My name is Damian Jones, or DJ for short. I know, how original. I’ve been a journalist for years now. I’ve moved around from company to company, never settling down with one. Some say that longevity gives you a credible reputation. I say fuck it. There’s too much to see and do to remain monogamous with someone who offers you a retirement plan.
In my time as a journalist I’ve written hundreds of articles. From the mundane to the existential. I was a great writer, though I was never satisfied with the types of topics I was given. So, from time to time, I would stir the pot. It’s crucial to never be opiniated when it comes to writing about something of importance to people. I, on the other hand, felt that a little chaos might make things more interesting. Ergo me having to move constantly.
But the article that I’m writing about today is not about me. Rather the contrary. I just wanted to tell you a little bit about myself before you continue. Don’t worry, this will all make sense. I’m not just writing for the sake of self-validation. I have more than enough memoirs to tell me that.
As I stated, I moved around a lot, eventually landing a job at this great company. I will not tell you the name, though it does rhyme with The Mall Breed Kernel. With this job, I was given the opportunity to travel around and interview people based on whatever topic I received. Some days I would talk to a nice lady about why she’s racist. Other times I would have to confront a group of gun lovers ready to shoot me on command. But it was a thrill nonetheless to be out in the world, rather than having to spend my day in a cubicle. That is until I received my last topic.
I’ve said this numerous of times and I’ll say it again: at the end of the day, money talks. There’s nothing else I can add to that. So, when I received the assignment, it was clear that this was already a biased story, with intend that it would clear some rather rich men from the smoke that they had been under. The only reason why I was given this said assignment was because my (now former) manager had found out about my little “tweaks” and felt that I could make a story like this turn readers away from their opposition.
Before I continue, I just want to say that I am no longer affiliated with any company or organization. As of now, I am my own independent writer with no intention of going back to the world of corporation. The money talks, but after a while, you’ll start seeing how much blood there really is.
The story that I was supposed to write about was about a group of men who either owned prisons or had a fair share stake in them. These men had been in some legal trouble for the last few months over some documents that were leaked to the press. These documents had reports and written commentary that detailed the cuts to funding they had made to their prisons in order to save of couple thousands. Cuts to humane needs such as hygienic products and medicine. Aside from that, they were also noted on keeping prisoners longer than their intended stay by sabotaging their record. According to the leaked files, prisoners stated that the guards would place a weapon of some sort in the bed of an inmate who was scheduled to depart soon. The following day, a “random” inspection would occur, and the prisoner’s sentence would be extended.
Now, why would they do this you may ask? Well, if you’re completely unaware, most private owned prisons make money to the owner/investor. It usually starts by bringing in a new activity to the prison such as shoe making. This activity is sold to the prisoners as a way of earning a couple cents to their in-home bank account. The prisoners do the work for scraps while the owner makes profit for cheap labor. In a way, it’s the equivalent to borderline slavery.
This doesn’t look well from the outside in. And truth be told, it isn’t. The labor doesn’t take away from their sentence, nor does it give them a real-world skill that they can use once they leave. All it’s doing is making money to the owner, while simultaneously cutting funding to the prison.
Which is where I come in. After some research, it was clear that my manager had his hands in the industry. And the men I needed to clear were people he knew all too well. And since I can make Lucifer’s actions justified, he figured I could do the same with this.
My job was simple: write an article about how the leaked files were complete bullshit and prove that the prisons were doing much better than what was rumored. In addition, I was to travel to four prisons that were on the files in order to debunk the accusations. I was never specified on what I was supposed to do at the prisons, other than gather information and take a couple of photos to prove wrong the false accusations. I was only granted one visit to each prison, so I knew that I had to make it count.
So, I began to do my research. I wanted to make sure that whatever I was about to lie about wouldn’t come and bite me in the ass in the long run. I was instructed to bury any evidence I found to be demeaning. Which would’ve been fine, if I hadn’t run out of floor. Indeed, the more I found, the more I started to realize how wrong this article would become. It would forgive men who don’t deserve a single drop of forgiveness, and it would only continue the mistreatment of humans who’ve paid more than their dues.
These men would be completely exonerated from actions that would make the Devil cry. And though I’m only the writer, I knew that whatever happened to the prisoners would also be on me. That’s when I decided to shift the focus of the story. I no longer had interest in what I was going to be paid more than fair to write about.
It’s been two weeks since I left the company. Judging from what I’ve read, it seems as if someone else picked up the story regardless. What I’ve been seeing on the news is what I feared would happen. Those who have power can create the history they want. And though I was a part of that, I can no longer stay in the shadows.
