 
#  Prison

By

John Barrett Hawkins

© 2013 by John Barrett Hawkins

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Table of Contents

Prison

Chapter 1: Riot in Cell Block A

Chapter 2: Unremitting Passion for the Game

Chapter 3: Life in Prison

#10: The Culture of Violence

#9: The County Jail

#8: The Daily Grind

#7: The Guards

#6: Race Riots

#5: The Other Inmates

#4: Sexual Predators

#3: Access to Health Care

#2: The Loss of Your Freedom

#1: You May Never Get Out

About The Author

Also by John Barrett Hawkins

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Chapter 3: Blockbuster Bandits

# Chapter 1: Riot in Cell Block A

A race riot is about to erupt.

God, please keep me safe. God, please don't let me hurt anyone!

I repeated this silent prayer over and over again in my mind as I assessed the impending battle zone.

It was Febuary 4, 2000. I was standing on the yard at Calipatria Prison, a maximum-security facility that houses some of the most violent criminals in the State of California. Like a scout on safari, my eyes swept the terrain and registered any movement. The rectangular-shaped prison yard was approximately the size of two football fields. A 10-foot fence topped with razor wire coursed down the middle. On both sides of the fence there was a basketball court, a handball court, an undersized soccer field, and a caged area with bars where inmates did pull-ups and dips. One never got used to the yard's barren, colorless nature. It was a dust bowl. There was no grass, no trees, no flowers, and no view beyond the 30-foot high gray concrete perimeter walls. The prison was located in a remote region of the Mojave Desert, a dry wasteland where life-term prisoners withered away in the uncompromising heat.

God, please keep me safe. God, please don't let me hurt anyone!

I repeated the silent prayer as I watched several detachments of black convicts move into formation, creating a line of demarcation. On both sides of the fence, the Whites, my own designated group, simultaneously secured two separate defensive positions with one fence at their backs and another on their right flank. The Mexican, Asian, and the Native American convicts huddled in groups at the far end of the yard and watched with a perverse curiosity. They would sit out this riot. The five prison guards who usually patrolled the yard were ominously absent from their regular posts.

I observed the prison guards on the rooftops of the five adjacent housing unit buildings placing sniper rifles on tripods, nervously preparing for action. If a riot erupted, they had the authority to shoot and kill us without any threat of retribution. From the State's perspective, killing a rioting prisoner is justifiable homicide.

I noticed a large contingent of guards in riot gear assembling behind a large chain-like fence about 50-yards away. I assumed that they were gearing up to stop any violence before it got started. Later I realized that they were just watching and waiting for the riot to go off.

_Wonderful,_ I thought. _They are going to allow it to happen._

To the casual observer it appeared as though the Whites would be like lambs being led to the slaughter. There were 270 black inmates on the yard ready to fight, and only 40 Whites. Yet, appearances can be deceptive. The Blacks were not aware that most of the Whites harbored "shanks" — deadly, homemade knives. For personal and moral reasons, I elected not to use a shank. The truth is, I did not want to fight, and I certainly did not want to stab and possibly kill someone. I would have preferred to remain in the safe confines of my cell; however, that was not an option because of the color of my skin. The California prison system is ruled by racism and a virulent authority known as the "convict code." I was branded as a "White" on the day I arrived at Calipatria, meaning that I would be forced to conform to all of that group's activities, whether I agreed with them or not. The fact that I did not know any of the other white men upon my arrival, and didn't agreed with their racial politics, was irrelevant. That particular day was _mandatory yard_ , and any white convict who refused to show up on the yard to fight with the group would be stigmatized as a coward. Then, after the riot was over, he would be "dealt with." This meant he would be stabbed or rat-packed by some of the other Whites. Fighting in the riot was by far the safer option.

Welcome to a day in my life in the Big House.

God, please keep me safe. God, please don't let me hurt anyone!

My silent prayer continued as the two "shot-callers," the representatives for the respective race groups, met in the middle of the yard. I estimated that most of the men who assembled to do battle for both sides secretly hoped for a successful mediation. Hostilities had been fomented when a highly intoxicated black gang member started a fight with a white convict who was an exceptionally good fighter. The white guy beat the gang member unmercifully, breaking his cheekbone and kicking in his front teeth. The winner was sent to the administrative segregation unit (Ad-Seg), and the loser was taken to the hospital on a stretcher. The white convict was not the aggressor. He was simply defending himself, and that should have been the end of the entire affair. It wasn't. The Blacks' pride had been wounded, and their shot-caller compelled the intoxicated gang member's cellmate to retaliate by beating up a smaller white guy. This retaliation was a blatant violation of the convict code of ethics, and the Whites were now demanding some type of retribution.

Neither side wanted a riot. Many unpleasant things could happen, like getting shot, stabbed, or beaten. The fear of being maimed—even killed—was palpable. At the minimum, the inmate would probably be disciplined and charged with new crimes, even murder. The best he could hope for was to not get seriously hurt. Moreover, the aftermath of the riot promised to be brutal—at least three months in Ad-Seg, which has always been called the "Hole." This is a building where the "problem inmates" are locked up for disciplinary purposes and are allowed only extremely restricted activities and no privileges. The Hole is naturally a violent place where inmates often battle each other and the guards. When the inmate is finally released from the Hole, he is returned to a regular cell, but everyone is on an indefinite lockdown 24 hours a day, seven days a week, in a room the size of a bathroom. This type of lockdown is referred to as being "slammed" and the adjacent B-yard had been slammed for 13 months. Imagine going that long without seeing the sun, except through an opaque slit in your concrete cell wall. It drives hardened men insane. During lockdowns, they get carted off to the psychiatric unit (known as the "Nut House") on a regular basis.

God, please keep me safe. God, please don't let me hurt anyone!

As I resumed my silent prayer, an idea popped into my head: _Survey the battlefield from a different perspective._ Guided by that thought, I ambled over to a nearby picnic table where four Whites were playing cards. As I joined them, one of the men asked me whether I thought "it will jump."

At that exact moment a bizarre, electric sensation pulsated up my spine and throughout my body. The hairs on my arms stood straight up. "Yes," I said with surprising conviction. "It's going to happen right now."

"Are you kidding, bro?" His eyes betrayed the fear that he was concealing from his card-playing companions. "How do you know?"

"I can _feel_ it."

A split second later the Blacks surged toward the Whites' positions. It was pandemonium. I leaped to my feet and quickly squared off with one of the onrushing blacks. The first to reach me was powerfully built with clenched fists and fierce rage in his eyes. Before either of us could take a swing, a loud crack issued from the nearest rooftop, and a bullet kicked up the dust between us. My would-be assailant's eyes flashed terror, and he took off running in another direction. I immediately dropped to the ground. Prison rules of engagement dictate that a guard will not shoot at a convict who "gets down."

Despite the inherent danger, I did not stay down for long, because I saw a solitary white man nearby being pummeled by four Blacks. I leaped to my feet and charged into the fray. My wild, overhand punch at one of his attackers completely missed as he ducked under my fist. More shots rang out, and the Blacks scattered. Again, I fell to my butt, as every other convict in the yard scrambled to get down. Yet the lull was only temporary. Within a few seconds everyone got back on their feet and the fighting started again.

I arose next to the white guy who was being trashed only moments before. The men who were beating him had vanished, but we had another, more serious problem to confront. The last wave of Blacks—about 50 deep—were charging straight at us. I clenched my fists and braced for the assault. Then I heard three bullets whistle past my head and saw them kick up dust just 10 feet away. The menacing hoard that intended to stomp me senseless came to a sudden stop, like something out of a "Roadrunner" cartoon. They hit the ground, and we did too, just a few feet away. The same gunfire that nearly killed me saved my hide. I looked into the faces of my would-be combatants and saw a reflection of my own anxious reluctance. None of the prostrate convicts was willing to take a chance of getting shot, so for us the riot was essentially over.

I then had an opportunity to see the fierce fighting that continued on the other side of the fence. I watched the madness, unsure of my next move, yet transfixed by the spectacle. At least 50 men were assaulting each other. The guards fired shots into the melee. Most of the Blacks retreated in one direction, and the Whites fell away in the other direction. One of the Whites had fallen to the ground, and a half-dozen Blacks were kicking him without mercy. Some of the Whites on my side attempted to climb the fence to rescue their fallen comrade, but they were prevented by gunfire that ricocheted off the razor wire, pinning them on our side of the fence. Then a courageous knife-wielding threesome of Whites went to the stricken man's defense, slashing at the Blacks with reckless abandon. More shots were fired, the last combatants hit the ground, and the riot finally ended.

During the aftermath, the atmosphere seemed surreal. Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion, like an underwater scene. My perspective of the "clean-up" brought to mind the accounts I had read of near-death experiences, as if I was viewing the yard from an elevated perspective. Across the battlefield the cries of men in pain echoed in my ears. A convoy of ambulances arrived to transport the seriously wounded to the hospital. At least 40 convicts were hauled away on stretchers. Guards in riot gear fanned out across the yard to handcuff the rest of us and escort us to our cells. I later learned that the Hole was already filled to capacity.

Miraculously, my silent prayer had been answered.

The prison was "locked down" for the next three months. I was trapped in a grim, eight-by-ten-foot cell around the clock. The only exception was when the guards handcuffed and physically escorted me to the shower for five minutes every third day. All of my meals were served through a small slot in the cell door. I was virtually treated like an animal. My cage was furnished with a metal sink, toilet, table, stool, and a bunk with a wafer-thin mattress, and uncomfortable, "third world" bedding. The air smelled stale, the walls were dirty gray, and there was no window through which I could see the outside world. The cell was designed to dash the spirits and oppress the minds of men with little or no hope. It was a horror of indescribable proportions.

My cellmate had been taken to the hospital after the riot, so I was in the cell by myself; however, I was hardly alone. The cell doors at Calipatria were constructed out of mesh steel. As a result, I was subjected to every sound that emanated from the neighboring 25 cells: rap music blaring, unfathomable gang-related conversations, farting, defecating, flushing toilets, fistfights, moaning, screaming, and shouting. Every morning the Mexican gang members would conduct a role call, during which each "homie" in the entire building would scream out his name. Then in the afternoon the same group conducted mandatory workouts with their leader yelling out instructions. This insanity was continuous throughout the day, every day. I saw men sink into a stark raving mad condition, and hauled away to the psychiatric security unit in four-point restraints. The building during lockdown was itself a lunatic asylum.

# Chapter 2: Unremitting Passion for the Game

"Get ready for yard?" The guard's announcement comes blaring over the loudspeaker.

I stand behind the bars of my cell door, bouncing from toe to toe. Having just completed a 30-minute warm-up routine, I am ready to place the serious basketball. Life in prison is chaos personified, and a little sports competition is my only escape from the madness.

The door opens and I move quickly out of my cell and into the rotunda. Approximately 50 inmates assemble in front of the yard door. Immediately, I am reminded of how out of place a white man is here. 90% of these men are either Black or Mexican, mostly gang members, and all carrying heavy chips on their shoulders. They speak to one another in ghetto slang that, for me, it is difficult to comprehend. I cringe inside as a regale one another was stories of prison knife-fights and the heinous crimes they have committed.

The atmosphere is charged, the tension palpable, and the threat of large-scale violence is always present.

"That's the sexiest son of a bitch walking the tier," says Cooper, lightening the mood as he approaches the group. Coop, as he is known, is a "retired" bank robber who is serving 29 consecutive life sentences. He is the resident comedian and everyone awaits his arrival, anxious to see who will be the butt of his impending joke.

He wraps an affectionate arm around his victim and says, "I like to have this man's children." The convict in question is an absolute mutant. He raises one curious eyebrow and feigns embarrassment.

About 20 convicts crack-up laughing.

Homo-erotic humor is Coop's specialty. There are no gays here. This is a maximum-security facility, and unlike movie portrayals, there is no homosexual activity. Hard-core cons despise all forms of sexual deviation.

The door opens and we rush out. The sunlight immediately brings nourishment to my hungry soul. I take a deep breath and savor the fresh air as it fills my lungs. We are in the Tehachepi mountains. At is a spectacular early-spring morning. It's about 40°, but I'm warm. My pre-game routine consists of 15 minutes of shooting imaginary jump shots followed by 10 minutes of light stretching. I like this routine because he prepares my heart and lungs, while at the same time allowing me to visualize and bring my mental game and focus. Before we ever hit the court, I've made 500 jump shots.

From across the yard to see my sidekick Tyler, rambling my way. He reminds me of a faithful St. Bernard puppy, always waiting for me, always ready to play. If it is humanly possible for one guy to love athletic competition more than I do, he's that guy. He has his own brand of boyish enthusiasm that makes it fun to be his teammate. He's one of the few convicts on the yard who I truly believe is innocent; a victim of America's political, and at times unforgiving system of justice. But Tyler doesn't complain. He calls this place basketball camp. And for him that's exactly what it is. Tyler plays for at least two hours every single day. He will be going home in a few months and I already miss him. This is a lonely place and Tyler is the only real friend I've made and seven long years.

"Where the hell were you yesterday?" He barks.

"I'm not like you young bucks, I need the occasional day of rest," I reply, as we head toward the basketball court.

"Bullshit! You're just soft. You ever leave me hanging again, and I will find a new teammate."

I smile. Its is same banter every time I take a day off from playing. The guy is relentless, but I can't complain. I'm in the best condition of my life, and it's because he pushes me.

"Find a new teammate?" I scoff. How could you speak such blasphemy? You're lucky I even let you play. The truth is, I don't even like you. The only reason I keep you around is because you got money."

"Uh huh. My dad had to tie a pork chop around my neck when I was a kid just to get the dog to play with me."

We both laugh. I love hanging out with Tyler. He has a great sense of humor. When we are together I almost forget that I'm incarcerated.

Almost.

We arrive at the basketball court, but no one is playing. The Blacks and Mexicans have been rioting for several months and they are now on a modified program, which means the prison administration only allows a few of them on the yard at the same time. Normally we play four-on-4 half-court, but lately we've had difficulty hustling up a game of two-on-two.

"You Woods wanna' play us?" (Wood is the prison handle for a white guy). It's Rider, a hulking Black man with a nasty disposition. He and I have matched up on the court several times, and they were all epic battles. But that was four-on-four when I had at least two other Black guys on my team. This is completely different. Black against White can lead to serious problems.

Since Tyler and I are both intense competitors, we must carefully consider the consequences of winning. Rider is a certified bully; one of the meanest dudes on the face of the earth. Games can turn ugly when he loses. He plays rough and will not hesitate to start a fight. He is a hit-man for one of the largest Black gangs in the country. During our time together here, I have followed his career closely. Four fistfights. All decisive victories. But no knives and, in the brief conversations I've had with him, I sensed a code of honor. Despite his despicable profession, the man has a sense of integrity. It is for this reason and the fact that none of his homeboys are nearby, that we decide to play them.

"You don't want any of this," I say, taken off from the top of the key and delivering a thunderous dunk.

"You ain't never done that in no game," he snarls.

I pass him the ball. "Remember 'Bama?"

A faint look of recognition flashes behind his icy stare. "Yeah, I've never that sorry nigga'. We told him to let you do that so you wouldn't be afraid to play with us."

The dunk was legendary. It happened my very first day on the yard. It was a full-court game with no less than 50 inmates and guards watching. One of my teammates had taken along three. I realized the shot was off the mark. I had a clearer lane and sprinted toward the basket. The ball took a fortuitous bounce into my right hand and I threw down a miraculous put-back-jam. Alabama, a guy from the other team, had challenged me for the rebound. When we collided, he landed flat on his back. I siezed the moment. "Wood," I yelled down at him with a Michael Jordan glair of disdain. "Air Wood!" A group of black guys watching from the sidelines exploded in laughter and catcalls.

In the weeks that followed, Alabama had been taunted unmercifully by his homeboys, and a precedent was set; don't get dunked on by the white guy. And nobody ever did again. From then on, whenever I went to the hole with reckless abandon, I was fouled hard. And most of these guys are huge.

Just like the two we are getting ready to play. Rider is 6'2" tall, 240 pounds, and is built like Lee Haney. His teammate T-Bone, is 6'6" tall and equally as strong. Both men are incredibly gifted athletes who possess an inmate killer instinct. I have no doubt they could start at the college level. On paper this game shapes up to be a route. I'm 6'1", and a fairly good athlete, but I'm 37 years old and my skills have been on the decline for a couple of years. Tyler is only 5'9", chubby and slow afoot. However, the lock-down has given us a couple of subtle advantages. One is conditioning and the other is an opportunity to develop some teamwork.

Tyler and I complement one another perfectly. I am a slasher and lights-out score from 18 feet. When I'm on, I score in bunches. Tyler sets the meanest clear-'em-out screen I have ever seen. His upper torso may be big and soft, like a baked potato, but it's mounted onto enormous redwoods. The guys is an ox, stronger than two normal men. His game, until today, has been Dennis Rodman-like. Great instincts. Tenacious on the boards. Tireless hostile. And absolute shut-'em-down defense. But there is no offense. Zero. Only the occasional put-back and even that is suspect.

Our game plan is fairly predictable. On offense, I take 90% of the shots and he rebounds. On D, he takes the other team's best player. But they know us well, and after Rider misses the shot for take-out, he matches up with me.

"Check," I say, passing in the ball.

He catches it and walks toward me. His eyes, cole-black, are fixed on mine with murderous intent. "I ever losin' to no white boy," he spits, shoving the ball my stomach.

Unmoved by his intimidation tactics, I pass the ball in. Tyler immediately passes it back and goes to set a pick of the top of the key. I take two quick steps toward him, and as soon as Rider commits I spin in the other direction, blowing by him for an easy finger-role.

But T-Bone comes out of nowhere and swats my shot into the backboard.

The tempo is set. Every shot will be hotly contested.

Rider gets the rebound and I pick them up on the exchange. He turns to use his strength to back me down. I anticipate the move, slide past him, and steal the ball. Then I turn around and hit an eight foot jumper.

2-0. First blood is drawn.

Tyler inbounds the ball to me. As soon as I catch it, I attacked the basket on the weak side for a quick layup. Rider is caught flat-footed and it's 4-0.

Again Tyler inbounds the ball to me. I take three lightning steps toward the basket. As soon as my opponent begins to backpedal, I stop on a dime, dribbled once back between my legs and pull up for a 12 footer. 6-0.

"Let me guard him," T-Bone says.

"Shut up, nigga' " Rider yells at his homeboy. I got them. This white boy ain't shit."

Now Ryder is all over me. The defense is manic, but I've anticipated this. I run him straight into Tyler's bone-rattling picks. I nail a wide-open shot. We run that play successfully three times in a row before T-Bone finally makes the adjustment and picks me up on the switch.

On offense, T-Bone has the quickness and height to overwhelm me. The first time he gets the ball, he beats off the dribble and goes baseline, but before he can score I foul him from behind. Hard. My statement is clear – you want to come inside, you will pay the price. This strategy would not work with the bruiser like Rider; he'd just retaliate. But T-Bone doesn't like the contact, and my subliminal message serves its purpose. He spends most of the game on the perimeter where he is far less effective.

Rider, who is normally a scoring machine, is stifled by Tyler suffocating defense, and before they can find any kind of rhythm the score is 22-6.

"Game point," Tyler says, checking T-Bone the ball.

"Step up," Rider says to his teammate. "We ain't losin' to no Woods."

My jump shot has been on fire, and there is little doubt what play we will run. Tyler passes the ball to me in the left side of the key, then runs straight to my man to set a screen. I throw shoulder fake right, and then dribble past the pick and pull up to shot.

But T-Bone has read the play and is positioned perfectly. He's going to block the shot. Then just as I ready to release, I see Tyler streaking toward the basket. I change course mid-air and fire Tyler a bullet pass. He is wide open. Tyler catches the ball in-stride and places it into the basket, scoring for the first time in the game.

We greet one another at mid-court with a jubilant high-five and chest bump.

Rider interrupts our celebration. "Ball up. I want my get-back!" (Get-back is an indigenous prison term signifing his desire to re-acquire what he just lost – his pride.)

Game two is extremely rugged and the gangbangers are determined to even the score. They waste no time establishing themselves, racing to an 18-10 lead. T-Bone leads the way and is, at times, breathtaking.

On one play, he starts on the right wing and drive to the middle. He uses a behind--back trouble, but before he can finish the move, Tyler jumps into his path. Not a problem. T-Bone reverses course in stride, guiding the ball between his legs, back to front, gets to the basket and scores with an acrobatic scoop shot.

His slashing ignites my passion, and for the first half of the game we embark on a head-up challenge, going at each other on nearly every exchange. It's pretty much a one-on one shoot-out, and he is getting the best of it, but not by much.

We are barking at each other for most of the game, going back and forth, both of us say things like: "you can't guard me," or "right there. That's where lecture sneakers."

As spectacular as T-Bone is playing, we are able to keep the score close because Tyler is giveng Rider the blues, particularly on the boards.

The momentum shifts back our way when we returned to the pick and roll. On each play I pass, and to everyone's surprise Tyler begins to score from everywhere.

The first two are unabated lay-ups. Once our opponents make the defense of adjustment, Tyler stops going to the basket. Now he just rolls to any open spot – foul line, top of the key, baseline – it doesn't matter, because he's in the zone. Everything he puts up is going in.

Tyler is a catch and shoot guy!

We have discovered a skill neither of us knew he possessed. It's a coming out party, and I celebrate by transforming my game to point guard. I begin to mix in a variety of penetrate-and-dish moves. As I break Rider down off the dribble, T-Bone invariably brings double-team. Every play results in a massive collision, and I am getting beat up, but I don't mind because they are leaving Tyler wide-open. He sinks seven shots in a row.

Wham, bam! Its 24-18, and game two is in the books.

Rider exploded his teammate: "stay with your man!"

"That white boy ain't made two shots all year," T-Bone fires back.

"Looks like he was saving that can of whoop-ask just for you fellas, I taunt.

Tyler is stone silent, as he always is during a game. But I love to talk trash. "A stubby white guy just lit you up!"

The trash talking was a huge mistake on my part.

As we start game three, the weather begins to change. The sky is now completely overcast, the temperature has dipped below 30°, and a light snow falls all around us. The Black guys have also changed, bringing the intensity level to a fever pitch.

T-Bone comes out firing. He drains four straight three pointers to open the game. On defense, they are literally mugging us. They shut down our pick-and-roll with pure brute force. On several plays Rider destroys the pick by barreling into Tyler like an enraged bull. Twice he completely knocks him down, then dares my friend to complain, but Tyler is nobody sissy. When it becomes clear that a fight is about to erupt, I step between the two and call for a defensive switch. Now I must guard the menacing Rider.

This plays right into their hands. With T-Bone bombing away from long range, Rider has the whole inside as a personal playground. He goes right to work, displaying all of the skills.

I am no match for him one-on one. He uses his strength to overpower me play after play. They smash us 24-8, the game ending with an emphatic Rider dunk that that lands me flat on my butt.

Exhausted, I am ready to call the day.

"Get up, White Boy," Rider snarls. "You're going to lose two more games before I let you quit."

I make a protest about the snow, but he is having none of it.

"We can handle this anyway you want. I really don't care." The implications are clear: play ball or get 'em up with a guy who makes a living by killing people. I have no other options.

Game four is played under ominous conditions. A chaotic wind now brings swirling snow from the mountains, and a light fog hampers our visibility. The snow is not sticking, but the black top slick.

Rider picks up right where he left off, going deep into his arsenal and scoring on a multitude of moves. On one play, he drives the baseline, and goes up for a dunk but sees Tyler coming over to attempt a block. So Rider brings the ball down, waits for the contact, and somehow hangs in the air long enough for a reverse layup.

Amazing play.

I am dog-tired, unable to guard my man effectively, and unable to get anything going against their pressing, mulling defense. I look to my teammates and he can see the defeat in my eyes. Our only chance to avoid losing is for Tyler to take over the game. This is uncharted territory. During the six months we have played together, I have always provided the offense. It is an unspoken truth about our game. At crunch time, I get the ball. Now it's his turn.

When we finally get the rock back, Tyler posts up against T-Bone, matching his strength, but giving away 9 inches in height. Tyler receives the pass on the right side of the blocks and powers straight up for a score. Again we go to him in the post, and he scores with T-Bone barely missing the block.

Back to the well. This time Tyler drives the middle and when Rider brings the double-team, he lays off a perfect behind-the-back pass to me for an uncontested layup. That was only a preview.

As my friends confidence builds, something miraculous happens: he becomes one with the game and begins to play on pure instinct. On consecutive drives from the left-wing, he beats his man off the dribble and scores. Unprecedented. For Tyler, the wet surface is a godsend. The quicker black guys no longer hold an advantage in footwork, and my teammate continues going to the basket with authority.

Rider makes a defensive switch but it doesn't matter, because my body is unconscious. Under the most forbidding circumstances – in prison, with fog and blinding snow, and playing against far superior athletes – Tyler turns golden. He's doing things he has never done before – long-range jumpers, reverse layups, and even the spin move. It's a clinic. The feeling is surreal and it seems as though everything is moving in slow motion as shot after improbable shot goes into the basket.

"Fog recall," blares from the loudspeaker as Tyler scores game point. Our three games to one advantage is decisive.

Rider and T-Bone are stunned, but they were is dazzled by Tyler's breakout performance as I was. He has gained a whole new level of respect. Before leaving both Rider and T-Bone congratulated him.

For the most part, the Blacks and Whites do not socialize, but some three months down the road., Rider would ask me about blue water sailing, one of my other passions. He had a genuine curiosity. I knew he was a lifer who would never get out of prison, I broke ranks and spent an hour sharing some of my past adventures with him. At the end of our conversation he said something I will never forget.

"You know when you go back to the streets, you are going to be able to say you faced the meanest, gang-bangin' niggas' on the planet and never backed down. That's going to give you an edge."

"Faced?" I questioned, with a cat that ate the canary grin. "No I believe defeated is the appropriate word."

"Yeah, you did that once or twice," he said shaking his head, a look of disbelief and admiration in his eyes. "Hey, you remember that day I told you I wasn't ever going to lose to no white boy?"

Oh yes, I remember.

As Tyler and I walk toward our respective cellblocks, we are exhilarated and riding an endorphin high. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and say, "you were spectacular on office today."

He stops dead, as the realization of his breakthrough hits him for the first time. The look on his face is that of a little boy who has just opened a Christmas present he never dared to dream he would get. I immediately recognize that today is the first time Tyler has ever truly dominated the game. This is a man who loves basketball with every fiber of his being. Few things bring him more happiness.

"Dude, you have arrived. That was no fluke. You hit 80% of your shots for two straight hours," I say, sharing his victory – a moment neither of us wants to end. "When you play that well, we are unbeatable."

"I never imagined I'd score like that," he says, ever humble and still in awe of his own renaissance.

"Well, get used to it," I reply, changing my expression is serious. "Anything less and _I'll_ be looking for new teammate."

Arriving at the juncture where we must part, we shake hands, the day cementing our friendship, a friendship born of battle-tested teamwork and a mutual love of sport, a friendship I will always cherish.

"See you tomorrow, buddy."I waved.

"Bring your A-game or don't bother showing up," he replies with a scowl.

And we both smile.

# Chapter 3: Life in Prison

In this chapter, which was excerpted from my book _The Dirty Nasty Truth_ you will find a series of horror stories that are presented as my top ten reasons why you never want to break the law.

##  #10: The Culture of Violence

In prison, everything is resolved through violence. It is a culture ruled by racism and prison politics. The inmates self-segregate themselves into four groups: white, black, Mexican, and other (which is everyone else). If you are seen talking to someone of another race for too long, you will face problems. Someone from your own race may stab you with a shank, which is a makeshift knife; or you may get rat-packed, beaten by several men. If you are mixed race, you have to choose a side, and even then there is no guarantee that you will be accepted by the racial group you select. The whites are notorious for attacking "White CRIPs," which are white guys or men of mixed race who are in the CRIPs gang. A black man from a Hispanic gang will face similar issues.

Each race has a "shot-caller" who is the so-called leader. The shot-caller gets a 25 percent cut of any drugs brought into the prison by someone of his race. Most shot-callers are drug addicts who are wildly unstable. If you come to prison, this is the person who will determine your fate.

When a new guy arrives on the yard, he must show his paperwork to the shot-caller. The paperwork, which is generated by the prison administration, describes your commitment offense. If you don't produce your paperwork, or have been convicted of a sex crime or a crime against children, you will be "dealt with." This means that someone from your race will stab you. The person chosen by the shot-caller for this mission is almost always a new inmate on the yard, called a "Fish." By going on a mission, a convict earns respect (makes his bones). Not all missions are stickings. Lesser offenses, such as not paying a drug or gambling debt on time, may only result in three or four guys beating you down on the yard. Prior to going on a mission, the convict will receive a package of drugs that he must put up his butt. This is how all drugs are smuggled into and around the prison. Knowing this, the guards constantly strip-search the convicts. During a strip search you must get completely naked, spread your butt cheeks, bend over, and cough while a guard shines a flashlight at your asshole.

Missions frequently do not go according to plan. Not long ago two skinheads beat up an old white guy and stole his "canteen," which is the bag of food stuffs he purchased at the prison store. The skinheads knew this incident would not be tolerated by the other whites, but they didn't care. They were drug addicts and they needed the money to feed their habit. The shot-caller determined that their punishment for this act would be to send them on a mission to beat up a man named Tom, whose drug debts were not being paid. The two skinheads attacked Tom in a blind spot on the yard where the guards could not see them. Tom was prepared for the attack. He had a razor blade that was melted to a tooth brush, and he slashed both of the skinheads on their faces. Both men were left with ugly, permanent scars.

Prison is a violent place. No one is going to show you any sympathy if you end up here. This isn't some two-hour movie. People are humiliated in prison. They also die in prison. They don't tell you that in the rap songs that glamorize gangs, crime, and prison life.

##  #9: The County Jail

My county of commitment was Los Angeles. The L.A. County Jail is one of the most violent, inhumane places on the planet. It houses more than 10,000 inmates. Petty criminals, such as shoplifters who are awaiting trial, share cells with convicted murderers. The overcrowding is so bad that eight men are stuffed into a cell designed to hold four. This results in four men sleeping on the floor; two of them next to the communal toilet.

On my first day in the county jail I had a cellmate who had been previously convicted of a double-homicide and sentenced to the death penalty. He was down from San Quentin's Death Row to face trial for another murder he had committed while he was in prison. One of his homeboys brought him a three-foot-long steel bar that was the diameter of my thumb. I watched as he sharpened the edge to a fine point by scraping the bar back and forth along the concrete floor, upon which he had sprinkled Ajax scouring powder. It took about two hours for him to fashion a deadly spear. There was no doubt in my mind that he planned to kill again. Needless to say, I didn't sleep that night. To my relief, I was transferred to a different cell the next day.

The worst thing that happened while I was in the county jail awaiting trial was the murder of a Mexican man who was serving a six-month sentence for his second drunk driving conviction. This guy had never previously been incarcerated, and he was unaware of the racial politics that permeate the California prison system. He was hungry, and a black man gave him some food. For this reason about a dozen Mexican gang members beat him to death that evening. It was the most horrible thing I ever saw.

##  #8: The Daily Grind

Life in prison is like a sadistic version of the movie _Groundhog_ _Day_. It's the same monotonous events day after day.

The repetitive nightmare begins at 6:00 A.M. with a guard's voice blasting from the loudspeaker: "Morning wake up call. Get ready for chow." Ten minutes later the cell doors open and the madness begins. One hundred convicts are released simultaneously. Your senses are assaulted by the horrific sounds, sights, and smells of the other prisoners. You'll see gang members greeting their homies with bizarre handshakes, hugs, and other phony displays of camaraderie; black men calling each other every conceivable variation of the "N" word, as if it was the coolest word ever spoken in the history of language. Invariably, someone with dragon breath will come up to you and singe your nose hairs with some nonsense you do not want to hear first thing in the morning.

After exiting the building, you will be required to stand in line for about ten minutes, no matter what the weather conditions are. Then you will enter the chow hall, where you will be forced to eat food that is not fit for human consumption. Prison food is awful. The chow hall is loud and tense and dangerous. If a fight breaks out the guards use pepper spray and everyone in the room suffers. Approximately two minutes after you sit down to eat, the guards start yelling, "Time's up." If you do not eat fast enough to please the guards, they will hit the table with their nightsticks, glare at you, and dare you to defy them.

Following breakfast the inmates go to their job assignments, which are always terrible. You might be assigned to work in the kitchen or to clean the showers. If you refuse to work, you will lose privileges and possibly add time to your sentence.

Following eight hours of slave labor, the inmates may go to the exercise yard for an hour or so, depending on when they get off work. Then it's back to the building to get in line for a shower. The wait can be several hours. Most anything worth having in prison will be accompanied by a long wait or some other form of torture. For example, once a week the inmates are allowed to exchange their dirty laundry for clean clothes. After waiting in line for an hour, the clothes you get back may not fit, they may smell funny, or may have a disgusting stain. The monthly canteen experience is even more arduous. If you purchase something from an outside vender, such as books, shoes, or a radio, you will be required to go to a place called R&R, where you will be packed into a small holding cell with 30 other inmates for an extended period of time. Medical is the same way. To receive any medical attention, you will be forced to stand in a small, outdoor cage with numerous other prisoners for several hours. The other convicts will be talking nonstop, usually about prison politics or their "poor me" story about why they should not be incarcerated. It's brutal.

##  #7: The Guards

I would say that most of the guards who work at the prisons where I have been housed are normal people. They just want to get their eight hours in, pick up their paychecks, and go home. But like every other realm of society, there are some guards who are sadistic. In prison the guards have absolute power over your life. They tell you what to do and how to do it all day, every day. If you don't like it, if you don't obey, then you are going to have problems. The guards have the power to write you up for a rules violation, which can add to the amount of time you, have to do on your sentence.

The trouble with absolute power is that when it is given to a sadistic person, it corrupts. About five years ago at Donovan Prison there was a guard who was raping inmates by forcing them to give him blow jobs. One of the convicts who were being violated in this manner got smart. He spit the guard's semen into a napkin and smuggled it to his family at a visit. They took the napkin to the San Diego County District Attorney's office, and filed a civil complaint against the prison. The guard was arrested, tried, and convicted of rape.

Another more brutal abuse by prison guards occurred at Corcoran State Prison, in the Security Housing Unit, which is known as "The Hole" or "The SHU." Prison politics are so bad in the SHU that the inmates have a "fight on site" policy. What this means is that whenever you see an inmate of another race you are required to fight him. In order to deal with the violence, the prison administration adopted two new policies. First, they determined that inmates would be segregated by racial designation at all times; and second, the guards were given the authority to shoot any inmate who started a fight without any consequences to the guard. It was a license to kill.

Some sadistic guards at the Corcoran SHU abused these new policies by setting up staged fights between the inmates and betting on the outcomes. The guards would let two inmates from rival races out into a small recreation area and watch them beat each other up. Sometimes they would shoot them. The guards used mini-14 rifles with nine millimeter bullets that tumbled on impact. Three inmates were murdered by the guards, and dozens more were permanently maimed before the federal government became aware of the abuse and put an end to it. The TV Show "60 Minutes" did a special report on the Corcoran SHU, which was known as _gladiator school_. In the show, Ed Bradley interviewed a Mexican convict who had been shot in the back while defending himself in one of the guards' staged fights. The bullet shattered his spine, paralyzing him from the waist down. In fairness to the guards, it should be noted that eight guards faced murder charges related to the Corcoran SHU gladiator wars and all eight were acquitted. The information above was provided by inmates who survived the nightmares, and by "60 Minutes _._ "

##  #6: Race Riots

Due to the racial politics that rule the California prison system, race riots are a common occurrence. They even occur on the minimum security yards. You never know when it is going to happen or who will be involved. It could be Blacks against Mexicans, Native Americans against Whites, CRIPS against Bloods, Northern Mexicans against Southern Mexicans, Fresno Bulldogs against Pisas (Latinos from any country south of the border), or any combination thereof. All it takes is for one dumbass to throw a punch and your race is engulfed in a riot — and you must participate. If your race has _mandatory yard,_ and you do not show up on the yard to fight with the group, you will be stigmatized as a coward. Then, after the riot is over, you will be either stabbed or rat-packed by other convicts of your race.

Over the years I have witnessed numerous race riots and have seen terrible things; prisoners being stabbed, prisoners being beaten unmercifully by a mob, and prisoners being shot by the guards. In one riot I saw a man get stabbed in the eye; in another, a guy had his head bashed in with a dumbbell. For details of just how frightening and dangerous prison race riots can be revisit Chapter One.

##  #5: The Other Inmates

Prison is filled with society's rejects. Most of the men are drug addicts who will do anything — lie, cheat, steal, deceive — to obtain drugs. Some convicts stink because they do not shower regularly. Some are loud and disrespectful. Many are mentally unstable. It's like being surrounded by a thousand hidden bombs; you never know what will set off one of them.

You do not get to choose your cellmate. The chances of you ending up with someone who shares your culture, values, or interests is about a thousand to one. Over the years I've been celled with some real freak shows. One convict named Ray laughed at the top of his lungs continuously for hours. Another, Sam, talked nonstop about all his fights, which I surmised was a defense mechanism. One dude from Tennessee cut the most God-awful farts all day, every day. It got so bad that I had to smuggle a surgical mask from the infirmary to prevent from getting sick. One of the worst cellmates I had made "pruno" once a week. Pruno is jailhouse wine that frequently makes people sick. When this guy got drunk, he was loud and obnoxious. He frequently made racial slurs to the Blacks who lived in the neighboring cell. This was a concern for me, because if the blacks attacked him, I would be obligated to come to his defense. If I didn't, then the other whites would send a "torpedo" — an armed attacker — to deal with me.

