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.

Unexpected Caregiver

Misunderstood

Ms. Thurman seemed to rub most people the wrong way. She was brusque, no-nonsense, and completely professional. From inmate to CO alike they largely thought she was just mean and bitchy. In my capacity as her clerk in the library, I worked the longest and most closely with her, and am therefore more qualified than any to report that this was a terrible misrepresentation.

Overcompensating

Since it was the first time working in the Department of Corrections, Ms. Thurman erred on the side of caution and was careful to never be overly, or overtly, friendly in her interaction with inmates. Surely her head had been filled with notions of hustling, conniving, slick, duplicitous convicts who prey on even a hint of humanity and kindness. I’ll not deny that these individuals exist in abundance behind prison walls, however, not every inmate fits that description.

My Approach

Many guys were offended by her attitude, but I had a different approach to the situation. I was there to do a job, not make friends or flirt. Which is good, because I am not actually gifted at either of these later two. She gave me a task to perform, I did it, then onto the next one. Simple. The more I proved my abilities I gained a degree of confidence and trust from her. This merely meant that she felt able to give me my marching orders and leave me to it without any concern that it wouldn’t be accomplished in a timely manner, and to her high standards.

No Delusions

I was never delusional enough to think that our blossoming mutual understanding and quick shorthand communication style was indicative of anything deeper than what it was—a surface workplace relationship between boss and employee. Many guys in prison are just that, delusional, and place an overabundance of significance on a look or gesture from a female staff member. While it is certainly true that some women have been charmed or tricked into some kind of relationship with inmates, these instances are, if not rare, at least uncommon. There was no way I could confuse or misinterpret Ms. Thurman’s behavior.

She would even periodically remind me that if I ever asked her for a personal favor she would replace me. I did not doubt her. I didn’t know anything about her, though I believe she was perhaps only a few years older than me. We shared our book interests with one another, suggested titles for each other to read, and talked about what we were currently reading. That’s about as “personal” as we ever got. Her strict adherence to a clearly defined purely professional relationship made her fleeting foray into maternal territory all the more unusual.

Hazards of the Trade

Working in the library, my fingers and hands became gnarled by paper cuts and staple jabs along with other various slices, stabs, and injustices. It was just something that came with the territory. Unfortunately, for some inexplicable reason, Band Aids (or adhesive bandages if you prefer the non-name brand) in prison are about as common as a unicorn horn. Therefore I often had to walk about wounded and uncovered.

On this particular day I arrived at work with an ugly looking gash on my right middle finger where an unusually sharp-edged cardboard box the day before had caught me off-guard and left me with this particular war wound. It ran from the corner of the nail to the cuticle, leaving a fragile and sensitive flap of skin just waiting to get snagged on everything with which I came into contact. When I reported the cause of my laceration to Ms. Thurman in response to her asking about it, she just snorted out a sound that I interpreted as derisive. She herself often sported Band Aids to cover her frequent minor injuries, so I didn’t understand her scorn, but I merely shrugged and went about my responsibilities.

Fancy Disinfection

Within a couple minutes Ms. Thurman appeared in the doorway of the library with antibiotic soap in her hand. She gave it to me with instructions to take it to the bathroom and wash my hands thoroughly—especially the wound on my finger—and then meet her in her office. The bottle was shaped like an arrowhead with a pump dispenser and was the fanciest product I’d held in my hands in close to a decade and a half. It was rose-colored and smelled of raspberries. I could’ve sold it for five bucks back in my cell house. Five bucks, easy. Even with it barely more than half full. I washed as instructed and headed for the office.

First Aid

Ms. Thurman took the soap from me and pointed wordlessly to her desk where the blotter had been vacated of everything but a small crimped tube of antibiotic ointment and a single Band Aid. I looked back at her and thanked her with a greater depth of gratitude than I’d initially realized I’d felt. She merely nodded and stepped outside.

Small But Significant

Perhaps it seems like nothing much, but Ms. Thurman had crossed an invisible barrier with her actions. Not a major one in the grand scheme of things, but to me it was touching to know that she cared, that I’d had an influence on her perception of prison inmates. However small an influence. Putting the bandage on myself was so far removed from my notion of normalcy, and coupled with Ms. Thurman’s uncharacteristically “unprofessional” behavior, the entire encounter seemed strangely surreal to me.

