Jail, Justice, and Junk Food

I'm angry.

I'm angry because I'm sitting here eating crap I don't want, and don't even particularly like—a load of fat and sugar, with a dessicated blueberry or two floating around in it.

I'm angry I'm upset enough to be eating it, because I haven't a better way to deal with being angry at the moment.

I'm angry that the guy who mugged me five years ago is up for parole.

I'm angry I'm writing this when I should be working.

I'm angry I'm wasting my time writing a victim statement, of all things. A victim? ME? No fucking way.

I'm angry because I doubt he was roaming the streets looking for a victim in broad daylight: I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time—he probably thought I looked like easy pickings. An easy mistake to make.

I'm angry that, after 30 years in prison for murdering another man in a fight over a female, he'd been out for one lousy week when he laid hands on me as I left work that hot June afternoon 5 years ago.

I'm angry that he laid hands on me on the grounds of a school for sixth graders—kids of 11 or 12—though I'd far rather he grabbed me instead of one of the kids. The security footage showed he'd been lurking around the building about the same time of the afternoon for a couple of days before he made his move....sizing up the place? Pure chance?

I'm angry because I'm absolutely certain that, if he'd gotten me up into the woods behind the building, I wouldn't be sitting here writing this now.

I'm angry that I still remember exactly how the dirty flesh of his hand tasted when I sank my teeth into it to make him let go of me.

I'm angry because I've never been inside, outside, or anywhere near a prison—but I must spend a day at Missouri's "Correctional Center" (for which read 'jail') in  Potosi, wherein reside 800 death-row, maximum-security, and high-risk male inmates.

I'm angry because, if I don't go give a statement, they may let him out this summer to attack someone else—someone who might not fight back as hard as I did, or be as lucky as I was. Lucky? Absoutely. The head custodian, Keith Chatman, heard me screeching, and came running—no thought for his own safety. Chatman's what a hero looks like.

I'm angry that I wasted a whole day at the county courthouse in Clayton for the last hearing about this.

I'm angry they couldn't get him out of the holding cell and in front of the judge because he fought like a lunatic, claiming later, as he admitted attacking me, that he was violent because his meds were 'out of whack'. (Really? Then he needs to be in a nice, safe prison where his meds will be properly overseen.)

I'm angry because someone in an official capacity might be stupid enough to think taking a course while in prison will make this guy not attack people. What a crock—he murdered a man; he assaulted me; taking a course will make him the soul of reason and rectitude? Bullshit.

I'm angry that when his sentence is up, this piece of walking excrement gets out—even if I do manage to keep him behind bars for its full duration.

I'm angry, and I'm determined. Parole hearing? You'll see me. Release review? I'll be there. As long as he still has time to serve, I'll do whatever it takes to see that he stays right where he is. Write statements? Fine. Face him at a hearing? Bring it. It's worth the time and stress to keep him there.

I'm determined.