Memoir 2
One night on my way back from chow, I climb the stairs and return to my cell; I see someone else’s name on the door. I‘m confused; I have to set this straight. I start to remove the other guy’s name from the little holder on the front of the door. I know it’s my cell; the number -17- was correct. Someone behind me says “Hey, what are you doing?” I realize that I have the right cell number, but the wrong tier. I still need to go up another flight. I walk off mumbling “oops, sorry, wrong cell, I thought this was my cell for a minute but it had the wrong name on it…” The man just laughs and says, “Just keep taking those drugs, you’ll be fine!” and as I walk
In the third building I get cellmate, a quiet, and somewhat melancholy young black man. He’s been sitting there in the cell for three weeks. Now I have smokes, a whole carton of Camel Filters. He had smokes too. We sit, and smoke in silence, waiting to see what happens next.
The next night, they call on me, along with most of the other people in the building to “pack it up”. I pack my plastic bag. When it’s time to leave I give my cellie an extra pack of smokes and say goodbye.
We’re herded into a gymnasium where we sit, and eat sack lunches. After lunch, shackled to a buddy selected on the basis of height, with irons around our legs, and our cuffed hands chained to our waists, and loaded onto an old blue school bus, with shotgun wielding guards in the front and rear. The guy next to me asked if I’d ever been on this ride before. I shook my head “no.”
“It’s a pretty captured kind of feeling, isn’t it?”
I laugh. “Yeah it is.”
I think of the band Alice in Chains, and substitute my name for Alice’s. I’m in chains, on my way to the “big house”. The bus heads southbound on 1-25, takes some smaller thoroughfares through downtown Colorado Springs, stops at the East Canon complex and drops off a few people returning from court appearances and the like; they already know where they are going.
We pass an ominous looking “supermax” prison, known simply as “The Colorado State Penitentiary” (CSP). Supermax prisons, also known as “control units,” are much like the original concept of the penitentiary developed by well-intentioned but somewhat less than realistic Quakers in the 19th century. The solitary self-contained cells, with running water and a flush-toilet were where the penitent might meditate on his or her sins and come out an improved member of society. This rarely happens, but control units are effective, in ridding prison systems of tough, violent, hyper-aggressive “old school” convicts. People who go to CSP, do the 2 to 5 years or so, and are released into population, rarely return to CSP. CSP has a 4% recidivism rate (within the prison system).
Whatever they are doing to people in there, it works. Control units also are an effective way to deal with dissidents, self-styled revolutionaries, jailhouse lawyers, and other trouble makers who may not actually be breaking rules or being violent in any way. It’s called “Administrative Segregation,” (AD-SEG) as opposed to “Punitive Segregation. With “Ad-Seg,” no disciplinary conviction is needed. Prison administrators are not subject to any judicial interference with regard to prisoner placements and classifications.
THE WALLS
The bus passes through Canon City; at the west end of town, the rest of us get off the bus, sit down in a room with a dark, silent TV, and wait. We’re given dinner, two cold hot dogs and a small plastic container of beans, also cold, which I consume. It’s still early on a Friday evening; a guard explains almost apologetically that we’ve arrived too late for dinner.
We’re assigned to our cells. Somewhere I’ve had lost the water cup that DRDC issued me; I figure out how to drink out of the tap in spite of how fast it comes out. We get out for five minute showers. The next day, in the afternoon, we get a little yard time to walk around, talk, and smoke. Some people greet me “Hey Joe!”
I light up a cigarette, and gaze up at a late afternoon sky in early November, a wide view without any grate over it. The colors of the clouds hit by the light of the setting sun as they drift dazzle me. I realize it’s the first time I’ve really seen the sky in nearly a year.
I have a long sentence ahead of me, and no doubt that it will not be without its share of hard time, but I also get the feeling that the worst is over; there’s nowhere to go but up from here.
On Monday morning, They tell me I’m part of a small, lucky group selected to start serving time right there at The Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility (CTCF) known to all as “The Walls”.
The name itself sounds ominous, and the walls, some of them over one hundred years old, are impressive. Huge irregular blocks of sandstone made by long dead convicts, stacked high, up to what looks like 50 feet in places let the newcomer know he’s in “Real Prison”.
