At 4 am yesterday my cell light was switched on and a mousy looking cop with a big fat plug of chew in his bottom lip told me, "Get ready, you're transferring. I'll be back in 30 minutes to get you." I prayed, then rolled out of my rack and brushed my teeth and washed my face, gathered my meager belongings together, then did a little yoga. When the cop came back to get me I was laying on a blanket on the floor on my stomach with my hands reached back behind me holding my feet. The cop said, "What in the hell are you doing, boy?" I kept the pose and said, "Having concrete sex. You should try it." Seeing how he's from West Virginia, it wouldn't surprise me if he did. I finished my breathing cycle and hopped up and grabbed up my stuff. It was time to leave USP Hazelnut.
I was taken to the Receiving & Discharge area and strip-searched and relieved of my Orange uniform then thrown a pair of dingy White boxers and told to "Go see the lady at the counter." I padded over to her in my bare feet and she slid me "My issue" that consisted of a crisp white tee shirt and white socks, a tan two piece uniform that was made out of canvas-like material and undoubtedly cut and sown by some convict in a prison factory, and a pair of slip-on Blue canvas bo-bos with White rubber bottoms. After I'd dressed, I smoothed my shirt down and wasn't really happy with how I looked so I asked her, "Is there a chance you might have something in Green or Navy Blue?" She looked me up and down with the seasoned eye of a tailor and said, "Stay with the tan; it's your color. I think it makes you look thinner too." When it comes to fashion I'm a lump, but I was feeling the schmooze so I straightened up and sucked in my gut and said, "Really?" She nodded and said, "Oh yeah. I don't know if you know it or not, but Tan is the new Black." I shrugged and then shuffled over to stand in line with several other convicts and waited to have my handcuffs put on, and the black box attached to the middle of them before they secured them to my belly chain. The finishing touch was a pair of leg irons. After this was over they walked all of us through a maze of concrete corridors and out of a back door to a bus that was already running, and to what turned out to be a wild day.
It was snowing heavily as the bus made its way down the mountain and the roads were covered in ice and snow. We made a stop at an FCI in Morgantown to pick some more people up and then made our way to an airport somewhere in the Pittsburgh area. When we got there there were already several vans and a couple of other Gangsta Greyhounds that were filled with people from other joints who were also flying Con Air. As always, a bunch of shotgun-wielding U.S. Marshals had formed an outside perimeter around the plane to keep us safe as we boarded. I was shoved off the bus and herded through a gauntlet of Marshals and told to watch my step by another marshal as he shoved me up the steps to the plane. Once aboard, I was told to make my way to the back of the plane where another marshal told me where to sit. I asked him why I'd been boarded in Economy when I'd booked First Class, but instead of answering me all he did was grunt and shove me into my seat. Imagine that.
Three hours, three shoves, and three shuffles later we did 90 mph down the runway and went wheels up. This was when the fun started.
I was seated next to a Russian gangster named Yvgeny who had a large head full of wavy blonde hair and who talked with a KGB-like accent. I glanced down and noticed that he had stars tattooed on the tops of his hands with something in Cyrillic tattooed inside of them. Yvgeny got fed time for kidnapping and/or purchasing young girls in Russia and bringing them to the United States where upon their arrival he installed them in what he called Fuck Factories where they were expected to make pornos and do sex camming online for up to 16 hours a day. These were really houses located in the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn, and like a perfect Russian, Yvgeny didn't share the profits of the factory with its workers. One day one of the girls escaped and found the cops who found the FBI who found Yvgeny who eventually found a seat next to me on Con Air. Several girls were freed and the houses were closed down and Yvgeny was convicted of Human Trafficking For The Purposes of Sexual Exploitation. He received nearly half the sentence that I did.
