The Title of this Book - AN INCH FROM MURDER: My Life As A Male Victim Of Sexual Child Abuse

Published May 2005. Read the Preface Here

"An Inch From Murder: My Life as a Male Victim of Sexual Child Abuse" by Nealus - Purchase Here

"An Inch From Murder: My Life as a Male Victim of Sexual Child Abuse" by Nealus - Buy Here

ISBN 978-1-58939-730-9. $15.95. Softcover. 322 Pages.

An Inch From Murder was written 20 years ago and is now being brought to print for the very first time and deals with life as a Male Victim of Sexual Child Abuse. Drawing from the memory of past molestations from the age of four until sixteen, a trauma unfolded in adulthood profiling Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The uncanning of the abuse by seven men (including Catholic Priests, a policeman, close relatives and friends) resulted in the attempted murder of my latest assailant; the ensuing incarceration and the attempt now to bring the issues of Male Victimization into focus. I have come out from the main stratum of society to become a sexual abuse statistic; and a criminal statistic as well. Now, my desired hope is that I can prevent a victim of Sexual Child Abuse (SCA) from developing into a criminal statistic, and more importantly, work towards preventing the SCA statistic in the first place.

FROM THE AUTHOR:

I always thought that I would live a long life in order to tell my story. But at 52, I doubted that I'd have the strength to really tell what I needed to say, at some later date. I learned in June 2004 that my Congestive Heart Failure - Cardiomyopathy, had not improved and that I was in need of a Heart Transplant. I reminded myself of my pledge 20 years ago that "If I Might Save One Person's Life" from the misery that I suffered by telling my story; by having someone read, that there is hope and recognition for the abused, that you can get help before it's too late, then I truly will have accomplished something in my lifetime. From 1984 through 1986, I experienced a life of fear in a maximum security prison in Connecticut and in the States' Mental Institution for the Criminally Insane. I went back to the notes that I made 20 years ago in my jail cells of 15 months, and edited all that information as a Male Survivor of Sexual Child Abuse.

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If you would prefer to read this is MS Word - Click Here

The Title of this Book - "An Inch From Murder" is derived from this one following sentence that you will find in this Chapter.

"that the bullet entered the victims head approximately one inch from the brain and approximately one and one half inches from the victims spinal cord"

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Part II Chapter 1

December 21, 1984 - Sitting at my old hangout bar in Hartford was a trip. Jimmy wasn’t working today so I couldn’t charge my booze. I began nursing drinks awaiting my scheduled 12:30 p.m. meeting with my future attorney. This was kind of a rehearsal for my upcoming surrender. I was even somewhat paranoid walking through the streets of Hartford. I thought cops might be looking for me. I’d take care of my business with the attorney and get my self back on the bus to Boston.

I was definitely uptight. I was so close to all the conflicts and past failures and these thoughts quickly overcame me. I was getting depressed as hell. Here I was, just a few miles from my kids and I couldn’t call them for fear that their phone was tapped or something. Before I knew it, time was speeding by and it was okay that the attorney was late but this was getting ridiculous. I called his office several times over the next few hours and they still didn’t know where he was. Our meeting was supposed to be a secret and I couldn’t figure why there was a hold up.

The meeting of 12:30 ended up happening at 4:45 p.m. I was a basket case. I used up most of my money, missed the 3 p.m. bus back home and now I’d miss the 5 p.m. I got shitfaced all afternoon waiting. I didn’t even have the money now to get home. Maybe, I could bum it from the attorney.

But depression took over. I was in a state of disillusionment. I hated not being able to see the kids for Xmas, I hated waiting for this business to get over with. My aloneness became my nightmare. I was beginning to cry into my beer. Why was I suffering so much. And when the attorney showed, I completely broke down and told him to forget this preliminary review - I’m calling it quits - here, right now. I can’t stand the pressure anymore. And I began an unknown process of surrendering. I couldn’t fight or run anymore. It was hopeless. I wanted to get this problem over with now and we did.

My attorney took charge and took me to his office, contacted the state police and they came for me. I was drunk, crying and so scared. Before they took me away I asked my attorney to tell them that I was feeling suicidal, had been a victim of sexual abuse and feared men. He told them. They took me to their barracks, took my shoes and I fell asleep for a few hours in a cell. They woke me to meet the Bristol cops. They would transport me to Bristol.

At the police station in Bristol, I was booked and received an interview from these delightful detectives who all along the trip to Bristol played the Mutt and Jeff routine on me. Also they were illustrating their concern for me.

Also they were illustrating their concern for me that I wouldn’t attempt to harm myself. I said I wouldn’t.

Thankfully, I had a reasonable ability to think and I knew well enough not to say too much. At least I walked away from the State Police with my rights firmly set in my consciousness, but many words and phrases still come to mind with respect to the game the "dicks" (detectives) played with me. They were so nice. They gave me cigarettes to smoke while they drilled questions at me. Here’s a sampling of the kind of dialogue that they were throwing at me:

It will go easier for you if you cooperate. Who advised you not to talk? Are you sure you don’t want to tell us what went on. Would you like a cigarette? We hope you don’t do anything to harm yourself. How long have you had a gun. We know you were there that night. You know Nealus, it’s going to be much worse for you once you get into the jail - with all those guys, especially if you are nervous around them. And on and on. All I wanted was to sleep off this drunk. But unfortunately I wasn’t drunk enough to forget this hellhole dungeon I had to sleep in. This was the worse Friday night of my life.

The dicks came by to see me Saturday morning with a few more remarks. Did I have a statement that I’d like to make? Oh, no - not me. George had been notified that I was in custody and they couldn’t understand his nervousness. George was very concerned about anything that I might have said. And George didn’t need any adverse publicity coming about with respect to alleged homosexuality. I kept silent.

