By R25288 ( c ) 2006
Chapter Four
What A Long Strange Trip It’s Been
“So shall ye say unto Joseph, Forgive, I pray thee now, the trespass of thy brethern, and their sin; for they did unto thee evil: and now, we pray thee, forgive the trespass of the servants of the God of thy father. And Joseph wept when they spake unto him.”
Genesis 50:17
Corruption and abuse of power are insideous. Systemic violence is undetectable to the untrained eye; and so, unaware of it, we unknowingly allow it to continue, because we’ve not been trained to watch for it. It is so much easier to paint the enemy out there, then to draw him in here.
The system repeatedly raped me for doing no harm, and I suffered, and through this book, I share my rapes and suffering with you, so hopefully others won’t have to experience them. I was not raped alone, and today the system continues to rape too many of us for harming no one.
Years ago, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned a Georgia case that allowed the death sentence for only rape, calling it cruel and unusual. Any rape is horrible, but if the victim lives, is the taking of the life of the perpetrator, justice? It goes well beyond an eye for an eye.
I was sent to prison even though I had a bail hearing later the same month, contrary to established rules of law. It was done, without any warning, in the middle of the night, with no chance to say goodbye to my mother or family. It was done seven days after my sentencing. I never saw my mother again. She died while I was in prison. I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to her on her dying bed, even though my family tried to arrange the same.
For my first two and a half months in prison, I wasn’t even allowed to call my attorney or family. It is all documented. No, Virginia, this wasn’t the fifteenth century, or in China, Russia, North Korea, Vietnam, Cuba, Syria, Iraq, or Iran. This was the justice I received in the twenty-first century, in the United States of America.
Our strength lies in our ability to make mistakes, and then correct them. Our strength lies in criticizing our government, and then offering solutions. Criticism alone is destructive. Bitterness is destructive. Our strength lies in the reality of my freedom to type this, and post it on the Internet, for the whole world to see…week after week.
So, I heard, “Eckhardt, Christopher Eckhardt,” coming from an anonymous male voice, down the hall. As the good inmate I so wanted to be, I replied, “Here, sir,” and proceeded toward the voice. My teachers had always said of me, “Plays well with others.” I was a good son.
I entered a room at the end of the hallway. Four officers stood behind a counter. They were all dressed in crisp brown uniforms, with short cropped haircuts. I envied their hair. Their uniforms did nothing for me. I’d guess they were in their thirties, and physically fit. One of them confirmed my name, and directed me to the adjoining room, to find my box, from a shelf of boxes. I was instructed to sit with my box, and wait to be called again. Before I made it to the box room, I was called back and given a rule book. I was told to read it cover to cover. Being a very good inmate, I complied.
I found my box, with my one letter in it, and took a seat. I looked at the little white booklet I was handed. It was about six inches wide, and nine inches long. It read, “Central Florida Reception Center-Inmate Orientation Handbook. Revised July 24, 2001. Department of Corrections-State of Florida.”
I opened it, and found that it contained thirty four pages. The Forward read, “You have been received into the Department of Corrections at Central Florida Reception Center located on State Highway 528, Orlando, Florida. You are facing a new challenge in your life, which can be used, for your betterment or can be a number of wasted years.
“THE CHOICE IS YOURS!
“We can supply the materials necessary for rehabilitation, but only you can make it a reality. We can speak to you of rehabilitation, but true rehabilitation must come from within. We cannot force you into it nor will we try, but we will help you to help yourself. Perhaps this is the first time you have been incarcerated within a State Institution. Statistics prove that you have a high percentage chance of returning to prison. Only you can lower these statistics. We cannot. You can listen to the habitual criminal that you will be meeting (the one who claims to have all the answers), or you can pursue a more positive direction in life. You might even ask the habitual criminal to join you in such a challenge.
“This publication sets forth some basic guidelines and hopefully answers the majority of your questions. Due to the nature of this operation and ever changing programs, it is impossible to answer all your questions here. Therefore, you should not hesitate to seek information from the Officers.”
It was signed by the Warden. Well, alright, I thought to myself, a voice of reason. Definately, if I had to be here, I’d better myself and not waste the time. I wasn’t going to let any habitual criminal bring me down.
I turned the booklet to the Table of Contents, and glanced at it, “Processing, Safety Policy Statement…page 1. Inmate Request for Protective Management…page 2. Alright, I thought, and turned to page two.
“Inmate Request for Protective Management” was only one paragraph on page two, and read: “Temporary administrative protection will be afforded to any inmate who believes their safety is in jeopardy and upon filing a written statement of such with the Senior Correctional Officer in charge. Inmates are directed to contact any institutional staff member to request administrative protection.” That’ll work, I thought.
I suppose this might be a good place to let ya know that I am former law enforcement. I support our Constitution, our government, and our way of life. I won a U.S. Supreme Court case; how can I not support our system. However, it is not perfect, it makes mistakes, but it is one of the best out there. I will continue to work for positive change when and where necessary. I will throw open the window and yell, “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore,” or I’ll write a book.
In 1974-5, I was employed by the Ontario, Canada, government at the Oakville Reception Center. It was a maximum security facility for juvenile offenders.