I’m 34 and only on my first time down, fearing that I have neither the wisdom of experience nor the strength and resilience of youth; all I’ve got left is what’s left of my mind; I will have to learn to live by my wits.
During the first few days, the new arrivals stay in a segregated section of cellhouse three, a dull two story building with old fashioned barred cages, which still houses the gas chamber. The gas chamber is just a historical artifact. It hasn’t been used since the death penalty was banned. The death penalty is back, but lethal injection is now fashionable. CSP alone is used for executions now. There was a time when the prison, known also as “Old Max” was a genuinely tough and dangerous place.
Some older cons speak of times when stabbings were a weekly occurrence. Some even lamen the fast vanishing convict code, missing the days when they could fight, extort, rape, and kill with near impunity due to the acceptance of the code. One guy still remembers breaking rocks in the 1950s.
Now it’s 1995 and things are gentler at The Walls; old cons wanting nothing more than to do their time in peace, and “tough guys” are rapidly removed to less pleasant places when they surface. A high percentage of medical and psychiatric cases as well as around 150 people with full-blown AIDS, and other serious or fatal illnesses make it more like a low security mental ward, or old folks home. There’s a large infirmary on the premises, where people go when they needed a higher level of care than most prisons can give.
I walk the yard alone, looking up at the lone, rifle-toting guards in the towers, then up at the walls and the sky. As if on cue, the whistle of a nearby freight-train, followed by the low thundering of its wheels and metal-on-metal clanking noise made by the boxcars breaks the relative silence; I can only laugh now! I’m serving time in some old country song, like that one by Johnny Cash. I decide to write my own song in that genre. I start out in my head with the lyrics “There’s a train that runs outside the walls…”
On my first night in general population, housed in Cellhouse 7, a 265-man, two story, four-tiered concrete birdhouse, I step outside for a smoke. A guard se me, looks at his watch, and kept walking. Back in the cell-house I see the time and realize that I had walked out the open door of the cellhouse 20 minutes after the 9:00 PM curfew, a serious offense. Maybe the guard knew I was a “fish,” or maybe he had better things to do, but I’ve lucked out. I tell myself to pay more attention from then on. I’ve also missed medline , as a result of not knowing the dispensary’s schedule.
This is my first night without meds in a very long time. I meet my new cellie, a well spoken black man of about my own age with a smooth, soft voiced manner. He seems to the be a real gangster. The loud ones, the aggressive and foul mouthed alpha-males are all just “wannabes,’ LJ ‘s to be taken seriously.He tell me his name and shakes my hand, tells me to feel free to watch his TV when he’s no in the cell.
I stop worrying about my medication when he asks me “You smoke weed?”
I nod in the affirmative. “We’re gonna smoke some weed now, all-right?” I smiled and say “Yeah!” out loud. He pulls out a pin joint, lights it and passes it. We smoke the whole little thing down to that last crumb of pot and sliver of paper. The shit’s really strong.
He’s got a collection of porno mags; with no embarrassment asks me to go sit out at a table in the pod and read while he jerks off. When he’s done, he offers the magazines to me and volunteers to do the same so that I can take care of myself. I decide that it’s at least appear to do so, even though Mellaril’s got me shooting blanks. An orgasm with virtually no liquid to ejaculate just isn’t worth it.
We have a few interesting conversations over the next few day, at one point he asks me
“Would you suck your own dick if you could?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Well that means you’d suck another man’s dick too then!”
“No it doesn’t, you jack off, does that mean you’d give a hand job too some other dude?”
The meaningless debate fizzles. A moment of anxiety over the possibility of some form of sexual coercion passes; LJ’s strictly heterosexual, not even provisionally gay like some men are in prison. He’s a respected and respectful person. He’s just concerned about my long term well being;
“Shit man, you’ve got a lot of time to do, man you better get you a fag, cause that’s the only way you’ll get your dick sucked for a long time. Find you a fag, before someone makes you their fag!”
