THE BANK ROBBER'S BLOG
JANUARY 2013
--- USP ANIMAL PLANET --- A short version of my guilty plea and sentencing went something like this:
Yes, it was ugly. I was flanked by five U.S. Marshals and whenever they transport me they put leg irons on me and they place a black box over the center of my handcuffs that has a padlock attached to it to prevent me from potentially picking the locks on my cuffs. They do this because I got loose once and went to town for a few days and caused a little bit of a stir. But putting the black box over my cuffs is a total over estimation of my gangsta these days. I've downshifted.
So a lot of things were mentioned at my sentencing that day all those years ago. But what the judge didn't mention is that I'd come to prison and have pets. I have birds, cats, and even a few skunks that waddle up at night and challenge Whitey for his nightly take.
I have a green plastic lawn chair that sits under the window on the tier out in front of my house. I sit in this chair and write, have Big Thoughts, listen to music and stare down the tier, and I also sit in this chair and watch the birds eat the bread that I place out on the ledge. Prison is a very territorial place. Whether it be a TV, a chair, or a showerhead...everybody seems to want to control something that ultimately means nothing. My window ledge is currently controlled by a posse of Grackles that's headed by a fluffy-headed hooligan named Rasta Man. There's pigeons out there too, but between the Grackles and the Chinaman staring at them like they're Peking Duck, they don't have the nerve to land on my ledge. But this morning one tried his luck. I'd worked two cinnamon and raisin bagels into small pieces and put them out on the ledge and then sat down in my chair next to the ledge with the window open. After a few minutes of no takers this big pigeon landed on the ledge. He was as big as a gamecock and I must've looked shocked because he looked at me like, "What? Full-figured birds aren't welcome here?" I replied, "Kinda sensitive, aren't you?" The pigeon turned his attention to the bread and got about three bites down before Rasta Man swooped down and pecked him right in the middle of his spine. The pigeon yelled, "HARRRAAGGGH!!!" and fled in a cloud of feathers and bagel crumbs. Now he sits on the roof of the cell house across from me and stares at me like I set him up.
Then there's my cats. They're like a little crime family and they control and defend their piece of turf with an iron paw. There's Whitey (Capo Di Kitty Capi); Ms. Farrakhan (Catsiglieri), and Maya and Puff Daddy (Kittyregimes). I call them "La Kitty Nostra." They live in the basement of my cell house and inhabit a fenced-in piece of grass located next to it. Although this is just a no-nothing piece of prison grass, it's constantly being challenged for supremacy by other animal families like it's a dope spot in Harlem. And like the Russians moving into Brighton Beach, a family of skunks recently came back behind the wall and tried to set up shop on Whitey's turf and scavenge all of the non-edibles that la Kitty Nostra passed on. Things such as apples and bread. Whitey wasn't having it and one night they went to war. It started when this skunk that I call Michael Jackson (because he's so blatantly black and white) backhanded Puff Daddy and sent him tumbling like a little orange dust ball. That caused Whitey to jump on the back of another skunk I call Kim Kardashian (because she lifts her tail for all the other animals) and rip a piece of fur off her back, and it all went downhill from there. It was war. Whitey and his crew went to the mattress and brought in some out of town cats. For two weeks at night all I heard was screeching and all I smelled was skunk. I finally had a sit-down with Whitey and told him, "You need to make peace. All this blood's bad for business." His response was to leave me the body of a skunk on the grass the next morning. Whitey's a Gangster. He don't take no shorts. It's rumored that he's a direct descendant of the infamous prison cat Bugsy Feline that was here with Capone in the thirties. One mention of Bugsy's name and the mice still scatter.
