Hard Times: Part Three
First, I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving holiday. Speaking for myself, I ate way too much, watched too much football (Personal Shout Out: congrats to the Missouri Tigers on a 10 win season!), and had a hard time waking up Monday morning, but all in all it was a good break.
One of the things that I thought about over the holiday was what to cover next. I could easily turn my prison experience blog into one horror story after another, but that really wouldn't be accurate or desirable. Prison, for all it's terrors, is a pretty boring place most of the time. However, when things go bad, they go REALLY bad. So this next post will cover the day-to-day grind of working in a hostile environment, and it's long-term effects on one's psyche. I am not speaking for everyone, of course. This experience is my own, and others who went through the things I did may not feel the same way, but I think it's a pretty accurate accounting.
Militarily speaking, being in a combat theater of operations is described by many as long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror (or what I call extreme emotional events). During those events, people generally cease to function as a normal human being. One of the reasons soldiers are screamed at in basic training is to make an individual react a certain way in combat. Generally speaking, it's not in one's best interest to charge head first into machine gun fire; yet, that is what a soldier is expected to do. Their training is designed to allow a person to do things they normally would never do. Disregard for personal safety is not an easy thing to achieve, and even the best of us "break" under combat conditions.
Now, I am not saying working in a prison is like being in combat; at least, not exactly. Inmates don't have guns (well, almost never), and you're not being asked to do superhuman acts like many soldiers regularly do in combat. There is, however, one way where prison is actually more stressful than combat. In combat, you know the gunfire will eventually end, and the war will be over. In prison, you don't have that luxury. You can quit, sure, but if you want a job you must keep coming back, day after day, no matter what. It's a grind that truly wears on even the toughest minded person. It's why many inmates who serve life sentences truly become "institutionalized"; in other words, they are unfit for living in the real world. It happens to inmates and it happens to staff who work too long in prisons. Like a soldier in combat for too long they are irreparably harmed mentally by their experiences.
That first year in prison is the hardest time, whether you're an inmate or staff member, you will ever do. I had combat veterans from Vietnam and Iraq who both told me that prison is more stressful. Why? Because it never ends. In all ways that matter, working or serving time in a prison is like being in a war that never ends. You're just the most recent victim.
I remember the first day I met some of my inmates who were assigned to me. Out of the gate, I was given around 200 to supervise. Back then, Charlotte C.I. was still a general population maximum security prison (it would eventually become a lock-down Supermax). Most of my inmates were "general pop" which meant that they had jobs and lived together in a dorm with relative freedom of movement. So ingrained is that day in my mind that I still remember the first inmate who sat across from me for a progress report; I remember his face, his name, and his "DC number" (Note: all Florida prisoners receive a six digit identification number with a prefix that indicates their current stint in prison; for example, a DC number of C-123456 would indicate that the inmate is serving his fourth stint in prison as the first commitment begins with the number 0). I remember those details not only because I have a good memory, but because I was scared to death. The inmate in front of me was a murderer who had served over a decade in prison. He had some assaults on his disciplinary record, he was uncuffed, and he and I were in the same room alone. Someone like this, who has survived and even thrived in the prison environment is not only dangerous, but truly frightening.
Of course, it all went without incident. The meeting lasted about ten minutes, and off he went. While it meant nothing to this inmate, for me it was a major hurdle. I figured out very quickly that even if you are scared out of your wits you must show no fear on the outside. Inmates can smell it, and it is truly something that can get you hurt or killed. As a staff member, you have the power, and it's up to you to stand tall in the face of violence and intimidation. The only thing that inmates and even other security staff respect is mental toughness. I have seen women who were outweighed by 150lbs chew out a hardened convict with no fear whatsoever; it takes guts to do that. There is one problem with all this though...
In order to be mentally tough day-to-day you must be in a constant state of readiness. For security staff this is a given as they have physical confrontations with inmates all of the time. For a Classification Officer like me, though, who isn't in uniform it's a lot trickier. While security had a certain level of authority based solely on the fact that they were the law in the prison quasi-civilians like me had no such innate authority symbols beyond our demeanor and reputation. Security staff does not like to admit this fact, but I was just as much at risk for a physical confrontation as they were. I walked the compound, went in the units, and put myself in danger on numerous occasions. Sometimes, I would be on the yard surrounded by dozens of inmates without a security officer in sight. Regardless of how tough you think you are this level of stress will take it's toll.
