After my removal from my assignment as a Shipping and Receiving Clerk and transferred off the Honor floor, my new role on my newly assigned floor was as the Fire Watch. My job served the purpose to make sure nobody burned the place up or got deathly sick at night. Basically, this person who couldn't be trusted in the basement and undeserving to be on the Honor floor was being asked to essentially be a guard we don't have to pay to make sure nothing goes wrong. I rather enjoyed the solitude and quiet. It gave me plenty of time to write letters, read books and meditate.
I won't say I was dying inside but my life was definitely passing before me. You don't lose as much as I have in life without a certain amount of "getting used to it" developing. Over the course of my sentence I had been to the parole board 5 times and in each instance except one they had denied my petition for parole. I understood, I was 8 years old the first night I spent in jail and I hadn't slowed down very much since then except for the brief interruption of being in a military school for 3 years. Mr. Conte was right, my record of release was atrocious. I never lasted longer than 3 months on most occasions before being rearrested on new charges. My one occasion before the parole board that proved the exception was as a result of an appeal I had filed arguing the merits of the sentence were not considered when I went before the board. I was actually granted Parole to the amazement of everyone. Three weeks later, after I had written everyone telling them I was coming home, The Regional Parole Board in Kansas City came out of their stupor and said HOLD EM UP, PAROLE DENIED, DECISION REVERSED. I would reappear before the Parole Board in two years. Somehow, inwardly, it seemed to good to be true. And it was.
This setback seemed not so extraordinary after all. "In two years:" had arrived just this past October. One would think with a clean record and a fair amount of accomplishments the Parole Board would take a more conciliatory attitude toward a man who basically only had less than a year left on his sentence anyway. That's not how they work, I could have been Mother Theresa and saved countless lives and still they would have looked at that record. Their decision in October was, as usual, Parole Denied Maximum Sentence. Meaning that I would stay until my sentence was finished. That amounted to being released in September 1978.
There is that moment when you have been paddling upstream for so long, against the current, you want to just throw in the towel. But in that paddling, you have developed muscles that resist that very temptation. Filing appeals in prison is a very painstakingly, arduous task of endurance. Overcoming consistent rejections by the stairsteps process that they have designed to wear you out until in the end you just give up. I refused to give up.
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In the summer of 1973, I had been violently sick. Every 20 minutes, I'll repeat that because it is rather incredulous, every 20 minutes I would writhe in pain for a duration of 2 minutes until the pain in my abdomen subsided. I had been to the infirmary multiple times and each time they would prescribe Mylanta for stomach discomfort. I had to come up with a plan to do something or I felt sure I was going to die. Using the 20-minute windows I had I wrote a letter to the Medical Director of the Bureau of Prisons describing as best I could my condition and the extreme pain I was in. 2) I wrote a letter to my Senator and House of Representative explaining the same thing, plus I attached a copy of the letter I had sent the Medical Director. 3) I gathered copies of those three letters and sent them to everyone on my correspondence list and asked them to write letters of their own and send them to their Congressman. Since I had several people on my list from across several states it would mean that several congressman was going to be hearing about this man dying in Terre Haute Penitentiary.
There was only one piece left to the plan, the scariest piece, because if this went bad, the whole plan would be null and void. People basically ate with the same people most of the time, meal preferences may have changed who would be with you but for the most part you knew who you were going to be at your table with. I told the other three at the table what I was about to do, and that was: I was going to get up from the table plate in hand (a metal plate that when it hit the floor would clang loudly) and fall over the table dropping the plate and writhing in pain on the floor. The disturbance would be resounding. The next thing that could have easily happened was for the rest of the chow hall to go berserk thinking a riot was ensuing. I'd seen it happen and I'd seen it happen here. The three men at the table whose job it was to ensure that nothing of that likelihood was happening, well they'd seen it before too, and they ran. Fortunately, my rap partner, Kevin Pope, who was from Hazel Crest, Illinois at that time and whose sister Linda, was married to Mike Corcoran, was sitting at the adjacent table. When the guard came running, Kevin was all in his face screaming how they were killing me and that I need some medical attention. They quickly escorted me out of the chow hall and to the hospital and put immediately on pain medication. Up to which at that point I never had. No riot ensued.
