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| Sam |
Sam
stocked a case of firecrackers that the Federal Government said were
overloaded. Instead of going Boom!, they went BOOM! They said he had to have a
special license for them, which he did not have. It was really no big deal, but
since 9/11 the ATF has been cracking down on what they see as dangerous
explosives. Don’t get me started on the ATF. I support most law enforcement
100%. I’m a friend of the police. However, from what I have personally seen on
this case, the ATF are belligerent, jack-booted thugs that should be
embarrassed by their gross incompetence. And those are their good points.
The
ATF, along with lying Federal prosecutors, trumped up a case against Sam to
keep their conviction stats up. They told him they would give him 10 years with
a guilty verdict if he didn’t plead out. Statistics show that Federal
government prosecutors win convictions in over 90% of their cases. When an
entity has unlimited resources (tax money stolen from you and me), if they want
you, they get you. If it sounds like I’m angry it’s because I am. Sam
copped a plea, was ordered to sell his business, and got 18 months in a minimum-security
“work camp.” A hefty fine would have been fair punishment, but I suppose there just
aren’t enough people in prison. I went down to visit him for the first time
this past weekend.
The
prison is a large, institutional-looking building in a rural area. Across a gravel
road is the maximum-security Federal prison. Sam may have had to go there if
the work camp was full. The day he self-reported, the maximum-security prison
was experiencing a riot, so he got the camp. Thank God for that. I entered the
building and filled out the form for visitors. There are endless rules for
visiting prisoners in a Federal facility. You can’t wear shorts. You can’t wear
open-toed shoes. There is a long list of things you can’t bring in, including
food, cell phones, a camera, weapons, a wristwatch or any reading material. Good thing I
left my guns at home. The only things you can bring in are your Driver’s
License and car keys.
I
filled out the form and handed it to the guard. He swiveled in his chair and
handed the form to another guard in a glass booth next to him. There seemed to
be some problem, as they whispered, looked confused and concerned and mentioned
my name several times. The booth guard handed my form back to the desk guard.
He looked up and said, “We have you down as “Gerald,” yet you signed the form
as “Jerry.” He waited for an explanation, as if he had never heard of a
nickname before. This confused both guards as if I had written my name in Klingon.
I told him, “My name is Gerald, but I go by Jerry. What if I scratched out “Jerry”
on the form and wrote in “Gerald?” He thought it over like it was the final
question on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” and consulted the other guard. Still
looking bewildered, he turned to me and said, “Okay.” Like we’d try it and see
if the governor approved. I fixed the form, handed it back to him, and after
much whispering I managed to go through the glass doors to the visitation area.
The
visitation area is a large, windowed room with airport-style plastic seating.
It has room for maybe a hundred and fifty visitors and prisoners, bathrooms
(not lockable), a children’s area and a row of vending machines. After a few
minutes, a guard brought Sam out. He looked good. He’d lost around 10 pounds (not
that he needed to, he’s always been in good physical shape) and was dressed in a
dark blue shirt and matching pants. His shirt had a patch with his name and prisoner
number. We hugged hello—it was great to see him!
Tomorrow:
The Visit and Prison Culture. You'll find it here.
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