The next day I also got a visit from Detective Jeff. He cozily states that George called him again to see if I had made any statements yet. The dick says, that they know something is really troubling George - he’s real nervous about publicity because he saw the arrest notice in Saturday’s paper. It was also stated to me that the dicks knew George was a homo because they knew the gay bars he hung out in and they had seen him in them. They said they knew I had a problem with him because of his persuasion and they only wished that I could fill them in on what happened so they could have a better understanding. Sorry, no reply.

I was also beginning to think a bit straighter. I had better call Harry in Lynn because he expected me back Friday night. I really didn’t have a plan nor could I tell him what to expect. I’d have to wait and see my attorney again. Later this evening I was too scared at this decision I had made and I called Harry. I was in big trouble and asked him to contact my family. He did. I hadn’t been in touch with my family now for 18 months. I hoped for help.

As in the past during periods of depression and intoxication, I pleaded for the pain to go away. I knew I needed help; I needed to be cared for. Couldn’t I be placed in some kind of prison hospital or something out there where I could get treated. Never mind the booze, I needed to get rid of all this confusion. And I really believed that somehow, someone would recognize my fears but the rude awakening came on Xmas eve when I was arraigned unexpectedly. I didn’t have an attorney with me. It didn’t matter. They needed to ship me out to the lock up in Hartford. They didn’t want me around over the holidays. This lock up facility was a centralized clearing house you might say for all the town jails. One was processed through this facility while waiting further arraignments and hearings. I would wait in this lock up until January when my next appearance would be scheduled. You were guaranteed to stay at the lock up a maximum of 10 days unless you got bonded out. My bond was set at $50,000 I had no idea where I was going or what it was like. I died.

Nothing in my imagination or experience could have prepared me for the degrading hell of jail. In my life, I had only once spent an overnight period in a jail cell at a police station. These past three days in the Bristol police station were merciless but now I saw that if society’s objection of punishment was to push a human being out of his humanity, to make him an animal of lowest instincts, then society has succeeded far beyond its knowing. It has succeeded in imposing a savage, barbaric vengeance.

During the process of checking in to my new hell pit, I got the opportunity to talk to a medic who reviewed one’s need for medication. Some drug addicts needed something for withdrawals, others were on prescription medication, others were having dt’s. I didn’t need anything but I needed to talk to him about my concerns being around men. I was scared by all of what one hears regarding fights and rapes. But there wasn’t much hope for me. I could be put in a location called suicide watch where I couldn’t leave the cell all day, I couldn’t read or smoke. It was worse than a protective custody situation. I opted to take my chances in the population. Two to a cell. It was relatively safe until you got out twice a day to go to a recreation room where you could play cards and watch TV for an hour.

The medic was comforting though because he stated that in all the years he had been there, there hadn’t been a single case of sexual assault. Plenty of fights but everyone was too confined for getting you in a corner. It was a comforting statement but you couldn’t convince me of feeling ill at ease. I had to watch my back every minute. There were plenty of guards too. This atmosphere of a lock up jail was intended to keep everyone in check because everyone was in a brutish purgatory - all were awaiting court cases, hearings and arraignments. No one was a sentenced person but there were plenty of repeat offenders in here. Many super dangerous people.

I began a daily diary from the moment I entered this hell hole. I continued it throughout my stay. I’ve rewritten it many times to make it clearer and I honestly could write a singular book on this whole experience. Sometimes I wrote very little but other times I wrote large amounts of material and observations as well as personal thoughts and reflections. And at this time, I can only reflect on the importance of the dramatic events of court appearances, delays, frustrations and a minimum of growth within myself. And at times, I will take a moment to illustrate how one can emerge from this experience totally, irreparably, debased in brain and body.

For example, I was strip searched 23 times in 15 months. For a guy who has always been insecure being nude around men, boy did I have frightening experiences. Another crazy detail was that I had been fingerprinted and photographed 6 times in the 15 months.

All the way up the corridor to my cell this first day, guys were screaming and asking me for cigarettes. It was like the dog kennels I worked in as a kid where the dogs were barking like mad at dinner time when you walked by their cages.

The noise at mealtime was horrendous. Men were screaming in an effort to trade or barter there meals, like saying - I’ve got a dessert for juice or I‘ve got two smokes for a juice and once a trade was made they’d say, "run it". We were all locked in our cells and you would hand food or whatever down from cell to cell to whomever made the trade with you. For the first 15 minutes you couldn’t even eat because everyone was having you move stuff around for them.

What I saw next was a real thriller. Every last bit of waste, the containers of food, milk cartons, trays, spoons, orange and banana peals - you name it, everything was thrown back out of the cell onto the corridor floor. Honest to God, I thought I was back in the monkey room at Harvard where the monkeys would throw their fruit at you. After a while, a guy would come up the corridor with a street broom and push all the trash to the end. What a mess. Then they’d wash the floor with something so strong that you’d gag on it and it would kill the flavor of your meal.

On December 26, I got the shock of my present life. I was called out because I had a visit. I hoped it was my attorney and I was shocked to see my brother #2. Wow, Harry had gotten through to my family. And of all the people that I least expected to show was my least favorite brother. Well, my brother said he was here to help and that the family wanted to help. He was the closest to me distance wise and we talked about my attorney, options and the next scheduled court appearance which was for January 2. There wasn’t a fucken thing I could do to get to Court earlier because the Courts were off for the holidays. So I was stuck here until the 2nd and he would have time to coordinate something with my attorney. I couldn’t stress more of the importance of getting me out, so I could figure out a strategy better, once I was on the outside. He had hopes of coming up with the money to bail me out and for an attorney. I was full of hope for the first time in this whole experience.

I was more relaxed in seeing him; grateful undoubtedly. I didn’t realize how important he had become in my life. After all the years that I had alienated him from my love and friendship, I now understood why he was here to help. He was a victim too and he could identify with my explanation of shooting a guy out of anger and revenge. He had repressed his years of anger too but cried on Xmas day when he heard that I was in jail because of the abuse that I had never told anyone about. My whole family was shocked but they could relate - all were victims.