Abnormal Appetite

“Hey! Stop that! Cut it out. You better leave it alone before it falls off.” CO Bogey grinned to himself at his consummately clever witticism. He believed he had caught an inmate masturbating. He was wrong.

Not Just Another Day

Bogey was doing his rounds and checking the cells which housed inmates with especially serious mental health issues. These individuals were the most disturbed, which inevitable led to aberrant behavior that necessitated disciplinary action taken against them. This combination mental health and segregation housing unit was the most high risk assignment for an officer, and one that many dreaded.

Bogey had spent two tours in Afghanistan fighting for the US Army so he had a different perspective on the assignment. He felt it was rarely boring, always kept him on his toes. He liked that.

This particular day as he walked past cell 19 he saw the inmate inside with his back to the door, his shoulders hunched and head down with no hands in sight. Catching inmates in the act of masturbating was so common that it had become routine. It’s not exactly illegal, but it is discouraged, especially amongst the mentally ill populace who can be prone to turning an act of self-pleasure into an act of self-harming. In his initial assessment CO Bogey believed he had walked up on the former, but soon learned it was the later.

Not Stroking

Huddled near the back of his cell, the inmate’s head, neck, shoulders and upper back all shivered with exertion. His head was bent forward at an extreme angle which Bogey didn’t understand, but neither did he spend any time pondering it.

“Hey! I said quit stroking it. You hear me? Cut it out.” There was no response or change in his behavior to indicate that he had in fact heard the officer. Bogey sidled the few steps to the cell door and banged on it with the flat of his hand. “Hey!” The offender spun and bared his bloody teeth with a feral growl. Bogey instinctively recoiled half a step while cursing voluminously and involuntarily. Despite his numerous and brutal experiences during his time in the army as well as his years as a correctional officer, Bogey was momentarily dumbstruck. Then it got worse.

Macabre Meal

The inmate raised his arm to his mouth, this time remaining erect so he could maintain eye contact with Bogey as he gnawed at the soft flesh of his inner forearm. He managed to tear a chunk free from his body and gulped noisily until he had succeeded in swallowing it. This was a new one for Bogey. He had witnessed self-mutilation too many times to count, it being an even more prevalent pastime than masturbation amongst those inmates with severe mental illness. He had never before, however, seen another man eating himself.

At A Loss

It took a few moments of watching the surreal scene before Bogey finally snapped back to some semblance of his senses. “Hey, stop it,” he voiced weakly with zero of the booming authority of which I knew him to be capable. The inmate continued to chew unabated. Bogey took a breath and regained a bit of his backbone. “I said stop!” The inmate merely slowed, his efforts at self-mastication losing some of the previous gusto. Bogey keyed the button on his radio to transmit. There was a burst of static and Bogey opened his mouth to send out a call for help, but said nothing. There was no code or protocol for what he was seeing. Finally after several eternal moments of dead air, he spoke.

“Ah, Lieutenant . . . I’ve got a guy, he’s . . . ah, eating himself?” His voice went up at the end to form it into a question. In truth Bogey was still having trouble putting a label on exactly what was happening. The real trouble though was that Bogey had a well-deserved reputation for being a joker and smartass. This meant that his call for help went unanswered.

Assistance At Last

After yelling at the biter again Bogey finally got him to stop chomping, but only after he had swallowed another piece of himself. Anger and frustration put a razor’s edge to his voice when next he keyed the radio. “I need a lieutenant and assistance. This is a medical emergency. I have an inmate, he’s, he’s bleeding a lot. He’s hurting himself.” There was a pause pregnant with silence and dread before a crackling static response came along with a voice which was purely professional, nearly to the point of seeming bored. To Bogey it was the sound of salvation.

Inside of a minute two lieutenants and five COs arrived to assist. The inmate was swiftly cuffed and subdued so he could no longer harm himself, and medical staff was on their way. With the situation under control, the officers stood around cracking jokes about Bogey’s initial call for help when he said the guy was eating himself. Apparently they had all heard it and thought it was a hilarious hoax.

The bloody and bizarre incident became just another story they could add to their repertoire of crazy tales in the life of a Correctional Officer.

