The Ploy

“C’mon man! Come over here. I’ll beat your ass!! Come step in this shower room and we can handle this right now.”

Rigger’s face and bald head was red with rage. His eyes seemed suitably wild, and his words certainly carried plenty of threat. To the uninitiated it appeared that he was ready to rumble, that violence was forthcoming.  To me he was terrified and desperate.

Behind the Curtain

Reality was much different than the facade that Rigger would have everyone believe. The man he was threatening, a guy named Whitey, was actually a good friend of his. They’d known each other for years both in and out of prison as they were both repeat offenders several times over. They’d had an argument and falling out less than an hour previous.

Rigger had been crushing pills. Whatever random painkiller, mood stabilizer, muscle relaxer, or anything at all that he could get his hands on. He’d take his surreptitiously procured medications and hide in the bathroom. There would be a lot of tapping and banging as the drugs were crushed down into a suitably fine powder. Then it was all piled together and snorted as an ill-advised cocktail of miscellaneous prescription medications that Rigger didn’t have any prescriptions for. Even if he had, I don’t believe “nasally” is how a medical professional would recommend the pills being taken.


Rigger had only been back from the hospital a day or two. He had overdosed on the cockamamie concoction that he’d been snorting. Whitey and I had both witnessed him seizing, shaking, and foaming at the mouth. Rigger was able to lie and convince everyone, even the treating nurses and physicians, that it was a seizure. Whitey knew better, and when he saw that Rigger was back to his old lunatic tricks, he told him in unvarnished language just how much of an absolute idiotic moron he was.


There was yelling and cursing in abundance as Whitey performed his one man impromptu intervention. Rigger sat silent like a chastened child through much of it. There wasn’t anything he could say to defend his actions. Whitey’s tactics may have been deserving of criticism, but his anger and frustration was coming from a place of concern and affection for his friend. Unfortunately, most inmates feel the need to maintain the facade of machismo lest they be perceived as somehow weak, or less than, so Rigger could only take so much before he had to balk at Whitey’s words.


“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I had a seizure. This stuff doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Really?” Whitey responded with a tone which conveyed that he couldn’t believe Rigger would lie so effortlessly to his face. “Do you think I’m that stupid? Do you? Huh? How long we know each other bro? Hmm? You know I know what the hell you’re doing. That shit’s gotta stop.”

“Who the hell do you think you are anyway? I do what I want.”

“I thought I was your Road Dog.”

“Oh that’s just bullshit you tell people. You don’t give a damn about me. We met over a state tray bro. It don’t mean shit.”

“What!? I had you over to my place last time we were out there together. You’re the one who’s on bullshit, and you know it.”

“Well what’s it to you? What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m trying to get you to get your head out of your ass!”

“No you’re acting like a bitch, telling me what to do.”

The B Word

One of the most confounding things I experienced during my years of incarceration was the evolution of the usage of that particular B word. When I started doing my time it was the ultimate of insults. Calling a guy that derogatory designation was akin to a literal slap in the face, an affront which could not be allowed to go unanswered. I can’t even begin to put a number to the amount of times I saw minor disagreements or disputes escalate into violence due to the arrival of that particular word on the scene. It used to have a malevolent kind of magic to it.

The last couple years of my incarceration, as a newer, younger generation of convicts were beginning to predominate the prison population, I was appalled when I first heard the word slip so effortlessly from their young lips. The first time it happened I tensed and started looking for the quickest avenue of retreat to ensure that I was a safe distance removed while the melee ensued. Instead the two kids (that’s how I saw them, and that proves I’m old) just laughed and exchanged the most egregious of insults a dozen times between one another. The B word now, to them, is like saying “dude” or “bro”.

Whitey and Rigger are not of this new generation. Rigger didn’t technically call Whitey a bitch, he just said he was behaving in the manner of one. It’s a fine line that Whitey didn’t respect or recognize as significant. In his mind he’d just received a metaphorical slap to the face and would have to respond accordingly.

Backed Down


Whitey exploded like a mini neutron bomb. He was maybe 5’ 5” and that’s probably being generous. To look at him he didn’t appear physically imposing, but he had a terrible temper. I’d seen the results of this before when he and his cellie had once started swinging on each other because Whitey felt the other guy was spending too much time on the toilet.

Well-adjusted, Whitey isn’t.

When he got wound up he was similar to a raccoon that has been backed against a wall. A small but driven whirlwind of violence, not to be underestimated. Whitey lunged toward Rigger, coming within a quarter inch of physical contact. Even though he had to crane his neck upwards to look Rigger in the face, Whitey still managed to be intimidating. The genuine, undiluted rage helped a lot.

Rigger looked instantly cowed, realizing he had crossed a line and was in a scenario that almost certainly had to end with violence. Whitey snarled and yelled too fast to keep up with his profanity and insults. Rigger backed down physically and psychologically. It had the appearance of a literal shrinking. Myself and another inmate got between the two of them. I had to restrain Whitey and it was like trying to contain a sac of ferrets squirming with lithe muscles. Whitey challenged/invited Rigger to meet him in the shower room where there were fewer prying eyes and they could fight to settle their disagreement. He made sure to drop the B word about a dozen times so that Rigger would know that he’d been insulted to the fullest. The inference being that if Rigger were to not show up for the fight, then his status as a bitch would be cemented.

Juvenile schoolyard games abound behind prison walls.

The Ploy

I got Whitey extricated from the situation for his own good. Even managed to calm him down. Close to an hour had passed. We were sitting in the dayroom, just being nonviolent, passively watching a table of guys play cards, when Rigger walked to the middle of the dayroom. He took his shirt off, mustered his imitation ire, and issued the ultimatum for Whitey to meet him for a fight in the shower room.

