Suicide Watch

“Yeah. Yeah. You know what? Yeah, I’m going to kill myself.”

It wasn’t true. I promise. I was desperate. I felt like it was the only way I could get what I wanted. All I wanted was to be left alone.

Evaluation

The psychologist was a tall, slim woman with a straight, severe nose and unfriendly face. The first time I saw her I’d been locked up in the county jail for a few days and had spent my entire time in the Fish Tank. This was a cell situated in direct view of the intake counter where newly arrested individuals began their processing into County Jail. One wall had a large window, perhaps four feet wide and three feet tall, so I was constantly on display or in view. Even on the toilet. The total tonnage of the severity and far-reaching ramifications of my violent crime hadn’t fully settled in.

The Fish Tank was prime real estate, and the powers that be wanted to move me to a different cell. The psychologist’s inspection of me was largely perfunctory, designed to simple ascertain whether or not I was a danger to myself or to others. I wasn’t. I was moved further down the hallway to an observation cell where I was still alone, and frequently checked on, but not always on display. Alone was what I wanted, and while there I thrived.

Thriving

I used my time to read books, study my Bible, pray, write. In ten days I read six books and wrote the first thirty pages of a novel. I rememorized once familiar Bible verses, receiving solace, encouragement and further conviction about my need for spiritual renewal.

I was still married at the time, and my arrest had completely blindsided my wife. Our first phone call from lockup was a quick one, shortly after my arrest and filled with anger, disbelief. Tears from us both. She said she didn’t know what she would do.

When I received a letter from her in my observation cell I was scared to open it, utterly terrified by the possibilities of what it could contain. It began with a poem, one that has grown in personal significance for me as the years have passed. She went on to say many things, the most important of which to me was that she still loved me and wasn’t going to divorce me. It would be several years before, in order to protect and preserve her own sanity and happiness, she would have to walk away forever. And I would have to let her go. However, in that moment, in that tiny cell, I was overcome with such a joyous relief and absolute elation. Her letter, my reconnecting to my faith in the Creator of the universe, and my productivity in reading and writing had all conspired to create a cocoon of comfort, hope, and a sense of self-worth. I loved my solitude and sanctuary too much and for that reason I didn’t want to hear what the psychologist had to say.

Reevaluation

I was ushered to an alcove near the mugshot wall and fingerprinting machine where the resident psychologist was awaiting me. Our seats were the same height, and I was a little taller than her, but it felt like somehow she was looking down on me. She didn’t bother with any niceties or try to put me at ease.

“They want to put you in a cellblock. How does that sound? How do you feel about that?”

I thought I was coming for a nice chat, but she was checking up on me. I felt like I’d been ambushed. “No. No! I don’t want to do that.”

Two officers were blocking the entry to the alcove—they both tensed at my response. I wasn’t handcuffed and could’ve caused problems. I imagined they were readying for the worst.

The psychologist pressed forward, unfazed. “Well you can’t just stay in the cell you’re in now.”

“Why not?”

“They need it. It’s only supposed to be temporary. You’ll have to go to a cellblock.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it works.”

“But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be around people.” I was beginning to panic. “I just want to be alone. Why can’t you leave me where I am? I’m being good. I’ve been writing, getting stuff done.”

“It doesn’t work that way. You’ll have to go in a cellblock. Do you know anyone that you’d want to go in with?”

I felt like she wasn’t understanding what I was saying. Or maybe just didn’t care. “No, I don’t know anyone. I don’t want to be around people.”

“Why don’t you want to be around people?”

“Because I want to be left alone.”

“Are you saying that you are going to hurt or attack someone if you go on a cellblock?”

“What? No!”

“Because the cell you’re in is only for people in crisis. So if you are telling me that you’re going to hurt yourself or someone else, then we’d have to leave you in that cell. Is that what you’re telling me? Are you going to hurt yourself or someone else?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to harm yourself in any way? You’re not thinking of killing yourself or hurting yourself?”

“No, no. I just . . . I just want to be left alone.”

“Well if you’re not going to hurt yourself you have to go to a cellblock.”

It sounded to me like she was laying out options. So I threatened to kill myself: “Yeah. Yeah. You know what? Yeah, I’m going to kill myself.”

Triumph

I was taken back to the same cell and when the door clattered shut I felt triumphant. I believed that the psychologist had been on my side and had provided me a way to stay in my preferred holding cell. My utter foolishness and lack of understanding is almost comical after sixteen years of hindsight. I reveled in my triumph for less than sixty seconds.

