Final Days

by Jeffrey S. Bell

“Not to worry Jeff, your team can still come back and win. It’s not over.” Though Paddy was very sick, his eyes still had that mischievious twinkle, and he still was the eternal optimist – always finding the positive in the situations and people around him.

It was January 8. He had invited me up to watch Ohio State, my alma mater, play Florida in the college football championship game. The Buckeyes were getting stomped badly. Paddy had been back up on the fifth floor for about a week now which meant he once again had a private room with a television. Since I was his palliative care volunteer, I had gotten special permission to stay up in his room past the normal 8:30 recall time.

In the past week, we had readjusted our evening routine. On the fourth floor, we had settled into a pleasant nightly ritual. After dinner each night, I’d head up to visit Paddy. He’d be waiting in the wide hall of his quad, sitting there with an empty chair for me and a table covered with newspapers, coffee, food and his writing tablet. We’d make some coffee, and usually Paddy would have a snack for us; burritos being his favorite. There was food always, Paddy was a gracious host. “God Paddy, you’re worse than my mom! Eat, eat, eat!”

We were sitting in the hall because Paddy’s roomie didn’t like to have visitors in their room. Paddy, being more tolerant than I would have been, came up with the solution of us meeting in the hall.

So there we’d sit, eating and talking while other inmates and staff walked by. It must’ve been similar to when Paddy held court at the Belle Claire Hotel in Ottawa, though he had a much bigger table then and more people around him. But still, the guys walking by would stop and say hi, Paddy would ask how they were doing. Sometimes someone needed a scoop of coffee or perhaps a soup – he’d always help them out.

Eventually, we’d get around to talking about writing. “So, did you write today?” he’d ask. Paddy loved to write; he wrote like he spoke, very directly and from the heart. I’d let him read what I’d written and he’d comment and offer suggestions. But, mostly he’d encourage me – he really got me into the habit of writing regularly, and to pursue getting something published.

I’d stay for an hour usually cause I had another patient to visit. But, that hour was my most enjoyable hour of the day, as it was for Paddy.

Now he was back on the fifth floor. They had moved him when his health took a turn for the worse. Paddy had breezed through two rounds of chemo with no adverse affects. In fact, on the days he had a treatment, he’d walk a few laps around the track in the evening. During a recent checkup though, it was determined that the cancer that had moved into this lymph nodes was still spreading – they wanted to try a stronger drug for a couple rounds.

The new chemo drug was difficult for Paddy. After the first treatment, he felt fine for a day, was up and around walking the stairs. But, the second day after his treatment, it hit him hard. He was in bed most of the day, experiencing quite a bit of pain and he had no energy. This lasted two days, then he improved and was ready for the next treatment. “I think it’s helping,” he said.

The next round hit him harder. He had more pain and had trouble with his memory. He began sleeping more, but couldn’t shake his fatigue. Finally, they moved him up to the fifth floor where he’d have 24 hour medical care.

Almy O’Neal, Paddy’s friend from Leavenworth, helped him move, packing up Paddy’s property and lugging it up to the fifth floor. We adjusted quickly. Now, we’d have our coffee and watch the world news, then Jeopardy. Paddy was a whiz at Jeopardy. While my expertise centered around sports, music and TV, Paddy’s knowledge extended to a broad array of categories. And, though sick, he was amazingly quick on the buzzer.

Well, the Buckeyes lost the game that Monday night. Paddy fell asleep before I had to leave at 11:00. I quietly turned off the TV and shut the door.

He still didn’t feel well and was experiencing more problems with his memory and putting thoughts together. I truly think that by this time Paddy knew he would die soon. A few days earlier, as we were talking, he suddenly said, “I’m dying Jeff. It feels different this time. I’m not gonna beat it this time.” We talked about his dying – he was spiritually ready, had accepted the inevitable months before. And after Paddy died, Almy told me that as they loaded up his stuff to move upstairs, Paddy had said, “I’m only gonna be up there a couple of weeks before I die.”

I visited Paddy both Tuesday and Thursday evenings. He was too weak to get out of bed. I made him coffee and we talked and watched Jeopardy of course. He was still a bit confused mentally, but talked about getting well enough to try another round of chemo, though I think he knew it wouldn’t happen.

Friday evening when I went up, Paddy was much weaker and in more pain. He asked for some coffee, but didn’t drink any. We just talked. He had received a letter from his friend Jimmy Allen, so I read that to him. He always enjoyed hearing from Jimmy. Then Almy and another friend, Ron Fishman, stopped in to see how he was doing. Paddy tried to tell us about his ordeal that day when they had attempted to put a ‘pic line’ in for further chemo treatments. The procedure took most of the day because the vein kept collapsing. Paddy had difficulty relating the story though, often having to start over because he’d forget what he was saying.

At 8:30, I had to leave for recall. I asked him if he needed anything before I left. He wanted to sit and eat a banana, so I helped him get up. “I’ll be up in the morning to see you Paddy,” I said. He smiled and said, “Okay Jeff, see you then.”

The next morning, Saturday, I was on my way to yoga class when my roomie, another Jeff, came running up behind me. Jeff works as an ICP, Inmate Companion Program. ICPs are similar to nurse’s aides, they do amazing work for 40 cents an hour. Jeff said that when he checked on Paddy, he found him on oxygen and a morphine pump. He asked the nurse about Paddy’s condition. “He’s dying,” had been her response.