He came back Friday to see me. My mother was with him. It was a tough experience for us both. They brought me books and cigs, so finally I was feeling some sense of sanity. My brother would see me next at the January 2, court appearance.

This appearance on the 2nd went along very confusingly. I wanted a bond reduction, my attorney went with a competency exam. And when you think of it, I needed one but I was pissed that I couldn’t get moving - on getting out. The next court date was scheduled for the 16th.

From today the 2nd, I would spend 11 months in a prison called the Hartford Community Correction Center [HCCC]. It was located a mile from downtown Hartford. It’s best described as a county facility or a mid-state facility where people were held for short sentences, for people like me awaiting court appearances or pre-trial detention or for people about to finish up their sentences after having served in the big house or medium security prisons around the state. Call it what you will - it sucked big time.

I soon learned the meaning of "controlled movement". It was 100% better than the lock up I had been in. It was a million miles away from that pit. But it was hard time. No one moved anywhere without a guard there in a control room to open and close doors. One needed a pass to get anywhere other than from where you lived on this tier. At least we had a day or recreation (rec) room within our block. This section housed 15 cells. There were three double cells and the rest single. The population here I quickly realized was like the lock up jail. There were 7 to 8 black or Hispanic inmates to every white guy.

Freedom until lost is seldom valued. Until the choices of being able to walk around, go to another room or go outside were denied, you don’t realize how lucky you are to be on the outside. I never went outside for ten months. I could see the outside but I never went outside to a walled in double basketball court where you could play or stretch or get fresh air. I was too afraid to tangle up with some guy or guys. Even the peace of using a toilet privately - when taken away, can draw on your nerves. Your private person disappears. When you’re first locked up, you think you’re going to go mad.

The biggest frustration for a person who smokes and doesn’t have money is needing cigarettes. I could go on and on for chapters about all the craziness I experienced surrounding this habit. I wish to hell I never smoked. You had nothing else to make you feel half whole other than a cigarette. A cigarette is your only means for staying in touch with reality - a sense of something. The only think I can tell anyone who has a loved one in jail is that in order to keep the man half sane - try to get him money so that he can buy cigs. Cigs are the center of all commerce in jail. Without them you don’t exist. I even knew guys who didn’t smoke but they had cigarettes. They are your money - your survival.

I didn’t experience any sexual assaults here. Homosexuality existed but your movement is too restrictive. You’re not allowed in someone else’s cell but there were ways around that. But as far as my personal safety, I was lucky for two reasons. First everyone knew about my case. There are no secrets in jail. They learned early from my records down stairs, that I had shot a homo and secondly, they figured later from the medication that I was taking that I had to be nuts, so why fool with me.

I was located in this jail in an area where heavy duty criminals were placed. I can’t say that this is exclusive to the whole jail experience. Sometimes because of overcrowding men were on my floor who shouldn’t have been mixed in with these hardcore criminals. Some of us were not hardcore but because of the highness of my bond at $50,000, I was in an area of high bonded men accused of everything. There were other sections of the prison like my area. Some areas were for teenagers away from our area. We were about as far away as you could get from being able to escape somehow.

Sure I needed to be where I was because of my crime but I was shocked to learn that there were many murderers living on my tear. There was even a guy called Barry who was a real heavy duty gangster type guy. He was a big black dude who was doing life. Life, I thought! What the hell was a lifer doing here with those of us who were either pre-trial detainees or those awaiting sentencing. Normally a convicted murderer is at Somers, Conn. (the big house). Well, this guy was frightening and he was in charge, no doubt about it. He had been shuffled around the system so much that it was rumored that he was here in this setting for his own protection. He apparently had trouble everywhere he was placed. There were rumors that he was possibly a snitch, who knows but I know one thing, I stayed clear away from him. He was intimidating and he was also gay. Two combinations I stayed away from.

One night early into the morning, I heard his cell open and he had a visitor. He had a male inmate visiting him. The guards permitted it. If you were in with the guards life was easier. It was called having a "juice card". If you had the juice, you could get anything you wanted including drugs.

So I knew homosexuality existed and even more so one day when I was in the day room I saw - what I believed to be - two girls. Talk about being naive. I asked a guy, where do they place those girls in this prison and I was laughed at. I mean these girls were all made up and had breasts. But they really weren’t girls, so I learned. Sometimes they were actual transsexuals but most of the time they were transvestites. And they all were friends of this guy Barry.

My case and only my case is what I concentrated on. Most inmates share this common concern. I went to the law library and looked up information on an Insanity Plea or the temporary insanity statute which I believed I was at the time of the shooting. But none existed. But the information I learned help me to understand what guilty by insanity meant, or guilty by reason of a mental defect and you were not responsible for your conduct. The other one was guilty but not criminally responsible because of a mental defect.

You see, I really believed that I could get out of jail on bond and defend myself. Actually take this thing to trial. I actually believed that I had some form of mental illness. I had to. I couldn’t conceive that anyone could go around and shoot someone unless they were sick or were definitely sick or insane at the time. I was trying to understand what I could do for myself. The court even wanted to know if I was competent to stand trial or even to enter a plea.

I had a competency evaluation performed on me by three shrinks right here in the jail in the hospital area. With all the questions they asked me, just when I was about to tell them about the child abuse they cut me off. They were there to determine if I was competent - not to hear my life history. I was annoyed.

I called my attorney and jokingly told him I flunked the evaluation. He said - really. No, I was kidding because it was really a joke the way these doctors interviewed me. My attorney said that if I hadn’t passed it, it would have probably gone better for me because we could have gone right into psychiatric reasons for a defense. But I wasn’t crazy - crazy.