Losses

In five days I will lose my best friend. Or, at least, my current best friend. I’ve been through more than a few.

The Early Ones

My first best friend I met on day one of kindergarten when I helped him stop crying. He missed his Mommy. That lasted through third grade. A Greek kid came next. His Mom let me eat pizza from their family restaurant/bar for free. After a couple of years a Little League baseball buddy of mine took the top spot followed in about nine months by an adopted Korean guy adrift in a Midwest sea of cornfields.

High school witnessed me becoming more of an extrovert and I had many acquaintances and good friends, but only one was deemed best. He would later go on to date and nearly marry the woman who was my first real love. For a long time this felt like a betrayal, but time tends to dull teenage ire and I harbor no ill will.

Burgeoning Adulthood

Onto college with the inevitable cusp of being considered an “adult”, and I had two buddies who were holdovers from high school. I grew closer to one than the other and on the day of my arrest, after knowing him for close to six years, he held the distinction of being my longest continuing friend relationship. A few days after my arrest I talked to him on the phone and he seemed full of concern, support and caring. He said he would visit on the weekend and drop off some books for me. It has been fourteen plus years, and I’ve yet to get those books or see his face. I’ve reached out to him, and some of my other friends, but to no avail. My best friend track record is disastrous at best.

Heightened Circumstances

Friendships found in prison are somewhat different. The elevated stress levels behind prison walls create a kind of permanent foxhole situation where bonds are formed swiftly and are deeply felt. There is common ground, namely the pain and shame of being excommunicated from family, friends, and civilized society. It can also be said that we all feel like we were abused in some way by the criminal justice system.

Having been entrenched in the system for going on a decade and a half I can attest that it is a broken system. Whether an individual is completely guilty, wholly innocent, or caught somewhere in the gray area spectrum, which includes varying degrees of culpability, it is true more often than not that abuse on the part of authority has most certainly occurred. This reality tends to breed an attitude that it is us against them. Inmates versus all authority. However, for my friend BD and me, it was a mutual love of the music of a certain Mr. Robert Zimmerman that both instantaneously began and cemented our friendship.

Dylan Fans Unite

I haven’t come across many Bob Dylan fans during my incarcerated years, and certainly like BD, who could converse with wit and intelligence on the life, times and genius of Bob Dylan. This topic turned out to be merely a foundation for a deepening relationship. Brick by brick we added to it with a shared passion for an abundant and diverse amount of musical tastes as well as common levels of both reading and creative writing.

Our personalities meshed rather wonderfully, and we each became the person the other could go to if any baggage or psychological garbage needed to be unloaded. We grew to depend on each other. What began as a tentative talk around Bob Dylan designed entirely to gauge one another’s degree of devotion to the enigmatic troubadour eventually blossomed into a full-fledged and fully invested friendship. BD could always be counted on for a thoughtful and intelligent dialogue on a wide array of subjects. This is a rare and precious quality in the environment of a prison. I have seen and spoken to BD nearly every single day for the past four years. Now he’s leaving me.

My Back Pages Revisited

I’ve had several good buddies while locked up. They all leave me. Most go home. It’s bittersweet to say the least. I can’t be sure if it’s due to the depth of our connection, or an accumulation of each and every loss I’ve endured, but this time it’s more keenly felt.

When someone goes home I have no contact with him. Can’t call. Can’t write. To do so would be a violation of his parole agreement which could land him right back in prison. Sometimes rumors work their way around that are of dubious veracity at best. There’s a strange dichotomy which occurs because I’m happy to see him get out, and wish my friend all the best, but I’d like to see him again. Unfortunately the only way to see him is if he gets in trouble and comes back.

I must therefore languish in the land of incommunicado and move on with prison life, trying all the while not to let these losses create a callous over my heart which prohibits me from caring about the next person who comes along. Whether he’s a Bob Dylan fan or not. Although that could be a deal-breaker.

