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He was, however, a friendly sort, and we lit up a smoke and engaged in some idle conversation. His name was Bennie and he was a bit nervous, really wondering about where we were going. I was also curious, but kept the face of someone who might know the answer. As we chatted I would see him measuring my attitude as well as my attire . . it was clear he was thinking that I was someone who might be worth knowing. Before our conversation developed, two guards walked into the room and informed us that we were going on a trip.
One morning, while in the fish tank, I was due to have my blood drawn for testing. As my cell door was opened, I was surprised to see that the doctor’s assistant sent in to administer the procedure was an old acquaintance of mine named Sam. Sam and I knew each other from the drug business in Vegas. When I first met him he had been a fairly important dealer, but he eventually fell into the ever-present trap of becoming addicted to his product. He lost most of what he had obtained from the business—his car, his house, his status—as the hectic and treacherous world of the addict took its toll.
Jughead and Hazen were happy to hear about the transfer, and they were hoping to make it to the new facility in the near future as well. By then, they joked, I should have the place in order. It wasn’t long before the paperwork for the transfer was completed, and I was ready to leave. We said our goodbyes with emotion, the way any people do who share a common experience. It was early morning when, handcuffed and in leg irons, I boarded the bus with forty other inmates headed for the new prison in Jean, just thirty miles west of Las Vegas.
archives of suicide research