Jackpot
Bike courier, dope peddler, and full-time hedonistFeatherhead had it made. Until his roommate threatened the president.
Cover Story
Hey, Washington, remember me? It's your fine-feathered friend, your long-lost prodigal. I've been meaning to write, but it took more than a year to get my hands on a working typewriter, and then another month to buy a print wheel and ribbon. I make only 17 cents an hour here at the federal prison camp near Cumberland, Md.
I miss you, Washington. I miss Rollerblading in Rock Creek Park, I miss riding through the workday crowd on 18th Street downtown, and I miss drinking shots of tequila during happy hour at Mister Day's. I even miss the sound of traffic thereI would love to hear a horn blown in anger.
Once I thought the world was mine and set to music. I had a lover then, too. You should have seen her in cutoff jeans and cowboy boots. But I woke up one Sunday morning and found that everything, including her, was gone.
Perhaps I should just do my time quietly, but considering that I am in a federal prison 184 miles from Washington, there is nothing anyone can do or say to injure me further. In that sense I am free, and my desire to communicate exceeds my reticence about being honest about how I ended up here.
My nightmare began back in 1995, on a deliciously cool summer Sunday morning just before dawn at my house in Mount Pleasant, about the time I would usually hear the animals starting to squabble just down the hill at the National Zoo. But I heard a different beast that morning: the United States governmentthe Secret Service, poking its black, snakelike flashlights through my iron-gated front door. I gulped a breath and went downstairs to meet them.... Continued
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