Prison, Inc.: A Convict Exposes Life Inside a Private Prison 9780814772430

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Prison, Inc.

Alternative Criminology Series General Editor: Jeff Ferrell Pissing on Demand Workplace Drug Testing and the Rise of the Detox Industry Ken Tunnell Empire of Scrounge Inside the Urban Underground of Dumpster Diving, Trash Picking, and Street Scavenging Jeff Ferrell P r i s o n, I n c. A Convict Exposes Life inside a Private Prison K. C. Carceral, edited by Thomas J. Bernard

Prison, Inc. A Convict Exposes Life inside a Private Prison

K. C. Carceral edited by

Thomas J. Bernard

a NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS New York and London

new york university press New York and London www.nyupress.org © 2006 by New York University All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Carceral, K. C. Prison, inc. : a convict exposes life inside a private prison / by K.C. Carceral ; edited by Thomas J. Bernard. p. cm. — (Alternative criminology series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978–0–8147–9954–3 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN–10: 0–8147–9954–X (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN–13: 978–0–8147–9955–0 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN–10: 0–8147–9955–8 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Prisons—United States—Case studies. 2. Corrections-Contracting out—United States—Case studies. 3. Prisoners-United States—Biography. 4. Carceral, K. C. I. Bernard, Thomas J. II. Title. III. Series. HV9471.C283 2005 365’.973—dc22 2005017515 New York University Press books are printed on acid-free paper, and their binding materials are chosen for strength and durability. Manufactured in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 p 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

I have always held tremendous guilt about my crime. No matter the incident, I can never forget I murdered another human being. How self-centered and heinous I was. Seeing the pain in my family’s eyes is exceptionally small compared to what my victim’s family has suffered. The world is a lesser place without him. My serious regrets toward my actions will never change what I have done. I can only change myself so it does not occur again. To my family and those I hurt, I am truly and deeply sorry for the pain I caused. —K. C. Carceral

Contents

Foreword Thomas J. Bernard Acknowledgments

ix

xvii

p a r t i Welcome to Enterprise 1

The Politics of Enterprise Prison

3

2

Orientation

10

3

New Prison Problems

21

p a r t i i Guerrilla Warfare 4

Wild Wild West

35

5

Beat Down Crew

49

6

The Zoo

61

p a r t i i i My Tour 7

Caught Up

79

8

The Other Enemy

88

9

Gang Related

105

10

Seg Time

114

vii

viii | Contents

p a r t i v An Exercise in Futility 11

Riot

135

12

Lockdown

148

13

Aftermath

161

p a r t v Taking Control 14

The Masters

173

15

The Servants

190

16

The Power

204

p a r t v i Analysis 17

Factors Contributing to Violence and Its Control

215

Notes

237

Glossary

241

About the Author and the Editor

247

Foreword Thomas J. Bernard

This book is a case study of a privately owned prison intended to provide you, the reader, with an accurate glimpse into prison life. It follows the events that occurred with the prison’s descent into chaos and its subsequent climb back toward order and control. All names of people and places in this book have been changed to protect the identity of the author, who fears he might suffer retaliation either from prison officials or from other inmates if his true identity were disclosed. To disguise his identity, the author of this book uses the pseudonym K. C. Carceral. This person is an inmate who has been in prison since 1982 when, shortly after graduating from high school, he was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. In 1997, after eighteen years in various state prisons,1 Carceral was transferred to a brand-new “private” prison that is owned and operated by a profit-making corporation whose stock is publicly traded on Wall Street. This is a real prison run by a real corporation, but to disguise their identities in this book they are called Enterprise Correctional Facility and Venture Correctional Corporation. Venture maintained that it could house inmates at lower cost while providing better facilities and services than prisons run by the state’s Department of Corrections. In order to achieve these tax savings, the state government contracted with this corporation to house a significant portion of its inmate population. Carceral comes from a state in the northern part of the United States (called Northern State in this book), while Venture built its new prison in a southern state (called Southern State here) about 600 miles away. Shortly after it opened, 1,500 inmates from Northern State were transferred to this brand-new prison. Almost immediately, the prison began to descend into chaos and violence as the corporation focused on contain-

ix

x | Foreword

ing costs in order to make a profit. About a year after Carceral arrived, this culminated in a riot that was immediately put down. After the riot, the corporation began to implement measures that gradually resulted in it taking greater control of the prison. After four years in this private prison (and then a year and a half in another), Carceral was transferred back to a prison within his own state system, where he remains today. His experience in Enterprise prison, however, was by far the most violent and traumatic of his prison career. * * * Private profit-making prisons were widespread in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century America, especially in the Southern states.2 For example, Texas “leased” its entire prison system from the mid-1800s to the early 1900s.3 During the same time period, Florida routinely leased most of its convicts to privately run prison “camps” that were engaged in extractive enterprises, such as mining coal and phosphorus.4 In 1884 the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company leased the entire Tennessee state penitentiary. By 1889, it was employing 60 percent of the inmates as miners and had subleased the rest to other private employers. All these activities disappeared in the beginning of the twentieth century, primarily because of widespread problems with corruption and brutality.5 In addition to that, political opposition had arisen from companies that did not lease prisoners—these companies claimed that the companies that leased inmate labor received an unfair economic advantage because they were able to pay much lower wages. In addition, political opposition also had arisen in the increasingly powerful organized labor movement, which claimed that the leased convicts lowered the wages of free workers. A renewed hope that prisons could be self-supporting, even profitable, drove their reemergence in the United States in the late twentieth century.6 In 1976 the first of many public facilities—a secure treatment unit for violent juvenile offenders in Pennsylvania—was turned over to a private company.7 Since then, the number of institutions being run by private companies has been rapidly increasing. Between 1995 and 2004, the number of inmates housed in these prisons increased from 12,534 to 98,791.8 Private prisons now hold about 7 percent of inmates in the United States. Like privatization in other areas, the recent expansion of private prisons has been driven by the promise that the private sector could deliver

Foreword | xi

more and better services for less money.9 However, the early experiences with private corrections in the 1980s did not support that claim. In 1990 Charles H. Logan analyzed the costs of public versus private corrections up to that time and concluded: “Private prisons will not necessarily be less expensive than those owned and run directly by the government.”10 More recently, a national survey funded by the Bureau of Justice Assistance found average savings of 1 percent instead of the frequently projected 20 percent.11 These savings were achieved almost entirely through lower labor costs: private facilities had significantly lower staffing levels, lower salaries, and lower benefits. Even these modest savings for the taxpayers were offset by the fact that over 70 percent of private prisons received tax subsidies, primarily from state and local governments.12 The major concern, however, was that there were many operational problems associated with private prisons. The Bureau of Justice Assistance national survey found that private facilities have much higher rates of assaults on staff and inmates than state facilities.13 A separate national survey by the Federal Bureau of Prisons found that private prisons have significantly greater problems with staff turnover, escapes, and drug use.14 As this book was going to press, the New York Times ran a series of articles detailing the poor health treatment, in some cases resulting in death, that prisoners received in New York and Alabama that was run by a private corporation.15 These operational problems have raised public policy concerns about the appropriateness of profit-making corporations operating prison facilities.16 Critics argue that, because of contradictory demands on private prisons, the institutions are doomed to fail.17 Supporters, however, argue that properly supervised and properly run private prisons can achieve the promise of better value for the money.18 * * * The principal character in this book is called Anonymous N. Inmate. Prison employees generally call this character by his last name—Mr. Inmate—while friends and associates call him by his first name—Anonymous. This is a fictional character that author K. C. Carceral has created for the purposes of telling his stories. The name of this character—Anonymous Numbered Inmate—is intended to convey an important truth about the imprisonment experience: a profound loss of personal identity. Each prisoner becomes anonymous among the millions who are locked away, hidden from the rest of society.

xii | Foreword

Each prisoner is numbered, and each number is unique to that particular prisoner in that the number “dies” when the inmate dies. In formal interactions with staff, inmates are required to identify themselves by their numbers along with their names. The number becomes synonymous with the name. In that sense, the inmate is no longer identified with a name but with a numbered file in the prison’s record-keeping system. Finally, prisoners take on the group identity of inmate. The term “inmate” tends to convey a whole host of negative stereotypes in the minds of other people. Many staff use the word itself in a condescending and derogatory manner. All the events described in this book actually happened, and the author witnessed most of those events firsthand. When events were based on secondhand accounts, the author attempted to cross check the account from various firsthand sources. In order to convey a more accurate “feel” of these events, the author created the specific dialogues among participants. These dialogues come from the imagination of the author, although they are based on observations of the events themselves and on inferences made from the observed characteristics of the participants. These observations and inferences were then applied within the context of the prison itself to create dialogues that are as real to life as possible. Thus, the dialogues are fictional, but they are part of an effort to present a picture of prison life that is true in a larger sense. In addition to those dialogues, at several places in the book the author also created “news articles” reporting on events that occurred in the prison. These are based on actual news articles that appeared at the time on events that occurred at the prison. For the purposes of inclusion in this book, they were condensed, combined, and paraphrased to conceal the identities and locations of the participants. The stories told by Carceral are informative, engaging, interesting, amusing, and appalling all at the same time. Because it attempts to provide a feel for prison life, the language can be quite rough at times. For example, prisoners routinely use egregiously racist and sexist language in their interactions with each other and with staff. By including such material here in this book, neither the author nor the editor nor the publisher wish to suggest or imply any approval of this language or of the ideas it conveys. Rather, this language is a prominent reality of prison life, and the book attempts to portray prison life accurately. Racism and sexism are common and widespread in prisons—they pervade almost all aspects of prison life. In order to convey accurately the

Foreword | xiii

experience of being in a prison, it is necessary to include a representation of this overwhelming reality. In fact, racist and sexist language in prisons is much more extensive and egregious than is portrayed here. As the editor, I decided to limit this language when it did not bear some relationship to the larger point being conveyed. Thus, I removed some of the racist and sexist language where it was unrelated to the story. However, in actual prisons, gratuitous racism and sexism would have occurred in a much wider range of situations. While the body of the book attempts to offer an accurate description of the people and events in Enterprise, the author also provides his own opinions on the meanings and importance of those events. Each individual chapter concludes with reflections by the author. These reflections place the events that are described in the chapter into a larger context, frequently pointing out meanings and significances that are not at all apparent to the average reader. A concluding chapter of the book provides reflections about the experiences recounted in the book as a whole. Finally, a glossary of terms is provided, which lists a fairly large number of words and phrases that are commonly used in prisons but whose meaning would be unclear to the average person. * * * Other than this foreword, this book was entirely written by K. C. Carceral. This person entered prison shortly after graduating from high school, at which time he was aiming for a career in air conditioning repair. During the many years he has been incarcerated, he has taken college classes, and, as a result of those classes he currently holds an Associates degree as a Paralegal and a Bachelor of Science degree in Business Administration. He currently is completing a Master of Arts degree in Human Behavior. Although he now has achieved a great deal in his education, the fact remains that Carceral has not studied, and largely is not familiar with, the academic literature on prisons in general or on private prisons in particular. I see this as a great advantage, since it means that preconceived notions derived from prior theory and research do not influence his descriptions or his analysis. On the other hand, it seems to me that this book is consistent with and enlightening to a wide range of academic theory and research on prisons, including private prisons. Even his policy recommendations are reason-

xiv | Foreword

ably consistent with the recommendations of widely respected academic experts, although they are phrased in very different terms.19 Thus, while an academic did not write this book, it certainly is not an assault on academic thinking. Rather, it is a thoughtful insider’s view of prisons that complements and adds to academic knowledge on the subject. As the editor, I made a strong effort not to influence the content of the book except, as mentioned above, with respect to the use of racist and sexist language. Other than that, the goal of my editing always was to clarify, never to influence. Therefore, all of the views and opinions contained in this book are those of the author, K. C. Carceral. * * * As an academic, my goal in working on this project was to help create an honest and accurate portrayal of prisons. Readers might object that Carceral is a prisoner and therefore his portrayal is probably biased. Of course, there might be truth to this objection. But “participant observation” studies, such as this one, are fairly widely used in the social sciences generally and in the field of criminal justice in particular. For example, recent “participant observation” studies have focused on police corruption,20 how serious violent offenders excuse and justify their own crimes,21 the relation between drugs and crime,22 and parolees and rehabilitation.23 There are many limitations to these studies, including the possible biases of the researchers.24 But these studies can also provide valuable information about subjects that otherwise are extremely difficult to study, such as prisons.25 For example, some recent participant observation studies in prisons have focused on the meaning of religion to inmates,26 the daily lives of women inmates,27 and the experience of drug injectors as inmates.28 It would be difficult to acquire information at all about these subjects without this type of research. There also is a growing body of literature, called “convict criminology,” which is authored by ex-convicts who now are academics.29 This literature is premised on the assumption that “insider” accounts of prisons can be authentic and useful for understanding the current state of prisons and for shaping future research. Finally, there are a number of firsthand accounts of prison life by authors who still are incarcerated.30 In general, my view is that all of these can be quite valuable sources of information about prisons and prisoners as long as readers are aware that the information comes from inmates

Foreword | xv

themselves and therefore should be read with an appropriately cautious and critical perspective. * * * My own view is that K. C. Carceral is an honest and insightful author and that this book provides a great deal of accurate information about prisons in general and private prisons in particular. I also believe that it is important that the American public to learn more about what prisons are really like, because such an enormous number of people are locked up inside them. At mid-year 2004 there were nearly 1.5 million people in adult federal and state prisons in the United States. This represents an incarceration rate of 486 prisoners for every 100,000 people in the nation’s population. By contrast, in 1990 there were 292 prisoners for every 100,000 people; while in the mid-1960s there were fewer than 100 for every 100,000. Prior to 1960 the incarceration rate in the United States had never exceeded 110 prisoners per 100,000 people in the population. The era of our “get tough” policy has led to massive increases in prison populations. Besides people in prisons, there are about 785,000 additional people incarcerated in local jails and over 100,000 juveniles are locked up in secure juvenile facilities. This results in a total incarceration rate in the United States of approximately 726 incarcerated people for every 100,000 people in the population. This is the highest incarceration rate in the entire world (Russia is in second place with 628). Other Western industrialized countries typically have incarceration rates somewhere around 100/100,000. For example, Canada has an incarceration rate of 102/100,000 and England has a rate of 139/100,000. On the other hand, Iceland only has 35 incarcerated people for every 100,000 people in their population. All of this entails an enormous expenditure of human and financial resources. This is why I believe it is important for the American people to understand more about prisons. I also believe that one point of view— though certainly not the only one—that can contribute to this understanding is that of the prisoner. Certainly this is not the only book one should read about prisons. Rather, prisons are complex phenomena that should be viewed from many different perspectives. For example, books written from the perspective of a guard or an administrator are likely to be quite different

xvi | Foreword

than this book and also valuable to achieving a balanced understanding of prisons.31 But I believe that this book is a genuine attempt by an inmate to speak honestly and thoughtfully about prisons. As such, I believe that this book makes an important and valuable contribution to academic literature on prisons, especially the literature on private prisons.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank all those who have come together with me to produce this second book. Again, I find myself indebted to Thomas Bernard from the Pennsylvania State University. Without his dedication over the years in helping me find my way, this material would have never made it to you, the reader. Your praise and dedication has meant so much to me over the years. I also want to thank A. Daktari Alexander, who sat at his machine and struggled with my ever-changing writings. It is difficult for a prison author to make it to press, and I appreciate all your efforts. Again, I thank my mom and brother for encouraging me all the way, finding interest in what I am doing. Especially to my oldest brother, accepting my collect phone calls. I will never forget listening to you opening my present of my first book and the praise you gave. Also, Sister Ann and Sister Mariella hung with me and encouraged me in my life. All of you have provided me with support in your own way, which has helped me in my writing. Also, I would like to thank Marlo-W, who has been there for me when I needed a friend and brother for the past fifteen years. He has allowed me to see his struggle as an African-American in prison. Thank you. K.C.C. I want to thank Stephen C. Richards, University of Wisconsin– Oshkosh, Daniel P. Mears of Florida State, and the anonymous reviewers for New York University Press who provided very helpful comments on the manuscript. I also want to thank Zach Hays for help in working with the manuscript and Nicholas Taylor at NYU Press for his copyediting. Finally, I want to thank Despina Papazoglou Gimbel, Managing Editor, and Ilene Kalish, Executive Editor, at NYU Press for believing in this project and for all of their excellent work bringing it to completion. T.J.B.

xvii

Prison, Inc.

1 The Politics of Enterprise Prison Welcome to Enterprise prison. We do it cheaper and better than your state system. Enjoy your stay. —Rob Robey, Drug Treatment Manager and Former Insurance Salesman I don’t remember seeing Enterprise in the brochure when I was sentenced to prison. No one told me I would be down South doing time. —A New Arrival

After eighteen years in the Northern State Prison System, I was waiting to be shipped to yet another prison. This would be the ninth prison I had entered since my incarceration, but this prison would be nothing like the previous ones. At one time I had the security of knowing I would remain in Northern State and I had the opportunity, if I complained enough, to be sent to a prison near my family. But that had changed. The old days were long gone. Lateral transfers, where the state moved prisoners from one prison to another at the same security level within the state, had ended unless the system had a reason to ship an inmate to a certain prison. Family ties and family values were no longer a concern. It didn’t matter where your family was located—the state shipped you where was convenient. The staff kept saying: We’re just taking in too many offenders. And now Governor Strictland had announced that prisoners would be required to serve a part of their sentence in out-of-state facilities that were run by a private profitmaking corporation. It was no secret that Strictland was tough on crime. He had been governor of Northern State for fifteen years. During his service, sentences had

3

4 | The Politics of Enterprise Prison

gotten longer, more people were being locked up, and there were fewer paroles. “Anonymous Numbered Inmate, report to the receiving building,” the ceiling speaker blurted out. That would be me, I smiled to myself. * * * Of course, Anonymous N. Inmate is not my real name. Like other prisoners, I have a normal name. But after years and years in the prison system, I feel anonymous—my record file is more significant than my life. I feel like an identification number rather than a human being—my prison number is more important than I am. I feel that I am just another prisoner in the vast pool of prisoners, an anonymous number among the over two million anonymous numbers who are incarcerated in this country. And so in this book, I call myself a name that reflects my feeling: Anonymous Numbered Inmate. In normal day-to-day life of prison, other prisoners call me by my first name, Anonymous, while staff usually address me by my last name, Inmate. * * * My name had been blurted over the loudspeaker, and so I gathered up the few things that I hadn’t already packed for my long bus ride. “Did you check out and sign out?” the state officer asked me as I exited. “Yes,” I replied, “I turned in all my state-issued clothing and bedding.” Life was different now. Doing time was changing. The staff seemed more vindictive, and the prisoners seemed more willing to accept this treatment. All the prisoners were scared of being placed in 24-hour lockup. I had a serious attitude since I was sent back to medium-security from a minimum-security placement.1 My family was upset with me because I had gotten into trouble there. People out there in the larger society often think minimum-security prisons are country clubs but they are far from this. Besides being sent back to medium, I also had received a longer parole “defer”—i.e., the parole board would not hear my case again for twenty-four months instead of the usual twelve months. After being back in medium security about three months, I had to drop the bombshell on my family: I was reclassified to be sent out to an out-ofstate private prison. Reclassification was instant. It wasn’t Do you meet

The Politics of Enterprise Prison | 5

the criteria for placement. Instead, it was How do we rewrite your paperwork so you fit the classification. Nothing was going to prevent this move. Private prisons are owned and operated by profit-making corporations. The corporation charges the state a fixed amount for each day that an inmate spends in the private prison—a per diem. The corporation claims it charges less than it costs the state to feed and house the inmate. It also claims that it can provide the same services that the state does and still turn a profit. The question, of course, is whether this is actually true. * * * It was a long walk across the receiving building’s yard. I had heard plenty of rumors about bad things in the private prisons, and no rumors about anything good. I did not want to go and I was emotionally stirred up. But I had no choice in the matter. Some guys snapped, yet that did not stop their transfer. Others whined and cried. I just accepted the fact that I had to go. At least no one was coming back from these private prisons in body bags. Once inside the receiving building, I was stripped, processed, and placed on a converted bus like livestock. I was a commodity that had been contracted for payment. I was a product in the free enterprise system. I was on my way to a newly built private prison—Enterprise Correctional Facility—that was owned and operated by the Venture Correctional Corporation. * * * Now I was sitting on the bus, waiting to leave the home I had known and was comfortable with, heading for who knows what. Man, wish they would get this rocket rolling, I thought. “My name is Tex,” the fella next to me said, breaking into my thoughts. “I’m Anonymous.” “You look like you’re in deep thought. It’s going to be a long ride.” Tex was just the typical. He had long hair and a beard. He had an average build and his face was weather-beaten with age. “Just don’t want to take this trip. I want to go out the door but not this way.” “Ain’t many of us going out that door. We’re all going out of state instead. My people tripped when I told them.”

6 | The Politics of Enterprise Prison

“I know what you mean . . .” “This shit can’t last long,” he ignored my reply. “My wife was upset but I told her they’ll be bringing us back within two years.” “Yeah,” I agreed. I really didn’t want to sit here and discuss the finer aspects of the prison system’s problems. I had my own problems. “Someone ought to get the governor,” Tex smiled and moved his eyebrows up and down. “Strictland is pimping the state with this tough-oncrime shit.” “Tex, you sound like you want some more time!” I smiled and left it at that. I nudged my glasses up, stretched my legs under the seat in front of me and prepared for my trip. The truth was that I felt the same way. I came back from minimum-security placement after sitting there for three years. In some ways I was glad to be sent back to medium. In minimum, cats were leaving out the door every day, but I never went anywhere. Three long years of going nowhere—I got so sick of it. Still, it was hard for me to think about this. Never in my life will I forget my mom placing her hand on mine in the visiting room after I was sent back: “Anonymous, don’t you want to get out? I’m getting older. I want to see my son again.” Those words of love were the hardest part for me to live with. I wanted to get out, but I just self-destructed. I gave up on myself and stopped caring about the door. The lure of the system was part of it—the only life I knew. * * * The bus’s engine kicked on and we started rolling. I was on my way to Fisherville, in Southern State. I really had very little idea where that was. I had never been down South, and all those Southern states—Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi—sounded pretty much alike to me. To deal with the surplus population, Governor Strictland decided to send thousands of prisoners and millions of dollars out of the state. First the prisoners and the money were sent down South to county jails. But these places didn’t have medical care and some of them had correctional officers who seemed to believe that beating prisoners was a part of the job. So eventually the state contracted with a private corporation that operated its own prisons in several Southern states. I was being sent six hundred miles away to Enterprise Correctional Facility, in Fisherville:

The Politics of Enterprise Prison | 7

Southern Daily Times, May 26: Enterprise Correctional Facility is about to have an impact on the tiny, job-starved community of Fisherville. Convicted criminals from Northern State will begin to arrive next week. “Look at our community, we’re dying,” said Bertha Johnson, a daycare owner.“I hope the 300 new prison employees will help fill my daycare.” Fisherville mirrors many Southern State communities missed by the booming national economy. Venture Correctional Corporation previously built another prison in New Kirk in 1995. “We’re glad to have Venture Correctional in New Kirk,” said Jane Anderson, city recorder and councilwoman.“We have opened two new banks, a hotel and restaurant, a shopping mall and 35 new homes. They pay us $100,000 annual property taxes and we collect anywhere from $70,000 to $90,000 a year in taxes on the collect phone system which the inmates use.” “This could not have happened without Venture,” said Mayor Bobby Hunter. “We’re glad to have prisoners.”

Enterprise charged $50 per day for each prisoner. Eventually, Northern State became their biggest cash cow, writing them a check for approximately $215,000 per day or $79,000,000 per year. The odd thing was Governor Strictland would not allow Venture Correctional Corporation to build private prisons in Northern State—that was unacceptable. Yet it was acceptable to send Northern State prisoners to private prisons in other states across the country. “Shit, these prisons are all about money now-a-days,” Tex interrupted my thoughts again. “It’s all about getting that tax money. They got like thirty other companies that are selling to these private prisons—everything from food to aspirin. These private prisons are a cash-generating welfare machine for lots of folks. People are getting rich off us. I told my old lady she should move down to Southern State with me to get a job.” “There you go,” I agreed. “She still got pretty mad. I got thirty years for armed robbery. They offered a deal for five but my lawyer said, ‘no.’ So I went to trial. Oops—I guess the damn judge thought I should have taken the deal.” * * * The converted bus held forty prisoners and six security guards employed by the corporation. At first, everyone thought it was great to get into a bus with cloth seats and a video system, to laugh at the Southern boys as

8 | The Politics of Enterprise Prison

they got stuck in the snow when we were leaving, and to do 75 to 85 mph down the road. Yet by the time we rolled into Enterprise, everyone was tired, cranky, and mad. We had spent eighteen hours in a seat, cuffed and shackled. By the sixth hour my legs went numb and my butt really hurt. After that it just got worse. The seats were so tight together that my knees rested in the back of the seat in front of me. When we finally arrived, it took me several minutes before I could stand up. “This really sucks,” one man said. “My ass hurts,” a few others exclaimed. There was a Black officer in the tower strutting a twelve-gauge pump. Two Black female officers were operating the front gate. Three others were waiting for us by a loading dock door. We didn’t go through a prisoner entrance—we walked through a loading dock like cattle. We were led down a couple of hallways still in irons. There were more Black guards. In Northern State, all one sees are White guards. Here, all they had were Black guards, and mostly females to boot. “I never seen so many employed sisters in my life,” a taller fellow commented. “Come on now, move along,” the officer was saying as we walked. Finally, their human cargo was unloaded!

Reflections Four sometimes-opposing forces would shape my new life in the private prison. First were the prisoners. No one wanted to be shipped out-of-state. Everyone seemed to believe that the laws were being violated somehow. Most felt a great deal of rage over being sent so far from home. Even before the busses got rolling, the prisoners were fixated on being shipped out-of-state and talked about it all the time. Second was the Northern State Department of Corrections. Governor Strictland had implemented the toughest laws the state had ever seen. The Department tried to build its way out of the ever-expanding prisoner population, but it could not keep up. Taxpayers began to balk at the cost of the vast expansion of the prison system. So the Department turned to the private sector for more beds. They wanted prison beds as cheap as they

The Politics of Enterprise Prison | 9

could get them in order to claim they were saving tax dollars. So the prisoners poured out of Northern State by the busload. Third was the small town of Fisherville. The new prison meant jobs, and jobs meant millions of dollars for the local economy. The new prison also meant new tax revenues—it was owned by a private corporation and so paid property taxes. Fisherville and Southern State gave the corporation lots of tax breaks to get them to build in Fisherville, but those revenues could be partially reclaimed by taxing the prisoners’ phone calls back to Northern State. Prisoners’ families would make up part of that tax revenue. Finally, of course, was Venture Correctional Corporation. The corporation was determined to turn a profit on its new prison. Thus, it did only what it was required to do by its contract with Northern State. Everything that it was required to do—constructing the facility, hiring and paying staff, providing services to the inmates—was done as cheaply as possible. These four sometimes-opposing forces would shape the politics of Enterprise Prison and my life over the next four years. I was entering the most violent prison I would ever experience.

2 Orientation Come on, Anonymous, you are too programmed. These private folks don’t want that. If they really investigated something, they might actually find out the truth. —Double-Dee The motherfucker comes to rec with that touchy-feely shit. That day he picked the wrong motherfucker to harass. They beat him down. —Cash

As I looked at my new home, I could see the place was built cheap. Very cheap! Everything was concrete or steel. Most of the concrete was prefabricated and trucked in. There were cracks everywhere—not hairline cracks but cracks so big you could put your finger in them. Later, when summer came, I learned this allowed for the invasion of bugs, especially ants. I never knew there could be so many ants! Then there was the concrete dust—it was everywhere. Many floors were poured and dried so they looked like oatmeal. Some cells didn’t have sealer on the floor. I spent the day sweeping and mopping, sweeping and mopping, trying to remove the dust. But it did little good—every time I got done, more dust seemed to rise off the floor. And then there were the walls. Some cells only had primer on the walls and no paint. Other cells had one wall that was primed whereas the other three were painted. Primer turns to chalk and rubs off on you and your clothes. I wiped and wiped but it did little good. Some men took their small garbage cans and filled them with soap and water and scrubbed until all the primer was gone. Each cell had two bunks. The cell also had three small “shelves,” each about 12 by 16 inches, which were attached to the wall like a table and

10

Orientation | 11

two seats. We were supposed to be able to sit on those “seats” at the “table,” but a grown man wouldn’t fit. So there was nowhere to sit except on the lower bunk or the toilet seat. Actually, the toilet seat was the most comfortable spot unless you had to use it. So this became the primary seat in the cell. Everyone was doubled up. No one likes to be doubled up, and you hate it even more when you can’t choose your cellie. On the way down, we all wondered if we would be allowed to choose who we would cell with or if we would be “forced doubled.” At first, they allowed us to choose. But everyone kept wanting to move cells all the time, so they quickly stopped allowing us to choose and we were “forced.” The living units were divided into “pods,” which were self-contained areas with cells, phones, showers, and a dayroom. Some living units had three smaller pods, while others had two larger pods. They all felt overcrowded. Within each pod, the cells were located around the perimeter of the dayroom, some on the ground floor and others on an upper tier. Everything else was located in the dayroom some place, along with the steel tables that were bolted to the dayroom floor. A sallyport served as an exit and entrance for the pods—this was a small area with one door to the living unit and another door to the main hallway that ran through the prison. Only one of the two doors would be open at a time, so everyone had to stand at least briefly in the sallyport in order to come or go from the living unit. A control booth sat in the middle of the pods with a window into the sallyport and other windows into the dayrooms. Everyone referred to the control booth as the “bubble” because of all the windows. This allowed the guards to monitor the major areas in the living unit, as well as to control entry and exit from it. For the most part, however, the guards could not monitor the cells because they could only see into the cells if the doors were fully open and the cells were located near the center of the dayroom. If the cells were located at the corners of the dayroom, the guards could not see into them at all. These were “blind spots” where things could happen without the guards being aware of them. Every cell had an intercom so the prisoner could call the control booth if necessary. * * * When we arrived, Enterprise prison had only been open for a few months. The population stood at about 1,000—still 500 short of its 1,500 capacity. We were placed in an empty pod for orientation.

12 | Orientation

Our arrival marked the official end of Enterprise’s lockdown. The lockdown started in early December after a guard had been assaulted in the weight area, and we arrived in the middle of January. When a prison is on lockdown status, the prisoners spend twenty-four hours a day in their cells. But more importantly, prisoners cannot enter or leave the prison when it is on lockdown—why, I don’t really know. But I do know that Enterprise had to come off lockdown status to accept new prisoners. Empty beds at the prison meant lost income for Venture Corporation. Whether the problems in the prison were solved or not, Enterprise had to move to full operating capacity. Northern State Journal, January 20: Enterprise Correctional Facility has come off its lockdown status, say Northern State private facility monitors.“They had an incident at Enterprise but it is under control and the prison is back to normal operations,” said a spokesperson.According to Northern State officials, a guard was assaulted with a wooden broom handle but this was an isolated incident.“Rumors of violence are unfounded. We are very satisfied with Enterprise’s handling of its lockdown.” Northern State Journal asked what had happened and if any prisoners were being charged but the private facility would not comment. Venture Correctional Corporation, which owns and operates Enterprise prison, also had no comment pending further investigation.

“I love how they always put it in the paper,” Double-Dee said. “The DOC is happy with the operations here and these private folks have no comments pending investigation.” Double-Dee and I were sitting in the dayroom discussing the lockdown. Double-Dee was someone I started to talk with. I noticed he read the paper and kept up on current events. He loved to discuss anything about the DOC. That was all I knew of him, other than the fact that he was White, about my height, and had brown hair. “I noticed that too . . .” I responded. “Did you see them investigate,” Double-Dee interrupted. “I ain’t seen no one or heard of any rumor that they are investigating. They don’t want an investigation.” “I would think they did something . . .” “Come on, Anonymous. You are too programmed. These private folks don’t want that. If they really investigated something, they might actually find out the truth. Do you think they want that? Do you think they want

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the media to learn anything? They want them to stay out of their business. Do you know why? Because this is business!” “Seems like they want to keep the DOC out, too!” “Damn right, they want that money . . .” * * * Then Cash was moved out of seg and into our orientation unit. That was surprising to me because he was not new at Enterprise—he had been here for a while. Cash said they had run out of open cells. I thought maybe they hadn’t hired enough staff yet to open more living units. Others thought that he was put in orientation for isolation and protection. But Cash was doing plenty of complaining about that guard that was assaulted in the weight area. “Man, Anonymous, he always wanted to put his hands on a motherfucker.” Cash maintained his player walk as we strolled around the dayroom area. He had one of the coolest walks around. About every three or four steps he would dip his knee and shoulder while swinging his arm behind his back. Cash had some guns on him—his arms were the size of my legs! Over the years of boredom, he lifted weights. He built up his upper body so his arms became so big he no longer had a loose-fitting shirt. When I first met him at Gladiator School, a maximum-security prison in the Northern State system, years ago, he was small, but now he is the size of a truck! Yet, with this massive body, he still has a soft teddy bear–looking face. He looks so innocent all the time. “Was he hitting people?” I asked my old associate. “No man,” he said in his usual fashion, “not like that, Anonymous. He would grab people when he wanted to give them a pat search. You know, grab them by the arm and tell them to get the fuck up on the wall!” “Smart ass . . .” “Yeah. He would yell and shit, then grab a motherfucker any old way. It was like he thought no one would do nothing!” “Funny how they didn’t mention that in the newspaper.” “That’s all I’m saying,” his voice climbed an octave as he dipped again then swung his tree-trunk arm behind his back. As we spoke, three other men entered the pod to talk to Cash and another fellow. They obviously were gang boyees—they just strolled in—no staff asked them anything. So I casually moved away and let them do their business. Once they had they left, I walked back up to Cash.

14 | Orientation

“Rough down here?” “Yep,” he gave me a look, “be careful.” Cash’s look was all I needed to see. As big as he was, it was clear that he needed to be careful, too. I was starting to dislike my new home already. Then he went back to telling me about the guard that had been assaulted. “Dude was at rec, right. He comes out with that touchy-feely shit on his mind. Well, in the weight area where I happened to be, he picks on the wrong motherfucker. Blam-blam, down he went. Someone took a weight bar and cracked him in the head. That put him to the ground. Next thing you know they put the boots to him — they kicked and stomped him for five minutes. Lucky they didn’t kill him. But he sure did have boot prints on him.” “Other guards see it?” “Down here, hell no. By the time they arrived, they caught all of us trying to run out of the lifting area. They rounded us all up. I got dragged to seg myself. They put me in a cell butt-ass naked with three other dudes. Butt-ass naked!” “No!!” I laughed. That was new to me—I had never had heard of being placed in a cell naked with other men. “Straight up. These people don’t care. Sat there half the day before they brought some boxers. Ass got cold like a motherfucker sittin’ on that steel.” He chuckled a little. “Asses smelling, dicks hanging out. No time to get shy! They treated us all like straight shit!” “How’d you get out?” “I guess that when all the snitching started no one put my name out there. I sat over there until yesterday when they said ‘Let’s go,’ and here I am. I sat in seg with three dudes for two weeks, one sleeping on the floor. Then they got him out and I sat there another month.” “The others go to administrative segregation?” “Yep, I guess so—that’s the rumor going around. I do know the riot team came in. The corporation has a riot team it sends around the country when they have trouble in a prison. They were beatin’ the shit out of the boys they figured had anything to do with it.” “Damn!” The hair on my neck stood up. “They said they were kicking ’em, punching ’em, putting their faces into mattresses and pillows like they were going to smother them. In segregation I watched them gas a few dudes and run in on them. They weren’t playing. Guess one motherfucker was left butt naked overnight in

Orientation | 15

handcuffs after they put the boots on him. He tried to get to medical but that wasn’t happening. Anyone who filed a complaint or tried to go to medical got it worse. And all the complaints disappeared. They don’t care about complaints—they all work for the same company.” “Where is the guard?” “Shit, he is in the hospital in a coma. They fucked him up good.” Eventually I had to sit down for a break. I was getting my prisonerwith-prisoner orientation with Cash. He explained the rules of the place to me. In fact, everyone on the unit had a million questions for him. This is how we learned about the place. * * * We had been in the orientation unit about two weeks when they came to see us. “Everyone lockdown now,” a short lady screamed. They had about five prisoners set up three tables and chairs. Counselors, I think, were putting forms on the tables. I say I think they were counselors since I never saw them before. “What are they doing?” my cellie, Mark, asked. He was just getting out of bed. I didn’t know Mark very well. He asked to be my cellie when we arrived, and I had no one else to go into a cell with. I knew him a little, like most of the men I was doing time with. I learned fast that Mark has no in-between—it was either black or white, chill or fight! He had no patience and no fuse. He was no slouch either. He stood at least six foot two and went 180 or 190. He was also ex-military. I noticed he saw everything from a pretty structured point of view. One unique thing about Mark was how he grew his mustache—it was big and bushy and looked like a little hedge with a nose above it. He sat up on the top bunk just resting for a minute. “Setting up tables,” I replied to his question. “Must be finally going to do their orientation.” “F-i-n-a-l-l-y, after two weeks!” “Why do they always tell everyone to lockdown to do this shit?” As Mark spoke, the security lock on the door electronically opened. “Must have heard you,” I smiled. “May I have your attention,” a woman yelled in the dayroom. I stepped out to see what they had in store for us. “Wait by your cell. Don’t come to the tables unless you are called . . .” She explained her instruc-

16 | Orientation

tions twice. It was hard to hear because the living unit was like an echo chamber. * * * “Cell 105.” I came from my cell, sat at the table, and watched the lady in front of me. “ID please.” I took my tag from my shirt and handed it to her. “Is this information correct, your name and number?” “Yes.” “Number please.” Awh, down to business, I thought. When a staff member asks your number, it means that whatever they are doing is finally going to get done. Your number represents everything. She examined my ID and wrote my name and number on four forms. “Crime?” “First-degree murder.” “Sentence?” “Life.” “How many years you been in so far?” “Eighteen.” “Wow,” she looked up. “Security rating?” “Medium.” She grabbed the next form. “Religious preference?” “Islam.” “Do you attend services?” “Sometimes.” “Do you have any program needs?” She moved on to the third form. “No.” “Level of school completed?” “College.” With that, she took her fourth and final form. “Any medical problems you want to report now?” “No.” “Do you want to see health services now?” “No.” “Thank you.” I was done and went back to my cell.

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* * * Orientation was a joke. We talked to a staff person for a few minutes while they filled out four forms. The goal of the orientation was obvious —it provided the private prison with some paperwork to have on file to show Northern State they actually had an orientation. Later I learned that orientation had no effect on anything—Enterprise would mix and match anyone with anyone. They always repeated the questions and sometimes repeated the forms. It seemed more of an orientation for them than for us. Most counselors were amazed at the long years Northern State sentenced us to. In Southern State, the same crime brought a quarter of the time. This is when prisoners learned about disparity in sentencing! In this state I would’ve been on the streets already. “Did you see one of those ladies,” Mark asked when I entered the room. “Yes, it was short!” “Short. Short as hell,” Mark replied! “She asked me five questions: name and number, crime and how much time I had, what religion was I, did I have program needs, and did I have any special medical needs? Every time I started to say more than five words she just cut me off. That was orientation!” Like I said, no fuse. “No, they got to have more planned.” I was surprised at what he said. “I don’t think so. She said this was it. She said ask my questions now. So I asked but she had no answers except I don’t know or Write the unit manager. Did you get your canteen slip?” “Canteen slip?” “Yes. She said we had to fill them out. We could get a two-dollar loan unless we had money.” “I got to get it.” Out the door I went. * * * Northern Daily Journal, July 20:A lieutenant employed by Enterprise Correctional Facility, Fisherville, was charged with one count of obstruction of justice and two counts of deprivation of rights under color of the law and false statements to the U.S.Attorney in Southern State. John Wilson Drinks, 27, from Mississippi, is accused of striking prisoner James Meyer during the month of December, 1998, in the face multiple times with his fist.

18 | Orientation

Drinks is also accused of having fellow officers rewrite their reports to support his story. Dan Claus, spokesman for Northern State’s DOC, noted that one must remember these were only allegations, not supported with any official investigation. A spokesperson for Enterprise said they had no comment pending investigation. Five Northern State legislators toured the prison and concluded there were no reasons to stop bussing prisoners to Enterprise. State Representative Jerry Olsen, speaking for the group, said the DOC acted appropriately in investigating claims of excessive force.

“I guess they might actually do something to these people,” I commented after reading the newspaper article. I was sitting at the table with DoubleDee and Cash. “Maybe,” Cash commented. “I can’t believe that is all they have to say!” “Don’t surprise me,” Double-Dee chimed. “I keep telling you these people don’t let the media in their business. They really want to keep stuff on the down-low.” “Hey, it’s something,” Cash replied. “You got any squares?” “No.” “I’m out too, Cash.” “Well, let’s go get some.” This was step two of my prisoner-to-prisoner orientation with Cash: go where you like. Like I said, Cash was showing me the ropes. “Go where?” I asked. “Anonymous, you and me are going across the hallway to get us some.” I gave Cash a look. “I know the guard, she won’t say nothing. If you’re worried, don’t come.” As I stepped out the exit door, I looked back seeing Double-Dee and about five other dudes watching. Before you knew it, I was across the hallway in the other unit. * * * After about three weeks on the orientation pod, they moved us into another unit. We were never told we were out of orientation status. We were

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never told we were moving. One day it just happened: I was in general population. God help me now.

Reflections In most prisons, there are two orientations for new prisoners. The first is the formal staff-driven orientation. It involves being questioned, filling out forms, and sometimes being tested. Normally, staff-driven orientations are concerned about your future decisions: Do you have any programs to do? Drug? Alcohol? Do you need a GED? Do you have any medical needs that will have to be met? High blood pressure? Asthma? Will visitors come to see you? If so, we need a list. Do you want to be placed on a waiting list for one program or another? Much of the formal orientation focuses on these future things. At Enterprise, the formal orientation seemed to have little meaning. We waited two weeks and then they questioned us for a few minutes. This is how some state prisons did it years ago. One unusual thing at Enterprise was that they asked your crime of conviction, the length of your sentence, and the amount of time you had already been incarcerated. This was the only prison, public or private, where this ever happened to me. I had to wonder whether they had our prison records. Later, when we started attending chapel, we had to fill out the very same form that we had filled out at orientation. It didn’t seem like anything was shared with anyone. Another unusual thing about Enterprise’s orientation was that most prisons keep incoming prisoners segregated from the main population for a specific period of time, usually between five days and a month. But not Enterprise. The very next day, we were going to a chowhall full of people. On the prisoners’ side, this segregation time is useful. If the prison system had made a mistake by shipping a man here (e.g., if he has enemies here and is likely to be assaulted), this gave him time to ask for a special placement need (SPN) where he will be held back until they determine if there is a problem. But Enterprise had no SPNs. Everyone went right into general population. In addition to this formal staff-driven orientation, there is a second, informal, unofficial orientation. This is the prisoner-driven orientation—it

20 | Orientation

consists of all the interactions through which the current prisoners orient the incoming prisoners to this particular prison. Where the staff is concerned about future things, the prisoners themselves are concerned about their immediate living conditions, and so this is the focus of the informal, prisoner-driven orientation. It lets the incoming prisoners ask questions about their daily life. They want to know the things they need to know to survive NOW! Where will I be housed? Who is my cellie? When do I get to move around? Where do I get cell cleaning supplies? Can I score some weed? Who is cool, who is not? Prisoners want to get their things, go to the prison canteen, and settle in. Staff ask the same old questions: Time? Programs? Medical? Religion? But why would a prisoner care about a program in the future, one that may never come anyway, when he has to get along with his new cellie tomorrow? When one arrives at a new prison, one wants to experience the immediate surroundings and learn as quickly as one can. At Enterprise, for example, our informal prisoner-driven orientation focused on the violence. We were coming into a prison that was just getting off lockdown—that wasn’t good. Lockdown is the ultimate tool of deprivation in prison—everyone spends twenty-four hours a day locked in the cell—and it is only used when there has been a serious problem in the institution. Everyone who came with me on the bus was fixated on the chaos in this prison. Every time staff entered the room, men indirectly asked them about the violence. But staff were not saying anything—they were not going to cover this topic in their formal orientation sessions. So when prisoners entered the room, they were asked too. From them, we got answers. In a short period of time, we all had our fixed assumptions, our firm expectations. Other aspects of prison life were directly or indirectly learned from other inmates. For example, it soon was apparent that there was a “free movement” policy in this prison. The gang boyees simply strolled into our unit to see who was here. Watching them let me learn about Enterprise’s wide-open movement policy! This was all part of our informal orientation to Enterprise.

3 New Prison Problems These people busted up all the shit. My radio, television, and fan! Even my cassette tapes! —Mini-Me Damn right I am. They only gave me my TV. They don’t know where the rest of my property is. Ten years of shit and they can’t find it. —Bob J.

This was a brand-new prison and the mayhem had started. The administration was creating rules as they went along, but no one followed or enforced them. No one seemed to care. Getting staff to do things was next to impossible. They would continually say: Submit a request slip. Men submitted request slip after request slip to the property room. However, no one even looked at them. One day the property senior came to the unit and said she had received no request slips at all. The unit manager would say the same thing. The staff would give a man the blow off in a hurry. They would assure someone they would look into it but never got back to them. All colored T-shirts and underwear were taken upon entering the facility. Yet, some people had them. Over time, the guards would take these items when they saw them. When men arrived with an overabundance of items, they were instructed to send some of the stuff out—i.e., mail it to relatives or friends, or simply donate or destroy it. The stuff generally would go to the property room and sometimes the prison workers there would steal it and resell it to other prisoners. Sometimes, prisoners would have stuff sent in that they thought they could talk their way into getting. If that was rejected and if you knew the property worker, then he could steal it back for you, for a price of course.

21

22 | New Prison Problems

If the prisoners didn’t get their property, then it seemed like the staff ended up with it. They asked if you wanted to donate the items “downtown” or have them destroyed, but it seemed that “downtown” was only as far as their offices. You could receive cassette tapes and CDs up to a limited number. Once you hit the limit then anything over was sent out. If you paid off the property workers, then your number would return to zero. If you didn’t know any of the property workers and had to send out cassettes or CDs, your items never made it to where you sent them. If you turned in the items, the workers would again steal them for resale. The three property workers were probably the richest guys in the place except for the drug dealers. The mailroom was no better. Some days mail was handed out, other days nothing. If cash arrived in an envelope, it was supposed to be returned to the sender—the institution would only accept prepaid money orders. Prisoners started receiving letters that said that cash had been sent in the envelope, except that no rejection slip was with the letter saying the cash had been sent back. Still others never received the mail that contained cash—they found out about it over the phone. Staff in the mailroom were supplementing their income with the cash mailed to prisoners. Why not? They were “only” stealing from prisoners and the worst that would happen is they would get fired. A few prisoners were reimbursed for money that was missing from their mail. But once this occurred, word got around and about five hundred letters arrived talking about the cash in the envelope. Reimbursements stopped! Most of us were used to Northern State’s prison system. It was a system well grounded in procedure and control. Everything was a means to an end—the end was control. Half of us older cons expected our reality to stay the same. But Enterprise had so many leaks that no one could plug them. * * * “He’s hot,” Henry said about his cellie, Bob. I was in Henry Olds and Bob Jones’s cell talking to the two of them. Henry was a man about my age who was thinning away. When I first met him, he had almost golden hair that he wore long. Now it was all gray and cut to about an inch long. He had caught his wife and her boyfriend together so he killed them both—I guess he didn’t believe in divorce.

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“Damn right I am,” Bob replied. “They only gave me my TV. They don’t know where the rest of my property is. Ten years of shit and they can’t find it. They say all the property came with us. What am I, stupid? Then as I stand down there in property, I watch them hand another dude’s property to the wrong guy! Who is to say they didn’t give my property to the wrong person? At least dude told her it wasn’t his stuff. How many guys do you know out of this place are going to do that? Most are just going to keep taking the shit as she gives it to them.” Bob passed his hand across his forehead. “I bet they gave my stuff to another dude . . .” Bob was generally the quiet one. He was laid back and relaxed. Actually, that was the first time I saw him angry. He was a little pudgy, in his late thirties, had black hair, and a clean shave. In fact, the man made an effort to shave every day! Few men in prison have the desire to shave every day. As laid back as he was, it surprised me that he had a murder bit. But all people have a breaking point. I guess as I stood in their cell I was witnessing the other side of Bob. “Excuse me,” an officer stuck her head into the cell. “What’s up?” Bob stopped talking to look. His eyes looked furious but he sounded polite. “We need you to step out so we can do a search.” She moved away from the door and continued to talk to the male guard with her. “You would think with all the stolen property and complaints they would start confiscating items people shouldn’t have,” Bob said to us. Searching his cell was adding insult to Bob’s injury. With this we moved out of the cell so the officers entered. Bob stood there with his arms crossed and mean-mugged everyone and everything. “Bob, you should relax a little, get that shit out of your system,” I softly commented to him. “Fuck that!” he whispered back, then got a little louder. “That’s not the point, Anonymous. These people should take better care. I’ve only been here a short time and I hate the place already. How am I to live without property? Huh?” He did have a point. Henry nudged me and changed the subject back to the search. “It’s like they want us to grab any contraband before they search,” Henry whispered while on the tier. His point was that the guards had not paid any attention as we left the cell. In the state system, the officers would have never backed away from the cell door. They would have or-

24 | New Prison Problems

dered us out of the cell immediately and would have watched us carefully as we left. “Yup,” Bob replied. “They’re searching us. Why the fuck ain’t they looking for my shit, which they lost?” Henry tried again: “I hope they don’t take anything.” “I hope not either, Henry, but I don’t have any shit to take. If they gave me my shit, I’d have something to take.” Henry looked at me and shook his head No. Bob would not let it go. The officers looked around. One looked at the upper shelf by the top bunk. The other was glancing at the cardboard banker’s boxes we could buy at canteen to store items. After about three minutes the male officer was watching the game on the TV. The female officer pulled out one property bin from under the lower bunk. She slid the cover open about an inch to briefly look inside it. “Okay,” he said as they walked out. “Sorry to bother you.” The three of us returned to the cell. “They didn’t touch shit,” Henry replied. Everyone began to realize they didn’t care what a person had. If the prison didn’t care it was open season on OPP—other people’s property! * * * A few days later, I was in my cell gabbing with my new cellie when MiniMe stuck his head in: “Anonymous, come here!” I walked over to his and Lowe’s cell. “Man, those people busted up all my shit! My radio, television, and fan . . .” he paused to stare at me. “Even my cassette tapes!” “Hold on, Mini-Me. When did this happen? Today?” “No, no! It happened the day we got here,” he hollered. Mini-Me was a little powder keg. He would snap on a regular basis. He was our hot-headed little midget of five foot two. He was mixed Asian- and African-American, thirty-five years old. This was his second time in prison, both for murder. He had the most intense peepers I ever saw on a man. They looked like they were going to pop out of his head. In his extremeness of being a radical and Muslim, he also had a good sense of humor. This helped me get along with him since the radical and Muslim mix seemed to be pretty volatile in prison. One day I learned Lowe and Mini-Me were actually cousins. I had known Lowe for years and we were guys. Lowe was six foot, chocolate

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brown, and lanky. He had a full head of hair. Mini-Me was short, stocky, and high yellow. His hair fell out in the center so he shaved his head. “All that from shipping us on the bus?” “Y-e-a-h,” he exclaimed as his temple veins popped. “I thought I was lucky to get my property, then I see it is all smashed! When I saw that I got the property lady to sign a statement that it was like that when she opened it. They did some of the shit in Northern State.” One thing that would have never happened in the state system was a guard signing a slip saying the property was damaged. That would create evidence! “So what happened? I mean it’s been a while.” “I demanded pictures, that’s what happened!” He snorted, then finally blinked. “At first they weren’t trying to do that, but when I demanded payment they started taking all kinds of flicks!” “Okay.” “They said it went in the boxes that way,” he hollered, “so I filled out a complaint and sent it to Northern State.” He handed me the reply that he received. It is the conclusion of the DOC that there has been no property damage, and if there were, it would be the responsibility of the transporting agency or current facility. It is the opinion of this office that no compensation will be made and the complaint dismissed.

