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Part 2 PARCHMAN FARM

I saw no way out of my life as it was, and I always had someone else pulling my strings. As it
turned out, the “antiques” Jiggs went to Mississippi for turned out to be drugs. He and his
seven compatriots ended up being arrested for bringing in a DC-3 loaded with Marijuana from
Columbia, South America. The Pilot and Co-Pilot landed the plane at 3:00 a.m. at the
commercial airport in Vicksburg, Mississippi, where the rest of the gang, with two U-haul rental
trucks began offloading the cargo, only to be greeted by the Sheriff, deputies, DEA, and anyone
else they could think of with the tarmac lit up like Christmas by a parachute flare the sheriff had
launched. The gang was arrested on the spot and hauled off to the Vicksburg jail. Jiggs
eventually chose to be sent to Parchman Farm rather than stay at the jail. There came a time
when Rich (a former San Quentin resident friend of Jiggs), and his wife Uta (illegal alien from
Germany) were given the assignment by Jiggs to bring me to Mississippi to await his release
from Parchman.

Rich and Jiggs had met in California. They now both shared identical prison I.D. numbers, Rich
from California and Jiggs from Mississippi. Rich had done his time in San Quentin for nearly
killing someone in a bar fight; Jiggs was doing his time at Parchman Farm in Mississippi as one of
the novice drug smugglers. Rich’s wife Uta was a former illegal alien from Germany whom Rich
married so she could stay in the country.

Rich and Uta were pot farmers from Humboldt County, California, who lived like mountain goats
nine months a year until they harvested and sold their crop, whereupon they lived the “high”
life for three months before repeating the cycle. I had visited them during the growing season.
We went through several armed security check points to get to the top of the mountain where
their stilted, thatched hut was located. It was built into the side of the mountain where the
slope of the mountain was about 45 degrees. I slept on a bed of what they call “shake” which is
the leaves that are considered waste product from the manicured buds that were sold in bulk
after the harvest. They grew their pot in fenced in patches all around the hut to protect them
from animals and interlopers looking for drugs. During the weekend, I met many of the
growers, and joined them in the harvest celebration on the very top of the mountain. The
celebration was at the hacienda-like structure made of small, laminated wood squares, with
open windows and furnished with wooden, hand made furniture. Outside was a large plastic
slide, made from a painter’s tarp, where the children would slide down into a manmade pool.
Yes, there were whole families living that life. There was a leader named Donald who lived in
that dwelling at the top of the mountain. Since I was with Rich and Uta, I was welcomed
without reservation.

Shortly after that weekend, Rich and Uta and I began our drive to Mississippi from California.
They had a lot of money and drugs after harvest, so the fact that we were never stopped,
especially in Texas, driving in a limousine, was one of those things I cannot attribute to anything
logical, only lucky.

Rich set me up in a hotel in Cleveland, Mississippi, across from the train station. Cleveland is
about 25 miles from Parchman. It’s an old train town and a junction. This was to be my new
home for an indeterminate length of time. I was to learn later that many of the prison guards
from Parchman lived in Cleveland. That gave me no feeling of comfort, especially with the
vehicle I owned, and the companions I had with me. Rich came out of the hotel and said he
had booked me a room. We unloaded the limo and took everything up to my new quarters.
While Uta and I set up the room, Rich went exploring. He came back with food and told me he
had hooked me up with Steve, the young desk clerk at the hotel, who received “a dollar and
other valuable considerations” for becoming my next assigned keeper. It was then that I
learned I would be on my own within two days. I would be driving Rich and Uta to Memphis
where they would catch a plane back to the coast. That would leave Steve, my new southern,
soft spoken keeper, as the only person I knew except for Jiggs at Parchman.

Our first night in Cleveland, we had many things to do before we were to meet Jiggs at a county
barn near Parchman where the work crew he was on stopped for lunch. First, Rich had bought
three packs of cigarettes for Jiggs which we planned to give him at the county barn. He very
carefully took apart the bottom of the packs and, with tweezers, he removed one cigarette at a
time and replaced it with about four thinly rolled joints. He removed probably six cigarettes
from each pack, so there were a couple dozen joints in each pack. Then he very carefully
resealed the bottoms of the packs, and they appeared never to have been opened. He
obviously had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and I seemed to be living in a don’t-
care bubble, so it didn’t cause me any concern.

Up to this point, Jiggs had led me to believe that everything had been pre-arranged for us to
meet up with him the following morning outside the prison where he would be working on a
road gang. The Sergeant who headed up Jiggs’ road crew knew we were coming.

The three of us got on the road the next morning about 11:00 am and headed for Parchman.
As it turned out, we came up behind a large stake truck loaded in the back with prisoners,
shovels, rakes, and Jiggs, singing spirituals as they rumbled along. Rich was driving the limo,
and Uta and I were sitting in the back. Rich was a rather menacing looking guy. He was
wearing one of those crushed straw cowboy hats that looked as if someone or some animal had
decided to sample it for taste.

