my first pact, I now (in 1989) swore that no matter what happened, no matter how long it took, no matter how my life changed, for better or for worse, and no matter who I became, I would make society pay. And, the only way this pact was able to ease my pain, is if I knew I would keep it. And I knew I would. And I did. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

(Anyone watching the videos I made even the infamous "cabin video" with the Groene children in Montana can see that I did not "want to" do what I was doing. I had to do it – or, at least that's what I believed until Shasta broke the "evil spell" that this "pact" had become for me).

I told Big Al: "Someday, they'll make the mistake of letting me out". He tried to warn me that it was my mistake to think that way. But I didn't listen, and it was something we never spoke about again. He named that part of me "Joe", and "Joe" and Big Al didn't like each other at all. So, when Big Al and I were together, "Joe" stayed in the dungeon I made for him in my mind. Big Al also named my feminine personality. He called her "Jazzi". He said that, sometimes, when she "took over", my whole face changed like a completely different person. A very beautiful person in his opinion also. As best as I can fathom, using the radar of hindsight, "Joe" was "Jazzi's" protector before I'd met Big Al. But "Joe" protected "Jazzi" mostly by keeping her hidden, which Dr. Sloat and Big Al convinced me was not healthy. But, after 1989, "Joe" was the one who went into hiding, and in a strange reversal of roles. "Jazzi" became "Joe's" protector. These were not "split personalities" in the clinical sense (since they were each fully aware of each other), but they were also as distinctly different from each other as any "split personality" could be. I could go on for pages about all the ways "Joe" and "Jazzi" were different. But, to keep it short: they were complete opposites in every way you can imagine. But, one thing "Joe" and "Jazzi" had in common was that they were both emotionally based creatures. Because of this, they both shared the common weakness of all emotionally based people: they were both "intellectually challenged". And that's where "Jet" came in.

Yes, Big Al identified "Jet" also, but I gave "Jet" the name I grew up with because "Jet" was the central personality that held "Joe" and "Jazzi" together. "Jet" provided the intellect and rational basis for all of "Joe" and "Jazzi's" behavior. "Jet" was also the mediator for the other personalities. He realized the importance of "Joe" and "Jazzi" because they gave his life (my life) meaning and motivation. "Jet" needed "Joe" and "Jazzi" as much as they needed him. But "Jet" was all brain and no heart. He could always think clearly, even in the most dramatic situations (such as during a murder, or even a life threatening situation). In such circumstances, "Jet" could easily push "Joe" and "Jazzi" aside and "take care of business" with no emotional "interference" from them.

You might say that "Jet" was the "psychopath", but I think it is misleading to assume he existed independent of emotion. Yes, "Jet" seemed to act and think completely without emotion, but without "Joe" and "Jazzi" (my emotional selves), "Jet" would have never had any reason or motivation to act at all. This is why I say there is no such thing as "a true psychopath" (a.k.a. "an emotionless person") like is so commonly depicted in the movies. Even the most depraved and "monstrous" people are ultimately driven by their emotions. In fact, it is only the intensity of their emotions that enables them to behave so extremely, not the lack of feelings at all.

Though, like me, like all of us to one degree or another, they have split off from their emotional selves. The only thing that makes me unique, perhaps, is that because of my intense efforts to understand my own mind (and problems), and with the help of intelligent and knowledgeable friends like Big Al and Dr. Sloat, I became aware of this "split" from my emotional selves, and thus "Joe", "Jazzi" and "Jet" were "born" into my conscious mind, rather than unconsciously like in most "normal" people. I think that if so-called "psychopaths" do share one trait in common that distinguishes them from "normal" people, then it would be a very high level of self-awareness, which allows them to act without emotion when necessary. But, if that were true, then there are an awful lot more "psychopaths" running around than we'll ever know!

So, regardless of all the philosophical ramifications, in 1989, "Jazzi" stepped into the limelight, and "Joe" retreated to his dungeon. I would no longer concern myself with "getting better" because now I accepted that I would never have a "normal" life. There was never any such a thing. Instead, my primary focus became "survival" and, to me, because I needed "Joe" to survive, and "Joe" needed to be "fed" in order to live, "survival" meant "revenge", because that was all "Joe" cared about: hurting those who hurt me. But, "survival" also meant "love", thanks to one special lady named "Jazzi". So I kept both "alive" inside of me. Alive, but completely separate, which became my bane and my "sickness". (I have been struggling since my arrest and "revelation" in 2005 to unite "Joe", "Jazzi" and "Jet" into one person by essentially "dismantling" the "walls" between them. It is a difficult and often very painful process because it forces me to learn how to live with the pain that the walls were built specifically to "protect" me from. But I've learned that, in the end, the walls come down anyway, ready or not. My goal in life presently is to be as "ready" as possible when they do come the rest of the way down!)

As I already mentioned, Big Al eventually got an infraction for "threatening a staff member" and, although this is considered a serious infraction, it is one that an inmate can never defend himself against because all the staff member has to say is that they "felt threatened" and that defines the "offense". I've know inmates to get this infraction for just glaring at a staff member and, of course, going straight to "the hole" as a result.

In Big Al's case, he told a guard to leave him alone (i. e. stop harassing him), "or else". And that was enough to get him taken to disciplinary segregation ("the hole"), and to lose his "security points" so that he got sent to the maximum security penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington (the other side of the state). And so the prison officials finally had their way. Big Al and I were as "separated" as any two inmates could be in the Washington state "corrections" system. We were in completely separate prisons with different security levels on opposite sides of the state. We couldn't be any more "separated" than that, or so they seemed to think. But I had different ideas.

As soon as I learned that Big Al had been set up and taken down, I came up with a simple plan to join him. I went to the prison "hobby shop" and, in front of "everyone", I climbed up a wall and across an I-beam to a small second story window in the back of the hobby shop that led into the administrative offices for Institutional Industries (were Big Al and I both once worked). It was after hours, though (in the evening), so the offices were empty and "locked up". Rumor has it that I broke into the offices in order to avenge Big Al by planting a virus "bomb" on the computers there. Actually, all I did was take off all my clothes and run around the offices naked while masterbating to fantasies of being "trained" by a bunch of inmates (this was "Jazzi" after all). I was simply enjoying the rare privacy that I had while alone in the offices.

Of course, the real reason I broke into the offices was because I knew I would be "ratted out" (by one of the inmates who saw me climb through the window), and that the resulting infraction would be serious enough to get me sent to Walla Walla, to be with Big Al. And it worked perfectly. Later that same night (after I had "had my fun" in the offices, I climbed back out through the same window and returned to my cell), the "goon squad" (a team of guards) showed up at my cell door and took me straight to the hole.

A few weeks later, I was on the "chain bus" for Walla Walla. And so began the next chapter of my adventures as a prison queen in one of the notoriously "toughest" prisons in the nation, Washington State Penitentiary.

To be continued...                                                                          Part IV: The Queen