In T.H. White's retelling of the Arthurian legend as an allegory in defense of liberalism, The Once and Future King, young Arthur asks Merlin to change him into an ant and place him near an ant colony.
The Wart, as the young Arthur is known, encounters a world of confusing and illogical language used by ants who live in an insane authoritarian society. A sign at the entrance to the ant colony reads "EVERYTHING NOT FORBIDDEN IS COMPULSORY".
Almost four decades later Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea lift that phrase for their anarchist mind-trip, the Illuminatus! Trilogy, to describe liberalism driven to its extreme conclusion: everything not forbidden is compulsory, and everything not compulsory is forbidden.
If that is the theory, prison is the praxis. Two walls in our day room are completely covered in bulletins and many of them contradict one another. They are an English teacher's nightmare, littered with extraneous apostrophes and commas, and gratuitous misuse of homophones. The bulletins may describe compulsory procedures, optional requests, as well as things deemed forbidden. The only thing consistent about these postings is that they are always surrounded by at least one bulletin contradicting the original, and one offering up the same notice but in a context which negates both the original and the contradiction.
Many of the postings are notices which announce ambiguous changes to policy. My favorite is one announcing the availability of $.01 stamps to add to stamped-envelopes which had been purchased earlier. Near the bottom of the notice an available purchase date is listed. But for how long are they available?
"1 cent stamps are only available for at leased[sic] two weeks."
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Day 11: Prison, Inc.
The PA system sprang to life today at 4:00AM. Our orders from the commissary were here and we were being called down to retrieve them.
The prison store is outsourced, like so many of the essential services. The company buys generic and/or expired versions of products and sells them at above what the retail price would be (if they were real and non-expired). Nothing creates a high margin like a [literally!] captive customer base, so the store service provider doesn't have to bother matching prices with, say, Wal-Mart. As you can see on their site, their core business is imprisonment. Please peruse the site, as the cartoon animal characters in alternating guard/convict garb are quite entertaining (Penitentiary Penguin is definitely my favorite). I think they are missing a big opportunity by not selling these as stuffed animals so inmates can give them to their children on visiting day.
Some of the incidentals have exclusive contracts so you have no choice in what to buy, like this gem of a toothbrush.
The prison food is managed by a different service provider. As bad as the prison store is, the food service provider makes the store look like a Bloomingdale's. I've already mentioned the feet-flavor to some items, which is really nice, but not as nice as the various goos served on different days, usually with breakfast. Today happens to be yellow-goo day; there's a white-goo day and a gray-goo day, too. The food-services company was acquired by a Private Equity group so it is no longer publicly traded, but they did over $10B in sales in 2006 (what remained in the public record indicated prisons weren't their exclusive business).
Lastly, the health care is also outsourced. Millions of working Americans are without adequate care, but we get it in prison (most people - including prisoners - ought to have adequate care). This company is also privately-owned and regional, so I am not going to disclose many details.
It is too bad all of the companies involved in the business of imprisonment are privately owned; I can't imagine a more certain profitable investment than a balanced mutual fund of prison businesses. With the USA having the highest per capita rate of imprisonment in the world, it is safe to be Long on tyranny and suffering.
The prison store is outsourced, like so many of the essential services. The company buys generic and/or expired versions of products and sells them at above what the retail price would be (if they were real and non-expired). Nothing creates a high margin like a [literally!] captive customer base, so the store service provider doesn't have to bother matching prices with, say, Wal-Mart. As you can see on their site, their core business is imprisonment. Please peruse the site, as the cartoon animal characters in alternating guard/convict garb are quite entertaining (Penitentiary Penguin is definitely my favorite). I think they are missing a big opportunity by not selling these as stuffed animals so inmates can give them to their children on visiting day.
Some of the incidentals have exclusive contracts so you have no choice in what to buy, like this gem of a toothbrush.
The prison food is managed by a different service provider. As bad as the prison store is, the food service provider makes the store look like a Bloomingdale's. I've already mentioned the feet-flavor to some items, which is really nice, but not as nice as the various goos served on different days, usually with breakfast. Today happens to be yellow-goo day; there's a white-goo day and a gray-goo day, too. The food-services company was acquired by a Private Equity group so it is no longer publicly traded, but they did over $10B in sales in 2006 (what remained in the public record indicated prisons weren't their exclusive business).
Lastly, the health care is also outsourced. Millions of working Americans are without adequate care, but we get it in prison (most people - including prisoners - ought to have adequate care). This company is also privately-owned and regional, so I am not going to disclose many details.
It is too bad all of the companies involved in the business of imprisonment are privately owned; I can't imagine a more certain profitable investment than a balanced mutual fund of prison businesses. With the USA having the highest per capita rate of imprisonment in the world, it is safe to be Long on tyranny and suffering.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Day 10: Going Green with the Blue Sheet
Today was my first day using the bus. My workplace conveniently lies along one of the major transportation arteries but this was my first time using the public transit in my town. Like many higher income white Americans, I never really thought much about the bus, other than that it was for people who for some reason or another didn't own or couldn't afford a car.
The ride was very pleasant and I've convinced myself I might as well feel the same sort of pretension found amongst many hybrid-auto owners. Who cares that I am riding the bus due to being a criminal instead of some sort of progressive green political consciousness? Think globally, commit crime locally!
When I returned Robbins had a scowl on his face. Apparently, I was late according to the CO's schedule. Luckily, I still had my approved request form (secured in the Welcome To Jail Kit) and showed him that whoever added my schedule to their logbook must have misread.
"It is OK this time, Presario," said Robbins, "but this is why you need to come to the office when we call Blue Sheet each night." I had heard that announced through the garbled speaker but had no idea what it was. Prison creates a self-doubt and submission that is hard to explain; when I did not know what "Blue Sheet" was I did not ask for fear of irritating the COs with my ignorance.
"Blue Sheet" is actually the book containing everyone's work schedules on the block. Anyone who expects to work the next day is supposed to check their schedule each evening, after the CO calls Blue Sheet.
Instead of calling this the "Work Schedule", it is called "Blue Sheet", naturally because the paper happens to be blue.
I do not believe this cognitive dissonance - obligation to follow rules and procedures but no communication regarding them - is unintentional.
The ride was very pleasant and I've convinced myself I might as well feel the same sort of pretension found amongst many hybrid-auto owners. Who cares that I am riding the bus due to being a criminal instead of some sort of progressive green political consciousness? Think globally, commit crime locally!
When I returned Robbins had a scowl on his face. Apparently, I was late according to the CO's schedule. Luckily, I still had my approved request form (secured in the Welcome To Jail Kit) and showed him that whoever added my schedule to their logbook must have misread.
"It is OK this time, Presario," said Robbins, "but this is why you need to come to the office when we call Blue Sheet each night." I had heard that announced through the garbled speaker but had no idea what it was. Prison creates a self-doubt and submission that is hard to explain; when I did not know what "Blue Sheet" was I did not ask for fear of irritating the COs with my ignorance.
"Blue Sheet" is actually the book containing everyone's work schedules on the block. Anyone who expects to work the next day is supposed to check their schedule each evening, after the CO calls Blue Sheet.
Instead of calling this the "Work Schedule", it is called "Blue Sheet", naturally because the paper happens to be blue.
I do not believe this cognitive dissonance - obligation to follow rules and procedures but no communication regarding them - is unintentional.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Days 8 & 9: The Art of Requests
Last week I had submitted a request form to the Work Release office. Up until now, my schedule had been pretty rough: Brenda was picking me up too early for her work day, but too late to give her time to drop me off and then use her gym before work. The end of the day was too early for her to have time to run an errand or use the gym before taking me back, but later than her normal time to leave work. It was an incredible burden on her, so I asked to switch to the bus.
I proposed a bus schedule that would get me out of prison for more than 2 hours longer. I feared though that they would realize that this was quite a bit of extra time and force me to take a later bus out, an earlier bus in, or both.
I also requested to go to a work meeting in a neighboring County. This was clearly prohibited (no leaving the County - ever!) but I had hoped that this denial-distraction would help my bus request fly under their radar.
It seems that enforcing rules - denying people things, or scolding them for things - is one of the parts of the prison administration job that people seem to enjoy. I would not be surprised if prison workers receive a sexual thrill doing this job, similar to what is found in people who practice sadism.
If this theory is correct, then my plan worked because the bus was approved! Or maybe I am completely wrong and the bus schedule would have been approved regardless of my additional request. But I plan to keep us this charade, occasionally asking them for something innocent that they can deny. This should re-enforce their feeling of superiority over me, which I can then use to offset my real requests, which might otherwise challenge their position of authority.
I proposed a bus schedule that would get me out of prison for more than 2 hours longer. I feared though that they would realize that this was quite a bit of extra time and force me to take a later bus out, an earlier bus in, or both.
I also requested to go to a work meeting in a neighboring County. This was clearly prohibited (no leaving the County - ever!) but I had hoped that this denial-distraction would help my bus request fly under their radar.
It seems that enforcing rules - denying people things, or scolding them for things - is one of the parts of the prison administration job that people seem to enjoy. I would not be surprised if prison workers receive a sexual thrill doing this job, similar to what is found in people who practice sadism.
