For those of you have been, or will be, reading my blogs here on Tripper’s “Tales From The Cells” ……

Continued from Convict Definitions 101 Part 1…

Please find listed below a few definitions of prison terms and phrases you’ll need to know in order to better understand convict lingo and be penitentiary literate. Be advised some of these definitions apply only to United States Federal Prisons whereas others are universal in state institutions as well. This blog is meant to be both education­al and amusing, but does have graphic content. I hope you’ll enjoy and let me know if you want to continue Convict Defintions 101.

-Tripper

UP TOP: To be ran “up top” means an inmate or group of inmates were forced to seek protective custody in the SHU (the hole) by another group of inmates. In December of ‘07, at this federal institution, all child molesters were severely beaten and ran “up top” by the majority of the inmate population.

CENSUS COUNT: In federal prison, by policy, institution staff is required to do 2 census counts every month and report the results to Central Office Staff in Washingto D.C. This is to ensure that all inmates are where they’re supposed to be and no one has escaped. Census count is in addition to regular hourly and daily counts.

HOOCH: Hooch is simply homemade prison alcohol. It can vary from homemade beer, to wine, to actual distilled liquor. Personally, I’ve never drank any hooch. Nor have I smoked marijuana in prison, had sex with a female prison guard or broken any rules of the institution for that matter. Yeah, right!

THE WALLS: Some prisons that have high walls are called “the walls.” United States Leavenworth Prison is a walls joint. So is Jefferson City in Missouri.

BOOTY BANDIT: A booty bandit is a homosexual inmate predator that rapes young boys by force. “Dude’s a booty bandit! Better tell your weak ass homeboy to watch himself. He may come for him!”

CHECK-IN: A check-in is an inmate who turns himself in for protective custody. Usually a baby raper, snitch, or someone who owes a debt for tobacco, gambling, or store.

PUNK: This is a prison homosexual. Not a punk as in free world lingo. A punk sucks dick, takes it up the ass, and is property of his daddy. Personally, I don’t like punks and don’t condone the actions of them or their daddies.

BUSH PASS: I first heard this term from a female convict from Tennessee. This means to escape from a work crew or trustee assignment. “Hey man, where did Smitty go? Did the mf’er take a bush pass or what?” Convicts looking all around as a friend runs for the bushes or nearby trees.

R&D: This is the area of the institution where inmates are received and dis­charged.

Come-Fuck-Me’s: In the state system, inmates always wear boxer shorts. Briefs are known to all as “Come-Fuck-Me’s”. Just ask any weak individual who has been forcibly raped in the Arkansas, Mississippi or Louisiana Departments of Corruption.

Cadillac: In most systems, a Cadillac is a name brand cigarette such as a Lucky Strike, Marlboro or Pall Mall. Not a generic cigarette or roll-up. In the fed system, a Cadillac can also mean a dustpan. The kind with a handle on it. Inmates walk the compound with their brooms and Cadillacs picking up small pieces of paper and trash.

Catch a Hat: This phrase simply means to “leave.” “Catch a hat mf’er. I’m tired of looking at your sorry ass!”

A Line: A line is basically a fishing line used in the SHU or hole. An inmate will tear the string from a sheet, elastic from boxer shorts, or whatever material he can find and make a long string. Then, an object such as a pocket comb or a dead battery (AAA) is tied to the end of the string making it easier to toss under the cell door to and from other cells across and down the hall. You’d be amazed at the skill level of some of these convicts shooting lines.

G.F.T.: In the Arkansas state system, if an inmate has G.F.I, stamped on their file, it means he is “good for information.” Again, snitch, rat or stool pigeon….

And the REQUESTED term for this Convict Definitions is…

Fe-Fe Bag: Someone asked about this. This is something a convict rigs up to “fuck”. Usually a rubber glove finger wrapped tightly inside a towel held together by rubber bands or strings. Something “tight” an inmate can squeeze a little lotion in and fuck as if it were a woman’s vagina. Personally, I’ve never used a fe-fe bag although I have seen one taken by an officer during an institution shakedown. Beats fucking a punk I guess. Although I prefer Rosy Palmer and her four sisters myself.

Tripper’s Rep speaking here…

I spoke with Tripper on the phone this evening. He was in much better spirits, ready to get the stint taken out and proceed back to normal with life. They have to take him back out to an outside hospital one more time, sometime within the next week. They never disclose the appointment time or date. He is in less pain everyday and I think is just more annoyed now with the discomfort. He wanted to thank you all for your well wishes, thoughts, and prayers, and to let you know he has personal messages in the mail, and a blog about this entire ordeal. He ended with a Happy Thanksgiving to all and of course Tripper’s catch phrase, BETTER DAYS!!

Also, please be watching, I am going to post a blog about a holiday card/gift bash for Tripper. I will post that the day after Thanksgiving in order to give everyone enough time to participate should you want to. (And I sure hope you do, if we pull together, it makes such a big difference!!) There will also be information in that blog about a calendar that is in the making, and a couple of sexy ladies have some great ideas, but again, we need input from you. So stay tuned!!