This entire maneuver was a calculated one. Rigger had used the intervening time to go and pack all his belongings so that when he went to Segregation his possessions would follow him as opposed to being ransacked by all the greedy, sticky-fingered inmates who could get close to them. And a few officers with especially loose scruples. By stepping into the dayroom and removing his shirt there was a good chance he’d be taken away to SEG. Issuing a threat of violence to another inmate in full view of the C/O made his trip there an inevitability. The whole thing was a ploy, an attempt to save face and look tough, when in reality, if he had really wanted to fight the time would’ve been when Whitey was in his face.

Rigger didn’t want to fight. I can’t blame him.

I grabbed Whitey by the arm and he about bit my head off, but I held him in check. The usually taciturn C/O became suddenly indignant and animated. Rigger was carted off as he hollered threats and curses that were completely hollow. The unenlightened inmates thought Whitey had avoided a fight. Those like myself who were more experienced knew just how cowardly and laughable Rigger’s display had been.




Letting Go

For two years behind prison walls I spent as much waking time as was possible in the library. Being surrounded by books was a panacea to counteract the moments of insanity and aggravation that often characterizes prison life. The solitude was a balm to soothe my scarred psyche. When my supervisor dubbed me “Senior Library Clerk” it was a meaningless title that came without any perks or other tangible benefits. I couldn’t have been more proud.

Then it was all over. Library closed.

I transitioned to a position as a clerk in the legal library where I quickly made myself a valued asset. It wasn’t the same. I always felt like I was just filling and killing time. I managed to “sneak” back into the library on occasion to try keeping it in order since as soon as it was shuttered it became a dumping ground for all manner of printed ephemera. Mostly trash. Literally. Despite the fact that the law of the land requires that inmates have access to library materials, it would be over three years before anyone was hired in the position.

New Low

During those three years I endured a number of injustices. Legal, physical, psychological. I experienced levels of pain and despair that I hadn’t felt in many years, and time had largely dulled those recollections. The immediacy of the moment had a catastrophizing effect on me. I felt like blameless Job, King David, Christ on the cross – My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I had largely made it through the worst of my trauma, and with just a few months remaining on my sentence I noticed a change. People were becoming more annoying. That, or I was simply losing grasp of the ability to ignore and let slide all kinds of annoyances.

New Boss, New Opportunity

When I heard that someone had been hired to open the library again, I thought, perhaps a bit arrogantly, that I’d be able to show this new person how things are done. I figured at the very least I could explain how her predecessor and I performed all the minutia of running a library since my supervisor had actually been trained and earned her Master’s Degree in the Library Sciences. (I was tickled to learn that the “Library Sciences” is a real thing.) The new librarian on the other hand was a correctional officer transitioning to the job and not necessarily entirely qualified. Or at least not accredited. I asked certain staff to vouch for me and make an introduction. Working in my library again (and, yes, that’s how I thought of it, as mine) would be reward all it’s own. However it would also have the added benefits of giving me time away from people and making my last chunk of time move more swiftly.


Despite the glowing recommendation and strenuous advising to accept whatever help I offered, she wasn’t interested. As I briefly mentioned a few things about how we had operated the library, some of the difficulties we’d had to negotiate, and offered my assistance in getting it up and running again before I went home, it was obvious to me that she wasn’t listening. She was waiting for me to stop talking so she could say what she wanted. And then she did.

Are you done?

She criticized our filing system, how we labeled and shelved books, how we arranged different book collections. She outlined her plans to revamp the whole system with an air of superiority, as if she were the first librarian in the history of curators to ever imagine implementing these plans and policies. After she had already side-stepped, rebuffed, or ignored my offers of assistance numerous times I didn’t bother to inform her that her plans were naive at best. Her big design included ideas that had already been denied, were contrary to established law, or were a complete waste of time because they didn’t take into consideration the transitory nature of prison. I said nothing. I thanked her for her time and left.


This encounter bothered me for days. Her criticisms were unwarranted and came from a lack of understanding about the many hurdles and roadblocks we’d had to negotiate. I took great pride in transforming that library from a dumping ground to a smoothly run operation where books were clean, repaired, labeled properly, and everything was in it’s right place. A place where people came to learn and be lifted, if only momentarily, out of the drudgery of their prison life. In many ways, turning that into what it became was my life’s work up to that point. I could refer to it as a mark that I’d left in this world. To have it dumped on so effortlessly, with seeming callous abandon felt mean and unfair. The more I stewed about it the angrier I got.

What did you say!?

“Who was she to say anything? She doesn’t even know what she’s talking about!” That was my mentality.

After a few days of lost sleep and mental grumblings over her behavior I came to the realization that she was, in her own way, doing exactly what I had done when given the latitude. She was organizing and doing things her own way. I dimly recalled people scoffing at some of the policies my supervisor and I had implemented. The thought dulled the edge of my ire. Then came a revelation. As revelations go it’s actually rather elementary, a no-brainer really, but it rocked me back on my metaphorical heels with all the efficacy of a sucker punch.


I would never see my library again. My strong sense of ownership was offended by this notion. I was just under two months from my release date, and it was finally dawning on me with the slowness of a winter’s sunrise that I was actually going home. The day that I had so longed for and daydreamed about was right around the corner and about to become a reality. An actuality. Tangible. This would mean letting go. Learning to let go.

Letting go of my library, my routines, my defenses. My friends who I’d known and seen nearly every day of my life for almost four years. Men who I’d come to think of as family, brothers. Men who I could never again contact, for a period of up to six years in some instances, in accordance with legal mandate or else risk violating the terms of my release and potentially being remanded to prison.

Strange Sensation

It was bizarre. The strangest of sensations. To think that the place which had confined me and restricted my freedom in a thousand ways, both legal and illegal, would hold certain aspects that I would miss when I was gone. I’d hated it for so long, for all it had taken from me or kept me from, but on the precipice of being rid of it forever I knew I’d miss it.

