It has been a month since George and I were arrested
for the shooting death of a police officer, and we have
become sharply aware of the difference in treatment of
those charged in the death of a citizen and those charged
with the death of an officer. George and I were both
placed in solitary confinement, which was fine with us.
At least in solitary we can read and write in peace. The
night that we were arrested, after we were given our cell
basics, the jailers then came back and took our sheets,
blanket, washcloth, towel and toothbrush with no
explanation. For over a week I lay on a bare mattress
cot, because they keep the temperature cold and I am very
susceptible to cold, I had trouble sleeping. I would
awaken after two hours and have to pace my cell to keep
warm. Often I would awaken, shivering so badly that my
ribs ached. One night I awoke to find not only my body
was completely cold outside, but I felt cold inside. I
began shivering, uncontrollably, and I managed to crawl
to the bars. Because I was being checked every hour they
soon discovered me laying on the floor trying to raise
myself up on the bars. The jailers, countermanding orders
from on high, quickly got me a blanket. I spent the next
eighteen hours in my cot, wrapped in a blanket, before I
finally felt normal.
They wouldn't allow George or I to shower for a week.
Without a towel and washcloth, with only soap and
toothpaste, I tried to keep clean the best I could. I
managed to wash my hair in the small sink, and when my
jail whites got soiled I had to spot clean them and wear
them wet. When two police officers returned to interview
me later that week, I asked them why we were being
treated this way. They said it was because they thought
we might attempt suicide. I asked them, how does treating
us this way make us feel less inclined to commit suicide?
They looked at each other in embarrassment. They returned
the missing items.
They had left George's wound unattended for that same
week after that initial treatment at the hospital, and he
began to worry when he felt infection start in. He was
supposed to be given antibiotics, on doctor's orders, but
he never received any. Only after that first week did
they finally treat it with hydrogen peroxide. After a
week they began to let us correspond back and forth. If I
leave a letter for him, the jailer will carry it to him,
and vice-versa. The envelope must be left open so the
officer in charge can read it. George and I write, every
day, of our love for each other, and remind each other of
our most intimate moments. We know the jailers are also
sneaking peeks at our letters because the smile, broadly,
as they hand them to us. We suspect that our daily mail
to each other is their high point of the day, as well as
ours.
Whenever we make an appearance in court we must wear
handcuffs and leg irons. There is no purpose for the leg
irons other than pure punishment. Where are we to escape
in a labyrinth of locked doors while being escorted by
two guards? The leg irons are brutal on your skin. If you
walk too fast and pull on them, the leg irons
automatically tighten, cutting into your skin. After
wearing them twice, I developed deep sores on my ankles.
Although some of the deputies are no longer so harsh
toward us, most of them either glare at us or look away
if we look into their face. Though we have not caused any
trouble or disobeyed any commands, some order us about in
the typical monotone of someone commanding a slave. The
cells we are in are dirty. The one I am in hadn't been
used for a long time. I had asked for cleaning materials
twice so I could clean my cell myself, but I received no
response. I finally told the jailer that it was wrong to
force someone to live in a germ infested environment.
Within two hours I was given cleaning materials.
All our mail going out and coming in is examined,
photocopied and put aside until they get around to
delivering it. We had mail from friends that had been
delivered up to two weeks after the post marked date. We
suspected that our outgoing mail was being held. It was
only after we had been assigned lawyers that our mail was
finally released, confirmed by the several days
difference between the dates of our letters and the post
marks.
The food is the only good thing here. It is home
cooking typical of Alabama and they are generous with
their portions as well.
They keep the lights on twenty-four hours, at least in
my cell and George's. We don't complain however. It
allows us to read in light whenever we wish. It also
helps keep the cockroaches at bay.
Since we've been appointed lawyers things started
loosening up . We finally received all the bedding and
linen etc. We were let out for a couple of hours each day
to shower and make phone calls. George finally got to
shave. It was obvious we were receiving selective
treatment. Every time the shift changed, the rules
changed. One day they would put me back in my cage at
exactly two hours, other times they would let me stay out
until 10:00 PM at lock up. Now they let us both stay out
all the time.
When word finally did get out through Gary Hunt and
the fax network of our situation here a flurry of fares
reached the Sheriff concerning our shabby treatment,
particularly the lack of medical treatment George was
getting and that we were not getting our glasses. The
next day George was taken immediately to a doctor who
looked at his arm and prescribed the antibiotic he should
of received three weeks earlier. They sent student nurses
over to interview not only George and me but other
inmates here to get medical histories and to give
physical exams, a procedure that apparently hadn't been
done in some time. I saw one female inmate being taken to
the hospital to be treated for some ailments. The nurses
came back to my cell to draw blood so my thyroid medicine
could be prescribed. That night I even received new
sheets to replace the thin shabby ones I'd been given.
The DA finally relented and said if our lawyers would
file the motion to release our glasses he wouldn't fight
it anymore. I have mine now.
As a result of the faxes and phone calls the Patriot
community sent out, a whole group of neglected inmates
were given improved care and treatment. George and I are
proud and grateful that indirectly, anyway, the help we
received benefited many others. Despite these
improvements we are always reminded that we are in jail
at the total control of others. There are still the loud
echoing sounds of the clank of iron doors. There is the
monotone gray and beige bare surroundings. There is a
total aloneness of enforced solitude. When you enter the
booking area of this jail you can't miss the sign posted
at the window.
This is not Burger King.
This is the county jail.
We don't do it your way.
We always do it our way.
So sums up very accurately life in a jail. George and
I are determined to endure this patiently, in the hope
that it will end our way, not guilty!
/s/ Lynda
Lyon
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