SLOW PROGRESS — A Week In The Life

 

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

Journal from Solitary Confinement

 

October 10, 2022

Prison Gestapo Strikes Again

Just when I thought things were moving in a positive direction, they struck again. It happened the way it usually has happened, out of the clear blue sky. I had just returned to the dorm after attending a “Principles of Art and Design” class sponsored by the University of Central Florida. I’d just gotten on the phone when a guard came in the dorm amd motioned for me to hang up the phone, I was going to confinement. What charge? No charge – under investigation. For what? No one knows. Captain Stoops knows – his orders.

I do nothing wrong. I walk the straight and narrow. Every year or two, “they” will get angry at something I wrote about and harass me by putting me “under investigation,” then let me go leter, after losing personal property and visits. They know that the only way they can hurt me is by depriving me of visits. Visiting was scheduled to be resumed on Saturday, Oct. 15, after a two-week closure due to Hurricane Ian. I may not make it.

What’s it all about? Good question. Bad timing. I have a legal call scheduled and legal appeals I’m working on. “They” censored several emails I sent out about talks I’ve been having with the transgender prisoners that are living in our dorm.. I am filing grievances on the censoring of my emails. They haven’t heard about freedom of speech in Lake County. That’s all I can think of that could be the cause of being under investigation.

Fortunately I had gone to the canteen, and have “trade goods” I can barter for paper and stamps.

ANTS! Millions of them! My food is in a pillow case on my toilet, slowing them down.

What can you do? Prayer is always welcome. and keep in touch. I can’t send email, but I can receive it and snail mail a day or two later.

Best to all from Solitary Confinement.

Charlie

Day Three  Wednesday, October 12, 2022   Solitary Confinement

Over 40 years ago, Jack “Murf The Surf” Murphy, imparted prison wisdom that some old-timer told him years before, about the people who run prisons — “If their lips are movin’, they’re lyin’.” That’s haow you can tell; are their lips moving? then they’re lying. I experienced that yesterday, Day Two, Tuesday.

A group of officials making their required rounds, passed my cell. One said, “What’s he doing in here?”(It’s very surprising to see me, an elderly man, model inmate, 44 years in prison, uninvolved in any prison hustles or gang activity, to be in lockup, under investigation.)

Being inside a steel box, sound is muted. I called out to a female classification supervisor, “Why am I locked up under investigation?” In passing, not slowing down, she said, “An email you sent said you were getting paid for writing articles.”

That’s totally false. Check my canteen account. I denied it. She kept walking. When my classification officer went by, she had nothing to say.

Next, the sergeant over gangs brought a “witness statement” to fill out. that will be brief, I know nothing. I’ve done nothing wrong. I asked him why I was in here; he said, “Someone wrote a kite on you, said you were going to escape.”

Hah! (a kite is an anonymous note written to get someone moved or in trouble.) His lips were moving. I told him, “You should know better. I can barely walk to the chow hall.” I asked him again, “Do you really believe that?”

“No,” he said, leaving the cell.

“Then let me out.” I yelled to his back. He was gone.

They have been tampering with my JPay emails for years, but more so lately. I’ve filed grievances for improper censorship. They erase emails that Libby has paid for. DOC rules state since there are no specific rules governing emails, they are under “routine mail” rules, Chapter 33-210-101 of the Florida Administrative Code, also the Florida Constitution Declaration of Rights and the 1^st and 14^th Amendments to the U.S. Constitution. They don’t care.

I’ve found that it is more effective to drown the thousands of ants infesting the cell than to try squishing them. Pouring water around the walls slows them down.

Charlie

Day Four   Thursday, October 13, 2022

Here I am, still in my solitary cell. I have successfully beaten back the ant invasion. Only two or three make it to my bunk to bite me every couple of hours. I poured a ring of water around my cell walls and the cracked corners they come through, drowned a few thousand and squished the ones that get through.

The lips are still moving. The captain who ordered my lockup came through today. I asked him why he locked me up. “I don’t know.”  He said he had locked up half the people in confinement, and didn’t know why, but it was probably verbal disrespect, or refusing to work.

What? No way! That makes four reasons, none true.

Hopefully, they will get called on this, let me go. Eliminating all the ludicrous possibilities, I know why they are doing this. They don’t want me to write, so they silenced me. No tablet, no email, no writing. Censorship. Illegal. Someone will answer for this eventually, but now I am noe burdened with more hassles, that I don’t need.

more later. Charlie

Day Five   Friday, October 14, 2022  Lying Lips Continued

Today was a little better than yesterday. Just finished my supper — mystery meat patty, watery instant potatoes, green beans, two slices white bread, a piece of sheet cake. The food in confinement is better than that served to the compound. Kitchen workers get locked up for stealing, refusing to work, disrespect, and more. Perhaps half the men back here are out of the chow hall. Their friends prepare the trays and fix them up, all the trays, so when they go to lockup, sooner or later, they will at least eat well. Looking out for each other.