I wouldn’t miss the harassment or the violence and bad food, the confinement and pettiness. But I’d miss people. I’d miss the sense of self-worth that came from being trusted and relied upon and whose opinion was valued. Inside I knew how to navigate prison life and politics, and it was rare when a day passed without someone seeking my input on some legal issue they were wrestling with.

Outside of prison a thousand things baffle me. Even once I’ve gotten answers to my questions I’m often still in a state of confusion. Most recently I was confounded by an automatic paper towel dispenser. I was so accustomed to paper towels being a cherished and hoarded commodity behind prison walls that I was momentarily stupefied by the sudden embarrassment of riches. I could have as many as I wanted. I didn’t know how long to hold my hands, waiting, how much would be sufficient for the job. I ended up with a wad that was much more than I needed. I guess I’m still having trouble letting go.

Parting Insult

I was down to single digit days, and I noticed that the new librarian hadn’t been around in a while. I assumed she was diligently at work in one of the other library collections around the facility that she’d be tasked with maintaining. That wasn’t the case. I was informed by two different staff members that she was no longer the librarian, but had instead become the newest counselor. The consensus was that she had merely used the librarian position as a stepping stone to get the coveted counselor gig that she had wanted all along.

To my knowledge the inmates still have zero access to library materials and current periodicals despite the fact that the law requires the prison to provide inmates with access to these.

I am still learning to let go, but letting go doesn’t include turning a blind eye to injustice.

The Joke

My understanding of the process was that it was a rubber stamp formality. The whole thing just a big show put on by the prison administration to give the appearance that they were actually doing something important and substantial. These impressions had been forged from conversations with dozens of inmates over the years who were nearing their release date. I readily admit that my ideas had also been heavily informed by own cynicism. I now know that it was even a bigger joke than I could’ve ever imagined.

NOT Parole

MSR. Mandatory Supervised Release. This is not parole. Judges, attorneys, employees of and representatives for the Department of Corrections, even prison inmates—everyone uses the terms as interchangeable. It isn’t accurate or appropriate. There hasn’t been a formal parole system in this state since 1977.


Anyone who has ever seen the film Shawshank Redemption, or about a thousand other pop-culture examples, has a basic understanding of the formal parole system. The convict goes before a panel of individuals, The Parole Review Board, and states their case as to why they are a good candidate to be released on parole. This hearing only happens after they have served a certain portion of their sentence. If the individual is deemed unfit or not ready for parole then he remains in prison for a period until he gets another chance before the board. If the person is released, it’s a type of conditional discharge, meaning that there will be certain conditions or rules he must abide by. Things like not leaving the state, not breaking the law, securing a proper residence and job, reporting to a parole officer, submitting to random drug tests. This parole system allowed for some latitude and provided an avenue through which an inmate could, ostensibly, prove his ability and willingness to make positive changes in his or her life and mindset. These positive changes could then serve as reasons for releasing an inmate on parole.

Current Reality

Mandatory Supervised Release is a whole different animal. MSR is another type of conditional discharge so the actual restrictions or rules put in place for the individual once he or she is released from the penitentiary are essentially the same as under the parole system. The big and undeniable difference is what occurs prior to the inmate’s release. MSR requires that each inmate to serve the entirety of the term to which their judge sentenced them. This is then followed by what is essentially a second sentence, a set period of years required to be served on the conditional release of MSR. With the lack of rehabilitative programs and the rise of truth in sentencing laws, for many, there is no avenue by which an inmate can demonstrate that they are rehabilitated, nor is there incentive to do so. Let me explain.

Prison Math

In this scenario there are four hypothetical offenders who are all given a ten-year sentence. One is sentenced at 50 percent, one at 75, one at 85, and the last is to be served at 100 percent. These percentages are mandated by the type and severity of the crime for which a person is incarcerated. The person sentenced at ten years at fifty percent would serve a five-year prison term, but would be eligible to earn reductions for involvement in educational and rehabilitative programs. The remaining three must serve seven and a half, eight and half, and ten years respectively. Beyond the rare occasion of a legal technicality or loophole, there’s no way they will serve one single day less than these percentages. A person serving a sentence at 75 or 85 percent could be made to serve up to the entire ten years if he or she were to do something extreme like assaulting a staff member, possessing a weapon or drugs, trying to escape.

The Real Truth In Sentencing

As long as the inmate only breaks the minor rules they can stay in trouble their entire time behind prison walls, thereby demonstrating their inability or unwillingness to abide by the constraints of authority, and still be released after serving the mandated percentage of their sentence. On the reverse, an inmate could stay out of trouble, spending his or her time earning every single certificate or degree, taking all available classes to change their felonious ways of thinking, and perhaps even learn a skill or trade they can use in the future to secure gainful employment.

None of it matters.

The quality of life for these hypothetical inmates would be drastically different, but their behavior, whether good or bad, wouldn’t alter their release date or the number of years they’d have to abide by the restrictions that the conditional release known as MSR will put on them. Therefore, the onus for seeking out a rehabilitative activity or mindset falls squarely on the inmate. These men and women are expected to change their entire way of thinking and being with little to no encouragement or opportunity. Furthermore, for even for those who want to take advantage access to school is denied or delayed for years because class space is very limited and priority is given to those inmates who are eligible to earn good time credit off their sentence. I had managed to earn enough college credits for an Associate’s Degree in General Studies. I also took a number of other classes and received certificates of excellence. These mattered to me, but when I went before the Prisoner Review Board, I found out just how little goodwill all my hard work had engendered in them.

