Descriptions of Life in Taft Federal Corrections Prison by Visitors and Inmates
A trip to Taft
I’m seriously thinking of writing a travelogue to California’s federal prisons. I’ve done Victorville a number of times already, Lompoc, and yesterday Taft.
Let’s just say that I am not shopping for a vacation home.
The federal medium security facility (that’s the one with the barbed wire) and camp (that’s where white collar criminals go) at Taft are located within the town limits of, well, Taft. Interesting facts about Taft: it used to be called “Moron,” changed its name to honor our fattest President, and holds an event called “Oildorado,” during which tradition dictates that all men should grow beards. Taft is in a desert two hours north of Los Angeles. I got up at 5:00 to get there for an early attorney visit. There’s some stunning natural beauty on the way there, particularly in some stretches of the Grapevine, where vast, smooth wheat colored hills roll into the distance. But near Taft, not so much. Hazy rocky mountains frame the horizon, and then there’s desert. Not pretty desert. Desolate desert. This makes Mad Max look like The Blue Lagoon desert. It also features periodic rigid, featureless, dusty crop fields that look shockingly out of place, like the corn crops at the end of the X Files movie. There’s also occasional nondescript yet somehow still menacing Exxon facilities of unknown provenance, which are immaculately maintained but lacking any visible life. Also, this stretch of desert seems to have more than its share of abandoned cars and burned out hulks thereof. About five miles from the prison — which is about 20 miles from the nearest highway — I spotted an ancient bus sized bookmobile, fifties style paeans to the joys of reading still visible but fading on its side. I was very tempted to stop and hike off the road to investigate and see if it still held books, but I was wearing dress slacks. (I always wear dress slacks to prison, because I can never keep track of whether it’s jeans or khakis that will get you either barred or dragged into a mop closet and shivved. Prison is fun!) I was driving my brand new fuck you mother nature mobile, and so had punched in the nominal address of the prison camp into the nav system. I became suspicious when the calm voice began to inform me that I was half a mile away, but I couldn’t see jack anywhere. A moment later the nav system primly announced that we had arrived. Nothing was there. Was my new toy defective? Or was I so far from civilization that within a few miles was close enough, as far as the nav system was concerned? I drove another few minutes into the desert, turning off the nav system to silence its increasingly agitated attempts to help. Eventually the prison and camp became visible in a long depression in the desert. I drove in and sought out the camp. The difference between an FCI and a camp is stark, all the more so when they are right next to each other — the FCI is low, surrounded by fields of gravel and huge piles of razor wire, with barely a hint of greenery within. The camp, by contrast, could be the headquarters of a utility or minor municipal office of some sort. It has nicely maintained lawns and flowers (plenty of free labor, you see) and the doors are wide open; the prisoners can come in and out with only an occasional challenge from the guards as to their business. It’s not like they can go far; it’s about 8 miles through the desolation to town (where a large part of the population is probably made up of prison employees with off duty weapons), and a hella long walk through California desert in any other direction. I suspect they don’t chase down these guys; they just wait them out and watch for the buzzards circling. Inside, the lack of serious security and casual atmosphere were shocking. No one put me through a metal detector or wanded me. They let me bring in boxes of files unsearched. I met my client in a private attorney room out of view of anyone. Prisoners came and went without any apparent schedule or supervision. The air of menace to which I was accustomed at other facilities, seen in the eyes and set of the shoulders of the prisoners and the forced brittle laughter of the guards, was missing. I would not want to be staying there, but it beat the hell out of every USP and FCI I ever saw. I’ll dwell on it next time a client gets sentenced.
______
This is a true story. The inmates mentioned in this writing are all real people some of whom have been released others of whom remain incarcerated.
The camp itself looks like the set of M*A*S*H* except with green grass, trees, and the buldings are permanent instead of tents. Everything is army green and there are 2 barracks, a chow hall, an admin building, a medical building, commissary, chapel, game room and a law library. There is a large slab of asphalt in the middle which 2[ will refer to as "the quad." Within a minute, I'm assigned to a bunk in Alpha dorm…my compatriots are in Beta dorm. I'm tired as fuckall and just want to go to sleep. The dorms are barracks comprised of a main hall and two smaller rooms. The two rooms used to be TV rooms in each dorm but have been converted to living quarters. Each dorm holds about 160 inmates with around 130 in the main hall and in Alpha dorm a room of 16 and a room of 8. I got placed in the room of 8 which is referred to as "the Boom Boom Room." Had this not been a minimum security camp, I may have been concerned as god only knows what sort of connotations that could have. In this case it's just known as a room where there is often a very loud (albeit exceptionally inane) debate going on by people who, for the most part, do not know what the fuck they are talking about. As it goes in prison, the new guy always ends up in a top bunk. My bunkie, and I shit you not, is a guy named (I did not make this up) "Bone Crusher." Are you fucking serious? Am I actually supposed to refer to this guy as Bone Crusher? What happens if I don't? He wasn't there at the time so I just made my bed…whatever.
Now allow me to introduce you to the cast that makes up the Boom Boom Room.
Al — asian late 30s in on a drug charge Al is intelligent and likes to work with his hands. He works as a mechanic down at the farm and is known around camp as the guy you talk to if you need your radio and/or headphones fixed. The stereotypical nature of the camps resident radio fixer `being Japanese is not lost on me. Of all of my roomies, I think Al and I have the most in common.
Blue black — 50 in on a drug charge Blue is one of the leading protagonists in the Boom Boom Room. He is the definition of narcissistic and actually believes (in his heart of hearts) that if he didn't personally witness something that it probably didn't happen. A And I'm not _just talking about whether or not someone in the yard benched 300 pounds…I'm talking about things like, say, the Battle of Hastings.
Jerry white late 50s in on a drug charge — Jerry is a low key average white guy. He's in on a long bid and did a lot of time down in Texas. He's kinda gristled and set in his ways and often gets into it with Blue because Blue thinks whitey is the problem with this world and before I arrived, Jerry was whitey. To get a picture of Jerry imagine an older white guy with mostly white hair who drives a tractor on the farm here. That's Jerry and you just imagined what he looks like.
Dre — black — late 30s in on a drug charge — When I say Dre is black, I mean Dre is black. Wesley Snipes black. He's also really big like over 6′ in the high 200s if I had to guess. Dre is intelligent and pretty well spoken…he doesn't often get into the mix in the Boom Boom Room but when he does he's usually right on point with what he says. He's also funny as hell and is one of my favorite people. We often make each other laugh and will often expend most of our energy trying to keep the arguments in the Boom Boom Room going but not to the point to where they become a fight. Dre is also the laziest person I have ever met and revels in it. He's a clerk at the Law Library about 10 minutes a day. _
Miguel — hispanic — 30s — in on a drug charge — Miguel is just a super nice guy. He's soft spoken and never really gets into any of the fray unless it'sj about religion. He's a family man and a hell of an athlete. He's easily the best looking guy in the room. Miguel works at the dairy.
Clyde black 50s white collar crime Clyde is a lot like Miguel in that he doesn't often get into the fray unless it's about sports. At one time Clyde was a professional basketball player. He's really nice, really smart, and always the voice of reason in the room. Clyde works at Vandenberg Air Force Base.
Bone Crusher black — late 50s — in on a drug charge — Bone Crusher's name was actually Bone Collector describing his prowess at dominos. I just call him Crusher for short. He's a really nice guy and pretty funny and is the star attraction of the Boom Boom Room. If there is a debate, you can rest assured Crusher is at the center of it. While he knows his shit, he (like Blue) doesn't admit he's wrong that often and also believes that volume does, in fact, have something to do with how correct your statements are. If I didn't know better, I would think that his job is eating, but I know that can't be the case. If Crusher is not eating, he's fixing something to eat…seriously…it is a known and accepted fact that any food item placed on his chair will be eaten in short order. No ifs, no ands, no buts. The man is a machine. This sort of ad hoc diet also comes with ad hoc farting in his sleep. Unfortunately, I sleep above him. Luckily we have a fan. The interesting thing about the Boom Boom Room is it's predictability and it's overall juvenile nature. While many of the participants believe that a well thought out debate is going on (which does draw outsiders in to join the fray) the fact is that you generally come out less intelligent than when you came in and you wonder where the last 20 minutes of your life went. Debates in the Boom Boom Room are not, in any way, about being right or correct…they are about winning and attempting at every turn to punish and/or humiliate your opponent by over—analyzing their every word and allowing no room for the slightest semantic that even the most tight ass judge would yield to.
Here is an example ….
