Bill was housed in the hospital ward at the Las Vegas City Jail. They weaned him from the morphine with Demerol, then Tylenol. He learned firsthand the perils of painkiller addiction. If he hadn’t been locked in a steel and concrete cage, he didn’t know to what lengths he might’ve gone to continue the sweet relief that the numbness of morphine provided. Physical pain and a nagging mental anguish became his closest, most familiar companions. They would never abandon him nor allow him to dessert them.

The first days and weeks of confinement are the worst. Coming to grips with where you are, how you got there, what you left behind and what you’re facing is a cold plate of reality. Some guys never come to terms. Drug addicts using every waking hour to devise schemes to get a fix, playa’s working all the angles to hook up with a lady on the outs or a punk inside. Some cons will turn on their best friend to get jailhouse rich. If you amass enough soap and coffee or other canteen items, you’re somebody. Snitches that’ll sell out their neighborhoods and homeboys to get out, or a lesser term. Rats that’ll tell for the slightest favors from guards. Jailhouse lawyers filing paperwork till they’re being dragged off to the grave. They’re all inside.

There’s also those who actually attempt to better themselves, take some responsibility for their own actions, and use the time towards self-improvement and/or become productive and even make efforts of benefiting their family and those they come in contact with. It’s not easy though. The stigma of being a prisoner hangs on their every effort like stench on the dead, making every step forward tenfold as difficult. You’d be amazed at the depth of character built by that degree of adversity. There’s guys like that inside too, guy’s that you’d be proud to know or call friend. Those who learned late about integrity and honor through study or experience or self-realization.

Then, there are the escape artists.

In the middle of the night they brought in Toothpick Woody. Bill awoke but wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. Woody was an odd sort, a small fella with big glassy eyes, a shock of red hair and arms and legs as thin as bamboo reeds. He didn’t appear to blink those big eyes very often...it was like he was staring at you all the time. He reminded Bill of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Bill rolled over and went back to sleep but soon was awaken by a looming presence. He rolled back over and found to his shock, that Woody was about two inches from his face, staring at him with those spooky eyes. If Bill had had a heart condition he was certain that would’ve been the end of him, he let out a frightened yelp. ”What the hell?”

”You asleep?” Woody asked.

”Asleep? Well, yeah, I was...sort of. What the hell are you doing?”

”Don’t worry, I won’t be here long.” Woody was pacing the cell, looking out and down the narrow hallway. ”Won’t be here but a minute, that’s for sure. Ain’t no jail can hold me. No sir. They ain’t built a jail can hold old Woody.”

Bill was half asleep, but he didn’t think it a good idea to turn his back on this one for the time being. You never know who a guy is or what he’s capable of, especially one that’s as weird looking as Toothpick Woody.

Woody was verbose. ”I ever tell ya about the time I busted outta L.A. County?”

Bill opened his mouth to speak, to remind old Woody, that he’d just met the guy about three minutes ago, but he didn’t get a word out before the new arrival continued. ”L.A. County is the largest jail system in the world. The maximum security unit, ’Highpower’, is reserved for the most dangerous or notorious and high risk inmates. Highpowers are single-celled and strip searched before leaving their cells. They’re handcuffed behind the back and escorted anytime they leave the row. They’re watched on video monitors and every move is guarded or watched or scrutinized. They’re kept separate from even the other prisoners. Highpower ain’t no joke, it’s serious business.”

”Typical highpower inmates are multiple murderers, death row guys down from the penitentiary to go to court, gang shot callers, high-profile offenders, and escape risks. I was the latter. Early on in my confinement, I’d been ratted out for having a hacksaw blade. They found it and that sent me there. O.J. was there at the time, he had his very own row and was treated extremely well. When I mean well, I mean excellent. He had a whole row to himself, an exercise bike, a reserved visiting section (where he went nearly every single day when he wasn’t in court), and they even brought him food from the officer’s dining room. The guy was treated like a king, the rest of us, not so much.”

