A Living Hell

By "Thomas ""Tuch""" Payne

David a young soldier home on the fi rst day of his fi rst furlough and
planning to marry his love Nell, was accused of murdering her sister. He was
tried and convicted on the evidence that pointed only to him by the cleverness
of another. He was to spend twenty years in prison before his strong faith and
a quirk of remembering a strange secret by his once bride to be that led him
to be a free man. To travel the countryside delivering his message of Faith.
THOMAS

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469130569

"Thomas ""Tuch""" Payne

Thomas Daniel Payne, a.k.a. Tuck, is eighty-seven years old, was born in 1924 in Charlottesville, Virginia, lived in the Depression years, and was a high school graduate in 1942. He is a veteran of the Army Air Force in World War II, honorably discharged on February 1946. He married Ella, his only love, from Buckingham County, Virginia on January 1945. As Tuck said, she spoiled him for fi ftynine years before passing away. Together they shared their love with three boys and two girls. He worked as a master plumber, retiring in 1989. In 1968, they built a fi ve-room cottage on the Chickahominy River for boating and fl y-fi shing for bass. He woke up one night in 2007 having a great urge to write. He is trying to fi ll that urge with one fi nger and a laptop.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There shall be a time in the beyond when all our souls shall seek to follow that brilliant light that tells us there is a heaven, for I know from a sad part of my life, there is a hell as the Bible speaks, for I once lived in such a place. A hell where Satan walks by your side every hour of every day like a ravenous vulture ready to pounce and devour what self-respect you have left, telling you your soul is his for him to do with as he pleases. I had been told by an old friend that those were words from the sermon of a man who is now a traveling preacher moving through the Bible belt of the South and the Midwest, delivering it to whoever will listen. A man who, in his young days and mine, came very close to marrying in 1943 but was stopped by an unfortunate tragedy that led to a terrible mistake. One made by the court of his being found guilty, sending him to prison, and I, in my blind judgment, joined them in the decision. Little did I or my two companions know the trip we made that day to his place of imprisonment was to later correct that terrible mistake that would lead to his freedom after twenty years.

That early morning gave me the impression that we had the making of a great day to be alive. The sun was moving slowly across a cloudless blue sky, creating a comfortable temperature to make it nice to drive with the car windows rolled down. Fresh air flooding my Chevy wagon brought the pleasant, sweet smell of blooming honeysuckle and wild flowers growing along the roadside and in the woods. Dew, still on the grass and weeds growing alongside the highway, glistened in the sunlight, bright as a polished diamond. Often you would pass by places where groves of trees were mostly cedar or pine, changing the odor that was riding the winds but still giving you a very pleasing, clean smell. Bright early mornings are always the most beautiful time of the day. They not only bring a smile to your face, but also a satisfaction to know you are enjoying nature at her finest. I was very appreciative of the time I had to enjoy the pretty scenery she was displaying along the highway in knowing I was traveling to a place for an event I knew was not going to be a happy one. An event I didn’t really want to attend but felt I was compelled to, in respect for the mother of the young lady, my niece, Anne Blair, seated next to me. Not knowing what to expect, I was also pleased our longtime friend and lawyer Norman Decker had chosen to cancel all his appointments for the day and come with us to give us his support. He had ways of bringing a comforting ease to you with his manner and his love to talk.

I pushed the turn lever up as I eased my 1962 Chevy wagon into the right-turn lane of the highway that led to a well-paved blacktop two-lane road. After making the turn, I stopped less than forty feet from the highway before entering two large stone pillars with a large sign spread across the top. The sign in large bold letters printed on the top line said CUNNINGHAM and below read STATE REHABILITATION AND CORRECTIONAL CENTER. I had to laugh to what the sign read.

What’s so funny? my niece, Anne, wanted to know. Maybe we could use a little bit of laughter too before we enter into that godforsaken place.

These places used to be known simply as state prisons, I said. I guess things are getting up in this old world, and the names they use now make them sound a little more sophisticated. It struck my funny bone and caused me to laugh when I read the name. I wonder where the name of Cunningham came from. Is it not the name of this county or the small town near here?

