Chapter 7: Protective Custody #1
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A heavy metal door with a slim window slid shut. Only then was I permitted to back my wrists through the food slot and have the cuffs removed. There was a small sink in the 8 x 10 2-man cell, along with a toilet and a window to the outside, but that window was glazed over so the only useful information it provided was knowledge of daytime and nighttime. There was no clock, no TV, no air conditioning, and only 2 small vents. It was summer in the Southern U.S. We were on 24 hour per day lock-down. The only time we were permitted to leave our cell was to take a shower on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, at which time we were handcuffed coming and going. I shared this cell with one other “roommate” named Randy.
Pay to Stay
Why had I voluntarily subjected myself to this close confinement? I had been put down on by Bobby and Crash, two young white supremacist jits demanding monthly payments — a Pay to Stay scheme. By checking in to protective custody — the Box — I was able to escape being extorted and threatened. Within a week or two the classification team would red-tag Bobby and Crash and me so that we would never be together at the same prison again.
Protective Custody is exactly like being sent to the Box for disciplinary reasons. Exactly the same. I was brought there in handcuffs. I understand why protective custody inmates need to be treated just as harshly as all other confinement inmates. The last thing I would want is for any of the disciplinary inmates to see me treated differently and thereby know that I was in protective rather than disciplinary confinement. Imagine the danger if the disciplinary inmates knew who the check-ins were! Prisoners have long memories. Additionally, the prison administration makes it tough because they want to make sure that checking in is the last resort for any inmate in trouble — not something anyone would want to do if there were any other way to solve the problem.
Here’s a diagram of my wing of the Box at Swift CI Annex:
Dorm J, where the Box was located was a so-called “T Building,” because it consisted of three wings of cells in the shape of the letter “T.” Each wing had two levels of 22 cells and 4 showers. Downstairs there was also a TV room where — if this building had been used for “high security” inmates rather than as the prison jail — inmates could hang out whenever they weren’t on lock-down. I was in Cell 12 upstairs.
It’s hard time in a 2-man cell with a “roommate” who could be almost anybody — except that they would never pair a protective custody inmate with a disciplinary custody inmate, and they also attempt to match inmates in terms of custody level, age, and similar charges, but in my case the only similarity was in type of charge — he was in for child molestation. Otherwise, he was younger — 37 years old — black, and at a higher custody level — high security and close custody [see Chapter 4: Prison Reality — It’s Not What You Think, subheading “What prison is really like”].
Randy was a very difficult man to get along with. But I actually did find ways to cool his temper and put up with him for what actually became more than 3 weeks together.
Food in confinement was exactly the same as you would receive at the Chow Hall, except of course that it had to be brought to us in covered trays and slid through the door. It was usually cold on arrival, but receiving meals did provide some information on time of day.
My brother had sent me two books that arrived just the day before I checked in and the guards allowed me to have them while in confinement — along with a rather eclectic assortment of my other belongings. The rest was put in storage. I was unable to figure out how they decided what Mas to go where. Still, I had those two books, so I picked up Game of Thrones and read the entire thing while in protective custody. Then I started on Anna Karenina.
One Surprise After Another
On my 9th day of protective custody I was brought downstairs (in handcuffs, of course) and taken to my “Protective Custody Hearing” so they could formally recommend my transfer to another prison. While this was going on two very surprising things happened. First, the door to the building opened and in walked a few new guys, carrying their belongings slung over their shoulders even though they were in handcuffs. One of them was a man about my age who I immediately recognized from N Dorm. His name was Dragg, and I also knew he was scheduled to go home in just a few weeks! We stared at each other as he walked past, and while I can’t speak for whatever was going through his mind, I was thinking “What the fuck are you doing here?!” My roommate Randy later suggested that he may have either checked in or manufactured a minor disciplinary issue just to avoid any last minute confrontation in the chaos of N Dorm.
But then an even more shocking thing happened. One of the officers guarding me while I stood there turned to me and said “Z, them two boys that was putting down on you — they checked in today!”
”What?!” I said.
“Yeah — some other guys in the dorm got tired of their shit and put down on them!”
If I had known about this even a few minutes before appearing before the classification team, I might have changed my mind at the last minute and said that maybe my best option would be to go right back to N Dorm now that Bobby and Crash were gone! But it was too late — my transfer was approved and could not be undone! And afterwards I couldn’t decide if that really would have been a good idea anyway — what was the meaning of Dragg’s entering confinement that same day? Was the trouble in N Dorm continuing, or even getting worse with Bobby and Crash’s departure? My roommate suggested they might have checked in because they had racked up a big toochie debt they couldn’t pay off. Perhaps that’s why they were extorting money from me (and maybe others) — as a way of paying off their dealer(s). Oh well — I will never know the answers to these questions. As it eventually turned out, getting transferred was just about best thing that could have happened to me.
Psych Stories
While I was standing around down there, I also got my first chance to see an inmate in a turtle suit. They put an inmate in one of these when he has really and truly gone psych. According to my roommate, if you become dangerous or self-destructive you get put in a butt naked cell where you sleep on steel. Then any time you have to go somewhere (in the case I saw, to medical) they put you in a turtle suit for that. I don’t think I want to go psych any time soon.