Stripped

The electronic buzz and pop of the door being opened startled me, but the three officers standing there wearing latex gloves and serious looks froze me to the spot. It effectively disconnected my mind from the reality of my body. Two of them pulled me out. I was incapable of resisting. We stood outside the cell, an officer on either side of me, each with a firm grip on my arm ready to hold me back if necessary. It wasn’t. I was too stunned by the sudden reversal, numb. The other officer cleared out my cell. Books, Bible, pen, paper, clothes, bedding, soap, toothbrush. My mail, including the letter from my wife that I had poured over a dozen times or more. He wasn’t orderly or respectful about it as he pitched everything into the hallway until it was piled in a haphazard array around my feet. I looked down the hall to see the psychologist watching dispassionately. I opened my mouth to say something in protest, maybe a plea for intervention, but remained silent. My brain wasn’t processing anything correctly. I was unable to react or respond.

All that remained in the cell was a bare plastic covered mat. I was ordered inside and told to strip. They took my clothes. I stood naked, shivering, and not merely from the chill. My pulse felt like a nauseating hum in my chest and belly. I was handed a blanket and suicide gown made from thick quilted material that made it impossible to tie or fashion them into anything approximating a noose. The gown was secured with Velcro straps over the shoulder and was far from fashionable.

“It’s for your own good,” an officer said as the door slammed into place.

My Faith

I haven’t often spoken of my faith in this venue. I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior at a young age; perhaps too young to fully know what that meant. Over the years my fervor for that conversion had waned. Terrible decisions and drug addiction eventually led to my unthinkable crime and violent assault. Though I hadn’t remained faithful to my commitment, the presence of Jesus in my life had always been faithful. The concept of a jailhouse conversion or spiritual awakening is dubious only to those who have never felt the despair and debasement of being entirely stripped of everything. Once the cell door closed, I was alone in my suicide gown and staring down that sinister despair.

Desolation

My thoughts were racing, a thousand at once and I couldn’t seize on any of them. Words were a whirl of nonsense and noise that buzzed and became an expanding crescendo in my brain. I was sobbing openly, loudly, choking in huge breathes until I was hyperventilating. I was breaking down. Through the swirling, burgeoning madness came a clear thought from deep within me: This is what it feels like to lose your mind. It was a detached, clinical assessment—just collecting data. Then everything seemed to escalate and the slim semblance of control I had a grip on slipped free leaving me untethered from anything recognizable. An abyss of desolation yawed before me and I had no way of preventing my collapsing into it.

Surrender

Amidst the maelstrom came a thought. It was so direct and simple that it sounded like a hushed voice inside my head. Yet at the same time I intuitively grasped that this perfectly clear, unadulterated message came from something beyond myself. “Sing praises to him.” I was confused. It came again. “Sing praises to him.”

I grabbed ahold of the idea like a lifeline. My mind reeled, refusing to provide anything coherent. Then came a name. My voice faltered, and for an instant, I feared it wouldn’t work, but then it quavered from my jittering throat. “Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus . . . there’s just something about that name . . .” My breathing calmed enough for me to pull in a large breath and continue, my voice, frail. “Master, savior, Jesus. Like the fragrance after the rain . . . Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Let all heaven and earth proclaim . . .” I felt something break inside me. Something snap loose and fall away. My stubborn desire to do things my way, to trust only in myself, was exposed and I relinquished it. That act of surrender brought release.

I was on my knees in the empty cell, though I have no concrete memory of kneeling. The cloud of mixed up confusion and insanity that had engulfed me lifted, and it felt like a physical burden had been removed from my stooped shoulders and back. Undiluted and unquestionable joy filled me, permeating every fiber of my being. It felt like my windowless cell had been inundated with the most glorious sunlight that surrounded me and penetrated to my core. I finished the hymn with a joyful smile and laughter on my lips. “Kings and kingdoms will all pass away, but there’s just something about that name.”

Transformed

The next several hours and days were spent in concerted communion with my Creator. Hymns, choruses, and songs of worship that had been instilled in me as a child, but long forsaken, came back to me. Each one was a cherished gift that I sang out in a sincere and joyful noise. At my request they eventually gave me back my Bible, and I combed it for further comfort and direction.

On the fifth day of my suicide watch I was pulled out to see the psychologist, and I greeted her with an ecstatic grin. I probably appeared manic to her. I apologized for my earlier lie born of panic and fear. I told her I wasn’t suicidal and was ready to go to a cellblock. I still didn’t want to go, but I’d come to understand that the strength of Christ within me could be relied upon to see me through whatever what come my way.

The intervening years have brought me heartaches, death, divorce, laughter, upheaval, depression, joy, disappointment, setbacks, doubt, and incarceration that seemed to have no end in sight. Throughout it all, the truths I learned and the supernatural touch of grace that I experienced while on suicide watch remain as constants, pointing me back to God’s love and mercy.

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“Am I in it?”

This was by far the predominant response from correctional officers after they found out about my book and website containing tales of my prison experiences. I had been thrown in Segregation and accused of several things including making prison staff look bad. After I’d been released from Seg and all charges were expunged I still expected to be vilified and targeted at every turn for my writings. Instead it seemed that many COs were genuinely curious while others curiosity had ulterior motives.

