Day 14

Sunday – September 3, 2006: At 8:45 last night, BD went “Man Down”. The institutional term for being found on the floor or unable to walk and calling for medical help. Maybe with the Gangster sleeping just above him, it was more of a premonition than actual medical condition. Gangster picked at BD with casual truculence when confined to the cell, which was 20 hours per day on average. He was remarkable in his creativity involving mental and emotional disassembling and battering of people, if the word can be used to describe a brand of cruel torture where the ultimate goal is provoking a swing, so he may then mercilessly pummel BD without a new charge; ‘Mutual Combat’ is the nomenclature for beating the shit out of each other. All the sleeping and dry heaving left Gangster invigorated and refreshed and incapable of keeping it to himself. With his newfound zest, he immediately put everything he had into draining the will to live from all around him.

Each cell in county jail, in addition to the pristine if not lavish metal furnishings and turbo-powered toilet, comes with the final antiquated vestige of the once admired and noble concept of ‘Presumed Innocence’; the cornerstone of the American Judicial System, which has been replaced by a bundle of cash. A speaker/intercom system built into the wall and covered by a nice metal plate which blends aesthetically with the metal stool and matching table.  It is an inside joke among the roll-callers and overeducated ticket punchers which is not funny if financially unable to make bail. You are guilty if you are still there and the wheels of justice now turn strictly in attempts to maximize the sub human’s worth to them, to keep the defendant in their gooey web, to feed the strongest union in the history of California; The C.C.P.O.A. The California Correctional Peace Officers Association. This politically active covert group influences everyone from judges’ sentences to State Assembly people when laws are being created or redesigned, or anyone who campaigns for office with their hand out. People who are ‘Presumed Innocent’ still have rights such as being able to ask for help in a medical emergency. Prison cells have no line out for emergencies, and ambulances less than a mile away on ground can take an hour to arrive. It is made abundantly clear to anyone who can take a hint: we are a commodity, not a human. They care enough not to let one escape, but it’s ok to die. Realizing I am siding with the “scum”, not just because I am in the group, but because hypocrisy for monetary gain is wrong when I did it, and it is profoundly worse when institutionalized and sanctioned by the State. Why is certain immoral behavior and corruption acceptable if it appears to be only hurting bad people? They are still stealing from the taxpayer and they are typically returning an angrier, more dangerous individual to the streets. The system as it is set up now, polishes the anger, refines the danger, and then redirects back into society more volatile than before.  I do not see how that helps anyone except those union members.

BD, in a new dramatic voice he must have held back for the occasion, screamed quasi hysterically into the holes of the metal plate as he held the button. As he pleaded, using his best life-and-death voice, Gangster stood behind him yelling equally loud and without the oscillation in tenor BD was so effectively injecting into his voice to give it more of a cry for help or wailing effect, Gangster’s barking was drowning him out.

“Don’t listen to this piece of shit, he’s fine. He just wants to get out cause he’s scared. He’s a dumpster diver. If he’s lying on the floor when you get up here, don’t put him on a stretcher, wipe your boots on him. He’s a piece of shit dumpster diver.” As long as BD tried to speak, Gangster went on behind him. After a half dozen tries or so, BD just started screaming, “HEART ATTACK! HEART ATTACK!” repeatedly till even the most uninspired county employee on the other end could not feign confusion. They both looked psychotic, and then it hit me: once BD was gone, I would be the lone depository for that 255 pounds of egregious psychosis until someone else shows up. One need not be a student of psychology or human nature to arrive at the conclusion, once BD left, Gangster was not suddenly going to undergo a personality change. All the venomous baiting and innuendo Gangster hurled about like well-aimed harpoons were going to continue to fly. I suddenly felt like Poland on August 31, 1939. What I could not help but be taken aback by – and everything from the cuisine to swastika tattoos on foreheads were constantly knocking me for a loop – was Gangster’s refusal to tone it down even when the staff entered the cell. As the medical crew scooped BD from the cement floor and uniformed county officers stood by at the doorway, he seemed to turn the volume down, and the venomous content up. “You’re a piece of shit and you always will be BD. Next time you dive into a dumpster why don’t you stay there!” The officers told him to tone it down. He did not seem to notice them. “Save everyone some time guys, just take him upstairs and toss him right into a dumpster. You hear that BD? They’re taking you home! You fuckin coward!”

