The 8" x 10" thick acrylic window is all that separates me from this dark soul gone astray. Where did we fail this individual; a question asked every day by those working in a profession replete in lost lives and deep depression, on both sides of the fence. And the grass isn't green on either side. Where's the fix, the solution? I know there isn't one. There is no clear answer. That knowledge begins to tear at my fragile coating of safety. This caged creature that I must babysit for 10 hours butts heads with a system set up to ensure his failure.
The sergeant in charge of our officer training class two years earlier told us that they were all "sons 'a bitches," even below the lowest of animals, and that not one deserved any thought on our part, completely unworthy of any consideration. My responsibility, once I stepped on any state prison property, was to do everything in my power to maintain control of my assigned area, and in the small possibility that I lose a measure of it, my immediate goal then is protecting my fellow officers; after that, and only then, self-preservation. Each time a heavy metal door slams shut behind me, I lose a small iota of that control, my own freedom inhibited, yet I steal from some inner reserves somewhere to prepare myself for the night's briefing. After our duty assignments and a brief update on the status of the unit during the previous shift, we collect our "tools" - radio and keys, and proceed in small groups through a series of locked gates and fenced-in passage ways. Strategically positioned cameras record our arrival, the yard activities during shift, and in the morning 10 hours later, our departure.
Also an irony is that my small cramped workspace is called a "control room," an area no larger than a standard bathroom centered between two pods each angled at 90 degrees from the other, and each containing bunk areas housing 33 inmates. They are all identical in the seven different units that encircle the yard, which is split into two by a razor-wired 25 foot high fence.
As I enter a different unit each night I am presented with a different set of society's problem "children" within its walls. No matter that many of them seem asleep, the darkness hides clandestine activity. I do not leave my assigned control room for the duration, except to perform two head counts - a walk down each pod. On an hourly basis, one of the yard officers does a check of each "house," walking down each pod counting heads, and I note the time of arrival and departure of the officer on my standard prison log.
Tonight, I'm on suicide watch in the complex's most dangerous lock-down facility. I've been assigned this random duty, as one of their officers has called out ill. I volunteer because it shows a desire for further knowledge and advancement. It is my first suicide watch. I'm told it's a piece of cake, an easy 10 hours.
There is no yard at this facility, just small caged-in areas centered between pods. I'm directed to a long hallway with doorways every 30 feet or so. It is not quiet here. Inmates are hollering or muttering deeply. Even the inmate workers, who usually come from other open yards, always seem anxious and steal glances.
The subject of my diligent scrutiny is a 23-year-old man, small in build yet muscular, of Spanish descent, his upper torso fully tattooed, yet surprisingly clean-cut and of dark complexion.
The cell this man inhabits, one of three in this particular cell block, is constructed of solid rebarred cement all around, with a cement bench the length of the cubicle, only long enough to accommodate a short man. The only fixtures are a tiny stainless steel sink and toilet. The expanse of the heavy metal door facade is breached by a small hinged door that opens to the 8" x 10" window, and that when open affords me full view of the cell and its contents. The aperture provides a bi-directional view. It is positioned high enough that I must look up at it from the outside. Set up against the door just below this casement on my side is a portable wooden two-step platform approximately 2 feet wide. I am too short to see into the cell without it.
What a very cold environment, even for an animal, especially in the dead of winter. On initial inspection, I find the inmate standing in front of the bench, staring at the metal door. He is not tall... maybe 5'6".
This man that I must observe for the duration of a 10-hour shift is considered very dangerous, not so much toward me as toward himself. He is, therefore, completely naked and given nothing more than a 5'x 3' piece of fabric akin to a moving-truck blanket, closely stitched in criss-cross fashion such that it would be quite difficult to rip up.
No question that what I do is necessary. No doubt that such a being must at all costs be separated from the public.
"White bitch, what are you doing here?" The sound comes from the bottom of the door. I'm trained to not respond, and initially I'm successful, but I can't entirely avoid the naturally human and physical response to such mental stimuli. My "hackles" are raised; adrenaline has begun to flow.
"You want some of this, white bitch?" He seems to enjoy using the term. He paces his cell, mumbling, but always returning to spew choice words through the crack between the door and the floor. I must not, cannot take it personally.
He is incessant in this ranting for the first 4 hours of what is fast becoming an interminably mind-numbing night. Every 10 minutes, I step up to the hinged door, open it and assure first the state of Arizona, and then myself, that my charge for tonight is still alive and exhibiting no further deterioration in his behavior. At that point, I note in my log where he is in the cell, what he is doing, and the gist of his spoken words, most of which a typical corrections officer will become quite adapted to.
The 10-minute checks continue. The ranting and pacing is non-stop. His voice is becoming slightly hoarse.
At exactly 12 midnight, it all comes to a halt, maybe a self-induced curfew. Or maybe he feels he needs a break in his verbal bombardment realizing it is having little effect. Curious how I sense a new tactic is about to reveal itself.