“Awww, everyone is passing the buck. Did they see the statement from the property lady and the pictures?” “Come on, Anonymous,” he replied in a deep, slow voice, “I’m not a fool; of course they did! So what does no compensation mean?” “They ain’t paying.” When Mini-Me heard that, he about had a heart attack. His eyes got wide, his arms were flapping and his voice hit multiple octaves. He started pacing in the cell, “Someone is going to pay.” * * * The problems were apparent. The telephones for the prisoners were not working properly. Some days the phones didn’t work at all. On days when the phones actually worked, many phone calls would not go through because the phone numbers were not properly programmed into the computerized phone system. A staff person was supposed to enter phone numbers submitted by the prisoners into the system, but this per-

26 | New Prison Problems

son often failed to do it. Some fellas could not get in touch with their families for a month. Then there was the cost of the phone calls. Calls were limited to twenty minutes, $4.90 for the connection with four minutes included, and then you could talk up to sixteen more minutes at $0.85 per minute. So a twenty-minute phone call cost $18.50. My brother wanted to send me a prepaid calling card, which would have been a lot cheaper. Nice thought! There was only one system, with only one type of call—collect—and only one rate—outrageous! I didn’t learn they had a library until two months after being there. I just assumed they didn’t have one. They never mentioned it nor had a schedule available to let one know when to come. Most of the staff didn’t know it existed. Then there was recreation. Most of the time the officers did not waste time calling it. Other times it was called but we were never let out into the yard. Eventually a recreation schedule was produced that listed the selected units and the designated times, but seldom was there any effort to follow it. The staff had all the living units complaining. Next, men had troubles with their accounts being credited and debited properly. When someone, such as a relative or friend, would send a prisoner a money order, the money would be credited to the inmate’s account. But Enterprise would never send an account statement, even if money had been credited to your account. The only way you could get a record of what was in your account was on canteen day when you purchased something: the receipt for your purchase would show the balance. But to order at canteen, you needed to know the general level of your account so you could know how much you could spend. A man would submit a list for canteen order and walk over to the commissary area to pick up the merchandise. But for some reason, what he thought he should have in his account and what was actually in it were different. There could be many reasons for this difference: some men couldn’t do the addition, sometimes the money hadn’t been received or wasn’t credited to the account yet, sometimes the prison would take money out of an account for some reason and not tell the man, and sometimes the accounting was not done properly. The man would be expecting canteen, but then when he stepped up to the window he would find out: Order rejected. When accounts were short and no commissary was received, there were men snapping at the counter.

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Every day at Enterprise Prison was frustrating but it was made worse without money or canteen. No canteen meant no soap, toothpaste, tobacco, stamps, or snack food, to name a few. The private-prison folks were not giving these basics away for free. Everything had a price. Compounding these problems was the fact that no one wanted to be sent out of state. There were some angry men roaming the place. Men were flat out angry they had to leave what little contact they had with their family and friends. Many others felt the state had broken the norms of running prisons, to the point of breaking the law. Then they had to live with the daily frustrations of the place. The rage was growing. * * * Guards didn’t seem to care what went on. Some were just collecting a check, and others were power-tripping, but most were not that interested in running an orderly institution. The prisoners sensed this at Enterprise. On the news, they saw how some prisoners had tried to escape from Venture’s other facility in New Kirk, so they decided to try it at Enterprise. Five went for the fence at once. Northern Daily Journal, March 29: Spokesman for Northern State DOC, Dan Claus, stated that there were two attempted escapes during the beginning of the year from Enterprise Correctional Facility, which holds 1,500 Northern State prisoners. When asked for more details, none were given, and prison officials at Enterprise had no comment pending investigation.

“Double-Dee,” I called out. “See here, there were only two attempted escapes!” “They must not know how to count! Everyone outside at rec that day watched the fools,” Double-Dee shot back. “It was so funny. Three didn’t make it over the first fence, one got caught on the top of the second fence, and the last one had just hit the ground on the outside when the pickup truck drove up!” “These people just ignored the three that didn’t get over the first fence.” “Right. Which sounds better, two or five? You know they want to keep that out of the paper.” “I had to laugh when they showed the escape from New Kirk on the TV, then suddenly five try to escape from here the same way,” I chuckled.

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“Got that right,” Double-Dee laughed. “You ever notice half the shit that goes on down here is ignored by the media?” “It’s like the DOC up north don’t care about us at all,” Double-Dee commented. “You expect them to?” I asked. “Shit, this place is really fucked up. The guards beat down dudes after the assault, gangs running wild, men climbing the fence, people’s property is broken.” “I think we are missing the point.” “Who’s point?” “Northern State wants buses to roll and these private folks want a rent check. No prisoner is going to stop that.” * * * After I got around more, I noticed the staff and guards had no real control. Prisoners were roaming the prison going from one living unit to the next as they pleased. No one seemed to care. As the prisoners got comfortable roaming from one living unit to the next, they started grouping up. Anywhere from two to four gang boyees started moving in and out of the pods. Next, people started carrying stuff off the unit. First it was little stuff, cigarettes or a bag of coffee. Then it grew to radios and TVs. Many times the gang boyees would wait until their friendly guards were working and then they would go exploring. I thought some guards were gang members, too. They might not have been as connected as the ones I was doing time with, but they were into the dope trade. Others just plainly did not care what the gangs did. This was how the gang problem erupted. * * * “I put your laundry on that plastic bag!” my cellie said as I walked in. I looked: “Shit all wet?” He was busy hanging up his laundry across a shoe-string line across the cell. “Not only is it wet again but look at it. I’ve been rinsing it out again in the sink. You should see all the dirt in it.” “Shit gets real annoying to have laundry done and they can’t even get the shit dry.” “Well, you know the workers down there are too busy doing people’s

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laundry for a fee. They barely do anything for those who aren’t paying.” The laundry workers were supposed to wash everyone’s laundry, but they did as poor a job as they possibly could unless you paid them on the side. This violated the rules, but then your laundry came back in wonderful condition. If you didn’t pay them, it was always a complete mess. “Yeah, it is really fucked up.” “If you want, you can hang some over there.” “Okay. When your sheets are dry, let me know so I can get mine drying too.” What a way to have to live, I thought. “Don’t feel bad. Henry upstairs lost his bag. It had all his sweats in it.” * * * “Hey, how are you?” The senior officer operating the property room greeted me. I was given a slip to come to her office but I didn’t know what it was for. I thought maybe I had received some property in the mail. “You remember two weekends ago when those inmates broke into the property room and stole all the new shoes?” She handed me an invoice. “These were your shoes? The warden is going to okay reimbursement.” Tennis shoes are a hot item in most prisons. One weekend a group of prisoners convinced a guard to open the property room at Enterprise to wax the floor. While in there, they stole all the tennis shoes that inmates had mail-ordered and that were waiting to be distributed. I looked over the invoice. The name was close to mine but the address was actually for the company’s other prison in New Kirk. She seemed oblivious to this. The price tag was $113. “Yeah, I was wondering where my shoes were.” “Fill out this slip and you will get your money back.” Once back in the living unit, Lowe asked me what I got. “Where’s your stuff?” Since Lowe was my guy, I pulled him aside. “They are paying me back for the shoes them cats stoled.” “Shoes? You didn’t say you ordered shoes.” “I didn’t. But she handed me an invoice and said fill out a form. Hey, it’s free money. Fuck these people,” I smiled. * * * Then it came full force to Enterprise: the drug trade, that lustrous luxury of intoxicating delight. Some staff smoked marijuana or cocaine, others were alcoholics. No one stopped them from bringing it in, and most did-

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n’t care if they were fired for doing it. The prisoners hit on every new officer to try to get them to do it. Some did it because they “liked” the prisoner, while others wanted the extra money. Southern State was a prime marijuana growing area in the United States. Further, prisoners were having cash mailed to them glued inside greeting cards. Once the card arrived, they would rip it open and bingo, drug money! This went on for a good six months before the staff figured it out. Then the ladies who worked in the mailroom were getting rich! If you complained about missing money you went to seg. Once the drug trade hit, it took off like wildfire. I thought reading about the Internet boom was something, but it had nothing on the intoxicating contraband that Enterprise was experiencing.

Reflections From a prisoner’s perspective, there are six basic functions that the prison must perform: recreation, property, mail, phones, laundry, and food. The trick is to get these functions operating on a regular schedule, which you can then keep to. If these six functions are not operating properly and regularly, then the prisoners can get infuriated. For the prisoners, they are basic to life inside the prison. You might think that other items should be added to this list, but for the most part these other items are not daily needs for the majority of prisoners. For example, you may ask: What about health care? Obviously, medical is very important but it is not a daily need for the majority of the population. Obviously, it should be adequately operating for those who need it. But if it is not operating adequately, it is less likely to result in a population that is infuriated. The thing about the six basic functions is that you experience them all the time, you need them every day. If there are problems every day with these six functions, then frustration quickly builds up among the prisoners. But staff often do not look at things from the prisoners’ perspective— we already saw this situation in chapter 2 in comparing the formal and informal orientations. For staff, these six functions are tasks that should get done, but that does not mean that they will get done. To a considerable extent, staff who were in charge of these functions really didn’t care. Their attitude was reflected in what they often said: This isn’t Wal-Mart, you know!

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Beyond the staff, the administration of the prison lacked the basic will to see that these services were functioning properly. The warden was an administrator with many years of experience, and he set the tone for the prison as a whole. But nothing legally requires the prison to operate in a particular way. And his problem was that he was unwilling to use the economic resources necessary to ensure the smooth operation of these functions. Besides the administration and the staff, the third group who provide these services are the prisoners themselves. One might think that prisoners would be a constant in this situation—they would always work to ensure their good operation. But there are many paradoxical situations and double standards in prison life. All prisoners will say that prisoners should help ensure good services for other prisoners, but they may act quite differently when they actually are working on their jobs. Many prisoners who worked in these basic services had the attitude that they would get all they can for themselves out of their work and to hell with everyone else. Their basic approach was to attempt to manipulate the situation, playing off both the staff and the other prisoners, in order to get what they could. This helped support the administration’s philosophy that the basic services could be minimally and sporadically provided. Poor daily services for these six functions had the effect of magnifying the violence through their impact on prisoner expectations, which are a very important factor in prison violence that is often ignored. Their expectations were not being met in a variety of ways. For example, in chapter 2, the prisoners did not expect a guard to grab them, and they did not expect to be put into segregation with four other men naked. In this chapter, prisoners did not expect staff to ignore request slips or to steal from incoming mail. They did not expect the guards to be lax or to lack basic training. And they did not expect to have continual problems with the six most basic functions of the prison. These expectations were based on their prior experiences in the staterun prisons. When they could not get the simple things done, they became very frustrated. Many men ended up believing that the prison was treating them like straight shit! This further increased the chaos that we endured. So there was a collision of two worlds: the world of the prisoners’ expectations and the world of Enterprise’s operational reality. Problems in basic services are the most dangerous problems for a prison to have— they are like throwing gasoline on an open flame.

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Two other factors helped inflame this situation, especially at the beginning. The first was that the men, on the whole, were unhappy about being shipped out-of-state, so they were predisposed to be upset with the new prison anyway. Again, this involved prisoner expectations: they had expected to serve their time in the state system and not to be shipped six hundred miles away. They then projected their frustrations onto the new institution. The second was the picture that the Northern State Department of Corrections (DOC) created for the outside world. They made it seem like everything was okay here. Northern State turned its back on us — they believed anything Enterprise’s administration told them. The DOC denied all the prisoners’ complaints and always agreed with the corporation. It was like the prison could do no wrong. This type of chaotic management style at Enterprise was not anything like the state system. When Northern State opened a prison, they had control from the beginning, with only a few bugs to work out. Enterprise was so crazy that even the bugs left.

4 Wild Wild West The sound of fists hitting flesh, knuckles hitting a skull, is sickening. It carries a very distinct sound that one never forgets. —Anonymous N. Inmate What do you mean you ain’t gonna help us? —Young Gang Member Hovering over Henry

“Hmm, what?” Mark said as he came out of his sleep. A pounding sound was coming from somewhere. Mark had been my cellie in orientation, but we were split when they moved us to the new housing pod—most of us went into cells that already had someone in them. Then my cellie took a job in the kitchen, so he got moved to the housing pod for kitchen workers. I got a new cellie but he had a slip from medical for a lower bunk. I also had a medical slip so one of us had to go. It turned out that Mark had a lower bunk, and he was wanting to move since he didn’t care for his new cellie. So he went to the officer and explained that he would move back in with me and dude could have his lower bunk. Bunk problem solved. We both had a habit of taking a snooze in the afternoon, so I was dozing too. As I awoke, my eyes came into focus on my three-inch mattress, steel bunk, dirty concrete floor, and gleaming stainless steel toilet. I heard another pounding sound. “It’s got to be dude next door pounding on his shelf,” I said. The shelves were anchored together through the wall, which caused any sounds to travel into the adjoining cell. Again the sound came. “Well, I’m getting sick of this shit,” he grumbled as he climbed down from the top bunk and put on his boots. “Fucker waking me up.”

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He walked over to the cell next door and then came back. “I told Tommy it makes a lot of noise in our cell.” He spoke in a normal tone even though he was breathing heavy. Just as he said this, we heard the sound again. “I guess I did not make my point.” Out of our cell he went again. Now Mark was hyped! Suddenly I heard a loud crack come from next door. It was much louder than before. I knew someone just got slammed. Mark was back in our cell. “Did you hear a loud sound?” he asked loudly. “Loud as hell,” I answered. I could see he was angry. “They were playing cards. Every time he put his card down he’d slam the back of his hand on the table. I told him that it comes right through the wall. But he raised his fist at me like he wanted to fight. Well, he tried to fight,” Mark said smiling. “I threw a headlock on him, punched him a couple of times, and bounced his head off the steel.” Mark left again—I guess he just couldn’t sit still. I figured Tommy must have pushed Mark and Mark immediately went to fight mode. A few minutes later he came back to the cell. “Do you know that dude Nozo three cells down?” “No, why?” “He’s out there trying to geek up some shit with Tommy. I am going to have to put a stop to that.” When I left the cell there was the usual crowd of people in the dayroom. I saw Tommy come out of his cell. He was about five foot five, 130 pounds. His lip was red and he had a bump on his forehead. He wouldn’t have been much of a match for six-foot-two Mark. Now everyone had something new to talk about. Someone asked me what was up with Mark. “Tommy was pounding on the metal shelf. Woke Mark up. So he went next door, and handled his business.” I kept it short—I didn’t want Mark to think I was talking about him. Yet the questions went on and on. What did Mark do when he got over there? What did Tommy say? Did he hit Mark? Mark just hit him? Did he even swing back? Henry talked about it for two weeks. Every time there was a problem on the pod between people, he would say, “Sounds like we need some urban renewal,” since we all felt we lived in the ghetto. Henry loved to gossip—all he did was talk about what everyone else was doing. It seemed to me that he spent so much time in everyone else’s business that

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he was letting his own life just pass by in front of him. Yet most prisoners I have known live their life this way. * * * “Man, these fuckers are getting out-of-order around here,” Lowe commented as we sat in his cell kicking it. “No shit. Guess they just sick of the place already!” “Anonymous, I am sick of the shit too, but I ain’t fightin’ every motherfucking nigga on the block.” Like other African-Americans in prison, Lowe freely used this term to refer to people of any race. As he spoke, his long-ass arms flew around in the air before coming to rest on his lap. Lowe always wore his hair short with a mustache and goatee. I had known him for years but could never remember seeing him without a mustache and goatee. He was straightforward and never played any of that cutthroat shit. In prison, this is very unusual. When we talked, mostly we didn’t focus on this jailhouse rock all the time. He told me about his family and his boy. He had lived the player lifestyle when he was on the streets. He came out of the working class, and just decided to deal drugs. This led to a murder but the shooter was never identified. His two crime partners got together and sold him out, and so he ended up here. He was doing life like me, except he was party to the crime of life. Lowe was a loyal friend, something you don’t generally find in prison. Now we were chillin’ at Enterprise. He was sitting on the top bunk and I was chillin’ in the plastic chair the prison handed out. “I hear ya’.” I smiled at him since he was staring at me. “What?” “You don’t fuck around when you hit it, do you?” “What?” “What my ass. You’re high again, ain’t you?” “No.” “Eyes red as hell!” “That’s all the cigarette smoke on this pod.” “Yeah, okay.” “I’m gettin’ a little tired of that shit, too.” “Well, get tired with the rest of them!” he shot back. “I don’t care if my nigga’s tired.” “Fuck you.” He laughed! “So I hollered at the counselor and I visited the unit manager today.”

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“’Bout what?” “Nothin’ major. But you know them some straight dumb people. Ask a question and they just make you mad with the answer. No wonder every motherfucker wants to beat their asses all the time. These people so dumb they too dumb to recognize it.” He kicked me on the shoulder with his foot, then stared at me. “That’s dumb.” He kept me laughing as he went on hollarin’. “That’s why these motherfuckers are so pissed in this place. Look how long it took them to give out these chairs. A motherfucker’s got to climb a mile to get on the top bunk but no way to get up there. Then they get mad ’cause so many people are sleepin’ on the floor. You know, the unit manager told one motherfucker he had to deal with his cellie, she wasn’t moving anyone! She said if he didn’t like the cellie, go kick his ass!” “Yeah.” “You know what happened? Dude went and kicked the cellie’s ass, then told the senior officer she told him to do it.” He laughed loudly. “That’s dumb.” “That’s frustration working on a man.” “She’s lucky he didn’t kick her ass for saying that shit.” “Look at Mark and Tommy . . .” “I know,” he interrupted me. “That’s way out of character for Mark! He would never have did that up North.” “This place is changing motherfuckers. Mark ain’t never had no fuse . . .” “I know that,” he interrupted again. “But he never acted like that up North.” * * * There was another fight on our unit. Then another one across the hallway. What slowly started as isolated incidents was now growing into the national pastime of Enterprise. Everyone was fighting. Some fights were over really petty shit. Other fights were over the important stuff: drugs, gambling, and gang warfare. The guards did not try to do anything to curb it. Most didn’t know any better, didn’t care, or were too scared to stop it. I am sure some of the guards thought: If they are fighting among themselves, it means they are not fighting us. As the violence spread, everyone seemed to deteriorate. No one seemed to care that we were all dropping a few years back in evolution. It wore

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on all of us, but it also was one of our main addictions. No longer did we need to turn the cable channel to Friday night at the fights. * * * “Rummy!” my opponent exclaimed. I placed my hand down on the steel table top. “Again?” “It trips me out,” my opponent stated, “the guards don’t ever come through the living units. Watch, she will make one round just before chow. The floor officer and the control booth guard are always gabbing. A senior officer is never to be found. The unit manager and counselor stopped coming around.” “Guess no one likes us,” I smiled. “You hear what they did to the little dude in 204?” “No, who is he?” “I don’t know his name—just heard about it. I guess he left to medical and his cellie left to recreation. Someone got the control booth guard to open the cell door and they stole all his canteen and part of his cellie’s.” “Man!” I exclaimed. “I hoped they hadn’t started that shit over here. Who wants to live in the wild, wild West.” My opponent started dealing another hand. I didn’t really know this guy—he could have been one of the thieves he was describing. For all I know he could be scouting. So I said: “If they come up in my cell, I’m gonna get even!” “You a tough guy?” he abruptly asked. I sensed a challenge. “No. I don’t want any trouble but I ain’t no punk, either. If they come once they’ll come twice. I got to live here. You just gonna let someone take your shit?” “Your cellie is that Mark dude that got Tommy . . .” I noticed he ignored my questions, but had many questions for me. “That’s his business, not mine . . .” “Rummy,” my opponent interrupted. “You know Cash?” I ignored the question and switched back to the cards. “Again? I can’t seem to get any good cards.” Suddenly the fire exit door slammed. We both looked. The lady officer made her round on the lower tier. “There’s my girl,” my opponent said as she exited. “Bitch is right on time. One round before chow.” * * *

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The place was turning into a bruised meat factory. I witnessed another fight at recreation, but something was different about this fight that I had not seen before: it was much more intense. It was like everyone knew everyone was fighting so they turned the heat up. Maybe we were just getting immune to it — merely hitting someone a few times and wresting around a bit wasn’t enough anymore. The intensity level was changing. The prison had the weight machines in a fenced area outside the front of the gym building. A roof was attached to the front of the gym building like a long porch. Doors to enter or exit the gym were at each end of this porch and in the center was an enclosed single bathroom. This bathroom had its door propped open all the time, but the only way you could see into it was basically by standing directly in front of the door. It became known as the boxing bathroom. The clamoring from the guys at the weight machines covered any sounds echoing from the bathroom. I was leaning against one of the I-beams that supported the roof. In between the clamoring of the weight machines I heard what thought sounded like someone punching a side of beef. As I turned I heard a voice coming from that area. “Motherfucker, you say . . .” clink-clink, “. . . beat my ass,” a taller fella said between swings. “You’re gonna dis me.” More blows went to his opponent’s head. He had his opponent caged in the can. The dude was staggering from all the blows he was taking. I didn’t recognize the taller fella—all I could see was his back but I could see he was big. The sound of fists hitting flesh, knuckles hitting a skull, is sickening. It carries a very distinct sound that one never forgets. It’s not like the movies, especially when one human being is being pulverized by another. The sound that the body makes is unforgettable. When one hears it over and over again, it changes a man. The taller fella backed dude onto the sink hanging off the rear wall and started on his ribs. I wanted no part of this and could not take the sounds, so I moved away to the nearby fence surrounding the area. Others moved forward and took positions so they would not miss a lick. The magnitude of the violence was new to me, even after eighteen years in prison, ten in maximum security. I had never seen this level of violence.

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I watched the taller fella exit after someone walked by to signal that a guard was stepping out the gym door to smoke. It was Cash, my old associate from Gladiator School. Needless to say, I was surprised. A moment later the other prisoner exited. He took about five steps and fell unconscious. I watched his head bounce off the concrete. Again, the sound distinctly traveled through all the others. Once the guard noticed, others surrounded the dude on the ground, “It has to be the summer heat. He must have heat exhaustion . . .” Cash walked toward me with a semi-smile on his face, seemingly oblivious to the body on the ground. “I guess dude fell out due to the heat.” He was just kickin’ it—maybe he thought I didn’t see him just come out of the bathroom. There were blood splatters on his face and hands. I felt like puking. * * * At one point, men started talking about a boycott of the chowhall. A guy from another unit showed up with a typed list of demands and explained the purpose of the boycott. It basically said our personal possessions had been shipped down with us from Northern State but had not been handed out by the property room. The staff at Enterprise Prison were not doing their jobs. Boycotts are generally regarded as threatening to the maintenance of good order within a prison. In the state system, any mention of a possible boycott is normally considered a very serious infraction of the rules and is swiftly and harshly punished. At Enterprise, no one seemed to care. While we were in the dayroom discussing this petition, a guard walked by. He merely stepped through the crowd and said nothing. The typed list of demands stayed on the table in the dayroom overnight—I watched other guards read it, but no one really said anything. That’s how crazy it was. The whole prison knew about it. The prisoners were comfortable discussing it in the open since staff was not doing anything about it. It was the next step in the evolution of events. First the prisoners fought among themselves, directing their anger and frustration against each other. We were comfortable talking about the fighting in front of the staff because no one seemed to care. Prisoners fighting among themselves is only one way to express violence. As the frustration grows, the rage looks for new avenues of expression. So now the prisoners’ anger and

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frustration were turning toward the prison itself. We were talking about the boycott right in front of the staff, and no one seemed to care. What amazed me even more was that at this time the news media was reporting on violence in other prisons owned and operated by Venture Correctional Corporation. The corporation was outwardly smiling and professing its great skill in running its prisons, but its other prisons were erupting into chaos. What drew the media in was the death of some prisoners. The news reports described inadequate management, lack of property distribution, and non-caring prison staff. Some employees were investigating violence against the prisoners. I have always wondered how much the events at Enterprise originated in the care and treatment given by the employees and how much it was encouraged by the fact that we were watching the media reports on the violence at Venture’s other prisons. Either way, though, if men are satisfied with their treatment and the overall interpersonal dynamics being generated by the prison structure, then they would not be discussing a boycott. * * * The talk about the chowhall boycott went on and on. Everyone had an opinion: Man, if we don’t go to eat, they’ll lock us down. If we don’t go, they’ll cut off the cable. I got my shit, fuck those other dudes. If we keep letting them do this shit to us, they won’t stop. People started taking sides. Some wanted to boycott for a day; others did not. Henry told a young gangbanger that he didn’t want to do it. Apparently, Henry was not keeping up with the times. “What do you mean you ain’t gonna help us?” yelled the kid, hovering over Henry. “They have people here waiting on property still. Some been waiting weeks.” The next thing I knew, the kid brought one foot forward, a common fighting stance. I don’t think Henry even saw it. The kid swung a right and slapped Henry across the face with his open hand, then stepped back. The dudes sitting at the table with Henry stood up and moved away and the other gangbangers who had come in with the kid moved in. But no one did anything—everyone just watched. The guard in the control bubble also watched. “Anonymous, did you see that dude bitch-slap Henry?” Now that it was over, I was hanging out in Lowe’s cell. “Yes.”

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“Damn, he didn’t even do anything.” Lowe had a high-pitched voice when he got excited. “Yeah, Lowe, I know. But Henry was surrounded by gangbangers. He probably thought they were going to join in.” “Hell, Anonymous, Snow and them niggas weren’t going to join in.” “Maybe, but did Henry know that?” “I don’t know. But I do know that young gang boyee that slapped him can’t fight. I seen him in action and that nigga can’t blow up a balloon.” Lowe grinned from ear to ear, showing his gold tooth. “I don’t know, dude.” “I do,” his voice went high and loud. “Anonymous, he can’t fight. I saw him try to fight in Northern State. He can’t fight!” “I ain’t doubtin’ you. I’m just saying Henry had to be worried about them other motherfuckers.” Henry letting the kid slap him was big news because an important normative standard in prison is not to let any other man lay hands on you or take your stuff. It is equated with female treatment, as Lowe implied when he called it a bitch-slap. To some extent, this comes from the Black culture’s player role and male dominance imported into the prison. But many Whites and other groups also adopt this belief in prison. It is a male hierarchical order structured with men on the top and women on the bottom. A man who allows another man to slap him is thought to be soft and tender, a punk or a bitch. In prison language, all these are feminine characterizations. A real man would fight back! The same characterization was implied in my reply to the young man I was playing cards with: I ain’t no punk; I am not just going to let another steal from me. Henry lost face when he didn’t fight back. He was shamed. The young gang boyee got what he wanted: the luster of being tough. One of the main norms of prison was broken, and so everyone wanted to know why. When I got back to my cell, I heard it from my cellie. “Why didn’t Henry fire back?” Mark didn’t really want to know—he only wanted to know where I was on the subject. “Hell, I don’t know.” “Yeah, well, Henry is always playing that tough guy role but then he doesn’t do shit when something happens,” Mark waited for my reaction. “He should have stood up for himself. If anyone else had jumped in, I would have helped.”

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“Maybe Henry didn’t know that.” Everyone seems to think a guy will know that someone else will help. The problem is that most of the time no one will. “Come on, Anonymous, you know me,” he paused. “I would have helped him out. Others would have, too.” I was tired of hearing what everyone else would have done. Another important Con Rule that I had learned is Never count on what anyone else would do because they may not come through. This is the background noise that takes place again and again. Just as with Mark and Tommy, everyone gives his opinion of what should have occurred. That would’ve, could’ve, should’ve shit but didn’t. Lowe and I were a part of it too—a man just can’t escape it. * * * “Man, fuck you Pumpkin-Head,” Mini-Me shouted from the shower area. I was in the stall about three down from him. Pumpkin-Head got his nickname because he had a big round head shaped like a pumpkin. He was younger, heavy set from eating so much, and he had a mouth. He wouldn’t talk directly to you but he sure would talk about you. Like Henry, he spent a good deal of time in other people’s lives instead of his own. Mini-Me, on the other hand, was a little older and more experienced. He knew what Pumpkin-Head was about. Pumpkin-Head didn’t think little Mini-Me would do anything, but I could see that was getting ready to change. “Fuck me?” Pumpkin-Head paused. “Dre, come here. Now am I wrong? We’re playing cards and he didn’t follow suit. I see it but don’t say anything until the hand is over. He cheated so I win the hand, right?” “Keep me out of this . . .” Dre knew what was up. The argument between Pumpkin-Head and Mini-Me had been going on for an hour. “I told you I am done with it,” Mini-Me interrupted putting his shorts on. “Let it die and take that loud shit elsewhere. I have to take this shit from the people running this place but I don’t have to take it from you.” By this time, Mini-Me’s temple vein was flaring. “Fuck that, you lost,” Pumpkin-Head shouted, walking toward MiniMe. Mini-Me looked up at Pumpkin-Head. He said nothing. Blam-blam, he sent Pumpkin-Head back about five feet.

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Pumpkin-Head picked himself up and ran at him. Mini-Me stepped aside, punched two more times, and tripped him so he fell in the shower area. Then he said: “I’m telling you to lay down.” I couldn’t believe little-ass Mini-Me was handling big-ass Pumpkin-Head like a rag doll. With that Pumpkin-Head was back on his feet but he didn’t want any more trouble. “I ain’t playing cards with you any more!” Mini-Me layed into him, knocking him back down. “I said lay down.” With that, he hit him a few more times with a hard plastic shower shoe. I looked around. The guard wasn’t even looking. Pumpkin-Head lost a little manhood. And Mini-Me finished drying off. * * * Tone returned from recreation and entered his cell. Where’s my motherfucking TV? he thought. These people will open motherfuckin cell doors for anyone! Out to the sallyport he marched. He started yelling at the control booth guard—she had to have electronically opened his door. When the floor officer showed up, he got it too. “Where’s my motherfuckin TV?” Tone screamed at the officers. “Who did you open the damn door for?” Of course none of them knew anything about what he was talking about. “I didn’t open your door,” the control booth officer swore up and down. “We ain’t responsible for the property in your cell anyways,” the floor officer added. “So, what the fuck, just give a motherfucker’s shit away?” Tone looked directly at the floor officer. Next came the lieutenant—the control booth guard had called him. He calmed Tone down and ordered the floor officer to make a round to check all the cells. So there was Dead Presidents, aka D. P., in his cell with a new TV. He was busy sanding it, trying to remove the engraved name and number. He heard Tone yelling about the TV and knew the lieutenant had entered the unit, but he was just ignoring it. He figured they wouldn’t care. They got Tone’s TV and returned it to him. D. P. thought the issue was dead since they didn’t immediately lock him in seg. But Tone wasn’t going to be left on the same living unit as D. P.: “I got to be moved or he does.” You might think the problem was Tone retaliating against D. P. for stealing the TV, but that was not it. Tone was afraid D. P. would retaliate

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for complaining that his TV had been stolen. Retaliation comes hard at Enterprise.

Reflections Prisoners, like all human beings, have fundamental needs for safety and security. Along with the six basic functions in the last chapter, Enterprise could not seem to meet this need. Safety, particularly in a prison, is a relative term—there is no set number of guards that will ensure safety and security in a prison. Thus, adding more guards is not necessarily a solution to a problem of violence. This is similar to fighting crime on the streets—adding more cops may not necessarily reduce crime. Instead, what may be needed are more holistic efforts by the community. For example, safety and security in a prison is strongly affected by the six basic functions discussed in the last chapter—recreation, property, mail, phones, laundry, and food. When these basic functions are operating properly, it creates the impression that the administration is firmly in control and the prison itself is operating smoothly. This makes the prison “feel” safer and that in itself tends to reduce the amount of violence. State-run prisons have the wisdom to ensure that the basic functions are operating properly, although I’m not sure they make the connection between these functions and the level of violence. But the administration at Enterprise was not willing to make the effort that would have been required to achieve this. During the first three years of its operations, I personally witnessed a record wave of unreported fights at Enterprise prison. It was greater than I ever saw anywhere in the state system. Further, I heard rumors and reports about many more. As a result of both the violence and the more extensive rumors and reports of violence, Enterprise developed a reputation as a prison that was much more violent than any prison in the state system. This reputation became part of Enterprise’s personality. The reputation itself then increased the level of the violence because everyone who came there already knew it was a violent prison. Thus, the violence fed on itself. Beyond that, I think the high level of violence at Enterprise systematically changed us. Enterprise seemed to go through an evolutionary process during those years—i.e., the violence itself seemed to “evolve”

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over time into more intense forms. I think the savagery became more intense because we were becoming more and more immune to it. To some extent, I thought the violence was like an addictive drug. When you first take such a drug, a low dosage achieves the desired effect, but over time you need more and more of the drug to get the same effect. So it seemed with the violence. At first, men used lower levels of violence to achieve what they wanted: either some practical outcome or some gratifying feeling. But as time went by, the men needed more and more violence to obtain the same results. For example, the same gratifying feeling that a three-punch fight achieved (e.g., Mark and Tommy) later required all out assaults, as will be seen in the next chapter. As with any addiction, the violence eventually stabilized at a higher level compared to its level at the beginning. And we all just got used to it and came to accept it. Something similar was true about the staff. For example, if a violent event was occurring when staff arrived on the unit, some prisoners would distract the staff while others would go to warn those who were engaging in the violence. It wasn’t hard to distract staff—prisoner health and safety were the least of their concerns. The staff just seemed to accept the fact that this was how prisons were. It may have been the Southern culture’s norm for a higher accepted rate of violence that the staff imported. Or it could have been racism, or lack of training. Or maybe they just didn’t care. Based on my observations, I would say that the tolerance for violence involved educational, economic, gender, and racial factors, all of which were linked to the broader Southern culture and socialization. The physical design of a prison can increase or decrease violence. One of the most important design elements that increase violence are the socalled blind spots. These are places in the prison in which prisoners are allowed but that are not readily visible to the guards. The “boxing bathroom” was one such blind spot. Personally, I think that private corporations should be liable in civil court for the violence that arises when they knowingly build cheap prisons with many blind spots, instead of taking the time to carefully design prisons that minimize or eliminate those spots. On the other hand, I recognize that no court would ever consider such a suit—it would be immediately dismissed, or rejected on summary judgment. Finally, I believe that socially acceptable racism goes hand in hand with violence. As violence increases, racism is not far behind, and as racism increases, violence is not far behind. Of course, I recognize that there is no

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objective measure of racism. How do you determine who is and who is not racist? Whites and Blacks think differently on the subject. Both groups use multiple terms, yet interpretation has much to do with it. For example, Lowe often used the word “nigga.” This is a commonly used term in the Black community—it can mean anyone and is not particularly derogatory. Whites use “nigger” in a highly derogatory way to mean only Blacks. Acceptable or unacceptable? Racist or not? Blacks use the term “White boy” without any particular concern. Whites in general do not use this term except for a few who believe it is “hip.” Acceptable or not? Racist or not? The line between what is and what is not racist is thin and wavering. Yet different perceptions of the same words can lead to different outcomes. As violence grows, it undermines the social organization of the entire prison. For example, with all the fights and cell robberies, prisoners had to adjust to new ways of doing time. You had to stay with your own crowd — you could not make new associates because new associates might be on a scouting mission. You had to keep people out of your cell —dudes would try to be all buddy-buddy to see what was available to steal in your cell. Even in your cell, you had to keep your things out of sight as much as possible—people could look into your cell and see your things. Some cellies, when both were gone, asked others to watch their cell. People become preoccupied with protecting themselves from the violence, with ensuring their own survival. In that frame of mind, they simply don’t pay attention to the kinds of activities that are needed to run the prison and to achieve a decent quality of life for everyone, both staff and inmates. When everyone is preoccupied with violence and avoiding it, the prison itself tends to deteriorate into a much more generalized disorganization and chaos. So Enterprise prison changed us all and we changed it. And what about rehabilitation? That went out the window in the 1980s. No one cared about rehabilitation any more. Enterprise prison was the new mode.

5 Beat Down Crew Them boys been fighting all their lives. They invented the word assault. —Phil Rowen Hey, I worked the Texas death house for five years, I don’t think this place is all that violent. —Chief of Security Walker

The housing unit where I was living was changed into an educational unit, and so we were all moved off into new units and new cells. I was moved onto the unit that most inmates called the Aryan unit. That was because all the Aryans lived there. Out of forty prisoners on the unit, there were maybe five Blacks who lived there, and maybe five Whites who were not Aryan. I was one of those five Whites. My old cellie Mark also moved onto the same unit, but we were in separate cells, with him on the ground floor and me on the tier. Like me, Mark was White. He claimed he wasn’t Aryan, but he sure knew them and hung out with them, so he settled right in. The problem was that his extreme polar nature and his desire for drugs got the best of him. I was standing in the dayroom, leaning against the shower wall. Luke was standing next to me as we gabbed. Suddenly, Steel and Hammer’s cell door flung open. “Get the fuck out of here,” Steel yelled as the two of them threw Mark out of their cell. I could see Mark’s face was cut. He staggered to his feet and then headed back into the cell. Knowing Mark, it didn’t surprise me that he was going to take the two of them on. I had known Steel from Gladiator School up North. Sometimes I used to buy weed from him. He was a small-town boy in his forties who was doing his time on the installment plan. When I knew him back then, Todd (aka Steel) wasn’t much of a banger. Yet, over the years he became a

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higher-up in the Aryans. At Enterprise prison, he blossomed into a leadership role. Many of the men from Northern State were young Whites with little prison experience. They thought that Enterprise’s gangs and violence were the norm, so they joined the Aryans for protection. I’ll have to admit that, while I lived on the Aryan unit, I was more comfortable— the Black gangs didn’t show their faces much on that unit. Hammer was also someone I knew from Gladiator School. He was in his mid-forties with long, sandy-blond hair balding at the top. Like Steel, he was doing his time on the installment plan. At Gladiator School, I had taken some college classes with him, where I thought he was stiff and controlling. He certainly hated the system, the very system he had come back to. Because I was not an Aryan and because I was cool with Lowe, who was Black, Hammer thought of me as a nigger-lover. Now Hammer was a higher-up in the Aryans, kind of like an educator for the younger Whites. Mark charged right into their cell. Both Steel and Hammer swung on him and backed him out of the cell again. “Stay the fuck out of here,” Steel repeated. About this time, more Aryans showed their faces and were ready to aid Steel and Hammer. Assaulting six-on-one is much different than one-onone or even two-on-one, so when Mark was backed from the cell the second time, I called to him. I could see he was only getting beat, but he ignored me. I wasn’t about to step in to help him. I could see he was pumped full of hootch and pills. So were the Aryans. It was the weekend party—they would drink a bunch of hootch that had the effect of weak wine, take a bunch of pills they collected from the psychiatrist, and smoke a bunch of weed. By ten o’clock in the evening, half of them would be staggering around. The problem was that Mark wanted some weed but the Aryans weren’t sharing. So he was furious—he thought it just wasn’t right. Another man managed to get Mark to go back to his own cell but, sure enough, Mark could not leave it alone. You ain’t going to win against ten motherfuckers, I thought, but Mark headed right back into their cell. Immediately he was back out the cell door, but this time it didn’t stop. Blam-blam, he took a few and handed a few back. The dayroom instantly filled with spectators. The camera that points into the dayroom continued transmitting its images to central control.

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The guard in the bubble eventually saw it. He rapped on the glass, then pushed the intercom button for the dayroom. “Hey, hey . . . stop dat. You-all stop dat!” Old Jack was a silver-haired dude who had come out of retirement to work at Enterprise. He needed the benefits, especially the medical insurance, that came with the job. Everyone ignored him. “Motherfucker,” Mark yelled. He swung at Steel but missed. Two others jumped in from the sides to blast Mark a few more times in the head. He staggered and Steel put one to his jaw. They were like wolves going after their prey, yet Mark would not go down. Old Jack pounded some more on the glass from the control booth. Snake, a smaller dude with long hair, went over to the dayroom intercom. “Come on, Jack,” he said to the old guard. “We got this. Don’t call no one.” Snake was part Native-American. He walked with both groups, the Skins and the Aryans. He made some very nice dream catchers and did some nice tattoos. “Well, tell ’em to stop or take it into a cell,” the intercom crackled back. Jack knew that the security camera would eventually be noticed by someone in central control. But if it was happening in a cell, the camera couldn’t see it and Jack could claim he didn’t see anything. Snake went on talking to old Jack as long as he could hold his attention. “Damn,” Hammer shouted, “this fucker just won’t go down.” Mark had too much heart. He just kept coming back. They would knock him away getting him to stagger, but he would return swinging. Blam-blam, more blows were exchanged. “Okay,” Snake replied to the intercom, “I will tell them what you said.” Old Jack was only going to let this go on for so long. After all, it was an assault in the dayroom right in front of the unit security camera! I was surprised central control hadn’t seen it already. But obviously they weren’t paying attention down there. Steel moved back in and tied Mark in a sleeper headlock hold. “You ain’t getting any dope. Go back to your cell and lay down.” Mark let out a few moans and then Steel let him go. He waived off the others—Mark finally had enough. Mark’s face was a mess. He had a cut above his eye to the center of his forehead, and another cut on the left side of his nose across his bridge up to the cut on his forehead. Blood was dripping out. Snake was tapping on the glass of the control booth again but it was too late: Old Jack, the guard, was on the phone.

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Mark cussed at the Aryans a few times then sat at one of the dayroom tables. His pride would not allow him to enter his cell. “Five-O,” Snake yelled as he moved away from the day room entrance. Everyone broke. “Everyone, lockdown now,” the officer screamed as he ran in the dayroom. When he saw Mark he called for help on his radio. Mark went to segregation and the senior, with a few other guards, went cell to cell inspecting everyone’s knuckles. No one else went to seg. * * * “Hey, White-Feather,” I greeted him as I sat down next to him in the gym. It was raining that morning so I could not jog the yard. When I am in a prison that allows it, I try to jog every day. “How’s it going?” he responded. “I haven’t seen you for a while. Where have you been?” White-Feather, aka David Goodheart, was a Native-American associate I knew from Gladiator School. Like me, he was serving life and had been in about the same number of years. I first met him in the violent offenders group, a therapy group for murderers. He was quiet and reserved. “I’ve been in seg. They just let me out.” “I didn’t know. What happened?” “It’s a long story, Anonymous.” He paused, then decided to continue. “You know I get money from the tribe. Well, I was kicking back with my cellie, smoking that stuff on a daily basis. He got money from his tribe, also. So we were going half and half on weed. It was all good until them fucking Disciples started learning about it!” I could see he wasn’t happy about that. “They try to screw you in a deal?” I asked. “No. The dude we bought it from was cool but I think he might of told his friends. Word got around somehow that us skins were smoking so the beat down crew showed up.” “They’re getting quite the rep around here.” “Ain’t they! They came to jack us but neither me or my cellie was going to give up our stash. They ran into our cell and started demanding it. I gave one look at my cellie and told them to bring the drama. They were on a mission anyways, figured maybe we could get the upper hand.” “That sucks.” “Tell me about it. I hit one in the head with my hotpot and started boxing. We backed them out of the cell but my cellie got knocked out on the

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tier. They got a half an ounce off him and then split. The police wanted us to tell who done it to us but neither me or my cellie would snitch. So we went to seg but none of the gangbangers went. Then when we get out of the hole, we learn our electronics are missing, along with our canteen. The gangbangers stole the shit out of our cell after we went to the hole.” This was a common problem on the housing units when a prisoner was taken to seg. Like with White-Feather, the guards would come in and take the inmate to seg but they wouldn’t concern themselves with the cell. If the prisoner asked to have his property secured, the guards may ignore it. The guards never immediately returned to the cell to get the prisoner’s property out of it, so there always was time to steal. Once the inmate was gone, if the cell door was still unlocked, then dudes would just wait until the bubble guard wasn’t looking. Sometimes they would have someone go out in the sallyport to speak to the officer. Then while the guard was occupied, they would step into the cell and come out with whatever they wanted. If you had a cellie who wasn’t sent to seg with you, then the guards usually asked him to pack your stuff. But if the cellie wanted anything, he might just keep it. Or other inmates might tell the cellie not to pack certain items so they could get them later. White-Feather continued with his story. “I went to a bunch of the other skins to get help to get mine and my cellie’s shit back.” “I noticed you Native-Americans are pretty tight down here.” “It’s this place. Up North we weren’t as tight. We had some tribal differences but once the violence started down here we put our differences aside. Plus, with all the tribal money we get, every dope dealer wants our business. Anyway, once the gangbangers saw I was coming to fight with my brothers, they gave us the shit back. My cellie told them keep the fucking weed—just give us our electronics. I got my TV, box, and some tapes. The rest I didn’t care about.” “How’s your cellie?” “Believe it or not, he got these people to send him back to Northern State somehow. I think his family was calling the DOC or threatening to sue.” “You okay?” “I had a cut eye and bloody nose but they got it worse. The one I hit in the head with the hotpot told medical he tripped playing ball so they gave him stitches. I got bragging rights on him. The one I was fighting got blood all over my shirt.” “Them boys are out there bad, I never thought they would get you.”

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“Shit, the one I was fighting was called Shorty-P. He has ninety-five years. They don’t care. What they got to lose?” * * * “See that fella over there?” Phil gestured at another inmate across the outside rec pen. “They got him two days ago.” I had met Phil at Enterprise. He was older, in his fifties, shaved his head, and wore a silver mustache and goatee. He was a little heavyset but still moved around like a younger man. He was a weed smoker from the 1960s and he smoked a great deal of weed at Enterprise. When Phil gave you a joint, you knew you had a joint. We called them Philberts due to their large size. A couple of other men who Phil knew were standing around with us. They had a considerable amount of time in also. I looked inconspicuously at the man he was gesturing toward. “Look at his eye behind those glasses.” I noticed that one eye was swollen shut. I could also see the side of his face was bruised. “The beat down crew got him. You know the story.” At that point, the wind picked up and caught the man’s shirt, and I could see his ribs were all bruised. His body looked like he jumped in front of a bus. “Man, Phil, he is fucked up!” “I told you the beat down crew got him.” “Beat down crew? I’m starting to hear more and more people say that. What the fuck is a beat down crew?” “Yeah, it’s the latest fad here. It isn’t bad enough with all the fighting and cell robberies but now them GD boyees are getting really bold. They are getting together to straight up beat down dudes and steal whatever they can. Especially if they think you’re holding weed or cash.” “I can’t believe this shit goes on,” an older man named Gary commented. “You would never see this shit in the state system. This is like living in the ghetto!” “We ain’t in the state system anymore!” Phil smiled. “Dudes were on his unit?” “No, that’s the fucked-up thing. They came off I-pod. Walked around to his pod and ran right up into his cell! There was no talk, no nothing; just tried to knock him out.” “That is how crazy shit is getting around here. Those Gangster Disciples don’t give a fuck. One-on-one fighting is out with them,” the other

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dude added. “Now they come in numbers and are starting to run around the whole prison. And don’t even think about going to I-pod to get revenge. You’ll never get off that unit. They ain’t got but five Whites living down there!” “You guys are bullshitting . . .” I replied. I was having trouble believing things had gotten that bad. I guess I was just too programmed. “Yeah, okay,” Phil interrupted, “bullshitting. They have changed the style of doing shit down here. He was the second dude I heard of . . .” “He ain’t the second,” Gary interrupted. “He is the fourth dude . . .” “Okay, see,” Phil shot back, “Anonymous, these niggers are getting out-of-order.” “Ain’t no one stopping them?” “Hell no. You know them Aryans aren’t going to take them on. They ain’t even set up like that. Besides, they don’t never jump no Blacks. They always want to talk. And we know half these guards don’t care and the other half don’t want no trouble. They don’t pay them enough to stop it.” “Dude by the name of Dead Presidents is running one of them. They say his is the most notorious group.” “How many got him?” “Four brothers went to rob him for money. His cellie ran off so they closed the door,” Phil paused as some others passed by—he didn’t want to entertain the ear-hustlers. As soon as they were gone, he continued: “They beat him for twenty minutes!” “Didn’t he try to fight back?” “You think!” Phil sarcastically replied. “Come on, Anonymous. Them boys been fighting all their lives. They invented the word assault.” “Man, this shit is getting crazier and crazier. Even in Gladiator School it wasn’t this bad.” “Man, Gladiator School was a picnic compared to this place.” * * * “I told you so, nigga,” Shorty-P replied. “Ain’t no one going to sweat us about taking a motherfucker’s shit.” “Yea-Yeah,” D. P. smiled. Shorty-P, Crank, and John-John were all members of D. P.’s beat down crew. They even liked the name they were earning. All four knew one another on the streets. D. P. and Shorty were on the same case. They were from the same home team, growing up together.