Russ Cunningham was the governor when this place was being built, so they named this project in his honor. I don’t think it is any kind of honor to have a miserable place like this dedicated to you. I think I would rather have my name adorning some other place a little more pleasing if they wanted to use my name on something to remember me by, something of a far different nature. You have to admit it sounds a bit more sophisticated to say rehabilitation and correction center, said Mr. Decker. I can very well see the correction part, but rehabilitation, I don’t know. This place is full of hard-line criminals. While you are stopped, look at the outside security of this place. That building looks to be close to a half a mile away, and the road is straight and flat. The ground is cleared and flat three hundred yards either side of this driveway, with grass cut so short, a bug couldn’t find a place to hide. Look at the high chain-link fence all around that cleared area. That shiny roll of wire on top of the fence is called razor wire. If you try to crawl over it, they say it will cut the clothes right off your body. Do you see those towers on each corner of the structure? They are manned by armed guards twenty-four hours, who are experts with rifles and have no qualms in the shooting of anyone if they try to escape here. Each tower has a strong spotlight that can light up the night as if it was daytime. It is hard for me to believe anyone could escape from this place, but it has happened and probably can happen again. If my memory is correct, there has never been but one completed escape from this place. That has to be some sort of a record as prisons go. Yet I will bet you that one escape has caused a lot of worry to the staff here, knowing the minds of most of these inmates, who tell themselves if someone else has escaped, there is a way. Every truck that enters or leaves this place has to be thoroughly searched. Several large trucks enter and leave this place every day as they have to bring in food and other things and also haul out things made here to be sold to the public. Those guards are tested several times a day. A desperate person will try anything to get free from this place, and believe me, there are a lot of desperate men incarcerated here. Some of these people would probably run over their own grandmother in a heartbeat if they thought it would help them to escape from this hellish place forever. Can you or anyone believe there are some that have been imprisoned for so long they do not want freedom from this place? They find they are unable to cope with the outside world anymore and would commit another crime just to get back in here. To me, that is pathetic that a human being would want to live that way, and yet another will risk his life to be free and not to be caged. I wonder in what part of time when our civilization was forming that the criminal mind was allowed to be a part of our society. Is a person born to be a criminal or led into crime? If he is born, then we as civilized people have failed to find a way to medically treat a distorted mind through medicine or research. If he has been led in to crime, again we have failed by not educating the person in recognizing the great difference between right and wrong. I understand poverty is the largest contributor in the development of the criminal population. So to those who are living in poverty, let us take that extra step to lead them to a better life. I believe we can never be called a civilized world until crime can be eliminated.

Thank you, Mr. Decker, I said as I drove on. I hope you know all about the inside of that place with that great expertise of yours when we get there. That building already looks gloomy to me, and we are quite a distance from it.

The walls and buildings grew larger as we drew closer. I am sure one couldn’t really call this place a building—a monstrosity would be a better name, for I could now see how huge it was when I reached the parking area. That place covered a lot of ground, and the height of those walls just dwarfed my car and us as I stopped in front of it. A sign in front of each parking spot read pLEASE LOCK CAR AND BRING ALL KEYS TO VISITORS’ ENTRANCE.

I guess they made sure to cover everything pertaining to safety.

As we walked from the parking area, I had to stop and look up with awe again at the massive gray structure we were about to enter. It was mind-boggling just to think about it, much less see it. Also, to know that over one thousand men are living within those walls, probably I should have used the word existed instead of living, listening to what I was told about this place. I have seen many big buildings in my lifetime and ones much taller, but this thing was so much different, just long, straight, high walls. No windows or doors visible in the walls except a small glass window we were approaching. Truly, the name prison was the right word to call this place.

There was only one area of the wall with huge bars that appeared to be a gate. I guess that was where the trucks used that Mr. Decker spoke of. What a pitiful waste of humanity that has to be stored in such a massive ugly place as this. They could have at least painted it a bright color, I thought to myself.