Over time you develop a certain level of awareness, a sixth sense if you will, for danger. Some would call it paranoia, but I called it survival. For instance, I would always walk with a pen in my hand with the tip exposed held like a dagger. That way, if I was grabbed from behind I could jab the pen straight into the inmate's neck. Another thing you did without thinking was to always stand with your left foot forward (I'm right handed) when facing an inmate. That way, you were always in a defensive stance to defend yourself. You never allowed inmates to approach from behind. When walking the yard you always turned to look every 30 seconds or so. You never went into a secluded part of the prison alone, or in areas with many blind corners. These are things you did instinctively, or you didn't last long. You gained confidence that you could handle yourself, but the main problem is you had to turn "it" off.
That sixth sense I describe is very valuable in prison, but of little use in the real world. When I came home, I had very little in common with anyone on the outside. It became hard to trust or deal with anyone because they didn't understand me or the nature of my job. In effect, my job became my life. It destroyed any chance of a positive social life on the outside. I became secluded and recluse. It was all very unhealthy.
Unlike most of my colleagues, I didn't turn to the bottle or drugs. I truly believe it was the grace of God that allowed me to survive, and become a productive member of society outside of the prison. Most don't. Dark humor: we used to say that the Florida Department of Corrections had the largest pension fund in the state because no one ever lived long enough to collect. It's funny how you both love and hate the prison at the same time. It becomes a lot like a living, breathing member of your immediate family. I remember in the Francis Ford Coppola Vietnam war film, "Apocalypse Now", where Charlie Sheen describes in the opening scene how all he could think about when he was home was going back, and when he was there we wanted nothing more than to go home. It's a paradox, and only those who experience extreme emotional situations on a constant basis can really understand. It's in every way unexplainable.
Once I finally left the prison system I met a Physician's Assistant who had been a Captain in the Special Forces (a.k.a The Green Berets). His primary role was a combat physician, but he carried a gun, and killed people in combat just like any other member of his unit. I told him what I had done for a living, and how after leaving I felt depressed and useless. How I wanted nothing more than to go back. How it made no sense, and how it was literally driving me insane with unmitigated rage at not being able to handle myself. How I had dreams at night that I couldn't remember, but where I would wake up in cold sweats, shaking from some unknown demon I was unable to confront and defeat. I was losing, and I needed help.
He smiled, and said simply, "You won't ever get over it. But you can learn to live with it. In time, the wounds will heal. You have been through traumatic events, and your mind is not used to being at ease. It has forgotten how. But time will heal all wounds."
It wasn't much comfort, but a mild anti-depressant, along with tons of prayer, and a loving, patient wife got me through the immediate impact of not being in prison.. Now the dreams only come infrequently, and the paranoia has diminished to the point where I don't view unknown persons as a mortal threat. That's progress. And yet I still think daily about that place, and I probably always will. Like a combat vet, we are both damaged, but getting by. Like Rambo says,
"How do we live, John?"
"Day by Day"
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Post Eight
Hard Times: Part Two
"I guess you don't find horror movies very frightening anymore...". I spoke those exact words to my future supervisor. It was my second week on the job. The first week was spent in orientation classes. The only thing I remember about that turgid experience was that the Warden introduced himself, and told us about spiders. In prison, inmates have pets; not cats and dogs, but bugs and spiders. The Warden told us to never kill spiders, not because the inmates had adopted them as pets, but because they created webs. The creation of webs gave the inmates something to clean up. It provided work and a distraction from unpleasant thoughts like killing their cellmate, killing staff members, stealing, rape, or escape. Such was the the way of things.
Anway, back to that statement I made. We were in C-Dorm, affectionately know as the "Nuthut". C-Dorm housed the mentally ill inmates. Some were fakers who simply wanted their own cell and air conditioning (due to the psychotropic medications housed and dispensed in this dorm the State had to air-condition the whole unit; it was the only dorm that had this luxury at the prison). Their kind lasted only a couple of days before the doctors could declare them sain, and boot them back to general population. Others were somewhat troubled by their circumstances (after all, prison is by it's very nature a stressful enivornment), and were simply depressed (who wasn't?). However, about half were legit; paranoid schizophrenics, bipolars (massive and sometimes violent mood shifts), multiple personalities, and just plain homicidal sociopaths. Charlotte had every kind of horror imaginable.
