Agony and Ecstasy: Shakedown! And Then Release
By Steve Clemens - Federal Prison Camp, Duluth, MN. July 7, 2006
The schedule for day 89 of my 90 day Federal Prison sentence was to go on the “merry-go-round” – the obligatory release program that has you submitting a form to the various department staff to be signed indicating you reported to them before your release the next morning. Included in the release process is turning in your prison “greens” at the laundry and requesting “street clothes” (if you haven’t requested someone on the outside to mail you your own clothes ahead of time).
Budget cuts have changed the BOP. In 1981 when I was released from FPC Texarkana, TX, I was able to pick my set of clothes for “the street” – including suits! - and decent shoes for my release. Twenty-five years later, I’m given a pair of new, very cheap-grade denim jeans at least 6-8” too long, a denim-like shirt with snaps instead of buttons with several noticeable flaws in the front, and a pair of canvas sneakers with no arch support whatsoever. All apparently made by prison labor in China, I suppose.
After procuring all the requisite signatures, I submitted the form to my Case Manager and was then “free” for the rest of the day. So I took advantage of the inmate barber shop and had “Big E” give me a haircut for the price of six first-class stamps, the currency of the inmates in the BOP. After returning to my dorm, I noticed a Corrections Officer (guard or “CO”) standing in the doorway to my room so I just continued walking down the hall as though I was originally headed for the restroom. As I passed by my room, I did what any inmate would do – I looked inside to see what was happening. The Lieutenant (Wilson) had one of my cellie’s (slang for cellmate) mattresses, stripped of its sheets and covers, on the floor. He was prying off the brass caps from the top metal posts of that bunk bed, obviously searching for contraband. After a reasonable time in the bathroom, I returned past the room again and headed out to find the cellie whose mattress was part of the search. When I couldn’t find him at his normal afternoon hangout, I decided to wait out the shakedown of my room in the Activities Center.
I had heard stories around the camp of rooms being tossed by the COs looking for contraband. Less than a month ago, a room in the 209 dorm was completely searched and the scuttlebutt on the compound was that six cell phones, two containers of vodka, and some other contraband was discovered in their lockers and room and the whole room was sent to the SHU (the “hole”) because no one had “confessed” to whom the illegal property belonged. Some inmates complained that it wasn’t fair to lock up one of the cellies who was in his 70’s and regularly attend the chapel “Bible Studies” but others said, “If he wasn’t part of it, why did he let them keep their shit in his locker?” Divide and conquer has always been the strategy of the empire/Domination System.
I had just mentioned to my cellies three days prior that I was about to finish my three months without having been “breathalyzed”, drug-tested, or had my room shaken-down. The COs are given a quota everyday for ten inmates to be given a breathalyzer and on most days several inmates are called over the loudspeaker system to “report to the Captain’s (or Lieutenant’s) Office for a “random” urine analysis drug test.
When I returned to my dorm, several of the dorm mates greeted me “What did they find in there?” “They hauled off a bag of shit from your room, man.” “Nice decorating job you have in your room!” Well, it looked like a tornado had swept through the room. One locker was pulled away from the wall and left in the middle of the room. (The other three lockers are built-in and couldn’t be moved but had obviously been opened.) All the coats and jackets were in a pile on the middle of the floor. All four beds were now stripped of their sheets, blankets, pillows and the bedding was strewn about. One mattress had been ripped open or cut apart along the long edge to “inspect” for contraband. The brass safety caps on the top of the bed were gone. (The other bunk never had those caps which caused a lot of discomfort for me in trying to get in and out of my upper bunk the first month in captivity here.)
One cellie returned soon after me and we commiserated together before starting to clean up the mess and fret over “what’s next?” We remade our beds, replaced the cover shield to the wall radiator, put books and magazines back on the shelf and checked our own lockers. Although all my personal stuff had been taken to R&D earlier in the day to be “inspected” before release, I still had my stash of (illegal) extra pillows (2), and blankets (4) which I use to help alleviate my back pain at night. Although those contraband items had obviously been moved and search, they and my two extra (again, illegal) sheets were left in the room. As the other two cellies arrived prior to the 4PM standing count, we discovered what was taken in the shakedown: a hair/beard trimmer (battery operated) sold at the commissary but without the proper ID name and # etched on it, a home-made “shower caddy”, a “porn” magazine (anything showing a nipple and/or genitalia), some “artwork” which could be designs for potential tattoos, and, the real reason for the search: the cigarettes. Stashed in the pipes of the bunk bed that had the brass caps were both “rollies” (hand rolled cigarettes) and commercial-grade cigarettes. However, what turned this into a major incident was the amount – about 10 more than the threshold amount of 20 which translates this offense into a “100 level shot” with the “advertised” consequence of automatic shipment to a higher security prison, loss of accumulated good time, and loss for one year(!) of commissary, visits, and telephone calls.
But, this being the BOP, anything can happen. Several weeks ago, one of my co-workers on the dish team was caught with 151 cigarettes (!) by “Robocop” (the CO with one of the worst reputations at FPC Duluth). He was “sentenced” to only 50 hours of “extra duty” because he was scheduled to leave for a halfway house within two weeks. His halfway house could have been revoked and he could have been shipped to another prison to finish his 6 months and two weeks but someone must have decided it was too much paperwork involved so Justin left with a smirk on his face – having completed only 3 of the mandated 50 extra hours of work.
However, when contraband of this nature is found not in an inmates locker (like Justin) but rather in the “common area” of the room, the usual tendency is to call all four (or 6) from the offending room to the Lieutenant’s Office to see if someone will “fess up” to the “crime”. If no one cops to the offense, all four (or 6) are sent to the hole (SHU) while an “investigation” is conducted. That way “social pressure” on the “guilty” party can be applied from those in the room who are “not guilty” of this offense. Actually, there is already at least one suspect because the shakedown was almost certainly instigated by a “snitch”. Someone else was caught smoking or in possession of a cigarette and was promised leniency in exchange for snitching on the guy where he “bought” it. Not snitching comes at a great price: I personally met several guys who lost 6 months of commissary, visits, and phones for possessing only 1-3 cigarettes. It’s not a big deal for some who’ve “been down” for 10 years or more and whose family and friends no longer visit or accept phone calls. But for those who still entertain the hope that spouses, girlfriends, or others might hang on with you … And so the shakedown is initiated once the Judas-deed is completed.
It is no “accident” that our room was the target of the search. They knew where to look and what to look for. All the other items taken were peripheral to their main mission. (Ironically, I’ve seen the Lieutenant smoking on the compound at least 3-4 times in the past month or so!) So, does one of us “own up to it” or do we all face the wrath of the BOP? When one cellie steps forward and says (just in front of the other 3 of us with no “cops” around) it was his (there was little doubt since 3 of us don’t smoke cigarettes), I was struck by a different possibility: why couldn’t I “confess” since I was leaving the next day (with no “paper” or halfway commitment) and the worst they could do to me was to throw me into the hole for my last night. I floated this idea like a “governmental trial balloon” to explore the possibilities and the pros and cons (pun intended).
Is it ethical for me to take the rap? Since the possible punishment another faced was (to me) clearly unjust in that it also continues to punish one’s family, could I offer myself as the “sacrificial lamb” to avoid another miscarriage of “justice” in the midst of a system of rampant injustice? Could I lie convincingly? What if they asked me where they were hidden and how many, and what type? Would the real “culprit” get in even greater trouble of they didn’t believe my “confession”?
Two of my cellies (privately) counseled me not to do it. The guy who “does the crime” needs to “do the time” – face the consequences of his actions. He took the risk, now he has to “be a man” about it and face the music. He puts all of us at risk when he has contraband in the room. The third cellie was obviously energized by the prospect of someone else taking the rap – especially because it would be relatively painless for me to do it. If I had a 100-level shot on my BOP record, would there be ramifications if/when I might return as a federal inmate? He gave me the details of what, where, and how many and then said, “Hey buddy, it’s up to you”. I could walk up to the Lieutenant’s Office (I didn’t even know which office it is, just that it is in the building where “Control” is located) and volunteer the “confession” or wait until we were all called to report to his office sometime after the afternoon count cleared. I wanted to wait until after supper so I could consult with my friend and co-defendant, John LaForge on the advisability and ethics of the situation. We walked and talked. I considered confiding in one of the 3-4 Catholic friends I’d made in the Wednesday night group with Sister Timothy but none of them shared the same perspective that John & I shared in “choosing” to go to prison.
No loudspeaker announcement commanded my presence before the 10 PM count and the 15 minute warning prior to it requiring us to return to our (separate) dorms left John and me determined to meet again at breakfast prior to my reporting to Control at 6:30PM to begin my release. One of my cellies had to celebrate my “graduation from FPC Duluth” with some fried rice (his specialty) cooked up in the microwave after the count. It was a welcomed treat seeing that the “beef stew” at supper could have been better described as beef spew. So, we turned off the lights at 11:15 and I laid down, anticipating my last “wake up” in the BOP.
John, Muff, and I chatted very briefly at breakfast and John walked out with me to give me a final embrace (what a gift!) since he couldn’t approach me after I got out of Control since it might allow for contraband to be handed to or from me as I left. Having John to share this time with was a real blessing for me. He has a lot of previous experience “inside” and a wonderful, gentle spirit with a great sense of humor and justice. I hurried back to the dorm to grab my stuff and head to Control. As I entered the room, Jason and Pablo informed me that “I just missed them” – telling me another CO had just completed another shakedown while I was gone - only this time they didn’t rip everything apart. Finding nothing, he had just left. So the situation remains unresolved.
At Control, I waited for the officer to take me to R&D to get my street clothes, hand in my linens, my last uniform and boots, and to be fingerprinted again (but only the right thumb this time). As I was changing, the officer said, “You aren’t planning on coming back here are you?” I smiled and said, “It depends on what next needs protesting and whether it is on federal property or not.” Again, I had a few moments to “witness” about our desire to Close the SOA and educate another citizen about the realities of our misguided – no, really it is a deliberate, determined policy to dominate other peoples here and abroad – national policies.
