Hard Time (38 page)

‘Remain where you are, Mr Attwood. OK, Miss Davis.’

The prosecutor stood to take her turn but seemed at a loss for words. Whether it was part of an act or she had been caught off guard by the emotional atmosphere, I was unsure. The warmth and sincerity of the speeches had surprised everyone. There was an expression of deep thought, and then she began: ‘Mr Attwood, you are extremely lucky to have such a loving and caring family. How could you do this to them?’ She looked around the court as if expecting everyone to side with her line of attack. ‘Your family came here today, some from England even, and spoke so eloquently on your behalf. The only way you could do this to them and the only explanation I can think of for your family’s kind words is that you must have a Jekyll and Hyde personality.’

Detective Reid smirked. I felt the goodwill the previous speeches had generated start to diminish.

‘It seems you managed to keep your family charmed while you committed a pattern of serious drug crimes over a number of years because your parents live in England and had no clue what was going on here in Arizona. Mr Attwood, have you any idea of the deaths drug dealers cause? Although you were never charged with any violent crimes, isn’t it true that your chief enforcer, Mr Peter Mahoney, committed acts of violence?’

Detective Reid was loving this.

‘Judge, I filed the submission of the documents for aggravation of Mr Attwood’s sentence. In summary, what this all shows is that the information that the state and law enforcement had prior to going up on the wire showed Mr Attwood was the head of a criminal organisation employing hundreds of people over six years, involved in the sale and distribution of millions of dollars of drugs at street value for his own personal gain. That Mr Attwood is an educated man who can make eloquent speeches to the court like you heard today makes his crimes all the more inexcusable. He should have known better. If you look at the volume of drugs dealt, his lead role in the organisation, the state would ask you that this court impose the maximum aggravated sentence, given that the aggravated circumstances far outweigh the mitigating circumstances in this particular case. Thank you.’

Detective Reid was nodding, my nausea rising. With all of the speeches at an end, the judge shuffled his papers around while I exchanged worried glances with my family. Aching with guilt, I prayed the judge would show mercy.

‘I have considered all the circumstances presented to me,’ the judge said. ‘I have considered the mitigating circumstances which are that Mr Attwood avows no prior felony convictions in any jurisdiction, he has a diagnosis of bipolar disorder as indicated in the psychological evaluation, and that, rather than just sitting on his rear in the jail, Mr Attwood took all the classes and his behaviour was exemplary. Also, he has accepted full responsibility for what he did and shown remorse. I have also considered the strong family support that you have in England.’

Hearing this raised my hopes.

‘I have also considered the aggravating circumstances, which are your repetitive involvement in the transportation and sales of large quantities of illegal drugs, the negative impact on the community and your lack of moral concern for others in society. As if you were unable to ascertain an ethical difference, you traded drugs like you traded the stock market until you were forced to face the consequences.’

Now I figured it was all going against me and braced for the worst.

‘The picture that’s painted throughout all this, and also in some of the aggravating-circumstance documents that Miss Davis prepared for me, conflict with your family’s view of you. Obviously, they have a lot of love for you, as shown today. But at the same time, they say this is all out of character. Well, it’s out of character, but only to the extent this has been going on in the States for over six years.

‘I also considered the statutory aggravating factors. The fact that this was committed for personal gain and that there were so many accomplices involved. Based on all that, it is ordered the defendant be sentenced to a term of—’

I felt like I was standing in front of a train about to hit me.

‘—9½ years in the Department of Corrections to date from today but with full credit for 775 days of pre-sentence incarceration.’

My relief began immediately – until my attorney sprang up and said, ‘I’d just like to seek clarification from the court that, as stipulated in the plea bargain, Mr Attwood is eligible for a half-time release on the balance of the sentence under the terms of Arizona Revised Statutes 41-1604.14: Release of prisoners with detainers; eligibility; revocation of release.’ He was referring to the loophole.

‘Miss Davis?’ the judge said.

‘I don’t know anything about this,’ the prosecutor said. ‘Mr Attwood must serve 85 per cent of the sentence in accordance with Arizona’s laws.’

As this was not what I’d agreed to in the plea bargain, I was shocked. The half-time release Alan said the prosecutor had previously agreed to would have got me out in 3½ years. Had I signed under false pretences? It would have been better to risk a trial. I felt tricked.

‘Here is the plea agreement,’ my attorney said, ‘specifying that Mr Attwood is eligible to be deported back to England when he has served at least one half of the balance of the sentence imposed by the court.’

‘Let me see that.’ The judge appeared a little confused, but after reading the paperwork more thoroughly he said, ‘Yes, it says here that Mr Attwood is eligible for the half-time release.’