My future supervisor was doing DR Court that day. I was simply an observer, but was new meat, and, therefore, a curiosity. I was 23 years old, tall, thin, and very white. Inmate predators loved that. As one particularly vile inmate was brought out for court he pratically drooled when he saw me. "Who's this, your boyfriend?" was the polite way of putting what I remember this creature saying. What he really said I don't want to put in print. My comrade in arms jokingly told him to settle down and behave as I was new, and he didn't want the inmate scaring me off the first time in the unit.
A this point I should explain the prison heirarchy. On one side you have civilians; teachers, medical personnel, librarians, chaplains, etc. On the other side you had security. Classification Officers were in the middle; we neither were civilians (being certified law enforcement officers) or civilians. Security treated us like civilians, though. If you weren't wearing brown (the color of their uniform), you weren't one of them.
Security is structured like the military. On the bottom you have the line officers who make up the majority of security. Above them you have sergeants who run dorms during a shift, work details, and the like. Above them are the "white shirts"; lieutenants and above. They are called "white shirts" because their tunic is white, and not brown like officers and sergeants. Lieutenants were our counterparts in Classification. Theoretically, we had the same rank, but the lieutenants had much more pull being they were part of Security.
Lieutenants were in charge of entire dorms over all three shifts (prisons have three shifts: days, afternoons, and midnights). Above them were Captains who were in charge of entire shifts. Then, you had the Colonel who was the head of Security. Beyond Colonel you had two Assistant Wardens. One ran Programs (where Classification fell), and the other ran Operations (Security and all services at the prison like Laundry, Maintenance, etc). While in theory they were of equal rank the Assistant Warden-Operations was much more powerful because he ran security. And, finally, you had the Warden who was in charge of everything. Wardens are dictators in everything but name whose say is final.
The inmate who made that awful comment to me was brought out from his cell to the DR hearing. He was a pathetic, but frightful, site. He was black (not being racist, but most of Florida prisons are comprised of black males, it's just a fact), and probably in his late 30's. He had rotten teeth; a few missing. You could smell him from 10 feet away, a sort of rotten smell like food that has gone bad. He was a big man, but not tall. His buggy eyes and and drooping jaw were his most prominent features. Mentally, he was a violent paranoid schizophrenic who had assaulted many inmates and security staff. The inmate was serving a life sentence for murder.
Security brought him out of his cell in chains. Handcuffs in front, but attached to other chains which wrapped around his legs, his hands secured against his body by a belt. He waddled to his seat, instead of walked, and was plopped down by two big security officers onto a metal bench that had been imbedded by concrete into the concrete floor. Nothing in common areas was ever allowed to be anything but bolted down in some way lest it be used as a weapon.
The Sergeant, more than a little nuts himself, began and ended the hearing.
"Now, we're going to find you guilty, but you can appeal. Any questions?"
The inmate responded, "Sarge, I don't think you can do that."
The Sergeant smiled and laughed. "This is prison. We CAN do that."
And so it was over. The inmate was sentenced to something, and I don't even remember the charge. It wasn't important. This inmate wasn't going anywhere, and he wasn't getting out of confinement for years. For the Sergeant the whole thing was a waste of time, and he ended the hearing in the most efficient way possible for him. Safety and security of the public and facility were the guiding words of every security officer of rank. I always remember the words of Sean Connery in the Untouchables, "You have just fulfilled the first rule of police work...when you finish your shift go home alive."
Technically, the inmate should have been given a fair hearing with rules of evidence, witnesses, etc. Realistically, with inmates like this one that rarely happened. Many times security wouldn't even have the inmate come to the hearing claiming that the inmate refused to appear. Many times this was true; some inmates just gave up. Other times, well, it was assumed they didn't want to appear. Whatever works. It wasn't justice, it was just us.
"Over here", my future boss said to me on the way out of dorm. "Look at this."
I was standing in front of a cell that had police tape over it. The cell door was open, and it was dark inside. On the floor, though, you could clearly make out stains. A whole lot of stains. I assumed correctly that those stains were indeed dried blood.