I got tired of Yvgeny fairly quickly and I struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me. He was black with a little age on him and went by the nickname of C.D. He'd been convicted of being a Heroin Kingpin in NYC (Harlem). C.D. was a good conversationalist and we talked about different parts of New York City and the different cuisines of various neighborhoods that we like. Then we moved on to talking about the way that heroin is packaged and marketed in various ways in different cities across the U.S. Pull into a barrio in East Los Angles and buy heroin and you'll get it in a balloon; buy it in on a corner in Chicago or NYC and you'll get it in a small glassine bag; go cop some on the streets in South Philadelphia and it comes in a "Cap" (a gelatin capsule).
Sitting Next to C.D. was an old man who was bald with tufts of white hair on the side of his head. He had piercing Blue eyes and a surprisingly deep baritone voice. He jumped into the conversation and told how they used to sell it in Boston but said that he didn't know how it was sold these days because he'd been out of the loop for a while. As we were talking a marshal walked up and asked him, "Would you like to use the bathroom, Bulger?" As he declined it struck me who he was: James "Whitey" Bulger. The #1 fugitive on the FBI's Most Wanted list for 16 years who was found last year living with his 63 yr old girlfriend near a beach in California. They also found $800,000/00 in cash and several guns in his house. He was recently convicted of several murders and of being an informant for the FBI and was given a life sentence.
After Whitey surprisingly held his water, they began serving lunch. Seated behind me were two serious looking Black Muslims who wore fluffy Black beards and crocheted Black kufis on their heads. I overheard them calling each other Hakim and Ach. Ach was seated behind me and every time he said his own name it sounded like he was clearing his throat and trying to bring up a hocker. Lunch consisted of a pre-packaged box that contained some Fritos, a pack of cookies, a slice of cheese and four slices of bread, and a hermetically-sealed package of bologna. When the marshal attempted to hand Ach his box lunch he refused to take it and indignantly proclaimed, "We are Muslims and do not eat pork and bologna is made from the swine. I request a substitute." Hakim acted like he wanted to add something but didn't know what to say so he just said, "Yeah!" The marshal shrugged his shoulders and said, "It's bologna or nothing, pal; take it or leave it." Ach didn't say anything and the marshal moved on without giving either one of them lunch.
Ach may not have known much, but he did know that fighting the marshal was a losing proposition so he turned his anger on Hakim. In a surly voice he loudly said to him, "I don't know why you didn't take the swine sandwich because you don't follow the laws of Allah or his One True Prophet, nigga. You eat pork, but Ach doesn't." This made Hakim angry and he yelled, "YOU LIE!!! I don't eat pork!!! I love Allah!!!" Ach screamed back, "You eat pork skins in your cell after lockdown, nigga!!! I done seen the bag in your trashcan!!!" Call me paranoid, but Muslims who scream and invoke the name of Allah at 30,000 feet make me a little nervous. Even ones that are cuffed and shackled.
Hakim had had enough of being accused of being a pork lover on the low and he reared back and head-butted Ach square in the forehead in one swift motion. It sounded like a pool ball being dropped on a concrete floor, and after initially being dazed, Ach regained his senses and started swinging his head back. I've seen a lot of fights in prison, but this was the first one I saw where the guys only used their heads.
Most of the sky marshals are retired U.S. Marshals who are too old to run down and catch criminals anymore, but not too old to run down the aisle of a plane and tase one. And this is exactly what happened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a marshal come running with a menacing looking instrument in his hand and the next sound I heard was a sizzle that sounded like a breaded pork chop being dropped in a frying pan. Whitey excitedly yelled, "Hot damn!!!" Yvgeny laughed and yelled, "Son of beech!!!" Ach screamed, "ARGHHHH!!!" and C.D. seemed to sum things up nicely by saying, "Those are some silly-ass niggers." They dragged Ach towards the back of the plane and when I went to the bathroom later I saw him sitting in a Time Out seat for criminals with a black nylon mask over his head. It's the kind that commandos wear and that is thinning enough to allow for air but not for spitting. I figured that that when the marshal asked Ach what his name was, he hocked one up that would make a camel proud.
