'... shake your hand'
By Brandon Astor Jones
According to page 5 of the Cobb County Sheriff's Office Adult Detention Facility, Inmate Handbook, "Except for legal and media mail ... [a]ll outgoing mail must be unsealed'", so I will not be answering letters — for obvious reasons — until my trial is over, entirely. This essay and poem will answer some of your questions about how it began.
On August 8, at 7:24am, I stood with a steel chain belt wrapped around my waist; connected to it on each side was a handcuff to secure each wrist snugly to my waist. My ankles were shackled similarly, to each end of a 14-inch [35 cm] chain, with two larger cuffs. I was alone in a cell.
I called out loudly. When no-one responded, I shook the barred cell-door gate to get someone's attention. A couple of minutes later, to my right, at least three guards' heads appeared in the little glass on a steel plate door.
Yelling in their direction, I asked to have "one hand freed so I can sit to use the toilet". One of them yelled back, "They don't come off. Everyone uses the toilet with cuffs on."
I then asked, "Can I see your supervisor?"
At 7:44am Sergeant Ray and Officer Semans came through the steel plate door. With obvious urgency in my voice I repeated my request. The sergeant repeated the previous officer's words. She seemed angry that I had bothered her with such a request.
I explained that I needed "a free hand to wipe myself off". The look of pleasure that framed her face was apparent was apparent as she eyed my distress... as she noted that I was making an unnecessary "disturbance", and that I needed to "cooperate". I said to myself surely this young woman can appreciate an emergency need to use a toilet.
Instead of freeing one of my hands, she got angrier and said that I had been pushing the "Emergency" button on the wall. That was a lie, of course, because I had not seen the button until she mentioned it. However, I did hop up on a bench and inspect an electrical outlet box which had no cover on it, and which had several lose live wires protruding from its opening. Seeing the futility of the moment I said nothing more. She and her subordinate left the area.
At 8:17am I was taken to another floor and cell. The first one had a stench of human waste so strong that the guard who entered it could not stand it. We went to another cell. It was not very much better. There was no toilet paper in it. As I waited, this poem came to me.
WOLFBANE
Sergeant Ray
Takes pleasure in
Holding sway
Over men
In chains
Each day
Shackled and pinned
Her play
Deny bowels
Timely movement
Like animal,
She howls
On two legs
Power delay
WOLFBANE
When toilet paper was found, I used the toilet after one hand was freed. It soon became clear that the toilet would not flush, nor was there any ventilation working.
Seconds later, I was embarrassed because of the lingering smell that greeted my lawyers when they came to confer with me. Mr Axam extended his hand cordially. I was more than a little reluctant to shake his hand (and told him as much) because there was no basin in which to wash the free hand. Mr Axam was the first person to recognise me and respect my humanity that morning when he said, "Brandon, I don't care. I'll still shake your hand."
[The writer is a prisoner in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns. At present, he is being held under difficult conditions awaiting a resentencing trial and would appreciate letters. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, Aka Wilbur May, ID39359, POD-A, Cobb country Sheriff's Office, Adult Detention Facility, PO Box 100110, Marietta GA 30008, USA. If you can help by contributing to his defence fund or in other ways, please contact Australians Against Executions, PO Box 640, Milson's Point NSW 2061. Fax (02) 9427 9489. Cheques can be made payable to "Brandon Astor Jones Defence Fund".]