Query

The first time I saw CO Medet after my visit to Seg, he sidled up to me in the chow hall and asked his question in a confidential tone. His specific concern was whether I had chronicled the yelling match that had very nearly turned physical between him and CO Ralyon. I assured him that I had ever written about it. Two COs only screaming back and forth but almost boxing may have made for a good story, however it was the psychology behind the confrontation which I found more interesting.

Vitriol

CO Ralyon displayed his prejudice and racism like badges of honor. He freely and often slurred an inmate’s race, ethnicity, religious affiliation, and sexual orientation. On one such occasion CO Ralyon verbally abused two transgender inmates. His language went far past merely unprofessional. It was filled with obvious disgust and ugly hate. No human being should have to be subjected to such undiluted vitriol. The two aggrieved inmates reported Ralyon.

Justified

The disagreement between Ralyon and Medet arouse largely Medet told the truth about the incident. He refused to lie on an official report in order to protect CO Ralyon. Obviously, the image of two officers nearly throwing punches is not great optics. However, the fact that a Neanderthal racist bigot like Ralyon is an employee of the Department of Corrections should shame the powers-that-be to no end. CO Medet was not only justified in feeling outrage over Ralyon’s behavior, but should feel a sense of pride in doing what was right even if it meant bucking the system and going against a fellow officer.

I told CO Medet that I’d never written anything about this incident. I suppose I can’t say that anymore.

A Despicable Side Note

Numerous lawsuits have been brought against CO Ralyon for his discrimination and harassment. In other circumstances his actions would be characterized as hate crimes. In this case a representative of the Attorney General of the state negotiated agreements to resolve lawsuits by paying several thousands of dollars to the complainants. CO Ralyon was placed in a different job assignment before eventually being promoted to a position where he works one-on-one with inmates to assist them in extremely personal and sensitive matters. Specifically he will have to interact with some of the same inmates who are actively suing him.  Grievances have already been submitted. I predict further lawsuits to come.

Some Others

Several COs, after asking their questions, were upfront about having checked out my writing, and were largely complimentary about the content and my talent. Officer Sum is one of the most easygoing, funny, fair, and cool COs I’ve ever come across. He told me not to write anything about him until after he retires. I told him I’d never seen him do anything to be worried or of which to be ashamed. CO Sum he wasn’t concerned about that, but rather he didn’t want it getting out how smooth and relatable a person he is—there was comedy in his retort, but truth as well.

Different Perspectives

CO Westin asked if I had written about him, and when I answered in the negative he followed with this: “Well, what do you write about? Nothing happens around here.” I’ve battled a similar sentiment both from without and within myself. I grinned slimly, knowingly, and tried to explain what I’ve written about as well as my general endeavor to provide an unvarnished glimpse into everyday prison life. His response left me both insulted and flabbergasted. “How can you write about being in prison when you’re not really in prison?”

When I stared at him, mouth agape, utterly dumbfounded, he explained himself. Apparently, to his mind, since I reside in the minimum-security portion of the prison and am not constantly locked behind a steel door, I’m not really in prison. CO Westin went on to declare that his job is basically that of a glorified babysitter and nothing much ever happens to make my life difficult, so therefore, I’m not really in prison. His comment that “nothing much ever happens” was a reference to fights and outbursts of violence. This provided me valuable insights into the inner workings of a Correctional Officers mind.

As calmly as possible I explained to CO Westin that, while I was afforded a certain degree of movement outside my cell, I’m still in prison since I can’t leave the building at will, and certainly cannot walk off the prison grounds at any time. He reluctantly agreed that was true, as if I had somehow caught him in a technicality. CO Westin seemed to have romanticized the idea of violence and confinement as how prison is meant to be. I didn’t bother wasting my breath on CO Westin by telling him that I had served nearly a decade of that constant confinement and abrupt violence, and that I didn’t believe for a second that officers like Westin would’ve lasted very long before becoming victims of the violence. I’m not advocating this, but his attitude would’ve made it an inevitability.

Best For Last

When I informed CO Lodes that I hadn’t written about him, he told me that I had changed his life forever. In a good way. It caught me off guard. His explanation of this rather provocative statement came swiftly and unsolicited. I had seen Officer Lodes in probably a year or more, and it felt like he had been just waiting anxiously to see me so he could tell me.

At one time I’d been heavily involved in practicing a ketogenic diet. It’s next to impossible with prison food and takes an enormous amount of willpower to maintain this high protein, high fat, low carb regiment. However when I stuck to it, I felt better and was losing weight. I confess I became something of an annoying proselyte of this dietary lifestyle, and it was in this capacity that I talked to CO Lodes. I loaned him my book which described in short no-nonsense chapters the whole science and history behind the keto life. Not long after that CO Lodes was moved to a different post within the prison, and as usual every few months or so, and I moved on with life—didn’t give it any more thought.

What CO Lodes later confessed was that after I had been the one to open his eyes, he became obsessed with the ketogenic lifestyle. He availed himself of the numerous resources, recipes, and communities that he found online, and immersed himself in the keto way. It became a huge part of his life, and he became an avid advocate. When his mother began experiencing health issues, he counseled her in changing her diet to ketogenic.