I insisted that the BOP pay my way home and on the drive to the Greyhound station in Duluth, I asked the inmate “town trip” driver if many other guys left FPC Duluth with “no paper” (reporting to a Probation Officer for X years) and “no halfway house” and he said it was very rare. I couldn’t have “done the crime and done the time” without a supportive wife and sons, a loving community, and a whole “cloud of witnesses” who have both gone before me and presently envelope and travel with me. THANK YOU for sharing this journey with me.
“Free at last” – but with freedom comes responsibility. Please join with me to make the reality of the Reign of God more tangible and visible.
Shalom,
Steve
Letters From Prison 2006 #14- Friday Night Pizza
Friday Night Pizza
Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. June 21, 2006
Since the prison served fried fish fillet (or grilled 'cheese' sandwiches) every Friday, it is often a night when the inmates "eat out." Obviously the source for this culinary excursion is either the commissary or the black market. Muff, one of my cellies, used to be a cook at several of his previous seven prisons and he wanted to show his solidarity with me by "cooking" a pizza.
I ordered a 'pizza kit' from the commissary, which consists of a pizza shell and a packet of pizza sauce. I also purchased a spicy beef log (summer sausage) and three packets of string cheese. So I thought we were all set.
It would cost us about $7 from the commissary for a pizza about 8-10 inches in diameter.
That same Thursday evening, another inmate stopped by the room and asked if we needed any pizza shells. He works in the bakery section of the kitchen and had 4 pizza shells he had made for sale--for 1 stamp (39 cents) each—a real bargain. He said they were made from flax seed and whet germ and also included some jalapeno pepper in it to give it a little extra zing. I looked at Muff and he agreed it would be a good deal so I made my first prison purchase from the 'alternative economy' inside. The beef log was large enough to accommodate an extra pizza or two but we obviously needed more cheese, sauce, and, if desired, other toppings.
Friday afternoon, another inmate stops by with an onion and a green pepper! I don't know if Muff "purchased" them or whether it was a friend of his doing him a favor. We went to the chow hall for supper (fried fish nuggets, overcooked carrots, and macaroni and cheese--with a hardened piece of something like pound cake topped with frozen strawberries and sauce, meant to approximate strawberry shortcake), ate a little to tide us over, and then went to the Harrison Ford movie, "Firewall," showing at 5:30 pm at the theater. (Supper is served at 4:45.)
I stood back and watched Muff do his thing. With a plastic knife from food service and with no plate or cutting board, Muff cut up the beef log, cheese, onion, and pepper on the inside of the lid to his tupperware bowl he had purchased at one of his previous prisons. (Here, everyone "cooks" in either a tupperware bowl or a pottery bowl made in the Hobbycraft area.)
These ingredients were cooked for two minutes in the dorm microwave, stopping to stir them halfway through. The pizza shell was prebaked in the food service kitchen so the next step was to spread the pizza sauce on the
shells. Since we had only enough for one, Muff tracked down someone who had salsa from the commissary and that got mixed with the pizza sauce. Muff's piece de resistance was adding mackerel as a topping. I was not convinced of the efficacy of such a move so he only put it on his own pizza. It sounded too much like anchovies to me!
Since we needed more cheese, Muff found a guy down the hall who had 3-4 more pieces of string cheese and in exchange we made a third pizza to give to him since we had enough toppings. Since the mackerel was already mixed in, he got his "with" but he didn't mind at all. Each pizza was “baked” for 2 minutes in the microwave and with a cold can of soda pop each, we had our Friday night feast.
When I get home, I'll have to call up Domino's and see if they deliver a "prison Special"!
Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. June 21, 2006
Since the prison served fried fish fillet (or grilled 'cheese' sandwiches) every Friday, it is often a night when the inmates "eat out." Obviously the source for this culinary excursion is either the commissary or the black market. Muff, one of my cellies, used to be a cook at several of his previous seven prisons and he wanted to show his solidarity with me by "cooking" a pizza.
I ordered a 'pizza kit' from the commissary, which consists of a pizza shell and a packet of pizza sauce. I also purchased a spicy beef log (summer sausage) and three packets of string cheese. So I thought we were all set.
It would cost us about $7 from the commissary for a pizza about 8-10 inches in diameter.
That same Thursday evening, another inmate stopped by the room and asked if we needed any pizza shells. He works in the bakery section of the kitchen and had 4 pizza shells he had made for sale--for 1 stamp (39 cents) each—a real bargain. He said they were made from flax seed and whet germ and also included some jalapeno pepper in it to give it a little extra zing. I looked at Muff and he agreed it would be a good deal so I made my first prison purchase from the 'alternative economy' inside. The beef log was large enough to accommodate an extra pizza or two but we obviously needed more cheese, sauce, and, if desired, other toppings.
Friday afternoon, another inmate stops by with an onion and a green pepper! I don't know if Muff "purchased" them or whether it was a friend of his doing him a favor. We went to the chow hall for supper (fried fish nuggets, overcooked carrots, and macaroni and cheese--with a hardened piece of something like pound cake topped with frozen strawberries and sauce, meant to approximate strawberry shortcake), ate a little to tide us over, and then went to the Harrison Ford movie, "Firewall," showing at 5:30 pm at the theater. (Supper is served at 4:45.)
I stood back and watched Muff do his thing. With a plastic knife from food service and with no plate or cutting board, Muff cut up the beef log, cheese, onion, and pepper on the inside of the lid to his tupperware bowl he had purchased at one of his previous prisons. (Here, everyone "cooks" in either a tupperware bowl or a pottery bowl made in the Hobbycraft area.)
These ingredients were cooked for two minutes in the dorm microwave, stopping to stir them halfway through. The pizza shell was prebaked in the food service kitchen so the next step was to spread the pizza sauce on the
shells. Since we had only enough for one, Muff tracked down someone who had salsa from the commissary and that got mixed with the pizza sauce. Muff's piece de resistance was adding mackerel as a topping. I was not convinced of the efficacy of such a move so he only put it on his own pizza. It sounded too much like anchovies to me!
Since we needed more cheese, Muff found a guy down the hall who had 3-4 more pieces of string cheese and in exchange we made a third pizza to give to him since we had enough toppings. Since the mackerel was already mixed in, he got his "with" but he didn't mind at all. Each pizza was “baked” for 2 minutes in the microwave and with a cold can of soda pop each, we had our Friday night feast.
When I get home, I'll have to call up Domino's and see if they deliver a "prison Special"!
Letters From Prison 2006 #13- Stuck on Stupid
Stuck on Stupid
Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. June 9, 2006
"Trucker," the burly, tattooed white man in his 40s is inside for dealing dope--"all kinds." My first week in the joint and I'm sitting across from him in the chow hall. "Hey newbie, how much time did ya get?" When I respond that I'm here for "only three months,' he scoffs and replies that isn't even enough time to do the paperwork. When I further volunteer that I was busted "for protesting torture at a U.S. military base," he is skeptical. "Nah, they don't bust you for just protesting." To which I reply, "They do if you enter the base and get charged with trespass."
"That's not a felony, they don't send you to prison for a f*****g misdemeanor!"
"Well, the last time I was in a federal joint, I did six months for another misdemeanor for protesting," was my reply.
"You mean you did this before, got time, and now you are in here again for the same thing? You must be stuck on stupid!"
Is Trucker correct in his assessment? As someone said, "doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results is the definition of insanity”. Maybe instead of pleading not guilty at our trials we should opt for the insanity defense. Does doing time for civil disobedience make any sense?
If one's goal is not merely to Close the SOA but to also address the national arrogance and insecurities behind it, going to prison allows one to further examine the psyche of our nation. It is here that the marginalized, dissident, and dysfunctional are warehoused. (More accurately it is in the county jails, state penitentiaries, and higher security level federal prisons more so than the minimum security "camps" that one finds more of the marginalized. There, and with the homeless population in our urban streets, under the bridges, and those subject to arrest for "urban camping.")
Whether one is reading the Bible or the daily newspaper, reading it on the "inside" of the Prison Industrial Complex gives one a different perspective than when one is outside the prison walls, bars, or "out of bounds" signs.
Not many guys want to listen when they are caged--but they do want to talk and be heard. They need to process their “case” verbally—to vent the anger, sometimes at oneself and/or one’s associates, and always at “the system.” Cultural competition doesn’t end at the prison entrance. In some ways, competition is more intense in prison than on the streets because of the constant close proximity. Part of the competition can express itself in “I’m badder than you” one-upmanship. Another factor is the “scarcity” mentality that we are all in competition with each other to get one of the few [whatever] is left. Whatever the reason, one does not want to appear vulnerable “inside.” Any sign of “weakness” is often exploited by fellow cons. An atmosphere of defensiveness and self-justification is not conducive for personal healing. No one mistakes prison for a therapy session.
But who is willing to throw the “stuck on stupid” slander on Mohandas Gandhi—one so revered for his principled nonviolence which sent him to prison numerous times that he was given the title Mahatma (great soul) or Bapu (father) by the Indian people? In a collection of excerpts from his writings entitled All Men Are Brothers, Gandhi explains ahimsa or nonviolence. “Nonviolence, on the other hand, has no cause for fear. The votary of nonviolence has to cultivate the capacity for sacrifice of the highest type in order to be free from fear” (p. 110). Going repeatedly to prison rather than compromise his principled commitment to nonviolence helped Gandhi overcome his fears—maybe he wasn’t so stupid.
