THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY TWENTY TWO: Prison Diary January 24, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL (coming to you from a dismal prison far, far away from civilization)

A Model of a Prison Retaliation

The end of February will mark the third anniversary of this series of retaliation against me by the Florida Dept. of Corrections (FDOC) for exercising my First Amendment rights, continuing to this day. As I write this in my suffocatingly hot cell, serving my 22nd day in solitary confinement, listening to the cacophony of screams from some miscreant who just got doused with “Liquid Jesus,” (pepper spray) for not cooperating, I feel the survivor’s mantra around me, loud in the otherwise silent confinement unit, “Better him than me.”

This particular experience actually began around April, 2008, when Professor William “Chip” Brantley, formerly of Massachusetts, now at University of Alabama School of Journalism, established the “FreeCharlieNow” blog, on my behalf, so I would have a place to say what I had to say. I’ve been saying it ever since, though not always to the FDOC’s liking. Such organizations, by their very nature, like to keep their “dirty secrets” behind the walls, and have a long history of retaliation against those who make their “enemies list.”

Prison officials and guards got wind of my essays fairly quickly, and I got mostly positive comments from staff. The Sword of Damocles always hung over my head, held by a thin string. The U.S. Supreme Court has repeatedly said that the public has a vested right to know what goes on behind the prison gates, and defended the rights of freedom of speech and expression of prisoners. That doesn’t mean that state prison systems nationwide aren’t going to slam the door and smash any exercises of free speech that displease or anger them, it means that those few prisoners with the strength of will to stand up to such powers face a long, frustrating campaign to get to a federal court who will reaffirm that our constitutional rights apply to prisoners, too. It was a federal judge who said that prison officials have a long history of retaliation against prisoners who criticized them.

Back here in “the hole,” subjected to a lot of sensory deprivation, locked behind a steel door in a little room no bigger than many small bathrooms, at least I’ve had a chance to study some legal decisions that apply to my case, and wanted to share what I came up with, if you are interested in that sort of thing.

A federal court in California, ruling on a prison retaliation case in a state prisoner’s favor in 2004, stated:

“Because purely retaliatory actions taken against a prisoner for having exercised his or her First Amendment rights to file prison grievances, and to pursue civil rights litigation in the courts, necessarily undermine these protections, such retaliatory actions violate the Constitution quite apart from any underlying misconduct they are designed to shield.”

If you are interested in reading the case in its entirety, you can ask Mister Google to look up “408 F. 3d 559” (Rhodes v. Robinson).

Compared to my case, Rhodes took a walk in the park. The federal courts say that for a prisoner to establish a retaliation claim, he must allege that five conditions are present, as follows:

“Plaintiff Charles P. Norman alleges that FDOC prison officials (1) arbitrarily delayed, hindered, intercepted, refused delivery, and destroyed his incoming and outgoing correspondence and subscription magazines, filed repeated fabricated false disciplinary charges against him, punitively transferred him twice to harsher, more distant prisons, denied him access to the prison law library digital/non-print legal research stations for months (ongoing), denied him access to inmate canteen purchases, suspended his mail privileges, locked him up three times in solitary confinement, twice for 30 days each, and once for 14 days, (2) because he (3) exercised his First Amendment rights to file prison grievances and otherwise seek access to the legal process, and that (4) beyond imposing these tangible harms, the prison officials’ actions chilled his First Amendment rights and (5) were not undertaken in narrowly tailored furtherance of legitimate penological purposes.”

That’s a mouthful, but every word is true and accurate, and actually understates the actual abuses. There is much more.

It is not supposed to happen. If all prison staff were adequately trained in the prison rules and laws, and they were properly supervised by superiors who made sure those who were enforcing rules were also obeying them, prison would operate much more smoothly and efficiently. The age-old question has been, “Who guards the guards?” And the answer has often been, no one, until it got so far out of hand that outside authorities had to intervene. It is a shame, but that is life in prison.

Where is the ACLU when you need them? Going all the way through courts to guarantee some guy’s right to blast his mega-powered boom box speakers from his car while stopped in traffic, damaging the hearing of anyone in range. Very big First Amendment case. That’s how it is in “free society,” too.

Reading my favorite book last night, I happened upon a verse written by Paul, the Apostle, to the Hebrews, almost two thousand years ago:

“Remember those in prison as if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” (Hebrews 13:3)

All I can say to that is, “AMEN,” and wish you happiness and success in all you do.