As I felt the plane descending in altitude and my ears popped, the pilot came on the PA and told us the time and temp in Oklahoma City and thanked us for flying Con Air. No kidding. The Federal Transit Center (FTC) at Oklahoma City, Oklahoma is one of two transit centers in the U.S. that house federal inmates who are travelling for one reason or another. It's built on a runway and you deplane right into the prison. Once I came down the concourse I was made to take off my shoes so they could be searched, then given a thorough pat-down and had to pass thru a full-body scanner and the 9x12 manila envelope that I was carrying was x-rayed. I thought to myself that this must be what it feels like to fly through Atlanta or O'Hare these days.
I was processed in and then sent to a housing unit and let into a cell because it was already after lockdown. Sleeping on the top bunk in the dark was what appeared to be a White guy who looked to be about 35 or so. Without turning the light on I quietly made my bed and then brushed my teeth and laid back in my rack. It's hard for me to articulate just how it feels to spend countless days and months in a stationary environment and then be propelled across the country in a plane doing a couple of hundred miles an hour, only to be redeposited to your former stoic state. I call it "Jail lag" and as I laid in the dark my mind processed all of the images and feelings of freedom that I'd just experienced and I tried to depressurize from it.
After about 15 minutes I heard the unmistakable sound of somebody crying whose trying to suck it up, but whose not doing a very good job of it. I got out of bed, and while still not turning the light on I sat on the metal desk that faced the bunk beds and leaned back against the concrete wall and said, "What's your name?" He replied, "Roger." I then asked him, "What's wrong, Roger?" He was quiet for a long time and then finally said, "I miss my family." His honesty caught me off guard and I simply said, "I understand that feeling, Roger." I asked him, "Is this your first time in prison?" and he replied, "Yes, and it's my first Christmas away from my wife and kids." I felt like he probably needed to talk so I asked him to tell me his story...and what a story it was.
Roger was born and raised in the Boca Raton area of Florida and went to college at the University of Miami where he eventually received a bachelor's degree in business. In his freshman year he met and befriended an exchange student from Cali, Colombia named Javier. Javier was from a wealthy family and Roger eventually ended up going back home with Javier during breaks and on holiday, and he fell in love with and eventually married Javier's sister. Roger was a pilot and after college he opened a business that did commercial charters to the Caribbean. His business grew and he ended up having hangars in Key Biscayne and Grand Cayman Island. He told me that he isn't really sure how it happened, but that he eventually started flying loads of cocaine for Javier who after college had assumed a high position in the Cali Cartel. Roger would fly a charter down to the Caribbean and park his Gulfstream at his hangar in the Caymans and fly another plane to a private airstrip that was owned by the cartel in the Dominican Republic. Then he would pick up a cargo plane and fly it to a compound in the hills outside of Caracas, Venezuela, load up a half ton of cocaine or so, and then fly it back to the Dominican Republic and that somebody else would then fly it into Mississippi where it was put onto 18 wheelers and distributed to various points throughout the country. Roger made this run twice a month for over a decade and eventually amassed a fortune that included residential and commercial properties throughout South Florida, race horses, and even a string of Olive Garden restaurants. It was all good until it went bad.
Unbeknownst to Roger, Javier was busted by the DEA, turned informant, and worked with them for over a year giving up his contacts. One of these contacts was Roger. After a lengthy trial, it took the jury about an hour to find Roger guilty of Conspiracy and of Importation of over 10 tons of cocaine into the United States if America. The judge gave him natural life in prison. Javier went free.
When Roger had finished his story he seemed to become depressed again and he asked me, "What are you in prison for?" I replied, "For robbing seven banks." He considered this for a minute and said, "I've never met a Bank Robber before. If you don't mind me asking, what would ever possess you to rob seven banks?" I said, "Getting away with the first six." He laughed at that and said, "That's funny." Then he said, "I'm worried that my wife is going to start screwing around on me. Did that happen to you?" I said, "Yeah, but she was a slut to begin with, so you really can't go by that." More laughter.
