“What are you lookin’ at? Don’t look at me!! Don’t you know these people are tryin’ to kill me?!” It got much worse after this.
I didn’t think I’d ever see Kerri again. My public defender who had so casually treated me to harsh news walked into the prison visiting room. She hadn’t changed a bit in more than a dozen years. Same wispy haircut and dark beady eyes. I assumed she also still lacked professionalism and basic human decency. She and a colleague were escorted past our table to the area behind glass walls reserved for noncontact visits, usually with guys who are in segregation. My visitor knew well my history with Kerri, and we marveled at this unexpected bit of happenstance.
When Kerri’s visitor/client was brought in he was being directed by the use of a chain leash around his waist which was standard procedure for guys coming from segregation. He was guided by a sergeant and two officers instead of just one sergeant as usual. After the anonymous inmate was chained to the desk on the other side of the glass from Kerri,
Sergeant Tank left the area but the two COs stayed just a few feet away. This wasn’t merely odd but had to have been a violation of the client’s right to have confidential communication with his attorney.
While I was paying attention to my own visitor, apparently this privileged attorney-client conversation became heated. I can attest that it isn’t easy to stand in ankle shackles, a waist chain, and handcuffed to a ring bolted to the table. This disgruntled client was managing to do just that as he yelled at Attorney Kerri. Whatever his concerns might have been were lost, unintelligible through two panes of security glass, but he was clearly displeased with the degree and manner of representation he was receiving from his court appointed attorney.
Shocking, I know.
Whatever he was saying I imagined it wasn’t anything I hadn’t thought to say to the calloused woman. She gathered her materials and colleague and hustled out of there while the assembled COs attempted to get the man calm and seated. Kerri passed within a foot and a half of me and I bit my tongue against a million things I had to say to her. Speaking to another person’s visitor is an infraction of the rules which could’ve resulted in my visit being immediately terminated. Beyond that, however, I felt certain that anything I said would be a waste of words because she probably had no idea who I was. Another anonymous name on a file that had been processed and put into storage over a decade before.
To their credit, the two officers had managed to get him seated and settled. To their soon to be shame they had failed to take into account this man’s reputation for dramatics. At the time I wasn’t privy to it, but later learned that this particular offender had become something of a sensation when CCTV footage of him berating his judge in open court had gone somewhat viral. Perhaps these COs aren’t so much to be blamed since cussing at a judge doesn’t necessarily correlate to a violent temperament. I know I’ve wanted to cuss at a judge once or twice. And yet, I feel they still should’ve known better and taken more extensive precautions. Then again, everything is so much clearer in hindsight. While this man was clearly unpredictable and volatile, who could’ve known that four security staff members wouldn’t be enough to handle him?
Sergeant Tank returned with another officer for assistance. At a stout, solid six-five, Sergeant Tank was aptly named. It would have been ideal for the officers to surround their prisoner and act as a barrier to the civilian visitors, but the entrance to the no contact visiting area was a chokepoint that made this impossible. The ill-conceived configuration of the visiting room tables acted as an extension of this chokepoint making the lane too narrow to corral him effectively because the officers who were there to act as security had to fall in behind Sergeant Tank with the irritated inmate leading the way. When he claimed that “these people” were trying to kill him and bucked back against Sergeant Tank there was no one in a position to assist.
“They’re trying to kill me! Don’t you see that!”
Sergeant Tank had yanked him by the waist leash so he was close, but he was squirming and screaming for all he was worth. This was maybe two feet from a table where an inmate in his sixties was visiting with his wife. Two tables over from where I sat, less than ten feet away. It looked like he was about to lash out at the table for no other reason than it was closest to him. The assault seemed imminent, and who could say what he would do next? Every instinct told me to remove myself from the area and to stand as a meagre barrier between the suddenly violent inmate and my visitor. I am sad, and more than a little ashamed, to report that years of conditioning in prison had ingrained in me that you do NOT get up in the visiting room unless it is to ask permission to use the toilet. I sat, watching with sidelong glances, cringing at all the potential calamities that could befall us. What did happen, I did not see coming.
Precipice of Disaster
The three officers tried to reposition so they could be of some use. They shoved an empty table with its attached stools out of the way and tried to maneuver around other tables filled with inmates and their visitors. These three scurried comically to figure what to do, but there was nothing to be done, and it really wasn’t terribly funny because it was clear that there was no easy or quick solution to this crisis. It was a point in time pregnant with dread since I couldn’t imagine it not ending badly. I admit that I didn’t anticipate it going as terribly as it did.
