IDEAS: DRUGS

Everything in this column is true.

Thelma is grinding out fifteen years in a Florida prison for women, has
done five to date and, most assuredly, will suffer through another ten years.

Florida is a tough law and order state, one of the worst, and particularly
somewhere one would take extra pains from falling into its judicial system.
In Florida there is no thing such as parole or probation, regardless of the
crime. If your sentence is twenty years, one serves twenty years. There is
no time off for good behavior or time served, in Florida. No rehabilitation
scenario or sympathy exists similar to those found in the Warner Brothers
movies of old.

Thelma was originally from the Cumberland Mountains of north-central
Tennessee. In fact, she grew up only five miles from the home of America's
greatest military hero, Sergeant Alvin York.

She's one of four sisters, the other three of which are success stories,
and is the daughter of devoutly religious, hard working parents.

Her father, while a hard working gentleman, has been quite resourceful and
successful and should by no means be construed as some hillbilly. To the
contrary, by local standards, he's reasonably prosperous.

Unlike her sisters, Thelma was the headstrong wild child who quit school at
16 to get married. A pack of children ensued and the husband floated from
job to job when he wasn't being set up in his own business and/or
subsidized by his father-in-law.

On several occasions the father-in-law funded businesses that were then
drained for their cash to buy drugs. This then became a family virtually
reared on drugs.

The mother, Thelma, is in jail because of drugs, as is her ex-husband. One
son is serving a stretch in a Tennessee prison because of a drug-related
offense; another son died from a drug overdose.

Needless to say, the marriage lasted long enough to produce not only a
household full of children, but one with an ingrained drug ethos. After the
marriage dissolved there were several men in and out of Thelma's life, all
of whom had one thing in common. The last or most recent proved to be her
undoing.

It's not clear as to what was really going on between the two, as the
story's holes widen as one hears rehashed versions. At the very least he
was providing her with drugs for sex and they were lovers. At the worse,
she was a dealer and he was a major distributor in that section of
Tennessee. There was, most likely, some overlap.

There is no doubt that he was dealing in significant volumes of drugs as he
made periodic forays to Florida, the major importing state for Cocaine, to
replenish his inventory. On what was, unbeknownst to him, his last trip he
invited Thelma to join him. One can safely surmise that there was no need
for someone with whom to share the driving nor did she need to travel that
distance for some free "snorts".

Unfortunately for both, this trip to Florida was bogus as it had been a
"sting" set up by the United States Drug Enforcement Agency and they
casually loped into the snare. According to her version of reality,
something that sometimes has credulity limits that are unusually strained,
she was in a hotel room, watching television, when he went to make the "score".

Suddenly, the hotel room door was destroyed and a half dozen men covered
with bulletproof vests and pointing 9 millimeter Glock weapons rushed in;
she was supposedly taken aback by such a rude interruption of her "soaps"
and Oprah. When she went to court her version of what happened was like
that of the piano player in the brothel who says he had no idea of what was
happening upstairs. It fell on deaf ears. Her court-appointed attorney, a
member of the Public Defender's office, who would never be mistaken for
Perry Mason, counseled her to plead Nolo Contendre (no contest)-essentially
an admission of guilt without saying so. It was dreadful advice.

A female judge, delighted to be relieved of yet another jury trial that
would only further delay her already overcrowded docket, without looking
up, banged her gavel and mumbled, "Fifteen years, next case." Fifteen years
in a joyless place for a joy ride, free cocaine, cheap sex, and a vacation
in the Florida sun. Such a tradeoff.

She was first sent to one of the most secure prisons of which I have ever
heard; and I spent many years living near both San Quentin and Alcatraz. It
was a man-made island in the middle of a very small lake in the panhandle
of northern Florida. In other words, surrounded by a moat-like structure
filled with the usual snakes and other vermin.

Beside the usual chain-link fences and razor wire that have become de
rigueur at American prisons, there is also a series of cameras and, to
bring its security to state-of-the-art sophistication, a series of sensors
planted in the ground and a network of laser beams that, when broken, set
off alarms.

The nearest town is four miles distant and has a population of
approximately 400 people; Tallahassee is forty miles away.

The state of Florida saved substantially in its paint expenditures as
everything is of a monotonous gray hue. The buildings, inside and out, the
uniforms, the dining hall, the meeting room, even the walkways, match the
sky in a dull gray (north Florida is not to be confused with Miami Beach).

I'm not sure how many years she was at that prison but in the last year or
two she was transferred to a prison thirty miles south of Miami. Being in
prison is one thing; being in prison in that climate from April through
November only compounds the servitude.

Because of the distance from the Kentucky-Tennessee border to north Florida
and the poor health of her father, the family visited her only during the
Christmas holidays and maybe one other weekend of the year. Now, because of
the additional five hundred miles to her new home, visiting has become
practically impossible.

Nevertheless, unlike most of her newfound peers and colleagues, she has an
extended family that keeps her supplied with money, clothing, and other
essentials beyond that provided by the state.

What does she do in her spare time (of which she has an unlimited amount)?
There is a thriving cottage industry in women's prisons, of which she is an
active participant, of swindling lonely old men and naive social misfits.

There are, evidently, a variety of magazines and fliers along with an
assortment of web sites on the Internet that serve as media for these women
to troll for suckers. Ostensibly, the entire network is very "pen-pal"
oriented but, in reality, it's a growth-industry scam.

When men write, within a very few letters, the conversation goes from
introductory to one of hot passion, carnal promises and fantasies,
sweet-talk, and, what else?, the need for money. At one point Thelma was
running, for money, three different men, all of whom thought she was their
dearest beloved.

There is no need to get into the intra-prison scams, perpetrated on the
unsuspecting, that involve, among other things, lesbian activity.

Thelma is approximately 49 and has done about five years of her sentence.
By the time she's released she'll be almost 60, with no skills and only a
few immediate family members with whom she can look to for aid. She'll only
have whatever looks are left, her body, and criminal mind with which to
support herself.

If anyone tells you drugs are "cool", have them read this.

See you next week.