I said, "Roger, I just met you and haven't even seen you in the light yet, but I'm going to give you a Christmas gift in the form of a few things that I've learned while doing time. Actually, I'm going to give you three Christmas gifts that if you take and follow, might keep you not just alive, but also keep you sane."
The first thing is, "Don't worry and stress about what "Isn't" in your life, but be grateful for what "Is." Keep your head three feet from your ass and your ass is in the penitentiary so don't make yourself crazy with things going on in the world that you can't change, whether it be your wife screwing around or whether it be making a car payment. Worry about what song to buy for your MP3 or what to get from the commissary this week. Those are things you can control. It's tough being a control freak who no longer has control, but you're going to have to learn. Be grateful for and focus on what "Is." That's the first thing."
He seemed to actually absorb this so I said, "The second thing is, "Be strong and make yourself a go-to person and not a run-away from person for your family and those who love you. You weren't the only one that got Life; your wife and kids also received a sentence and are hurting because there's nothing that they can do to take away YOUR hurting. So be a man and take em off the ledge. Be strong for them because they need it badly right now. They'll be some days that your wife will either fly or drive several hundred miles simply to bitch and possible scream at you about the tough time that she's having and how you were the one that screwed up and caused all of these problems. Be quiet and give her an ear to scream in. That may be the only way that you can express your love for her some days, but make no mistake about it: Listening to her yell and scream at you is love. At least she still shows up to scream.
I looked over in the dark and saw the tears streaming down his cheeks and let him compose himself as I just sat there on the desk. I handed him some toilet paper and he blew his nose and said, "That's two things. What's the third?" I said, "The third is simple. You are getting ready to go into a system that's filled with people who not only are for the most part uneducated, but who also rented movies about guys like you and who aspired to be like you. Don't be the guy who bitches about his icemaker not working to a bunch of people who are thirsty. Don't be That Guy. Nobody likes a whiny cartel member, Roger." After I'd said this he exploded with laughter and laughed so hard that he fell over on his side and clutched his stomach. He laughed till he cried and finally said, "Oh my God, that is funny." I said, "Yeah, I seem to get a lot of mileage outta that line." It was probably about three in the morning at this point and I told him, "Now why don't you try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day." He shook my hand and thanked me for listening to him and laid down and in 15 minutes he was sleeping like a baby."
As I laid there in the dark and listened to him breathe, I was wide awake. At some point I felt the ghost of Christmas past creep up on me and I got a lump in my throat as I started remembering all of the Christmases that I'd ruined for my family over the years and of all of the ones that I'd never get to see. I thought about my friends and family sitting around a tree with music playing as they had drinks or watched football while I was sitting in a cell. I closed my eyes tight and the silence of the cell became so loud that I felt like I was hyperventilating and I wanted to scream. I stayed like that for a while until some time had passed. When I'd calmed back down I started thinking about the advice I gave to Roger and I decided to take some of it for myself.
I began to think about how just five years ago I robbed a bank on Christmas Eve and then sat in a hotel room not too much later that was surrounded by cops, as I shot poison into my body, and then hacked at it, and tried to commit suicide because I didn't want to live anymore. Then I thought about about how now, just 60 months later, I don't feel like that anymore. I thought about the people who love and care about me, and how I've just had my first book released, and while it's not going to win any Pulitzers, I'm very proud of it and of the start I've made with being a writer. Then I thought about my blog and how people all over the United States and United Kingdom and Europe read it, and I thought about the mail I receive from far-away places such as the Netherlands, Australia and Germany.
As I laid there in the dark thinking about these things, I felt the ghost of Christmas present wash over my spirit and I realized that although I may be in prison, I am blessed way beyond what I deserve. I laid there in the silent night and felt something akin to peace on earth and I waited for the morning to come. I was still laying there when the cop unlocked my door at around 6 am and I went and made some coffee, then came to the computer and hammered out this story for you guys. It's not your traditional Christmas story but I don't exactly have a traditional life. However, it is a Christmas story none the less and I hope you've enjoyed it. Wherever you are this December 25th, I hope that you have a Merry Christmas and that Santa is good to you this year.
