Standard Procedure

I had already been awake for hours when the lieutenant with an ample bottom (not a compliment) and an overdeveloped Napoleon complex entered my cell with her customary swagger. Prior to her promotion she had been just another anonymous and largely forgettable CO. Since donning the mantle of authority that is the white shirt of a lieutenant’s uniform, she hadn’t merely perfected her officious prick attitude, but had taken it to a new and rarely seen heights. Lieutenant Jooty’s antagonistic attitude had the effect of terrorizing and bullying inmates and COs both so that her abuse of authority went largely unchecked. Having her in my cell so early, before inmate movement had even begun for the day, was neither pleasant nor a good sign. I wasn’t worried, however, as I knew I had done nothing wrong.

Rude Awakening

“Everybody up! Up, up, up. Get up! Put on your blues and step out. C’mon. Up!”

Standing just inside the cell door she shrieked, jolting my three cellies from their slumber and raising them into the fresh hell that is being in her presence. Lieutenant Jooty was blocking the hook on the wall where my standard issue prison uniform (my blues) were hanging. I indicated with my arm and meekly mumbled that I had to get by to get my blues. She moved an inch or two, forcing me to reach past her, trapped between her and the wall. Our bodies nearly pressed into one another. Mere millimeters, no more a hair’s breadth separated us. She would not back down. I was plastered against the wall as much as possible.

Thank You, No

After over fifteen years of incarceration at the time, perhaps the intimate touch of a woman, however counterfeit, would me most desirable. Not so much. Lieutenant Jooty’s foul, sour demeanor rendered her thoroughly unattractive to me. The real possibility that I’d be punished for unintentionally touching her made my predicament both unwanted and uncomfortable. On top of which, she looked a lot a Treasure Troll. Her bubble butt with pants that were too small stretched across it always reminded me of a soggy saggy diaper and added to overall troll-like shape. The short shock of obviously unnatural platinum bottled blond sitting in a poof on top of her head insured she very seriously resembled the little novelty dolls which were all the rage again for about five minutes in the early to mid-nineties.

Thankfully, I retrieved my blues without incident. Then I had to strip to my underwear in front of her. An unnecessary indignity, but LT Jooty loved to assert her dominance. Most officers I spoke to had nothing complimentary to say about her. Once everyone was dressed, we were ushered out one at a time to the shower room and promptly made to strip. Having confirmed that we had nothing concealed on our person we were handcuffed and deposited in the dayroom. The same procedure was performed on the four men in the cell next to ours with whom we share an adjoining bathroom. There were several officers assisting with the operation. Some were Internal Affairs, some weren’t. None would breathe a hint of what it was all about. Lieutenant Jooty sneered her disapproval over everyone. Once we were all secured in the dayroom, they began to whisk us away in minivans two at a time to Segregation.

Seg Explanation

Eight of us sat on plastic chairs in a half-circle, still handcuffed, facing Lieutenant Moreno—the head of Internal Affairs. He was a slim, lightly muscled Latino with an immaculate jet-black short haircut and Van Dyke, who was severe and all business.

“Alright guys, we’re going to administer urine tests. You’ll go one at a time, with CO Breier.” He nodded to a man to his left; white, stout, muscular, nothing but eyebrows and lashes so that gleaming pate greatly resembled a bowling ball. “You’ll fill the cup to the line, then come have a seat again. These tests just take a few minutes. Once we have results we’ll be putting you in cells and pulling you out to talk. As long as you come back clean you’ve got nothing to worry about. You can have a drink of water now, and then again every thirty minutes. If you can’t pee after two hours, well, let’s hope we don’t have to go there.”

Everyone assembled in cuffs had been in prison long enough to know that anyone who doesn’t pee within the two hours is presumed guilty and their visit to Seg would turn into a more permanent placement.

“So, guys, anyone want to try their luck with the cup?” Lieutenant Moreno grinned wide, and it was almost warm, but his eyes were hard, reptilian. I got the distinct impression that he would be much more pleased with a dirty drop than a clean one.