Jeff and I both knew from our experience of working on the fifth floor that when patients go on oxygen and a morphine pump they are close to death. I went right up to Paddy’s room, and I stayed there until the next morning.

Paddy was unconscious, his breathing very irregular. “Hi Paddy. I’m here with you okay.” I know, though unconscious, patients can hear you at these times. He looked peaceful and wasn’t in any pain it appeared.

Throughout the day, the nurses would check on him regularly, take his vitals and make sure he was comfortable. Inmates here always talk bad about the staff, but my experience has been that for the most part, they do a remarkable job under the conditions.

As word spread through the facility that Paddy was dying, people started stopping in to see him. All day long, a succession of inmates, staff, nurses and doctors came around to see Paddy. He was so liked by everyone. At one point that evening, there were five of Paddy’s friends in the room sharing stories about him. There was lots of laughter and good memories. I know Paddy could hear us, and I know he was pleased that his friends were remembering him with laughter.

Almy spent as much time as he could with Paddy that evening. At one point, Almy prayed over Paddy, then leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Jesus loves you Paddy.” Paddy’s face twitched slightly – the only movement he made those last hours.

I sat with Paddy throughout the night. I’d talk to him often so he’d know I was still there with him. His breathing gradually diminished until he stopped breathing around 8:30 Sunday morning. He died very peacefully.

I asked Paddy once why, after robbing all of those banks and after all of these years, were people interested in his story and how he was doing. Paddy just looked at me with a perplexed look and shook his head, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

I think those of us who have in some way been touched by Paddy know the answer. Paddy was kind, generous, caring, funny and gracious. And he loved life – so completely. Paddy had that quality that few have – charisma.

His son Kevin, talking of his father’s death, called him complex. Paddy was complex, that’s so true. He was the epitome of complex! Yeah, he was kind, compassionate, generous, caring…and he was a world-class bank robber. You just accepted that duality if you were his friend; he made it very easy.

Maybe what I admired most about Paddy Mitchell was how comfortable he was in his skin. He was a bank robber through and through. He didn’t try to deny it, didn’t try to be anything else. So often, we’d be talking about some subject – politics, psychology, medicine, etc. – and he’d make a statement, then quickly add, “But, what do I know. I’m just a bank robber.” Yeah, Paddy, just a bank robber. One of the best, and so much more.

The night of his death, as I sat down to write in my journal about the day’s events, it struck me: Paddy had done it again. He had escaped from the clutches of the law. While they dilly dallied around, trying to decide whether or not to transfer him back to Canada, Paddy quietly escaped over the fences once again.

He was finally free. Good-bye Paddy. God Bless.

Noble Vigilance

 by Jeffrey S. Bell

If we remain present in our experience, we’ll discover teachings all around us. I’m an inmate volunteer in the hospice program at a federal medical center. Our mission is to provide comfort and aid to the terminally ill patients incarcerated here.

My most recent patient, Paddy, suffered from lung and brain cancer. Paddy was a very gracious man who though terminally ill, maintained a remarkably high quality of life.

One evening as we sat drinking our coffee and chatting – our ritual every evening – Paddy told me of a letter he had received from a friend whom was struggling with finding enjoyment in life as his health diminished. Paddy and I talked about growing old, becoming ill and dying.

“You know,” Paddy said, his eyes clear and alive though his body was ravaged by cancer, “There’s so much I still enjoy in life everyday: taking a walk on a bright, clear day; reading a good book; going to mass; sitting here talking to you and having a cup of coffee; taking a bite out of a crisp, juicy apple. There’s just so much.”

Paddy died very peacefully a couple weeks later. I hold that image of him biting into a crisp, juicy apple – fully present in the moment – fondly in my thoughts. Here was a man destined to die in prison, far from loved ones, finding bits of bliss all around. If only we could be so present in our lives.

Thank you so much Paddy for teaching me how to be nobly vigilant in life and in death.

The Real Thing: Paddy Mitchell

(This piece was written in January 2007, shortly before Paddy’s death, by Jeffrey Bell,  a friend of Paddy’s at Butner Medical Centre.)

“THE REAL THING:  PADDY MITCHELL”       
 By:     JEFFREY S. BELL

In prison, you meet a lot of bank robbers – at least you meet a lot of guys who claim to be bank robbers.   Some may have committed less glamorous crimes so they become bank robbers to impress their fellow inmates; after all, it’s all about image in prison.

Others may have technically robbed a bank, but when you hear their story, you discover that bank robbing wasn’t their livelihood.  Perhaps they needed money to buy their next fix – these guys aren’t bank robbers, they’re drug addicts.  I once met a guy who robbed a bank to get money to buy medication for his seriously ill son.   He wasn’t a bank robber; he was a loving father without health insurance who felt he had no other options.

Then there’s Patrick ‘Paddy’ Mitchell.  He’s the real thing, who by his count, robbed more than forty-five banks and many more department stores over a fifteen year span.   Paddy’s a throwback to the 30’s, to the glory days of bank robbers, when they moved from town to town holding up banks, their exploits splashed across the front pages of newspapers from coast to coast.   People have always been fascinated by bank robbers.   Maybe it’s an extension of our greed, our love of money.   Or possibly we just enjoy seeing banks – with their myriad of service fees and vaults stacked high with money – getting ripped off.   Whatever the reason, we have made bank robbers the rock stars of the criminal world; and Paddy Mitchell combines the artistry and showmanship of David Bowie, the intelligence and sensitivity of John Lennon, and the decadence and hedonism of Mick Jagger.

