University of Virginia Library

72 Hours In Tulsa County Jail

"You can spend up to $3.75,
but aren't allowed more than
twenty candy bars."

Since I had very little money
anyway. I splurged on a few Baby
Ruths and paper and envelopes so
that I could send letters explaining
what was happening. At that point
we expected to be in lot some time.

Thursday morning out lawyer,
provided free of charge by local
draft groups, informed us that the
U. S. Attorney was going out of his
way to drop charges. The state of
Oklahoma didn't want to try us for
NON-POSSESSION either because
they didn't want the hassle, or
because they knew we'd cause more
trouble than it was worth to try.
Having contacted our local boards,
the FBI informed the Tulsa
authorities that Norm was about to
be indicted by the U.S. Attorney in
Baltimore for refusal to do
alternative service, and my board
informed them that I was never
going to be drafted they obviously
didn't understand the law, or were
consciously avoiding me my
number was eminently available.

So Friday afternoon, after 72
hours, we were released in custody
of a local minister with our charges
dismissed, pending my appearance
for a physical in Oklahoma City. I
took that physical because the local
draft counselors had never been
able to get someone to walk
through and report the procedures
as well as create a minor disruption
of the procedures, I, feeling that
the first duty of a P.O.W. is to
escape, agreed only because I
figured they'd soon find their
mistake in not inducting me. I
wanted to be tried for induction
refusal rather than non-possession.

We left Oklahoma seven days
after we came, not unhappy to be
leaving. The experience of seeing
the operation of a prison from
within also left some very strong
impressions. If the authorities in
this country insist on playing the
game, then they at least must play
by the rules they write. Throughout
our experience, those rules were
continuously violated, from our
arrest straight through to our
release. Those men we encountered
on the cell block were, almost to the
man, being denied some portion of
their rights.

I've heard over and over that
criminals must be kept imprisoned
until they have paid their debt to
society: once again I feel that
society ought to play by the rules —
when a debt's paid, you forget the
bill. Not so for the majority of
these men: again, almost to the
man, they had tried, after their first
conviction and imprisonment to
lead a straight life, honestly dealing
with the world. To the man they
were harassed by the authorities,
condemned by the local citizens,
and fired from their jobs. What
alternative were they offered?

I can be asked "Why do you
believe their stories thieves and
maybe murderers, duping a child
like you?" I respond by asserting
that my only crime is refusing to be
part of a system that illegally
(outside of the rules of the game)
murders men. I was treated by the
authorities with cruelty and hatred,
among the prisoners I found a
spark, and sometimes more, of a
human soul. Measured against one
another, some prisoners, we
criminals, appear at least to be
trying, which is more than the
gloating superiority of the jailer led
me to believe. If they are
representatives of the game, the
people who enforce the rules, then
first they should obey the rules.