Chad Marks - Blood on the Razor Wire: A Prison Memoir

Copyright 2020, Chad Marks

All rights reserved.

Cover photo used under license from Depositphotos.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for authorization should be addressed to: .

Cover design by Ivica Jandrijevic

Interior layout and design by www.writingnights.org

Book preparation by Chad Robertson

Edited by Chad Robertson

ISBN: 979-856-1883064

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-publication Data:

Names : Marks, Chad, author

Title : Blood on the Razor Wire A Prison Memoir / Chad Marks

Description : Independently Published, 2020

Identifiers : ISBN 9798561883064 (Perfect bound) |

Subjects : | Non-Fiction | Prison | True Crime | Memoir | Gangs

Classification : Pending

LC record pending

Independently Published

Printed on acid-free paper.

Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, neither author nor publisher assumes any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. Both author and publisher hereby disclaim any liability to any party. Readers should contact their attorney to obtain advice before pursuing any course of action.

Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as expressing or representing the views of the U.S. Bureau of Prisons or any other department or agency of any government body.

To my mother who has been there for me since the day I was born,
August 17, 1978. I love you more than I could say in words.

To my sister Monique, thank you for being you
and pushing me forward when I felt like giving up.

A good plan, violently executed now,
is better than a perfect plan next week.

Lt. General George Patton

A big thank you to Lisa Jacobi at Freedom Fighters, without you this book would not have been possible. I am forever grateful for you and the way you fought for my Freedom. Freedom with a capital F. Where would I be without your compassion, hard work, and dedication?

A special thank you to Amy Ralston-Povah at CAN-DO Clemency Foundation who broke her back trying to get me out of prison under President Obamas Clemency initiative. Although we were not successful we fought like hell, and I will be forever grateful to you.

To my brothers and sisters locked up, who live and fight in this struggle in their long walk to freedom.

To those who lost their lives to senseless violence in the Federal Bureau of Prisons, youre never forgotten.

Last, but not least, to the victims of crimes throughout the world, your pain will never be forgotten.

T

he court must also consider the seriousness of the offense. And I think forty yearsthe statutory minimum by my calculationreflects that seriousness. Youre now twenty-four years of age. Even with good time, you will be into your sixties when and if you are released.

Guided by the statute that says I must impose a sentence sufficientand I think in this context if a sentence of forty years is not sufficient to comport with the statute, Im not sure what is. So thats the sentence I intend to impose.

Thats precisely what he said. Those were his exact words. A Federal District Judge who, with the swing of his gavel, made it final on a cold March 2003 afternoon in Rochester, New York. All my dreams, desires and hopes had been stamped out. Forty years in the Federal Bureau of Prisons for drug dealinglow level drug dealing. Im sure Im not the only person who thought only killers and rapists received those types of sentences. That day I found out I was wrong.

I am being led from the courtroom. I look back to see my mother crying. I read her lips. I love you Chad. I taste the salt from the first teardrop running down my face. I feel the clamps of the cold, metal, handcuffs bite my skin. My mother disappears. I wonder to myself if that will be the last time I ever see her...

T

hings can be really deviant in this world. I am transported into a limbo realm. Chained up from head to toe, I am forced to withstand being flung through the atmosphere with other redundant looking creatures of all nationalities. Were prisoners now. Although we are human beings, we are no longer part of civilized societyno longer part of that equation. My destination is some concrete jungleUSP Big Sandy. Ive heard many rumors about how foul and dangerous this place is. Many say that it is the worst prison in the Federal Bureau of Prisons. Beatings, stabbings, and death occur there on a regular basis. I guess the rumors I heard when I was youngerthat federal prison is Camp Fedwere wrong.

Now that I know what I know, oh, how I wish theyd been true.

The knock on the cell door did not wake me, but it scared me.

Marks, pack up! Youre leaving in half an hour.

The inevitable is here. I am leaving this private prison holding center. Ive been waiting for this moment for months. Im heading to the real big house. I do not want to answer the correctional officer, so I keep my head on the pillow.

Marks! You up?

I got you man, I got you. Im up.

Ill be back in twenty minutes. Be ready.

I drag myself from beneath the thin, grey-white sheets. The blanket must have fallen to the floor in the restless night. I kick the blanket to the side and wipe the crust from the corners of my eyes. The cold water I splash on my face wakes me. The light comes on and the other residents of this cellthe micescuttle for cover.

I stare into the mirror at the face that always looks back at me. I watch tears. Loneliness. I watch fear and desperation roll slowly down my face. My emotions are at a picnic. My face is the venue. I have finally come face-to-face with reality. I am on my way to a real prison to begin serving my very real prison sentence. Cold water on my face again. I mouth the words, Youre going to be alright no matter what.

My reflection does no more than stare back. Before long I am led out to the R&D Department like a package being trussed for shipping. The only difference is my packaging is not cardboard, rather shackles, handcuffs, and chains.

After enduring some lengthy mental, and physical torture in what is called the U.S. Marshalls Transportation Service, I am taken from the private prison in Youngstown, Ohio and thrown into a medieval place called USP Atlanta. The prison is located in the Atlanta, Georgia inner-city. Many of the men I am now forced to co-exist with in here seem to be creatures of violence. Angry men. Men who want to share their hatred with everyone they meet. I must go through this transportation process in order to get to my final destination, that far off concrete jungle in the Blue Grass StateBig Sandy. The real big house. Inez, Kentucky, here I come.

I cannot wait for this trip to be over with, I think to myself. But perhaps I am safer here? I mumble softly. No one else can hear me. The feelings engulf me, and my desperate eyes scan the battle-scarred faces of the other men. So many thrive on creating misery for others, misery on a scale that would make Purgatory jealous. My mind drifts again. I am wondering why they thrive on suffering, on wreaking it on others. I am among prisoners. Bottled up violence ready to unleash on those around them.