by D. Lawdog
Me: *blink*
Thing 1: *Nods happily*
Me: “What?”
Thing 2: “What?”
Sometimes it’s best to just drop the conversation right there.
I swear by Freyja: Those two are going to be the death of me.
FILE 30: Definitions
After several of my shift reports wound up on the blog, I found out that jail jargon wasn’t readily translatable by normal people, so I posted a quick dictionary.
* * *
LO/LOP: An abbreviation for “Lock-Off/Loss Of Privileges,” which is basically disciplinary segregation. An inmate violates a rule and catches LO/LOP, we toss his butt into a solitary cell, no phone, no commissary, limited visitation, that sort of thing.
Water-checks: Inmates in a solitary cell sometimes can’t—or won’t—report having problems with the water faucet in the cell. Every night, an officer goes around and checks every tap in solitary to make sure that the inmate inside the cell has access to water.
SHU: Special Housing Unit. The formal term for Solitary. Sometimes also called Segregation.
Ad/SEG: Administrative SEGregation. An inmate who, for whatever reason, can’t get along in General Population, but hasn’t caught a case and wound up on LO/LOP. This can be due to Protective Custody, MHMR patient, Escape Risk, amongst other reasons.
TDC: Actually supposed to be TDCJ for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. The prison system for the State of Texas. Old-time officers remember when it was called the Texas Department of Corrections.
Chain: The trip to TDC from the county. The TDC bus is the “chain bus”, the trip is known as “catching chain,” so on and so forth.
Jack: The handiest and most fluid word in a county inmate’s vocabulary. To “jack” is to succeed against another person, either by way of guile or by physical force. For example:
“Hey, DO! Somebody jacked me for a soup!”
Translation: “Excuse me, detention officer, but person or persons unknown appear to have stolen a food item from my property locker.”
“Fool! Rank ’Dog just jacked Hernandez in front of his boys!”
Translation: “Comrade! Lieutenant LawDog has caused inmate Hernandez to lose face by removing Hernandez from his Housing Area in the presence of his compatriots after Hernandez stated that he would not move!”
“Boss! I don’t know, but word is that someone’s gonna jack Old Con in the shower tonight.”
Translation: “Officer! While neither I, nor my colleagues, are involved in any way, shape, or form, we have been given cause to suspect that another inmate—one who is younger and Less Wise in the Ways of the World—is planning to physically assault an elder in the bathing area this night.”
As happens, this useful word has found its way into the lexicon of the officers.
“Hey, Sarge! 21 just jacked his beanhole.”
Translation: “Sergeant, the inmate in SHU/21 is preventing officers from securing the food pass slot in the door of his cell.”
Taking a shower: Alternatively, “asleep in my rack.” In a Housing Area holding 24 inmates and two showers, if you drag two inmates out of the tank for a bloody fight, when you ask the other 22 inmates what happened, all 22 will invariably answer, “I don’t know, boss. I was taking a shower.”
I think that should cover some of the basics.
FILE 31: ’Allo! ’Allo! ’Allo!
Yes, I started out an official emailed report with “’Allo! ’Allo! ’Allo!” It was a small agency, and we could get away with stuff like that.
* * *
’Allo! ’Allo! ’Allo!
To begin with, in what has become a familiar occurrence, Inmate R was transferred out to the River from Central for housing and immediately announced that he would not be housed on West Tier.
Already knowing the answer, but being morbidly curious, we asked Inmate R who he had a problem with out that way. His answer was the name of an inmate who had been released from our custody some months back. Then, he decided that he had problems with Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings, and any other gangs he could remember. He then followed up by stating that his wife/girlfriend/spouse-like love-unit was due to have his sprog in the morning, or any day now, and he needed peace and quiet to “settle his mind.”
Goodness.
He went off to SHU, where he was somewhat disturbed when it was explained to him that SHU visits were on Friday. I then gently corrected the SHU officer and stated that was true only up until his case for Disobeying a Verbal Order went to LO/LOP time, and we let him contemplate his navel for a bit.