“Our nonviolence would be a hollow thing and nothing worth, if it depended for its success on the goodwill of the authorities..... [Civil] resistance is a method of securing rights by personal suffering; it is the reverse of resistance by arms. When I refuse to do a thing that is repugnant to my conscience, I use soul-force... If I do not obey the law and accept the penalty for its breach, I use soul force. It involves sacrifice of self (p. 115).
“Suffering is infinitely more powerful than the law of the jungle for converting the opponent and opening his ears, which are otherwise shut, to the voice of reason. Nobody has probably drawn up more petitions or espoused more forlorn causes than I and I have come to this fundamental conclusion that if you want something really important to be done you must not merely satisfy the reason, you must move the heart also. The appeal of reason is more to the head but the penetration of the heart comes from suffering. It opens up the inner understanding in man. Suffering is the badge of the human race, not the sword” (p. 118).
Maybe those of us working to close the SOA and change the foreign policy of our nation are “stuck on stupid.” Or maybe, just maybe, like Gandhi, we have begun to realize that in choosing prison, we hope to go beyond what is rational and “speak to the heart.” Time will tell.
Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. June 9, 2006
"Trucker," the burly, tattooed white man in his 40s is inside for dealing dope--"all kinds." My first week in the joint and I'm sitting across from him in the chow hall. "Hey newbie, how much time did ya get?" When I respond that I'm here for "only three months,' he scoffs and replies that isn't even enough time to do the paperwork. When I further volunteer that I was busted "for protesting torture at a U.S. military base," he is skeptical. "Nah, they don't bust you for just protesting." To which I reply, "They do if you enter the base and get charged with trespass."
"That's not a felony, they don't send you to prison for a f*****g misdemeanor!"
"Well, the last time I was in a federal joint, I did six months for another misdemeanor for protesting," was my reply.
"You mean you did this before, got time, and now you are in here again for the same thing? You must be stuck on stupid!"
Is Trucker correct in his assessment? As someone said, "doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results is the definition of insanity”. Maybe instead of pleading not guilty at our trials we should opt for the insanity defense. Does doing time for civil disobedience make any sense?
If one's goal is not merely to Close the SOA but to also address the national arrogance and insecurities behind it, going to prison allows one to further examine the psyche of our nation. It is here that the marginalized, dissident, and dysfunctional are warehoused. (More accurately it is in the county jails, state penitentiaries, and higher security level federal prisons more so than the minimum security "camps" that one finds more of the marginalized. There, and with the homeless population in our urban streets, under the bridges, and those subject to arrest for "urban camping.")
Whether one is reading the Bible or the daily newspaper, reading it on the "inside" of the Prison Industrial Complex gives one a different perspective than when one is outside the prison walls, bars, or "out of bounds" signs.
Not many guys want to listen when they are caged--but they do want to talk and be heard. They need to process their “case” verbally—to vent the anger, sometimes at oneself and/or one’s associates, and always at “the system.” Cultural competition doesn’t end at the prison entrance. In some ways, competition is more intense in prison than on the streets because of the constant close proximity. Part of the competition can express itself in “I’m badder than you” one-upmanship. Another factor is the “scarcity” mentality that we are all in competition with each other to get one of the few [whatever] is left. Whatever the reason, one does not want to appear vulnerable “inside.” Any sign of “weakness” is often exploited by fellow cons. An atmosphere of defensiveness and self-justification is not conducive for personal healing. No one mistakes prison for a therapy session.
But who is willing to throw the “stuck on stupid” slander on Mohandas Gandhi—one so revered for his principled nonviolence which sent him to prison numerous times that he was given the title Mahatma (great soul) or Bapu (father) by the Indian people? In a collection of excerpts from his writings entitled All Men Are Brothers, Gandhi explains ahimsa or nonviolence. “Nonviolence, on the other hand, has no cause for fear. The votary of nonviolence has to cultivate the capacity for sacrifice of the highest type in order to be free from fear” (p. 110). Going repeatedly to prison rather than compromise his principled commitment to nonviolence helped Gandhi overcome his fears—maybe he wasn’t so stupid.
“Our nonviolence would be a hollow thing and nothing worth, if it depended for its success on the goodwill of the authorities..... [Civil] resistance is a method of securing rights by personal suffering; it is the reverse of resistance by arms. When I refuse to do a thing that is repugnant to my conscience, I use soul-force... If I do not obey the law and accept the penalty for its breach, I use soul force. It involves sacrifice of self (p. 115).
“Suffering is infinitely more powerful than the law of the jungle for converting the opponent and opening his ears, which are otherwise shut, to the voice of reason. Nobody has probably drawn up more petitions or espoused more forlorn causes than I and I have come to this fundamental conclusion that if you want something really important to be done you must not merely satisfy the reason, you must move the heart also. The appeal of reason is more to the head but the penetration of the heart comes from suffering. It opens up the inner understanding in man. Suffering is the badge of the human race, not the sword” (p. 118).
Maybe those of us working to close the SOA and change the foreign policy of our nation are “stuck on stupid.” Or maybe, just maybe, like Gandhi, we have begun to realize that in choosing prison, we hope to go beyond what is rational and “speak to the heart.” Time will tell.
Letters From Prison 2006 #12- A System of Snitches
A System of Snitches
Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. June 7, 2006
One of the worst epithets that is hurled in prison is "snitch." A snitch is one who agrees to testify against another, serve as an informant, provide information to "the police," or to "cooperate" with the Justice [sic] System. Without snitches, the whole criminal justice system would collapse. At present only less than 5% (some say 2 or 3%) of criminal cases go to trial, the balance are "resolved" with plea bargains in exchange for the "promise" of a lesser sentence upon conviction.
Throughout the pre-, present, and post-incarceration periods, the Domination System (to use Walter Wink's designation) depends on turning one against the other. I'm quite sure this was the case prior to the War on Drugs but this civil war has greatly exacerbated the need for informants. The initial case begins with the police stumbling on to the discovery of the presence (or sale) of illicit drugs. (An aside--it is interesting which drugs are criminalized and which ones are prescribed rather than proscribed. Caffeine is ok but amphetamine is not. Tobacco is--or used to be--ok but not cannabis. Alcohol but not Ecstasy. One could go on and on.) The other common initiation of the case comes about via "undercover," "entrapment," or other clandestine law enforcement activity. Actively attempting to purchase illegal drugs on the street somehow is included under the rubric of "law enforcement" if initiated by a cop.
After the initial bust, the one arrested is frequently "encouraged to cooperate" with the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), which often comes sweeping in to make what should be local or state charges magically become a federal offense. Maybe it is because drugs often "cross state lines" or are illegal under federal statute when states can't be trusted to be serious enough for enforcement. (States might not have enough evidence to convict you--'conspiracy' puts the burden on you to prove that it is not true.) Recently, the feds have tried to supercede state laws regarding the medical use of marijuana. Like the Pentagon or military contractors hawking pet weapons systems, the DEA is a bureaucracy designed to justify its own existence--resulting in the "need" to continue to "lose" the war on drugs in order to keep the tax dollars flowing into the enforcement side of the equation.
When one is arrested for possession or attempting to sell illegal drugs, pressure is put on the captive to "disclose" or "rat out" who you got it from and/or who you normally sell it to. In the usual course of things, one would not be inclined to divulge that information, so the DEA and/or the district attorney or prosecutor gives one an incentive--if you cooperate and give us the names of others, we'll put in a good word for you when it comes time for you to be sentenced for your crime.
In the late 60s and early 70s, as illegal drugs were proliferating in [white] American culture and celebrated by rock groups and other counter-cultural heroes, the enforcement and penalties varied greatly from state to state. Being caught with only a joint of marijuana in Texas could land you behind bars for 5-15 years while in California and Oregon it was at most a misdemeanor punishable by a fine, when one was even prosecuted. That began to change when President Nixon announced a “War on Drugs” and ironically named Elvis as an honorary enforcement agent. Since that time, elected officials have tried to out-do their political opponents by showing that they were tougher on crime than the others. As a result, laws were passed to mandate tougher and longer sentences, including the notorious "mandatory minimum" laws that prevented judges from being "too lenient." Often, the new laws did not mandate a ceiling or maximum amount that could be imposed so elected District Attorneys would frequently threaten a whole range (like 10-30 years) in order to secure "cooperation" from a defendant who faced such a draconian sentence.
The more one "cooperated" (the larger the number of other "dealers," "suppliers," "customers" one turned in or the more valuable the target one disclosed--the "Kingpin" or the money launderer), the better one's bargaining power in requesting or obtaining a reduced sentence. This has led to the absurd reality found today in most Federal Woman's Prisons where the husband or boyfriend is using and dealing drugs and "turns in" his wife, or girlfriend as an accomplice to get a lesser sentence. The woman, who at best is a minor accessory or, at worst, is not even involved in the trafficking has nothing to bargain with and ironically ends up with a longer prison sentence than the original perpetrator.
Since the system is designed to benefit the turning on others to help oneself, it is open to widespread abuse. Since the word on the street is such that "so and so" deals drugs, why not add him to those names I turn in so I can get a lesser sentence? The more I turn in, or the greater amounts of illegal substances I claim they possess or sold, the more valuable my testimony will be in exchange for fewer years in prison. So, when you are arrested for possession or sale of drugs you are informed that "you are looking at 20-40 years of prison time. Are you sure you can do all that much time? Don't you want to cooperate with us and reduce the time (in prison) you are facing?" And here the cycle of snitching begins.
The names that are produced by this method become the new targets of the DEA officials, who now can spread their nets farther. However, most of these new targets aren't caught with drugs in their possession or while in the act of selling them. So a new charge has to be invented to cover these cases: conspiracy to possess (or sell or transport or distribute) illegal drugs. And they base the "amount" of these fictitious drugs on the "testimony" of the informant. Remember, the greater the amount, the more valuable the testimony and (hopefully) the greater the reward.