Before I left, I decided to visit the prisons. Seeing how I was still granted permission, it only felt appropriate to take the offer. There, I met five inmates who were weeks away from being released. These inmates all performed criminal acts, some worse than others. But all felt that their time of redemption was forthcoming. They agreed to meet with me and interview before they got their chance at a new life.
I thought about what I would ask them before I went. I thought about whether I should bring up the accusations that were being laid upon their landlords, or if they’ve heard of anything at all. I considered asking them whether the reports of them being mistreated were true. I even felt as if I should get their opinion on the accusations being made on the guards.
But none of that felt important. I kept seeing this from a reporter’s point of view, when I knew I had to see if from my own. I wanted to talk to these inmates just the same as I would with my brother. This story was no longer about the corruption and the men behind it. Because whatever it is that they’re being accused of doing, they completely did it. The evidence is all there. It shouldn’t take a writer like myself to tell you what’s real and what isn’t. Like my mother always said: if it looks like shit, and it smells like shit, it’s most definitely shit.
No, instead I want to share with you the real stories behind the people we lock behind bars. Because that’s what should really matter now. We’re drawing the attention to these businessmen, when in fact we should be facing the cameras to the ones in orange.
To make things easier, I constructed a set of questions that I would ask each inmate. The questions are as follow:
Why are you in here?
How long have you been here?
What are you going to do when you get out?
Do you think you deserve to be in here?
These questions are the only thing I asked. Nothing more, nothing less. I wanted to know these people and what they really felt being on the inside for so many years. And with these questions, I got to know them in a way I never believed I would. And I’m hopeful that maybe you’ll be able to see that too. These people may be criminals, but that doesn’t mean they’re not any more human than we are.
That being said, what you’re about to read below are the interviews I performed. Nothing has been edited out. I simply recorded everything they needed to say and wrote it down. If by any chance, you believe that I made some of this stuff up, then you’re clearly still in the opposition. As I said, this article isn’t about the men I was originally instructed to write about anymore. Because those men are guilty as can be. There’s no denying that.
I hope you’ll be able to read this with an open mind. I hope you’ll see what these people go through as well. And most importantly, I hope you’ll be able to understand that making mistakes is what makes us human. And everyone deserves a second chance.
Location: Lake Erie Correctional Institute (Ohio)
Name: Rashod Vallandingham
Age: 59
Weeks Left: 2
I: Why are you in here?
R: “Why am I in here? Honestly, I don’t even remember anymore. I know how I ended up here. That I know. What I don’t know is why I’m here now. Yeah, I made my mistakes. But being here for so long feels like a punishment in itself. I tell myself that it’ll all be over soon, but sometimes I think whether it should’ve been over a long time ago. There’re men that’ve come and gone who’ve done far worse things than I have. I just transported the drugs. Never knew where they were going or who was using them. I didn’t want to know that. I just wanted to make some fast money. I didn’t know what else to do. I was desperate. I had a baby girl and I could barely afford to pay rent, let alone have enough to support a child. I’m a fool for believing I was going to make it out of that life without consequences.”
I: How long have you been here?
R: “Long enough to miss my daughter grow up. Long enough to see her hate me for not being there for her. I guess I should consider myself the lucky one. I only got 25. Some of the others got life. I get to see the outside world again in 2 weeks. The others will die behind these walls. It’s so strange. It feels so… unreal. I’ve spent half my life creating mistakes after mistake. And I’ve spent the other half paying for them. Now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the last of my life. They tell me that it’s a chance for me to start over, but that’s not true. I won’t be able to see my little girl grow up anymore. I won’t be able to tell my dad I loved him once last time before he died. Hell, I don’t think I’ll be able to get honey the same way I used to. I’m an old man now. I know I am. Really, sometimes I consider whether it’s worth it to be free anymore. I wasted 25 years of my fucking life for something that I only did for 2 years, at most.”
I: What are you going to do when you get out?