I'll be flying back out of here in a few days for a prison in Southern California and to the next stop on my journey. I'm not sure what color uniforms they'll have there, but I sure hope that they're tan. I've heard it's my color.
Jeffrey P. Frye
12/17/2013
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
I was taken to the Receiving & Discharge area and strip-searched and relieved of my Orange uniform then thrown a pair of dingy White boxers and told to "Go see the lady at the counter." I padded over to her in my bare feet and she slid me "My issue" that consisted of a crisp white tee shirt and white socks, a tan two piece uniform that was made out of canvas-like material and undoubtedly cut and sown by some convict in a prison factory, and a pair of slip-on Blue canvas bo-bos with White rubber bottoms. After I'd dressed, I smoothed my shirt down and wasn't really happy with how I looked so I asked her, "Is there a chance you might have something in Green or Navy Blue?" She looked me up and down with the seasoned eye of a tailor and said, "Stay with the tan; it's your color. I think it makes you look thinner too." When it comes to fashion I'm a lump, but I was feeling the schmooze so I straightened up and sucked in my gut and said, "Really?" She nodded and said, "Oh yeah. I don't know if you know it or not, but Tan is the new Black." I shrugged and then shuffled over to stand in line with several other convicts and waited to have my handcuffs put on, and the black box attached to the middle of them before they secured them to my belly chain. The finishing touch was a pair of leg irons. After this was over they walked all of us through a maze of concrete corridors and out of a back door to a bus that was already running, and to what turned out to be a wild day.
It was snowing heavily as the bus made its way down the mountain and the roads were covered in ice and snow. We made a stop at an FCI in Morgantown to pick some more people up and then made our way to an airport somewhere in the Pittsburgh area. When we got there there were already several vans and a couple of other Gangsta Greyhounds that were filled with people from other joints who were also flying Con Air. As always, a bunch of shotgun-wielding U.S. Marshals had formed an outside perimeter around the plane to keep us safe as we boarded. I was shoved off the bus and herded through a gauntlet of Marshals and told to watch my step by another marshal as he shoved me up the steps to the plane. Once aboard, I was told to make my way to the back of the plane where another marshal told me where to sit. I asked him why I'd been boarded in Economy when I'd booked First Class, but instead of answering me all he did was grunt and shove me into my seat. Imagine that.
Three hours, three shoves, and three shuffles later we did 90 mph down the runway and went wheels up. This was when the fun started.
I was seated next to a Russian gangster named Yvgeny who had a large head full of wavy blonde hair and who talked with a KGB-like accent. I glanced down and noticed that he had stars tattooed on the tops of his hands with something in Cyrillic tattooed inside of them. Yvgeny got fed time for kidnapping and/or purchasing young girls in Russia and bringing them to the United States where upon their arrival he installed them in what he called Fuck Factories where they were expected to make pornos and do sex camming online for up to 16 hours a day. These were really houses located in the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn, and like a perfect Russian, Yvgeny didn't share the profits of the factory with its workers. One day one of the girls escaped and found the cops who found the FBI who found Yvgeny who eventually found a seat next to me on Con Air. Several girls were freed and the houses were closed down and Yvgeny was convicted of Human Trafficking For The Purposes of Sexual Exploitation. He received nearly half the sentence that I did.
I got tired of Yvgeny fairly quickly and I struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me. He was black with a little age on him and went by the nickname of C.D. He'd been convicted of being a Heroin Kingpin in NYC (Harlem). C.D. was a good conversationalist and we talked about different parts of New York City and the different cuisines of various neighborhoods that we like. Then we moved on to talking about the way that heroin is packaged and marketed in various ways in different cities across the U.S. Pull into a barrio in East Los Angles and buy heroin and you'll get it in a balloon; buy it in on a corner in Chicago or NYC and you'll get it in a small glassine bag; go cop some on the streets in South Philadelphia and it comes in a "Cap" (a gelatin capsule).
