Sunburn In Seg

It had been so long since I had felt it.

Excuses

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

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

Scenery Change

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

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

Looking The Part

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

Absence

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

Indifference

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

Pleasant Surprise

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

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

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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.

 

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.

Nobody Wins

“Oh yeah? That’s nothing, I’ve got you beat; check this out . . .”

I had just regaled Tee with a tale of the disgusting conditions of the officer’s bathroom that I had to clean every morning. Unfortunately he interpreted this as my throwing down the gauntlet for a competition to see who had the grossest feces cleaning story. I gleaned from the gleeful glint in his eyes that I was about to lose a contest I had never intended to enter.

Storytime

“Okay, so, I’d only been working in Seg as a porter for, like, maybe a week or so. So I didn’t know about this one dude yet. So, I come in one day and the CO tells me that this guy, the one I didn’t know about, was sent back to STC with the rest of the looney-tunes, and I had to clean out his cell. Turns out this guy was, like, a regular visitor in SEG. He was a psych dude who would bug up and freak out bad enough to get sent to SEG. You know, like, hit a CO or a psych doctor or an inmate. Something bad enough to get to SEG. He was basically famous. Everyone knew about him except me. So I had no idea what I was walking into. They just told me to put on some gloves, grab a rag and bottle of bleach.”

Surprise!

“As soon as I opened the door to the cell it was like I got punched right smack in the face by the smell. It was so nasty so strong. I caught a throat full of it and thought I was gonna puke for real. I had to walk away, but before I did I saw that there was clothes and bedding crumpled and piled up like a rat’s nest. And everything was covered in shit.

“My two coworkers were standing off to the side laughing their asses off, and even the CO wasn’t trying to hide his grin, but he told me that it still had to be cleaned out. He gave me some heavy duty rubber gloves instead of the cheap latex ones I had and a little paper surgical mask they had laying around and tried sending me back in there, but I was like ‘hell-no!’ I had to have more than that.”

Ingenuity

“So I went and got me some big, like, fifty gallon garbage bags. I put one on each foot and tied them on really tight so that they covered me good up to my knees. Then I poke holes in another one for my head and arms, and put it on like a poncho, but tied a bag around my waist like a belt so that stayed against my body instead of poofing out. I wrapped more bags around my arms and tied them tight before I put the gloves on. Over the paper mask I tied a clean T-shirt to better cover my face and mouth. It was like my own homemade hazmat suit. That was about as ready as I was gonna get, so I went back to the shitty cell.”

Hazardous Material

“Now, usually, when I clean a cell I toss all the clothes and blankets and stuff into the laundry bin to go into the washing machine, but this time it was all soaked through with piss and sweat and funk. There was so much poop smeared and smashed into it so I just had to gather it up and I threw it straight into the garbage. Turns out that the guy didn’t actually sleep on his bunk, but he laid in a pile of clothes, blankets and sheets. There was layer after layer that I had to peel free and toss.

“My little mask didn’t really do much of anything to block out the smell, but it was still better than nothing. I ended up retching and dry-heaving, like, twenty times. I came so close to puking, my eyes were watering. I took a break and shoved wads of toilet paper up my nose, and that actually made a difference, but I could only take small shallow breaths through my mouth because whenever I took a deep breath it would hit the back of my throat like a funky little fist and make me feel like barfing. It was rough, man. It was super rough.”

Finale

“It probably took me, like, an hour, hour-an-a-half to get it all out of there. I actually had my watch on, but I couldn’t check it without peeking back layers of plastic to get to it, so I just had to guess how long I had been at it. Once I had it all out, my job was really just starting because then I had to scrape and scrub every square inch in there.

“Shit was still everywhere. Wet and fresh, gummier than pudding, and old crusty dried streaks of it. On the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the bed, the sink, the door. It was unreal, man. I nearly puked, like, a hundred more times. It was so bad. I just kept gathering goop in my hands and flushing it, trying not to think about it. Flushing and swabbing and scrubbing. I was just finishing up when they told me it was my time to go back to the cell-house. My shift was over; I’d been cleaning in there for close to five hours.

“And you know what? They told me that was the fourth time the guy had done that. And they just let him. They don’t try to stop him or get the psych doctor to talk to him, they just let him build his crap nest and redecorate the place for days or even weeks. It sick, man.”

Victor

With his rebuttal tale finally told, I was left peering at Tee through a grimace of disgust and a sneer of revulsion. I had not wanted to hear that. I suppose I had only myself to blame by raising the topic of terrible turd centric narratives. I couldn’t think of anything much to say in response to the inhuman behavior and inhuman treatment he had just described. After listening to him I felt there wasn’t anyone involved who could be crowned a victor, but I merely conceded.

“Alright, Tee, yeah. You win, man.”

 

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.

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.