One of the primary effects of the ketogenic diet is a more stabilized blood sugar level absent the unhealthy spikes. Thankfully this helped his mother, and CO Lodes attributed her improved health to me because I turned him on to the ketogenic diet. I was quite literally rendered speechless by his effusive gratitude to me.

Overall

In hindsight my fears of retribution were largely unfounded. Most officers who admitted to having visited and read some of the content of this website tell me that they didn’t see anything wrong with it. Many nodded in agreement and had a good laugh over what they were reading. They said I captured prison life pretty well.

It seems that Correctional Officers are surprisingly more well read than I imagined. I suppose I will continue giving them something to read.

Dynamic Duo

Billy and Sid only worked together one day a week. I don’t think the prison could’ve coped with them longer than that. It has to be illegal to have that much fun at work. Arrivals

Sid usually arrived first while Billy dragged himself in a few minutes later, often looking half asleep or wholly hungover. I have no doubt that Sid was frequently in the same state, he just concealed it better. Occasionally they came in jovial, laughing and joking like work was merely an extension of the drunken festivities of the night before. Most days they were subdued and required multiple cups of strong coffee apiece to nurse themselves back to equilibrium. Once they had settled in, their hijinks ensued.

Fun and Games
Theirs was an easy camaraderie. They spent their time talking, laughing, and commenting on the programs on the TV in the dayroom. When that got old they played tricks on people. They would announce for someone to come to the bubble to get his pass for his prostrate exam. They would claim that a certain individual had “that package” (AIDS), and to be careful around him. They would publically announce that it was someone’s birthday, and then encourage everyone to wish them a happy birthday. This meant punching him the same number of times as his age. One inmate seemed to have a birthday every week. Signs were posted with goofy sayings or crude sexual drawings on them. A list of inmates was posted that ranked the top five weirdos/creeps I the building. Sometimes this was characterized as a Most Wanted list. As in, these are the guys the officers want to get rid of the most. Billy and Sid always seemed to crack themselves up more than anyone else. Business As Usual This juvenile frat-boy mentality and casual bullying was par for the course. In the wider world it would be denounced; in prison it’s just another Sunday. Most guys tended to ignore them and tried to keep moving as long as the abuse wasn’t directly targeting them. CO Billy and CO Sid knew who the easy targets were. In spite of their behavior and how I’ve characterized them, they’re actually fairly well-liked by all—both COs and inmates. Reality Correctional Officers are not police officers or superheroes swooping in to save the day. Nothing so glamorous or exciting as that. Depending on the security level of the penitentiary where they work, and the area within the facility where they are stationed, it’s true that they can be called upon and must be ready in an instant to deal with violent or mentally unstable inmates. However, by and large, the most difficult aspect of their job is to stay awake as the dull, monotonous hours drag by. Little more than glorified babysitters. I imagine this is why Billy and Sid enjoyed working together so much. While they were far from paragons of professionalism, with these jokers in the building there was rarely a dull moment.

The Conundrum

Jake was wary as he eased his way hesitantly toward the door from which the voice was coming. There was only darkness from within the cell, which gave the disembodied voice the eerie effect of calling to him from an endless malevolent void. Jake knew from experience that it was ill advised, and potentially dangerous, to get too close to the cell doors. He worked in a psych joint, specifically the section that served to keep confined the most violent and/or unpredictable inmates who suffer from various and often severe mental health issues. Even with only a perforated steel grate through which the inmate could get to him, Jake had witnessed spit, shit, and piss pass through the small holes on multiple occasions. When the chuckhole was open, a deluge of waste and refuse could pour out. Yet even armed with this knowledge, Jake continued to advance upon the door from behind which someone was calling his name.

Fair Warning
“Hey, man. Hey, Jake. Howyadoin’, man? Look, you’ve always been cool with me, never had any problem with you. You’re good with me, ya know? So I just wanted to give you a heads up. As soon as that C/O opens this chuckhole, I’ve got a whole cup of shit I’ve saved up for him, and it’s going in his face. Just so you know. You might want to stay back. Okay, Jake. Thanks.” The man’s tone was matter-of-fact, friendly, calm, casual. He could have been discussing a movie he saw recently, or the outcome of some sporting event rather than a planned fecal barrage. Once he fell silent, the man receded into his cell, leaving Jake to wrestle with what to do.

Dilemma
Jake worked amongst this collection of mentally unstable men five days a week and had managed to cultivate a decent rapport with many of them. It made for a slightly less stressful work environment and worked to keep him from becoming a target for an attack. All of that goodwill that he had built up, however, would evaporate if it were to be discovered that he had warned the C/O of the impending shit storm headed his way.