Charlie

THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY TWENTY: Prison Diary January 22, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL

Only ten days left in “the hole,” February 1st, unless the grinches pull something else out of their bag of tricks.

It has been a busy couple of days back here. No mail on the holiday, but perhaps tonight. Three trays, shower night, and mail call are the only things to look forward to back here. Fortunately, yesterday after 18 days in isolation, my long-awaited “canteen order” arrived – a pack of 150 sheets of notebook paper ($2.40 – how much at Walmart?) and some “security pens,” a very short pen with a flexible tube around it – 65 cents each, as opposed to the 19 cent Bics. We get gouged – one pen didn’t work – no refunds – but the fresh supply of ink and paper put me back to writing wok. Yesterday and today I completed and re-copied a short play, “Shut the F—K Up!” a gritty prison drama set in solitary confinement. Based on a true story, rated PG, Adult Language.

I also wrote another poem, “Some Things That Bring Me Joy,” a much brighter subject, which followed, “In The Darkness,” last week. It is generally quieter, so I can concentrate better. Still much legal work waiting to do, but I can only do so much of that at a time.

My friend and webmaster, Dan, in Seattle, sent me a nice letter with “stats” for the blog and website, with several new countries added to the list of blog readers. This is ne – “Krizevci, Koprivnicko-Krizevacka, Croatia. Translated into Croatian! If you haven’t been to the blog, it is http://charlienorman.blogspot.com/

The State of Washington Dept. of Corrections is a new blog reader. The Florida DOC visits all the time, crossing their fingers and praying I will say something incriminating (sorry, fellas, you have to make up your own stories – I’m not going to help you).

George Washington University in Washington, D.C. is new. Buchrain, Luzern, Switzerland, Abernant, Alabama, Ottowa, Canada, Warsaw, Warszawa, Poland, Kfer Saba, HaMerkaz, Israel, Campinas, Sao Paolo, Brazil, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, Singapore, Cheadle, Chesire, U.K., Thames Ditton, Surrey, U.K., and the “Ministry of Defense,” U.K., join many readers in Great Britain, Australia, Canada and most everywhere in the U.S. Even Vermillion, South Dakota, and Fort Swain, California.

It is amazing to me how the world has changed in the almost 35 years of my false imprisonment. In prison, you are so heavily burdened, bound, and blindfolded that you move ahead at “turtle speed” while the rest of the world races along on the turnpike beside you at lightning speed. Six year olds are more computer savvy than most prisoners. Yet the prison system claims it wants prisoners to be prepared for freedom so they can be contributing members of society when they get out. I have dedicated myself to preparing myself and others to do exactly that, yet all my altruistic efforts are met by certain mean-spirited people who censor and photocopy my mail, fail to deliver it, and throw stumbling blocks in my path at every turn. And these are our “public servants” who draw paychecks every two weeks of taxpayer dollars, playing childish games on the state time clock. Nevertheless, I am confident that right will prevail, and continue to do my best in a trying situation. I am encouraged and strengthened by those who write and comment, so thanks for that.

Only ten more days!

Later,

Charlie

THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY NINETEEN: Prison Diary January 21, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL

Forget what I said about the kitchen workers looking out for their homeboys in confinement by doing a good job on the meal trays. I should have kept my mouth shut. They must have hired a new crew, or a harsher supervisor, for the food rapidly went downhill in quality and quantity, where it stays. This morning we had cold, rubbery pancakes (2) and a half-serving of cold, gummy, tasteless oatmeal with perhaps a teaspoon of sugary water that is supposed to be syrup. We get a half-cup of “juice,” which is actually some severely watered-down mess, pinkish color – if you can see through it, you know what happened. The workers mix just a little in the containers and steal the rest, to sell or drink themselves later. They add half a cup of some white milk substitute, tasteless, that looks like someone mixed a couple of packets of non-dairy coffee reamer in cold water. Someone said it was “soy,” but only “CSI” could know for sure. I have lost over ten pounds in 19 days, so there is some side benefit.

Yesterday, the 20th, was supposed to be the Presidential Inauguration in Washington, D.C. I suppose that went off as planned. You couldn’t tell it by me! We are totally cut off from the world, sensory and news deprivation. On Sunday night, every hour or so a guard would come by like the old town criers, calling out the NFL playoff scores: “Rams 28 Patriots 13,” “49’ers 28, Dirty Birds 24,” or we would have never known who was going to the Superbowl, either. In prison, there’s a lot more interest in football than presidents, although I don’t think any football team has ever drawn half a million people to one of their games.