If this theory is correct, then my plan worked because the bus was approved! Or maybe I am completely wrong and the bus schedule would have been approved regardless of my additional request. But I plan to keep us this charade, occasionally asking them for something innocent that they can deny. This should re-enforce their feeling of superiority over me, which I can then use to offset my real requests, which might otherwise challenge their position of authority.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Day 7: Commissary Order
Smoking is prohibited in the prison. But this was not always the case. "You used to be able to buy cigarettes from the Commissary", says Derick. "But now they don't sell them because of second hand smoke. I understand non-smokers have rights, but what about us smokers? Don't we have rights as Americans? Oh, right, we aren't in America when we are up in here."
Derick hands me the Commissary order sheet. It is a Scantron-type form, with little circles to fill out the numerals for item number and quantity. A single serving of Raisin Bran, number 65173. Two aspirin, number 32076.
I stock up on some toiletries and non-perishable food to eat on Sundays, the day I can not go out to work. I order a deluxe flexible shank-proof toothbrush, a bar of soap, toothbrush holder and soap case, and shampoo. For food I get 5 granola bars and 5 single servings of Raisin Bran. Also, a yellow tablet, two pens, and 4 two-pill packets of aspirin. Together, these items will cost me over $38.00. Brenda had dropped off a $50 Money Order so I have some spending money on my prison account until I get paid.
While I was sitting at our metal desk doing the Scantron my neighbor from across the hall stopped by. "Man, you have to make your bed, man," he scolded me. "Didn't your cellie show you what to do?"
Derick responded "I did but he don't listen."
Which was true. Derick tried to explain why his sheets stayed on the bed but I didn't really care. It is, after all prison.
"Look how nice mine looks," my neighbor said as he pointed across the hall. His cot actually looked like a made-bed with fitted sheets. "Have some pride while you are in here, Presario."
I felt compelled. I made my bed by tying together ends of the larger sheet around the bottom of my mattress.
Later, during evening Blockout I drop the Scantron form into the box labeled "Stores". Derick says we will get our orders on Thursday morning.
Derick hands me the Commissary order sheet. It is a Scantron-type form, with little circles to fill out the numerals for item number and quantity. A single serving of Raisin Bran, number 65173. Two aspirin, number 32076.
I stock up on some toiletries and non-perishable food to eat on Sundays, the day I can not go out to work. I order a deluxe flexible shank-proof toothbrush, a bar of soap, toothbrush holder and soap case, and shampoo. For food I get 5 granola bars and 5 single servings of Raisin Bran. Also, a yellow tablet, two pens, and 4 two-pill packets of aspirin. Together, these items will cost me over $38.00. Brenda had dropped off a $50 Money Order so I have some spending money on my prison account until I get paid.
While I was sitting at our metal desk doing the Scantron my neighbor from across the hall stopped by. "Man, you have to make your bed, man," he scolded me. "Didn't your cellie show you what to do?"
Derick responded "I did but he don't listen."
Which was true. Derick tried to explain why his sheets stayed on the bed but I didn't really care. It is, after all prison.
"Look how nice mine looks," my neighbor said as he pointed across the hall. His cot actually looked like a made-bed with fitted sheets. "Have some pride while you are in here, Presario."
I felt compelled. I made my bed by tying together ends of the larger sheet around the bottom of my mattress.
Later, during evening Blockout I drop the Scantron form into the box labeled "Stores". Derick says we will get our orders on Thursday morning.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Day 6: Sanctity of the Commons
Back in Commitment, the cells were what most people imagine a jail cell to be like: the delightful toilet/sink combo (if you have to use it, it helps to pretend you are an astronaut), the electronic big metal sliding door with tiny plastic window, and the feeding slit. The Commitment cell walls are also covered in graffiti done using the pencil in the Welcome To Jail Kit:
- "I am So Over This Place"
- above followed by "Me 2", "Me 3", "Me 4",...,"Me 18"
- "Each Day Is a Challenge So Meet It Proud"
- "You Have One Day Less To Your Sentence Than Yesterday"
But here in Work Release the setting is much like a dormitory. The rooms are still jail cells, but the doors aren't locked except by the inmates. We have communal restrooms, but the stalls have no doors and there are of course no privacy shields separating the urinals. The showers are across the hall and similar to showers in a high school locker room.
I am not bothered by many things save for one: hygiene. I don't share the hypochondriac-like obsessions of some people here in the States - I don't carry hand sanitizer or refuse to touch any door handles - but I have little tolerance for public bathrooms that aren't clean, and people who go a week without showering and who think the best thing to do with a disease is to share it. So naturally the living conditions were worrying me the most.
As it turns out, everyone here is quite courteous with the restrooms. The people here are careful to leave the restroom as clean or cleaner than before they used it, which is unlike my corporate office, where notices have been posted to "put all paper towels in the trash bin instead of just throwing them on the floor", and "please flush toilets after use". In Work Release, unless someone is in a hurry, the communal shower is only used by one person at a time. In a place like this, privacy is a luxury and the men all seem to understand that you offer it to your comrades as often as possible.
Even back in Commitment, I was confused to see someone across the hall using his Welcome To Jail Kit spares (fatigues and small towels) to cover the feeding slit, the window, and the floor-to-door gap. I thought perhaps he was going to kill himself or something, but then quickly realized he is providing himself with as much privacy as possible to use the toilet. A courtesy also for his neighbors in nearby cells.
When we leave our rooms to get a meal or to use the restroom we are supposed to lock our doors, but most do not. The door is not difficult to unlock with your key, so this seems to be about establishing a bit of trust with your fellow inmates. A paranoid person who wouldn't even leave his room unlocked for 30 seconds would quickly stand out, and the single-most important thing about prison is not to draw attention to yourself.
Derick tells me "because we leave the door cracked and unlocked when we go get our chow, just make sure you don't leave nothing you care about laying out on the desk, someone may grab it, even on this block."
"Well," I reply, "it is not like I have much stuff in here anyway."
"Yeah" says Derick, "but when you don't got much, that's when what you have matters most."
Perhaps this is why do my co-workers show far less regard than prisoners for shared restrooms.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Day 5: From Race to Retirement
"I don't know what it is, but white people don't stick together in here", Derick tells me. He is referring to the way that when a new Latino or African-American comes onto the block, the other Latinos or African-Americans talk to them and make them feel welcome. A new white guy on the block is ignored.
I think to myself, well naturally because of the institutionalized racism in this country, some minorities have responded with a solidarity that seems foreign to us white people of privilege. But Derick isn't exactly looking very privileged now so I keep my thoughts to myself.
"Even the guards", he continues, "are like that. The Spanish guards treat the Spanish guys better, just like the black guards do. But white guards don't never cut a white dude a break. And the young white guards are all either scared to death of black guys or they are wiggers so they end up kissing their black asses."
In my corporate world of mandated sensitivity and diversity this kind of blunt talk is making me beyond uncomfortable, so I change the subject to the demeanor of various guards.
"Carpenter seems alright though", I say, "like, he's just here to do his job and not mess with anybody."
"Yeah, he's alright", Derick agrees.
When I had arrived back from work and Carpenter asked me how the day was I told him it was good....up until now. "It is a beautiful spring day and the streets are full of lively, happy people, pretty girls showing off, and kids looking towards the end of school and summer break. But, I have to come back here."
"Well I've been here all day in this place, looking at dick and balls while I search guys, so it isn't fun for me either", Carpenter replies.
I jokingly ask "hey, you want to switch places"?
Carpenter, brooding, looks down at me while I hand him my pants to search. "How long do you have here?", he asks. I tell him 90 days. "Well I have been doing this, spending every Saturday here, for 10 years. And I'll probably be here until I retire. Do you really want to switch places with me?"
Point made.
I think to myself, well naturally because of the institutionalized racism in this country, some minorities have responded with a solidarity that seems foreign to us white people of privilege. But Derick isn't exactly looking very privileged now so I keep my thoughts to myself.
"Even the guards", he continues, "are like that. The Spanish guards treat the Spanish guys better, just like the black guards do. But white guards don't never cut a white dude a break. And the young white guards are all either scared to death of black guys or they are wiggers so they end up kissing their black asses."
In my corporate world of mandated sensitivity and diversity this kind of blunt talk is making me beyond uncomfortable, so I change the subject to the demeanor of various guards.
"Carpenter seems alright though", I say, "like, he's just here to do his job and not mess with anybody."
"Yeah, he's alright", Derick agrees.
When I had arrived back from work and Carpenter asked me how the day was I told him it was good....up until now. "It is a beautiful spring day and the streets are full of lively, happy people, pretty girls showing off, and kids looking towards the end of school and summer break. But, I have to come back here."
"Well I've been here all day in this place, looking at dick and balls while I search guys, so it isn't fun for me either", Carpenter replies.
I jokingly ask "hey, you want to switch places"?
Carpenter, brooding, looks down at me while I hand him my pants to search. "How long do you have here?", he asks. I tell him 90 days. "Well I have been doing this, spending every Saturday here, for 10 years. And I'll probably be here until I retire. Do you really want to switch places with me?"
Point made.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Day 4: The System Works, Doesn't It?
Today I was picked up and went to work. Brenda and I are still reacting to this life changing situation, and haven't hammered all the bugs in our routine. We will, eventually.