A couple of weeks before I started at Charlotte something terrible had happened in that cell. Disclaimer: What follows is what I know to be true, but cannot prove. It is hearsay, but it is what I believe to be true.
An inmate at another facility had bitten an officer. This inmate had full blown AIDS, and was known to want to take as many with him to death as possible. This inmate was transferred in the middle of the night to Charlotte. He was escorted to C-Dorm. The next morning, the inmate was found in his cell naked, and "four pointed" (all limbs tied to each end of the bed) to his rack. Blood was everywhere. He appeared to have been beaten to death.
The officers involved were tried for murder, and acquitted a few months later. I remember everyone being on edge on the day of the verdict as it was feared the inmates might retaliate or riot. Luckily, that didn't happen. The officers did lose their jobs, though.
After seeing that cell, I pondered my situation. How could I work in a place that almost required one to break the law, or at least turn a blind eye, to survive? I prayed and cried more than once about the matter, but decided to make it work. God would have to get me through it. If Jews in concentration camps had survived so could I. I would just have to tread carefully, and be smart. If it were only that easy. The worst was yet to come.
"I guess you don't find horror movies very frightening anymore...". I spoke those exact words to my future supervisor. It was my second week on the job. The first week was spent in orientation classes. The only thing I remember about that turgid experience was that the Warden introduced himself, and told us about spiders. In prison, inmates have pets; not cats and dogs, but bugs and spiders. The Warden told us to never kill spiders, not because the inmates had adopted them as pets, but because they created webs. The creation of webs gave the inmates something to clean up. It provided work and a distraction from unpleasant thoughts like killing their cellmate, killing staff members, stealing, rape, or escape. Such was the the way of things.
Anway, back to that statement I made. We were in C-Dorm, affectionately know as the "Nuthut". C-Dorm housed the mentally ill inmates. Some were fakers who simply wanted their own cell and air conditioning (due to the psychotropic medications housed and dispensed in this dorm the State had to air-condition the whole unit; it was the only dorm that had this luxury at the prison). Their kind lasted only a couple of days before the doctors could declare them sain, and boot them back to general population. Others were somewhat troubled by their circumstances (after all, prison is by it's very nature a stressful enivornment), and were simply depressed (who wasn't?). However, about half were legit; paranoid schizophrenics, bipolars (massive and sometimes violent mood shifts), multiple personalities, and just plain homicidal sociopaths. Charlotte had every kind of horror imaginable.
My future supervisor was doing DR Court that day. I was simply an observer, but was new meat, and, therefore, a curiosity. I was 23 years old, tall, thin, and very white. Inmate predators loved that. As one particularly vile inmate was brought out for court he pratically drooled when he saw me. "Who's this, your boyfriend?" was the polite way of putting what I remember this creature saying. What he really said I don't want to put in print. My comrade in arms jokingly told him to settle down and behave as I was new, and he didn't want the inmate scaring me off the first time in the unit.
A this point I should explain the prison heirarchy. On one side you have civilians; teachers, medical personnel, librarians, chaplains, etc. On the other side you had security. Classification Officers were in the middle; we neither were civilians (being certified law enforcement officers) or civilians. Security treated us like civilians, though. If you weren't wearing brown (the color of their uniform), you weren't one of them.
Security is structured like the military. On the bottom you have the line officers who make up the majority of security. Above them you have sergeants who run dorms during a shift, work details, and the like. Above them are the "white shirts"; lieutenants and above. They are called "white shirts" because their tunic is white, and not brown like officers and sergeants. Lieutenants were our counterparts in Classification. Theoretically, we had the same rank, but the lieutenants had much more pull being they were part of Security.
Lieutenants were in charge of entire dorms over all three shifts (prisons have three shifts: days, afternoons, and midnights). Above them were Captains who were in charge of entire shifts. Then, you had the Colonel who was the head of Security. Beyond Colonel you had two Assistant Wardens. One ran Programs (where Classification fell), and the other ran Operations (Security and all services at the prison like Laundry, Maintenance, etc). While in theory they were of equal rank the Assistant Warden-Operations was much more powerful because he ran security. And, finally, you had the Warden who was in charge of everything. Wardens are dictators in everything but name whose say is final.