The irate inmate was no small specimen—over six feet and more that two hundred pounds. Sergeant Tank wrapped him up in a bear-hug from behind, pinning his elbows to his sides while his hands were still cuffed and chained at his waist. Then Sergeant Tank lifted him bodily from the floor. It was an impressive feat, but only momentarily neutralized the threat. Fingers flailed frantically; feet kicked skyward. COs stood around, agape and helpless. The embraced inmate looked a little like a bug caught on his back with his limbs twittering the air for purchase to get back on earth. There was a magic moment, little more than an instant, when the fulcrum action of Sergeant Tank’s movement seemed to pause at the precipice of disaster and suspend itself in time and space. Reality crashed in the form of momentum and gravity. When the captured inmate slammed his head backward Sergeant Tank sprawled onto his back atop a blessedly unoccupied table and his captive came down hard on top of him. Chaos erupted, and Sergeant Kay rushed in to try to exert some control over it all.
Sergeant Kay was a serious woman with frizzy dirty blond hair, a full figure and severe demeanor. She plainly didn’t put up with any bullshit or shenanigans. She was also kind, extraordinarily helpful and quick to smile. Those who didn’t know any better thought she was just another bully who had been given some authority to throw around. While the three COs finally figured out something to do—get the irate inmate off of Sergeant Tank—Sergeant Kay barked orders. Somehow, she managed to bark them firmly but politely.
“Everybody move over there to the other side. Get up and go against the wall. Everyone come on.” We moved. Ten tables worth of inmates and visitors began migrating en masse to the opposite side of the room like refugees fleeing a despot. Then people started screaming.
I honestly don’t know what the proper protocol is in which Correctional Officers are trained when it comes to the appropriate circumstances for use of pepper spray. I imagine there is some set procedure, though probably there is a certain degree of discretion expected to be exercised. Based on the three COs and their stooge-like performance to this point, I’ve very little faith that they apply the discretion required and followed protocol. A big indicator of this is that Sergeant Tank got a faceful of the caustic spray meant for the irrational inmate. His was one of the voices we heard screaming along with the three COs in the scrabble with the irascible inmate—the inmate himself was yelping and yelling along with a few stragglers who didn’t exodus with requisite swiftness. I was standing with my back to the wall, my visitor to my right, and Sergeant Kay to my left and just ahead of me when everything changed.
Directly to my left was the anteroom that led to the strip search room through which I had to pass to get back into the prison. It was the only way to enter the visitor room from within the prison, and the doorway suddenly burst with an endless stream of officers—dozens of them. A sea of black shirts and pants, too many to accurately count. They were everywhere, corralling us who needed no corralling. All the bodies kicked up and spread around the pepper spray molecules so the air became filled hacking coughs as it tickled the backs of throats.
Sergeant Tank was tenderly attended by an officer on each arm to assist him out of the crime scene. His eyes were blinking blindly and his face was red—no small feat considering that he was a fairly dark-skinned black man. I heard the irritant covered inmate wailing and gagging but didn’t see the condition he was in because he was carried/dragged/handled from the premises by a crowd of security staff while the remaining inmates and visitors were directed to a door that had been opened to an outdoor patio which inmates had been barred from using about a decade previous.
Standing outside in the sunlight with my friend was surreal. It was a whole new setting for us. Everyone stood around squinting in the brightness, blinking and coughing from the pepper spray. Sergeant Kay stood with us, trying to extend comfort and apologies to make the best of the situation. Large fans were brought in to move the toxic air out, but it was only a matter of time before we all had to go back inside. We were assigned new tables as far away from ground zero as possible. Those who needed to rinse out their eyes were provided a bathroom. The tickle in the back of the throat never quite went away. At some point the head warden had shown up—one of only a few times I’d ever seen the man. He went around to each table asking if everyone was okay, obviously doing damage control, but seemingly sincere. In general our visitors were treated with utmost kindness and respect. We inmates received the same degree of kindness and respect, which was far more than we were accustomed to. The most attention was paid to an infant girl who had braved the spicy visit better than many of us. As far as I could tell she slept through the whole ordeal.