R: “You know, it’s funny. For the last few months, everyone has been asking me that exact same question. Some of my homeboys tell me that they can get me some girls who are into ex-cons. You know, ‘get my dick wet.’ I told them I’ll consider their offer. Maybe a few months of adjusting myself properly. But really, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. As the years went on, I considered what I would do. It used to be, get a job and start doing the right thing with my daughter. But as I saw photos of her growing up and hearing how she doesn’t want anything to do with me, I began to think of something else. I thought about maybe going back to school and getting a degree in nursing. I always wanted to do that. I met this old cat a long time ago, when I first got here. This mofo was 67 years old. He still had 2 years left in his sentence. But he was determined to go back to school when all this was over. Everybody told him it was a dead dream, but he was persistent. I don’t know what happened to him after he left, but I liked to believe that he did what he said he would. But I don’t know about myself. The only thing that I want to do is make things right with my girl. I know I wasn’t there. And she has every right for her not to want me in her life. But I want to make things right. I fucked over a shit ton of people in my life. Even my baby mama. But my girl is the one person that deserves an apology. Maybe one day I will. 25 years felt so long, yet here I am at the end of it. I’m sure I can handle a couple more years to make things right again. But for now, I’m probably gonna grab myself a big fat juicy steak and a gallon of beer. God, I miss alcohol.”
I: Do you think you deserve to be in here?
R: “If you’d asked me that when I first got here, I would’ve told you yes. If you’d asked me that 15 years ago, I would’ve said no. And if you’d asked me that 5 years ago, I would’ve said yes again. But now I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t believe that I deserve to be in here, because I do. All those drugs that I saw, they must’ve affected some people. I think about that sometimes. I think about whether I killed anybody with what I carried. Sure, I didn’t make them, but I was still part of the problem. Maybe that’s why I got 25 years. One for every person I killed. I don’t know. I want to say that I grew as a person all this time being here, but the truth is that I feel like I just wasted half my life. If I didn’t get caught, I probably would’ve stopped doing that within a year. I just needed enough money for my girl. That’s all. But instead I paid for it with my life. Do I think I deserve to be here? Yes. I do. But my daughter didn’t deserve to grow up without a father. My daughter didn’t deserve to be passed around from family to family all her life. She didn’t deserve to suffer for the mistakes that I did. She didn’t deserve any of that. But that’s something that I have to live with now. In 2 weeks I’ll be a free man again, but I don’t even know if I deserve that either.”
Location: Trousdale Turner Correctional Facility (Tennessee)
Name: Alvin Gaby
Age: 35
Weeks Left: 7
I: Why are you in here?
A: “Caused I killed the nigger who was fucking my wife. Well, ex-wife now. Don’t even feel bad about it. Motherfucker deserved it. I busted my ass all day and night just so my bitch of an ex-wife could be getting fucked every day. Probably wasn’t even the only one. Motherfuckers are lucky I didn’t go and kill every single one of them. I knew it was a bad idea moving into that neighborhood. The minute I saw them buy the house next door; I knew shit was going to get worse. That’s what they do anyways. Once one comes in, the rest follow. They’re like flies on shit. I should’ve known she was up to no good. I knew something was up when they started getting a bit too chatty. She wanted me to be nice to them, but why should I? They’re all the same anyways. They just bring drugs, violence, and gangs wherever they go. And apparently fuck wives and girlfriends of hard-working Americans. Like I said, they’re lucky I just got one of them. If I could, I’d get rid of them all.”
I: How long have you been here?
A: “Shit, I’ve been here for 10 years man. 10 fucking years. It feels like it’s been a long fucking time. I got off lucky too, I suppose. Since I killed the fucker in my home, the judge ruled it as me defending my property. But since he wasn’t really committing a crime, I still got 10 years for homicide. I should’ve got less. I didn’t do nothing wrong. I saw a stranger in my house, and I used my god damn American rights. If defending my house is a crime now, then I don’t even know what America is anymore. I’m just lucky I get to have my freedom again soon.”
I: What are you going to do when you get out?
A: “What am I gonna do once I get out? I’m getting the fuck out of this state, that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m telling you man, it’s like everywhere you go nowadays, there’s more and more of them everywhere. I’m going somewhere far away from all this bullshit. My brother already told me he has a job set up for me with him somewhere in Montana once I get out. He says they pay under the table, but it pays well. I trust him. He’s been a good brother for all my life. He even made sure that bitch didn’t take any of my stuff. And when the cops came, he made sure to hide as many of my guns as he could. He’s a good brother. I’m lucky to have him in my life. After mom died, pop wasn’t much around. Well, not in the head anyways. The factory laid him off for a stronger, young negro. He wasn’t the same after that. There wasn’t a time when he didn’t have a bottle in his hand. So, it was me and my brother. We promised that we would take care of each other when something went wrong. And to never let anyone get in our way of success. Especially those people. If you even consider them people. More like animals if you’d asked me. But anyways, that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go a long way from here and start my life somewhere where I know I’ll be safe. Away from my bitch of an ex-wife. Away from this city. And especially away from all these people.”