The inmate who made that awful comment to me was brought out from his cell to the DR hearing. He was a pathetic, but frightful, site. He was black (not being racist, but most of Florida prisons are comprised of black males, it's just a fact), and probably in his late 30's. He had rotten teeth; a few missing. You could smell him from 10 feet away, a sort of rotten smell like food that has gone bad. He was a big man, but not tall. His buggy eyes and and drooping jaw were his most prominent features. Mentally, he was a violent paranoid schizophrenic who had assaulted many inmates and security staff. The inmate was serving a life sentence for murder.
Security brought him out of his cell in chains. Handcuffs in front, but attached to other chains which wrapped around his legs, his hands secured against his body by a belt. He waddled to his seat, instead of walked, and was plopped down by two big security officers onto a metal bench that had been imbedded by concrete into the concrete floor. Nothing in common areas was ever allowed to be anything but bolted down in some way lest it be used as a weapon.
The Sergeant, more than a little nuts himself, began and ended the hearing.
"Now, we're going to find you guilty, but you can appeal. Any questions?"
The inmate responded, "Sarge, I don't think you can do that."
The Sergeant smiled and laughed. "This is prison. We CAN do that."
And so it was over. The inmate was sentenced to something, and I don't even remember the charge. It wasn't important. This inmate wasn't going anywhere, and he wasn't getting out of confinement for years. For the Sergeant the whole thing was a waste of time, and he ended the hearing in the most efficient way possible for him. Safety and security of the public and facility were the guiding words of every security officer of rank. I always remember the words of Sean Connery in the Untouchables, "You have just fulfilled the first rule of police work...when you finish your shift go home alive."
Technically, the inmate should have been given a fair hearing with rules of evidence, witnesses, etc. Realistically, with inmates like this one that rarely happened. Many times security wouldn't even have the inmate come to the hearing claiming that the inmate refused to appear. Many times this was true; some inmates just gave up. Other times, well, it was assumed they didn't want to appear. Whatever works. It wasn't justice, it was just us.
"Over here", my future boss said to me on the way out of dorm. "Look at this."
I was standing in front of a cell that had police tape over it. The cell door was open, and it was dark inside. On the floor, though, you could clearly make out stains. A whole lot of stains. I assumed correctly that those stains were indeed dried blood.
A couple of weeks before I started at Charlotte something terrible had happened in that cell. Disclaimer: What follows is what I know to be true, but cannot prove. It is hearsay, but it is what I believe to be true.
An inmate at another facility had bitten an officer. This inmate had full blown AIDS, and was known to want to take as many with him to death as possible. This inmate was transferred in the middle of the night to Charlotte. He was escorted to C-Dorm. The next morning, the inmate was found in his cell naked, and "four pointed" (all limbs tied to each end of the bed) to his rack. Blood was everywhere. He appeared to have been beaten to death.
The officers involved were tried for murder, and acquitted a few months later. I remember everyone being on edge on the day of the verdict as it was feared the inmates might retaliate or riot. Luckily, that didn't happen. The officers did lose their jobs, though.
After seeing that cell, I pondered my situation. How could I work in a place that almost required one to break the law, or at least turn a blind eye, to survive? I prayed and cried more than once about the matter, but decided to make it work. God would have to get me through it. If Jews in concentration camps had survived so could I. I would just have to tread carefully, and be smart. If it were only that easy. The worst was yet to come.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Post Seven
Hard Times: Part One
I have debated writing about this subject for a long time. Every time I start I just can't do it. The hard things are always that way. Usually, writing comes as easy to me as breathing, but this subject is almost too tough. Too emotional. Too scary. And in some ways, just unspeakable. But I think it's high past time that I actually try to get down on paper what I think about every day; what dominates my thoughts, and eats away at a good night's sleep descending all too often into nightmares. I must warn you up front that this series of posts will not be for the faint of heart. A subject as dark as the one I am about to write is filled with half-truths, bald faced lies, and total misunderstandings. To hear the truth, which I intend to convey lest this whole exercise be in vain, is not comfortable or pleasant. If dark matters offend your sensibilities I suggest you tune out. All others, climb aboard a train headed into a terrifying world.