The warning would be perceived as snitching and make Jake ripe for revenge. On the other hand, if Jake didn’t tell the officer about the planned poop-throwing, blame would almost certainly land in his lap which would result in him probably being fired or worse. While this particular officer had always been cool with Jake, a C/O with a face full of feces is an unpredictable but volatile individual. Jake waffled over the decision briefly, but he knew what had to be done.

Betrayal?
Each chuckhole door slammed open on its hinge with metronomic regularity. With every turn of his key and resounding metallic bang that resulted, the C/O edged ever closer to the cell where a calamity of crap awaited him. Upon arriving at the door in question, the C/O inserted his key as usual, but paused before turning it. “Back away from the door, “ he instructed the unseen inmate within. After a lengthy silence, there finally came a hesitant response.

“What? Um…no. Open my chuckhole; I want my food. Give it to me.”

“I said back up. Get away from the door.” The C/O had adopted his full-throated authoritative voice—similar to the tone a trainer would use to command dogs. “Back away or you can go hungry.” The C/O awaited a cogent response, and Jake stood to the side with a tray at the ready as it was his duty to pass it in through the chuckhole once it was opened–provided, of course, that poop wasn’t on its way out through said chuckhole.

Without warning, a bestial and unnerving noise erupted from the cell, a sound of equal parts frustration and rage. These were also the sentiments that colored what was said next.

“Jake! You told! You told, Jake! You’re a snitch!”

The C/O had enough presence of mind to backpedal with haste, and the splattering of excrement that managed to force its way through the small holes of the perforated steel window was minimal and ineffectual. The unstable inmate had mostly managed to merely splash his own waste back in his own face and coat the inside of his cell door with it. As Jake and the C/O bypassed the befouled cell and continued passing out trays, the disgruntled inmate carried on with his hollering of accusations concerning Jake.

Conflicted
It was a long two months of taking extra precautions and keeping his head on a swivel to avoid any payback before Jake was able to get a different job and get away from the house of the severely mentally ill. He didn’t exactly feel guilty for informing the C/O, but it also didn’t quite sit right with him that he had broken the trust of the feces-flinging inmate. It wasn’t snitching in Jake’s estimation, but rather something more like a gray area, and he never did come to accept what he had done.

 

Dehumanized

Her

She fussed and fidgeted over the few items she had on the table just waiting for her visitor to arrive. I had seen her before, on numerous previous visits in fact. Her hair had once been brown but was streaked mercilessly with gray as it fell past her shoulders in straight greasy strands. A pair of overly large glasses with thick lenses dominated her face. Her clothes were shabby, plain at best. She was tall, slim, willowy, and put me in mind of Olive Oil’s older, frailer sister. On the few occasions when I had heard her speak it sounded like the frail, muted mewing of a newly arrived kitten. Listening to some COs talk let me know that she visited every week, sometimes more than once, and that she always walked all the way out to the prison for these visits. The officers ridiculed her for her obvious poverty and lack of transportation.

Him

His clothes were covered in grime and filth, his shirt untucked. He looked disheveled and disgusting. His hair was a loose mop of gray and nearly white kept mercifully short atop his head, leaving him one less thing for which to care. The scruff on his face wasn’t a beard, but a thatch of stubbled scrub that was a few days past the razor’s appointment. He had the hollow-eyed confusion and hesitant shuffle of the extremely medicated. When he spoke it was a gruff baritone that sounded empty of some essential element, as if he was speaking from a long way off.

Together

When she saw him she rose from her seat, and anxious excitement thrumming through her thin frame, and she met him halfway as he walked towards the table they had been assigned for their visit. She embraced him fiercely, laying her head against his chest and holding tightly as if doing so soothed some desperate aching need. He reciprocated with unsure slow motion movements. There was an unashamed openness about the scene that made me feel uncomfortable, as if I were spying on an intimate and private moment. Which, of course, I was. Intimate, that is, though there’s no real privacy in prison.

Unconditional

During the course of their visit she doted on her husband. He mostly struggled to remain present in the moment. Whatever mood stabilizers or tranquilizers he was being prescribed had him slogging through molasses both physically and mentally. Nothing came simple. She was patient, involved, almost animated, or at least as much as her mousey persona would allow. It had to be a chore at times, but she never flagged in her unconditional devotion to him. When it was time for them to part she clutched him once more with a desperation and unabashedness that was miraculous to behold. My chest ached at the tender beauty of her naked display of affection as she planted several quick kisses on his lips and face—he received each with drugged befuddlement. After he had turned to trudge away she continued speaking words of hope and encouragement to his receding figure. Once he was gone she looked utterly hopeless, lost, on the verge of tears.

I have no idea what crime landed this man in prison, nor am I award of the exact nature of his obvious mental health issue. After witnessing what I did, I do know that he is loved, and that rather deeply.

Stinky

My visit ended only moments after his did and I was invited to enter the other shakedown room for my strip search. I complied with the officer’s wishes but asked why we couldn’t just use the one he had been exiting as I walked into the sally port that separated the visiting room from the shakedown room. I had always known this CO to be respectful, polite, and professional. It was me who was going to take my clothes off, but I was about to see an entirely different side of him.