I: Do you think you deserve to be in here?
A: “Fuck no! I didn’t deserve to be here the day I came in. And I don’t deserve to be here 10 fucking years later. I wasted an entire decade in this hellhole with all those people. And for what? For using my rights? I did what any right minded American would do in my situation in order to protect their home. It’s bullshit. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t take back those years anyways. I’m just thankful that it’ll finally be over. I get to start my new life somewhere far away and I won’t have to deal with any more of this shit. The government fucked me over on this one, but I still believe in the American Dream. And trust me, this won’t happen again. I dare those motherfuckers to get close to me again. I still have my rights. I’m not afraid to use them.”
Location: Rivers Correctional Institute (North Carolina)
Name: DaMarcus Roland
Age: 37
Weeks Left: 3
I: Why are you in here?
D: “Because I fucked up. Because I thought joining their gang would make them stop. I’m so stupid. I know I was better than that. But niggas kept talking shit about me. They didn’t give me much choice to join their gang either. They were fucking with my family, trying to make me join. Telling me they were gonna rape my sister and fuck her dead body. Shit wasn’t right. I didn’t have much choice but to join them. And now I wasted 20 years of my life here. I got caught during my initiation. I was with a group of them in a car. We were supposed to do a drive-by. I needed to kill at least one motherfucker. But shit went wrong. I don’t remember much about that night. I just remember running from the cops. They eventually caught me, charging me on possession of illegal weapons. And you know what was the most fucked up thing about all that? The judge trialed me as an adult, man. I was only fucking 17 years old bro. A junior in high school. I didn’t get to graduate. I didn’t get to walk the stage with the rest of my friends. And I’ve been in here long enough to miss my little sister and brother’s graduation. I missed out on a lot of things bro. My pop died about 5 years ago and I didn’t even hear about it until 3 weeks later. It broke my heart. The only thing I could do is imagine how my ma must’ve felt. Now she’s all alone, with two kids in college and one in the hole. I was supposed to be the big brother to them. Now, I’m nothing.”
I: How long have you been here?
D: “Long enough to see everyone I care about abandon me. The first five years being here weren’t so bad. Everyone knew I was child. Within the first few weeks, I had a group who made sure to take care of me. They were older than the others. Probably been here all their life. They never asked me what I did or how much time I got. They just made sure that I was safe. In a way, they ended up being like a second family to me. Which, when I would lay in bed at night, made me feel like shit. My real family was still out there, trying to figure out how to live without me. Then I think about the friends I had in high school. I’m sure they don’t think about me anymore. But I think about them every day. I like to think that they’ve gotten their shit together already. Maybe already have families and babies and all that other shit. Then there’s my girl, Sandra. We weren’t together, but I had the biggest fucking crush on her. We basically grew up together. We would stick together through everything. I should’ve listened to her… (DaMarcus paused for almost 2 minutes, staring at the ground while rubbing his finger) She…, she actually came to see me. About 10 years ago. It had been a while since anybody stopped by, so that caught me by surprise. She told me she was getting married. She was pregnant too. I think that broke my heart more than when I heard about dad. I spent years thinking about her. I thought about finally asking her out the day I got out. For years, there were so many things that I thought me and her could do. But when I saw her that day, I knew that it was too late for any of that. Even my dreams were only going to remain as dreams. That’s how long it’s been.”
I: What are you going to do when you get out?
D: “I’m going to visit my ma. Maybe just live with her. I know it’s weird for a grown man to go back and live with his mom, but she’s an old lady now. From what I hear anyways. My brothers took it upon themselves to send her to a nursing home. When I heard that, it pissed me off. I don’t know how she raised them after I left, but I know that she doesn’t deserve to spend the rest of her days surrounded by death. I want to take care of her. I wasn’t the greatest son to her but she’s still my ma. I wasn’t there for her when dad died, but I want to be there for her now. I don’t know how long she has left but whatever time she has, I’m going to make sure to be there. There’s a lot of things I ain’t never going to get back, but I would never forgive myself if I’m not there when she goes. Since my brothers don’t talk to me no more, I’m not even gonna bother with them. They’ve already got their own lives. It’s not like me coming back will change anything. It’s just going to be me and my ma. Maybe get a job somewhere close. Any job. And maybe try and get a GED or something. We had a program here that was helping some of us out to get one, so we’d be ready by the time we got out, but they got rid of it. Said they weren’t ‘seeing much progress’. I know that’s bullshit but it’s not like we can do something about it. But yeah, that’s probably what I’ll do. Just me and ma.”
