then makes them perform sexually. In
viewing the situation, I couldn't imagine getting it up if I was either victim
or criminal. When I robbed a bank, my penis usually shriveled up nearly out of
sight.
I was told, never having personally read the transcript, that
he put himself on Death Row when he asked a female victim in
Camillo state hospital some kind of ignorant question
that opened the door to damning testimony. With a decent trial attorney he
would have gotten life which, in those days, made you eligible for parole in seven years. I never heard of
anyone doing a first degree murder conviction who did less than fourteen, but
he had no murder, and many with comparable crimes did a dime. In those days,
and in most places around the world, ten years is a long time to serve in
prison, but nowadays, at least here, ten years is the sentence for
misdemeanors, or what should be misdemeanors.
I thought they had deliberately manufactured a case
against Chessman, something I don't believe now. He was guilty. He did it even
though it still seems illogical. His legacy to the justice system is that he is
considered the "jailhouse lawyer." Before Chessman, a convict
carrying legal documents around the yard was either a dingbat or a con man
selling lies to fools. Some prisoners once forged a Supreme Court opinion, and
sold copies on the yard for a carton of cigarettes each — although that was after Chessman. The truth is that far fewer would
be imprisoned and/or executed if everyone had one fourth of the prosecution's
resources. We say our system is the best - by what criteria? Do we free the
innocent and punish the guilty better than others? We do all right unless the
guilty are rich, but nobody manages to punish the rich very much. Thank God the
poor commit so many more crimes.
Chessman seemed to swagger when he walked but actually
his stride was the result of an injury in childhood. His hawk-like nose had
been broken; now he had a bent beak. He looked tough but not menacing. I could
hear him unpacking the boxes of papers.
Sampsell: "Chess, you get your typewriter?"
"They got it. They gotta look it over. You know
how that goes?"
"Sure do."
Chessman: "Say, next door."
That was me. "What's up?"
"What'd they say you did?"
"They say I stabbed a guard in Lancaster."
"Oh yeah! I heard about you. You beat the fuck
outta Billy Cook, right?"
I
did the best I could."
"He
deserved it . . . fuckin' turd . . ."
I heard the thud
from the heel of a hand hitting the wall, and Sampsell's voice softer than
usual said, "Hey, Bunk."
"Yeah."
His hand
appeared, reaching out between the bars and in front of the corner of my cell.
He had a kite folded tight. (A "kite" is an unofficial note between
convicts.) I reached out and took it.
"For
Chess," he said.
I pounded on
Chessman's wall. "Hey!" "Yeah."
"Reach
out."
I handed the
note to Chessman. I have no idea what it said, but within a minute, Chessman
called, "Yeah, Lloyd, that's a good idea I'll tell him when I see him. You
got any smokes over there?"
"Sure.
Hey, Bunk."
"Yeah."
"Take
a couple packs and pass this along."
It was a carton
of Camels with one pack missing. I took two and passed the rest to Chessman.
Being accepted by men sentenced to die was bizarrely gratifying. In this dark
world there is nothing more Promethean than attacking a guard. The powers that be
take worse umbrage than merely having an eagle eat the transgressor's liver.
When I said I'd stabbed a guard, the image conveyed to listeners was far
different than the reality.
"You
like to read?" Chessman once asked me.
"Oh
yeah. I'd rather read than eat."
"Maybe for
a little while. Anyway . . . here. Pass 'em along if you're not
interested."
Around the bars
he passed two paperback books, Jack London's The Sea Wolf and George
Santayana's The Last Puritan. I remember reading Jack London's Iron
Heel in the Preston School of Industry. It stood out. I immediately began
to read the tale of Wolf Larsen who lived by
viewing the situation, I couldn't imagine getting it up if I was either victim
or criminal. When I robbed a bank, my penis usually shriveled up nearly out of
sight.
I was told, never having personally read the transcript, that
he put himself on Death Row when he asked a female victim in
Camillo state hospital some kind of ignorant question
that opened the door to damning testimony. With a decent trial attorney he
would have gotten life which, in those days, made you eligible for parole in seven years. I never heard of
anyone doing a first degree murder conviction who did less than fourteen, but
he had no murder, and many with comparable crimes did a dime. In those days,
and in most places around the world, ten years is a long time to serve in
prison, but nowadays, at least here, ten years is the sentence for
misdemeanors, or what should be misdemeanors.
I thought they had deliberately manufactured a case
against Chessman, something I don't believe now. He was guilty. He did it even
though it still seems illogical. His legacy to the justice system is that he is
considered the "jailhouse lawyer." Before Chessman, a convict
carrying legal documents around the yard was either a dingbat or a con man
selling lies to fools. Some prisoners once forged a Supreme Court opinion, and
sold copies on the yard for a carton of cigarettes each — although that was after Chessman. The truth is that far fewer would
be imprisoned and/or executed if everyone had one fourth of the prosecution's
resources. We say our system is the best - by what criteria? Do we free the
innocent and punish the guilty better than others? We do all right unless the
guilty are rich, but nobody manages to punish the rich very much. Thank God the
poor commit so many more crimes.
Chessman seemed to swagger when he walked but actually
his stride was the result of an injury in childhood. His hawk-like nose had
been broken; now he had a bent beak. He looked tough but not menacing. I could
hear him unpacking the boxes of papers.
Sampsell: "Chess, you get your typewriter?"
"They got it. They gotta look it over. You know
how that goes?"
"Sure do."
Chessman: "Say, next door."
That was me. "What's up?"
"What'd they say you did?"
"They say I stabbed a guard in Lancaster."
"Oh yeah! I heard about you. You beat the fuck
outta Billy Cook, right?"
I
did the best I could."
"He
deserved it . . . fuckin' turd . . ."
I heard the thud
from the heel of a hand hitting the wall, and Sampsell's voice softer than
usual said, "Hey, Bunk."
"Yeah."
His hand
appeared, reaching out between the bars and in front of the corner of my cell.
He had a kite folded tight. (A "kite" is an unofficial note between
convicts.) I reached out and took it.
"For
Chess," he said.
I pounded on
Chessman's wall. "Hey!" "Yeah."
"Reach
out."
I handed the
note to Chessman. I have no idea what it said, but within a minute, Chessman
called, "Yeah, Lloyd, that's a good idea I'll tell him when I see him. You
got any smokes over there?"
"Sure.
Hey, Bunk."
"Yeah."
"Take
a couple packs and pass this along."
It was a carton
of Camels with one pack missing. I took two and passed the rest to Chessman.
Being accepted by men sentenced to die was bizarrely gratifying. In this dark
world there is nothing more Promethean than attacking a guard. The powers that be
take worse umbrage than merely having an eagle eat the transgressor's liver.
When I said I'd stabbed a guard, the image conveyed to listeners was far
different than the reality.
"You
like to read?" Chessman once asked me.
"Oh
yeah. I'd rather read than eat."
"Maybe for
a little while. Anyway . . . here. Pass 'em along if you're not
interested."
Around the bars
he passed two paperback books, Jack London's The Sea Wolf and George
Santayana's The Last Puritan. I remember reading Jack London's Iron
Heel in the Preston School of Industry. It stood out. I immediately began
to read the tale of Wolf Larsen who lived by
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