ARRIVING AT CHARLIE"S 23RD PRISON

MARION C. I.-- OCALA, FLORIDA 

 

They woke us up at 3:30 a.m. on Monday, July 28, 2025,. to get on the bus to Marion at 6:35 a.m., arriving in Ocala from Orlando an hour and a half later. The bus trip was actually the easiest part of the day. 

I couldn't believe I was transferring to an incentivized prison -- the best one, rumor has it-- after a two-year sentence in the Okeechobee hellhole. Incentivized prisons are the new trend in corrections. Good behavior is rewarded. Thicker mattresses, better conditions, more programs, and better food-- ice cream twice a week. Screw up and you're shipped back to your old hellhole. 

We had baked chicken and "Chip Around" ice cream tonight. The chicken was hot, the ice cream was frozen. No complaints. 

 Marion is actually in Lowell, next door to the women's prison, but Ocala is the nearest city, bisected by Interstate 75. It has the biggest rec yard in the system. It is huge. At Okeechobee we might get to go to the rec yard and canteen once a week if we're lucky. Here you can go to rec and canteen twice a day. 

I am in E-Dorm, an "open" dorm housing 89 or so men. Built in 1954, Marion is hot, no one has air conditioning but the guards. Did I say hot? Heat index 110°. 

They have family visiting Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Very little drugs, violence or gang activity. 

Two more guardian angels helped carry my property, mostly heavy legal papers, on and off the bus and to E--Dorm. Young, strong Christians, we all moved into E-Dorm, where they continue to look out for me. I am blessed. 

More later. -- Charlie

Holiday Greetings

 

DECEMBER 21, 2024 

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR! MAY ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE...

PEACE, JOY AND LOVE.... 

LIBBY AND CHARLIE NORMAN

 

 

 

 

Charlie and Libby at RMC

 

Charlie and Libby Norman at the Lake Butler Reception/Medical Center (RMC) Main Unit visiting park Sunday, April 14, 2024

Dateline: Wednesday, April 24, 2024, 1:13 p.m.

It has been a hard month for the home team. Rudely awakened at 3:24 a.m. March 18, 2024, told I was transferring, I sent a quick email to Libby as a heads-up, and gathered my belongings.

To reach the RMC prison hospital complex involved being restrained in tight chains and leg irons for a senseless prison bus ride south from Okeechobee C. I. to Miami, South Florida Reception Center (SFRC), a couple days and nights there, more chains and a bus ride north to Orlando, Central Florida Reception/Center (CFRC), change buses, switch out chains, ride north to RMC, finally.

I thought I was coming to the RMC hospital to see the contract neurologist about my Myasthenia gravis condition and possible Parkinson's Disease symptoms, but after sitting on my heels for a month, my first clue otherwise came this past Monday when I was summoned to the hospital for an echocardiogram, with more tests scheduled for the cardiologist.

All that proceeded from my January heart attack and two-week stay at the Lawnwood Hospital Heart Institute in Fort Pierce. Great facility, great food, great nurses and doctors. I am much better now.

After being cleared by the doctors here, most likely I will be shipped back to Okeechobee, no telling when, a week, a month, or more. They tell us nothing.

Wednesday, April 3, 2024 : Libby made a valiant presentation before the three hostile Florida parole commissioners for my release, followed by a telephonic endorsement from my friend, TV producer Loen Kelley in New York City, to no avail. Corrupt former Tampa prosecutor Mark Ober chimed in, opposing my release, with rambling false statements that have no basis in truth.

My parole release date remains at July 4, 2017, suspended. My unparalleled parole release plan was ignored. More about that another time.

Don't give up! I'm not dead yet. We have avenues for appeal.

Corrupt Mark Ober desperately fears my release, not for his safety, for I have never posed a physical threat to him, but for my knowledge of his corruption. He was bought and paid for by organized crime decades ago, and I am poised to make speeches before large groups when I am freed. Example: what dead mafioso continues to make campaign contributions to Ober to this day? Answer: Basil Scaglione.

Libby and I had a great visit together. The RMC visiting park is far superior to most others we've been to over our twenty-four years together. Polite, courteous staff, fast entry, little waiting, large indoor and outdoor space, and easy to get to. The photo shows my "RMC haircut," a rite of passage for all those entering these gates. Much of it will grow back.

This past week I faced a setback - food poisoning - did I mention the bad food? For several days I could not linger far from the bathroom. They issue one roll of cheap toilet paper a week, and I had to buy a roll from another prisoner. I fasted for a couple days and forced myself to drink tepid tap water to avoid dehydration.

At the 7:00 a.m. count this morning the sergeant gave us an expletive-laced account about how sorry food service was, how many people suffered food poisoning, and how sorry medical was, refusing to treat all the sufferers, saying let it run its course.

