Hard Time (37 page)

I thought the imminent resolution of my case had saved my relationship with Claudia. I called her, expecting her to be overjoyed at the prospect of our visits resuming in the prison system.

‘Hey now! How’re you?’ I asked in my chirpiest voice.

‘Hi. How’re you?’ she replied in a monotone.

‘Your voice sounds funny, are you OK?’ I asked, disappointed.

‘Not really.’

Regaining my enthusiasm, I said, ‘Why? This is going to be over soon. We’ll have visits back. Visits are much longer in prison, and they let us hug and kiss.’

Her humphing knocked my mood back down. ‘I don’t think I can do this any more.’

‘Do what? What’re you talking about?’ I asked, fearing her response.

‘Like this . . . like this relationship.’

I was too shocked to speak. I could have been shanked at that moment and felt less pain than the hurt exploding in my brain. Tears tumbled out. For a while, neither of us spoke.

‘It’s just so . . . ’ Claudia started sobbing. ‘It’s just been too hard without being able to see you for a year. And you think you’re getting closer to the end, but what if they keep postponing?’

I was unable to think clearly but determined to win her back. ‘I can understand this – you know – how you’re feeling,’ I said quietly, so the prisoners in the cells wouldn’t hear me crying on the phone in the empty day room. ‘I’ll accept whatever decision you want to make, but do you think it’s a good idea to throw away our relationship after everything we’ve been through?’

‘I don’t. This is so hard for me, too. It’s been two years of me going to sleep every night thinking either you’re gonna be home the next day or that this is a bad dream. And I’ll wake up, and I’ll be here alone, and now it’s been two years, and there’s not ever an end. You don’t even know how long they might send you to prison for.’

What she said was true, and I was too emotional to counter her. ‘But Claudia, I love you. I love you so much.’

‘Shaun, I love you too. It’s just hard. I think . . . what it is, I need to get my life back.’

‘I know you do, but this is tearing me apart.’

‘It’s totally tearing me apart, too.’

The female computerised voice came on the line: ‘You have 30 seconds remaining.’

‘Does this mean you don’t want me to call you any more?’

‘Maybe it’s best not for a while.’

‘But what about—’

The line went dead. I didn’t even want to breathe any more. I walked back to my cell with all of the dazed what-just-happened? confusion of someone getting out of a car after a collision. There was so much pressure in my head, my vision kept blurring. During the times I’d feared the break-up was coming, it never had. Now it had finally arrived, I couldn’t see how I’d ever get over it. The anguish was too much for me to bear. I rushed back to my cell and curled up on the bottom bunk. Facing the wall, I pretended to read so my cellmate couldn’t see me crying. Loudly turning a page every now and then that I hadn’t read, I tortured myself even further by replaying images of the times we’d spent together. I barely slept that night and couldn’t eat for days. I told my cellmate I was fasting. I didn’t expect the pain to go away anytime soon.

June 2004

I loved Claudia so much I wanted to keep our relationship going, while knowing full well I had to let her go because loving her meant doing what was best for her.

The night before my sentencing hearing, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my bunk, stuck to the towel I’d put down to absorb my sweat, worrying about the effect of the hearing on my parents, sister and Aunt Sue, who’d flown from England. (Aunt Sue had moved back there in 1992.) Over the past two years, I’d put my family through so much, and I hated the idea of them grovelling for leniency in the sterile atmosphere of the courtroom. I also wondered if Claudia and her family would show up. I’d stopped calling her since the break-up, but her father, Barry, had assured me he’d be there even though he’d had brain surgery and was having regular seizures. Watching the cockroaches climb the walls, I prayed the judge would give me the minimum sentence stipulated in my plea bargain: nine years. It was hard to believe I’d be out of the jail and on my way to the prison system in a few weeks.

Daybreak: retreating cockroaches.

‘Get up for court, Attwood!’

I was too nervous to defecate. The cheap plastic shaver cut my chin as my trembling hand rushed to remove a week’s stubble in the ten minutes permitted to shave. I showered fast and put on the laundered set of clothes provided by the guard. Each act I completed reminded me I was a step closer to court. Leaving the day room, I again prayed for nine years.

Hours later, sitting alone in cuffs and leg chains in a holding cell outside the courtroom, I thought of my family in the public gallery. What are they thinking? Are they as nervous as me? By the time I heard the jingling keys and boot steps of the guard coming to fetch me, my hunched shoulders were aching from the build-up of tension. Standing up, I felt the blood drain from my face. In the corridor, I had a sense of disembodiment, as if I were floating alongside the guard like a spectre.

We entered the courtroom. The stenographer was a young woman, around 30, my sister’s age. She appeared passive. The clerk of the court was a stern-faced woman, around 50. No judge. I passed the prosecutor, who looked the smartest I’d ever seen her in a light-coloured suit. Today was obviously important to her. She hoped to make her name on the back of my case. Detective Reid, with his thick dark hair trimmed and slicked back for the occasion, had an intense look on his face as if he were waiting to find out if a family member were dead or alive. The guard instructed me to sit on one of the benches at the side of the room and not so much as even smile at my family and Claudia’s, who were about 20-strong. Two rows of sombre faces. I was pleased to see them all and relieved Claudia and her family were there. But I was too nervous to smile. My jaw was trembling, my face contorting of its own accord.