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More gang members in the Black gangs knew one another from the areas where they grew up together. Their gang ties were already established and were imported into prison. In contrast, many White gang members first met each other in prison and banded together for protection. The greatest difference was that loyalty to the group was already tested for a greater number of Black gangs. They knew if a member was going to join in the lawlessness or just talk about it. This has a powerful impact. “I can’t believe these police don’t say something,” John-John commented. “They tell us to get out of the hallway but don’t care where we go!” “Man, these sisters are just making it working here. You know they ain’t going to say anything. Plus most of the brother guards figure if you got your dope taken, you’re dirty anyways, so tough,” D. P. said. “Miss Smith in our control bubble is cool. You see how she talks. She’ll gossip with a motherfucker or talk sex but she won’t say nothing,” Crank added. “She just wants some dick!” “These honkies ain’t gonna do NOTHING!” D. P. smiled again. “The one just laid down, I give him props. He tried but he laid down.” Suddenly the cell door swung open and another man stepped in the cell. “Hey-hey, what’s up, my niggas!” “Damn, Cash. You a big old motherfucker but just popping in like that we might have to jump on you,” D. P. shot back. “Like that motherfucker out at rec in the bathroom?” Cash smiled. He took about four steps across the cell, threw his arm behind his back, turned around, and repeated his gesture. Then he stared at D. P. After a short pause, Crank asked, “Did you get him?” “Let’s just say he won’t be a problem with running his mouth!” “We’re looking for scouts. What you think?” “I think we all doing pretty good,” Cash smiled at D. P. “All we got to do is get a few scouts and we can jack all them honkies’ shit,” Crank added. “We can burn it up.” “We’ll have to get a few of these punk-ass brothers, too. I think it’s time to get that motherfucker working in the laundry. He ain’t trying to wash our shit!” “He ain’t no Vice Lord, is he? Dore said we had a truce with them.” “Fuck a truce. We ain’t living with them and Dore is over on G-unit. I heard he is snitching anyways.” “If he don’t start acting right about doing laundry, we’ll get him too then,” Shorty-P smiled.

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“I got to go—it’s almost count time,” Cash headed to the door. “I have to walk to the other side of the prison to my housing unit.” Cash knew if he missed count he would go to seg. Otherwise, he was cool. * * * Mark, Double-Dee, and I were returning from the library. “Good morning, Mr. Long,” Chief of Security Walker said to Mark as we passed in the hallway. After Mark got beat up, Mark’s children happened to surprise him with a visit to the prison. Guess what? Dad’s in stitches! Mark wouldn’t tell anyone that the stitches were compliments of Steel and Hammer. The kids started calling the prison so much that the chief had to do something. “How are you, Chief,” Mark replied. “Do you like the new unit you’re on better?” “Yes . . .” “I want to know when you’re going to slow down some of this shit going on around here,” Double-Dee interrupted. Double-Dee always liked to push their buttons. He liked to politically agitate Walker. “And what type of shit would that be, Mr. Allen?” The chief knew Double-Dee since whenever he saw him in the halls he always would complain about something. “This violence and gang bullshit!” “Well as I told Mr. Long, if he could identify the men that jumped him I will segregate them.” Mark wasn’t having any of that. “I don’t remember . . .” Mark knew how things worked in prison: Come once, come again. Retaliation was rough. He didn’t want to fight the Aryans again. “If you-all don’t help us out, we cannot help you out.” “You got dudes fighting and gang assaults every day but you need an old man to inform you who hit him? Can’t you do your job? What about the unit security cameras?” “Hey, I worked in the Texas death house for five years, I don’t think this place is all that violent,” the chief sarcastically replied. “We don’t have a severe gang problem here.” “Come on, Double-Dee,” Mark grabbed his arm pulling him along. As we got a few steps away Mark added, “I don’t want any trouble, DoubleDee. Let’s just leave dead dogs lie.” “Death house,” Double-Dee said as we walked. “He compares this to the death house.”

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Reflections By this time at Enterprise a number of key factors had come together that allowed and facilitated the violence. Together they created the most intense types of violence—the assaults—but they also aided in the more general atmosphere of prison fighting. These aspects were free movement, staff inability to act, prisoner-on-prisoner theft, and the beat down crews. These aspects were independent in some ways yet dependent on one another in other ways. First, the private prison allowed prisoners to walk freely to various parts of the prison. In particular, it allowed the men on one housing unit to travel to other housing units with very few restrictions. One effect this had was men could not “hide out” on another housing unit from their enemies. This freedom of movement was unique to Enterprise— they opened the prison to the prisoners. In contrast, in the state system, movement is limited to certain very restricted areas unless you are under escort. It is severely restricted when it comes to entering any housing unit on which you do not live. Walking into another housing unit is considered a major violation—if you walk into one and get caught, you go to seg. This policy allows men to “hide out” from their enemies. Restricting movement is one of the prison’s most important checks and balances. The free movement was the most important factor that allowed the violence. It was like the catalyst: without free movement the beat down crews could never have come about. But the free movement needed the staff to allow it. At Enterprise, the administration and the guards seemed unwilling or unable to stop free movement. The guards either did not care or, when they did care, the officer’s attempt to control was misdirected. For example, sometimes a guard would yell at someone to get out of the hallway, but then they would not seem to care if the man entered a housing unit where he did not live. The inexperienced guard would be trying to restrict the prisoners’ movement but actually was facilitating it. There were many possible reasons for this. For example, at this point, the newly hired staff were beginning to experience their own needs for power. Power needs are always present in people, and these needs can influence actions in a way that undermines effectiveness. That is, the guards were already beginning to “power trip” on their newly acquired authority. So the guards would make their demands known, but it just seemed

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like they were the wrong demands. They were out of synchronization with needs of the institution. Beyond that, the guards’ actions often seemed to be out of synch with each other. That is, the guards did not seem to be systematically organized in such a way that their individual actions were coordinated in the pursuit of common goals. I believe this problem arose from some or all of the following: many lacked the training and experience to know what to do, many simply did not care, and many were intimidated by the inmates and avoided actions whenever possible. Whatever it was, they did not seem to synchronize their actions in any coherent policy. Beyond that, their actions often did not match the prisoners’ expectancies of how guards would behave. This tended to undermine the authority of the guards—the prisoners figured the guards didn’t know what they were doing—and therefore tended to make the guards’ actions even less effective. This situation—free movement and staff inability to act—initially gave rise to a wave of prisoner-on-prisoner theft. This type of theft is nothing new to prison, but its magnitude doubled or tripled once inmates were free to walk about the institution. The prisoners felt like the theft was indirectly sanctioned by the staff—again, the reason for this could have been lack of training, lack of caring, or intimidation. But the fact is that some guys literally rolled carts onto units, loaded them up with stolen items, and then rolled them off. The administration was too tied up with running other operations or did not care. Either because of inexperience, not caring, or being intimidated, the staff seemed to look the other way or they blamed the victim. Tone, for example, found this out firsthand after the first guard denied opening his locked cell door, then the next guard said it didn’t matter, it wasn’t their responsibility. Staff controlled the locks but they didn’t know or didn’t care what they were doing! Finally, these three factors—free movement, staff inability to act, and prisoner-on-prisoner theft—produced something I have never seen in prison: the beat down crews. These three aspects created a period in the history of Enterprise where assault crews plundered. Without these specific aspects, the crews would have never advanced as they did. They were unique to Enterprise. These individuals roamed the prison purposely scouting for other inmates to assault. All crews were gang members—they were the only

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groups to travel around scouting for prey. Gangs exist in every prison, but only at Enterprise did they develop into beat down crews. Ultimately, this made Enterprise dangerous for the “square” inmates who were not into the “prison game,” and for any inmate who as not a gang member. No one was safe from the beat down crews.

6 The Zoo This is your second UA within sixty days. If I didn’t need the cell, I would overrule the hearing examiner. —Chief of Security Walker I will get you out today unless you don’t want to plead guilty. If you don’t plead guilty, then you will have to have a hearing. That will take some more days since I don’t have you scheduled. —Hearing Examiner Hanson

“Hey Officer, come here God dammit,” the man in 102 yelled under his seg door for the third time. “What do you need?” the officer replied rather disgusted. Officer Pooch was young, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two years old. By his facial gestures, you could see he was tired of the shit today. What a way to make a living, he thought. “Did they get me a cell yet?” The prisoner was yelling into the door’s crack. In seg, in order to talk to a guard, you had to yell through the door cracks. The doors and food slots were never opened unless they wanted a prisoner to sign something or he was getting a meal. “Martin, stop asking about your damn cell.” “Hey, come on now,” he looked at the officer offended. “They told me I would be out two days ago. My paper work says the fifteenth, it’s now the seventeenth. You’re violating my motherfucking rights.” “Okay, okay. You-all act like the world has to stop to let you out of seg. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe they forgot. What are you here for? Maybe that is why.” “I’m not here for nothing more than smoking weed.” “How many days have you been here?”

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“Twenty-two long days!” “How much time did Hearing Examiner Hanson give you?” “Fifteen days.” “When did you go to court?” “The tenth, Wednesday. Why all the questions?” “Figure the days. You have to sit from the day after the hearing until the twenty-sixth.” “No, no. See, look here,” Martin held his hearing results to the cell door window, “he gave me credit for being here since the first.” The officer read the slip: Time credited for prior segregation. Time from the first to be subtracted from the fifteen days. “Okay, I’ll call.” “I’d appreciate getting out of this fucking zoo!” “Hey, you don’t like my hotel, stop coming back!” * * * Prisons generally have two types of segregation units. In this case, the “zoo” was Enterprise’s disciplinary segregation unit. Prisoners who are suspected of violating the prison rules are placed in this unit. While the prisoner is locked up in the segregation unit, the prison goes through an elaborate process of determining whether or not the infraction occurred. This is the investigation phase. Then a disciplinary report is written and served on the prisoner. Finally, a man can waive all his rights and “plead guilty” or he can take a formal hearing. In virtually all prisons, in 99.9 percent of the cases where one takes a formal hearing for the infraction, he will be found guilty. One way or the other, once the prisoner is found to have committed the infraction, then he will remain in the “zoo” for a certain number of days until his time given for the rule infraction is completed. At Enterprise, you could be released from seg at any time, or remain there for any length of time, or be sent to administrative lockup, which is a different type of segregation unit. Generally, arbitrariness is the rule. * * * “Hello, Chief Walker here,” he spoke into the phone. “This is Moss from Internal Affairs.” Internal Affairs, or IA, was the investigative arm of the prison. In addition to investigating serious rule infractions by the prisoners, they investigated the other staff, particularly in relation to drug trafficking and things of that nature. They also investigated the gang activities of the prisoners. “What can I do for you, Moss?”

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“Well, Chief, we are doing a gang investigation and have certain inmates to go to segregation . . . four for assault, two for tattooing, and one for weapons.” Not another gang investigation, Walker thought, he does more investigating than anyone. As chief of security, Walker was in charge of the segregation unit. Moss’ investigations were always filling up the seg cells, making life difficult for Walker. Sometimes he wished Moss would just let sleeping dogs lie. “That means cells. You know we’re having troubles on F-unit. Why don’t you investigate over there?” Moss ignored Walkers tone, “I plan to write disciplinaries, give them segregation time, then move them to different housing units.” When an inmate was alleged to have committed a rule infraction, the staff person was supposed to write a Disciplinary Report (or DR) that described the alleged offense. These “disciplinaries” were then supposed to be “processed”—the inmate either would plead guilty or there would be a formal hearing on the allegation. “I don’t have the room in seg, especially knowing some from F-unit will be locked up.” “Double up the seg cells.” “I don’t know if I can. We do have to keep some guys separated.” “If you need help, I can review some files to see who can be released.” Moss was going ahead with this investigation no matter what. “Okay,” Walker’s tone was negative. “But you should stop putting inmates over here without disciplinaries.” Sometimes Moss just put inmates into segregation and never got around to writing the Disciplinary Report. These inmates then could not be processed—the seg unit just had to hold them while everyone waited. Moss didn’t reply to Walker’s comment. “I got to go,” the chief hung up the phone. He breezed his segregation list. Man, this needs to be organized better. * * * “Bob Jones?” Miss Gillis, the hearing examiner’s assistant called into his cell. “Yes,” Bob replied. Bob was Henry’s old cellie, the one who didn’t receive all his property. “I have two forms for you to sign. This one,” she held the slips to the window, “which is your lockup slip and the other is your disciplinary report.”

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“Okay . . .” “I have to now read the report to you. Some guys complained that they couldn’t read or understand their DRs, so now I have to read them out loud.” She read the report: Bob was segregated because of his tattooing. Everybody seemed to be getting a tattoo done. She asked him if he wanted witnesses and a staff advisor. Then she said he could plead guilty now if he wanted. “But I’m innocent,” he smiled. Bob was a pleasant fellow most of the time, but he wasn’t having much luck at Enterprise. Overall, he didn’t snap much. As a matter of fact, the maddest I ever saw him was the day he didn’t get his property. Because he couldn’t get a job anywhere in the prison, Bob started tattooing for canteen. It helped pay the bills. Now he ended up in seg. “Yes, I know, like everyone else,” she sarcastically replied. “I will make a suggestion. Instead of putting us through all the work, you might just want to plead guilty. They did find the tattoo gun in your cell and you told the officer who wrote the DR that it was yours. I will present it to Hearing Examiner Hanson to see if I can get you seven days segregation with time served. They are only on this stuff because Northern State said too many guys are getting tattoos.” Since Northern State was complaining to Enterprise about too many men coming back with tattoos, the administrators made a halfway attempt to stop some of it from going on. This is how a great deal of Enterprise’s segregation policy operated—off the complaints of Northern State. If they complained about a particular item, then Enterprise would segregate some men for violating it. “Can I think about it?” “See me before I leave. Make sure you call me over.” She walked on to the next person she had to serve a ticket. Later, after Miss Gillis finished with the last prisoner she wanted to speak to, Bob called her over and pleaded guilty. “Are you done?” Officer Pooch asked Miss Gillis loudly over the noise of everyone yelling under their doors to one another. “Yes, thank God. I want to get out of here” Pooch smiled, “Most do; it’s seg!” * * *

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Chief Walker dialed the warden on the phone. “Hey, Warden, this is Chief Walker. How are you?” “I’m doing just fine, Chief.” “The reason I am calling is we are having troubles on F-unit again. I have them on lockdown now.” “What happened?” “They had an argument between a White and a Black, then eight more guys jumped in. I want to lock all ten of them up, but I have a problem. Moss over in Internal Affairs is investigating again, and he has seven he wants to lock up. We don’t have seventeen beds in segregation so I figured I would release anyone that has their time served or almost their time served.” The warden interrupted: “How full is admin seg?” administrative segregation (or admin) was a separate segregation unit where inmates could be held at the discretion of the administration for an unlimited amount of time. Basically, you were placed in disciplinary segregation because you received a DR, but you were placed in administrative segregation if you were perceived as a threat to the institution, either because of what you had done or because of what they thought you were going to do. “I have fifteen beds open over there, but they mostly are in cells with guys we can’t double. I guess I can squeeze two more into admin if I really have to. I wish we had the manpower to open the other side of the admin unit. These cost-cutting measures from the corporation are killing us for lockup. Yet we could lose our bonus if we don’t keep costs down.” “I might call them about that. Other institutions have more than one admin seg unit with this many men. We have to show some type of justification though.” “Don’t bother. If we open the other side, then we will have to move out the general population inmates who are in there now, and we don’t have any place to put them. I just wish things weren’t so tight around here.” “I see your point. We juggle them around but when we’re done, we’re no further ahead.” “Yeah. It’s easier to just release some inmates from seg.” “Do that, Chief. I don’t have a problem with it. Do I need to sign off on the two you want to send over to admin?” “Yes. Let’s send those two who were trying to start the chowhall boycott. You should see their names on the lockup list.” “Got it.” The warden hung up and Chief Walker immediately dialed segregation.

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“Segregation, Officer Pooch.” “Hey Poochie, this is the chief. Do we have any releases for today?” “Yes, I have three men showing me their paper work. I haven’t seen Hearing Examiner Hansen yet. He has the list.” The hearing examiner was like a “judge” in the prison’s “court” system. Once a disciplinary report was written, the hearing examiner would process it by accepting the inmates guilty plea or, if the inmate denied the infraction, by holding a formal hearing on the allegation. Once found guilty, the hearing examiner also determined the length of time the inmate would remain on the segregation unit as punishment. “Did Hanson sign any release slips?” “No.” The chief puffed his cheeks and blew out air. “I have to talk to him about that. I am going to need seventeen bunks.” “Seventeen! Chief, I don’t have the room.” Chief Walker was Poochie’s “boss,” but Pooch displayed the attitude of many officers—once given an area he became possessive. “You-all give me segregation to run then don’t let me do anything.” “I understand. I hoped Hanson would work better with you. Hell, I hoped Moss would work better with me. But we have to do this. I’m moving two over to admin seg today.” He gave Poochie their names. “Call admin to come and get them. Then get me a list of all the inmates there with a release date and their charges. I want to release some of them back to general population. Star the ones you think should go. I’ll be over there in a minute.” “Okay, will do.” Pooch hung up the phone and immediately started on his list. Here we go again, he thought, left hand ignoring the right. People like Moss and Hanson didn’t pay any attention to the practical realities of running a segregation unit. He and the chief would have to straighten this whole thing out. * * * “Chief Walker, come to cell 102,” Martin yelled out from the bottom of his segregation door. A few other prisoners were yelling out their cell numbers also. “I am coming to all the cells in a minute,” he yelled out. He sat his papers on the desk. “Pooch, did you process those two inmates for admin seg?”

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“Yes, all you have to do is sign the slip and we can move them.” Pooch enjoyed working with the chief. He wasn’t as bossy as Hanson, the hearing examiner. Chief Walker scribbled his name on the two forms. That gives me two bunks, he thought. “How many on the release list? Damn it’s noisy over here . . .” “Yes it is. Everyone’s yelling under their doors. I only have five inmates who have had a hearing. Two assaults, two UAs, and one hindrance.” Hindrance was the private prison’s catchall disciplinary—technically, a “hindrance” was when an inmate prevented an employee from doing their task or job. So if you asked a guard a question, you could be hindering. If a guard had to stop and give you an order, you were hindering. And so on. “Okay, they will go. Give me the list so I can start.” The chief started walking cell to cell. He noticed the stars Pooch made on the list. “You’re here for a UA?” “Yes,” Martin replied. “You’ll have to speak up—I can’t hear you through the door with all this other noise. When is your release time?” “That’s why I called you, I was supposed to go two days ago. Actually, three. Hearing Examiner Hanson credited me for my time before my hearing.” Martin showed the chief his paper work. “To tell you the truth . . .” the chief started. He scanned the list that Pooch created and noted the star by Martin’s name with overdue printed by it. Then he continued: “This is your second UA within sixty days. If I didn’t need the cell, I would overrule the hearing examiner.” Martin had no reply. “Pack up. You’ll go out today.” Chief went to the next cell and the next. He came to another Pooch had starred as ready to go. “You are here for assault?” “Yes sir,” the prisoner replied most respectfully. “What did you end up with from your hearing?” “Twenty days.” “When did you have your hearing?” “Two days ago.” “How long have you been in seg?” “Eight days total.” The chief reviewed Pooch’s notes. Wonder why Pooch wants him gone so early? “I tell you what, if you be cool I will get you out today. But you

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got to stay cool. Don’t come back for anything, not even hindrance, for at least two months!” “Yes sir,” the prisoner replied. He had no arguments, eight days was a deal. Back in Northern State, he would have stayed in seg for a year. Chief eventually made it back to Poochie’s desk to sign five release slips. “What about IAs inmates?” “They sure keep them coming. Moss, he barely fills out his IA report to the warden. We got disciplinaries, protective custody, and IA investigations. What a mess. I thought we had this cleaned up last month.” Pooch shook his head. “Look it, Poochie. You just keep up on this stuff so we can cut through the red tape. We will have to double up some of these guys. You do the bottom tier and I’ll do the top.” The chief headed up the stairs to the first cell on the tier. “Hey, how you doing?” “Okay,” the prisoner responded. “I am going to have to double up some guys over here. You are waiting on your hearing?” “Yeah,” the prisoner replied, not too happy. “You know someone you can go in with?” “I don’t really want to go in with no other motherfucker. This is seg!” “I know. No one wants to,” the chief said sternly, “but I would rather let you pick someone then just place you in with anyone.” “I know Red downstairs in cell 105.” “Is he waiting to see the examiner?” “I think so. He might have saw him already. Shit dude, I don’t know. You run the place.” “Okay, now, that will be enough of that! Your lockup slip says investigation per kitchen. What are you here for?” “They say I stole something.” The chief broke a smile. “Oh, you’re the guy they said took two boxes of sausages out of the kitchen.” The prisoner smiled but didn’t say anything. “What the fuck were you planning, a picnic?” “Yeah,” the prisoner laughed. “You’ve been over here before?” “No, first time.”

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“I’ll tell you what, I’ll take your job for a month and you can go back to population today.” “Can I go back to F-unit?” “Yes,” the chief said as he checked his name off the list, “provided there is a bunk.” He knew he was about to bring men over from F-unit so the chances were good there. Eventually, ten more prisoners were released by the chief. He wheeled and dealed for an hour to clear the place. Man, is it loud in here, the chief repeated to himself. * * * “Here’s your lunch tray, Jones,” the officer said as she slid it though the trap in the door. “Say, Officer, when is Hearing Examiner Hanson coming through? It’s been like a week since I signed my ticket,” Bob questioned. “I’m not sure.” She turned toward Pooch at the desk and yelled, “Hey Poochie, when is Hanson coming to seg?” “Next week Friday. He is on vacation.” “Did you hear him?” “Yes!” Bob snapped. “That lying ass Miss Gillis!” “What? What did she do?” “She had me sign my ticket as guilty and said she was going to take it to Hanson right away so I could get out of here! Said she would recommend seven days, time served. This is my second week here. Hell, I will be here almost a month before I see Hanson or he can sign it. You motherfuckers always be lying. Can you call the chief of security?” “I can’t call him,” she laughed. “I’m not that important.” “He was over here yesterday, releasing people. He didn’t release me because he said I would probably be released anyways if Miss Gillis said what she said. Now it is today and here I sit. Now can you call the fuckin’ chief or what?” Bob was getting more and more frustrated. “There is nothing we can do for you. Just calm down.” “Fuck calm! The bitch lied. The chief said I could go. She knew Hanson was on vacation. She works with him.” Bob was rocking from one foot to the other while yelling through his seg door. “Well, I can’t help you. They handle all the paper work.” She angrily moved on to the next cell. * * *

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“Pedro,” she said and then paused for a second. “Camcho,” she yelled, “I told you about that shit before. Don’t be doing that shit while I am handing out lunch trays!” She stepped back from the cell door. “Come on,” she yelled at the prisoner pushing the cart, skipping Camcho’s cell. “Ain’t you got no manners,” she yelled back as she left. The prisoner helping hand out lunch trays was smiling. “What? It’s funny? You must not like your job either,” she yelled. “I would suggest wiping that smile off your face if you don’t want a cell here, too.” Camcho was standing butt naked before his sink. Everyday when Miss Reese worked the lunch trays he would do the same trick. Camcho kicked his door for about an hour and yelled out for a tray. Eventually Officer Pooch brought him a cold tray. “Camcho, you want to get out of here, don’t you?” Camcho looked puzzled. “You keep doing that shit and Miss Reese will start writing DRs. I’ll talk to Hearing Examiner Hanson and have you stay in my segregation unit forever! You got enough trouble as it is. Don’t add sexual misconduct!” With that, his carton of milk flew in hitting the floor and the food trapdoor slammed shut. * * * “Hey Pooch,” Hearing Examiner Hanson said as he entered segregation. It was Monday morning—he had never made it to seg on Friday since he was in his office all day catching up. Miss Gillis had all the tickets served. She also had some set aside with her recommendation on them. “How are you doing, Mr. Hanson?” “Okay, had a nice vacation!” Hanson smiled. “All new faces, I see.” “Yup. The chief and I had to clear the place out to bring in more inmates,” he said with a slightly arrogant tone. “Plus IA has been moving people through.” “I didn’t know,” Hanson noted his tone. “The chief is supposed to allow me to run this through the disciplinary process. You should know that, too. I am the one who is in charge of the disciplinary process.” He looked over his glasses at Pooch sitting behind the table. “You move men in and out, but I run the unit. I am the senior officer over here working under my supervisor and the chief.” Pooch’s tone wasn’t getting any better.

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“Have I ever stepped on your toes? No! I would appreciate the same! Now is the hearing room open, or did that get moved also?” Hanson was angry but he was not looking for a battle, so he went to the hearing room immediately. The men who did not request a full due process hearing could be seen in their cells. But the men who wanted everything would have get a hearing in the hearing room. “Bob Jones,” he stopped by the first cell. “Yes.” “I am Hearing Examiner Hanson. I saw the note Miss Gillis left. She brought you your disciplinary report . . .” “Yeah,” Bob interrupted, “I talked to her like two weeks ago. She didn’t say it would take a month to get processed. She said I would be out that day or the next. The chief said I would go back to general population, too.” “Well,” Hanson interrupted also, “I am willing to give you time served. You will go back to population today. You have to sign the form here.” He pointed to the line. “Are you going to move me today or is this another lie?” “I don’t know exactly what Miss Gillis or the chief said, but yes, you will be leaving today . . .” “She told me,” Bob interrupted again, “that she was going to present the ticket to you and recommend that I be released, time served. That was like two weeks ago. She never said you were on vacation and I would sit a month. Last week, the chief comes through just releasing people. He says I should go since Miss Gillis is handling it. So he don’t release me. Now how many people get to go before I do? Is this another trick?” “I will get you out today unless you don’t want to plead guilty. If you don’t plead guilty, then you will have to have a hearing. That will take some more days since I don’t have you scheduled.” Hanson was saying: Sign and you get out today. Don’t sign and you stay. No man really wants to sit in segregation forever so he had little choice. That is the trick of seg—offer a release and any man will sign. So Bob signed. Hanson moved on to three other cells and did the same: Time served. One was for stealing food during chow, one for an assault, and the other for asking a female guard for sex. All did less than twenty-five days. * * *

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“Hearing Examiner Hanson,” Officer Pooch yelled over the noise from the desk, “the chief is on the phone.” Hanson hurried down to the phone, “Hanson here . . .” “This is Chief Walker,” he interrupted, “I got problems at recreation right now. They had a fight start over the basketball game. We are going to bring over six inmates, so we need even more beds.” “Okay,” said Hanson. He sighed loudly—he was already trying to come up with seventeen beds, and now he had to come up with six more. “Listen, I can cut loose the guys that don’t have DRs.” If Moss never got around to writing his reports, then sometimes Hanson just released them and that was the end of it. “Great, if they don’t have a DR, cut them loose. I told Moss to stop puttin’ men over there without DRs.” “Also, I pleaded four out already as time served,” said Hanson. “That will help.” “I’m sending the new ones over now. Have Pooch put them in the showers,” said the chief. “They can sit there for an hour or two while we open up bunks.” “Gotcha, Chief, I’ll manage this somehow. “ Hanson hung up. “Pooch, I got four ready to go out today. Let’s put those four in the hearing room. While you’re at it, take the three prisoners who were in with the ones I am releasing and put them in the hearing room too. I will process them out one way or another. That will open up those cells.” “That sounds like a good idea, “ Pooch said as he moved some papers around. “Oh, that reminds me—Moss dropped off some DRs to give to you.” Hanson was busy signing seg release forms. “Those from Moss?” he interrupted. “Yes,” Pooch replied. Hanson stopped signing and looked directly at Poochie. “Why didn’t you say something? You just heard me tell the chief I didn’t have the DRs.” By now Hanson was yelling. “I told you I don’t interfere with your work. Why do you interfere with mine?” “I forgot. I didn’t want to interrupt.” “Yeah, right.” Hanson looked at Poochie disgustedly. Pooch smiled sweetly. Hanson grabbed the stack of disciplinaries and charged up to the hearing room. He was really angry at Poochie’s little trick, holding back the disciplinaries. Now he had to get rid of some of these men even though they had DRs. The only way he could do it quickly was to hold

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hearings at the cell doors instead of in the hearing room. If the man insisted on a formal hearing, he would threaten him with his backlog speech. Hanson started going cell to cell. “Remember, no one who came from F-unit goes back to there,” he yelled back at Pooch. “If you can get these guys a cell in the area they asked for, do it. If not, send them anywhere but don’t send them back to F-unit. Now do you think you can do that, or do I have to go through the chief?” Pooch smiled again and started moving men around with Miss Reese. Over came the new ones from the recreation area. “Are they ever going to stop bringing them?” Miss Reese asked. “Who knows?” Pooch replied, still smiling. * * * “I need to see Pedro Camcho,” Hearing Examiner Hanson said. Hanson had managed to make it through the crisis caused by the fight in rec. Now it was just another normal hearing-day Friday, and it was Camcho’s turn. “He is in 109,” Miss Reese replied. “Where is Pooch today?” “He had too many hours in for the week so he left early.” “Good.” Hanson was still angry with Poochie for that trick with the disciplinaries. “Can you setup a release form that we can use for Camcho?” “Why?” “He’ll be moving out of here tomorrow or the next day.” “Get him out of here today!” “Is he giving you trouble? What’s he been doing?” “Every time I hand out lunch trays he is always standing with no clothes on. He is always masturbating and playing with himself.” In her anger she also laughed, “I have seen him naked more times than I’ve seen my husband.” “Miss Reese, you should write him a DR and turn it in to me. I always take care of seg officers.” “Mr. Hanson, if I do that he will only stay here longer!” “I see your point.” “Poochie finally told him if he kept it up, he would take away all his clothes and move him to a center cell where everyone could see him.” They both laughed. What a place to work, thought Hanson. This place really is a zoo.

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Reflections There are two basic forms of segregation: disciplinary and administrative. With one you can be held forever but with the other you have a release date. Different prisons may have different names for them, but all prisons have these two basic forms. Administrative segregation involves locking the inmate up for some reason related to maintaining order in the prison. Under this umbrella, for example, is protective custody. Protective custody, or PC, inmates may be put in administrative segregation if there is serious danger they might be victimized if left in general population. Others are considered a threat to institutional order for some reason, such as fighting a great deal, riding staff until locked up, or manufacturing weapons. Administrative seg is mainly based on what “could” happen. In admin seg, staff determine when an inmate is released, usually through a review hearing. The other type is disciplinary segregation, which involves locking up an inmate because the inmate committed an infraction of the prison rules. These infractions can range from asking a guard a question at the wrong time to seriously assaulting another inmate or staff. In society, when people break the law, they go to prison. In prison when a person breaks the law or the rules, it is for the most part handled internally through disciplinary segregation. Each offense has a set amount of time and therefore the inmate has a specific release date when one will be placed back into general population. There is no treatment at all. Disciplinary seg simply removes a rule violator from the general population or main prison society for a period of time, placing him under restricted movement and isolation. This time period is similar to how society removed a rule violator from it. I believe the goal of disciplinary segregation ultimately is punishment through mental and sometimes physical torment. Humans are social beings and oriented toward activity, so isolation and inactivity affects them mentally. Boredom evolves and the only thing left is your mind and a tenby-ten concrete cell. The process of placing a man in disciplinary segregation ordinarily begins with the writing of a disciplinary report (DR)—this is an official complaint against the man, charging that he has committed some offense. At Enterprise, however, men often were put in disciplinary seg without a DR. The second stage generally is the processing of the DR—this is similar to a “trial” at which a “judge” (i.e., the hearing examiner) finds that

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the offense actually happened and determines the punishment (i.e., the amount of time in disciplinary seg). At the beginning at Enterprise sometimes the hearing examiner would never process a DR (if it had actually been written), although later this was changed. Beyond that, there seemed to be no set amount of time for infractions. No matter what the infraction, a man was out of disciplinary segregation within thirty to forty days. All of this was different from the Northern State system. In the Northern State system, they did not make room in the segregation units by shuffling men in and out—they would just keep bringing them in! Also, they always filled out all the paper work and they always processed a man. They did not release anyone early—each man would stay until his seg time was complete. And they never kept anyone past their release date. For the most part, the state system was much better organized. On the other hand, Northern State gave out years in segregation for prisoners who violated rules, whereas Enterprise handed out weeks or months. Northern State became so punitive it built an entire prison just for segregation, a 24-hour-lockdown prison, what these days is called a “supermax.” I believe the principal reason that Enterprise prison was so different from the state system was money: seg units are very expensive. You might think having men in 24-hour lockdown is cheaper, but it’s not. Seg units have to perform basic human services that require extra manpower. For example, men in seg units are always moved in restraints such as handcuffs—I have never been in a seg unit that did not do this. It takes two guards to move one man in cuffs. Guards cost money. In a seg unit, you need two or three guards per inmate whereas in general population you might have one guard for as many as fifty inmates. Seg units are part of the system of control within the institution—i.e., the means by which the staff influences the prisoners to obey the rules. One of the main tools by which the staff controls inmates is by depriving them of their privileges, such as movement, canteen, or visitation. Segregation is the greatest level of deprivation that the prison legally can impose on an inmate: as 24-hour lockdown, it fundamentally deprives the inmate of movement within the prison although it also deprives the inmate of most other privileges such as school, programming, and electronics (e.g., TV). Generally, only two movements per day are allowed out of the segregation cells: recreation and showers. Recreation is supposed to be at least

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one hour out of the cell every day, but no segregation unit I have ever been in has actually provided this. There is no mechanism to enforce this requirement, and every segregation unit has a loophole called “officer discretion.” The same largely is true of the showers. The problem is that moving inmates in a seg unit is a lot of trouble for the guards—they have to cuff the man and then escort him to where he is going. Often the guards just don’t want to do it. Thus, segregation units generally provide on-again, off-again recreations and extremely short (a few minutes) or extremely long (one hour) showers. In segregation, everything is arbitrary. Some staff believe that arbitrariness is part of the punishment process and therefore they encourage it. But the whole goal of segregation is to control current and future behavior. At Enterprise, the arbitrariness interfered with this goal. Enterprise arbitrarily segregated many prisoners and then arbitrarily released them. Also, Enterprise only kept a prisoner in segregation for about a month with rare exceptions. This arbitrariness, combined with the short stays in segregation, encouraged the men to increase their violence. The way the inmates looked at it, anyone could go to segregation at any time, so it didn’t matter whether you actually committed a rule infraction. Also, the time you got was so short that it didn’t really matter if you went to segregation. The prisoners were used to much longer segregation periods than Enterprise was providing. So the segregation system at Enterprise didn’t provide much control over the behavior of the inmates. Northern State built its “supermax” prison in order to achieve and maintain total control over the inmates. Personally, I don’t believe that these “supermax” prisons have any place in our society, nor are they actually needed by the prison system to control inmate behavior. Instead, control can be achieved if the disciplinary system achieves a balance between clearly defined rules and inmate expectations.

7 Caught Up One night, a man dreamed he was walking along the beach with the Lord. Scenes from his life flashed before his eyes. He looked back at the footprints that were left in the sand. He noticed that, during the most difficult times in his life, there was only one set of footprints. “Lord,” he said, “when I decided to follow you, you promised you would walk with me all the way. But during the most troubled times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. When I needed you most, you would leave me.” The Lord replied, “I love you and would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, it was then that I carried you.”

I had been at Enterprise prison now for about six months. I had been living on the “Aryan” pod with Steel and Hammer, but after they assaulted Mark, the unit manager decided that there were just too many White prisoners on that pod. So I got moved again to a new pod where now I was living with my old associate Lowe and my new cellie, Jon. Cash was there too, along with Hank and some gangbangers I didn’t know. One thing about prisons is that your old associates keep popping up in your life. When I left maximum years ago, I left most of my dope-smoking buddies behind and so I had stopped smoking weed. But guess where Northern State sent all my dope-smoking buddies? Down to Southern State to Enterprise prison, along with me. So all those nasty habits I had left behind years ago were right there in front of me again. Do you think I would leave it alone? Enterprise didn’t seem to care about drugs. Oh, they said they cared, but they didn’t. Dope smoking was at an all-time high! Drug prevention

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was at an all-time low! I saw more dope smoking in that prison than all the other prisons combined where I was previously housed. We were all riding the train. Another thing about prison is that new people are always popping up in your life. And so I met Paul on this pod. Paul and I would walk around the rec track during the afternoon recreation periods, and sometimes watch fish and game shows on TV. Paul became one of my new dopesmoking buddies. “You know, Anonymous, you’d think they’d screen these guys a little and put all the assholes on one unit,” Paul said as he lit up. We were sharing some joints in his cell and talking about the assholes on our unit. For an old man, Paul was always buying joints. Green leaf, cannabis, mary jane, weed, marijuana, he smoked it. Even though he was just past fifty, Paul was the most hyperactive man I knew. He would pace his cell, peek out the window, and talk fast. “Let one of those assholes run up in here and I will teach him this guy can fight!” “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, tough guy!” I said as we smoked a joint. “You know I am damn right.” Paul got up to look out the cell door window again. “Don’t give yourself a heart attack, grandpa. It ain’t worth it.” I handed the joint back to him. “Besides, I don’t know CPR.” “Wave your hands around,” he pointed at the clouds of smoke in the room. We were hitting it pretty tough. I waved my hands and turned his fan on. “Yeah, CPR, where I have to stand on your chest, maybe kick you a few times to get you going again.” I smiled at him. Paul chuckled and handed me the joint. “You ain’t so young either, you know.” “No, but it ain’t worth it. Boxing up here is like signing your death sentence.” “I know you’re right, Anonymous, but I have to talk tough sometime!” We both laughed. “Hey, enough of the old man shit too. I just realized you called me grandpa.” He laughed again. We were drinking a soda and getting ready to watch the cable when a gangbanger entered the cell. He was a dude I had seen at Gladiator School. Paul got up and talked to him for about five seconds: “We’re watching the game. You need something?” The gangbanger looked around at me, then left. He was just being nosy, wanted to know what was going on. He probably heard our laugh-

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ter and wanted to know who was having such a good time. We clearly were getting baked. “No one ever taught him to knock?” I said to Paul. Some part of me knew something was up, but I ignored it. I just wanted to sit and chill with Paul, have a laugh or two. “He’s one of Ant’s friends.” Ant was Paul’s cellie, the king of innocent child molesters. I didn’t like him because he talked too much and was never, I mean never, wrong. I had heard that broken record for the last eighteen years. Paul handed me another joint. “Hey, look at that deer on TV.” Paul liked hunting and fishing shows. We would watch the TV and talk about different things while we smoked up his joints. As I sat in the chair, my legs sure were heavy! Paul and I probably smoked four cigarette-size joints of Southern State’s best homegrown. The last couple we stubbed out halfway though just to get some air! We watched every channel on TV, told too many hunting and fishing stories, and had a good laugh or two. And then, since I was stoned, I spilled the beans. “You know, Paulyboy, the mail room fucked up.” “They’re always fucking up . . .” Paul was starting up like a broken record. But I wasn’t just starting another bitch session. “Yeah, but this time they left a money order in my envelope.” I eased closer to him just in case the CIA or FBI was monitoring our cells. “They must have overlooked it.” “Yeah, how much was it for?” he asked. “One hundred big ones!” I whispered. “You know, we could really party for a minute on that,” he replied. He looked like a cat that just caught a mouse. “Yeah, I thought of it, but I really need it for my legal work.” I had to nip Paul’s idea in the bud before he spent my money. Why did I ever tell him this? “Come on, I know some guys on this pod that might give you a deal,” he confessed. “They are all right.” What he was saying was: Let’s smoke it up!!! “I really want it for something else. Besides, after MacArthur got fired I have been chillin’.” MacArthur was one of a number of guards who had been importing dope into the prison. I was saying: Let’s not!! “Well, you can always deal with your guys.” Let’s smoke it!! “No, no, really, I have plans for it.” Let’s not!!

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“Yeah, but when is the next time you’re going to have that?” Let’s smoke it!! “I know, but . . .” I smiled at him. Why in God’s name did I bring this up? “Yeah, you want to smoke up all mine.” Paul was coming up with all sorts of reasons to get that money. Now let’s smoke yours! “No, no, you know I always come up with joints if I want it.” Let’s not. “You can replace money in your account, but you can’t replace money in hand!” We got to smoke it now! “Damn, Paul, don’t go spending my shit! Give me a little break.” Let’s not!! “Okay, okay. I just want you to think about all your options.” Smoke it, smoke it, smoke it. * * * Fat-P, another gangbanger, came to the cell door. He was the cellie of the first gangbanger who had come looking for Ant. He was about five foot five, 230 pounds, and greasy. Everything about him was dope, addiction, and untrustworthiness—I figured he would sell out his own mother for some drugs. I had seen him in Northern State too. He smelled the weed. He and Paul talked for a moment. “Okay, man, don’t forget me,” Paul said. I was trying not to hear their conversation. Then P came deeper into the cell. What he was doing I didn’t know. He just invited himself in. He was on dipping mode. He knew something was going on and he wanted to be privy to it. “You guys can talk with me in here,” Fat-P said. “I ain’t going to put your business out there.” I guess he thought I was an idiot—he wanted to know our business. But I knew his kind; they were shit in my book. Never had anything, always broke and asking for stuff but always proclaiming to have it all. So when he said that, I knew I had to work my way out of this cell. This is a good time for me to leave. “I’m going back to my cell to relax for awhile to watch the game,” I said to Paul. Paul knew I didn’t ever watch sports: I’m out of here. “Okay, man,” Paul replied. Hey, let’s smoke it! Fat-P ignored me to ask Paul, “You need some more joints?” He was prying more information out of Paul, and Paul probably didn’t even

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know he was doing it. But the gangbangers had learned I had some kind of money. * * * “Hey, Cash,” Fat-P said, “Come here.” “What’s up?” “Your boy you kick it with, he smokes? You know, the White boyee that moved in here last month?” “Sometimes, I guess. What’s up with him?” “You know if he got any money? Or weed?” “Man, I don’t know.” Cash was the type that wouldn’t have told in the first place. He was a dope-fiend also and this was a cutthroat business. Fat-P sized up Cash’s facial response. “You gonna see D. P. at all? You kick it with him at all?” “At recreation,” Cash answered. “Tell him Fat-P needs to hollar at him.” “What you want to hollar at him about?” “Can’t say. This is for him only.” * * * August 17 started as a normal day but ended with a piece of my scalp missing. After lunch I went down to Hank’s cell for a little conversation. Hank was an all right dude, although he was green to the prison system. He was out of the middle class, drove a truck, and owned two more. He liked talking about the trucks and picking up girls. I guess that’s why I would kick it with him—his mentality wasn’t locked into this prison shit. He looked like your average Joe—hair thinning, middle-age stomach, and never exercised a day in his life. He had a good life until prison. He had caught twenty years for his ex-wife turning him in for rape. I was standing just inside his door facing him while we talked and he shuffled his things around. The door was open. I didn’t even see what was coming. I will never feel comfortable in my surroundings again. A young gangbanger jetted into the cell, swinging a weapon in his fist, hitting me in the back of my head. I don’t even remember getting hit. Hank later told me that the gangbanger hit me so hard that blood spattered onto the wall next to where I was standing. He was not prepared to witness this, was not accustomed to being firsthand to an assault. People

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think that everyone in prison is a violent thug but this isn’t true. It is true that prison culturalizes a man to the violence. But Hank didn’t grow up that way. Seeing my blood hit the wall traumatized him. He didn’t know how to react. He froze from fear. I staggered toward the lower bunk only to be hit several more times in the jaw, ear, and back of the head. I truly do not know how many times I was hit, or with what. Possibly my attacker had a small pair of scissors or some kind of homemade weapon. I remember that I thought someone was dripping water on my neck. “Give me all your damn dope,” my attacker yelled again and again. “I don’t have none,” I slurred. I remember feeling my head twist, probably from an impact to the jaw. “Give me all your dope and money.” His voice was sheer terror to me. It was like I was on a cloud, in a daze. I could hear what he was saying but I could not understand it. I felt half asleep. I was sitting on the edge of the bunk and then I felt the cold concrete floor. I did not even know that something was drastically wrong. Apparently someone had led him to believe that I had large amounts of dope and cash. In prison, rumors spread like wildfire. Rumors are the politics that govern prison life. “Strip,” was the next thing I heard. “Strip, dammit.” I was sliding off the bunk again. I had no idea that my shoes were already off. Apparently he found the money in my pants’ cuff. He took that but he expected more. Unfortunately, there was no more. Then I heard him threaten Hank. I remember Hank saying, “I don’t have anything. I don’t want no trouble . . .” Eventually the gangbanger was satisfied with what he had found and left the cell. Two gang members who had been watching the dayroom came into the cell and told Hank to clean me up. They must have been lookouts since they came in so quickly. Also, they were stalling me from leaving the cell—they didn’t want me to leave until their gang friends were able to break camp. So Hank helped me wipe the blood off my face and clean myself up. After a while, I walked dizzily back to my own cell. The two gang members, coincidentally, were Fat-P and his cellie. After I got back to my cell, they came to my cell and again asked about money. Fat-P said that my buddy Paul had said something about a bunch of cash, $100 bills. I said little except: I don’t know anything about a $100 bill.

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This is how gang members work. Once you are down they don’t stop coming. Like a pack of wild dogs. And Paul. Thanks a lot, Paul! * * * My cellie, Jon, was watching television. He sure was surprised by the whole thing. I come back to the cell all bloody. These two gang boyees walk in right after me and demand money. I was sure glad when they left. “Jon, pull on my shirt,” I mumbled. “What the fuck happened to you?” “Fucking gangbangers got me in Hank’s cell.” “Man, you going to make it?” Jon and Hank had much in common when it came to prison life. This was a world they lived in but they avoided it as much as possible. They didn’t engage their environment! Just by his question I could tell he was square. I had to make it! “Yeah, I just got to clean this blood off my clothes and face. Hank helped me a little but I got to clean the rest.” My voice shook. I looked at the back of my shirt only to see a large red spot covering the top part. Jon watched me wash my face and clothes. I washed and washed and washed until there was nothing more to wash. Then I washed some more. “Anonymous, you can’t wash no more. Relax,” Jon said, trying to comfort me. Eventually I stopped. I started to realize he was right. I climbed into my bunk still dizzy. I asked Jon to close and lock the door when he left for work. It was at that point that the story fell into place for me. I had mentioned the money to Paul, and he apparently had said something to FatP. Whatever Paul said, P got the impression that I had cash and dope—he knew Paul and I were smoking dope. The story quickly got around that I had a whole bunch of dope and cash. Prison politics, once again. They wanted in on the proceeds from the drugs they thought I had; by force or by choice they were going to get in. So they asked their gang friends from another unit to come a-calling. It was an obvious setup for my assault. The crazy part about it was Fat-P never got any of what they took. I think he was jealous—his only goal was just to see me get fucked out of mine.

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Reflections In prisons, it is important to understand the difference between fights and assaults. Fights happen. Assaults are the true terror of prison life. Fights are two sided: two or more men get to throwing blows or wrestling. Fights generally result from built-up tension, which is released at the spur of the moment and generally does not last too long. Fights can be as short as fifteen seconds or as long as fifteen minutes. Fights often begin from disrespectful comments, disrespectful actions such as cutting in line, or differences in opinion. Racism and conflicting egos are common sources of fights. An example of a fight was in chapter 4, where Mark went into Tommy’s cell. Tommy did not back down and Mark was frustrated. It was spur of the moment, a release of aggression, and shortly over with. Assaults, on the other hand, are the most evil, most terrifying part of prison life, and they can happen at any time. What happened to me was an assault. Things like having your property stolen or having the guards give you a hard time are minor annoyances compared to assaults. The last thing any man in prison wants is to be assaulted while doing his sentence. In an assault, the attacker is either getting revenge or planning to steal something from the victim. The assault is planned out, set up in advance to be in the attacker’s favor. Weapons use is common in assaults. Generally the attacker quickly overwhelms his victim and physically beats him. The goal is to quickly and seriously injure the victim, both physically and emotionally. Due to its planned nature, the victim usually is quickly overcome. In assaults, there are attackers and victims, whereas in fights there are participants. I believe the pattern of the attacker in an assault is no different than the pattern that led the attacker to prison in the first place. Assaulting an individual is primarily about power and control. I personally believe a prison assault is not much different than rape except that it is not sexual. What is paradoxical about assaults is their longevity. To prevent becoming a victim again, the victim may become a perpetrator and carry out his own carefully planned assault. This indirectly contributes to the evolution of violence described in the reflections on chapter 4—the way the violence gradually escalated over time. Thus, assaults lead to a cycle of violence that has duration and escalation.

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A person in a fight may also seek revenge, and others not involved in the incident may play a role in this. In chapter 4, for example, Mark noted that Nozo was geeking up Tommy. In both fights and assaults, you may have to live with the person who was involved in the violence. But in general, the initial level of violence and its subsequent escalation are greater with assaults than with fights. Assaults ravage a person psychologically, as I learned firsthand. I suffered from posttraumatic stress syndrome for about a year, not that any of the prison staff cared. Posttraumatic stress is fairly common among prisoners who have been assaulted. I got no treatment. There is no 911 number to dial. What is worse, I had to live with some of my assaulters. At Enterprise, I felt hopeless and helpless for a while. As was true in my case, one of the major sources of assaults is the drug trade, which ravages both the person and the environment. In prison, the drug trade is harsher than on the streets because it is more intensely cutthroat. There are the “haves” and the “have-nots”—the “have-nots” get very jealous and want to be a “have.” So your chances of being robbed are much greater. There are those who buy drugs but cannot pay for them. Drug dealers, when selling pin joints, purposely keep an addict in debt, especially if that addict has a little source of income from the streets. When certain gang members obtain a customer, they don’t want anyone else to supply him if possible. In a sense, the customer becomes gang turf. Then you have those who have a predisposition for violence. These prisoners get high using pills and drugs, then beat others up. Why? Mainly because they can. Prime targets are treejumpers. All this violence tends to disintegrate what little social system is present. The drugs more or less govern the housing unit. People have to take sides, to determine where they stand. Those who wish to engage the environment basically come out of their cells, and those who wish not to engage stay in their cells. The factions who differ in their beliefs about how the drugs should govern are in conflict most of the time. Then there is the paranoia of being busted by the guards. It might not happen too much, but the fear is always there. There also is the paranoia that others would find out about their drug habits. Thus, men spend an enormous amount of time focused on drug interactions and ignore other aspects of life. This focus tends to encourage violence.

