In His Own Words ( Part 2)

September 29, 2010

By the time I returned to work as a Police Officer, I was taking oxycontin prescribed by my doctor. I was taking oxycontin while on duty. I was physically and psychologically hooked. I had become another thing I never thought I would be...an addict.

By 2008, I was taking so many pills that I began going to different doctors to obtain more narcotic prescriptions. As my insurance refused to pay for doctor visits any longer due to my frequent "Doctor Shopping" trips, I had to find another way to get my pills that I felt I needed to maintain my mental block to forget.

I began studying the prescriptions I did get and started forging prescriptions for Oxycontin, Fetanyl and Dilaudid up to five times a week. I never tried any type of drug until that first prescription, justifying my addiction by telling myself "It's only pills" and I need them for my pain. Believe it or not, I felt I still had integrity as a police officer because I never stole any money or drugs while on duty and was actually a "straight laced" cop, ensuring I followed the law in the application of my duties to the citizens of Phoenix.

While I was being self-destructive, I didn't see that my emotional turmoil and addiction was also destroying those who loved me; my parents, my son and wife. The world was crumbling around me and all I cared about was determining how long this prescription would last me.

One day in August 2008, I was called to testify in court regarding a case I was involved in. When I came into court, I was shown a 12 page indictment and a court deputy placed me under arrest for Fraud, Prescription Drug Fraud, Forgery and obtaining Narcotics by Fraud, all felonies. I was taken to jail and book-a thing I had done so many times to others. After several months in jail and lengthy negotiations, I signed a Plea Agreement, stipulating a term in the AZ Dept. of Corrections.

Prior to my arrest, I was considered a "Model Officer" who received several awards and commendations. I had always wanted to be a Police Officer and became an officer at the age of 21. While an active Police Officer, I was also in the US Army Reserves when called to serve in Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. While serving in Iraq, with several other regular active police officers for their respective agencies, we served our country instead of just our communities.

After my injury, when cleared to return to the streets, I had to submit to physical checkups to determine that I could return to work. Though still on prescription pain meds, I was able to work in a "Light Duty" capacity until I could safely do my job without limitations that may have been cause in Iraq.

During this time, I went to physical therapy to help with pain and mobility, as well as speech therapy. After several weeks of this, I returned to full duty, assigned to a 3:30pm to 1:30pm shift.

As I returned to work, I found myself questioning my ability to do day to day activities. There were times when I had to clear my head to re-acquaint myself with the United States and emotionally separate myself with what had occurred in Iraq.

As I was conducting this daily self inventory, I had been in several arrest situations where I had to take a suspect into custody and it turned into a physical altercation. I'd received minor injuries at times and even a broken wrist once. It was just a reality of being a police officer. However, some of those incidents aggravated the injuries I already had suffered in Iraq.

My pain was manageable, but a constant problem for me. I kept the pain manageable with narcotic pain medication, but used caution when taking the pills so that they would not interfere with my job and safety.

As time progressed, my pain worsened to the point of near disability. My doctor was already prescribing me the maximum dosage safely allowed, plus an additional 180 mgs. 360 mgs of Oxycondone was not enough! I upped my own dosage at this point.

By this time, I believe that I was also using the pills to dull and numb myself from the pain and memories going on in my mind. It seemed like I was always reminded of things that went on in a place 10,000 miles away. I was preoccupied with horrors I saw and friends I lost. I was no longer the "happy-go-lucky" person, husband and father I once was. I was taking several oxycontin pills a day and was being told that my personality had changed. Of course, I disagreed with all of those people who told me things I didn't want to hear and I'd convinced myself that nobody understood me and could never understand the things I'd gone through.

By this time, I was taking three times my daily dosage and running out of pills after only 2 weeks. I was convinced that I needed the pills to function, and cope with my daily life.