TR

There are all kinds of hustles in federal prison. There are guys who shine shoes, fix watches and iron uniforms. Then, there are your inmate attorneys. Also known as writ writers or jailhouse lawyers. These are men who have, or sometimes claim to have, knowledge of the law who’ll help you work on your case. Some are hard working dudes. Others, well … they’re simply in it for the money. If an inmate brings me his case and I read it and see he ain’t got nothin’ comin’? Then I’ll tell him he ain’t got nothin’ comin’ and like it or not, go away. The harsh reality of prison is, very rarely does anyone win their case on appeal. No use lying to these guys telling them they’re going to win. Because 999 times out of 1,000, they can’t and won’t. And the sooner they get this through their thick skulls, the better off they’ll be. Know what I’m sayin’? Holding on to hope that just isn’t there is what steals your soul and life blood.

Among we writ writers who sit here in the law library day after day, there’s a private joke about a fictional law firm we call, Dewey, Cheatham, & Howe. Personally, I don’t beat people out of their money, but there are a lot of these crooked so-called inmate attorneys who will. For example, there’s a former federal public defender I met from Gary, Indiana. Of course, he’s doing time for fraud. This guy will literally tell you anything you want to hear. He’ll convince you he can win your case on either direct appeal or certiorari when in reality, all he wants is your dough. Sent Western Union from your family on the outside to his contact in the free world of course. That way there’ll be no trace of any inmate-to-inmate or outside-to-inmate money transaction on record. The real deal being, “Yes we can cheat ‘em and this is how.”

Then there are your cheap jailhouse attorneys. Men who’ll promise you the world on a silver platter for as little as a carton of smokes and a couple of jars of Folgers. There was one such guy at FCI El Reno. His name was Bill. Eventually Bill got ran off the yard for promising bullshit with his mouth that his ass couldn’t pay. It’s not nice to lie to someone, promising them you can get them back in court. Especially someone desperate, who just got a hot 30 piece, and a man with little or no understanding of the system, the new world he’s been thrown into, or how the convict system works. If you know for sure a guy ain’t got nothin’ comin’, then why would you lie to him knowing the dude’s in for armed robbery, kidnapping and murder? One would have to ask himself, are coffee and cigarettes really that important? If it were me, I’d have to say no. After old Bill checked in, I heard he got his ass beat in the hole. Shit happens. It just ain’t gonna happen with me or to me.

There are former chiropractors serving time in prison who can work on your back. And there are preachers who claim they can save your soul. However, beware of the slick talkin’ inmate attorney who claims he can get you out of lockup, because again, more often than not, they’re full of more shit than a Christmas turkey. Regardless of what they say, if their lips are movin’, they’re lyin’. I can spot a fraudster from a mile away. Take former California attorney Joe Jammy for example. The name of whom has been changed to keep him from being further beaten at whatever federal joint he’s in now. This asshole decided he was going to bilk a mafia boss out of a few thousand bucks promising him he could write something that would set him free. When he lied, as it ALWAYS happens, the boss found out, he too found himself on the business end of a pair of homemade prison knucks. Badly beaten and bruised and barely able to breathe through his shattered nose, he spent many days in an outside hospital getting reconstructive surgery done before getting moved to a PC (protective custody) joint somewhere in the U.S.

You’re got your U.C.C. guys (Universal Commercial Code) that tell you the way to go is to lien up the judge and prosecutor that put you in prison. To have an outside collection agent go to their houses, change the locks on their doors and haul off all their vehicles. That too won’t work. Just ask the Montana Freeman who got an extra 15 piece added to their already existing 30 for doing that same, exact, stupid shit. Sitting in the law library next to those guys at FCI El Reno, I told them that crazy crap wouldn’t work. That all they were going to do was wind up getting more time. But nooooo! They wouldn’t listen to me! Now they’re buried under the hole in some unknown federal prison somewhere eating bread and water and a few cockroaches for protein. Rest assured, the United States Government has jurisdiction to prosecute you anywhere and for anything they’d like. Never underestimate the United States Attorney. You think the writ writers in prison are crooked? You should see these guys work! All I’m sayin’ is … U.C.C. ain’t the way to go.

I do a little legal work here in the joint. But only stuff I know how to do. I can file for a fast and speedy trial under the rules of the IADA (Inter­state Agreement on Detainers Act). I can get a guy jail time credit if it’s due. And I’ve even been known to get a divorce or two granted, or a detainer dropped. But only because it’s something I’m familiar with—something I’ve done before. I won’t charge a guy an arm and a leg for my services either. If they don’t have any money, I don’t charge them anything at all. If they have the ability to pay and it’s not going to take away from their wife and kids. It’ll usually cost them a few books of postage stamps. No need in being greedy. I’ll do what I can do only if I think my client can win. No Dewey, Cheatham & Howe here. Just straight up honest legal work done by a layman who has more knowledge of the complicated science of the law than the average con. In closing, I’d just like to say … if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. That reference has haunted me for 8 years. If you come to me in prison lookin’ for legal help, don’t expect a miracle and get your mind set on doing your own time. It’s just easier to accept it and try to live in today than hope for things that will never come tomorrow. I’m Tripper. Better Days!