When I first met Paddy, he was reading The New Yorker and watching the U.S. Open Golf tournament.  Since most inmates would more likely be reading Maxim and watching Ultimate Fighting Champion on Spike TV, I knew this guy was different.   I figured he had something to do with banking, maybe a vice-president or a high-powered international banker who lived in a brick Tudor out in Connecticut and commuted to Manhattan each morning.   Little did I know.

We talked about golf and our favorite cities.   Somewhere along the line the conversation turned to religion and old cathedrals.   Paddy was Catholic I discovered.   “Yeah, I’d go to mass on Sunday, then go out and rob a bank on Monday.”  Paddy peered out through his oversized, prison-issue, horned-rim glasses (these make us all look like sinister Larry Kings) sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders.

Mitchell, one of Ottawa’s favorite sons and perhaps North America’s most prolific and stylish bank robber embarked on his life of crime in the early 70’s by fencing stolen property.   The work was easy and the money good.   Soon he was holding court in the restaurant of a popular Ottawa hotel with mobsters, politicians and wealthy businessmen.

It was during this time that he hooked up with the two guys who would become his partners in crime, Stephen Reid and Lionel Wright, and together they first captured headlines by making off with 365 pounds of gold bars worth over one million dollars from the Ottawa Airport.   They became known as “The Stopwatch Gang” because one of them always timed their bank jobs – they would only grab as much money as they could in 90 seconds – with a stopwatch dangling from around his neck.  Paddy enjoyed the life a criminal.  “You know, I just wanted a certain lifestyle: to be able to wake up in the morning, maybe go for a run, have a late breakfast while reading the paper.   Maybe go to a movie in the afternoon, then take my girlfriend out to dinner at night.  I wanted to be a criminal.”

Eventually, the gang was nabbed, and the legend of Paddy Mitchell grew when he orchestrated a spectacular and dangerous escape from Joyceville Prison.  With Lionel and Stephen already on the outside (Lionel stumbled into a successful escape in progress and Stephen walked away while on an escorted leave from the prison), Paddy induced cardiac arrest by running a couple of miles, then drinking a potion laced with nicotine.

“My heart began to beat so fast that I feared it might burst through my sterum.”   The nurse on duty immediately called an ambulance, but thought it was too late to save Paddy.  “I was dead, my heart stopped.”

As the ambulance raced to the hospital, Paddy had an out-of-body experience ending up at the gates of heaven where he tried to cut a deal with St. Peter in order to avoid 10,000 years in purgatory.
 

At the hospital, Stephen and Lionel diverted the ambulance to a back entrance; locked the driver, paramedic and two prison guards in the vehicle and quickly whisked Mitchell to an apartment where he spent a few days recuperating.   Several days later, the gang crossed over into the United States and settled in Florida.

They honed their craft there for awhile before moving on to California and Arizona where they continued their spree with much style.   They’d don fake beards or mustaches, combined masks and sometimes masks of American presidents.  (Remember the movie “Point Break” with Keeanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze?   That’s based on the “Stopwatch Gang”.

But once more, they ended up in prison – Stephen and Lionel first, and eventually Paddy.   While Stephen and Lionel ended up in a Canadian prison via a prisoner exchange, Paddy was denied that route and sent to the Arizona State Penitentiary.  But, he wasn’t there long.   This time he and two fellow inmates made their way out through duct work in the ceiling.   (His two prison escapes made him the only man ever to appear on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List twice.)   This was in 1986.   Paddy remained on the loose, robbing banks until 1994.

Much of these later years were spent in the Philippines.   On the run, Paddy decided to head overseas and landed in the Philippines.   There he settled into as domestic of a life as he could live.   He married his current wife Imelda and they had his second son, Richard.  (His son by his first wife, Kevin, still lives in Ottawa.)   He bought a compound up in the mountains.  “It was a beautiful home.  I spent my days raising my son, it was all very nice.”

But the lure of easy money still beckoned Paddy.   Every so often, he would go back to the United States, on what his family and friends thought were business trips.   Paddy would fly into Mexico City, enter the United States, rob a bank or two and return home via Mexico.   It was on one of these business trips on which he was finally captured for good.

During those roughly fifteen years, Paddy Mitchell lived the life he had always wanted.  “I couldn’t have done the things I did any other way.  Robbing banks allowed me to do those things.  I wasn’t smart enough and was too lazy to do it any other way.”
 
There was, of course the money, lots of money, and plush condos on beaches and in mountains, and lots of booze and drugs – he even briefly operated a marijuana farm in Florida.   There were fancy cars and fancy restaurants.   And there were the women – plenty of women.  “It had to be the alpha male thing or something.  I could walk into a club and women would just approach me.  I didn’t have to do anything.   I guess they could sense danger.”   Across North America is a string of ‘Mitchell girls’: Janet, Candy, Lynn, Chrissy, Becky, Yuko to name just a few.  “Of course, they didn’t know who I was, they only knew my alias.  To them I was an auditor, a claims adjustor or a wealthy businessman.  Then I’d suddenly be gone, it was hard sometimes leaving like that.   Some, I would have married and lived happily ever after with had I not been on the Ten Most Wanted List.”

It wasn’t all sex, drugs, and robbing banks though.  You don’t just go into a bank and stick it up; you’ve got to have a plan and Mitchell was meticulous planner.  Done correctly, robbing banks is a science.  “I enjoyed the planning more than anything.   I loved going into a bank dressed in a suit and tie and making conversation with an employee about CD’s and interest rates.   Then figuring out the best time to hit it and the best escape route.”