8 The Other Enemy If I didn’t stay in general population, they would assume I was in protective lockup. That would mean I was snitching. —Anonymous N. Inmate “I am Mr. Moss, IA, that’s Internal Affairs. I understand you were assaulted.” He said this as if he was privy to top secret information. —Mr. Moss

“Hi. I am Captain Drinks,” he said to Jon and I. About eleven o’clock that night after my assault, the third shift supervisor arrived at our cell. This was the same shift supervisor who had been indicted for assaulting a prisoner. “I was told someone in this cell got beat up pretty bad.” “I don’t know nothing.” I said. I was on the top bunk and Jon was on the bottom. “Well, we can’t help you if you don’t help us,” Drinks said. He looked at Jon. Jon was pointing up towards the top bunk. I was thinking: How can someone who assaults prisoners help a prisoner? How can anyone trust this man? Yet, the prison kept him working anyway. I guess assaulting someone gets you locked up, but not if you are a prison guard. “Look,” he said to Jon, “just lift your shirt up.” “I’m okay,” Jon said lifting his shirt. No bruises there. Skinny as he was, every bruise would have shown. “I can’t help no one if you don’t help me,” the captain repeated. He never asked me to lift my shirt. “You can’t protect me,” I said.

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He stared at me, “Well, I have to fill out a report to IA. They’ll talk to you.” The people in Internal Affairs were supposed to investigate incidents such as this. The door slammed and he was gone. As a con, the last thing I wanted was for security to be involved. Once other inmates saw that security was involved, they’d label me as a snitch for sure. From that point on, my life would become a living hell. As a lifer I couldn’t afford that. At Enterprise, any offense, including assault or stabbing, gets a man only thirty days in seg, and maybe another month in admin seg. Then the person would be back out, with nothing to stop him from coming at me again. Jon was not a con in that sense—he didn’t understand how this stuff operated. He still trusted these people. I just wished he wouldn’t trust them with my life. Besides, my world is different. Cons have lots of unwritten rules. They may be “gray” rules in a lot of ways, but they are rules. Con Rule #1 is: Don’t tell. * * * I didn’t sleep much that night, and the next morning I woke up dizzy. My pillow was bloody. I knew I should go to the medical unit but fear was my number one emotion. Some of the men who helped with the assault lived on the pod and could attack me at any time. If I didn’t stay in general population, they would assume I was in protective lockup. That would mean I was snitching. I had to stay in general population and live with them. Con Rule #2: No matter what, keep the image up! As a practical matter, this is like an exaggerated masculinity. As I moved around during the morning, I didn’t feel any better and my head started bleeding again. I decided to go to medical. “Okay, who are you?” the guard at the medical unit asked. “Anonymous Inmate.” She looked over her list, “You’re not on the roster. You have to leave and put in another slip.” “Look, lady, I fell out of bed and the back of my head is bleeding, and you’re telling me that I can’t see a nurse?” She paused for a moment, “Okay, sit down.” After a while I was called in to see the nurse. “What is your problem?” “Last night I fell out of bed and hit my head on one of those metal shelves on the wall.”

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She examined my head, “Oo-oo, yes, it’s still bleeding.” Then she looked at me funny. “Your lip looks swollen, too.” “I guess I hit my lip too, when I was getting up.” “You sure you’re not telling me something?” “No,” I replied. “Okay.” She had gone through this routine before. “Well, I should put you in observation for a while. At least twenty-four hours.” I really did not want to be dumped into a medical holding cell. It consisted of a cell with a bed, sheet, and blanket, with nothing else in the room at all. Not even a window to look out of. It actually was a seg cell marked medical. But that’s medical: you’re treated like the enemy so you won’t want to stay there. All my property was back in my cell and anyone could go in to steal it. Jon was an okay cellie but I doubted he would protect my property from thieves. If that wasn’t enough, if anyone thought I had talked to security, then the day I went back to the pod would be the day of my death. In my world, no matter how scared I was, no matter if I thought they would come back at me, I had to stay out in general population. I had to be seen in the pod, at chow, in the library, at recreation. So rather than stay in medical observation, I went back to my cell. * * * Fear gripped me the next day. It drew the air from my lungs. It blinded me. I learned that, while I was at medical, five more gang members had come to the unit I lived, apparently looking for me. Retaliation is a bitch in prison. Being at medical might have helped me—I guess God wanted me to live another day. But if the gang members returned, I’d have to take them on. No one would help me. All the changes I had tried to make in my life over the years were being erased, not because I wanted them to be, but because of the place Northern State had shipped me. Enterprise was sucking me in. It was changing me. Those men had gotten some of my blood, and now I wanted to taste theirs. Many others wanted me to get some of their blood, too—it’s the way things are done in prison. Con Rule #3: Get or be got! Violence was not what I wanted, but it was what I had. Hell was here now that violence had come to town. I had the biggest sin on my mind: retaliation. I didn’t think about whether I would do it. All I could think

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about was: How am I going to do it? When am I going to do it? Where am I going to do it? I had murder on my mind, and my mind was going a mile a minute. Armageddon is now! Fear filled me. Fear of what they might do next. Fear of what I had to do in order to survive. Fear that I might do something “crazy,” something that would get me more time. I needed air. I was in a no-win situation. Maybe I could get moved. I couldn’t live in the same pod with the men who had helped assault me. * * * I went to talk to my guy, Lowe. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Yeah! Just fucking dizzy.” I had to kick it with someone who had a level head on his shoulders. I was going to hollar at Cash, but he was avoiding me. Figured it was because he didn’t want any trouble, or I was labeled a snitch already. “What did they tell you at medical?” Lowe asked, interrupting my thoughts. “That I had a chunk missing from my head.” “Did they run any tests?” “Come on, Lowe. They don’t want to solve anything or help. These fuckers don’t give a fuck.” My voice radiated anger. I was operating on fear but talking to Lowe I was letting out my anger. “Yeah,” he replied softly, “you’re right.” He was being cool with me, just letting me scream. “What gets me is they know what happened.” I looked at Lowe sitting on his bed. “Then they turn around and let five more of those dudes come in here the very next day. Damn, Lowe, I can’t take on the world. Dude that works the hallway told me one of them was the one that jumped me.” “They got that money, right?” he asked. “Yeah.” “How did they find out? Hell, I didn’t even know. If anyone would have known, it would have been me.” There was little that I kept from Lowe. He was a straight con, a good friend, and a brother. But I will admit that now I even looked at Lowe a few times as my enemy. I was assaulted by Blacks and he was Black. I knew that wasn’t right of me but that was how paranoid I was becoming. Here was a guy who I trusted with my life, but I was looking at him in a skeptical way. It’s another way in which Enterprise was changing me. I

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rubbed my forehead a few times trying to erase the thought. I had to talk to get over this. “I guess Paul must have run his mouth.” “Yeah,” he replied, dangling his long-ass legs from the top bunk. “Then those fuckers came over and got it.” I was pacing. “Fuck, I didn’t have a chance. One hit me in the back of the head so fucking hard, he cut me with the scissors I think and knocked me delirious. I didn’t know what was going on.” In some ways, I was embarrassed to admit this. “Hank help?” “Come on now, Hank is trying to do his own time. He’s like you and me. He really don’t want no trouble on his record so they can hold it against him. He ain’t trying to get mixed up in my business. His time is his time.” “Yeah, what can a man do?” He started slapping the back of his right hand into the palm of his left. “Of all the people who tries to help a motherfucker out,” he paused for breath, “you do! Those guys are like dogs, no good wild-ass dogs that ain’t got shit but what they steal. They straight ghetto niggas!” “I know.” I was hearing Lowe but I wasn’t listening, really. “By themselves they ain’t shit. Together, they tougher than a motherfucker. You can’t stop ’em. Nothin’ you can do. You know there is nothin’ you can do, right?” His voice dropped and he looked straight at me. There was a pause. “Hey, nigga, you know that, don’t you?” “Yeah,” I answered, “I know. You sound like my dad.” Lowe was looking out for me, trying to keep me out of trouble. He knew I had trouble on my mind, and he was going to give me some good advice. Then I just let it out. “If I find out who them motherfuckers are, I’m . . .” “Motherfucker you’ll what?” He interrupted me. “You can’t get them boyees, Anonymous. They’ll come at you. Cool your engines. Chill. Don’t get busted up for nothing.” I puffed out some air. “I know, I know . . . I’ll chill . . .” He smiled, “Your dumb-ass buddy set you up, didn’t he? He doesn’t know those fools. He don’t know he set you up, does he?” “No, Paul don’t even know. When I talked to him, he just shrugged his shoulders.” “Motherfucker so dumb,” Lowe shook his head. “He gets another motherfucker hooked up and don’t even know it.” “Yep, don’t know prison life. So damn stupid.”

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I paused for a moment. “You know they’re sweating me about the assault. They sent Drinks over the night it happened.” “Drinks? That motherfucker who they say was beatin’ them motherfuckers?” “Yeah. Says he can’t help unless I talk to him. Like I’m going to do that!” “Like he really gives a fuck!” “Exactly! I don’t think they’re done yet, though.” “Lay low and see what shakes out.” “They offered me protective lockup.” I felt embarrassed even saying it. “I guess they think I should lockdown the rest of my life bit.” “Did they say anything about moving?” “You know what the chief of security said to me when I asked that? It tripped me out. The chief tells me: I don’t know why you think we can keep them off the other side if we can’t keep them off the side you live on now! I didn’t think I should tell him they still have mostly Aryans on the other side.” “Shit like that makes you wonder who is running the place. He is telling you he don’t control nothing.” Then he changed the subject: “What about Cash?” “Cash? I ain’t talked to him since it happened. I was surprised he has been pretty cool-n-all. I might have to hollar at him about help . . .” “Help?” Lowe yelled out. “You don’t know, do you?” “Know what?” I asked. “Who was in on it!” “I have my ideas, but . . .” “I mean, did you see the motherfucker?” “Man, Lowe, the motherfucker hauled off and hit me right off the bat. Hank said the blood hit the wall! And my glasses hit the floor . . .” “You don’t know who hit you, do you?” “No, motherfucker!” I was getting upset with his questions. What the fuck was he driving at? “Anonymous, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your so-called guy . . .” “I only got one guy in the joint, motherfucker, and that’s you. Now tell me what?” “Your associate Cash was in on it. He was either outside watching or in the door way watching, man.”

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‘No, no. Not Cash. He ain’t gonna play that . . .” “Did you ever wonder why they just immediately tried to lay you out? That motherfucker told them you wouldn’t give it up.” “How do you know so much? Maybe you were in on it, too?” Lowe gave me a mean-mug. “Okay, okay, motherfucker. Can’t tell your dumb-ass nothing,” he said softly. “How am I gonna call you my guy and then set you up?” I said nothing. I thought nothing. A moment passed. I started to climb out of the chair. Before I stood up, Lowe came off the top bunk. He flew past me and stood by the door. “Where are you going?” “I . . . I . . .” “I, I, my ass. You staying right here.” “I’m gonna get a cigarette.” “No. Good try, though. Sit back down.” He spun me around and pushed me toward the chair. “You ain’t gonna start no war today. I can see you got murder on your mind.” “I’m gonna do what it takes to get even. Now you’re either with me or against me, motherfucker,” I yelled right into his face. “You ain’t the President fighting terrorism here, buddy, with this ‘either with me or against me’ shit. Chill out. Relax for a moment.” * * * “Hello,” the bubble officer answered the phone on my living unit. “This is Officer Jones. Can I help you?” “Yes,” a man’s voice came over the phone. “I need Anonymous Inmate over to see Dr. Moore right away.” “Do you know what cell he is in?” “Yes, 208,” the voice spoke politely. “Officer Jones, were you working the day before yesterday also?” “Why do you want to know?” She was a little suspicious. “Oh, nothing much,” the voice answered back, “I called that day for Mr. Inmate but he never came.” “I don’t remember you calling,” she replied. “So you were working?” he asked softly and politely. “Yes, but . . .” “I don’t think I spoke to you,” he said quickly. So Jones was working the control bubble. “I think I spoke to the senior officer, ah, Senior umm, ahhh . . .”

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“Senior Hunter?” “Yeah, Senior Hunter.” And Hunter was the senior. “Well, he never told me to send anyone over. I would have recorded it in the logbook.” Officer Jones wanted to make certain that her ass was not in any jam. “No, no,” the polite voice came back over the phone receiver, “I didn’t mean there was a problem. Could you see that he gets over here now?” She relaxed. “Okay.” Mr. Moss from Internal Affairs hung up the phone. He made a note on his form: “Officer Jones and Senior Hunter present on shift while the incident occurred.” Moss never referred to it as an assault; it always was called the incident. He had not received much training, but he had been trained never to record anything damaging to the corporation but always record whatever is damaging to the prisoner. That way, if the prisoner ever sued, they would have details showing the prisoner’s lies, mistakes, and rule violations. Corporate headquarters stressed that. Mr. Moss sat back and waited in his chair. He liked his job. He got to interrogate both prisoners and staff. Staff feared IA since they could fire anyone if they had reason. All it took was one simple report and some discussion, and the person would no longer be employed at Enterprise prison. Corporate headquarters wanted no liability. Mr. Moss also could lock up any prisoner he chose. He didn’t even have to fill out a DR to do that. He had taken the job with IA after working as a living-unit manager. The inmates thought of him as a prick, but he didn’t care. He had all the power in the world. “Excuse me,” the medical officer said to Mr. Moss. “There’s a prisoner in the waiting area looking for Dr. Moore. Do you know where he is? He said he was told to come over to medical right away.” Moss smiled at her. “What is the prisoner’s name?” “Anonymous Inmate.” “I’ll take care of this one,” he commanded. “I’ll bring the prisoner to Dr. Moore.” Dr. Moore was gone for the day but the medical officer didn’t know it. * * * The waiting-area door opened and Mr. Moss walked in. Looking around he only saw one prisoner. “Inmate . . . , Anonymous?” he questioned.

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“Yeah,” I replied. “Are you Dr. Moore?” I asked as I followed him down the hall. He looked back at me. “I’ll answer all your questions in a minute.” The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Who the hell is this guy? What is he doing? What is going on here? Questions, questions, things like this always get a man to ask himself questions. I don’t think I had seen him before. He was clean-cut and wrinkle-free. I could tell he was a perfectionist: his tie was perfect on his shirt, his pens were perfect in his pocket, his shirt was neatly tucked in, his pants were pressed, and his short brown hair was perfectly combed. Even his little mustache was perfect. We entered the first office. “Sit,” he pointed mechanically at the chair in front of the desk as he took the one behind it. I had the impression that he thought of me like a dog. “I am Mr. Moss, IA,” he started. “That’s Internal Affairs. I understand you were assaulted,” he said smugly, as if he was privy to top secret information. He brushed his one shirt sleeve with his other hand, removing a tiny piece of lint. “Yeah,” I said, not reading between the lines. “Where is Dr. Moore?” He looked up at me. “Dr. Moore is not here today. I told them you were to see Dr. Moore.” He had a silly look of accomplishment on his face. “I called you over to speak with you about the assault.” He adjusted his tie. “The chief of security and his assistant already talked to me.” “Yes, I know.” He meticulously adjusted his folder full of papers. “But I want to ask you some more questions.” He took his two pens out of his shirt pocket and laid them perfectly on the desktop. “First tell me what happened,” he said with a tight little smirk. He wanted to drill me. So I told him the same story I told the chief of security and his assistant. Two dudes came into a cell. I had my back turned toward them. One hit me with something and knocked me delirious. They took a money order for $107. At this point, you might be wondering what happened to Con Rule No. 1: Don’t tell. Well, all the rules have their “gray” zones, and many of the rules are not always followed in reality. Obviously, I admitted to the assault, yet I only told them what they already knew from others. So I thought this fell into a “gray” zone. Did I tell or did I only confirm? In my view, I didn’t tell because they already knew. I didn’t ID anyone.

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“Okay, I know that much, but let’s go over it deeper and see how much you remember.” He picked up his pen. His voice and gestures were mechanical. “Who were they?” “Not sure. I got hit in the back of the head.” “Well, how do you know they were not from your unit?” “Because I didn’t recognize them.” “So you did see them?” “A little, but I never recognized them from my living unit. You know I didn’t recognize their voices or mannerisms. There was nothing that seemed like something I heard or saw or even felt before.” “How did they get in?” “Well, apparently your officers let them in!” I stated somewhat sarcastically. Duh! He changed his tone a little. “Yes, yes. Who was working the control bubble?” “I don’t know.” “Well, you must have seen the officer working?” “Yes, but I didn’t get her name.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Can I go now?” “Who was the senior that day?” “I don’t know.” “What do you know?” he asked quickly, but answered his own question. “No matter, it was Senior Hunter and Officer Jones.” He knew from the shift supervisor’s report that I had said that staff couldn’t protect me. “Now I cannot help you if you do not help me. Do you want to look at some face cards?” “Mr. Moss, I really don’t know if I can ID anyone. I know they were gangbangers who weren’t from my pod. Otherwise I would know who it was. You know how when you are around people long enough, you naturally recognize them from their mannerisms.” “How do you know they were gangbangers?” “Well, when you got two guys running into a cell, and two standing around outside, plus maybe one or more by the bubble, it’s easy to tell they’re gangbangers.” For some reason, Cash’s face kept flashing in my mind. “How do you know they were outside your cell, if you were inside?” “People told me after it was over! That’s also how I know they came from somewhere else. And I wasn’t in my cell. I told you before. I was in 212.”

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“Would the guy from 212 talk to us?” “I don’t know.” “Gangbangers,” he said out loud. “Do you know what gang?” “No.” “Do you think the officer purposely let them in?” “Maybe. Ask her.” “Oh, I will,” he said, irritated. “I will, Mr. Inmate. I will ask and ask until I lock up everyone I think might have been involved. I will get every gangbanger who breathes air and lock him up. I will go to the warden to get rubber-stamp approval and get them all. Now can you help me a little?” Holy shit! I got a guy on a mission. I ignored his question and shifted my butt in the chair. I felt his words all the way down my spine. He was inexperienced, and his inexperience would make my life a living hell. At that moment, I was more scared of him than of the gangbangers. “If you lock them all up, there is nothing to stop them from getting me. They can write, you know.” I was pointing out that people in seg send out notes to people in the general population in order to get their dirty work done—it’s not supposed to happen but it does all the time. I wondered what his plans were for me. “They offered me protective custody, but I don’t want that. I got a life sentence. This is it for me—I got nowhere to go.” I looked at the floor. Some small part of me hoped against hope that he could understand my situation. “You think we don’t read their mail when they’re in seg?” he shot back. He patted himself on the back. I got him now. Now he’ll tell me more. “You don’t need protective custody. I got gang members over there now, writing the warden, trying to get off lockup. If they write a friend in population, we keep the letter and give them a longer stay!” The tiny little spark of hope that had briefly flickered in me died. I got me a gung-ho motherfucker who doesn’t understand prison. I should not be giving this man any information at all. “Well, Mr. Moss, I really don’t know much more. My head hurts, I’m losing sleep, and medical won’t let me see a doctor.” “Yeah, I will see what I can do about medical. Is there anything else you can tell me?” “No, I’d just appreciate help seeing a doctor.” “Anyone else know you got assaulted?” “The whole pod knows.” “Anyone know about the money order?”

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“I can’t remember telling anyone, but I must have.” Paul’s innocent face immediately flashed though my thoughts. “Why didn’t you turn it in?” “I was going to do that the next morning when the mail window opened.” “Why didn’t you give it to a guard?” “The same guard that let other prisoners come into our living pod?” He ignored that and just went on to an even more threatening subject. “So are you a gangbanger?” His question struck me because suddenly he had shifted directions. By now it was clear that he knew more about my assault than I thought. Someone else had filled his head already. Someone was snitching. And Cash—it was starting to sink in about Cash. I ought to sell him out but that wasn’t me. Here I was going to stick to Con Rule #1. I did not want to stay in the room with this man any longer. I had to play along but all I could think about was how much I wanted this to be over. “Yeah sure,” I smiled, “. . . I’m not!” My smile went to disgust. “I have to ask, it’s my job!” He fired back. He removed his tie and placed it on his desk. It sat perfectly next to his pens. See, it was that old game, the good cop–bad cop game, with both roles being played by the same person. First the questions would be gentle, to get you softened up to be dumb enough to tell on yourself. Then the questions would change. “Look, I’m not a gang member, and I don’t have any ties or affiliation with any gang. I don’t even have a tattoo!” Generally, at the private prison to their investigators, a tattoo is the first sign of gang affiliation. “You’re not Aryan?” “No.” “There are Aryans on your living unit.” “If they were, they sure didn’t help me.” “How ’bout Latin King or Cobra?” “No . . . do I look Hispanic?” “Says here Todd Mason, AKA Steel, knows you. We know he is the Aryan leader.” Mr. Moss was reading over the statements. “It says he knows you.” “Yeah, I know Todd.” I was surprised he had one from Todd.

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“So you’re affiliated then.” He expressed this like he had the jargon down. “No! I know him.” “So you’re Aryan!” “Mr. Moss, this is prison. In prisons there are gangs. In fact, in this prison probably half the people are gang members, maybe even more since there are a great many jailhouse turnouts here . . .” “Your point?” he sarcastically interrupted. “My point is that I know a great many gang members. I’ve been locked up twenty years! This does not mean I am affiliated or have gang ties . . .” “Here it says, Mr. Mason said if he would have known, and I quote, they were beating your ass, he would have helped you!” “I cannot speak for Todd. He might have said this but he was doing it since he knows me, not because I am a gang member. We are prison associates.” “So you do know Mr. Mason?” “Yes.” “And that he is the Aryan leader?” “No! I don’t know what that man is; I don’t know if he is Aryan. You said he was Aryan. What he is is none of my business.” “You think you’re the slickest, don’t you?” “No. First, you come to me like you want to help me and now you’re treating me like I’m the enemy.” “You have any tattoos? Any tattoos that are gang? I can have you strip-searched!” “No. I have no tattoos at all.” “You smoke weed?” “No.” “You dirty?” “No. If I don’t smoke, how can I be dirty?” “I can give you a UA.” “I know.” “Your face card has a disciplinary from up north noting THC.” “That shit happened twelve years ago. I didn’t say I never smoked weed, I don’t anymore.” “That’s good. Is there anything else you want to tell me about the Aryans or another gang? “No.”

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“Okay, Mr. Inmate. Thank you for your help.” He was calm now. “I hope we can get to the bottom of this.” “I hope so too.” I hope you find a new job before you get somebody killed. I left the medical unit more scared than when I came in. In the hallway I ignored faces, never made eye contact. I watched everyone out of the corner of my eye. Anyone who came within six feet had my attention.

Reflections Now I had two enemies: gangbangers and the administration. Either way I would lose. The administration was trying to solve this mystery, but they weren’t trying very hard. They just wanted to lock some people up, but that wasn’t going to solve much of anything. In the mean time, what they were doing was putting me in very serious danger. Either they didn’t know this or they didn’t care. If this assault had happened to me in a state prison, I probably would have been immediately transferred to another prison. This would have greatly increased my safety because it would have protected me from the gangbangers who were out to get me. But I was out-of-state in a privately owned prison and I wasn’t going to be sent anywhere else. Besides the fact that I wouldn’t be transferred to another prison, the administration was my enemy because of the way they handled segregation. In the private prison, if one’s attacker went to seg, the attacker would be released in a month. If the administration needed additional seg beds, you would see man released even sooner. If one “snitched” or talked to staff, the staff would get that snitch “caught up.” That is, the staff would let the attacker know who was snitching. They did this in one way or another, either inadvertently or on purpose, but it always seemed to happen. This was one reason why the retaliation rate was so high at Enterprise. Finally, if the attacker did end up in segregation for six months or so, the staff was too ignorant to think he would write his friends in general population to explain who told. Even if they managed to figure that out, the high rate of staff turnover meant that the staff soon forgot why they were monitoring a man or a green employee would let something through.

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Basically, the problem was that staff at Enterprise were inexperienced. Inexperience in prison staff increases violence in three different ways. First, inexperienced staff are inefficient in their investigations. They blunder their way through the process. They don’t know what they are looking for. They investigate things they shouldn’t bother with and they ignore things they should focus on. They don’t properly prioritize their activities. They get slowed down because they are overwhelmed with everything that is going on. They take no notes, don’t follow through, and sometimes don’t even ask the most important questions. Second, the information that they discover in their investigation tends to get revealed to the inmates. This revelation of information occurs because they don’t see that releasing confidential information to a prisoner as a problem. They simply are unaware of the serious and life-threatening consequences it can have for other inmates. Or they don’t even realize that they are releasing confidential information because they lack the training and experience to know what should be kept confidential. Third, inexperienced staff are easily “spun.” They will believe anything! This makes them especially dangerous since they can come to some very illogical and very wrong conclusions. Most staff believe that prisoners can’t dupe them. Their belief is reinforced by their power and authority within the prison, which gives them a sense of superiority. They just cannot believe that they can be “spun” by these ignorant and stupid prisoners. But inmates know how to get staff to accept “disinformation” and they know how to deliberately present such information in order to achieve some particular purpose or goal. For example, prison policy is that inmates are not allowed to see an informant’s statement or to know who the informant is. The reason for this policy is obvious: it is intended to prevent retaliation. If the prison does not protect its informants, then no one will inform. But inmates know that two informants’ statements that corroborate each other are sufficient to lock up a man. What is so intriguing to me is that staff seem incapable of believing that two inmates can get together and then separately “inform” in such a way as to point to certain facts. The prisoners, for example, may want one person blamed for an event in which several people took part, or they may want a person who was entirely innocent blamed for the event. This is “spinning,” and even experienced staff can fall for it. Experienced staff, however, know that they can be spun, and so they always are cautious about believing what inmates tell them.

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Being from the old school, I followed what might be called the “con rules” in my interview with Mr. Moss: keep your mouth shut, spin the staff, and wait for the day to retaliate. These are the rules that many men in prison live by. These are the unwritten code, like a list of rules, but they are not posted on the refrigerator door! These rules always have been more of an ideal than a reality—they are full of gray areas. In their rawest form, these norms are sick. But this is prison, you know. Over the time I have been in prison, the norms for prisoner behavior have changed a great deal. When I was first locked up over twenty years ago, the norms were less ideal and more reality-based. Since that time, they have moved more toward an ideal and now are less reality-based. You will be able to see what I mean by this below when I contrast the old “con rules” with the “new rules” for prisoner behavior. The ultimate norm a prisoner learns: You are a prisoner, they are the guards; never forget this. This establishes the “us against them” mentality. From this basic norm, it seems like all the more specific “con rules” flow. Con Rule #1: Don’t tell. If a staff person asks you a question about something you might have seen, don’t tell them what you have seen. This rule is connected to the second norm. Con Rule #2: Do your own time. If staff happened to ask you something, “doing your own time” means you didn’t see or hear anything. It is not your business. Con Rule #3: Always spin staff. This essentially means lie to staff, lie about staff, and use staff. I personally believe this one norm has encouraged the DOC to add a new rule for inmates. In the past, there was a rule about lying to staff but it was enlarged to add lying about staff. Now it is one of their favorite enforcement tactics. Con Rule #4: Show no feeling. This has its roots in exaggerated masculinity. Strong men don’t show pain. Assaulted men don’t show pain. Don’t ever cry! This is also seen in the next rule. Con Rule #5: Keep up the image. No matter what, maintain. This rule, along with the next one, are both related to the same exaggerated masculinity. Con Rule #6: Get or be got. Don’t be punked! Again, this is an exaggerated masculinity which supports violence as necessary. Con Rule #7: Pay your debts. This is one of the most normal norms in prison. It is actually a positive one. If you incur a debt, pay it off. In the ideal, this norm actually reduces prison violence.

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Con Rule #8: Steal from the state, not from other prisoners. This one is straightforward. These “con rules” are the rules that I tried to live by. They are “ideals” in a sense, although they are filled with many gray areas. As I said above, when I first came into prison, the prisoner norms were more reality-based whereas today they are more idealistic. So the other side of the coin is the reality of prison. Today, the real norms of prisoner behavior, it seems to me, are quite different from these “con rules.” Instead of being based in the basic “us against them” mentality, they seem to revolve around the real nature of men’s personality in prison: individual selfishness. Real Rule #1: Snitching must have a purpose. It is okay to tell to further your own purpose. For example, if you tell on an enemy, it’s okay. Real Rule #2: Manipulate. Taking advantage of staff and other prisoners is normal. Real Rule #3: If you can get away with it, don’t pay your debt. This is an aspect of the manipulation in Real Rule #2. Real Rule #4: Gossip. This rule runs counter to the Con Rule of “do you own time.” In reality, gossips flourish in prison. This is the actual rule that governs the reality in prison. Real Rule #5: Steal whatever you can. This rule makes theft open to anyone at any time. These “real rules” also directly or indirectly influence the violence, particularly when they interact with the old “con rules.” For example, the old “con rule” of get or be got allows the inmate to use violence to resolve disputes. But the “real rule” of don’t pay your debts means that the person to whom you own the money may then resort to the old “con rule” and “get” you rather than “be got” by you.

9 Gang Related Retaliate? I thought you weren’t Aryan?

—Dore, GD

It’s a conspiracy against the White man.

—Hammer, Aryan

“Hey, Dore wants to hollar at you,” a young cat named Jade said. I looked up from my letter on the dayroom table. Most everyone left for rec and the unit was quiet. “Dore? Who the hell is Dore?” “He’s my cellie in 201!” I never considered the fact that he sent Jade to me. “I don’t know him.” “Look man, ain’t nothin’ gonna happen. He just wants you to come up to our cell and hollar.” I had been told that this dude was one of the lookouts. I was also told Dore was sitting on the tier steps while I was being assaulted. I wasn’t really trying to talk to those cats. Yet, I wasn’t trying to start waves either. “What does he want?” “I don’t totally know, probably about that shit that happened to you the other day.” “Man, I ain’t trying to hollar,” I said calmly. “Man, I said ain’t nothin gonna happen!” Jade persisted. I blew out some air. “Okay . . . Let me throw this shit into my house.” As I came out of my cell, I saw Jade standing in their door jam looking my way. I approached cautiously, very cautiously. “Dore,” he said as I stood back to look in. “Hey,” Dore said calmly. “You Inmate?” I nodded, double-checking that he was the only one in the cell. He signaled for me to come in.

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“He’s giving you an audience,” Jade replied as he stepped out to stand with one foot on the tier’s railing. I didn’t enter the cell. I knew they were GD—looking over the cell one could see all the blue and black coloring. In the state system they wouldn’t have allowed the gang colors to be displayed so obviously. Blue and black yarn blanket. Blue and black dream catcher. Blue and black covering draped over a television set. “I understand you may be a little apprehensive but I only want to kick it.” “It’s not a matter of being apprehensive, I don’t know you nor do I want an audience with you.” Dore looked somewhat stirred that I spoke to him in such a manner. “You’re friends with Steel?” “And?” His question reminded me of Mr. Moss’s questions. “Look, motherfucker, I just want to kick it!” He fired back. “Okay . . . okay, I know Steel . . .” Don’t stir the pot, I said to myself. “And you hang out with the Aryans sometimes?” “I don’t get the point.” “He is the leader of the Aryans.” “Who I talk to is my business. I’m talking to you. Does that make me GD?” He was pissing me off by ignoring my point. “I know Steel pretty well, too. Sometimes we do business together.” “He’s an okay dude.” “How you feeling after these Vice Lords decide to run in on you?” “Vice Lords?” “Yeah, I know them.” “You a Lord?” “No, GD.” “Jade too?” “Yep, we don’t do that shit.” Dore was clearly spinning me. “So you’re all right?” “I’m straight.” “What’d they get? Maybe I can get it back.” Maybe you don’t exactly know what your guys stole, I thought. They must be spinning you. “Nothing of importance that can’t be replaced.” “I was told you owed them money for weed.” “Yeah . . .” “Yep. If that’s the case, I can’t get back what they took.” “It’s not the case.”

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“Then what did they take?” “Not much. Nothing important. Todd probably will be upset.” “Todd? The dude in the cell with you?” “No . . . no, Todd, Steel . . . I thought you knew him?” I was spinning him now. “Steel? What’s he got to do with this? I thought you weren’t Aryan!” “I’m not Aryan. It don’t matter anyways.” At that point, Dore decided it was time to step out on the tier since I wasn’t coming in. He wanted to know the Aryan connection. Jade moved back into the cell. “Steel was involved?” “It don’t matter. Don’t trip. I don’t want no help anyways.” “Retaliate?” he loudly said. “I thought you weren’t Aryan?” “Don’t care . . .” “You know most Black folks only hate White folks cause of the past and the way you-all treat us.” “Really.” He gave me a mild look. “I’m serious. You-all held us in slavery and continuously keep us down . . .” “I ain’t never kept no one down,” I interrupted. “Your people have.” “My people kept me down, too!” “You were never a slave. You were never killed for no reason. Most Blacks see you as a blue-eyed devil. They’re not getting even. They’re taking what is rightfully theirs.” “So motherfuckers try to split my wig because some people they never knew were slaves?” “If that’s how you see it.” “I guess I’ll start hating you.” “I didn’t do anything to you. Vice Lords did.” “You hate me because of what my people did. Why shouldn’t I hate you because of what your people did?” He dropped that point. “Steel told me you were good people. If you do get cash, I can hook you up.” “I’m straight. I got to get some stuff done.” With that, our conversation was done. It seemed like everything was gang related. The chief of security wanted to know if I was a gang member, Moss wanted to know if I was Aryan. Now Dore was inquiring. Who was next?

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* * * “So what do you think, Dore?” Jade asked. “He knows we were in on it and he knows Steel.” “Man, fuck them honkies. They ain’t gonna jump no brother about no weed. He surely don’t want no trouble. He wouldn’t even come into our cell!” “I ain’t tripping on the shit but I don’t know if he has any more. I doubt he is telling if he does.” “Well, let’s go threaten the motherfucker and see what we can shake out of him,” Jade smiled. “He didn’t say he told, did he?” “No. I can tell by his actions he won’t tell.” “Dirty Red said they would have locked him up by now.” “They would have but I ain’t trying to have to go against Steel. Steel and I deal sometimes. You know them Honkies always seem to get money.” “Fuck ’em, then. How about that other motherfucker that was in the cell when D. P. ran in there with the artillery. They said he was a coward for real. Just sat there. We could bring the drama.” “I think we should lay down for a minute and see what the administration does to him.” * * * “Hey Hammer, where’s Todd?” I asked coming into their cell. I walked across the hallway to the living units on the other side. One of the hallway workers told me Steel wanted to talk. “Todd?” Snake blurted out. “Who is Todd?” “He means Steel,” Hammer replied. “I don’t know.” “He said come hollar at him . . .” “He’s probably coming. Pull up a chair,” he gestured. “Long time since Gladiator School,” I made small talk with Hammer. He talked some. “Oh, hey, this is Ice and Snake.” They were sitting on the bunk. “What’s up, Ice. Snake I have talked to before.” I almost forgot I was in Aryan territory; everything had its tertiary meaning! Both stared until I reached out to shake their hands, gang custom. If you’re not privy to a shake then you’re shunned as square. I also had to remember the evolutionary thinking went back about a billion years.

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“How’s your head? If you don’t mind me asking,” Snake said. “I don’t mind. I’m okay.” “Any of them apes say anything to you?” Hammer asked. “Just Dore.” “Don’t surprise me.” “These fucking niggers, they move into our unit to fuck it all up!” Ice commented. The unit manager had moved me off the unit because there were too many Whites on that side. So mostly Blacks had moved in since I had moved out. “They’re turning it into a ghetto, just like home,” Snake added. “They do that shit because they ain’t never had shit. Prime apes. They’re all dumb. Fuckers can’t spell GED,” Hammer commented. “Half don’t shower and they always puttin’ that shit in their hair. Gorilla grease!” “Loud, too.” “They’re North America’s hairless ape.” I just nodded. No sense making more enemies. Ice and Snake were young—they didn’t know any better. Steel and Hammer knew better, but they were teaching all that hate, just as Dore was teaching his hate. And here I sit in the middle of it. “It’s a conspiracy against the White man.” * * * “Hey Anonymous, I see you’re hanging out,” Steel commented as he entered the cell. “You said you wanted to talk to me. I also wanted to see you.” “Did Dore talk to you?” “Yeah, he wanted to kick it!” I smiled. “He wanted to tell me I got jumped because we held them in slavery two hundred years ago.” “They always use that race card.” “Don’t they,” Hammer added. “It’s always because we took them as slaves. They forget that their own people sold them off. Hey, when I was talking with Dore he said you owed them guys . . .” “Yeah, he tried that same shit with me,” I interrupted. I saw some doubt in his look. “Come on, Todd, have you ever known me to owe anyone? When we had business, didn’t it get done? What I said would happen, happened.” “That’s what I told him. I knew he was lying.”

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“He told me it was Vice Lords that jumped me.” “Vice Lords. I should go hollar at Chuck-D about that shit. I don’t think he would be to happy to have Dore putting Vice Lords in that shit.” Just what I didn’t want, a third gang involved. “Oh yeah, I’m Aryan now too because I know you.” I filled him in about Moss. “He kept asking me if I was Aryan.” “Hey, when he talked to me, he kept asking about you,” Steel replied. “Yeah. Moss told me you were the Aryan leader and since I knew you I was Aryan too! Everything to these fools is gang related, you ever notice that?” “It gives them a nice excuse for everything,” Steel interjected. “Anything not immediately solvable is instantly gang related.” “I hope I didn’t piss off Dore. I didn’t know he was a higher up GD.” “He did say you were . . . talking strong for a White boy!” “He did mean mug me a few times! Fuck ’em, maybe he will stay away from me.” “Yeah, he ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you since he wants to deal with me.” “Moss told me you said if you knew they were up there you would’ve joined in.” “Yeah, I said that. I said these guards aren’t shit, they probably were in on it too! So, I said I would have helped you out.” “Figures. I asked to move back over here, but who knows. I want to get away from over there for a while.” “Ain’t shit gonna happen again up in here,” Steel commented. Hammer, Snake, and Ice threw in their two cents. But I had my doubts. “You should handle your business,” Hammer commented. “Eventually.” “I heard they were going to take care of it internally,” Snake replied. Once I heard that, coupled with Todd giving me that look like I was lying, I figured the Aryans would disown me quick. Basically, they were telling me in a roundabout way that they wouldn’t get involved. “I hear you.” I would back off. My time would come.

Reflections Any time there was trouble at Enterprise, it always seemed to be linked to the gangs. The administration certainly had their suspicions about my

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assault. The chief of security wanted to know if I was Aryan. Mr. Moss asked if I was Aryan. But it also amazed me, a non-gang member, how many gang members were suddenly concerned with my assault. Dore thought I was Aryan. Steel invited me to join so I could be Aryan. The GDs blamed it on the Vice Lords. How did I get in the middle of this? Certainly, the gangs at Enterprise were at an all-time high compared to prisons in the state system. Part of this may have been due to the changing demographics of the prison, yet the rate at Enterprise had skyrocketed. Some dudes banded together for self-protection, while others banded together to rob, assault, and steal. “Skyrocket” is, of course, a relative term. In comparison to some states, the gang problem at Enterprise may have not been that bad. But Northern State does not have many problems with gangs. For example, gang members usually don’t join by committing a murder: “Blood in, blood out.” In fact, I think the medical department at Enterprise caused more deaths through negligence than the gang members there caused. But at Enterprise, things definitely were different. In Northern State, if you jumped one gang member, you would find yourself fighting two or three. Hence, it was best to leave them dudes alone. But at Enterprise, the beat down crews would get you no matter what you did. They were averaging two, maybe three, beat downs a month. This doesn’t include the other smaller gang factions that were robbing men. These usually involved theft rather than assault, such as from a cell, but it occurred on average about once a week. So Enterprise was a very dangerous place. When people write on gangs in prisons, mostly they are referring to gangs that have duration: the gang membership exists on the streets, the person remains a member when he gets to prison, and he remains a member after he leaves prison. These are the gangs that are “imported” into the prisons from the streets. The men who band together for self-protection in prison don’t fall under the traditional definition of a gang since they lack this kind of duration. These men were not gang members before coming to prison. They band together at a particular time and place for safety, and most remain members only until they leave that particular prison, whether they are transferred to another prison or get paroled. These motives have to be considered when discussing their actions inside a prison. In general, the “imported” gangs are much more violent than the “defensive” gangs. For example, the Aryans did not have an established beat down crew that looked for victims to rob. The Aryans, who were White,

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only rarely assaulted a Black, whereas the “imported” gangs, which were predominantly Black, frequently assaulted Whites. Even though there are many differences between “imported” and “defensive” gangs, one thing they have in common are “attributes.” Each attribute has some type of meaning. Many gangs have a ritual tattoo: SS sign, devil’s pitchfork, cobra snake, king’s crown, or Star of David are common. The tattoo is like tribal identity. Another “attribute” is color: red and black, blue and black, red, are common. Some do not have any specific colors. Another is the handshake, which takes on new meaning to a gang. The Aryans had one, as did the Kings, Cobras, and GDs. Most gangs, if not all, have a handshake these days, each being complex and secretive. If it is not done properly, one was shunned as square. Each gang also had a “motto” which always seemed to be a one-sided justification for violence. Black GDs had one that focused on slavery; White Aryans used Darwinian unnatural selection. A force that seems to bind all the gangs together was racism, which seemed to be present in all gangs. Non-White groups sometimes called this “racial pride,” but they exhibited the same hatred toward other racial groups that the White groups did. Racism is a very important aspect of prison life and many gangs use the hatred of other ethnic groups as the foundation for their own organization. Whenever I talk to gang members about their beliefs, somewhere along the line the racial motivations controlling those beliefs will come out. Whether people want to admit it or not, it is always there. Personally, I believe that the all of this racial hatred is generated at least partly by the feelings of powerlessness. For White inmates, the line of thinking often goes like this: As a White inmate I have no power but at least I’m better off than the Black inmates. At the same time, Black inmates may violently attack White inmates who remind them of the (mostly) White guards in order to feel powerful over this other racial group. Many non-White inmates also blame the White employees for all their misfortunes in life in order to justify the violence. This philosophy is nothing new. Another common feature is that all the gangs were organized in a hierarchy. The different members have different authoritative positions— some are soldiers and others leaders. The acquiring of rank seemed to be influenced by knowledge and experience over a specific act of violence, or it might even be manipulative skills.

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Finally, most gangs have turf. On a particular gang’s turf, certain etiquette is followed. The Aryans got together on Friday and Saturday to use drugs. The GDs had a constant radio blasting in a cell with the door open filling the dayroom with sound. Other gangs hung out in one particular cell. Ultimately, all of this was part of the prisoners’ world at Enterprise and all of it helps explain the level of violence there. Gangs are responsible for much of the violence in prisons, but not all of it. In fact, any violence that the employees cannot explain is usually attributed to gang activities. To that extent, the gangs function as an excuse for the employees not to investigate the violence any further. In addition, investigations into the violence usually reveal that one of the principal sources of gang violence is racism, but staff can play this race game also. Some guards have no problems stirring up racism when they think it is to their benefit—e.g., divide and conquer. Other guards bring racism to the forefront if they are called racist. Somehow, being called a racist justifies any racist behaviors thereafter. Still other guards appear to be racist in that they wield their power in an uneven, unfair way, which upsets the group not being fairly treated. I have observed both Black and White guards doing this. It seems to me that racism increases when the prison has fewer resources and fewer opportunities for the prisoners. Racism also seems to increase as the security level increases—in maximum-security lockups racism is at its greatest, while in medium security institutions it is greater, and in minimum-security institutions it is only great. This could be because maximum-security time is rougher and there is more lockdown time in the cell. In addition, men in maximum security also have more negative attitudes in life. Finally, the resources for activities to occupy the mind are scarcest in maximum-security institutions, and so the racism tends to be greatest. The final result of racism is increased violence between prisoner groups.

10 Seg Time “You’re goin’ to lockup,” he authoritatively announced. —Shift Supervisor I was asleep in my bunk—it must have been 4:30 a.m. I got up to look out my cell door window to see why all the noise. The riot team was coming in. Yeah, another lovely day in seg. —Anonymous N. Inmate

“Who are you?” “Inmate, Anonymous,” I stated. “You’re goin’ to lockup,” he authoritatively announced. I was now talking with the first shift supervisor. One thing you generally find in prison: the higher up the chain of command, the more bossy and controlling the worker becomes. Not every case is like this, but chances are, if you talk with someone above a unit sergeant or support staff, they will be ego-tripping. The private prison was no different. Great! Four days after I get assaulted, I end up in the supervisor’s office to be told I am going to seg. “Why?” I asked. I stood there looking dumb. These people! Do you really want to know how tired of this shit I am getting? I had seen the violence when I first got here. It finally caught me. Now I got to go to lockup. He ignored my question and called a guard over the radio. “Senior Reed to shift supervisor office. One going to the tank.” Before I had a chance to ask again, the officer was at the door with handcuffs. “Why am I getting locked up?” I asked again. The fat man behind the desk ignored me. “Inmate to lockup, Senior Reed.”

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And then I was walking down the long hallway past medical to segregation. * * * “Here’s your cell,” the officer said. I stepped in and heard the trap door in the cell door fall open. I backed up to the opening sticking out my hands to remove the cuffs. Once they were off, the officer slammed the trap door and left. As I looked around I realized that my cell had no toilet paper, no mattress, no sheets, no nothing. “Officer, I ain’t got shit in my cell,” I said through the crack in the bottom of the door. “Who’d callin’?” another officer returned to my call. “119” I yelled out my cell number. He walked over to my cell and looked in, “Wha-d’ya say?” His accent was thick. “I do not have anything in my cell.” I stated slow. I had learned that some of the Southern State officers at Enterprise could not understand us Northern State folks for shit. Trust me, it was also the other way around, too. “We-l-l, cour-s-ya don’d,” he answered back as slow as molasses. “We gotta brinna your pro-pet-ty down.” I could see his thoughts, Dis fella ain’t too bright! “What do I do until then?” He ignored my question. “Whe-n-it co-omes, you’dit ever’ting.” So I waited. And I waited. Then I waited some more. I sat on the cold steel bunk all through second shift. Third shift came on and I waited until the guard came around. “Hey, I asked for some bedding and shit, can I get it?” “Yeah sure, just let me finish my round.” Hallelujah, an officer that spoke English. I sat some more on the cold steel bunk. And waited. Then I laid down on the cold steel. My leg, arm, and side had the warmth drained out of them. I waited. And I waited some more. Finally I fell asleep. * * * “Breakfast,” the officer slide my tray through the trap door. My eyes immediately opened. “Hey, can you get me a mattress?” Maybe if l asked for just one thing . . .

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“Yeah sure,” he said handing me a cup of coffee. “Let me get breakfast done with.” So I waited. “Need your tray.” He was now picking up trays. “Hey, you ain’t gonna forget my mattress, are you?” Should I keep the tray until I get a mattress? No, that wouldn’t work here. Up North, if I refused to return my tray, they would call the sergeant to investigate my conduct. I would be threatened with about eight rule violations and told how this would delay my release. And I also would get my mattress. But down here at Enterprise, no one cared about things like that. The guard probably would tell me to keep the damn tray and would slam the trap door shut. “Yeah sure, I’ll get it.” I was doubting. How many times have I heard Yeah sure? Yet still I was hoping. So I waited. And I waited. Nothing. Then first shift came on. New guards. New hope? “Hey,” I yelled out to the guard passing my door, “can I get my shit for the cell?” He passed by, then stepped backward, “What do you need?” “Oh, not too much. Mattress, pillow, toilet paper, blanket, sheets, washcloth, towel, soap, toothbrush. Maybe some of my property, if you could swing it. I sure would appreciate being able to take a shit!” Officer Pooch was young—he looked about seventeen years old. He reminded me of a typical segregation guard—no nametag or any other objects on his shirt, bare minimum gear, and no tie! Segregation guards usually see no one important so once they get to their post they remove what they can. It also makes them a little safer when dealing with unruly inmates. “Damn, didn’t they give you anything?” Guards always have this great revelation of disbelief that the system can fail in such a poor manner. He was so young I guess all this was new to him. “No.” “When did you get here?” “Yesterday about 2:00 p.m.” “Hmm,” he looked at me with great curiosity. “Let me finish my round.” Where have I heard that before? “Hey, are you going to do it or not? I have been asking and asking and I’m getting tired of asking.” Maybe I

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should just plug the toilet, flood the place, and kick the door until someone does it. “I’m getting a little pissed off here!” “Why didn’t you get it by now?” After the great revelation comes the general stupidity! “I don’t know,” I said. These guys amazed me. Isn’t it obvious why I don’t have a mattress? Because you lazy idiots won’t get one for me. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” And so I waited some more. Finally, my cell supplies, including a mattress, actually arrived! I was even more surprised they gave me all my personal property. * * * “Hey, thanks, Pooch.” I stood there, cuffed, watching while he unloaded the cart. Prisoners in segregation are handcuffed anytime the cell door is open or when a staff member must enter the cell. “Yeah,” he replied. “What you locked up for?” “Got me. I was called to the supervisor’s office, then dragged down here.” He finished unloading my stuff and closed the door. I put my hands through the trap door so he could take the cuffs off. “Come on, you must have an idea why you’re here.” “No.” Obviously, I had a few thoughts about it but instead of telling him what I knew, I wanted to know what they had written down. It is a behavioral tactic one just naturally develops in becoming a con. Another unwritten rule. “I’ll go find out.” He left to return in a few minutes. “You’re on VC,” he said through the trap. “VC?” I looked at him puzzled. “What the hell is VC?” “Voluntary confinement. You must have asked to be locked up.” “Asked?” my expression changed. “Hell, I never asked to be locked up. Let me go.” “I can’t.” “Well, call whoever you can.” “You have to put a request slip into security.” Yeah, yeah, I know where this is going. A request, right. No one answers requests! That is also when I learned I could be in voluntary confinement and not be a volunteer. * * *

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In the following days, the puzzle became more complex. They started dragging gangbangers down to the hole with me. I figured they were raiding the living units. Moss, I thought. Soon they filled the place with gangbangers from I-unit, which was where I had been told my attackers came from. This had me concerned. I did not want to be in a cell with a gangbanger, especially one off the Iunit. Then I thought I heard the dude that had stabbed me—the voice was so similar! “Hey, D. P.,” a short, stocky man yelled from behind his segregation cell door. He was in the cell about five doors down. “What you here for?” “I don’t know, dawg!” This was one of Dead Presidents’ gang buddies. “You’ve been running around the hotel again?” The shorter man yelled under his cell door. “Man, you know they want to hold a real nigga down!” “Yeah, ya . . .” “What they call a player like me?” “D. P.,” came a reply. “Yeah, ya . . . Dead Presidents ’cause I stack them.” “I hear yah!” When the fellas got together talking like such, it almost sounded like chanting or singing since they were so accustomed to doing it. “I guess they say the old D. P. assaulted a peckerwood on J-unit,” he bragged. “Did they give you a lockup slip yet?” “No, the paper service hasn’t came, dawg!” “Chill out until you see it, you don’t want to help these motherfuckers.” “Chill out? Fuck that. If I am over here because he snitched, the punk is really gonna know who the Gangster Disciples are since he will be dealt with! We ain’t up North anymore.” “Chill out until you get your slip, don’t put your business out like that.” Shorty knew. “Like it matters, those rent-a-cops ain’t paying no mind.” When I heard this, I was sure that D. P. was my attacker and that he was bragging about attacking me. I looked out at the cell where they put him and watched as they brought him his property. He stepped onto the tier while that put his stuff in the cell—yeah, it was him. Six feet or better, Afro worn in a flattop, and high cheek bones. If it wasn’t him, he was lying about assaulting a “peckerwood.” Ain’t no one going to do that!