Prisoner Review Board

Since the instituting of MSR, the Parole Review Board became largely obsolete. It was rebranded as the Prisoner Review Board and their function became mostly ornamental. The decision-making process removed the human element and turned it into a mathematical equation. Both rehabilitative behavior and minor disciplinary issues during my incarceration were inconsequential. I had committed a violent crime, so certain specific restrictions would be placed on me as conditions of my release. X + Y = Z. I knew all of this as I sat and waited for my name to be called, yet adrenalized nerves still jangled within me as I rehearsed in my head the statement I had prepared about what I’d done with my time in prison and how I changed as proof of my rehabilitation. I was determined to say my piece, whether or not it had any effect.

The Joke

As I walked toward the officer who had called my name I glanced at the clock high on the wall and saw that the minute hand was suspended between 9:55 and 9:56. I was directed to a seat across the table from an elderly man whose surprisingly smooth brown skin reminded me of a highly polished and much loved piece of antique furniture. Without looking up he asked my name then shuffled through the papers in front of him to locate mine. He was tiny, frail. If he had stood up I doubt he would’ve achieved a height much past five feet. An unadorned cane leaned against the table next to him, which he would’ve had to use if he were to stand. His head was large, round, gleaming bald and seemed out of proportion to the rest of his body. He was slouching carefully in the chair as if his spine would no longer hold his torso upright. The button up shirt he wore seemed to billow around him, and small round spectacles finished the ensemble. The overall impression was of an old, wizened cartoon turtle.

Reading from the report, he asked me to confirm certain facts. My name, my crime, my sentence. He never looked up from the piece of paper as he addressed me. He never asked if I’d done anything positive or worthwhile with my time. He did ask if I’d ever been to segregation, which is the standard punishment for moderate to serious rule breakers. I explained that I had, but that all charges had been expunged. It was the opening for which I’d been waiting. I segued into the violations of my freedom of speech when the warden discovered I’d been writing essays which chronicled instances that occurred inside his prison and having them posted on this website. The other PRB member at the table to my left was waiting for her next appointment. She overheard my claims and turned to look, reacting with wide-eyed shock. The turtle man in front of me didn’t react at all. I shamelessly plugged this website, but from there the words withered on my tongue. I felt like I was calling into a chasm and nothing was returned, not even my own echo. All that I had prepared to say seemed mute, entirely pointless. His demeanor was obviously uncaring, bored, dismissive.

He read to me the specific conditions I’d have to adhere to during my three years of MSR, all of which were based on the circumstances of my crime. The intervening sixteen years of incarceration, and my behavior during that time, had no bearing whatsoever. He had me sign the report at the bottom, told me I’d receive a copy of it in the mail, and I was dismissed. During the entirety of my time with him he had never once raised his head to look me in the eye. As I left, I checked the clock—10:00 on the nose. The whole ordeal hadn’t taken more than four minutes.

A Waste

They could’ve simply mailed the report and skipped the face to face since nothing I said or did had any effect. However, doing it this way they could claim I had a hearing with the Prisoner Review Board and make it sound like something with gravitas rather than what it was; nothing but window dressing to provide a pretense that there is a thoughtful and measured consideration of each individual about to reenter society, when in fact there is no such consideration. It was a joke and an absolute waste of time, money, and resources. All symptoms of a broken system in much need of reform.

Dear Governor

The legal statute which governs the Department of Corrections states that the Department’s objective, in part, is “restoring the offender to useful citizenship.” The mission statement at the bottom of all official memorandums from the Department reads: “To serve justice . . . and increase public safety by promoting positive change in offender behavior, operating successful reentry programs and reducing victimization.” I just spent over sixteen years incarcerated and can testify from firsthand experience that the Department of Corrections is falling woefully short of these stated purposes.


The most recent statistics available to me puts the entire inmate population of the state at 43,075. The prison I was just released from, after my final seven years of imprisonment there, had a population of 2,300 inmates. Nearly a full two thirds of those were just sitting around being warehoused without a job or access to rehabilitative programs like college level courses or vocational training. The waiting list for school to earn one’s GED or high school equivalency is a minimum of six months. Even those who want to gain an education and potentially earn some time off their sentence by taking advantage of these programs are often unable to because there simply are not enough programs available. So the warehouses remain filled past capacity, and men have no avenue by which to better themselves or improve their condition,

The simple fact is that the vast majority of individuals sentenced to a prison term will be going home someday, and without proper programs and resources available to promote and assist in positive change, then it is nearly impossible for positive change to occur. The same mindset yields the same results. This is a danger to the individual and society at large, as well as a failure of both.

Legal mandate requires that inmates be provided access to not only a law library with legal materials to assist them in researching and preparing their appeals, but also a general library with reading materials including current newspapers and periodicals so that they can both educate and entertain themselves. The general library doesn’t always happen. During my entire tenure in the Department of Corrections the library facilities were only available for just under four years. This consisted of one long stretch of nearly two years with a few shorter sporadic stints making the remainder. When a request or complaint was made the answer was always there was a lack of staff to run the library. The Department’s inability, or outright refusal, to properly staff their prisons isn’t a valid excuse to not abide by the law. This isn’t the only law that DOC doesn’t bother to follow.


In January 2018 a sweeping landmark law went into effect in the state which gave the Director of Prisons discretion to credit up to six months “good time” to an offender’s sentence. This was done in conjunction with a revamped statute specifically concerning the earning of “good time”, or time off of one’s sentence, through participation in rehabilitative programs such as school or a fulltime substance abuse program. The discretionary portion seems to be designed as a catch-all for those who do not fit exact criteria but who have an exemplary disciplinary record.

For instance, since the law wasn’t written to be applied retroactively, no classes or degrees earned before January 1st 2018 could be directly applied for the earned good time, however, with the Director’s discretion, these could be considered. This discretionary portion appeared to be an avenue through which overcrowding could be reduced thereby alleviating taxpayers burden. A new list of inmates who are eligible for this good time is sent out to the prisons each month, yet every individual is summarily denied. The labor union which represents Department of Corrections employees has a contract which requires that the number of DOC staff is commensurate with the number of prison inmates.