My brother, Dan, niece Tammy Norman, and aunt Alice Walker hope to visit with me this Saturday, April 27th, a mini-family reunion. Time marches on, and our family dwindles.

I pray that God grants our prayers for release, and we can all be together one day soon. Peace, joy and love...

Charlie

 

Charlie Norman Parole Interview Today

 

Thursday, February 29, 2024, 11:34 a.m.

I just got back from my parole interview with investigators John O'Donnell and Jonathan Goodwin in the Classification Department conference room.

It went very well. Both men were smiling, and when I reached out to shake hands, they eagerly responded (that is not always the case; I’ve experienced this kind:  when you offer a handshake upon meeting and the person stares at it like it was a snake, and that is not a good sign.)

They were there to review my parole release plan and verify my program participation, then provide all my material to the parole commission, who has the final say as to whether I go home or stay (46 years so far).

Libby did a good job compiling my paperwork into an excellent parole plan, and they were impressed.

You may submit a written statement expressing your support of an inmate, me, Charles Norman, DC # 881834, (snail mail address below), which will be reviewed and considered by the voting Commissioners. Please call 1-800-335-3396 or submit your statement by email to InmatesSupporter@fcor.state.fl.us .

Questions relating to appearing before the Commission may be answered by calling the Office of the Commission Clerk at (850) 488-1293.

Note — REQUESTS MUST BE MADE WITHIN 15 DAYS AFTER DATE OF INTERVIEW, so the deadline is MARCH 14, 2024.

If you wish to attend as a show of support, please let Libby and me know. Our side only has ten minutes total to speak. Address: Florida Commission on Offender Review, 4070 Esplanade Way Tallahassee, FL 32399-2450. The hearings are held in the Betty Easley Conference Center at the normally scheduled time (9 a.m. on Wednesdays). Commissioners: Melinda Coonrod, Chairperson, Richard Davison, Vice Chair, David Wyant, Secretary.  

In any case, prayers and good thoughts are always appreciated.

I'm tired from the stress of the 90 minute interview and effects of my Myasthenia Gravis, and will write more when I can.

Thank you sincerely for your support and concern.

Charlie

If It's Not One Thing, It's Another

 

Dateline: Friday, October 6, 2023 -- 6:26 a.m. Okeechobee C. I.

No matter where one goes in the Florida prison system, nothing ever goes smoothly for long. "Hellified" applies over and over again.

I've mentioned a couple of neighbors in nearby bunks in this "open dorm" I am housed in, and I wanted to update you on what has happened since that last message.

We were entering the chowhall at early breakfast when I saw my bunk neighbor, the talkative black dwarf, emerge with hands cuffed behind his back, head lowered in shame, being led to confinement by a guard twice his height. We won't see him for a couple of months. The story quickly spread. He was a gunslinger, prison slang for an individual who exposes his sex organ to female (and the occasional male) staff members, guards, teachers, classification officers, volunteers, and others. I never even knew his name. He went by a prison nickname I won't repeat.

Standing in line for our trays that morning, a "table wipe," a worker who, obviously, cleans tables, shared his amusing witness, naming the female victim. "He was so proud of that little thing he thought everyone wanted to see it," he said, laughing.

It's not a laughing matter. Florida law makes such actions third degree felonies. Usually they serve sixty days in confinement instead.

Sunday night after midnight I was awakened from a deep sleep by screams in the darkened sleeping area. Three rows over an inmate lay on the floor swinging his arms and kicking his legs, like he was fighting off invisible demons, screaming incoherently, banging his arms and legs against steel bunk supports. Several prisoners tried to restrain him, but his superhuman drug-induced hallucinatory strength easily flung them off. I winced every time his legs slammed against the steel bunks, the bunk’s not giving an inch. He's gonna be hurting and bruised tomorrow, I thought, when the drugs wear off.

The next day the dogs came. I counted eight Belgian Malinois drug- and cell phone-sniffing dogs and K-9 handlers, but another prisoner said there was another team hitting another building. I've never seen more than three dog teams together, so this was unusual. "Sit up on your bunks, hands on your head," one guard ordered.

Dogs ran up and down the rows of bunks, sniffing foot lockers and the bunk area. One inmate was so scared he offered a guard his small package of dope, before the dogs found it.

"Strip down to your boxers, hands on your head."

Do you know how painful it can be with your hands on your head, all the blood draining from your arms? Several older inmates let their hands and arms hang loose as a guard with a metal detector wanded each prisoner's privates. The wand beeped when it came close to the rear end of the man next to me. "Beep..." It went off again. And again. The guard ordered my neighbor to the shower area for a more intrusive search.

Finally the inmate gave in, admitted he had something stashed, and removed the metal from his rear that had set off the wand. Cell phone? No. A knife! Ouch!