After all: I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

Injustice for All

 

Sonny was an older black man, in his mid-sixties, and walked with a slow, loping limp. He didn’t move very swiftly. This particular stint in Segregation for Sonny was because he had mouthed off to the wrong C/O. Other officers might have just talked some shit right back to him and that would’ve been the end of it. Instead, the C/O took it personally, and Sonny was said to be insolent. “Insolence” can be a serious infraction of the rules, but not enough to take a guy to Seg. However, when Sonny refused to turn around to be handcuffed, it was “disobeying a direct order,” which was grounds to be marched to Seg. During Sonny’s first week he hadn’t made any kind of fuss. Not yet.

sbrookscareers.blogspot.com
sbrookscareers.blogspot.com

Aggressor
Officer Selleff was a real sonofabitch. That’s actually the nicest thing I can say about him. He was young, white, muscular, fit. He’d been in the military and had a real gung-ho, go-get-’em attitude. He had applied to be a police officer, but they didn’t want him, so he became a glorified babysitter to convicted felons. In his warped mind, he was the hero and we, his wards, were the enemy.

Selleff abused his authority at every turn by confiscating property that was perfectly allowed, and denying inmates that which was legally mandated to them. He verbally abused inmates constantly, harassing and insulting them with slurs against their race, ethnicity, and sexual orientation.

Numerous complaints and grievances had already been lodged against Officer Selleff. He had been reprimanded by superiors and moved around to several different buildings, but nothing seemed to curb his overzealous and caustic behavior. He’d been a correctional officer for about nine months and hadn’t physically assaulted an inmate. Not yet.

Extraction
With his black tactical gloves on and another officer in tow, it was clear that C/O Selleff meant business as he strode towards Sonny’s door. An officious and absurdly aggressive bellow rattled from his chest ordering Sonny to turn around and walk backwards to the door to be handcuffed for a shakedown. Sonny was in no hurry and took his time obeying Selleff’s commands. Selleff positively buzzed with anxious impatience, hopping back and forth from foot to foot like a giddy child on Christmas morning.

“C’mon! Hurry up, you old fuck!” he blurted like the empowered bully that he was.

Selleff let the trapdoor of the chuckhole slam open and Sonny complied by sticking his hands out through the opening to be cuffed together behind his back. Selleff derived a twisted pleasure and sick glee from clicking the steel together over Sonny’s slack flesh. With Sonny secured, Selleff opened the door and pulled Sonny out of the cell by grabbing the cuffs and lifting Sonny’s arms up high behind his back before yanking with enough force to make Sonny holler in pain. Sonny cussed at Selleff, which only seemed to encourage his tyrant instinct, and he raised Sonny’s cuffs even higher so Sonny had to bend at the waist in an effort to alleviate some of the pressure on his shoulders and upper back. It was in this vulnerable position that Selleff then propelled Sonny forward face first into the wall next to the open door of the cell.

photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net
photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Initial Assault
There was a loud, hollow conking sound and a grunt from Sonny. “Keep your face to the wall,” Selleff ordered before pressing Sonny’s face against the cinder block wall for emphasis. The other C/O entered Sonny’s cell and Selleff followed. Sounds of things being roughly searched and tossed around echoed throughout the cell block. Sonny was leaning heavily against the wall and seemed to be dazed. Eventually he steadied himself on his feet and ventured to peek around the edge of the doorframe. He watched for a few moments before he couldn’t hold back his remarks any longer.

“C’mon man, you don’t gotta do all that.” In Seg, an inmate’s property is limited to a couple changes of clothes, hygiene items, and sometimes books, magazines, personal letters, and letter-writing materials. I say “sometimes” for these latter items because an inmate is entitled to them, but isn’t always given them out of their correspondence box. If a C/O assigned to Seg doesn’t feel like doing it, and inmate will have only the nothingness of pure thought to occupy his mind. There wasn’t much for Selleff and his cohort to search, but they were going through it as thoroughly as humanly possible, scattering what little there was around the cell in a callous and haphazard fashion. Despite that fact, Sonny would’ve been better off keeping his grip to himself.

“What did I say?!!!” Selleff brayed as he came barreling out of the cell. “Face to the wall!” He grabbed Sonny by the back of the neck with his left hand and lifted up on the handcuffs with his right hand. Sonny voiced some feeble, inarticulate protests that were largely muffled by his face being pressed forcibly to the wall.

