01-12-2023
On Monday, January 9, 2023, I reported to the classification building for my
annual progress report. They verify your current emergency contact information
in case you die, and ask if you want a transfer. No. There are no good prisons
anymore. Job change? No. I am a houseman, light cleaning, no windows, and I
don't want to change. My days digging ditches and washing pots are gone. I did
find out that my automatic twenty days a month (with good behavior) gain time
has accumulated to 10,424 days, or 28.5 years, for what good it does me.
3:00
a.m. Tuesday morning I am awakened by a flashlight beam in my eyes.
"Norman, you wanna go on a medical trip," the guard asked.
"Yes."
A couple of weeks ago I had my annual physical. They finally administered my
annual EKG two years late. The computer analyzes your EKG now, and revealed an
abnormality. The prison doctor put me down for a consultation with the
cardiologist at the Lake Butler Reception and Medical Center (RMC), Dr. Waddah
Salman, a very well-respected expert.
Loaded down with enough handcuffs, leg irons, and chains that would embarrass
Houdini, two guards loaded me into a Ford transport van for the two-and-a-half
drive to RMC in North Florida. At least this van had windows and soft seats,
unlike the dog box van they carried me in last April.
My dear wife, Libby, tells me how bad the traffic is when she makes the
three-hour drive each way to visit me, but you have to experience it to believe
it. Five-thirty a.m. — the Florida Turnpike and I-75 are already backed up. We
got off the interstate at Gainesville for the guards to order breakfast for
themselves at a Krystal, to be met with bumper-to-bumper traffic on six-lane
streets at seven a.m. Huge semi-tractor trailers clogged the traffic arteries.
Toyotas, Kias, Fords, Chevys, and every other model vehicle I've only seen on
TV filled in the gaps between the Ford F-150s.
Rubbernecking
is the optimum word. The world has changed and evolved greatly in the
forty-four years I've been cast away in prison. I hastily drank in the sights
through the black steel mesh grills covering the windows: McDonald's,
Chik-Fil-A, Wendy's, Circle K, Publix, Walmart, and all the other dozens more
places that did not exist when I came into prison in 1978.
We made it inside Lake Butler before the eight a.m. count, early, I thought,
but when we got inside I was confronted by hallways and benches crammed with
sick prisoners from a dozen different prisons waiting to see specialists. Dying
men. Several I didn't recognize greeted me.
"Charlie
Norman. Remember me?" one said.
I didn't recognize the bald, gaunt man in a wheelchair. I looked at his I.D.
card. I remembered him from at least twenty years ago.
"You look different now," I said.
"We're all older than dirt," he said.
He was dying of cancer, maybe a year left, he said. Another had a pacemaker,
needed a heart transplant, but the odds of that are about the same as winning
the Mega Millions lottery.
The cardiology nurse called my name.
Dr. Salman asked me questions and reviewed my medical records on the computer.
He scheduled me for an echocardiogram and a stress test. Another road trip.
We made it back to the institution three hours later.
On
Wednesday afternoon I reported to the education classroom in the former old
staff dining room at the rear of the kitchen. They are demolishing all the
buildings on the north end of the compound, including the former school,
preparing to build another mental hospital, and all programs are cramped for
space. The University of Central Florida (UCF) in Orlando is sponsoring the
Florida Prison Education Project (FPEP), with classes held here at Lake C. I.
and Central Florida Reception Center (CFRC).
I completed the first class in 2022, "Principles of Art and Design,"
and signed up for the newest one, "Caribbean Literature." Wednesday
was the first day.
Professor Heather Vazquez greeted the twenty or so men signed up for the
course. We crowded into the small classroom and took our seats at single desks.
No matter — we are used to being crowded.
The professor is an obviously intelligent and well-spoken person who exudes her
love of teaching, volunteering her free time to drive out here in the boonies
for the next eight weeks to offer us a college-level education experience. She
is also the coordinator of the Florida Prison Education Project, promising
future classes if she can recruit enough professors to volunteer their time to
teach. She asked if we had any suggestions for future classes. I would like a
composition class that compiles our writings in a journal.
The professor and Mr. Jacobson, the education manager here, passed out writing
supplies and reading materials, as she gave us an overview of the Caribbean
Literature course. Very interesting.
Next week Professor Vazquez is bringing a guest speaker, Anna Levi, an author
from Trinidad. She gave us an excerpt from Ms. Levi's book to read for next
week. Being isolated and exiled from free society, it is the rare exception to
be able to meet and interact with citizens who are not prison security staff. I
am looking forward to exercising my brain and learning more, not only about
other cultures, but also my own.
Thursday morning a storm front from the west passed through, leaving rain and
freeze warnings in its wake. Thirty years ago the prisons passed out
sweatshirts and thermal underwear at the onset of cold weather. They stopped
that. Now they issue flimsy jackets that barely cut the wind.
For those who have family to send them money, extra warm clothing can be
purchased from the canteen quarterly each year. For those without family,
shivering ensues.
Friday morning I donned my sweatshirt, thermals, and blue knit cap to go to the
weekly Gavel Club program in the chapel, sponsored by Toastmasters International.
Three local Toastmasters members from Clermont sponsor our program,
volunteering their time. Without them we wouldn't have a program. I first
attended Gavel Club meetings in 1980 at Union C. I., aka "The Rock,"
Florida's oldest, largest, and most dangerous prison. Over 100 men attended the
meetings in the visiting park. It was very difficult to find opportunities to
speak with so many members. With a much smaller group here, it is easier to get
on the agenda to practice speaking.
I live through the interminable weekdays with their incessant counts and
ransacking shakedowns, for the Saturdays and Sundays when my dear wife, Libby,
visits me. Only sixteen men were counted at noon in the visiting park this past
Saturday. Sixteen out of total inmate population of around 560, less than three
percent, a bad number for society. The "experts" know that those
prisoners who receive regular visits from family and friends have a much better
prognosis for success when they are released from prison back to society.
We had three days of visits this past weekend. The Martin Luther King, Jr.
holiday gave us an extra day on Monday. Only nine men stood for the noon count.
I can't tell you how much those hours spent with Libby contribute to my
positive attitude and hopes for the future. We both need that extra time
together. I hope to have a new parole hearing in the next few months, and there
is much to accomplish. We talk and plan for the future.
My parole release date is still frozen at July 4, 2o17, and our efforts focus
on a new parole release plan. We need letters of support from family and
friends on my release on parole. We'll discuss this more in the coming weeks.
For
over ten years, I have been approved to attend the "Prisoners of
Christ" faith-based residential transition program in Jacksonville.
"Prisoners of Christ," originally formed by Ken Cooper over thirty
years ago, is a highly-respected program supported by some of the most
reputable Christian business people in North Florida.
In the recently completed "Creative Writing Workshop” I taught, students
are encouraged to keep a daily journal. I send my daily journals by email to
Libby, who keeps them. I asked her to share this installment of my past week in
prison with family and friends to give you a glimpse of my life in prison.
Realistically,
this upcoming year is my last chance for freedom. We have to marshal our
resources and put together a new, convincing parole release plan. We still need
new letters supporting my parole, we have three right now. April 5th will mark
45 years in prison for a crime I had nothing to do with. We called on the state
attorney to make available crime scene evidence for modern DNA testing to prove
my innocence, but the new state attorney claims the evidence is lost.
I don't want to die in prison. My health is failing. Still we fight on.
Peace, joy and love to you and yours.
Charles Patrick Norman
January 18, 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment