by Brian A. Wilkins
This day corresponds with Thursday, August 28, 2008.
Jesus Christ, I swear these people are angry eunuchs or just pissed at the world of “black people” because of Obama, Michael Jordan, and whomever else is more successful than they are. A few seconds ago, this fool came banging on the window of this cell (keep in mind, its like 4 a.m. and I was sleeping relatively soundly) and said, “turn your bracelet around! I can’t see your picture on it!” He was referring to that pink thing I had to wear around my wrist virtually at all times. I ultimately moved the thing, which was on the ledge where the window was, a total of about 7 millimeters, to get it into compliance with this douche-bag’s standards he created in his little world to boost his self-esteem. Though I still feel, based on my interactions with them, about 30 percent of these guards are simply doing their jobs, I’m wondering why the 70 percent of dickheads are all Euro-American men? No female guard, no “black” guard, or no Latino guard has acted like a child on a playground under color of law except the white boy ones since I’ve been in here. Hmmmm….
I’m starting to wonder why I even bother calling that Public Defender’s office anymore, since I’m always in a worse mood (if thats even possible) afterwards. So I finally, after more than two weeks of being in limbo, got an attorney assigned to my case. That was the “good” news for the day. And when the receptionist at the Public Defender’s Office transferred me to his phone, he actually picked up the phone. I thought my luck was about to change dramatically until he told me exactly what I did not want to hear. “The judge did not accept your motion. It has to be filed by an attorney,” Mr. Ziemba said. Though it seemed like he wasn’t really interested in listening to me (which I expected), the 120 second conversation was the most productive I’d had with anyone who could potentially help me since I was abducted. “I’ll re-file the motion for you, but the soonest I’ll be able to get it on the [court] calendar is September 16,” he said.
I had been lying in the bunk, staring at the wall for about an hour when Rodney came to the cell, visibly distraught. He heard something today that made him believe (rightfully so) that people actually conspired to land him here. It was my turn to be the strong one, though after hearing that news from the public defender, it was hard for me to do so. Getting out of here and helping him in any way I can was the only thing keeping me alive in here right now, but today was my last gasp at hope.
I need a definitive date, a definitive time, when I know I will never have to wake up in this place again. And now I have it; September 22. I will have two more court dates between now and then. If both turn out to be more bullshit (which I fully expect), I will not be alive to see September 23. I wrote my mom a second letter today and told my friend Richard to pay my rent for September. If I didn’t get out of here by Sept. 22, there’s no way I’d be able to pay rent for October and my life would then crumble completely; and I don’t want to be alive for that. All I know for certain, and which I now have COMPLETE control over, is that I’ll be out of here, one way or another, by September 22. Whether its walking out or being carried out in a body bag is irrelevant. I can’t be and won’t be some “nigger-slave toy” to radical Euro-America. The only question now is, how am I going to carry out this dastardly deed? I have only 25 days left in here one way or another; which makes me feel much better.