I was living in a double cell. I was asked when I was admitted to this place if I wanted a single cell when and if one became available. I said sure but I changed my mind later. It was worse being alone in a big way for me. I couldn’t stand not having someone to talk to. On the other hand, you took the risk of having a terrible cell mate. I was lucky 90% of the time. Some guys could afford their own TV and or radio. You had someone to talk to and share things with especially if you ran out of something. You could protect what little belongings you owned. We all talked about our cases but sometimes it was hard.

It’s hard to talk to someone about sexual child abuse - because you are reluctant to announce your participation as a victim. You think that people will look down on you, that they might think you are a homo - or that you really have head problems. Over the many months I learned. I had reservations about telling certain people about my case but it’s terrible to want and need to continue the release of the trauma when you can’t talk about it with someone.

Another difficult period of my thinking process was the aspect of having recurring nightmares. The shooting wasn’t a nightmare but the assault on me was and moreso I was resurrecting prior nightmares from childhood that revolved around sexual abuse. They were always the same - this fight to get someone off of me that was mauling me.

January 16, 1985 - My court appearance finally came. Christ, I waited practically all day for my case to come up. That’s okay, I wasn’t going anywhere, so I find out. When my attorney showed up, he was in such a rush that I didn’t get a moment to even review questions with him. We didn’t argue for a bond reduction today. My attorney wanted my brother and mother present next week when we did ask for it. We merely accepted the competency evaluation which concluded that I was competent. My attorney asked me why the report didn’t include a mention of the child abuse and I told him. I was pissed to say the least that we weren’t asking for bond reduction. I had many more questions for my attorney too. He
was impatient with me when I wanted answers but you learn quickly to be patient. Going to court is exhausting - just sitting and waiting, anticipating, hoping and preparing. It was the only thing on my mind. I had a week to wait for the next court appearance.

The competency evaluation report itself had one interesting feature. It stated the following:

"Mr. Nealus recited for us a history of chronic alcoholism in which he has periodic blackouts as a result of his drinking. He believes he may have been mis-identified in this case as he has no memory at all of any such events as the police or the victim described. He believes he may have been somewhere else at the time and possibly knows of other people who would know where he was that day. In any event he seems to be capable of putting together a defense for himself and considering any evidence the state may have to present against him. Mr. Nealus’s severe alcoholism, from which he may experience periodic blackouts, is not interfering with his competency to stand trial."

I’ve included this because these assholes actually expected me to answer their questions about the shooting. I couldn’t fucking believe that they expected me to relate the story of the shooting to them. Talk about being crazy. I’m supposed to have three witnesses write this report indicating that I told them exactly how I shot this guy. Talk about stupid. At this time I didn’t know who to trust and all I knew was to keep my mouth shut. What fool would have told them a story that was being written up as this report was and handed over to the court. Talk about self-incrimination.

* * *

January 23, 1985 - I brought my stuff from my cell to court because there could be a chance that I could get a bond reduction and walk. Released on bail. I had begun writing my book and I wanted to protect that from getting lost.

Today became the most emotionally crazy day that I had experienced to date. It was so disruptive and filled with depression that it took all my strength not to go wacko. Luck wasn’t with me this day. I thought I was inches from getting free. My brother and attorney set the pitch for the moves we could take. Today was supposed to be bond reduction day as well as the fact that I was supposed to plea. Guilty or not. First, I could plea guilty and let it take its course. Oh, no - not for me. Second, the family was here to help me and they even mentioned that I could possibly go home today. They advised, that I needed to keep clean for a year until the trial came up. Third, I could plea bargain. No, not yet, I didn’t know enough about that shit yet.

Well, we get called into court and Christ, my attorney was an expert orator. The only problem was - not quite good enough to satisfy this prick of a judge. I was warned that it wasn’t going to be easy. The District Attorney wasn’t going to agree with a bond reduction but so what. My attorney says, let’s see how it goes. The DA crucified me, then the judge by reading parts of the police report where George’s statement was, indicated that he felt the incident was a clear cold blooded attempt to commit bodily harm. No shit.

Later I read the police report. What a pack of lies and I guarantee you that George was prompted into saying certain things because the police couldn’t figure a motive, so they invented that I wanted to rob George. They couldn’t imagine that someone could walk right up to someone and shoot them without some motive that they were used to - like robbery.

I was screaming inside to tell the judge about my abuse and George’s attack on me. If he wanted to hear a mouth full, I’d give him a lot. But I had to keep quiet. I was so angry that I was now planning to press charges against George for assault. I learned one had up to a year to file a charge against someone and sexual assault was what I was intending.

My attorney talked of me not having any priors, that I surrendered and gave up working just to clear this up. No dice, the Judge put it to me. You see, the court wants to be assured that I would return for future court appearances and a prerequisite of this is that one is working and has a steady job, that he lives in the area and that he has family in the area or other support mechanisms in place. I had nothing. I was a bum - according to the police report. I had no credibility. The victim had.

I really believe that my attorney was defenseless because of all the shit they threw at me. His hands were tied because there wasn’t much to deign in all their accusations. It required more research and planning. We could again request a bond reduction but not for weeks.

So back at the prison I sat dumbfounded. With the bond still so high my brother couldn’t get me out and pay the attorney too. The attorney needed $5000 and God knows what if it went to trial. If my bond went down to $25,000 my brother could have gotten me out for $2500 and the rest could go to the attorney. We could figure out later how to raise the rest for trial. I was bullshit. The next court appearance was scheduled for February 27th - fuck, a whole 6 weeks away. What the fuck for?

Well, the plan next was to hire a private psychiatrist to issue a report to the court when we appeared next to ask for a bond reduction. This could better explain the circumstances surrounding my history and the frame of mind I was in at the time as well as my present state. But I thought that was dangerous, as in tipping our hand towards the prosecutors by admitting certain things. God, I was a basket case. I’d better check into seeing a doctor here because my mind was blowing up.

