On Thursday December 1st, DOC spent $18K to shakedown two units. DOC brought extra guards in by the buss load! Literally.
The first unit they hit was G UNIT. The dog program is in that unit. So at about 10 am, a guard brought me Sam from G UNIT. Sam is a two year old Husky/Shepard mix. We spent the day playing and getting to know each other.
Sam is an awesome dog, and he’s looking for a forever home. For more information on how to adopt, please read: Adopting A Dog.
I was expecting to give Sam back at 3:30pm. But to my surprise, he spent the night with my celly (Jesse Bailey) and I. The next morning, we got raided! Sam went back to G UNIT, and all of H3 (my unit), went to the gym. There we sat for 9 hours while our cells were getting TORE UP!
Some cells got hit harder than others. I was actually surprised that my cell didn’t get hit that hard. Everything was moved around, but they didn’t dump everything on the floor like they did others.
These shakedowns are to be expected. I mean after all, this is prison. But the interview tactics was out of line! As we all sat in the gym, DOC conducted interviews with everyone. Or should I say, they interrogated everyone.
As soon as I walked in the little office, the lead investigator looked at me from above his glasses and simply said, “Sit down!”
I said, “Yes sir” and sat.
He asked, “Are there drugs in the unit?”
I said, “I’m sure there is. This is prison.”
He asked, “Who has them?”
I said, “I don’t know. I’m not in that scene.”
He said, “Don’t lie to me. You live in that unit and you know where its at!”
I said, “Sir, I understand your position and objective. But I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
He responded, “So if you knew, you’d tell me?”
That’s when I got philosophical with him. I said, “What’s done in the darkness will eventually be brought to light. Guys that come in here and tell, eventually get exposed. And that in itself presents a whole host of problems that often turns out worse than a guy sitting in his cell getting high.”
He says nothing as he jots down notes on his pad.
I continue, “So with all due respect, let’s just focus on me and what I’m doing.”
That’s when he says, “You’re getting high. I’m ordering that extra attention be paid to your cell. I’m also ordering that you get tested for drug use.”
I’m thinking, man, this dude is hardcore! I feel myself taking offense. Then all of a sudden, The Four Agreements pop into my head. I remember the second agreement: DON’T TAKE ANYTHING PERSONALLY.
At that moment I start to relax and realize this guy is just doing his job and he views me as a number. He doesn’t care about me or my journey. He’s just doing his job and I just so happen to be within his line of work. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.
He quickly snaps back, “That doesn’t mean anything!”
I quietly say, “To me it does.”
Then he asks, “Who do you run with?”
I reply, “No one. But I associate with all types of people.”
“Does that include the White Boys?” he asks.
It would be so easy to be a smart-allic to this guy, and at times I’m tempted. But I stay composed and answer his questions as he attempts to put his own twist on things.
I say, “Yes. And it includes my Black friends, my Native American friends, my Asian friends, and my Mexican friends.”
As he’s interrogating me, he’s looking at a computer screen, reading some type of inaccurate information on me. At least I assume it’s inaccurate, based on his line of questioning.
He asks me, “Do you sit with all these different races in the chow hall?”
I tell him, “Yes.”
He asks me, “How do the White Boys feel about that?”
I tell him, “I’ve never went around asking, but I assume it’s just like anything else in life…some hate it, some like it, and some don’t care.”
Then he asks me, “Have you ever been affiliated with the Skinheads?”
Have you ever been affiliated with the AF (Arian Family)?
“Have you ever attended any Asatru meetings or European events?”
“Nope. But I have attended Native American Pow Wows and Cinco De Mayo celebrations.”
“Let me see your tattoos,” he demands.
“I don’t have any,” I say.
He says, “Either you willingly show me your tattoos or else I’ll strip search you, then write you up you for lying to staff.”
“If I had tattoos I’d gladly show you. But I don’t have any.”
Silence filled the room.