LJ tells me that being a “cell-soldier” during my initial period of incarceration is not a good idea; that people are already beginning to talk. I come back with
“I don’t give a fuck what these people think!”
LJ counters with
“Yeah, but if the whole penitentiary starts thinking you have something to hide, it could make your life hard.”
After a week of free weed, color TV and good conversation, LJ is removed from the facility for a court appearance. Shortly after LJ leaves, the guards shake down the cell; they find two capsules of the antibiotic, Keflex. I explain to the guards that the nurse issued these meds to me in cellhouse 5. A new cellmate moves in, someone who claims to be a minister, serving time for alleged misuse of church funds and credit cards. There was something weird about him and his story, but I don’t press for details. I had heard a long time ago that it was bad impolite to ask people what their crime was.
Of course, this idea’s part of an old version of the convict code, now everyone asks you what you did. People accuse me of being a sex offender more than once, but my paperwork exonerates me. Other cons point out the known “Rape-Os” and “Chesters” (as in “Chester the Molester”), and “Cho Mo’s” (rapists and child molesters) to me. The Walls has a high percentage of sex offenders in its population.
Deferring to LJ’s wisdom and experience, I start to get out and talk to people, anyone who chooses to talk to me. I start getting used to making it to med-line and meals.
The first “Sunday Dinner” that I choose to show up for (I had skipped the first Sunday dinner I’d been there for, and people were shocked, telling me that roast beef had been served.) features fried chicken as the entrée. I get my tray and wander around looking for an empty seat. A young black man shows up carrying a tray, just as I’m beginning to eat.
“You’re in my seat,” he says.
“
Oh, sorry,” I tell him and move to another seat at the same table. Shortly thereafter, another young black man arrives and informs me that now I’m in his seat. They both explain to me that all the seats at that table are “reserved”.
That’s was just the way it’s done; certain groups of people get used to eating together and a system of “reserved seating’ is generally accepted. If you don’t have a reserved seat, it’s still possible to find a place to sit at most weekday meals, by walking around and asking “anyone sitting here?”
But for Sunday Dinner, there’s usually a full house. I get up, feeling anxious and glancing around for a place to sit, I hear one of the men saying “Yesterday I got here and there was two of them motherfuckers sitting here!”
A white guy, who looks to be in his late twenties, with a slim build, average height, and just slightly long collar length hair looks over at me; there’s nothing threatening, or even remarkable about this person. Only a pair of expensive cowboy boots sent in from the outside distinguishes him from the rest of the green clad diners.
“
It’s OK, man, you can sit here!”
I take him up on his gracious offer, and he says, with only the mildest tone of overt racism, “You gotta watch out for those blacks (he didn’t use the ‘n-word’ like many of his peers would have). You can sit here anytime you want.” The man’s name is just a little odd. His name is Brent Brents
One evening, I hear my name in the cellhouse PA system; I’m summoned to the Captain’s office. The captain gives me a look that seemed to say “I don’t like you. I’d hate you, but you’re not even worth that much of my time and energy.”
I’m being charged with medication abuse. I start sputtering out my defense; I’m told to save it for the disciplinary hearing. The captain looks at my file, and glares up at me, “Armed robbery and assault.”
I nod in silent agreement; he’s was looking at a misdemeanor conviction that’s was over twenty years old. It still shows what the original charge, APDW, assault on police officer(s) with deadly weapon, a felony. The charge was reduced a misdemeanor for a number of reasons, and I decided against trying for an acquittal on grounds of self defense. I believed at the time of the incident, that I was defending myself. I had the good fortune to be sentenced in Federal court (it was a DC case) by the Hon. Rufus King, a compassionate and liberal judge, who after leaving the bench and returning to private practice, became an advocate for reform in various areas of the criminal justice system.
The captain doesn’t know anything more than what the printout in his hand tells him. Prison guards and officials view each arrest without a conviction on an inmate’s record as a crime committed, but not punished. In essence, an arrest is about the same as a conviction in their eyes.
The captain asks me if I wanted to have an inmate representative at my hearing.
“Yeah I do,” I respond, unable to conceal my indignation.