When I get back to prison Derick asks me how my day was. I tell him it was great, but don't want to go into too many details about my morning workout at our employee gym, private shower and shave with a real razor, and lunch of Italian herb chicken and a spring vegetable medley. I ask if he has had any luck with his work request form. He shows it to me and is clearly frustrated - it is covered everywhere with red marks, indicating missing information. Derick has 8 brothers and sisters spread across the country and can't recall any of their street addresses and phone numbers. He does not have a family physician.
"Accuracy isn't what they want, here", I tell him. "I think someone in the office is just verifying that the info is there, not actually checking it for accuracy. This is the form they hand to the cops if you don't come back, that's all. For the things you don't know, just make them up. Pick a doctor from the phone book downstairs and use that address and phone."
I can see Derick is still confused - or rather, doesn't care. "They won't let me out anyway. I work under the table doing construction, and they'll never approve my job. See, I am not like you. I don't have one of those kinds of jobs. And there is no way I would be able to get one while I am in here."
"But", I protest, "the whole point of this place is to allow us to be productive members of the community - to get jobs. Surely they will help you find one they will approve."
Derick laughs like I just told him about a great deal I got on a bridge in New York. "They don't give no shit about us. And they aren't helping." I am naive, because I thought there would be some social service here for job placement. But there is nothing of the sort. If a prisoner doesn't have a job lined up, he has to find it himself. Here is a way it would work:
I was initially surprised by what seemed like half the prisoners never going out to work. I think it is pretty obvious why.
When I get back to prison Derick asks me how my day was. I tell him it was great, but don't want to go into too many details about my morning workout at our employee gym, private shower and shave with a real razor, and lunch of Italian herb chicken and a spring vegetable medley. I ask if he has had any luck with his work request form. He shows it to me and is clearly frustrated - it is covered everywhere with red marks, indicating missing information. Derick has 8 brothers and sisters spread across the country and can't recall any of their street addresses and phone numbers. He does not have a family physician.
"Accuracy isn't what they want, here", I tell him. "I think someone in the office is just verifying that the info is there, not actually checking it for accuracy. This is the form they hand to the cops if you don't come back, that's all. For the things you don't know, just make them up. Pick a doctor from the phone book downstairs and use that address and phone."
I can see Derick is still confused - or rather, doesn't care. "They won't let me out anyway. I work under the table doing construction, and they'll never approve my job. See, I am not like you. I don't have one of those kinds of jobs. And there is no way I would be able to get one while I am in here."
"But", I protest, "the whole point of this place is to allow us to be productive members of the community - to get jobs. Surely they will help you find one they will approve."
Derick laughs like I just told him about a great deal I got on a bridge in New York. "They don't give no shit about us. And they aren't helping." I am naive, because I thought there would be some social service here for job placement. But there is nothing of the sort. If a prisoner doesn't have a job lined up, he has to find it himself. Here is a way it would work:
- Someone on the outside arranges to have a newspaper sent to the prisoner.
- All mail is delayed at least 24 hours by the prison.
- If the prisoner finds a job lead, he has 20 minutes a day, possibly, to make calls about the job. Of course, if the block has their afternoon Blockout revoked, he can't make calls. If he does not get to the phone sign up sheet in time before it fills, he can't make calls.
- If he is able to speak to someone about a job, he has to have hard copies of a job application mailed to him - at the prison.
- A prisoner is not permitted to leave for a job interview - the interviewer must come to the prison.
- Employers aren't pre-screened or pre-approved. Once the prisoner has the job offer, he submits a work request form. The prison contacts the employer and screens the employer to ensure compliance with the Work Release program.
I was initially surprised by what seemed like half the prisoners never going out to work. I think it is pretty obvious why.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Day 3: Getting to See Jim
Prison, like any unique culture, has its own sub-language. Part southern hillbilly, part urban street, all hip. After immersion here for over 2 full days, I am starting to adopt some of the slang. Brenda is no longer "my girlfriend", she's "my girl". Most of the words make sense after I understand the context, but at least one does not: "CQ". A CQ is a prisoner who works for the prison. We don't share chores such as scrubbing the bathrooms, mopping the floors, or serving the chow trays. All of that is done by CQs.
Today is exactly like yesterday. In fact, Derick says all days are the same here. It is the small stuff that I take for granted which seems to bother me the most. There's no sleeping in until even 7AM on weekends, and no Sunday prison brunch. Days are days, and chow is chow.
Prison is an extremely infantilizing experience. Earlier I called it dehumanizing; that is mostly true, but a lot of it just assumes prisoners are toddlers. You lose your adulthood much quicker than your humanity. So I literally jumped off my cot with childish excitement when I heard my name called - with instruction to bring my Work Release rulebook - in the late afternoon, before evening Blockout. I was getting to See Jim!!!
Actually, I was meeting with Mark, Jim's assistant. My lawyer had led me to believe that everything could be arranged in advance, but as I found myself waiting for 3 days, I knew either one of us messed up or he was sorely misinformed. The latter turned out to be case.
Mark said I had some of the most persistent callers from the outside world working on my behalf he had ever encountered. My girlfriend phoned every day, and my attorney and our HR department called to ensure I was being expedited through the system. What felt like a slow, lagging process to me, was actually the fastest they've ever turned someone back out: 3 days. Tomorrow, I get to go to work. But, I must have many rules explained to me and plenty of paperwork to sign.
I asked Mark why the Work Release rules and the forms aren't available on the prison web site. It might allow them to pre-process some prisoners and get them out faster. At a minimum, prisoners would understand what to expect when they arrived. Mark didn't reply, and why should he? Prisoners are not customers of the prison, and there is really no incentive for them to create efficient processes. In fact, if helplessness and despair is the mood they are trying to create, then this is the perfect way to run things.
Mark states I can go to work tomorrow, and based upon the work schedule the HR department and I invented, he gives me pick-up and drop-off times. I am also permitted to have some personal clothing dropped off: 7 pairs of briefs (no boxers), 7 pairs of socks, 10 shirts, 7 pairs of pants, 2 towels. I am actually permitted to call Brenda and tell her when to pick me up tomorrow, and what clothing to drop off and where. Brenda, of course, has already packaged the clothing and is prepared.
The conditions of my Work Release are restrictive. No stopping in the car for any reason, no diversion from the most direct path to and from work. No visitors at work, and no personal phone calls. The rules haven't been updated since 1990 or so - meaning no restrictions on SMS text messages, IMs, or email. I don't ask about those though since obviously personal use of such things violates the spirit of the rules. If caught, I'd prefer to ask forgiveness rather than permission.
I am salaried for my work, paid two times a month via direct deposit. Normally the program requires that my employer mail - yes, mail - a real check payable to the County Prison. In my case I must go to the bank and get a certified check for my pay stub net deposit, and bring the check, minus the fee, and my pay stub back to the prison. The check must be payable to them. There are prohibitions in the rules regarding deductions for credit unions or tool leases, but after I ask I am told 401K contributions are permitted. An idea of maxing out my 401K for the next 3 months crosses my mind. That would keep them from having anything left over to confiscate, but of course keep me from having anything left over to pay my bills. I'll table that thought.
The prison first takes a fee for a drug test they are not performing each week. After that, they help themselves to 20% of my income to cover room and board, up to a per capita max of over $200 per week. 50% of what remains is put towards my fines and court costs (I have yet to be told what my court costs actually are). I am permitted to keep the remaining 50% in a prison trust account, which I can withdrawal for petty cash to spend in the stunningly overpriced vending machines in the day room, use at the overpriced commissary ($4 bars of soap, $2 granola bars, $5 briefs, etc.), or have sent to someone on the outside.
According to the most recent US Bureau of Labor Statistics data on spending, the average cost for food at home is $3297 and $11,988 for shelter and utilities. Considering the inhumane living conditions and the horrible thing passed off as food, the prison is doing quite well for itself by setting a max of almost $11,000 per year they can pocket from a prisoner's paycheck. I am curious whether this rate is tied to any BLS data, or if it is set by my State legislature. Perhaps it is determined by decree of a County official or bureaucrat.
I return to my cell, suppressing my thoughts of the expropriation racket feigning rehabilitation and justice, content that tomorrow I can return to work. I am called down later to retrieve my belongings which Brenda as dropped off. A new guard, Carpenter, is on duty. Carpenter is very pissed off.
"I am not mad at you, but I need to explain something," he says. "I have worked here for 10 years and I've never stolen from someone or done anything like that. I had to have a background check just to work here." Brenda made the mistake of saying to Carpenter as she handed him my clothes "so you will give this right to him?". Carpenter felt she was accusing him of being a likely thief. Carpenter was legitimately offended, but has to realize it is a natural concern (and it happens on Oz, so there you go). In reality, Brenda had put some pictures of us and our dog, and a letter to me, in with the clothes and was worried they would be discovered. Of course they were. Carpenter and Robbins give them to me to read and look at but say I can't keep them; those things must come through the prison mail system.
Later, when I speak to Brenda about it, she is naturally upset. I agree with her, of course, but the problem for me is that I have NO RIGHTS. When you are in prison, everything is a privilege that can be revoked by anyone for any reason, and there is no appeal to a superior or right to try and argue. If Brenda looks at a guard funny and he decides to take it out on me by confining me to my cell for two weeks and forbids me to call my employer, and I lose my job, that is my problem. If I try and argue with him and he submits a report indicating I am a troublemaker on the Work Release block and recommends I am sent to General Population, potentially to room with a murderer or rapist, it will happen.