Sitting Next to C.D. was an old man who was bald with tufts of white hair on the side of his head. He had piercing Blue eyes and a surprisingly deep baritone voice. He jumped into the conversation and told how they used to sell it in Boston but said that he didn't know how it was sold these days because he'd been out of the loop for a while. As we were talking a marshal walked up and asked him, "Would you like to use the bathroom, Bulger?" As he declined it struck me who he was: James "Whitey" Bulger. The #1 fugitive on the FBI's Most Wanted list for 16 years who was found last year living with his 63 yr old girlfriend near a beach in California. They also found $800,000/00 in cash and several guns in his house. He was recently convicted of several murders and of being an informant for the FBI and was given a life sentence.
After Whitey surprisingly held his water, they began serving lunch. Seated behind me were two serious looking Black Muslims who wore fluffy Black beards and crocheted Black kufis on their heads. I overheard them calling each other Hakim and Ach. Ach was seated behind me and every time he said his own name it sounded like he was clearing his throat and trying to bring up a hocker. Lunch consisted of a pre-packaged box that contained some Fritos, a pack of cookies, a slice of cheese and four slices of bread, and a hermetically-sealed package of bologna. When the marshal attempted to hand Ach his box lunch he refused to take it and indignantly proclaimed, "We are Muslims and do not eat pork and bologna is made from the swine. I request a substitute." Hakim acted like he wanted to add something but didn't know what to say so he just said, "Yeah!" The marshal shrugged his shoulders and said, "It's bologna or nothing, pal; take it or leave it." Ach didn't say anything and the marshal moved on without giving either one of them lunch.
Ach may not have known much, but he did know that fighting the marshal was a losing proposition so he turned his anger on Hakim. In a surly voice he loudly said to him, "I don't know why you didn't take the swine sandwich because you don't follow the laws of Allah or his One True Prophet, nigga. You eat pork, but Ach doesn't." This made Hakim angry and he yelled, "YOU LIE!!! I don't eat pork!!! I love Allah!!!" Ach screamed back, "You eat pork skins in your cell after lockdown, nigga!!! I done seen the bag in your trashcan!!!" Call me paranoid, but Muslims who scream and invoke the name of Allah at 30,000 feet make me a little nervous. Even ones that are cuffed and shackled.
Hakim had had enough of being accused of being a pork lover on the low and he reared back and head-butted Ach square in the forehead in one swift motion. It sounded like a pool ball being dropped on a concrete floor, and after initially being dazed, Ach regained his senses and started swinging his head back. I've seen a lot of fights in prison, but this was the first one I saw where the guys only used their heads.
Most of the sky marshals are retired U.S. Marshals who are too old to run down and catch criminals anymore, but not too old to run down the aisle of a plane and tase one. And this is exactly what happened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a marshal come running with a menacing looking instrument in his hand and the next sound I heard was a sizzle that sounded like a breaded pork chop being dropped in a frying pan. Whitey excitedly yelled, "Hot damn!!!" Yvgeny laughed and yelled, "Son of beech!!!" Ach screamed, "ARGHHHH!!!" and C.D. seemed to sum things up nicely by saying, "Those are some silly-ass niggers." They dragged Ach towards the back of the plane and when I went to the bathroom later I saw him sitting in a Time Out seat for criminals with a black nylon mask over his head. It's the kind that commandos wear and that is thinning enough to allow for air but not for spitting. I figured that that when the marshal asked Ach what his name was, he hocked one up that would make a camel proud.
As I felt the plane descending in altitude and my ears popped, the pilot came on the PA and told us the time and temp in Oklahoma City and thanked us for flying Con Air. No kidding. The Federal Transit Center (FTC) at Oklahoma City, Oklahoma is one of two transit centers in the U.S. that house federal inmates who are travelling for one reason or another. It's built on a runway and you deplane right into the prison. Once I came down the concourse I was made to take off my shoes so they could be searched, then given a thorough pat-down and had to pass thru a full-body scanner and the 9x12 manila envelope that I was carrying was x-rayed. I thought to myself that this must be what it feels like to fly through Atlanta or O'Hare these days.