Never mind the Federal Criminal Code [Title 18 US Code 201(6)(3) -- whoever directly or indirectly, corruptly gives, offers, or promises anything of value to any person... With the intent to influence the testimony under oath...as a witness...before any court or officer authorized... To hear evidence or take testimony...shall be fined... Or imprisoned for not more than fifteen years, or both...] which identifies such conduct as bribery. If one is promised a reduced prison sentence in exchange for testifying against others, one has been offered a bribe according to the federal statutes. It is my estimation that more than one-half of all the convicts presently incarcerated in this federal prison camp either have received reduced sentences in exchange for agreeing to testify against others or have been charged with a crime on the basis of someone else’s threatened testimony against them. I say “threatened testimony” because, again, most cases do not go to trial but are settled by a plea bargain. The reason for this is the well-known likelihood of being assigned a longer sentence if one “wastes the court’s time” by insisting on having your “guilt” proved “beyond a reasonable doubt.” Prosecutors and judges prefer to not have to take the time to try cases that can be “settled out of court.”
If being a snitch is frowned upon on the outside, it is positively life-threatening on the inside of the prison walls—especially in the higher security level prisons. Even to be seen talking to a guard or staff member at a medium or high security prison could put one’s life or health in jeopardy, because the assumption is that one only talks to “the police” when you are ratting out someone else. It is safest to do one’s time with as little interaction with “the screws” or the “turnkeys” as possible. However, the prime motivation to become a snitch on the inside is fear. Higher security prisoners are always on the lookout for weakness—especially embodied in “fresh meat” or “new fish” who are thrown into these warehouses. It is well known throughout the culture that “hard core” prisons feature a lot of rape, assault, and intimidation within the inmate population.
Oftentimes a person will think that snitching to a Corrections Officer (CO) will help land you in “protective custody” (aka solitary confinement or at least out of “general population”) thus protecting one from such dangers. But there are very few places within the prison system where one can hide out free of the threats of others. Somehow, some way, “they” will get to you.
In minimum security prisons there is sometimes the naïve and mistaken impression that at least some of the COs are “fair” or might have your best interest at heart. Especially for those new to the prison system, “first-timers,” those who are in for “white collar crimes,” or young “kids” still not disabused of the proclivity to “respect those in authority” this can be a problem. The guards are not your friends, not your confidant, not there to help you be “rehabilitated.” The longer one is incarcerated, the more aware of the “selective enforcement” role the COs play within the system. Guards try to elicit information about contraband (who has what stashed where?) and to determine who-did-what-when? If there was a fight, who was involved? Who is supplying the contraband cigarettes or alcohol to others? Who is smuggling the green peppers, fried chicken, or fruit out of the kitchen?
There is even the practice of “dry snitching” when an inmate complains to a guard about something another (unnamed) inmate has done that makes your job or life inside harder. “I can’t do my job [cooking the meals] because “they” keep stealing all the onions from here.” Or, “there is so much smoke in the bathrooms before (or after) the meals that I can’t go in to wash my hands (brush my teeth...).” ”Guys keep reserving seats for others in the theater so I can’t watch the movies I want to see.” All of which will just lead to the COs taking more repressive measures or overreacting to the perceived situation.
Are there “benefits” for snitching inside? Will the guards treat you more justly? I don’t plan to find out. No one wants to be labeled a snitch, even at a minimum security level camp. And, after one is (finally) released from prison, most inmates are assigned to a halfway house for up to six months and usually several years “on paper” (reporting to a probation officer under the threat of being sent back to prison—being “revoked”). In this post-incarceration period, there are many “hoops” one has to jump through in order to not be “violated.” The halfway house personnel and the probation officer have all types of rules to follow. Often, the local police will also know who is on parole or probation and pressure or threats are brought to bear to “help” them solve “crime.” The system is set up for you to fail.
The Prison Industrial Complex is designed to be self-perpetuating—if prisons actually did try to rehabilitate convicts they would be “working themselves out of a job.” Instead, it is one of the largest growth industries in the U.S. Today. And much of the growth can be attributed to the snitch system.
Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. June 7, 2006
One of the worst epithets that is hurled in prison is "snitch." A snitch is one who agrees to testify against another, serve as an informant, provide information to "the police," or to "cooperate" with the Justice [sic] System. Without snitches, the whole criminal justice system would collapse. At present only less than 5% (some say 2 or 3%) of criminal cases go to trial, the balance are "resolved" with plea bargains in exchange for the "promise" of a lesser sentence upon conviction.
Throughout the pre-, present, and post-incarceration periods, the Domination System (to use Walter Wink's designation) depends on turning one against the other. I'm quite sure this was the case prior to the War on Drugs but this civil war has greatly exacerbated the need for informants. The initial case begins with the police stumbling on to the discovery of the presence (or sale) of illicit drugs. (An aside--it is interesting which drugs are criminalized and which ones are prescribed rather than proscribed. Caffeine is ok but amphetamine is not. Tobacco is--or used to be--ok but not cannabis. Alcohol but not Ecstasy. One could go on and on.) The other common initiation of the case comes about via "undercover," "entrapment," or other clandestine law enforcement activity. Actively attempting to purchase illegal drugs on the street somehow is included under the rubric of "law enforcement" if initiated by a cop.
After the initial bust, the one arrested is frequently "encouraged to cooperate" with the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), which often comes sweeping in to make what should be local or state charges magically become a federal offense. Maybe it is because drugs often "cross state lines" or are illegal under federal statute when states can't be trusted to be serious enough for enforcement. (States might not have enough evidence to convict you--'conspiracy' puts the burden on you to prove that it is not true.) Recently, the feds have tried to supercede state laws regarding the medical use of marijuana. Like the Pentagon or military contractors hawking pet weapons systems, the DEA is a bureaucracy designed to justify its own existence--resulting in the "need" to continue to "lose" the war on drugs in order to keep the tax dollars flowing into the enforcement side of the equation.
When one is arrested for possession or attempting to sell illegal drugs, pressure is put on the captive to "disclose" or "rat out" who you got it from and/or who you normally sell it to. In the usual course of things, one would not be inclined to divulge that information, so the DEA and/or the district attorney or prosecutor gives one an incentive--if you cooperate and give us the names of others, we'll put in a good word for you when it comes time for you to be sentenced for your crime.
In the late 60s and early 70s, as illegal drugs were proliferating in [white] American culture and celebrated by rock groups and other counter-cultural heroes, the enforcement and penalties varied greatly from state to state. Being caught with only a joint of marijuana in Texas could land you behind bars for 5-15 years while in California and Oregon it was at most a misdemeanor punishable by a fine, when one was even prosecuted. That began to change when President Nixon announced a “War on Drugs” and ironically named Elvis as an honorary enforcement agent. Since that time, elected officials have tried to out-do their political opponents by showing that they were tougher on crime than the others. As a result, laws were passed to mandate tougher and longer sentences, including the notorious "mandatory minimum" laws that prevented judges from being "too lenient." Often, the new laws did not mandate a ceiling or maximum amount that could be imposed so elected District Attorneys would frequently threaten a whole range (like 10-30 years) in order to secure "cooperation" from a defendant who faced such a draconian sentence.
The more one "cooperated" (the larger the number of other "dealers," "suppliers," "customers" one turned in or the more valuable the target one disclosed--the "Kingpin" or the money launderer), the better one's bargaining power in requesting or obtaining a reduced sentence. This has led to the absurd reality found today in most Federal Woman's Prisons where the husband or boyfriend is using and dealing drugs and "turns in" his wife, or girlfriend as an accomplice to get a lesser sentence. The woman, who at best is a minor accessory or, at worst, is not even involved in the trafficking has nothing to bargain with and ironically ends up with a longer prison sentence than the original perpetrator.
Since the system is designed to benefit the turning on others to help oneself, it is open to widespread abuse. Since the word on the street is such that "so and so" deals drugs, why not add him to those names I turn in so I can get a lesser sentence? The more I turn in, or the greater amounts of illegal substances I claim they possess or sold, the more valuable my testimony will be in exchange for fewer years in prison. So, when you are arrested for possession or sale of drugs you are informed that "you are looking at 20-40 years of prison time. Are you sure you can do all that much time? Don't you want to cooperate with us and reduce the time (in prison) you are facing?" And here the cycle of snitching begins.
The names that are produced by this method become the new targets of the DEA officials, who now can spread their nets farther. However, most of these new targets aren't caught with drugs in their possession or while in the act of selling them. So a new charge has to be invented to cover these cases: conspiracy to possess (or sell or transport or distribute) illegal drugs. And they base the "amount" of these fictitious drugs on the "testimony" of the informant. Remember, the greater the amount, the more valuable the testimony and (hopefully) the greater the reward.
Never mind the Federal Criminal Code [Title 18 US Code 201(6)(3) -- whoever directly or indirectly, corruptly gives, offers, or promises anything of value to any person... With the intent to influence the testimony under oath...as a witness...before any court or officer authorized... To hear evidence or take testimony...shall be fined... Or imprisoned for not more than fifteen years, or both...] which identifies such conduct as bribery. If one is promised a reduced prison sentence in exchange for testifying against others, one has been offered a bribe according to the federal statutes. It is my estimation that more than one-half of all the convicts presently incarcerated in this federal prison camp either have received reduced sentences in exchange for agreeing to testify against others or have been charged with a crime on the basis of someone else’s threatened testimony against them. I say “threatened testimony” because, again, most cases do not go to trial but are settled by a plea bargain. The reason for this is the well-known likelihood of being assigned a longer sentence if one “wastes the court’s time” by insisting on having your “guilt” proved “beyond a reasonable doubt.” Prosecutors and judges prefer to not have to take the time to try cases that can be “settled out of court.”