At 1am in the morning, after an hour's relief from the din, with quiet solitude interrupted only by my checks, I step up onto the platform to perform what could seem an action devoid of purpose at such a late hour. During the previous hour, my methodical assessments have found the inmate in a fetal position on the cement bench, at times visibly shivering, yet outward appearances indicate his attempt at sleep.
I hesitate for a moment staring at the hinged door. He's been so quiet, why antagonize him. My loyalty to duty prompts me. I grab the handle and open the door, and am confronted with a face immediately in front of mine not two inches away. I almost fall off the platform, I am truly unnerved by the inmate's anticipation of my timely duty, and the unexpected and abrupt appearance of such deep emptiness in his eyes that is difficult to fathom at best. I re-gather my composure, and return his stare.
There's no doubt in my mind that he has probably stood there for the last nine minutes, since I last shut the outside world from his view. He is standing on the toilet and leaning against the door, supporting his weight by grasping the tiny edge of the window with the tips of his fingers.
His pupils have no visible detail. They are entirely black, despite bright lighting in his cell. He is never in darkness, never allowed a respite from constant glare. It is his stare that disturbs me the most. No expression, no emotion, and certainly no signs of a conscience. A fleeting glimpse of his face in that tense moment is enough to reveal the depth of information about this man.
He utters not one syllable. My slow movement off the platform is followed by his eyes only. The face does not move. For an instant I look down to find footing, and when I quickly return my gaze, he is gone from the window. I hop back up the two steps, peer cautiously through the window, and again find him in the fetal position on his rough-hewn resting place. He moves fast, and lithely. There is nothing to hinder his movement, not even clothing. I close the door.
If looks could kill... it took me the next 10-minute allotment to regain my composure. I barely have time to note my findings in the log. Before my pen leaves the page, the quiet solitude is again replaced by the ravings of this man, now increasing in intensity.
"I can see you, white bitch." I know that he physically cannot, but it is still disquieting. His behavior so far depicts a creature of stealth and premeditation. I am fully aware that after his first view of me earlier that night, I am etched in his mind. Now, his darkened facial contour and his black eyes are indelibly embedded in mine.
"My ex is a white bitch. She's leaving me and she's taking my kid, my boy. You white bitches are all the same." This is the only time he reveals his nature, what is motivating his primeval actions, only this once exhibiting a weakness in his armor. His pride in his nationality overtakes his reasoning. "I am Latino. We are the salt of the earth. We will overcome all you whities. You will see." His accent is strong, yet his English is good.
"Never volunteer any information to any inmate, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Take different routes home; don't follow a routine for long. Even outside the prison walls... once a CO, always a CO." These formulas for our safety are drilled into our psyches. My sergeant teased all of us, sometimes bordering on ridicule, in front of the class. He said that it would be my grandmotherly demeanor that would keep me alive. Everyone laughed, but I think he meant it. I became a correctional officer at 47.
Physically, I outdid many of my much younger counterparts - in flexibility, in stamina, in strength. Much of it was due to a more disciplined mind, obtained through hard work growing up, hard living as an adult, and maturity. My younger classmates seemed to practice matter over mind, whereas I worked hard at practicing the opposite.
Age has nothing to do with it. A mature mind or well-seasoned approach to life does not prepare you for the mental and emotional strain associated with controlling a horde of misplaced miscreants, whose sole purpose in life is to escape our control by any means. For ten hours each day I bear witness to the effects of limited movement and the resultant utter hopelessness borne by some inmates. All they have to look forward to are their thoughts, and acting upon them.
I could not have known of it, and therefore, could not have prepared myself for the existence of such overt human alienation during my training. As time passes, if an officer cannot harden his or her heart toward the plight of these criminals, the long-term result will not be a good one. A hardened heart is indeed the lesser of two evils. Down deep in the recesses of their humanity, the lifers in any prison system hold onto an embittered and deep resentment toward those who keep them shut in. Some hold onto this with their lives. A few lose all willpower, knowing they are responsible. But many turn their anger toward more immediate and available targets - sometimes other inmates; but usually the officers.
For those working in the corrections profession, the knowledge that inmates have nothing but time, time to conjure up the most creative methods to achieve their ends, is a constant subject of discussion. Officers are continuously reminded of the perils of becoming complacent in the performance of their jobs. It is not difficult to fall into a routine.
It is even easier to start up and carry on a conversation with an inmate. Rookie officers are especially prone to this "professional sin." An inmate has had plenty of time to learn the art of psychological warfare. They quickly select, monitor, and "work on" those officers they find most vulnerable. They quickly learn if an officer is having trouble on the home front. They use this power over their "controllers." They have found a patsy.
The mind of an inmate on death row, one with nothing to lose, is more dangerous than one looking toward possible parole, and hope. A man with no recourse turns all emotion outward, has lost all self-accountability, and completely lacks inhibition in performing acts that a "normal" civilized person could not.
This inmate in B POD has lost the inherent capacity to decipher the most basic right from wrong. Yet, in the short time I have spent with him so far, I have come to clearly appreciate that he can quickly identify and take full advantage of what he knows will disintegrate any grit in his adversary. On this night, I am the adversary. I am his personal target. His mission is to get under my skin and disrupt my thought processes, egg me into responding to him, to letting my guard down so he can get into my mind and weaken my abilities as an officer, a female officer.