One day at my doctor's office, I found myself at a moral crossroad. I found a prescription pad in the examination room. I was now a full fledged drug addict and only the shell of the man I used to be. I took the prescription pad and began writing myself prescriptions and filling them at a local pharmacy. I did so 4-5 times per week, knowing that doing it at this same place could put in the same place I'd locked up so many other lawbreakers. Jail. Knowing the consequences, I continued to commit forgeries to get my pills. I was deeply hooked and I needed more and more pills. I felt I needed them more than I needed to follow the law. I remained in this private hell that I created for several months, doing all I could to get my drugs.

Being arrested was my only way out of the chasm I called My Life of Addiction. I was not going to seek help voluntarily and may have died either directly indirectly from my addiction.

In His Own Words (Part 1)

September 28, 2010

The following is a guest blog written by my friend "Dizzy". This is the first time he has spoken since his arrest, August 18, 2008. As always, there are two sides to a story. This is Dizzy's side, in his own words.

I am proud to call him my friend and have a lot of love, respect and admiration for Dizzy. I have complete faith in him and his strength and wisdom to rebuild and recreate a life outside of prison. Dizzy lost a career, his freedom, his happy family, and the trust and pride hard earned by him with his parents. Or so he felt. Dizzy did screw up his life with his addiction and self-destructiveness. Just like so many other addicts, like myself. Dizzy is standing again and heading in the right direction. He is a good person and I'll stand by him just like friends should.

Shannon M. Clark

I was once told that sometimes in life, a significant event occurs that divides your life into two parts; separating time simply into What happened before and after that incident.

My dividing line is August 18, 2008, when I was told that I was "under arrest". It's a phrase I've uttered a 100 times to people, but I never imagined it would ever be uttered to me.

On the afternoon of June 7, 2005, I was assigned to assist an Infantry Battalion in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom, as a Combat Medical Specialist (aka...Combat Medic). Duties of a medic include but are not limited to assisting combat zone personnel in battlefield injuries, illnesses and emergency medical treatment to stabilize the soldier until he can be "EVAC'd" (Evacuated to a military treatment facility. Yes, a hospital).

On that afternoon, I was scheduled to be off-duty, a rarity in Iraq. One of my close friends asked me to cover his shift that day and I agreed to do so. At about 10AM, myself and the rest of my squad prepared to depart the base and travel to an area where we had received reports that a local town was possibly harboring a known Al-Quaida terrorist.

Our convoy departed at 12:30PM and traveled toward a town called Tadji, which is a small city in comparison to Baghdad. I was in the third vehicle from the front as we drove north on a well traveled highway.

Up ahead of the lead vehicle I could see a dead and mutilated animal on the right side of the road. I instructed my driver to veer toward the middle of the road to minimize our chance of driving right next to the animal, because my previous experiences and training showed that dead animals are often used to conceal IED's (Improvised Explosive Devices).

As our vehicles approached the area where the animal carcass was, I noticed no pedestrians or children in the immediate area. Only faces peeking out of windows could be seen. When you are in Iraq, you become attentive to what used to be insignificant things, until your life depends on these insignificant things. As my mind was processing my surroundings, I noticed that our vehicles (unarmored Hummers) were too close to the side of the road.

I woke up laying in dust, dirt and blood. Waking to the screams of other soldiers around me. (I'm sorry if I'm rushing through this part, but they are painful memories to recall and put on paper). I attempted to find anyone I could give assistance to, but as I tried to move, I noticed pieces of metal and glass embedded in my arms, legs, cheek, and thigh and groin areas. I tried to crawl to one of the men who I could hear, but found part of the vehicle axle had burned through the top of my boot onto my skin. Because of the serious nature of my injuries, I was unable to properly administer medications and give aide to the other wounded, taking what seemed like a lifetime to apply an occlusive dressing to a chest wound to the driver of my vehicle, breaking a needle off while trying to start an IV in a screaming Spec. 4 from North Dakota.

After what seemed like an eternity, assistance arrived in the form of a Black Hawk Medical Chopper (AKA...EVAC chopper or "dustoff"). Unfortunately the details of that day were burned into my memory as tangible as the hunks of metal in my body. After several hours, I arrived at what is referred to as "Baghdad ER". A hospital for US Military Personnel (and locals). As Camp Victory-Baghdad, I was given pain medication (Fetanyl & Dilaudid) and evacuated to another military hospital in Germany, with 7 other unit members, where I was given Fetanyl, Dilaudid & Morphine for pain. On that day I lost four of my friends. I can still see parts of their bodies covered in dirt and blood. These things haunt me to this day and I simply try not to think of it. (Easier said than done).