“You only ever see the light of day either going to court or during recreation time. Rec time was an hour-and-a-half, once a week. You were strip-searched, cuffed and escorted six inmates at a time, by three guards up to the roof of the jail. There, you were locked in individual eight-foot by eight-foot, heavy-gauge wire cages. They were about ten feet high and there was a collect-call-only phone in there and a dip bar for exercise. There’s about ten or twelve cages lined up in a row, with the brick wall of the jail serving as the back wall of each cage. The rest of the jail population that has recreation is cordoned off from the cages at a respectable distance. The three escort guards are stationed at a desk area, right there along with the cages and there’s more guards in a booth on the roof watching video monitors. It’s very secure.”
” On the tiers, back in the cells, we were in individual rows of twenty-five cells. The five years I did in highpower was the best time I’ve ever done. On the rows, daily workouts are mandatory and done in unison. I don’t mean no Jane Fonda workout either. These are all out military style routines that will leave you completely drained. A floor full of sweat and gasping for air. I was in the best physical shape of my life.”

“And then there were the mental workouts. I signed up as a ’pro-per’, acting as my own attorney on some of my cases. That got me into the law library and gave me a working knowledge of the law beyond what I could have ever learned (or afforded) at a law school. Practicing lessons self-taught in the court was trial by fire and you had to learn fast. What was of significant importance was the fact that my next door neighbor was a super-intelligent guy who knew the law better than any attorney I’ve ever met before or since. He shared his expertise and law books, but more importantly, his time. This was a guy who had taken self-improvement to an entirely new level. Joe Hunt was one of those people that you seldom meet in a lifetime. A genius who’d gone down the wrong path, but re-assessed his situation and gotten back on track. He’d found meditation, self-introspection and self-realization and applied the teachings diligently and persistently on himself. Learning meditation for myself opened my mind, spirit and imagination to vast and limitless possibilities. That unshakeable belief in no limits lead to my crouching atop the one man recreation cage, reaching over my head and cutting through the final barrier to the outside as three guards sat not thirty feet away. As the adrenaline pounded in my ears, I was thinking, ”If they’re gonna catch me, now would be a good time.”

”It took six months to inconspicuously saw through the thick gauge wiring of the cage, a little at a time. I had to get in the same cage every time, then saw a bit without anyone noticing, cover the cut marks, and ultimately, smuggle street clothes, cash, the hacksaw blade and sixty feet of homemade rope to the roof, after a strip-search, handcuffed and escorted. Difficult, not impossible.”

” The roof is sixty feet above the ground, on the front corner of the jail. The wall that is the back section of the cages drops into an alcove that sets atop the administration building. That section is outside of any ground fences. By our late afternoon recreation time, the offices are empty mostly. Drop down from the top of the offices and stroll around to the front of the jail and you could blend in with various persons coming and going. First, you have to get out of the cages.”

”After going to the roof a few times and noticing the wall that was the back wall of the cage...I began to wonder what was on the other side of it. You could look straight up and see sky, the edge of the wall was about six feet above the top of the cage, where did it go? A few trips to and from the roof later, I had figured out that the wall was in an opportune location. Freedom was just on the other side of it, with a few serious obstacles. But the meditation had unleashed potential I didn’t know existed. I had won a jury trial, facing twenty-five-to-life, and my confidence was soaring. The only case I’d actually lost was the one I let my attorney handle, a little thing like confinement wasn’t impossible.”

” I’d have to cut through the cage, then the roof fencing (which was lighter, regular fence wire), not be seen by the trio of guards or video monitors, and get to the ground undetected. Getting the tools, making the rope, getting clothes and cash took time. Hiding the stuff was even more difficult. To get the materials to the roof was tricky and came down to a simple bait and switch. After the strip search, as I stood in my cell with a guard directly in front of me, I just grabbed a different pair of pants, already packed with the gear. My concern all the way being escorted to the roof was that my jump-suit pants might fall down from the weight of the rope.”

” Finally, D-Day. Every muscle is taunt, I see everything, I hear every sound but I’m blocking extraneous distractions out. Two-hundred general population inmates are separated from the cages by about twenty feet, but they can see every move I’m making. You have to go on faith that they’ll keep their mouths shut, and for God’s sakes, quit staring! Months, years really of meticulous planning comes down to a final five minutes. I cut the remaining sections of the caging and bend them back, one final look around and I hit the hole. Snag number one! It’s too small! I’d miscalculated by inches and time’s running, recreation will be over soon.”