“I just got done shaking down that stinky sonofabitch in there, you don’t want to go in there. It’s friggin’ disgusting. I’m so sick of it. Makes me want to puke. It smells like pure shit. He won’t take a damn shower. Should just turn a hose on his stupid ass and sandblast that shit off him.” There was a venomous and viciousness unlike his usual lackadaisical tone as he groused through gritted teeth. He was just getting started.

“And that wife of his isn’t too pleasant herself. Smells almost as bad, practically homeless. She’s always here way too early and we have to chase her out of the parking lot. After the tenth time you’d think she’d figure it out, she’d learn something. Dumb bitch. She should wander into traffic on one of her trips out here and save us all the headache.” After a few long and painfully silent awkward moments on my part he finished his thought while handing my pants back to me. “Yeah, Stinky and the Idiot. They’re perfect for each other.”

True Feelings

Though I had always had a high opinion of this officer, I believe that I was getting a glimpse at the unvarnished feelings shared by the majority of Correctional Officers. While it’s not true of them all, many COs have dealt with prisoners for so long, or with such indifference, that ofttimes they barely even see their wards as human anymore. And therefore certainly not deserving of human compassion.

The Real Russ

ASA

There are a lot of white guys in prison who are sex offenders, or more specifically, child molesters. “Aggravated sexual assault” is one legal term to identify them. The aggravated portion references the fact that their victim was under age twelve or fourteen. Laws and terms differ from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, but in my experience the number of these offenders has become epidemic, especially amongst the white population in prison. I have often remarked facitiously that if I didn’t talk to sex offenders, then I’d never speak to another white guy in prison. As with a great many jokes, there’s more than a kernel of truth embedded in that statement.

Vilified

For a long time these particular individuals were the most vilified of the prison population. They often faced ridicule, bullying and outright physical abuse from their fellow inmates and also from those wearing badges and tasked with insuring their safety. These inmates would often lie and say that they were locked up for some other more innocuous crime rather than admit their sex offence. This practice became so prevalent in fact that an inmate who was suspected of being a sex offender but who claimed to be incarcerated for dealing drugs, otherwise known as “having a drug case”, may have his assertion rebutted with the type of colorful quip which exemplifies the somewhat darker undertone of what qualifies as prison humor. An example would be; “Yeah, right, you’ve got a drug case. More like you drug that little girl off into the bushes.” Distasteful to be sure, but not an uncommon way of laying an entirely unsubtle accusation of pedophilia against someone.

Out of the Shadows

As the sex offender population grew it became common for them to band together and they’ve become emboldened to admit what they are locked up for, talking openly about their status as a sex offender, though often not often providing any details of their particular crime. Now they are such a large percentage of the prison population that they have infiltrated many social groups often unbeknownst to their fellow inmates. For the most part they are treated like just another inmate. Nothing more or less terrible than that.

Penitence

The comfort of Christianity has long served as a respite for these oft put upon prisoners. Being a Christian man myself, I would never deign to say that God’s gift of grace is insufficient to bring about forgiveness, salvation and transformation in the life of any sinner, no matter what their sin. I do however confess with a certain degree of shame that I struggle with this concept of forgiveness for such a despicable crime and iniquity. Perhaps it is more that I tend to question the sincerity of many of these men I have known. In my experience it seems that the claim of a religious conversion, especially amongst child molesters, tends to be viewed as a dubious bit of trickery. A professed change for the sake of convenience rather than an authentic repentance. As best I can I try not to stand in judgement of a guy, but in some cases it’s not so much a matter of judging as it is recognizing something that is just plain wrong.

Recruiting

Russ was the charismatic country fried leader of an ever growing group of sex offenders. They would be gathered in the yard or seated together at church on Sunday, each of them deferring to Russ in all things. Russ knew his Scripture, could quote it chapter and verse, and seemed sincere as far as my fallible eyes could see, but there was something about him that set off an alarm in the intuitive wrinkles of my brain.

Upon closer inspection it became clear that he was proselytizing not for the cause of Christ, but was building his number of followers by behaving like the pied piper of pedophilia. Russ recruited them with a twisted type of pseudo-religiosity that was far too heavy on acceptance and much too light on repentance and change.

Fallacy

Since I’m a white man in prison who was attending church regularly, Russ assumed I was a sex offender and therefore a likely candidate for his brand of fallacy. It wasn’t long before he approached me with his amiable charm and understanding nature all wrapped up in the honeyed tones of a soft southern accent. His voice made you feel welcome, made you want to believe everything he was saying. I listened as he began with Bible verses that were accurate and sound, then noted as he proceed to bend them to his own improper purposes. We disagreed and debated. When I informed him that I was in fact not a sex offender he was unfazed, proudly admitted that he was one, and then continued his recruitment script. I steered the conversation toward repentance and shared my own shame and regret over my crime—a violent assault. I expressed how I hoped my victim could somehow forgive me, but wasn’t sure that it would ever be possible. When I pressed Russ for similar sentiments about his own victim his evangelistic façade finally fell and I believe I got to see the real Russ.