Today is the Martin Luther King Holiday. No one knows when his actual birthday is anymore. No special occasion in prison. Hard, cold biscuits (stale) at lunch. There used to be token celebrations and a special meal, but over time the prison system has purged itself of any semblance of celebration. Why not? They stripped away most f the recognition for the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas holidays. The only thing that’s left is they still allow an extra family visiting day on those holidays.

“An Immigrants View of America from Outside”

A few days ago I recounted the views of a young Haitian prisoner back here in “the box,” concerning being in prison. Now I will share what he shared about how life was in Haiti before coming to America, and how he was greeted:

“I was a little jit in Haiti when Mama died. My daddy went to America to find a job. We kids all stayed with Grandmama. We didn’t have nothing. Hungry. I missed my daddy. We never got no letter. He couldn’t read or write.

There was a TV somebody had, and I never seen nothing like that. America. This show, a white boy was riding down a street in America throwing newspapers in people’s yards. He had a job! And the houses! All nice houses, pretty, with yards and grass. I never seen no grass in Haiti. The ground is like concrete. And the food! All these white people was sitting at a big table eating. It was covered in food! Food! Them people was eating all they wanted. America! I said, we gotta go there.

My daddy got married. My stepmom was American. He was gonna send for us. Haitians told us, watch out for them Americans when you get to Miami. They don’t like Haitians. They go around in gangs and beat up Haitians. They was talking about black people! We called them Americans. They wasn’t Haitians. But when we got there, we was in the projects, and all around me all I saw was black faces. I mean black faces. Haitians. You see how black I am? They call me “Black.” It was mostly all Haitians in the projects. I didn’t speak no English. You didn’t have to. I wanted to go to school, so I learned it. I got jumped on by this one American didn’t like me, but I fought back. Now I’m in here. It’s not so bad. I don’t get no letters, or write nobody, ‘cause nobody in my family can read or write. My daddy can’t read or write English or Haitian. My sister can – she’s gonna be a flight attendant! A good job. Wish I had a good job.”

Charlie

THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY EIGHTTEEN: Prison Diary January 20, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL

Twelve days left “in the hole.”

Sometimes you see and hear pitiful things in here. One of the worst parts of the “open population,” in the housing areas, is the incessant noise. If you can’t tune it out, all the chatter, you’ll have no peace. I’ve written some of my best works in the middle of the buffalo herd, so to speak. The relative quiet of confinement makes it easier to sleep, not having four guys sitting on a bunk three feet away gabbing, or standing next to your bunk and yelling at a friend 60 feet away.

When the heat is off, you can talk to the guy next door, or downstairs in the cell beneath you, the vents being open. If the guys next door and downstairs want to carry on a long conversation, you can’t help hearing whatever they’re talking about, through the vents.

Next cell to mine, sharing the vent, is a young Haitian who talks on and on to his friend down below. As I write this they are droning on and on. What I wanted to tell you about was how this Haitian kid views his imprisonment.

He said, “You know, I don’t like it here, not in the box, but I got a bunk to sleep in, and a room, and a sink, and a toilet, light, warm food every day, a doctor f I get sick. My grandma in Haiti don’t have any of that. She was living in a tent when I left. You know how she gets water? It ain’t funny. Least I’m not living on the street. If I get sent back, well, we’ll see.”

It gives you something to think about. You wouldn’t want to be in the Port-au-Prince prison. People do live better in many American prisons than their families in impoverished Third World countries. That doesn’t give our people the right to treat their fellow Americans in prison any way they choose, though.

This morning I am reading about Samson in the Book of Judges, Chapter 13-17, in the Old Testament. Samson was in prison, too. Interesting stories, with parallels to today’s world.

Later.

Charlie

THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY SEVENTEEN: Prison Diary January 19, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL

Only thirteen days to go, unless the powers-that-be have mercy, acknowledge the wrongness of their constitutional violations, and suspend my remaining days of solitary. “Disciplinary Confinement should be the last resort,” those magnanimous prison rules state. Sure, right, uh-huh, forget it. Men got to jail for stealing bread. Sound familiar? “Les Miserables.” This is called in prison parlance, “getting the butter from the duck.” How do we silence this guy? Hmmm. Don’t give them any ideas. No, Virginia, I am not suicidal, I don’t harbor thoughts of harming myself or others, so if I wind up hanging from a bedsheet with boot marks on my chest, that wasn’t CPR they were applying. Don’t give them any ideas. I’m not worried about the officers – I can’t complain about them. On the whole they are fair and do a good job. Don’t let the mail grinches near me with any sharp implements! It’s bad enough trying to send out legal mail without enduring buckets of verbal abuse.