If being a snitch is frowned upon on the outside, it is positively life-threatening on the inside of the prison walls—especially in the higher security level prisons. Even to be seen talking to a guard or staff member at a medium or high security prison could put one’s life or health in jeopardy, because the assumption is that one only talks to “the police” when you are ratting out someone else. It is safest to do one’s time with as little interaction with “the screws” or the “turnkeys” as possible. However, the prime motivation to become a snitch on the inside is fear. Higher security prisoners are always on the lookout for weakness—especially embodied in “fresh meat” or “new fish” who are thrown into these warehouses. It is well known throughout the culture that “hard core” prisons feature a lot of rape, assault, and intimidation within the inmate population.
Oftentimes a person will think that snitching to a Corrections Officer (CO) will help land you in “protective custody” (aka solitary confinement or at least out of “general population”) thus protecting one from such dangers. But there are very few places within the prison system where one can hide out free of the threats of others. Somehow, some way, “they” will get to you.
In minimum security prisons there is sometimes the naïve and mistaken impression that at least some of the COs are “fair” or might have your best interest at heart. Especially for those new to the prison system, “first-timers,” those who are in for “white collar crimes,” or young “kids” still not disabused of the proclivity to “respect those in authority” this can be a problem. The guards are not your friends, not your confidant, not there to help you be “rehabilitated.” The longer one is incarcerated, the more aware of the “selective enforcement” role the COs play within the system. Guards try to elicit information about contraband (who has what stashed where?) and to determine who-did-what-when? If there was a fight, who was involved? Who is supplying the contraband cigarettes or alcohol to others? Who is smuggling the green peppers, fried chicken, or fruit out of the kitchen?
There is even the practice of “dry snitching” when an inmate complains to a guard about something another (unnamed) inmate has done that makes your job or life inside harder. “I can’t do my job [cooking the meals] because “they” keep stealing all the onions from here.” Or, “there is so much smoke in the bathrooms before (or after) the meals that I can’t go in to wash my hands (brush my teeth...).” ”Guys keep reserving seats for others in the theater so I can’t watch the movies I want to see.” All of which will just lead to the COs taking more repressive measures or overreacting to the perceived situation.
Are there “benefits” for snitching inside? Will the guards treat you more justly? I don’t plan to find out. No one wants to be labeled a snitch, even at a minimum security level camp. And, after one is (finally) released from prison, most inmates are assigned to a halfway house for up to six months and usually several years “on paper” (reporting to a probation officer under the threat of being sent back to prison—being “revoked”). In this post-incarceration period, there are many “hoops” one has to jump through in order to not be “violated.” The halfway house personnel and the probation officer have all types of rules to follow. Often, the local police will also know who is on parole or probation and pressure or threats are brought to bear to “help” them solve “crime.” The system is set up for you to fail.
The Prison Industrial Complex is designed to be self-perpetuating—if prisons actually did try to rehabilitate convicts they would be “working themselves out of a job.” Instead, it is one of the largest growth industries in the U.S. Today. And much of the growth can be attributed to the snitch system.
Letters From Prison 2006 #11- Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss
Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss
Steve Clemens. FPC Duluth. June 4, 2006
The Who used to sing “Won’t Get Fooled Again” back in the early 70s. In the lyrics, the “new boss was the same as the old boss.” In slave days, sometimes a slave was sold to another plantation for a variety of reasons: the boss (master) was sleeping with his wife and wanted the man out of the picture; maybe the boss had debts and sold the slave for needed cash; often slaves were sold to discourage ‘organizing’ on behalf of the indentured, which could lead to the most feared consequence—a slave revolt. As of the passage of the 13th Amendment, the only legal slavery in the U.S. today is the prison system.
In Food Service at FPC Duluth, the Correctional Officers (COs) have switched roles for the next month or two. Mr. Randall is now “policing” the bakery, veggie prep and cooking areas. Mr. Haslett has responsibility for the dining room, pots and pans and the dish pit. At Count Time he outlines his rules: if your area is cleaned up to his satisfaction, and if you signed out on the sheet before the 7:30 a.m. Count, you are free to go until your next assignment after the count has cleared.
This is different from Mr. Randall’s (old boss) style. Under the Randall regime, after your area was cleaned up, you were to remain in the dining area until lunch, biding your time reading a book, writing a letter, listening to your radio, or napping (if you could on the hard, fixed-to-the-table chairs). The building doors were locked and you couldn’t leave. Despite all the signs forbidding “personal objects” in the mess hall, Randall allowed food service inmates to have books, radios, even newspapers in the mess hall between meal shifts. Other COs, who are often in the building at meal times to “police” the lines, will take books or radios from inmates if they are caught having them in the dining area.
One never knows which rules will be enforced by which staff member at any given time. It is one not-so-subtle way to remind the inmate that you are not in control of your situation. So, under the new regime, yesterday several of us spent an extra hours scrubbing down the walls, washing off the rolling shelves, “detailing” the stainless steel counters and garbage trough to make our area “spotless” for Haslett’s inspection. He came in as we were part way through and pointed to the wall by the silverware area, which is virtually inaccessible because of the location of the chute that feeds the garbage pulverizer. He told us to scrub down that wall. We did the best we could and then remained in the dining area until lunch was ready.
Today, day 2 of the new boss, we cleaned our area before count, signed the sign-out sheet and waited for count to clear. I grabbed my coat and book (I’m now reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Pigs in Heaven after finishing The Battle for God by Karen Armstrong yesterday) and headed for the door with the other inmates who were leaving. As I approached Mr. Haslett, he asked, “Where are you going?” I replied “210,” my dorm assignment. “Where is your work area?” was the next inquiry. “The dish pit.” “Well, go back there and make sure it is spotless.”—So, back to work. Steve #1, our crew leader (at one time 3 of the 6 of us assigned to a.m. Dish room were named Steve!) told us to just clean up a little and we’ll likely be able to leave in 15-30 minutes. Sure enough, that is what it took and we walked out the back door unimpeded.
The inconsistencies of styles of enforcement are unfathomable. Although he doesn’t take food for his own use (or to sell) out of the building, Steve #1 was caught red-handed by the lieutenant on Memorial Day, placing a plastic milk box with a bag of green peppers, tomatoes, and onions in the ceiling panel above the dish pit, for another kitchen inmate. Caught in the act by the lieutenant! We knew he was “going down.” Maybe he’ll be sent to the hole. Certainly he’d be given hours of extra duty. The Lieutenant who Steve tells me is a pretty ‘fair guy’ told him “I’ll call you later to see me” since the lunch rush time was just beginning. Steve is a hard and conscientious worker and any CO assigned to the kitchen is well aware of that. So far, with two full days passing since then, there has been no “punishment”—just watching the succulent veggies get dumped into the garbage chute, to be gobbled up by the pulverizer.
Case-in-point #2: the CO most despised by every inmate I’ve talked to is “Robocop.” Mr. Waleschki (or however the name is spelled—everyone calls him Robocop not to his face) clearly hates his job and just as clearly despises the convicts he is hired to “police.” Rumor has it that he “got beat up” at Sandstone (the closest FCI (higher security level) to our camp) and he is also a union representative here. As much as I support organized labor, it sometimes has the unfortunate ability to attract power-hungry jerks who use their power to prevent their own firing. When Robocop does mail call, he yells into the loudspeaker “mail call is right now and if you want it come right now!” and he starts mispronouncing half the names on the letters, magazines or newspapers as he reads them off.
He once pages my co-defendant and friend John several times for his mail pickup and since I knew he was in the music room practicing for an upcoming concert the “Big Charles’” group, I asked if I could get his mail. Robo barked at me, “Tell LaForge to get his ass over here when he is paged. I’ll throw his ass in the hole next time if he doesn’t pick up his mail when I page him!” I explained that he could not hear a page when in the soundproof practice room of the music center — and although we never know if mail call will be before or after supper at our dorm (it comes between 3 and 7:20 pm so far), my intervention on John’s behalf obviously fell on deaf ears. Robocop screams at us to “shut up” is there is any talking during count, one time insisting on doing a “recount” just because he thought the noise level was unacceptable to him.
So, when word came down that Robo caught Justin smoking in the dorm, I knew there would be hell to pay. Justin, a 20-something kid just joined our dish pit crew last week and only has two weeks to go before he is released from here to go home with an ankle bracelet (home monitoring instead of the usual halfway house first). When I asked him the next day if he got ‘busted’ by Robocop he said, “Yeah.” Robo told him he was going to search his locker so he’d better “come clean” and Justin handed him the 151 cigarettes (!) he had in it.
Besides the market value (at five .39 cent stamps per cig if sold individually), the new May 1 policy calls for immediate shipment to a higher security prison plus the loss of good time, visits, calls and commissary for one year if caught with 21 cigarettes or more. So Justin was “up the creek without a paddle.” But—so far—he’s been told he has to do 50 hours of “extra duty” in the next 2 weeks before he leaves. Are they not shipping him because of the paperwork involved, with only 2 weeks left? What “message does it send” when the “new policy” is not enforced? Will it be enforced next time? By another cop?
The “new boss” and the “old boss” are both in control—you aren’t. But there is no consistency, either.
Steve Clemens. FPC Duluth. June 4, 2006
The Who used to sing “Won’t Get Fooled Again” back in the early 70s. In the lyrics, the “new boss was the same as the old boss.” In slave days, sometimes a slave was sold to another plantation for a variety of reasons: the boss (master) was sleeping with his wife and wanted the man out of the picture; maybe the boss had debts and sold the slave for needed cash; often slaves were sold to discourage ‘organizing’ on behalf of the indentured, which could lead to the most feared consequence—a slave revolt. As of the passage of the 13th Amendment, the only legal slavery in the U.S. today is the prison system.
In Food Service at FPC Duluth, the Correctional Officers (COs) have switched roles for the next month or two. Mr. Randall is now “policing” the bakery, veggie prep and cooking areas. Mr. Haslett has responsibility for the dining room, pots and pans and the dish pit. At Count Time he outlines his rules: if your area is cleaned up to his satisfaction, and if you signed out on the sheet before the 7:30 a.m. Count, you are free to go until your next assignment after the count has cleared.