##  #4: Sexual Predators

I know its cliché, but rapes really do happen in prison. When I was at Tehachapi Prison, in the mountains above Bakersfield, I was on a yard with a homosexual rapist everyone called "Pincushion." The man had stab marks all over his body. In prison a confirmed rapist is a walking target. Anyone trying to build a reputation will take a whack at them. Because of this, Pincushion rarely left his cell.

Pincushion was kind of like a Venus flytrap, the plant that devours unsuspecting insects that land on its leaves. Pincushion would patiently wait for the administration to assign a handsome young man to his cell, and then he would attack him in the middle of the night. This happened to a 19-year-old kid when I was at Tehachapi. Pincushion tied the kid to his bunk, gagged him and then raped him repeatedly. Evidently this went on for several days before one of the guards looked into the cell during a routine count and saw that the kid was tied up. The convicts in the neighboring cells knew what was happening, but did nothing because telling is a stabbing offence. If you are young and you come to prison, there is a chance some creep like Pincushion could rape you.

##  #3: Access to Health Care

In December 2009, a panel of three federal judges ordered the State of California to release 40,000 inmates, because prison overcrowding had caused deplorable, unconstitutional health care conditions. Testimony from the trial revealed that at least one inmate dies every week due to medical indifference. The delay in seeing a doctor at the institution where I was housed was six weeks. Imagine being really ill and having no access to medical care.

Access to expensive medical procedures is often blocked. Back in the mid-1990s I shattered my ankle playing basketball. The x-ray revealed that in addition to a break, there were a multitude of bone fragments. I was sent to see an orthopedic doctor at a hospital in the city. He recommended surgery and ordered an MRI. When the MRI results came back, the prison's chief medical officer determined that surgery was not necessary. The prison doctor didn't even give me a cast. I limped around on crutches for over a year before the ankle finally healed on its own. It still causes me pain from time to time.

Dental care may even be worse than the medical care. Most of the time the dentists won't provide fillings for cavities, because it's cheaper to pull teeth. A toothless convict is a common sight on the prison yard. The longer a convict has been in prison, the fewer teeth he probably will have. I once heard one con ask another to punch him in the mouth to knock out his two front teeth. The poor guy had just learned that in order to get partial false teeth, the prison rules required an inmate to have only five teeth in his mouth, and he had seven.

##  #2: The Loss of Your Freedom

You know the old saying, "You don't know how much you love something until you lose it." If you choose to break the law, you risk losing the precious gift of freedom — the freedom to choose what you want to do and when you want to do it. In prison you will be ordered around and told what to do in every moment of your existence. Sometimes you even lose the freedom to choose when you can use the bathroom, and you are not allowed to handle your business in private. When you go to take a crap, your cellmate will be sitting just a few feet away. If he isn't working with a full deck, he may even stare at you or try to spark up a conversation while you're on the pot.

The first ten years that I was incarcerated I was held in either the county jail or level-4 super-max facilities. The only things I ever saw were concrete walls and dirt grounds. Then I was transferred to R.J. Donovan prison in San Diego, which is a level-3 maximum security facility. I was exposed to grass and flowers and birds. I was able to see and touch and be in nature. I was also allowed to go outside in the evening. As I watched a magnificent sunset, I cried. Later, I admired a full moon and the brilliance of the stars, and I felt immense pain over all I had lost when I lost my freedom.

The worst loss of all is the freedom to spend time with the people you love. The loneliness you will feel in prison is more horrible than you can possibly imagine. I cannot count the number of nights I cried myself to sleep. Prisoners are allowed to visit with friends and family members in the prison visiting room on the weekends. Prior to receiving such a visit your loved ones will be subjected to a humiliating and torturous process where they must wait in line for up to four hours, and may be strip-searched, interrogated, or told to change clothes. Is such treatment necessary? Of course not. It's a deliberate policy the prison has adopted to deter visitors. Think about that. Think about how the choice to commit a crime will affect the people who care about you. Think about the pain you will cause your parents. Do you love your parents? Then don't make the choice to break the law, because your parents will blame themselves. They will think that they failed as parents. When you go to prison, your parents suffer in ways you cannot now imagine.

If one of your loved ones dies, you will not be allowed to attend the funeral. Even worse, you will be put on "suicide watch," meaning you will be isolated from the general population for 30 days. On suicide watch you are not allowed to use the telephone or have visits at a time when you need them the most.

##  #1: You May Never Get Out

When you are incarcerated, there is no guarantee you will ever be released. I am aware of numerous incidents where men were killed prior to their scheduled release date. One convict, with less than a week to do on his sentence, was on the yard when a riot broke out. He did the wise thing and moved away from the violence. However, a bullet fired by one of the guards ricocheted off a brick wall and hit him directly in the heart, and he died instantly.

Another man I know about holed up in his cell during the final two weeks of his sentence to avoid any problems. Since he chose this course of action, he was unaware of the fact that the other cons were on a work strike and had set up a picket line at the work-change gate. On the day of his release he unknowingly crossed the picket line because he had to go through the work-change gate to be released. The men on the picket line wrongly assumed the inmate was challenging the work stoppage and beat him to death.

You can also catch a new case that adds time to your sentence. One parole violator who was only serving a six-month sentence was required to go on a mission with two other convicts to beat up a known snitch. The snitch suffered a broken neck and was partially paralyzed. The parole violator was charged, tried, and convicted of attempted murder, which carries a mandatory sentence of 15 years to life in state prison.

# About The Author

John Barrett Hawkins is an author/public speaker/social entrepreneur who lives in San Diego, California. When he isn't giving delinquency prevention seminars at high schools, he focuses his energy on developing online coaching programs that empower people to get fit and achieve their goals in life.

Personal recommendations are the primary way that most people find good books to read. If you enjoyed this book, I would appreciate it if you would post a review on Amazon, even if it's only a couple of lines.

To write a review, all you have to do is go to the book's page on Amazon. You will see a button that says "write a customer review" – click that button and tell the world what you thought about the book.

# Also by John Barrett Hawkins

 PENITENTIARY FITNESS

 THE AMAZING WEIGHT-LOSS FORMULA

When the California Department of Corrections took away their weights, the inmates created an ingenious exercise regimen using their own body weight. The push-up and pull-up type workouts enabled them to develop sleek, muscular physiques remarkably similar to those of Olympic gymnasts. Author John Barrett Hawkins immediately recognized that people in the "real world" would benefit from these training methods and set out to write _PENITENTIARY FITNESS._

With no professional credentials to speak of, Hawkins decided to base the book's recommendations on the findings of leading fitness and weight-loss authors and on research studies that were conducted at the world's top medical schools and universities. Over a 10-year period he studied hundreds of resources on the subjects of weight loss and fitness and applied that knowledge to the convict's unique style of training. The result is _THE AMAZING WEIGHT LOSS FORMULA_.

You will find:

•Medical Sciences 20 Fat Loss Secrets

•Cutting-edge strategies for men who want to build rock-hard muscles

• Proven tactics for women who want to trim their tummy or derrière

• An in-depth discussion on nutrition, plus a diet plan that will empower you to lose weight while eating six meals every day

• 36 delicious, healthy meal recipes

• 16 creative workouts that do not require equipment and can be performed at the park or in the convenience of your own home

"I went from 296 pounds to 190 pounds in just five months using _THE AMAZING WEIGHT-LOSS FORMULA_. The information in this book changed my life."

– Daniel Durland

"Barrett trained me for 6 months while I was in prison. I took 11 inches off my waist line and was in the best shape of my life."

Jim Moon

" _THE AMAZING WEIGHT LOSS FORMULA_ enabled me to reverse my diabetes in 3 months and lose 40 pounds. I was able to stop taking medications for diabetes and high blood pressure."

  * Lety Levy

 DARE TO BE SUCCESSFUL

_Dare to Be Successful_ is a parable about a middle school teacher who helps female gang member transform her life. The story will teach you how to discover your purpose, increase your self-confidence, overcome daily challenges, and fulfill your dreams.

_Dare to Be Successful_ is based on John Barrett Hawkins'15-year study of human achievement. Included are teachings from Wayne Dyer, Napoleon Hill, Cheryl Richardson, Marianne Williamson, Stephen Covey, Martha Beck, Mark Viktor Hansen, Jack Canfield, Og Mandino, Anthony Robbins, Deepak Chopra and Caroline Myss, among others. This book spells out 75 principles used by the world's most successful people. You'll discover:

• Tools that will enable you to identify your natural talents and ideal career

• Secrets for developing a winning mindset and becoming unstoppable

• Strategies for mastering your emotions

• A detailed action plan for setting and achieving your goals

• Tips to overcome procrastination and stay motivated

• Techniques to recondition your belief system and eliminate the behaviors may be preventing you from fulfilling your dreams

_Dare to Be Successful_ reveals the philosophies and habits of the world's peak performers...and provides a step-by-step process to help you create the successful life you deserve.

#   THE DIRTY NASTY TRUTH

18 True Crime Stories and 10 Life in Prison Stories to Stop Juvenile Delinquency

When John Barrett Hawkins was incarcerated at Donovan State Prison in San Diego, he participated in a delinquency intervention program named Convicts Reaching out to People (CROP), where teenagers are brought into the prison to hear inmates speak about their crimes, gangs, bullying, drugs, self-esteem and prison life. CROP was founded on the belief that the best way to reach teenagers who are getting into trouble is through storytelling. Each convict stands before the group and gives a personal testimony concerning the crimes they committed and the lessons learned. In _The Dirty Nasty Truth_ , Hawkins brings this invaluable storytelling program to the general public. The book includes these chapters, among others:

• Hawkins' involvement in a million-dollar insurance fraud that was directly responsible for the murder of an innocent man

• Life in prison – including riots, rapes, murders and other horror stories

• The Blockbuster Bandit's story of armed robberies

• The story of a gang shootout that resulted in a double homicide

• The Deadly Love Triangle – is the tragic story of a prominent lawyer's encounter with a mysterious woman

• The Gentleman Bank Robber – a.k.a. Joe Jackson's Gateway drug story concerning a destructive cocaine addiction

• Tim Harris' sordid tale about gangbanging teenage girls as part of a gang initiation ritual

• The Party Animal – is the story of a happy-go-lucky surfer kid whose drug addiction leads to murder

# Penitentiary Fitness Sneak Preview

# Chapter 1: Hooked on Health

My name is John Barrett Hawkins. In 1987, at the age of 24, I was living the aspiring entrepreneur's dream. After failing miserably with my first three business ventures, I finally found a niche. My chain of retail clothing stores, Just Sweats, had grown from one location to 22 with annual revenues of 10 million dollars in just three years. With a growing list of franchise requests, the company was on the threshold of a national expansion. A sportswear magazine even interviewed me for an article they were writing about Just Sweats, and I boldly announced my goal of opening three hundred stores from coast to coast within five years. It was the happiest time of my life. I was in love with one of the sweetest, most gorgeous women on the planet, and my career had reached heights previously unimaginable. Little did I know it was all about to end.

Like many people who start their own business, I developed a profound emotional attachment to the company that I built. Along the way I also acquired an untamable attraction to risk. That combination proved toxic when my business partner proposed an insurance fraud that would enable me to reacquire his 45-percent ownership in Just Sweats. At that time I viewed insurance companies as corrupt, soulless entities, and faced no moral roadblock when it came to fleecing them. But something went wrong — very wrong. In the process of facilitating the fraud, my partner killed a man and I was held accountable. I was tried and convicted of conspiracy to commit murder and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison.

The insurance fraud was presented to me by my partner as a white-collar, victimless crime. In my lifetime I have never intentionally harmed another human being. I did not intend or suspect that my business partner would commit a murder; however, that did not, in any way, minimize my responsibility for the death of a man I did not even know. My ignorance of my partner's heinous actions was deemed completely irrelevant by the law. I should have considered the possible sinister consequences of the scheme. In retrospect, I realized that my role in the fraud was pivotal — had I not been a willing participant, the murder would not have happened. I faced the unfathomable truth that I was responsible for a homicide. I could not begin to imagine the horror that the victim's family experienced, or the agony that crushed their hearts. I felt overwhelming shame and deep sorrow for the pain I had caused them, and for the embarrassment I had caused my own family. My inner turmoil led to chronic depression, nervous breakdowns, and a suicide attempt.

The only thing that sustained me through this personal nightmare was the love of my wife, Amelia, and our five-year-old son, Luke. I had told Amelia about the fraud before I committed it. Knowing that I never intended to hurt anyone, she stood by me.