“ The previous months I’d worked patiently and quietly, cutting away in millimeters. Now, I’m balls to the wall, full-tilt sawing on those bars like a wolf gnawing off it’s own leg to get free from a trap. The cage is shaking and rattling, my arms are screaming from fatigue and I’m sweating a puddle. I’m using a Vaseline-like ointment on the three-inch blade to reduce friction and it’s burning hot from the frantic sawing. Noise from the huge air conditioners atop the roof is covering the commotion, I hope. In a few minutes, I’m through cutting three more strands of the fencing and I bend them back. I slip out of the cage and scurry up the side of it onto it’s top. I raise up in a crouch and reach up and begin cutting the fencing that covers the rooftop. Although the guards are only a few feet away, the cross-hatching of the cages creates an optical illusion. It appears as though they can see down the row of cages, but actually the angle and the layers of wiring blocks a clear view. I’m on top of the cage, in daylight, right out in the open and the only ones who know anything are the two-hundred mainline inmates walking around on the roof a few feet away.”

“ The rooftop fencing cuts through like butter, in a split second, I’m through the slit and lying on top of the jail. I peek over the side, it’s a sixty-foot drop, but no time for nerves now, I’m going. I know I could get shot doing this, or jumped by an enraged pack of guards and Rodney King’d into oblivion, but my motivation and belief in the plan and my abilities far outweigh and lingering doubts. Fear was not in the equation. In fact, over-confidence would be my failing point.”

” I secure the rope on a previously located drain pipe, drop the rope over and slide over the side. The last minute frenzy of frantic sawing had left some ointment residue on my hands and my muscles were exhausted. Almost immediately, I began slipping on the rope, then sliding uncontrollably. I’m out of the cage and over the wall, but now I’m going to die.”

” The rope is too thin, it’s burning through my fingers. I should have made gloves, I needed more knots in the rope, whatever the problems are, it’s too late to do anything about it. It’s all happening in an instant, it’s over. ”

” I came to, staring at the sky. I try and crawl away but I can’t move. I’m lying on the top of the administration building. My freedom had lasted only a few moments, but the feeling of open air on my skin, the exhilaration of the execution of such an impossible plan, so close to perfection, incomprehensibly satisfying. I know from consequential deeper introspections that my physical freedom was not meant to be that day. Yet, through what I’ve learned and gained since, I know I’ve never been freer. Free from fear, doubt, regret and anxiety.”

” To discover that untapped potential within and develop absolute belief in yourself and learn to apply that to every aspect of life, not matter where you are; to drink in huge cupfuls of life...there’s no greater freedom than the freeing of one’s own mind from the restraints of self-imposed doubts and limits. That’s true freedom.” With that said, Woody ended the story.
Bill sat staring, then ended the silence. ”That’s a good story old man, but you’re confused. You’re old, torn-up, and in jail. In my book, that’s pretty far from free.”

Woody smiled, ”Freedom ain’t where your feet are boy, it’s here.” (pointing to his head.) ”It’s between your ears, and here (he pointed to his heart), right here.”

”Another thing.” Bill continued, ”You mentioned O.J., you mean the football player? He’s in jail? For what?”

The old man smiled, ”You’ll know in time.”

Bill laid on his bunk thinking, ”Hey Woody, what did you mean, Rodney King’d?”

”You’ll find out in time.”

Bill thought, ”Great, more riddles.”

Bill didn’t sleep too well the rest of the night. He dreamed of flying and crashing, gypsies and midgets, a buzzard picking at a corpse. In the dream he was older...he got up and looked in the mirror in the tiny room. Staring back at him was Toothpick Woody.

He awoke in a sweat and looked around. Yep, still in jail. He glanced over and saw Woody’s bunk was empty. When the guard passed by, Bill hollered, ”Hey, what happened to Woody?”

The bored guard stopped in front of the cell and looked in. ”Woody who?”

Bill motioned to the empty bunk.

The guard replied in a gruff voice, ”Son, you been single-celled since you got here.”

A sudden chill crept up Bill’s spine.