In time I was able to get my hands on the police arrest warrant application. I wanted to give my input regarding the statements that I felt were untrue - at least in my opinion. The first thing that shocked me was that the warrant wasn’t signed until November 21, 1984. Christ, what took them so long. That was five weeks after the shooting.

The erroneous statements that I concentrated on were as follows: The victim stated, "that [I] wanted to borrow money and that [I] wanted the victim to give [me] a ride to Terryville".

That was bull because I didn’t need money, had no interest in robbing him and would have all the money I needed in two days. I certainly didn’t want a ride to Terryville.

Next, the victim stated, "That [I] unwrapped the plastic bag, taking out a gun." What a joke. Because I didn’t expose the gun, I probably saved his life because I couldn’t really aim the gun. I definitely and purposely never exposed the rifle. He lied through the words of the dicks.

This is more interesting than false. It mostly just surprised me. The victim stated, "that [I] had spent time in a mental institution in Mass". Well, I stayed overnight once. Also stated, "that the victim had come to the Bristol Police Station on more than one occasion to complain about the accused harassing him". Boy, he must have been nervous, if he in fact did this.

The report stated, "it is believed that George was shot because the victim refused to give him [me] money, or allow the accused to stay at his home". I never asked for money nor had any intentions ever now of moving in with this pervert. That decision I made several weeks before.

I must say that this last sentence scared me and really made me realize how lucky I was. The report stated, "that the victim had been shot on the right side of his face, the bullet then exited just below the victims left ear; that the bullet entered the victims head approximately 1 inch from the brain and approximately 1 and one half inches from the victims spinal cord”.

Hence - the title of this book - "An Inch From Murder"

A report in the newspaper also stated that, "the shooting was preceded by an argument between the two men and further, that [I] had with him [me] a package which contained a long barreled gun wrapped in a towel and further, that the virtually intact slug was dug out of the wall and will be sent to the state police lab and further, that investigators were not sure whether the suspect fired the gun from the doorway or inside the sitting room".

So, I was an inch from murdering George. That was serious and I knew it. I was just puzzled by all this information and the inability of the police to get the story straight. But investigations must go like this. All I know is that it’s far better to have this information at hand before you get crucified in a bond reduction hearing or any other process of review. These erroneous reports can really hang a person and I’m sure many a man has had to deal
with this kind of confusion.

Now that I knew I wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile, I was getting concerned about my stuff that I left in the apartment in Cambridge. I wrote the building manager and explained my predicament and that I’d have someone pick up my stuff. I hoped he would just put it in storage until I could arrange for Billy or someone to pick it up for me.

And tomorrow was my daughter’s birthday. How sad I felt that I couldn’t even send her a card. I called her on her birthday but she was out. I talked with my son but again it had to be an evasive conversation. I was really too upset to explain my problem to him. I would write and I wrote my daughter to wish her a happy birthday and to express that we would celebrate her day later.

I called the kids again at the beginning of February, said hello to both and took the opportunity to explain in detail to my son about just what a spot I was in. His family kept the jail discussion from him - whether right or wrong and I felt it was time that I explained things to him and that it came from me. My son was my buddy, I’ve never kept anything from him, good or bad and in my opinion he deserved the respectability of being treated older than I knew he was treated at home. My daughter wouldn’t tell him and his mother probably figured he was too young to understand. When you lay it out properly to him, he surprises you; kids are in touch with the world more than we all guess. He was concerned but I tried to minimize the actual experience here in jail. I knew he felt better in knowing the truth. It was hard for me to explain things but I loved him too much to be evasive any longer. So we began a new relationship this day - he had his moments of concern and I had mine. I asked them to write me. I’d even enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope to my son so he could get back to me when he needed. I would hope that I wouldn’t have to call much anymore if I could get out at the end of the month. I was optimistically telling them that I’d be able to see them once out because I had been taking care of my problem. I’d be in Boston but I’d be able to have them visit.

Finally, on February 11th I got to see the psychiatrist. I was put on medication and even with him I wouldn’t discuss the actual shooting. I still didn’t trust anyone. I talked about child abuse and my symptoms of neurodermatitis that I was experiencing. He put me on an antidepressant called sinequan with a multi-vitamin and B1. It took a while to benefit from the medication and mostly it was a blessing to be able to sleep uninterrupted at night.

Finally on the 20th my attorney came to jail to meet me. He was on a fact finding mission and I was full of questions. I was really pissed because I couldn’t understand why things were taking so long. This was the first real long conversation I had with him finally. He felt that I wasn’t taking the severity of the crime to heart. I thought, that I had a more or less an offense like assault in the 1st degree. But he corrected me and indicated that I was being changed with attempted murder. I was facing 20 years. I wanted out - but he knew this may not be in my best interest.

How come things take so long was my biggest concern but we all feel this problem in jail. We’re expecting the outside world will stop and act on our behalf pronto. Things take time and I was beginning to learn from the experienced inmates that time can be very beneficial. You become self-centered naturally. You are critical and uncompromising when you feel your case must be acted on.

Now with court just a week away, I couldn’t see anything good happening for me. The bond reduction question probably wouldn’t even be addressed. I was truly confused and unhappy.

I was seeing the doctor weekly now but our sessions were so short - on average 15 minutes - I couldn’t make headway with my concerns and anxieties were running high. I really couldn’t pinpoint it as anxiety exactly because I really didn’t know what anxiety really meant.

Much to my dismay when I went to court on the 27th, it was postponed again. My attorney wanted to compile vital information to organize psychiatric or treatment background on me. I had to wait now until March 12. Well, I had waited and survived five weeks - two more wouldn’t kill me. On March 5th, I saw a TV movie called Kids Don’t Tell. It really hit home. I was beginning to feel the importance of getting my (male) view of sexual child abuse out and open. I was beginning to feel that perhaps when and if I got out, the period of time would be so long before I could get a book published, that the subject would be old hat and no one would be receptive to what I had to say. I didn’t know of any other story anywhere that depicted this gross amount of abuse - as I had experienced.