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* * * Crash, slam. The doors to segregation entrance were buzzing. First, one dude, then three more. Soon the place was overflowing with bodies. “I tain’t n’ver seen it like dis bef’re,” the old guard said as he was walking around trying to figure out where to put people. He had them stacked four deep in the shower area. The guards had their logbooks out on the table, paperwork everywhere. “Fuck this shit,” a younger officer grabbed his clipboard to go cell to cell. I heard him asking men whether they cared if they got a cellie. He came to me, “You want a cellie?” “No, I want to be alone,” I replied calmly. I could see he was tired. “Okay. You been here a week or so, . . . don’t give us no problems; I will try to keep you single.” I thanked him politely. “What they got you locked up for?” “I really don’t know.” “What they tell you?” “Officer Pooch said I was VC.” “VC? You asked to get locked up?” “Hell, no. The shift supervisor just told me I was going to lockup. A few days later, Pooch said I was VC.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. They also said I was tagged to be by myself,” I was lying about that but that’s Con Rule #3: Always spin staff. * * * The next day I saw the runner pointing my way while talking through the door to Dead Presidents. So my assailant now knew I was here. If the prison wanted to solve the crime, they would have known also. But they didn’t. I lay down to take a nap since seg is all about sleep and reading. I woke up to find a note under my door threatening my life. Fuckers just can’t let this shit go. Now what? When Pooch walked by, I called to him. “Look, everyone tells me something different,” I started. “Can you tell me when I’m going to leave? The place is packed. There’s no room. I don’t want to be here. You said I was locked up under VC. I never volunteered to be here and I don’t want to be here!”

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“Look it, Anonymous,” he used my first name. “I don’t know why you’re here. No one knows. They don’t tell us guards shit. We only know you’re listed as VC.” “But I didn’t volunteer for this! Come on, I ain’t lying to you.” “Well, you should write the security department. Tell them you don’t want to be locked up.” I had no intentions of doing that right yet. “Am I tagged to be left single?” “Sort of,” he replied. “If we run out of space then we’ll have to move someone in.” * * * “Sammy Lewis?” the female senior guard called out through the seg cell door. “Hey girl,” D. P. responded. “You can just call a player like me Dead Presidents.” He moved to stand by the door. “I have a slip you need to sign. It says why you are over here and lets them folks up front know I presented you with a copy.” “And if I don’t sign?” “Then I write ‘refused’ on it.” She paused, giving him a look through the door window. “What’s it for?” “It is your lockup slip. You are placed in segregation under investigation.” “Investigation for what?” “I don’t know. Are you going to sign?” “Yeah.” She opened the food trap with her extra large key and placed the form and a pen on it. A unique thing about prison, some locks are made for a key that can be 5 to 7 inches long. D. P. signed the form and she left to the next cell. “D. P.,” the shorter fella yelled to him. “Yeah.” “I see the server came to your cell. Did you get your slip?” “Yeah. Says I am under player investigation!” “Does it say what type of investigation?” “No, but it has to have been for that assault.” “Why?” “The seg janitor told me yesterday that they have the mark over here too.”

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“Keep that on the down-low!” “Yeah, yeah,” D. P. replied. He had his mind already made up. * * * “You Inmate, Anonymous?” a man in a dark suit asked. I went to the cell door. “Yeah.” “We’re from IA. We want to talk to you about a complaint you sent to the warden’s office.” I had literally forgotten about this. Five or six days after I got locked up, I had filed a complaint with the warden. I talked about the assault, stated that I wanted to be transferred to another prison, and listed every right of mine they broke by locking up my ass. But I again made sure to tell them no more information than they already had. Enterprise was famous for ignoring or losing complaints. They lost more grievances than any other prison I have been in. So I figured they had simply ignored mine. Of course, I could have let time pass and then filed a suit in federal court. But under federal laws, a prisoner has to tell the prison not only that they are going to be assaulted, but by whom. For the prisoner, this amounts to a catch-22 since you really can’t predict which particular person will commit the assault. For the prison, it protects them from civil liability when they fail to take actions to protect a prisoner who they know is going to be assaulted. “Officer, take this man to conference room A,” the man in the suit shouted over to the desk, which was on the other side of the whole segregation unit. How dumb is that? Two men in suits standing in front of an inmate’s cell, shouting across seg for a guard to take the man to the conference room. Men in suits do not walk through the prison unless something is up—that is, someone is snitching! These IA guys were going to get me killed. Everyone in seg, including every gangbanger, could see me with them through the big glass windows in their cell doors. “No, it ain’t happening,” I shouted quickly. “You refusing to talk with us?” “I ain’t going out there with you. You trying to get me killed? You got the place filled with gangbangers. Where’s Mr. Moss?” “Mr. Moss does not work for IA anymore.”

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Great. I guess I have to deal with you fucking fools. Now just think if Moss was handling my case and I had agreed to help him. With this would have come his personal assurances that he would make sure certain things would occur and other things would not occur. Now he was gone. This was common in the private prison. Staff would give all sorts of assurances to an inmate who was helping them out. Then they would quit, get fired, or move on, leaving the inmate high and dry. “Why don’t you just come in my cell instead?” “Fine,” he said. “Cuff him and we will come in there.” He seemed to think that coming into a seg cell was beneath him. When they were both in my cell, he told me that the grievance I’d sent to the warden contained serious allegations. Yeah, allegations. Everything is an allegation even though staff has told me more about my own assault than I ever told them. “We think you’re lying,” he said. “If you can’t ID them, we can’t do anything.” “Man, right,” I was irritated. So far, all they told me was that they were from IA. No names, no nothing. The second man opened his notepad to write down notes. He never said anything, just listened. “Look, dude hit me from behind; I didn’t see him.” I could tell their goal was to end this investigation as inmate lying! They were sure the assault was over much more than a money order. But that’s how it goes. By the time they talked to me, they had statements from four or five others and who knows what the others might have said —motherfuckers were filling their ears full. “Well, we’ll just put you in protective lockup since you cannot ID them.” I think he assumed I’d agree. “I don’t want lockup. I am not the one who did anything wrong!” “We’ll put you in with someone else that has the same problem.” “In 24-hour lockup? No.” “We’ll make sure that you are never in with a gang member,” he promised. “Never. Then we will see about the transfer.” He ignored everything I said. They could care less about the threatening note under my cell door, or about the seg unit filled with gangbangers, or about me, once I said I could not ID anyone by face cards. They only cared about their paycheck coming from Northern State. As for the one taking notes, as he turned to go, I saw he had drawn a few simple circles and stars on his pad!

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* * * “Sammy Lewis?” “Yeah . . .” She interrupted him quickly, “Mr. Lewis, put some clothes on please.” D. P. was standing butt naked washing his body in front of the sinktoilet combination. “Hey girl, you don’t have to look the other way! Give me a minute to put my boxers on!” D. P. dried himself off with a towel and slipped on some shorts. “Okay!” Miss Gillis appeared before the window again. “Are you dressed?” “I just put on my boxers.” D. P. put down his hustle. “I can put more clothes on if you like, I know I am a rather large guy . . .” “That’s okay, Mr. Lewis, I want to get this done. I have your disciplinary report.” D. P. flirted with her some more and finally signed his disciplinary report. He received a ticket for stealing Tone’s television. After she left, he called out to his neighbor: “Shorty, I’m gonna get me one! This is about a punkass TV.” That nigga Tone will get paid back when I get out, he thought. “I told you to chill about saying shit. They ain’t gonna care about no TV.” * * * Seg sucked after that. Everyone had seen the men in suits come into my cell. I even saw a guard go look at the logbook to figure out who they were. Dead Presidents, the dude that assaulted me, walked right past my cell a couple of times saying, “We will have you dealt with.” All those gangbangers had to do was send word out to friends in population and they would get me when I returned. Fuck! I again asked to see the doctor but that never happened. One nurse told me that I had to write three requests in order to see the doctor. I asked her if that meant I had to be assaulted three times. They did not care if I rotted over here. After a month and a half went by, the staff psychologist showed up. He wanted to know how I was doing in seg. I told him I did not want to be locked up and that I was having trouble sleeping. I asked for some counseling. After asking, I never saw him again. So I sat in seg. There was nothing I could do. Everyone knew that someone had attacked me. I had received notes threatening my life. I

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wasn’t even getting any mail—they were either holding it or reading it. When it did start coming three weeks later, I got only few letters. No doctor. No counseling. No hope. The only hope I had was when they talked about a transfer. Yet they lied so much here that I figured this was a lie too. I started to hate them more and more. Fuck this motherfuckin’ place, I thought. I want to go! Only time and distance would erase the label I was hiding from. * * * “Sammy Lewis?” “What’s up?” “I am Hearing Examiner Hanson. Your disciplinary report says you stole another inmate’s TV.” “I was at recreation. I don’t know anything about it.” “They found it in your cell. You were sanding it.” “Someone put it in there. I was moving it when they found it. Someone set me up.” “Okay, Lewis. Let me see; IA suspicion of assault four months ago, IA suspicion of strong-arming, this month suspicion of knifing and assault. You have been to seg three times. So you were set up. Seems to be a great deal of they-set-me-up going on around here.” “Man, I came back from recreation . . .” “Save it,” Hanson interrupted. “I’m going to find you guilty for taking the TV and give you time served. I need my bunk emptied!” “But, huh . . .” “Hold on now. Accept that or go to admin seg today. Don’t give me any shit. I ain’t dumb!” He presented the slip for Lewis to sign. * * * “Inmate, pack up. You’re leaving!” At last, I thought, I’m going back to general population! Wrong! Little did I realize that seg was a picnic compared to where I was being moved. I was on my way to the administrative segregation lockup. Admin was entirely separate from disciplinary segregation. The party had already started when I arrived. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . The unit was lit up by a man banging on his door with a garbage can. “We want showers,” about four dudes yelled out from various other cells.

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We stood there, waiting in the middle of the unit’s dayroom, enveloped in noise. It was frightening. “Why ain’t you letting me go to a cell?” I asked Officer Pooch, one of the officers that escorted me. “What you say?” Pooch asked. “Why ain’t I going into a cell?” I repeated louder. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . “We have to wait for a senior officer,” Pooch shouted over the noise. “We can’t open a cell door without one.” A prisoner shouted at Pooch, asking him what I was coming over for. Pooch hawed around. He didn’t say anything but silently mouthed VC. “VC,” the prisoner yelled then started hitting his cell door. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . Four or five more prisoners started in with the banging. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . “See how they get that noise going?” Pooch said to me. Why did your stupid ass tell them I was in voluntary confinement? “Why they put you over here, Anonymous?” Pooch asked. “I thought you were going back to population.” “Don’t ask me,” I answered. I was mad at him and didn’t want to talk any more. Obviously he knew I was being placed over here as VC—that is, a punk. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . “It’s crazy over here,” Pooch stated. “They don’t sleep very much.” “Thanks for telling them I’m VC.” He didn’t answer. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . All I wanted was to get in a cell. * * * “Lieutenant Donn, cell 111 has his trap door open again,” Officer Price said. That was my neighbor’s cell. “How the hell did he get it open again?” the lieutenant screamed in her high-pitched voice. This lieutenant was known as Gasamatic, because she drew her gas canister faster than Dirty Harry drew a pistol. She looked like a typical waitress who worked in a diner. She was nice only if you did not disagree with her. When she denied your request, look out. “Look,” she demanded of the guy in 111, “why’d you throw all dis trash out here?” “’Cause you people never give us trash bags.”

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He had a point—they never did. A prisoner gets mail, toiletry items, paper and prison forms, and small food items from the commissary. After thirty days or so, you get quite a pile of garbage. Garbage, especially food wrappers, brings in ants, and the whole prison was plagued with them. When the ants find you, they bite. So he finally just threw the garbage out of his cell. She told him to put his arm in so she could close his trap door. “Fuck you, bitch!” “Fuck you! Now, put your arm in so I can close it.” “No.” “I don’t have to put up with this shit.” Ssssssssssssssss. I heard the gas go and heard my neighbor cough and choke. Then she let him have it with a second can. Ssssssssssssssss. As soon as everyone else heard the gas go, they started banging on their cell doors and yelling, “Fuck you, bitch.” Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . Then, “Fuck you bitch.” The chorus line was going. The place erupted with noise. My cell reeked with gas and I put a piece of cloth over my mouth. “You done now?” she yelled. He wheezed and choked, “Fuck you.” Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . Fuck you bitch. Sssssssssssssssss. She emptied the remaining canister. “Fuck you, bitch!” Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . Fuck you bitch. She slammed the trap door shut and sat down by the table area, two guards were with her. I could hear my neighbor choking, and then puking came. It scared the shit out of me! When one pukes on gas you know he has had enough. He wheezed and coughed for at least half an hour, until the other guards finally dragged him out to the shower to wash the gas spray. Everyone knows the gas spray won’t hurt you if you’re placed in a shower within minutes. She wanted to hurt him! * * * I was in administrative seg for six weeks. They gassed people at least once a week. In the state system I never saw them use this much gas. I just lay down since I didn’t want to be next. They had me right in the middle of a war zone. This was truly a violent unit. Even though everyone was locked up, there was still a lot of violence. The worst incident happened

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with a prisoner they called Crazy, who broke out of his cell and took a guard hostage. All week I had been hearing this peculiar banging, not the usual banging noise I always heard. Crazy would start banging in his cell, then others would follow. He had torn off one of those little 12-inch by 16-inch steel shelves that were bolted to the wall and was hitting his toilet with it. The toilet and sink are one-piece units attached to the wall and the floor, but he banged and he banged and he banged until finally he busted it off. When the toilet unit was off, he climbed down through the maintenance shaft to the maintenance access area below him on the ground floor. The door was locked but it opened from the inside, so he carefully looked out at the bubble officer through the crack. It was 3:00 a.m. Come on, look away, he thought. Once the bubble officer was not looking, he climbed out of the access area, closed the door, and ran over to the showers. He hid there until the officer walked a round. “Dee-de, to-do,” Officer Brown sang quietly to himself as he entered the unit. He was a tall, thin man putting in his days. He just did his job. He did not want any trouble. Crazy heard Brown singing softly to himself. Come on, come on, he said to himself. His muscles tensed up as Brown walked closer. “What the fuck . . . ?” Brown’s voice was choked off by an arm wrapped around his neck. Then he felt his left arm being lifted up behind his back. He went down on one knee. “Shut the fuck up,” Crazy hissed in Brown’s ear. At the same time he put one cuff on Brown’s wrist. Brown said nothing. He never thought it would happen to him over here. Hell, the prisoners here were locked up twenty-four hours a day. He did not need this shit. He had a live-in girlfriend and kid. “Over here,” Crazy dragged him to the stair railing as fast as he could. He clamped the other handcuff to the railing. “Look, man,” Brown spoke, “I don’t want no trouble . . .” Crazy was patting him down for keys. He ignored Brown. Then he set his walkie-talkie out of reach. He wanted to open other cell doors but Brown had no keys. “Okay, Brown, I don’t want no trouble either,” Crazy said to him. Crazy waited for other officers to come. They did not. He waited for them to call Brown. They did not. He waited twenty minutes but no one

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noticed that Brown was missing. He smoked one of Brown’s cigarettes. Finally, Crazy grabbed the radio off the floor to call the other guards. He told them he had taken Brown hostage. * * * I was asleep in my bunk—it must have been 4:30 a.m. I got up to look out my cell door window to see why all the noise. The riot team was coming in. Yeah, another lovely day in seg. “Go, go, go,” about twenty men were yelling out in the dayroom. Up the stairs they went on both sides. “Go, go, go.” Lovely! Just lovely! I watched guards in shields, members of the riot team, and others running around the unit dayroom. There were even a couple of local police officers. Crazy had headed up the stairs where he met them in the middle of the tier. A canister of gas to the face and one shot to the head with a club; down he went. By this time the whole unit was awake. Prisoners started hitting their doors. The whole unit reeked of gas. Just great. What if the officer who Crazy grabbed had had keys to the doors? What if these guys took their anger out on VC prisoners? Shit like that happens in prison. Lovely, just lovely. I’ll never be safe anywhere in this place. * * * After that the riot team came in to rip every cell apart. Every cell! “You,” a guard dressed in black said through my door. “Kneel down in front of your bed, put your head face down on the mattress and hands behind your back!” I followed the orders. Two guards rushed in and a hand pushed my face into the mattress. Another hand cranked the cuffs on me. Then they lifted me by my armpits and I was taken out to the dayroom and placed kneeling down, facing the wall while they tore my cell apart. When they were done, they threw me back into my cell. It was business as usual, a gassing every week. People banging and screaming. One guy stayed up all night banging his door and screaming because he did not get a shower. Something changed in me. The flame was going out. After about twenty years of doing time, I felt like I did when I first came to prison: afraid, mean, not caring about others. I don’t know if I hated them more, or myself for letting them change me.

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I tried to do my time, to keep my mind occupied as best I could. I stayed alone in my cell and was glad about that. It was the only refuge I had. I could find peace of mind only in being in solitary confinement. That’s how crazy this had become. But it was not long before Enterprise took away even that peace of mind. They put me in a cell with another man. He was a gangbanger, which IA promised would never happen. Running from gangs is tough enough in prison. Having the administration deliberately put me in a cell with a gang member was torment. After that, I started asking everyone who walked by my cell why I was locked up. I kept asking and asking. Like before, I was told to write the administration and say I wanted out, that I felt my life was not in danger. This was an obvious tactic to get me to waive any liability for anything that might happen to me. If anything happened the corporation could simply say, “He wrote us saying he wanted out.” When I first was in segregation, I would not write such a letter. I decided instead to ride it out. But now, I just couldn’t do it anymore. They had stripped me of my property, locked me into a room with nothing to do, and placed someone in the room with me whom I did not trust. Enterprise’s seg had tormented me enough. I had to leave. I wrote the letter. I was sent back to general population.

Reflections When someone is in segregation, there is no better time for other people to settle scores or accomplish other goals by throwing dirt or snitching. Everyone knows that, by giving information that implicates the attacker or victim, they are setting the person up for a segregation stay and possibly administrative confinement. This includes both attackers who are placed in segregation pending investigation, and victims who have placed there for their own protection. There may be many reasons other inmates may have for doing this: another inmate may fear the attacker or the victim, dislike the attacker or the victim, or like the attacker or the victim. In addition, if you’re a gang member, then you could be played by your own gang members. Inmates turn on each other for various reasons and often have ulterior motives, such as the power structure of the gang. Inmates also work together in this. As mentioned earlier, the normal rule in prisons is that if two infor-

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mants separately give corroborating information, it is sufficient to lock up a man. So if you and your associate separately talk to the guards and each merely mentions a name, what do you think the guards will do? This is how prison politics works and helps make prisons what they are. Prison politics is the art of lying and manipulation. All of these prison politics are much worse when there is high staff turnover in the institution. Staff turnover increases the abuse of the prisoners, especially informants, in various ways. For example, the employees at Enterprise would make all types of promises to a prisoner, or would say that they were going to handle a situation in a particular way. Yet, because of staff turnover, none of what was promised would happen: the next employee would not operate the position in the same way as the previous employee did. So a prisoner would stick his neck out to snitch, and then the administration or guard would turn his or her back. This is one reason I could not figure out why anyone at Enterprise would actually snitch. Besides that, the new employee has to take the time to research all the open cases on which the previous employee was working. He or she has to get “up to speed.” This in itself is going to take time that, if the position had not turned over, would be spent with a prisoner who is expecting an answer. However, due to the new employee’s need to review all the files, this time isn’t spent with the prisoner and nothing gets done. Turnover also means inexperience, and inexperience means a higher than normal number of mistakes. A prime example would be the IA investigators who visited me in seg and who made their presence known by wearing suits and by yelling across the seg room that they wanted me moved to the interview room! Prisoners have a saying that if one spends more than three minutes in the investigator’s office, he is snitching! What else do you have to talk about? After Moss left, the investigators were too inexperienced to know this or too arrogant to care. On the other hand, high staff turnover tends to make things look better for the corporation. The corporation always wants the prison to look good. But when there is very high staff turnover, then very little gets done. If its internal investigation teams, for example, can’t produce reports about drug trafficking, then it looks like there is no problem with drugs. Everything looks great! These are the general problems that can happen to anyone who is placed in segregation. But there is a much greater problem when the victim of an assault is placed there. When they do this, prison officials are

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using the same means to protect the victim as they use to punish the attacker. In that sense, the victim is re-victimized at the hands of the administration. The state system did not do this: if a person were seriously assaulted in gang-related activities, they would transfer him to another prison. But when prison officials did this, the victim had a much more serious problem than merely being re-victimized by the administration. If the attacker is taken to seg for the incident, what does that say about the victim? There is only one way this attacker could have been locked up, right? The victim snitched! If the victim remains in general population, then he can expect to be dealt with accordingly as soon as the word gets out. Even if the attackers and the victim are both in segregation, normally the attackers assume that the victim has snitched. It really does not matter whether the victim has snitched or not, he will be labeled a snitch. Transferring the person to another prison does a great deal to alleviate this problem, although it does not solve it completely. This situation was particularly bad at Enterprise because the cell doors in the segregation unit had windows that people could see out of, so everyone could see who else was in segregation with them. Other segregation units are built in such a way that prisoners cannot see each other. In addition, at Enterprise, the segregation janitors were inmates from the general population. They would pass notes for those in the cells and talk to them. Thus, communications ran freely among prisoners in segregation, and between segregation and general population, which increased the possibility of retaliation. Other segregation units restrict or eliminate communication between inmates in segregation and inmates in general population. The most serious problem for the victim, then, is that he is assigned the “snitch” role. Roles are a central feature of the structure of prison as a human social system. The two common roles are the prisoner role and the guard role. These two roles have their own hierarchy: guards have all or almost all the power and prisoners have none or almost none. But besides this dichotomous hierarchy, there also are hierarchies within both the prisoner and the guard roles. The guards, obviously, have a formal hierarchical organization: there are correctional officers, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and so on. But the prisoners have an informal hierarchy among themselves. In this prisoner sub-hierarchy, snitches are at the very bottom. Snitches are shunned, abused, and, at times, assaulted or re-

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assaulted. Prisoners as a group are powerless, but snitches are the powerless of the powerless. An IDEAL norm of prisoner behavior is that snitches are to be tormented for their actions. It is the prisoner punishment. Yet, this aspect of the prisoner society is paradoxical. Many guys hate snitches but will snitch. We seen some of this double standard system within the prisoner code I described earlier. The REAL norm of prison behavior is that snitching is a tool to gain something for oneself. Snitching leads to revenge or seeing one suffer from their loss of good fortune. Snitches seek pleasure in watching and manipulating others into misfortune. In prison, a prisoner who seeks pleasure in another prisoner’s misfortune is called a hater. Much of this deals with power, or the lack of it. The prisoner role in the social hierarchy of the prison has little or no power. To gain power men will do a lot of things, including snitch. Paradoxically, the power the man hopes to gain lacks substance. If his snitching is revealed, he can lose what little interpersonal power he has with others. But if it is not revealed, he may move up in the prisoner sub-hierarchy of power. In a powerless environment, this is a very inviting tool. Whether you have actually snitched or not, once you have been given the label you have to get rid of it. One way of doing this is by clearing your name, literally by proving yourself innocent. You can do this by gathering those around you who still have some faith in you and getting them to put the word on the wire (i.e., gossip) that you aren’t a snitch. One can try to manipulate the situation as best as possible. Another way is to literally show men paperwork that might shed light on your innocence. Still another is to use violence. The prisoner culture is more complex than most people realize. I have already discussed the normative codes of the prisoner culture. Here I am describing a hierarchical prisoner society within which there are different “codes” at different hierarchical locations. The worst label to wear at the bottom of this prisoner hierarchy is a snitch. This is a very particular role within the more general prisoner role. Behavior in a prison environment is largely about roles, and the roles themselves are mainly influenced by the amount of power the person holds. These two make up the interpersonal dynamics that have the largest impact on violence and its control. Understanding these roles ultimately leads to an understanding of the factors that contribute to violence and control in a prison.

11 Riot If anyone looks in, you marks are going to get the same as that. —Cash Man, this is why I take downers. This shit takes years off your life. —One Scared Man

Once I was back in general population, the gangbangers started to threaten and stalk me. They tried to intimidate me, but I wouldn’t bend. And soon, something bigger than me distracted their attention. Enterprise’s timeline and my timeline finally collided! Shortly after I got out of seg, the prison went from boycott to riot to lockdown! It was a year to the month after that officer was placed in a coma in the incident in the weight area, just before I had arrived at Enterprise. Most counselors and unit mangers were not doing much. The support staff didn’t do much either, other than use vindictiveness in isolated cases. The monitors from Northern State would show up every so often to evaluate whether Enterprise was conforming to their contract. If they noticed any rule violations they didn’t like, suddenly everyone would be going to seg for this particular violation while all the other violations got ignored. No one stopped men from running unit to unit. The prisoners were doing whatever they wanted inside the prison. They seemed to have decided they were tired of the treatment that staff was giving them. The rage was coming full steam toward the most dangerous place in any institution: the chowhall. The gang boyees had decided the chowhall was fair

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game. Everyone else, including me, believed that the staff didn’t care about the chowhall anyway. * * * “Stand by for chow,” the officer screamed into our dayroom. “Stand by for chow.” We walked out into the unit’s sallyport to wait. The sallyport was the small area between the living unit and the main hallway. Everyone coming and going from the living unit had to stand, at least briefly, in the sallyport. This was how they controlled access to and from the living unit. “Are they going yet, or are we just standing around?” one guy asked. “We are fucking just waiting,” another added. “Do you expect anything different?” a third chimed in. “Fucking hurry up and wait!” It was the usual noise I heard before chow for the past year. Everyone knew the routine but everyone talked like it was new. Everyone was tired of the small things. “Back in the unit,” the bubble officer ordered as she pounded her fist on the glass. “What the fuck?” someone shouted. “Fuck you,” a couple of others shouted to her. No one really paid attention to her. “Close the sallyport door!” she screamed out of her little slide trap in the wall of the control booth. She was talking about the door that exited to the main hallway. Eventually, that door was closed. “Go back into the unit,” she screamed from inside the bubble, waving her arms, as the door to the living unit opened. “To hell with that,” someone yelled out. “We want to eat.” Some guys went back into the living unit, but others stayed in the sallyport. Then other men came through the door from the main hallway into the sallyport. “They closed the crash gate going to the chowhall.” A crash gate is an electronic gate built into the hallway. When the crash gates close, all traffic stops and problems that occur in one part of the prison can be isolated from the rest of the prison. Closing the crash gates could be a sign that something was seriously wrong. Or it could be another zero-experience guard working control central who had just pushed any old button.

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“They’re snapping in the chowhall,” Big Jim told us. He must have heard the crackling of the walkie-talkie in the bubble. “Damn, we missed it. I wanted to get down there,” he said as he paced back and forth. “I knew they were going to snap. If only they would have let us go two minutes earlier!” He glanced out the window toward the sallyport area. I leaned against the wall near the shower area. Great! Many men were pacing the unit trying to look out the windows toward the sallyport to see if anyone else was coming back. Suddenly Playboy, a dining room worker, came through the unit security door. “Fuck this bullshit. I’m trying to go home.” Apparently they had opened the crash gates to allow the inmate workers to return to their housing units. “Don’t lock down,” said an older gentleman I knew. “What! Did they say lockdown?” Cash asked. He had just gotten moved onto our housing unit days before. I was not happy to see him. “Don’t lock in” another voice yelled. The guards hadn’t said anything yet, but we all knew that any moment they would be screaming for us to lock in. I moved up on the tier closer to my cell. The living unit quickly was in a frenzy. The sharks were entering the water. Adrenaline flows during chaos. Everyone was wondering what would happen next. That was when I heard the yelling and banging. “You fucking punk, snitch on me,” Cash screamed from the cell he was in. “I didn’t do nothing . . .” the voice was cut off with a heavy thud sound. I knew that sound: fists hitting flesh. I no longer considered Cash an associate of mine. But I had to tolerate his presence since Enterprise forced me to. Total fear gripped my soul. This is what I feared most about doing time. I was locked in a unit with prisoners who were going to beat down whomever they chose. It had just started a moment ago, and some already were kicking the shit out of others. During the riots, guards are not going to enter the unit to save anyone. The guards only care about their own asses. At times like these, your past haunts you. I thought to myself: Who have I pissed off in the past month while living in here? How many of these guys are gangbangers who want to bring the artillery my way? In these situations, prisoners do not care about right or wrong or why they are assaulting or killing someone. Bottled-up aggression is being released on whomever they think it should be released on. It is their in—the-moment to shine.

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“I didn’t do anything . . . ,” his words rang out again. “Snitch bitch!” Cash yelled. I heard a human body being tossed around a cell like a rag doll. Cash was clearly on a mission. Suddenly there was nothing. Cash came out of the cell and yelled at the top of his voice, “Any other snitches want some?” He was snorting like a bull. “If anyone locks in, you marks are going to get the same as that.” So I faced the inmate dilemma. It was not my first time, and it would not be my last. If I locked in, I knew damn well they could assault me in my own cell after the riot ended. But I knew the riot team was coming. When they came, they would be forty deep with suits and nightsticks. They wouldn’t care who got hurt and I didn’t really want to get beat down by a guy in a football suit carrying a nightstick. What was I supposed to do? I watched Cash walk over to the table area, still yelling. He was standing there when Catfish, an older dude with a cane, said something. Catfish was about fifty years old, no threat to him, but Cash didn’t care. “Are you a snitch?” Cash screamed at him. Without waiting for a reply, he roundhoused him, knocked him right off the table. He took Catfish’s manhood in one blow. A couple of older gang members called Cash over to calm him down. There was another man with them who did not belong on our pod. How he got into the living area I do not know, but this was the kind of security this place had. I carefully watched Cash while I thought about my options. * * * We later found out that the chowhall riot started when about fifteen gang members suddenly left their tables. Some headed for the entrance and exit doors and others headed for Mr. Robey. One entered the hallway and dragged a female staff member into the chowhall at shank point. “Shut up, bitch . . . , you’re coming with me,” he ordered. There were about two hundred men in the chowhall at the time, and most did not know what was going on. Henry had just walked into the chowhall with his cellie, Bob, and about fifteen other men when it started. As soon as they were inside, the gang members hit the doors to stop anyone else from entering, which also stopped anyone from leaving. Bob was very laid back, except for the few occasions when he snapped, like when he hadn’t gotten his property when we first arrived at Enterprise. He tended to go along with whatever was happening at the time.

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And Henry really loved to gossip, like he had when my old cellie Mark had punched Tommy because he woke us up by banging on his table while playing cards in the next cell. Sometimes his gossip got him into trouble, like when he ended up being slapped by that gangbanger in the dayroom. At any rate, Henry always wanted to be around when things were happening. So Henry and Bob decided to sit back near the entrance of the room and watch the show. The hurricane started gathering strength. Some inmates forced their way through the main kitchen’s entrance door. They looked for heavy items to place in front of the doors. They also jammed spoons into the doors to help prevent them from opening. They were painting the walls of the kitchen at that time, so prisoners painted over the door windows. The gang boyees broke up the self-serve tables and the drink machines. Someone cracked the glass in the doors to the back kitchen. Food was thrown out into the dining area: oranges, milk cartons, boxes of meat, and canned vegetables. Ketchup and mustard were thrown on the floor by the doors. They took the keys from the kitchen staff and placed all them in the back kitchen. The lady staff member dragged into the dining room was roughed up some. No one got raped. Mr. Robey was beaten bloody and eventually let go. They got Robey because of his smart-ass mouth. All the staff had a stripe of mustard brushed from their head down their back: yellow. After a while the hurricane began to run out of steam. The fellas got tired of trying to destroy items! That’s how most riots go. The lights went out. Then the gas canisters rolled in the exit doors, and the whole chowhall was filled with gas. The riot team moved in, spraying gas at anyone who was still standing and shouting, “Everyone on the floor now!” In about ten minutes the whole place was secured. A few gang members took on the riot team but that was an exercise in futility. Everyone laid belly down with zip-cuffs on. After that, everyone was forced to crawl down the hallway on their bellies to seg where they had to sit on the floor. Then they were stripped naked and placed four men to a cell. After four hours the staff handed each man a pair of boxers. Days later, some received minor clothing. Eventually everyone was moved to administrative segregation. “I did a month with a towel, boxer shorts, and a blanket,” Henry commented as he told me the story after he got out. “What a waste.”

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* * * Back in my housing unit, I stood on the tier outside my cell and watched everything, especially anyone who walked behind me. It’s a natural thing to do. I am not a gang member, so no one else was watching my back. Plus I did not see anyone trying to stop the assaults. As I stood there my heart was probably hitting a hundred beats a minute. I was suspicious of anyone who looked at me too long. When I first moved on the unit, it was mostly Aryan. Now only a few Aryans were left. Those few were gathered at the other end of the tier in a group talking. Steel gave me a wave. I assumed they were gathering together in case this thing didn’t stop. A few other men were filling trash containers with water. No one knew what to expect, but they were trying to prepare in case they dropped gas from the roof. One guy, whose cell was just down the tier from mine, walked over to me. “Why are they putting water in the garbage cans?” This was all new to him. As I explained it, I could see he was completely stressed out. His hands were shaking and his face was pasty white. “What is going to happen next? Are they going to beat up some more dudes?” “I don’t know. Just be careful. This is guerrilla warfare.” “Fuck, I don’t want this shit. I only got two more years to go. I didn’t come down here to get killed.” “Listen to me,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, “I did not come down here to get killed either. No one is going to get killed. Just be careful.” I really didn’t know if someone would get killed but I needed to reassure him in order to get rid of him. “Don’t talk about your time, dude. You don’t want to say it to someone with decades to do. Go with it. Be cool. Don’t say much and it will be okay. You got some enemies in here?” “No, I’m just stressed. I just never seen this before . . . ,” he paused, “I mean . . . there’s no guards.” “Then chill out and watch your back. It ain’t going to last any longer than 4:00 p.m. It’s 2:00 p.m. now,” I stated, not knowing how long it was going to last. Hell, this shit could go until night. “The next guards you see will be the riot team coming in to get control.” “Riot team?” “Yes, when they come, go to your cell and lock in!” “Lock in?”

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“Yes, they will hurt you as bad as these guys will.” “Did you see that dude get the broom to take into his room?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied quietly. “What is that for?” “Weapon, . . . the handle.” “Man, these guys are nuts!” “Yup.” “This is why I take downers. This shit takes years off your life. What are you going to do about the dudes who are saying don’t lock in?” “I can’t say. Just go with the flow. But when the riot team comes,” I said very seriously, “slide in your cell to lock in.” I wanted to tell him the truth but I could not. The truth was: this is a riot, and in a riot I ain’t got no friends. I wanted to tell him that out of the forty guys screaming Don’t go into the cell, thirty-nine are going to break for their cells as soon as the riot team comes. I have seen the riot team in action. You can’t win against them. They come in fast with body armor, helmets, shields, and sticks. They overwhelm a person with force. They beat a man down and/or they gas him down. For the inmates, it is a no-win situation. Why didn’t I tell him the truth? This is a riot and no one is going to protect anyone if you’re not plugged. If I told him what I thought, and if my views got around before the riot team came in, then these dudes screaming don’t lock in might come at me. With him next to me, my attention was being drawn away from the action on the living unit. I did not want to cuss at him but I could not let him stay around me. I had to pay full attention to my surroundings right now. He was scared, but so was I. I could not help him right now. “Got to get a cigarette out of my cell,” I said and stepped into my cell. * * * “What’s going on out there?” my cellie asked. “They are waiting for the riot team. I know I would rather be taking my afternoon nap.” I lit my cigarette. “Fuck, lock the damn door then.” He didn’t care what was going on around him. “Yes, . . . sure.” I replied. You must not be listening to what is going on.

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That was my new cellie. Three days before this shit started, he had been moved in, and I really didn’t know him. He thought he ran the place and figured no one would run in the cell to beat his ass. But while all this was going on he wouldn’t leave the cell. Prison politics are a bitch because I knew damn well if anyone came through that door after me, he would not lift a grape to stop them. If they came in on me, he would watch. Yet he wasn’t tough enough to pull the door of the cell closed. He never thought about the aftermath when the riot was over. I stepped out on the tier again. I was beginning to hate him already. * * * On a different living unit, my old cellie Mark got a different perspective. He told me later how the fellas on his unit went to an even higher extreme. They wrapped T-shirts around their heads so the camera on the living unit could not see their faces. No face, no identification. They took the green wool blankets the prison issued and covered the sallyport door— they tucked the blankets through the bars covering the glass. Then they covered the control booth windows—here they used both blankets and newspapers. No guard was going to enter the living unit to tell them to stop. Most of the guards were women, and they were not going to chance entering a unit with a bunch of aggressive, angry men. When they had all the windows covered, they placed trash barrels filled with water under the hole in the ceiling for gas canisters. This would prevent the gas from filling the unit. Next, sheets were twisted and tied to the door handles and the bars in the doors to prevent them from opening. Then they boiled baby oil in hotpots and threw it on the floor, in order to make the floor slippery. About twelve men were leading this unit “coup.” They were roaming the dayroom with T-shirts over their heads and laundry bags filled with bars of soap. This made the bags into dangerous weapons. They went door to door telling other prisoners not to lock in. Those who did lock in were threatened. “We’re going to make a stand!” Suddenly, gas canisters dropped from the hole in the ceiling and the riot team entered, opening all the doors at the same time by cutting the sheets. When the sound of marching feet hit the unit, twenty cell doors slammed. The twelve hooded leaders of the “coup” were crowded into two cells. Gas was sprayed and Tasers went off. Within two minutes of

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entering the unit, it was over. The twelve were zip-cuffed and lined up, kneeling by a wall. * * * Back in my unit, I got tired of standing on the tier. The dayroom had calmed down a little, and I went back into my cell to make some instant oatmeal. That is when it happened. The sound of footsteps, like marching men. The storm troopers cometh! My cellie got off his bunk to look out the window in the cell door. I knew he was not going to leave the cell. It was all he could do to get off his bunk and look out the window, then sit back down. “Come on in here, you punk bitches,” someone yelled out. And come they did. “Hey, look at this shit,” my cellie called to me. “They got suits and clubs. Damn.” “Don’t you think it is about time you closed the door?” I guess he was too caught up with watching them. It amazed me how dumb some people could be. It’s a prison. There is a riot going on. Do you think they were going to come in to offer us candy? In a riot they could come in and beat the fuck out of motherfuckers. He closed the door with a hard slam. “Come here and look at it,” he said, so I looked. The riot team was marching down the tier. “Take that down . . .” The line of men stopped in front of our cell. One was hitting the glass with his club. “Take that down, dammit.” My cellie had taped some paper to the glass to give us a little privacy. My cellie did not move. He was either awestruck or dumb-fucked. The guy looked up at the cell door number and yelled his command out again. I knew what was going to happen next. He was going to call to the control booth to have our cell electronically opened. They would have taken down the paper and probably us with it. I reached past my cellie to pull down the piece of paper he had stuck in the window. They moved on. “I really don’t want them to come in here ten deep to beat us down over a piece of paper,” I said. My cellie didn’t get it—they could have opened the door and assaulted us. All they had to claim was that we were not complying. But like so many prisoners, he had his own view of what they could and could not do. “They can’t come in here and assault us for a piece of paper!” He was pissed at me. I didn’t bother to respond.

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We looked out to the dayroom and saw one dude lying on the floor shaking. He had decided not to comply, and they had blasted him in the back of the head. My cellie swore he was faking it, but I could see he was not faking it. He was down! The riot team wasn’t here for trick-or-treat! * * * “Attention all officers, secure all hallways. Crash gates will be closing,” the walkie-talkie sitting on the desk crackled. “Stop all inmate movement.” At the beginning of the riot, Pooch was sitting in the seg unit, leaning back on his chair. The prison had been quiet for about two weeks. Now it looked like that quiet period had ended. Now what? Pooch thought. The phone rang, “Segregation, Officer Pooch.” “Poochie, we got a riot in the chowhall,” the voice spit out. “Oh, this is the chief.” There was a pause as he was giving orders to other staff. “The riot team will be coming. Be ready in seg. No showers, no recreation, no trays.” “Okay, Chief.” He hung up. Miss Reese was collecting lunch trays so he didn’t have to worry about that. Showers were done in the morning so that is good to go. He was leaving recreation to second shift so that would be cancelled. Great— maybe I’ll leave on time, he thought. When Miss Reese came to the desk area, he let her know what was happening. Eventually, four riot team members marched into seg. “We are going to have to start pulling men out of the chowhall soon. We will bring them down here and have them sit on the floor. The door coming in will be left open. I will need you to help monitor the floor and the doorway. At any sign of trouble, slam this door closed.” The one team member pointed around with his club. The men who were already in segregation were observing the whole scene from their windows. The noise was beginning to erupt from men yelling back and forth, and others banging inside their cells. Then Chief Walker entered seg. “What’s going on now?” Pooch asked in anticipation. “They just got done gassing the chowhall,” the chief replied. “Man it’s noisy over here!” “Everyone knows something is happening. They’re trying to quiet them down now.” Pooch pointed to the riot team members. They were walking around two-by-two telling the inmates to shut up.

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Riot team members have a certain appeal. When prisoners see them, they know something serious is happening. They look like a SWAT team, but instead of having guns, they have gas and three-foot night sticks. They are heavily padded and wear helmets, so no prisoner really has a chance when attacking them. They are the administration’s beat down crew. The bodies started pouring into seg. The riot squad made the inmates slide down to seg on their bellies with zip-cuffs on. Once in seg, two members of the riot squad would grab them by their armpits and drag them to a spot to sit. “No talking in segregation,” the officer struck his stick on the floor. “N-O T-A-L-K-I-N-G!” “How long are we going to have to sit here?” “I said no talking.” “Officer,” Henry called to another one patrolling the rear, “my friend over there is turning blue. I think he is sick.” He was talking about Bob. “Medical will be here. Now, no talking.” After an hour medical still did not come. Bob was turning purple. As they continued to sit, Bob fell over on his side. “Officer . . . ,” Henry tried again. “NO TALKING!” His stick hit the floor. This went on until late evening. Everyone was stiff and cold from sitting on the concrete floor. Even a brief period to stand would have been a relief. The zip-cuffs were getting irritating and men were getting mad. “Everyone, you’re going to be moved to another unit,” the order finally came.

Reflections At Enterprise, idleness and boredom were at very high levels. There was not much activity at all, and the little activity there was lacked consistency. The only consistent thing was the twenty channels of cable. Idleness and boredom are worse than a ten-hour day of hard labor because the mind has nothing to do. This helps lead to a riot: prisoners will turn on each other and on the administration just to fill the time. Over the long term, this one factor played a great part in the riot. Because of that, every prison should have a lot of programming and structured activities, even if some are meaningless tasks. This is what keepers must do if they are not going to give the kept any freedom.

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A riot is the point where the roles between the guards and prisoners are reversed: a new hierarchy provides the prisoners with all the power and the guards with none. It is an upheaval of the social order. Due to the fact that it is social upheaval, it is an in-the-moment power and control. I say “in-the-moment” since the power is not substantive nor does it have any longevity. Riots only last a brief moment in time. At Enterprise a unique thing happened: the prisoners in the dinning hall were allowed to return to their living units. They carried the news that a riot had started. This news provoked some of the prisoners to act out in the living units. I have never seen this type of escalation occur in the state system. Riots in the state system are contained much faster. In a riot, the prisoners achieve control of part of the prison. No longer are they the kept; instead they become the keepers. This is the point where prisoners find themselves feeling the most fulfilled and the most angry. It is the point where they resort to the most violence. A riot’s destructive force is magnified by the prison’s social system. The participants seem to become like characters in a play. For the prisoners, it is their moment-in-time as they wield the power that so long has been wielded against them. Some might speculate their motive is “getting even” for being treated unfairly by the staff, that it is pent-up tension and rage. But you can also speculate that, once the prisoners gain the power that was wielded over them, they want to use it. Their moment-in-time will be brief, so they want to use as much power as they can as quickly as they can. The way to do that is with violence. So they unleash that power in assaultive and destructive acts. The rage is like a hurricane tormenting employees and other prisoners, destroying all that lies in its path. The next step in the progression of events in all riots is where the guards and prisoners physically and violently clash. As the prisoners act out their violence, the guards feel called upon to intensify their own violence. They play the role of the all-American hero: they will use ALL FORCE NECESSARY to regain control of the prison. In their view, this necessarily means using more force than the prisoners are using: if he brings a rock, you bring a knife; if he brings a knife, you bring a gun; if he puts one of yours in the hospital, you put one of his in the morgue. In a riot, it is the loss of control that is so threatening, not the violence itself. I have seen this “all force necessary” philosophy used in sit-down protests where the response of the staff turned a peaceful incident into a quagmire of violence.

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The structure and dynamics of prison ensure that the guards will succeed every time in taking back the prison, but the prisoners ignore the fact that this is how the “play” is going to end. Sometimes prisoners truly convince themselves they can win! Win what? A riot is always an exercise in futility since the employees always take back control. Once the guards have control, a lockdown will always follow. Any riot requires a lockdown. Once the lockdown ends, the administration will institute a new and higher level of harassment and drop to a greater pettiness to govern the prisoners. This is how prison’s social system operates and that is how things worked out at Enterprise. Many conditions changed as a result of the riot, all for the worse. For example, we no longer had recreation or library three times a day. The chowhall was closed indefinitely, so our food came to the cell, cold, on trays. Of course, the people who actually had engaged in the rioting were gassed and transferred to Northern State where they got better food, single cells, and visits from home. Those of us who stayed behind at Enterprise endured all the punishments and lost any benefits we had.

12 Lockdown I finally broke! “You bitch too much. You’re complaining like you want to leave the cell. Before the lockdown you never went to rec, library, or even to the dayroom to play a card game.” —Anonymous N. Inmate Okay, fellas, we have to strip you first.

—One Riot Team Officer

“Fuckers, our milk has been sitting outside the cell since six thirty this morning,” my cellie said as I climbed out of bed. The riot was over. The chowhall was tore-up. And we were on lockdown. Every day started out the same way. He always complained. All the cellies I’d had were starting to blend into one. They always whined and complained. My cellies would tell other men that I was stuck-up. They hadn’t been around long enough to understand the concept of doing time in the same way as I did. I am tired of time. All I have is time and the last thing that I want in my life is another man dragging me down. Cry and whine. Do all this shit to get locked up to cry and whine. Yes, I have an attitude. That is what all those cellies of mine could never understand. They never saw themselves as chronic, whining complainers! It is hard enough to tell the next man, you whine too much, let alone have that man actually accept it. The lockdown was taking a toll on me! “Yeah,” I said to his comment about the milk. What else do you say to a comment like that? “You were sleeping when they put it out,” my cellie griped, sitting on his bunk waving his arm around. “That shit has been sitting there and no one else came by to put it in the cell.”

