Dear Readers,
Do youself a favor and take the time to read this. If you believe "the thought police" don't exist in the United States, you will change your mind after you read this story about 'Harry' who was
"...punished for thinking bad thoughts about the federal government."
To: Rayelan
From: Kay Lee
Regarding "Three Shots Fired Outside White House":
One of my prisoners, Gary Brooks Waid, while doing nine years on a marijuana charge, did a story about a prisoner he met in Federal prison who was incarcerated for "making an attempt on the president's life"...
Only there was no attempt. (All Gary's stories are non-fiction.)
I will include the introduction to the story here and you may go to http://www.angelfire.com/la/kaylee/killbill.html to read the
rest if you find it of interest (and I hope you do).
This story is a perfect example of the inaccuracy of the press in reporting the injustice of the system while the system over-reacts
with complete lack of insight into the people doing time.
whew...
Kay Lee
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THE MAN WHO WOULD KILL BILL
by Gary Brooks Waid
Harry's on Lithium Salts or maybe Prozac - one of those. I suppose that's why I didn't see an evil gleam in his eye the day he came
up from Tallahassee Detention Center to the main compound and moved into the cubicle next to mine. The medication fooled me. All I
noticed was the ordinary, slightly baffled look of a federal inmate in transit - the look we all get from time to time - as he
puttered about, becoming accustomed to his new cell.
"Hello, I'm Harry," he offered.
From the first I was convinced he was a harmless guy. "Hi," I said. "My name's Waid."
We went to lunch together that first day and in the course of things, I told him what I was in jail for. In here as out there, we
are what we do and explaining your crime is like discussing your job; it's a playbill of past achievement. He accepted the
information with nods and grunts and a sad, noncommittal smile, but was reluctant to discuss his own case for what I suspected were
the usual reasons of privacy and whatnot. I heard mumbled rumblings about credit card fraud and we left it at that. Many guys are
careful about what they say because either they've been burned or they've heard horror stories about prison rats. It's a huge
problem in here - one day you're talking to your new buddy, the next you're in the hole for thinking aloud.
That first week I saw Harry occasionally around the yard or in the dorm and he was always affable and polite, never revealing much
or showing any desire to speak of things other than his thoughts on the innocuous clutterings of our daily lives, and always storm
trooping around the compound like he had somewhere important to go. If he stopped to talk, we would discuss prison things only. (I
was an old hand in G-Dorm, and counseled him on the hierarchies and idiosyncrasies of this old house.)
Sometimes, when the mood struck him, Harry would open up a bit. He was a lively talker when he wanted to be. Two years at Butler
FCI in North Carolina where many of the famous felons and the nuts are kept - spies and terrorists and so on - made for an engaging
repertoire of stories about them and their adventures in crime. He was good at the stories because, as it turns out, Harry was one
of those guys. One of the real crackpots. A nut. A psycho. An evil genius. He was, until just recently, one of the wild and crazy
guys our government keeps stashed away from the ordinary cons.
But there was no way I could have known that then; no way at all. How was I supposed to know Harry was deranged? All I could see for sure was that he was a middle-aged man who spoke with a certain amount of precision and intelligence and was careful to protect his own space. When I meet someone, I always look at their hands and on Harry's there was the unmistakable imprint of a white-collar life. Naturally I figured him to be a white-collar crook, and "credit-card scammer" fit the bill nicely.
Time passed, we became friends and Harry learned that I wrote stories. Soon he was borrowing my tattered manuscripts, reading them, entertaining himself with my little tails of jails, occasionally laughing out loud. Once or twice I remember looking at him as he
sat reading, and I noticed how sad he was. He seemed lost in a world of sadness and although he tried to be detached, his was not an easy laugh. His barometric pressure never rose. His smile never got above his upper lip. There was always that bottomless pain
around the eyes - a haunted look of unreality. I pictured Harry, in those days, as a man who couldn't quite escape the ringing in
his ears. It's a common phenomenon in here: Shell shock. Several of us carry a "how did I become such a ruined vessel" look.
One day as we walked back from the yard comparing ideas about one of my characters, Harry said, "Gary, I want you to read
something."
"Okay," I said, and later that day I involved myself with his life. I began to learn the terrible truth about Federal inmate Harry
B____, the diabolical schemer bent on destroying America. And the more I learned, the more fascinated I became and the more I wanted to understand the logic involved in the incarceration of this man. I looked through charges and pre-sentence reports and appeals and some other, private things, which I couldn't absorb, but mostly I just listened as he talked. Here then, is the story of a man's unholy intention and his ignominious defeat: A lesson for us all in these trying times.
http://www.angelfire.com/la/kaylee/killbill.html for the rest of the story.
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