Jerry: I hear Barack Obama jumped 10% in the polls today. Blue: Bullshit. McCain has the lead by 2. Jerry: Not anymore, Obama jumped 10 points. Blue: Who told you that? I just read the paper. Bone Crusher (BC): Did you hear Obama's speech? Jerry: Yeah. That paper was from yesterday, I just saw this on CNN. Blue: I never saw that and I seriously doubt he could jump 12 points in one day. BC: You should have heard the speech. Jerry: I didn't say 12 points…I said 10. Blue: Oh, so now it's only 10? You always change the facts as you go. BC: How would you know Blue? You didn't even hear the speech! Blue: The only reason I'd vote for Obama is because he's black. He doesn't have one ioona of the experience of McClain. Jerry: I said 10 points from the beginning! You said 12. And it's McCain you idiot. Sparky: What the fuck is an ioona? Blue: I don't need to hear the speech, Bone Crusher and I'll bet Jerry a case of soda he didn't jump 12 points…it doesn't matter, though…he'll lose the election…whites won't vote for him. You know what I mean, Sparky…iooda Jerry: I said 10 points!!! And whites are how he got the nomination in the first place! BC: How can you know if you didn't hear the speech? Sparky: You mean iota? Blue: Yeah..iooda…the whites say they want him but they won't vote for him cause he's black and his islamism. Jerry: What? He's a christian! BC: You can't know if you didn't hear the speech…did you hear it? Blue: That ain't the point Bone Crusher… Dre: Islamism? BC: Blue…did you or did you not hear the speech? Sparky: It's iota, Blue…and islamism isn't a word. Blue: Yeah it is. BC: Did you hear the man's speech? You can't know if you didn't. Sparky: No…it's not… Blue: Why? doesn't ism mean to do with? BC: Now he won't even answer my question! Sparky: You can't just go on adding suffixes to any old word… Blue: Bone Crusher, your question isn't…isn't…what's the word? Dre: Fuck it, Blue…just make one up…you're already on a roll… BC: All I'm asking is did you hear the speech…the man won't answer! Blue: Your question is inrevelent..but I didn't… BC: That's all I want to know…this man didn't hear the speech but won't admit Obama is up by 12 points! Jerry: I said 10 points!
This is not a verbatim transcript, obviously. Otherwise every other word would have been fuck, motherfucker, or bitch. I also took some lines fron; other arguments and lumped them all here in order to demonstrate each person's role, style, and level of intelligence. What I can tell you, however, is that every one of these lines was, in fact, spoken in the Boom Boom Room at some point and that this arguement actually occurred, and that no one really knows what was being argued by whom and why. This, my friends, happens every single day without fail. Welcome to my little slice of home.
TAFT CORRECTIONAL INSITITUTION TAFT, CALIFORNIA
Camp Unit A4A
2006 2007
Clyde and I are waiting inside the chow hall for CO Montes to unlock the back door so we can dump the morning garbage. We have four chow hall trash cans on wheels overflowing with clear plastic garbage bags and a collection of recyclable refuse gathered from the vegetable preparation (veg prep) room. The chow hall trash will be tossed into the garbage dumpster near the loading dock but the veg prep refuse, which contains discarded lettuce leaves and similar organic material, will be forwarded to Squirrel Dave who is responsible for recycling the contents at a composte pile five hundred yards from the chow hall. Dave, who is now sitting on the back dock with an enormous feral cat in his lap, transports the refuse to the pile in a large, four wheeled gray cart. Rumors abound at Taft Camp regarding Dave and how he actually earned his “Squirrel” nickname. He’s an animal lover – there’s no doubt about that as he gently strokes the gigantic feline which is still in has lap. Some of us think he’s a man lover too, yet, similar to the truth about his nickname, we’re not entirely sure. Dave is effeminate but not overtly gay.
During the morning garbage dump, Clyde and I always place a small bag of discarded breakfast foods into the veg prep refuse which Dave later retrieves and feeds to his cat and the overwhelming population of desert squirrels which live around Taft Camp. There are hundreds of squirrels and rabbits in Taft, many of whom race up to the edge of the running track after each meal, and wait for the inmates to toss them food scraps. Cornbread is a favorite amongst the squirrel population. Actually, any bread product including biscuits is well received by the rodents. They’re fat, furry, entertaining little creatures.
Dave continues stroking his feline. He’s an odd character serving a ten year sentence for conspiracy to distribute marijuana. Like many of the other inmates at Taft, Dave was ensnared with the Mexican drug cartels for whom he imported cannibas into the United States from Mexico. He doesn’t look like the typical Mexican drug dealer although he speaks fluent Spanish and bears dark Aztec skin. Dave is balding, round at the waist and very gentle mannered. His voice flutters on the edge of feminine.
“Hello” Dave says as Montes finally opens the rear door of the chow hall so Clyde and I can exit with the garbage. Dave grins reflecting all his teeth pushing his big belly outwards. Moving contraband and stealing food out the back door of the chow hall is a common hustle so Montes carefully watches our every move as we deposit the garbage bags into their appropriate containers – chow hall trash into the dumpster and veg prep bags into Dave’s cart. Moments later Clyde and I return to work inside. In our absence, Dave retrieves the small bag of breakfast foods from out of his cart and feeds the cat on the rear loading dock.
“Thank you”, Dave says hours later on the recreation yard where I saw him shirtless and shoeless sun tanning adjacent to a small pack of hand fed squirrels. Riley and I just keep walking on the outdoor recreation yard track whilst I pry for the source of Dave’s nickname.
“Dude, he ate one of the Squirrels”, Riley replies to my inquiries.
I look over my shoulder at Dave who is still lying on the ground, almost nude save for a pair of gray athletic shorts, and think only ‘impossible’. My cellie Riley has a reputation for exaggerating and in many instances entirely fabricating the truth. If you can eat ten hot dogs, Riley can eat fifty hot dogs – or he knows someone who can eat fifty hot dogs. If you can run a five minute mile, Riley can run a four minute mile – or he knows someone who can run a four minute mile. The thought of Dave eating one of his four legged friends appears another of Riley’s fables.
“Never”, I reply. “Naw man, it’s true. Ask around”.
And so I did. No one at Taft Camp was able to confirm Riley’s allegation. Then again, no one denied it either. Riley’s fable seemed more and more believable with each inquiry. The following morning, Dave was again seated on the rear loading dock with his cat who was entirely content in his company. It’s a haggard looking beast with a matted coat of fur and a bloody torn ear which Dave avoids while repeatedly petting the animal. “Whoa daddy . . .” Dave declares with a flustered feminine voice as Clyde and I exit the chow hall with the morning trash “Look at his ear. I think he got into a fight last night with one of the coyotes in the sand dunes”. Montes, Clyde and I walk a wide circle around Dave to avoid his bloody eared cat and any ailments it might be carrying. We dump the organic trash into Dave’s cart, chow hall garbage into the dumpster and then return inside after which Montes again locks the back door of the chow hall. Moments later, I quickly return to the rear door and gaze out the window. Dave has organized the morning breakfast bag of scrambled eggs, hams and bread into small white styrofoam bowls from which the cat was now feasting. A separate bowl contains discarded milk which the feline drinks in entirety. Dave hops down from the loading dock and begins pushing his cart of veg prep garbage uphill and around the corner to the outdoor composte pile. The cat, now alone on the rear loading dock, finishes eating, cleans himself by licking his paws, then later disappears well fed and loved.
Same routine the next morning with one exception – Dave is absent. The cat is staring at me from the opposite side of the windowed rear door while anxiously seated on a bunch of empty milk crates. Montes unlocks the back chow hall door and we again dump the trash while the cat watches and waits with an almost perplexed look regarding Dave’s void. The cat’s ear is noticeably mangled. A bloody crust appears to have formed around the base of the appendage, yet, the animal appears unfazed by the wound. All he wants is breakfast which is sitting in the organic garbage bin. Clyde and I return inside to work. Three hours later at about noon, after being dismissed from work duty in the chow hall, I ran around the food service building to the rear dock and found the cat sitting patiently on the milk crates waiting for breakfast. Still no Dave. I hop down from the loading dock and retrieve the breakfast bag from the gray push cart, open it and fill the small Styrofoam bowls on the raised loading dock with the contents. Dave’s cat pounces down from the milk crates and proceeds to eat. The size of the animal is overwhelming. It appears more fox or coyote than cat. Maybe it’s a cross breed.