Paddy would move into a town and spend months developing a new identity and scoping out the right bank to hit.  He’d become a member of the community:  renting a condo, buying a car, attending church.   Paddy’s religion is very important to him – he still attends mass weekly and is confident he will indeed end up in heaven.  “Oh, I’ve done some bad things, but I’ve never committed a mortal sin, just a bunch of venial sins.   I don’t think God considers robbing banks a mortal sin.”

In one city, as he spent weeks preparing for a job, Mitchell regularly attended mass at the same church, each Sunday leaving a $100 bill in the collection plate.   Since the same usher always collected the plate, he soon realized that Paddy was the generous one.

On the Sunday before he planned to hit the bank, Paddy thought it might be a good idea to shake hands with the priest – it might be good luck – so after mass he waited in line to shake hands with the priest.   “Well, the usher had apparently told the priest about me, cause when I got up there and we shook hands, he held my hand and wouldn’t let go, smiled and said ‘Who are you?’.   Geez, I didn’t want to lie to a priest on the eve of a bank robbery, so I said ‘Well, you really don’t need to know that Father.’   I thanked him for the sermon, grinned and walked away.   As I left the church, I looked back and saw him looking at me as he talked to other parishioners.   The next day I robbed the bank and Tuesday my picture was in the paper.”

Included in Mitchell’s adventures are numerous brushes with Mother Nature – he’s the Forest Gump of natural disasters.   He’s been through a couple of hurricanes, killer typhoon, a 7.8 earthquake in the Philippines and he was holed up in a cabin near Mount St. Helens when it erupted in 1980.   “I was with this girl and we kind of …um slept through the eruption.    I got up around nine in the morning to take a leak and thought it was awfully dark out.   Then she woke up, looked outside and screamed.  I looked out and it looked like there was a couple of feet of snow out there.  The car is covered with ash.  We can’t even open the door there’s so much ash.   But it’s okay – we have plenty of food and I’m with this gorgeous girl.   After a few days, I finally made it back to the hotel where I was staying.   They were so glad to see me – they thought I was killed in the eruption.”

Getting to know Mitchell – hearing his amazing stories full of self-deprecating humor – is like listening to the tales of the older brother who did everything you dreamed of doing: or hanging out with that crazy uncle who tells all the dirty jokes at the family reunion – the one your parents warned you to stay away from.   Paddy has led a life many of us, at some point, fantasize about; he’s done things most of us will never do.   I asked him once what it was like to rob a bank; to walk in with a gun (which Paddy never fired and normally didn’t even load or at most, loaded with one or two bullets, never in the first chamber) and yell ‘This is a stick up!’?   “For me, it was the ultimate rush, better than drugs or sex.   I’d be nervous going in cause I didn’t know what to expect.  But once I got in there and saw that everything was as it should be, I’d be okay.    Everything would move so quick.   “What a high!   Then it was over and you’re ready to do it again.”

And he would do it again and again and again – all with style and class.   When he talks of his career now, it’s as if he’s almost embarrassed by how fully he’s lived his life, by the things he’s done.   You may mention something that prompts a memory for him and he’ll launch into a full story, “I was going through Hot Springs…” then he’ll lower his voice and roll his eyes, “…and I was planning on hitting a bank…”    A glitter comes to his eyes, a smile to his face, “…I was in this club and up comes this pretty little redhead…”

These days Paddy Mitchell resides at the Federal Medical Center in Butner, North Carolina, where he’s been for nine months.   Since being incarcerated in 1994, Mitchell has made the rounds in the United States Federal system: Atlanta, Leavenworth, Lewisburg.
 

It was in Lewisburg that Paddy first noticed a small lump on his chest.   As the lump slowly grew in size, he had it checked by doctors, and was assured that it was just a cyst.   Early in 2006, he started experiencing numbness in his right leg.   Then in March, as he headed out to the recreation yard to run, his leg buckled and he felt lightheaded.   A doctor on call that evening immediately scheduled x-rays and scans.  “I told him about the lump on my chest, the numbness and lightheadedness.   He put it all together and said it could be lung cancer that had metastasized to my brain.   He had me in an outside hospital the next day.    Three days later they performed surgery and removed a walnut sized tumor from my brain.”

Mitchell was airlifted to Butner and immediately began radiation treatment.  He contracted a serious viral infection while undergoing chemo therapy which almost killed him.   “I lost my memory, my strength;  I thought it was all over.”

But, there was still much that Paddy wanted to get done before his time came.    Slowly, he started his rehabilitation – reading and writing and strengthening his arms with elastic bands attached to his bed.    Now, in the midst of his second round of chemo, he walks at least three miles a day, does several sets of pushups and climbs at least thirty flights of stairs each day.   And his mind is as sharp as ever.

One of the things Paddy wants to accomplish is to get another book published or perhaps a screenplay produced.   He’s already written and published his autobiography, “This Bank Robber’s Life:  The Life and Fast Times of Patrick “Paddy” Mitchell, and written a novel, several short stories and two screenplays.   In addition, he has a blog, www.paddymitchell.wordpress.com/ for which he writes regular updates on his condition, tells tales from his past and of prison life, and answers emails from friends and fans.    Reading through his mail, you’ll see notes from old school mates; an email from a woman, whom as a young girl, Paddy rescued from a group of bullies at a skating rink.    There’s even notes from the paramedic involved in Mitchell’s first prison escape more than twenty-five years ago.   He keeps in touch and talks very fondly of Mitchell.   And there’s the retired FBI agent who spent much of his career chasing down Mitchell.   He writes occasionally and they exchange stories of the good ole days.
 