True Colors

“Are you kidding? No! No way! I don’t feel bad. Why should I? Huh? Why?” He paused here, actually waiting for me to give him an answer as to why he should feel remorse for sexually molesting a ten year old girl. I noticed that his accent had lost its lilting dulcet quality and devolved into harsh guttural sounds which were befitting his ugly topic of conversation.

“I did it, nothing I can do about that now. Right?” I sensed that perhaps he might be heading in a less horrible direction. I was wrong.

“I did it. I like little girls. I like them and they like me. I did it and I’d do it again. I don’t feel ashamed. I won’t feel ashamed. I don’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with what I did. Nothing wrong with me. That is how God made me.”

Unchristian

Each short confessional sentence carried the weight of a small sledge to my gut. It literally knocked the breath from my body and I struggled to recall how to perform the automatic response of respiration. Even if my lips could have formed words and my lungs could’ve pressed out the air to deliver them, my braining was sending anything coherent to say. All that I possessed was a visceral hatred for this counterfeit Christian. Although I freely confess that the visions of me violently assaulting him which I began to entertain were extremely tantalizing, inviting, even comforting, they were also entirely unchristian. My rigid fingers curled into fists and adrenaline dumped into my system as my heart screamed its increase. Breath returned to my body, and in that instant my more primitive mind was bent on using every bit of newly restored oxygen at his disposal to destroy Russ. All logic and restraint had been usurped by outrage and undiluted fury.

Salvation

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get to your cells. Now!” The belligerent CO bellowed and headed straight toward us. He was a young guy, new to DOC and eager to earn a reputation as a tough-guy. He had just returned to the cellblock and saw Russ and I loitering and talking in the day-room after our designated phone call time. Completely unintentionally he became our salvation. Russ was rescued from my violent assault and I was saved from a stint in Seg. Russ fled to his cell while I remained riveted to the spot a moment longer, entertaining the possibility of carrying out my attack regardless of the CO and the consequences. I heard Russ delivering an obsequious apology dripping in saccharine southern charm. It was all fake. I had seen his true self and knew that his worldview was nothing but delusional heresy.

Suckers

Personally, I never understood what the big deal was.

Labor of Love

As far as hustles go it wasn’t a particularly lucrative one since the cost for ingredients was rather considerable. Beyond that, the time and effort expended in gathering other essential materials, and then the actual mixing and manufacturing of the product, all made the entire endeavor more of a labor of love than a viable business model. And yet, everywhere I go, there is inevitably at least one enterprising individuals who is making homemade suckers.

Something Different

When I tried to explain these signature sweets to someone who had never spent any time in prison they just couldn’t understand what the appeal was. Since my sweet tooth has never been much for fruity flavored fare I’ve been a fan myself. However, the best I can explain, is that prison is a free market economy based on the law of supply and demand.

I have sold a bar of soap that cost me forty-five cents for two dollars. A buck-fifty bottle of shampoo went for a nickel (five dollars). When I bought the package of thirty hair-ties for a dollar sixty-five I was sporting a buzz cut and only intended to use them as rubber bands to hold sealed my partially eaten bag of chips or peanuts. Instead I sold the whole pack for fifteen dollars.

Why was any of this price gauging possible? Because I bought these items from another penitentiary, and they were all new and unavailable. The security of supply drove up demand and guys were throwing money at me. The quality or original price of the products didn’t matter one bit. They just wanted something different. So too when it came to these custom candies.

Confectionaries

Many of these candy makers derived a real pride from their work and take it extremely seriously. It’s not merely melting and mashing a couple candies together. First, one needs to find a mold to use. The most commonly by far is the butter cups given at most meals. They are perhaps a quarter inch deep and a little smaller than a silver dollar. They are collected, smuggled back to one’s cell, and cleaned. Some confectioners will melt all the flavors of candy into a massive mess of hot liquid sugar, while others take a more targeted and time consuming tactic by choosing two or three specific flavors to melt into what they perceive to be some kind of genius proprietary blend of taste sensations.

For many years I used to see a Q-tip, having been clipped of its fuzzy ends, stuck into the gooey concoction so that it hardened around the stick to create a proper sucker or lollipop. This has fallen out of fashion in recent years as consumers just want the sugar fix without the aesthetic affectation.

Constraints

The only things limiting any inventive sweet maker are the types of candy available for purchase on commissary, and the boundaries of their own imagination. Of course, with it being a business, and with one’s pride at stake, there can often be a healthy competitive aspect wherein the most unique or complex product is held in high esteem.

