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Showing posts from September, 2012

Pussy Whip Cake by Mark Anthony Given

I was up late making voodoo dolls for, well, you will know soon enough...  _________________________________________ I HAD THIS CELLI WHEN I WAS IN THE FEDERAL JOINT tell me the damnedest story you ever heard. Joseph Francis Davenport, III was doing almost thirty years without possibility of parole having been convicted of owning and operating a fleet of crack houses and “Juke Joints,” they are known as Down South.  Usually, a beat up country bar on a back road in the middle of nowhere, you knew better than to stop at.  Only local Black people and White men with gun's, usually Cops.   I have written about him several times, “Cop on the Compound,” when I got out of the “Hole,” and he asked me to be his celli. And “Crack Riot Chronicles,“ where he gave me the head’s up before the Crack Riot, enabling me to keep all my legal work with me.   The color of Mahogany, maybe five feet five, real quiet and respectful, always neatly dressed and groomed,…

Dope Sick Angel by Mark Anthony Given

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in your all your ways;  they will lift you up in their hands so that you will not strike your foot on a stone. -Psalms 91:11-12

THE CAFFIN AVENUE METHADONE CLINIC, four blocks from Fat’s Domino’s house, right on Caffin Avenue, off of St. Claude Avenue in New Orleans, was a drab grey two-story anonymous building on a side street except the nearly two dozen dope fiends lined up at five am, in pitch dark in the dim dull burnt orange street lights. Skinny black crack heads could be seen darting around corners like ghosts of New Orleans sultry past. The line went from the parking lot up a flight of stairs to a landing that went around the entire front of the second floor. When you went in the door it was just a phony wood-paneled area with cheap chairs lines the walls except where big fat black women could be seen handing out little clear cups of pink colored weak juice thru a thick Plexiglas sliding window…

Cop on the Compound by Mark Anthony Given

How many Cops does it take to push a handcuffed prisoner down a flight of stairs?  
None!  The asshole slipped and fell! -Joseph Wambaugh, The Black Marble
      I KNEW THIS GUY MICHAEL DOWD AT FCI Marianna in Florida. I got to give it to him, he didn't PC "Protective custody," he walked around the compound like the rest of us. They took a lot of money out of his house when he was arrested. When the state courts handed him over to the feds, the state kept the money. When I met him in the law library at FCI Marianna, Florida he wanted my help with post-conviction matters, i.e.,  USC 2255,  having lost all his appeals. I think he appealed a USSG sentencing guideline matter because he plead guilty, I don't remember. Anyway, I looked over his stuff and asked where that money went. He said he didn’t know could I get it back for him? It was maybe thirty-thousand dollars, I forget. I whipped up a generic Petition for Remi…