Wearing athletic shorts and tee shirts, we then marched out of the building and to the distant recreation field, a huge expanse of grass that is easily twice as big as the entire Lake C. I. Finally the dog pack emerged from A Dorm and went on their way.

Two nights ago, two a.m., it happened again. Awakened from a deep sleep by screams and loud banging on the officers' station Plexiglas, the same guy as before, able to walk this time, the nutcase begged for help. At first I thought someone was dying, and so did the guards. Ten minutes later a dozen guards rushed into the building expecting to see blood. The screamer was handcuffed and led away. The guards searched and confiscated petty contraband items like plastic bottles and bowls for awhile, then left. I couldn't go back to sleep.

Monday, October 6th, was supposed to be the start of the statewide prison canteen price raise protest. Nobody was supposed to patronize the price-gouging vendor who arbitrarily jacked up the canteen prices. The little Keefe coffee packets that cost fourteen cents rose to twenty cents, a thirty percent increase. Saltine packs tripled in price, to $2.80. Everything went up, impacting every prisoner's family, who struggle to send money to their loved ones in prison. Inmate dot com spread the rumor that a prisoner at another prison was stabbed for going to the canteen. At this camp, the canteen men didn't bother opening their windows, avoiding conflict. By Wednesday the boycott was over. The canteen line was long.

Now they are going to spray for bugs, roaches and fire ants. Mandatory rec for a couple of hours.

More later. 

Charlie

GOODBYE MIAMI, HELLO OKEECHOBEE —Transferred, Part 3

 

Friday, September 15, 2023

They get us up earlier and earlier. Thursday, 3:00 a.m. wake-up in the SFRC Miami. Transfer. Let this be the last one for awhile, Lord.

Same rigmarole as before, marching, searching, ransacking, strip-searching — isn't there a law against such forcible acts? Six hours later, after nine a.m., after every prisoner donned handcuffs, leg irons and chains, struggling to their seats, the crowded prison bus headed north on the turnpike, and eventually switched to Hwy. 441 North.

Within minutes, still on prison grounds, the bus filled with acrid burning industrial fumes from the drugs half the prisoners smoked. I shudder to think how they got those drugs past the strip searches.

One old junkie lamented the younger generation's dependence on synthetic chemical drugs. What happened to all the pot in prison?

Next stop — Belle Glade — famous for sugar cane and football running backs who learned their trade of zigging and zagging from chasing down rabbits in the cane fields. I've never been there, but it didn't take long to realize that Belle Glade had the same stores and fast food joints as every other town in America.

Prison buses can't use the drive-thru windows, so the driver parked across the street from KFC and his partner took a walk. Next stop was the Winn Dixie supermarket. The deli beckoned. The fellows yelled through the window grates at local women who yelled back. Revelation — I never knew Winn Dixie had their own liquor stores.

Finally the guards stocked up on lunch and we got back on our way north. We had a "bag lunch," turkey bologna and dry bread, and a gummy peanut butter sandwich. In years past those bag lunches were sought after — ham and cheese sandwich, real peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange, apple or banana, and a half-pint of milk. No more. Those days are gone. The Everglades may be called the Sea of Grass, but everything north of the Everglades should be called the sugar cane ocean, miles and miles of sugar cane, along with drainage canals and the occasional cow pasture. Okeechobee C. I. sits in the middle of a miles-long cow pasture.

You can see the standard white prison water tank rising above the flat land from miles away. Same old same old. These Florida prisons are nothing if not consistent. Go back and read my accounts of what another prison did, and you can fill in the blanks of how it went at “ 'Chobee," as they call this place.

First thing off the bus, the guards delighted in telling us we were in lockdown. Two stabbings that morning had put the prison in a three-day shut down, mainly cutting off canteen access. Great. No cold Diet Cokes for me.

We finally got processed, fed and spread out to our various housing areas. I am now in A-2, an open dorm of eighty mostly young and foolish men of every ethnic background. To my right, my neighbor is a talkative black dwarf from Tampa who works in the kitchen, and to my right a 300-pound West Palm Beach native also appears starved for conversation.

Lots of Hispanics here, who I get along with fine, since I speak Spanish. Most of them call me " Abuelo," grandfather.

This is a real prison, unlike the clown factory at Lake C. I. Now that I'm out of their censorship clutches, I can write more about how the people there don't know how to run a prison.

Here, the bad news is the Wi-Fi is out, which means I can't send or receive any email, rent any movies, read the newspaper, no copies of snail mail, etc. The workmen are installing new cables, which will take about 3 weeks, then JPay will need another week to install new software. No rush, of course. 

At least the phone works, for now.

So if I don't answer your email, please don't be alarmed. I'm certainly not ignoring you, just no technical capability.

You can email to Libby, who can then pass on any messages by phone to me.

 More later.

Best to all. Thanks for caring.

Charlie