Later the 4PM stand up count. Riley and I stand at attention in our cubicle as two CO’s bound past quickly and uneventfully. Minutes later they shout “Clear” from the front of the housing unit as inmates begin to meander out of their cubicles and throughout the building.
The housing unit at Taft Camp consists of an enormous concrete building that forms a bent “U” shape with four long rectangular living units on two levels in each arm of the bent “U”. Administrative and staff offices are located in the curve of the “U”. Inmates are housed in two man or three man cubicles each of which contains a bunk bed, table with roll out stool and two stand up lockers. The three man cubicles contain an additional lower cot with pull out drawers located beneath this third bed frame. Each cubicle is separated from the other by six foot tall tan colored cinder block walls that form “L” shapes. The two man living spaces are very roomy and comfortable. The three man cubicles, which are located in the center of the housing units, are congested. Riley and I share a two man window cubicle in Unit A4A. It’s nice by all comparable penal standards. Riley, who much resembles a tattooed Jesus complete with long hair and beard, is serving a ten year prison sentence for selling drugs. He has a wife and child on the outside living somewhere in the Los Angeles area, exactly where I’m not sure. They visit once per month.
As a general rule of prison etiquette, an inmate never enters another inmate’s cubicle unless invited to do so. Most conduct conversation from the circumference of a cubicle while glancing around or over the cinder block walls – just as Michael Ray is doing with Riley right now. There are big men in this world. Then there’s Michael Ray, probably the most enormous, muscular black man in southern California. Or at least, the most enormous, muscular black man I’ve ever seen in southern California who is not playing professional sports. Michael Ray is resting his arms and his walking cane on top of the cinder block wall that subdivides our cubicle from adjacent cubicles. His shoulders and biceps bulge like swelling tree trunks resting on the tan painted concrete. Michael Ray’s shaved head and black goatee stare at me from a height known only to those in the NBA and NFL.
“What’s up” he nods in a diplomatic voice before engaging my cellie Riley. “I know yous’ got some garlic in ‘dere man”, Michael Ray continues, probing Riley for some spices for his evening meal. “Hook me up and I’ll take care of you next week”. My cellie Riley replies “Alright, alright . . . garlic, lemon herb spice, special mix, onion . . . what am I, Wal Mart to you?”. “Yeah ‘das right Riley, you ‘da Wal Mart of the house”. Michael Ray winks to me with one eye smiling all the while.
Riley hands Michael Ray some chopped garlic as I just watch. Rather than eating at the chow hall, many inmates cook their own meals using microwaves in the living units and commissary foods such as rice, beans, tuna, bag chicken and other food stuffs. Michael Ray and Riley talk about nothing specific after which Squirrel Dave appears at the cubicle. “Snap, I’m outta here”, Michael Ray declares as he grabs his walking cane, strutting down the unit corridor making a hasty exit, muscular tree limbs flailing at the side.
“Hello” Dave announces in a very familiar feminine voice. Riley exits the cubicle quickly proceeding towards the microwaves where he’ll cook his evening dinner with Michael Ray thereby leaving Dave and I alone.
“What happened to you this morning?”, I ask.
Squirrel looks around the unit as inmates continue to mingle past after which he retrieves a ridiculous black plastic hair comb from the breast pocket of his shirt with which he begins sweeping his thin shower wet hair backwards across his balding scalp. Dave is dressed in institution issued tans with a button collar shirt tucked neatly into belted pants. The shirt, collar, sleeves, cuffs and pants are all neatly pleated although Dave’s belly, as always, is pushed outwards and dangling over his waistline. He looks a buoyant incarcerated poster boy for LL Bean place your order before December 1st and this prison uniform is yours for the low, low price of $59.99. First one hundred buyers receive a free black plastic hair comb and a microwave recipe for Squirrel Stew.
“Oh man . . . I had a call out for medical and waited for like two hours”. Dave’s voice again flutters on the edge of female. He almost always initiates or replies to conversation with “Hello”, “Oh man” or “Whoa daddy”. Then an uncomfortable silence. Squirrel Dave remains outside the cubicle combing his wet hair backwards waiting for more conversation and most likely a status report on the condition of his cat. So I continue “Well . . . I fed him some scrambled eggs and milk. Seemed happy but I didn’t touch him or pet him”. Dave smiles replying “Thank you”. Then Dave disappears down the unit corridor.
Special Housing Unit The SHU The following is a narrative, in short story format, of the two months I spent in the SHU at Taft during the Spring of 2007. My hope is that this information will shed some insight into the lack of purpose served by Administrative Segregation.
This is a true story. All of the inmates mentioned are real people, some of whom have been released others of which remain incarcerated.
TAFT CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION TAFT, CALIFORNIA
Administrative Segregation (AD SEG) Special Housing Unit (SHU) 23 hour per day lockdown
I
Somewhere in this vacuum there has to be logic – some genesis of common sense. I know it’s out there, exactly where I’m not entirely sure. Listen. Listen hard and maybe you can hear it for me. Jingling keys. Stomping feet. Clicking switches. Clacking door locks. Hissing air vents. This is society’s cure for crime. Prison. Incarcerate the unlawful behind concrete walls and into cement cells. Protect the public and punish the criminals. This is society’s logic. I suppose it makes sense. There are no saints in jail, myself included. We all deserve to be here. But what happens upon release as many of us, myself included, will someday leave prison and return to public life. Here we will again mingle with common folk in church, at the bus station and at the unemployment office. And we will do so after living in harsh conditions amongst the dregs of society.
Listen. Listen hard and maybe you’ll hear logic fracture. The first time I heard it was at the Joseph J. Moakley Federal Courthouse in Boston where a diplomatic judge declared “Forty six months”. That was my prison sentence. He continued “you are one of the most exemplary defendants to appear before me. I hope you can get this behind you”. How could anything about a federal prison sentence for a criminal defendant be exemplary? That is, unless you’re sitting at the US Attorney’s table.
The second time I heard logic fracture was in the AD SEG unit at the Taft Correctional Institution. It started as silence – a silence interrupted by a dark voice that began screaming “I need to see the nurse!”. It was loud and coming from one of the segregation cells not afar. Over and over. “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”.
I looked down at my cellie from the top bunk. Hook replies with a quizzical smile as he had heard the screaming too. He gazes around the cell then at the door in a concentrated effort to learn who was yelling.
The Special Housing Unit (SHU) at Taft is split into two wings that form a “V” shape with a control room at the apex. The Administrative Segregation wing (AD SEG) contains inmates who have been removed from the general population and segregated in the SHU for petty administrative policy violations such as refusing to work, disobeying staff orders and the like. Hook was removed from the satellite camp at Taft and placed in AD SEG as a result of a detainer. I was removed from the same camp for refusing to participate in a work release program. The opposing annex in the SHU, Disciplinary Segregation (D SEG), contains inmates who have been removed from the general population and segregated for more serious disciplinary infractions, most likely violence. So it could still get worse.
The AD SEG cells at Taft are clean but tiny. Each contains a metal bunkbed, metal table with a fixed stool, an overhead shelf, stainless steel commode, stand up shower and narrow plexi glass windows. The walls and fixtures inside the cell are painted a soothing manila tan color. The cell that Hook and I share is about twelve feet long from front to back and about eight feet wide. Every surface in the cell reflects concrete. It’s just a complete cement box save for the solid metal cell door and narrow plexi glass windows in the rear wall and cell door. The front cell door window overlooks the AD SEG corridor and the opposite cells allowing limited communication between staff and inmates. There is a convenient two inch gap between the floor and the cell door through which newspapers, small books and commissary items can be exchanged. In the middle of the cell door, is a smaller locking fold out doorlet through which meals are passed to inmates. There are no bars or cages in AD SEG. The entire unit is a huge concrete monolith subdivided into smaller concrete cubicles. I’ve been in here for a week now sharing a cell with Hook. Bunking with him is like living in a concrete cartoon.
Hook is doing time for smuggling illegal aliens over the border into the United States from Mexico. On the outside, when he wasn’t busy importing people, Hook spent his free time surfing the beaches of San Diego where he lived with his family. His bleach blonde hair and tan features speak his entire story. This morning though he speaks another story as we both listen to the voice somewhere in the unit which continues screaming “I need to see the nurse!”.
“You think we’ll get commissary today”, Hook asks amidst the barking voice. “Don’t see why not”. “Good. I’m almost out of coffee”.