My advice to anyone with a loved-one in the US prison system: treat everyone who works for the prison as if the prison-worker is a psychotic armed kidnapper who has your loved-one locked in a closet, and you are trying to ensure your loved-one stays safe. Because that is exactly what it feels like.
A Captain and his thimbleful of power is far more dangerous than any King.
Today is exactly like yesterday. In fact, Derick says all days are the same here. It is the small stuff that I take for granted which seems to bother me the most. There's no sleeping in until even 7AM on weekends, and no Sunday prison brunch. Days are days, and chow is chow.
Prison is an extremely infantilizing experience. Earlier I called it dehumanizing; that is mostly true, but a lot of it just assumes prisoners are toddlers. You lose your adulthood much quicker than your humanity. So I literally jumped off my cot with childish excitement when I heard my name called - with instruction to bring my Work Release rulebook - in the late afternoon, before evening Blockout. I was getting to See Jim!!!
Actually, I was meeting with Mark, Jim's assistant. My lawyer had led me to believe that everything could be arranged in advance, but as I found myself waiting for 3 days, I knew either one of us messed up or he was sorely misinformed. The latter turned out to be case.
Mark said I had some of the most persistent callers from the outside world working on my behalf he had ever encountered. My girlfriend phoned every day, and my attorney and our HR department called to ensure I was being expedited through the system. What felt like a slow, lagging process to me, was actually the fastest they've ever turned someone back out: 3 days. Tomorrow, I get to go to work. But, I must have many rules explained to me and plenty of paperwork to sign.
I asked Mark why the Work Release rules and the forms aren't available on the prison web site. It might allow them to pre-process some prisoners and get them out faster. At a minimum, prisoners would understand what to expect when they arrived. Mark didn't reply, and why should he? Prisoners are not customers of the prison, and there is really no incentive for them to create efficient processes. In fact, if helplessness and despair is the mood they are trying to create, then this is the perfect way to run things.
Mark states I can go to work tomorrow, and based upon the work schedule the HR department and I invented, he gives me pick-up and drop-off times. I am also permitted to have some personal clothing dropped off: 7 pairs of briefs (no boxers), 7 pairs of socks, 10 shirts, 7 pairs of pants, 2 towels. I am actually permitted to call Brenda and tell her when to pick me up tomorrow, and what clothing to drop off and where. Brenda, of course, has already packaged the clothing and is prepared.
The conditions of my Work Release are restrictive. No stopping in the car for any reason, no diversion from the most direct path to and from work. No visitors at work, and no personal phone calls. The rules haven't been updated since 1990 or so - meaning no restrictions on SMS text messages, IMs, or email. I don't ask about those though since obviously personal use of such things violates the spirit of the rules. If caught, I'd prefer to ask forgiveness rather than permission.
I am salaried for my work, paid two times a month via direct deposit. Normally the program requires that my employer mail - yes, mail - a real check payable to the County Prison. In my case I must go to the bank and get a certified check for my pay stub net deposit, and bring the check, minus the fee, and my pay stub back to the prison. The check must be payable to them. There are prohibitions in the rules regarding deductions for credit unions or tool leases, but after I ask I am told 401K contributions are permitted. An idea of maxing out my 401K for the next 3 months crosses my mind. That would keep them from having anything left over to confiscate, but of course keep me from having anything left over to pay my bills. I'll table that thought.
The prison first takes a fee for a drug test they are not performing each week. After that, they help themselves to 20% of my income to cover room and board, up to a per capita max of over $200 per week. 50% of what remains is put towards my fines and court costs (I have yet to be told what my court costs actually are). I am permitted to keep the remaining 50% in a prison trust account, which I can withdrawal for petty cash to spend in the stunningly overpriced vending machines in the day room, use at the overpriced commissary ($4 bars of soap, $2 granola bars, $5 briefs, etc.), or have sent to someone on the outside.
According to the most recent US Bureau of Labor Statistics data on spending, the average cost for food at home is $3297 and $11,988 for shelter and utilities. Considering the inhumane living conditions and the horrible thing passed off as food, the prison is doing quite well for itself by setting a max of almost $11,000 per year they can pocket from a prisoner's paycheck. I am curious whether this rate is tied to any BLS data, or if it is set by my State legislature. Perhaps it is determined by decree of a County official or bureaucrat.
I return to my cell, suppressing my thoughts of the expropriation racket feigning rehabilitation and justice, content that tomorrow I can return to work. I am called down later to retrieve my belongings which Brenda as dropped off. A new guard, Carpenter, is on duty. Carpenter is very pissed off.
"I am not mad at you, but I need to explain something," he says. "I have worked here for 10 years and I've never stolen from someone or done anything like that. I had to have a background check just to work here." Brenda made the mistake of saying to Carpenter as she handed him my clothes "so you will give this right to him?". Carpenter felt she was accusing him of being a likely thief. Carpenter was legitimately offended, but has to realize it is a natural concern (and it happens on Oz, so there you go). In reality, Brenda had put some pictures of us and our dog, and a letter to me, in with the clothes and was worried they would be discovered. Of course they were. Carpenter and Robbins give them to me to read and look at but say I can't keep them; those things must come through the prison mail system.
Later, when I speak to Brenda about it, she is naturally upset. I agree with her, of course, but the problem for me is that I have NO RIGHTS. When you are in prison, everything is a privilege that can be revoked by anyone for any reason, and there is no appeal to a superior or right to try and argue. If Brenda looks at a guard funny and he decides to take it out on me by confining me to my cell for two weeks and forbids me to call my employer, and I lose my job, that is my problem. If I try and argue with him and he submits a report indicating I am a troublemaker on the Work Release block and recommends I am sent to General Population, potentially to room with a murderer or rapist, it will happen.
My advice to anyone with a loved-one in the US prison system: treat everyone who works for the prison as if the prison-worker is a psychotic armed kidnapper who has your loved-one locked in a closet, and you are trying to ensure your loved-one stays safe. Because that is exactly what it feels like.
A Captain and his thimbleful of power is far more dangerous than any King.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Day 2: A Day in the Work Release
Luckily, last evening, I grabbed a book from the meager collection, spanning two narrow shelves. The Sigma Protocol, a genre spy-thriller by Robert Ludlum. There were many such books to choose from - Danielle Steele, more Ludlum, John Grisham, John Le Carre. After my day in Commitment, I was not going to be trapped in a cell unprepared for boredom. Unfortunately Derick was not so foresighted and had nothing to read.
But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself.
Our day began at shortly after 5AM. I think this was the time because we have no clocks in our rooms or in the hallways of our floors. "First call for Chow". Derick explained that they do a first call, then a second, then finally our actual call to come down and get our food. "Chow call, top floor, rooms 1-25, no extras, no stragglers", said the CO, with the intelligibility of the Peanuts adult characters in the animated specials. Half awake, we wander down in a line, like cattle, and get a brown tray, a single serving milk carton, and fill our cups with something claimed to be coffee.
Derick thinks the drink - "juice" is the generic prison term for whatever is being given with a meal - is made from chicory root, a coffee substitute popularized during the Civil War. I use the word "popular" loosely, as I've never heard of it until now. The rest of the meal is a yellow goo of some sort, feet-flavored pancakes, and a piece of chocolate cake. I force myself to eat the feetcakes and the chocolate cake. Derick happily accepts my gift of the yellow goo.
Following the meal there is a bit of activity in the hallways - restroom use, a few guys getting ready for work, and some slight banter. Derick and I go back to sleep, as we have a very long day ahead of us, and the more of it spent unconscious, the better.
I awake a couple of hours later - I am guessing at 8AM. The hallways and restrooms are more active now. Derick is still asleep but the rising sun casts a bit of sunlight into our room. I read my book until Derick awakens and he becomes again the prison oracle.
"Just be careful who you talk to in here. The place is full of drunks, deadbeats, punk kids, and especially snitches. Some of these guys will snitch on you because they are jealous, or just because they can." What exactly would they snitch about, I ask. "Oh, maybe you leave work, or see your girl, or anything like that. Just be careful." Certainly sound advice. As I will find, this is more difficult than one would think. Caged here like an animal, dehumanized in every way possible, conversation with others might be the only way to prevent an entire loss of self.
The next phase of the morning routine is "Meds", when prisoners receiving prescriptions through the prison line up for their drugs. Within the hour, it is again meal time. The same calls for Chow occur, and we wander down for what is supposed to be lunch, even though it is 10:30AM. I force myself to eat the mystery bologna and two slices of bleached-flour bread. Apparently every meal here comes with a piece of cake for dessert. After we eat I read more while Derick tries to start conversations between his naps; we're counting down until our afternoon "Blockout" - the time when the entire Work Release block is permitted in the "day room" - the common areas. Blockout is called at 1PM.
I was able to call Brenda again. She is still feeling combinations of anger, frustration, and loss. I can not really offer any comfort, as I have no idea yet when I will be allowed back to work. I ask her to contact my administrative assistant and cancel my meetings. She has already informed my manager that I may not be in all week. The only info I have at this point is what the other inmates are telling me: I will first need to "see Jim" - the man in charge of the block - and that can take up to a week. Daytime TV in general is painful to watch, and in prison with basic cable, we flip between faux court shows and syndicated 90s sitcoms. In a day I am halfway through my book. 3PM comes and we return to our rooms.