I was processed in and then sent to a housing unit and let into a cell because it was already after lockdown. Sleeping on the top bunk in the dark was what appeared to be a White guy who looked to be about 35 or so. Without turning the light on I quietly made my bed and then brushed my teeth and laid back in my rack. It's hard for me to articulate just how it feels to spend countless days and months in a stationary environment and then be propelled across the country in a plane doing a couple of hundred miles an hour, only to be redeposited to your former stoic state. I call it "Jail lag" and as I laid in the dark my mind processed all of the images and feelings of freedom that I'd just experienced and I tried to depressurize from it.
After about 15 minutes I heard the unmistakable sound of somebody crying whose trying to suck it up, but whose not doing a very good job of it. I got out of bed, and while still not turning the light on I sat on the metal desk that faced the bunk beds and leaned back against the concrete wall and said, "What's your name?" He replied, "Roger." I then asked him, "What's wrong, Roger?" He was quiet for a long time and then finally said, "I miss my family." His honesty caught me off guard and I simply said, "I understand that feeling, Roger." I asked him, "Is this your first time in prison?" and he replied, "Yes, and it's my first Christmas away from my wife and kids." I felt like he probably needed to talk so I asked him to tell me his story...and what a story it was.
Roger was born and raised in the Boca Raton area of Florida and went to college at the University of Miami where he eventually received a bachelor's degree in business. In his freshman year he met and befriended an exchange student from Cali, Colombia named Javier. Javier was from a wealthy family and Roger eventually ended up going back home with Javier during breaks and on holiday, and he fell in love with and eventually married Javier's sister. Roger was a pilot and after college he opened a business that did commercial charters to the Caribbean. His business grew and he ended up having hangars in Key Biscayne and Grand Cayman Island. He told me that he isn't really sure how it happened, but that he eventually started flying loads of cocaine for Javier who after college had assumed a high position in the Cali Cartel. Roger would fly a charter down to the Caribbean and park his Gulfstream at his hangar in the Caymans and fly another plane to a private airstrip that was owned by the cartel in the Dominican Republic. Then he would pick up a cargo plane and fly it to a compound in the hills outside of Caracas, Venezuela, load up a half ton of cocaine or so, and then fly it back to the Dominican Republic and that somebody else would then fly it into Mississippi where it was put onto 18 wheelers and distributed to various points throughout the country. Roger made this run twice a month for over a decade and eventually amassed a fortune that included residential and commercial properties throughout South Florida, race horses, and even a string of Olive Garden restaurants. It was all good until it went bad.
Unbeknownst to Roger, Javier was busted by the DEA, turned informant, and worked with them for over a year giving up his contacts. One of these contacts was Roger. After a lengthy trial, it took the jury about an hour to find Roger guilty of Conspiracy and of Importation of over 10 tons of cocaine into the United States if America. The judge gave him natural life in prison. Javier went free.
When Roger had finished his story he seemed to become depressed again and he asked me, "What are you in prison for?" I replied, "For robbing seven banks." He considered this for a minute and said, "I've never met a Bank Robber before. If you don't mind me asking, what would ever possess you to rob seven banks?" I said, "Getting away with the first six." He laughed at that and said, "That's funny." Then he said, "I'm worried that my wife is going to start screwing around on me. Did that happen to you?" I said, "Yeah, but she was a slut to begin with, so you really can't go by that." More laughter.
I said, "Roger, I just met you and haven't even seen you in the light yet, but I'm going to give you a Christmas gift in the form of a few things that I've learned while doing time. Actually, I'm going to give you three Christmas gifts that if you take and follow, might keep you not just alive, but also keep you sane."