I began at this time to lose interest in getting up for breakfast. Sleeping was so important to me because of depression. I’d often have a hard time getting to sleep and once I did, I couldn’t wake up easily because of the medication. I’d have my cellmate wake me at 11 a.m. for lunch. If I got up for breakfast I couldn’t go back to sleep and the more I slept the easier time went. With all the meals I missed, I couldn’t figure out why I was gaining wait. I went into jail at 135 pounds. I was now 155 lbs.

March was showing the signs of the end of winter. We had a window in the room but it was covered by a small course metal grate. The window was a louvered type, small paned and you turned a handle to open and close them horizontally. There was a window sill that little sparrows would land on. You really couldn’t see much out of the window. But you could get fresh air now and hear the birds. I felt like I was the Bird Man of Alcatraz because I would push soft bread and butter through the screen grate to attract the birds. They came everyday, once I opened up the window. It became entertaining for me. I’d chirp and talk to the birds. I knew now that this place was really getting to me.

I went to Court as planned March 12. I expected something to happen constructively - nothing did. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I was told that my attorney postponed for a week due to him being sick. Another day of disappointment but I was getting experienced with this routine.

March 19, Court again. Postponed again. This time for three weeks. Christ, I wanted to strangle my attorney and pull my hair out. I was on the phone to my brother screaming my head off but it ended up the delays were well founded. My attorney asked for the postponement because he had info to gather as pretrial material which the DA and the Judge agreed to. Again he was formulating background info from hospitals and different therapists I had talked to. He knew again the direction he wanted the course of this case to go. Talk about needing patience still. I was screaming - for wondering as to why this all didn’t occur back in January. I was asked to go along with his plan. I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t heard anything further about a private doctor coming in to interview me.

Part of my attorney’s plan was to talk to George. George agreed but quickly included his attorney in the meeting. This was an important key part of my defense. My attorney wanted to have George as an unhostile witness. He worked on George and his attorney with much finesse. If George was so hostile towards me, he could really have put pressure on the DA to hang me. Although I once thought that George could even drop the charges against me if I filed charges against him - but it wasn’t up to George. The state was actually charging me. But the key was to get George less involved with the case and although I wasn’t there at their meeting, I know pressure was put on George to realize the extent to which this case could go publicly, if it went to trial.

This third delay frightened me and I was bitter. Where did the plans for release go. I was a prisoner of circumstances and decided to direct my anger into a renewed determination to write, and write every day. I had typewriting paper and wrote everything down that I could think of. I wrote so small and filled up both sides of each piece of paper I could scrape together. This was somehow keeping me sane and I was actually now seeing the benefit of sobriety. I could think.

Maybe in April, the effects of the medication were showing along with detox. That’s why I started to change for the better. And I would think: Can you imagine being in a room with men whose lives are halfway doomed? Guards screwing the wives or girlfriends of inmates for drugs. Guilty before proven innocent - that’s how all are treated and I didn’t meet a guy who was innocent - yet there are a few - so why are you treated like cattle.

One of the most mixed emotional experiences now due to my delays was the review of other cases - good and bad. Everyone, one way or the other, eventually talked about their cases. You looked at similar cases to your own and you compared possible sentences that you could face. We talked about Judges who were tough. We saw cases on TV and some guy’s sentences. Guys who were living with us and were shipped off to the big house. It’s all shop talk with many jail house lawyers.

One guy on the tier stabbed a guy 7 times in the chest - was charged with assault in the first degree. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t charged with attempted murder. He was sentenced to 10 years suspended after five. So beginning with his case I always felt that I wouldn’t be doing 20 years. And this guy had priors, had been at the nut house before for a good term. I guess sometimes I even thought that maybe I wouldn’t do time at all, somehow. The other guys assured me I would. And for the first time I was now seeing that I probably would. I was getting into a bind now. If I got out soon, I’d lose all this time I had spent in jail - as time served, including good time credit. When sentenced I’d start from the beginning. But I was still thinking that I had some psychological reason for getting off or at least sent to a mental hospital instead of serving time in the big house.

I couldn’t have a job here because I hadn’t been sentenced, therefore I couldn’t make a small bit of money. The only exception was the tier man job. The guy who cleaned up. You could get this job but it was based on seniority on the tier. The other job was serving the meals. That was held by Barry and he wasn’t going anywhere for life. You couldn’t go to school if your bond was too high except for GED classes and I didn’t need that. I tried to get into a computer class. No go.

As I said before there is so much that I’d like to mention about this scary jail experience and I just can’t - it could be a whole new book. But I have to talk about a few items. All these trips to Court, the strip searches upon returning from Court were so unnecessary. If these postponements had been arranged in advance I wouldn’t have had to endure the brutality of the trip to court. One time a black guy robbed a young white kid when we were returning from court. You see, the cops at the police station don’t strip search you. They do a lousy job of finding stuff on you in general. This young kid had an ounce of pot with him and two hundred bucks. So the black guy advised him that he’d loose it all when he got to the prison but this black guy could get it in for him. He would take his cash and buy more pot for him too.

Well, this prison was a revolving door to this black guy. He knew the Correctional Officers (CO's) so well that they never strip searched him like they did to others and me. This guy literally walked right into the prison with the pot and cash in his pockets and the CO’s never went through his pockets. Or I might add that perhaps just the particular officer on duty that day was a friend of his. You never know. The black guy laughed when I saw him again because he never saw the kid again, kept the money and pot. You weren’t supposed to have any cash on you in jail and if you did, you got in trouble, big time. With this cash he could pay guards to furnish him with drugs. He sold the pot to make even more money.

Another young guy I knew had his girlfriend drop off a McDonalds lunch to him at court. They allowed it but would check it, yet they didn’t see that the girl had put balloons in the milkshake filled with pot. This was in Bristol and the kid passed the balloons a couple of days later in prison. He had his shitty pot alright.