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I brushed my teeth without comment. And good morning to you, Enterprise Correctional Facility! It’s early in the morning, and I really don’t want to hear all the world’s problems just yet. Hell, let me wake up! “They do that shit all the time. You know that shit ain’t no good.” He puffed his cheeks and blew air through his lips. He was good at that, his little sarcastic gesture. “You don’t want that shit, do you?” “No, not really,” I replied while washing. “I’m going to tell them to keep it, watch me. I will tell them that shit’s been sittin’ there for four fucking hours. They can stick it!” Once again he blew more air. “I am going to take a birdbath this morning. I have a g-r-e-a-t need for soap and water.” It was a trick I learned long ago—changing the subject. Finally, someone came around to give us our food for that meal. She opened the door and pushed the bagged food in with her foot. “We don’t want those milks,” my cellie spoke up, very politely and with a smile. Suddenly it didn’t bother him that our bagged food was pushed by her foot. She said nothing, the door merely closed. “They’re warm,” he commented to no one in particular after she was gone. Then when she was out of hearing distance, he said loudly, “They been sitting there since six this morning,” He paused for a minute. “Stupid bitch.” Then he turned to me. “Told her, didn’t I?” “Yeah,” I agreed. Prison makes a person two-faced! * * * When you are locked into a cell twenty-four hours a day, you have to develop ways of doing things. This is why I have always thought prisoners, being prisoners, had to be good inventors. There are certain things you develop to do stuff easier and better. One is how to take a birdbath in a small two-quart sink. I emptied out my two foot by four foot plastic property bin and dragged it to the sink. This was my new tub. However, this tub had to be filled. The sink and toilet are one unit, with a push button on the sink. When you push the button and release it, the water comes out at the top like a drinking fountain. It flows very slowly into the sink and only for a short period of time. If I stood there with a bowl and bailed, I would be there for a week before my tub was filled. There is an unknown energy in prisoners, an ability to solve a problem

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to make something easier for daily living. So, out the pens and markers came. Why? Pens and markers have plastic tubes; plastic tubes carry water. So I stick one end of the plastic tube in the sink where the water comes out, create a few joints so it turns and is long enough to hang over the sink. Presto, a pipe has been laid to fill my tub. To be able to stand in a foot of warm water, splash soap and water around, bail some rinse water over my body, is much better than just taking a washcloth to my armpits. Hell, I even sat in the tub! Now this may sound simple but it is not. Any prisoner or ex-prisoner who served some years will know exactly of what I am speaking. The light bulb just goes on. To the outsider this point can be easily overlooked. It is something I had to witness over the years. I have seen so many creative inventions over the years that men had developed to make their lives easier. I have always thought that if the world had a problem, prisoners would be the best individuals to come up with a solution. Of course, as I was standing in my tub, the staff decided it was time to bring our bag lunches to us! I threw some running shorts on and took down the sheet I was using as a curtain. “What are you doing?” a young lady officer asked. She stepped right into the cell to examine my tub. “I am washing up,” I explained. “I cannot get a shower, so I got to wash up. The tub keeps my feet warm and collects the water as I splash it around.” It was more curiosity than anything. Once satisfied, she left. I was back to washing up. “Funny how them women are,” my cellie said. “She sticks her nose in to see what you are doing.” “Uh-huh,” I said talking through the wash cloth. “You know that a man guard never would have entered the cell. They would have just looked and slammed the door closed, or told you to stop doing it, then slammed the door closed. She’s just a nosey-ass bitch.” “Yeah,” I was drying off with the towel. “I guess no one trained her to stay four feet away from inmates, don’t enter cells, and certainly don’t turn your head to look at one of us. Hell, we could have grabbed her, and slammed the door shut, and raped the shit out of her before they could get her out.” “You’re right.” I got dressed. During a lockdown, guards won’t enter your cell unless the prisoner is handcuffed. Yet, my cellie was now at the

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other end of the continuum, discussing more crime! “Do you want to use my new bathtub?” * * * It’s not easy being on 24-hour lockdown with someone else in your cell. I was getting to know my cellie all too well. Every morning he was up early, complaining. He was negative about everything. I could predict his complaints. The milk is too warm. The cell is too hot. The cell is too dry. The fucking guard pushed the bag lunches in with his foot. The fucking bags look like these fags stepped on them. Even when they brought us a hot tray instead of a cold lunch he was unhappy. Fucking shit is cold. Cold cheeseburger and mush salad. I asked him if he wanted his burger warmed up. I was reheating mine with my hotpot—again, prisoner ingenuity. But he didn’t want his reheated. This is how I got it. This is how I will eat it. He always said he was going to tell them when they came to the door but he never did. Every time a guard or staff person showed at the door, he would just smile. Or he joked with them and said everything was fine. But as soon as they left, he would say something slick, knowing damn well they couldn’t hear him. Then he’d sit to gripe some more! This attitude was true of many prisoners. I finally broke! “You bitch too much. You’re complaining like you want to leave the cell, but before the lockdown you never went to rec, library, or even to the dayroom to play a card game. You sit in the cell all day long except for chow and one hour at school five days a week.” “Do you want some of this?” He stood up. He was challenging me to a fight. “Ya, right,” I laughed. His body was a marshmallow. He maybe could do one sit-up and he smoked like a chimney. Would you believe that fortyyear-old man sulked like a five-year-old and wouldn’t talk to me for an hour. On the fifth day of lockdown they allowed us out for showers. Now, a shower is one freedom allowed in prison. A shower is relaxing. Sleep is the other freedom. It’s an escape. On lockdown, the more sleep the merrier! Twelve hours was my goal but I never could reach it. I slept ten hours, and stayed as busy as I could after that. We were locked back in after our shower. Again I heard all the negative shit from my cellie. I told him I was thankful for the shower. It felt

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good. I got to the point that I hated to say anything to him because he always looked at the bad side of everything. * * * A shakedown is a part of every riot. The employees shakedown the prison. That means each prisoner’s cell. It sucks. They always throw away some of the stuff they take out of the cells, and most officers didn’t care if your stuff cost money or had personal value to you. In Enterprise, they threw away lots more than just some of the stuff. Each officer does shakedown differently. One might let something slide whereas another will not. “Okay, fellas, we have to strip you first,” one riot team officer said as the other walked past him to the far end of our cell. “How are you guys doing today?” the first officer said to my cellie and I. “Oh, just fine,” my cellie smiled. I didn’t respond. How the fuck do you think I feel, 24-hour lockdown, standing butt-naked in front of you? Plus you got me in with a two-faced bastard who tells you he is fine but whines all day long. “Let me see in your mouth. Okay, tongue,” the other officer said to me. I wiggled my tongue. Yes, dumb ass, I have a tongue. “No, no, lift it up and stick it out. Turn your head left, then right, so I can see behind your ears,” he said. I turned my head toward the cell door and saw a woman guard staring at me and my cellie, both of us butt-naked. Nothing new for prison. “All right, turn around, bend over, spread your ass and cough.” In my twenty years, that was the first time during a strip search I was asked to cough while I had my ass spread. Maybe these private staff thought if you’d cough any contraband would come out. But I thought it was just another way to remind a man who is in control. Another way to dehumanize a man. “Okay, just put on your T-shirt, shorts, and your shower shoes,” he ordered as he pulled out his handcuffs. I knew they would cuff my hands behind my back so I automatically turned around as I pulled my shirt and shorts on. He grabbed one of my thumbs, pulling it up with a death grip. I felt the pain shoot from my thumb to my elbow. At the same time I felt the cold steel of cuffs fly around my wrist. He had the cuff open in his other hand, and just flicked it on, hitting my wrist so it would

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clamp. And clamp it did! He had it so tight that when he came to put the other side on, the first side would not move. No matter, he got the second side on. I felt fingers in my armpit. He pulled me out of the cell and down the stairs to the shower area. A lot of men were already in there, all in Tshirts, shorts, and shower shoes. A lady riot team officer helped me sit down, “Remember, no talking at all.” We were pulled back to our cell about twenty minutes later. They had ripped it apart. Shit everywhere. During shakedowns, they make the mess but you clean it up. My cellie started grumbling. I started sorting through my stuff. “Fuck,” he said, “blue shit on my clothes.” I said nothing. He started pacing, “Fuck ’em, motherfuckers, rip our cell apart.” I said nothing. He yelled and hollered, cussing and swearing. “Man, these dumb Southern bastards.” I said nothing. “Why the fuck they break your cup? Why they get blue shit on my clothes?” Finally, I said something. “Look it, we all have to deal with this shit. But walking back and forth yelling at me ain’t gonna change it.” “I’m not yelling at you,” he snapped. “Who the hell are you yelling at? We’re the only two in the cell! I have to deal with this shit too. I really don’t want to be dragged down by your bitching. Tell them, not me.” Again, he asked if I wanted to make something of it. Then another hour went by before he would talk again. * * * I looked through my stuff. The blue shit he complained about was from my paints. They ruined fifty dollars worth of my paint tubes. My ruler was gone and half my drawing paper was crumpled on the floor outside my cell. That day I stopped drawing and painting! Light bulb in my lamp was broken. Insulated cup cracked. Typewriter ribbons on the floor, the torn box next to them. Things just ripped up. Damn. I was angry too, don’t get me wrong. Yet I did not see the benefit of walking back and forth taking it out on my cellie.

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“Here’s your lunch trays,” a lady officer had a big warm smile on her face. I grabbed the trays. One officer destroys my living quarters while the other smiles and hands me lunch! I never saw any prison employee put it together, state or private. This is a prime example of what makes prisons so volatile! Of course my cellie smiled at her, “I’m fine.” After another week and a half, they let our unit off 24-hour lockdown. We were allowed to be in the dayroom from eight to ten at night. It helped break the boredom, but since we couldn’t leave the pod, we were far from being back to normal. During 24-hour lockdown, many people were moved off the living pod. A couple of kitchen workers never came back after the riot. The first guy that went was the dude who the riot team had clubbed—the one I saw lying on the floor shaking. An old guy was moved right after questioning—he spent twenty minutes or more with the investigators so we presumed he was snitching. Then some other gangbangers were removed. Three Aryans, a young Black gang member, and Cash. The rumor was that the prison was going to make one unit their gang unit. * * * “Attention . . . ,” there was a pause, “A-T-T-E-N-T-I-O-N,” someone yelled in the dayroom. “Everyone come into the dayroom area N-O-W!” The day had come when we met the new warden and his assistant of security. This marked the end of the lockdown. Prisoners started to slowly shuffle out to the dayroom area to see who was doing the yelling. Our neighbor stuck his head into our cell, “Hey, the warden and some other people are down in the dayroom.” “A-T-T-E-N-T-I-O-N . . . This is the last time, everyone in the dayroom now!” “Now what?” my cellie exclaimed as he took off his headphones. Since they allowed us back into the dayroom area, he had started his old pattern of vegetating on his bunk in front of the television set. Cable TV keeps most men vegetating. I climbed off the top bunk to stroll to the dayroom. As I came down the stairs I recognized the chief of security and the warden but there were two new men: one standing quietly next to the warden and another doing the shouting. I could also see three captains and two lieutenants loitering in the sallyport of the unit.

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“I want everyone in the dayroom area, not on the tier,” the new man exclaimed. He was staring toward the upper level tier. I glanced over my shoulder to see my old friend Bob, who had been Henry’s cellie for years, leaning against the railing. They must have moved him over last night, I thought. “What the fuck?” Bob shouted back as he turned to come down the stairs. Bob sure had changed—he wasn’t the guy I knew from orientation anymore. Back then he was calm and laid back and relaxed, but now everything got him snapping. This place changed everyone but it seemed to have changed Bob the most. His hair was getting thinner and the gray was coming. Bob marched down the stairs with his chest puffed out. This new fella next to the warden mean-mugged Bob and then signaled the officers in the sallyport. Out the door Bob went. After that, all I could hear in the dayroom was breathing and the ventilation system! “My name is Assistant Warden Tate,” the new fella proclaimed. “Hell of a name,” I whispered to my cellie next to me. “Who would give their kid the first name of Assistant?” My cellie smiled but I could see he was doing his best to look like a model inmate. Anything less would be beneath his suck-ass! “You don’t want to be here,” Tate proclaimed again. “Well, neither do I!” He paused for a reaction from the masses. Nothing. “I am the new security warden!” Another pause—again, no oooss or aawwhhss. I was learning that Tate did not speak, he proclaimed! “We are shortly going to get the prison up and running. We will start recreation, it will be unit by unit . . .” “About time,” someone interrupted. Tate paused, looking over to where the comment came from. Again silence. “Then we will try the regular programs,” he paused again. “Slowly, very slowly we will open the prison back up.” Again a pause for reaction. Nothing. “There will be a great many changes. This is our prison now!” He emphasized this slowly. “Any questions?” There was nothing at first. Like he really wanted questions! I almost felt like I was back in the Northern State system. The new dictator had arrived and wanted us to know it! “Ah . . . ah, when is recreation going to start?” a brave prisoner asked.

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“Shortly . . .” “When is shortly?” “Shortly is shortly,” he stared. “Shortly is when I feel comfortable letting you out. That is what I consider shortly.” “When will that . . .” “I answered your question,” Tate interrupted. “What about the chowhall?” someone else asked. “The chowhall is now indefinitely closed. It is a privilege to eat there.” O God, here we go with the “privilege” speech, I thought. Guards always like to classify everything as a privilege. “How long is that?” someone else asked. “Indefinitely!” A man standing near the warden asked him, “Does that mean we won’t eat down there?” The warden never answered since Tate quickly interrupted, “What don’t you understand about closed? I feel it is too risky at this point.” There was silence. “Damn,” someone whispered behind me, “he just stood on the warden’s neck.” “Do you have a question back there?” “No,” the man replied. Tate stood mean-mugging. * * * “Can I move?” Bob asked as he stood in the sallyport with his hands spread out and placed above his head on the wall. “No,” the Commander firmly stated. “Wait for Warden Tate to come out.” “He could be in there for an hour.” “Then you could be out here for an hour!” “Man,” Bob whined. “Well maybe if you would have just listened from the start you wouldn’t be out here!” “Yeah . . .” “You got two choices, hang tough or go to segregation.” “I’ll hang tough.” * * * “Any more questions that aren’t going to waste my time?” Tate asked. “What about the phones? They have been off since we were let out.”

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“The phones will be back on today as soon as we finish touring the living units.” “What about our pay?” “No one gets paid over the lockdown.” “We didn’t cause no riot,” a few mumbled. “Why are we being treated like this?” “I think the food sucks on trays. It is always cold,” someone else interjected. “Yeah,” came agreement from the group. Tate shook his head in irritation. A few turned to the warden and asked the same. “This is a prison,” the warden spoke. “I realize 85 percent of you want to lay back to do your time. However, 15 percent changed it for all the rest of you.” “So why are you punishing us?” Many guys just didn’t get it. They were used to the state system where after a riot things generally return to 95 percent normal. In the private system, however, the administration was willing to omit all kinds of things. That was one thing I learned about the private system: if one man gave them problems in one area, they would quickly close down that area. They would have stopped the air from coming in if they could. The warden in his soft-spoken way didn’t really want to start debating the operations with us. “Look, I am not in charge of operations.” He gestured to the bigger fella standing next to him. “This is as good of time as any. I would like to introduce you to the new warden, Warden Garcia.” There was total silence. “I will not stand for any more trouble here,” Tate started again. “I may not be able to stop it all but I sure can minimize it.” Again silence. Tate looked at his watch, “Any more questions?” Obviously the questions stopped. The lockdown was officially over.

Reflections Control is the central feature of the structure of the prison as a human social system. In normal times, the prison is “under control”—i.e., the employees have all the power. A riot is defined as a situation in which the prison is “out of control.” That is, a riot is the point where the prison ad-

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ministration declares that it has zero control over the prisoners. The total loss of control requires a total response: the assertion of total control is accomplished through a total in-the-cell lockdown of the prison. That is, lockdowns are the ultimate tool used to control the prison. But in fact, lots of things happen in prisons that are not within the control of the staff. And in fact, a riot usually involves only a small part of the prison population being out of control in a small area of the prison. Usually, whatever is happening could also be defined as something other than a riot. The private prison preferred not to publicly call this event a riot. Publicly, they used labels like “situation” and “isolated incident” and “minor problems.” They shunned the use of the word “riot” in the media since they didn’t want the bad publicity. Internally, however, it was defined as a riot. Defining the situation as a riot creates the perception that there was a total loss of control throughout the prison. This is the point where the philosophy of taking back control by any force necessary is at its most intense. From the point of view of the employees, the entire prison is in chaos and they must regain control. When force is used, employees do not care whether a particular prisoner is a troublemaker or a saint. They only want their control back, perceived or real. For most prisoners, a riot is a situation in which they are immediately punished for being good. The vast majority of prisoners are not involved in the riot, but all prisoners suffer a whole variety of consequences for it. However, this situation cannot last very long. What occurs next after the lockdown is that a small number of prisoners are put to work making food, cleaning up, and doing a wide variety of other tasks that are necessary to the operation of the institution. There is a labor shortage within prisons and inmate labor is always necessary to keep the prisons running. Gradually the lockdown recedes and the prison returns to normal operations. Enterprise was no different. We were on twenty-four hour lockdown in our cells for about a month. Then we were allowed into the dayroom. Out of 1,500 men, about 15 had rioted. Lockdowns are often used in maximum-security prisons, but in medium- and minimum-security prisons only particular housing units tend to be restricted. In the private sector, it is customary to lock the entire prison down at any sign of trouble. The prison administration generally justifies lockdowns in terms of control—e.g., “We’ve locked down the facility to regain control.” Some-

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time prisons go into lockdown for cleaning and searching, but this also is for the larger purpose of control. For example, another private facility where I was housed did a yearly search that required the entire institution to be locked down for a week. To help control the institution they checked everyone’s cell and property. There is another view of lockdown, however—that its purpose is deprivation. Lockdown forces prisoners into their cell under 24-hour confinement. In a two-man cell, each man is forced to complete all his bodily functions in very close proximity to another man. As a very simple example, if one is sleeping, the other one is constantly waking up his cellie. This is the point where the feeling of overcrowding is at its strongest. Twenty-four hour lockdown gets old really fast. Most of these rough and tough thieves, murderers, rapists, and drug dealers start crying and whining about their prison lives and current predicament. The rest of us just try to make the best of a bad situation. If you are locked down in a oneman cell, you feel much less crowded although it’s not all that great, either. This is the prisoner’s perspective. The goal of the deprivation is to curb the prisoners’ misbehavior. It is really simple learning theory: learning through punishment or negative reinforcement. If you break the rules, punishment will follow. Prison offers few rewards for being good, but it offers many punishments for being bad. After a prisoner is totally confined a number of times, administrators seem to believe, he will learn to obey the rules. But a lockdown is total institutional punishment. Basically the administration is saying: since some of you prisoners rioted, we will punish everyone by locking you-all down twenty-four hours a day. Thus, a lockdown after a riot has the goal of wearing down the entire population, not merely the rioters. Twenty-four-hour lockdown is meant to remove the desire to riot, but it is rather arbitrary since usually the rioters themselves are in seg. Segregation, of course, also is a tool for deprivation. The types of segregation were explain in the reflections of chapter 4. Segregation is an individual punishment of basically 23-hour lockdown if you get an hour recreation. It is more structured in the sense that the guard will provide a phone at certain times, one hour of recreation is given occasionally, and you occasionally are given a shower. For example, most seg facilities provide a shower one day, rec the next day, and nothing on the weekends. In contrast, those locked down in general population lose every activity: no showers, no dayroom, no recreation, no property handed out, no

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institutional laundry, no visiting, and no phone calls. If you want your clothes washed, you use the sink or the toilet. In that sense, people in seg are deprived less than people locked down in general population. There are also other ways to deprive prisoners. These types of deprivation are less severe and more item-specific: loss of phone usage, loss of canteen privileges, loss of recreation or visiting or hobby, feeding on a tray instead of in the chowhall, or being given extra duty. Since Enterprise lacked close control over most of these deprivations, they focused on the easy ones that they could enforce: extra duty in the kitchen or no canteen.

13 Aftermath If I beat down a motherfucker I’d be straight and probably never get caught. But say I talked in the halls and I’m subject to thirty days in seg and lose everything. —Lowe Jordan We’re not running a seg hotel!

—Assistant Warden Tate

“Good morning,” Assistant Warden Tate said to all those in the office for the meeting. “I want to touch on some areas of the seg unit and disciplinary system. First, no man leaves early from seg. No time served, no credit for the days they spend there before their hearing.” Hearing Examiner Hanson nodded. “No longer will men be placed in seg without a disciplinary report. No more placing them under investigation and never following up.” “Okay,” Chief of Security Milburn agreed, “I hope IA listens.” Chief Walker was long gone. Maybe he got tired of working under Tate, or maybe he had been forced out. The rumors had been flying around that the riot was his fault. I thought that, in order to rid themselves of a problem and to have someone to blame, the corporation had forced him out with some others. They also may have given him a transfer. I don’t know what happened, but I do know that Chief Walker was pretty lax. “I spoke to them. Moss doesn’t work there any more. But I told them if they investigate and put an inmate in seg, a DR must follow.” Where Walker was gone entirely, Moss had changed jobs and now was a counselor in the prison. “What if we run out of room?” “Double up. There are two bunks in the cell!” “Chief and I know,” Hanson began, “that all men can’t be doubled.”

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“I know there are some exceptions but there are fewer exceptions than not. Just because a guy doesn’t want to double isn’t a reason to not double him. Also, stop giving them all their property. If an inmate goes to segregation he must only get the minimum required property. The canteen orders should be limited, too. I have two lists—one for what they can have and one for what they can order. We’re not running a seg hotel!” Tate kept drilling into them the need for control. * * * “Anonymous,” Lowe said as I entered work, “what’s up?” “All right now.” “Did Paul go to segregation?” Paul was that dope-smoking buddy who I used to watch hunting and fishing shows with. He is the one who had accidentally tipped the gang boyees off that I had drugs and money, which resulted in my assault. After that, I stopped hanging out with him, even though I didn’t directly blame him for what had happened to me. “Yep. He left yesterday. I guess they came and got him or sent him a pass to come on down!” Paul’s dope-smoking habit had caught up with him. The officer pat searched me coming in, and then I moved back to the rear of the laundry to continue talking. After the lockdown had ended, I actually had a stroke of luck. I got hired in the laundry. Over time, I got Lowe in to see about working there too. But Tate had insisted on a new thing coming in to work: mandatory pat search. “He will be there for a while.” “They won’t keep him too long. I was surprised that they took a UA test on Tuesday and didn’t get him until the following week. That didn’t make sense.” “No, Anonymous, they changed that now. They were putting men in seg immediately after running their stick tests but I guess on one occasion they locked up like thirty dudes that were innocent.” “I remember hearing something about that.” “Here’s what happened. The stupid motherfucker giving the test couldn’t administer it right. I don’t know what’s so hard about dipping a stick into piss then comparing it to a chart. But after he damn near locked up everyone he tested, they finally figured out he was doing something wrong. So now if your stick test comes up dirty, they send it to a lab before they lock anyone up. Tate, I guess, started that.”

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“I wonder how many they locked up without really being dirty? You know the state system will add time to your sentence!” “Right. You’ll do more time,” Lowe added. “I wondered why Paul was still walking around.” I smiled. “He told me his test had to be dirty. And as much weed as he smokes, I know he had to be glowing!” “Yeah, well, Tate also started longer lockup. They say anyone dirty is going to do at least sixty days in seg automatically. I don’t know for sure but some dudes were even saying that they are putting men in admin seg for it after they did their disciplinary seg time. Some dudes are running scared like a motherfucker.” * * * “Assault on F-unit. Staff assault on F-unit,” Chief Milburn’s walkie-talkie crackled. He leaped from his chair, all six foot five inches. Coming down the hallway he looked like a bus he was so thick. Some dudes nicknamed him No-Neck. Maybe this was one reason he made it as far as he did—it seemed to me that certain employees made it to their positions because of their size! When he arrived they had inmate Bob Jones sitting in a chair in one corner, with two small lady guards telling him Don’t move. Mr. Moss, the former fanatical IA investigator who was now a counselor, was out in the hallway holding his eye. The Commander asked no questions—he immediately had Bob hustled off to seg—a part of the take control mentality. I guess Bob finally snapped and went after some staff—a major no-no in prisons. “What happened?” Chief Milburn asked Moss. “Fucker poked me in my eye!” Moss’s left eye was red and watering. “Go down to medical and have them check it.” As Milburn said this, two nurses arrived. “Here, take Moss to medical. He got poked in the eye.” “Are you able to walk?” one nurse asked. “Yes! I can make it,” Moss said sarcastically. Milburn walked into the sallyport area, “I need to see the floor officer. I have to talk to you, too,” he said to the control booth officer. They gathered around the slot in the control booth. “Did any of you see anything?” “No,” the floor officer replied. “You?” He looked at the control booth guard.

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“I just heard some yelling and when I looked Moss had his eye covered telling the prisoner to get back. I called it on the radio.” When Milburn’s assistant arrived, he questioned the guards also. They instructed them to write a report on everything they knew. If they didn’t know anything they should write that. They investigated a little more then left. * * * “Hello, F-unit,” the control booth officer answered. “Hi, Miss Reese, this is Mr. Moss. You remember me from seg? I wanted to talk to you about the assault two days ago.” “Okay. How are you doing?” “Fine. Did you see the prisoner hit me?” “No. I told the chief what I saw. I heard shouting and when I turned you had your eye covered and ordered the man back. He had us fill out an investigation report.” “I really need your help—I want to be sure they place the prisoner in admin seg. Will you co-sign the disciplinary?” He read the report over the phone. “I didn’t see all that. How can I co-sign the report?” “That’s why I really need your help. If you remember any part of it, you can co-sign the report. That way I have a corroborating report.” “Well, I heard you two arguing and saw you holding your eye.” “Then you saw it.” “I didn’t see him strike you and I only heard you arguing!” “Miss Reese, as a control booth operator, you are aware that you are responsible to know everything occurring in your area?” “I can’t watch everything!” She started to dislike his tone. “I am saying I would hate to see an investigation start up over your actions while the assault occurred.” * * * “Hello,” Hearing Examiner Turner yelled over the noise of seg. “You are John Everson? I have your DR. You waived your hearing and agreed to handle it informally.” “Yes,” the prisoner agreed. “You were caught with a radio and twenty-nine CDs that were not yours.” He read the DR report to him. “You pleaded not guilty but told the officer you had them in your possession.” “Yeah, but I didn’t know they were stolen.”

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“Did you buy them from a retail outlet?” Of course Turner knew Everson’s answer already: “No.” “You had them, you didn’t buy them from a retail outlet, and they weren’t yours.” Everson didn’t say anything. “I don’t see any past problems to speak of on your record but this is a real problem here at Enterprise. Northern State tells us you guys are complaining about all the stealing going on in this place. I am giving you forty-five days seg from this date . . .” “Fuck, for that? Shit, they never did it like that before . . .” “Hold on now,” Turner cut him off. “I am also going to drop the suggestion of two months in admin lockup after your seg time if you don’t give me any shit. Now sign here and accept that or I will add on to it. Your choice.” Within moments Everson signed. Everyone knew it was Tate’s new thing. Everyone also hoped that with time the prison would lighten up. But, as long as Tate was here, many believed we were all doomed! * * * “Bob Jones,” Miss Brown called through the segregation door. She was the new assistant hearing examiner. She worked under Mr. Turner. “Yes.” “I have your lockup slip and disciplinary report for you to sign. Will you sign them as received?” “Yes.” “I have to read you the disciplinary. On the following time and date I ordered Mr. Jones to stop his actions in the F-unit sallyport. After we started arguing, Mr. Jones struck me and poked me in the eye. Enterprise Rule 103, assault, and Rule 98, hindrance. Officer Reese was in the control booth and observed this. Do you want to plead guilty and waive the hearing?” “No. I’m innocent.” “Okay, I need you to sign here and here.” She slid the slips through the food trap so he could sign them. After he was done she handed him copies, then handed him a memo from the Warden. He read the memo: Due to the severity of the incident, it is necessary to place you in administrative segregation. “Miss Brown,” Jones called, “what’s this?”

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“That’s your admin seg placement.” “But I haven’t been found guilty of anything!” he exclaimed. “You don’t have to have a disciplinary to be placed in administrative segregation.” “What?” “Yes. They are upset because Mr. Moss decided to quit his job. That makes it look worse for you, you know what I mean?” “Hold on, hold on. I heard Moss didn’t quit. I heard he was fired. They fired the mark for lying! He lied on the report and tried to get, or got, Miss Reese to co-sign it. She didn’t see anything that happened. I never struck Mr. Moss. I got her report from that day right in my cell! We were arguing and Moss walked up on me. He walked right into my hand. I didn’t do nothing!” He stared at her through the door window. Miss Brown didn’t know what to say. Jones knew more about the incident than she did. “This is all I know what I have here. They will be placing you in admin seg.” “But I didn’t do shit,” Bob snapped back. His whole body contorted in anger. “Well, it depends on what Hearing Examiner Turner does.” “Turner?” “Yes.” “Where is Hanson? He was one of the people who told me about what Moss did.” One thing that occasionally occurred at Enterprise was staff would tell the truth before co-signing with other staff. You’d never see this in the state system. State employees had greater solidarity. “Hanson quit, too.” “What?” Bob yelled. Miss Brown walked away from the cell door. Bob was still cussing and kicking the door. The time came for Bob’s hearing: guilty. Eleven months later they finally let him out of administrative lockup. He kept giving them trouble in lockup and they kept giving him more time. The next time I saw Bob, he wasn’t the same any more. Everything, I mean every little thing, got him snapping! Enterprise took its toll, especially seg. The Bob I knew no longer existed. Instead, there was this angry, bitter, graying man who had lost about ten years off his life. * * * “Hold up, Lowe. You have to slow down so I can understand you.” He was talking a mile a minute from the point when I stepped into the laundry.

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“Man, Anonymous, look-it. The triplets were in the hallway harassing folks as they went to rec,” he slowed his speech. The triplets were three senior officers, one of whom was about to be upgraded to lieutenant, that always grouped together. Miss Barnes and Miss Berner were about four foot six inches tall, weighing three hundred pounds! Miss Beermen was about five foot tall and weighed about one-twenty. She always stood in the middle. We called them the triplets because they seemed to always appear together. “Barnes, Berner, and Beermen?” “Yeah. They, or Berner, wrote me a ticket!” “What?” It was not customary for my guy Lowe to get into trouble. “We were on our way to rec and some dudes were coming back from somewhere. The triplets had us at the crash gate. Anyways, they’re out busting everyone who is talking: No talking in my hallway! You know the lick—every time they have their backs turned certain men throw out them comments. So another dude that walks by asks me if laundry has come back. I don’t answer—I see the game the triplets are on. All I did was this,” he gestured by lifting his shoulders and stretching out both arms. “Well, Beasty, Bossy, and Uppity decided to get me too. Berner walks over and snatches my ID from my shirt. Now I know all three of them bitches knew that I did not say shit! Here is what I just got at the hearing office,” he handed me a copy of the disciplinary report. I started reading. “That is one lying bitch. She never told me twice to stop talking since I never said shit. These are some lying-ass hoes. Why didn’t she write the truth? Why didn’t she say I shrugged my shoulders?” I looked at Lowe as he started to snap. I knew he was being straight with me. Bob wasn’t the only one Enterprise was working on. Ever since Tate, DRs were pettier and fairness went out the window. This was the new and improved guard. Tate demanded disciplinary reports, so he got them. Anyone who got written up was automatically guilty! No one was innocent. The guards tasted power and discovered that they really liked it. “Well, at least it is only a talking ticket.” I was trying to comfort him some. “Man, Anonymous,” Lowe yelled into my face. “You know they got crazy-ass Tate running shit. They can put me in segregation and take my job. You know they have been banking motherfuckers for shit like this. It’s Tate’s latest thing: keep segregation doubled up! If I beat down a

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motherfucker I’d be straight and probably never get caught. But say I talked in the halls and I’m subject to thirty days in seg and lose everything.” “Just relax some.” “Fuck relax! I got to get back up North. My own people won’t even give me a chance. That shit can go on my record. You know how they play it up North—they hold anything against you for parole!! I got to get me on the bus out of this shit! Them honkies up North are strick, but at least they are more even balanced. These Black motherfuckers don’t care!” I didn’t know what to say. My nigga was snappin’ too!

Reflections Once Assistant Warden Tate moved in with his new strategy, things started to change. It took some time but he finally started organizing segregation. He kept both disciplinary seg and admin seg full and even doubled up. He also used the riot to expand the size of admin seg—it started with a capacity of fifty men and was increased to one hundred and twenty. He also cracked down on tickets. Before the riot, a ticket like Lowe received would not have been processed—somewhere down the line, someone would have thrown it out. But after the riot, to gain full control of the prison, all tickets were processed and everyone was found guilty. Also, all tickets were subject to a segregation stay. What these private prison people didn’t care about was the fact that the state system would use these infractions to add to the length of time that the prisoner stayed in prison. Beyond the concrete changes Tate introduced, at a broader level he introduced “power” in a more organized manner. He showed the staff how to bureaucratically and systematically use power. He showed them not only how to enhance their own individual power, but also how to organize the process to increase all of their power. He created a system that was greater than the sum of its individual parts. What he did was nothing new to prisons. All prisons provide staff with power at varying levels—the structure of the prison places guards above prisoners and formally creates the guards’ power, making it an ever-present reality. But Tate had experience with power and was able to show staff how to use it more effectively.

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What Tate didn’t deal with were the staff’s own internal needs for power. Being given ultimate control over other human beings gives a person a sense of power. The sense of power is different than the power itself. We all are born with internal needs that we want to satisfy, one of which is a need for power. On the prisoner side of the equation, we have already seen how prisoners respond to this need: they create their own sub-hierarchy within the overall hierarchy of the prison. That is, prisoners respond to their own needs for power by seeking power over other prisoners. The major difference between the prisoners and guards, in this respect, is that the power granted a guard immediately becomes an opportunity for meeting their own internal needs for power—guards do not need to create a new informal hierarchy to meet these needs. Instead, their power is formal and transmitted to them by the prison structure and culture. Most prison guards do not weigh out their actions when it comes to meeting their internal power needs, just like they do not think about whether they are being cruel, brutal, or dishonest—these are the last things on their minds. Instead, they think about whether their actions please a supervisor, whether they indirectly support another guard, whether they meet the needs of the institution. Basically, they think about their actions in terms of meeting needs in the external environment. Or they simply act out their assigned roles in the culturally transmitted script of being a prison guard. The power granted a guard immediately acts as a stimulant of those needs and becomes an opportunity for meeting them. The power granted a guard can stimulate a desire to seek out power, to acquire it, to maintain it, to exercise it. Power can become like an addictive drug that will be consumed even if it entails engaging in behavior that the person believes is wrong, such as lying or treating people unequally. When one becomes addicted, then what matters is the drug—the ability to wield power—rather than the consequences of one’s actions and whether one’s actions are right or wrong. When guards use their jobs to meet their own internal needs for power, prisoners essentially interpret their actions as being unfair: one person is given a break while another person is harshly punished. That is why, when a prisoner has the choice to speak to one staff person or another, they will choose the one known to be less authoritative and more fair. In extreme hierarchical situations, fairness is the one common thread that determines a prisoner’s like or dislike for his perceived treatment.

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Most prison guards, however, are so confident in their formal possession of power that they do not care about a prisoner’s perceptions of fairness. They simply exercise power in whatever way they want! The outcome of this situation varies. It is easy to see one outcome in a sadistic guard. It is not as easy to see it in guards who, on a daily basis, use their power to give one person a break while harshly punishing another. We will see more of this in the next chapter.

14 The Masters What are you? Special or just stupid?

—Assistant Warden Tate

You and you, didn’t you hear me call you? —Mississippi Lieutenant

“Have you been out in the hallways?” Henry asked as we sat at the dayroom table. “They are checking everyone in the hallway. You can’t get past the first crash gate without a pass. They also added more signs in the hallways, too. Now I think they have them every forty feet: Walk to the right, no talking, single file line.” “Great!” They were slowly taking control of the hallways and recreation area. The masters were now imposing their wills, all led by Assistant Warden Tate. “Tate is serious about this shit now.” Henry paused to light a cigarette. “I guess they had the alcohol program dudes working in the kitchen a week after the riot.” “I heard that too. I thought they said we were all locked down. Those guys are a bunch of suck-asses!” “They said they were ordered to work. Used the completion of their program against them.” If the prison said you had failed to complete a treatment program, it would be used against you at your next parole hearing. “Yeah, I don’t believe that. I bet the guards asked and those guys said: Yes, yes, please let me out of my cell.” “I don’t know. A couple of those guys told me about it. You know the administration is capable of doing shit like that.” “True.” They were doing a great deal of shit now that Tate took over.

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“They got a whole new workforce here! In the library, they were saying that when the staff actually had to do some work, half of them quit. They had to help hand out all those bagged meals, and I guess they didn’t like it.” He smiled. “They said others just quit because of the riot— you know, got scared.” Tate was slowly gaining control. His whole personality was filling the prison. He was hard on staff as well as prisoners—I know I will never forget how he handled himself with the warden the day we got off lockdown. “They’re on people more in them hallways. Yelling at dudes like kids.” “Bossing motherfuckers . . .” “That and doing them pat searches. They never did that before. Now they are doing every one out of five.” “They sure changed this place, Henry!” I think Henry was the only person who wasn’t stressed by being here. Yet, now and then I could see it in him. With Tate, nothing was the same. * * * “Miss Reese,” the prisoner at the control booth called, “open F-unit so I can go in.” “You don’t live in there, I can’t do it.” “Come on, Miss Reese, I only want to talk to dude for a minute.” “No!” she said firmly. “They told us not to let anyone in a living unit that did not live there. I can’t do that anymore. They said if we do, they’ll fire us.” “I am only going to be a minute. How is your boss going to know?” “No!” “Well, what if I just go in there next time you open the door for someone?” “If you do, I will call the senior or supervisor!” “Come on, Miss Reese,” the prisoner whined, “why you being so hard? When you were in seg you didn’t care. Now you’re changing. Let me in.” “No! Now you ain’t supposed to even be in the sallyport if you don’t have any business. So go or I’ll call the senior on the walkie-talkie!” “Yeah . . . yeah,” the prisoner walked away. “I don’t care if you are mad,” she shouted from the control booth opening, “I am not going to lose my job over you!” Once in the hallway the prisoner met with another.

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“You two, what are you doing here in F-unit area?” “I live over here,” one responded. “You?” “Yeah, I do too.” “What cell?” “Awh, 102.” “Where is your pass?” “We are hallway workers.” “No you’re not. I just told them to go back for the day since they weren’t doing anything. Now, where do you belong?” “I was going to the barber.” “Where is your pass?” “I didn’t get one.” “Okay, get your hands on the wall. Spread your legs.” The officer pat searched them. She grabbed her radio from her waist, “Senior Zunker, come to the F-unit hallway.” Once the senior arrived and was abreast of the situation, he started questioning, “You guys don’t live over here, do you?” “Awh . . .” “Tell me what’s going on and we’ll work this out.” “We came from G-unit to see someone.” “Dope business?” “Come on now, just wanted to see him.” “Okay.” He pulled out his walkie-talkie, “Central control, send an escort to F-unit. Two for lockup.” “Hey,” one prisoner exclaimed, “I thought you said we were going to work this out!” “I lied,” the senior officer smiled. * * * Slowly the mail room started to improve and property started following the institution property list. Tate was getting the whole prison organized. The mail room established hours to mail out larger envelopes. This streamlined the hassles of getting oversized mail weighed. Next, Tate reviewed a filing cabinet of lost property claims. This was only half of them. So many people lost so much stuff the warden could have bought a new bus. Instantly, the inmate property workers were fired. New staff were put in those positions also.

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Oh, did those three boys cry and whine about their jobs. I knew a little about two of them, and they both felt the new warden just couldn’t do that. It tripped me out. They had stolen so much from the property room but they couldn’t connect that to the fact that they now were on the unemployment line. Then came the order: all cassette tapes had to go, then all CDs. Anyone with colored clothing was subject to go to segregation if they did not send it out. We were given one vendor to order from with about ten items on the approved list. Tate was getting rid of all kinds of things. But we started receiving our property much faster—months turned into weeks. Still, people were unhappy about not being able to mail order certain items. Finally, recreation was going pretty good. They were only late with the schedule by ten to thirty minutes. At first they had eight guards working in the area, then it slimmed down. In his wisdom, Tate placed a capacity on the number of people who could attend rec. So if too many people wanted to go, then sometimes our recreation was cancelled. This made men unhappy and also forced them to compete to get out the door. The hallways were the harassment zones, though. Day in and day out one kept hearing: No talking, to the right, single file line. I said no talking. I just kept my mouth shut whenever I was in the halls. Even with the improvements, Enterprise still had its shit going on. Most living units went unmonitored. They still were out of control. * * * “Where are you going with that cart?” a young new female officer asked. I was rolling back unit laundry and entered the sallyport where she was standing. Before I got an answer out she shined a flashlight into my eyes. “I’m putting it into the living unit. It is their washed laundry.” She waved the light around, then back into my eyes, “Hurry up and get done!” “Keep on dissing me with that flashlight!” I purposely walked slowly to the unit door and pushed the laundry through it. “Laundry!” I yelled into the unit. “I didn’t disrespect you with the flashlight.” She spoke standing off to the side. “Keep shining it in my eyes, then.” “I didn’t shine it into your eyes!”

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“So now not only are you disrespecting me but you are calling me a liar.” She quickly pushed the button for the security door to the hallway, “I think you should go.” “I got to get my cart, then I am gone.” “I think you should go now!” I held my tongue and left. I was pissed and wanted to lay into her. But I knew that’s what she wanted. When I got back in the laundry, my boss asked where the cart was. I told her and she was on the phone within seconds. For about five minutes she screamed into the phone. Then she hung up and turned to me, saying politely: “Okay, when you have time, go get the cart!” * * * “You, come over here,” the new lieutenant said. He had worked in another private prison in Mississippi and had relocated to Enterprise. Prisoners were passing by him heading for the recreation doorway. “You and you! Come here!” He yelled but no one stopped. “Stop the whole line,” he shouted to the officer counting at the rec doorway. “Hold up, fellas,” the officer said as a few quickly slipped through the door. The lieutenant walked to where the line was standing, then shouted at two inmates. “Didn’t you hear me call you?” “Didn’t no one call me,” one prisoner fired back. The recreation officer called to the unit to tell them to delay the next twenty prisoners. After Tate, only groups of twenty prisoners were allowed out of their housing unit at a time. “Put your hands over your head on the wall now!” The prisoners mean-mugged him. Eventually, both prisoners had their hands on the wall. “The rest of you go through the metal detector and get on to rec.” “Didn’t no motherfucker call my name,” the prisoner commented as he held his hands up. “I called to you,” the lieutenant boldly announced! He was starting a war with words that he clearly intended to win. “My name ain’t you!” The prisoner was escalating. “No talking in the hallways!” The lieutenant clearly wanted to shut him down.

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It was all about words and who would give in. Once the lieutenant commanded that there was no talking in the hallways, the prisoner gave his ground. He said no more. The lieutenant had no problem shouting and cussing at the man. One of his favorite words was “boy.” He didn’t talk—he gave out orders. The other prisoner shifted to look at the lieutenant and one hand rose slightly off the wall. “Keep your hands on the wall!” the lieutenant ordered, moving to the first man to begin to pat search his body. The lieutenant was about six foot five so he towered over the man. As he patted the man, twenty more prisoners went by watching. Other guards told them to keep moving. I was standing in the hallway waiting to go the opposite direction with my laundry cart. I watched the lieutenant plant his upper leg in the prisoner’s butt and wrap his body around him. He reached with both hands running down the prisoner’s arms. He then backed up a little doing the prisoner’s chest and waist. Once done, he did one leg then the other. As he did his legs, he planted his shoulder into the prisoner’s butt. The prisoner looked over his shoulder down at the man. His look said everything. “Okay, you can go.” He waved him off. He did the same to the second man, then got two more prisoners out of the next passing twenty men who were walking by. This time he tapped the men on their shoulders, “You and you, get on the wall.” The lieutenant started his usual routine but as soon as that upper leg touched this prisoner’s butt, the man spoke out. “What the fuck man, you gay?” He paused for a moment and whispered something in the prisoner’s ear. “I’m saying,” the prisoner shot back, “get off me.” One of the guards monitoring the hallway walked over to where the lieutenant was standing. The second prisoner moved his hands to look toward the lieutenant. The officer spoke out, “Put your motherfucking hands back on the wall.” The man mean-mugged her, “Who are you talking to like that?” The lieutenant broke up their stare down, “Just do it will you?” He finished his pat search on the first prisoner, then spoke something into the prisoner’s ear. The prisoner was excused without being able to reply.

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The prisoner walked past me talking to himself. “I don’t give no fuck about seg, gay fucker.” He looked at me. “And his motherfuckin’ breath stinks!” It surprised me after so many years how this man spoke to prisoners. He expected absolute obedience. * * * I was waiting to get into one of the unit sallyports with my laundry cart, and had the rare pleasure to see Tate in action. The more I walked the hallways, the less I wanted to be in them. “Hey, you, who the fuck do you think you are?” Tate asked one of the hallway workers coming from cleaning the staff bathroom. The prisoner stopped only to look at him puzzled. “What are you? Special or just stupid?” Tate demanded. “I don’t know what you want.” “Come here,” he pointed about two feet from the wall. “Stand there and read that sign.” “I can see it.” “I can’t hear you!” “Single file . . . , no talking . . . , keep to the right.” The prisoner exhaled. “Do you know your right from your left?” “Okay. I get it.” “Good.” Tate started to walk my way just as the sallyport door opened. Before he had the chance, I was in the door with it closed behind me. I didn’t want to even meet him. “Hi, I have laundry for the unit. Can you open the living unit door?” I said to the control booth guard while waiting in the sallyport. “You can’t go into the unit!” she firmly stated. “I know. I am just going to roll the cart in, let them unload it, and get it back.” “Okay.” As I pushed in the cart and waited, the man Tate was yelling at in the hallway entered the sallyport talking to another man. “I don’t know who that motherfucker thinks he is but he better recognize. Read that sign, my ass,” he stated. “Dawg, they be on a motherfucker. Don’t talk. Shit, up North they don’t trip about talking in the hallways.”

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“I know. Down here they cuss at you and talk to you any old way.” “You two,” the counselor said as she exited the living unit, “why are you standing in my sallyport talking?” The counselor knew that Tate was wandering around the living area somewhere. She didn’t want Tate to see anyone doing anything wrong, or she would get yelled at too. “We’re working!” “Not in this sallyport. Go on now. Get back in the living unit or hallway but not here.” They turned and headed back out in the main hallway. She was about five foot five, maybe one hundred pounds. She had her extension braids in her hair tied on top in a bun, which gave her maybe another two inches. “You, who are you?” “Laundry, waiting on my cart.” “Why are you in my sallyport?” “Your sallyport?” “Yes.” “How much did it cost?” “What?” she snapped at me. “Maybe I might want to buy a sallyport, too!” “Okay. You got a mouth. Did you check in with the guard?” “Yes.” She went to check. The guard said she talked with me but had not logged my name. “Why didn’t you give her your name?” I could see where this was going. “She never asked for it.” “When you come into a sallyport, you have to give the guard your name every time.” “That’s the first I heard of that.” I was trying to be cool since I know she wasn’t too happy because of my comment about her sallyport. “Who is your boss in the laundry? How are you able to do this without checking in? If you’re lying to me and she says you know, you’re going to segregation.” She had the phone receiver slid through the control booth opening and had the guard inside dial my boss. I could hear some of her side of the conversation: “. . . Well, how do you expect us to do our job if he doesn’t know his . . . ?” I knew my boss was sticking up for me and the counselor didn’t appreciate it. My boss was a control freak, and she hated it when other staff

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got on her about her workers. So the two of them argued for about ten minutes on the phone. I didn’t want to end up in the middle of it. The counselor finally got off the phone and said to me: “I would strongly suggest you get your fucking cart and leave.” “I need the unit door opened.” “Why didn’t you ask the officer?” she snapped back. “Because you were standing there with the phone and I didn’t want to interrupt!” The door was opened real quick. She was so mad she called central control to have the sallyport door entrance opened as fast as possible also. Believe me, as many times as I felt like really telling them off, I didn’t. Their mission was to harass. She was setting me up to go to seg, but my boss had saved me. I figured from now on I better lay low. No more smart-ass comments about the sallyport. I can’t be the Lone Ranger. * * * “Fuckers have us come out so early to stand in the sallyport,” DoubleDee said to me. We were waiting in the sallyport to go to the chowhall to eat lunch. As with many private prison employees, Tate moved on also. Once Tate left, it wasn’t long before the new assistant warden opened it up again. Tate thought it was too risky, but the new guy thought it was safe. Different assistant warden, different view of risky. It was like we were all off institutional punishment. “This is so stupid,” someone else replied. “Every day the same way,” Double-Dee said. The chowhall was reopened but going to eat was a hassle every day. If I wasn’t hungry for supper or had something from the canteen, I wouldn’t bother to eat in the chowhall. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Sometimes I liked it when Tate had us on tray service. I guess they had plenty of troubles with that. So to ease their burden, we get to eat in the chowhall again. Great!” As we walked through the sallyport door to the main hallway the guard counted, “one, two, three, . . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty, stop!” The remaining men would have to wait. The twenty-prisoner groupings started with Tate. They broke us into small groups during mass movements to prevent large groups of prisoners in the hallways. It also slowed things down a bit. Before this, they had

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sixty to one hundred men coming out to eat or going to recreation sometimes three or four deep. “No talking! And tighten up that line,” the hallway officer shouted. As we approached the first crash gate the senior officer ordered us to stop. It was like being in rush hour traffic, move then stop, move then stop. Since the riot, Enterprise had been using the crash gates all the time as a way to control movement. “Man, now they got us out here waiting.” Double-Dee said to me softly. “This is dumb. Here we stand in the hallway!” “No talking,” a guard yelled. Eventually we made it to the chowhall entrance only to stand and wait again. It so happened that Double-Dee was first in line and I was behind him. By this time the officers had about fifty of us waiting to enter the chowhall. “Twenty at a time and they have fifty of us out here,” Double-Dee quietly said. Lieutenant Ross was standing in the entrance talking to the senior guard. He was young with a great deal of power over the prisoners. To the prisoners, Lieutenant Ross was considered a punk. He loved shouting and being the master. He was Black, and many Whites thought he liked to ride Whites while overlooking what Blacks did. Ross said something and then turned to go into the chowhall. DoubleDee started to follow. “No one told you to come into the chowhall yet!” Ross fired at Double-Dee. “Get out! Back up!” “Hold on . . . ,” Double-Dee instantly shouted back. “I thought you said come on.” Ross parked his skinny ass in the entranceway. “I didn’t tell you to come!” He was now in escalation mode. Now whenever anything happened, some of the guards went directly to escalating the situation. “You don’t have to address me like a child . . .” “No talking in the hallway,” the female guard shouted as she leaned against the wall across from the entrance. “I told you to get back. Now move!” Ross ordered. “I did!” Double-Dee fired back. “Just don’t talk to me like a kid!” “I said no talking in the hallway,” the female guard said again not as loud. “When you talk to me it is Yes, sir.” “I’m not a kid!” The stare was on.