During the first two years of my life sentence Amelia and Luke spent their weekends with me in the prison visiting room. As soon as my son spotted me coming through the doors, he took off at a dead sprint, leaped into my arms and fiercely hugged me. I will always remember those hugs from my little boy as the purest moments of love that I have ever felt. Amelia was the best friend I've ever had; someone who supported me during my darkest hour. Her visits were an act of extraordinary generosity. My family's love nourished my damaged soul and offered me a chance to cling to them like a newborn. Unfortunately for me, that neediness and the stigma of being a convicted felon's wife eventually drove Amelia away.

After Amelia left, I entered the most painful period of my life. A sense of hopelessness and sadness consumed every fiber of my being. From the other convicts I learned that there are more than twenty thousand prisoners in the State of California with life sentences, and no one convicted of conspiracy to commit murder had been paroled in the last seventeen years. It was a blanket policy — life meant life. I was a man with no future. My only escape from the daily oppression was exercise, but even that was lost when I severely injured my hip and ankle. With absolutely no medical care, I was laid up for a year. The inactivity led to my gaining thirty pounds of body fat and the return of an old, debilitating lower back injury. Eventually, my physical pain became as severe as my psychological pain. Thoughts of suicide returned and began to dominate my mental process.

Around this time my friend Victoria, a forensic psychologist, sent me a book by Viktor Frankl, titled _Man's Search for Meaning,_ that would bring me back from the abyss. Frankl, an Austrian psychoanalyst who survived the death camps of Nazi Germany, made a significant discovery. During his three years of captivity he observed and evaluated his fellow inmates. He was intrigued by the question of what made it possible for some to survive the torture and starvation when most — 19 of every 20 — died. Those who perished had said they had no reason to live, and no longer expected anything from life. Frankl argued that they were wrong, stating, "Life's not accountable to us. We're accountable to life." And indeed it was this sense of accountability, this sense of purpose that was the common factor in the inmates who survived. They invariably expressed that they had loved ones to return to or some important work to do or a mission to perform.1

Frankl developed an extraordinary insight into mankind's instinctive need for purpose. He writes: "Everyone has a specific vocation or mission in life; everyone has a concrete assignment that demands fulfillment." These insights led Frankl to develop a new type of psychotherapy called "logo (the Greek word for meaning) therapy." Logo therapy regards its assignment as that of assisting the patient to find meaning in his life. It tries to help the patient become aware of what he longs for in the depths of his heart.2

What I longed for was redemption; to find some way of proving to my family and to the victim's family that I am not the type of person who could knowingly be involved in the killing of a fellow human being. True, I was indirectly responsible for a man's death, but I never intended for that to happen. I am not a murderer, and I certainly did not conspire with anyone to commit a murder. Frankl's book inspired me to look within and search for a way to prove my true character.

Another author who was instrumental in helping me find my way back to wellness was Stephen Covey. His book, _The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People_ , is in many ways a modern extension to Frankl's _purpose in life_ _therapy_. My criminal conviction, the negative publicity and the daily humiliation of the prison experience worked together to completely destroy my self-image and confidence. _7 Habits_ helped me convert that negative attitude into a positive attitude by encouraging me to focus my energy on serving others, particularly those in need. This led to an epiphany. I saw that my incarceration, if viewed from a fresh perspective, could be considered a rare opportunity. Entrepreneurs are creators of concepts. Essentially what entrepreneurs do during the pre-opening stages is conduct a lot of research, then create business concepts. My realization was that I could still do what I love most in life.

In _7 Habits,_ Covey writes: "Nothing has a greater, larger lasting impression upon another person than the awareness that someone has transcended suffering, has transcended circumstance and is embodying and expressing a value that inspires and enables and lifts life."3 This one sentence led to monumental changes in my life, a desire to be the guy who transcended suffering and circumstance to create something noble. I made a conscious decision to apply my skills as a businessman toward something more significant than financial gain — by developing a company whose primary objective is to improve the quality of people's lives — and amazing things began to happen. In time, I would find meaning in a seemingly meaningless existence and in some magical way my physical and psychological wounds began to heal.

Exactly what type of business I would develop began to take shape while I was reading Dr. Deepak Chopra's classic, _Ageless Body, Timeless Mind_. The book's emphasis is on mind-body medicine. I found myself analyzing my mother's health condition. Over a three-year period she had suffered an endless series of illnesses and ailments that her doctors never properly diagnosed. This was preceded by a prolonged bout of clinical depression. A search for the cause was not difficult; in just three years she lost the three people she was closest to. First, her mother died. Next, her lifelong best friend of 40 years lost her life to cancer. Finally, her son was sent to prison with a life sentence. She was alone in the world and her depression had manifested itself in the form of physical ailments.

Chopra's book provided a concise explanation of how my mother's mental anguish led to her health problems. It also enabled me to see that her three years of suffering could have been reduced to three months with a proper mind-body diagnosis and a pro-active recovery plan. I did some research and quickly realized that, just like my mother, millions of suffering people were not getting the proper treatment. So, I decided to focus my passion for business on designing a health care facility that would fill the obvious void. In time, it became my personal mission, "my concrete assignment that demanded fulfillment."

Early on, a man named Ken O'Donnell, a high-ranking IBM executive and former _Inc Magazine_ "Entrepreneur of the Year" award winner befriended me. Ken was suffering from the neurological disorder Lou Gehrig's Disease, and had a keen interest in the mind-body observations I was making. During the twilight of his life Ken became my mentor. Through letters and phone conversations we discussed a number of possibilities for a new kind of treatment center. He explained the emerging role the Internet was playing in health care and guided me through various strategies for developing a business in the New Economy. Of particular significance was something that he taught me about fund raising. Ken said that venture capitalists are attracted to business plans supported by the world's top futurists, and instructed me to study their books and reports. In one of these books, _The Experience Economy_ , authors B. Joseph Pine and James H. Gilmore suggest:

### Everyone faced with a tremendous personal loss must go through a series of experiences such as shock, depression, confusion, guilt and anger before recovery can occur. How much better can we handle these stages and more quickly be transformed from grief to normal living when someone — minister, counselor or friend — guides us, than when we are left alone. In the same way all transformation elicitors guide aspirants through a series of experiences.4

This information made a lot of sense to me, because both my mother and I faced a tremendous personal loss. For my mother, it was the death of her own mother, her closest friend and her son's imprisonment. For me, it was the loss of my wife and son, my freedom and my self-respect. We both experienced each of these stages the authors described. However, there was a significant difference in our ability to recover. Where my mother's recovery took many years, mine actually occurred during one 12-week window of time; the primary difference being that I was guided by various _transformation elicitors._

Viktor Frankl and Stephen Covey guided me through a transformation that gave my life meaning. During the same time frame that I was making these psychological changes, I met a young convict named Billy Dase who had just completed Bill Phillips' _Trans-formation Challenge_ , a 12-week diet and exercise regimen that produces amazing physiological changes. Billy encouraged me to read Phillips' book, _Body-for-Life_ , then challenged me to do the program with him. I was 30 pounds overweight and out of shape, so I decided to give it a try. The workout component consists of three 45-minute sessions of high-intensity resistance training and three 20-minute sessions of high-intensity cardiovascular exercise every week for 12 weeks. In the beginning it was grueling. My body was sore all the time. On several occasions I wanted to quit, but Billy kept pushing and challenging me. Peer pressure can be a powerful motivator. At week six I started seeing results and that got me over the hump. The end of the program coincided with my thirty-seventh birthday. I was in the best shape of my life and actually had developed a body like one of those guys on the cover of _Men's Health_ magazine. But more importantly, the pains in my hip, ankle and lower back were gone. The body aches I had endured for more than three years had completely disappeared. And so had my depression.

The latest studies from the field of psychoneuroimmunology demonstrate that rigorous physical exercise can be a powerful weapon in the war against depression. In his book, _Body-for-Life_ , Bill Phillips addresses this issue:

The people who took the Transformation Challenge were getting physically fit, and they were getting their lives back in shape. It was, and still is, one of the most enlightening experiences of my life. Accepting this challenge rekindled the flame of desire for tens of thousands, and it broke down walls that were keeping people from moving forward in all areas of their lives.

Many of the men and women who accepted my challenge reported that the program literally saved their lives. Their risk of heart disease —the number-one killer in America today — was drastically lowered, as well as the risk of being afflicted with other illness, such as diabetes, cancer and osteoporosis.

### Beyond even that, the psychological and emotional changes reported by these men and women were (and are) stunning. They described off-the-chart leaps in self-confidence, self-respect, and empowerment. They discovered that taking control of their bodies broke down barriers all around them. 5

I had the exact same experience discussed by Phillips. Even though serving a life sentence in prison, I felt good about myself and the things I was working on. My recovery from suicidal depression and chronic lower back, hip and ankle pain might never have occurred without the guidance I received from Viktor Frankl, Steven Covey, Bill Phillips, Billy Dase and Gary Kraftsow, my yoga instructor. In a very real sense, they were my _transformation elicitors_. Looking objectively at my recovery made it clear that I had unwittingly infused my system with a number of harmonizing influences within that 12-week period: strength training, aerobic training, yoga, a healthy diet, purpose in life therapy, vitamins and nutritional supplements (I was taking glucosamine sulfate, which several studies reported causes the body to produce new joint cartilage). I firmly believe the combination of these harmonizing influences created a synergistic effect, thus accelerating my return to optimal mental and physical health.

Another futurist that Ken recommended was the Institute of the Future, who predict: "Mental illness, particularly clinical depression, will eventually eclipse cancer as the leading cause of disability in the United States." At first glance, this prediction seemed a bit far-fetched. But in considering how my mother's depression led to a host of other health problems, I was able to see the underlying truths. The research on depression shows that it makes other serious diseases dramatically worse. Heart disease leads a long list of illnesses that worsen with depression. People with such illnesses as cancer, arthritis, epilepsy and osteoporosis all run a higher risk of disability or premature death when clinically depressed.6

I had intimate knowledge of the evil that is depression, and thanks to my "health mentors," I had also gained an understanding of how to combat the problem. I saw that the process of overcoming depression, as well as being overweight or even having back problems, could be much quicker and less arduous if people have transformation elicitors to guide them through the changes they need to make.

In _The Experience Economy_ , Pine and Gilmore predict that what is coming next is the _Transformation Economy_. They believe businesses that focus on transforming some aspect of the consumer's life will achieve market dominance. In accessing this prediction, I quickly recognized that Bill Phillips (Transformation Challenge) was a successful pioneer in the Transformation Economy. I was granted one of those moments of exceptional clarity that allows you to see things at a deeper level of meaning. I had stumbled onto something quite significant and wanted to share it with the rest of the world by designing a medical center where suffering individuals could undergo a health care transformation. I wanted to develop a _transformation center_.

From my prison cell I spent the next 10 years researching and designing an entirely new type of health care establishment called "Hooked On Health." From the beginning I saw that I had an opportunity that businessmen in the "real world" could only dream of: An infinite amount of time to conduct research and create. For years all I did was read and apply what I learned to the task at hand. I read hundreds of books by cutting-edge physicians and innovative entrepreneurs, and integrated their wisdom into the Hooked On Health business plan.

One of the best books I discovered on creating health is _Ultraprevention,_ by Dr. Mark Liponis and Dr. Mark Hyman. Their medical model is information based; a system of treatment derived from the scientific study of health. These doctors took the time to keep up with research studies and incorporate the newest discoveries.7

I followed their lead, and medical research studies became the foundation upon which Hooked On Health was built. The treatment model is based on the principles of mind-body medicine, which encourages patients to get in touch with their purpose in life and pursue peak physical conditioning as the ultimate form of prevention. These objectives will be facilitated through an evolutionary concept — Self-Care Mentorship — in which doctors and other health care professionals will utilize a series of seminars, courses and workshops to teach their patients methods of extreme self-care. The mentorship forum will be combined with lifestyle coaching and personal-fitness training sessions with the expectation that the cross-fertilization will guide people to optimal health. These core competencies, offered in a cost-effective mini-group formula and dynamically connected as 12-week transformation programs, will serve as the foundation for _Pro-Active Health Care,_ a new, action-based paradigm in behavioral medicine.