Sonny’s body was perhaps two feet from the wall but he was being leaned forward so his face was against the cold cinder blocks. Selleff lifted Sonny’s cuffed hands even higher which forced his face even harder into the wall and caused excruciating pain to his shoulder sockets. Sonny raised his leg and swung it backwards. This was either done in an effort to maintain his balance, or as a feeble attempt to kick Selleff. The result of his actions was that his foot brushed Selleff’s leg with all the force of a feather duster being wielded by an infant. Selleff erupted.

Second Assault
“He kicked me! He kicked me!” Selleff screamed, which brought the other C/O rushing out to assist his fellow correctional officer. Selleff’s accomplice grabbed Sonny in a side hug, clamping his arms down and standing him upright. Selleff had backed away a few feet, but once Sonny was secured, he charged forward and shoved Sonny into the wall before beginning to punch him in the back, side, and ribs repeatedly. The second officer had a look of shock plastered stupidly across his face, but he held tightly to Sonny—the human punching bag—and said nothing in the way of protest.

punchingbag_leatherAfter a dozen or more blows, Selleff ceased his topside assault and began kicking at Sonny’s legs until Sonny fell against the officer holding him. The C/O let go and backed away so Sonny careened sideways and crashed onto his shoulder and side, his cuffed arms unable to break his fall. A loud scrunching sound accompanied this collapse. Selleff pounced upon Sonny, kicking and stomping his unprotected body while raving obscenities and racial slurs in an unceasing litany of hate. The other officer retreated, wearing a mask of bewilderment and fear, but he didn’t possess the integrity to step in and stop what was obviously wrong.

With a final barrage of boots to Sonny’s back and side, Selleff crowed, “That’s what you get for kicking me, you little bitch.” He stood over his motionless victim for a moment, panting like a wild animal, as he tried to catch his breath. Eventually he motioned for his partner in crime to assist him in dragging Sonny’s awake but inert body into the cell before slamming the door with a resounding finality. Sonny was left in the cell for several hours, still handcuffed, before finally being taken to Healthcare in a wheelchair.

Travesty
There was an investigation. This inquiry was initiated and carried out by the Internal Affairs division, whose role is to police both staff and inmates in order to ensure the safety and security of everyone, as well as to prevent or punish any infractions of the rules or codes of conduct. Officer Selleff was given a one-week leave of absence, with pay, while IA carried out their audit. In the end, Sonny was given a year across the board. This means he had to spend a year in Seg, and a year was added to his sentence. There is no evidence that Selleff was held accountable or punished by any official means. He remained at his post in Seg for a while before being moved around to different areas as he continued to antagonize inmates, other staff members, and superiors alike. Eventually Selleff was transferred to work at another prison, but I don’t know whether or not this was at his own request. To my knowledge, he is still a correctional officer.

Abuse of Authority

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Crockett had a relatively legitimate complaint, but he went about seeking relief for his issue in the entirely wrong way. First, he began by cussing out the two C/Os who refused to let him out of his cell to use the phone—never a good opening tactic.

It was Crockett’s scheduled day for a phone call—one of three allotted per week—but his appointed time had been on first shift. He had requested that the first-shift officer leave a notation for his second-shift replacement to allow Crockett to use the phone on second shift, since he had been unable to get through to anyone. While this practice is perfectly acceptable, it is also understood that the final decision is the second shift officer’s to make. In this instance, the C/O flatly refused Crockett’s request. Specifically, he laughed at Crockett and informed him that he was “fucked out of luck.” The C/O’s coworker joined in the laughter. Not precisely professional of them, or respectful for that matter. C/Os sometimes revel in their tiny piece of power and abuse their authority. It’s not uncommon. Crockett didn’t handle this well.

photo by renjith krishnan www.freedigitalphotos.net
photo by renjith krishnan
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

After returning the officer’s curse words, Crockett upped the ante from his side of the cell door by verbally threatening both of the C/Os with a violent assault. The two C/Os continued to laugh at him as if he were some sort of ineffectual caged beast, which in essence he was. However, he would not be in his cell forever. Crockett was not a tiny guy. He had been locked up almost fifteen years and had a body built by the weight pile. He was also no stranger to violence; he had been transferred from his previous facility for fighting. The two C/Os didn’t seem to think, or care, about any of that.