Alan Simpson walked over to me. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Terrified,’ I replied.

The sentencing judge entered, a narrow-faced man with greying hair and large protruding eyes. Everyone rose. When we were all seated again, he announced my case number. ‘Is the state ready for sentencing?’

‘Yes, Judge,’ the prosecutor said. ‘Gloria Olivia Davis on behalf of the Attorney General’s Office.’

‘Alan Simpson on behalf of Mr Attwood, who is present in custody, and we are ready to proceed.’

‘It is my understanding that several family members would like to speak on behalf of Mr Attwood before I pronounce sentence . . . ’

By now, my body’s involuntary movements were most noticeable in my legs. They wouldn’t stop shaking. As if my mind wanted to extricate me from the situation, it kept going blank and then snapping back to the courtroom.

The first to speak on my behalf was my mother, wearing a black shift dress and jacket. Funeral clothes. As she started to speak, the knowledge that my actions had brought her to the podium made it all the more humiliating. ‘Shaun is my son and I love him very much. I know he has done wrong, and we are sorry for that, but there’s so much good in him. It’s been so difficult living so far away and not being able to visit him. Without Ann, my husband’s sister who visits him every week, I don’t know what we would have done.’

Crushed by the shame in my mother’s trembling voice, I almost cried.

‘Shaun’s a very special person. He’s a kind, loving and generous person who always wanted to help people. He naively believed that by making loads of money you could make things right for people. He was a beautiful baby and an energetic child. Shaun has always had this amazing energy bordering on manic, but I somehow managed to channel that energy into his studies. All through his childhood there were never any complaints about fighting or aggression, and he was successful, eventually getting a place at university and an honours degree.’ She looked proud, and I dwelled on how much my behaviour had let her down. ‘Shaun has a charismatic personality, and from an early age he has always attracted people. Sometimes the wrong people.’ She paused. ‘Your Honour, can I say something about Shaun’s relationship with Peter?’ she asked, referring to Wild Man. In previous court hearings, the prosecutor had portrayed Wild Man as a Frankenstein’s monster I’d let loose on American society, so my mother wanted to provide some background.

Detective Reid was shaking his head. The judge nodded sympathetically, encouraging her to continue.

‘Shaun has a bond with Peter I never understood. Peter was a problem child that grew into an aggressive teenager. At 16, he tried to commit suicide, but instead of contacting his parents, he asked Shaun for help. That shows the strength of the bond between them. Shaun had a tree, which he and his friends called the wishing tree. It overlooked a deep quarry in a woodland near us where the boys used to play. Shaun would sit in the wishing tree, and he knew then that he would be successful, and he promised his friends, including Peter, he would make everything right for them. Shaun used to believe that Peter would make good if given the chance. It was in keeping this promise he brought Peter to America.’

She said I hadn’t meant to hurt people but had tried to make them happy in a misguided way. ‘He became very successful as a stockbroker, and later on as a day trader, and we visited him regularly. When he told us about promoting rave parties, we didn’t worry. Perhaps we were naive. Shaun’s a natural entrepreneur. But I think it all just escalated. He gained a kind of rock-star status and attracted a following of young women.

‘I don’t know about the drug-taking – perhaps it was his way of self-medicating his depressions. I feel guilty in a way. Perhaps I should have got him anti-depressants in England. I’ve suffered from depression myself over the years but have always been reluctant to take medication,’ she paused, ‘until now. That’s what’s helping me get through this without crying. I just want to take him home with me.’ The pleading in her voice increased my sadness. ‘I love him so much, and it’s so difficult living so far away. I know that’s not possible, but I know once he’s back in England with the support of our family, which is very close and loving, nothing like this will ever happen again.’ She emphasised the last line as if it were her final plea to convince him. She returned to her seat next to my father, who put his arm around her shoulder, hugging her tightly.

Detective Reid – who’d been shifting in his seat throughout her speech – looked agitated. The prosecutor had her ready-to-do-battle face on.

My aunt Ann was up next. In contrast with my mother, she wore casual American clothes. She hadn’t written anything down in advance as she felt that she’d somehow find the right words to say when the time came. Speaking from the heart, she told of how she’d visited me without fail, every Saturday, and of the changes she’d witnessed and the subtlety of those changes that others who didn’t know me like she did might not have noticed. She’d been so kind to me, I was really grateful.

Alan called Karen up next. My tall, elegant sister took to the podium, forcing a smile that betrayed how nervous she was. She’d stood by me in spite of all of our childhood squabbles, and I admired that. Gulping for breath, she told the judge how proud she’d always been of her big brother. How proud she was of me now. She started to cry but still managed to make herself heard as she recounted childhood anecdotes. Hearing Karen’s words, I again had to fight back tears to remain composed.