Hook is addicted to Keefe freeze dried instant coffee. It’s a popular commodity available through the prison commissary. He has at least one cup per hour. From the top bunk, I watch Hook slide out from the bottom rack and approach his nearly diminished stash of caffeine. He’s a skinny character with a mangled plume of bleach blonde hair which this morning is all pressed to one side. Hook fills his cup with two spoons of Keefe instant coffee then fills the mug with tepid water from our commode. Sipping quietly, he moves to our barely visible cell mirror and attempts to arrange his hair without success. “I don’t look too bad do I?” he asks. I search but fail to find an appropriate response. I mean, how good could anyone look while wearing an orange jumpsuit in an 8’ x 12’ concrete box, bad hair day or not ?
In the federal prison system, inmates are not allowed to possess currency. We purchase commissary once per week using money orders sent by friends and family on the outside and minute sums earned working prison jobs. Money orders mailed by loved ones are forwarded to a centralized Bureau of Prisons post office box and credited to our name and register number. Prison wages are also directly credited to our name and register number, hence, as inmates we never actually see any money. Given that we shop only once per week, it is very common to exhaust a supply of a particular commissary item prior to shopping day – just as Hook has done with his rations of coffee. This gives rise to an informal yet very fluid bartering system. In the general population, inmates use stamps as a unit of currency and there’s usually a couple inmates who “run stores” out of their lockers. Such store operators spend all their funds buying commissary then hold the provisions in their lockers. When another inmate depletes his supply of a particular item prior to their commissary shopping day, that inmate can exchange stamps with the store operator for the needed provision. So it’s a game of timing and desire. If you want something prior to your commissary shopping day, you need only trade stamps with a store operator who profits from a mark up between the price of stamps and the price of the exchanged item. The store operator then later re trades the stamps for other commissary items, some of which end up back in his store. In AD SEG though, no one has a store thus stamps are of limited use. So we barter item for item.
The caffeine quickly stimulates Hook’s senses as he begins pacing back and forth through our cell to gaze out the windows. “Nothing goin’ on outside” he mutters. The window in the rear wall of our cell partially overlooks the main prison recreation yard. From this window we can spy a tiny corner of the softball field and the running track. Hook hops onto our table and sits with his feet on the stool. This is a comfortable perch from which to sit while looking out the rear window and talking.
Hook continues “Maybe I can make a trade”. “Bang on the door, see if you can get Junior’s attention”, I reply.
Junior is a Spanish inmate who works as the AD SEG orderly. It’s a rare privilege to work as the orderly in AD SEG given the 23 hour per day lockdown in the unit. As the AD SEG orderly, Junior is allowed out of his cell to work in the unit where he mops and cleans for most of the day. This also means he interacts with all the inmates in AD SEG, many of whom have other commissary items they are willing to trade.
So Hook goes fishing for more coffee by banging on the cell door. Junior appears shortly thereafter in the AD SEG corridor on the opposite side of our door.
“Coffee” Hook yells. “Alright, let me ask around. What you got in trade?”.
Hook relays an oral inventory of his non caffeinated commissary items and Junior goes on the prowl returning shortly thereafter with a red bag of Nescafe instant coffee. Junior slides the bag to Hook under the cell door through the two inch gap and yells “Candy bars”. Hook slides a handful of candy bars to Junior who again disappears down the hall. Good trade for which Junior will likely profit – candy bar or otherwise. Hook mixes a second coffee and resumes telling me how he smuggled illegal aliens across the border from Mexico.
“So my family’s furniture business is over the border in Mexico. We make the furniture there using cheap local labor. Just can’t compete paying US wages. I go across the border twice per day. They took notice of that and offered me $1,000 just to drive one of their cars”.
Hook pauses to sip his coffee during which I surmised that the “they” to whom he referred were the Jackals who managed the human trafficking ring with which he was involved. I’d read in the newspapers about Asian immigrants who paid thousands to the Jackals for entry into the states. Hook continues “so there we are at a vacant lot in Mexico near the factory. They pull up in this ridiculous beat up little car. The back seat is hollowed out. They flip the back seat forward and a little Asian guy squeezes into the crawl space between the back seat and the trunk. Then the seat is flipped back into its normal position. I take the keys, get into the driver’s seat and drive across the border. The chink hops out in California, I get my thousand dollars and we do it again later”.
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Hook smiles and snickers too. It was a simple hustle. But one that inevitably earned Hook a felony record.
A tap at the door. We both look to find the face of a Corrections Officer (CO) who asks “Rec ?’. We both nod yes and the little doorlet in our cell door flops open. Hook practically leaps from the table to the door. He turns around, hands behind his back and extends his wrists through the doorlet after which they are handcuffed. Hook steps forward with his hands cuffed behind his back while I jump down from the top bunk. I turn around with my back to the door, extend my hands through the doorlet and am cuffed likewise. Moments later our cell door opens and we are allowed outside for one hour of recreation. We almost skip down the hall in glee.
Recreation in the SHU occurs in enormous human sized dog kennels which are surrounded on all sides with chain link fence. Each kennel is about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide – not quite big enough in which to run but considerably larger than the living cells. During “rec”, inmates are segregated into separate yet adjacent kennels by race and security classification. Hook and I are the only two white inmates at rec and are therefore deposited into the last most kennel. Most of the other kennels are already filled with other inmates – Spanish, Blacks and Asians.
As Hook and I enter, hands cuffed behind our backs, a black inmate bellows “here come the Wall Street guys. What up fellas”, he continues with his Cheshire cat grin.
Hook and I are accustomed to certain of the blacks at recreation and have developed an almost comical camaraderie with them. Certain others simply ignore us. “Doing tax returns later my man” I reply.
The black inmate belly laughs and concludes “Yeah man, get me a couple million okay?”. We all smile while the CO escorts Hook and I into our kennel, uncuffing us moments later. The large chain link door to the outdoor recreation yard is closed and we lightly trot around our kennel in a half jog. For the first time in 23 hours we can feel the sun on our bodies. It’s a glorious feeling interrupted only by Cheshire who engages Hook in conversation. The black inmate has unbuttoned his orange jumpsuit to the waist and tied the arms of the cloth in a pseudo knot around his hips. They’re an odd sight – a skinny bleach blonde surfer and an enormous black weightlifter, blabbing face to face through a chain link fence. Any conversation is good conversation while at recreation in AD SEG though. Race need not matter. Topic need not matter. Many of the inmates at Taft formerly resided in adjacent towns and cities in southern California. As such, it is common to find mixed races discussing the same neighborhoods – as Hook is currently doing. Cheshire seems more Los Angeles than San Diego though so I doubt they will share much common ground. I remain two steps removed from the exchange half jogging to and fro in the kennel. Fifty minutes later we are again handcuffed, marched back indoors and into the segregation unit escorted by a CO. As we walk forward and upstairs, I can’t help but stare towards D SEG searching for the screaming voice that had attempted to summon the nurse.
Hook and I are again deposited into our cell and uncuffed through the little doorlet. We’ll go out to recreation again sometime tomorrow morning. Till then, it’s back to the cement. I hop up and into the top bunk, stretching comfortably. “Time for some coffee”, Hook announces as he begins mixing his elixir. Hook wipes his hand across his blonde mane, sweeping his hair again entirely to one side. We both smile as the unit fills with a familiar echo “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”.
“Who is that?”.
Hook jumps to the cell door pressing first his ear then his face into the window. It was a vain effort to locate the voice. Again “I need to see the nurse!”. Hook continues spying without success.
“It’s definitely someone in this wing”, he concludes while staring out the cell door window. “You sure ?”, I ask. “Kinda”. “It’s not someone in D SEG?”. “Could be. I mean everything echoes out there”.
The thought of someone screaming for a nurse from Disciplinary Segregation was unnerving. Haunting visions of a deformed inmate chained to a metal cot danced through my mind along with the atrocities of Abu Grhaib and Guantonomo Bay. “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”, again and again. It was difficult to block.
Now comes dead time. Hook and I have about twelve hours to kill before lights out. This void will be interrupted by only four events; commissary, lunch, the 4PM stand up count and then finally dinner. Commissary arrives without incident. A CO passes us our items through the little doorlet. As expected, Hook receives more Keefe instant coffee along with a smattering of candy and toiletries. The doorlet is closed and locked and we are again absent of any external stimulation. Hook fumbles through a handful of paperwork and mail related to his detainer while sitting at the desk and sipping from his mug.
“What’s happening with that?”, I ask from the top bunk. “Nothing. Haven’t been able to get in touch with the lawyer”. “Have you requested a phone call or written to him?’. “Naw, my Dad is suppose to be handling all that”.
Hook has a perplexed gaze as he stares at his legal paperwork.