So just to keep it real, I expected the prosecutor to seek an enhanced sentence; and I expected the judge to talk trash to me and give me a bunch of time. And I even expected to have to come live in a world for a while that was filled with a variety of animals walking on two legs. I don't like it, but these are all collateral consequences of being fired from your job as a bank robber. However, I didn't expect to encounter Grackles named Rasta Man, Skunks named Michael Jackson, and a borgota of cats known as La Kitty Nostra. But they sure are entertaining.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY --- As I write this it's not even 8 am and there's blood all over the place. Last year on the week before Christmas four members of one Latin gang stomped another Latin guy to death in a blind spot under the gun tower and we stayed locked-down for a month and a half behind it. They killed the guy because he told a kid who just came in that he didn't have to join their gang. The guy who got killed was due to be released in 90 days, but that's how it always seems to be back here. I also quit playing bocce around this same time. The bocce courts are under the gun tower and I got tired of having concussion grenades tossed on me when shit kicked off. The last game I played was with my friend Angelo. A punk who called himself Dora The Explorer started stabbing another punk about 10 feet away from us and I heard the guy who was getting stabbed start screaming and heard the air-raid siren go off over the PA system with the message telling everyone to "LAY FLAT ON THE GROUND BECAUSE LETHAL FORCE IS IMMINENT (the message plays in English then Spanish)." This is a precursor to stun grenades or them shooting down onto the yard. I didn't lay down. I never do. First, I looked around to make sure that my buddy and I were safe and that the stabbing wasn't a diversion to catch us off guard. Then I looked up at the gun tower. As I did I saw the tower toss out a grenade and I dove into the dirt and covered my head as it exploded a few feet away from me. I got up and dusted myself off and told my buddy Ang, "Fuck this. You win" and I haven't played bocce since. This place is like Beirut some days.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- MOB WEEK --- Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. One of these times is when the cable channel AMC has Mob Week. This is where they show mob movies all week long. During Mob Week you can't get a seat in the TV room. The atmosphere is festive and everybody's eating and yelling things at the television like "Never go against the family, Kay" or "Do I amuse you?" It reminds me of an NFL team that didn't make the playoffs sitting in the stands as they watch the big game. In and of itself though this is not so strange. But what is kind of strange is sitting next to a person who knows a lot of the players in the movies and who at least one of these movies features.
You've seen me blog about my buddy Don Corleone. This is the nickname I've given him because it works and also because using his real name just wouldn't be cool. The Don is a retired caporegime (captain) for one of the Five Families in New York City. His indictment reads like a road map to Italy. The feds "Retired" him via convictions for racketeering and for a murder he swears he didn't commit. Or as he puts, "At least not this one." The stories he tells while we play Gin and walk the yard I estimate to be about 20% bullshit because I've learned that The Don will occasionally spin one. But the other 80% of his stories I usually end up reading about in a book or seeing on television.
During Mob Week Don Corleone is the star of the TV room. In the hierarchy back here he's at the top of the criminal heap. During commercials people will ask him to recite lines from particular movies and he'll puff-up his cheeks, wave his hand in front of him, and in his best Marlon Brando voice say something like, "What have I done to you that you would come into my home on the day of my daughter's wedding and show me disrespect?" When he does this the guys will howl with laughter and The Don will sit there keeping his normal statuesque pose; but I know that deep down inside he's beaming. The Don soaks up attention the way a Wonderbra soaks up a pair of saggy boobs. I've told him before that his ass has never met a pair of lips that it didn't like. I also told him one time, "Are you aware that all of your sycophants are psychopaths?" He replied, "Don't get all fucking wordy on me."
So recently we were up in the TV room watching 'Goodfellas' for the gazillionth time and as I looked around the room I saw something you rarely see back here. I saw people of different races from different mobs and gangs all sitting together peacefully. Usually we're killing each other. This got me to thinking about how gangs and what the government calls organized crime operates both back here and out there in the Free World.
Since the beginning of recorded time people have segregated themselves by race and culture. The purpose of this is for what I call the three Ps. To provide, protect, and to procreate. One of the first examples of this, and what could arguable be called the first gangs, is the formation of the 12 Tribes of Israel back in 1273 B.C. Jacob's sons whacked up the Promised Land much in the same way that Lucky Luciano whacked up New York City some 3200 years later. What started as groups of people banding together to establish communities as a place to live and raise their families eventually spawned secret societies and criminal communities. Triads in China, Yakuza in Japan, the Camorra and The Black Hand in Italy, and the Crips, Bloods, and Hell's Angels in America just to name a few. The word "Gang" comes from "Gonge" a term originally meaning journey, but later referring to a gonge of sailors in the 15th century and now generally referred to as a group of people who work together for one purpose. Probably the most high-profile gang in the United States is what the government calls La Cosa Nostra, or the mob or mafia.