I wondered if Alan had managed to hoodwink the prosecutor by agreeing to a longer sentence knowing he could reduce it through a loophole at the last minute. Or was the prosecutor simply trying it on in front of Detective Reid, who was gunning for a life sentence?

‘As far as the Attorney General’s Office is concerned,’ the prosecutor said, ‘Mr Attwood must serve 85 per cent of his sentence. If he is deported back to England, then he would have to serve the balance of his sentence there, too.’

‘That’s not what the plea says,’ my attorney said.

‘Then I’m left with no choice but to revoke the plea agreement,’ the judge said.

His words were like a punch to the head that hadn’t quite knocked me out. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe my sentencing was about to be cancelled. I couldn’t imagine having to start all over again. Having to spend more months fighting my case from the jail. If the guard had tried to take me away at that moment, I would have yelled at the judge.

‘Is the plea agreement you are holding, Judge, the same as the one in Miss Davis’s possession?’ my attorney asked, urgency in his voice.

The judge didn’t reply. After pausing for a few seconds, he said, ‘This is most unusual. I’d like to see you both, Miss Davis and Mr Simpson, in my chambers.’

Watching them leave the courtroom and take my future with them, I burned with outrage. It seemed unreal. Maddeningly so. As they hashed it out in private, my family members’ faces turned ashen. My dad was holding my mum as if to prevent her from collapsing. Claudia’s father, Barry, looked as if he were in the disorientation stage of some tropical illness – unknown to me he’d had a mini-seizure upon entering the building but in spite of that had insisted on staying. Barry was sweating, swaying, unfocused, his mouth moving as if he were trying to garble something that wouldn’t quite come out. I was terrified of the sentencing hearing falling through and furious at the whole judicial process. I imagined Alan telling me I just needed to tough the jail out for another year while he continued to fight the case. I could see in the eyes of my parents, sister and aunt Sue they were thinking they’d just flown 5,000 miles for nothing. Detective Reid’s eyes were saying,
Gotcha!
On the verge of a nervous breakdown, I waited for the decision. These were the longest, most agonising moments of my life.

The judge, Alan and the prosecutor eventually returned. Had Alan saved the day? I could tell nothing by their faces. Everyone else looked apprehensive. My fingers were tingling, my heart about to pop one of its chambers. But for the handcuffs, I would have clutched my chest.

The judge unsettled me further with his gaze. I swayed as if about to faint. Then he said, ‘Based on my conversation with Miss Davis and Mr Simpson, it is the recommendation of this court that the defendant be eligible for the half-time release on the balance of his sentence and be deported back to England at that time.’

His ruling lifted 26 months of uncertainty like a tombstone. It caused Detective Reid to stand and curse. It made my loved ones cheer and throw their hands up in a celebratory fashion. It sent the prosecutor shuffling her paperwork back together as if she wanted to get out of there fast. It moved my attorney to shake my hand, proud of the outcome and no doubt glad to be shot of my case. It even made the escorting guard smile in my direction.

I was surging with relief and smiling bizarrely like a lone survivor emerging from a natural disaster. I had a strange sense of release. My future was no longer up in the air, and that was all that mattered. Even though I’d just received a 9½-year prison sentence, I could see an end to it. I could see the exact day I was getting out. I couldn’t wait to get out of Arpaio’s jail system to get my prison time started so I could get it finished. Yes!

I started writing this book in 2002. The road to publication was a long one and not without its share of steep inclines and hairpin bends. The kindness of many people helped me along the way.

My parents were there from the get-go, posting my entries for ‘Jon’s Jail Journal’ and supporting me unconditionally. My mother spent hours reading my chapters, meticulously writing in comments. The same could be said of my sister, Karen, who attempted to get us both published by working for two years on a separate book. I’d also like to credit my aunt Ann (now deceased) for smuggling my blogs out of the Madison Street jail right under the guards’ noses, and my aunt Susan O’Connor and Mick Kelly, who got me started in America.

Also my lifelines at times were Amber Holwegner and her family, Barry, Lori, Josh, Jay, Jazmyne, Diana and Big Dog.

Thank you to everyone who attended my sentencing hearing or wrote letters to the judge, including Lorraine, Jayne, Paula, David, Steven, Christopher, Michelle, Ryan, Duane, Aunty Lily Harrison and her many kids.

Numerous prisoners encouraged me to keep writing. I’d especially like to thank Jack for providing feedback, urging me to write short stories and enter contests. I’d like to thank Otis, whose experiences my short story ‘Amazing Grace’ is based on. And let’s not forget all of the prisoners who’ve kindly shared their stories with the readers of ‘Jon’s Jail Journal’ over the years: Two Tonys – your horse came in!; Warrior; T-Bone; Mr Frankie – not a man to drop the soap in the shower around!; Iron Man; Weird Al aka Noodles (whose brain I picked many times); the one and only Wild Man – there’s plenty more of his madness in the prequel to this book; fellow blogger Shannon C.; the Polish Avenger; Bran-O; Sarah-Jane of Scotland; Shay; A.R.; Long Island; Slope; Jaime F.; Xavier S.; Red and Bones. These and many other contributors have shown the world that prisoners are human beings too.