I wonder how many of these colossal giants are scattered throughout the land, caging thousands more pitiful humans. The word cage seems to always come to mind, with me thinking it would probably be the word best to use as a description of anyone or anything locked behind iron bars. Maybe with luck, someday these places will be only be a memory, for man was never intended to live this way. Mankind has made many great improvements for a way to enhance our lives over the many years in hopes we may lead a better life to enjoy. Even after a great war, nations realize a way must be found to cope with each other and live in peace to prevent power-hungry men from destroying our world. Yet since the beginning of man, there have always been wars just like there have been prisons. A lot of talk has been brought to the table about both, but it seems the dirty dishes are still sitting on the table and haven’t been brought to the sink to cleanse. I have been led to believe many prisons throughout the world are nothing but torture chambers. You probably could put that label on all of them, for it has to be torture just to be locked up in a place like this.

We approached a large room built into the high gray wall with a thick small glass window, and just above it was a sign printed in bold two-inch letters that read VISITORS’ ENTRANCE WELCOME. As we approached the window, a uniformed guard standing on the other side of the glass spoke to us over the intercom, saying, Good morning to you, my name is Tom, welcome to Cunningham Prison. Is there something I can help you with?

Yes, my name is Mrs. Nell Norris, and I am here for a ten thirty appointment with the parole board pertaining to the hearing on David Roberts’s parole. Here is my driver’s permit to verify who I am, I said as I quickly removed the card from my purse and placed it against the thick glass window for him to compare. Tom looked at the card and to my face, then wrote something on the clipboard he was holding.

I have your name and appointment listed Mrs. Norris for ten thirty, he said. And you are clear to enter, but if the other two people are with you, I need to verify who they are, please. I need to see their identification with their names and the nature of their business, please.

Oh, I am sorry, I said to Tom. This young lady is Anne Blair, my niece and daughter of the lady that Roberts was convicted of murdering. This gentleman is Norman Decker, our lawyer and adviser.

Anne and Mr. Decker held their driver’s license to the glass. Tom nodded his head and said OK to them, picked up a telephone, dialed someone, and gave them the information, and in a short time he nodded his head, and you could read his lips saying fine as he returned the phone back to its cradle.

Everything is fine, Mrs. Norris, said Tom. The three of you are now cleared to enter. Please go to the iron door on your right when the first bell sounds. An iron-bar door will slide open. Please step inside that door. As soon as you clear, the door will automatically close. A second bell will ring, and a steel door will swing open for you to enter this room. Please don’t linger, for the door will close by a timer, and we don’t want one of you to get caught between the two doors. It will take thirty minutes before we could reset the procedure, and I don’t think you would enjoy the wait, locked between the doors.

Once inside, we walked up to a counter. I hope those bells will still ring when we are ready to leave this place, I said.

The guard laughed and said, Not to worry, the only time they will not ring is after I’ve pushed that red emergency button. And he pointed to it. In case of escape try, when we push that button, everything locks down and can only be reactivated from the warden’s office. There are some doors that can be opened by special codes for emergency use only, but the doors to this room are not on that list. If by chance an escapee made it this far, he can go no farther. Even that thick glass window is unbreakable. We had a few escape tries, but never one through here, I am happy to say. I would hate to think of being cooped up with any of these inmates in these close quarters even for five seconds. They figure there was nothing to lose, and things could get a mite rough around here, I hate to say. I don’t keep any guns here, only a policeman’s billy club, and that is hardly enough for some of these people in their anger. I sure would hate to test that scenario, for I am certain I would probably be the big loser.

I sure hope we have no escape tries today while we are here, said Mr. Decker. I’m not up to that kind of excitement. I just can’t get these old legs to move very fast anymore. You wouldn’t exactly say I am a coward, but you could make a pretty good argument about it without trying very hard. I am one of those persons that doesn’t like to raise one little finger in anger to fight. I can’t stand the sight of blood, especially if it is mine.