A couple of hours later we needed a SHU cell for a suicidal inmate, so we asked Inmate R if West Tier was looking so bad now. I guess it wasn’t because he’s there now.
Inmate L got kited out of East/4 for unspecified problems. We put him into East/6. Two shakes of a puppy’s tail later, and he was at the bars stating that he had a free-world problem with Inmate F. I asked Inmate F what sort of problem he had with Inmate L, and he apparently didn’t know Inmate L from Adam’s off ox. I guess that Inmate L would have problems with random inmates until he got into a tank he liked. We slung him back into East/4 anyway.
It was suicide night at the county. We were considering moving all of our suicidal inmates into one contiguous section of SHU near the officer station but didn’t get around to it.
Inmate B got run out of West/2. Allegedly, West/2 thought he had snitched out their supply of nose candy. To prevent the whole “snitches get stitches” thing, we moved him to East/6.
West/8 was reading 65 degrees F, so we bumped the thermostat up a bit.
River did water checks at 0430 and shook down East/5. Trash and the usual extras found.
Intake reported nothing exciting.
Central/North did water checks at 0100; Central/Tower did them at 0220 and also shook down North/5. Again, trash and the usual.
Inmate G decided that his latest LO/LOP time meant he’d still be in SHU when he caught the chain, meaning that he’d probably do his first year of TDC in Seg. After begging most piteously to be released from Durance Vile and being refused, he decided to be a rampaging honyock. He started beating on the door, howling, yelling advice to other inmates, and has been proposing marriage as well as uninhibited trampoline sex to Thing 1 ever since.
Which, to be honest, was a little creepy to listen to.
Anyhoo, that should be about it.
I remain,
Y’r ob’d’t servant,
LawDog
FILE 32: Chemistry 101
You might be surprised how often people who actually have a pretty damned good grasp of elementary chemistry have a “duh” moment and try to kill entire buildings. Yeah, I know my equations are a little off. Trust me. No one who was receiving this email knew the difference.
* * *
Good morning, ladles and germs.
On this fine early morning, let us turn our attention to chemistry. More to the point, let us meditate upon the following equation:
2NH3 + Cl2 → 2NH2Cl
Translation: Ammonia plus free chlorine released from the decomposition of NaOCl (bleach) equals chloramine gas.
It’s actually a much more complex equation than that, but you get the point; and while chloramine gas isn’t as shagnasty as its cousin chlorine, it is somewhat more persistent.
Yes. Our Inmate Workers apparently attempted to gas Intake by pouring bleach down a drain full of ammonia.
Given the fact that at least one of the Usual Suspects involved can probably produce fourteen different varieties of Illicit Recreational Pharmaceuticals with $28 and 20 minutes of free reign inside a Circle K, yet spent several minutes staring in bumfuzzlement at the yellow-green gas drifting lazily through the kitchen says indictable things about the American Educational System… but I digress.
Sigh.
SadPanda was notified, and water was poured down said drain until the fizzing/smoking stopped—it was probably N2H4, better known as liquid hydrazine
, a component of rocket fuel, by the by—and the smell went away.
Irritatedly yours, I remain:
LawDog
FILE 33: Normal Business
Yes, I referred to a lieutenant as Sad Panda. To this day, the sheriff still calls that lieutenant Panda.
* * *
To start with, Inmate W got wrapped around the axle because when he swapped his manky uniform, we gave him a 2X instead of a 3X. He proceeded to whinge at great length until I finally went to his solitary cell, listened to him, and then had him walk the catwalk in front of Officer H. Both of us felt the 2X fit just fine, so I left. Inmate W sulked.
The kitchen contractor came out here and wound up being about 20 pieces of turkey short. Sigh.