Simply put, this would mean that if the good time was credited as designed there could be a reduction in the overall prison population by potentially several thousands over the course of approximately one year’s time. While alleviating taxpayer’s burden as intended, this would also likely necessitate a reduction in the number of DOC employees. Essentially these same union members who are tasked with deciding who is to be awarded good time could potentially be amongst those who are laid off from their job if good time is properly awarded to eligible inmates. It is no wonder then that, as of the date of this posting, not a single day of discretionary good time has been awarded anywhere in the state. Withholding this good time is not in accordance with the intent of the statute, nor does doing so promote positive change in offender behavior or serve to restore offenders to useful citizenship.

August 20, 2015 a law went into effect that required the Department of Corrections to provide an avenue by which an offender can complete and file the appropriate paperwork for Medicaid and/or health insurance forty-five days to the inmate’s scheduled release date. The legislature seemed to pass this part of the statute into law in conjunction with a study which detailed how having access to proper medical care and mental health care tended to reduce recidivism. Anything that can be done to help give a newly released individual a higher chance for success in their reentry into society would surely be a good thing and a step toward restoring the offender to useful citizenship. In the months leading to my release I wrote numerous letters and requests to various counselors and DOC officials, including the Director of Prisons, and was summarily ignored by all but one of them. The response I did receive was that the Department of Corrections doesn’t do that and never has.

Where’s the accountability?

For nearly four years, according to the law of the land, this has been required of the Department of Corrections, yet they DON’T do it. When the DOC is allowed to govern itself and its employees with zero accountability or outside oversight it can do whatever it wants. Rather than reducing victimization, this tends to turn inmates into victims.


The prison I was just released from has buildings that were erected long before John F. Kennedy ever took his fateful car ride in Texas. Spending money on upkeep is low on the Department’s priority list. In one housing unit several inmates banded together to complain about the black mold growing in the ceiling. They attributed their respiratory issues to the black mold. Their complaints went largely ignored or brushed aside until the health and sanitation coordinator, a lieutenant, finally addressed them directly. This lieutenant told them that if they had an issue, they could file an official complaint or grievance but if they did that they would simply be moved to another building, or even an entirely different penitentiary. The lieutenant knew what he was doing. By saying this he was using these men’s own fears against them. Fear of dislocation, fear of the unknown. These men had lived in the same building, even the same cell, for many years. Some for over a decade. They had grown accustomed to it so that in all practical senses it was their home. Their vocal complaints quieted to sour mumblings. As of this posting the black mold contamination has never been dealt with.


Another lieutenant accused me and the men around me of throwing food wrappers on the ground. She said if we didn’t stop, she would withhold our food from us. She often threatens to deny us our recreation time and says she’ll come tear our cells apart. Instead of having the clothing room issue the proper items, this lieutenant makes her rounds through cellhouses collecting “donations” for inmates housed in the mental health portion of the facility. If people don’t give her shoes or clothes—items that they purchased from commissary with their own money—this lieutenant fabricates excuses to confiscate these items. Threats and intimidations are what this lieutenant routinely traffics in, though she isn’t the only one. It is widely known among inmate and staff alike that she is a bully. The tickets for infractions of the rules that she writes against inmates are often thrown out or reduced to a simple verbal warning by the hearing committee because they are so petty or have no merit. Men have been taken to segregation by her only to be let out after a day or two because her claims against them were baseless. This harassment and abuse of authority doesn’t tend to restore an offender to useful citizenship or promote positive change in offender behavior. Instead it reinforces mistrust and animosity toward authority figures.

Despite her consummate unprofessionalism and continual lies, this lieutenant isn’t reprimanded nor is her behavior discouraged by her peers or supervisors. Men are fearful of filing any grievance against her because these grievances are almost always summarily dismissed. The DOC employee hearing the complaint is a subordinate of this lieutenant, so all a grievance does is put the lieutenant on notice that the inmate is complaining about her. At that point, retaliation on the part of the lieutenant is guaranteed. Rather that invite more attention and undue punishment from the lieutenant, men remain silent. There is zero accountability. Without some kind of oversight there is no restraint. However, as I said, she isn’t the only one who acts with impunity regarding inmate’s well-being and basic rights.


The contents of this website and a book of essays largely culled from this website was called into question. An ambitious counselor (he plainly let it be known that he intends to do whatever it takes to be warden when the current one retires) reported the book and website to the warden. This warden then claimed I wasn’t allowed to write a book without his prior approval and permission, and he wanted me to stop having my work posted on this website because he said: “It cast certain officers and staff in a negative light.” I was placed in Segregation for my words.

The lieutenant from Internal Affairs who interviewed me made it clear he was only following the warden’s orders. He charged me with a number of infractions of the rules, none of which applied to what I’d done with the book or had been doing through a proxy for six years on this website. (In case there’s any confusion—I have zero computer or Internet access.) The lieutenant who headed the committee tasked with investigating and adjudicating the claims against me performed no measured or impartial investigation. At one point he told me that he was just waiting to see what the warden wanted to do with me. I was found guilty of all charges. Several disciplinary measures were levied against me, the most serious one being that I’d be transferred to a different prison. Without oversight this injustice would have been the final word on the subject for me.

Thankfully my family brought attention to my situation. An individual from the governor’s office became involved as well as representatives of DOC administration. Their investigation of the matter yielded different results. The day after I was found guilty and sentenced by the warden and his cronies to be sent away, a new disposition was entered. Per DOC Administration direction all accusations, charges, findings, the entire report concerning the incident was to be expunged.

Logic would indicate that if I were guilty of any offenses of which I was accused—all serious infractions—then the report wouldn’t be expunged. I maintain that the four individuals I mentioned all lied and colluded to ensure that I was found guilty at the behest of the warden. There was never a proper investigation. Officially, I escaped penalty in this instance.