His entire line of questioning was an attempt to tie me to STG (security threat groups) and make me out to be a racist. (please read: Prison Ink: The Art of Hate)
As silence filled the room, he continued to read from the computer. So I took it upon myself to give him some more unsolicited insight on myself.
I said, “I know I’ve done wrong in the past. I’m ashamed and remorseful for all that. Today I’m a rehabilitated man. I treat all people with dignity and respect, regardless of their race, religion, or crime. I don’t use drugs or alcohol and I always try my best to do the right thing.”
He continues to read and says nothing.
Then to my surprise, he took off his glasses, looked me in the eye, and said, ”Thank you for your time Mr. Jennings. And good luck to you in the future. We’re done here.”
I was shocked! WTF just happened?
As I stood up, he stood up. Then he extended his hand. I felt uncomfortable shaking it. Because this is where all the snitches conduct their business. And this is the man they conduct their business with. But I have a clear conscious. I’m not a snitch. And I haven’t done anything wrong. So I shook his hand and said, ”Thank you sir” as I walked out the door.
For more on this crazy day, please read my celly’s perspective in a post he wrote on Stone City Blog called: SHAKEDOWN (the drug raid)
And oh, just so you know, they never did UA me.
Or strip search me.
Or pay special attention to my cell.
If it ain’t yours, leave it alone. Jealousy is a motherfucker no matter where you’re at.
Back in the mid 90’s there was this punk running around Walla Walla. He went by the name Tiffany.
Tiffany was in a relationship with Shadow. Tiffany is white, Shadow is Mexican. For months the two lived together. Until one day administration broke up the two.
Tiffany got moved into a different cell. Inside his new cell lived Terry. Terry has been in prison for years and has several more to go.
It wasn’t long before Terry was butt-fucking Tiffany and making him suck his dick. Tiffany told Shadow. Shadow was pissed.
Shadow approached Terry out in the yard and said, “Hey man, Tiffany is my bitch. Leave her alone.”
Terry laughed and said, “Her? That punk has a dick bigger than yours.”
Shadow wasn’t laughing. “Just stay away from her, alright?”
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Gambling is huge in prison. Convicts will bet on anything, such as: professional sports, prison sports, or how long it’ll take before a sex offender gets his ass beat. The most common way to get in debt is playing cards. Specifically: Poker, Spades, or Pinochle. And the most dangerous type of debt is a drug debt.
Scott is serving 16 years for manufacturing meth. While in prison, he enjoys shooting meth and heroin. He pays for the drugs with the $100 a month he gets from his grandma. Unfortunately, $100 only keeps him high for 2 days. But Scott has a plan. He’ll extend his line of credit and rack up debts.
Before he knows it, he owes $800, and the month is only half over. “Aw what the hell” he thinks, “My sister would send me $100 if I ask.” So Scott goes and gets more drugs.
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Just how bad is it?
It’s as bad or as good as I make it.
The lying… it’s super bad.
It’s almost an everyday thing.
I pretty much know when my celly is lying. And even when he’s not lying, I question him. I don’t question him out loud, I keep it to myself because I don’t want to cause tension between us.
When my “BS Meter” goes off, I investigate. He mainly lies about what other people say. So I’ll simply go to that person and ask, only to find out that my celly completely and grossly lied. I’ve called him on a few lies already. He gets defensive and hostile. He attempts to clean it up by telling more lies.
For example, he told me that an officer jammed him up because our dog, Yahoo, wasn’t wearing a colored bandana. (We had just given Yahoo a bath and his bandana was off until it dried. Bandanas represent the status of the dog.)
The lie was so elaborate and full of back and forth dialogue between he and the officer. I knew he was lying. So later on I talked to the officer, only to find out that no such conversation ever took place.
Later that day I tried to have a serious talk with my celly. (He didn’t know I knew.) I explained to him that we need to be honest with each other.
I asked if he has ever lied to me?