First Volunteer

My neighbor Taz jumped up. “C’mon man, ya’ll woke me and drag me out for this bullshit. I got ta piss.” He was shuffling, knees together, toward CO Breier as he spoke. They headed down the hallway to an unoccupied cell. The rest of us took turns being escorted by LT Moreno to the water fountain for as many gulps as we could manage before being returned to our seat. Then we waited.

It had only been about a month and a half since I’d been released from Segregation after spending nineteen days there for unfounded charges which were eventually expunged. I was intimately acquainted with the propensity for rampant injustice. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

Standard Procedure

“Lieutenant Moreno, can I ask you a question?” He just held my gaze and I took it for assent. “Why us? Why today?”

His answer was said with a straight face, neutral tone, still all business. “It’s standard procedure to administer piss tests. We received information that there was marijuana smoke from the area around your cells. What do you know about that? You know anybody smoking weed?”

I smiled and laughed a little at his brazen directness. “No, no,” I replied. “So what happens when we come back clean? I mean what happens to your CI?” LT Moreno raised his exquisite eyebrows and twisted his mouth at my use of the informal abbreviation for Confidential Informant—the most polite and official designation for a snitch. I pressed forward. “When your CI is proved to be a liar what are the consequences for him?” I was raising my voice just a touch, getting worked up. “I mean, we’re here in Seg, all for a lie.”

“It’s not a lie. Somebody’s dirty.” Lieutenant Moreno seemed to smile just slightly. “And the information wasn’t from a Confidential Informant. It came from another CO. So, I know someone’s dirty.”

I nearly burst with indignation.

Belligerent

“No, that’s even worse! Are you serious? Now what happens when it turns out that this CO is lying? What’s his accountability? What are the consequences for him? Or is a CO just allowed to make any bogus claims and you believe it?” That cut through his confidence and made a mark. I kept at it. “I was just in Seg because staff lied on me. I stayed for nineteen days because they continued to lie. Lieutenants didn’t do their job and lied too.”

“I can see what you’re doing. I know what your trying to do. You want me to admit that officers don’t always tell the truth, but . . .”

“No,” I cut him off. “I don’t care what you say or what you admit. I know that you’re liars.”

His professional neutrality vanished. “You want to stop talking now.” It was an order, not a request or suggestion—it also felt like a threat.

“Don’t worry, you can read about it,” I spat back.

“Read about it?”

“Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

“Read about it?” He sounded threatened.

“Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

“You filing a lawsuit?”

“Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

I was being deliberately belligerent. Getting louder and more insistent with each repetition. Two of my cellies I had known and lived with for close to three years. Lengthy cohabitation had made effective non-verbal communication second nature to us. Both of them were aggressively conveying to me that, for my own good, I needed to immediately shut up. I noticed them, but my temper was up, and I was a bull seeing red at this point, chasing blindly.

“Behind Prison Walls dot com. Behind Prison Walls dot com. Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

“You want to stop now.”

“You can read about it at Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

“I can see that this is going to turn into something else.”

“Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

“You can come back for a piss test . . .”

“You can read about it.”

“. . . but you keep it up . . .”

“Behind Prison Walls dot com.”

“. . . and you’re going to stay in Seg . . .”

“Behind Prison Walls.”

“. . . for insolence and disobeying a direct order.”

“Read about it.”

“Because that’s where we can take this if you want to keep going.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

There was zero gratitude in my tone but I finally shut up.

I pissed in a cup and was escorted to a cell.

Breaches Of Protocol

CO Sedder told me to remove my blues and take the shoelaces out of my shoes and he’d be back to get them. The cell had a bunk bed, so it was designed to accommodate two, but I was alone. I had a belt and shoelaces. I could’ve hanged myself from the top bunk with either of them if I had been so inclined. It’s impossible to know a person’s mindset, and how they’ll react, when subjected to the deprivation and humiliation of Segregation. This is why protocols are in place to take away these things from inmates in Seg. I had everything for at least forty-five minutes before CO Sedder returned. A man had hanged himself barely two weeks previous and his body hadn’t been discovered for hours. It had been all anyone could talk about, and I had assumed the incident would’ve made them more diligent in enforcing policies to prevent suicide. I was wrong.