According to Italian legend, the inception of the American mafia can trace its roots back to 15th century Italy. The word mafia is actually an acronym for "Morte alla Franceze Italia anello" meaning "Death to the French in Italy." Mafioso was a term of respect that was given to men who refused to cooperate with the government and who maintained self-control in the face of hardships and who gained respect by being willing to take the law into their own hands and use violence if necessary. This band of Nationalists eventually evolved into an organization that came together for a criminal purpose and gained money and power through extortion and through the brokering of favors, among other things. This organization was transported to America when the first wave of Italian immigrants hit Ellis Island.
The American mob was a lot stronger before the promulgation of RICO. RICO is an acronym for Racketeering Influence Corrupt Organization Act. This was legislation that was drafted by a law professor named Robert Blakey and passed into law by Congress in 1970. Simply put, and according to statute 18 USC 1962 of the Federal Criminal Code, racketeering means committing two or more crimes for one criminal purpose. The federal government didn't really begin to utilize these laws until 1980, but when they did they made up for lost time. Their favorite target was and is the mob, but they eventually went on to use RICO to prosecute Triads and Yakuza in American, street gangs, and even businesses.
Presently, the government considers motorcycle gangs to be the biggest organized crime threat in the nation. Go to any Bike Week in an American city sometime and instead of looking at the motorcycles on the ground, look up. What you'll see is federal agents on the roofs of the buildings holding cameras and taking pictures to gather intelligence.
And when the government convicts member of these groups, secret societies and organizations from the Crips and Bloods, to the MS-13, the Latin Kings, Hell's Angels and the Aryan Brotherhood, to the good old American mob, they come back here and live with me or in one of the other 17 federal pens scattered throughout the country. And during Mob Week we all make popcorn and pull up a chair in the TV room and watch fictionalized versions of our lives.
About 20 minutes before the start of 'Godfather II' I grabbed the two bowls of nachos that I'd made and stopped by Don Corleone's cell to pick him up for the movie. As I walked into his house he had Vic Damone flowing through the speakers hooked up to his MP3 and he was warming up for his public and practicing lines and doing impressions in the mirror. I started laughing and he spun around and fixed me with an evil stare for a few seconds and then said in his best Joe Pesci voice, "Do I look funny to you?" Before he could say anything else I replied, "Yeah, funny like a clown." Then I shoved a bowl of nachos into his hands, shut off Vic Damone, and said, "C'mon, let's go watch a movie."
As we headed up to the TV room he started carrying on about how we weren't going to watch 'Godfather III' this time because it was too unrealistic and that nobody has ever been whacked using a canoli. He'd sure know. I've come to the conclusion that every week back here is Mob Week. I've also determined that most weeks, my life is definitely stranger than fiction.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- PENAL REFORM --- I may just be a dumb old Bank Blogger living behind a 30 ft wall, but even I know that prisons are a necessary part of any society. Since Joseph was cast into prison after being accused of sexually assaulting Potiphar's wife in 1717 B.C., the world has been incarcerating its citizens. Lately , I've heard politicians decrying the need for penal reform... but it doesn't matter if you're in England, France, Demark, Russia or the United States, every country is going to have a demographic that sees an opportunity where society has placed a boundary. You're also going to have people who can't control their impulses, and when these impulses are criminal they end up in prison. Prison is also a place where society corrals its violent and truly stupid. There's no crime in being stupid, but repping that stupidity has been known to violate several criminal statutes. It would be nice if society could just kill its stupid; it would make the wait in line at Mc Donald's much more peaceful, and the tier that I live on would undoubtedly be empty, but then we'd be denied the joy of several rap videos...and we can't have that, can we? So society seeks out its least-valued property and erects walls and fences topped with razor-wire to house its stupid, violent, and least-valued citizens. However, it's also worthy to mention that a lot of the people who choose to work behind these walls and fences aren't winning any Mensa awards either. I'm no bleeding-heart liberal, but you may wonder if I believe that there's a way to take someone whose truly violent and stupid who wants to forcefully impose their will upon others, and make these people contributing members of society? Absolutely I do. This is how: You kill them before they kill you. Funeral directors need to make a living too.