The guard pushed a button on the intercom and asked someone if a male and female officer could be sent to the visitors’ entrance. In just minutes, the two appeared at a door of bars that led into a long hall. A button was pushed, a bell rang, and the two walked in quickly as the door swung open. The bell rang again, and the bar door closed and locked. It seems everything in this place was controlled by buttons and bells. I guessed these guards were used to the bells, but I knew I never could, for the loud ring made me nervous. I bet Tom didn’t look forward in having a lot of visitors during his shift, yet he might have thought that as long as those bells continued to ring, things would be going his way, and that made his day a lot easier to deal with.

The guard told Anne and me that the lady correctional officer would take us in a side room for a search to make sure we had no contraband, and the male officer would take Mr. Decker into another room for the same treatment. Everyone that enters this room has to be searched and cleared before entering any other part of this prison. When visitors’ day comes, this place gets right hectic, and a lot of people lose their patience, not wanting to be searched. Some people have been here visiting a number of times over the years to see a friend, husband, or other kin and know the procedure of how the drill works, yet they will raise a big ruckus every time. You would be surprised with the things we find, mostly narcotics in pill form. Anyone we find trying to smuggle something usually winds up with jail time. The people know the rules and the consequences, but they will still give it a try, hoping we will be lax on the job, I guess. After being busted a few times, you would think they would understand we mean exactly what we say. My mother could walk through that door, and I know she would be clean of carrying anything, but I guarantee she would be searched.

Mr. Decker spoke up, saying, He found out some people are so controlled by others, they would do anything they were told to do, even knowing it was wrong, and they could get in all sorts of trouble. They have more fear of the one controlling them than they do us, so that is probably why they keep trying.

It doesn’t matter, said Tom. "We as guards take absolutely no chances with anyone, regardless of who they are. I guarantee you if my own kin walked through that door, they would be searched like everyone else. Even though we know you wouldn’t be carrying anything of harm or have reason to do so, it makes no difference to us. If you walk through that iron door, you can bet the farm that you are going to be searched. If anyone wants to object and refuse me, I have no qualms in forcing them back out the iron door with this billy club. You may be carrying something you might consider harmless, yet there are some here that can turn a simple thing into a very dangerous weapon. Such as your comb, metal lipstick tube, ink pen, the metal on your purse, the shoulder strap and hooks on that bag, even safety and straight pins. You name it, they will use it if they can get their hands on it.

"One would think there wouldn’t be any place to hide a weapon in this place. They are not only experts in making them, they are more so adept in hiding them. Once, years ago on visiting day, people were allowed to hold a picnic on grounds outside the walls while waiting for visiting time to start. We never knew when it was done or who pulled the deal on us, but we know one or more visitors having a picnic was the cause of the only prisoner to escape this place during the night even though bed checks are made several times. Anyway, he was found missing one morning, causing the prison to go into lockdown with the warden and everyone thinking he was hiding someplace. A thorough search was conducted until two guards found a hole cut in the fence outside the wall. Bloodhounds followed his scent from the hole dug in the ground to the hole cut in the fence, but he was long gone. We have several different types, makes, and sizes of wire cutters in the prison tool room, but they all were accounted for. We had found the hole dug in the ground outside of the prison walls that we believe was where the cutter was buried. After a long investigation, it was decided that one of his friends, under the guise of having a picnic, buried the wire cutter and told him the location. We knew one or more of his friends had buried the wire cutter for him, but there was no way we could place the blame on anyone. We had no idea how long it had been buried right under our nose. He had the patience to bide his time and to wait for that right moment and took it. We knew how he got past the fence but didn’t know how he got out of the wall. The security heads knew they had a serious problem, not knowing how. They thought maybe one of the guards gave him help, but that idea was quickly proven negative. They wanted and needed to catch him to plug up that hole in our system he had found. He had said if he ever got out of that place they would have to kill him, for no way was he ever coming back to this hole. They found him, and true to his word, he got in a gun battle with the police, and they killed him.

"They spent weeks going over all possible scenarios and came up with nothing. Though it happened years ago, to this day they still haven’t figured how he got out, and he owns the distinction of being the first and only person to have ever escaped from Cunningham Prison.