We pulled in behind the truck, and before we could even open the doors, the Sergeant was at
the driver’s window telling Rich that we must leave the area at once. There was concern that
James (Jiggs) was going to try to escape. We were not to go anywhere near Parchman until
visiting day on Sunday. It was only Thursday. Rich apologized to the Sergeant and said there
was no intention to cause any problem. He said he brought some cigarettes for Jiggs, and
would the Sergeant mind giving them to him. The Sergeant took the cigarettes, and we saw
him hand them to Jiggs. Jiggs wasn’t even allowed to come over by the car.

We hastily departed, and it was the first time I really felt the reality of my situation. We drove
back to the hotel, and I did not want to leave my room for any reason. Jiggs called the next
morning and said that the Sergeant had failed to pick him up to go out on the road gang. This
started a whole series of events which ultimately required me to call security at the prison to
report Jiggs’ fears with regard to the events unfolding, and to write a letter to Jiggs’ brother,
who was a high powered lawyer in D.C., a copy of which I sent to Jiggs knowing it would be
opened and read by the prison officials. He wanted it put on record that the Sergeant was
threatening him.
That same day (Friday) with all this brewing, I had to deliver Rich and Uta to Memphis to catch
the plane. I drove directly back to the hotel in Cleveland after they boarded the plane. Now I
was truly alone.

I still seemed somehow detached from all that was transpiring. Here, again, pool became my
oasis from reality. I went down to the desk to chat with Steve. He told me there was a pool hall
down the street from the hotel and said he’d be glad to take me down there when he got off
work. In the meantime, the TV in my room was pretty much worthless. This was 1978, no
cable, no antenna, no picture. I could choose to go watch the TV that was set up in the lobby.
There were two permanent residents in the hotel, both of whom were addicted to Mid-South
Wrestling on the lobby TV. So I went down and introduced myself to Gus, 74, a retired train
man, and Buck, retired, age 67. There was also an old lady named Agnes who used to come by
every day and hang out with them. My own little piece of the deep south, which was my
temporary home. They were also my only means of entertainment, because I wasn’t into
venturing outside yet.

It was only my second full day in residence. My trip to the pool hall that evening with Steve
would help me determine how often I would want to leave my little hotel oasis. Seemed like
venturing down to the lobby was a pretty big step. Gus and Buck were pretty friendly. After
all, they now had a new resident, a female, who was an alien from California and about half
their age, driving what probably looked to them like a big black hearse, and carrying my own
pool cue.

Now I must pause here to say that I am delighted to find that thirty years later I can look at this
and find it to be mostly amusing and in some instances downright funny. Parts of it were funny
even back then, but much of it at the time was not at all funny. Now it seems more like
something that I was watching happen to someone else rather than something I was actually
living.

That said, I arranged to meet Steve in the lobby at 6:00 p.m. when he got off work. Rich had
told him I liked to shoot pool. In fact, one of the required items stuffed into the limo was my
pool cue in its case. Steve fancied himself a pretty good pool player, so the evening at least had
the possibility of being a nice respite from my hotel prison. I pretty much thought of myself as
being in a minimum security prison.

Steve and I walked down the street about half a block and entered the pool hall. It was like
stepping back in time. It was a huge, two story high, room with at least a dozen pool tables of
every variety. There were billiard tables, snooker tables, and regulation tables. They had
counters hanging from the ceiling which looked very similar to an abacus with beads that you
slid on wires to keep count. There were also about eight or nine marble game tables where
there were several old guys playing dominoes. You could hear the hard tile dominoes as they
were slapped into play. You knew these old guys had been playing for years, because the clicks
from one move to the next were in rapid succession.
Most of my pool playing had been on bar tables, which were less than the regulation 4’ X 8’
tables found in the real pool halls. The only other pool hall I had been in was one in San
Francisco, which was the entire second floor of a downtown building. Some of the serious pool
hustlers came to that pool hall. This pool hall in Cleveland had all the stuff, but I didn’t see any
hustlers, which was probably just as well.

I asked Steve if he’d teach me how to play snooker. I didn’t know if I’d ever have another
opportunity to play that game, so I thought I might as well take advantage of the situation. We
did that. The table is much bigger, the pockets are smaller, and the balls are smaller as well.
There are numbered balls and plain colored balls. A completely different game from regulation,
but very interesting. We even played some billiards, which are no numbered balls and no
pockets. I could see that this was going to be my diversion from the monotony of life in
Cleveland. Steve was a nice young man, 19 years old, who was happy to be my guide during my
stay. I was very happy that Rich had found him for me, and happy to have that mathematical
game to deliver me from the real world. Steve and I shot pool that first evening for about three
hours and then walked back to the hotel.

The next day I would be driving the twenty-five miles to Parchman Farm to visit Jiggs for the first
time. Having put Rich and Uta on the plane in Memphis, I was alone. I called the number the
sergeant had given me as he had instructed, and he told me I was to go nowhere near the
prison until visiting time on Sunday. I would later learn that he was interested in my car and
wanted to help Jiggs “escape” in exchange for it. At least that was the story that Jiggs told me.
Nothing seemed real, least of all the stories being put forth by the parties I was now dealing
with, that included Jiggs and the sergeant. I hung up from my call with the sergeant with
everything racing through my mind. There was nothing more I could do or know until Sunday. I
spent Friday evening and all the next day in my room, except to venture to the lobby and to go
to the pool hall with Steve.