In 1978-’83, I was trained by the U.S. Department of Justice, as a Mediator. I was employed, on-call, as such,by the Polk County Attorney, in Des Moines, Iowa.
In 1988-’89, I was employed at the Pinellas County Juvenile Detention Center, in Clearwater, Florida.
In 1989-’90, I was employed by the state of Florida as a Food Stamp Eligibility Specialist, in Pinellas Park, Florida.
In 1990-’92, I was employed by the state of Florida as a Child Support Enforcement Case Analyst, and Supervisor, in Clearwater, St. Petersburg, and New Port Richey.
So, when I was placed in the Pinellas County Jail, after my sentencing, I came up on their computer as former law enforcement, and allowed protective custody. Protective custody is a little more room, and less crowded than general populaton. At the time I was scared shitless, and recognized many inmates as former clients. However, it didn’t take too long for me to realize that I could handle my fellow inmates. It was the system that would do me the most harm.
The common perception of prison is that it is a place where people lose their right to be among the civilized. The loss of such freedom is the punishment. Time away from family and friends is the punishment. However, the system adds on its own form of punishment, besides what the law prescribes. It is petty, arbritrary, and oppressive.
I came out in prison. I filed grieveances. I stood up. I am a man, not an animal. And they, they brutalized me. I wanted to be the good inmate, but I was the round peg that did not fit into their square holes.
My dear gentle reader, to better help you understand, truthfully, if a rule had said you must salute an officer with your right hand, and if you had no right hand, you would have been locked up for failing to follow an order, because you did not salute with your right hand. Never mind that you didn’t have a right hand, the rule is the rule. And that my dear, is the Catch 22 of prison. The humane officer would not lock you up, but the authoritarian officer would. Regardless, once locked up, the system perpetuates, and protects itself, and supports the officer, normally with promotions.
Once an officer took me into the back room-the laundry room, alone, handcuffed, and said, “I’m going to slap the shit out of you, so you can’t suck dick anymore.” I never once was given a DR-disciplinary report for being engaged in homosexual activity. I just looked him in the eyes and told him, ” I am former law enforcement, and I will deal with it.” I was very scared. I’m not even sure what I meant by what I said. He never touched me, and later approached me and said that we were going to forget what had happened. I don’t forget. I filed a grievance on him. Interestingly enough, he later, on January 1st, 2005, found me leaving my partners dorm, an area I was not allowed in, and he let me go. Isn’t life strange sometimes, and wonderful.
They punished me on eight separate occassions with disciplinary reports and disciplinary confinements.
In January, 2002, they put me in disciplinary confinement for fifty-seven days because of a medical condition I have-paruresis-basically, the inability to piss in front of others. They wanted to test me for drugs. I explained my condition, and even offered my blood, because I never once in prison had illegal drugs in my system. But that was not their way. The rule book said you have to piss with an officer looking at your dick. Well, I may be gay, but I choose who looks at my dick. So, they locked me up. After serving my punishment for my medical condition, my grievance to Tallahassee was approved. Never mind that they were wrong, they still punished me.
Because a homophobic inmate took my washcloth off the end of my bunk and wiped the toilet seats with it, I was locked up.
Because an inmate tried intimidating me, by slapping me in the face, I was locked up.
Because my partner bought me something to eat, I was locked up.
Because I was denied the right to attend religious services, and ate a piece of bread, I was locked up.
Because I refused to sign my name, I was locked up.
Because I stepped out of line, I was locked up.
Because I wore tennis shoes to the law library, I was locked up. It was something I had done for four years previously, without getting locked up.
For waving to a friend, in the summer of 2005, I was forced to sand the sidewalk, with a crude stone, in the middle of the prison grounds, with hundreds of inmates watching my humiliating treatment. Others were also forced to do the same. When I grieved to the Warden, and reminded him of Abu Ghraib, it ceased.
During my four years, three months, and two weeks in prison, I spent two hundred and thirty five days in administrative or disciplinary confinement. I am such a bad boy. Just look above at all the bad things I did, and that’s it, there were no other disciplinary reports on me. I am such a dangerous criminal. Everything I share with you here is true and documented. I am not James Frey.
I was made in the USA, therefore I am a product of the USA. I never had a foreign object shoved up my ass, it was always made in the USA, so it was never foreign. My own government fucked me more royally than any foreign government or entity ever could, and I still say, “God Bless America.” I was, and still am an American patriot. It is only in America, the land of opportunity, where we can find such appreciative victims of systemic violence.
Just ask our African-American brothers if they mind if we lock up one of their brothers. They obviously don’t mind enough, because one out of three of them will get locked up before they die, and we continue to lock up more of them, as if they are responsible for the systemic violence. The armed revolution against this will never occur in America, because systemic violence against blacks, gays, and women is accepted and tolerated. It is an American tradition, and we love tradition. As a Conscientious Objector and lifetime pacifist, I am opposed to all forms of violence. I still believe we can make all necessary changes peacefully within our system. Recently, in Iraq, a tennis coach and two of his players were killed for wearing shorts. Now, taken in its totality, America is a great place to live, grow, work, prosper, complain, and wear shorts without getting killed for it. So, yes, Virginia, I love America, with its glorious freedoms and occassional warts.