A few days after my classification team hearing, a man in my wing really did start going psych. First he started slamming his cell door, cursing loudly and telling the guards to “suck my WHOLE dick!” This went on for most of the afternoon while the guards repeatedly warned him to stop or face the consequences. Finally they put him on camera to document his behavior, which by this time included having his mattress up against the cell door to brace against what was coming next — which was — four guards charging into his cell and spraying him with pepper spray to subdue him. Randy (who found the whole episode very entertaining) called this “lighting him up”, “wetting him up”, “burning his ass”, or “putting hot sauce on him”. When they hauled him out and took him to medical — to get a shower to remove the pepper spray and to be evaluated — the whole cell block erupted in door slamming, screams, and curses, all in his support.
While this man was at medical the guards removed all his property & bedding, but when they brought him back he was in prison blues, not a turtle suit. He slept on steel that night, albeit not butt naked. When he started in again the next day, the guards put him back on camera, went in and subdued him — this time without pepper spray — put him in a turtle suit and hauled him away, presumably to a butt naked cell.
A few days later I saw pepper spray used again to subdue another inmate, this time for a different reason. One of the guys started slamming his door and yelling “Man down! Man down!” His roommate was gooked out. A couple of the guards came over and unlocked the food tray slot in the cell door, had the roommate stand aside while they sprayed hot sauce on the gooked out inmate — this was to keep him from becoming violent when they went in to handcuff him and haul him away. The roommate also had to be handcuffed during all of this. This inmate didn’t go psych. He returned later but his roommate was moved to a different cell.
Fishing
Before I leave the Box I’d like to tell you about another surprising thing that I saw there — “fishing”. Never underestimate the ingenuity of prison inmates. Suppose you are in Cell 20 on one side of the cell block, and you have made a deal to buy some toochie from Cell 6 on the other side. How do you get it from one place to the other? One way is to get the Confinement Orderly — a fellow inmate — to transport it — but you’ll have to pay for that service, and even then he may not be trustworthy. Instead you can “fish it” across the cell block. First you’ll need a very long piece of thread — i.e. about 30+ feet long. This is usually assembled by removing threading from the elastic bands of boxer shorts and tying them together. This explains why all the boxer shorts they give you in confinement are worthless: they’ve had all their thread removed!
Next, you’ll need a weight — a tube of “state toothpaste” will do. Attach the weight to one end of the “fishing line”, and the toochie to the other. Then the dealer in Cell 6 reaches out under his cell door and tosses the weight down toward Cell 12 — the corner cell. Obviously, Cell 12 and the cells in between must cooperate in this enterprise. If you don’t cooperate you are a “fuck nigga”. Did I mention that prison inmates have long memories? Once Cell 12 retrieves the weight and pulls the dope up that far, he is responsible to slide the weight all the way across to Cell 13 on the other corner of the cell block. This may take a few tries but once everything gets to Cell 13 it’s a simple matter of fishing it down to its final destination.
I have also seen this done with thin strips of sheets. Of course this constitutes destruction of state property which can get you more time in the box, but who gives a shit about that when it’s toochie that’s a stake?
Checking Out
On Monday morning, three weeks and two days after I checked in, just before breakfast, a guard came to our cell door and said, “Z, you’re on the transfer list for today.” My roommate Randy was not on the list but he chose to see the silver lining — he actually didn’t want to be transferred, he just wanted to go back out to the compound — which, given the things that happened to him there, I will never understand — so this would give him another opportunity to get that arranged. I ate breakfast in high spirits, and afterwards put all the property I had in my pillow case (keeping in mind that most of it was in storage somewhere) and waited to be handcuffed, which I knew was coming. I had to be checked out and transferred exactly like any of the guys in disciplinary confinement so nobody would know the difference.
I had rehearsed in my head two sets of “last words” for Randy. One was to cuss him out and tell him all his dreams are doomed to failure — which would be true. But in the end I didn’t do that and I am glad of it. Instead I said, “Randy, you must control your temper. Do not take revenge on the people who hurt you — that’s the devil tempting you. Pray to your god and ask for his guidance — he will show you the right path.” Then it was out the cell door and downstairs to be further secured — my handcuffs were chained firmly around my waist and my feet were shackled, and I was put in a line to stand there holding my pillow case full of my property for almost an hour while they collected the rest of the transfers and bound them all up — about 15 in all. Then we were all marched out — handcuffed, bound, and shackled and hanging on to our bags — out the Swift Annex center gate, over to the Swift Main Unit, and from there over to the Main Unit’s “Visitor Park” building and pavilion, which on weekdays is where every prison, in my state anyway, also does their transfers. Total distance traveled in restraints — over ½ mile.
Once in the Visitor Park building my group was joined by others from the Main Unit and the Work Camp. Those guys weren’t coming from the Box, but being transferred for some other reason, including “Mad Max” who I knew from my old dorm at Swift Annex. Why was he here, I wondered? He said he just got called up to the “bubble” after breakfast that morning and told to pack his shit! But since he was a GED tutor he figured maybe they needed him somewhere else. Tag — you’re it, Mad Max! All together it looked like at least enough guys to fill a prison bus.
Once we were all assembled our restraints were removed except for the shackles. Then the rest of our property was returned, but they searched and disallowed some of it. We were given “property bags” — mine was a used 50 lb. bag that had once contained dried black beans — to replace our pillow cases. We were all loaded onto the bus for the most cramped, uncomfortable 2-hour bus ride I’d had so far — and that is saying something.
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