Nurse F announced that he needed to do a TB test on Inmate B in SHU/10. I practiced my diplomacy skills and then went down to SHU/10 and asked the ever-so-slightly throwed-off Inmate B if he’d like to have a TB test done. I’m here to tell you that Inmate B did not want a TB test done. Boy, howdy, did he not want one done.
I was fairly happy that I wasn’t going to have to get near Inmate B with anything sharp and pointy but contacted LT SadPanda about the refusal, and that worthy ordered that Inmate B be placed in a negative-pressure cell.
Thanks to the silver tongue of Officer G, Inmate B was chained up with no problems whatsoever, but when we got to SHU/5, he decided that he didn’t like me. Must have been the mustache. Anyhoo, apparently, the crazy didn’t go too deep because Inmate B decided to wait on the Saying It With Saliva until the door to SHU/5 was just about all the way closed. Happily, the spit missed me by a good bit, but it kind of hurt my mustache’s feelings.
East/3 had been opining about what they considered to be cold temperatures back there, but I ran a couple of temperature checks, and it ran about 72 degrees. Inmate U felt strongly enough about it that when he was pulled out for Indigent Health, he decided to open the thermostat panel and fiddle his booger-hooks around in it. I had a chat with inmate U—I may have displayed teeth—and I believed that he wouldn’t be doing that again.
We shook down West/7 but found skippy-all.
Central/North stated that they had a quiet evening.
Central/Tower did the needful in West/9. Apparently, the wee lasses were stocking up on milk. And makeup.
Intake said they had “normal business.” I noted, however, that Officer S had been trained on the Transport Van. I was happy to announce that he had backed into the River sally-port with no loud noises, that both the van and the doors still functioned, and that the services of the Fire Department and/or EMS were not required.
He really did need a booster seat, though.
Y’r ob’d’t servant:
LawDog
FILE 34: Universal Precautions
The Chief Deputy actually opined, fairly gently, that I might be doing Bugscuffle County officers a disservice with the second and third paragraphs. Hah!
* * *
Good greetings!
To start with, Inmate B is in the hospital. When you send an officer, make sure that officer takes full universal precautions.
Officer C put his keys and phone in lockbox #1 at River, and River appeared to have tried to keep it because the key to #1 wouldn’t open the lock. I went out there and tried, but I couldn’t get it to open. Several officers of the knuckle-dragging persuasion offered to take a look at it, and I agreed as long as there was no hitting it with rocks, bricks, hammers, or anything else hard and heavy, no using explosives, flammable gases, or anything at high velocity, power tools were right out, and anything that might conceivably produce arterial bleeding, traumatic amputation, or loud noises in any way was strictly verboten.
Much pouting was evident, but they went out to look at it anyway. I’m pretty sure I heard the odd “Eek!” and an “Ook!” or two, and then they came back in and handed me the entire lock… key still inside.
Sigh.
We shook down West/3 and came up with the usual string and colored smalls.
Central/North reports that Inmate G got cross-threaded with the nurse and hurt the nurse’s feelings: G caught a write-up for it.
Central/South shook-down South/4, where they promptly discovered that at least five inmate workers put extra kibble in their lunch sacks and firmly caught write-ups for it.
Huh.
I remain:
LawDog
FILE 35: Orienteering
I have finally given up on the GPS battlefront. They have become so ubiquitous, and, quite frankly, so useful, that I don’t mind them. Much. I still have backup maps in my pickup.
* * *
ACT ONE
The scene: A teeny-tiny office in North Texas. A map of the United States covered one wall, and LawDog was currently measuring a route betwixt Bugscuffle, Texas, and PaddlefasterIhearbanjos, NotTexas.
LawDog: “Muttermuttermutter.”
Enter, stage left, Thing 2, snarfing a Cretaceous honey bun recently excavated from the depths of the office snack vending machine.
Thing 2: “Whatchadoin’?”
LawDog: “We’re picking up one of our critters in some godforsaken hole in a corner of NotTexas that I’ve never been, so I want to have a good feel for the route. You do realize that honey buns aren’t supposed to, you know, crunch?”