After everyone was gone and the cell door locked, Gangster got up and started pacing. I never looked up from the letter I was writing. “You hear those fuckin cops tellin me to shut up?” It was only the two of us, so he had to be talking to me. “Yeah, I did.” The awkward silence prompted me to fill it. “How come you didn’t just do it, make it easier on yourself, aren’t you worried about retaliation?” He stopped pacing directly in front of me forcing me to look up into the eyes of the predator. “What are they gonna fuckin do? Arrest me? Fuck them.”

It was not as long or bad of a night as the potential suggested. Gangster was behaving like someone who lived for food just leaving an all-you-can-eat buffet. He was temporarily satiated I hoped, long enough for them to get someone else in here, which I knew, due to the overcrowding, would not take long.

Day 13

Saturday – September 2, 2006:  The ‘Gangster’, despite his obvious mixed feelings regarding religion, rose from the dead today. After about 40 hours of decomposing from within, a radical paradigm shift, as abrupt and nerve wracking as an earthquake was underway in cell 24, which, not coincidently, suddenly felt even smaller than its 5.5 X 11.5 feet. As the geographically designated Gangster resumed living, those in his immediate vicinity felt a little closer to death. I know I did, and BD would fake a heart attack by lights out in order to escape any further familiarization with our Lazarus-like cohabitant. As color returned to the Gangster’s face, venomous words followed, almost entirely focused on BD. BD suffered from an inability to do nothing and say nothing, or recognizing such a path of behavior as an alternative route to survival. Gangster tormented him about dumpster diving and asked why he didn’t take a second job as a doormat. He wanted to suggest a third job.

“Why don’t you, you know, rent yourself out as one of those things. Ah goddammit, what are those things called? Hey, what do they call those things people spit in.”

Without looking up from the letter I was writing, I knew he was talking to me so I answered. “A spittoon.”

“Yeah, that’s it. You could be a spittoon too!”

Gangster passed his time like that. Some people read books. Some abused easy and convenient targets to amuse themselves. Others waited their turn to read one of the three newspapers which were delivered to the dayroom – one for the blacks, one for the Hispanics, and one for the whites. The newspapers were segregated. So were the dayroom tables. Not only couldn’t a white sit at the designated ‘Black’ tables under any circumstances, but he had better not walk between them either. I discovered this while standing in line at the observation desk where the county officials sat watching us behind a very thick, difficult to see through, pane of something I’m sure was not regular glass. I was waiting to return the razor I was given to shave with, as was required by the overseers. Supposedly the guys like to keep them, break them apart, and fasten the blade to a toothbrush in a way that allows the toothbrush to slice flesh instead of brush teeth. As soon as the official said he marked me as ‘returned’, I bolted for the TV set where the last pre-season game by the local team was about to kick off. Unfortunately, the shortest distance took me directly between the black’s tables and it never even crossed my mind I was committing an offense. I sat down and watched the kickoff. Before it was 2^nd down, ‘Boone’, an amicable enough Skinhead and white rep was sliding down beside me.

“Did you see what you just did?”

“Me? What?” I did not have to fake ignorance. As time went by, the preposterous nature of the  local customs wore off and I accepted and took for granted behaviors I find hard to explain, but at this point, I still did not know if he was kidding me or not.

“Dude, you walked right through the black’s tables.” I still was not sure what he meant, and good rep that he was, he read my face. “Not only can’t you sit over there, you can’t walk between their tables either.”

It had not been two weeks since I joined the other side, and habits from my prior life, like impulsively reacting with questions to things I found silly, had not left me yet. “Is that their idea or ours?” I could see the swastika on Boone’s head move as he narrowed his eyebrows and his forehead furrowed, pondering my inquiry, or maybe whether he might bust me across the head when I was not looking. “Does that really matter to you?”