During the period of time that I was designing Hooked On Health, I met a sixty-eight-year-old, retired fireman named Charlie who was in prison for killing a gang member who had raped his fourteen-year-old daughter. Charlie was sentenced to sixteen years for manslaughter. The thought of dying in prison led to extreme depression and an overwhelming sense of guilt. Charlie was a father of six and a devoted husband. The entire incident had devastated his wife and he also shouldered the burden of her pain. Charlie is a good man. He had never previously broken the law and spent most of his adult life working to better his community. I wanted to help and offered to guide him through the transformation program I had learned from Billy. Charlie had not exercised in ten years and initially was not receptive to the prospect of intense training. However, I was successful in persuading him to read _Ageless Body, Timeless Mind_. One entire section of the book studies centenarians (individuals who live for more than one hundred years) and emphasized regular exercise as a critical component in longevity. Charlie saw an opportunity to outlive his sentence and return to his family.

So, he agreed to let me train him. The first few weeks were brutal. He was so sore he could not even get out of bed on a number of occasions. I motivated him by preaching that if he got in top physical condition, he would someday get to go home. Charlie stuck with it and by the end of the program was a new man. Not only did his body look like that of a professional athlete, but also his depression completely disappeared. He became optimistic about his future, enrolling in a Bible College and making plans to become a minister.

I vividly recall a day when he took off his shirt, flexed a brilliantly sculptured double bicep and said to me, "Hey kid, take a look at your handiwork." It warmed my heart to see the old rooster strut. After our workouts he often said, "I feel so good, thanks to you." Knowing that I was instrumental in helping Charlie find his way back to health and happiness was rewarding. Every time he thanked me, I was reminded of how important my Hooked On Health mission is and how grateful I am to have discovered the meaning of my own life.

Charlie really opened my eyes to the role a transformation center could play in longevity, anti-aging and the quality of a senior citizen's life. In the beginning, Charlie could not do a single pull-up. By the end of the program he could bring maximum intensity to every exercise for a full forty-five-minute workout. I even had him doing wind sprints three days a week. The effect this had on his self-esteem and sense of vitality was stunning. Charlie felt younger, stronger and more in control of his life. At the age of sixty-eight he had transformed his body from that of a flabby old man to a physique every bit as muscular and sculptured as that of a bodybuilder. Every morning he looked in the mirror and felt good about himself, which certainly played a major role in his ability to overcome depression.

Charlie's impressive physique and newfound physical prowess quickly became the talk of the prison yard. He was running circles around convicts half his age. Word got around, and it was not long before another man, Jim, asked me to train him. Jim was forty-seven years of age and nearly a hundred pounds overweight. From my research, I knew that 65 percent of the American population was overweight and that excess fat leads to an array of other health problems including heart disease, diabetes, stroke, high blood pressure, and certain types of cancer. I wanted Hooked On Health to offer weight-loss transformation programs, so this was a challenge I could not refuse. I decided I would learn everything there was to know about losing weight and dedicated myself to helping Jim overcome his obesity.

As Jim and I got to know one another, I learned that he was also an entrepreneur. He had owned a small business and had experience in franchising. He also had an addiction to methamphetamine and easy money. This was his third time in prison as a result of selling drugs, and he was determined to break the pattern. He spent two years in a prison drug rehabilitation program called Amity and got straight for the first time in his adult life. Jim confided in me his desire to work with addicts when he got out.

I shared my dream of opening Hooked On Health, and he convinced me that the transformation center should offer programs for drug abusers. Jim felt that the training regimen through which I was guiding him (exercise, diet and purpose in life therapy) complemented the group therapy he was getting with Amity and had been instrumental in helping him overcome his addiction. He was involved in a training course to become an Amity counselor and had a wealth of knowledge about fighting drug abuse. I learned that 75 percent of the men in prison had committed crimes that were drug-related.

Dr. Chopra describes drug abuse as a lack of exultation; meaning that something is missing from a person's life and they are using drugs to fill the void. According to mind-body medicine the cure is to help users get in touch with their purpose in life, to replace the high of the drugs with the exultation of _meaning._ I explained this to Jim and he agreed with me wholeheartedly. Jim has three children and he said that fulfilling his responsibilities as a father is what gave his life meaning and purpose; he started developing a plan to enable him to do just that when he got out. At the same time he was becoming involved in assisting me with Hooked On Health. We worked on mock-up transformation programs and eventually designed a drug rehab program that combined purpose in life therapy, group therapy and intense physical training.

Over time I came to believe that Jim could help me get the business off the ground. During our workouts we discussed the intricacies of the business plan and worked on his presentation. Jim worked out hard and maintained strong discipline on his diet. In the course of six months he took eleven inches off a flabby waistline and put his body in peak physical condition. His transformation was incredible both physically and psychologically. By the time of his release I was confident that he was the right person to represent my vision.

Shortly after Jim went home, I received the following letter from him, which I would like to share with you. In the letter he refers to me as "Cap," which is short for Captain, and is in reference to my work as a yacht skipper many years ago.

My Friend "Cap,"

As I stated in the letter to my brother, just saying goodbye seemed to leave a void. Sometimes in parting important thoughts and emotions are easier expressed when written, which is why I felt compelled to write this to you.

Although our time together has been relatively short, I feel that the time spent had essential characteristics of high merit. "Quality," know it or not, you were a true inspiration. Thanks to you, I look and feel like a new man. Thank you for guiding me through my transformation. You truly are a "Transformation Elicitor."

As the Captain of my sea into tomorrow, I give you a true heartfelt thanks for allowing me to be your first mate. Know that I will give 110% to our quest. I'm excited to be a part of your vision. And 1 hope you know I share in it as well.

So my mentor, my Captain, my friend — this is not a goodbye, but it is a letter of hope and aspiration for you. Know that you have made a great and wonderful change in my life. Keep doing the things that you do, know that God will bless you sooner than you can imagine.

With love,

Your Friend and First Mate, Jim

The letter unleashed a flood of emotion and I could not control the tears that ran down my face. I had worked so hard for so many years, but rarely had there been a sign that it had been worth the effort. But, like Charlie before him, Jim's transformation reminded me of how important this work is and of the impact Hooked On Health could have in people's lives.

Two weeks after Jim got out; he met with a San Diego attorney whom he had known for years. The two men spent hours going over every detail of the business plan. The attorney loved the concept and said he knew some investors in Las Vegas who might be interested in funding the business. Unfortunately, Jim never got the opportunity to meet with them because of the 9-11 terrorist attack on Manhattan's Twin Towers. The economy went south, Vegas in particular. The investors the lawyer had lined up were no longer looking at any new deals, and rightfully so. It was the absolute worst time to open a new business. Jim and I joined the rest of the country in a national state of depression.

I spent the first couple of months following 9-11 feeling sorry for myself. The media naysayers were predicting a prolonged recession and for a period of time I lost sight of my vision. When Hooked On Health was put on an indefinite back burner, my sense of purpose vanished. Like a rudderless ship caught in a rip tide, I drifted into the shadowy prison underworld. The gray walls, the barbed wire, guards barking out orders, horrendous people with whom I had to deal on a daily basis, my own lack of exultation — the prison world soon became unbearable.

I desperately wanted to connect with people in the "real world" who shared my dream of developing a medical center, where individuals in need could transform their lives. But fear of rejection had wounded me. I had been convicted of an intolerable crime and could not conceive of a way to overcome my status of "life prisoner." Self-pity and procrastination became my maladies, destroying my inner confidence and willingness to take chances. My dream was dying because I saw myself as Americans view all convicted felons — a piece of garbage discarded by society. The bad thoughts returned in abundance. At this crossroads in my life all forms of escapism looked appealing, and I could not conceive of a way to change that.

Intuitively, my mother seemed to know how to pull me out of the doldrums. On Thanksgiving Day she suggested that I write a health and fitness book detailing the transformation program through which I had guided Charlie and Jim. A convict's approach to fitness! She said that there was nothing like it. And she was correct — convicts use training methods of which most people have never even heard. I liked the idea immediately because it would enable me to recapture my focus on serving others.

The prison workout program I learned from Billy had evolved into something truly unique. Even though conceived on the principles of _Body-for-Life_ , the program was really quite different. Since the California prison system does not allow the inmates to use weights, Billy found a way to stimulate every muscle group through a rather ingenious high-intensity, bodyweight exercise training regimen. By bodyweight training I mean pull-up and push-up type exercises. Over time, I have interviewed other convicts who developed extraordinary physiques and incorporated their methods. I have also added yoga, some Pilates and a cardiovascular regimen used by world-class athletes. These elements, combined with the insights gained from my decade-long study of nutrition and mind-body medicine, came together to form a peak athletic performance and optimal health transformation program that I call _Penitentiary Fitness ._

In my personal opinion, Olympic gymnasts and sprinters (both male and female) have the most beautiful physiques on the planet. Thus, I designed the exercise component of the transformation program to emulate their training methods. When you combine the athletic grace of gymnastics (pushing and pulling one's own bodyweight) with the explosiveness of all-out sprinting, the results are extraordinary: powerful, multifunctional muscles with extremely sharp lines of definition. The bodyweight training program aspires to help you build a beautiful body, but perhaps more importantly, the system is designed to help you live a longer, healthier life. It will also drastically lower your risk of many diseases, including heart disease, cancer, diabetes, osteoporosis and arthritis. It will strengthen your heart, your cardiovascular system, your immune system, and increase your balance, flexibility and coordination. Thus, peak athletic performance becomes the ultimate form of disease and injury prevention.

Since I am not a doctor or even a certified personal fitness trainer, I decided to base the program's recommendations on insights from leading weight loss and fitness authors, including Dr. Mark Hyman, Dr. Nicholas Perricone, Dr. Robert Atkins, Dr. Jeff Volek, Bill Phillips, and Mark Lauren, among others; and on research studies conducted at the world's top medical schools and universities. As previously mentioned, medical research studies were the foundation upon which the transformation center business concept was built. "The treatment model was derived from the scientific study of health and incorporated the newest discoveries."7 Research studies provide a fascinating look at the inner-workings of the human body and at the same time can inspire _us_ to make changes that will improve the quality of our own lives.

Over the last 10 years I have read hundreds of published studies on the subject of weight loss, and I began to see patterns within the information. One medical school would discover that a particular food, nutritional supplement or type of exercise would produce dramatic results; then another research facility would analyze the same stimulus and confirm its effectiveness for weight loss. These findings inspired me to cross-reference and synthesize all of the relevant information, and what emerged was The Amazing Weight Loss Formula. This formula evolved from a simple and logical insight: When a person does everything that modern science dictates should be done to lose weight, then they will have the best possible results.

The research revealed that developing muscle mass through high-intensity resistance training was by far the most significant factor in weight loss. When you add muscle, you're resting metabolic rate speeds up. According to Mark Lauren, author of You Are You're Own Gym: The Bible of Bodyweight Exercises, "The resting metabolic rate is the amount of calories needed to sustain all of your body's functions while at rest. The resting metabolic rate accounts for approximately 65% of your body's total calorie consumption, activity burning the remainder.8

"Lean body mass accounts for approximately 80% of your resting metabolic rate."9 That's a significant statistic that explains why developing muscle mass through high-intensity resistance training is so important for people who want to lose weight. It is also why a convict's approach to weight loss could be revolutionary. Convicts train at off-the-chart levels of intensity and that leads to extraordinary results.

It is also important to note that this result was exactly the same for women. In fact, women will find bodyweight exercises and workouts to be an ideal way to burn fat, trim their tummy and shape their derriere. Many women refuse to lift weights because they fear becoming too muscular, or don't want to exercise at a gym with a bunch of guys staring at them. Getting too muscular is a misconception created by the appearance of female bodybuilders, most of who take steroids. Normal women simply do not have enough testosterone to develop big muscles.10 Going to a gym is also a non-issue because the Penitentiary Fitness workouts do not require any equipment. Bodyweight workouts can be done in the park, at the beach, or even in one's own backyard. By exercising outdoors we gain the added benefit of connecting with nature. Sunshine, fresh air and beautiful scenery nourish the body, mind and soul.

A look ahead: Chapter 2 lists medical science's top twenty fat-loss secrets. Chapter 3 suggests that you get your aerobic training by engaging in high-intensity sports and other activities that you enjoy. Chapter 4 explains exactly how muscles develop and why bodyweight workouts are invaluable for weight loss. Chapter 5 emphasizes the need for rest and provides techniques that will help you sleep better and recover faster. Chapter 6 breaks down the science of nutrition in terms that are easy to understand. Chapter 7 takes that nutrition information and shows you how to create your own meal plans.