He’d also like to eventually get back to Canada; to be closer to family and friends.   His attorney is currently working on a transfer under a treaty between the United States and Canada which allows for the exchange of prisoners.   Due to his illness, his attorney is petitioning for a compassionate transfer.   But, Mitchell holds no illusion about the process.   “I don’t expect any compassion from these people.”

He’s also realistic about his prognosis.  “This cancer will kill me, I have no doubt about that.   But, there’s so much I want to write yet…I want to get another book out.   And I’d like to get back home.”

One evening, as Paddy and I sat talking and reading the paper, I asked him about regrets – especially since he’s ended up here in prison with cancer.   “Oh sure, I have regrets.   I regret leaving my wife and son, how this affected them.   I regret scaring all of those people, sticking a gun in their faces.   But, you can’t go through life regretting everything you’ve done.   I’ve had a full life, have done a lot.   I’d do it all again, I’m a bank robber.    A house in the suburbs and a 9 to 5 job isn’t for me.”

There’s a quote that Paddy keeps in a box with all of his writing materials that may best explain Paddy Mitchell’s life.   It’s a quote by John Kennedy Jr., from an editorial in George magazine.    Kennedy was writing of his family’s latest trials – a cousin accused of rape, another of having sex with a sixteen year-old babysitter; about people who live beyond the confines of normal society.   Kennedy wrote:

“The more we live a life governed by conventional norms of proper behaviour, and the nicer and more responsible we force ourselves to be, the further we drift from the essence of our true self – one that’s ruled by passion and instinct.     Give in to your deepest longings and become an outcast;  conform utterly and endure a potentially dispiriting, suffocating life…”

Paddy’s Last Word Series #5: Christmas in Prison

[Note: This is the fifth of Paddy Mitchell’s seven final blog entries, written shortly before his death on January 14, 2007, and mailed to Ottawa to be posted on his blog. The series is being published posthumously between January 21 and January 25th.] 

My good friend Jimmy Allen also has been an inspiration to me this past year with the success of his book: “This Firefighter’s Life”.   What a book!   Jimmy and I have been friends forever.  He writes to me all the time…keeps me informed by sending newspaper articles, stuff off the internet, and just generally, what’s happening around my home town of Ottawa. 

My family, mostly in Ottawa, but spread across the entire country are still supportive of me and don’t condemn me for the things I’ve done (but certainly, do not approve of my actions over the years). 

On Christmas Day, they served us a pretty good meal:  Cornish game hens, sweet potatoe, cornbread, pecan pie and a full plate of fruits and vegetables.     And tomorrow, New Year’s Day, they’ll try to do the same with a steak dinner.  Most of the 1000 inhabitants here will be contented, me included, they try to treat us right on Christmas and New Years. 

One Christmas still stands out to me:  it was the most miserable one I can recall from all those I’ve spent in prison.  It was the one I spent incarcerated at the Maricopa County Jail in Phoenix, Arizona in 1983.  I had robbed a department store in that city in Dec. 1981, and, under false identification, was granted bail on the charges.  I skipped bail and wasn’t re-arrested until more than two years later.  It was like a slap in the face to the authorities in Arizona.   Here they had one of the countries most wanted fugitives in their custody and let him bail on them.   When they got me back in the county jail they treated me really bad.   They kept me in an all-steel cell, never letting me out – except for 20 minutes every Sunday for a phone call.  (I’ll explain what happened to me on one of those forays out in a future letter – suffice to say it wasn’t pleasant).    They didn’t feed me properly – I had to shower in cold water – they ignored all my requests and treated me like dirt.   Then on Christmas Day (evening actually) my big steel door was unlocked and in stepped a uniformed jail guard – the only one who had treated me decent throughout the months I’d been there – named “Frenchy”.  

He said:  “How are you doing, Mitchell?”  

I answered: “Fine.” 

I figured he’d been sent to search my cell or something. 

“I just want you to know that I don’t approve of the way you’re being treated around here, and I just wanted to wish you a Merry Xmas.  My wife asked me to bring these in for you”, and he handed me two packages wrapped in tinfoil and turned and left my cell.   The packages contained about a pound of sliced turkey and a piece of pecan pie!   

Just reminiscing; hope I didn’t bore you! God Bless!

Paddy’s Last Words Series #2: Chick Lit has changed

[Note: This is the second of Paddy Mitchell's seven final blog entries, written shortly before his death on January 14, 2007, and mailed to Ottawa to be posted on his blog. The series is being published posthumously between January 21 and January 25th.] 

These places afford people (inmates) plenty of time to read.   Dozens of periodicals come every day in the mail; newspapers come daily from all over the country, and the library is overflowing with books – dozens of inmates belong to book clubs and when they finish reading the books, they donate them to the library.  I only have one subscription to a magazine and that’s G.Q.   But I get to read Newsweek, Time, U.S. News, The New Yorker, Vanity Fair,…etc. 