However, further falsehoods were levied against my writing and I was punished for being in possession of a copy of Candy & Blood, the book that I wrote. I was also refused reinstatement to my job assignment in the Law Library and barred from being hired to perform even the most menial of tasks for the remainder of my prison term despite my exemplary work record. I contacted numerous people with my story and supporting documentation. This included the Director of Prisons, several State Senators and Representatives, numerous prisoner rights groups and civil rights organizations including the ACLU. I received no response. No one cared. With no outside oversight to hold the Department and its employees accountable all manner of injustice becomes allowed—not only allowed but expected. The notion that prison inmates are all degenerates who are getting what they deserve, opens the door to not only allow but also justify all manner of illegalities on the part of the Department of Corrections.


At last count there are approximately 4000 inmates across the state who are being held in prison post their scheduled release dates. They have served the sentence ordered by the judge, and they’re not be kept as punishment for something they did while incarcerated. They’re not even being denied their freedom because of the crime for which they were imprisoned, though the vast majority of them are sex offenders, or have a sex offense somewhere in their prior criminal history. No, these men and women are being kept in prison for the most heinous offense of all: The crime of being poor. Since they have no financial resources to afford a place to stay, and have no family left who are alive and/or willing and able to help, they remain in custody. The Department of Corrections has a policy in place that they don’t find placement for these individuals. Some have spent as many as eight years past the time to which the judge sentenced them. This policy has had the effect of making the Department into its own judge, jury and executioner. This policy has recently been found by the State Supreme Court to unconstitutional. As of yet the Department of Corrections hasn’t changed its policy or released anyone.

Dear Governor

Governor, if you feel that the mission statement that I quoted at the beginning is still reflective of the intent of the Department of Corrections, then I urge you to take action. I have outlined here merely a handful of incidents or scenarios which are indicative of how the Department of Corrections treats those in their custody. This is to say nothing of the numerous claims by inmates alleging medical malfeasance and deliberate indifference to patient care, or the donations of food items to the prison from businesses in the community which are being misappropriated or stolen by Prison Staff. OR, the fact that the current system of Mandatory Supervised Release (MSR) is faulty by design and leaves no avenue for incentivizing rehabilitation or dozens of other issues I could’ve raised.

Dear Governor, PLEASE provide some oversight. PLEASE take a closer look.

Please Help

Dear Readers, I pray that all this doesn’t fall on deaf ears. If any of the issues that I’ve raised have resonated with you, or if you feel prison reform is an important and valid issue that should be addressed, I humbly request that you forward this to:


So the governor will know that I am not just some lone voice crying out in the darkness.

These specific issues that I’ve raised tend to have a universal quality to them as abuse of authority and injustice behind prison walls isn’t unique to me or my particular state.

Maybe the governor of your state should read this too.

The Diagnosis

When my supervisor Ms. Thurman told me that I’d be getting a coworker I didn’t like it one bit.

Dream Realized

Working in the prison library was my dream job. Growing up, whenever I’d move to a new town or school, which was often, the library was always my place for solace. The new environment and all the strange kids was intimidating, frightening. Being surrounded by books made me feel comfortable, safe, happy. I think I always got along better with books and the people in them than those in the world around me. People in books are less demanding.

Behind prison walls I was inundated with new people and relationships to navigate. For a person whose most comfortable setting is to be alone, this was a nightmare of sorts. When I unexpectantly got the job in the library I was thrilled, and I quickly came to love my new position for several reasons.


Being around books all day once more gave me a sense of belonging and contentment. I enjoyed helping the library visitors find their selections and even make a few humble recommendations of my own. My duties required me to be organized, meticulous, and detail oriented, which fit my natural tendencies perfectly. I also liked that there was always more to be done. Not only could I cross things off my to-do list, (yes, I mean that very literally) but when I finished there was an actual pile of books completed, which gave me an enormous sense of accomplishment. Working in this way I was provided a certain amount of autonomy and was often all by myself. This solitude allowed me to put my head down, focus on the task on hand, and get my work done. It also served as a beautiful respite from the crowded and loud cellhouse. I thought getting a coworker would ruin everything.

New Guy

Ramone was a few years older than me. He was a slightly built Mexican guy who was slim but obviously lifted weights regularly. He spoke Spanish fluently as well as English, albeit with a thick accent. Prior to his imprisonment Ramone had gone to college for accounting, mostly for the money. After interning at an accounting firm for a summer the idea of doing that for the rest of his life seemed a form of insanity. Ramone switched majors to kinesiology. He had been thinking about maybe physical therapy or sports medicine, but as is too often the case, his plans were derailed by a bad decision that snowballed and led inevitably to a series of even worse actions. I could sympathize.


I took it as a sign of her confidence and trust in me when Ms. Thurman tasked me with training Ramone. Ms. Thurman saw my end results but wasn’t necessarily privy to all the steps of my particular process, which was probably for the best. Ramone was a quick learner, but I wasn’t the best teacher. I’d been doing it on my own for long enough that it became second nature, and so my instructions amounted to little more than to just do it. Given a little time I was able to adjust and not only show him step by step how to perform the tasks properly, but also explained why we do things certain ways so it didn’t seem arbitrary. My fears of losing all solitude and independence turned out to be unfounded.


As long as we weren’t too busy Ramone liked going to the yard and gym, which was fine by me. During the course of our work we talked and got to know each other. I liked him. He was intelligent and inquisitive. Like myself Ramone was voracious reader, but he studied business texts, psychology case studies, and self-help books. Very little fiction. We had meaningful conversations about relevant issues, but also goofed around and had some laughs together. Our relationship grew so that it wasn’t all business. However, Ramone was also like me in that he was capable of quietly focusing on work and getting things accomplished. A rare thing in or out of prison.

