The Obama Proclamation

By Dr.Rhonda Turpin

The OBAMA PROCLAMATION is the author's journey, written in a narrative about her meandering through the federal justice system, as a result of Mandatory Minimum sentencing, and Amendment XIII.
Her memoir spans the day-to-day documents and speeches, which include the Constitution and President Obama's Re-Election speech. The reader will walk away with a clear understanding of America's prison system...and its shortcomings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dr.Rhonda Turpin
• Release date: Sep 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311475022

Dr.Rhonda Turpin

Dr. Rhonda Turpin is Publisher and founder of Worldbooks Publishing, as well as an author.She is also a grantwriter by trade, along with a writer for the Michigan Chronicles print and online newspaper.Email: [e-mail]: youtube.com/channel/UC-1pMBQVPN4nG_pnNDHDzCw

Book preview

Sitting on my bed at Ashtabula County Jail in Jefferson, Ohio, my survival needs are met. Jefferson, Ohio is a small quaint town in Ashtabula County. The people have that laid-back, never in a hurry, don’t trust big-city folk flavor. The U.S. Marshals have a contract with them to house federal prisoners. The added income pays a few of the bills. That is what it is worth – indifference.

The last experience is my eighth time being in the county jail on the current case. I have grown to like many of the prison staff. They are simply trying to survive like everyone else in the country during the post-recession.

The food is excellent, and I am housed in an individual room. In this day and age, a single room is unheard of, because of the overcrowding throughout the country. The rooms here are nine by nine, and I use the three additional square feet awarded to me as a makeshift library and office. In federal prison, most of the rooms are the standard inmate sized six by nine rooms. In my office, I have three stacks flushed against the wall. One is gathered research and ideas for a new book.

The middle stack is all of my legal papers. Court of Appeal correspondence, motions filed and denied. The third is my basic stack, consisting of my daily journal, a community resources guide, and stacks of notes. The last seven years have consisted of tons of organized notes. I read the newspapers, sometimes I watch TV, and I listen to the news on the radio. I read books to gather information. Some I will use. Some are entertaining. Because I started this seven years ago, it is natural with me now.

The other section of my office is my book collection. Ashtabula County Jail has more donated classic books here than I have ever encountered under one roof. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and Of Mice and Men, which defined John Steinbeck, along with Robert Penn Warren’s ALL THE KING’S MEN, were in my stash. I even located two of Errol Flynn’s tales by Michael Freedland. It is hard to part with the book on the Ancient Pyramids. The list of available classics is never-ending. I overheard one of the female officers complaining about an inmate trying to leave with a few of their books after her bond was paid. I understand.

I have clutter. Sometimes I can find things, and other times I can’t find what I am looking for until I attempt to find something else. I read an article that stated people that have a lot of clutter are always exercising their minds with multiple projects. I read another article that said we are Alzheimer’s patients waiting to happen. Even in sleep, my mind wanders to every corner of the universe.

I have a slight regret. Leaving this jail will be bittersweet. The first tradeoff is the single room with my own toilet, sink and mirror. My journey is not over. I have to return to prison. I am a loner and an introvert. Entertainment for me comes easy. Prison is fresh air, because you are allowed outdoors all day if that is your preference. There is a weight-room, work-out tapes, and a nice track. You also coexist with plenty of deer and an occasional coyote.

I reside at Danbury Camp. I would much rather be home, but I am stuck. The camp is connected to plenty of woods and a lake. It is a switch of solitude from a current multitude of chatter. I love outdoors for peace and quiet.

A few other perks of Danbury Camp are monitored email, an extensive law library, and pre-paid phone calls. The law library is also entertainment for me. More than once, the Correction Officer would be looking for me for 4:00 p.m. or 10:00 p.m. Stand-up count, to find me glued to the screen of the computer at the law library.