Another day of lying lips, pr more accurately, silent lips. They call “Inspection,” we have to stand up when the officials whiz by our cells, no opportunity to ask them questions… “Why am I back….” Whiz, they’re gone.

The property room gave me two legal folders with a few envelopes and paper, so I’m not so desperate about writing. As I said before, I can’t send email, but I can receive them. they print them out, and I hopefully will receive them a day or two later. I get the USA Today newspaper, and it has been a lifesaver — reading material and crossword puzzles!

Friday night — shower time, Mon., Wed., Fri. At least the heat broke after the hurricane, so the stuffy cells are bearable.

Good night, Charlie

Day Six  Saturday, October 15, 2022  Solitary In The Dark

One thing about solitary is you can catch up on your sleep in bits and pieces, no early morning sliding steel doors slamming the heavy doors closed. 4:15 am nurse handing out medications. 5 am lights out. 6:30 am lights on — chow; 6:45 am lights off, just as I was about to start writing. Six feet up the outer wall a horizontal window, a little light filters in. I can hear the sandhill cranes and their haunting honks passing overhead. I worry about the seven feral cats in the storm drain — no one to sneak sardines and meatballs to them.

It’s 9:50 am, and I can barely see to write. This myasthenia gravis has adversely affected my vision and handwriting.

A friend passed a book to me — “1984” by George Orwell. How appropriate. It has been decades since I read it. I now live in a totalitarian society All I remember is Winston Smith, “Big brother is watching you.” (How true in here.) and the verse, “Beneath the spreading chestnut tree, I betrayed you and you betrayed me.

It is 8:28 pm, Saturday night now. Quiet. They’ll be screaming over football in J-2, my old dorm.

Uneventful day. Read about half of “1984,” filled in my last USA Today crossword puzzle, battled ants. Rewrote a formal grievance on censored JPay emails. Got a lot of rest. No cell mate to deal with.

I regret greatly missing our visits. No phones either.

No matter how closely I walk the straight and narrow, every now and then that old devil sticks me with his pitchfork to test me. I’ve been tested enough. Let me go! Evil!

More later. I pray your circumstances are better than mine.

Charlie

Day 7  Sunday, October 16, 2022  Solitary

Saturday night wasn’t too bad – only got awakened by ant bites 4 or 5 times. I’ve successfully fought back. I made a little levee of rolled up toilet tissue along the wall where the ants come in. I I pour water on their long line of march into the cell — they don’t like water — disrupts their scent trail. They climb the wall and I squish them. That’s good for an hour or two. When the water dries up, they are back. Ouch! One bit me on the neck [ant revenge?] Let me pour more water.

The cell is dark. I can rarely see this writing on the page. Waiting now for lunch and for the lights to come on.

I want to tell you about Friday’s shower night. Forty-two cells, 1^st floor and 2^nd floor. Very depressing. Suicides and suicide attempts are common. The only time you see any other prisoner outside their cell is when someone goes to a medical callout or shower night, Mon., Wed., and Fri.

I am well known in a positive sense, to various staff and inmates as “Mr. Norman.” The guard let me out of my cell to go to the shower, and several men looking out of their little cell windows began yelling. I couldn’t help but laugh when this young, heavily tattooed gang member yelled out, “GAWD! What’s this place coming to? these assholes done locked up Mr. Norman, the nicest man at Lake. I know you ain’t done a damned thing wrong.”

Amen, brother, you’re right.

The sandhill cranes just landed by the pond, and continued honking for a good five minutes. I believe they are calling for their missing baby.

Gotta water the ants. Back later. Charlie

Day 8 Monday, October 17, 2022  Solitary

Quiet day in “the box.” Another “drive-by” inspection. The warden passed by so fast — “Beep-Beep” — thought it was the Roadrunner with the Coyote on his tail, of Looney-Toons cartoon fame.

Had filling tray of spaghetti and meatballs, green beans, chopped raw cabbage, and 2 slices of bread for lunch. The kitchen buys large bags of small commercially-made meatballs, smaller than ping-pong balls. “Out there,” in the dorm, several men sneaked out their meatballs for me to feed the feral storm drain cats. Six meatballs per tray. I try to get 21 meatballs, 3 for each cat, at least one good meal for them.

You should see those cats eat! I scatter the meatballs on the asphalt, and it looks like an eating contest. One cat is like chipmunk — she takes a meatball in her mouth, then stuffs in another one, and runs away from the crowd to wolf down both. May not be able to do that anymore. No telling what may happen, even a transfer.

Monday night, shower night. Some guys refuse their showers. Whew! Body odor! Hot and stuffy all the time in here — no air circulation at all in here. I take all of mine, and stay in until they run me out.

I’ll take a break for now. Finished “1984.” Numerous parallels to prison life. Slavery. Now I have “Lord of the Flies.”

I pray this solitary journal doesn’t continue very long. Keep in touch. I can receive emails.

Charlie