Having gotten no rhythm with his threats, Crockett engaged in an ill-conceived and hasty act of desperation by demanding to see a white shirt. By doing this, he escalated the situation. As it stood, before getting a lieutenant involved, his cussing and threats could just be chalked up to angry frustration—merely blowing off steam—and ignored. But the presence of a lieutenant would almost certainly end in Crockett getting walked to Seg. The two officers’ unprofessional conduct and goading of Crockett wouldn’t matter. In fact, it probably wouldn’t even be mentioned. Crockett had threatened a correctional officer; whether provoked or not, it’s not an infraction taken lightly by the powers that be. Foolishly, Crockett thought he could reason with the loo and make him see his side of the story. Seg was populated with similarly foolish individuals.

Lieutenant Kardinsky carried himself with the bearing of a fighter entering the fray. This may be why it was rumored that he competed in mixed martial arts competitions, and while none of us inmates had any way to know whether there was any truth to those rumors, most of us believed it. Nothing about him left the impression that he had any patience for people’s bullshit.

What’s your problem?” he said as he walked straight up to Crockett’s door, after conferring confidentially with the two C/Os who had so offended the offender.

Crockett did his little song and dance, explaining the phone issue and how the C/Os had laughed and cussed at him, which had only provoked him.

Lieutenant Kardinsky waited for him to stop talking, though I’m not convinced he actually listened to a word Crockett said. “So you threatened my officers?” he asked Crockett, who had just admitted to having yelled and cussed at them.

www.freedigitalphotos.net
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

Crockett began his explanation over again, beginning with the fact that he couldn’t reach anyone at his scheduled phone call time.

The loo cut him off.

I don’t give a shit,” he declared derisively. “You threatened my officers,” he repeated, this time as a statement of fact, as he unlocked the chuck hole door and let it slam open on its hinges, like a tiny drawbridge. “Turn around and cuff up, you’re going to Seg.”

Crockett’s cellie was at work in the chow hall, so at least they wouldn’t have to deal with the logistics of removing the cellie first, as per protocol. But that was a dim and distant blessing. As for Lieutenant Kardinsky’s order for him to submit to being handcuffed, Crockett didn’t handle that very well either.

What the fuck!!?” he boomed in the lieutenant’s face, forcing him to take a couple half steps back from the cell door. “This is some bullshit!”

What did you think was going to happen?” Lieutenant Kardinsky asked incredulously, which also happened to be the most reasonable and logical thing I’d heard him say.

But they laughed at me! I want my phone call!” Crockett whined like a petulant, cranky child fighting against the inevitability of naptime. In an instant, he turned livid. “You bitch!” he bellowed through the door’s perforated steel grate. “All of you!” he continued, “You’re all a bunch of pussy little bitches! Hiding behind this door, behind your badges. If I ever caught you in the world, and you didn’t have that shirt on to protect you, I’d beat your little bitch ass!”

Crockett was unraveling; he had become unhinged. Either that, or he had pretty much resigned himself to the fact that Seg was a foregone conclusion and had decided to take the scorched earth approach and sizzle any diplomatic-type bridge he might have been able to cross. Lieutenant Kardinsky slammed the chuck hole closed and walked off to confer with the two C/Os who were standing witness to it all.

photo by nixxphotography www.freedigitalphotos.net
photo by nixxphotography
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

After a brief exchange, the lieutenant removed his radio from his belt and handed it to one of the C/Os, followed by his belt, which carried his handcuffs, keys, and canister of pepper spray. Then he took off his white shirt. Beneath it, he wore a tight black T-shirt that was so form-fitting it appeared to have been spray-painted on him. It accentuated his muscular, ropy physique impressively and served to intimidate. At least, I know I felt intimidated—not to mention bewildered by what was unfolding. I felt fearful for Crockett’s immediate well-being.

Having divested himself of all mantles of authority, Kardinsky returned to Crockett’s cell. “I don’t have my shirt on anymore. What do you want to do?”

Crockett was initially dumbstruck, but quickly regained his bravado. “Bullshit! You ain’t gonna do nothing. Your buddies will help you if you open this door.”

“No,” Kardinsky countered quickly, “They’re not going to do anything. I come in and we see what happens. If you beat me, you beat me. If I beat you, it ends there: no Seg time, no grievances. Deal?”

Crockett let out a harsh, hollow laugh of disbelief.

Bullshit,” he pronounced once more.

