All your life, you are taught the difference between right and wrong. You become aware that each action of your life results in a reaction that may or may not be desired. This is the story of a man who had all the makings of a prosperous future, only to have an event occur that altered his life forever. Journey with the author as he describes what happened to him, how the courts reacted to him, and how he adjusts to living a year of his life in prison. Relive the scenes that occurred around him, and learn what it's like in a moderate security prison from his point of view, and how all the stories you've heard before about prison life are usually distorted. Experience the wide range of emotions he felt as he fought for his life, when his freedom was taken from him, and how he was determined to stay above the mentality of those he was surrounded by so that he could become a productive member of society when the nightmare was over. Read this book with one thing in mind - this could happen to you. He didn't think it could ever happen to him!

Screwed Without Intercourse

By Gordan Stevens

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Gordan Stevens
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-5696-1

Chapter One

I was a student at a state university in town, working towards getting my baccalaureate degree in Nursing. I lived on my own, working 40 hours on the weekends at a local hospital as the office clerk in the X-ray department.

I began to date one of the employees in medical records, an oriental woman named Mindy. Mindy was completely Americanized; she had no accent from her heritage. When I met her, she was separated from her husband, Bob, of 15 years.

They had been apart for 3 years, and Bob had given Mindy $0.00 in financial support for their three kids. This was a necessity for Bob, since every extra dollar he earned went to feed his methamphetamine habit. His crank habit also happened to be the reason that Mindy told him to hit the road; they filed for bankruptcy protection that year. It was 1989.

When we started dating, Bob had been out of Mindy's life for so long that all three children constantly asked Mindy when dad would be around again. Unbeknownst to either of us, he would suddenly decide he wanted Mindy back as soon as he found out she was dating someone, and he was willing to confront any man who stepped in his way to take back his property. Who would have guessed that Bob would have the law on his side?

One night while Mindy was over at my place, someone knocked on the door, loudly and forcefully. Instantly, both of them knew who was at the door. It was Bob. Instead of opening the door, I called 911 trying to avoid a confrontation.

Now, mind you, Bob was a Phillipino, small in frame, topping the scale at 150 pounds, maybe 160 after a meal of pizza & beer, and standing around 5 foot 3 inches. I was a champion swimmer as a youth, weighed in at 175 pounds, and stood 5 foot 11 inches. The notable size difference made me the obvious victor in any hand-to-hand combat that may take place. So why call 911? Why not just go out and kick the hell out of him? I had my reasons.

Mindy had told me of the violent rages Bob would go into when under the influence of crank. And he was a Vietnam veteran, exposed to all the death & destruction that went along with it. Active duty equals Combat. Since I was never enlisted, I had no active service time, let alone active duty! Thinking that Bob was highly trained in combat and had killed before, I was quite reluctant to confront the smaller man, despite my size advantage.

By the time that the police arrived, Bob had already left my property, and was driving down the street. I was on the phone with the 911 dispatcher, alerting her that the police had just driven by Bob in his car. They turned around and apprehended Bob. He had an open container in the car, a can of beer. The police took him downtown.

However, after holding the intoxicated driver overnight and listening to his terrible story, about how I was stealing his wonderful wife away from him and destroying their wonderfully tight family, the Valley City police department released him. No DUI, no charges at all. It wasn't his fault. He had a right to protect his property, according to the police. And Mindy was his property.

This happened two more times, the last being on New Year's Eve of 1990. Each time, I remained inside, trying to avoid a confrontation. Each time, the police spoke to Bob, but after learning of the situation, took his side and filed no assault charges against him. Their advice to me: quit seeing Mindy. She's married to him, and that's the way it is. Even my dad told me it was time to stop seeing Mindy, insisting that this relationship was going to lead to no good.

But the police and my dad were wrong. Something special had started between Mindy and I, and we knew we had a future.

Our lives on this planet are finite; there is an end to them. Some of us search for happiness our entire existence while others seem to run right into it. When I first saw Mindy, she was dressed in a long, blue velvet dress. The kind that hugged her small frame, showing all the curves that drive most men crazy. Hell, even gay men were turned on by her! I was not immune to her beauty.

But there was something special between us. Mindy felt it too. Many people don't believe that love just happens. Some say that love must grow and flourish and be nurtured to be anything worth keeping. We did not have a chance to work at loving each other; we fell in love the moment we first met.

And then on April 7, 1990, the unthinkable happened.

Mindy came over that night to spend some time with me. After going to sleep early that evening, we were awakened by a phone call. It was Bob.

"I want you out of that house and back home with your family where you belong," he told her. "If you're not home in 30 minutes, I'll come over and smash the windows and slash the tires on his truck.

But Mindy wasn't afraid of him. Her only concern was that I not be involved in this crap anymore. So she got up and left. But Bob showed up at my place anyway.

He pounded on the front door at around 2am. I jumped out of bed and grabbed the first thing I saw; a buck knife folded up on the dresser. "If he's gonna slash the tires on my truck," I thought as I hastily headed to the front door, "then he's gonna be armed with a chain, maybe a bat, and/or a knife." Armed and ready, I went out through the front door. Directly in front of my house was a street lamp, which shined a bright light on the entire driveway of my corner house.

"4 times the police have been called because this asshole is assaulting me. 4 times they have let him go. How many more times will this be allowed to go on?" I asked myself.

"None," was my answer. What ensued was a fight to the death between two men: one scared to death, the other `amping' out on crank.

Since it was 2am and the streets were deserted and quiet, I remember my voice echoing off the surrounding houses. I walked hurriedly up to my assailant, shouting, "Why did you come here?"

I saw a flash of light in Bob's hand, and the thought that he was armed as well gave me all the reason I needed to go on the offensive. Something happened to me in that next moment.

It was as if something had caused me to leave my body and become a third party in what was about to occur. Like an out-of-body experience reported by patients who have been legally dead and are then brought back to life, I could see myself as he and I came together. The anger welled inside me, an anger I'd never before experienced. Like an animal that has been backed into a corner, the feeling of dread that I must either fight or be beaten, kill or be killed, I must do for myself what the police would not.

I kicked him in the midsection, causing him to bend over at the waist. Without giving him a chance to react, I swiftly and forcefully brought the buck knife in my hand down on his back.

On the first strike, he twisted as the knife entered between the 5th & 6th rib. The 4" long, ¼" thick blade snapped off in his chest, sitting ¾" from the tissue that surrounds the heart. I continued to stab at him as he twisted around in circles like a tornado dance performed by an American Indian. What I didn't know was that I no longer had a 4" blade at the end of my knife; it was now only about ½" long.

As he spun around, I slashed frantically with the knife in my right hand while holding the lapel of his leather jacket behind his neck with my left hand. With each rotation, the material bunched up more, and after 3 rotations, I had to let go.

He fell to the ground in the crawl position, suddenly realizing...