He said no.
I asked if he was sure?
He paused, then said that he has never lied to me.
During the course of our conversation he lied to me several more time. It was like a domino effect, one lie inspired the next lie. He lied to cover up lies. Finally I told him that I talked to the officer, and I already knew the truth behind that lengthy, lie infested conversation we just had.
I got the feeling that this man really believed his own lies, because he attempted to convince me that he DID talk to the officer, and the officer DID say that. He wouldn’t budge! There was NO WAY this man was going to admit he lied.
So I said, “Let’s go talk to the officer together.”
He said, “Let’s go!”
I opened the door and we both started to head out. For a split second I started to think, “Man! Did the officer lie to me?” I mean, THATS how convincing my celly was.
Then, all of a sudden, my celly said, “Wait! Stop! Come back in here.”
We came back in and shut the door.
He said in a low defeated tone, “He never said that.”
I was super cool about it. I told him it was no big deal and let’s move on. He apologized for lying and assured me that from now on he would be honest with me. I shook his hand, told him all is good, and let’s move on.
Since then, he has lied to me numerous times. And if I can’t prove it, he doesn’t budge. So for the most part I just let him lie without calling him on it. But I must be honest, its frustrating and extremely annoying.
Last night I came back from the shower. The second I walk in he says, “Rollo started to chew on your shoe. I took it away from him.”
I have OCD, I know EXACTLY how and where I set my shoes. I looked at my shoes and they were untouched. My celly is disabled. There’s NO WAY he’s going to line my shoes up the way I do.
I KNOW HE’S LYING…AGAIN!!!
I’ll spare you the big ol lie infested conversation that ensued. But I will say that I called him on his BS. Along with several other previous lies. The flood gates opened!
It didn’t go well and now I feel animosity towards him. And I’m sure he feels animosity towards me. In the past, I would’ve made his life hard with verbal abuse and constant disrespect.
I called my sweet wife and told her what was going on. She offered me advice and help on how to handle this. She then remembered reading what my celly had written in a post on Stone City Blog. He wrote that he used to be a pathological liar. It instantly made sense.
The next day I was extra nice to him. Then I asked if we could have another serious conversation. He said yes. I commended him on his Stone City Blog post, and how he admitted he once had a lying problem. I offered to further help him in overcoming this problem.
We talked for a long time. He told me about his childhood and abuse, and why he lies. As we concluded I told him that this is the perfect opportunity for us both to evolve and overcome. He agreed.
It’s been a couple weeks since that chat. He hasn’t lied since…at least not to me.
If I feel he’s lying, all I have to say is, “Are you being truthful?”
He and I both agreed that by saying that, it’ll take him to a place of truth within, and will allow him to recognize and focus on his desire to be a better man. This also benefits me as it allows me to deal with issues in an appropriate manner.
So just how bad is it, living with a compulsive liar?
It’s as bad or as good as I make it.
I choose to make it a good thing, and to turn it into something that will allow us to both learn and grow.
Early in the morning, I was awoken by a soft gentle knock on my cell door. I thought I was dreaming. Then my dog, Yahoo, made it clear that this was no dream. He started barking at the officer who was knocking on my door.
I jumped out of my top bunk and opened the door. That’s when I knew the entire unit was being shook down. There were correctional officers everywhere!
In the past I would’ve been nervous. But these days I have nothing to hide.
From the very start of this shakedown, something was different. It was the soft, gentle knock…opposed to the loud aggressive pounding that usually accompany these shakedowns. Because I’m a dog handler, there is a sign on my door that says:
Do Not Knock On Door.
Respect And Beware Of Dog.
And Follow Trainers Requests.
Wow! That’s different.
After the strip search, I put Yahoo in the outside kennel. Then I headed to the gym, as instructed. We all sat in there for 6 hours as the SWAT team searched every cell in the unit.
When it was all said and done they found tattoo guns, heroin, meth, and porn. Or at least that’s what I was told.
