After seeing the scene in the movie "Walk the line" when Johnny Cash is opening his fan mail and one of the return addresses says "Sincerely Tom Hanson, Fulsom Prison" I got an idea; what if Hanson wrote him a letter. Obviously takes place while Hanson is in jail.

Don't own Jump Street… or Tom

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Dear Mr. Cash…

I don't even know why I'm doing this. So I stay sane I guess. It's easier to talk to someone who can't listen, can't respond.

Can't respond, like Harry in that coma, God. God knows I was angry enough to go after Tower, maybe that's why I decided to do the B&E route instead of getting a warrant like a good boy; my little revenge on the system that got one of my friends in a long-lasting loss of consciousness. Not playing by the rules. 'Sticking it to the man' the kids call it.

The kids. My job, that's another thing that's gone now. Fat lot of good that did me, having my little rebel kick. That's how I ended up with my job in fact. I became a police officer to try to imitate my father, what a great man he was. I say was because he was killed in the line of duty, a routine robbery gone wrong. And it went wrong on him I n the form of a bullet through the chest.

I don't mean to sound like a complainer, really I don't. Hell, I wasn't even there when it happened. I was at a dance. A Valentines dance. I was sixteen. So, naturally I wanted to follow in his footsteps. God, it even looks ridiculous on paper. But of course, I looked too young to make it at the big-boy's police department . Perps would give me crap about how young I looked, I'd knock them around, they'd knock me around, my partner would usually get in the way. And get a broken nose in the process.

That's how I got assigned to my job at, uh, I shouldn't say. Just an undercover program, going into high schools after crimes are committed, trying to help these kids before they get to the point of no return.

It's weird how soothing this is, like a little kid writing to Santa Claus. There was this book, in the seventies I think, called "Dear Mr. Henshaw". It was about a little kid writing to his favorite author, it sort of became like his diary after awhile. I guess that's what this is. Why you, you ask? Well, the other night the TV came on for half an hour, like it always does at six o'clock, in the mess hall. Now, most of those criminals are illiterate substance abusers of some kind who have been in and out of jails since they were fifteen. They have no respect for anything, not even the guards. Or so I thought. When you came on TV, for some concert I think, all the guys were yelling, excited. Excited like I've never seen them before. Even the guards were watching. So I started wondering; do you know how many fans you have, how many murderers, rapists and thieves all gather when they here your name and have a passion for something clean and pure like music because it's your music? They can all be civil and agree on something wholesome, in your name, because of your music.

These people, who can't pay attention to anything, not God himself in if he came down incarnate, would pay attention to you.

That's power.

People listen to cops because they have to; we scare them into obeying the law. But people of all kinds go blindly into a good message because they want, because it's yours. By hearing your music they're close to you, like you're a friend. But you're still far away so you're more like their imaginary friend. They have some morals that are outleted in your music. You get inside their heads and touch them with your music, touching their souls from a million miles away.

It's the same mentality that makes kids get crushes on or become friends with their teachers; they're close to them, but somehow they're not.

So that's how you ended up being graced with my writing a letter to you. I figured you were a faraway star and if you got my letter you would either throw it away or not read yet I am still devoting myself to a solid idea by writing it and feeling as though you might read it. That's what a lot of the other guys are like, how they love it, can't wait to hear it on the radio, fall asleep with it running through their heads and yet you'll never know how much it means to them. Blind devotion. I figured, well, if works for them, why not?

Enough babbling.

Well, there's not much more to the story now that I think about it. I was working on a case at, um, my station. I got evidence that one of the other officers was corrupt; I went his house to get the evidence, without a warrant. He caught me; I fired a warning shot, jumped out the window and ran.

Yep, I ran with my tail between my legs.

Momma didn't raise no chickens except me.

Not the behavior you expect from a suave, cool murderer eh?

Is it trashing my masculine image?

Well that's because I'm not one. A murderer I mean. I didn't kill him; I didn't even shoot him, Psycho did that for me. I wasn't even trying to shoot at him. All I was doing was looking for evidence and trying to get out of there with my life. Oh, did I mention he was shooting at me? Didn't hear that part didja? No that part conveniently didn't make it into the reports, courtesy of the .D.A. Never break up with someone in an influential position I'll tell ya…

Like I said, I didn't shoot him. I even went into hiding for awhile. My friend kept my location a secret though it could have cost him his badge and his honor. My buddy Doug, uh, I shouldn't say his last name even if you never read this. He didn't betray me so I shouldn't risk betraying him. He's the only one who believed me, the only one who wanted anything to do with me during all this. I couldn't ask for a better friend. I'm a lousy cop and I'm lucky at least someone still believes me.

Cop.

I hang on to that image like that's the only part of me there is, like it's a whole other species. Copos sapien. There's men, there's women and then there's Tom Hanson. There I go trying to lighten it up. Seriously though, that might as well be the way I think more or less. Devoted? More like pathetic. That was the only part of me there was and now it's gone. Gone like the rest of my friends except for Penh-, er, Doug. Booker likes me even less than ever, if that's possible. Judy thinks I'm as guilty as sin, like I ever had a chance with her anyway, I wish. Coach, uh, my captain was like a father figure, a mentor. He always bailed us out when we were in too deep. Except now. Even now he thinks I did it. I'm up shit's creek with out a paddle and no air freshener.

How'd they catch me, you're wondering?

I thought I was so smart, had it all planned out. I would go to the house, find the gun or bullet, and have Doug come arrest me so he's cleared as my accomplice. Perfect eh? Not quite. I combed that house from top to bottom and didn't find squat. Not only that, but Booker ended being the one to slap the cuffs on me. How's that for an indignity?

I tried to have pride and what did it get me?

A fifteen year stay in the iron bar hotel.

I put my friends in danger (he perjured himself for me, I won't tell you which on though)

When I'm done rotting in jail I'll be thirty-eight, no other training than the academy, no chance for my job back and no one will even want to associate with me.

The got me on a felony charge; said there wasn't enough evidence either way but as a technical burglar I forfeited my rights and could still be charged because I had no business being there in the first place

There was this line in one of your songs they were playing last night,

"Because you're mine, I walk the line."

Walk the line, there's somethingabout the way that sounds. Maybe I should draw the line. Accept that I'm screwed, take this chance learn a trade, make nice with the other inmates and try not to get into anymore fights, learn my lesson. Then maybe when I'm thirty-eight I'll have something else going for me; if I live that long.

Well, thanks for listening, whether you read this or not. Well actually I might as well be thanking the paper I'm writing on because it's probably "Not" but whatever. Anyway thanks for giving me an imaginary ear to bitch to and thanks for your time. Walk the line, draw the line, I'll see how that turns out.

Sincerely Tom Hanson, Fulsom Prison

Tom Hanson