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“What did you say?” Double-Dee knew what he wanted but was in no hurry to say it. “When you address me, you don’t address me like a kid.” “No talking. How many times do I have to say it.” She was now staring at Double-Dee. “And?” Ross paused. I could see Double-Dee was making that choice — the inmate dilemma: go to seg or give in; go to seg or give in. Ross expected an answer, the female guard kept telling him, No talking. “And, I am not a kid, yes sir!” With that Ross walked away, and the female guard ordered him to enter the chowhall. Double-Dee was silent until he sat at the table. “Did you hear what that crank said to me?” “Yeah.” “He’s just doing that since I put him on the spot a month ago with his supervisor,” Double-Dee rationalized. “He’s got that slave shit on his mind,” I replied. “He isn’t getting it from me,” he said defensively. As he spoke he glanced at the next table where Ross stood jeffing with four Blacks. “Did you just see that?” “See what?” “Ross standing there talking with his brothers, then tells those other dudes, White dudes, to quiet down.” Double-Dee quickly bit off into his own anger. “That’s why the place is like it is. There is always someone who will jeff and joke with them but won’t stand up to them.” * * * Four guards hurried into the dayroom from the sallyport. “What’s this?” the man I was talking with at one of the tables commented. I smiled. The lead guard was a younger female probably about nineteen years old. She wasn’t over five foot one and had very large hips. She marched in with her belly bouncing and a very determined look on her face. Her chins looked like an accordion on her face. Each of the four guards went to a cell, two upstairs and two down. They ordered the men out of those four cells and then stood in the cell doorways to prevent anyone from entering. Two senior officers followed moments later through the unit entrance.

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“Go out to the dayroom now!” they ordered the rest of the inmates in the unit. Men shuffled out of the cells, but not quickly enough. “I said,” the guard shouted, “go out to the dayroom now.” Within five minutes everyone was in the dayroom sitting or standing watching the guards watch us. Now they were raiding the living units. After the first guard hit the unit, everyone knew something was going to happen. At that point Lieutenants Ross and Johnson entered. Johnson was smoking a cheap cigar. “This is a medical nonsmoking unit,” someone from the table area shouted. Most inmates smoked and so most living units were very smoky places. Asthmatic inmates were placed on a non-smoking unit. “What’s your point?” Johnson yelled back as he took a large puff from his cigar. “Who lives in cell 101?” a senior officer yelled. This was one of the four cells they were guarding. A couple of men stood up. “Well, get over here!” The rest of us were pat searched and locked back in our cells. “Well that made a great deal of sense,” I commented to my cellie. “They order us out of the cells, only to pat search us and put us right back into our cells where everyone has their contraband!” “They’re just doing that for a show. They only want the four cells they are standing in front of.” They proceeded to search our neighbors’ cell. “You two,” one guard stepped out of the cell onto the tier, “come up here!” The two men hurried up to their cell from the dayroom. “Where did you get these?” the young officer asked, holding up some white-out typewriter correction fluid and some thumbtacks. “You can’t have them.” “What? Why not? We bought them in canteen!” The young officer called Lieutenant Ross over. “They said they purchased these in canteen.” “We did,” they both said. Ross held his hand up waving him off, “He told you they’re not allowed. We are confiscating them.” “Then I want to mail them out,” one man said. If the prison allowed the inmates to have an item then stopped allowing it, it was customary to allow the inmates to mail out the item.

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“All confiscated property is destroyed. We’re keeping it.” * * * “Mail call,” the smaller Black guard yelled as he walked into the unit. He stood by the first table, “Smith, cell 201; Johnson, cell 105; Hanson, cell 203 . . .” Men gathered around him as he called names and cells. If the person was not present he would place the mail out on the table. “Gordon, cell 203; McNeil, cell 205; Harris, cell 210 . . .” “McNeil here,” he gestured to the guard when he heard his name. “Johnson, cell 105,” he shouted. As he stood by the table more men gathered around him. “Hey, hey; you-all, don’t stand behind me!” he ordered. Hanson came forward and grabbed his off the table. “Who are you?” he asked. “Hanson.” “Don’t just come to the table and grab shit.” “What?” “I said don’t come up here and grab shit!” He then gathered all the mail together again. “You ain’t been caring how you handed out a motherfucker’s mail, got the return address all showing.” Many men dislike that the guards would do this. They didn’t want other prisoners seeing the return address. “You know there are some sick motherfuckers locked up.” He passed out some more. A few men stood behind him again. “Look it, don’t get behind me.” As he turned around one fella was pointing to the top letter in his hand. “Jones?” “Yes.” He plucked it off the pile. “I just said don’t grab shit, and don’t stand behind me.” He took a breath, “The next one of you prime apes that grabs something or stands behind me is going to seg.” “Who the hell you calling prime ape, brother?” Jones asked. A few White fellas chuckled. “You and anyone that does something I say ‘don’t do,’ brother!” He looked around, “What you White boys laughing at?” “Who you calling White boy? Black boy!” Johnson replied. A few of the Black prisoners spoke up, “Who you calling Black boy?” “Why you let the man sit here and call you a prime ape?”

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“Yeah, who you calling prime apes?” A few others joined in. Officer Ford stood back and looked surprised. I think at that moment he realized he was in a bad situation. Everyone stared at him and he stared back. Suddenly he turned and stepped out of the unit. That was the last time I saw him. I heard he quit. * * * “Everyone in this hallway shut the fuck up!” The rookie guard announced with Lieutenant Ross standing a few feet away. We were on our way to chow. The hallways seemed like they were getting more and more intense. Tate was long gone. Others were trying to keep up the strong control but they were getting pretty disrespectful. “Hold up, now . . . ,” a few commented in the line. “You just don’t talk to us any old way!” one prisoner said. “I talk any way I like!” The guard spoke directly to the one prisoner. She was about twenty-five, female to boot. Many of the brothers found it a hard pill to swallow—a slick-talking sister went against their player, male-dominated mentality. About four dudes looked at the guard, then at the prisoner she had spoken to. “Damn,” a few whispered. The prisoner saw everyone looking his way, so he took it further. “Motherfuckers damning-me-fur! Nigga gonna show me my respect. Nigga ain’t doing no more than dude standing next to her is telling her to do! Act like a man, bitch will be treated like a man!” “What?” The officer approached the prisoner. “Get on the wall! The rest of you shut up. Single file too!” The man reluctantly placed his hands on the wall and the officer started her pat search. The prisoner mean-mugged Ross as he watched smirking. Everyone knew that Lieutenant Ross was geeking up this female rookie, letting her know she could say anything she wanted. As the officer finished with the prisoner’s last leg she forced her hand into his crotch. “Hey bitch, them’s my nuts!” “Put your hands back on the wall, now!” Ross moved in like a shark. It was his moment to show out in front of the officer and all the men in the line. Dude looked at Ross standing about two foot from him then complied. “Tell your officer to layoff these nuts!” “No talking in the hallway,” Ross fired back.

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As Dude started to turn toward Ross, his hand left the wall. “Put your hand on the wall. Don’t take them off until you’re told to.” “What . . .” “No talking. What don’t you understand about that? You just stupid, boy?” “Boy . . .” Off his hands came again. Ssssssssssssssss, Ross had pulled his gas canister. It was over for that prisoner. All officers to the northwest wing, the walkie-talkie’s crackled. Stop all movement. “You-all go back to your housing units, now!” The hallway officer ordered. He rounded us back like cows into our unit sallyport. By that time, three officers had dude laying on his belly with cuffed hands, still choking from the gas.

Reflections The role of the guard is one-half of the relationship in the hierarchical structure of prison. As discussed in the last chapter, it is the role that holds all the power—for that reason I describe them in this chapter as “the masters.” The guards’ power is formal, granted by the prison system, and it is unique to prisons—it does not occur elsewhere in human societies. This is a key distinction between the formal hierarchy of the guards and the prisoners’ informal sub-hierarchy. Even though the guards possess varying degrees of power (depending on how high up they are in the formal hierarchy), it is always power they are formally granted and formally authorized to wield. Its polar opposite in the dichotomized power structure of the prison is the situation of the prisoners, who always are formally dispossessed of power even if in reality they are able to acquire and utilize it to some degree. In my opinion, the ability of a prison to control its population depends not on its possession of formal power, but on the ability of the guards to communicate with the prisoners. Communication is the first level in control in a prison. The possession of formal power is one thing, but how a guard communicates with a prisoner makes or breaks the in-the-moment reaction that could turn into assault.

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The formal power of the guards always is projected through interpersonal communications, both verbal and nonverbal. There also always is a wide allowance for the individual characteristics of the individual guard. This allowance lets different guards establish widely differing patterns of interaction with prisoners, with considerable differences in how prisoners are treated. Sometimes prisoners are treated in a fair manner and other times in a coercive manner. Often they are treated like little children, and sometimes they are treated in ways that are even more degrading, as if they were stupid or brutal. Still other times they are treated with respect. This is why an IDEAL of sensible rule enforcement often doesn’t work. In REALITY, the magnitude of differences among the guards is so great there is no shared sense of what is sensible. I believe that there is a wide allowance for differences among guards because different guards have very different ways of handling their needs and desires for power. Some guards’ sense of self is extremely weak, which forces their need for power intensely into every interaction with every prisoner. Other guards’ sense of self is quite strong, so their desires and needs for interpersonal power have little effect on their interactions with prisoners. You may note that, at the start of this book, many staff were described as indifferent—they didn’t seem power hungry. You may also note that in this chapter, my boss stuck up for me—she didn’t seem to be power hungry either. Yet power doesn’t always manifest itself in a guard issuing orders, striking prisoners, or ruthlessly controlling every aspect of the prisoners’ lives. It can also manifest itself in a staff member choosing to not do anything. I have observed prison employees who have been on coffee break for years! Who is going to tell them any different? They hold all the power. All guards, even the ones who try to be fair, exhibit their power needs in some way. For example, when my boss stood up for me, she was exhibiting her own power needs in her own way. She was, as I noted, a control freak when it came to her own workers. No other staff member was going to tread on her turf! One would think interpersonal communication is not that difficult. However, interpersonal communication comes on a continuum from forced/coerced to charismatic/convincing. The more the guards seek to manifest power in order to meet their own needs and desires for power, the more they tend toward the forced and coerced communications. For example, these include cussing at a prisoner, and degrading and insulting

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a prisoner. Brutality is the severest forms of coerced and forced communication. As one learns to communicate more effectively, one learns that these techniques only escalate the potential situation into something greater than what it might have been if more charismatic and convincing means were employed. Coercive types of communication involve simply wielding power over the other. The other person complies not because they want to but because they are forced to. These forms of communication serve the individual power needs of the individual guard, but they also tend to create serious long-term problems in the institution. For that reason, I believe all these forms of communication show a lack of professionalism.

15 The Servants He did, Miss Johnson. You’ll make a good house boy one day.

—R. “Pudgy” Fischer —Senior Watson

“Well, fellas, it’s been a good lunch but I got to go back a little early to use the facilities before my cellie returns.” I deposited my tray and hit the hallway following a shorter Black dude. I had seen his face around but didn’t personally know him. We turned the corner where the ice freezers sat. There was a young woman officer monitoring the hallway. We both passed by her. “Excuse me . . .” I had already passed her so I assumed it wasn’t me that she was calling. But I wasn’t going to turn my head to find out. It was a convict thing, something I learned along the way. If the officer doesn’t do something to get your attention like calling your name or standing where you can’t miss them indicating that they want you in particular, you ignore them. In the state system, it is harder to do this but at Enterprise many inmates, including me, developed this habit. “You . . . , hey you . . .” I was at least twenty-five feet away from her and cruising. The man in front of me looked over his shoulder to see who she is calling. “Hey, you . . . , excuse me . . .” He looked at me, “The guard is calling you.” He said this plenty loud so she could hear it. This is a servant trick—speak loud so that the officer knows you are helping. Damn, I thought, I got to shit. “How you know she wants me, I ain’t hey-you.” “She pointed . . .”

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“Really?” I immediately interrupted him, “You the police? Up in the hall talking as loud as you can!” “I ain’t no police, motherfucker . . . ,” he stopped. He tried to sound tough but the fact was the fact: he was playing police. “Then why you doing their job? She might want you. Leave me out of it.” “Excuse me, come back so I can do a pat search.” I mean-mugged dude. He started walking again and I figured I better head back to her now that she had seen us stop. Motherfucker can’t just mind his own business, I thought as I placed hands on the wall. The unwritten rules say the guard is not someone you help. I could describe it as Con Rule #5: Never do the police’s job for them. But you could also say it is a combination of rules #1 (Don’t tell) and #3 (Always spin staff). Yet this was a rule that most inmates did not follow. So many men found it so easy to help the guards do their job. If someone else did it, they would throw a fit. Yet I would say about 70 percent of inmates will help the guards. This was how Enterprise was becoming. First the police got pettier and pettier. Then the prisoners started wanting to help the police! Prisoners who help the police are called many names. Sometimes they are called suck-ass, boot-lickers, wannabe police, snitch, or dry snitch. Sometimes this tendency to help the guards is described as a slave mentality. All of these terms are used to refer to the prisoners acting in the role of a good helper: when master rattles the chain, the servant responds. From the prisoner perspective, those people actually help guards bring more suffering onto themselves and onto other prisoners. Yet, some servants are just too dysfunctional to recognize it! * * * “Busy-busy now that there are fifteen hundred prisoners here,” Miss Hampton said to Drew. “Oh, that’s okay, Miss Hampton. I don’t mind working a little extra.” “You sure?” “Yes, it’s okay Miss Hampton.” “Do you think anyone else cares?” “No, Miss Hampton, most guys like to work to stay busy.” “You know they aren’t going to pay you for it.” “Oh I don’t mind. I think last week it was only around ten extra hours.”

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“At what you’re getting paid, it isn’t really that much.” “No, it isn’t that much.” “That little bit doesn’t matter . . .” “No. Besides, what else would I do.” “That’s true. Being in prison, what else would you want to do, right?” “That’s right, Miss Hampton. Besides, if I wasn’t here to help, then those other guys would be trying to steal and put extra in their buddy’s bag.” Drew was dry-snitching to make himself look good. Guys came out of the woodwork to take jobs and act like Drew. To a point, I almost thought I was back in the state system. Some of it sickened me. * * * “Man,” Mini-Me said, “dude has that slave mentality shit in his head.” He had finally started working. It was in the canteen, but he didn’t expect to have to work with Drew. “No shit! He’d work for these people for nothing if they told him too.” Mini-Me and John were setting up bags to organize the next unit’s canteen pickup. “Ever since they filled up this fucking place, they got us working like Hebrew slaves.” “How are you fellas doing over here?” Miss Hampton asked as she walked with Drew bringing over individual orders. “I’m tired,” John replied. “We only get six hours of pay and we have been here eight.” “Well, we’re almost done.” “We ought to put the loose bags in the cart and fill them right away instead of setting them here and then filling them. It would help save time,” Pat interjected. “This is how we did it up at Ridgewood in Northern State,” Drew responded. “This is how Drew told us you guys did it up North,” Miss Hampton co-signed. “I worked at Ridgewood canteen for three years and I know how to do this stuff.” “Think about it, you’re doing extra work . . .” “No we’re not,” Drew interrupted. “At Ridgewood, they served 2,000 men. I organized the whole canteen and we got it done. Maybe you should work a little harder.”

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Who the fuck does this crank think he is? “Dude, I ain’t getting paid for the hours I work now!” “Maybe you should find employment elsewhere . . .” “Don’t you like working here?” Miss Hampton asked. “That’s not the point, Miss Hampton. I am just trying to help save time so we can get out earlier.” “I don’t see you wanting to give your bosses any free time, Miss Hampton,” John added. “That’s different. I’m not locked up. Besides, Drew doesn’t mind.” “That’s right, Miss Hampton,” Drew interjected. “And we’re not changing anything. Everyone comes to work to be a boss when they get a job.” “Whatever, Drew.” The items Drew and Miss Hampton brought over were in the bags so they went to get more. “Mini-Me, don’t push it. She ain’t trying to hear you. Drew’s got her wrapped up with his yes Miss Hampton, no Miss Hampton, we’ll work for free Miss Hampton. He’ll put a bug in her ear and you’ll be out on the unemployment line.” “I know. I see how he counts items and watches as we fill bags. He has them doing it this way so he fills all the bags so he feels important. I dropped two candy bars in a bag by mistake and he caught it immediately. Miss Hampton didn’t even see it. Oh, that was the biggest thing since sin!” “That’s why they have him working with them. He is wannabe staff— he knows their jobs better than they do. He is their straw boss.” * * * “You back again?” the senior at the desk replied. Senior Watson and Officer Hoover were sitting in the recreation office having small talk over a cigarette and coffee. “Yeah, I got a joke for you.” “I think he likes you, Watson,” Officer Hoover laughed at Slim. Slim just stood there sucking it all in. Slim was in his twenties. He was one of the thinnest people I ever saw in prison. He was six foot tall with reddish brown hair. He wore his pants about two sizes too small and rarely combed his hair. “It isn’t one of your square-ass White boy jokes is it?” the senior asked.

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“No,” Slim replied. “It isn’t one of those stupid jokes you got out of that children’s book is it?” Hoover asked. “You weren’t looking at them children were you?” Watson asked. They both laughed at Slim. “Why did the Easter Bunny hide the eggs?” “Oh my gosh, a barnyard joke!” Watson sarcastically noted. “’Cause he didn’t want anyone to know he was fucking the chicken!” “Dumb-ass White boy joke.” “You were probably fucking chickens before you got locked up,” Watson added. “I got a joke,” Hoover replied. “Why’d the rec worker wash these two garbage cans?” “I don’t know?” Watson shot back. “Slim, you know?” “No.” “’Cause he wanted to keep his job!” “That was stupid,” Slim replied. “Not as stupid as you not doing it,” Hoover mean-mugged him. Slim didn’t get it. Watson and Hoover were a one-way street. They were there to degrade and insult him, but they sure weren’t going to take any of that shit from him. “You serious?” “You want to keep your job, don’t you?” Watson interjected. “Man, I ain’t washing them . . .” “Don’t come to work tomorrow.” “You serious?” “Let me come in tomorrow and see these cans dirty.” At this point, the game was no longer funny. It was a reminder of who had the control. * * * “Who are you?” “Henry from F-Unit,” he looked at the lady issuing legal mail from the supervisor’s podium. “I called for you an hour ago. Where have you been?” “They just told me on the unit.” “It took you that long to get up here? I don’t believe it.” “Well, that is what happened.”

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“Hey you two, don’t lean against the wall,” her attention shifted to the long line. “You must stand between the yellow lines painted on the floor.” “Man, we’ve been standing here for a half hour. What do you expect us to do?” “Don’t lean against the wall!” Her attention shifted back to Henry. “You’re going to have to go to the back of the line and wait since I did Funit already.” “Why?” Henry fired back. He told her the truth. He couldn’t help if the unit officers weren’t doing their jobs. “Because you’re late!” “Come on, fuck,” a man whispered standing in the line. “All that talking ain’t moving this line.” “I ain’t late. Your officers just told me.” “I don’t care.” “Well, it isn’t fair.” “Prison isn’t fair. To you guys, gettin’ out of bed is unfair, everything is unfair.” Henry was getting pissed but he was handling it pretty well— he was only rocking back and forth from foot to foot. “Excuse me, Miss Johnson,” the painter interrupted. “Go on, Henry, get to the back of the line.” Henry turned around and looked at the long line. He slowly shook his head no. Miss Johnson turned her attention to Pudgy, the painter, “Yes?” “How are you today?” Pudgy asked. “I’m fine, Pudgy. Just tired of putting up with everyone’s shit in this line. Why can’t these men just stand there and shut up?” “’Cause they’re cranks.” Pudgy said. “I have come to finish your yellow lines on the floor.” “Okay,” she politely smiled at him. “Did you get your stuff out of intake okay?” “Come on,” someone in the line let out. Miss Johnson paused to mean-mug the line, “See what I mean.” “Fuck them. Make them all wait,” Pudgy laughed. “I got a stack today, I will have to stay an hour extra to get done. Then these guys are coming late.” “Well, when Miss Rodriguez does it, if they’re late she just sends them back. It’s their own fault.” Pudgy again smiled. “I can do that?” “Why not?” “Come on, now,” someone again from the line said.

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“For real. Can we get our mail?” another comment came. Miss Johnson looked over the line, “Quiet . . .” “Miss Johnson,” Pudgy interrupted her thoughts, “I need you to tell all them guys to stand on the other side of the hallway for now. I can’t work with all them standing there.” “I need everyone to move to the left side of the hallway now. We’re going to paint here,” she announced. “Man,” about four guys blew out. “These people are a trip,” another commented. Eventually the line shifted and Pudgy got to work. As the line shifted, some dudes started cutting in to the front, which Miss Johnson ignored. Then she called the next person in line. Everyone in the line was getting tired, and so some guys started even more skipping in front of other guys. This was a disrespectful habit that many of the younger men at the prison were developing. “Why these people got you painting yellow lines on the floor?” someone asked near the end of the line. “’Cause motherfuckers keep picking at that blue stripe on the wall. They pick and peel it off.” “They put yellow lines outside of canteen, too,” another added. “That’s right,” Pudgy bragged, “and I’m going to get them to let me paint these stripes everywhere there is a waiting line.” “You want to do it?” The first man looked surprised. “I told them to do it!” Pudgy replied smugly. “A motherfucker’s got to stand in these lines for a while and they don’t give us no chairs. You making it so no one can even lean on the wall.” “So! Fuck these motherfuckers. They keep chipping my paint jobs.” “Why don’t you just paint the wall right so they can’t pick at it.” “You a painter, you’re supposed to paint,” another added. The tension at the end of the line was building. All these cats were mean-mugging Pudgy, but he gave no response. “Boot-licken nigga,” another fella blurted out. “No, I’m just painting the blue stripe for the warden.” “A house nigga for the warden!” “Nigga, you ain’t taking that wall home with you.” “Hey, you guys back there, no talking,” Miss Johnson interrupted. “And stop calling each other nigga.” “Nigga please!” “Who said that,” Miss Johnson stepped around from her podium.

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The guy getting his mail blew out air. You could see he was tired of the process. Just when he thought he was going to get his mail, things were getting ugly. “He did, Miss Johnson,” Pudgy pointed. “What’s your name?” “Why?” “’Cause I am asking. What is it?” “Cash.” “First of all, Mr. Cash, I am not a nigga! I am an African-American female who deserves my respect. Now, go back to your unit.” “I got to get my legal mail.” “I don’t care if you never get your legal mail.” Miss Johnson had one hand on her hip and the other was waving an index finger. “I know Cash isn’t your real name, and I don’t have to take your insults. Get on now or I’ll call the supervisor.” Cash stepped off, mean-mugging Pudgy. He wanted to put the guns to him right then and there. “I got you . . . ,” he said to Pudgy as he went by. When a brother looks at you and says I got you, he generally is saying that when the opportunity arises he is going to jump you. Next thing I knew, Captain Johns came around the corner with Cash walking right behind him. “Miss Johnson,” he approached, “why did you send this man back without his mail?” “Because he got smart with me.” Captain Johns ordered the man at the podium to back up so he could have a conference with her. He spoke quietly: You can’t send them back without their legal mail. It has to be handed out daily. If he gives you trouble, write a DR. Cash must have told Captain Johns something that got his attention—otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten his legal mail. After the brief conference, Miss Johnson called Cash to the podium. “Sign here and get your mail,” she was pissed off. The dude who was already at the podium would have to wait a little longer! “I can’t believe this. We’ll be here all day,” a man whispered in line. “Damn right.” “Slow-ass bitch.” Captain Johns stepped back to the line. “There is no talking in my hallway!” He paused to mean-mug the rear of the line. “Anyone want to admit to talking?” There was silence. “Those three were talkin’, Captain Johns, sir,” Pudgy pointed.

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Johns looked at them, “Names?” There was a pause but no one was trying the captain today. “Smith.” “Hanson.” “O’Neil.” “They were calling me a nigga, too,” Pudgy interrupted. “Pudgy, will you stop!” Johns stared at him. “Yes sir.” “You’re out here to paint. Paint your lines in my hallway, then get back to your unit. There is no talking, including you!” “Okay, Captain Johns. I only was trying to help.” “If I want your help, I’ll ask for it. I am already a little upset with you telling Miss Johnson that she can send men back without their legal mail.” Pudgy’s paint roller got to moving real quick. As Johns turned to address the line again, there were a bunch of smiles looking back at him. “What you-all smiling about? You three that were talking, go up by Miss Johnson, get your mail, and get back to your unit before I put you in seg.” That was all it took. Everyone in the line was exhausted. Some couldn’t believe that he said that. Even I was surprised, and I thought I’d seen everything. “Hold on, Captain. We’ve been waiting for an hour. These guys talk and then they get to go in front of all of us?” “You’re punishing us for just standing . . .” “Everything is punishment to you guys, getting out of bed is punishment! The next one that talks goes to seg!” He gave everyone a meanmug. “Thank you!” It was like everyone on the staff was learning the same prison-is-unfair speech. I watched Cash walk by smiling. “Next . . . What’s your name?” “Inmate, Anonymous; from G-unit.” * * * “Okay fellas, listen up,” Miss Hampton gathered her workers around. “We’re changing canteen from once a week to everyone coming every other week to reduce our workload.” “Not many men gonna be happy with that.” Most men loved canteen once a week.

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“Why don’t you just set up two shifts of workers to handle the overload?” “Well, up in Northern State you guys only got it every other week.” “You’re right, Miss Hampton,” Drew added. “Yeah, but up North you don’t have to watch your cell for thieves. Many dudes buy just enough for a week so if they get ripped off they aren’t out that much.” “Well, up North at Ridgewood we did it every other week without a problem.” “I agree with Drew,” Miss Hampton replied. “I mean, look what happened when we started having staff check each item off on everyone’s purchase. Not only did the complaints drop to zero but the inventory started coming out closer,” Drew added. “That was a good idea.” Miss Johnson smiled. “Man, dude’s got this canteen running exactly like Ridgewood’s canteen,” Bob quietly commented to Mini-Me and John. “I know since I used to work there. He didn’t think up all this shit on his own like he tries to make those staff believe.” Drew wasn’t making any friends with his fellow prisoners but he liked Miss Hampton. Bob wasn’t there a week and he already hated Drew. That was prison, though, prisoners divided. Some prisoners suck up to the staff all the time, and others did what they had to do to get by. “Yeah, funny how he makes it sound like he invented all this isn’t it!” John whispered. “Funny how staff tell us all the time we’re not in Northern State. Yet every time these suck-ass dudes tell them something to cut us off that will make their job even easier they do it!” Mini-Me whispered. * * * “Slim, you back again?” Senior Watson asked. “I cleaned up everything you asked me to outside.” “You’ll make a good house boy one day.” “Why you always picking on me; having me do extra work ’n’ shit.” “You always come into this office!” At that moment Officer Hoover entered behind him, “Because we can, motherfucker!” Slim had no reply, he just laughed with them as they laughed at him. “Did you sweep the can real good?” “Yes.”

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“You like sniffing them toilets don’t you?” Hoover looked at Watson and smiled. His face said it all: this stupid motherfucker. “Yeah, now get on out of here and don’t come back!”

Reflections The normal prisoner role arises because, in the social system of the prison, prisoners are in the polar-opposite position from the guards: guards have all the power and prisoners have none. Just as the normal guard role arises from the formal possession of power, the normal prisoner role arises from its formal dispossession. Previous chapters have discussed some specific variations of the prisoner role. For example, chapter 10 discussed the snitch role, the lowest position in the prisoner sub-hierarchy, and chapter 11 discussed riots, when the prison social order is in upheaval and prisoners have the power. These prisoner roles exist but they are uncommon. The prisoner role discussed in this chapter is the normal role that is acted out by most prisoners most of the time. The normal prisoner role in the prison social system is two-faced—one face is used for interacting with guards and a very different face is used for interacting with fellow prisoners. This is typical of prison and occurs on a daily basis. Virtually all prisoners adapt this two-faced role as a survival tool. The face that prisoners adopt in their interactions with staff is a behavioral response that helps insulate prisoners from fully revealing themselves and their feelings. It is how prisoners attempt to shield themselves as much as possible from the guards’ mood swings. Normally, this role entails acting in a passive-dependent way. It is like appearing before the king with a request—you attempt to curry the king’s favor to get what you want. You ingratiate yourself, you crawl, you grovel, you “suck up” to the king, and so on. Of course, all the time you are doing it, you don’t want it to appear that you are doing it. So in this chapter, I call this a “servant” role, in relation to the “master” role of the guards described in the previous chapter. Some people play this role much better than others. Experience is the best teacher, and seasoned prisoners can switch into the role easily. Newer prisoners may have difficulty acting in their expected role and may suffer punishment and humiliation from staff as a consequence. This experience

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educates the prisoner to know his role when interacting with guards. Slim is an example of a prisoner learning his role. When prisoners act in a passive-dependent way, they basically are trying to manipulate the guard’s internal needs and desires for power. For example, this is what someone is doing when they appear before the king with a request—they flatter the king’s sense of his own power and importance. This is what the prisoner is doing with all that ingratiating behavior. It is as if the prisoner thinks: if I satisfy this guard’s internal needs and desires for power, then perhaps the guard will satisfy my needs by granting my request. This strategy often doesn’t work but it’s usually worth a shot, especially since the prisoner has few other options for getting what he wants. For the prisoner, there is a major problem with doing this. The problem is that attempting to manipulate a guard’s needs and desires for power tends to stimulate those same needs and desires. And as mentioned in the reflections to the previous chapter, when guards are meeting their own internal needs for power, they tend to engage in coercive and forced communications. That is, they tend to curse at the prisoners, treat them like children, constantly making demands, be insulting and degrading and sometimes even brutal. So when prisoners act in a passive-dependent way, it often elicits a response from the guards that is deeply offensive to the prisoner’s sense of self. All of this can be seen above in the story about Senior Watson’s interactions with Slim. Yet many prisoners see no other alternative for prisoners to get what they want. Thus, dealing with guards can be very frustrating for prisoners and many of them can end up feeling very angry. However, any expression of these feelings greatly reduces the chances that the prisoners will get what they want. Even feeling angry and frustrated can be risky, since the feelings might show on their faces. Again, this situation is no different than what might happen if one appeared before the king with a request. Guards have all the power, and they expect prisoners to “act appropriately.” For prisoners, this means they must always present only the one “face” to the guards, within the two-faced prisoner role. In order to deal with this situation, some prisoners develop a technique that they use before dealing with any staff, which sometimes is successful and sometimes not. The technique involves first exhausting all of the anger and frustration that has built up from past experiences of interacting with the staff. Only

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then do they feel prepared to go into an interaction with staff and flawlessly maintain the appropriate “face.” Of course, they cannot do this with the staff, so in a sense they present all that anger and frustration to their fellow prisoners. That is, before any dealings with staff, they dump all their anger on their fellow prisoners. Thus, the staff see and hear the petty complaining and whining, the constant smile, the good natured person who feeds into the staff’s every desire. The fellow prisoners see and hear a bitter, frustrated man with a great deal of hatred, operating with constant low-level rage. Here you can see the origin of the second “face” of the two-faced prisoner role. But this is not the only source of that second face. Like guards, prisoners have their own internal needs and desires for power. Since they cannot achieve any substantial power in their relationships with guards, they look for it in their relationships with other inmates. So prisoners develop a very sharp pecking order. They create a sub-hierarchy in their own prisoner society that mirrors the hierarchical relationship they have with the guards. With guards they are “one down,” and so with other prisoners they seek to be “one up.” The disenfranchised turn on themselves. This is one reason why prisoners can seem so petty. They have nothing else left. What seems of no value to an individual in the outside world may have great value to someone in the inside world. Thus, due to the hierarchy of the environment and the role they are forced to play, the prisoners learn how to manipulate and how to displace anger. When interacting with the guards, a prisoner manipulates. The guards only see one side of the prisoner’s personalities. When dealing with other inmates, the prisoner displaces anger. The other inmates only see the other side of the personality. Sometimes this rigid two-faced prisoner role breaks down. The most obvious breakdown is when a prisoner suddenly swings out of the passive-dependent “face” in an interaction with the guards and adopts an angry-hostile stance. This more truly reflects the feelings of the moment, but it is not a common stance since it immediately leads to seg. If you did that with the king, you’d get your head cut off! There are other more subtle ways that prisoners are able to deal with staff without being totally passive-dependent. In the social system of the prison, all the control is in the hands of the employees, but prisoners are able to skim the pot to access some control for themselves. In particular, there are various activities in which prisoners can engage to highly irritate

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the staff. For example, talking to staff only when necessary and ignoring them whenever possible are very useful and nonviolent means to irritate the staff. Inmates can gain great pleasure in driving staff nuts! This behavior also tends to scare the staff, so they back off somewhat on their harassment. However, many prisoners do not follow this pattern. Many are willing to allow themselves to be controlled entirely by the staff. Personally, I think that is degrading to the inmate. Some of the explanation for this behavior, in my opinion, lies in the fact that these inmates want some of the same power the staff has—they obtain pleasure from believing that they are pseudo-staff. Yet, I do not want to discount the three emotions that seem to govern many prisoners in their lives: envy, greed, and jealousy. These emotions may be a by-product of powerlessness, but I do not think that powerlessness has totally caused these emotions. I believe these emotions were present in these prisoners before they were incarcerated. The powerlessness of prison magnifies these emotions, which then leads to a great deal of manipulation, stealing, and, yes, power-hunting. Some prisoners even identify with staff more than they identify with other prisoners. Some feel they are innocent or do not have “bad” crimes. Some prisoners think they are special and better than others. Sex offenders, for example, often are very controlling and hierarchical. They seem to gravitate to positions working within the prison where they will have some sort of power over other prisoners and close contact with staff members. I have also observed that behavior in individuals who have been incarcerated for a great many years. This type of behavior actually makes other people in prison have a harder time. This is due to the fact that employees start judging all prisoners by the ones who go out of their way every day to please them. These behaviors increase the rage, bitterness, and violence in a prison.

16 The Power I don’t give a fuck, I told you to give me that fucking tray! —Unit Floor Officer I don’t understand why [other staff] do that. They don’t talk to me that way, they don’t talk to people out there that way, but they come to work and want to talk to you guys that way. Just ’cause you’re prisoners don’t mean you deserve to be disrespected. —Officer Stewart, Laundry

“Hey Lowe,” I greeted him once he checked in at the officer’s desk. “Don’t look like too much laundry today.” “All right. No it don’t” “I got to walk to a few units today.” “Be careful, the three triplets are in the hallways harassing people.” “They sure got that down like a broken record.” “That’s that Warden Tate shit. I thought they would lighten up after he was removed.” I smiled at Lowe. “I guess they decided that Tate beatin’ the shit out of his girlfriend looked bad.” When he left, the rumors flew around the prison that he had been arrested and charged with domestic violence for assaulting his girlfriend. I guess he took the hierarchy of the prison home with him. Lowe laughed: “Dumb-ass nigga ain’t got no power here no more!” “Transferred him right out,” I moved closer to Lowe to speak softly. “Them head-honkies running corporate headquarters said our housenigga had to go!” Lowe busted out laughing! I was glad to see him smile for a change. Enterprise was wearing on him. Now he was on high blood pressure pills.

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“I couldn’t believe they made him go because of that. I guess they thought we won’t follow his orders any more once we heard the news.” “I doubt that, Lowe. But you know how these prison people think.” “I think motherfuckers would have harassed him more than anything!” “True.” “And them bitches in the halls, talk to a man any old way!” “They want that control. Look what it has done. They have everyone thinking about them disrespectin’ us in the hallways and no one wants to riot anymore. They figure if they do, they will come down on us even more.” “I don’t know . . .” “Shit, listen to what everyone complains about. How order-some these people are being.” “I agree to a point, but they have removed a great many troublemakers,” Lowe noted. “Have they removed a great many or have they just rounded up a few and mixed them in with the rest and segregated some others to scare everyone else?” “Shit Anonymous, I don’t know. I just know they are letting their power go to their head. You know, us Blacks have a saying, give a nigga some power and it will go to his head.” “Like the saying, straw boss.” “Yeah, ’cause they ain’t got no real power. I would just think they would know that and have some empathy for us Blacks doing time. I don’t mean they should come down on you guys, but they would just have some type of better understanding.” Lowe paused, “I mean like that one lieutenant calling motherfuckers boy all the time. Or those young females saying, motherfucker put your hands on the wall.” “I never thought of it like that . . .” “Shit, these are my own people doing this shit,” he interrupted. “Niggas always want to come together, talking about the system and racism; they want to march and protest; then talk about supporting one another. But they come to this prison to dis you and me, and treat us like they think we are savages.” “Course, we’re society’s pieces of shit, we’re criminals. They could care less about helping us out. They only care about gettin’ that tax money . . .”

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“I know all that,” he started again, “but I thought these Black folks would have some kind of understanding that they are treating us like dogs. Them honkies out there treat them like dogs. So they come in here to do the same thing to us!” Lowe gave me one of his looks, “They ain’t no better than them honkies up North. But I’d rather be around them honkies cause at least I know where this nigga stands! These people, fuck . . .” “I hear you, dawg,” I replied softly. “I got to get the fuck out of here. They can’t transfer me soon enough. I got to go! These people are going to drive me nuts!” I gave Lowe a quick hug. “You got to do what’s right for you.” “I mean . . . ,” Lowe stopped what he was going to say. “Hey, Meeko.” He greeted Meeko, the staff barber. Once Meeko was there, Lowe didn’t enter back into our conversation. This conversation was privy only to us old cons and between guys. * * * The assault rate on staff had decreased. The prisoner-on-prisoner assault rate also had decreased although it was still higher than in the state system. Then there was a sudden increase. On C-unit, Preacher decided to take on the gang boyees. He was dealing drugs and they found out he was scheduled to leave to Northern State. Well, some fellas wanted their shit now and he could not produce it. On his first trip to segregation, they took all his electronics. On the second, they took everything he had except a few minor items. Both trips, he had to go to the hospital to be stitched. Later I learned they were trying to find his stash of cash. He had hidden it with some food items, which they didn’t take. What made it so bad was that a few of the officers were in on the treasure hunt. They were willing to steal it right along with the prisoners. This was nothing new. I had watched them destroy Hank’s cell three times based on a rumor that he had four hundred dollars in cash. Coincidentally, one officer was present for all three searches, and the first one he did by himself. I thought he might have been looking for that money for his own personal reasons. Then on F-unit a guard was jumped. He came to the unit with lunch trays and juice. In some of the units, a few individuals always would swarm the juice cooler and take most of the juice so that the others would get none. This always brought complaints.

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So on this particular day, the guard decided to tell prisoners not to swarm the juice. However, it was the way he did it, Get your asses away from the motherfucking juice cooler now! Someone punched him in the head as he was yelling. The commanders had told him to take control, but they didn’t teach him how to do it. Then there was this short military senior officer who had a real mouth on him, again a strong controlling master. One day, he laid into Mini-Me, yelling in his face: What the fuck is your problem? Who the fuck do you think you are? Nine out of ten prisoners would have accepted this disrespectful behavior but Mini-Me would not. He snapped right there in the hallway and seriously tried to hurt the guy! So they carried his little ass to seg. The guards were getting more and more controlling and disrespectful as they learned that prisoners would allow it. They eventually convinced themselves their day would not come. Then Mini-Me came along and wouldn’t take it any more. After Mini-Me and a few others’ assaults, the captains, lieutenants, and some senior officers started carrying gas canisters like street cops wore a pistol. Things were slowly escalating. Next, the fellas had a blown-up argument on the ball court. Rec was close to ending so the guards called it and sent everyone back to the living units. Then it flared in the hallways. As the inmates were walking back to the unit, guards went from telling them no talking in the hallway to shut up, to gassing them. The officers were trying to maintain a strong presence and control the prison, but their means of doing this was not working. They thought that “acting tough” was the best way to handle groups of prisoners, but this made matters worse. They were segregating more prisoners and depriving people of privileges, but all the degrading and insulting only inflamed the prisoners rather than controlled them. * * * “I be telling them folks,” Miss Stewart said with her Southern drawl, “you have to talk to you guys like people.” Miss Stewart was one of our first shift laundry officers. A senior officer had just left the laundry with a cart to pack up OneWay’s items. One-Way had assaulted a female officer with a food tray that he had kept from lunch. “You got that right,” Lowe interrupted.

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“I knew she was going to get it,” Miss Stewart shared her thoughts. “You know how you can just tell someone is going to get beat up by someone else? I knew with her mouth and attitude she would get beat up.” “I could see that just entering the sallyport and hearing her mouth,” I briefly commented. I was not used to sharing these types of thoughts with a prison guard. “She was the one that was shining that flashlight in my eyes.” “I don’t understand why they do that. They don’t talk to me that way, they don’t talk to people out there that way, but they come to work and want to talk to you guys that way. Just ’cause you’re prisoners don’t mean you deserve to be disrespected.” “Motherfuckers don’t see it like you do,” Lowe commented. “I tell these new younger officers that they got to talk to you guys like men. Don’t be so quick to yell, holler, and write a disciplinary. That doesn’t do any good. If you reason with a man, you will earn his respect.” “And them disciplinary reports slow a motherfucker from getting out,” Lowe added. “Them guards don’t realize what they are doing to a man.” * * * “DOC says there’s nothing wrong here.” Double-Dee laughed. “They found Drinks guilty of beatin’ up dude. These people running this place are no better than we are.” He handed me the newspaper to read. “Tate’s a criminal, probably a treejumper. Dude wants to beat motherfuckers up in seg. Hell, they can’t even control their own staff!” A few days later, the bombshell hit the media. Everyone was reading the article in the newspapers from back home: Northern Daily Journal, November 7: Attorneys for Northern State prisoners housed in the private prison in Fisherville, Southern State, filed a complaint for civil rights violations and racketeering. Tactical riot teams are used to unlawfully threaten and aggressively assault prisoners. “Monitors from the DOC have visited Enterprise and we are more than satisfied with their operations of running the prison,” said Dan Claus, spokesman for the Northern State DOC. The suit alleges riot teams stunned prisoner’s testicles, sprayed them with pepper gas, choked and hit them, and used racial slurs.

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This story was released moments after a former lieutenant employed by Enterprise Correctional Facility was sentenced for assaulting a prisoner and for obstructing justice by attempting to cover it up. John Wilson Drinks, 37, of Mississippi, took a plea agreement banning him from working as a probation officer, law enforcement officer, and correctional officer. He was sentenced to six months home detention, two years probation, and a fine. Judge Ralph Waynewrite also dropped the charges of lying to the U.S.Attorney. “Mr. Drinks has no prior record, took responsibility, and seemed remorseful,” Waynewrite said. He also noted,“You can not imagine what type of abuse he might suffer in prison once all those criminals learned of his past. He didn’t seem to have the criminal mentality I am accustomed to.” Waynewrite insisted he was not using a double standard because Mr. Drinks received no prison time.

* * * “Inconsistency, that sums up this place, inconsistency,” Double-Dee replied. Four of us sat there at the dayroom table waiting to go to the rec yard. “Yup,” Henry interjected. “Shit, ain’t got no better for us after the riot. I mean overall, there are less fights but it hasn’t run any better. And dudes still fight!” “Look at the time, it’s 2:50 p.m. and our recreation is suppose to start at 2:30 p.m.” Double-Dee tapped his watch. “For all we know they aren’t going to let us out . . .” “They still do stupid shit; not telling us. Look how they changed the library schedule around and told no one,” Henry noted. “Look how they come to the laundry and change how we are doing stuff in the moment at a whim,” I pointed out. “I think there are less fights partly because they got rid of ten dudes that caused the riot and locked up like fifty of the gangbangers they thought were involved. Plus, look at how they run the hallways, hassle after hassle,” Double-Dee added. “They got semi-stricter—they sure are quick to pull the gas canister. But them dudes on one side of F-unit still walked over to the other side trying to start a fight. They don’t care, they don’t want to improve anything,” Henry commented. “Plus, they don’t weed out the assholes on the housing units.” “What do you think, Anonymous?” Double-Dee asked. “You’re not saying much.”

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“I think it is staff turnover that fucks up the place. One day this dude is running it, you get use to his petty shit, then the next day someone new is running it and he changes shit. Look at the wardens; four new wardens and all the new captains and lieutenants. They can’t get nothing straight since they can’t keep anybody. This is what allows them to talk to a man any way they want. Cuss and insult you real quick.” * * * “Inmate, Anonymous,” the senior officer yelled onto the living unit. He already had ten guys surrounding him with questions. “Yes?” I asked, stepping up to the group. “Pack up now. They want you down to intake immediately. They were supposed to tell you earlier but somehow they didn’t. So you need to hurry!” “Hallelujah, I’m on the bus!” I had a grin ear to ear. I was being transferred out of Enterprise to a different place. I made it, I thought. Four years of hell and back. I was finally leaving. As I entered the bus, I kicked off any dirt that was stuck to my shoes as I whispered: Fuck you Enterprise! I wish they would bulldoze you under! The bus rocketed down the road. I dipped and dozed as I sat in the seat, not asleep but not awake. Suddenly, a Black hand with a cuff on it was grabbing my kneecap, giving me a squeeze. I looked over. “We’re out of this bitch, my nigga!” Lowe was smiling at me ear to ear!

Reflections In any prison, the question becomes: who has the power? Prisoners and staff are always engaged in a struggle for power and control—the microsocial system called prison naturally incorporates this struggle. At Enterprise, the process by which staff tried to gain control over the prisoners had only limited effectiveness. The private prison system was able to keep men from escaping over the fence—they had the power to restrain the prisoners’ bodies and to keep them within the prison walls. Yet, once in the facility, it seemed like each prisoner was dropped into a pit to fight for his own survival.

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The day the facility opened, there was a lack of control over the prisoners, and violence in the institution immediately flared. It wasn’t like poor management ran it down. It was more that there was no management there when it started up. Someone just opened the front door and let the prisoners in. It was like they were running a great experiment with the lives of other human beings and they didn’t care about the outcome. It was an experiment for the worst. Not only did Enterprise’s employees torment the prisoners but the prisoners tormented each other. The lax attitude of the employees and the zero rule restrictions allowed the men more freedom inside the facility, which then led to many of the problems with chaos and violence. Is a prison responsible for the safety of the prisoners who are within it, or are prisons just inherently dangerous places in which violence and brutality are to be expected? What you believe is the correct answer to that question will be influenced what you believe about the answer to a second question: does the management of the prison have a responsibility for the safety of the employees who work there? It sometimes amazes me that many people will hold that management has a responsibility for the wellbeing of the employees in a prison but not necessarily the well-being of the prisoners. By the way, the courts have determined that prisons are inherently dangerous places in which violence is to be expected!

