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...