Unlucky for us there is some kind of Christian Evangelical program tonight. This means we have only two choices for the evening: stay in our rooms longer than usual, or go sit in front of a TV watching some preacher. After the last Chow call of the day - some kind of Salisbury steak and mashed yams - I opt for the room and the book. At 8:30 PM the Evangelical presentation has finished and we begin our evening Blockout. Naturally, the television is showing professional wrestling. Now that I am more than two-thirds through my book I peruse the shelves again for something else to read.
My eyes literally pop out of my head when I see Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange. Why is this book here, I wonder? Is this someone's idea of a joke - putting a book with disturbing tales of assault, murder, and adolescent-rape, that also has a prison system performing cruel acts of brain-washing and mental-programming - in a real prison? I grab the book to read after I finish my current choice, and continue to peruse. I also find Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. Other inmates look at me curiously while I laugh out loud. It was at this time I decided I was definitely going to write this blog, and I knew instantly what the title would be.
I sign up for a late phone call to Brenda. While watching the minutes tick by, pretending to give a shit about the homo-erotic soap opera known as Professional Wrestling, I hear my name called by Robbins, the CO currently on duty. He hands me my work request form, which I submitted last night. It has been rejected due to missing information.
The work request form was straight out of some Kafkaesque bureaucracy. The form is clearly intended to provide information to Sheriffs should one choose to do a prison escape while away. What are the names, addresses, and phone numbers of all your relatives? Your employer? Your doctors? Etc. The problem with the form is that it reads as if it has been designed to trip you up. It looks like this:
And so on. Note how the same information is requested in a different order each time. Sometimes one thing is not needed for one of the questions, such as age, but then it reappears as a requirement later. This form goes on for 5 pages like this. Using the 3 inch dull pencil that was included in our Welcome to Jail Kit, it is difficult and frustrating to complete. I missed a phone number in one place, an age in another, and did not complete the full street address for my physician. I find a phone book - 2 years old and halfway torn apart - but luckily it has the street information for my physician. I add the ages and make up some phone numbers (who memorizes phone numbers in 2008?). Robbins had volunteered to look it over for me, which he does, and points out some stuff I did not fill in - my girlfriend's home number, since I've never called it. I tell him I will call her tonight and get the info. I return to watching the clock.
Robbins has a very short fuse, and little tolerance for noise. He is young, mid 20s to early 30s. Part of him seems to enjoy his job, particularly the authority and control. The other part seems constantly irritated and on edge. The day room is not designed for sound control; the walls and floors reflect and amplify the noise from conversations, television, and the clanging of vending machines. With 50 men, most of them young and energetic, it is easy for noise to escalate. Robbins loses his temper and screams that Blockout is ending early and we must return to our rooms. Unfortunately my time to call has not been reached. As most of the inmates shuffle to their rooms I linger around. Earlier I had appealed to Robbins authority and knowledge by asking for his help with the form. I also made him aware I planned on getting the final info via my phone call. I decide to take a chance and ask him if I can still make my call - figuring that as he has already established himself as master due to my appeal to his authority, and he has a chance to grant me an exemption without the large audience - which would imply weakness. However, I've already submitted my form back into the request bin. I ask to make my call - Robbins nods and gives his final yell at the stragglers - and then points at me and says "YOU can stay". Woohoo! I now hope Robbins is too annoyed and preoccupied with the troublemakers to notice I've already submitted my form. I call Brenda and this time I have some kind of good news: it is rather easy for someone familiar with various personality types to be in control without asserting control. All those corporate classes and seminars in dealing with people are actually pretty helpful. In prison.
But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself.
Our day began at shortly after 5AM. I think this was the time because we have no clocks in our rooms or in the hallways of our floors. "First call for Chow". Derick explained that they do a first call, then a second, then finally our actual call to come down and get our food. "Chow call, top floor, rooms 1-25, no extras, no stragglers", said the CO, with the intelligibility of the Peanuts adult characters in the animated specials. Half awake, we wander down in a line, like cattle, and get a brown tray, a single serving milk carton, and fill our cups with something claimed to be coffee.
Derick thinks the drink - "juice" is the generic prison term for whatever is being given with a meal - is made from chicory root, a coffee substitute popularized during the Civil War. I use the word "popular" loosely, as I've never heard of it until now. The rest of the meal is a yellow goo of some sort, feet-flavored pancakes, and a piece of chocolate cake. I force myself to eat the feetcakes and the chocolate cake. Derick happily accepts my gift of the yellow goo.
Following the meal there is a bit of activity in the hallways - restroom use, a few guys getting ready for work, and some slight banter. Derick and I go back to sleep, as we have a very long day ahead of us, and the more of it spent unconscious, the better.
I awake a couple of hours later - I am guessing at 8AM. The hallways and restrooms are more active now. Derick is still asleep but the rising sun casts a bit of sunlight into our room. I read my book until Derick awakens and he becomes again the prison oracle.
"Just be careful who you talk to in here. The place is full of drunks, deadbeats, punk kids, and especially snitches. Some of these guys will snitch on you because they are jealous, or just because they can." What exactly would they snitch about, I ask. "Oh, maybe you leave work, or see your girl, or anything like that. Just be careful." Certainly sound advice. As I will find, this is more difficult than one would think. Caged here like an animal, dehumanized in every way possible, conversation with others might be the only way to prevent an entire loss of self.
The next phase of the morning routine is "Meds", when prisoners receiving prescriptions through the prison line up for their drugs. Within the hour, it is again meal time. The same calls for Chow occur, and we wander down for what is supposed to be lunch, even though it is 10:30AM. I force myself to eat the mystery bologna and two slices of bleached-flour bread. Apparently every meal here comes with a piece of cake for dessert. After we eat I read more while Derick tries to start conversations between his naps; we're counting down until our afternoon "Blockout" - the time when the entire Work Release block is permitted in the "day room" - the common areas. Blockout is called at 1PM.
I was able to call Brenda again. She is still feeling combinations of anger, frustration, and loss. I can not really offer any comfort, as I have no idea yet when I will be allowed back to work. I ask her to contact my administrative assistant and cancel my meetings. She has already informed my manager that I may not be in all week. The only info I have at this point is what the other inmates are telling me: I will first need to "see Jim" - the man in charge of the block - and that can take up to a week. Daytime TV in general is painful to watch, and in prison with basic cable, we flip between faux court shows and syndicated 90s sitcoms. In a day I am halfway through my book. 3PM comes and we return to our rooms.
Unlucky for us there is some kind of Christian Evangelical program tonight. This means we have only two choices for the evening: stay in our rooms longer than usual, or go sit in front of a TV watching some preacher. After the last Chow call of the day - some kind of Salisbury steak and mashed yams - I opt for the room and the book. At 8:30 PM the Evangelical presentation has finished and we begin our evening Blockout. Naturally, the television is showing professional wrestling. Now that I am more than two-thirds through my book I peruse the shelves again for something else to read.
My eyes literally pop out of my head when I see Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange. Why is this book here, I wonder? Is this someone's idea of a joke - putting a book with disturbing tales of assault, murder, and adolescent-rape, that also has a prison system performing cruel acts of brain-washing and mental-programming - in a real prison? I grab the book to read after I finish my current choice, and continue to peruse. I also find Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. Other inmates look at me curiously while I laugh out loud. It was at this time I decided I was definitely going to write this blog, and I knew instantly what the title would be.
I sign up for a late phone call to Brenda. While watching the minutes tick by, pretending to give a shit about the homo-erotic soap opera known as Professional Wrestling, I hear my name called by Robbins, the CO currently on duty. He hands me my work request form, which I submitted last night. It has been rejected due to missing information.
The work request form was straight out of some Kafkaesque bureaucracy. The form is clearly intended to provide information to Sheriffs should one choose to do a prison escape while away. What are the names, addresses, and phone numbers of all your relatives? Your employer? Your doctors? Etc. The problem with the form is that it reads as if it has been designed to trip you up. It looks like this:
1. NAME/PHONE/AGE/ADDRESS OF ALL BROTHERS SISTERS
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
2. NAME/PROFESSION/ADDRESS/PHONE OF PARENTS
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
3. NAME/AGE/ADDRESS/PHONE OF 2 CLOSE FRIENDS (NOT RELATIVES)
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
And so on. Note how the same information is requested in a different order each time. Sometimes one thing is not needed for one of the questions, such as age, but then it reappears as a requirement later. This form goes on for 5 pages like this. Using the 3 inch dull pencil that was included in our Welcome to Jail Kit, it is difficult and frustrating to complete. I missed a phone number in one place, an age in another, and did not complete the full street address for my physician. I find a phone book - 2 years old and halfway torn apart - but luckily it has the street information for my physician. I add the ages and make up some phone numbers (who memorizes phone numbers in 2008?). Robbins had volunteered to look it over for me, which he does, and points out some stuff I did not fill in - my girlfriend's home number, since I've never called it. I tell him I will call her tonight and get the info. I return to watching the clock.