Today is my younger brother, Danny’s, 59th birthday. Hard to believe. I remember it like it happened yesterday. I was four years and four months old, and was amazed to see such a red-faced baby against the white sheets of my mother’s hospital bed.

“That’s not my brother, that’s an Indian baby!” I said. Four year olds in 1954 knew nothing of P.C. and Native Americans. Texas was cowboys and Indians territory.

They are bringing evening chow, so I will cut this short. I wanted to mention that something astounding happened a few nights ago – breaded fish filets! Not the compressed fish patty, but real fish, with commercial breading, like something you’d get at Captain D’s, if you frequent such plebian establishments. It wasn’t very big, but it was tasty and real. It had to be a major foul-up on the food suppliers’ part. We haven’t had any type of fish for many years, and that was always the scary patties. They probably meant to send the possum and soy patties (what I call the mystery meat), but an illiterate worker grabbed the wrong cases. We will probably not see them again in my lifetime.

Goodnight all, see you tomorrow.

Charlie

THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY SIXTEEN: Prison Diary January 18, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL

Remember Goldilocks and the porridge — too hot, too cold, just right? That is a fairy tale. In real-life prison, it seems, everything is too hot or too cold. It is never just right.

In the early morning hours of my retaliatory stay in solitary for expressing myself, the weather turned cold and windy. An officer said it had snowed in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, which isn’t that far from this godforsaken place. Suddenly the confinement cells turned freezing cold, it seemed — concrete and steel hold cold better than heat.

Voices erupted from other cells in protest, “turn on the heat!” Hardly anyone back here has any clothing beyond the bare minimum. Even this old building is supposed to have some sort of thermostat. Eventually someone had mercy and cut on the heat. And did they cut on the heat! Powerful blasts of hot air like the Devil’s breath came blowing out a little vent. In minutes the cold was gone. In half an hour the tiny cells were stifling, and more men were yelling, “turn it down!” Can’t. If we’d had coffee we could have had it steaming.

Taking advantage of the situation, I immediately washed my shirt and hung it from the vent with staples. It looked like a flag flying in a gale! In minutes it was dry, so I washed some more. Then, as always happens, before another soul collapsed in the saunas, they cut the heat off. Soon, the cold dominated again, but fortunately the sun rose and drove away the chill.

Last night confinement had some excitement in an otherwise boring and monotonous existence. Two young men locked in a cell together across the catwalk from my abode got into a rousing fight. Everyone heard the thumping of fists, grunts of pain, sounds of crashing against the walls, the bunks, the floor, cries, more slaps on flesh, more grunts, oofs and gasps.

Most prison fights don’t last long. “Sucker punches” predominate. One man “creeps” the other, lands his best punch, usually stunning him and leaving him open for a battering and kicking until the puncher gets tired. But this fight seemed evenly matched, and went on and on, perhaps three minutes, a prison eternity.

The noise drew the guard, who looked in the little plexiglas window and ordered them to break it up, stop fighting. They paid him no mind, going at it harder, perhaps to gain a win before the squad rushed them.

No squad needed. The officer opened the metal tray slot, and hit them both with a canister of pepper spray. That took a minute to take effect, then they were both burning, crying, the fight was over. Another guard came, the combatants submitted to the command, “cuff-up,” putting their hands behind them and through the slot, to be manacled. The crybabies were led to cold showers to wash off the burning capsaicin, per the rule. I give the responding officer credit — he handled it professionally, and without unnecessary force.

That was last night. I’ve been neglectful of my prison diary entries because of the urgency to file the appeals of the false disciplinary charge, “attempt to conspire,” which isn’t an actual infraction, but is what is called an overbroad, vague charge utilized merely to put something down on paper even when the person has done nothing wrong, to justify the oppression. Sort of like “grand mopery with intent to commit scrutiny,” another nonsense charge.