Going to Court was sickening for me. I could detail for days the events in jail and I could fill a book but if I could have just stayed in my cell all day instead of having to be carted to Court for no reason, I would have been far better off. We were taken by Van for an hour’s trip in order to get to court.

It was the most nauseating experience. The Van only had a rear window and if open, the fumes came in to sicken you. There was a vent in the ceiling but with as many guys as could fit in the van, they was hardly enough air. The van fit twelve guys but never did I see just twelve. I was always cuffed to another guy. You just sit with one hand holding on for life, having no sense of direction because the cops drove so fast and joisted us around so much, that you’ld get motion sickness.

The trip from prison stopped first in the Hartford lock up to pick up more inmates. We headed next to New Britain. That was like a twenty minute ride. Some would get out and off to Bristol we’ld go. That was another twenty five minutes. The worse part was heading home. There was always extra men in police station jails having been arrested the night before. I swear to God, one time we returned to prison with 21 guys in the van.

One day, some weird guy piled into the van and started mouthing off right away. Everyone hated this trip and kept relatively quit because everyone’s cases were on their minds. This asshole was really mentally ill. He picked on the guy I was cuffed to and my mate beat the living shit out of him with one hand as I was attached to him. Then four or five other guts had a piece of him. I don’t believe it but three weeks later this same weird guy gets into the van at the prison on our way to court for the day and he starts up again. This guy had been in protective custody located in the hospital in prison. He entered the van half clothed holding his sneakers. His feet were filled with shit because he was going off in his cell, had stepped in his own excrement in the toilet and was acting up as if he was going off the wall. And I felt for the guy because he really was mentally ill but hadn’t been sent yet to the nut house. Again he starts up but this time he picks on a huge black guy - who literally made him eat his shit. I'm not lying. He was made to lick his feet. He was burned with cigarettes. The fight in the back of the van was so bad that the cop had to stop the van to cool everybody down. But it started up again. By the time we got to the New Britain jail, this guy had been so severely beaten that he had to go to the hospital. Pictures were taken of his injuries.

A day later all of us who were in the van were called down to talk to the state police to make statements. I kept my mouth shut and said I didn’t see anything. I was up at the front of the van and the fight was in the back. And actually, I couldn’t see much because you just covered up to protect yourself from the fight and the swinging fists. I couldn’t say anything anyway or I’d end up like this guy - if I snitched on anyone.

I was seeing the shrink up to March 27 because a very interesting development occurred for me - completely unexpected and much welcomed. Through the shrink, my name was given to the school psychologist as a candidate for some counseling that would be performed by a graduate student at the University of Hartford who was completing her studies in a work participation program between the jail and the University.

I was told that this girl would work with me, if I wanted, in a counseling capacity over a few months - once a week - along with other inmates. My name had been submitted because the shrink thought that I would be interested in receiving some help. You bet. It was so hard just seeing the shrink for 15 minutes only. I really needed to talk to someone.

I was overjoyed. I finally had a chance to let out my inner conflicts and frustrations. This was a private session and I let out everything that boiled inside of me for the past three months and more.

One of the most important things I got to do in jail was to read. On average, I read three books a week. The first book I read was "Is There No Place On Earth For Me" by Susan Sheehan. It is a story about a mentally ill girl and her struggles. I related to this story for many reasons and mostly because I really felt that I had head problems other than just alcoholism. Although, I didn’t have a clinically defined illness as this girl had in this book, you can relate or identify with the difficulties people experience when you yourself feel similar confusion. This month an article appeared in the Hartford Courant’s Northeast Magazine that made quite an impression on me. The article was about Author Louise Armstrong and her book the "The Home Front: Notes From The Family War Zone". Also mentioned was her first book, Kiss Daddy Goodnight. Ms. Armstrong had successfully written the first book by a woman indicating the fact of her being a victim of sexual child abuse. She was heralded as "the first walking, talking incest victim". And I respected that and wanted to be the first male to disclose the experiences of being a survivor as well.

Not only did I need to read and learn and see articles like this, I needed to write to people - and I wrote to a lot of people - sometimes receiving positive reinforcement for my wish to write a book. Most of the time I never heard back from people.

In February, I had written to the Executive Director of the National Committee for the Prevention of Child Abuse in Chicago and now in March I received one of the most helpful replies in my whole life. I received a packet of information from Joy Byers (her real name) Assistant in Public Awareness. The information was super helpful. I felt very encouraged. One of the most interesting pieces of material was about a program called PIP - The Parents in Prison Program.

Parents in Prison is an inmate organization housed at the Tennessee State Prison for Men. Through a series of educational courses and special events, the organization provides an innovative approach to strengthening families and developing parental skills and commitments during a father’s incarceration.

April 9th rolled around and so did Court. You guessed it - postponed again. It was all due to the fact that my attorney was waiting for a letter from the therapist I had seen while at my sisters in 1981-1982. This letter would supposedly support my attorneys request for a private psychiatric review. That was the hold up on my interview. So here’s the delay of delays. I had no control - and again we get a 3 week delay. Around this time, it was hinted to me that through and from all these letters and negotiations with George - including a financial settlement with George - that I may be looking at a suspended sentence with a conditional probation that I receive psychiatric treatment. At first I thought it was a joke. My attorney had made my offense so serious that I never figured now that I wouldn’t be doing time. It was too much to think - that it was even remotely possible that I could be so lucky. My attorney must have had a lot of confidence from his deliberations with George which I didn’t know the context of.

I held off writing letters to the kids when I’d have these court dates because I’d hope for good news. It was becoming a nightmare, sharing some hope with my son, making tentative plans with him. His letters indicated a real strong sadness that hurt me to the core.