Robbins has a very short fuse, and little tolerance for noise. He is young, mid 20s to early 30s. Part of him seems to enjoy his job, particularly the authority and control. The other part seems constantly irritated and on edge. The day room is not designed for sound control; the walls and floors reflect and amplify the noise from conversations, television, and the clanging of vending machines. With 50 men, most of them young and energetic, it is easy for noise to escalate. Robbins loses his temper and screams that Blockout is ending early and we must return to our rooms. Unfortunately my time to call has not been reached. As most of the inmates shuffle to their rooms I linger around. Earlier I had appealed to Robbins authority and knowledge by asking for his help with the form. I also made him aware I planned on getting the final info via my phone call. I decide to take a chance and ask him if I can still make my call - figuring that as he has already established himself as master due to my appeal to his authority, and he has a chance to grant me an exemption without the large audience - which would imply weakness. However, I've already submitted my form back into the request bin. I ask to make my call - Robbins nods and gives his final yell at the stragglers - and then points at me and says "YOU can stay". Woohoo! I now hope Robbins is too annoyed and preoccupied with the troublemakers to notice I've already submitted my form. I call Brenda and this time I have some kind of good news: it is rather easy for someone familiar with various personality types to be in control without asserting control. All those corporate classes and seminars in dealing with people are actually pretty helpful. In prison.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Day 1: Commitment (Part 2)
"Don't talk while we're in these halls - some of these guards can be real pricks about the rules." I and another inmate were ordered to walk with a "White Shirt" and she left us unattended. I had asked how far it was to Work Release, and Derick, my prison oracle, replied with the advice. Prison is full of all sorts of rules, very few of them reasonable, and even less of them communicated to the prisoners. As I was learning, the unwritten rules were the most important ones to follow.
This White Shirt - which I've concluded are some kind of above average guards involved in prisoner transport - passed Derick and I off to the CO minding the Work Release block. The other prisoners were taking part in some kind of free time and watching TV in a large room, with laminate floors and concrete walls. Unsurprisingly, the architecture of the place seems to be simply utilitarian, constantly in flux. The remnants of previously constructed and torn away walls are clearly visible. Conduits for cabling and pipes run up and down the walls. Electrical outlets for 240V circuits are in random corners, presumably for appliances relocated and removed. It has the stale cleanliness of highly toxic, bulk oxidizing agents and janitorial mops wielded by forced labor.
"This your first time in prison?", asks the CO whose name tag reads "Robbins". Derick answers in the negative and Robbins informs us we will be "cellmates" - AKA "cellies" to us prisoners - and that Derick should make sure I understand how things work (rather, how things do not work...). We are given our key, copies of the Rulebook, and copies of the work request form. Derick and I head upstairs, carrying our Welcome To Jail Kits in the big green tubs, and our new paperwork.
I formally introduce myself to Derick. We exchange a few pleasantries and minimal background to set the context for our time we will have to spend together. The cell is concrete walls and floor, with two metal cots, separated by about 24 inches. We have a broken locker to share (the door will not close as it is bent, presumably used for fending off gang rapists or bludgeoning a CO). We have a small metal desk and a small wooden chair.
Derick has been in and out of the system his entire life. He inherited a small fortune when he was young - some 40 years ago - and in his youthful recklessness spent it all on women, drugs and booze. Foster care, juvenile detention, and almost a decade Up State, plus several small-time sentences in this County Prison. This is Derick's 4th or 5th time in Work Release.
Derick seems like a nice guy, considering he is a crack and heroin user who has spent half his life behind bars. He already knows some of the guys in here, and wanders off to acquire some contraband. Not drugs, booze or cigarettes - but shower shoes and some clean clothes. Another unwritten rule is that sharing or giving a fellow inmate anything is prohibited. Derick has found a friend who had some spare pairs of shower shoes. "If the CO asks how you have these already, just say you found them under the cot in the room", he says as he hands me a pair. "We'd get my friend in trouble since he gave these to us, but you sure as shit don't want to shower without them." I can understand why we might not be permitted to SELL things to other prisoners, but why no gifting? "They need to make their money", Derick informs me as he shows me the list, found in our desk, of items available for purchase from the commissary. While the prison claims that the Work Release program is an effort to integrate long-sentence prisoners back into the community months before their real release, for someone who was stolen away from the community like me, it is a 100% reversal of the values my allegedly Christian community claims to cherish. Kindness and generosity are strictly prohibited.
Robbins told us that "blockouts" - times prisoners were permitted in the Day Room - occurred twice a day, usually 1PM to 3PM and 7PM to 11PM. During these times we could shower, do laundry, watch one of the two televisions, or play cards or boardgames (if we purchased them). During each blockout we are permitted to place calls using the pay phones for no longer than a 20 minute time slot. At all other times we are to remain in our rooms except to go and use the shared bathrooms.
After settling in I sign up to use the phones. I have no cash and can't remember my credit card number. Signs near the phones prohibit phone card numbers. On a hunch, I call my house collect hoping that my girlfriend would be there.
Brenda answers, crying. As hard as the last 12 hours have been on me, they have been worse for her. She is my lifesaver as she has informed work I might not be in all week, based on the non-answers she was given by the Work Release administrators as to what was happening to me. I give her as much of an account of what has happened as I can. We are both a wreck, and spent most of the time in emotional turmoil. I hasten to end the call as I hear my name called by the CO through a garbled, barely intelligible PA system.
I say "you called me?", and Robbins answers something that sounds like "yeah, Shin-nah-tawl". He rolls his eyes so I don't ask him to enunciate. I wait and another CO arrives, and one of the other prisoners follows him. Robbins screams at me "PRESARIO GO WITH YOUR RIDE, SHEESH!". Apparently I am supposed to be a mind-reader and have a clue what is happening. I ask this CO where we are going. "The infirmary." Ah, so I am off for a Day 1 Prison Physical. I ask him what the other CO was mumbling, and he laughs as he says "Sick Call. SICK CALL! Get it?!?!". Ah, must be some kind of military jargon.
The physical only involves checking my pulse and blood pressure. The rest of the exam is question and answer, intending to ascertain my mental state and identify potential suicide risks. Without a hint of irony, the nurse asks me "How do you feel about being in prison - good, fair, or poor?" I can not resist bursting out with laughter - "seriously? 'Good' is one of the choices? Does anyone ever answer 'good'?!?!?!" She emerges from her dry, emotionless cocoon and a hint of a sense of humor emerges. "Actually some do, and I guess the question is pretty silly." You think? I tell her to put me down as "fair to middling regarding my incarceration, lack of amenities, and new found crackhead roommates." Thankfully, there is minimal poking and prodding - I certainly do not want to catch Hepatitis or Staph infections due to the carelessness of the types of health care workers who find themselves assigned to work in prisons (the health care here is outsourced to a for-profit provider, just like the meal preparation). I do receive a TB test. I'm given a cotton ball to use until the bleeding stops and am sent back to the waiting area.
Before we leave with our "ride" I ask him if I can throw away the cotton ball, as the bleeding as ceased. He nods towards the large trash bin. "Isn't there a Biohazard container I should use, since this has blood"? He rolls his eyes and tells me it is only a little blood and not to worry and just throw it away.
On our way back I wonder how many of the Staph and Hepatitis warning posters are necessary simply because of this concept that "it is only a little blood".
This White Shirt - which I've concluded are some kind of above average guards involved in prisoner transport - passed Derick and I off to the CO minding the Work Release block. The other prisoners were taking part in some kind of free time and watching TV in a large room, with laminate floors and concrete walls. Unsurprisingly, the architecture of the place seems to be simply utilitarian, constantly in flux. The remnants of previously constructed and torn away walls are clearly visible. Conduits for cabling and pipes run up and down the walls. Electrical outlets for 240V circuits are in random corners, presumably for appliances relocated and removed. It has the stale cleanliness of highly toxic, bulk oxidizing agents and janitorial mops wielded by forced labor.
"This your first time in prison?", asks the CO whose name tag reads "Robbins". Derick answers in the negative and Robbins informs us we will be "cellmates" - AKA "cellies" to us prisoners - and that Derick should make sure I understand how things work (rather, how things do not work...). We are given our key, copies of the Rulebook, and copies of the work request form. Derick and I head upstairs, carrying our Welcome To Jail Kits in the big green tubs, and our new paperwork.
I formally introduce myself to Derick. We exchange a few pleasantries and minimal background to set the context for our time we will have to spend together. The cell is concrete walls and floor, with two metal cots, separated by about 24 inches. We have a broken locker to share (the door will not close as it is bent, presumably used for fending off gang rapists or bludgeoning a CO). We have a small metal desk and a small wooden chair.
Derick has been in and out of the system his entire life. He inherited a small fortune when he was young - some 40 years ago - and in his youthful recklessness spent it all on women, drugs and booze. Foster care, juvenile detention, and almost a decade Up State, plus several small-time sentences in this County Prison. This is Derick's 4th or 5th time in Work Release.