Thing 2 (crunching happily): “I’m young. I gotta cast-iron stomach. You do know that the sheriff bought a GPS for these trips, right?’
LawDog: “Yes, I did hear that. Weren’t you using said GPS unit when you went to Tyler by way of Waco last year?”
Thing 2 (shrugging): “Nah, that was one of your fellow dinosaurs. He didn’t enter the destination information properly. Garbage in, garbage out.”
LawDog: “I like my maps. Look. They’re even laminated.”
Thing 2 (rolling eyes): “Okay, Lewis Clark, have it your way. I’ll go grab the paperwork and the vehicle.”
LawDog (yelping at Thing 2’s retreating back): “AND Clark! Lewis AND Clark! Two different people!”
Scene closed with LawDog firmly removing the Garmin GPS unit from its Cordura case, lofting it into the open filing cabinet, and authoritatively slamming the file shut while muttering sulfurously.
ACT TWO
The scene: The interior of a standard police cruiser, some distance away from the Bugscuffle County Sheriff’s Office. LawDog was in the shotgun seat, staring in disbelief as Thing 2 managed, more or less, to drive, text on a cell phone, and pound down a 64-oz Cappuccino Mongo Shake from Giblets Coffee House and Cafe all at the same time.
Thing 2 (attempting to lick the last bits of sugary caffeine goodness from the bottom of the half-gallon barrel): “Ey! Eb geb Gee Pee Ess oug!”
LawDog: “That’s not a feedbag, and the last drop will do fine without you. I swear to Shiva, when your heart jumps out of your chest and starts vibrating down the road, I am not picking it up. Now what did you say, in English this time?”
Thing 2 (slightly manic grin): “Whoo, that’s good stuff. Pass me the Garmin, wouldja? Hey! It’s not in here!”
LawDog (piously): “Goodness. I do believe this here is a Teaching Opportunity in the Arcane Art of LandNav. Now, this here is what we call ‘a map’…”
Thing 2: “Hold on. I got the GPS app for my iPhone. Give me a sec… yep… Here it is… How do you spell, ‘PaddlefasterIhearbanjos’… dude, stop banging your head on the dashboard!”
Bugger!
FILE 36: Dress Code
This a Public Service Announcement that I wish would play just before docket call in every courthouse in Texas. I’ve been doing this for a while, and there are some things that no amount of brain bleach is going to fix.
* * *
Ladies, if I can tell from the far side of the courtroom that your G-string is tuned to A, your outfit probably violates part, or all, of the “Acceptable Court Wear” memo posted at the courtroom door by the judge.
District court is not a place to wear that cute little number that you bought for the
nightclub, the beach, or any place where the major architectural features are limited to a stage and a brass pole.
And, as we have learned, just because you aren’t the one on trial doesn’t mean that you can’t catch Contempt of Court charges.
Now we know. And knowing is half the battle.
FILE 37: The Proper Care of Handcuffs
Yes. Peace Officers have to be schooled on how to take care of their gear. And most of them won’t listen. This email was featured prominently on the Patrol Bulletin Board for several years.
* * *
Ladies and gentlemen:
Let us turn our attention to the lowly, unloved handcuffs. Actually, let us turn our attention to where our handcuffs live for 98% of the time: in some form of leather, or more recently, ballistic cloth.
See that fuzzy kind of stuff lurking around in those handcuff carriers? That, my confused yet earnest apprentices, is lint. Yes, just like the stuff that breeds in your pockets.
Now, you may not know this, but when your ’cuffs are riding in the carriers, all of that lint is busily having conjugal relations with the ever-present dust, and they’re doing this inside your handcuff mechanism.
I was going to say “ever-present dust-bunnies,” but I’ve seen some of y’all’s gear, and “ever-present dust buffaloes” just doesn’t have the cute mental image I was going for.
Anyhoo.