When CO Sedder took my clothes he informed me that there were no jumpsuits available. He left me standing in my underwear. Several hours later I was given a sleeping mat and bedding. I was never given any other clothes.  I was never given my basic hygiene items like a bar of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste. I was denied access to my Bible, prayer mat and writing materials. That evening I was denied access to the shower even though it was one of the three weekly designated times for inmates in Seg to receive a shower. All that I was denied I was entitled to by rule or by law. I suffered my injustices in silence. There wasn’t much else to do.

Conclusion

Mid-morning of the next day a pair of sweatpants were stuffed through the chuckhole and I was told to put them on. I was handcuffed, taken to an interview room, and sat at a table across from Internal Affairs Lieutenant Moreno and Internal Affairs CO Breier. They seemed bored with this whole thing. LT Moreno stated in a straightforward manner that an officer had alleged to have smelled smoke in the vicinity of our two cells. He claimed the smoke smell appeared to be coming from my neighbors cell, but because the cells shared a bathroom everyone had to be taken for investigation. Lieutenant Moreno asked if I had smelled anyone or if I knew of any guys in the other cell smoking. I shook my head in the negative and imagined he ran the same script on my neighbors. I later found out that he had. CO Breier sat with his thick forearms folded across his wide chest and stared at me with dull eyes.

I was informed by the lieutenant that the two cells had been searched and all belongings were left in the cells locked. Provided that I give another clean urine sample I’d be released. He said that my cellies and I were casualties of the situation, but he was just following standard procedure. Then he asked if I had anything else I wanted to say.

I wanted to say plenty. I wanted to point out that apparently “standard procedure” was only followed when it suited him. I wanted to inform that I had been allowed to have potentially dangerous items in Seg, but then denied every last one of the very few things that I’m actually allowed to have. I wanted to point out that I was denied any suitable clothes for longer than twenty-four hours. I wanted to let him know that his polite tone didn’t fool me at all and that I knew he was a snake in a nice white shirt. However, I have learned that there is a time to keep my mouth shut. Lieutenant Moreno’s eyes clearly displayed that he didn’t want to hear anything I had to say. So I said nothing. I let my pee speak for me.

Several hours later my blues were returned through the chuckhole. Having clean urine, my cellies and I walked out of Seg vindicated. The two officers who escorted us out behaved like they were the ones responsible for our release and were being supremely magnanimous by letting us go. Like they were doing us a favor, and we had somehow gotten away with something.

 

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The Coyote Whisperer

After the incident, my other two cellies and I compared our experiences and perceptions of what was happening to the fourth man in our cell. It sounded like an attack—like he was fighting for his life.

Old Man

When John and Paul penned “When I’m Sixty-Four” I doubt they were pondering the possibility of coming to prison for the first time at that advanced age. That is how Baldalmero (pronunciation: Ball-dull-meh-row) arrived in my cell; old and entirely ignorant of the ins and outs of prison. It was eye-opening for myself and for the other two men in the cell who, between the three of us, had over fifty years of prison time accumulated.

Learning Curve

All the quirks and inconveniences of prison and communal living that we three had taken for granted for years had to be taught and explained to the elderly Mexican whose English was functional, but only barely. It was occasionally frustrating because sometimes the answer to Baldalmero’s question “Why do we it like that?” was an unsatisfying “Because that’s how we do it.” It made me second guess myself as to why do we do it like that? I was often left unsettled too because speaking to him was akin to dealing with a child, and I was rigorously raised to respect my elders, so it didn’t feel right.

Odd Normal

Baldalmero had night-terrors. He had moaned and spoken in rapid, indecipherable Spanish more than a few times while he slumbered. A couple of those times there had been a bit of thrashing and rolling around, but it usually quickly passed. My other cellies had seen it all before over the years and accepted it with a collective shrug of our shoulders. The morning after one particularly boisterous nocturnal calamity I asked Baldalmero about his incidences.