Many of the people in this book went over their dialogue and other details with me. Those not mentioned so far include Alan Simpson, Steve J., Joseph B., Joey V., Jimmy H., Gary M., Mickey Blue Eyes and Kinkeroo.

Not all of the staff were big bad rednecks. I’d like to thank Dr Shapiro, a creative writing teacher at Tucson prison, for his feedback, and Dr O, a brilliant prison psychologist who helped my personal development.

I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to write to me, visit or send books to the prisons I went to after Arpaio’s jail, especially Zivi and Debbiy, Mike Kelly, Neil and Declan O’Connor, Sue Obaza and Chris Hawthorne (blog commenters extraordinaire), Julie Koningsor (who brought Indian meals to my two food visits), Tony Wimberley, Isabelle Martimbeau, John Senn, Jessicat, Gareth Holmes, Sarah ‘The Fair Surrah’ Jane-Gray, Nancy Buckland, Pat Hamm, Linda Saville, Andrew Parsons, Tonya Bowman (who also critiqued chapters), Oliver Reed, Larry Florke, Glenda Hill, Alison George, Ed Lieber, Linda Bentley, Pearl Wilson, Gemma Lee, Emily Robinson, Karen Schwartz, Hannah Sassaman, Grace Avarne, Sandra Byrne, Rachel Baker, Denise Brousseau, Rosemarie Dombrowski, James Halliday, Karin Haems, Michal and Luke Jacobs, Georgina Hale, Katerina Kospanova, Alan Payne, Noelle Moeller, Terry Hackett, Misty Matonis, Barbara McDonald, Lorna Prestage, Pippa Ruesink, Sijia, John Williams, Joshua Friedman, Guida Rufino, Mary Wehring, Gavin Reedman, Donald Clark and Puggles, Zen, Lesley Oakes and her family for their generosity, and Rita Abraham for coming up with the title
Hard Time.

And as for my blog readers –
Wow!
All along this road I could feel you travelling right beside me in spirit. A huge thank-you for being there and for helping me develop as a writer and a person.

Thank you to Barbara Morgan and Caroline Beddie.

For website work, I’d like to thank Paul Kershaw, Ste Wilkinson, Kathi Drafehn (for Facebook and Schmusen), Stephanie Senn (MySpace), Wm. Srite (
shaunattwood.com
) and Stephen Jones (
presentationstoschools.com
).

Further down the road, I needed professional help to get published. I’d like to thank Naomi Colvin for spotting my blog and getting me signed up with my first literary agency. Barbara Taylor (now deceased) was my first agent and provided invaluable feedback. After Barbara died, I didn’t know what to do until ‘Amazing Grace’ won first prize in a competition my mum and Stephen Nash of Prisoners Abroad had entered on my behalf. I won a Koestler Award and ended up on their mentor scheme.

I once read in
The New Yorker
that having a mentor was the final thing a would-be author needed to get published. My mentor, Sally Hinchcliffe, embodied that statement for me. For breathing fire on my prose, this little bird-watching lady was labelled ‘Dragon Lady’ by my blog readers. After six months with Sally, I found a new agent. Sally volunteered her work and travelled to meet me at the British Library from some obscure region of Scotland where she lives away from people and among the wildlife.

A special thank-you to two wonderful teams who help prisoners: Prisoners Abroad, including Stephen Nash, Pauline Crowe and Matthew Pinches, and the Koestler Trust, including Tim Robertson, Ben Monks, Sarah Matheve, and Joyti Waswani. The Koestler team made such a difference to my life that I’ve added – among the wordplay in this book – an anagram of ‘Koestler’. It’s a name, and whoever spots it first can email me at [email protected] for a prize.

There are two people whose help came almost at the end of the road but who really made this book possible. Thanks to my literary agent, Robert Kirby, for taking a chance on me and helping restructure the book, and to Bill Campbell for publishing this unknown prison author. Thanks also to Robert’s assistant, Charlotte Knee.

A big thank-you to Tony McLellan and Emma Cole for getting me started talking to schools about drugs and prison, and to Mike Richardson for providing the roof over my head that I’m presently writing under. Thank you to Ian Harry and Sue Scam for taking me clothes shopping when I got out, and Sean ‘Hammy’ Hamilton for getting me drunk.

I guess I should also thank Sheriff Joe Arpaio for creating such an interesting place to write about, and
las cucarachas
for keeping me company throughout many a lonely night.