"I just wanted to go home, have a cuppa with my old man and wait for the filth to show up. Just a little holiday, really."
"A pillowcase full of severed pigeon heads had been discovered in the inmate's cell."
Inside a female prison is a consumerist utopia that runs on care boxes. The demand is high, the supply is tight, and the lubricant for this glorious capitalist machine is penpal boyfriends.
Eddie runs a betting pool, also known as a "ticket," in federal prison, and says he's made about $7,000 in less than a year.
Even in a nicer prison, there are reminders everywhere that Christmas in lockup is about as real a holiday as the plastic needles on our fake trees.
"They will tell you what you want to hear so you begin to trust them or think of them as a friend. Then they use what you share with them against you. They work for the government. They're goddamn cops. I have to remember that. I can't be their friend."
My friend Kira is a 28-year-old transsexual who recently became a free woman after spending three years in New York’s worst men’s prison.
After having this next to my toilet for a few days I realized this book of numbers is written by a fucking idiot that doesn't know anything about the numbers.