When I read some of the cases, my imagination runs wild. For instance, I study the first capital case of law, where a man was charged with murder in 1791. The case had the Gallic language of the times. In summary, the man threw one of his shipmates overboard at sea. However, he beat the charges because he killed the man on the high seas. The Coast Guards weren’t formed yet, and I am positive this problem aided their formation. At the time he committed the crime, there was no charging agency.

My unquenchable quest for reading materials has inevitably graced me with a clear understanding of the law and all its complexities. Whenever AUSA Kern refers to me in his opposition brief for the government, he constantly rants about me using my career criminal knowledge of the law to file decent motions. It is far from true. I would be sitting somewhere playing spades or other card games, and trying to game in prison, if I were a career criminal. When you hire a federal defense attorney, you have to make sure that his knowledge base of federal laws and statutes is adequate. Just like you would not hire a doctor of psychology to do open-heart surgery because of the intricacies in the field, you do not hire a state attorney unless they have a track record with federal cases. It is easy to verify their experience. Attorneys have told me openly that there is no way that they would put the type of research and hours I have put into studying my case and the laws surrounding it.

I am currently on my third direct appeal, and this is considered my fourth trial with a transcript. The documents that are presented are authentic. What this case amounts to is an isolated circle of white supremacists who have conspired to take my life from me.

I ask myself consistently, is it some kind of curse, or am I caught up in a spiritual warfare? All the events are definitely extraordinary – both the good things that have happened and the bad.

Doing time in prison is like sitting in the waiting room of a hospital, full of anxiety, hope and sometimes dread. Many professionals have asked me why prisoners are not productive after serving many years. The reason is the psychological and physiological minds of prisoners become dulled to outside stimuli. This happens the same way Pavlov demonstrated operant conditioning. Every hour on the hour, prisoners are forced to succumb to regular counts, officers watching you either directly or indirectly, lack of privacy, lack of emotional peace, and lack of good sex and physical bonding. Prisoners have sex, but good sex and physical bonding is void inside prison walls. A person’s cognitive skills and the right side of the brain that governs creativity diminish with each year. I have stayed on top of my game by constantly moving. Each time I receive a remand on appeal, I transfer and get a chance to see the outside world. That is how I know that God has some other plan for my life than total confinement.

The airlift to drop and pick up inmate passengers is at the Pittsburgh Airport. I wondered would I spend more time at Oklahoma Transfer Center, or be held in Grady County? I received a black mark X on the back of my hand as notification by the Air Marshals. I was sent to Grady County at that time. It wasn’t a bad experience except for the bathrooms. The toilets were four deep, in a row, inches apart, with no walls or curtains. That part of it was torture. I was appalled every time I went to attempt to relieve myself. Another woman (or two) came to sit close to me on the next toilet with no shame. I would jump up, wash my hands and run out of there. I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life. Everything else about Grady County was civilized. They had two microwaves and two TVs with cable for sixty women. They delivered commissary.

I’m asked often by other inmates and professionals which jail or prison I like the best. I’ve been transported seven times. Grady County, Miami Federal Detention Center, Alderson Camp and Danbury Camp once to date; I have repeatedly been housed in Medina County, Paulding and Ashtabula, billing thousands of dollars for holding me for court. To keep federal occupants, the Department of Justice pays a minimum of one hundred dollars a day, per inmate. The counties that stored me had ten or more detainees at all times. One thousand dollars a day for ten prisoners pays salaries and keeps smaller counties operational.

I completed my third trial in district court on October 14, 2011. All two appeals were successful, one mandamus favorable and an appeal pending. Criminal attorneys will go through their entire career without successfully winning a direct appeal or habeas corpus proceeding.

A prisoner’s life is unaffected by mainstream life. I feel the recession only because financial support from friends and family is limited like never before. Job opportunities inside the prison have remained exactly the same as they were seven years ago. When I surrendered myself to Alderson Camp on October 18, 2004, the number of babysitters, counselors and case managers has remained constant. Within one year, I watched our viewing televisions in the federal system go from a regular twenty-six inch heavy duty TV, with a remote to a twenty-six-inch flat screen to a forty-six inch digital surround sound for our enjoyment. Inside the walls, everything appears to be the same, and recession free.