This is different from Mr. Randall’s (old boss) style. Under the Randall regime, after your area was cleaned up, you were to remain in the dining area until lunch, biding your time reading a book, writing a letter, listening to your radio, or napping (if you could on the hard, fixed-to-the-table chairs). The building doors were locked and you couldn’t leave. Despite all the signs forbidding “personal objects” in the mess hall, Randall allowed food service inmates to have books, radios, even newspapers in the mess hall between meal shifts. Other COs, who are often in the building at meal times to “police” the lines, will take books or radios from inmates if they are caught having them in the dining area.
One never knows which rules will be enforced by which staff member at any given time. It is one not-so-subtle way to remind the inmate that you are not in control of your situation. So, under the new regime, yesterday several of us spent an extra hours scrubbing down the walls, washing off the rolling shelves, “detailing” the stainless steel counters and garbage trough to make our area “spotless” for Haslett’s inspection. He came in as we were part way through and pointed to the wall by the silverware area, which is virtually inaccessible because of the location of the chute that feeds the garbage pulverizer. He told us to scrub down that wall. We did the best we could and then remained in the dining area until lunch was ready.
Today, day 2 of the new boss, we cleaned our area before count, signed the sign-out sheet and waited for count to clear. I grabbed my coat and book (I’m now reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Pigs in Heaven after finishing The Battle for God by Karen Armstrong yesterday) and headed for the door with the other inmates who were leaving. As I approached Mr. Haslett, he asked, “Where are you going?” I replied “210,” my dorm assignment. “Where is your work area?” was the next inquiry. “The dish pit.” “Well, go back there and make sure it is spotless.”—So, back to work. Steve #1, our crew leader (at one time 3 of the 6 of us assigned to a.m. Dish room were named Steve!) told us to just clean up a little and we’ll likely be able to leave in 15-30 minutes. Sure enough, that is what it took and we walked out the back door unimpeded.
The inconsistencies of styles of enforcement are unfathomable. Although he doesn’t take food for his own use (or to sell) out of the building, Steve #1 was caught red-handed by the lieutenant on Memorial Day, placing a plastic milk box with a bag of green peppers, tomatoes, and onions in the ceiling panel above the dish pit, for another kitchen inmate. Caught in the act by the lieutenant! We knew he was “going down.” Maybe he’ll be sent to the hole. Certainly he’d be given hours of extra duty. The Lieutenant who Steve tells me is a pretty ‘fair guy’ told him “I’ll call you later to see me” since the lunch rush time was just beginning. Steve is a hard and conscientious worker and any CO assigned to the kitchen is well aware of that. So far, with two full days passing since then, there has been no “punishment”—just watching the succulent veggies get dumped into the garbage chute, to be gobbled up by the pulverizer.
Case-in-point #2: the CO most despised by every inmate I’ve talked to is “Robocop.” Mr. Waleschki (or however the name is spelled—everyone calls him Robocop not to his face) clearly hates his job and just as clearly despises the convicts he is hired to “police.” Rumor has it that he “got beat up” at Sandstone (the closest FCI (higher security level) to our camp) and he is also a union representative here. As much as I support organized labor, it sometimes has the unfortunate ability to attract power-hungry jerks who use their power to prevent their own firing. When Robocop does mail call, he yells into the loudspeaker “mail call is right now and if you want it come right now!” and he starts mispronouncing half the names on the letters, magazines or newspapers as he reads them off.
He once pages my co-defendant and friend John several times for his mail pickup and since I knew he was in the music room practicing for an upcoming concert the “Big Charles’” group, I asked if I could get his mail. Robo barked at me, “Tell LaForge to get his ass over here when he is paged. I’ll throw his ass in the hole next time if he doesn’t pick up his mail when I page him!” I explained that he could not hear a page when in the soundproof practice room of the music center — and although we never know if mail call will be before or after supper at our dorm (it comes between 3 and 7:20 pm so far), my intervention on John’s behalf obviously fell on deaf ears. Robocop screams at us to “shut up” is there is any talking during count, one time insisting on doing a “recount” just because he thought the noise level was unacceptable to him.
So, when word came down that Robo caught Justin smoking in the dorm, I knew there would be hell to pay. Justin, a 20-something kid just joined our dish pit crew last week and only has two weeks to go before he is released from here to go home with an ankle bracelet (home monitoring instead of the usual halfway house first). When I asked him the next day if he got ‘busted’ by Robocop he said, “Yeah.” Robo told him he was going to search his locker so he’d better “come clean” and Justin handed him the 151 cigarettes (!) he had in it.
Besides the market value (at five .39 cent stamps per cig if sold individually), the new May 1 policy calls for immediate shipment to a higher security prison plus the loss of good time, visits, calls and commissary for one year if caught with 21 cigarettes or more. So Justin was “up the creek without a paddle.” But—so far—he’s been told he has to do 50 hours of “extra duty” in the next 2 weeks before he leaves. Are they not shipping him because of the paperwork involved, with only 2 weeks left? What “message does it send” when the “new policy” is not enforced? Will it be enforced next time? By another cop?
The “new boss” and the “old boss” are both in control—you aren’t. But there is no consistency, either.
Letters From Prison 2006 #10- Doc's Story
Doc's Story
by Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. May 30,2006
At supper I got to hear part of "Doc's" story. Doc is a 76-year-old critical care physician who was sentenced by a Federal Judge to be confined in a halfway house for 6 months and 6 months of home confinement with an ankle bracelet. His conviction was on a failure to pay income taxes on a capital gains income.
Doc developed an adversarial relationship with some of the staff of that halfway house in the first month, over what seem to be fairly petty issues. Finally, as the result of returning 18 minutes late from a two hour approved
trip to a "worship service" (an excuse Doc gave to get in some running exercise), he was reported to have violated the conditions of his sentence and told he was to be shipped to a federal prison for the completion of his sentence.
Thus began his 'tour' and the BOP activity known as "diesel therapy." Although his halfway house in Sioux Falls, SD is less than 8 hours from his destination of FPC Duluth, it took Doc 97 days to arrive here. In the
process he lost about 20 pounds of his starting weight of 145. Diesel therapy began with U.S. Marshals handcuffing this elderly nonviolent offender, adding a waist chain and leg irons to it. He was placed in the
local county jail, awaiting transport into the federal system. [Note—he could have been placed less than one hour away at the Yankton, SD Federal Prison Camp, a minimum security facility like the Duluth Camp is.] As is typical in diesel therapy, he was not told where his final destination was, nor was he permitted to make any phone calls while "in transit."
After being placed on a BOP bus, he was moved from prison to prison and always placed in "the hole," the SHU (Special Housing Unit), or "solitary confinement" for his stay at each stop. Often, he was placed in "the hole" in county or city jails during this process. One might think that the best way to ship someone from Sioux Falls to Duluth would be via Minneapolis, but Doc's route included stops in Oklahoma, Terre Haute, Indiana and Oxford, Wisconsin.
If this is the way the BOP treats white, elderly, nonviolent offenders with professional backgrounds, is it any wonder that it seems to continue to fail to "rehabilitate" us year after year?
by Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. May 30,2006
At supper I got to hear part of "Doc's" story. Doc is a 76-year-old critical care physician who was sentenced by a Federal Judge to be confined in a halfway house for 6 months and 6 months of home confinement with an ankle bracelet. His conviction was on a failure to pay income taxes on a capital gains income.
Doc developed an adversarial relationship with some of the staff of that halfway house in the first month, over what seem to be fairly petty issues. Finally, as the result of returning 18 minutes late from a two hour approved
trip to a "worship service" (an excuse Doc gave to get in some running exercise), he was reported to have violated the conditions of his sentence and told he was to be shipped to a federal prison for the completion of his sentence.
Thus began his 'tour' and the BOP activity known as "diesel therapy." Although his halfway house in Sioux Falls, SD is less than 8 hours from his destination of FPC Duluth, it took Doc 97 days to arrive here. In the
process he lost about 20 pounds of his starting weight of 145. Diesel therapy began with U.S. Marshals handcuffing this elderly nonviolent offender, adding a waist chain and leg irons to it. He was placed in the
local county jail, awaiting transport into the federal system. [Note—he could have been placed less than one hour away at the Yankton, SD Federal Prison Camp, a minimum security facility like the Duluth Camp is.] As is typical in diesel therapy, he was not told where his final destination was, nor was he permitted to make any phone calls while "in transit."
After being placed on a BOP bus, he was moved from prison to prison and always placed in "the hole," the SHU (Special Housing Unit), or "solitary confinement" for his stay at each stop. Often, he was placed in "the hole" in county or city jails during this process. One might think that the best way to ship someone from Sioux Falls to Duluth would be via Minneapolis, but Doc's route included stops in Oklahoma, Terre Haute, Indiana and Oxford, Wisconsin.
If this is the way the BOP treats white, elderly, nonviolent offenders with professional backgrounds, is it any wonder that it seems to continue to fail to "rehabilitate" us year after year?
Letters From Prison 2006 #9- Just Don’t Get Sick/Your Whole Family Does the Time
Just Don’t Get Sick
By Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. May 11, 2006
My past exposure to city and county jails and federal prisons had led me to counsel fellow peace activists who risk time in the lock-up to try and stay healthy 'cause prisons are not the best places to have close encounters of the medical kind. I've read stories of how Dan Berrigan almost died in the dental chair at the Danbury Federal Prison. I personally watched "the Interstate Man" (that's what he called himself in 1981) in Potter County Jail in Amarillo, TX go into a seizure, waiting for 20-25 minutes until the guard arrived, only to see them 'cuff him and throw him into solitary ('the hole') for the rest of the night before seeing the doctor the next day. Trustees in the jail assured me that the guards would not have treated past inmate Cullen Davis the same way had he a seizure when he was charged in the murder-for-hire of his wife--after all, he was a millionaire and the local sheriff allowed him to send out for his meals.