Roll the door,” was all Kardinsky said. One of the C/Os gestured to the bubble officer, and the electronic lock buzzed open. Kardinsky slipped inside the cell and closed the door behind him, locking them both inside.

There was a short, muted conversation that was unintelligible, then nothing but the sounds of violence for several minutes. After a brief lull, Kardinsky appeared at the door and banged his fist against it three times. “Open the door!” he yelled to his officers, who duly came running. Kardinsky didn’t sound frantic, or even particularly winded.

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http://www.ibtimes.co.uk

He dragged Crockett out by his armpits and dropped him in a heap in the middle of the gallery. Crockett wasn’t unconscious, but was clearly dazed and bloodied; Kardinsky didn’t seem to have a scratch on him. Kardinsky snatched his handcuffs from his belt, which was slung over one of the C/Os shoulders. With his heavy black boot, he connected viciously with Crockett’s defenseless ribs, which sent his supine body rolling onto its side. Using his boot, Kardinsky rolled him over the rest of the way onto his stomach. Once Crockett was positioned to Kardinsky’s satisfaction, he pulled Crockett’s arms behind his back one at a time and clicked the handcuffs tightly to his wrists. Crockett slurred some curse that sounded something like “sunufabisch” and Kardinsky stomped his spine as if he were dispatching a spider; Crockett howled in understandable agony.

Kardinsky took his time putting himself back together. He put on his white shirt, buttoned it, tucked it in, then returned his belt to his waist before checking to ensure everything was where it should be. Lastly he replaced his radio, which he retrieved from the C/O he had entrusted it to. Throughout all this, Crockett lay mostly still and quiet, except for the odd, errant moan or grunt of discomfort. Lieutenant Kardinsky mumbled something to his subordinates before heading toward the door of the deck, where he stood watch and waited.

The two C/Os had a silent conference of head nods and gesticulation before circling Crockett’s body. One of them grabbed the handcuffs and pulled so that Crockett was yanked back and his head and torso forced off of the floor. It was as if he were being folded in half backwards. He grimaced and yelled in pain. When the other C/O took his canister of pepper spray and unloaded a blast right into Crockett’s defenseless face from a foot away, Crockett really began to holler. The two C/Os scurried off, coughing, and exited the deck along with Lieutenant Kardinsky. Crockett was left to scream and writhe in burning agony for nearly half an hour before finally being hauled away to Seg. He only managed to stumble blindly and uselessly around the deck, seeking some type of aid, care, or comfort, but he found none. His whimpering screams of pain and helpless pleadings for assistance are something I’ll never be able to forget.

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No Talk

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This excerpt is from Candy and Blood, available on Amazon.com now.

Standing just two and a half feet away, my new cellie began badmouthing me through the chuck hole in the door.

Yeah bro, they all lamers. Ain’t none of ‘em a convict. I’m sick of cellies who don’t know how to bit. His fat ass don’t workout; no job. Why do I gotta get stuck with him? Pisses me off! You know, all I gotta do is pull out my juice card with that loo and dude’s dumb ass is gone. I’m trying to be easy though, and I don’t wanna have to go there. You feel me? I’ll tell you what, though, he’d best just walk himself like my last cellies before I swing on him and end up thumping him til the white meat show.”

photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net
photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Although he was talking to a porter on the other side of the cell door, it was mostly for my benefit, since it would’ve been impossible for me not to hear every word he said. His thinly-veiled threats and their attendant sentiments weren’t much in the spirit of the season, and they certainly weren’t the Christmas present I had hoped for.

I’d known Tory for only nine days, and we hadn’t exactly hit it off. He didn’t like that I woke up so early in the morning. But I wasn’t a fan of his three-hour-long workout routines that got the cell hot and musty and basically trapped me on my top bunk, out of his way. He didn’t like that I had no job and wasn’t in school, which gave him no time to himself in the cell. He didn’t understand that I had just completed the college course I’d been enrolled in, and that I’d had a job as a porter before being relocated against my wishes to his cell in a new house. I tried to be patient and explain our differences with the logic that we had both been down a while and were used to having things our own way.

His conversation at the cell door changed everything.