“You should write the lawyer. Maybe he doesn’t know you’re in the SHU and unable to call. Maybe he’s waiting on you?”, I state.
Hook stares at his paperwork fumbling again. “That’s not a bad idea”. “Tell him you can’t make a phone call and that he needs to initiate and request a legal phone call with the prison staff. He may not be aware of that”.
I hand Hook a pad of paper and a pencil at which he again just sort of blankly stares. “Alright, tell me what to write”. An uncomfortable silence follows. I hesitated at asking the question but surrendered with “Do you want me to write the letter for you?”.
Hook springs from the table, smiles, returns the pad of paper and pencil to me on the top bunk then claps his hands announcing “Okay, what are we gonna say . . . ?”. I couldn’t help but chuckle as Hook and I craft an ambivalent caffeine induced form letter to his lawyer. Hook bounces around the cell, continually jumping in front of the mirror flipping his hair, sipping coffee and speaking. And so Hook and I consume the next hour drafting letters to his attorney at Federal Defenders of San Diego in an effort to resolve his detainer issue. We go through countless drafts which is partially a by product of the coffee as well as available time. Lunch arrives shortly thereafter. Our doorlet pops open and four plastic portioned containers are passed inside after which the doorlet is closed and locked. Our two tan colored containers hold hot food portions while the remaining two aqua blue containers hold cold portions, generally consisting of salad, condiments, plastic utensils and a Hi C like drink mix. As a general rule of AD SEG etiquette, Hook eats while seated on his bottom bunk with his meal containers on his lap. I eat at our table. The meal is quick and uneventful. A CO returns to collect our containers and the doorlet is again locked. We now have almost five hours to kill until the 4PM count and dinner. I feel sleepy after eating and very much want to climb into the top rack and snooze. This is the worst thing to do though.
“Tell me about San Diego”, I ask while seated at the table facing Hook who is now lying in the bottom rack. He looks like a neatly ironed carrot while dressed in the orange jumpsuit stretched fully across his cot. And so I listen to stories of southern California, the warm sun and surfing. It seems a lifetime away. Hook describes “catching tube” a surfer expression for actually being inside a wave that curls overhead. He continues describing how he spends time teaching his son to surf. As a native Bostonian, the world of southern California, warm sun and surfing is entirely alien to me. I’m more accustomed to snowstorms, ice and catching the flu. So I listen. And I want to be a surfer.
A metal tap at the door and the face of a CO. We both stare. The little doorlet clacks open as the CO barks “Hook . . . goin inside. Pack your stuff and be ready in twenty minutes”. The CO shovels a clear plastic garbage bag through the doorlet, closes and locks it then disappears down the corridor.
Silence. Complete and total silence followed only by the echo of thumping heartbeats.
Prior to the infractions that graduated us into AD SEG, both Hook and I were housed at Taft’s camp – an ancillary facility without security fences or walls located outside the main prison. We were classified as “out custody” which means we were allowed to serve our time outside the general population at the main prison. Inmates with such security classifications are generally considered low risk, non violent offenders that pose little threat to prison staff, other inmates and the general public. Yet, Hook was now being moved out of AD SEG and into the main prison where he would live amongst felons with higher security classifications many who bear a greater propensity for violence. This is not good.
Hook hesitantly packs his belongings into the plastic garbage bag. I can see the apprehension in his face. The CO returns and opens the doorlet. Hook is cuffed with his hands in front of his body thus allowing him to carry his bag of property. The doorlet is closed and locked after which the cell door is opened. I nod as he exits. Hook turns glancing over his shoulder, blonde lochs all flipped to one side partially hiding one eye saying “Bang on the window if you see me walking the track. I’ll wave”. And then he was gone.
Alone now. This sucks.
I spent the following two days in AD SEG sitting on the corner table with my feet on the stool staring out the window, intently gazing at the small wedge of the recreation yard waiting for Hook to appear. Silence, followed by more silence. Just a complete void. And then . . . there he was – dressed in tan, walking slowly on the track staring up at the SHU. Hook’s blonde hair was like a signal flare. I began feverishly banging on the cell window with both hands. He stopped dead on the track and swiped his hair across his head before raising both hands in the air and waving to me. I continued banging over and over and over screaming his name. And then he was gone.
I crawled into the now vacant bottom rack and wanted to cry. Sharing an 8’ x 12’ isolation cell with another person is challenging. Sharing an 8’ x 12’ isolation cell with dead air is near damning. I want to be in sunny San Diego “catching tube”. I want to be in the general prison population talking with Hook albeit at the risk of violence. I want to be anywhere but here.
Then the voice “I need to see the nurse!”. Again and again “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”. Over and over it echoes.
II I never saw Hook again and can only speculate on what happened to him. If the detainer was lifted, he probably spent very little time in the general population at the main prison and was hopefully transferred back to the camp where he could serve the remainder of his sentence sans additional drama. It’s conjecture at best though.
After Hook went inside, I spent about a week alone in AD SEG staring at the walls and talking to myself. I saw Cheshire outside at recreation a couple times along with a new white inmate named Olaf who later became my new cellie. Olaf is serving a twenty one year sentence for importing hashish from Asia to Vancouver.
Back in the 1970’s, as a Peace Corps volunteer in Asia, Olaf learned to sail large multi masted schooners and other sea faring vessels. He spent months island hopping on such crafts in southeast Asia and in the south Pacific where drug enforcement laws were virtually non existent. A decade later, sometime in the mid to late 1980’s, an international drug cartel that owned a schooner, approached Olaf about sailing a boat loaded with hashish from Pakistan and India to Vancouver. Olaf, being an opportunist like most other convicts, accepted and began making month long sails across the Pacific in boats filled with narcotics in exchange for handsome sums. After several such journeys, one of Olaf’s crewmen became involved in a domestic legal incident somewhere in either Canada or the United States. In exchange for immunity from prosecution for this incident, the crewman agreed to become an informant for the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) and agreed to help the DEA apprehend Olaf during an upcoming hashish sail from Pakistan and India to Vancouver. The informant lured Olaf away from the schooner while it was berthed during which time the DEA surreptitiously boarded the craft and placed a transponder inside the hull. The Coast Guard tracked Olaf all the way from Asia to Vancouver where they intercepted his vessel in international waters off the coast of Canada. Just as the Coast Guard was preparing to board Olaf’s boat, a nervous crew member set fire to the vessel in an effort to sink the ship and destroy the hashish, yet, the Coast Guard was able to recover the crew and enough drugs from the wreckage to earn Olaf a sizeable prison sentence. Olaf drafted and filed several unsuccessful appeals pro se’ arguing jurisdictional matters indicating that the boat was not of US registry and that he never entered American waters, therefore, he is not subject to prosecution by the United States. It’s a good argument. Better still is the Coast Guard video which is often broadcast on real life drama television shows such as “World’s Wildest Police Chases”. You can read more about Olaf’s high seas narco adventure and unsuccessful legal claims by conducting an internet search using the terms “Olaf Peter Juda” and “hashish”.
I don’t like Olaf. He’s weird. And he’s far too comfortable being naked in my presence – something that is certainly a by product of his Peace Corps days and months at sea. Maybe also a by product of his twenty one year prison sentence. Olaf never hesitates to strip out of his jumpsuit, drop his boxer shorts and use either the commode or the shower all the while talking to me. Whenever Hook or I needed to use the toilet or shower, we would give the other advanced warning thereby providing time for the other to move to the rear of the cell, into the windowed corner and effectively out of sight. From the windowed corner, you can’t really see the shower or commode thereby giving the user some privacy. Further, whenever Hook or I showered, we hung across the stall a make shift shower curtain crafted from string and bed sheets thereby also allowing for some privacy. Olaf does neither . . . just as he’s doing right now while taking a shower without the shower curtain.
“Why don’t you hang the curtain”, I ask from the top bunk. “I be done showering before I even get the thing up”.
Water is splashing all over the cell floor. Olaf emerges from the shower stall stark naked without even a towel across his body. I turn away while still in the top perch as Olaf dries himself and dresses. Moments later he’s clothed and mopping the cell floor with his towel.
“What you reading ?”, he asks. “Just some newspaper articles my family mailed”. “Perhaps I could see when you finished”. “Sure”. “You take ‘da law class at camp?”. “Yeah, I took that class a long time ago back at a camp in Massachusetts”. “I teach that class. You like to hear?”. “Well . . . I already took the class Olaf”. “But you like to hear again, no?”. “Sure why not”, I reply in a desperate attempt to stir conversation and kill some time.