Derick seems like a nice guy, considering he is a crack and heroin user who has spent half his life behind bars. He already knows some of the guys in here, and wanders off to acquire some contraband. Not drugs, booze or cigarettes - but shower shoes and some clean clothes. Another unwritten rule is that sharing or giving a fellow inmate anything is prohibited. Derick has found a friend who had some spare pairs of shower shoes. "If the CO asks how you have these already, just say you found them under the cot in the room", he says as he hands me a pair. "We'd get my friend in trouble since he gave these to us, but you sure as shit don't want to shower without them." I can understand why we might not be permitted to SELL things to other prisoners, but why no gifting? "They need to make their money", Derick informs me as he shows me the list, found in our desk, of items available for purchase from the commissary. While the prison claims that the Work Release program is an effort to integrate long-sentence prisoners back into the community months before their real release, for someone who was stolen away from the community like me, it is a 100% reversal of the values my allegedly Christian community claims to cherish. Kindness and generosity are strictly prohibited.
Robbins told us that "blockouts" - times prisoners were permitted in the Day Room - occurred twice a day, usually 1PM to 3PM and 7PM to 11PM. During these times we could shower, do laundry, watch one of the two televisions, or play cards or boardgames (if we purchased them). During each blockout we are permitted to place calls using the pay phones for no longer than a 20 minute time slot. At all other times we are to remain in our rooms except to go and use the shared bathrooms.
After settling in I sign up to use the phones. I have no cash and can't remember my credit card number. Signs near the phones prohibit phone card numbers. On a hunch, I call my house collect hoping that my girlfriend would be there.
Brenda answers, crying. As hard as the last 12 hours have been on me, they have been worse for her. She is my lifesaver as she has informed work I might not be in all week, based on the non-answers she was given by the Work Release administrators as to what was happening to me. I give her as much of an account of what has happened as I can. We are both a wreck, and spent most of the time in emotional turmoil. I hasten to end the call as I hear my name called by the CO through a garbled, barely intelligible PA system.
I say "you called me?", and Robbins answers something that sounds like "yeah, Shin-nah-tawl". He rolls his eyes so I don't ask him to enunciate. I wait and another CO arrives, and one of the other prisoners follows him. Robbins screams at me "PRESARIO GO WITH YOUR RIDE, SHEESH!". Apparently I am supposed to be a mind-reader and have a clue what is happening. I ask this CO where we are going. "The infirmary." Ah, so I am off for a Day 1 Prison Physical. I ask him what the other CO was mumbling, and he laughs as he says "Sick Call. SICK CALL! Get it?!?!". Ah, must be some kind of military jargon.
The physical only involves checking my pulse and blood pressure. The rest of the exam is question and answer, intending to ascertain my mental state and identify potential suicide risks. Without a hint of irony, the nurse asks me "How do you feel about being in prison - good, fair, or poor?" I can not resist bursting out with laughter - "seriously? 'Good' is one of the choices? Does anyone ever answer 'good'?!?!?!" She emerges from her dry, emotionless cocoon and a hint of a sense of humor emerges. "Actually some do, and I guess the question is pretty silly." You think? I tell her to put me down as "fair to middling regarding my incarceration, lack of amenities, and new found crackhead roommates." Thankfully, there is minimal poking and prodding - I certainly do not want to catch Hepatitis or Staph infections due to the carelessness of the types of health care workers who find themselves assigned to work in prisons (the health care here is outsourced to a for-profit provider, just like the meal preparation). I do receive a TB test. I'm given a cotton ball to use until the bleeding stops and am sent back to the waiting area.
Before we leave with our "ride" I ask him if I can throw away the cotton ball, as the bleeding as ceased. He nods towards the large trash bin. "Isn't there a Biohazard container I should use, since this has blood"? He rolls his eyes and tells me it is only a little blood and not to worry and just throw it away.
On our way back I wonder how many of the Staph and Hepatitis warning posters are necessary simply because of this concept that "it is only a little blood".
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Day 1: Commitment (Part 1)
No sooner had the sound of the judge's gavel reached my ears than I found myself being hand-cuffed by two Sheriff's Deputies. I was searched, pockets emptied, and taken away through "that door" - the door in a courtroom reserved for officers of the Courts and those pleading or found guilty. This was quite the shock as my lawyer told me that the norm was to allow "walk-ins" to the prison: the Judge grants up to 48 hours to report to the prison, but apparently, not for me. I was not even permitted to kiss my girlfriend goodbye.
The only thought I can muster at this point was that I have surrendered all my rights as an American citizen, and hopefully I will survive whatever happens after this, alive and well. It is an awareness that my life is now at the whim of my new masters - the Deputies and eventually the Prison Guards - and from here on out I will have absolutely no control, and they will have no accountability. There is no recourse for me, no appeals or airing of grievances. Shackled like a head of cattle, I am led into a holding area and put in a 5' by 5' room with six other men.
"Whoa, Sopranos shit up in here", says one of my new cell-mates. I did kind of stick out, in my one-and-only tailored suit (for interviews, wedding, funerals, and most recently: court appearances!). This waiting around was frustrating, but as I would learn - amazingly short. Only 30-40 minutes to get to know these chaps at various stages in the prison world: from County to be sent "Up State"; from State for additional County sentencing; newly convicted, like me; out of County temporarily to receive additional sentences.
Two other gentlemen and I were uncuffed, ordered to interlock arms in the same manner as when ushering Grandmothers to their seats at weddings. Except then we were handcuffed again. This process is quite comfort-inhibitive when your arm-mates are of varying heights. It being a hot and rainy spring day, the ride in the back of the County van to prison was the first of what would become many Worst Points.
"Y'all got time?" we were asked as we crab-walked into the van. Our van-mate had a broken, miserable look about him. At the time I wasn't quite sure what he meant - were we on our way to prison? Did we get serious time, measured in months or years? I just answered "90 days" in the most robotic tone as possible, to indicate neither apprehension nor relief that my sentence was that length. He nodded, and talked to the other of our usher-arm-trio who answered "6 to 12 Up State". They discussed their relief at getting to be Up State, where at least there were TVs, you could smoke, and there were things to keep yourself occupied. Optimism is clearly our most advantageous evolutionary adaptation.
This drive is miserably slow - especially given it is only a dozen city blocks. At the prison I am searched again and temporarily dumped into a holding cell. For a short time I share it with one of my new friends, but we are soon processed and separated. This cell is where I would expect them to keep serial killers. A small plastic window in the immense metal door - which is operated electronically. A small feeding slit in the door at knee height, perhaps 18 inches long by 4 inches high. There is a toilet and sink combination, and a metal cot attached to the wall. The waiting is simply maddening. There is no one in there to talk to; nothing to read, no television or radio. I welcome any calls from the COs (Corrections Officers) to sign forms, answer questions, and surrender my belongings.
I am strip searched and my clothing is taken. "Bend over, spread your ass, and cough twice. Turn around and lift your dick." Given the hour I spent interlocked to two other men, hand-cuffed in the back of a van with no fresh air, I take comfort in knowing I certainly wouldn't be attractive for whatever latent desires are smoldering in this CO's loins.
The Commitment COs are the worst kind of assholes. Grouchy old men who take pleasure in causing misery in others. Questions for their forms are asked in an ambiguous way: "Who is your emergency contact?" "My Girlfriend", I answer. But before I can giver her name, the CO asks the other "did the girl you fucked last night scream out this asshole's name?" "No?" "Then how the hell are we supposed to know who your girlfriend is, asshole?" This treatment is not so much upsetting as it is disorienting. Luckily I am blessed with a rather strong will and resolve and little bothers me, but the playground rhetoric of these guys is something I am not prepared for. I pretend they didn't say a word and reply with the information they need. I sign a form that is my receipt for my belongings, and the fact that I am came in with absolutely no cash is quickly noted by the COs. "This guy didn't bring in our pizza money for lunch!" Fine, I think, I can play this game and pass their little test. "So what does that mean?" I ask, and am told "now we just treat you like shit the whole time you are in here." For an instant my mind flashes with the image of The Pizza List - the list of prisoners who didn't provide some petty cash for the COs to steal, who are repeatedly gang raped and branded on the ass with swastikas by the Aryan Brotherhood (yes, I suppose being a fan of HBO's prison drama Oz might not be helpful). "I guess I'll just have to make it up by being polite." "If you are polite you'll end up someone's bitch." They asked if I knew what was happening to me and I said of course, and mentioned "I am supposed to be given immediate Work Release, whatever that may means for you gentlemen." "It means you get there when we decide to get you there." This is going to be a long 90 days.
All day I sit. An entire 8 hours - a full workday. I try to nap to no avail. Just at the point I start to drift off, I am called for more administrativia. An interview regarding my mental health by a pretty young co-ed; a retinal scan; fingerprinting; more paperwork. There is no order to this madness, and clearly efficiency is not a requirement for their processes. I overhear prisoners' conversations through our feed slits. Discussions of bail bondsmen, concerns about destinations ("they better not put me on the block with the faggots and pedophiles"). Another prisoner reports his receipt is not correct, and $100 is missing. CO shifts change to younger, more pleasant characters. I see the first of what I expect from watching Oz - evidence of CO corruption. An inmate calls a CO over and they have a whispered chat. A note is passed from CO to prisoner. The CO meets my eyes, and I yawn and turn away.
As our paperwork is returned my spirits are lifted as something is about to happen. At this point, any change is good. During my fingerprinting I asked the guard where I was going and when, and shared my sense of frustration and helplessness. He said that as long as there wasn't a big problem, I'd be in the Work Release area sometime after 7PM. Already I have noticed something about Prison Culture: guards will be belligerent, nasty, and hurtful when there is an audience. Alone, they may be helpful, so rather than plead for information in my cage, I waited until the guard could answer without breaking his role.