In my tenure as riff-raff I have seen things that would make a Billy goat puke. Living in prison throughout the years I have truly seen the worst that the world has to offer. I've seen one man kill another and then chop up his body in the back of a kitchen and stuff the pieces down a drain, and I've also seen several people kill their cell mates after lockdown. By far, the most inventive of these was a guy who killed his cellie and then tied a string to his wrist and pulled it to lift his arm when the officers came by to count so they'd think he was alive and waving. It worked for two days. I've been walking down a tunnel in a penitentiary and saw something out of the corner of my eye that turned out to be a man that was sitting down. He'd been decapitated and had his head placed in his lap and his hands had been nailed through his ears so that he was holding his own head. His face was locked in the scream and terror that he experienced during his last moments on earth. He was killed for not paying a drug debt. I've seen another guy who smuggled drugs out of the visitation room by sticking them up his rear-end in a balloon get kidnapped when he came back on the yard and then taken in a cell and bent over a sink by three men who dug the drugs out of his ass with spoons. And I've seen four guys with knives chase a naked man up into the cell house I was in and corner him in a shower and absolutely butcher him simply because he talked trash about the town that they were from. This incident sparked a riot that caused the prison to explode. I ended up standing at the end of a dark tier with my back against a wall and my hands crossed down in front of my waist. In one of my hands was a long, wide knife that had been made out of a lawnmower blade. It looked more like a machete than a knife. Standing next to me was an old-timer with his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. In that pocket was a loaded .25 automatic that he'd had hid in the wall for years for just such an occasion. The only thing a gun is good for in prison is for self-preservation during a riot. A riot takes on a life of its own where mobs of violent stupid people roam the prison unchecked trying to impose their will on whoever they like. In this situation it's better to be caught with a weapon then to be caught without one. We don't want to have those funeral directors filing for unemployment, do we? So yes, I've seen some thoroughly heinous things in prisons throughout the years. But the worst thing I've ever seen didn't involve killing, rioting, or even pooper-scooping. The worst thing I ever saw happened one day during lunch in the chow hall. Ironically, it happened on Hot Dog Day.
My boys and I were seated at a rectangular table near the center of the chow hall as our waiter and Soda Sommelier (an illegal alien named Guadalupe that we paid to serve us sodas and make pastries for us) fluttered around our table and tended to his duties. My buddy Angelo was seated across from me slouched over with hooded-eyes as he shoved potato chips into his criminal piehole. The chow hall was filled that day with convicts, prison officials, and kitchen workers who were serving on the line. As I bit into my wiener I saw Shontelle make a big entrance and come switching into the chow hall. Shontelle was actually born "Brian", but considered himself to be a woman. He looked like one, dressed like one when possible, and had a definite Red Carpet Walk. He would take M&Ms and red pistachios and wet them to use them for lipstick and make-up. While we all thought that it was a bit to "Hey look at me", we still gave Shontelle points for style. Some people come to prison and become homosexuals out of weakness. I refer to this as "Situational Homosexuality" and I don't consider these people true homosexuals. These are individuals that are just so weak that they end up smoking the first sausage that's hung in front of them.. Every day is Hot Dog Day for these people. But Shontelle wasn't one of these. I believe that Shontelle was born a homosexual. Barbie trapped in Ken's body, if you will. I think everybody has known someone who as a child they could watch, and watch their social interactions with other children, and know that that child was going to grow up to be gay. Shontelle was one of these people. For years she had unsuccessfully sued the prison for a sex change.