This story begins in 1996 when I was still in college in Missouri. Back then, I was fully confident that I was heading to the FBI. I had good grades, and my major, Criminal Justice, had prepared me for entry into the elite law enforcement agency in the country. Ever since the classic film, Silence of the Lambs, I had wanted to go find the next Hannibal Lecter. But as with most such dreams this one ended in disappointment. Due to an eye condition I couldn't pass the FBI's rigorous physical exam.
So, what is one to do when their childhood dream ends before it even starts? Well, for me, I spent the next year and a half wandering between a job I hated (small loan origination and collection), and moving to a new state (Florida). I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do, and spent six months going to the beach, and trying to figure life out. Finally, I had had enough. I had no money, and no future. Going back to school to get a graduate degree seemed to be my only choice.
That's when I saw an ad in the paper under "Law Enforcement" for "Correctional Probation Officers". The local community college had a six month academy that you paid to attend, and at the end of that academy you were virtually assured a job in law enforcement. A four year degree was the only requirement, and no physicals involving bad eyes were part of the deal. So, with my parents help, I signed up the next day.
The next six months were hard as I had a part time job at Builders Square (like a Home Depot) doing manual labor, and at night attending the academy. For the first time in my life, though, it seemed that I was on some kind of path with a purpose, and my spirits were good. The academy was preparing me for eventual placement on the street supervising felons during their probation. As the academy went forward this option seemed less and less appealing to me. The idea of going into the neighborhoods of violent felons just didn't seem like a good career. Just as my spirits started going down, though, I was saved by one class and one instructor towards the end of the academy.
I don't remember that instructor's name, but the day we had the class on Corrections I knew that prison was the place for me. I know that sounds strange. Let me explain. To be a street probation officer one must love a certain level of chaos because you are totally at the mercy of your probationer's actions. That chaos drives people like me crazy. I like a certain level of knowing what is coming at me every day. The street is not for people like me. Instead, the prison setting allows one to have a level of control that simply does not exist anywere else in law enforcement. While you may have 300 inmates on your caseload you generally know where they are. On the street, a probationer could be at home one day, and in another state the next
The first prison I visited was Brevard Correctional Institution (henceforth, abbreviated "C.I."); a Youthful Offender facility located in Cocoa Beach. I was used to youthful offenders growing up with a mother who worked as a teacher at a camp for troubled youths, and I myself had worked there for about a year. It didn't really prepare me for what we in the business call "going behind the fence" for the first time. When you first enter a prison, even a youthful offender camp, your mental state changes instantly (if it doesn't, you're either comatose or lying). Fear creeps into your body, and it suddenly becomes difficult to move without looking behind you. You start thinking that some rabid inmate is going to run up and shank (prison slang for "stab") you. Of course, these perceptions come from our media where prisons are portrayed as concentration camps that even the Nazis would have been proud to call their own.
On the contrary, this first visit behind the fence for me was a pleasant experience. The staff was professional, and the inmates courteous. Everything out of their mouths was "Yes, sir" or "No, sir". The Correctional Probation Officers inside the fence (known as Classification Officers by those on the inside) were a grizzled and varied lot. The men were far older than me, and had worked in various other areas of law enforcement and/or the military. All of a sudden, my instructor said to another officer, "Well, it's time to roll the bones." What the heck did that mean? I soon found out.
That day was Disciplinary Report (henceforth, known as "DR") Court day. Every prison in Florida has court at least twice a week. Just like in society, rules are broken. These rules can be as simple as disobeying a verbal order all the way up to sexual battery or attempted murder. Each one of these infractions will cause a DR to be written by a staff member, and a hearing held to determine the inmates guilt or innocence. Now, here we come to meaning of "rolling the bones".
You see, in prison your guilty until proven innocent. I don't care what the rules say, that's just the way it is. Prisons simply won't function unless staff have that kind of power over inmates. By "rolling the bones" the staff were telling me that no one is ever innocent, and the bones always turn up guilty for the convict. To put it more succintly, one of my former military-based classification officers came up with saying, "Bring the guilty bastard in". It's a rough way of doing things, but it works. In prison, you always go with what works.