My Diagnosis

For months Ramone had been complaining of back pain. There were times when he’d be working on labeling or repairing a stack of books and he’d have to stand up to do it, or he’d have to sit down to relieve the pressure. Often he’d just walk off, maybe stand in the corner and try to stretch. Nothing he did seemed to help much. More than a few times I told him he could leave, that I’d manage without him for the day. Since I had suffered with my own back pain issue in the past, I described for Ramone what I had gone through, the scans and treatments I’d had prior to my incarceration. I demonstrated a series of stretches and recommended some rest and recovery with walking being the most strenuous activity he was to engage in. One look at Ramone’s physique indicated that this diagnosis and course of treatment would be abhorrent to him. He loved working out. Lifting weights, playing soccer, running, these were how Ramone filled his days and did his time. He wouldn’t stop, no matter the pain. So naturally I made fun of him.


“What’s wrong?”

“My back is killing me today.”

“Did you play soccer yesterday?”

“Yes,” Ramone managed to squeak haltingly, lowering his head sheepishly.

“Well, that was dumb.” This is the kind of good-natured ribbing that I often needled him with.

Sometimes Ramone would claim that running actually made his back feel better, but I always disputed this as largely psychosomatic. I pointed out that these feelings didn’t last long and were in fact unsustainable because he couldn’t run all day every day. He was describing the aftereffects of a runner’s high, his body flushed with adrenaline and endorphins. Once that ebbed, he was right back to agony. I told him countless times that he needed to cut out all the exercise and let his body heal.

When he bragged about deadlifting 315 pounds—an exercise which is particularly stressful to the back—I called him an idiot.

One day he came in and immediately laid down on the floor. I told him that he should’ve just stayed in the cellhouse. He claimed he didn’t want to abandon me without any help. Then he spent most of the morning on the floor providing me zero assistance. This was a fact that I made sure to mention multiple times as I found reasons to walk over and around him despite the fact that he had chosen the most out of the way section of tile to quietly collapse on.

Deliberate Indifference

Ramone endured the kind of criminal negligence that I’ve come to understand as customary in prison healthcare. “Deliberate indifference” is a legal term used to characterize medical care that is obviously inadequate. One threshold that is used is whether a reasonable person, without any medical training, could look at the issue or complaint and deem it serious enough for further treatment.

For nearly a year Ramone sought appropriate medical attention. They gave him 200 mg ibuprofen for the pain. After months of return visits he received a prescription for muscle relaxants. Eventually weekly appointments with the physical therapists were added. This treatment was actually more extensive than most guys get. None of it did much to help the pain, and it did nothing at all to properly identify the cause of Ramone’s symptoms. He did finally have to dramatically cut back and then cease his exercise regimen. He kept asking for an x-ray or MRI scan. He was repeatedly refused. After receiving news from what he considered a reliable source, Ramone decided to try transferring to another prison. There was a degree of desperation in his decision, but after months of constantly worsening pain and being consistently denied the MIR he believed he needed, he was feeling fairly distressed. Ramone’s understanding was that the new prison was much quicker to approve guys for an MIR, and as much as he didn’t want to leave his good job and comfortable surroundings, he felt he had to take the chance. When he left I wished him well and hoped he would get the help he needed.

Ramone’s transfer was granted and executed with remarkable swiftness. That was a fact that I would revisit many times after I received the news. I would wonder if these people somehow knew and wanted to pass Ramone and his problems off to someone else.

The Diagnosis

I was working alone in the library. Ramone’s position hadn’t yet been filled. He’d been gone a little over two months. Ms. Thurman walked in with a purpose. She called my name. “Stop what you’re doing. Come over here. I have something to tell you.” I complied quickly, always eager to jump to any new task. Ms. Thurman was a very no-nonsense kind of person, professional and often all business. This tendency generally rubbed people the wrong way, but it was what I liked about her. I always knew where I stood with her. Until this moment. The look on Ms. Thurman’s face had me unbalanced. She was clearly disturbed.

“Do you want to sit down?” she asked, and I didn’t understand—it seemed out of context or apropos of nothing. “I have something I have to tell you.”

“Okay,” I replied mostly because I thought some response was expected. I didn’t sit down. Between us there was a short bookcase with three shelves. It was part of the reference section and contained an encyclopedia of anatomy that Ramone had studied endlessly for clues to his malady. Ms. Thurman was direct.

“I checked and saw that Ramone had a medical writ today. It wasn’t the first time that he’d been taken out to the hospital, so I called someone I know down where he is.” She paused an instant but pressed on. “He had his MRI and they did find something. A tumor. Ramone has spinal cancer. It’s very advanced they said.”

Later, I would contemplate how many confidentiality regulations Ms. Thurman violated to procure this diagnosis. In that moment though, I looked into her dark eyes, examined her face, analyzed her body language. I was searching for some slim sign that this was all a tasteless joke. Nothing in our relationship or time together should have led me to believe that this was a prank, yet my mind rejected it as wholly impossible. It had to be a ruse. I waited for Ms. Thurman’s mouth to turn upward into a grin. I waited for what felt like a very long time.

“He’s going back today for more tests. They’re going to see what their options are.”

“Options,” I said, not a question. “Okay. Alright. Options.” I was pretty sure his “options” were nil and none. “Spinal cancer. Alright. Okay.” My legs were gone. They weren’t numb. Or weak. There was nothing below my knees. I felt like I was bobbing unsteadily in a rushing torrent.

“Are you alright?” It was a stupid question and it unnerved me all the more because I knew Ms. Thurman was in no way a stupid person. “Do you want to go back? You don’t have to keep working. Just wait here.”

She was gone and I was sitting in a chair. I don’t remember either happening. I thought about all my jokes and jabs at Ramone about his back pain, and I felt like a world-class jerk. Guilt began to dig at me and take hold.

“Options,” I said to no one at all.