The first thing is, "Don't worry and stress about what "Isn't" in your life, but be grateful for what "Is." Keep your head three feet from your ass and your ass is in the penitentiary so don't make yourself crazy with things going on in the world that you can't change, whether it be your wife screwing around or whether it be making a car payment. Worry about what song to buy for your MP3 or what to get from the commissary this week. Those are things you can control. It's tough being a control freak who no longer has control, but you're going to have to learn. Be grateful for and focus on what "Is." That's the first thing."
He seemed to actually absorb this so I said, "The second thing is, "Be strong and make yourself a go-to person and not a run-away from person for your family and those who love you. You weren't the only one that got Life; your wife and kids also received a sentence and are hurting because there's nothing that they can do to take away YOUR hurting. So be a man and take em off the ledge. Be strong for them because they need it badly right now. They'll be some days that your wife will either fly or drive several hundred miles simply to bitch and possible scream at you about the tough time that she's having and how you were the one that screwed up and caused all of these problems. Be quiet and give her an ear to scream in. That may be the only way that you can express your love for her some days, but make no mistake about it: Listening to her yell and scream at you is love. At least she still shows up to scream.
I looked over in the dark and saw the tears streaming down his cheeks and let him compose himself as I just sat there on the desk. I handed him some toilet paper and he blew his nose and said, "That's two things. What's the third?" I said, "The third is simple. You are getting ready to go into a system that's filled with people who not only are for the most part uneducated, but who also rented movies about guys like you and who aspired to be like you. Don't be the guy who bitches about his icemaker not working to a bunch of people who are thirsty. Don't be That Guy. Nobody likes a whiny cartel member, Roger." After I'd said this he exploded with laughter and laughed so hard that he fell over on his side and clutched his stomach. He laughed till he cried and finally said, "Oh my God, that is funny." I said, "Yeah, I seem to get a lot of mileage outta that line." It was probably about three in the morning at this point and I told him, "Now why don't you try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day." He shook my hand and thanked me for listening to him and laid down and in 15 minutes he was sleeping like a baby."
As I laid there in the dark and listened to him breathe, I was wide awake. At some point I felt the ghost of Christmas past creep up on me and I got a lump in my throat as I started remembering all of the Christmases that I'd ruined for my family over the years and of all of the ones that I'd never get to see. I thought about my friends and family sitting around a tree with music playing as they had drinks or watched football while I was sitting in a cell. I closed my eyes tight and the silence of the cell became so loud that I felt like I was hyperventilating and I wanted to scream. I stayed like that for a while until some time had passed. When I'd calmed back down I started thinking about the advice I gave to Roger and I decided to take some of it for myself.
I began to think about how just five years ago I robbed a bank on Christmas Eve and then sat in a hotel room not too much later that was surrounded by cops, as I shot poison into my body, and then hacked at it, and tried to commit suicide because I didn't want to live anymore. Then I thought about about how now, just 60 months later, I don't feel like that anymore. I thought about the people who love and care about me, and how I've just had my first book released, and while it's not going to win any Pulitzers, I'm very proud of it and of the start I've made with being a writer. Then I thought about my blog and how people all over the United States and United Kingdom and Europe read it, and I thought about the mail I receive from far-away places such as the Netherlands, Australia and Germany.
As I laid there in the dark thinking about these things, I felt the ghost of Christmas present wash over my spirit and I realized that although I may be in prison, I am blessed way beyond what I deserve. I laid there in the silent night and felt something akin to peace on earth and I waited for the morning to come. I was still laying there when the cop unlocked my door at around 6 am and I went and made some coffee, then came to the computer and hammered out this story for you guys. It's not your traditional Christmas story but I don't exactly have a traditional life. However, it is a Christmas story none the less and I hope you've enjoyed it. Wherever you are this December 25th, I hope that you have a Merry Christmas and that Santa is good to you this year.
I'll be flying back out of here in a few days for a prison in Southern California and to the next stop on my journey. I'm not sure what color uniforms they'll have there, but I sure hope that they're tan. I've heard it's my color.
Jeffrey P. Frye
12/17/2013
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Bank Robber's Blog