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.