I hop down from the top bunk and sit at the table, feet on the stool all the while looking out the window. Olaf sits upright in the bottom bunk with his legs stretched across the mattress pad hands folded in his lap. He’s a peculiar, lanky individual sporting wavy brown hair, thick eyeglasses and bad teeth. I half listen as Olaf commences his oration. He speaks the fundamentals of constitutional law then excerpts from the federal sentencing guidelines before concluding and asking for my newspaper articles which I deliver without hesitation. Olaf stands, walks around the cell, briefly spies the newspaper clippings, quickly dismissing them and returning them to me. “Garbage” he says “Why ‘dey send you this stuff?”. “They’re trying Olaf”. “You should read my brief. I wrote and presented my own appeal”.
In jail, an inmate can be whoever they want. Prisons are filled with Walter Mitty like dreamers living fictional dream lives while preaching fantasies of yore. This affliction is particularly keen amongst white inmates many of whom attest more knowledge of law then their attorneys and judges. This of course begs the question – if they know so much about the law, why then are they still in jail? Olaf is a self proclaimed inmate lawyer although he indicates no legal or formal schooling beyond a college degree in rhetoric and philosophy from Berkley. More flower power. I’m beginning to wonder how much of Olaf’s previous hashish bounties was smoked in his captain’s chair during his excursions across the Pacific. Olaf retrieves a copy of his appellate brief from his stack of legal paperwork, hands it to me and says “Read”. And so I do, climbing into the top bunk, entirely amazed at the reach of the cartel with which he was woven. The brief talks about the manufacture of hashish and opium in Pakistan along with its movement through India then across the ocean. Olaf’s rewards for his services allowed him to pay cash for houses and cars in New Mexico and across the southwest. He makes a very good jurisdictional argument though – did the United States Coast Guard have the right to apprehend him and did the United States Justice Department have the right to prosecute and incarcerate him while he was still in international waters off the coast of Vancouver? For a brief moment I side with Olaf. That is until he strips out of his orange jumpsuit, drops his boxer shorts and starts shitting on the commode while facing and talking to me. He gave me no notice to jump down from the top bunk and slide into the recessed cell corner by the window. Now I’m with the authorities regarding his incarceration. Keep this exhibitionist shitter locked up. I turn away not able to bear more of it silently praying for him to finish. And he does.
Later comes the 4PM stand up count, dinner and quiet time. I jump back into the top bunk and wrap a towel around my head and eyes so as to block the light. Downstairs, Olaf is listening to classical music on his handheld radio. The music quickly lulls me to sleep.
Morning arrives with a hazy sunrise. The cell is still mostly dark save for a faint glow peering in through the rear cell window. Turning onto my right side while still laying in the top bunk, I swipe my hand across the smooth cold concrete wall. It feels like cold, stiff flesh. Olaf is still asleep. I hop down from the top rack, moving quietly to the table on which I sit placing my feet on the stool while staring out the window. The horizon looks blurry and gray. Maybe it’s just my eyes adjusting to the light. I’ve been in this cell for almost a month now.
The sun begins to slowly creep skyward filling the unit with more light casting a random pattern of shadows that dance quietly throughout the cell. Outside in the AD SEG corridor, I can hear jingling keys, clacking door locks and stomping feet. Breakfast is near. The cell light zaps to life and the doorlet opens after which four breakfast trays are inserted. Olaf wakes and we eat. Then a new face appears in the AD SEG corridor. It’s a white inmate working as the AD SEG orderly. I tap at the window to get his attention. He struts over staring into the cell from the opposite side of cell door window.
“Where’s Junior?”, I ask. “Transferred. He’s gone”, the new orderly replies.
The youngster stares back waiting for more conversation. He’s a short, portly character with brown hair and matching goatee. Seems friendly enough, so I go fishing. “Got any newspapers out there?”. “Yeah man, there’s a bunch floating around AD SEG. You want in the loop ? You can get ‘em like fifth”. “Absolutely. What would you like in trade?”. “What you got?”. “We have a little bit of everything in here”. Which was true. Olaf brought a bunch of commissary with him when we moved in together and I had purchased lots of cookies, candies and other essentials during our last shopping day. Some of it was for personal use but most purely for bartering here in AD SEG.
The new AD SEG orderly continues “Well, you take care of me and I’ll take care of you, deal?”. “Deal”, I conclude. Moments later he returns with a handful of used newspapers and magazines which he slides under the door. It was gold. “I’ll come see you later about what I want”.
So Olaf and I read during the early morning hours, passing time discussing current events. We go to recreation outside and engage the new AD SEG orderly who we learn was transferred into AD SEG from the ancillary satellite camp just as Hook and I were. I didn’t recognize him though. Taft Camp houses almost five hundred inmates in four living units so unfamiliar faces are very common.
Later that afternoon, Olaf and I were moved to a new AD SEG cell on the first floor of the unit. The interior of the new cell is identical to our previous home except it’s located on the opposite side of the AD SEG wing so we no longer have a view of the main prison’s recreation yard. Now we have a view of nothing – nothing but a bunch of rocks that is. Day after day is the same. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to recreation, eat lunch, 4PM stand up count, eat dinner then sleep. It’s mind numbing. That is until Olaf decides to submit some written complaints to the warden.
“Who ‘dese guys think they are?”, Olaf announces while composing his latest issue on a piece of paper better known as an “Inmate to Staff Request” or “cop out”. He folds it, then slips the cop out between the wall and top left corner of the cell door where it’s pinched by the metal door frame and sticking out into mid air in the AD SEG corridor. This is the third complaint he’s submitted. Hours later, a CO struts past our cell and retrieves the paper. Days pass with no response and it appears that, like his pro se’ appeal, Olaf has once again been ignored. That is until Monday morning when the warden and his senior staff conduct their weekly SHU examination. The warden walks with his associate wardens and executive staff down the AD SEG corridor and looks into every cell to ensure the physical well being of each inmate. No judgment is made regarding mental well being. For an inmate, the inspection is like being the object of a ten cent peep show. Anonymous faces gaze through the cell door window and stare with voyeuristic eyes. Hook and I had been through a pair of such inspections and simply waved to the staff, each of whom deposited a dime, ogled and moved on without incident. It’s a mistake to engage the senior staff in conversation during SHU inspections. And it’s a mistake Olaf is making right now as the warden appears at our cell door window.
Olaf approaches the door muttering, “So . . . you’re afraid of me, ehhh warden?”. The warden replies saying only “You’re a terrorist”. Five hours later Olaf was gone and I was alone again.
There are times in modern society when the pen is mightier than the sword. Praise to those who succeed with written appeals and cop outs. Such is not the time though after you’ve been rescued from a burning schooner in the North Pacific amidst bales of charred hashish. And it’s certainly not the time when you’re warm, clothed and fed albeit incarcerated in an 8’ x 12’ segregation cell. Olaf failed to realize this despite the jurisdictional merits of his failed appeal and baseless complaints to the warden. There are better ways to exit the ocean. And there are better ways to exit a concrete box. Patience. And then a familiar voice “I need to see the nurse!”. Again and again it echoes “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”.
III
After Olaf’s hasty departure, I spent another week alone in AD SEG before being moved to yet another cell and bunking with Pat, the new AD SEG orderly who is serving a twelve year prison sentence for conspiracy to distribute methamphetamine. Years later, I learned that Olaf was transferred from Taft to a federal prison in Phoenix with a scheduled release date in 2010. Pat and I spent a few weeks together exchanging stories, trading commissary and blabbing about nothing specific. His AD SEG etiquette was superior to Olaf so it was a pleasant change. I’ve been in the SHU for almost two months now. Bunking with Pat is almost like living alone because he spends most of his day outside the cell working in the SHU as the orderly. We spend only a couple waking hours together at night chatting and maybe twenty minutes together in the morning before he exits the cell for work. It’s like being married to someone who works a normal 9 to 5 job – save for the fact we’re locked in a concrete castle wearing orange jumpsuits.
A tap at the cell door window. Pat stares at me from the AD SEG corridor saying “Lompoc”. I replied with a furrowed brow not sure what he meant. He says again “Lompoc. You’re being transferred to Lompoc”. And then he was gone.
I spent about two months in AD SEG at Taft for refusing to participate in a work release program. Now I was on my way to a real federal prison in Lompoc, CA where I would be housed behind the wire in the main prison’s general population. I had lost my “out custody” camp status.