After spending several weeks in the hospital, I finally made it home knowing others did not. This is a constant weight on my mind, causing enormous guilt. I asked myself why did I deserve to live while others had their life taken by a coward trying to prove a point to their so-called god. Obviously, this caused a lot of anger towards myself and anyone in a 15 meter radius of me.

I became things I never thought I would be; depressed, angry and uncaring. As I recovered from my physical injuries, I struggled to forget about the events of that warm June day. I was prescribed pain medications, anti-anxiety medications and anti-depressants. As time progressed, I began taking more pain meds and Xanax for emotional pain. Xanax became my emotional crutch, clouding my emotions to just get through another day.

Another Great Food Visit

September 12, 2010

Today was another food visit. My sister waited for me for nearly two hours in visitation. I had to bite my tongue when I was finally notified by fellow prisoners I had a visitor and learned she'd been kept waiting. She didn't seem too upset, so I let it go with only a condescending remark to the visitation officer "Hours of waiting....really?"

Due to short staffing, the second visitation room was not being used, so it was a packed visitation, inside and outside. We shared an indoor table with another guy and his parents. Despite the cramped conditions, it was a happy and great visit. My sister and I talked, joked, laughed and ate for nearly three hours straight. I did most of the eating. LOL

My sister's menu: Granola, chocolate granola bars, fresh strawberries & blueberries, dried cranberries, dark chocolate Kit Kats, two Whoppers, peaches, two pieces of cheesecake (Cheesecake Factory-a kind and generous gift) and two pieces of apple pie. My sister had a salad and nibbled at the rest. I shamelessly ate it all. LOL. It was great!

We also talked about the future and plans we have. We're both starting our lives again. Her daughter is now a Northern Arizona University freshman and her brother (me) gets out in 1 1/2 years. We're going to have fun and make a good life for ourselves.

Another Unfortunate Death

September 11, 2010

This week I learned that a mentally ill inmate who left Eagle Point Unit a couple of weeks ago was murdered while in a lock-down detention unit.

I knew the guy. Sharing first names, we had spoken on occasion. Shannon Palmer appeared to be a normal, polite person. Somewhat stand-offish, but harmless.

One day Shannon asked me if I would help him get his story out to the public. I agreed to listen and sat in my cell with him for nearly two hours as he told me his entire story, which he also told me he had written down and kept in his cell.

It was an extremely far-fetched conspiracy, which he told me I'd think it was. It involved the MCSO, Center for Missing and Exploited Children, CIA, US Military Black ops, and various other agencies who were after him. Men in suits of shimmering armor that cloak a person making them invisible. He believed these invisible assassins had been following him and were waiting outside the prison fence to kill him. He also believed he had been given an implant in his thigh by the CIA.

A couple of weeks ago he was just removed off of the yard here. Rumor has it that he was moved to detention for a "Psych Watch".

Based on news reports, and comments I heard from brown & orange shirts, Shannon's cellmate (another guy I know from Tucson's Manzanita Unit) cut his throat and castrated him.

I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know that there are multiple things that trouble me about this.

Shannon Palmer seemed severely paranoid and delusional. He needed psych help. He was put in detention, which is generally used for discipline or protection. He was put in a lock-down cell with another prisoner. He DIED! A horrible death...

Is ADOC so over-crowded and under-staffed that severely mentally ill prisoners aren't receiving adequate mental health care, protection from other prisoners and themselves, and simply ignored until blood is spilled?

I'm fairly certain Shannon Palmer was a minimum security inmate. I also suspect that his cellmate was not. Why did Mr. Palmer have a celly, let alone a higher security one?

How did he get his throat cut in a lock-down unit that doesn't allow shaving razors to be possessed by prisoners and is supposed to be a highly secure unit?

These are all questions that should be asked. Who will investigate this preventable murder?