I: Do you think you deserve to be in here?
D: “I’m thankful that I had people who protected me when I first got here. Because I wasn’t ready to live with a group of men who have done all kinds of shit. I remember there would be nights where I would cry myself to sleep. I was afraid someone would come and do something to me. I don’t know what. All that stuff you see on TV about prisons, just made me feel like the minute I dropped the soap, it was all going to be over. But it wasn’t so bad. But I did believe that I deserved to be there when I first got here. Felt like it was where I deserved to be. Like karma or some shit like that, you know? Like, this is what I deserve for all that bad shit that I did. For ruining the family name. For not learning how to walk away from shit. For being rude to my brother and sister. And especially for being such a bad son and disappointing my ma. All those things are why I know that I deserved to be in here for so long. As every year went by, it made sense why I was here. I feel like I grew to be a better person here than if I was still out there. If I was still out there, I’d probably be dead. Maybe gotten killed walking home or some shit. I know that I needed to be here. I’m still upset about a lot of things, but I think that everything does happen for a reason. And in a few weeks, I’ll be out. It’s too late for me to do a lot of things anymore, but I get to be free once more. I get to start all over. This time, I’ll make sure to do the right thing.”
Location: Wheeler Correctional Facility (Georgia)
Name: Lucas McArthur
Age: 28
Weeks Left: 12
I: Why are you in here?
L: “Shit, man, I wish I could tell you. I didn’t do anything wrong, yet somehow, I still ended up here. You know, I believe that karma is real. I really do. That’s why I’m not so bothered by being in this situation as much. Because I know that bitch who put me in here is going to get what she deserves. Just watch. One of these days she’s going to get everything that she deserves. Serves her right. Accusing me of rape. I mean, come on. Look at me. Do I look like a man who is capable of raping someone, let alone someone who I was with for 2 years? Nah, man. I didn’t do that. I know I didn’t. It was bullshit. All of it. The whole situation just blew up out of proportion and before I knew it, I was already labeled a rapist. Couldn’t even defend myself. All my friends turned their backs on me, and nobody wanted to believe my story. The only person that was and still is by my side is my brother. He knows I didn’t do that. He knows I would never do that. My mama raised us right. I would never; you hear me. I would NEVER lay my hand on a woman if she didn’t want me to. And my friends knew that. But that woman is a lying, manipulative bitch. She knows how to change people’s mind. She knows how to make herself look like the victim. Not hard for her anyways. She’s got that face that looks so cute. Like a puppy waiting for a treat. But you know, I’m not bothered by it anymore. I learned my lesson. And once I get out of here, I’m going to make sure to never trust a bitch again.”
I: How long have you been here?
L: “Just five years. The judge felt that that was an appropriate amount of time for me to be here. It was almost as if he knew I was innocent as well but felt that he still had to give me some time, or else he looked biased or something. I don’t know. I’m just lucky it wasn’t more. It was almost close to being more. During the trial, that bitch kept screaming and crying, trying to use her tears to convince the jury that I was a psycho or something. Didn’t even help. I remember their faces. They could tell she was just playing a show for them too. But like I said, I didn’t have enough evidence or people on my side to prove that I was innocent. She even had ‘bruises’ that I gave her. Crazy bitch. She did those to herself. I wanted to bring a doctor or someone to check them out to prove that she did them to herself. But she was able to win that fight too. 5 years man. 5 fucking years. Like I said, it’s not so bad. A lot of these guys in here have way more fucking years on their sentence. But they’ve killed people and done other shit. I didn’t do nothing. It’s not so bad though. Everyone here agrees that I’m not supposed to be here. At least I have them; all things considered.”
I: What are you going to do when you get out?
L: “Probably move out of town or something. I asked my brother to try and sell all my stuff. So, I have some money from that. Plus, I already had some money saved up from before. My brother made sure to take it out the bank before the situation got worse. I’ll use that money to get a bus ticket and be able to pay the first few months of rent in an apartment while I find a job. Not sure where I’ll go though. Maybe Memphis. I hear its kind of quiet over there. Maybe a new scenery will do me good. I don’t know. We’ll see. All I know is that I don’t intend to stay here any longer anymore. I know there’s gonna be bitches everywhere, but at least I’ll be away from her.”
I: Do you think you deserve to be in here?
