![]() ![]() In their words, it was because I was famous, but more importantly not a pedophile. “Oh, dang, you’re one of them art robbers!” he blurted out, chuckling in a high-pitched tone - and just like that, the interrogation was over. Luckily for me, the crime I’d committed had gotten quite a bit of media coverage, so right off the bat one of the guys recognized me. ![]() But refusing to show it is as good as admitting to being a child molester, so everyone just hands it over. The welcome party’s request to see your paperwork isn’t exactly a friendly one, and of course there’s a natural urge to resist. This task is usually carried out by a group of guys from one’s hometown, which is easy to learn since the last three digits of your ID number indicate which district court handled your case - a kind of proxy for geography - information that, along with your name, is printed on the front of your shirt for everyone to see. Once the guard was gone, a few guys cornered me in my cell and demanded to see my paperwork, the documents new arrivals receive, which detail their criminal charges - prison’s version of a welcoming party, which shows up mostly just to find out if you’re a pedophile. ![]()
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