Copyright 2002, Patrick Paddy Mitchell
All rights reserved
Second printing 2015
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-6822212-6-6
Like the vast bulk of people, we will pass from this earth without making any mark more lasting than a plowed furrow.
Charles Frazier (Cold Mountain)
The more we live a life governed by conventional norms of proper behavior, and the nicer and more responsible we force ourselves to be, the further we drift from the essence of our true self, one thats ruled by passion and instinct. Give in to your deepest longings and become an outcast; conform utterly, and endure a potentially dispiriting, suffocating life.
John F. Kennedy, Jr. (George Magazine)
A human being has a natural desire to have more of a good thing than he needs.
Mark Twain
Authors Note
This book is my autobiography. All words (written or spoken), while not exact, are to the best of my recollection. In some cases, those I wrote about have requested I not use their real names, which Ive tried to honor. Others, whose names they may have wished I had not mentioned, have been because I thought it appropriate to do so. Some details that would provide identities have also been changed.
Acknowledgements
To those who helped - it seemed to me, at one point, that I would never be able to finish this book. My manuscript, which I had written and rewritten a half dozen times, sat in abeyance for months until a fellow named Ray Hurley arrived at these prison gates. One day I gave him a short story excerpt from my manuscript to read. The next day he returned it and asked for another - then another. He complimented me on them, said they were great and volunteered to work with me to get it shipshape and to a publisher. What he accomplished in two months, I would have had trouble doing in two years, with luck.
And one BIG thank-you to Elizabeth Saunders, who spent endless hours and huge efforts to design both the wonderful cover to this book, and my website. I cannot in words describe what a tremendous help you have been Beth, and I thank you with all my heart. You are an incredibly talented and generous person.
Another HUGE thanks to three very special Saints who have helped me to no end in so many ways, Lynda and Ron Warman, and Joyce Grierson. Someday, somehow, you will all be rewarded for your kindness, That I promise! Thank-you, I could not have done it without your help.
Ray also arrived that day with a cellmate by the name of Robert DeLong, who happens to know more about writing, editing, spelling and grammar than anyone Ive met. He volunteered his services. And before you could say Bobs your uncle, my manuscript was finished and on its way to a publisher. My agent and lifelong friend, Jimmy Allen, and his wonderful wife, Sharon, have helped and encouraged me to no end; thanks to both.
My son, Kevin, who I owe so much to, Id have to live another lifetime to make it up to him. Thanks son!
A few others I would like to thank for putting up with, helping and encouraging me: Alan Strong, George Kalomeris, Dan Jenson, Jim Carey, Bobby King and Pat MacAdam.
***
For
Richard
When you are old enough
***
Contents
Prologue
Be forewarned, this book is not a literary masterpiece. I do not profess to be a writer. Its written in simple terms; no ten-dollar words, no fancy prose or metaphors, and certainly no poetry. But I can assure you, if you read on, youll find it one hell of a tale.
I began scribbling my life story more than twenty-five years ago (1976), in a prison cell at Millhaven Penitentiary, in Ontario, Canada. I was thirty-four years old, serving a twenty-year prison sentence (figuring my life was pretty much over) and thought Id better get busy and write my memoirs. Three years and almost six hundred pages of scribbling later, I found a need to destroy all that I had written.
In 1984, this time locked up in an Arizona prison cell, I began to scratch out another manuscript. A couple of years later, a need arose to destroy those several hundred pages as well.
Not being the kind of guy who gives up easily, I took up the task a third time in 1989 while on a beautiful mountaintop location on an island in a far off archipelago. Eventually, a need arose for me to destroy several hundred more pages.
Still, I was not deterred. As fate would have it, I found myself in yet another prison cell in 1994, this time at the Federal Penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia, with pencil in hand, scratching away. And, once again, it was all to no avail.
Now Im incarcerated at the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. The year is 2001, and I dont foresee any cause arising for me having to destroy this one final attempt to write my lifes story.
I wish this were about some heroic deed that I had performed, or some great, lifesaving medical procedure that Id discovered, but its not. Neither is it a book about braggadocio. Its about a life that was lived much differently than most; one which I believe should be recorded for posterity. Now, where to begin?
Chapter One
Denver, Colorado June 1986
Why would you want to make this into such a big deal? Kincaid asked. I just walk up behind the jerk, put a bullet in his ear, you pick up the bag and we walk out that side door. The niggers waiting for us in the hot car, picks us up, and drives us back to the apartment. What could be easier than that? he asked with a shrug of his shoulders.
We were sitting on a bench inside a big mall in Lakewood, a small city on the outskirts of Denver, watching a Wells Fargo courier picking up the weekend receipts from two large department stores. He was straining from the weight of all that money he was carrying in his canvas bag.
The only way I could miss this turd is if he has a steel plate in his head. Hes a sitting duck! he said, grinning, showing yellow, rotten teeth, his breath so bad it made me wince and turn away.
Well? he asked. He was foaming at the mouth and his spittle sprayed and landed on my cheek.
Cecil Kincaid was a stone-cold killer, and he could be a scary guy when he got up in ones face. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging because of an overconsumption of alcohol the night before. I had to pretend to be just as tough and ruthless as him, which wasnt always easy. I remember my mother often warning me to be careful what I pretended to be, because I might become the person I was pretending to be - and I would never want to become like Cecil Kincaid.
Well? he asked again, this time with that Archie Bunker look that he reserved for his son-in-law, Meathead.
What to say to someone who just uttered a statement like he had? I was temporarily lost for words. I couldnt show any weakness with this guy. If he ever thought he could get the upper hand and cow me, Id be finished. He was like a shark; if he smelled blood, hed move in for the kill.
Cecil, I said calmly, you cant just walk up to somebody whos not threatening you, whos only doing his job, and who may have a wife and four kids, and kill him. You must be fucking crazy.
Oh! Well, excuse me, so now Im the crazy one? Im looking to take down this one fucking guy who I can get the drop on, no fuss, no muss, he looked at me incredulously (Archie at Meathead), and you, whos completely sane, want me to join you in robbing a bank; take over the whole place with that little pea shooter of yours, bounce over counters, terrorize fifty people, half of them probably armed? He stopped for effect, the spittle at the comers of his mouth white and foaming, eyes bulging. Jesus H. Christ! Youll either get us all killed or back behind The Walls doing ninety-nine fucking years. And you think Im crazy!