He had a point, that’s why he was the rep. He said he already apologized to them on my behalf, so I did not have to bother. What I did have to do was 123 ‘burpies’. Burpies are a name given to a full body and cardio workout designed to be done is confined settings. The fella’s would like to believe it is an exercise regimen devised by Navy Seals or some other heroic unit in case they are taken prisoner of war; which is quite different than being taken prisoner of peace. The number, 123, had some kind of added significance to it also, and it was explained to me but it has escaped my mind. It might have been the number one arrived at if you added up all the digits in Hitler’s phone number or something along those lines. The Third Reich was getting a lot of references among the guys I was to be aligned with in the event of a fracas. They were like ‘Bizzarro World” historians, and I could not help but wonder how so many people could come to see and interpret historical events so incorrectly. He spent most of the 1^st half with me up in my cell going burpie for burpie with me until we were both sweating profusely, even though no one was permitted to take a shower for about six hours.  

Day 12

Friday – September 1, 2006: I did not sleep well anywhere: A condition irritated by being relocated to worst class and bunking a few feet above a guy named ‘Gangster’ who’s shadow was big enough to park a car in. The fact he was in a foul mood when up – to walk three feet and bend over the toilet to wretch – did nothing to quell my insomnia. In time, I would come to recognize heroin withdrawal for what it was, but back then, I was under the impression I would soon have the flu. The only time he spoke to me in 24 hours was indirectly when he yelled at whoever was tossing and turning so much and shaking the bunk. On one trip to the toilet I glanced down to where he was bent over in nothing but his boxers, barking inhumanly and uncontrollably into the stainless steel turbo-powered commode Boeing would have been proud to engineer. There, on the back of his right shoulder, spreading under his arm onto his right ribcage and across the whole of his back, then disappearing under the boxers momentarily before continuing onto his left thigh, was one enormous tattoo. I tilted my head to gain better perspective, confirming my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, and once the image came clear, it became very clear: there was the Devil, holding Jesus in a kind of headlock with his left arm, positioned behind him. Satan held clutched in his right hand a syringe of a hypodermic needle with his thumb pressing down on the plunger as he drove the needle into the right side of Jesus’ neck, clearly against his will, judging by facial expressions. It was chilling, not due to any firmly held religious beliefs instilled during my nine year term under the menacing hand of the ‘Sisters of Mercy’, but because I suddenly realized I was trapped in a cement box with someone willing to adorn himself in such profound blasphemy which on some level, he had to be thinking was a good idea. Before he raised to an upright position, I looked away and down at the letter I was writing in my lap. It might have been residue from the nine years of suffocating intimidation pressed upon me by the ‘Sisters of Mercy’, but not making eye contact with a predator was instinctive to me. Eye contact opens a subtle door in the mind of the predator, and invites them to create perceptions about the prey. The perceived reality never ends well for the limping wildebeest at the watering hole, and the predators among humans I encountered did not maim or kill merely as a result of hunger. Things began to dawn on me, unnerving the primitive part of my brain and its reflexive functions. It took time for me to become aware, but my heart would race without me moving; my eyes would blink rapidly; I could not go to the bathroom or sleep; my Medulla oblongata was misfiring from sensory overload, triggering the flight instinct while the cerebral cortex dealt with the reality that there was nowhere to run, and fighting without rules or scoreboards never held much appeal for me. This attitude placed me in a quiet, though distinct minority. On this night, in one unmistakable moment of clarity, I realized how differently I thought compared to my new cohabitants. About 50 of us sat surrounding the lone TV in the dayroom that evening. I was down, sitting on the floor in front of the six or so tables - divided up evenly between the races – watching the movie ‘Casino’ with Robert De niro and Joe Pesci. At one point, someone is caught counting cards or cheating the house in some way, and results in the patron being taken to a back room. As part of the lesson the cheater is taught, some Casino goon abruptly and shockingly – at least to me – thrusts a knife into the back of his hand as it is held down on a table. The imagery caused me to reflexively turn away. In doing so I found myself suddenly looking into the faces of the crowd around me. To say no one else found the scene unsettling is too understated. I saw smiles and expressions of pure unmitigated joy and pleasure in response to the stabbing; a complete lack of anything which could be construed as appalled or even mildly disturbed. It rattled me, and I soon got up and walked in circles around the dayroom’s perimeter alone.