My aunt Sue, the smartly suited business woman who’d help launch my stockbroking career, stood next. Nervous, she charged into her speech. The judge asked her to slow down and start again. Taking deep breaths, she spoke about the strong bond we’d always had. She also apologised as she felt she’d failed me, her godson, in some way, and must bear some responsibility. She concluded that she and all of our family would always provide a strong platform of support for me. She sat down, looking relieved to have got through it.

My father got up next, the pressure visible in the lines on his face. ‘Your Honour, it is true to say that my family and I have been in a state of shock since Shaun’s arrest in May 2002. The situation has seemed so unreal, compounded by the 5,000-mile distance between us and our son. But of course the situation is very real, and frightening, and here I am today talking to a superior-court judge just a few yards from the son that I love who is attired in jail stripes and shackles.’ He glanced over at me. ‘A son who I played with and introduced, along with his sister, Karen, to the beauties of the English countryside, to the birds and the wild flowers and trees. Shaun developed a passion for ornithology, and I remember him when he was aged around ten or eleven dragging a young ten-foot elderberry, complete with roots, into our back garden, which he insisted on planting in order to attract wild birds, which he could watch from his bedroom window.’

As my father reminisced about my childhood, I broke down. His gentle loving voice penetrated my soul. I was appalled at myself for letting him down, for letting them all down. I cursed my existence and felt deep regret for what I’d done. The tears started. As much as I tried to fight them back, they gushed. I could only cry. I was all tears and heartbeat and twitching nerves. My father paused to give me a look willing me to be strong. My attorney took my shoulder and handed me a tissue.

‘I also taught Shaun to play chess, a game at which I believe he has become something of a legend while in jail. I believe that my son has suffered enough. I can tell you that, as a father, if I could step inside his shoes, I would gladly serve the rest of his time in prison. I realise that this is not possible, so all I can do is respectfully ask Your Honour to show mercy in the sentencing of my son today.’

The courtroom was silent for a long time after he’d finished speaking. Even the stenographer wiped tears from her eyes.

It was my turn to speak, so I began to shuffle towards the podium in my leg chains. My eyes met Detective Reid’s, who scowled as if trying to psych me out. Our brief eye contact told me we were both thinking the same thing: our personal battle was almost over. Motivated in part by his attitude, I focused all of my willpower on gathering myself back together. I stopped crying and felt embarrassed, ashamed and nauseous. Tremors were running through my body, so I tried to ground myself with yogic breathing. Approaching the judge, conscious of the spasms in my face, I clenched my teeth. I looked up at the judge, who leaned forward, his unblinking eyes studying my face. Up close, his gaze was even more unnerving than Detective Reid’s. He had the look of a bird of prey about to swoop on a mouse. My anxiety kept spiking up, forcing me to avert my eyes from his gaze.

‘Mr Attwood,’ said the judge, ‘I know your name is Shaun Patrick Attwood, and based upon a determination made previously, it is the judgement of the court that you are guilty of money laundering, a Class 3 non-dangerous non-repetitive felony, attempting to commit a dangerous drug violation, a Class 3 non-dangerous non-repetitive felony, and use of wire or electronic communication to facilitate a drug transaction, a Class 4 non-dangerous non-repetitive felony. I read your pre-sentence report and all of the attachments, letters of support, and also the prosecutor’s aggravation memorandum. I have also considered the fact that as of today you have done 775 days of pre-sentence incarceration. Does that sound right, Mr Simpson?’

‘Yes, Judge.’

‘Mr Attwood, is there anything you would like to tell me before I pronounce sentence?’

‘Yes, Your Honour. Thanks for the opportunity to address the court.’ Trembling, I could only stammer out my words. ‘I came to America to be a stockbroker, and America was good to me.’ Still congested from crying, I kept sniffing. ‘I made lots of money while still young, and after years of hard work and study I stupidly got off track. I ended up throwing wild parties and taking drugs, which led to the commission of these crimes. I have no excuses, Your Honour, and I am deeply sorry for the effects on society my mistakes have caused.

‘Despite the hardships of jail, I’ve made the most of the last two years by studying. I hope the resumé of my achievements shows my sincere desire to return to university in England. While in jail, I’ve developed writing skills, and my recommendation to buy gold was published in
Investor’s Business Daily
.’ Hoping my words were having a positive effect, I tried to read his body language, but his fixed look of contempt increased my fear. ‘Recidivism is not an option, and in the hundreds of letters of support, my family and friends have expressed their confidence in my future behaviour.

‘I invested in drugs out of greed and hedonism. I wish to apologise to the state of Arizona, society and my family for the harm my actions have caused. I am a first-time offender who has sincerely learnt from his mistakes.’ I hesitated over whether to use a quote I’d selected, but it just came out. ‘Mahatma Gandhi once said that the law should be used to change men’s hearts. Well, now that I’ve gone through this, my heart is in the right place. I humbly ask for your leniency this day.’ I figured if the hearing was going to go my way, he’d show some sympathy now. But he didn’t. Not even a trace.