L: “Do I think I deserve to be here? No! What kind of fucking question is that? I just told you I’m not supposed to be here. Of course, I don’t deserve to be in here. I didn’t deserve to be labeled a rapist. I didn’t deserve to have my friends turn their backs on me. And I especially didn’t deserve to have 5 years of my fucking life wasted in this fucking place that doesn’t even give a shit about us. I didn’t deserve any of this. But trust me when I say that everyone that fucked me over will get what they deserve soon. I still have time to fix my life back to the way it was. And part of me feels grateful for that. But the other part of me feels that I shouldn’t even have to be in this mess to begin with. But there’s no point in being mad about it anymore. 5 years have already come and gone. I’m going to be free soon. I’m going to have my life back and I intend to use it. No more friends. No more getting close to anybody. And no more falling in love. Cause look where that shit can get you; right fucking here. I’m getting what most people don’t get. I’m getting a second chance. And to me, that’s a blessing. And this time, I’m gonna make sure that I don’t let anybody in. Because I’m not coming back here. I’ll make sure of it.”
Location: Gadsden Correctional Facility (Florida)
Name: Wanda Powell
Age: 67
Weeks Left: 4
I: Why are you in here?
W: “You know, I never saw myself as a criminal. I never saw what I was doing as something bad. All I was doing was being the caretaker to dozens of women who needed my help. Women who needed protection from the entire world. I knew how vulnerable they were and how easily things could go wrong because I used to be in that situation at a young age. I didn’t have much of a choice. We were dirt poor, only being able to eat every other day. My mom became desperate for money. So, she did what any right-minded mother would do in her situation; she sold me to some filthy old men who craved the touch of a young girl. It didn’t take long for me to end up in a rabbit hole. By the time I was 18, I already had about 200 ‘customers.’ I became numb to everything. It came to the point where I would just lay there, staring at the wall as they did what they paid for. But all that change when I was about 20. I was with a customer, doing what I normally did. As I began undressing, I could see him starting to put on gloves. Long story short, I managed to get away, with a few cuts here and there. I don’t know what would’ve happened if I stayed but I told myself that I was never going to do that ever again. But by that time, I had a bunch of friends who were in the same situation. And I worried that one day, something would happen to them the same way it happened to me. Only they wouldn’t make it out. That’s when I decided to be a caretaker for these women. Shortly after that, I became known as Mama Power. I took care of my girls. I made sure that they were never alone. By the time I was 25, I was taking care of at least 40 women. Most of them left their pimps to come be with me. I had a few run-ins with them but since I had more power, they just left. And that’s how it was for a good while. I made sure that my women were well protected, that they were getting paid what they deserved, and that they didn’t feel in danger anymore. But all that changed one day. One of my girls, Amber, was a favorite of the men. She was a sweet girl. Playful and goofy. I guess that’s why everybody loved her. Well, one day, a new customer asked for her, offering me great money for her. He was this rich, white man. Nothing about him seemed suspicious. He just looked like someone who was interested in a little fun. So, I set up the appointment. For safe measure, I sent her with another girl in case anything went wrong. He had paid for 2 hours. So, I waited. Every time they finished, my girls would call me, telling me they’re done. But after 2 hours, I didn’t hear anything. That’s when I went to check up on them. As I walked down the hall, I saw the hotel room door open. And when I walked in, I saw both their bodies, lying on the floor. They were dead. (Wanda began to cry. We took a few minutes for her to calm down. I asked if she wanted to end the interview but insisted she wanted to continue.) I felt like I let my girls down. I was supposed to take care of them. And the cops didn’t do much about it either. I practically begged them to do an investigation, but they refused. They don’t see us people. They just saw us as pieces of meat that they can use whenever they wanted. So, that’s when I took matters into my own hands. With the help of a couple people I knew, I got my hands on some weapons. I was determined to kill these sons-of-bitches. They messed with Mama Power and I wasn’t about to just let them get away with it. After a few weeks, I eventually found them. And within the hour, I got them all. All by myself. It was 3 of them. Didn’t even think twice about doing it. Just shot them dead. I knew that wasn’t going to bring my girls back, but I wanted justice for their deaths. And I got it. But about a week later, they caught me too. I was arrested on chargers of murder and prostitution; something that they’ve been ok with until I killed one of their people. They wanted to give me a life sentence for the murder of all 3. But the jury was on my side. The people were on my side. Everyone was on my side. But at the end of the day, I still murdered 3 people. And that’s something I can’t get away with. Not me anyways. But those people are dead. And even though there’s many other filthy fucking pigs like them out there, I’m proud that I was able to get justice for my girls. I know that’s what they would’ve wanted.”
