Havens was in a solitary confinement cell at the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington. When he'd arrived at the high-security facility to serve 25 years for murder, he'd felt fitting in was his best chance at not ending up a target. "During a phone call from prison, my father asked me if I was going to be a clown fish in a sea of sharks," he says. Havens chose to be a shark. He began "probating" for a gang—like pledging a fraternity. One of his tasks was to fight another prisoner. Just two months after he'd walked through the prison doors, that choice had landed him here: a tiny, cold cell where the lights were on 24 hours a day and inmates around him released their anger and frustration by screaming, banging on the walls, and occasionally smearing feces on the air conditioning vents. He couldn't sleep, so he sat, did sudoku puzzles, and thought about the decades he had left.
Every afternoon—although time of day was hard to know with the lights always on—Havens could hear a prison employee passing something to the other inmates. "He'd slip something in their cells and keep walking," Havens says. The first few times "Mr. G.," as the inmates called him, went by, Havens didn't bother asking what he was giving out. He was content to wallow with his sudokus. As the days stretched on, he realized he needed more—he needed anything—to pass the time. He positioned himself by his door and asked Mr. G. what exactly the other inmates were getting. Mr. G. didn't reply, but the next day, a packet of math worksheets slid through the slot of his cell door.
 Havens was in a solitary confinement cell at the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington. When he'd arrived at the high-security facility to serve 25 years for murder, he'd felt fitting in was his best chance at not ending up a target. "During a phone call from prison, my father asked me if I was going to be a clown fish in a sea of sharks," he says. Havens chose to be a shark. He began "probating" for a gang—like pledging a fraternity. One of his tasks was to fight another prisoner. Just two months after he'd walked through the prison doors, that choice had landed him here: a tiny, cold cell where the lights were on 24 hours a day and inmates around him released their anger and frustration by screaming, banging on the walls, and occasionally smearing feces on the air conditioning vents. He couldn't sleep, so he sat, did sudoku puzzles, and thought about the decades he had left.
Every afternoon—although time of day was hard to know with the lights always on—Havens could hear a prison employee passing something to the other inmates. "He'd slip something in their cells and keep walking," Havens says. The first few times "Mr. G.," as the inmates called him, went by, Havens didn't bother asking what he was giving out. He was content to wallow with his sudokus. As the days stretched on, he realized he needed more—he needed anything—to pass the time. He positioned himself by his door and asked Mr. G. what exactly the other inmates were getting. Mr. G. didn't reply, but the next day, a packet of math worksheets slid through the slot of his cell door. In this case of David against Goliath, the compact budget iPhone holds its own surprisingly well. It is on the heavy (and expensive side), but the return on investment is undeniable. Six great options for making your photos look their best. Now that is poetic justice. Now that is poetic justice. |
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