The following day I was met with a barrage of medical personnel including the institutional Doctor, (this Doctor in time would be removed owing to his inabiity to perform his duties at the expense of the death of another prisoner.) The Doctor asked me, point blank "Who do you know." The Medical Director of The Bureau of Prisons had just called and wanted to know my diagnosis and prognosis for my condition. My response was to ask for an increase in my pain medication something I knew they did not like to do. The Doctor ordered them to give me the medicine as wanted. The Doctor was called away and returned to tell me my brother had called. Droggy from the medication I asked; "who?" He said: your brother, Bobby. "Bobby, I wondered allowed?": He said, "You do have a brother, Bobby?" "Yes," I said. I sent the letter out to many people and a lot of people in Hazel Crest including all the members of The Weeds and everyone on my block of Head Street. Who actually wrote I had no idea but I would later learn that it was Bobby Greer who called to demand that I was getting the proper attention. I would be later taken to a local hospital and specialists would be called in to give me a spinal tap and perform a cystostomy. My kidneys were 90% infected, how close to death I don't know.
An inmate came into my room that night and advised me that he would be back to shave me. "Shave me for what," I asked. "I'm going to shave your front and back because they are going to do an exploratory operation on you tomorrow." "Why are you shaving both sides?" "Well, if they don't find anything on the one side, they are going to flip you over and cut you on the other side." If they thought I was going to give this hospital in the joint another chance at killing me they were sadly mistaken. I told him I refused the shave and I'll be talking to the doctor in the morning. We'll see how much clout I have left.
I told the doctor I was not refusing the operation, but I wanted to be transferred to Springfield, Mo. He asked me why I wanted to be transferred to Springfield when the hospital here at Terre Haute was just fine. I told him, at least, they call the prison in Springfield a hospital, the U. S. Medical Center for Federal Prisoners. I did not tell him that the love of my life (Mary) lived in Springfield and excuse the ill-timed pun, I was dying to see her. Upon my arrival at Leavenworth Prison en route to Springfield, Mo it was discovered that I had picked up Hepatitis in the hospital at Terre Haute. I would never again see Terre Haute. Indiana.
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I sat throughout the night pondering what I was going to say to the Administrator of the Halfway House. What I knew about him was that his name was Robert Thompson and that he was the son of a Baptist Minister. My believing in Jesus Christ may have put me in good stead with Jesus but it was not going to make a difference to someone whose job it was to determine whether I was a risk or not.
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When the U. S. Board of Parole denied my latest request for consideration for parole they included a disclaimer of sorts. They said: "There is no reasonable probability that you will live at liberty without violating the law." I don't think they were talking about parking tickets or even some traffic violations, they were talking about the criminal behavior of the worse kind. Yes, I had been to St. Charles, Sheridan, Ashland, Ky. El Reno, Okla. Marion, Il., Joliet, (old joint), Statesville, Menard, Vandalia. Terre Haute and Springfield, Mo. (Not counting a few more county jails along the way.) I could understand the Parole Boards dilemma at seeing any hopeful signs that this man has changed. But that is exactly what Mary had told me God could do. He can change your life is what she said and by God, that is exactly what He did and if nobody else believed it, I did. When I received the notice that my Parole request had yet again been denied I set out once again to appeal their decision. This appeal would be a great deal more difficult because I would be appealing to the very people who had denied me. But I would not be alone. I wrote what had grown in 6 1/2 years to a very substantial correspondence list and asked them to write letters on my behalf stating why they thought I would be a good person to consider for parole and wouldn't they reconsider. I didn't know how this would turn out but somehow a couple hundred letters going to the parole board on my behalf left a real good feeling inside of me. December 19, 1977 Mr. Conte came to my door. I had just finished my shift as a night watchman or fireman as they called me, and without actually addressing me he said; I have been working for the Bureau of Prisons for 10 years and I have NEVER seen one of these before. I could only imagine what the paper he held in his hands said. So I asked what does it say? He said: THE PAROLE BOARD HAS REVERSED THEIR DECISION AND GRANTED YOU PAROLE. THANK YOU JESUS!!!
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You would think with this kind of story my encounter with Mr. Thompson was going to be a slam dunk, but what I have learned in life, about life, is there is going to be a test right around the corner. You are going to have to face it, so face it, give it all you have, pray God on your side and there you have it. My talk with Mr. Thompson was pretty much laid out there just like it is. He asked me how I knew that I was going to make it, I told him I didn't but I was sure going to try.
I sat at a table playing gin rummy or some card game with a group of guys when the woman guard came over to the table. (There were two things about her that were inconsequential to the story but added an interesting aspect to it, she was from Springfield, Mo. and possibly knew Mary's sister Jeanne. Secondly, she lived in a house in Evanston that would be purchased by Reba Place Fellowship.) She asked me why was I taking my time? I looked at her stupidly, not knowing what she was talking about. She said, "go get your stuff, your leaving."
AT THIS JUNCTURE I AM TAKING ANOTHER BREAK