Shortly, I was called again. This time the officer had my personal propery from the county jail. It consisted of a fifteen year old New York American flag lapel pin and a gold nugget tie tack. He opened my box, and was quite happy to see only one letter. He called over the other officers to show them. It was like he had won a lottery, because he had a minimum of paperwork and writing to do. I was allowed to keep my letter, which had family addresses and phone numbers on it.
I then had a choice. What a concept. I could arrange to have my pin and tack sent home, or donated to a local charity. I figured since I didn’t see my wing tips, Christian Dior black suit, tie, belt, white shirt, socks or underwear, that they must have already been donated to someone, somewhere. I wonder if I can write that off of my taxes. Anyway, I chose the donation route, and was given a receipt. I asked the officer about Protective Management, but he said Classification would talk to me about it later.
I was then directed to a larger room, farther into the vast prison industrial complex. I had never heard Eisenhower, or anyone else ever warn us of this destructive complex. NO TALKING was again painted on the walls in large letters. I was instructed to get into a line to get a haircut, which I did. Two inmates were giving the haircuts. There was four people in front of me, and two lines for the haircuts.
I looked around and saw some guys shaving, some showering, some getting dressed, and some sitting on benches reading their rule books. After the buzz cuts, which everyone got, I was handed a safety razor, and told to go shave, and get a shower. I was handed a towel and told that after I finished showering and shaving, I was to go get clothes, from the clothes room, in the corner of the room.
I proceeded over to the sink, and found one relatively clean, and shaved. Behind the sinks were toilets, so I went over and filled up my urine container, and placed it in my boxer lining. Officers were moving all around the room, doing various chores. They were getting finger prints, taking photos, and entering data into computers.
There were three rooms on one wall that apperared to have plain clothes staff in them, doing who knows what. Maybe they were Classification Officers, I thought. I took my shower, and got my clothes. I was then instructed to go to another line. At the end of that line, two officers were inputing data into computers. I got to the front of that line, and was asked how my relationship was with my family, and I said,”Good.” My name and other information I’d previously given in the other room was reviewed and confirmed.
I was then asked about my plans upon release. Yes, I thought, we need to plan for my release, because this is a mistake. I listed my mother as my emergency contact. I was instructed to another area to wait to be called. Alot of sitting and waiting here. They must think I have time to spare. I guess , now, I do.
I went and sat on a bench with three other inmates. In front of us were about ten rows of other inmates, four per bench, waiting to be called to see the nurse, have their picture taken, or get fingerprinted.
The wall in front of us had NO TALKING painted on the wall, in about twelve inch letters, obvious from any area of the room. I about dropped my rule book when I heard a voice shout behind me, “All right, ladies, there’s no talking. Open your orientation books and read.”
The officer doing the shouting walked slowly by me, to the front row, and turned and headed back my way, glaring at each row as he walked by. He looked like the bald sadistic guard in the movie, “Midnight Express.” He scared me. All I could think about was the sadistic guard trying to rape Brad Davis.
I put my glasses on top of my head to read the booklet, as was my custom when reading, as I don’t need glasses for reading. Throughout this whole ordeal, I was allowed to keep my glasses. “Get those glasses off your head, inmate. This isn’t the country club,” I heard the bald guard yell my way. So, of course, I removed my glasses, as I didn’t want to know the potential of his wrath. And honey, I knew this wasn’t the country club.
Most of the guys again had their personal property in bags in front of them. I had my letter in my shirt pocket. We had been instructed to take the mans’ seat in front of us when his name got called, therefore moving us closer to the front of the room. Again, for many it must have been too complicated. I noticed a couple of other guys and myself continually moving two or three rows forward to take an empty seat because no one else was doing so. Maybe they had hearing problems, or didn’t speak English, that’s what I thought anyway. I finally came to realize that some of my brothers in blue were idiots.
“What do we have here today, Pasco County?” You know who shouted that out. Many raised their hands. “I thought so,” the officer continued, “You are stupid. Unless you want to be holding your property over your heads for the rest of the day, you will move up and take the empty spots in front of you.” For all his shouting and painted signs on the walls, they had very little effect on these young men from Pasco County.
Well, the Brad Davis nightmare came over as I was reading quietly, being the good inmate, the dumb duck that I was, while the younger guys with limited vision, who couldn’t see the huge NO TALKING sign on the walls, or didn’t know its meaning, chattered around me. “Shut the fuck up,” he shouted, and the whole room went quiet. Then the staff realized it didn’t mean them, so they returned to their usual routine.
“Everybody, put your property over your heads and keep your mouths shut,” he semi-hollered in a well controlled, angry tone. As guys struggled, lifting their property, to hold over their heads, I pulled my letter out of my pocket and proudly held it over my head. This was my reward, finally, for traveling light. Today, it was better than bonus miles. Fortunately, a few minutes later it was lunch break, and the group punishment ended.
“Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days: be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
The Revelation of Jesus Christ to St. John 2:10