He managed to relate that, yes, he knows he does it and these episodes have been happening for many years. He has accepted them as normal, just something that happens every so often. Baldalmero described it as having a nightmare that he was fighting to wake up from. When it happened, his wife of almost fifty years would calmly call out his name and he would quiet.

A Promise

We had been living together for a few months and he had been teaching me some Spanish to add to the smidgeon that I’d already picked up over the years. He took pains to correct my copious mispronunciations and I grew to appreciate the musical quality of the language. I believe he had grown to trust me. He asked me to please call out to him the next time he was having one of his episodes. I promised that I would. It was only a day later when that promise was tested.

Rude Awakening

“Emilio! Emilio!”

I was shocked from sleep, my heart pumping hard in my chest, quaking up to my throat. I coughed against the feeling, sure it was a physical obstruction choking me. The sensation passed, but words rushed from Baldalmero in panic. I couldn’t understand anything but the name “Emilio!” who he called out to several more times. Just as swiftly as it had begun, Baldalmero quieted with a couple huffing snores and it appeared to be over. I rolled to face away from him, glad that I didn’t have to jump into action, and dropped right back to the edge of consciousness. The whole thing hadn’t been longer than fifteen seconds.

Attack

It felt like I had fallen into a long, deep, restful sleep only to be jolted awake once more. The reality was that the second attack came within seconds of the first. Baldalmero was screaming. No words, just sounds of terror and agony. My eyes snapped open and I rolled toward him a jackhammer once more banging against my breastplate. I was disoriented, feet and fists fighting against twisted sheets, but I stopped a moment when I saw Baldalmero engaged in his own comical combat. His bed was four feet away from mine. He was ion the top bunk laying on his back with his arms flailing at his unseen for while his legs were kicking high like a horizontal Rockette. It would have hilarious if he hadn’t been screaming for his life, and if he wasn’t about to drop five and a half feet to the concrete floor.

Intercession

With a mighty effort I freed myself from my bunk and stumbled to him, still lethargic, confused, and drunk on slumber. Standing next to his bunk, my face level with his, I saw Baldalmero was in pain, deep in the throes of some life or death struggle. I reached out to help or comfort, but pulled my hand back as if too close to a flame, worried that I might cause some harm by shocking him awake. I finally remembered my promise.

Even in my muddled mental state, I knew a meekly whispered “Baldalmero” wouldn’t do anything to cut through whatever horrors had hold of his body and mind. I drew myself to my full height and puffed out my chest, tilted my chin up to him and gathered a lungful to fuel my words. I didn’t scream. I spoke loudly, clearly, with authority. For some reason I used the deepest baritone I could muster, and spoke with a thick Spanish accent. My other two cellies lay in their bunks in states of confusion and unease. They later poked fun at my altered voice and compared it to a soccer announcer. The whole scene was so surreal, and the voice happened without planning or premeditation.

“BALDALMERO. BALDALMERO.”

My voice reverberated through the small room and resonated against my eardrums inside and out. Baldalmero quieted and calmed instantly. There were a couple hushed whimpers as he rolled onto his side away from me and slipped quickly into deep breaths indicative of sleep. I collapsed on my bunk, exhausted but wide awake and wired. I spent the next forty minutes praising the Lord and praying against whatever darkness was oppressing us.

Light of Day

With sunlight shining cheery through the window it took some of the fright out of Baldalmero’s tale. In his dream he was camping at night in an open desert with his brother Emilio. They could hear a coyote snarling and growling in the distance just beyond the firelight’s reach. Emilio ran out to chase it away and never returned. When Baldalmero had really started to thrash, kick, and holler it was because the coyote was biting at his feet, trying to pull him into the night. My voice chased it away. Suddenly Baldalmero and Emilio were safe, walking together on a beautiful sunny day along the road to their boyhood home. Baldalmero said he had felt happy, at peace.

After an extended moment of pause he told me that Emilio had died in a car accident a long time ago. He said it had been good to see Emilio again. Baldalmero smiled wide and with a playfulness in his eyes that was tinged with melancholy he thanked me for chasing away the coyote so he could see his brother again.