Right now, I’m 100 pages into a great book by Amy Sohn, titled “My Old Man”.  It’s “Chick Lit” and is it funny.   The author doesn’t pull any punches with her descriptions about her thoughts about sex.  I don’t select books by their sexual content, like a lot of inmates do.  Especially, most of the blacks.  If someone doesn’t get laid by the third page… 

Anyhow, I’ve been out of circulation for thirteen years, and I can’t believe the change in attitude and thinking.  Not that there’s anything terrible going on, it’s just that people (especially women) are finally expressing their thoughts and feelings about sex.  Wow!   This book is an eye-opener for me.  And I was concerned about two words in one of my previous letters.    

I’m just heading out to the chow hall for lunch.   They are having some kind of fried fish sandwich, but I’m just going to see what kind of vegetables they have that I can smuggle out and get back to my unit, in order to make a bowl of soup with them.   I don’t like the fish, it’s deep-fried and has been dipped in bread crumbs or something, served on a hamburger bun.  If my mission is successful, I’ll eat healthy, if not, I’ll try again at dinner time.   The guards at the exit door at dinner time are more relaxed than the noon ones; the noon ones try to impress the bosses that abound during the day.   But I’m quick and slick…. 

NOTE:   I don’t know if all these things I’ve been writing about on this blog are interesting to others.  I’m new at all this.  But don’t give up on me, I’ll get better!  I’m just getting my writing skills back after 6 or 8 months of not being able to hold pen in hand.  I have some interesting things to write – I’m just feeling my way towards them.

Christmas package from the Bureau of Prisons

[Note: Paddy's posts are not always in chronological order, as he sends his handwritten blog posts to Ottawa to be posted on the blog for him - they don't always arrive in order.]

It is Friday 9:00 a.m., December 23^rd, and I’m up and about.   My cellmate just made his first cup of cappuccino (4 heaping tablespoons of cappuccino mix and one heaping tablespoon of Folgers coffee in a 16 oz. cup ) and I made my second cup of coffee (1 heaping teaspoon of coffee with a little skim milk).  My cup has about 30 calories in it as opposed to his at about 500 calories…. 

Yesterday was a good day for us:   We received our annual Christmas package from the Bureau of Prisons (B.O.P.)  The packages here consist of mostly junk food and were smaller than the ones in past years in Maximum Security Prisons.  Then, later in the day, we were called down to the chow hall where we were given a pint of egg nog and a package of cookies.   Nothing special, but a nice gesture.   And most of us were appreciative.   Of course, we had some complainers.   And last night we were treated to a “play” presented by the Mental Health Unit and entertainment by a couple of soloists singing Christmas carols.   All in all a nice day! 

I spoke to my son, Kevin, the night before last and he tells me he and his two sons (Joey, 15  and Jacob 13) are going to drive down to visit me over the holidays.  What a treat that will be for me.  It will only be the 2^nd time I’ve seen my grandchildren.   The first time being about 9 months ago when they came to visit me in a hospital in Pennsylvania just hours before I went into surgery for removal of a cancerous brain tumor.   I think my son and grandchildren were under the impression it would be the last they’d see of me! 

So, anyhow, I’ll write again and let you know how the ‘holidays’ went here; how they fed us, and how they treated us. I’d like to take this opportunity to wish you all (once again)   HAPPY NEW YEAR 2007!

Top Twelve Tips for Getting Along in Prison

1) Don’t be too friendly too fast. Inmates are always suspicious of new guys. The Feds are well known for their deviousness and although the guy arriving is in fact a convicted criminal, the Feds may have made a deal to cut his incarceration time for some information from a target within the prison.

2) Don’t just walk up to a table in the chow hall and plunk yourself down. Be polite; ask if you can join the people at the table until you find an open invitation from someone to join their table.

3) Don’t ask personal questions like: “What did you do to get in here?” “How much time have you got to do?” (Leave these and other questions until the guy talks to you in his own time.)

4) Don’t act tough, because other tough guys will challenge you. They don’t get a tough man’s reputation from beating up weak guys - they get it from beating up guys who think they are tough.

5) Don’t get into gambling, shylocking, drugs, alcohol or homosexuality. If you do, you’ll be sorry.

6) Check yourself before you leave your cell. Don’t go out if you’re in a bad mood - shake it off first. Because someone’s bound to say something derogatory and if you say something back it could lead to a fight (or stabbing).

7) You can’t back down! If you do, the guy who backed you down will want to extort you - especially if he’s black. It’s known as a weakness and you don’t want that. You just have to stand up for yourself. Nine out of ten times the guy doesn’t want to fight, he just wants to see if he can back you down. Don’t throw the first punch, but don’t show any fear - and then if you have to fight, as long as you do fight, you’ll gain respect - which is what it’s all about in prison.

8 ) Be polite. Smile. Don’t sell anything. Or borrow anything. Keep yourself clean and well groomed. You’ll attract others like yourself who want to befriend you.

9) Keep away from taking sides in an argument. Be neutral - but don’t desert a friend to save your own butt.

10) Don’t ever take a staff member’s side in an incident. Don’t ever (EVER) tell on anyone. It’ll always come back on you. Don’t think you can inform on someone and get away with it - you cannot!

11) Don’t ever cut into a line. Wait your turn!

12) If you accidentally bump into someone, apologize for it right away. If someone else bumps into you and does not apologize, ask yourself if pushing for an apology is worth it, worth losing your life for.