But back then all this was new and quite a shock. I saw these tough kids being brought before us in chains begging for mercy (though some said nothing at all), and none was given. The punishments were hard. For the aformentioned "Disobeying a Verbal Order" the punishment was usually 30 days confinement and/or 60 days loss of gain time (or good time; meaning time added to your sentence; I'll explain that in more detail later). In Youthful Offender camps you could actually sentence inmates to work on a punishment detail cleaning out toilets or pushing around gravel. Fun.
Most of these "court" hearings lasted about ten minutes, and after about an hour all the "trials" were conducted, and, indeed, all the "bastards" were guilty. I can't tell you that some small part of me loved what just happened. There were no ambiguities. There was no moralizing. Justice was served on a cold platter, and I thought how great that system worked, and how good triumphs over evil. It can lead one to a God-complex in a hurry. Only much later in my years didt I start to see how this system can really be abused, but those revelations are for a different day.
Soon after my visit to Brevard C.I. I graduated the academy, took my state exam, and started applying for Classification Officer positions at various facilities. Two gave me an interview. The first was Polk C.I., a maximum-security prison located in the farmland around Orlando. I did not like this place at all; it was old, and reminded me of being thrown back in time to the Civil War. The interview itself was even worse; apparently, the staff had already selected the person they wanted to hire, and my interview was just a formality to comply with the hiring process. I'm glad I didn't get the job.
The second prison was Charlotte C.I. located in a swamp halfway between North Fort Myers and Punta Gorda just off of I-75 (no exit for the prison exists off of I-75, for obvious reasons). The facility itself was maximum security like Polk, but unlike Polk, Charlotte was a modern institution that had only been open for a little over a decade. The interview was the polar opposite of Polk; I was welcomed with open arms, and got the distinct impression I got the job. A few days later, I received the offer of employment, and on November 30th, 1998 I began my new life as a Classification Officer. My world would never be the same.
To be continued...
I have debated writing about this subject for a long time. Every time I start I just can't do it. The hard things are always that way. Usually, writing comes as easy to me as breathing, but this subject is almost too tough. Too emotional. Too scary. And in some ways, just unspeakable. But I think it's high past time that I actually try to get down on paper what I think about every day; what dominates my thoughts, and eats away at a good night's sleep descending all too often into nightmares. I must warn you up front that this series of posts will not be for the faint of heart. A subject as dark as the one I am about to write is filled with half-truths, bald faced lies, and total misunderstandings. To hear the truth, which I intend to convey lest this whole exercise be in vain, is not comfortable or pleasant. If dark matters offend your sensibilities I suggest you tune out. All others, climb aboard a train headed into a terrifying world.
This story begins in 1996 when I was still in college in Missouri. Back then, I was fully confident that I was heading to the FBI. I had good grades, and my major, Criminal Justice, had prepared me for entry into the elite law enforcement agency in the country. Ever since the classic film, Silence of the Lambs, I had wanted to go find the next Hannibal Lecter. But as with most such dreams this one ended in disappointment. Due to an eye condition I couldn't pass the FBI's rigorous physical exam.
So, what is one to do when their childhood dream ends before it even starts? Well, for me, I spent the next year and a half wandering between a job I hated (small loan origination and collection), and moving to a new state (Florida). I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do, and spent six months going to the beach, and trying to figure life out. Finally, I had had enough. I had no money, and no future. Going back to school to get a graduate degree seemed to be my only choice.
That's when I saw an ad in the paper under "Law Enforcement" for "Correctional Probation Officers". The local community college had a six month academy that you paid to attend, and at the end of that academy you were virtually assured a job in law enforcement. A four year degree was the only requirement, and no physicals involving bad eyes were part of the deal. So, with my parents help, I signed up the next day.
The next six months were hard as I had a part time job at Builders Square (like a Home Depot) doing manual labor, and at night attending the academy. For the first time in my life, though, it seemed that I was on some kind of path with a purpose, and my spirits were good. The academy was preparing me for eventual placement on the street supervising felons during their probation. As the academy went forward this option seemed less and less appealing to me. The idea of going into the neighborhoods of violent felons just didn't seem like a good career. Just as my spirits started going down, though, I was saved by one class and one instructor towards the end of the academy.