As I sat there watching Shontelle march toward us like she was a super model burning up a Parisian runway, I noticed a strange look on her face (besides the pistachio rouge). It was one of torment, fear, and of elation. As she marched towards our table in this manner my defenses went up because I knew that something just wasn't right. When she reached the prison officials standing next to our table she started screaming, "IF YOU WON'T DO IT, I WILL!!!" After she said this she produced a straight-razor from her shirt pocket and pulled down her pants. The she took her ample penis in her left hand and with her right she took the razor in an arc from above her head and swung down and sliced her penis clean off and threw it on the floor. The chow hall went crazy. People were running and blood was shooting everywhere as Shontelle swung her hips like Shakira. Shontelle's offending member landed with a wet thud on the floor next to my buddy Angelo. While continuing to chew he looked down at it and then looked up and said, "Lupe, do we got any mustard left?" Lupe was nowhere to be found. Shontelle finally passed out and I wasn't far behind.
We heard that in spite of Shontelle's wishes they successfully reattached her penis. But after what I saw I don't think that all of the king's horses and all of the king's men could turn Shontelle into Brian again. And for me, Hot Dog Day has never quite been the same. Then just yesterday I read an article where Shontelle finally won her lawsuit and was granted her constitutional right to be given a sex change and live in prison as a woman. I don't know about the general public, but I know of at least one person who believes in penal reform.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- B.A. --- Never let it be said that I am not a self-improving felon. The Federal Bureau of Prisons offers a variety of classes in their quest to de-criminalize us. Some of these classes are actually designed by and given by inmates. I have a problem with this. The only inmate I want teaching me something is the guy who successfully made it in and out of eight banks. But just in case President Obama were to call up here around Christmas as he was handing out pardons and ask the warden, "What's Jeffrey Frye been up to?" I don't want the warden to reply, "Playing poker and making stuffed peppers." So I occasionally sign up for classes. Here's a list of some of the classes I've taken over the years and why I feel they ultimately didn't work.
As you can see, I'm all up for self-improvement. So I was at the bottom on the steps in my cell block one day waiting for a man to bring me two Red bell peppers so I could finish the pizzas I was making when I saw a flyer on the bulletin board advertising an upcoming meeting of Bank Robbers Anonymous. I had to see this, so I signed my name on the paper and went to the scheduled meeting that Friday night.
Nobody who presently resides in this joint has robbed more banks than I have. Unfortunately, I hold that title. While this is certainly not a good thing, it made me wonder what kind of rookie was going to be chairing the meeting. I didn't recognize the name on the flyer, it only said, "Meeting will be chaired by Clyde B. Free coffee will be served." Clyde B. Nice alias, although not too original. The meeting was held upstairs in the library and when I walked in, there was a guy sitting behind a table sipping coffee that I know as Bobby. He's from Philly and his claim to fame is that he shot his way into a bank as the bank was opening because he thought that the front door was locked. It wasn't. Whatever points he gained for exuberance and enthusiasm were ultimately lost for simply not pushing on the door. I walked up to him and said, "What's up, Bobby?" He lowered his voice and said, "Shhh. This is an anonymous group. Some of us cherish our anonymity and don't use our real names in here. In here, my name is Clyde B." What a douche bag. Or would that be Douche B.? So I responded, "Okay, Bobby" and sat down.
There was a circle of five chairs and I was sandwiched between two gorillas. One was named Walter R. who was about 50 with long arms, a high sloping forehead, thick brow and bushy eyebrows and Brown hair shaved into flat-top. It looked like he should've been at Caveman's Anonymous. Walter R. robbed a few armored cars in the Pacific Northwest for The Cause. Unfortunately, The Effect was a life sentence in the federal penitentiary. He was to my left. To my right-and believe me I mean Right-was the poster child for Aryan aggression, Wallace White. Or as I've coined him, White Wally. He's about the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger and has swastikas tattooed under both eyes and Old School Hate tattooed across his neck. He's serving several life sentences for burning down Jewish temples, not robbing banks, so I said, "You're not a bank robber, Wallace." He blew on his cup of Folgers and said, "Technically, all banks are part of a Jewish cartel controlled by the Illuminati which is also controlled by Jews, therefore I have standing." Talk about connecting the Aryan dots. Then he added, "And, besides, I'm out of coffee." Sitting across from me in a freshly-pressed uniform with his legs crossed and holding a hot cup of coffee and looking cooler than a polar bear's ass was a man who introduced himself as Rasmus D. He was fortyish and thin with a high forehead and crisp, intelligent Blue eyes. I'd never met him before but I knew he was a foreign national who'd been educated in international finance in Copenhagen and indicted for international money-laundering in New York City. Rumor on the yard was that he robbed the Bank of Denmark of 100 million dollars using just his iphone. I made a mental note to swap trade secrets with him after the meeting. But it was time for the meeting to get underway.
