It was cold as hell in her closet sized bedroom in the large closet sized row home. A home up the narrow rickety street where once the winter wind met the beginning of that street it became a howl, a growl, and whipped through it. The pint sized dwelling had an address, 99 1/2 painted on the chipped front door. Yet this early morn, little thin Connie Chicago was oh so happy. So much so that it was difficult for her to sleep in the cold room even though it was warm under the pile of old coats and a large piece of horse blanket. Yes, this early morn, the cute child with short hair cut from just a bowl upon her head was delighted. For today, in her joy, she would become 10. And since she learned how to read, a very important day in a the life of a poor, undernourished child. A child who didn’t mind the stares, as she walked through the cold wind to the run-down school on the corner of Melhigh Street, because once in the old class room sitting behind the old desk the children were dressed as she. Dressed in clean rags….. So, as the windy city’s dawn began to creep through the boards of the no-glass, no pane, bed room window. A smile that would have opened the gates to heaven grew and stayed across the thin, cute, face. Yet, her eyes repeated themselves upon the clock, being broken and tilting to one side. It was no use concerning herself about breakfast, for she never had one. Only the free lunch at school and then what she would bring home from Mr. Gasonia’s grocery store where she worked from after school until way past winter dark, bringing home the almost spoiled vegetables and fruit ready to be tossed in the large barrel in the alley; along with the bread with just tiny spots of mold….. Then the small clock did its job….. Then she was up racing out the door, putting on the patched up coat as she ran….. She ran with such a sparkle in her eyes. Connie Chicago ran with an expression on her face of love for all the world to see. She got to the city library as the large key was turned in the large lock of the heavy bronze door. She slowed a bit. She tried to slow a bit, running to the counter….. “Hello, Ms. Brownsly, Ms. Brownsly, I am 10 years old today. Now I’m allowed to check out books.” And Connie Chicago stared up at the librarian who she knew. For she was only allowed to read in the library because she wasn’t of age to check the novels out, but never had the time to be there due to the struggles in her young life. Yet now, a whole new world would be opened to her and the young mind that wished to drink its fill of all the places, of all the dreams she wished upon….. And Connie Chicago, her thin arms, her calloused hands, held the books of many a girl child’s wonders and oh how she blessed God for being 10 today.

By: George Martorano
CR.12793
Date:12-12-11

Dear President Obama,

I am writing to you through my uncle, George, because I am very little and do not talk so good. But my uncle understands me if I hop up and down and keep at it. My days are long and of course my nights are short ’cause I go to bed early. And this letter is about my long days. ‘Cause every time my mom makes me a play-date the play-date does not want to play-date again. And being a little guy who doesn’t understand big things, grown up things, I need my play-date. ‘Cause I only started having a play-date not too long ago in my then country where I lived, Peru. Now I am in your country, so I writing you ’cause it’s your country. Now, you might hear some things about my play-dates. Like the ear on Tom, oh Tommy getting pulled and twisted and getting all red. But how was I gonna do the cow boy stuff if I didn’t twist his ear like a cow? Now, he don’t wanna play-date no more. Oh, I don’t know what happened with Morris and all of a sudden his little toofff was in my hand. Oh! and that girl Betty-jean who I didn’t know was a girl. And I’m tellin the troofff when I say….. she bit me first! And ’cause I’m only in your country not too long. I only had one play-date with the boy up the street….. and, I can’t remember his name ’cause the play-date was so short. All I did was do like they do on T.V., what they call foottt ball when I ran through the front door and tackled what’s-his-name. ‘Cause I’m jumping up and down and talking alot to my uncle George ’cause I want you to make a law where kids, not girls, have to play-date with me. When I used to live in Peru I even wrestled all the kids in school who said bad things about America. So, if I did that for your America, you can do a play-date law for me. Oh! my name is Paxton Club and I’m little about high as….. No, no, almost as high as my grandma’s kitchen table where we live in your country….. Oh, I gotta go. Talk to you later.

I Subscribe myself: Paxton Club with my uncle George typing. Thank you Mr. President Obama

As I look into the tiny, tiny, pond. There isn’t much of the way of things in, down and around the liquid. Yet, there is in the center, bobbing with the wind from my own lips, a small, golden island….. As I stare at the island, floating a little to the left, a little to the right, I stare and I think of many things. I think of freedom, of course. I think of what it’s like to love in a natural sense. Or, I just think to stay alive. Yes, this tiny, tiny pond that I hover above is so sparing. For all I have is the tiny, golden island from the tab….. You see, I saw the tab from afar. It caught my eye. So I approached it. I looked down at it. It was of two colors of yellow. The top, a bright yellow. The bottom, darker from being smashed. Yes, the tab, you see, was a lonely and alone just a tab of butter. Of which I took and placed it in the bowl of my watery soup. And there you have my day of a life of a prisoner, of a fool. Yet, I’ve learned to appreciate the glistening, small, golden island that floats below me. After all, shouldn’t I exist. Shouldn’t I be there for me? Oh my God! Possibly thee….

By: George Martorano
Cr: 12973
Date:11-19-11

Well, good evening and I have just come in from the night yard watching an orange moon so slowly rise from behind tree tops then longing more from up above….. But, as I looked up I had legal issues in my mind….. First, the 7th Circuit has come down with a recent case on general sentencing in our favor. The case, US vs Molinaro- U.S. App. Lexis 14060, of which we can use in the reply brief.
Also, I have reviewed Statute 21 U.S.C., Section 848 under U.S. vs Jefferson, 714 F.2d 689, 7th Circuit, Jan. 19, 1983. In this case it shows the two statutes under 848. One, that reflects me under the 1970 drug act. And of course, my indictment in 1983 states that “…Any person who engages in a continuing criminal enterprise shall be sentenced to a term of imprisonment which may not be less than 10 years and which may be up to (life imprisonment)…” As you see it does not say ,”..without parole”….. Now, it also shows in the Jefferson case, the 1987, November revised statute where it states, “life without parole.” The Jefferson case clearly shows two exhibits. Of the first exhibit under the law under a life term, I was eligible to see the parole board and the max is two thirds of 45 years, which is 30 years….. The latter shows life without, but being indicted in 83 clearly I am under the 1970 drug act and the first statute written for 848, not the 2nd.
As I have layed out please be so kind and to see what I have seen.

I subscribe myself,

George Martorano
Date:11-12-11

You think to know me, is to see me before your eyes. You think to hear me, is to listen of the words played from my lips. You think to understand me, is to read what I have composed….. Thus, yourselves to know. Know it is truly a cost to bear, to knoweth not fear. For, then one has to struggle to humble before God….. Such, it is yourselves to know that they. Oh yes they, truly have mastered the use of the cell’s four walls. It is yourselves to know that forever so long I have smiled as they slowly seal the steel door before me. Yourselves to know what it’s like to sleep soundly when your celly has went to Heaven or below during the count of the gray hours. Am I sinister; callous; beyond mankind….. or am I…..? But let me, George, continue on a bit. Yourselves to know what it’s like after hanging up the phone to the very worst of human loss. Yourselves to know how I can then approach the slab of a steel bunk, ease myself down and daydream of lovely things….. My God, my God! Yourselves to know what it’s like to swallow all of the emotions instilled in the breathing of humanity’s given nature. Thus, yourselves to know. And be cursed to learn how to close the faucet that flows right from your soul….. Tis, yourselves to know if you can wish; even fathom what I do….. then you will know the very meaning, beginning….. of leader.

By: George Martorano
CR: 12973
Date: 11-11-11