It’s rough out here is a common line that all inmates encounter since Lehman Brothers set off the recession. When we process things, it resonates like your grandmother’s story, of how she walked four miles to school. We don’t comprehend the full effect or feel its wrath. That is one of the things that keeps inmates out of touch with reality, and makes it harder to adjust upon release. This is one flaw of our broken justice system. It’s well documented that we have more people in prison than in some small countries. It’s also a very lucrative business venture to house prisoners.

In a later section, I’ll give you my take on feasible solutions.

In 2008, I watched our first black President win the election. When he won, I was sitting in the back of the TV room in Danbury Federal Corrections Institution with a room full of inmates diversely situated. Like Steve Harvey, my homey and favorite comedian, I cried. I did not believe it could happen. When it did, I realized the laws of attraction in the universe were leading this manifestation.

What a night. I quietly left the TV room unnoticed and got on my knees in my cell. At the time of the election, I was at a low point of my incarceration. I realized I was caught inside a web of ruthless politics, capitalistic bureaucracy, and secret societies, laced with layers of pain and oppression.

Before this case, I had always been proud to be American. Of course, I’ve experienced different forms of racism like any other minority in this country. Our family was one of the integration pioneers of the Westside neighborhood in the 60s. I was one of the leading black students at Thomas Jefferson Junior High School. My life was full of firsts growing up. Furthermore, fighting was a way of life. I cannot remember my life being void of some type of battle. In college, I had battles. The last quarter of undergraduate school for an associate’s degree, they attempted to dismiss me. A law was passed that forbid prisoners from obtaining a degree. I contacted the Dean of the college, the media and everybody I could think of, including God. I walked the stage holding my degree, with my two daughters Tee and Net cheering me on. My graduation from Cleveland State University for my four year degree was stalled because of a language deficiency that was implemented as part of the mandatory college curriculum.

When I applied for the Master's Degree Program, the committee stated I had too many felonies on my record. I picked up the pen and put it to the paper without any further ado. I graduated with my Master’s Degree in Urban Studies from Levin College of Urban Affairs, Cleveland State University. I also had to fight the school system on my daughter’s behalf, the city housing department to purchase a house as a single mother in Shaker, and employers who attempted to discriminate against me. My strength has always been relentless against the biggest and shrewdest of opponents. And I understand that more clearly with every fight, every filing, and every moment of my life; it was preparation for where I am today.

We all are put here on this Earth for a purpose. When this fact hit me, I was sitting in the jail on the bed I started this journey from. Why? I don’t want this duty! It’s too great. I’m scared. I want to go home! My children and grandchildren need me! I battled with myself mentally.

Every aspect of my life reflected Mr. President’s win. Carter Woodson III talked about the negative contributions that infest our educational system. His classic book, the Mis-Education of the Negro, was written over one hundred years ago. Today, the same problems exist.

* * * * *

My grandson Ricky was four years old when I drove myself to prison. He was in the car with me during the long ride to Alderson Camp in 2004. I made it a point to talk to him regularly, because he lived with me most of the time since birth, and was the most affected by my demise.

How do you like school? I asked one day.

It’s all right, he answered.

Do you have a lot of friends? I asked.

No, the kids don’t like me, he answered.

What? Did not like him? I was biased, but my Ricky was the sweetest thing since Mr. Nestlé created the chocolate bar. He had to be mistaken.

Why don’t they like you, honey? I asked.

Cause they said I’m ugly because I’m black, he said.

What in the world? I screamed.

Honey, let me speak to your mother, I demanded.

My daughter got an earful. I hounded her to go to the library and read the Mis-Education, The Covenant, and Race Matters, to understand the world she was living in better. Many phone calls, a stack of letters, and a proposal later, I offered to write a grant for the school to receive cultural diversity training. No charge. Ricky said his teacher laughed with the class, and that set me off. Ricky was five years old and already being singled out. That was the first fight against the school system regarding my grandson, but it most certainly would not be the last. My daughter Tee is a passive mother, but she listens well, and does what I suggest pertaining to my grandkids. I observed how all the attention attached to education was disheartening my grandson.