The search report in my cell said, “Nothing found.” It feels good to live a life free of contraband and misconduct. I’ve lived on both sides of the spectrum… and I must say, life is so much better and less stressful when one lives by the law of the land. For a glimpse of my earlier incarcerated years and all the misconduct I engaged in, please read my ebook, Stone City: Life In The Penitentiary.
WARNING: The images within Stone City are raw and uncensored as they were taken with illegal cellphones that were smuggled in by convicts. Many of the stories are graphic and violent. Viewer discretion is advised.
The place: Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, WA.
The year: early 90’s
Gordon was entering his 35th year of incarceration for a variety of convictions, including 1st degree murder. Although he stands 5’8” and only weighs 140 lbs., he’s a heavy weight amongst his peers.
Don was entering his 18th year of incarceration for a variety of drug and weapon convictions.
One day the 62 year old Gordon approached the 35 year old Don and said, “Hey man, wanna make some easy money?”
Don gave him a skeptical look. “Doing what?” he asked.
Gordon turned and faced the handball courts, then said, “I got this fool right over there,” he pointed, “that says he can whip your ass at handball.”
Don says, “Who you pointing at? Larry?”
Gordon replies, “Yeah! You know him?”
“Not really,” Don says, “We’ve played a few games, but that’s about it.”
“I know,” Gordon says, “I watched you beat him yesterday. That’s how I know you can beat him. That’s why I want to bet on you!”
Don pauses for a second. Then asks, “How do you know he’ll bet?”
Gordon gets stern and says, “Listen, I already talked to him. It’s all set up. All you gotta do is bring your ‘A’ game and go whip his candy coated ass! Can you do that?”
Don is a little reluctant because he knows he could lose. Gordon watched ONE game that Don just so happened to win. That doesn’t mean Don will win all the time. There have been days when Don loses 3 or 4 games in a row to Larry. And vice versa.
But Don doesn’t want to look like a Chump to Gordon. So he says, “These shoes are trash,” as he shows the left side all blown out, I can’t run in these at all!”
Gordon is wearing a new pair of Nikes. He asks, “What size you wear?”
Don says, “10.”
“Here! These are 9 ½.,” As he slips them off.
Within seconds the shoe swap was done.
As they walk to the court Gordon says, “Win and I’ll hook you up with some of that sh*t.”
Don says, “Sounds good…I got this!”
The first game is a very close game. Don loses.
Before the second game starts, Gordon pulls Don aside and says, “Listen you little f*cker, I’m betting fifty bucks a game here! Now get your sh*t together and win!”
Don wins the second game.
Half way through the third game, Don grabs his chest and falls to the ground. He’s having a massive heart attack!
“Man Down…Man Down!!!!” Larry yells up to the gun tower. The guard calls a medical emergency.
Gordon runs out on the court and tries to untie his shoes that are on Don’s feet. But the guard up in the tower yells, “Get back! Get back NOW!”
Gordon backs up. It’s either that, or risk getting shot. These Walla Walla guards don’t play. They will shot and kill!
Within a few minutes a team of prison medics and guards are strapping Don to a big orange gurney.
Everyone is fairly quiet until Gordon yells out, “Hey man! Those are my shoes!!!”
A chorus of sick laughter ensues as a few dozen sick minds find humor in Gordon’s antics.
Within a few hours the news started to spread that Don died of a heart attack. Gordon never did get his shoes back.
And life in the Penitentiary went on.
NO…not me! Silly readers. This is a story about my buddy, LeeRoy.
He and his wife decided to get a little frisky during a visit. And she literally got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. His cookie jar! She was going for a cream filled chocolate bar! And it was all caught on camera.
I’m sharing this because I know some of you ladies who visit your man in prison know exactly what I’m talking about. The little touchy-feely under the table. Sneak a grope here…sneak a grope there.
My advice is…STOP IT!