I: How long have you been here?
W: “40 years. I actually received 45, but they cut 5 off for good behavior. I suppose that counts for something. But it’s been a tough life. I know I have still a good amount of time left, but all my good years have been wasted already. There’s no denying that. I’m an old woman now. I still feel young at heart, but my body tells a different story. I was 27 years old when I got in here. I remember those early days. I would try to act like the biggest bitch out there. I even had my fair share of fights with the other gangs. I don’t even know why I did it. I just wanted to prove to them that I’m not someone you fucked with. Not that anybody did intentionally. A lot of them respected me. Telling me how proud they were that I actually killed those guys. Most of them wished they could do that to the men in their lives. Just goes to show you how shitty men are. Doesn’t matter what race they are. As long as they have a penis, they’re evil. But that’s the old me talking. I’ve made peace with my past already. I accepted the years being here. They’ve actually been good to me, aside from the aging. After the 20th year, I pretty much did my own thing around here. Yeah, every now and again we would have to get cavity searched, but there’s ups and downs to everything. I’m still Mama Power. That name hasn’t gone away, and I plan to keep it that way. I may be locked inside, but I still take care of my girls. Not the ones on the outside though. It’s been years since I talked to them. They were all there during my trial, trying to fight for justice with me. They would come visit as much as they could. It was nice to see their faces. But after the 10th year, they stopped coming. I don’t blame them. You don’t want to stick around with someone from a past you wish to erase. So, now it’s just me and the girls in here. I take care of them and they take care of me. Most people would be upset if they wasted half their life in this place, but not me. I mean, sure it sucked the first few years, but part me felt that one way or another, I was always going to end up in here. It’s just the life I was meant to have. And I’m ok with it. And in a few weeks, I’ll get to enjoy the remaining of my life on the outside. It feels a bit bittersweet.”
I: What are you going to do when you get out?
W: “You know, I’ve thought about that question for so long, that it doesn’t feel like a question anymore. It just feels like something you hear all the time that you just block it out. But the truth is that I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t have anyone on the outside anymore. I have no idea where the girls I took care of are anymore. And I never really had many friends to begin with. My bitch of a mother died about 15 years ago, thank god. And since I have no siblings or have no idea who my dad is, there’s really no one I can go to. And part of me feels that it might just be easier to stay here. But I know I shouldn’t. Even at my age, I know I can still do a lot of things. Like I said, I’m an old lady now, but I’m still young at heart. Honestly, I might just go out and find myself a man to have some fun with. I know what I said, and I still stand by it. But its been so long since I’ve had sex, that it wouldn’t hurt to do it again. That’s the problem isn’t it? If only us women can have the penis but not the men. (Wanda starts laughing, apologizing for her words. I laugh alongside her.) Anyways, I’m talking out of my ass again. What was your question? Oh, right. What I’ll do after I get out. Ummm, I don’t know. I really don’t know. I didn’t have a plan back then, and I especially don’t have one now. A couple of girls have offered me a place to stay with their families for the time being. Just until I can get a job or something. I really don’t want to come into someone’s life and bother them until I get my life together. And I don’t even know how long that’ll take. I don’t know. I’m just scared of leaving. I’m happy that I am, but I’m scared about what happens next. I’ve always been scared of new beginnings. And this one feels like the worst one. Especially since I don’t have anybody anymore.”
I: Do you think you deserve to be in here?