Day 11

Thursday – August 31, 2006: Around 6 A.M. Tim’s name was called over the PA system and told to “roll it up”, which meant gather whatever was passing as possessions together and prepare for departure. He would be going to one of the County’s two camps for the remainder of his six weeks. By 7 A.M. Tim would be the first person I met along this sordid path, get to know only the most intimate and gruesome details of their lives, then abruptly depart and never see them again. In about 98 percent of the cases that was just fine with me. As soon as he was gone, BD hurriedly moved his bedding material into the middle space of the three bunk stack. I was in the top bunk which suited me as well as any bunk in a toilet could. It was the only bunk with enough visibility after lights out to read and write. The lower bunk was a couple inches above floor, and to the minds of those unfortunate enough to care about such logistics, the least desirable. The middle bunk mattered to the same minds far more than it should have, and such significance to seemingly meaningless statuses would become an ever increasing part of life now. Around 11 A.M. I watched through the small window on the metal cell door as the latest arrivals, none of whom looked new, entered single-file to their new residences. Two were dispatched to lower tier cells and the third walked slowly behind his uniformed escort up the stairs towards us. He was tall, well over six foot, and though appearing exhausted, was not too tired to scowl constantly. Our cell door clicked to unlock and the officer swung it open for our new cellie. He walked in and stood silently until the cell door clicked closed. I was sitting on the top bunk writing a letter, BD stood as the official greeter. “Is that your shit on the middle bunk?” he asked BD, to which he replied affirmatively. “You have five seconds to move it or I’ll flush that shit down the toilet.” I tried not to stare, but there was nowhere else to look. BD moved quicker than I had ever seen him move as he returned his bed roll to the bottom. While he was relocating, the new tenant looked at me. “What’s your name?” I said “Frankie”, and nothing more. He extended a large hand which I shook as he said, “I’m the [name of city] Gangster.” I did not quite catch what he said, or so I thought, or hoped. As he repeated the ritual with BD I listened more closely, and sure enough, he said it again. Nicknames were everyone’s way of trying to remain anonymous to those charged with recording our activity and punishing us accordingly. The theory was it would make it more difficult for a snitch to tell on someone if they did not have a real name to give to the authorities. Plus, everyone seemed to think it made them slicker and more unique. After rolling his bedding out on the middle bunk, Gangster proceeded to dry heave in the heartiest fashion I had ever the displeasure of witnessing for about 45 minutes. Then he laid down and slept – only grudgingly waking for meals and to sporadically though violently dry heave – until the next morning.     

Day 10

Wednesday – August 30, 2006: My Cellie Tim went to court today. During a drunken melee he hit his pregnant girlfriend in the head with a brick – twice. Despite two sets of stapled sutures on her skull, she was still writing the judge in the case pleading for Tim’s release before the baby is due in October. It’s Tim’s third time being locked up – once in Nevada and before here in California - on a violence related charge and he’s still just barely 30 years old. My other cellie, who gives his occupation upon greeting people as “dumpster-diver” without a hint of shame, goes by “BD” (though neither are his initials, and I did not ask what the letters might stand for) was impressed by Tom’s story when he returned. He told us how his girlfriend, now over seven months pregnant, threw herself down in hysterics at his hearing threatening to harm herself if Tim wasn’t released for the baby’s birth. He showed us copies of the letters she wrote on his behalf. I stood next to BD as he read them and I pretended to read along. I was too preoccupied to read, and too confused to ask or say anything pertinent. And I was not sure what was pertinent. BD smiled so wide reading the letters I wondered what I was missing. Handing them to Tim, BD offered congratulations. “This is great, you did great today. Nice that she’s still on the team.” Tim chuckled and offered this explanation: “Must have been the second shot, cleared her head.” They laughed at the conclusion. Then Tim finished telling us how he accepted the next deal and would be out in six weeks. Hearty high fives were exchanged and I felt even stupider then when teammates expected me to trade high fives at softball games, but as with softball, I went along to suit the environment. Tim would serve a grand total of four and a half months on a third violence related charge. It was slowly dawning on me the legal system was as random and arbitrary in its application of what was referred to as “justice” and “due process” as a drunk was with his emotions and responses. He’s either going to tell you how much he loves you or hates you, and little logic will be applicable, but it will be expeditiously delivered. Also, like a drunk, the court can be easily manipulated by someone who understands it.