In hindsight, I’m not sure what purpose, if any, my time in the SHU served. I just don’t see the logic in it. As I exited AD SEG with my property in a clear plastic garbage bag, hands cuffed at the front and escorted by a CO, a familiar scream commenced in the unit. “I need to see the nurse!”. It was emanating from a confinement cell on my left. I gazed into each box looking for the source as the CO and I marched down the AD SEG corridor. And there it was. Cheshire was standing in his cell with his face inches from the cell door window. He screams over and over “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”. He pounds his fist on the window as I pass saying only “Peace out Wall Street”. Then he resumes screaming for the nurse. To this day, I don’t know why. Over and over he screams “I need to see the nurse! I need to see the nurse!”.
Five Days Until My Release From Taft Prison Camp
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I am so happy to have finished my final Thursday in prison. My time is over, though the lessons of prison keep coming. In these final days of my term I’m keeping a low profile as that has been my pattern. I am in problem avoidance mode, just as I have been from the day I began serving my sentence. Some of my fellow prisoners have a hard time accepting this lesson, and I hope those who expect a journey through federal prison heed the following advice: AVOID TELEVISON! Although I do not watch television, I sit at a table in the television room to write nearly every morning. I can observe what goes on, and that’s one of the reasons I advise those who want to avoid trouble in prison to serve time without television. This morning, for example, as I was studying to enrich my vocabulary, I saw an altercation. What many white color prisoners don’t understand is that even in camps, the population is littered with a few gang members. Those in the gangs claim the television as their fiefdom. I don’t know why prison staff members mix the gang members with the nonviolent offenders, but the reason isn’t relevant. What is relevant for white collar offenders to keep in mind is that unless they are prepared for violent conflict, they ought to avoid televisions. This morning I saw such an episode. Stan is a white collar offender in his late 60s. Clearly, he is not accustomed to prison. Juan is in his 30s; and the many tattoos together with the I don’t give a fxxx attitude suggests that prison is home for him. Stan was watching an early news program. Juan walked into the room, indifferent to Stan’s existence, and charged the station to a music video show. Stan said, so that’s it?” “That’s it”, Juan answered. “Don’t you respect other people?” Stan was incredulous. “Go fxxx yourself, old man.” Juan did not hesitate. “If you want to do something, handle your business.”
Prison Journal: Day 8,121 November 3, 2009 Don, my roommate at Taft Camp, participated in a community service program today. He has been incarcerated for four years and he is scheduled to serve about six more years for convictions related to selling drugs. He’s not quite 30, married with young children. The smile on Don’s face showed his happiness when he returned from the trip into town, but it also reminded me of how prison has conditioned me. Don joined 10 other prisoners for the community service project. He said that a supervisor drove the group into the center of Taft and then gave each volunteer an orange vest and a plastic bag. The man picked up debris from the road, and the highlight of the seven hours he spent away from the Taft prison camp was a meal at McDonald’s. He looked forward to the next opportunity on the community service project and he urged me to sign up. As I watched Don’s enthusiasm as he described his trip to Taft, I thought about how our values differed. Don barely passed his GED, and he hasn’t done enough to further his education. I’m certain that he will face significant hurdles when he leaves prison and tries to find sustainable employment that will allow him to provide for his family. He has six more years of prison ahead of him and if he could muster the discipline, Don could earn a few vocational degrees that would ease his transition into society. Instead, he’s content to walk the streets with a garbage bag in hand for the privilege of a McDonald’s hamburger. I don’t understand the logic.
Prison Journal: Day 8,427 September 5, 2010 My friend David returned to the general population at Taft prison camp after a few days of disruption in the Special Housing Unit (SHU). The SHU, also known in prison parlance as “the hole,” strikes panic in many prisoners. It’s an area of the prison that administrators use to punish, but at the end of the day, it’s just another part of the prison experience. Certainly, time in the SHU is more restrictive, as the prisoner is locked in a space that is about the size of a closet or a spare bathroom. Prisoners confined to the SHU can’t leave the locked cell except for brief periods of exercise in another cage, and they can’t access the telephone freely. For those who allow the SHU to upset their mental balance, it can be traumatic. I strive to help other prisoners by dispelling some of the myths regarding the SHU. Time in the SHU may be a part of any prisoner’s experience. David asked me how he could avoid ever returning to the SHU. Although he was only there for three days, and he wasn’t there for any valid disciplinary reason, the solitude traumatized him. I told David that it was unfortunate that he had to endure it all, but time in the SHU was not a reflection of anything to do with his actions. It was part of the prison journey for many. Rather than living with the anxiety of how to refrain from ever returning, I suggested to David that I could better show him how to adjust in ways to find peace and balance regardless of what decisions prison administrators make. The truth is, as prisoners we can control how we behave but we cannot control how others behave. Sometimes the decisions or behaviors of the people around us may not be consistent with what we like to see from our fellow man. Although I’ve been in prison for longer than 23 years, I suspect this reality is as true in the real world as it is in prison. We should acknowledge this fact of life, accept it, and work to create peace in our mind regardless of outside forces. David didn’t do anything wrong in prison. A guard sent him to SHU for reasons of his own career and David didn’t have any control or influence over that. It was a guard who assigned him to a specific job and David performed his job in accordance with his instructions. The guard, to protect his own job, made the decision to send a message to all camp prisoners, and that message required David to spend time in SHU. It was a fluke and it was unlikely to happen again. But if it did, I told David to realize that it would not interfere with his release date, nor would it interfere with the love he has from family and friends. The only way time in the SHU could torment him was if he allowed guards to use it as a weapon. By following rules—as he does—he made it less likely that he would ever see “the hole” again. But if guards did send him there, I suggested he exhale with an understanding that he could find his way to peace if he so chose. Over the course of my journey, guards have sent me to the SHU on various occasions. Once I spent 65 Days in the SHU. No big deal. I exercised. I read. And I wrote. It’s all part of the prison experience, and every day brings me closer to liberty. I live with the peace that comes in knowing that someday I’ll resume life in society, but as a prisoner, guards may uproot my life at anytime. No problem. I can control my behavior, but the fickle behavior of others is like the weather. I will live with rain or sunshine, light or darkness.
Prison Journal: Day 8,362 Today I spoke with Tom, a prisoner who recently self surrendered to Taft Camp. When he turned himself in to the guards at the front, he gave them a money order for $50 that he bought from a local pharmacy. The guard told Tom that they would credit the $50 to his commissary account. What Tom didn’t know was that he would not be allowed to spend the money for two weeks, nor did he know that $50 would not be sufficient to purchase the items he would need to settle in. Tom told me that he didn’t have any idea about what to expect from prison. He said that he thought the prison system would provide for all of his needs. It does, but a difference exists between needs and wants. Just as money eases life everywhere else in society, money makes life a bit easier in prison. It wasn’t a matter of Tom not having money, just a matter of him not having sufficient information about what to expect. It was Tom’s defense attorney who gave him the inaccurate information and the wrong impression that $50 was all he needed to bring—for postage. That bad advice leaves Tom with an awkward initial adjustment. My writings provide extensive descriptions about prison life, but perhaps it isn’t easy for people who are about to serve time to find all of my descriptions. I steer people to Justin Paperny, who offers consulting services for people about to self surrender, and those who talk with him find value in the insight he offers. Unlike Tom, they come prepared and ready to begin a positive adjustment immediately. The commissary list at Taft Camp details what is available for prisoners to purchase. Prisoners don’t have to buy anything. The prison provides clothing and food. But those who want to ease their life inside should plan on monthly expenditures. With expenses for telephone, postage, and food items, it is not unusual to spend $400 each month. Not all prisoners have the resources available to spend and they live just fine—but those who want to avoid the chow hall require money.
Prison Journal: Day 8,381 July 21, 2010 Guards took Art to the hole (SHU) today. They caught him cutting in line in the chow hall. I was surprised to hear that Art would be so foolish; he’s been at TaftCamp for longer than two years and, frankly, should have known better. I expect that he will serve between two and three weeks in the Special Housing Unit for his infraction, and when he returns he may feel humiliated by his indiscretion. People who come to prison should realize that they are part of a community. Getting along in this community requires discipline and a sense of discretion. It is wise for people to understand the community and to abide by the rules of good conduct. I suggest that prisoners should live as submarines, moving along under the current but with periscopes up so they know all that goes on around them. When a prisoner begins with the right attitude–focused on emerging from prison successfully– avoiding altercations with others is relatively easy. But doing so requires the individual to spend time understanding his environment before trying to make the environment understand him. Although Art (and other inconsiderate people) may want to save time or join acquaintances by cutting in line, what they fail to realize is that they disrespect every other person in line when they do, and consequences may follow. In Art’s case, the consequences include time in solitary. They also mean that he cannot use the phone or the recreation yard. Sometimes prisoners who disrespect others receive more severe consequences. They may incite violent altercations with other prisoners who get fed up with being disrespected. Art will have time to think about his behavior. I hope other prisoners learn a lesson from Art’s mistake: they should focus on serving their terms with an understanding that prison is an environment we all must work together to improve—not disrupt.