"Evidently, he never shared his knowledge with any other prisoner, and for that we are thankful. So we guess it is a mystery that will always remain a mystery. One thing for sure, they don’t allow the visitors to hold picnics while waiting for visiting hours to start. It is a great shame some of these criminal minds couldn’t be used for a better purpose because some of them must have brilliant minds to come up with some things they will do and use. This is no place to get careless or to take anything for granted. It may cost me or one of my fellow guards our lives. Some of these guys would love to do harm to one of us. It would increase his status and make him a big man with the other cons. Prestige with the others is what they want it in the worst way. That is why they think we are no better than a bug to step on and squash. So you see, we don’t think there would be a second chance, so we work hard to make sure they don’t get the first one.

"A lot of guards just can’t take the uncertainty of being here with this bunch day in and day out, so they just up and quit. I am glad I have this job they assigned me, for I don’t have the everyday contact with the cons. If I did, maybe I would quit like some of the others, for I have a family. I have to think about it as those that left did. We are not cowards, only being cautious to keep some bad act from affecting our families’ lives. You would have to work here to know the tensions we deal with every day. It works differently on different people, and only they know what it is. Ever so often, we have what we call a lockdown. Every cell is torn apart, books, clothing beddings, clothes, we even have them stripped. You wouldn’t believe how many weapons we find and what they are made of. We check every nook and places these prisoners have set foot on or touched with their hands anytime and take whatever looks like a weapon or anything that can be made into one. Believe it or not, less than two hours later, some of them have rearmed themselves with a new weapon.

"Now you see why our everyday word we preach is caution, for we know we are dealing with people who are experts in creating mayhem and love to start all the trouble they can. They know the worst punishment for them is to be sent to what is called the hole. The hole is a small closed room in the basement with no lights. They have water and are only fed once a day. To me that is like filling your sports car with hundred octane gas to soup it up, to bring its engine to a higher mode. Putting them in the hole just fills their tank with more pent-up anger to explode more quickly. Some guards hate to go to the hole and let someone out after they have been there thirty days. Usually the first thirty minutes are fine until they get their eyes adjusted to the lights again. Then all hell can break out as all that pent-up anger that has been festering for thirty days erupts.

A lot of times they are so enraged, they end up right back in the hole for another thirty days. Some punishment does more harm than good, but I would think if the punishment doesn’t get the desired effect they want, why continue to dish it out?

Some warden probably dreamed that punishment up many years ago. I’ll bet you it didn’t work then just as it doesn’t work now. Can you imagine the feeling of being locked up in a completely dark room for thirty days without the slightest sliver of light? The only noise you hear is your own breathing and the faint noise of a lone cockroach scampering around for some crumbs you dropped while you ate the one meal a day you were given. You have no bed to sleep in or to sit on, only the hard concrete floor. You wonder how a person has the mentality or the physical ability to endure such a shock to their well-being for that length of time. The only answer I can think of would be the human desire to survive no matter what conditions they are placed in. Then you have some who just want to make sure they stay around long enough to exact revenge against their tormentors. I can’t see how that kind of punishment can be an aid in helping to rehabilitate someone. You and I both know some people carry grudges and will bide their time just to get even. Some people will tell you honey will draw bees. That is true, but you must always remember a bee also carries a stinger and will use it if rubbed the wrong way. That same honey will also draw flies, and the only thing a fly is good for is to cause aggravation. It eats the honey, but it still gives you the same aggravation. I think we believe there is no real cure or answers to the serious problems of our jail systems and what they have to deal with day by day. One thing for sure, we must try harder and maybe one day we will find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that will be the cure we seek. And to me, that would be one of the greatest advancements to humanity since the birth of Christianity.

Sure, I know, said Mr. Decker. I was just trying to inject a little humor into a serious matter in trying to ease my jittery nerves. You people have to be under a lot of stress all the time in knowing the conditions you have to deal with every day inside these walls. My hat is off to all of you officers for the thankless job you do. I am glad you people have nerves that can stand this environment. I know mine wouldn’t.

When our inspection was finished and the three of us had rejoined, Tom asked me for my car keys, which he put with the other items the guards had removed from our purses and Mr. Decker’s pockets and placed them in a locked cabinet.

Everything we took from you shall be returned upon your departure, he said. He instructed us to