“Tripper! Tripper! Come quick! Says on the news Glen Jackson just beat a white boy to death with a baseball bat down at brick city!” said my little buddy Bobby while watching channel 5. And sure enough, there stood Glen, a black kid in the same grade as me, cuffed and bloody, being hauled down to the county jail for murder. Years later I ran into Glen at Tucker prison farm. He got 30 years for killing Jerry Frick on the basketball court in the Fort Smith projects known as brick city. Never did care too much for Glen Jackson. Not in school and not in prison. I’d known him since Kimmons and as far back as I can remember he always hated white people. Didn’t surprise me at all when I found out he bashed poor Jerry’s head in with that Louisville Slugger. Nope, not at all. That’s just the kind of thing Glen Jackson and other black kids from the projects were capable of.

On the other hand, Jerry Frick had no business being in brick city in the first place. Nor anywhere near Martin Luther King Park for that matter either. All white kids knew not to go near that part of town. It was the no fun zone for real! I’d learned my lesson about three years before when walking down north “S” one night after missing my ride home from the Arkansas/Oklahoma State Fair. As quickly and quietly as I could, I tried to make my way through brick city with­out bringing any unwanted attention to myself. Even when wearing a hooded jacket, the three black kids shooting hoops on the court that night knew I was a white boy and knew I was out of pocket. “Hey honkey!” I heard the biggest one yell. “What choo doin’ in nigga town boy? Don’t you know crackers ain’t welcome ’round here?” That’s when I broke out in a dead run only to be tackled and beaten to within an inch of my life.

My cousin Harold had once been assaulted in brick city too. Unfortunately, he took a worse ass beatin’ that I did, ending up in the hospital with a con­cussion and several stitches to the cranium. To try and make it between brick city and Earl’s Diamond Inn Lounge was true insanity on the party of any young Fort Smith white boy. Yet, many boys tried. If you were coming from anywhere west of Midland and needed to get to let’s say … Sunnymede or Sutton Estates? You pretty much had to make a beeline through brick city. It was okay if you were in a car or riding a fast motorcycle. You’d just best not be walking. Blacks sat on every doorstep and inside every beat up old Cadillac smoking weed and drinking malt liquor just waiting for a white boy to come walking through their ‘hood. My friend Benny Smith was one of those boys. Only thing different, after he got his ass beat, he got even in the end.

After being jumped near the swimming pool in Martin Luther King Park, Benny went home and got his shotgun, some WWII grenades and three of his roadies. It was Saturday night around the first of the month when all the blacks got their welfare checks and things were hoppin’ at the Diamond Inn - the parking lot filled with Lincolns and Caddys. Curb feelers and leopard skin seat covers were the style of the evening. We, er’a, I mean they, the three boys and Benny, cruised the parking lot incognito doing recon before launching their attack. When the time was right, masked Benny ran to the front door of the club, pulled the pins on two smoke grenades and one tear gas bomb, tossing them inside. Punning full speed back to the van, Benny and his crew watched as dozens upon dozens of black bar patrons came stumbling out coughing and hacking looking for fresh air. Smoke rolled out of the bar, men cursed and women cried.

“Fire a few rounds in the air,” said Mike when pulling out of the lot. “Let’s give these assholes a scare!” Flames shot from the barrel of Benny’s .12 guage Remington blowing the hubcaps off a new El Dorado as they burned rubber down south Greenwood. “Damn it Ronnie! I said ‘in the air’, not in the side of some dude’s new ride!” The next day it was all over the news that the Ku Klux Klan had raided the Diamond Inn in retaliation for the beating of a white boy in the park. Of course it wasn’t the KKK. Just four young north siders tired of taking ass whippings from the black guys in brick city and the surrounding area. A lot more shit went down at brick city over the next couple of years. None of which I had anything to do with of course. Like I said, I got sent to the pen. For unrelated reasons of course. Just sold a little bit of weed to the wrong dude - an undercover Arkansas State Trooper no less. Then again, that’s another story.

Brick city was finally condemned some time in the 80’s. The old red brick buildings stood abandoned for several years afterward and were eventually torn down. Don’t have any idea what might be standing on that piece of land today. MLK Park is still there though. So is the swimming pool where blacks only go to swim. And although I haven’t been around Fort Smith in over 8 long years, I imagine the Diamond Inn probably isn’t there anymore either and the owner, old Earl himself, is probably in the grave. Thinking back … in my mind, I can still see brick city. And, I still remember the night I got my ass kicked coming home bleeding telling my mom I’d been jumped by a bunch of black guys just because I was white. Rest in peace brick city and all those poor souls forced to live there over the years as well as all the white kids who fell prey to the blacks that assaulted them. I don’t think it was so much a skin color as it was how much money they did not have. White or black, there were rough neighborhoods. This just happened to be part of my past, a neighborhood that made an impact in my life. That place and those times will be imbedded in my memory forever. I am Tripper –a former resident of Fort Smith, Arkansas. Better Days!