Prison Journal: Day 8,389 July 29, 2010 I have numerous insights about growing through prison that I would like to share with newer prisoners. One of those lessons concerns contraband. In the beginning, men surrender to camp with all kinds of resolutions about not breaking any prison rules. Then a few months pass by and they become comfortably numb, forgetting where they are. I understand that we’re all on our own journey, but I’d like to help the men around me avoid consequences that will exacerbate their confinement. I am not arguing that every rule in prison is sacrosanct. Some seem petty and others don’t make sense. What new prisoners should focus on is how they want to emerge, and they should use that focus as a beacon to guide every decision. Tom didn’t use a beacon, and, consequently, he now sits in the Special Housing Unit awaiting transfer to a higher security prison. His offense concerns contraband, and it doesn’t make any sense. Yet it is an infraction that many new prisoners commit. Tom surrendered to prison with all of the best intentions. He sought me out during his first days, telling me how much he appreciated the blogs I wrote. We spoke for awhile, but as he settled into life at Taft Camp, Tom and I only spoke in passing. He developed his circle of friends. When new prisoners surrender, they sometimes resent the institutional feel of confinement. Little things seem to ease some of the pain of being separated from home. If those little things don’t come through appropriate channels, guards will consider them contraband. Prisoners may only receive “things” through commissary purchases, through the mail, or when issued by staff. Because of those controls, guards can easily spot contraband—or items that the prison didn’t authorize. Tom somehow missed this obvious point. A guard spotted him walking with a pair of $200 tennis shoes, the flashy type with the shock observers by Nike. Prisons don’t sell them, and Tom didn’t have them when he self surrendered to Taft. When a guard asked about the shoes, Tom couldn’t give him a satisfactory answer so the guard locked him in the hole where he sits awaiting transfer. The tennis shoes, I’m sure, were confiscated as contraband. Flashy tennis shoes don’t make prison easier in the long run. Tom may have wanted a status symbol, but by losing focus of the goals he set, he now embarks on a new journey, with new lessons to learn. I wish that I had been more successful in guiding him.
Prison Journal: Day 8,393 August 2, 2010 Today I met Jay, a man who voluntarily returned to serve five months in Taft Prison Camp rather than serve several years on supervised release. Jay served 17 calendar years in various prisons on the east coast before he completed his term of imprisonment. He left prison to begin enjoying freedom in Las Vegas, and from what he described he enjoyed that freedom in high style under the sponsorship of his nephew, Phil Ivey. Phil Ivey, according to those who know, is one of the world’s most famous poker players. He plays in every major poker tournament and he is frequently on television. When Jay walked out of prison after 17 years, he walked into Phil’s world, as a true player in Las Vegas. Jay described driving the best automobiles, wearing custom tailored suits, and being catered to in the best ways that Las Vegas had to offer. Supervised release wasn’t too burdensome for him, Jay said, but rather than put up with several years of the hassle, he elected to violate the conditions of his release with an understanding that by serving five months more in prison Jay would conclude his obligation to the Justice Department. Not all prisoners have the same option that Jay had. He was convicted in the early 1990s. The sentencing scheme then in place provided that offenders who violated conditions of supervised release would return to prison for a period of time and in so doing wipe out their commitments to the criminal justice system. That law has since changed. Individuals convicted under laws now in place face much tougher consequences if they violate conditions of supervised release. They return to prison, then face new and oftentimes extended terms of supervised release.
Prison Journal: Day 8,438 September 16, 2010 I’ve been writing about the possibility of using e mail for more than one year. I had hoped that we would have e mail in September, but when I spoke with one of the electricians who was installing electrical conduit today he told me that mid October was the new due date. I’m looking forward to it. Other than printed hardcopies that Carole mails to me, I’ve never sent or received an email message. The technology didn’t exist when I began serving my sentence. From what I’ve read, e mail and text messaging are now as ubiquitous as telephone calls. I will appreciate the privilege of being able to connect with society more efficiently. We have about 125 men assigned to each of the four housing units at Taft Camp, so I expect there will be long lines of men waiting to access the e mail terminal. From what I understand, each housing unit will have one e mail terminal. Because of the hours I keep, I don’t expect that I’ll have much trouble though. Perhaps more terminals will be added later. I expect administrators will restrict e mail access to approved people. My intentions are to send all email messages to a single address: my wife’s. It will allow me to avoid the cumbersome process of seeking approval for each message. Also, I’ll welcome the opportunity to keep a digital record at home of every email message I send or receive. All of those messages that Carole will store for me will help document the way I work toward preparing for a contributing life upon release.
Prison Journal: Day 8,452 September 30, 2010 Contraband is a big problem in prison camps. I was reminded of how contraband threatens every prisoner in the camp when guards woke me last night at 8:30. I didn’t know what the problem was until the rumors started flying this morning. When I heard about contraband problems, I understood. I go to bed early every day. It’s part of my strategy to avoid problems. Regardless of what choices I make, however, I cannot control the choices that other people make around me. Sometimes the choices other prisoners make render every prisoner in the camp vulnerable. Especially when it comes to contraband. Guards came through the housing unit, ordered me and everyone else to open our hands, and then sprayed the back of our hands with water. I know the guards had their reasons for the task, but I didn’t question it; at the time all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. When I went outside to exercise this morning, Jason, another prisoner, asked me whether guards took anyone to the SHU last night. I told him I was asleep and didn’t know. When the guards sprayed the liquid on my hands I assumed they were looking for scars or cuts that might indicate a person had been fighting. Jason said the water was an attempt to find prisoners involved in contraband. Rumor has it that apparently someone made an effort to smuggle contraband into the camp. Guards found a sack of contraband in an open field that is just beyond the camp’s boundaries. Supposedly, they sprayed the bag with some type of invisible liquid that appears if sprayed with water. If someone were to touch the bag, the water would reveal their involvement in smuggling contraband. A reasonable mind would conclude that as long as an individual didn’t have involvement with the contraband, he wouldn’t be implicated. But that’s not the case, from what Jason told me. People who did touch the contraband would carry the evidence on their hands without knowing it. If they then touched a door knob, or a water faucet, they would transfer the residue onto the commonly used surfaces, making everyone else vulnerable to unwarranted problems. During the 40 months I’ve been confined at Taft Camp, contraband hasn’t been as prevalent as other prisons where I’ve been held. That seems to be changing. I advise people who may surrender to Taft Camp to avoid every type of contraband because it frequently exacerbates the pains of confinement. I don’t see any upside to it.
This afternoon my living unit, which is the building where I reside, was on lockdown. That’s a term you will learn more about once you read my manuscripts. “Lockdown” means that we’re restricted to our rooms. At 6:30 this morning one prisoner crept into another prisoner’s room and sliced his face as if it were a tomato. Even in a low security prison, violence is only a whisper away. I’ve been fortunate to avoid it throughout the years. Now, after all the time that I’ve served, I’m almost immune to it. Too many others mix themselves up in it, participating in activities that invite it. There are some peculiar rules here. We can’t be outside without a shirt on. I like to run, and I hate not being able to run without a shirt; this is the only place where it’s happened to me, where I’ve had to observe these rules. It seems like a strange one, considering we’re a community of men. Another rule is that I only have access to 300 minutes of phone time per month. This averages fewer than 10 minutes per day. Usually, I don’t use the phone much during the beginning of the month so I can talk more freely during the end.
I should be able to call you by the time you receive this letter, but I can’t be sure. You see, we have a recently implemented phone system and it’s tightly controlled. I will submit the number today, and it will be programmed into my account. I expect I’ll have access to it by the latter part of this week, or early next week. I’ve been saving my phone minutes for you this month and my heart is aflutter with excitement at the prospect of a conversation with you. When I call, we will have only 15 minutes available. Only answer the phone if you are able to talk, because I will not be able to call you back; once a call is made, the telephone account is deactivated for one hour. When I call it will be prepaid, but you will have to push the 5 to accept the call. A recording will precede my voice, and I will hear nothing on the other end until you push the number 5 to accept. If, for any reason, you cannot accept the call or cannot talk, simply hang up as soon as you hear the recording announcing that you’ve received a call from federal prison.