Varieties

Jolly Ranchers are sold at most every prison and are therefore usually the base for these bootleg bonbons. I have seen these melted and poured around a chewy chunk of now and later center. Spicy cinnamon fireballs have been used as a centerpiece atop the disc of reformed fruit candy. Powdered drink mix has been added to the recipe for color and flavor, and is often dusted across the surface of the finished product to make it less sticky and therefore easier to handle. Whatever the design, these treats are finally wrapped in squares of plastic garbage bag, tied off, and sold for fifty cents or a dollar depending on the size and complexity of the creation as well as market saturation. While these specialty items are completely harmless, they are, by any definition, most certainly contraband.

The Gunslinger

Any CO or other security staff member who has spent a year or more in corrections has most assuredly come across one of these manufactured morsels. Sergeant Shroder had close to thirty years on the job and seemed to gloat with a sickening satisfaction over his ability to flush out even the tiniest infraction of the rules. He moved with a stoop-shouldered, cock-hip shuffle with his hands at his sides like he was some kind of third-rate gunslinger in a B movie western. This cowboy impression was accentuated by the poor approximation of a bushy blond moustache. For some unknown but undoubtedly bizarre reason he managed to always smell like mustard. Shroder was universally disliked by the inmate population, and by all available accounts, he was viewed as a joke by many of his colleagues and had few fans amongst them.

Asinine

Each of the six men in the cell froze as Sergeant Shroder slowly ambled in with his congenial “Hello, gentlemen”, meant to disarm anyone who wasn’t already privy to his reputation. Slow in speech and manner, but his agile eyes missed little, and in this instance they fixed upon a couple colorful discs sitting on the shelf next to Flick, who was sitting on his bunk trying to project the perfect picture of innocence. Sergeant Shroder wasn’t buying it.

“What are these?” Shroder asked, cradling them in his palms and staring with a perplexed interest as if he had never before in his long DOC tenure encountered anything like them. Which, of course, he must surely had.

“Candy,” Flick replied with understandable unease and trepidation.

“They don’t sell these in commissary.”

“Ah, no. No. They’re . . . homemade.” Each word was distinct from the last, a verbal tiptoe through a minefield. Flick knew that the trap was set, but was helpless to do anything but play the scenario out.

“So you made it?” wily Shroder queried.

“Nope.”

“So then who made it?”

Flick was no snitch, so he replied not a word.

“Hmmm . . .” Sergeant Shroder examined the treats, making more inquisitive sounds and blowing exasperating breaths through the strands of his anemic stache before speaking again. “This looks like drugs to me.”

Flick’s face swiftly flipped through confusion and outrage before setting into acceptance that he was almost certainly screwed.

An Artisan

The name of the candy-maker in question began with the letter “S”, and he was one of Flick’s good buddies. Flick wasn’t about to rat him out, neither could he exactly dispute the fact that what Shroder held in his hand could be construed to somewhat resemble drugs. Fruit punch drink mix had been artfully swirled into the center of the colorful but largely translucent slab and could, theoretically, have been crushed up pills of some kind. Embedded into the surface of the candy was a single Skittle that had been painstakingly pressed into the confection as it began to harden so that the stamped “S” was clearly visible. It was the artisan’s signature. With a bit of stretch in logic and good sense it could also be perceived as a pill of some kind. The high quality craftsmanship of the candy was Flick’s undoing, but still he tried his best to dig himself out of a hole that Sergeant Shroder had thrown him in.

The Gunslinger Gets His Man 

“That’s not drugs, it’s just candy. Look, that’s a Skittle on top.”

“Well, I know you guys call pills Skittles sometimes. So, maybe it’s one of them kind. I’m no doctor.” Shroder was being deliberately dim, and it was working to get on Flick’s nerves.

“You don’t need to be a doctor,” Flick replied, not quite yelling, but almost. “It’s just candy, that’s all. Are you freaking kidding me!” Now he was yelling. “See look.” He snatched one of the sweets from Shroder, unwrapped it with a practiced twist and flip to deposit it on his tongue. “See? Candy,” he managed to mumble around the substantial chunk he had quickly shuttled into the hollow of his cheek.

Sergeant Shroder’s belligerent bullying ploy had worked, though in all likelihood once even the possibility of drugs was voiced, Flick was doomed to a seg-term, even if only for a brief time to investigate the “suspected illicit substance”.

Sergeant Shroder’s moustache twitched with delight as he smirked his satisfaction. “Destroying the evidence. That’s alright, I’ve got this other one.” Shroder’s fist closed around the second candy before dropping it into his shirt’s breast pocket. “We’ll see what this really is. Go ahead and turn around for me.” With that he reached for one of the four sets of handcuffs dangling from his belt, and in doing so, sealed Flick’s fate.

Fallout

This happened on a Friday, so Flick remained in segregation over a long holiday weekend. As soon as the details of the situation were heard by the adjustment committee and investigating officer on Tuesday, Flick was released and put right back into the same cell. Sergeant Shroder faced ridicule from all directions, but he received no type of censure for the egregious abuse of his authority.