It’s not worth it. And trust me, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught.
LeeRoy used to work on the OUTSIDE work crew. That job paid $7 a day and allowed him to leave prison grounds. A novelty job in here!
He got FIRED! Because he violated the “No hand jobs in the visiting room” rule.
He also got kicked out of the Honor Unit. Apparently they frown upon hand jobs too.
All because he received a WAC 137-28-260 Serious Infraction. The rule violation was a 504. It states: Engaging in sexual acts with others.
Not the type of write-up you want in prison!
I’ve been in prison for over 21 years. I’ve seen this time and time again. Couples get too comfortable. They get away with inappropriate touching for years. Then it happens. Busted!!!
So stop while you’re ahead. Stop touching his tally-whacker under the table. You WILL get caught. I’ll hear about it. And I’ll put you on blast as I blog about it.
Thank you and have a nice day.
As I came back from the gym, I walked into my cell only to find it in shambles.
Dry rice and oatmeal was all over the floor. All my papers and file folders were scattered everywhere. My shelves were completely trashed. And all my clothes were in a pile on the floor.
The situation is done. It is what it is. I have no control over that. But I do have control over my mind and how I deal with it.
I turn around and walk out. I head to the officers station where I find two guards. They are the two who tore up my cell. I’m about to confront them…
For My Smartass Confrontation, CLICK HERE
For My Controlled Confrontation, CLICK HERE
Stafford Creek Corrections Center is located in the Great North West. I lived in this area my entire life.
I am good at two things. Running around in the woods naked. And cultivating psychedelic mushrooms.
Lucky for me, prison has only robbed me of one of these things.
Cultivating a spore comes very naturally to me. Maybe because of my extreme laziness. Or maybe because I love to grow stuff that gets me high. Either/or…growing spores is very easy.
So easy, I was able to do it in prison.
Thus begins the Great Mushroom Caper at SCCC. Quite by accident and not absolutely on purpose, I found myself in quite the little situation.
After spending two years in this sh*t hole in the woods, I began to notice a few things.
First, I was getting very fed up. Somehow I landed in this prison that somehow landed smack dab in the middle of the woods I used to roam. Naked. I live about 10 minutes from this place. I know every dear trail and logging road in this area.
Second, I realized I was working 240 hours a month out in the garden green house for $55 a month! Not to mention the prison takes 60% of that!
Combine those two revelations with the fact that I don’t give a f*ck, and well…you’re about to see what happens.
After two years of working in the green house, I developed a good working relationship with the guard in charge of that area. I would do all the work. He would sit on his ass and get fat. I didn’t bother him. He didn’t bother me.
One day after work I was out in the yard roaming around. My heart skipped a beat when I looked down and saw three Stunzie Mushrooms growing in the grass. I stood at a crossroad as I looked around.
I could eat these fully psychedelic, fully enjoyable mushrooms, or I could pick them, smuggle them to work, and watch them expand like a mother*cker! Yeah…I’ll do that!
The next day at work, I smashed bits and pieces of the mushrooms into the dirt between the cucumber and squash plants.
Within two days I had a nice patch of shrooms. I picked ‘em. Dried ‘em. And made powder. I spread the powder up and down three rows of cucumber and squash. Thirty feet long, sixteen inched wide.
That was on a Friday. Without completely understanding what I had just done, I returned to my unit for the weekend.
Monday morning rolls around and for the first time ever, I’m excited to go back to work. I go back to my area and I can’t believe my eyes.
Mushrooms were everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE!!! All I could see was dollar signs.
I immediately devised a multi person process. Always a scary thing because you never know who might tell. But I had to. I needed help with my new-found cash crop. I had to get these things out of the green house and back to my cell.
My buddy Jason works on the trash crew. All trash cans are marked by a unit. That means all trash cans return to the unit they came from. Pretty stupid really! All this does is allow inmates, like me and Jason, to smuggle things from the Correctional Industries area back to the living units.