The whole thing blows over, and never goes to a hearing. I see the sergeant who supervised the shakedown and tell I tell him “You almost got me in a lot of trouble!”
“Yeah, I know but we went back and told the captain how polite and cooperative you were, and that we really didn’t think you intentionally broke any rules. If anyone messed up, it was the nurse, for giving you the pills in an unmarked envelope,” the sergeant replies.
It starts to dawn on me that while they would never be my friends, and in theory always be “enemy soldiers,” the guards were human beings, and appreciated being treated decently in a predominantly hostile environment as much as anyone else. An uneasy peace can be maintained, at least some of the time.
.
Early one morning a man who I’ll just refer to as “Old Sarge” a tough, white-haired old man with a “Popeye the sailor” build hands me a plastic bag and tells me to pack up again. It’s the day after thanksgiving.
I’m sent back over to cell house 5 for a rowdy ride back up to Denver. The bus stops at the nearby Colorado Women’s Correctional Facility and some female inmates board the bus, sitting in the front in their own cage. One guy keeps shouting “Let’s get buck naked and fuck!” This is met with both giggling and calls to “Shut Up!” peppered with strong “Spanglish” profanity from the women?
Smoking is not allowed on the bus, but some smokes and lighters are on board, and we pass the cigarettes around.
There is no restroom on a prison bus. It’s just a school bus converted to hold prisoners, with nice extras like metal grates over the windows and gates separating the prisoners from the guard and drivers, and the men from the women. A youngster named Kevin, someone I’d get to know quite well eventually, protests that he needs to take a leak. We’re still a good hour outside of Denver. The guards laugh at him and tell him flat out “No.”
A number of minutes later, Kevin’s protesting again saying that he has a problem with his bladder and that he’s serious, he can’t hold it. His request is met with indifference and derision again.
A couple of minutes later, I see someone standing up out of the corner of my eye. I look up and see Kevin standing with his pelvis against the window grate. I can’t see exactly what he’s doing, just the urine flying of into the breeze outside the bus. Kevin is pressing the head of his penis as far as he can into the metal grate, and taking a leak out of the open window it covers. Before he can finish, the guards see what was he’s doing. They order him to stop, and the driver slams the brakes and swerves a couple of times to make him lose balance. Somehow he manages not to fall down, but some stray drops of urine fly back into the bus and everybody in the general vicinity ducks. I don’t remember if a drop hit me or not. The protests of the other prisoners are minimal; they understand that the kid just has to pee, and that the man was being a dick about it.
One guy, is actually being released. The bus stops at Colfax and Peoria in Aurora. One of the women starts crying, and the man getting off the bus tells her and the rest of us “Don’t worry, someday it will be you, it’s hard to see it now, but that time will come.”
I try to imagine being released. I can’t; I’ve already made the shift in my mind; the institution is reality now, anything outside is simply irrelevant, and for all practical purposes imaginary. By the time we get to DRDC, most of the others have been deposited at the county jail or various halfway houses. There’s just me, Kevin and a couple of other guys. We’re informed that we’re all headed for the infirmary. A tough young guard in military fatigues and combat boots lectures Kevin about how people who expose themselves are sent to CSP as sex offenders.
Kevin responds by saying “fuck you” softly.
The guard tenses up like a snake ready to strike.
“What did you say?”
Kevin thinks better of it and says, “Look man I’m sorry, I just have this problem with my bladder.” The situation defuses without further complications.
We all go through an abbreviated intake process, and Kevin ends up being my cellmate at the infirmary. The rooms are large, with real beds, a toilet and a shower. There are little color TVs mounted on the walls, and even though only a couple of channels come in clearly, the whole set up seems luxurious. Female inmates sometimes bring our food to the door of the cell, other times we’re allowed to walk out to the food cart and pick it up. There is nothing to do but eat, sleep and read, although the selection of reading material was slim. I read A Winter’s Tale by Mark Halperin and The Song of Maven Many Shaped by We watch many episodes of “Home Improvement” and lots of local news. And we talked about drugs and crime. Kevin likes to do crystal meth and steal cars and he’s doing three years for grand theft auto. He seems shocked at the length of my sentence.