Although I was hurting, somehow in April some insightful things began to benefit me. I discovered an old book in the library called "How To Stop Worrying And Start Living Again" by Dale Carnegie. I couldn’t believe that this was written before his famous book, "How To Win Friends And Influence People" - which I hadn’t read. I just knew of it and of his courses. I found this book fascinating. I found a topic discussed that I identified with immediately. I became engrossed in the thoughts illustrated which showed that I, in all probability have been worrying my life away. Although the religious experiences didn’t hit home, I took in everything and read it twice. Then I wrote down on 10 legal size sheets of paper, every quotation, clichés, analogy or philosophy from all the quotes in the book. The first was, “two men looked out from prison bars, one looked down at the mud - the other looked up at the stars”. That one did it. From this day forward, through all the fears and unknown circumstances I’d face, I recognized that I had been looking down at the mud. The funny part was that in my bunk, I
had no choice. Looking out the window only allowed me to look down. I knew now that I had to start finding a way to look up.

This book made a lot of things sink in. From childhood I have been a worrier and for good reasons connected to my experiences of sexual child abuse, worried about what people would think if I was caught or found out. What a terrible pressure to be under as a child and throughout life. I was learning a great deal about myself now. I had feared being caught or labeled a queer or homo. Fear then anger.

Now, for reasons I suppose intertwining between this book and having a counselor to talk to - I began a rebirth in my thinking and attitudes towards the existence of a life which brought me here.

And my transformation of attitudes regarding my time here began to evolve. I began to accept the existence, in that, I knew I wasn’t getting out tomorrow or next week. I began to fully recognize sobriety and its benefits. I began to think in terms of the time served so far, and with the knowledge that I have done 4 months - supposedly, one only does 8 months on a year because of good time - and if things continued as they were, I began to stop fighting time and began living time. I resigned to the fact that if we could negotiate only a year - it could be in my favor to subject myself to the year. To spend any money now down the drain for a bondsman would be stupid. I only considered this now after having a hint from my attorney that a reasonable plea bargain agreement could be struck.

During my counseling sessions now, I was able to focus more clearly on the benefits this form of conversation was doing for me. I discussed my frustrations with the court delays and decisions I had no control over. I talked about my progress in writing my life story and that struggle; trying to piece together a puzzle from pure memory, without the aid of past calendars or diaries was truly difficult.

My counselor asked me how did I express my anger. I felt that I didn’t really get uptight that much, but then I looked back and realized that I had no way of expressing anger - that I let it coop itself up inside and when it came out, it came out in a rage. Along with making myself aware of these things, the awareness allowed me to write a more clearer explanation of the events of my life.

Along the way, in addition to writing for my book, I’d jot down notations of significance for the day. Day Light Savings, April 28, 1985 - I wrote the following: "I missed it all. Like it never really happened". And speaking of time. I’m here too long. It wasn’t until these past few days that I realized this by listening to the accounts of my cellmate. He refers to his case which occurred just recently. How recently? He talks of February 1. And I sit and listen - look back to October, to where all this started for me. And it seems like he should be talking about something - like my case, that occurred so long ago. And it has only been two months for him. What a goof!’

"So the days are one hour longer. You could have fooled me. Here I sit writing this. I’ve been awake now at least an hour before 1st call for breakfast. Instead of awakening to bright morning sunlight - it is dusk. Yet the birds weren’t fooled by the hour change. They began chirping at the standard time. So who’s fooling who?"

And on this day I began to write religiously. My roommate was very supportive of my project and said that if I write one page a day, in 365 days I’ll have a book written. And now the factor of time seemed reversed. Before I thought of all the time I had and now knowing how much I have to write, I realize how little time I have left. I’ve used and wasted four months but that’s okay because I needed the growth and I didn’t have a plan anyways. Now I have a goal. Write every day. I have a purpose for the time I’m spending here. I will discipline myself to write something every day and as I do I am unlocking a lot of thoughts I hadn’t planned on. I will eat, sleep, rest and relax - and write, chapter after chapter. It will take hours and days - organizing and rethinking, then rewrites and more rewrites. But this is all I have to do; my schooling, my education - this is my job. I could never have done this on the outside.

Court came up again on the 30th and again a delay. I talked with my counselor about this continued frustration but I was beginning to handle it better now. It wasn’t a disappointment anymore. It was time working its pattern into my life - for good or for bad, but I learned to take it easy, not to let the overwhelming task of writing about my life - overcome me and cause discouragement. To avoid hating it, I’d only write a few pages a day and put it away. To discipline myself to write was tough and I’d often rush through it - to get it out of the way. It’s painful. But before long I began to make progress and discovered by writing, that the act stimulated my memory banks. I often caused subconscious remembrances to surface unknowingly and I surprised myself. I began a continuing habit of jotting down one liner thoughts on scrap paper, forcing myself to get up off the bed to jot down a thought so I wouldn’t forget it.

I wrote a lot out in the day room and even when I didn’t actually write, I kept the folder out there with me to write down thoughts when they popped into my head. I’d even get up at night when lying there thinking - usually early
into the morning when I thought the most, often keeping me awake, sometimes just ready to fall asleep and a thought would creep into my head - and I’d get up to write something down. Often it happened in the dark and I’d grab a piece of paper and write in the dark, straining my eyes to write down a one liner. I had many sleepless nights because of thinking so much. It became a problem actually. My medication was affecting me as strongly as before but I really didn’t want more now.

Court was postponed again still awaiting the letter from the counselor in Boston. I had another three weeks wait again. This "counselor" in Marblehead - although he helped me to understand Hypoglycemia better - I have to tell you - he is one of the biggest jackasses that I have met in my entire life. And trust me - after my life story - you got to know - that I've met some beauties in my lifetime - but I have also learned - from the best of the best. And I know a fucking jackass - when I see one.

[authors note: "Nealus" is a nickname the Irish use for Cornelius. I have chosen to use "Nealus" to describe myself - my "pen" name]

Click Here for the Free Chapter - Part I Chapter 1

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