Bobby Clyde B. stood up and said, "My name is Clyde B. and I'm powerless over federally-insured money." Just as I was about to bust out laughing, everybody said, "Hello Clyde B." to which Clyde B. responded, "Hello family." I almost got up and left right then. But I thought about how good this would look on my pardon application so I stayed put. Despite the fact that we all knew each other, Clyde B. read some disclaimer about anonymity and then stood up and said, "Let's all join hands and have a moment of silence for the robber who still suffers both inside and outside of these rooms, followed by B.A.'s version of the serenity prayer." Everyone stood up and when White Wally tried to hold my hand I snatched it back and told him, "Let go of my damn hand." After a moment of silence during which I stared at Rasmus D. and considered that a phone plan that offers the ability to steal 100 million is much better than unlimited texting and internet, Clyde B. prayed:
"God, grant me the serenity to accept the banks I cannot change, courage to change the ones I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen"
My version went something like this: "God, I'm sorry I robbed all those banks. Apparently, I didn't think this one all the way through. But thank you for the free coffee. Amen"
After we all sat down Clyde B. asked, "Who wants to start?" Walter R. leaned forward with his arms on his knees and stared at the floor for a minute then blew out a deep breath he'd been holding in and said, "For me, it's duct tape." Bobby Clyde B. Whoever pursed his lips and nodded his head in a knowing way as Walter R. continued, "Every time I see a roll of duct tape I think about the guy in the back of the truck and all those satchels of money."
My gag reflex exploded like a dye pack. That was all I could take. So I drained my third cup of coffee and sneaked out under the pretext of going to the bathroom. As I walked down the stairs and left the library I clicked on my MP3 and caught "Money" by Pink Floyd and headed back to my cell block to eat a canoli. Sorry, Mr. Obama. Recovery is just too much for me. I guess I'm just going to have to do this time.
Jeffrey P. Frye
26th January 2013
The Judge: "Mr. Frye, did you in fact do what the indictments against you allege and rob all of those banks?"
Me: "Your Honor, my lawyer has advised me not to answer any questions outside of his presence."
The Judge: "Your lawyer is standing right next to you, Mr. Frye."
Me: (I turn to my right and look at my lawyer and then turn back towards the judge and say) "I thought that he looked familiar, Your Honor" then I said, "Okay, I did it."
The Judge: "So you did. And it's not our first time here, Mr. Frye. The U.S. Attorney has asked for an enhanced sentence due to your serial tomfoolery and while decorum does not allow me to call you a douche bag, I would like to take this opportunity to call you a douche bag. I grant the government's request and sentence you to 20 years in prison. If you can live through that you deserve to get out. Hopefully, you will be too old to steal by then and you will go get a job at Wal Mart or something. Oh, and Mr. Frye?"
Me: "Yes, Your Honor?"
The Judge: "Don't drop the soap."
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22nd January 2013
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18th January 2014
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10th January 2013
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3rd January 2013
DRUG CLASS: All that talk of opiates and euphoria just made me want to eat Oxycontin like M&Ms. Especially the Green ones.
CELL YOGA: I can pull my groin muscle in my cell without an instructor.
FUNDAMENTALS OF BOCCE: The bocce court is located directly underneath one of the gun towers and as I was playing they dropped a concussion grenade on me when two people near me started stabbing each other.
RUNNING CLASS: I signed up for this one but never went. The only time you're going to catch me running is if the FBI is behind me.
PARENTING CLASS: Didn't attend this one either. The judge may've given me 20 years but he didn't give me enough time to have a crack dealer from Washington D.C. teach me how to change a diaper.
SOLUTIONS TO VIOLENCE: This class stared out well, until two guys got into a fight and we all got pepper-sprayed and ended up face-down on the floor in handcuffs. At least it wasn't boring though.
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