Day 9

Tuesday – August 29, 2006: “Why shouldn’t someone talk to the police when they get arrested?” That was my question when my two “cellies” began to criticize my open communication approach with the arresting officers, as well as the detective the County I.T. guy eventually overruled to order me arrested. My father worked in law enforcement for nearly 35 years, the last eight years or so as chief of a large metropolitan police force. He and his friends were as good and decent as any people I ever knew, but this was a new generation; weaned on ‘Dirty Harry’ movies and being used as political tools, drifting ever further from the role of peace keeper. Police officers did not have quotas like sales people in prior times. In fact, the philosophy had changed 180 degrees; where once, how few arrests were made in a precinct was the determinant of a successful force, now how many convictions it could produce determined success. Also, to be frank, neither of my cellies struck me as particularly erudite gentlemen, though I’ll admit, both were shockingly well read. They had favorite authors, some of whose names I did not recognize, and yet, when writing, could not spell rudimentary words when necessary. They read incredibly fast too, different than myself, scanning information more than absorbing provocative thought from the page. I am still working on a theory explaining how someone can be a speed reader and an illiterate writer. I thought an unspoken competition existed between them to see who could read faster. This was the perfect  place for such an illogical contest; there was a constant shortage of books, so why not rush through and get back to staring at the ceiling or conducting impromptu seminars on methamphetamine manufacturing. The uncontested king of conversation topics was what your charge was, and what strategy you would choose in court. Everyone knew how to work the proceedings in court to minimalize their time. It was familiar territory for the vast majority, and with few exceptions, they received lesser time than originally offered by the DA, or much less time in some cases. “Never take the first deal,” I heard dozens of times as I skulked around the dayroom.  My first offer was five years at 85%, which I refused, and before I left the courtroom, I became guiltier and a more horrid criminal in the DA’s eyes (another cog in the machine whose modern office has quotas) and the offer was raised to seven years at 85%. It did not go that way for too many people, especially white people. At mail time legal papers would also be distributed. I was handed the latest police reports on my case. Now I understood why one should never speak with police unless a lawyer who is paid excessively to be there is in attendance, just as a lie detector with no attorney present to stop the tester from manipulating results was a bad idea. If a detainee opts to discuss events leading to the arrest, what happens is the retelling of events is opened to the interpretation of fiction writers with conviction quotas who recreate events to best serve their agenda.

Day 8

Monday - August 28, 2006: When the cell door unclicked and access to the dayroom granted, most everyone flooded out of their cells, then paused to look at each other, exchanging some bad vibrations in greeting before moving on to other matters. I had come to view the assembled collective as an obnoxious yet dangerous idiot. Maybe because the voices I heard first and foremost were the ones most desperate for attention. Quickly in this setting, one realizes the ability to differentiate between negative and positive attention has been lost on most everyone. Right and wrong takes a regular beating in this crowd too, but for me, it was expected. I assumed those were conscious neglects. My general assumption was this was a group of ignorant, incapable dolts, with a sense of entitlement and the common sense of a tree stump. Then the library cart showed up. Walking with the collective herd towards the cart I heard the strangest things: complete sentences; finished coherent thoughts; well-formed opinions on something other than drug use; all spoken in tones one might encounter, well, just about anywhere else but here. I wanted to select something to read off the big cart, but I could not concentrate. There were still arguments going on all around me, but no one was going full volume. Instead of mindless exchanges where the tone and volume overruled content, these were more challenging in context – almost as if debating. I remember looking at this shaved head covered in swastikas and other obscenities bending down to reach for a book on the lower shelf with his left hand – the hand with the word ‘Hate’ tattooed clearly on each finger just below the knuckles – and plucking some thick volume from it. “Mitchner! I fuckin love Mitchner.” It threw me off balance. ‘The Skinhead who was telling a tale involving car theft and guns yesterday loves Mitchner?’ I almost said it out loud to myself I was so stunned. All about, discussions about favorite authors and genre were taking place. It was surreal. I tried to focus on a book to select but the conversations were distracting in a way overhearing conversations about drug use and incorrigible behavior were not. A literary opinion on Stephen King was offered. “Don’t waste my fuckin time with all those descriptions. Fuck that. Just tell the fuckin story. I don’t give a shit how many petals are on some fuckin flower that’s got nothing to do with the story.” It was not the University of Iowa Master’s Program, but it was as unexpected as any other form of civility - deranged to suit the circumstances - would be to my mind under the conditions.