17 Factors Contributing to Violence and Its Control

This book tells a story about violence and its control in a particular prison. Enterprise had many problems that were accompanied by and seemed to cause sharply escalating violence. The violence culminated in the beat down crews that assaulted Anonymous and many other inmates. Eventually a brief riot was followed by a prison lockdown. After that, the administration then began asserting control by increasing the pettiness of rule enforcement and by solidifying the guard role, making it more polarized to the prisoner role. In each chapter, the description of specific events at this particular prison was followed by reflections that attempted to draw out broader themes related to prisons in general and especially to violence and its control in prisons. Now I want to tie all of those reflections together into a broader argument on that subject. This chapter discusses factors that I believe are associated with violence and its control at Enterprise prison. Some of these factors exist in every prison because they are essential to what a prison is, while other factors are more specific to Enterprise prison and its particular story. There is no clear dividing line between these two types of factors since some factors are common to all prisons also incorporated particular characteristics or aspects at Enterprise. In addition, even the factors that are narrowly specific to Enterprise illustrate more general points about how violence originates in prisons generally and how it can be controlled. * * * 1. Hierarchy of Power. A factor that seems common to all prisons at all times is the hierarchy of power: guards have all or almost all power and prisoners have little or no power. This bifurcated distribution of power is

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central to the nature of a prison: the power of the guards is inevitable, formal, and substantial. This unchangeable fact about prisons interacts with a second unchangeable fact: human beings are susceptible to the seductions and enticements of power. Both prisoners and guards have internal needs and desires for power, and both find these needs and desires stimulated, although in different ways, by power’s radically bifurcated distribution. Many people in each group are able to resist the temptations of this situation, so violence is by no means an inevitable result. But in the real world of real prisons, the playing out of this situation, in which flawed human beings respond to the unnatural distribution of a highly valued resource, is the most general cause of violence. Within this general situation, there is enormous variation. On the staff side, there are “horizontal” variations in that different employment positions encourage different ways of using power—e.g., a bubble guard deals with groups of people quite differently than a laundry guard deals with four men on a shift. There also are “vertical” variations in that the different ranks encourage different styles of power usage. For example, the further up in the hierarchy, the more likely the person will be bluntly authoritative—e.g., in chapter 10, the captain who had me put in segregation simply ordered it and offered no explanation. These horizontal and vertical variations can play themselves out in interactions among staff, as illustrated in chapter 6 by the pushing and pulling that went on between the chief of security, Officer Pooch, and Hearing Examiner Hanson in seg. Beyond these horizontal and vertical variations, the reflections in chapter 14 argued that staff have wide latitude for individual differences in how they exercise power. The reason is that different people have different ways of handling their own internal needs and desires for power, which results in very different ways of displaying power. Prisoners interpret all this variation as arbitrary and unfair treatment: one prisoner is given a break, the other sent to segregation. Regardless of staff’s motivation for such actions, they tend to result in widespread anger and frustration, which then is a general source of violence in a prison. For prisoners, the reflections to chapter 15 argued that the lack of power leads to a two-faced mentality—one face interacts with staff and another face interacts with prisoners. The main function is to displace anger and frustration away from interactions with staff and onto inter-

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actions with other prisoners. The necessity of this stance derives directly from the hierarchy of power: the powerlessness of prisoners in relation to the power of staff. But the two-faced mentality also underlies much of the violence in prisons. Violence against other prisoners occurs because of the displaced anger and frustration, and violence against staff occurs when the two-faced mentality breaks down and the prisoner suddenly switches into an angry/hostile stance. Beyond the basic need to displace feelings, powerlessness also shapes the codes for prisoner behavior, including the older “con rules” and the newer “real rules” discussed in the reflections to chapter 8. In many ways, these codes reflect the prisoners’ internal needs and desires for power in a situation in which power is radically unavailable. These codes, of course, lead to violence in a whole host of ways. Finally, the unavailability of power encourages the development of a prisoner sub-hierarchy within the prison social structure. This was discussed in the context of the “snitch” role, also in the reflections to chapter 8, which is at the very bottom of the prisoner hierarchy. The prisoner sub-hierarchy encourages violence in various ways—e.g., snitches are to be tormented for their behavior. All interpersonal dynamics between guards and prisoners, as well as all the interpersonal dynamics among prisoners and among guards, must be understood within the context of the hierarchy of power. This includes all violence and all attempts to control that violence. In that sense, the hierarchy of power is the underlying source of nearly all violence in prisons. 2. Staff Communication Styles. Within the context of the hierarchy of power, the ability of staff to communicate effectively with prisoners has the greatest impact on violence and its control. One may think this is fairly straightforward but it is not. As argued above, the hierarchy of power tends to stimulate internal needs and desires for power in both prisoners and staff. And as argued in the reflections to chapter 14, the ability of staff to communicate effectively with prisoners is strongly impacted by how they filter those internal needs and desires. Staff who use communication primarily to meet their own inner needs and desires for power tend to engage in styles of communication that emphasize force and coercion. These staff may curse at prisoners or use derogatory and degrading interactions. They appear domineering and intimidating, bossy and rude. In extreme situations they may harass or even

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brutalize prisoners. In my view, degrading a person with brutality and insults may produce obedience in the short run but may also increase violence in the long run. On the other hand, staff who keep their internal needs for power out of their communications with inmates necessarily use styles of communication that are more charismatic and convincing. These staff must be able to elicit what they want from the inmates, since they do not simply order the inmates to do things. Not all staff are able to do this. But many staff, like many prisoners, radiate personality characteristics like leadership, charisma, and charm as well as dominance and intimidation. Staff with these characteristics are able to control the prisoners through the force of their personality. They normally get much more of what they want from the inmates and have many fewer problems than do staff whose communication style emphasizes coercion and force. A charismatic and convincing style of communication tends to be associated with a more orderly prison, while a style that emphasizes force and coercion tends to be associated with many more problems, including violence. Many differences in communication styles simply reflect individual differences among staff. But there are two ways in which communication style seems to differ systematically. The first is location in the prison hierarchy. As a staff person moves up the hierarchy, from guard to shift commander to the chief of security to the assistant warden of security, the person is granted more formal power which the person is supposed to use for the good of the organization. However, I believe there is a marked tendency for the person to increasingly use formal power to meet internal needs for power. My experience is that the higher a staff person is, the more that person tends to use communication that emphasizes force and coercion, including communication that is insulting and degrading. This has a tendency to increase violence in the prison. Second, gender socialization seems to systematically affect communication styles. In our society, women often are raised to be more passive, express feelings, and discuss matters while men often are raised to be more active, more dominant, and less expressive. These differences in socialization tend to result in some differences between how male guards and female guards tend to communicate with prisoners. In general, women are more likely to use charismatic and convincing communication styles and men more likely to use those that emphasizes force and coer-

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cion. Thus, in general, women guards have better control over and have fewer problems with inmates. However, there was one variation on this pattern at Enterprise prison. At Enterprise, most of the women officers were Black, and the prisoners immediately compared them to the mostly White male officers we were used to in the state system. The Black female officers mostly did not exhibit the inherent dominance and authoritative collective personality that is often displayed by the White male officers in the state system—inmates sometimes describe this as “the White man’s disease.” As with women officers in general, there are many reasons to think that their communication style was better, on the whole. The problem was that the male prisoners, particularly the Black male prisoners with their “player” culture, tended to express the dominance characteristics typical of males in our society generally, particularly in their relations with women. At least some of the time, this increased the violence as the male prisoners played out their dominance roles and the female guards reacted by expressing feelings and discussing things. 3. Cost Control. The state paid a fixed amount of money—a per diem —for each day that each prisoner spent in the private prison. In order to make a profit, the private corporation had to reduce operating costs below this amount of money. The corporation therefore paid bonuses to department heads to keep costs down, and these department heads then came up with creative ways to cut costs. Cost control directly affected violence in the institution in a variety of ways. For example, segregation units are quite expensive because they require so many staff, and Enterprise tried to get by with as little segregation as possible. As a result, inmates who engaged in violence would go to segregation for only a short period of time, or they might not go to segregation at all. Basically, there was little or no punishment for being violent at Enterprise prison. And so there was more violence. Beyond that, the contract between the corporation and the state specified what services had to be provided to the inmates, but the corporation could cut costs by determining how those services were actually provided. For example, the state required that each food tray have 1,400 calories on it. To save money the corporation eventually put everyone on a highcarbohydrate diet that included a great deal of beans, pasta, rice, and white bread. This met the requirement of 1,400 calories but it provided poor nourishment and little satisfaction. For the most part, the only type

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of meat that was served was ground turkey. Otherwise, the meat was processed (e.g., lunch meat or hotdogs) and sometimes it was outdated. Outdated meat could be purchased at a discount. Finally, leftovers were recycled in subsequent meals. The food services met the requirements of the state contract but the food itself generated considerable dissatisfaction among the prisoners. This increased frustration and anger, and eventually led to more violence. Venture Corporation could be quite creative in reducing costs. For example, it had negotiated lower property taxes in Fisherville as a condition for building Enterprise prison there. But they also had encouraged Fisherville to pass new taxes aimed primarily at prisoners to make up for the lost revenue. So, for example, the “newspaper article” in chapter 1 mentioned that Fisherville was collecting a local telephone phone tax on inmate calls back to Northern State—this particular phone tax only applied to the prison. As described in chapter 3, at one point the cost of a twentyminute collect call to Northern State was $18.50. Prisoners were not allowed to use alternative calling methods—e.g., phone cards that could have been purchased by family members at a cost of five or ten cents per minute. The phone company made a profit, Enterprise was paid a fee by the phone company for being permitted to operate the inmate phone system, and Fisherville taxed the phone call. Everyone made money except the prisoners’ families, who were paying the cost of the collect call. Being so far from home and having phone calls cost nearly one dollar per minute was another source of anger and frustration. Another way cost control affected violence and control was the degree of training which the corporation provided the employees. The minimal training they received reduced their ability to effectively control the inmates. This led to greater violence through its impact on the ability of staff to do their jobs. 4. Staff Not Doing Their Jobs. When staff are not doing their jobs, the prison is always going to be in trouble. Examples of this can be seen in reflections to various chapters. For example, staff failure to provide the six basic functions of a prison—rec, property, mail, phone, laundry and food —is discussed in the reflections to chapter 3. Staff failure to protect the prisoners’ needs for safety and security is discussed in the reflections to chapter 4. And a major problem was that staff’s failure to control the inmates’ free movement gave rise the beat down crews, as discussed in the reflections to chapter 5. At Enterprise, there were four basic reasons why staff didn’t do their jobs: they were untrained and unseasoned, they were

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overloaded, they were intimidated, or they were lax or uncaring. These are discussed in turn. I suppose that from point of view of Venture Corporation’s board of directors, every staff position that has a body in it looks just fine, but in reality few staff knew their jobs. For example, I worked in the laundry area for over two years and had to deal with eight different officers who were assigned to that position. On average, that means I dealt with a new officer every ninety days. How well do you think they knew their job of overseeing the laundry operations? Unseasoned staff do not know the population—they do not know which inmate is a troublemaker and which is a saint. They don’t have a clue about hiding places for contraband. They do not understand that sometimes prisoners speak to them in order to distract them while an assault is occurring. All these things are learned from working with inmates over a long period of time, and from working within a particular area of the prison over a long period of time. Enterprise had 80 percent staff turnover in a year, and staff received very little training, so almost all the staff were unseasoned and untrained. Many staff also suffered from job overload. At Enterprise, control booth (“bubble”) operators in the housing units sat behind glass and had to monitor either two or three dayrooms (depending on the size of the living unit) that were located in different directions from the control booth. They had to watch sixty cells on the outside walls of each of the dayrooms. They had to open and close security entrance and exit doors, log men in and out, answer the phone, distribute movement passes, and sort the mail for the unit. I remember one guard asking a brand new rookie if she wanted a break from the control booth, saying: “I don’t want you to quit after your third day!” Sometimes even dedicated control booth operators would get so overloaded they would just stop working and ignore everything! The floor officers in the housing units were guards that are similar to “beat cops” in that they make rounds through housing units. There often was a shortage of floor officers due to high turnover, so that the rounds didn’t get done at all. Without the rounds, the authoritative physical presence of guards in the housing units is lost. If the unit was short a floor officer to patrol the living units, then the control booth operator’s workload increased even further. Employee overload leads to worker frustration and poor performance. The result was that the staff’s diminished ability to do their jobs actually reduced their control and added to the violence.

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There were other problems besides unseasoned staff and job overload. There was, for example, a problem with intimidation. Some staff did their job but overlooked much of what occurred because they felt intimidated by the high level of violence in the prison. Newer staff learned about this from stories told by older staff, or they would actually see first hand that staff can easily get assaulted. Some guards were lax, which is different from being lazy. These guards seemed to feel that being locked up in a place like Enterprise was punishment enough for the inmates, and they didn’t want to be authoritarian. For example, I was served with a DR by a lieutenant, who was told to lock me in seg. After asking me what happened, he said he thought I was no trouble and that there was no point in putting me in seg. You might think this is admirable, but this attitude in staff makes them targets for inmate manipulation. Prisoners see these staff as “marks,” and there are always those who will try to take advantage of them—it is in the prisoner’s propensity. Finally some guards just plainly did not care. A laundry officer once told me they did not pay her enough to care. While I was delivering laundry to the units, I used to see one guard in particular was often sleeping —he said he was moonlighting on his “real job” so he had to catch up on his sleep at the prison! 5. Inmate Resources. Also because of economics, there were few resources for prisoners at Enterprise. Resources are material things and activities that provide prisoners with constructive activities to fill their days. For example, the library at Enterprise had very few books and the law library itself was in a closet. To give you an idea of the problem, consider the resources for recreation at Enterprise. In the state system, outdoor recreation in the yard is the most important thing, and the dayroom is secondary. In the prison where I was before coming to Enterprise, the recreation field was opened from 8:00 a.m. until sundown. There were tables strategically placed, two baseball diamonds, three full basketball courts, a volleyball court, and a track, all on well-groomed grass! But at Enterprise the dayroom became the primary recreation area because of a whole variety of problems with outdoor rec. First, the staff were poorly organized in terms of moving inmates to the yard. Rec was supposed to be called seven days per week, but sometimes they would not call rec at all and they would not bother to tell you. This was frustrating. On one housing unit where I lived, the senior officer typically called rec

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only four or five days per week and almost always a half hour late. When this officer was replaced, the next senior officer called it seven days a week and always five minutes early—if you were late, the door was closed and he wouldn’t open it for anyone. Again, more frustration. When you finally got out of the housing unit, the guards often didn’t have the key to the yard and would have to go get it, so you would wait some more. Even if they had the key, they weren’t supposed to open the yard until the tower guard was on duty. Tower guards often seemed to be late, and in the mean time your rec period was ticking away. Once you got on the yard, the resources were limited. There were eight four-man steel tables and three small weight machines. The tables got extremely hot during Southern State’s summers and couldn’t be used. Also, one or two of the weight machines almost always had broken parts, so most of the time there was only one fully functioning machine. The rec yard itself was a pasture with a volleyball court, a small baseball diamond, and a track. There were also three full basketball courts, two of which were indoors. The problem was that many Whites liked baseball while many Hispanics liked soccer, but there was only the one pasture so both could not be played at the same time. But many Blacks liked basketball and there were three full basketball courts. This resulted in continuous friction among the three racial groups, something the prison didn’t need. As a consequence of all these problems, many men gave up on outdoor rec and just stayed in the dayroom where there were twenty channels of cable TV. You might think this is pretty good, but when men sit around day after day doing nothing but watching cable TV, they eventually start causing problems. There are many other examples of limited resources. But in general, when resources are limited, competition for those resources increases. Whether it is a weight machine, a basketball court, or a book, this can cause problems. 6. Physical Design. All prisons have aspects of their physical design that help support violence. For example, a number of years ago a consensus developed that large chowhalls were one of the most potentially dangerous areas in a prison. Most prisons now have eliminated these, either by eliminating centralized feeding or by dividing the large chowhall into several smaller dining rooms. This was a common design element in older prisons that supported violence. Enterprise had many design features that supported violence, most of which were there because they were cheaper. For example, Enterprise had

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many “blind spots”—places that staff cannot see most of the time. One example was the “boxing bathroom” near the weight area where there were repeated assaults. Interestingly, this bathroom adjoined the inside offices of the guards, but they could not see into it because it was on the outside of the wall. Another example of blind spots was on the living units, where staff could not see into many of the cells unless they walked up to the cell door. All in all, the building had so many blind spots that it was a miracle staff could see anything. Beyond all the blind spots, the prison incorporated some concepts from county jails that work badly in an institution for long-term prisoners. For example, in the living units the officer sat behind glass in the enclosed “bubble.” I suppose that the rationale for this was something like the philosophy of keeping the animals in a cage! But there are many reasons why this makes the units difficult to manage. One is that sound doesn’t travel very well. In the public areas of a prison there is always constant noise. Sound is a key indicator of trouble. When the noise level suddenly drops or stops, something is drastically wrong. But if the officer is sitting behind glass, he or she often is unaware of variations in sound levels that would be clues to something happening. In addition, when the officer is behind the glass, he or she is removed from the immediate surroundings of the prisoner. This in itself influences the perceptions of the inmates— i.e., there is the lack of the physical presence of an authoritative figure. These types of things tend to increase violence and reduce control in closed living units. As discussed in chapter 2, the building itself was shoddy construction, which led to many problems. For example, some guys had thousands of ants invade their cells. Sometimes the guards did not get the supplies to rid them. Imagine your bedding is full of ants and you have no way to get rid of them. This added to the frustration and the general sense that the corporation didn’t care. There were also the general aesthetics of the institution. What, I want flowers? Well, not exactly. But Enterprise was concrete and steel—it had no aesthetics whatsoever: no tile floors, no carpeting or buffers to reduce echo, no multicolored paint. Seeing something pleasing now and then— windows, soft lighting, wood trim, short hallways, study areas, semi-useful desk or shelves—can actually make a difference. After I left Enterprise, I was in another private prison with an old side and a new side. The new side was built very much like Enterprise, while the old side was similar but had wooden cell doors and ceiling tiles that absorb sound. More

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men wanted to be on the older side because of how it looked and felt— i.e., the aesthetics. Aesthetics indirectly help men in that they have a longterm calming affect. Some other physical characteristics of Enterprise also influence the violence. For example, a few more cameras could have made a big difference. But cameras cost money and so do operators to watch the monitors. Without them, prisoners aren’t so dumb that they can’t time a guard who is making rounds. 7. Overcrowding. Another physical design element that came from building a cheap prison was that everything was small and crowded. Enterprise had small dayrooms and everyone was doubled-celled from the beginning. Everything felt small, dense, and crowded, and the absence of aesthetics made that feeling even worse. When considering density and overcrowding, the most important place to consider is the cell. Cells were described in chapter 2—in general, they were poorly constructed and lacked adequate facilities to safely keep an inmate’s belongings. Prior to the 1980s, single cells were standard and double cells were less common. By the 1990s, double cells were the standard. This change was due to massive increases in prison populations, combined with “get tough” policies and cutbacks in prison budgets. The attitude was: Hey, you committed a crime, right? So to some extent the overcrowding was not the fault of the corporation that ran the private prison. But research shows that high density and crowding has many negative effects. For example, with children density and crowding causes greater psychological stress, reduced cognitive development, lower school performance, and decreased decision-making ability.1 Psychological disturbances, rule violations, and health complaints increase; disease is spread more easily in high-density populations (i.e., flu, colds, TB) and this causes increased arousal which wears on the immune system.2 In Southern prisons, Cox noted a “high relation” between density and violence.3 Reductions in crowding and density are associated with reductions in violence—e.g., a Mississippi prison that reduced its population by 30 percent found that its fights were reduced by 60 percent.4 Although these studies are not definitive, I believe that a single cell allows inmates a sense of privacy and control over the immediate environment within the restrictions of living in prison. I also believe that the widespread acceptance of double cells adds to inmate stress and ultimately adds to violence. Some men are able to handle this increased stress, but others are not. My

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own experience leads me to believe that a minimum of 40 percent of the cells in any prison should be single cells. 8. Prisoners’ Attitudes. The above factors largely influenced violence through their interactions with prisoner attitudes. You might think prisoners always have bad attitudes, but there were reasons why Enterprise had a particular problem with this. Most prisoners arrived at Enterprise Prison with the preconceived notion that this private prison would operate pretty much the same way as a prison within the state system. Prisoners assumed or expected the services to be equal—after all, the corporation claimed to “do it better and cheaper.” But there were fewer services for the prisoners and those services were substandard compared to the state system. What the inmates believed should be happening was not what was happening. Potter’s expectancy theory of locus of control suggests that people generalize expectancies about the nature of reinforcement in the world at large.5 I believe that the prisoners generalized their expectations about how the prison was supposed to operate. They held certain expectations as to how staff should work, how requests should be answered, and how food should be served. The incongruence between their expectations and the reality of the prison’s staff doing little drastically increased the frustration and stress. These differences lead to an increase in violence. Besides expectations, the other crucial factor related to prisoner attitudes was that most of the inmates were upset about being sent out-ofstate. Whether or not it had any validity, they tended to believe that being sent six hundred miles from their homes was a violation of the law or at least a violation of their rights as prisoners. In an obvious sort of way, each inmate then shared his views with other inmates who held similar views. This led to what Renn calls social amplification, a process by which a group moves toward its own created consensus.6 As the men in Enterprise shared their views with one another, their individual dislikes about being sent out-of-state were magnified. Men discussed their frustration and anger in their cells, in the chowhall, in the library, at recreation, in the chapel, and in the school area. Ultimately, it didn’t matter whether their beliefs and opinions were correct. Rather, everyone began to believe the “amplified consensus.” The employees of Enterprise did nothing to try to address this problem of attitudes among the inmates, or to reduce the stress that it generated. They actually could have addressed the situation in a variety of ways but

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instead they ignored it. Eventually, the rage and anger fed into the violence. 9. Widespread drug trafficking. At Enterprise, inmates lived in a very stressful environment with few resources to productively occupy their time, so there was a great demand for illegal drugs. At Enterprise, it was one of the major causes of the fighting and assaulting. One difference at Enterprise was the staff had a greater role in smuggling drugs into the prison. Visitors usually are the number one way that drugs are smuggled into the prison. But we were six hundred miles from home so the inmates had almost no visitors at all. Even so, the overall drug trade doubled if not tripled. If visitors were not the majority importer, it had to be staff. The prisoners provided the demand for the drugs and the staff provided the supply. After the drugs were inside the prison, the free movement allowed the drug trade to flourish. Men could hustle drugs all over the joint fairly easily. Drugs directly cause violence in prison in various ways. Rival gangs fight over turf. The “have nots” get jealous of the “haves” and rob them or demand drugs from them. Inmates steal to pay for drugs. Some dealers purposely string customers along with “pin” joints to keep them addicted and in debt. Others collect items or money for drugs they cannot deliver or had no intentions to deliver. Still others seem to have a propensity to get “high” and beat up other men. Why? Because they can. Drugs also indirectly influence violence in a number of ways. In prison, drugs are expensive—the mark-up is 100 percent to 200 percent! Many men live on $20 to $30 a month. If they buy drugs, they go without something else: soap, toothpaste, snacks, and stamps. This lack of the essentials of daily life can lead to fighting, stealing, and strong-arm robbery. Also, on-the-edge addicts get cravings, cravings lead to tempers flaring and short fuses. Addicts also can get frustrated with a limited or irregular supply. Any street dealer will tell you an addict, especially a crack addict, will do anything to get high—this occurs in prison. Beyond that, drug trafficking tends to deteriorate the whole social system of the prison. Addicts spend a great deal of time focused on the drug, and everything else is secondary. Non-addicts have to live in close proximity to a large number of addicts, which wears them down. This results in a generalized disintegration of the social system, which supports the violence. Everything bad about the drug trade on the streets is much worse in a prison. What the prison environment does is add enormous amounts of

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stress to the process. It is intensely cutthroat. In addition, prisoners are very selfish people who desire to get what everyone else has because it just isn’t fair that they don’t have it. And so it all leads to violence. 10. Racism. Racism has been present in every prison in which I have spent time.7 It permeates and pervades all aspects of life. It determines where you go, how you go, whom you go with, what you do when you arrive, whom you arrive with, and what you say when finally there. Racism is so pervasive in prisons that it can infect almost anything. For example, the above discussion of prison resources mentioned how the layout of the prison yard caused tension among three racial groups. The racial tensions are there to begin with, and then something causes them to flare up. The end result is even more racism. Although nearly anything can aggravate racism, there also are specific things that incite and sustain racism in prisons. The hierarchy of power, as described above, allows for much individual variation in the use of power by staff, and some staff do not pay sufficient attention to racial implications when they act differently with inmates of different races. The staff may have good reasons for their actions, but prisoners see racism everywhere and staff need to be conscious of the implications of their actions. Other staff have overtly racist motives when they use power unequally. Some even actively promote racism among the inmates—e.g., a White guard who verbalizes disdain for Blacks to White prisoners. I believe that any type of racism by staff increases the violence rate. Staff racism increases violence in the inmates who are discriminated against because of anger and frustration. It also increases violence in the inmates who are favored because they believe they can get away with anything. To some extent, this is also true of staff who are not racist but who are insufficiently conscious of the racial implications of their actions. As discussed below, gangs typically use racism to organize themselves within the prisoner society—it is a surefire way to build in-group solidarity. But like gangs, racism can be used as an excuse to explain any event that staff or inmates otherwise don’t want to think about. Any negative event in the life of an inmate can ultimately be assigned to racism if it involves someone (either staff or inmate) of a different race. And anything that staff doesn’t want to further investigate can be attributed to racism. The main difference between Enterprise and most other prisons was that the racial composition of the staff was reversed—in every other prison where I have served time the majority of staff were White, while at

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Enterprise the majority of staff were Black. So at Enterprise, the White prisoners blamed everything on the racism of the staff, while the Black prisoners blamed it on their stupidity and incompetence. At other prisons, it was the reverse. Despite the change in the racial composition of the staff at Enterprise, some things remained the same. The traditional racial justifications on both sides seemed to remain the same—e.g., in chapter 9, Dore represented the Black view and Hammer represented the White. But some things did seem to change. For example, at least among the White prisoners, I thought actual racism increased but official complaints about racism decreased. In the state system, Blacks attributed racism to White staff and spoke about it to other prisoners. They also verbalized their complaints to the staff. At Enterprise, Whites attributed racism to Black staff and frequently spoke about it to other White prisoners, but they largely did not verbalize these complaints to staff. They also attributed most of the problems at Enterprise to the stupidity of the Black staff, which both came from and fed into their racism and seemed to make it much worse. 11. Gangs. Like overcrowding and racism, gangs are pervasive in prisons. I cannot remember any time or place since I have been in the system where there were no gangs. Northern State does not have as great a gang problem as many other states, but gangs were different at Enterprise than they were in the state system. First, I thought a greater portion of the inmate population were gang members at Enterprise. As discussed in the reflections to chapter 9, this includes both the traditional gangs that are imported into the prison and the “defensive” gangs that are formed in the prison. Estimating the extent of gang membership in any prison is difficult. Staff in the state system like to promote the “gang problem” in order to secure more funding from legislators. In private prisons, staff like to blame problems that they can’t solve on gangs as a “catchall.” So estimates of gang membership are usually exaggerated. Asking prisoners if they are gang members doesn’t work because many gang members deny it and many others say they are gang members to enhance their rep. My own estimate, based on knowing members, seeing markings, and watching groupings, is that about 60 percent of the inmates at Enterprise were gang members, while in the state system it was more like 20 percent to 40 percent. Second, I thought that some guards at Enterprise were gang members, whereas this did not occur in the state system. I heard this information

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about guards from various gang members, and on occasion watched a few guards give gang handshakes. Some staff, approximately four to six, worked as a team to smuggle in drugs for the gangs, and I saw some staff purchase weed from gang members. No staff person ever said to me directly he or she was a gang member. But the perception that some of them were gang members affected the level of control in the prison. The inmates wondered about staff loyalty: is it to the well-being of prisoners or is it to the drug trade? Gangs increase violence in many ways. Exaggerated masculinity is used to establish a pecking order, i.e., who is the toughest. The pecking order is one of the principle sources of racism—our group is better than yours. The basic goal is power in numbers, and this leads to violence in order to intimidate other groups. Once you intimidate, your rep does the rest. At Enterprise, gangs committed strong-armed robberies. After a robbery or theft, the victim may decide to take revenge, but the intimidated staff tended to look the other way. Turf wars did not really exist at Enterprise because rival gangs stayed out of each other’s areas. But there were many ways that gangs lead to an increase in violence at Enterprise. 12. Prisoner-on-prisoner Theft. To a great extent, gangs used their power and organization to steal from other inmates—the violence of the beat down crews was a means to this end. The ideal of the prisoner code says not to steal from your fellow prisoners, but in reality many guys steal what they can when they can. The norms of the prisoner code increase the frustration and violence associated with being a victim of robbery or theft. As mentioned in the reflections of chapter 8, the con rule of “get or be got” essentially supports the notion that you must get even with a thief. Part of this is exaggerated masculinity: don’t be punked. If you know someone has stolen from you and don’t do something about it, then you’ve been punked! This is why inmates sometimes do not want to know who stole from them. Stealing can be reinforced by staff. At Enterprise, some of the staff had “light fingers”—e.g., chapter 3 described staff stealing out of the mail. Staff stealing helps legitimize the prisoner-on-prisoner stealing. Next, staff were lax when it came to enforcement—this also reinforces it. Some simply allowed it to happen—e.g., when D. P. took Tone’s TV, the guard said it wasn’t their responsibility that it happened. Prisoner-on-prisoner stealing was one of the most important ingredients in the rise of the beat down crews. If the stealing had been held in check somehow, the beat down crews would have lost their principle pur-

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pose. If Enterprise had acted firmly when this problem began, the much greater problems of violence would not have arisen later. 13. Continual Moving of Individuals. Enterprise had a habit of moving men around. In four years, I lived on six different housing units (including segregation). Other men were moved as many as eight or ten times. To some extent, the individuals who were frequently moved were troublemakers, the people who were dominating the housing units or stirring the pot by manipulating and instigating others. Moving men was also a response to other possible problems—e.g., at the beginning of chapter 7 the “Aryan” pod had too many Whites so the unit manager moved men to break it up. Moving people around also occurred in the state system, but there was a major difference. In the state system, guards have a much greater physical presence in the housing units. Because of the presence of the guards, prisoners cannot control or manipulate the housing units nearly as much. But guards were only rarely present on the units at Enterprise, and so inmates had much greater control. So it was in order to respond to this problem that Enterprise frequently resorted to the “move-an-inmate” strategy. That is, this strategy actually was an alternative to putting guards in the housing units and exerting control over them. That would have been much more effective but it also would have been more expensive. Besides that, some staff saw this as a way to exert their own power, particularly when the inmate didn’t want to move. As the violence increased on their living unit, they would look for a way to display their power, to establish that they really were in charge. How could they do this? By relocating the dominant inmates on the unit. It all made sense to them. So this policy was one aspect of a communication style that emphasizes coercion and force. As argued above, this communication style may produce compliance in the short run but it tends to generate problems in the long run. There was yet another problem with this policy. Stundstrom and Altman8 noted that there always were dominant prisoners in housing units, but that when these inmates were moved from the unit, aggression and conflict increased. Eventually, over time, the housing unit restabilized and the violence was reduced. This finding matches my own experience. I believe that the dominance structure in a housing unit is part of the sub-hierarchy within the prisoner’s society, as discussed in the reflections to chapter 10. Every housing unit I have lived on has had dominant prisoners as part of the hierarchy. When the old sub-hierarchy is removed, a new

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hierarchy will surface. So I believe that moving the dominant inmates upsets the dominance hierarchy within the living unit. When the dominant individuals are moved out, then the remaining inmates test the dominance hierarchy to see who will come out on top. The result is a period of increased conflict and violence, which eventually results in a new dominance hierarchy on the unit. At that point, the violence declines to normal levels. Thus, Enterprise’s move-an-inmate strategy often had the unintended effect of actually reducing their underlying control. When they removed the “problem” prisoners, the housing unit would go into a period of chaos until another inmate rose into the dominant position. The housing unit then would restabilize, but then the new dominant inmate might be moved out. So this policy meant that housing units were continually in chaos. A much better policy would have been to place guards physically in the housing units at all times, and to only move inmates in unusual situations. 14. Deprivation. As discussed in the reflections to chapter 12, deprivation is negative reinforcement to curb a prisoner’s rule-breaking behavior. It is essentially learning theory—the prisoner learns that certain behaviors produce certain unwanted consequences and so the prisoner does not behave that way again. The greatest deprivation the staff can impose in a prison typically is putting the person in a segregation unit. Here men are housed separately under 24-hour lockdown, except for showers and one hour per day recreation. In the state system, the penalty chart gives around 200 days in seg for an average infraction, and some infractions carry 368 days. The shortest time on the chart is 60 days. The state does not always give the maximum time, but they often give considerably more than a month. Enterprise’s operation of seg was different both because it was so arbitrary and also because it was so short. As discussed in chapter 6, any infraction could get you thirty to forty days in seg, but almost nothing got you more. Often you got out even earlier as they shuffled men out of seg to make room for those coming in. The effect on violence operated through the prisoners’ expectations. Thirty to forty days for any offense was a gigantic change, plus a man didn’t lose good time to extend his sentence. So inmates interpreted segregation as barely being deprivation at all. There were other aspects to the situation at Enterprise—e.g., most staff didn’t care to write DRs. I was written one but it was never

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processed. In this type of system, it was like there was no punishment for doing wrong. Many prisoners held the view after going to segregation that it wasn’t that big of an inconvenience. What seemed to be more upsetting was the arbitrariness of enforcement—e.g., in chapter 6, Bob was typical of the attitude of men not released as fast as others. It was also very upsetting to get out and find some of your property had been broken or stolen. But these deprivations didn’t have any effect on controlling inmate behavior. So at Enterprise, prisoners had a whole new attitude about seg. The problem with seg at Enterprise, as discussed above, was that segregation units are expensive and so there were not enough facilities to meet the need. As a consequence, inmates were shuffled in and shuffled out without any discernable pattern. This eliminated the potential for learning to take place—there seemed to be little relation between what you did and the punishment you got, so no one paid any attention to it. Thus, at Enterprise, segregation did not exert much control over the behavior of inmates. Besides segregation, there are many other deprivations the prison can impose on inmates to control their behavior. In the state system, minor penalties are handed out frequently and they are the major deprivation tool used to control inmate behavior, rather than segregation. One will lose recreation, canteen, or chowhall eating. Enterprise, however, largely didn’t use these minor deprivation devices because they require staff time and effort, and staff often didn’t bother. Most people believe deprivation works to control the behavior of prisoners, yet it can be a double-edged sword. Some men have great internal needs for attention and they constantly seek it from the external environment. The deprivation system in prison provides a great deal of attention. In addition, the deprivation system is the main source of attention that the prisoner receives from the prison’s formal hierarchy of power. I believe that some men actually interpret attention from the hierarchy in a kind of parental way and actively seek it out. Hence, some men violate the rules purposely to get attention of the prison hierarchy. Other men may seek attention for other reasons—e.g., in chapter 6 Camcho stood naked in his seg cell waiting on the female guard to walk by. The point is that deprivation is not always effective in controlling inmate behavior and sometimes even precipitates the behavior that it seeks to control.

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Another problem is that the deprivation system typically presumes that, with each new rule violation, the response must be to increase the deprivation. This is the age-old argument we find even with children— you punish them if they do it once, and you punish them even more if they do it again. One problem is that this policy can start with lax punishments—we saw this in the misbehavior preceding the riot. Lax punishments encourage people to continue the behavior because nothing much happened to them. After the riot, the consequences for the same actions were greatly upgraded but by then it was too late. Another problem arises when men seek attention through the deprivation system. Then the whole process becomes counterproductive because the more wrong they do the more attention they get. Finally, if it is used too extensively, deprivation can increase violence instead of reducing it. Too much deprivation can generate a cycle in which the violence leads to deprivation as a control measure, but then the deprivation itself leads to more violence. Thus, deprivation must be cautiously used as a control measure or else it may end up being counterproductive. This is particularly a problem if the system is locked into the view that subsequent violations require greater deprivations. A better policy is to provide a consistent level of firm punishments for infractions, rather than starting out with lax punishments and then escalating them. On the other hand, an even better way to control violence in a prison is to have an overabundance of petty rules and to enforce those rules in very petty ways. At Enterprise, everyone complained about the petty enforcement of the trivial rules in the hallways—you had to walk single file, couldn’t talk, couldn’t lean against the wall, could only go in groups of twenty, etc. But then the larger problems of violence in the prison tended to improve. I thought there was a connection between the petty rule enforcement and the general reduction in violence.9 But as with other forms of deprivation, you can go too far with this technique and it can seriously backfire on you. * * * These fourteen factors, in my opinion, increased violence and reduced control at Enterprise prison. Each particular factor was not exclusive of the others—if one wanted to alter the level of violence, changing only one of the factors probably would have only a minimal effect. Further, the single change would have been compensated for by the other factors adjusting themselves to meet the new situation. I also believe that the sum of the

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parts created a more intense whole. The combination of all these factors at the same time resulted in a very high rate of violence. Enterprise was a powder keg waiting for a spark to ignite it. Thus, to make any large and effective improvements in the level of violence, all the factors would have needed to be addressed. I firmly believe that none of this had to happen. My hope in writing this book is that, perhaps in some small way, I may contribute to preventing events like this from happening in the future.

Notes

notes to the foreword 1. See K. C. Carceral, Behind a Convict’s Eyes: Doing Time in a Modern Prison, Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2004. 2. In general, see Blake McKelvey, American Prisons, Montclair, NJ: Patterson-Smith, 1975. For more specific discussions of private prisons, see David Shichor, Punishment for Profit, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995, and G. Larry Mays and Tara Gray, Privatization and the Provision of Correctional Services, Cincinnati: Anderson Publishing, 1996. 3. Steve J. Martin and Sheldon Ekland-Olson, Texas Prisons: The Walls Came Tumbling Down, Austin, Texas Monthly Press, 1987. 4. Vivian M. L. Miller, Crime, Sexual Violence, and Clemency: Florida’s Pardon Board and Penal System in the Progressive Era, Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000. 5. Malcolm M. Feeley, “Entrepreneurs of Punishment: The Legacy of Privatization,” Punishment and Society 4:321–44, 2002. 6. Anne Larson Schneider et al., “Public-Private Partnerships in the U.S. Prison System,” American Behavioral Scientist 43:192–208, 1999. 7. Alexis M. Durham III, “The Future of Correctional Privatization: Lessons from the Past,” pp. 33–49 in Gary W. Bowman, Simon Hakim, and Paul Seidenstat, eds., Privatizing Correctional Institutions, New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1993. 8. Bureau of Justice Statistics, “Census of State and Federal Correctional Facilities, 2000,” August, 2003, and “Prison and Jail Inmates at Midyear 2004,” April, 2005. 9. For example, Adrian T. Moore, “Private Prisons: Quality Corrections At Lower Cost,” Policy Study 240, Los Angeles: Reason Public Policy Institute, April 1998. 10. Charles H. Logan, Private Prisons: Cons and Pro, New York: Oxford University Press, 1990, p. 117. 11. James Austin and Garry Coventry, “Emerging Issues on Privatized Prisons,” National Council on Crime and Delinquency, February 2001. 12. Philip Mattera et al., “Jail Breaks,” Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy, 2001. 13. Austin and Coventry, op. cit. 14. Scott D. Camp and Gerald G. Gaes, “Growth and Quality of U.S. Private Prisons: Evidence from a National Survey,” Criminology and Public Policy 1:427–50, 2002. 15. “As Health Care in Jails Goes Private, 10 Days Can Be a Death Sentence,” New York Times, February 27, 2005: 1, 32. Also “A Company’s Troubled Answer for Prisoners with H.I.V,” New York Times, August 1, 2005. 16. E.g., Richard Harding, “Prison Privatisation: The Debate Starts to Mature,” Current Issues in Criminal Justice 11:109–18, 1999. 17. E.g., Robbin S. Ogle, “Prison Privatization: An Environmental Catch-22,” Justice Quarterly 16:579–600, 1999. 18. E.g., Richard Harding, “Private Prisons,” in Michael Tonry, ed., Crime and Justice:

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238 | Notes A Review of Research 28:265–346, 1999. See also Harding, Private Prisons and Public Accountability, Buckingham, England: Open University Press, 1997. 19. E.g., John DiIulio, Governing Prisons: A Comparative Study of Correctional Management, New York: Macmillan, 1990. 20. Jerome H. Skolnick, “Corruption and the Blue Code of Silence,” Police Practice and Research 3(1):7–19, 2002. 21. Lois Pressler, “Remorse and Neutralization among Violent Male Offenders,” Justice Quarterly 20(4):801–825, 2003. 22. Mark Simpson, “The Relationship between Drug Use and Crime: A Puzzle inside an Enigma,” International Journal of Drug Policy 14(4):307–319, 2003. 23. Mona Lynch, “Rehabilitation as Rhetoric: The Ideal of Reformation in Contemporary Parole Discourse and Practices,” Punishment and Society 2(1):40–65, 2000. 24. For a discussion of some of these issues, see Mitchell J. Miller and Richard Tewksbury, eds., Extreme Methods: Innovative Approaches to Social Science Research, Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 2001. 25. Alison Liebling, “Doing Research in Prison: Breaking the Silence?” Theoretical Criminology 3(2):147–173, 1999. 26. Todd R. Clear et al., “The Value of Religion in Prison: An Inmate Perspective,” Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice 16(1):53–74, 2000. 27. Barbara Owen, “In the Mix”: Struggle and Survival in a Women’s Prison, Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998. 28. Rhidian Hughes and Meg Huby, “Life in Prison: Perspectives of Drug Injectors,” Deviant Behavior 21(5):451–479, 2000. 29 Stephen C. Richards and Jeffrey Ian Ross, “Introducing the New School of Convict Criminology, Social Justice 28(1):177–190, 2001. See also Jeffery Ian Ross and Stephen C. Richards, Behind Bars: Surviving Prison, New York: Alpha/Penguin, 2002; and Stephen C. Richards, Convict Criminology, Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2003. 30. Recent examples include three books in which I participated as an editor: K. C. Carceral, Behind a Convict’s Eyes (edited by T. Bernard, L. Alerid, B. Bickle, and A. Bickle), Belmont, CA: West/Wadsworth, 2004; James A. Paluch, Jr., A Life for a Life (edited by T. Bernard and R. Johnson), Los Angeles: Roxbury, 2004; and Victor Hassine, Life without Parole: Living in Prison Today (3rd edition edited by R. Johnson and T. Bernard), Los Angeles: Roxbury Press, 2004. 31. For a book written from the perspective of a prison warden, see James H. Bruton, The Big House: Life inside a Supermax Security Prison, Stillwater, MN: Voyageur Press, 2004; one written from the perspective of a guard is Ted Conover, Newjack: Guarding Sing Sing, New York: Random House, 2000. note to chapter 1 1. See K. C. Carceral, Behind a Convict’s Eyes, Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2004. notes to chapter 17 1. R. Gifford, Environmental Psychology, Principles and Practices, 2nd ed., Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1997; Smith, “Privacy and Corrections: A Reexamination,” American Journal of Community Psychology 10:207–224, 1982. 2. Gifford, 1997. 3. V. Cox, P. Paulus, and G. McCain, “Prison Crowding Research: The Relevance of Prison Housing,” American Psychologist 39:1148–1160, 1984.

Notes | 239 4. Gifford, 1997. 5. D. McAdams, The Person: An Introduction to Personality Psychology, 2nd ed., New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1994. 6. O. Renn et al., “The Social Amplification of Risk,” Journal of Social Issues 48(4):137–160, 1992. 7. See K. C. Carceral, Behind a Convict’s Eyes, Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2004. 8. E. Stundstrom and I. Altman, “Field Study of Territorial Behavior and Dominance,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 30:115–124, 1974. 9. See also Carceral, 2004.

Glossary

AKA—also known as, alias name sometimes earned through reputation, physical looks, or odd personality characteristics. Admin (spoken abbreviation for administration or administrative)—in most prisons the “admin” refers to higher status employees located in the front of the prison away from prisoners or an area under their control such as “admin seg.” Administrative segregation—segregation where prisoners are held without disciplinary action but placed there due to administrative belief that they are a threat to good order in the prison. The time frame to be held in administrative segregation is open ended. Affiliation (or affiliated)—membership with a gang; to be affiliated with a gang. Artillery—fist fighting; see guns; i.e., guns and artillery. Aryan—name for a European-American gang that generally advocates White supremacy. Associate—prison acquaintance. Attitude—a “bad” attitude: aggressive, hostile, explosive. Baked—getting or being intoxicated. Banger—gang member; see gangbanger. Beat down crew—assaultive group of inmates, usually gang members. Bitch—a female, a female staff person. Boot-licken (or Boot-lickers)—one who purposely sucks up to staff; see suck-ass. Box—radio or boombox. Boyees—term sometimes used to refer to gang members. Bragging rights—winner of a fight or assault. Break camp—to leave an area. Bring the drama—either physical or sometimes psychological torment, mainly associated with fighting.

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242 | Glossary

Bubble—control booth in private prison with windows to view the entire housing unit. Burn it up—take advantage of some thing or situation until the staff stops it. Cellie—the person assigned to live with you in a two-man cell; i.e., “He’s my cellie.” Cobra—Hispanic gang or those associated with the Hispanics, who typically wear a tattoo of a cobra snake. Commissary (or canteen)—prison store operated by the prison to sell prisoners hygiene products, tobacco, and food items mainly consisting of snacks. Con—a prisoner that has served many years and knows the prison environment’s demands and benefits. Cons generally view staff as the enemy. Co-signed—agreeing with someone else’s statement or story. Crash gate—a motor operated gate strategically located in hallways near housing units, chowhalls, or other well traveled areas, to control prisoner movement in order to minimize trouble. Dawg—a friend, guy. Dayroom—common part of the living area with cells located on its perimeter, where prisoners perform daily functions such as showering or eating meals, and visiting. Dipping—sticking one’s nose in other’s business. Dirty—refers to a prisoner’s urine that has been contaminated from smoking intoxicants. For example, a urine analysis test that is positive for THC or cocaine is “dirty.” Disciplinary report (or DR)—private prison term for document written by a staff person alleging an incident of misconduct. Disciplinary segregation (or disciplinary inmates)—this is the segregation where prisoners are held who have been found guilty of misconduct. Their time frame to be held is limited by a release date. Dissing—a show of disrespect; as in, “Why you dissing me?” DOC—Department of Corrections. Doubled up—refers to a cell having two bunks so that it is a two-man occupancy versus a one-man occupancy. Down-low—quiet or private, as in, “Keep it on the down-low.” Dry snitch—a person who indirectly snitches, i.e., says something in front of a staff or guard so that they overhear it, instead of telling them directly.

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Ear hustler—one who listens to another’s conversation in order to be nosy. Face card—a four-by-six-inch index card which is kept by security and/or the administration with a prisoner’s picture attached and a summary of his life, including details such as the prisoner’s physical features, conduct, and criminal history. Five-O—prison guards or police. Gangbanger—gang member associated with one of the many prison gangs. Gangster Disciple (or GD) — African-American gang with roots in Chicago. Geek up—to instigate. General population (or GP or population)—the non-segregated prison population in which most prisoners live. Gladiator School—a name given to an older cell-hall-style prison which housed youthful offenders between eighteen and twenty-five years of age. The nickname was derived from the high number of fights that occurred. Green leaf—marijuana. Guns—name for a man’s arm size. Guy—close friend; someone reliable. Hater—a prisoner who finds pleasure in another prisoner’s misfortune. Heart—courage and will power. Higher-up—gang member who is above other members in rank or status. Hindrance—a private prison rule developed where a prisoner prevents staff from doing their task or job. It is the catchall rule anyone can be found guilty of. Hole—segregation. Hollar—to talk, sometimes argue. Home team—a person one knew on the streets and were friends. Honkie—racist term used primarily by African-Americans to refer to European-Americans. Hootch—homemade alcohol from fruit juice and sugar. Inmate—a term used by staff in the Northern State system for a prisoner. Inmate dilemma—the choice one makes, usually either fight or run; segregation or shut up. Installment plan—expression noting men who do “life sentences” by coming and going from prison. Once freed, they continually return to prison due to revocation or new charges.

244 | Glossary

Internal Affairs (or IA)—the private prison’s internal investigators who investigate drug trafficking, lawsuits, staff, and prisoner fraternization. Irons—handcuffs; handcuffs and leg shackles. Jack—to steal. Jailhouse turnouts—non-gangbanger who joins a gang while in prison. Jeffing—joke or talk with, speak in a friendly manner. Kick it—to talk; visiting. Latin King—Hispanic gang or those associated with the Hispanics. Many Whites are in the Latin Kings, whose members typically wear a tattoo of a crown. Lockdown—a status which a prison enters where all inmates are inside their assigned cell and restricted there until such a time it is lifted. Lone Ranger—one who takes on an issue by himself, usually a complaint directed at staff. Lone Rangers end up in segregation. Manhood—one’s pride. Mark—a target or prey; one taken advantage of. Mary Jane—marijuana. Max mentality—“got or be got” mentality. Mean-mug—to give someone a “dirty look,” i.e., to convey anger or annoyance by one’s facial expression. Mission—task one is completing sometimes at the cost of others or their safety. Nigga — an African-American term designating “anyone,” commonly used as an expression that African-Americans use to describe one another, i.e., “My nigga!” Nigger—racist term used to describe African-Americans or those who associate themselves with African-Americans. OPP—other people’s property. Pat search—private prison term spoken when a guard wanted to check your body and clothes for contraband. During a search a guard “pats” your body, hence “pat search.” Peckerwood—racial slang used by mostly by African-Americans to describe European-Americans. Player—one who is cool or hip; a slick person. Plugged—having connections; also associated with gang ties. Pod—private prison term assigned to living units. Police—prison guard. Protective custody—in private prison it was voluntary confinement (VC); the location is generally admin seg for protection from other prisoners.

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Props—credit, skill at doing or trying an activity. Punk—someone viewed as being able to be taken advantage of, weak, homosexual, or possibly homosexual. Put your business out there—to gossip or tell others about your personal business. Ran/run in on you—a fight or an assault that happens in a cell or an enclosed area like a bathroom. Recreation (or rec)—area for walking, sitting, and exercising in sport activities, either inside or outside. Outside is commonly called the yard. Rent-a-cops—slang for private prison guards. Rep (or reputation)—common knowledge of a person or group, whether true or untrue, which many prisoners assume is true. Riding the train—to get intoxicated. Runner—older term for janitor who worked the tiers, who would “run” items around for the guards, such as meal trays, as part of their job. Sallyport—small room between the housing units and the main hallway, used as an entry way to control traffic to and from the unit. Same case—two or more men serving a sentence who committed the act together. Scouting—to scout; a person looking for a victim or prey, or an observer. Segregation (or seg)—the housing unit which holds troublemakers or those under protection, i.e., seg, hole, admin, or disciplinary seg. Commonly thought of as disciplinary seg. Senior—private prison guard’s rank which equates to a sergeant in the state system and has control over a designated area such as recreation, living units, or hallways. Shakedown—generally, a cell search, where a prisoner’s property is examined and just thrown around by staff. Shank—homemade or handmade knife made in prison. Skins—racial slang for Native-Americans. Slave mentality—a role that prisoners role adopt that takes on the characteristics of a servant. Snitching—snitch; informant; one who passes information about other prisoners or events onto the staff. Split my wig—a fight or an assault. Square—inmates that are ignorant to the ways of prison or the prison environment; also a cigarette. Stash—quantity of drugs usually hidden. Streets—outside; free world; non-prison world.

246 | Glossary

Suck-ass—one who sucks up to staff. THC—tetrahydrocannibinol, the active ingredient in marijuana. Ticket—state system terminology for a disciplinary report; also see disciplinary report. Tier—upper-level walkway in a housing unit attached to cell fronts. Time—expression designating one’s sentence; i.e., “All I have is time.” Treejumper—rapist. UA—a urine analysis test; a procedure that tests prisoner’s urine for drug use. Vice Lords—African-American gang or those associated with the gang. Vice Lords are the rivals to Gangster Disciples. Wannabe — someone who wants to be something. Many times “wannabe” is associated with a prisoner who acts like staff. Zip-cuffs—plastic strips that work like handcuffs. When pulled to tighten the strips make a “zip” sound.

About the Author and the Editor

The author is K. C. Carceral, a pseudonym for a prisoner who has been incarcerated since 1982. He entered prison shortly after graduating from high school and continued his education in prison. He now holds an Associates degree as a Paralegal and a Bachelor of Science degree in Business Administration. He is currently completing a Master of Arts degree in Human Behavior. He is also the author of Behind a Convict’s Eyes: Doing Time in a Modern Prison. The editor is Thomas J. Bernard, Professor of Criminal Justice and Sociology at Pennsylvania State University. His many books include Theoretical Criminology and The Cycle of Juvenile Justice. He also coedited Carceral’s previous book, Behind a Convict’s Eyes.

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