I had no intentions of doing first-person "investigative" journalism on the medical care at a federal camp this go-round in the slammer. But the unexpected does happen and fortunately I survived to write about it. First, one needs to understand the protocol of FPC Duluth. Clear rules and boundaries are established to remind one that he is not visiting his family physician. (I guess not; I got arrested, tried, and acquitted with my family doctor, Kevin Kelly, in ‘97 in a protest against the manufacture of land mines by Alliant Tech.) We are instructed not to address any medial staff of the prison by their first names--sorry, Kevin, if you worked here (which I'm pretty sure your conscience wouldn't allow), I'd have to address you as "Dr. Kelly." The other "patient friendly" gesture among many is the sign posted in the sick bay/pill line area reminding you if you are present in this area without an appointment other than during sick call (10:30-10:45 am) or the three scheduled pill lines, you are "out of bounds" and subject to a disciplinary shot. In case of an emergency, you are to be escorted by an officer or staff member.
When one does go to "sick call," one is taken to a back hall and told to sit and wait for the nurse after you filled out a form outlining what problems you claim to have, when they began, and what level of pain or discomfort one is feeling on a 1-10 scale. I say problems you "claim" because it seems like everything else I've experienced on the "inside," the first impression/ reaction of the staff is to suspect that the convict is trying to pull a fast one or get out of work or somehow get something he doesn't deserve.
The nurse asks about your symptoms, takes a temperature and blood pressure if indicated and then tells you to return to work or your dorm and wait for your name to be listed on a "call out sheet" posted every day before the 4 pm count for next-day appointments. It might be the next day, next week, several weeks... When we had our routine dental exam upon entry to this 'camp,' the dentist told us that the present wait was several months for routine fillings or one's annual teeth cleaning. I know many prisons are more apt to pull any teeth that present problems rather than try to restore them. I'm not planning on trying for any first person research in that area!
Even well-meaning staff are caught up in a system designed not to promote the well-being of a patient but to "help" get inmates back to their legalized slavery work assignments. At times I hate to use the 'S' word because in many ways most prison labor (except maybe some of the chain gangs) does not approach the reality that slaves experienced in this and many other nations. But just as it is hard to compare a federal prison camp with the SuperMax in Florence, Co, where Ted the "Unabomber" Kyzinski, Timothy McVeigh's accomplice Terry Nichols, Richard Reid "the shoe bomber," and now Zacharias Moussaoui will "rot" in their solitary prison cells with no human contact whatever, there is a similar essence to any prison. As Papillion, the famous escaped French prisoner from Devil's Island said at the end of his life--"A prison is a prison," making no distinction ultimately between solitary and "Club Fed." In like manner, we can say "a slave is a slave" without differentiating between the black man forced to chop cotton and the minimum security inmate working for 12 cents an hour. In fact, in some state penitentiaries one is not compensated at all—just punished if not “producing.”
But back to the issue at hand—practice of “medicine” at the prison. How does one take the Hippocratic Oath (“First do no harm”) and work at a place that one should know will damage at least the psychological health of one’s patient? Even if the medical personnel want to serve their patients, the system does its best to limit the access. If you can’t go to medical on your own unless it is for sick call, one must convince other prison officials of the need first before you enter the medial area.
In my case, after waking at 3:00 am with fever and chills and them going to work with the addition of aches and pains in the muscles and joints, I asked my (inmate) work crew leader if I could leave early to go to sick call because I was feeling awful. He readily agreed as I’ve been a conscientious worker. I then approached the (inmate) food service clerk who serves as the overall supervisor for inmates assigned to work in food service. He told me to sign out, go back to my dorm and rest, and then report to sick call at 10:30. As I was about to walk out the door (the doors are locked between meals and inmates can’t get in our out without an officer unlocking a door), the officer on duty stopped me and asked where I was going. I explained I was sick and had permission from the clerk and my work supervisor to leave and rest before sick call. He said, no, I couldn’t leave—I should remain in food service until 10:30 and then go. After about 1/2 hour, seeing I was shaking from the chills and obviously pale and weak, he relented and ordered another inmate to “walk him down to medical.” Prior to this he told me he’d have to call an ambulance to pick me up for me to leave during working hours.
After painfully walking down to medial (about 1/4 mile) I sat there for 30 minutes or so before one of the three physician assistants walked by and asked me why I was there. I told him the food service officer sent me down and I started to describe my symptoms, starting with the fever and chills. He stopped me and said (without taking a temp or other physical exam) “It doesn’t appear to be an emergency to me. Go back to work and I don’t want to see you here before 10:30 sick call.” So I slowly (and painfully) walked back into the building-- where all the food is prepared and served to 900 inmates— with an obvious fever and chills. (Fortunately it wasn’t the first outbreak of Bird Flu!) After sitting on a stone bench, so cold I wore my jacket indoors for another 2 hours, I again shuffled back to medical to wait in the sick call line. Because of the intense pain I had in my groin, I was the last of the 9 to be seen that morning because I couldn’t move as quickly as the others when told to “go to the back and line up” to see the nurse. Even though I filled out the symptoms and pain level questionnaire, she planned to wait another day or two (or more) until my assigned P.A. “provider” decided to schedule me. Fortunately for my health and well-being, I chose to be proactive—and now I am confident of my care at St. Mary’s Medical Center in downtown Duluth—a room with a beautiful view of Lake Superior and the Duluth harbor.
Your Whole Family Does the Time
When a member of your family is in jail or prison the whole family is punished by the way “the system” is run. In some ways those on the “inside” have it easier than those on the outside because on the inside at least one knows what is (or, sometimes more important, is not) happening. Those not behind the prison bars (or “out of bounds” signs) are just left with their imaginations and the images burned into their subconscious by The Shawshank Redemption or the TV series Oz.
However, neither TV nor Hollywood movies could market the stories of mind-numbing boredom, so the video images we are routinely fed of prisons are more melodramatic than at least the reality of my two experiences of doing time at minimum security Federal facilities. (I’ve dropped my soap in the shower several times and it precipitated...nothing!) When family members hear only a “piece of news” (or rumor) from or about their loved one, it is left up to the imagination to fill in the gaps.
My recent hospitalization while imprisoned is a good case in point. I was fortunate enough to have the presence of mind and the ability to write down phone numbers for emergency contacts before walking to the medical office. I also was lucky enough to have a co-defendant with outside contacts and resources to pass those phone numbers to. Another piece to this troika of ‘grace’ was my knowledge of what was ailing me. I experienced a bout of cellulitis at Christmas ‘05 so as soon as I saw the tell-tale dark, angry red mass spreading on my right leg, I knew from experience I needed to be insistent about getting proper care immediately. Thanks to a friend, an ex-Vietnam Marine grunt who is now a nurse, I was told during that first episode that what I had was called ‘jungle rot’ in ‘Nam and I needed antibiotics right away.
So, while I’m dealing with the prison medical bureaucracy, John LaForge was armed with phone numbers for my wife and the Federal Judge who has offered to be our advocate (if needed) while the SOAW 37 are doing time, and my self diagnosis of what was the cause of my fever, chills, aches and pains—and new ‘badge of honor(?)’ on my leg. Because prisoners can only call phone numbers on their authorized list, John was able to contact fellow peacemaker Bonnie Urfer at Nukewatch — when the telephones were available after the 4 pm count cleared and inmates were released to go to supper--and she was able to alert my wife and Judge Bob Phares on my behalf.
Another advantage we co-defendants had was a form previously drawn up by Judge Phares authorizing the release of all medical records to him in the event of an urgent need. It only had to be signed by us and submitted to prison officials to authorize him to “go to bat” on our behalf. For me it was like Charlie’s ‘golden ticket’ in the Willy Wonka story in that when I showed the signed form to the prison’s medical staff, I’m fairly certain that the ‘tipping point factor in deciding to treat me in-house or send me to the nearby hospital was settled when I stated, “This is a medical release form so my lawyer, who is a federal judge, can have access to what is happening in regard to my medical care.”
While I was in the hospital, it took my wife 4 days before she was given permission to talk with me by phone. When the judge called the prison, he was told the medical release form would have to be discussed by some committee or other before he could talk to the medical staff at the prison. Before I left the prison I was handed a 13-point “Conditions of [medical] Furlough” to sign before I could be driven to the hospital where the ER staff would determine if I needed hospitalization. Besides the expected prohibitions on drugs and alcohol, “leaving the building in possession of firearms or being in contact with persons having a criminal record...” was also the amusing “no consumption of poppy seeds” which could cause a false positive drug test! It was lucky Number 13 that “helps” our families and friends to serve time with us: “Telephone access will not be available without approval of Federal Prison Camp staff.” Visitation is not authorized without the approval of FPC staff.”
I notified the FPC Staff before I left for the hospital that I wanted telephone access to call my wife and, if needed, approval for her and my youngest son to be able to visit 5 days later for our 28th wedding anniversary. It took 3 days to get the visit approved (since they were already on my BOP approved visitors list). Finally, the 4th day of my hospitalization I was told there was a long-distance call for me at the nurses’ station but they had to find me a phone (previously removed) for my room so they could transfer it. “Does this mean I’m authorized to receive and make calls?” I inquired after the phone was delivered. One of the hospital staff said “yes” so I was finally able to personally reassure my wife, kids and parents 4 days into my new venture of the prison medical labyrinth.