"Does your man take good care of you, white bitch? Does he work hard and come home to dinner every night? Do you even make him dinner? Maybe you leave that to him."
My inherent female compassion wants to ask him what his ex did to him, and wants to say that I'm not like her. He didn't wait long enough... he almost got a small reward for all his efforts. "If you take care of your man, he will take care of you. You white bitches have a hard time learning that." Compassion turns to indignation, but I keep it in.
You fool! Don't fall for this.
Periodically, another officer checks in on me and "my offender." It isn't my choice in description. This fellow officer coined the phrase - giving me ownership of "my offender." I soon realize that it is one of many tedium-reducing tactics many officers use to make the 10 hours less intolerable - purposely antagonizing the inmates. He also knows this is my first suicide watch. He makes a point of not making it easy for me by using another tactic - to "transfer" his pent-up emotions and anger onto my offender. He kicks the door screaming at the inmate to wake up. When he leaves, he knows fully that I will receive the entire brunt of the inmate's heightened anger.
"I will not forget you, white bitch CO."
Randomly throughout the night, I hear water running in the sink, or the toilet flushing. The only creature comforts allowed this one resident of B POD is the ability to drink from the sink, to keep the cold night at bay with a prison-issued blanket, and to fulfill his need to eliminate waste - primitive, instinctive needs.
A few hours before end of shift, I begin to detect an odor building up in my small quarters. I run a cursory check of the other two empty cells and the immediate area. Nothing is apparent.
I decide to do an early check on my offender. I put my foot on the first step of the platform and the odor becomes stronger; then I see it - a brownish-green substance almost imperceptibly oozing between the door and the floor. Without thought, I step up and open the small hinged door, and immediately recoil. Just as the small door swings open I watch the inmate, as if in slow motion, thrust a fistful of excrement against the window and smear it from edge to edge, snarling and sneering, almost howling - taking deep satisfaction in the act and in my reaction. He had been standing in wait knowing I would open my world to him soon.
A CO's lifeline is his radio. During training, we tirelessly practiced using code in our radio transmissions. I cannot count the times I listened to anxious transmissions where the use of code protocol simply "flew out the window." Now, my attempt at putting my training to use in this real situation doesn't get beyond a stutter. But that's all it takes. Just the click of my radio alerts the cell block.
Three fellow officers merge into my POD simultaneously, within minutes, including the shift lieutenant. Equipment is then obtained, and they form a line, unlock and open the cell and quickly enter, apprehend "my offender," and with little resistance, transfer him to an adjoining cell sans his suicide blanket. The procedure is quick and precise - mace, masks, gloves, splash guards, full ponchos - an organized attack meant to catch the inmate off guard, and to protect themselves from any retaliation. It is totally apparent that they've done this many times. The inmate has little time to react.
Ah, payback is a bitch - a white bitch. Really? I knew that he knew... that I knew that he knew... that he had gotten to me in a small, yet to him, significant way. Still, it was a short-lived gratification.
Those black eyes never leave me during the transfer from one cell to the other. And I don't lower my eyes. I need to regain the higher ground, the upper hand. Breaking my stare can crumble my reputation, both to the inmate and to my fellow officers. It is imperative that I gain and maintain a strong presence. From the other officers, I also require trust.
The transformation in this human being in the realization that he could no longer keep warm is remarkable. He never lowers himself to beg, but a flickering semblance of humility for a fleeting moment raises him above the primitive animalistic behavior he's portrayed all night. That he is not allowed to bathe means nothing to him. That he can no longer protect himself from the cold means everything. He has not lost his basic instinct for self-preservation. "You gonna let me freeze, CO? Damn white bitch."
It is my duty to clean his previous cell. I am lucky that he hasn't had much opportunity to turn his art form into a masterpiece. Armed with standard prison antimicrobial/disinfectant solution spray and high-powered hose, the job is fast and effective. But the smell... it stays with you. It hits you hard in the face upon entering any yard in the complex, particularly on laundry day, and especially under the oppressive 115 degree heat of an Arizona summer.
I did indeed discover my own personal mettle this night. The inmate did not gain much ground in his war with his "controllers," but he did win a small battle of wits. The hardest lesson is that, though I may need the trust and respect of my fellow officers in order to perform my job safely, the behavior of a few of them plants a seed of distrust and disrespect. And while the inmate pokes a few holes in my safety net, it is the actions of those who are supposedly "on my side" that unsettle me the most.
Who are the real animals? Do we really have control?
My offender may never leave the walls that confine him, but countless others will. They will remember well how we treat them.
On the "outside," we do not find it nearly so difficult to gain approval and respect from all that we come in contact with. Inside prison walls, the level of rapport between officers, between inmates, and between the two factions themselves... is complex and fragile, borne from working and living in an environment fraught with despair and bitterness.
If it is my grandmotherly demeanor that an inmate remembers, then that's just fine. It may very well be just this human quality that allows both of us to survive.