Back at the unit, my celly was already waiting for the trash cans to roll in. So far, so good. When the time was right, he quickly retrieved a large trash bag that was 1/3 full of psychedelic shrooms!
By the time I came home from work, he was high as a kite laying on his bed. TRIPPIN!
I was high too. I kept a little stash out in the green house just for me. We spent a good 5 minutes just laughing for no reason other than we just pulled off one of the biggest moves in DOC history!
I asked him, “Where they at?”
He gets up. He pulls his blanket back. There they are! All smashed into his sheets and the blanket. We start busting up again! This fool dumped all the shrooms on his bed and then covered them with a blanket. Genius!!
For the next several hours we dried the shrooms with more sheets and two fans. Meanwhile, we went around and collected as many Shiitake Dried Mushroom packs as we could. DOC sells those. They’re legal. We only managed to scrounge up 6 empty bags. It’s a start.
The next day at work, I had Jason comb through the facility trash. He was high as a kite and on a mission: TO GET ALL EMPLY MUSHROOM BAGS.
That day when the trash cans came back to the unit, my celly was waiting. This time he retrieved 87 empty mushroom bags.
By the time I came home from work, he had them all bagged up. We had 76 3oz. bags of highly hallusigenic mushrooms! A street value of $36,480.
A prison value of over $250,000! Incredible!
Before I could sell one single bag I had two guards kicking in my cell.
Somebody ratted me out!
Because of the amount they found, they charged me with a felony.
Now here I sit in the hole facing another 6 years.
Damn it! I should’ve just ate those three little Stunzies growing in the grass.
(This story was written in collaboration with my pal, Pete. It is his story, which I helped him articulate into writing.)
Keep your eyes on your own. If you get caught looking at someone’s visitor, whether it’s their mom, sister, grandma, wife, girlfriend, whoever, and you could end up looking at some boots upside your face back in the cell block.
Bruce is a nice young fellow serving 14 years for second degree murder. All through his school years he played sports and had lots of friends.
One night he went to a party with friends. This was a high school party, so everyone there ranged from 15-18 years old. Bruce was 17.
The party was going good, everyone was laughing and having fun. Then it happened.
Eight football players from the rival high school walked in. They were loud, rude, and disrespectful. When asked to leave, they refused.
Push come to shove and a brawl broke out. Most people ran. Within seconds, Bruce and his six buddies were getting man handled by the bullies.
Bruce panicked. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed a random kitchen knife. He had no intention of using the knife. He just wanted to break up the brawl and persuade the bullies to leave.
It didn’t work out. One of the bullies attacked Bruce. Bruce stabbed him. The stab wound was fatal.
Two years into a 14 year sentence, Bruce was enjoying a nice visit from his mom and sister. As the conversation flowed and the mood was light, his sister leaned in close and said, “That creepy guy keeps looking at me.”
Bruce turned his head and saw exactly who she was talking about.
It was 37 year old Ray Ray. A known sex offender.
Bruce turned his chair, then pointed his finger directly at Ray Ray and said, “That guy right there? That’s the guy who can’t keep his f*cking eyes off my sister!”
From that point forward, Bruce kept Ray Ray in his sight. The mood shifted. Tension could be felt. Bruce was pissed!
After the visit, Bruce confronted Ray Ray.
“Why were you staring at my sister!” he demanded!
“I saw you. Don’t f*cking lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I wasn’t looking at her.”
Bruce snapped! Talk time was over. Bruce kicked Ray Ray in the nuts without warning. Hard!
As Ray Ray bent over in pain, Bruce grabbed him by the hair and kneed him in the face 3 times. Ray Ray fell to the floor. Bruce stomped on his face twice, then said, “Don’t you ever look at my sister again you piece of sh*t rapist.”
Moral of the story: It doesn’t matter what you’re in prison for. Don’t look at other peoples visitors. Period!