Writers in prison

Another morning, another urge to write.    You’ll never know (unless you’re a writer) how good the feeling is; because so many mornings I just don’t feel like writing.  If it lasts any more than a couple or three days, we call it “writer’s block”, every writer’s worst enemy.This is Sunday morning – 9:00.    I’m propped up on my bed, scribbler on my knees and have a story to tell you.  I’ve been able to walk to the chow hall for about four months now (before that , I had my good trays delivered to my room, unable to get out of bed and no appetite to eat from them.  Chow halls are dangerous for people just arriving in prisons.   The best scenario is that you know people there and you are invited to the table to eat.  But if you don’t know anyone, you are best to ask where a newcomer should sit.People will watch for new guys to see how they carry themselves, who he associates with, etc., etc., before they’ll make a move to speak to him or invite him to join their table.  It’s sometimes a long, drawn-out process, often taking weeks or months.

Here, it’s not like that, because it is a Medical facility and people tend to move on, cured of their illness, or others in a body-bag, dead from their illness.   So when you make an acquaintance here, it doesn’t last long and you don’t get to know much about that individual.  I have been sitting, most days, with a certain group of gentlemen and don’t even know their names – I just say “Sir” or “Gentlemen” – we don’t do much talking; just in general.   What’s for lunch?  Dinner?   What’s the weather going to be today?  The lasagna wasn’t bad last night at dinner….

Turns out that the guy that sits across from me most days is a ‘writer’, and he’s authored a novel and sells it on the internet.  He’s out of Chicago.  Of course, I’ve written a novel and some of the characters and some of the action takes place in Chicago.  Now this might not seem like an earth-shattering coincidence to you, but to me it is.  I’d love to read his book and have him read mine and then we can compare notes.  The unfortunate thing is, he doesn’t have a copy of his book here.  I do.  It’s in manuscript form, but typed nicely, double-spaced, and edited perfectly.  It’s difficult, if people don’t know you, in a prison setting.   Everyone has a book he is either writing, wants to write, or has written.   And he wants someone to read it and tell him “truthfully” what that someone thinks of it.  And once you accept it, you’ve got to read it – no matter how bad.  And then you’ve got to tell him what you thought of it “truthfully” – all 6’ 5”, 250 lbs. of him.
 
So, you have to make up a story about how busy you are right now to avoid having to read it.  I have been sitting with this nice, pleasant, well educated and well spoken guy (author of a book) since crawling out of bed without a memory, unable to put a sentence together, having to search for proper words to explain myself….  He knows what’s coming from me…   ‘Would you like to read my book’? and tell me ‘truthfully’ what you think of it…  He’s already started to avoid me!

In Leavenworth, I gave the manuscript to a friend to read.   I kept checking to see if he’d started it and what he thought of it.  I knew it would be straight-forward with this guy.  He’s a good Christian and I’m sure he wouldn’t tell a blatant lie just to please me.   Then the whole institution got locked down because someone got stabbed and this guy had nothing to read.   We were locked down for weeks, so he decided to read my novel.   When the lockdown was over, both he and his celly congratulated me on such a great book.   And he started recommending it to others.  I never had anymore trouble finding readers.

I’d like to wish you all a MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Patrick
 

[Note: Paddy doesn't have access to the internet in prison. He writes his blog posts by hand and snail-mails them to Ottawa where they get posted on his blog by friends. Readers' comments get printed and sent back to him by snail mail. He loves feedback and will do his best to respond to all comments, but asks for your understanding and patience with the necessary delays.]

A day in the life

Do you want to hear how my days go by in this place? How my time is spent? Okay, I’ll give you a detailed description:

The cell doors of the whole institution are opened by 6:00 a.m. and immediately the P.A. system starts making announcements. There’s no letup all day: dozens of announcements for visits, hundreds for patients to report for bloodwork at the lab, dental callouts, oncology callouts, calls to the chow hall (by units), recreation moves, etc., etc.

So the whole joint starts to come alive at 6:00 a.m. There’s a rush to the microwaves to heat water for coffee; gruff, angry faces facing another day in prison.

We go for breakfast. If the Warden is in, he doesn’t allow a long line of inmates lined up to be served; if he’s not in, I think, the cops on duty enjoy making us miserable by calling 2 or 3 or 4 units at a time and have us out in the hallway for long periods of time waiting.

One must be careful not to bump into or say anything to upset someone at this time. This is a crucial time of day for fights to happen. There are hundreds of mental patients (they have a unit of their own but they mix with the regular population during meals. And they tend to be annoying. They are loud, some are disrespectful, dirty, and not groomed properly. They have to be avoided. I made the mistake of taking offence for being bumped into by a six foot four African American and called the guy a “fucking asshole”. We began to argue voraciously and attracted the guards, who broke us up. But now I have to watch out for this guy. He sat at my table for four yesterday and stared at me all the time he was there. He didn’t eat, just stared, then got up, picked up his tray and left the chow hall. I wasn’t afraid of him but I didn’t want any trouble in my present condition, so I was relieved when he left. Another black guy said to me: “Man, why would you want to argue with a mental health patient, you know they are all crazy”. Why indeed! It’s in my genes to not let someone slight me. I don’t even mind dying; but I can’t ever be slighted and not say anything.

Breakfast is served from 6:00 a.m. until 7:00. I usually get out of there around 6:30 a.m. and head for the only stairs available: just one flight of about 30 steps, and I climb them up and down, ten times after each meal. Of 900 inmates in this joint, I’m the only one who does this – its for exercise.