Unfeeling Assessment

Ms. Thurman had arranged for me to see a QMHP—quality mental health professional. She didn’t want me going back to my building until I’d talked to him. Apparently she saw something in my face or demeanor that she didn’t like. I agreed to it.

I was hurting, raw, confused, angry. A lot of that I let out to the mental health counselor who had thick glasses and looked like a hundred-and two-pound twerp. I spoke of my faith in God and his larger design, and how I couldn’t reconcile that with this new tragedy. The counselor ignored all else and seized on this. He recommended that I just trust God. His words sounded hollow, platitudes of the worse kind, and entirely insincere. They were a slap in my face to rouse me from my stupor of sudden grief. I silently chastised myself for opening up to this total stranger who clearly didn’t give a tinker’s damn about me. I shut everything down. Though he wasn’t particularly quality like his job title would suggest, he did notice this much. He resorted to the default query.

“Do you feel like you’re going to hurt yourself or someone else?”

I’d heard the question before and knew it was a trap. It was designed to cover the department of corrections from a liability standpoint rather than actually being concerned for my mental well-being. I snarled my response.

“No, I’m fine. I’m not going to do that.” I was dismissed a short time later.

Walking back to my cellhouse, I felt the burden of guilt for Ramone’s condition weighing on me. It wasn’t mine to bear, but I carried it all the same.

Sunburn In Seg

It had been so long since I had felt it.


My job in the law library kept me busy, sure, but it was also an easy excuse. I could’ve put forth more effort, arranged it with my coworkers who were all amenable, and made it to the yard at least once or twice during the work week. Then on my two days off for the week—what were my excuses then? I had none that held any semblance of legitimacy. I had essentially embraced apathy and made lethargy my closest companion.

This was due, at least in part, to the fact that I had a significant portion of my bowel bulging forth from a tear in my abdominal wall. A hernia, for which, per department of corrections policy, I was refused surgery. Even though surgical repair of the abdominal wall is the only viable treatment for a hernia. I was told by a medical professional that it would go away on its own. That was a lie. When the intense burning pain would flare up I couldn’t walk, could barely stand or sit. I had to lay down. Mine was an inguinal hernia, in the groin area, the most common kind in men. When it became aggravated it would feel like someone had my testicles clenched in their fist and were squeezing mercilessly. And yet . . . the pain hadn’t become completely debilitating at this point, I still had good days. My choice to abstain from all yards at all times was one I made of my own volition. I may have made it to two or three yards in six months.

Scenery Change

I was placed in segregation, at first under investigation, but eventually numerous erroneous and very serious charges were levied against me. Ultimately this was because the warden didn’t like that, to use his words, I had “cast certain officers and staff in a negative light” when writing essays about my personal prison experiences. I imagine what he liked even less was that these essays were posted online and eventually collected together and published as a book.

Segregation is a bleak kind of solitude, and one’s thoughts can stretch out to explore avenues where one ought not be going. Considering the seriousness of the accusations being made, and their potential penalties, it made for a long Memorial Day weekend. Come Monday it was the tiny concrete slab outside my window, no more than seventy feet square and enclosed by fences and razor wire, that was about to become my new best friend. Seg’s version of yard. Two hours a day, Monday through Friday. Other than the thrice weekly showers it was the only time I’d be leaving my cell. It would also be my only real chance to interact with other people.

Looking The Part

I was up and fully dressed in my ill-fitting jumpsuit thirty minutes before it was time for yard. Prison jumpsuits are notoriously hot and uncomfortable, so I had to improvise. I had torn a quarter inch wide strip off the edge of my bedsheet and it became by sash/belt, so I could let the upper portion of my jumpsuit hand down the back and sides to just be wearing them as pants—it’s prison chic, I assure you. I also rolled up the pant legs so that they were cuffed into shorts that fell just below the knee. Finishing the ensemble was a plain white T-shirt, plain white socks, and plain white tennis shoes with the laces removed, and more strips of bedsheet used to tie them together so they wouldn’t flop off my feet. I had captured the look of the hardened con, and was ready to strut my stuff on the yard.


Having been locked in the cell for close to sixty-five hours straight I was nearly thrumming with excitement to get out. Anticipatory adrenaline was squirting and it had my heart humming, my limbs tingling, my mouth grinning. I was giddy with the thought of getting outside. My forced absence had apparently made me grow quite fond of it. When my time came, I obediently relinquished my wrists through the chuckhole to be handcuffed behind the back—it’s how things are done in Seg. Once outside, and the cuffs were removed, my shirt came off so that my too, too pale skin could become sun-kissed.


To all who ask, I took some delight in saying I was a political prisoner caught up in prison politics because the warden didn’t like what I wrote and he was trying to shut me up. It was a freedom of speech issue. I said my writing was counter to their small-minded fascist ideals, so I got locked up for it. I was honestly tickled by the whole idea. I was also worried, nauseous, anxious, paranoid, and terrified, but yeah, tickled pink. I wore it like a badge of honor. No one cared. In Seg, everyone has their own problems to handle. I walked, felt the penetrating heat of the sun on my flesh, and enjoyed my slim sense of freedom.

Pleasant Surprise

Back in the cell I left my shirt on and performed some light calisthenics while my hernia screamed that I was an idiotic moron for doing so. My hernia was right. With my shirt drenched in sweat I waited for the shower. It wasn’t until I was in the shower stall with its low ceiling and light right on top of me that I saw for the first time the Pepto Bismol pinkness of my shoulders, arms, and chest. I’d been burnt something awful and hadn’t even felt it.

Sitting alone in my cell once more, I couldn’t stop smoothing my fingers and palms over my skin, feeling the heat it held, and relishing my first sunburn in years. I was doing mental arithmetic to figure exactly how long it would be until I could go to yard again.

Spicy Visit

“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.

Controlled Chaos

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.

Proper Protocol?

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.

Rare Respect

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.