The remaining sections of the book focus primarily on personal motivation and the various workout plans. Chapter 8 relates the story of Daniel Durland, a young man who lost 110 pounds of body fat in five months using the _Penitentiary Fitness_ system and discusses the virtues of infusing your life (and workouts) with purpose. Chapter 9 matches individual objectives with specific bodyweight workout plans. Chapter 10 explains the importance of warming up before a training session and cooling down afterward. Chapter 11, the 20-Minute Total Body Workout, explains a prison workout designed for busy, time-starved individuals. Chapters 12 and 13 detail bodyweight training routines that will help you develop a body similar to that of an Olympic gymnast. Chapter 14 discusses the most advanced prison exercises and workouts for both muscle development and fat loss. Chapter 15 offers a preview of my next book, _Principles of Grace: A Parable to Find Meaning in Life_. And finally, Chapter 16 provides illustrations and step-by-step instructions for each of the bodyweight exercises. Most of the chapters are brief and concise, some only a few pages, but all are power-packed with the knowledge you will need to achieve optimal health and to develop your best body.

# The Dirty Nasty Truth: Sneak Preview

# Chapter 3: Blockbuster Bandits

Matt Maroki started shoplifting in junior high school. In the beginning, he stole candy from 7-11 and other convenience stores because he liked the excitement and thrill of doing something illegal. He got away with it every time. In high school, Matt shoplifted from clothing stores. It was easy; he would simply walk into a store wearing baggy clothes, select several outfits, and head for the changing room. Matt would try on all the different clothes and interact with the store's staff. He asked for their opinion regarding which outfit looked the best on him. When he exited the changing room, he wore the items he planned to steal under his baggy clothes. To divert attention, Matt always purchased something inexpensive, such as a pair of socks. He never got caught. Matt did not once consider the potential consequences of his shoplifting or the fact that he was planting dark seeds that would grow dangerously out of control.

The flashpoint in Matt's criminality was marijuana. One evening when Matt was 15 years old, he got stoned at the home of his neighbor, Cody Smith. Cody's 6'10" height and full beard gave one the impression he was a grown man. He wasn't. Cody was a 17-year-old high school senior. He was the center on the school's basketball team. Also present at Cody's house was Tony Barnes, a mischievous hillbilly from the Appalachian Mountains in eastern Kentucky. Everybody on the basketball team called Tony "Wildcat" because he was constantly yapping about the Kentucky Wildcats college basketball team. Wildcat was an 18-year-old senior point guard. Matt was the team's equipment manager and statistician. He hero-worshiped the two seniors and did whatever they asked him to do.

"Dude, this is some killer weed," Cody said. "Where'd you score it?"

"I stole it from a Bigfoot," the wisecracking Wildcat replied as he blew smoke rings into the air. "You want it back?"

"I got your Bigfoot right here, numbnuts," Cody fired back as he grabbed his crotch.

"Your momma's a Bigfoot. Your daddy's a Bigfoot. And that ugly sister of yours with the bushy unibrow across her forehead is definitely a Bigfoot. If any one of ya'll was caught rummaging through the garbage for food back home, you'd get shot. Ya'll are lucky you live in California where Bigfoots are on the endangered species list."

"This coming from the inbred, incestuous love child of a mother and father who are first cousins." Cody laughed.

"Ain't nothing wrong with cousins gittin' married," Wildcat teased. "The first time I had sex was with my stepsister."

"Hillbilly trailer trash!" Cody howled, and the room filled with marijuana induced laughter.

Matt loved the infantile, fun-loving interplay between the two older boys. He loved smoking pot and hanging out with his friends.

"Dude, I got fired from my job at the liquor store," Cody said.

"What happened?" Matt questioned.

"It was totally bogus. They accused me of stealing a case of vodka."

"Did you steal it?"

"Fuck no. I think it was that Indian turd, Deepak. He's the owner's precious son. Fucking asshole. I needed that job. My car needs new tires and new brakes and the insurance is already through the roof. When my parents find out, they'll take the car away."

"That's not going to work," Wildcat said. "It's a crappy Toyota, but we gotta have transportation. Are you sure Bigfoots need insurance?"

"Fucking Indian turds, they did me wrong, dude. I have the combination to the safe at the liquor store. I'd like to steal them blind."

"Maybe you should," Wildcat encouraged. "How much do you think is in the safe?"

"I'm not going to rip them off. I was just talking smack."

"Why not?" Wildcat pressed. "They screwed you over. They got it coming. I'll help you do it."

"I will, too," Matt joined the conversation. "Seriously, how much do you think is in the safe?"

"Quite a bit if we did it on a Sunday night. The owner puts the sales receipts from Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in the safe and doesn't go to the bank until Monday morning. There's at least $3,000 a day."

"Do you think it would be difficult to break in?" Wildcat continued to press for details. He was into using drugs and always short of cash.

"I don't think so. There are two back doors. One is just a screen gate. The other one is weak, but it has a metal latch with a lock on the inside. It might take some work, but I think we could get it open with some bolt cutters. The good thing is the entire back area is completely cut off and hidden by seven-foot-high brick walls."

Wildcat took control of the planning. It was decided that Cody and Matt would handle the break in. They would dress in black clothes and wear ski masks, because the liquor store had a security camera. They would purchase irregular sized shoes in case they left any shoe prints. Wildcat would be the getaway driver. He would remain in the car, which would be parked a block away.

The caper was planned for 3:00 a.m. The kids drove past the liquor store, which was located in San Fernando Valley. The street wasn't busy with traffic during the day, and in the middle of the night it was a ghost town. Their timing seemed to be perfect.

Cody and Matt made their way to the secluded area behind the store. They busted through the mesh screen door without difficulty. The main door was made out of metal, but it was flimsy and weak. The boys snipped away at it with the bolt cutters and bent the metal back with the crowbar until the inside latch was visible. They broke the inside latch with the bolt cutters. They threw their shoulders into the door and crashed through it. An alarm sounded off like the siren of a fire engine.

"Run!" Matt shrieked.

The two kids sprinted to the getaway car. Wildcat was disappointed. He needed the money to settle his drug debts. When they were halfway home, he decided to turn around.

The kids drove past the liquor store. The alarm was still ringing, but it wasn't very loud. They drove to the gas station across the street. While they were pumping gas, the alarm stopped. They waited another 10 minutes, but the police never arrived.

The boys decided to proceed with their plan to rob the liquor store; however, this time Wildcat decided to park close enough so that he could see the front door and honk three short beeps if the cops showed up.

Cody and Matt hopped the back wall and went in through the wide open door. Matt filled a backpack with bottles of booze while Cody opened the safe. He took all of the cash and two pistols, a snub-nose 38 Special and chrome 357 Magnum. They were in and out in a flash.

The take from the liquor store burglary was $12,000, which the teenagers split evenly. Matt had his own money for the first time in his life. He enjoyed buying gifts for his siblings and girls he wanted to impress. He went to nightclubs, slipping the bouncers a $100 bill to allow him and his young friends entry. He partied all of the loot away in just five weeks.

When the money ran out, the three juvenile delinquents made the decision to commit an armed robbery. Wildcat's older brother worked at a Blockbuster movie rental store. Wildcat pressed him with questions concerning the store's management procedures, daily receipts, alarms, and safes. Then he formulated a step-by-step plan for the robbery. Wildcat was the mastermind and the getaway driver. Matt and Cody would execute the plan.

Blockbuster closed at 10:00 p.m. It took approximately 30 minutes for the store manager to tally the day's sales, which were kept in a safe in the back office. An additional employee vacuumed the floor and cleaned up. After completing their duties, the manager turned on the alarm. The two employees exited through the store's front door.

It was at this precise moment Cody and Matt arrived on the scene, wearing their black robbery clothes and ski masks.

"Get back in the store," Cody demanded as he pointed the 38 Special at the two employees.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed the store manager. She was a voluptuous, beautiful young woman with white-blonde hair and brilliant, aqua-colored eyes. "Please don't hurt me."

"We are not going to hurt you," Cody replied, waving the pistol in the direction of the manager's office. "We just want the money."

"Do you want me to frisk her?" Matt questioned with a husky voice, suddenly inspired by the manager's extraordinary good looks.

"Shut up, perve," Cody barked. "Stick to the plan."

The other employee was an overweight teenage boy with long hair and terrible acne. Matt thought he recognized the kid from school. "Let's go, fart-breath," Matt snarled. "Over there, in the aisle. Give me your car keys and your cell phone. Sit down and don't say anything." Matt saw the terror that registered in the young man's face. Holding the 357 Magnum, Matt felt powerful and in complete command of the situation. He wasn't the least bit afraid.

Cody took the manager to the office. "First, turn off the alarm."

The woman was so frightened that she got the code wrong three times before she was able to turn off the alarm.

"Now the safe," Cody ordered. "Don't do anything stupid."

Cody towered over the woman as she worked the combination lock back and forth. Her hands were trembling.

"Take a deep breath. It's going to be okay. I promise we won't hurt you," Cody reassured her.

Click. The safe opened.

"Put the money in this bag." He pulled out a black plastic garbage bag.

The manager quickly stuffed the money into the bag. Cody then brought her back to the front of the store and sat her next to the other employee.

"Did you get her cell phone and car keys?" Matt asked.

"I forgot."

"Get them while I go back in the office and cut the phone line."

The teenagers ran out of the store and found Wildcat, who was parked a block away. They drove to Cody's house and went down to the basement to count the money.

"That was the craziest fucking thing I ever did in my life." Cody exclaimed. "I'm still shaking."

"You should have seen how fine the store manager was," Matt added. "She looked like a movie star."

"Numbnuts here asked if he could frisk her. What a pervert!"

Wildcat didn't hear a word they were saying. He was focused on counting the money. When he finished, he whistled loudly. "Are you ready for this? We got $24,925! Hell, yeah!"

Over the next four months the teenagers, who became known as the "Blockbuster Bandits," robbed six more Blockbuster movie rental shops all over the San Fernando Valley. The robberies were executed to perfection.

Everything went well with the robbery of the eighth Blockbuster store; however, when they were sprinting away from the store Matt and Cody were still wearing their ski masks and carrying their pistols. They ran directly past a police car driving in the opposite direction.

The cop slammed on the brakes. He exited his vehicle, pulled out his gun, and yelled, "Get on the ground, mother-fuckers!"

The kids kept running down the sidewalk. Then the cop screamed the words that stopped them cold: "Freeze...or I'll shoot!"

Cody and Matt were merely 50 yards away from the cop. The kids put down their weapons and sprawled flat on the pavement. Six additional police cars arrived moments later. The teenagers were handcuffed and taken to separate squad cars.

Wildcat was sitting in his car just 20 yards away. The cops pointed their guns and ordered him to get out of the car. For some unknown reason, Wildcat yelled, "I'm with them."

Later that night at the Sheriff's station, the boys confessed to all eight robberies of the Blockbuster stores. The next morning the boys were separated. Matt was taken to Juvenile Hall, where his personal nightmare began.

Matt soon discovered that Juvenile Hall is a violent place. During the first two days he was held in a single cell for observation. A 17-year-old Mexican gang member named Demon came to Matt's cell and asked, "Who you running with?"

Matt studied Demon with the cautious curiosity of an astronaut who had just landed on a hostile, distant planet. Demon was short, but powerfully built. He was covered with sadistic tattoos. He had a spider-web tattoo on his neck, two teardrops below his eyes, the word "Fuck" on one eyelid and "Y.A." (Youth Authority) on the other. He exuded a menacing aura of danger. To Matt, Demon was an alien life form. He wanted nothing to do with him.

"I'm not running with anybody, I just got here."

"I know that, dickwad. What race are you?"

"I'm Persian."

"Persian, what the fuck is a Persian?"

"I was born in Afghanistan, but raised in California. My family is Christian."

"I didn't ask for your fucking sad sack life story. Are you running with us or the Maiate?"

"What's a Maiate?"

"You some kind of fucking moron? A Maiate is a nigger."

"I'm defiantly not with the Blacks." Matt's father was a racist who hated black people. He wasn't allowed to have black friends.

"Good. Then you'll run with us."

"Who is us?" Matt had no idea what the kid was talking about.

"You're a smart-ass punk. I'm going to kick your fucking ass the first night you get in the dorm," Demon steamed. He walked away from the cell.

Demon was true to his word. The first night after Matt was transferred from the observation cell to the general population, 96-man dorm, Demon attacked him while he was asleep. Demon cracked Matt in the head with a sock loaded with bars of soap.

Matt leaped out of his bunk, dazed and disoriented. He put up his fists, ready to fight. Before he could throw a punch, Demon took his legs out from under him with a sweeping leg kick. Demon took Matt to the ground, and pummeled him with a barrage of punches to the face. Matt tried to fight back, to get up, to get away, but he could not escape. Demon overpowered him and beat him unmercifully.

"Gimme your shoes, Camel Jockey," Demon snarled.

"My shoes?" Matt was confused. "Why?"

"Because I said, so punk." Demon punched Matt in the mouth and raise his fists to swing again.

"You can have the damn shoes," Matt said weakly. "I give up."

