The Letters From Hell series written by guest poster Screedler were the most visited and read posts of the old Drupal powered TDA. Unbeknowst to me, the links to this series were broken in my switch to a WordPress platform so to make up for it I will post the whole series again one new one per day.
Welcome to Letters from Hell Part 11. Click here to read all the prior installments of the series. Today is the 72nd day since I first started posting these letters to TDA’s website. I used an online calculator to come up with these statistics:
Duration calculation results
From and including: Saturday, September 29, 2007
It is 72 days from the start date to the end date, end date included
Or 2 months, 11 days including the end date
Alternative time units
72 days can be converted to one of these units:
That’s about how long I was in the slammer. Actually I was in 76 days. I just wanted you to get a feel for how long (or short) that length of time is. Has anyone one read all the Letters from Hell since the beginning? Does it seem like a long time ago? I can assure you it seemed like an eternity in the Shelby County Correctional Facility.
June 18, 2006
Dear Dad, Sarah, Amy, James and Audrey,
Hello to everyone. I hope this letter finds all doing well. It was good seeing Dad and Paul yesterday. I hope my house sells and that everything goes smoothly with the movers. I truly wish I could help. I know I am very lucky to have Paul taking care of everything for me.
I was robbed yet again (the fifth time if anyone is keeping track), but this time it was kind of a trap to see if I could catch the person that keeps on stealing from me. On Friday mornings we always get the best breakfast of the week; two biscuits, gravy and a boiled egg. As you know, I don’t like boiled eggs, so I usually trade my egg in the morning for an extra biscuit. The boiled eggs are a delicacy here, because people will save them and pickle them by putting them in the juice of a “store bought” hot pickle. Friday morning I saved my egg and placed it in a used orange juice cup conspicuously at the end of my bunk. Unfortunately, I was once again foiled (between Saturday night and Sunday morning) and did not catch the thief.
Click “Read more” to continue the letter…
I did, however, tell a cell mate of mine that I knew who did it and was going to report it using an inmate grievance/request form. I did not name any names. I have such a form, that I got in order to request a credit for items I was charged for from the store but never received. I will make sure everyone sees when I turn it in. I am sure by the time I turn it in rumor will have gotten around and all will wonder whose name is on the form.
I do not know what would happen if I actually had a name on it. I do know that people have used the forms in the past to have undesirables moved from their cells, but everyone in the cell has to sign it. They call this “kiting” someone out. I have seen it done once before, perhaps unjustly. The victim had actually loaned out items from his store to his fellow cellmates, expecting to be paid two items in return the following week. Instead, all his cellmates “kited” him out of the entire Pod. It will be impossible for him to collect his “payment” unless he somehow returns. That’s prison politics for you.
Since Friday, a new health threat has emerged. Not only do we have a staph infection outbreak, but now two people in our Pod have had a positive reaction to the TB test they give everyone when they first get here. One of the suspected infected is in my cell. He is a Mexican who does not speak English. As far as prevention goes, they told him to not cough on anyone. Great. He is scheduled to have chest X-rays sometime next week. I can just see my obituary – “yada yada yada – died of consumption in a county jail”; sounds like a western.
Reading this letter to myself reminds me of how much I must have thought of myself as a “player” hatching my own jail intrigue and treating the theft of an egg as something from an episode of “OZ”.
I’m really about as bad as one of those guys in Office Space. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.