In 1983 I was convicted of bank fraud and sent to a chain gang high in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Three years later I escaped from there, stole an airplane, flew it to Florida and began robbing banks.
Five years of high living and more than 100 banks later I was arrested in Georgia and sent to the U.S. Government's "Supermax" prison in Colorado—an Orwellian nightmare of razor wire and high-tech wizardry where the solitude and sensory deprivation were total, and where the connecting of words on paper was the only thing that kept me from connecting my neck to the ceiling by way of a knotted sheet.
After fifteen years there I was at last transferred to a less secure prison in Central Florida, where I am today.
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