Breakfasts are good meals here. Everyday they are different; fried eggs and bacon, toast, jelly, grits, coffee and milk one day, cold cereal and blueberry muffins; bagels and cream cheese; boiled eggs another day; omelettes and fried bologna; cinnamon rolls and oatmeal, always fruit- apples, oranges, grapefruit, fruit cocktail, crushed pineapple and orange and grapefruit juices.

After my stairs workout, I go back to my room where my celly (Mr. Ho) is usually back in bed where he’ll sleep until 10:00 a.m. I make a cup of Cappachino coffee (16 oz.) and lay back on my bunk and listen to N.P.R. news for an hour – then I try to write for a couple of hours – just little stories or comments – like this one to send out to my blog and/or web site. I never get them right the first time; I have to rewrite them many times.

I usually write until they call us for lunch, around 11:30 a.m. Lunches are good too, and change seven days a week. They are never the same over a seven day cycle: Cheeseburger, baked chicken, fried chicken, lasagna, spaghetti, hero sandwich – there’s always a salad bar and soup and beans and cooked vegetables, buns, dessert and beverages (coffee, milk, juice). I get out of there before 12 noon, to ten more flights of stairs, then return to my room and have a cup of coffee while stretching and dressing to go outside for an hour’s exercise in the big recreation yard.

At 12:30 p.m., they announce on the P.A. “Compound is open for a ten-minute move” and hundreds of inmates go to their destinations – most to the yard. I bring my radio and listen to a station called “The River”. It plays 70’s and 80’s rock and roll: The Rolling Stones, Bob Seger, Jackson Browne, The Eagles….

I walk for an hour at 15 minute miles. I stop after every lap (5 laps = 1 mile) and do a set of twenty push ups. I try to get 3 miles and 300 push ups in an hour. That’s not bad for a guy suffering with lung cancer and who was given up for dead 3 or 4 months ago.

An hour later they call for a ‘ten minute move” over the P.A. and I return to my room by 1:30, I shower (I have one in my room, it’s a hospital room), put on pyjamas, lay down on my bunk and read and eventually fall asleep. I nap for about an hour – get up, make a cup of coffee, read some more while they have an “Institutional Count” – it’s the main one of the day and everyone must stand and face the door. It takes about a half hour to clear. Then, at 4:30 p.m., there’s a “mail call”, to some (me included) the most important instance of the day. Then, by 5:00 p.m., dinner is being served in the chow hall… eat, and do my 10 flights of stairs. At 6:30 p.m. my “Palliative Care” worker arrives at my door and we discuss what we’ve done with our time that particular day, primarily what we got done in the writing department! His name is Jeff Bell and he’s probably the best writer in the place.

When I was on my “death bed”, Jeff talked me into living. When I had lost my memory (from a brain operation) and couldn’t pick up a pen, Jeff encouraged me to, at least, try. I did and found I could do so – not very good at first – but constantly, at his urging, improved.

Jeff only stays an hour. We have a cup of coffee and we leave each other with each other’s daily writing for editing.

By then it’s around 8:00 p.m. and I prepare myself for bed: groom myself, floss and brush my teeth, put on pyjamas and lay back on my bunk and read my daily newspaper, the “U.S.A. Today”, and usually a periodical such as Newsweek, Time, U.S. News and World Report. They lock us down (in our rooms) for the “9:00 count”, then unlock our doors around 9:30 and let us out until midnight to watch T.V. or play cards or dominos. By 9:30, I’m ready for bed and nine hours of sleep. And that’s how I spend my days! Exciting – eh? It’s all routine. There are days and nights that I do other things, like: go to the library, go to education department to watch a movie, go to religious services (Catholic mass), go for Chemotherapy or radiation or blood work, dental, eye exams… I answer correspondence – at least one or two letters a day. I’m about 60 pages into a new novel I’m writing – don’t know if I’ll ever finish it though.

Breakfast, chemo, Muslims & banks

It’s Sunday morning. I’ve been up since 7:00, have been to breakfast - consisting of a bowl of bran flakes, a whole wheat bagel, cream cheese and jelly, crushed pineapple, coffee and milk - came back to my room, made a cup of coffee and listened to a one hour segment of National Public Radio news. The story I’m most interested in is the Pope’s up-coming visit to Turkey. I’m worried that those crazy Muslims might try to assasinate him for telling the truth.

I’m not prejudiced about Muslims, I have good friends who happen to be Muslims. But I tell it as it is: most of the violence in the world today is perpetrated by them; you can’t believe a word they say, everything they say is a lie; they live like animals. But don’t get me started on that subject!

Anyhow, did I mention I smuggled two bagels, two cream cheeses and a bag of pineapple out of the chow hall? Sometimes I get caught, so I put on the “poor old 64 year old man with cancer, just trying to keep my weight up” - which doesn’t work with some of the meaner cops, but works with some. The truth is chemotherapy give me an appetite that I have trouble controlling: the opposite to how most people react to the drug.

The good news is today the temperatures will climb into the mid-70s and nary a cloud will appear overhead. This is winter in North Carolina! I spent a winter here in the early 90s, casing banks, and just my luck got hit with a nor’easter that was labeled “The Storm of the Century.” I’m here to tell you it was all that and a bag of chips. I’ll tell you about it, and maybe about the bank I knocked off, tomorrow.

I don’t know how appropriate it is for me to be writing about my bank robberies on this site. But if I don’t write about those then I’ll have very little to say - robbing banks is what I did!

Paddy (november 26/06)