Matt removed his $150 Nike tennis shoes and handed them to the menacing gang member. Only then did he realize that 30 other Mexican kids were grouped around him.

"You're my bitch now, Camel Jockey," Demon said, laughing. He and his homeboys dispersed, leaving Matt battered and frightened.

The next morning Matt was cornered by a gargantuan black kid named "Knockout." The guy was 6'5" tall and 270 pounds of rippling muscle. Knockout was the dorm's Tyrannosaurus Rex; the undisputed alpha male. He had the heart of a bully and a thug's mentality.

"Why'd you let them Mexicans punk you for your shoes?"

Matt didn't know what to say to the giant black kid.

"What did they call you? Camel Jockey? You some kind of Arab?"

Matt found his voice. "I'm Persian. I'm not Arab, I'm a Christian. I was raised in the San Fernando Valley."

"That makes you an Other," Knockout explained. "The Others run with the Blacks."

"I'm not allowed to hang out with black kids. My father won't let me."

Matt knew he had just made a monumental mistake by the look on Knockout's face. His eyes smoldered with satanic fury.

"Racist!" Knockout yelled. He delivered a thunderous, open-handed blow to the side of Matt's head. The haymaker punch that followed crashed into Matt's face with the force of a sledgehammer. His nose exploded with blood as he crumbled to the ground.

Later that day, Matt watched as the Black and Mexican gangs faced off over whose bitch Matt would be. Matt's $150 Nike tennis shoes suggested that he had money, which both gangs sought to control. The Blacks and Others had assembled on one side of the dorm, while the Mexicans and Whites gathered on the other. Knockout and Demon were arguing in between. Their poisonous hatred toward one another permeated the air. The atmosphere in the dormitory was electric.

Demon turned to his homeboys and said something in Spanish. The Mexican gang members circled like a pack of coyotes. Knockout threw the first punch; a glancing blow that sent Demon reeling. The Blacks and Others charged and the dorm room erupted in pandemonium. Matt's eyes were riveted on the race riot that was playing out before him.

"Get down!" a counselor screamed over the loudspeaker.

The brawl continued. Matt noticed what appeared to be the barrel of a gun pointing through one of the holes in the Plexiglas window of the observation room. Boom! A loud explosion was followed by hundreds of rubber bullets whizzing in all directions. Matt was hit three times before he realized that he needed to lie flat on the ground to avoid the ricocheting bullets. The bullets stung like the sting of a wasp and left huge welts on his skin. They also brought a swift conclusion to the race riot.

In the aftermath, Knockout and Demon reached a truce. They decided to split Matt's canteen money fifty-fifty. The youngsters were allowed to receive $40 per week from their visitors, which they could spend at the commissary or in vending machines. Matt allowed the gang members to extort him for one month. When Demon was transferred to the Y.A., Matt decided to make a stand. He returned from a visit and told Knockout and Gordo, Demon's replacement as shotcaller for the Mexicans, that his parents had cut him off financially. The gang leaders were not pleased with this new development.

"Then you no longer have protection," Gordo said. "Tonight after count time, your ass is mine." Gordo was eager to establish himself as top dog in the dorm. Matt would be an easy target.

Following the 10:00 p.m. count, the bunks in the back of the dorm were moved around to set up a small area where the boys would fight. The other kids moved to spots where they could watch the action.

Gordo equaled Matt's 5'7" height, but out-weighted him by more than 100 pounds. Gordo was fat, but he was also muscular and strong. Matt feared the 17-year-old gang member and didn't want to fight him. He wanted to run into the counselor's office and beg for help, but Matt did not choose that course of action. During his month-long stay in the dorm, Matt had learned that whatever happened in Juvenile Hall would follow him to the Y.A., which was where he would be sent following his court conviction and sentencing. Matt was determined not to be labeled a "rat" or a "coward." Matt was trembling all over as he clenched his fists and squared off with Gordo.

The Mexican kid threw the first punch. Matt blocked it and surprised everyone in the dorm, including himself, by throwing a counter-punch that landed squarely on Gordo's jaw. A collective, "Ohhh!" rippled through the dorm.

Gordo made a bull-like charge that drove Matt into the cinder-block wall. The fighters tumbled to the ground. Matt attempted to get up, but Gordo grabbed the back of his hair and pulled him to the floor. Gordo wrestled Matt into a corner and began to pound him on the head. Matt slipped away and finally made it to his feet. Gordo got up and the two boys squared off like boxers once again. Their tennis shoes squeaked as the boys circled one another and threw wild punches. Gordo rushed Matt once again, using his immense hulk to take him to the ground for the second time. Gordo put Matt in a headlock with his left arm and hit him in the face repeatedly with his right fist. Matt was powerless against the bigger kid. On instinct, Matt reached up and clawed at Gordo's face. When Matt's thumb poked Gordo in the eye, the fat kid screamed out and released him. Matt scrambled to his feet again. Gordo's vision was blurred. Matt seized the moment; he threw a left-right-left combination and all three punches landed squarely in Gordo's face.

"Kick his fucking ass, Camel Jockey!" Knockout screamed, unable to contain himself. Knockout hated Mexicans.

Gordo was exhausted and gasping for breath. Matt hit him three more times before Gordo made another bull-rush. He lunged for Matt's legs but dove too low. Matt side stepped the rush. Gordo stumbled and smacked his head into the wall. He rolled onto his back. Matt jumped on top of him, fists flailing wildly at Gordo's face.

Seconds later Matt was cracked on the back of the head by one of the other Mexican kids. The Mexican gang members descended on Matt like a storm of locusts. The onslaught was beyond belief. Matt curled into a fetal position with his arms wrapped around his head as the gangsters kicked him savagely. It was a brutal beat-down.

Boom!

A gunshot exploded in the dorm room, and the rubber bullets zinged around the room. All the juvenile delinquents hit the deck.

A Mexican kid who was on the ground next to Matt said, "Fight one bean, you gotta fight the whole burrito. You ain't never gonna win a fight against one of the homies."

Matt was confined to the Juvenile Hall dormitory for 16-months while his attorneys attempted to negotiate a plea bargain. During that time he was engaged in more than a dozen fist fights. Whenever a new kid came into the dorm, no matter what race he was, Matt was forced to fight with the kid. If Matt got the upper hand in the fight, a beat-down on Matt ensued. Matt's lone wolf status did not earn him any respect with the other teenagers.

The first plea bargain "deal" Matt was offered by the Los Angeles County prosecutor's office was 22 years. His attorney was ultimately able to negotiate a 13-year sentence, of which Matt would be required to serve 85 percent — 11 years. The kicker was that Matt agreed to two strikes, meaning that he would be facing a mandatory sentence of 25 years to life if he was ever convicted of another felony under the Three Strikes law. Cody was also sentenced to 13 years. Wildcat was only sentenced to five years because he didn't have a gun during the robberies.

Following his sentencing, Matt was transferred to the Y.A. detention facility where he would remain until the age of 18. At that time he would become an adult and would be moved to the state prison system for the remainder of his sentence.

Shortly after arriving at Y.A., Matt heard someone yell, "Camel Jockey!" His heart sank into his stomach when he saw the face of his Juvenile Hall nemesis, Demon, glaring at him.

"Come here, Camel Jockey. I want to introduce you to someone."

Matt walked over to Demon, who was standing with five other Mexican gang members.

"This is Anaconda Jones," Demon said.

A tall, lanky kid of Cuban descent extended an inviting hand. Matt shook his hand. Jones squeezed it tightly, then jerked Matt toward him, wrapped his other arm around Matt's body, and held him against his chest. Matt struggled to get away as Jones whispered in his ear, "Chu wanna be my girlfriend?"

"Fuck you," Matt said as he pulled away.

"What do you think, Jones?" Demon asked.

"She's pretty. I want her."

"Fuck you," Matt repeated. "I ain't nobody's bitch.

"She's all yours." Demon said, laughing.

"Chu wanna be my girlfriend?" Jones asked again, this time with an exaggerated wink.

The gang kids busted up laughing.

"You come anywhere near me and I will slit your throat." As the words escaped Matt's mouth, he couldn't believe what he had just said or the fact that he meant every word.

Matt's response caused even more laughter.

Matt turned to walk away, but Jones grabbed his arm. "I'll stop by your cell after evening count. Make sure your cellie is gone so we can have some quality time together."

Matt pulled away and went directly to his cell. He busted open a razor and melted the two blades to a plastic spoon, fashioning a deadly weapon. His mind raced and anxiety filled his soul as Matt nervously awaited his confrontation with Anaconda Jones.

The cell doors at Y.A. had individual locks, and the inmates had their own keys. When the count cleared, Matt's cellmate went to the day room area where the inmates watched TV and played cards. Matt could have locked the door, but chose not to. He was ready to prove that he was not going to be anybody's bitch.

A few moments later, Jones was standing outside the door, peering through the bars. He looked both ways. Once he was certain that no counselors were watching, he entered Matt's cell. Matt revealed his weapon. "I told you I was going to slit your throat. You ain't gonna rape me."

Jones put both of his hands up. "It ain't like that. I ain't no faggot. That was just a joke."

"Then what the fuck are you doing in my cell?"

"Demon told me that I had to beat you up. I don't even want to fight you."

Matt stood at the back of the cell. Seven feet separated the two boys. "This ain't going to be a fight. If you come one step closer, I'm going to cut you."

"Put the blade away, man. This is Kern County. If you cut me with that blade, the prosecutor's office will file attempted murder charges. Nobody uses weapons here."

"Fuck you," Matt said. "I'm doing what I have to do to protect myself. I know the law on self-defense. You are in my cell."

Jones backed out of the cell. He had no intention of getting cut by the crazy Camel Jockey kid.

The next day the counselors searched Matt's cell and found the make-shift weapon hidden in his mattress. Jones had snitched on him. Matt was taken to the hole, where he would be isolated from the general population for 30 days. The following morning he was taken to the counselor's office.

"Are you some kind of idiot?" asked counselor Ruiz, a conservative-looking, middle-aged Hispanic man with thick glasses. "Possession of a deadly weapon is a felony. If I submitted this to the D.A.'s office, they'd file charges against you in a heartbeat. That's strike three. 25-to-life means life. You want to spend the rest of your life behind bars?"

The impact of the counselor's words hit Matt like a tsunami. He started crying. His body shook with huge, uncontrollable sobs. He missed his mother and father and the kindness of his sisters. The pain of losing his freedom and pent-up fear exploded out of him in torrents of emotion.

"Look, Mathew," Ruiz explained. "You get one pass with me. Only one. The Kern County D.A.'s office is serious about this Three Strikes law. None of my boys use weapons here. If you must handle your business, you do it with your fists. That's how it is here. Jones wasn't lying to you."

"Jones told?" Matt was shocked by the insinuation.

"Yes, he told me what happened because he didn't want to see you get a life sentence. Don't look so surprised. That shit about the so-called convict's code is a ridiculous fantasy. Somebody always tells. I know everything that goes on here. When you are released back into the general population, I don't want to hear about you calling Jones a rat. That boy did you a favor by coming to me. Now stop crying. You can't show these gang kids any weakness."

"Yes, sir," Matt said ending the conversation.

When Matt was released from the hole he entered "Gladiator School." For 30 consecutive days he was forced to fight a different kid. Matt's 18-month stay in Y.A. was even more violent than his time at Juvenile Hall.

When Matt arrived at Donovan State Prison as a fresh-faced 18-year-old, he was fortunate in that some older cons took him under their wing. Matt's counselor classified him as "White." He learned that in the adult prisons the Whites do not run with the Mexicans. On the outside Matt had always hung out with white kids. The Whites embraced Matt and he gave up his lone-wolf status.

As a new con on the yard, Matt was required to go on a mission shortly after his arrival. With two other convicts he was ordered to beat up a white man who had disrespected the Blacks by uttering the word "nigger" one too many times. Matt performed his mission admirably. Following a 30-day stint in the hole, Matt acclimated to life at Donovan. Unfortunately, Matt got too comfortable. He started purchasing large quantities of marijuana and getting stoned all the time.

Matt Maroki did not learn his lesson, which was that he made poor choices whenever he got stoned. The decision to burglarize the liquor store, which started his crime spree, was made when Matt and his friends were stoned. The other important lesson to be learned from Matt's story is that you must choose your friends wisely. If you choose to hang out with people who do drugs, commit crimes, or are involved in gangs, it can destroy your life. Matt's so-called friend, Wildcat, was a drug addict and the instigator of the crimes they committed.

Matt was recently moved to a lower level prison. He has five years remaining on his sentence. My fear for Matt is that he may never get out of prison, because he is unwilling to give up smoking pot. If he doesn't get caught using marijuana, he may make another poor choice when he is under the influence and not thinking clearly.

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