By Steve Clemens, FPC Duluth. May 11, 2006
My past exposure to city and county jails and federal prisons had led me to counsel fellow peace activists who risk time in the lock-up to try and stay healthy 'cause prisons are not the best places to have close encounters of the medical kind. I've read stories of how Dan Berrigan almost died in the dental chair at the Danbury Federal Prison. I personally watched "the Interstate Man" (that's what he called himself in 1981) in Potter County Jail in Amarillo, TX go into a seizure, waiting for 20-25 minutes until the guard arrived, only to see them 'cuff him and throw him into solitary ('the hole') for the rest of the night before seeing the doctor the next day. Trustees in the jail assured me that the guards would not have treated past inmate Cullen Davis the same way had he a seizure when he was charged in the murder-for-hire of his wife--after all, he was a millionaire and the local sheriff allowed him to send out for his meals.
I had no intentions of doing first-person "investigative" journalism on the medical care at a federal camp this go-round in the slammer. But the unexpected does happen and fortunately I survived to write about it. First, one needs to understand the protocol of FPC Duluth. Clear rules and boundaries are established to remind one that he is not visiting his family physician. (I guess not; I got arrested, tried, and acquitted with my family doctor, Kevin Kelly, in ‘97 in a protest against the manufacture of land mines by Alliant Tech.) We are instructed not to address any medial staff of the prison by their first names--sorry, Kevin, if you worked here (which I'm pretty sure your conscience wouldn't allow), I'd have to address you as "Dr. Kelly." The other "patient friendly" gesture among many is the sign posted in the sick bay/pill line area reminding you if you are present in this area without an appointment other than during sick call (10:30-10:45 am) or the three scheduled pill lines, you are "out of bounds" and subject to a disciplinary shot. In case of an emergency, you are to be escorted by an officer or staff member.
When one does go to "sick call," one is taken to a back hall and told to sit and wait for the nurse after you filled out a form outlining what problems you claim to have, when they began, and what level of pain or discomfort one is feeling on a 1-10 scale. I say problems you "claim" because it seems like everything else I've experienced on the "inside," the first impression/ reaction of the staff is to suspect that the convict is trying to pull a fast one or get out of work or somehow get something he doesn't deserve.
The nurse asks about your symptoms, takes a temperature and blood pressure if indicated and then tells you to return to work or your dorm and wait for your name to be listed on a "call out sheet" posted every day before the 4 pm count for next-day appointments. It might be the next day, next week, several weeks... When we had our routine dental exam upon entry to this 'camp,' the dentist told us that the present wait was several months for routine fillings or one's annual teeth cleaning. I know many prisons are more apt to pull any teeth that present problems rather than try to restore them. I'm not planning on trying for any first person research in that area!
Even well-meaning staff are caught up in a system designed not to promote the well-being of a patient but to "help" get inmates back to their legalized slavery work assignments. At times I hate to use the 'S' word because in many ways most prison labor (except maybe some of the chain gangs) does not approach the reality that slaves experienced in this and many other nations. But just as it is hard to compare a federal prison camp with the SuperMax in Florence, Co, where Ted the "Unabomber" Kyzinski, Timothy McVeigh's accomplice Terry Nichols, Richard Reid "the shoe bomber," and now Zacharias Moussaoui will "rot" in their solitary prison cells with no human contact whatever, there is a similar essence to any prison. As Papillion, the famous escaped French prisoner from Devil's Island said at the end of his life--"A prison is a prison," making no distinction ultimately between solitary and "Club Fed." In like manner, we can say "a slave is a slave" without differentiating between the black man forced to chop cotton and the minimum security inmate working for 12 cents an hour. In fact, in some state penitentiaries one is not compensated at all—just punished if not “producing.”
But back to the issue at hand—practice of “medicine” at the prison. How does one take the Hippocratic Oath (“First do no harm”) and work at a place that one should know will damage at least the psychological health of one’s patient? Even if the medical personnel want to serve their patients, the system does its best to limit the access. If you can’t go to medical on your own unless it is for sick call, one must convince other prison officials of the need first before you enter the medial area.
In my case, after waking at 3:00 am with fever and chills and them going to work with the addition of aches and pains in the muscles and joints, I asked my (inmate) work crew leader if I could leave early to go to sick call because I was feeling awful. He readily agreed as I’ve been a conscientious worker. I then approached the (inmate) food service clerk who serves as the overall supervisor for inmates assigned to work in food service. He told me to sign out, go back to my dorm and rest, and then report to sick call at 10:30. As I was about to walk out the door (the doors are locked between meals and inmates can’t get in our out without an officer unlocking a door), the officer on duty stopped me and asked where I was going. I explained I was sick and had permission from the clerk and my work supervisor to leave and rest before sick call. He said, no, I couldn’t leave—I should remain in food service until 10:30 and then go. After about 1/2 hour, seeing I was shaking from the chills and obviously pale and weak, he relented and ordered another inmate to “walk him down to medical.” Prior to this he told me he’d have to call an ambulance to pick me up for me to leave during working hours.
After painfully walking down to medial (about 1/4 mile) I sat there for 30 minutes or so before one of the three physician assistants walked by and asked me why I was there. I told him the food service officer sent me down and I started to describe my symptoms, starting with the fever and chills. He stopped me and said (without taking a temp or other physical exam) “It doesn’t appear to be an emergency to me. Go back to work and I don’t want to see you here before 10:30 sick call.” So I slowly (and painfully) walked back into the building-- where all the food is prepared and served to 900 inmates— with an obvious fever and chills. (Fortunately it wasn’t the first outbreak of Bird Flu!) After sitting on a stone bench, so cold I wore my jacket indoors for another 2 hours, I again shuffled back to medical to wait in the sick call line. Because of the intense pain I had in my groin, I was the last of the 9 to be seen that morning because I couldn’t move as quickly as the others when told to “go to the back and line up” to see the nurse. Even though I filled out the symptoms and pain level questionnaire, she planned to wait another day or two (or more) until my assigned P.A. “provider” decided to schedule me. Fortunately for my health and well-being, I chose to be proactive—and now I am confident of my care at St. Mary’s Medical Center in downtown Duluth—a room with a beautiful view of Lake Superior and the Duluth harbor.
Your Whole Family Does the Time
When a member of your family is in jail or prison the whole family is punished by the way “the system” is run. In some ways those on the “inside” have it easier than those on the outside because on the inside at least one knows what is (or, sometimes more important, is not) happening. Those not behind the prison bars (or “out of bounds” signs) are just left with their imaginations and the images burned into their subconscious by The Shawshank Redemption or the TV series Oz.
However, neither TV nor Hollywood movies could market the stories of mind-numbing boredom, so the video images we are routinely fed of prisons are more melodramatic than at least the reality of my two experiences of doing time at minimum security Federal facilities. (I’ve dropped my soap in the shower several times and it precipitated...nothing!) When family members hear only a “piece of news” (or rumor) from or about their loved one, it is left up to the imagination to fill in the gaps.
My recent hospitalization while imprisoned is a good case in point. I was fortunate enough to have the presence of mind and the ability to write down phone numbers for emergency contacts before walking to the medical office. I also was lucky enough to have a co-defendant with outside contacts and resources to pass those phone numbers to. Another piece to this troika of ‘grace’ was my knowledge of what was ailing me. I experienced a bout of cellulitis at Christmas ‘05 so as soon as I saw the tell-tale dark, angry red mass spreading on my right leg, I knew from experience I needed to be insistent about getting proper care immediately. Thanks to a friend, an ex-Vietnam Marine grunt who is now a nurse, I was told during that first episode that what I had was called ‘jungle rot’ in ‘Nam and I needed antibiotics right away.
So, while I’m dealing with the prison medical bureaucracy, John LaForge was armed with phone numbers for my wife and the Federal Judge who has offered to be our advocate (if needed) while the SOAW 37 are doing time, and my self diagnosis of what was the cause of my fever, chills, aches and pains—and new ‘badge of honor(?)’ on my leg. Because prisoners can only call phone numbers on their authorized list, John was able to contact fellow peacemaker Bonnie Urfer at Nukewatch — when the telephones were available after the 4 pm count cleared and inmates were released to go to supper--and she was able to alert my wife and Judge Bob Phares on my behalf.
Another advantage we co-defendants had was a form previously drawn up by Judge Phares authorizing the release of all medical records to him in the event of an urgent need. It only had to be signed by us and submitted to prison officials to authorize him to “go to bat” on our behalf. For me it was like Charlie’s ‘golden ticket’ in the Willy Wonka story in that when I showed the signed form to the prison’s medical staff, I’m fairly certain that the ‘tipping point factor in deciding to treat me in-house or send me to the nearby hospital was settled when I stated, “This is a medical release form so my lawyer, who is a federal judge, can have access to what is happening in regard to my medical care.”
While I was in the hospital, it took my wife 4 days before she was given permission to talk with me by phone. When the judge called the prison, he was told the medical release form would have to be discussed by some committee or other before he could talk to the medical staff at the prison. Before I left the prison I was handed a 13-point “Conditions of [medical] Furlough” to sign before I could be driven to the hospital where the ER staff would determine if I needed hospitalization. Besides the expected prohibitions on drugs and alcohol, “leaving the building in possession of firearms or being in contact with persons having a criminal record...” was also the amusing “no consumption of poppy seeds” which could cause a false positive drug test! It was lucky Number 13 that “helps” our families and friends to serve time with us: “Telephone access will not be available without approval of Federal Prison Camp staff.” Visitation is not authorized without the approval of FPC staff.”
I notified the FPC Staff before I left for the hospital that I wanted telephone access to call my wife and, if needed, approval for her and my youngest son to be able to visit 5 days later for our 28th wedding anniversary. It took 3 days to get the visit approved (since they were already on my BOP approved visitors list). Finally, the 4th day of my hospitalization I was told there was a long-distance call for me at the nurses’ station but they had to find me a phone (previously removed) for my room so they could transfer it. “Does this mean I’m authorized to receive and make calls?” I inquired after the phone was delivered. One of the hospital staff said “yes” so I was finally able to personally reassure my wife, kids and parents 4 days into my new venture of the prison medical labyrinth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)