I woke up Sunday morning wishing there was something I could do to make time stand still. I
stayed in my room as long as I could. I took a shower, got dressed and sat down unable to put
two thoughts together. Visiting hours at Parchman started at noon. It was November, so even
in Mississippi there was a chill in the air. I put on my fake fur coat, with my levis, turtleneck and
boots and headed down to the lobby. Gus and Buck were watching the big TV, but it wasn’t
Mid-south Wrestling on Sunday morning. Probably something not unlike Jim and Tammy
Bakker, but I was too preoccupied with what lay ahead to pay attention. I said good morning
and told them I was on my way to see my husband (as far as Mississippi was concerned we were
husband and wife). They told me how to get to the prison, and I told them I’d see them later.

Steve wasn’t working. The desk was closed on Sunday. I made a mental note. That meant if I
wanted to make any phone calls I’d have to go find a phone somewhere. I decided Sundays
were for visiting Jiggs, and any other day was for connecting with people who were anywhere
I’d rather be.

The twenty-five mile drive to Parchman, was all flat county roads through the Mississippi delta;
a ninety degree turn here; a bend in the road there; then a sign saying Parchman, 5 miles. I
arrived at the gate wishing my limo had a chopper blade that would lift me out of there, but
instead I went through the gate and followed the sign that pointed the way to visitor parking.
Lots of barbed wire fences, a big long building with several wings, and signs pointing to the
entrance for visitors. First thing was a check point where I had to remove my coat, be patted
down, take off my boots and sign a book that said who I was there to visit. At least I was not
subject to a strip search. I was directed to a big cafeteria-type room where I waited for Jiggs to
be brought to see me.

There were several tables with families waiting just like I was. Many had kids, from teenagers
to toddlers to infants. I was glad that my children were safe in Michigan and that they couldn’t
see what my life had become. Most of the visiting families were black, because the majority of
prisoners, I was soon to learn, were black. Many of them were there beyond their out dates,
because they didn’t have anyone to tell them any different.

After about fifteen minutes sitting over at a corner table I saw Jiggs come through the door . It
felt very strange. I felt disconnected. He came over to the table and sat down across from me.
Prior to this time, we had lived together for about eight years, and I had visited him in Vicksburg
about eight months ago when he was sentenced. And yet I felt totally detached. I don’t even
remember who spoke first.

It was difficult to carry on a conversation in the chaos of our surroundings. One thing I had not
anticipated was that we were allowed a half hour conjugal visit. Within a half hour of my
arrival, a guard came over and gave us a pillow and a blanket and told us to get in line outside of
the building. Behind the building we were in was a long bunkhouse-like structure with about a
dozen doors. We were assigned one of the doors somewhere near the middle of the structure.
We walked up about three wooden steps and entered a room with a bed frame and a mattress
and I think one chair. The walls were paper thin and you could hear the occupants in the rooms
on either side. We took care of physical business immediately and quickly. Then we spent the
rest of the half hour talking about exactly what the situation at the prison was. Things were not
good.

Because of the call I had made to the prison, and the letter I had written to Jiggs’ brother, a copy
of which I sent to Jiggs, both Jiggs and I were being watched, and Jiggs had been removed from
the road gang and was put in a lockdown facility connected to the security building. That meant
that instead of blue denim pants with white stripes down the side, the trustees uniform, he now
wore white denim with blue stripes down the sides, the lockdown uniform. I had written the
letter knowing that Jiggs’ copy would be read by prison authorities, so I said how concerned I
was that Jiggs was in danger, and that all we wanted was for Jiggs to finish his sentence so we
could go back to California. I think I may have even mentioned the ACLU.

On Thanksgiving Day I was asked to go to the security building to give a deposition. After that
point, Jiggs was kept in the lockdown unit connected to the security building, and the process of
affecting his release began to speed up. My theory is that he was so much trouble, they just
wanted him gone.

I cannot for the life of me remember how much longer I lived in that hotel and went to
Parchment Farm for visitation Sunday, but I do know I spent Christmas in Cleveland. The reason
I remember is because Jiggs’ brother had sent me a check for $200 as a Christmas gift. $50 of it
went to buy a box of cigars for Jiggs which he sold for $5 each. My plan for the remaining $150
was to spend it on phone calls to my children and other family members on Christmas morning.
But I learned that the hotel front desk was closed for Christmas, so no calls could be made.

I believe it was sometime in early February when Jiggs was finally released. I remember being
very anxious to leave Mississippi, but Jiggs insisted that we drive first to Vicksburg so he could
say goodbye to his buddies who had chosen to stay at the jail to do their time. He also wanted
to say goodbye to the Sheriff.

After stopping in Vicksburg, we headed west. My journey with Jiggs had been volatile before he
went to prison, but I would soon learn that was the calm before the storm.

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