I don't remember that instructor's name, but the day we had the class on Corrections I knew that prison was the place for me. I know that sounds strange. Let me explain. To be a street probation officer one must love a certain level of chaos because you are totally at the mercy of your probationer's actions. That chaos drives people like me crazy. I like a certain level of knowing what is coming at me every day. The street is not for people like me. Instead, the prison setting allows one to have a level of control that simply does not exist anywere else in law enforcement. While you may have 300 inmates on your caseload you generally know where they are. On the street, a probationer could be at home one day, and in another state the next
The first prison I visited was Brevard Correctional Institution (henceforth, abbreviated "C.I."); a Youthful Offender facility located in Cocoa Beach. I was used to youthful offenders growing up with a mother who worked as a teacher at a camp for troubled youths, and I myself had worked there for about a year. It didn't really prepare me for what we in the business call "going behind the fence" for the first time. When you first enter a prison, even a youthful offender camp, your mental state changes instantly (if it doesn't, you're either comatose or lying). Fear creeps into your body, and it suddenly becomes difficult to move without looking behind you. You start thinking that some rabid inmate is going to run up and shank (prison slang for "stab") you. Of course, these perceptions come from our media where prisons are portrayed as concentration camps that even the Nazis would have been proud to call their own.
On the contrary, this first visit behind the fence for me was a pleasant experience. The staff was professional, and the inmates courteous. Everything out of their mouths was "Yes, sir" or "No, sir". The Correctional Probation Officers inside the fence (known as Classification Officers by those on the inside) were a grizzled and varied lot. The men were far older than me, and had worked in various other areas of law enforcement and/or the military. All of a sudden, my instructor said to another officer, "Well, it's time to roll the bones." What the heck did that mean? I soon found out.
That day was Disciplinary Report (henceforth, known as "DR") Court day. Every prison in Florida has court at least twice a week. Just like in society, rules are broken. These rules can be as simple as disobeying a verbal order all the way up to sexual battery or attempted murder. Each one of these infractions will cause a DR to be written by a staff member, and a hearing held to determine the inmates guilt or innocence. Now, here we come to meaning of "rolling the bones".
You see, in prison your guilty until proven innocent. I don't care what the rules say, that's just the way it is. Prisons simply won't function unless staff have that kind of power over inmates. By "rolling the bones" the staff were telling me that no one is ever innocent, and the bones always turn up guilty for the convict. To put it more succintly, one of my former military-based classification officers came up with saying, "Bring the guilty bastard in". It's a rough way of doing things, but it works. In prison, you always go with what works.
But back then all this was new and quite a shock. I saw these tough kids being brought before us in chains begging for mercy (though some said nothing at all), and none was given. The punishments were hard. For the aformentioned "Disobeying a Verbal Order" the punishment was usually 30 days confinement and/or 60 days loss of gain time (or good time; meaning time added to your sentence; I'll explain that in more detail later). In Youthful Offender camps you could actually sentence inmates to work on a punishment detail cleaning out toilets or pushing around gravel. Fun.
Most of these "court" hearings lasted about ten minutes, and after about an hour all the "trials" were conducted, and, indeed, all the "bastards" were guilty. I can't tell you that some small part of me loved what just happened. There were no ambiguities. There was no moralizing. Justice was served on a cold platter, and I thought how great that system worked, and how good triumphs over evil. It can lead one to a God-complex in a hurry. Only much later in my years didt I start to see how this system can really be abused, but those revelations are for a different day.
Soon after my visit to Brevard C.I. I graduated the academy, took my state exam, and started applying for Classification Officer positions at various facilities. Two gave me an interview. The first was Polk C.I., a maximum-security prison located in the farmland around Orlando. I did not like this place at all; it was old, and reminded me of being thrown back in time to the Civil War. The interview itself was even worse; apparently, the staff had already selected the person they wanted to hire, and my interview was just a formality to comply with the hiring process. I'm glad I didn't get the job.
The second prison was Charlotte C.I. located in a swamp halfway between North Fort Myers and Punta Gorda just off of I-75 (no exit for the prison exists off of I-75, for obvious reasons). The facility itself was maximum security like Polk, but unlike Polk, Charlotte was a modern institution that had only been open for a little over a decade. The interview was the polar opposite of Polk; I was welcomed with open arms, and got the distinct impression I got the job. A few days later, I received the offer of employment, and on November 30th, 1998 I began my new life as a Classification Officer. My world would never be the same.
To be continued...
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