It’s not like we’d been a couple of chatterboxes up to that point, but after Tory let his true feelings be known, we were on no talk. His passive-aggressive tactics were accompanied by periodic glances in my direction as he mean mugged me with scowls of disdain and hatred. After two days of angry glares and utter silence between the two of us, and just as our souring relationship reached its most tenuous point, the joint was put on lockdown.

For twelve days, the only moment we had apart from one another was the one time we were cuffed and marched to separate showers. Not a single syllable was uttered between us, and there was nothing even remotely comfortable about our silence. In prison, certain small courtesies are taken as granted between cellies subsisting on meals on wheels and dealing with a toilet on a timer. A simple “thanks” or “gratitude” as one cellie passes a tray to another is customary. Early in the morning, when bladders are full after a night’s sleep, the proper protocol is to ask one’s cellie if they need to use the toilet before you flush it. These common kindnesses were nonexistent between us.

Our cell’s atmosphere was rife with violence just waiting to erupt. I greeted Tory’s every look and movement with suspicion and tightened muscles. I was ready to spring into action if the need to defend myself arose. My guts were in a constant state of turmoil, twisting and churning with a steady drip of anxious adrenaline and the dread of anticipation. It felt like I was caged with an animal, a predator ready to turn me into its prey. Tory was taller than me and much more muscular. To say that my chances in a fight with him, especially a fair one, were not good would be an enormous and egregious understatement.

He started talking out loud to his TV. Then he began directing mumbled curses and threats at me, and I found myself strategizing about the inevitable confrontation.

teeth-mike-tyson-400a071807_46750172Being on the top bunk, I figured I had the higher ground and, therefore, the upper hand. At the very least, it was a position I could use to my advantage. I played scenarios in my head, trying to come up with one that didn’t end with me completely beaten and contused. By my estimation, after a kick to his face, my best strategy would be to recruit gravity and simply crush him with my ample bodyweight with as little dignity and decorum as possible. Having completed that complex maneuver, the plan would be similarly simple: avoid his fists and if the opportunity presented itself, punch his unprotected face. As a last resort, I’d do my best to impersonate Mike Tyson in his infamous bout with Evander Holyfield. With all my infinite powers of imagination, that was my master plan, the best I could come up with. Thankfully, it never came to that.

The constant tension and terror, the endless looking over my shoulder, and the fear he would jump me at any moment finally found some release when the lockdown was lifted. Inside the cell, we still spoke not a word, but at least we had a few minutes or as much as an hour when we didn’t have to be in each other’s face. This didn’t solve the problem, and I hated daydreaming about my fantasy of violence that I dreaded having to put into action. Even if I defied the odds and emerged victorious from an altercation between the two of us, our tiny cell was comprised solely of concrete and steel. We both would’ve incurred injuries and earned a stint in Seg—not to mention the inevitable loss of property that comes with a trip there, as one’s box passes from one set of sticky fingers to another.

After nineteen long days of uncomfortable quiet, Tory was suddenly told to pack his belongings. His appeal had been granted; he was going home the next day. The morning of our twentieth day on no talk was my birthday, and with 45 minutes left on his prison sentence, Tory suddenly became the talkative, good-natured guy I had never known him to be.

He started talking directly to me, and he went on and on effusively about how I’m doing my time well. He encouraged me to just keep behaving the way I had been. According to him, my final decade of prison would just fly right by if I stuck to my same routine—the same behaviors that, an hour before, he had regarded with antipathy. He acted magnanimously, as if he was speaking from a place of great wisdom and understanding, even though he’d only been down a couple years longer than I had.

When Tory finally left, he wished me luck. I thanked him, told him to be good. All the insane and illogical animosity evacuated the cell with him. I could breathe easily; at last, I could take a deep breath unhindered. It was as if I’d been holding my breath for the better part of a month. Tory’s departure still stands as the best birthday present I’ve ever had in prison. Then, as was the institutional practice at the time, my commissary order was delivered right to my cell. Due to the lockdown and the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, it had been well over a month since the last commissary, so it was perfect timing. I was able to re-up on the essentials of coffee and hygiene items, as well as get some extra food. I spent the rest of my special day in relaxation, watching a couple of my favorite TV shows, and making a celebratory meal for myself. It was a beautiful, uplifting, and joyful day—especially after so many filled with worry and strain.

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