W: “In the 40 years that I’ve been here, I’ve seen many girls come and go. Some come in for stupid things, like stealing or trying to sell weed to teenagers. But every now and again, a new girl would arrive, claiming she didn’t deserve to be there. And they usually have the same reasons for saying that. They would say that they would get raped, abused, or beaten on a daily by their boyfriends, husbands, etc. Then one day, they snapped, unable to take it anymore. So, they did what they had to do, just like me. And every single of them got the same treatment I did. The court wasn’t on their side. The government wasn’t on their side. Because all they see is what she did but turn the other cheek to what the men do. And it’s been like since I’ve been here. There is no justice for us. We take a hit, day after day, punch after punch. We report the abuse to the police, but they don’t do anything. We do everything we can before we decide to take matters into our own hands. And that’s when they finally pay attention. There is no justice for us. There is no justice for women at all. I didn’t deserve to be here and neither did all those women. But they don’t care about us. They’ve never cared. (Wanda pauses for a minute, remaining silent while staring at the ground. She takes a few long breaths before continuing.) A long time ago, a girl came in. Somewhere in her mid-20s. January was her name. From the beginning, she isolated herself, refusing to make friends with anybody. I found out that she had killed her fiancée after being abused by him repeatedly. I remember I didn’t want her to feel guilty for what she did. So, after a few weeks of being nice to her, she eventually let me in. That’s when I found out that the abuse was worse than what was being spread. She had been with him for 5 years. And every now and again, he would hit her, getting worse by the year. He had asked her to marry him, but she didn’t want to. But she was too afraid to say no. She felt like a hostage. Then, one day she found out she was pregnant. She told him the news and he didn’t take it well. He wasn’t ready to be a father. So, he beat her, punching and kicking her stomach. All that trauma made her lose the baby. And that was the turning point for her. She poisoned him. She told me that, during her case, they asked her why she couldn’t just walk away. They made him look like the victim. And because almost the entire jury was male, they found her guilty. She told me she didn’t deserve to be there, and I told her the same. We found comfort in each other after that. We became good friends. But…, but that didn’t last long. One day, she was found dead in her bed. She had made a shiv out of some parts she found and slit her wrists one night. (Wanda pauses again, holding back her tears. We stop the interview for a bit.) She didn’t deserve to die so young. She didn’t deserve to be abused like that. She didn’t deserve to be punished for something she needed to do in order to protect herself. She didn’t deserve any of that. And neither did I. But the reason why I didn’t fight to get out was because of girls like her. Because as long as men are running this system, there will never be proper justice for us. And if I can help these girls out, any possible way, then I feel like I’m at least trying to make things better. And the way I see it, coming in here isn’t the end of your life, but a chance to get away from all the bad and start again. These girls deserve redemption from all the bad that they’ve gone through. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to help them. You know, now that I think about it, I guess that’s always been my calling. Helping people. I’m Mama Power for Christ sake. My story here is going to end soon, but I’m never going to stop fighting for my girls. This isn’t over. Just you wait. You’ll hear from me soon. I promise you. And this time, it’ll be for the right reason.”
I considered editing the interviews for safe measure. I considered getting rid of the interview I had with Alvin Gaby. I even considered whether I should blur out the explicit words that were said. But what kind of journalist would I be if I altered the truth a little?
At the end of each interview, I had a short conversation with each inmate. Well, person. We talked a little bit more about their personal lives, such as favorite food, movies, music, etc... Stuff that didn’t need to be on script. And though it was a short conversation given my time limit, I got to know them in such a peculiar way. It was almost as if, just for a moment, they had forgotten where they were and were merely talking to an old friend.
Leaving each prison, I was overcome with emotions as I walked back to my car, knowing that there’re probably hundreds, if not thousands, of men and women locked behind those walls for something they needed to do. If not for protection, but for survival.
The problem is that these corporate men need to make money any way possible. So, they work with the government. You know, the one that’s supposed to give us rights and freedom and whatever. And in turn, they arrest and throw anybody who commits a crime, whether or not that crime was justified. Because, in the eyes of the law, there is no justice for murdering two men who raped and killed two prostitutes. There is no justice for putting a black man in prison while giving a white man probation for the same crimes. And there’s certainly no justice for taking away hundreds of years off these people’s lives simply for a mistake that they’ve longed paid their dues for.
But, as I stated, what these men are doing isn’t what this article is about. Those men don’t deserve any more publicity than the one they’ve already been given. That was just a small outburst that I had to get off my chest. Well, fingers if we’re being technical.
I saw these people the same way you meet someone new: with an open mind. I saw them for what they were and how they were. And that’s something that so little of us get to say.
In a few weeks, these 5 people will get their freedom once more. And what they do with it, is entirely up to them. I’m hopeful that they will do what they’ve said and get to live their life a second time around. In the words of the Great Mama Power, “This isn’t over. Just you wait.”
This will be my final article, for now. It feels a bit bittersweet, but I feel as if it is the necessary thing to do, for my own personal health. I’m hopeful that you, the reader, will take everything that’s been written into consideration and start making a change. As one person, I can only do so much. But as a group, well, there’s certainly a possibility for a change. Hell, even a revolution, if I may say so myself. All it takes is for someone to make that first step. Maybe it’ll be you.
The last thing I’ll say is this: We all deserve a chance to start over. We’re not all saints. I know I’ve had my share of flaws and vices. But just as I’m allowed to start over, so should they. Redemption is something that many of us deserve, no matter what the situation might be. Yes, some of them are true criminals, but most of them just got unlucky. They’re still human. And we shouldn’t dehumanize them for that.
Every one of us deserves a chance at redemption.