Within ninety days of the President winning the election, I called my grandson.

Hey, sweetie. What are you doing? I asked, as we moved through our usual small talk on school progress reports.

What do you think you want to be when you grow up? I asked Ricky.

A lawyer, then a Senator just like President Obama, he said. His voice was confident.

His words touched me, inspired me to try harder to be a better mother and grandmother. I examined myself, and I worked to change things that were counterproductive. It was a slow process, but the change in me was obvious to all.

The day Barack Obama won the Presidency altered my psychological makeup. Slowly, like a caterpillar inside a cocoon, I crawled out of the nest of hate, bitterness, anger and despair. My metamorphosis became complete during the last day at Ashtabula City Jail in 2011, but it clearly started the day Barack Obama became President, proclaiming to me that with lots of hard work, prayer and faith, change would come.

Part I

From Investigation to 2006

Letter by Nelson Mandela / 1 February 1975

"The cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself, to search realistically and regularly the process of your own mind and feelings. In judging our progress as individuals we tend to concentrate on external factors such as one’s social position, influence and popularity, wealth and standard of education.

"These are, of course, important in measuring one’s success in material matters, and it is perfectly understandable if many people exert themselves mainly to achieve all of these.

"But, internal factors may be even more crucial in assessing one’s development as a human being.

"Honesty, sincerity, simplicity, humility, pure generosity absence of vanity, readiness to serve others - qualified, which are within easy reach of every soul - are the foundation of one’s spiritual life. Development in matters of this nature is inconceivable without serious introspection, without knowing yourself, your weaknesses and mistakes.

"At least, if for nothing else, the cell gives you the opportunity to look daily into your entire conduct, to overcome the bad and develop whatever is good in you. Regular meditation, say about fifteen-minutes a day before you turn in, can be very fruitful in this regard. You may find it difficult at first to pinpoint the negative features in your life, but the tenth attempt my yield rich rewards. Never forget that a saint is a sinner who keeps trying."

Nelson Mandela

Kroonstad Prison, 1 February 1975

Chapter 1

The Beginning

The feds began investigating me in 1999. It seems hard to comprehend the fact that I’ve been stuck in this nightmare for over a dozen years, but it’s true.

I am a multi-court convicted felon. Unlike James Frey, who faked it, I have lived it. I am not proud. There were other options, and I chose the road less traveled. While in State Prison in the 90s, I grew a conscience and decided to be part of the solution to drug addiction. I lived daintily on the other end of the spectrum, selling drugs and taking a blow of powder cocaine occasionally. I tried every drug known to man - heroin, crack, marijuana, LSD, valium, and syrup. Heroin and crack were a single-incident use for me. I loved the high I received from heroin, and don’t remember anything making me feel as euphoric. Ironically, the heroin that was given to me in powder form at a birthday party was called good feeling. I went home after the party and puked my guts out. Then I sang, cleaned, and danced around the house until the wee hours of the morning.

I never touched it again. I was scared to death of losing control. That single experience early in my life gave me a new respect for people who were addicted to it. Who wouldn’t want to feel like that every day of their lives?

My experience with crack was a different story. While selling drugs, I was in the presence of someone I loved. He/She urged me to try. I did. Thank God for me, it was the worst high of my life.

Turn that music down, my ears are ringing, I said irritably.

Oh! Yes! You’re hearing the bells! This is some good shit! I got to get more before you go, said my loved one.

It was insane. This took place in the 80s, where people were freebasing in a small bowl. I left the house in broad daylight to drive across town. The sunlight hurt my eyes. I had a slight ache in the center of my forehead, and my ears felt sensitive to noise. Although my pager was blowing up all over town, I drove home. When I got home, I took a number ten valium, pulled the drapes closed, and climbed in the bed at the height of the