I am back now, for a little while, at least. I got mail fairly unhindered, informing me that my first installment of poems and diaries had arrived unmolested — the “heat is on” in the mailroom, too, which means many eyes are watching their actions, so for now the mail Grinch is playing it somewhat by the book. If you don’t file your appeals within certain tight deadlines, they kill them, although that never kept prison officials from ignoring mandatory deadlines, or not responding at all.
Around nine thirty this morning, I was called out, manacled, waist chain, cuffs, padlock, legirons, and led to the infamous little “d.r. room,” where I talked on the phone to all-star lawyer, Bill Sheppard. No sooner had I been “unchained” and locked securely in my cell, than another escort officer told me I was going to dental.
Last week the dentist examined the upper left molar that had broken, and today was the scheduled extraction. Forget about fancy dental work in here. It’s “yankem, pullem” time.

It’s not easy even getting into a dental chair when you’re chained like Harry Houdini about to get dropped in the river, but I made it. At least they use novacaine in prison, so after the shots took effect the dentist proceeded to pull the tooth until it broke in two. Oops. After some serious grinding and digging the malefactor came out, but the hole in my gum was so deep, he said that he could see the gray sinus membrane. Whoa! No problem though. The membrane was intact, and besides, I’d signed the release, hadn’t I, that authorized them to do whatever they did without fear of lawsuits. If you die, you die. Form signed.

So, a few stitches and gauze pads, I was good as new. At least, the painful tooth was extracted. I hobbled back to solitary, numb for hours, thank you, Lord.
Charlie

THE CONSTITUTION AIN'T IN EFFECT IN OKALOOSA COUNTY

DAY TEN: Prison Diary January 12, 2013 Solitary Confinement Okaloosa C.I., Crestview, FL

WASHDAY IN SOLITARY


With the continued budget cutbacks, another area the prison system has thrown on the wood pile is laundry. Out here in "no-man's land," where public scrutiny is rare, many of the prisoners look like homeless people, or "outdoorsmen," as the late Mitt Romney called them, wearing clothing not much better than rags. For those with families who visit them, they are dressed better - we don't want any distraught mothers calling the newspapers and complaining, but if you are in solitary confinement, Heaven help you - you are the "Forgotten Ones."

Some of these guys coming out of their cells look like they've been in one of those Mixed Martial Arts fights where their opponents' goal was to rip their clothes to shreds. One poor guy's blue shirt was ripped down the back, his bare shoulder sticking out, trying to hold up a ragged pair of trousers several sizes too large.

Under no circumstances do you dare turn in your clothes for washing at the laundry! If they come back in the cart at all, you'll never see the same ones you sent. The "orderlies" will pick through the laundry and take anything better than a rag.

Which brings us to Saturday, Day 11 of my sojourn in solitary. We don't go to any callouts to medical or dental or classification on the weekends, so that becomes wash day. Wash your meager belongings in the tiny sink that dribbles water, never let them out of your sight, hang them off your bunk and hope they will dry.

"Back in the day," old-time convicts washed all their clothes on Saturday morning in their toilet, known in the prison vernacular as a "shit jacket."

It freaked me out to go over to Jack "Murf the Surf" Murphy's "house," what we called the cells, on Saturday morning, and there he'd be, merrily scrubbing and rinsing his personal socks in the toilet. Of course, he'd have cleaned the toilet beforehand, but I never could bring myself to wash my clothes in the cell toilet. I still won't. It may take longer, but I have "time." Call me squeamish.

So I washed my blue shirt, let it hang all day, then when it was almost dry, I carefully smoothed out the wrinkles, folded it, and placed it between the hard steel bunk and the plastic-covered mattress. Tomorrow it will come out looking like it was pressed. I washed my socks and tee shirt, and tomorrow I'll wash my boxers. I am lucky to have them - "personals," - purchased from the Internet canteen order by my family. I don't dare let them out of sight. They fit, and they are mine.

Solitary is a musty, smelly place. Men in close quarters, locked in small cells, showers three times a week, sweaty clothing, raw armpits and elsewhere, think of an animal den where the bear slept all winter. Many of these prisoners were homeless before they came to prison, many have mental disorders that caused them to wander the city streets - remember the crazy-looking guy who wanted to wash your car window at the stoplight with a filthy rag? He's in here with me. And he is still not too concerned about hygiene, or what anyone else thinks about him. Sometimes it is a defense mechanism against rape. A young man who isn't tough enough to defend himself might let his personal hygiene go to Hell, refuse to shower or change clothes, and like the skunk, hope to use his awful scent to drive away predators. It doesn't always work - someimes the predator is as smelly and musty as his prey.

That's the last thing I'm worried about, so I will wash my clothes and myself, and cling to any small scraps of dignity I can hang on to.

See you tomorrow.
Charlie