My paperwork was supposed to be just my receipt for my belongings. However I received someone else's receipt and someone else's form for requesting a Public Defender! I immediately notified the CO who looked annoyed (by the error, not by me). I don't know who that poor chap was who didn't get his paperwork, but I reckon when he offers the excuse "but I never got it!" it will not do him well. 7PM approaches and I'm informed I am about to be moved. Wearing my green canvas fatigues over the used undergarments, I place my blanket and alleged pillow into my green tub.
The green tub contains my complete "Welcome to Jail, Now Go To Hell" kit. Two sets of green fatigues. Two used white tees. Two used white briefs, with or without skid marks. Two pairs of socks with multiple holes. A flexible 3 inch toothbrush, and a combination toothpaste/body wash/shampoo that would probably be handy, say, after the apocalypse. A short pencil, a spork, and a cup.
Gathering all my belongings in the world, now contained in this green tub, I line up for transfer to Work Release.
The only thought I can muster at this point was that I have surrendered all my rights as an American citizen, and hopefully I will survive whatever happens after this, alive and well. It is an awareness that my life is now at the whim of my new masters - the Deputies and eventually the Prison Guards - and from here on out I will have absolutely no control, and they will have no accountability. There is no recourse for me, no appeals or airing of grievances. Shackled like a head of cattle, I am led into a holding area and put in a 5' by 5' room with six other men.
"Whoa, Sopranos shit up in here", says one of my new cell-mates. I did kind of stick out, in my one-and-only tailored suit (for interviews, wedding, funerals, and most recently: court appearances!). This waiting around was frustrating, but as I would learn - amazingly short. Only 30-40 minutes to get to know these chaps at various stages in the prison world: from County to be sent "Up State"; from State for additional County sentencing; newly convicted, like me; out of County temporarily to receive additional sentences.
Two other gentlemen and I were uncuffed, ordered to interlock arms in the same manner as when ushering Grandmothers to their seats at weddings. Except then we were handcuffed again. This process is quite comfort-inhibitive when your arm-mates are of varying heights. It being a hot and rainy spring day, the ride in the back of the County van to prison was the first of what would become many Worst Points.
"Y'all got time?" we were asked as we crab-walked into the van. Our van-mate had a broken, miserable look about him. At the time I wasn't quite sure what he meant - were we on our way to prison? Did we get serious time, measured in months or years? I just answered "90 days" in the most robotic tone as possible, to indicate neither apprehension nor relief that my sentence was that length. He nodded, and talked to the other of our usher-arm-trio who answered "6 to 12 Up State". They discussed their relief at getting to be Up State, where at least there were TVs, you could smoke, and there were things to keep yourself occupied. Optimism is clearly our most advantageous evolutionary adaptation.
This drive is miserably slow - especially given it is only a dozen city blocks. At the prison I am searched again and temporarily dumped into a holding cell. For a short time I share it with one of my new friends, but we are soon processed and separated. This cell is where I would expect them to keep serial killers. A small plastic window in the immense metal door - which is operated electronically. A small feeding slit in the door at knee height, perhaps 18 inches long by 4 inches high. There is a toilet and sink combination, and a metal cot attached to the wall. The waiting is simply maddening. There is no one in there to talk to; nothing to read, no television or radio. I welcome any calls from the COs (Corrections Officers) to sign forms, answer questions, and surrender my belongings.
I am strip searched and my clothing is taken. "Bend over, spread your ass, and cough twice. Turn around and lift your dick." Given the hour I spent interlocked to two other men, hand-cuffed in the back of a van with no fresh air, I take comfort in knowing I certainly wouldn't be attractive for whatever latent desires are smoldering in this CO's loins.
The Commitment COs are the worst kind of assholes. Grouchy old men who take pleasure in causing misery in others. Questions for their forms are asked in an ambiguous way: "Who is your emergency contact?" "My Girlfriend", I answer. But before I can giver her name, the CO asks the other "did the girl you fucked last night scream out this asshole's name?" "No?" "Then how the hell are we supposed to know who your girlfriend is, asshole?" This treatment is not so much upsetting as it is disorienting. Luckily I am blessed with a rather strong will and resolve and little bothers me, but the playground rhetoric of these guys is something I am not prepared for. I pretend they didn't say a word and reply with the information they need. I sign a form that is my receipt for my belongings, and the fact that I am came in with absolutely no cash is quickly noted by the COs. "This guy didn't bring in our pizza money for lunch!" Fine, I think, I can play this game and pass their little test. "So what does that mean?" I ask, and am told "now we just treat you like shit the whole time you are in here." For an instant my mind flashes with the image of The Pizza List - the list of prisoners who didn't provide some petty cash for the COs to steal, who are repeatedly gang raped and branded on the ass with swastikas by the Aryan Brotherhood (yes, I suppose being a fan of HBO's prison drama Oz might not be helpful). "I guess I'll just have to make it up by being polite." "If you are polite you'll end up someone's bitch." They asked if I knew what was happening to me and I said of course, and mentioned "I am supposed to be given immediate Work Release, whatever that may means for you gentlemen." "It means you get there when we decide to get you there." This is going to be a long 90 days.
All day I sit. An entire 8 hours - a full workday. I try to nap to no avail. Just at the point I start to drift off, I am called for more administrativia. An interview regarding my mental health by a pretty young co-ed; a retinal scan; fingerprinting; more paperwork. There is no order to this madness, and clearly efficiency is not a requirement for their processes. I overhear prisoners' conversations through our feed slits. Discussions of bail bondsmen, concerns about destinations ("they better not put me on the block with the faggots and pedophiles"). Another prisoner reports his receipt is not correct, and $100 is missing. CO shifts change to younger, more pleasant characters. I see the first of what I expect from watching Oz - evidence of CO corruption. An inmate calls a CO over and they have a whispered chat. A note is passed from CO to prisoner. The CO meets my eyes, and I yawn and turn away.
As our paperwork is returned my spirits are lifted as something is about to happen. At this point, any change is good. During my fingerprinting I asked the guard where I was going and when, and shared my sense of frustration and helplessness. He said that as long as there wasn't a big problem, I'd be in the Work Release area sometime after 7PM. Already I have noticed something about Prison Culture: guards will be belligerent, nasty, and hurtful when there is an audience. Alone, they may be helpful, so rather than plead for information in my cage, I waited until the guard could answer without breaking his role.
My paperwork was supposed to be just my receipt for my belongings. However I received someone else's receipt and someone else's form for requesting a Public Defender! I immediately notified the CO who looked annoyed (by the error, not by me). I don't know who that poor chap was who didn't get his paperwork, but I reckon when he offers the excuse "but I never got it!" it will not do him well. 7PM approaches and I'm informed I am about to be moved. Wearing my green canvas fatigues over the used undergarments, I place my blanket and alleged pillow into my green tub.
The green tub contains my complete "Welcome to Jail, Now Go To Hell" kit. Two sets of green fatigues. Two used white tees. Two used white briefs, with or without skid marks. Two pairs of socks with multiple holes. A flexible 3 inch toothbrush, and a combination toothpaste/body wash/shampoo that would probably be handy, say, after the apocalypse. A short pencil, a spork, and a cup.
Gathering all my belongings in the world, now contained in this green tub, I line up for transfer to Work Release.
Introduction
I am a criminal. Well, I've been sentenced by a judge to a Mandatory Minimum sentence in a prison. I am not going to write about anything which occurred before my sentencing. Firstly, it does not really matter because this blog is an attempt to capture the experience of prison - the culture, the people, and the social relations - and not the arrest and judicial processes (even though both are well-suited for similar treatments). In a manner of sorts, it is a prison ethnography.
Secondly, I do not want this blog to be overrun by discussions about a particular crime. No matter what my crime was, the Internet is certainly full of people who would call for my execution, or my complete absolution and immediate release. All I shall say is that the crime of which I was convicted had no victim, nor did it involve harm to a person or property. I was not required to make any restitution; just prison, fines, and court costs.
I intend to allow comments as long as they are civil, intelligible, and thoughtful. I reserve the right to delete anything that doesn't meet that criteria. Most importantly, if any comments are made which could allow me to be identified, they will deleted and the poster banned. Most readers will have no idea who I am; a few may know me personally. Others may deduce it from some of the information I share. But it is without a doubt that the prison would not appreciate the publicity and exposure they are about to receive, and should they have a hint I am the author, I would suffer immensely.
Secondly, I do not want this blog to be overrun by discussions about a particular crime. No matter what my crime was, the Internet is certainly full of people who would call for my execution, or my complete absolution and immediate release. All I shall say is that the crime of which I was convicted had no victim, nor did it involve harm to a person or property. I was not required to make any restitution; just prison, fines, and court costs.
I intend to allow comments as long as they are civil, intelligible, and thoughtful. I reserve the right to delete anything that doesn't meet that criteria. Most importantly, if any comments are made which could allow me to be identified, they will deleted and the poster banned. Most readers will have no idea who I am; a few may know me personally. Others may deduce it from some of the information I share. But it is without a doubt that the prison would not appreciate the publicity and exposure they are about to receive, and should they have a hint I am the author, I would suffer immensely.
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