Security Assignments are made in accordance with severity of crime, perceived dangerousness of inmate, length of incarceration, and past history of escape or violence.
Major concerns for the Committee include: limiting security risks, assessment of rehabilitation needs and maintaining the good order & security of all institutions within the Michigan Department of Corrections (MDOC).
As I read this, an inmate standing next to me translated: "However much time a motherfucker's got?-That's where they're sending his ass." Meaning, the longer the prison term-the higher the security.
I wondered why they didn't just say that, so everyone would understand, but then Rooster stood up and started imitating a southern lawyer.
"Irregardless of what this particular memorandum stipulates," he said, "Convict Classifications-are primarily determined-by the length of your adjudications."
"In other words," he grabbed his crotch, "The longer the dick-the longer the ride." He gave his pelvis a slight thrust, and everyone laughed.
"Man, sit your Perry Mason ass down, fool," the first guy said, smiling. "And mother-tuck all that mumbo jumbo M-D-O-C bullshit." He pointed at the memo. "It's very simple: If you're doing less than two years, you're going to camp. Up to five-medium-security. Anything higher, and you're going inside."
When inmates talked about going inside, they meant inside the walls of a close-custody prison. Inmates with long sentences, up to and including life, were sent there. They were surrounded by walls, motion sensors, razor wire, and gun towers. The older cons went to Jackson, while those of us under twenty-five went to the Michigan Reformatory (a.k.a. Gladiator School). At this point, I didn't know if the name the inmates had given the place was real or not, but I didn't want to find out.
Inmates with terms of up to five years were sent to medium-security. These prisons were surrounded by fences and gun towers, or armed jeeps patrolled the perimeter. Inmates who had been serving longer sentences inside the walls were transferred down to medium as soon as they got within five years of parole. Once they reached within two years, they were eligible for the camp program.
When I was called from the bullpen the second time, I was handed a document entitled, Inmate Outdates. Outdates were the earliest release dates we could be granted a parole. Good Time, time off for good behavior, had already been calculated.
"It don't mean you're getting out then," a guard said, "It just means them are the dates you could get out, assuming you don't lose no good time."
"They do it that way," an inmate with a B-number said, "because when they take the good time back from your ass, they figure you'll miss it more."
But for the moment, I was preoccupied with trying to figure out if, don't lose nogood time was a triple negative, and if so, did that mean I didn't want to don't lose no, or if I wanted to not don't lose some?
There were two types of good time, regular and special, and release dates were noted for each. No one could tell me why there were two kinds of good time, but as the same inmate suspected, "It's so the motherfuckers can have two different things to take away from your ass."
The way it was calculated, I only had to serve nine months for every year of my sentence. So my two-and-a-half to four years worked out to roughly twenty-two months. A little more than the "year and a half, tops!" my court appointed attorney assured me I'd only have to serve. My early release date was January 9, 1980. As I read this, my heart felt like it had fallen from a gun tower. The numbers looked alien-nineteen and then an eight-zero. Up until that moment, I'd never thought about the eighties before. It was barely 1978, and it was too hard to comprehend. I put it away. My release was a long way off, and anything could happen by then.
When I returned to the bullpen, I scooted over to where the white inmates had flocked. There were one or two others scattered about, but less than ten total, counting the three or four who'd already gone in. No one seemed to notice I'd moved, except for Moseley, who'd been keeping a steady eye on me.
Other than Tree Jumpers, Chesters, drug dealers, and smugglers, inmates with prison terms of less than two years were sent to camp. Inmates with a history of escape were also barred. A Tree Jumper was a rapist, and a Chester, a child molester, named after the Hustler magazine cartoon, Chester The Molester. I asked an inmate why rapists were called Tree Jumpers and he said, "Imagine a motherfucker hiding up in a tree, just waiting for some fine young female to come walking along ..."
Inmates didn't like rapists. They figured if the only way a man could get some was to take it, then he wasn't a real man in the first place. And a Chester was worse. On the inmate hierarchy, a child molester was just a fraction of an inch above a snitch. State law didn't allow child molesters in the camp program, and anywhere else for that matter-they were sent to lockup for their own protection. Otherwise they would be killed. Lock-up involved going into protective custody, where an inmate would spend his entire prison term in solitary confinement.
Listening to the guys talk in the bullpen that morning, I got the impression that they would put up with quite a lot, but raping kids was not one of them. It was a sad irony, as I'd learn soon enough, that while rape outside the walls was so looked down upon, inside it was almost a validation of one's own manhood.
When Rooster was called out and left, the other black inmates started talking about him. "Cock-a-fuckin'-doodle-do. Can that nigger talk or what?"
A few others laughed.
"That's how he got his nickname," someone else said. "'Cause every morning, that motherfucker is up at the crack of dawn, his mouth a cacklin'."
When the next con was called from the bullpen, a white inmate who was sitting off to himself, got up and walked out.
"That boy is fuckin'," I overhead a con whisper.
"No shit?" the guy next to him said. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Yeah, " another black inmate said, reaching into his pants and groping himself. "I could've used some face."
"He's with Little Chet," the first one said, "over on the North Side. He's just coming back from court." The other two nodded and dropped the conversation.
I didn't know who Little Chet was, but judging by the way the others had backed off, Little Chet must have been well respected.
Fucking meant someone was taking it up the ass, or sucking dick. And Little Chet must have been that boy's man. It was my first introduction to the efficiency of the inmate grapevine. Inmates had little else to do but talk, so information flowed quickly. If someone was fucking or snitching, was a Tree Juniper or a Chester, inmates made certain that other inmates knew about it.
"It's one of the greatest communication devices ever known," Rooster bragged, later that morning. "It you ever want to know what time it is about someone, or something, all you have to do is Telephone, Telegraph, or Tell an Innate."
After a while, I thought the inmates would run out of things to talk about, but that morning, there was plenty. They went on, non-stop, about the differences in classification, prisons, and how the system worked. I kept to myself and listened intently. Over my first months inside, I'd become as familiar with these workings as some of the old timers. That first day, however, I gathered as many details as I could. But no matter how much I learned, nothing would prepare me for what I was to face in the days that followed.
The longer a prison sentence, the higher the security, and the higher the security, the greater the violence. Close-custody prisons were the most dangerous, because the state had the least control over inmate behavior. In a minimum-security, where most inmates were within a few months of parole, the state held good time and early release dates as leverage, so violence was minimal. But in the higher custodies, where no one was going home for years-maybe never-convicts could give a fuck about the rules.
Inmates who weren't seeing the Parole Board for a decade or more, believed they'd have plenty of time to clean up their records, once they were transferred to a lower security prison that didn't demand as much violence. Many believed it was not a g
ood thing to go to the Parole Board without any misconduct reports in your file. "They'll call you conwise," an inmate said, "and they'll give you a flop." (A denial of parole in six- or twelve-month increments.) "It's always better to have a few tickets," he said, "Cause otherwise, they'll think you'd been laying low and you're trying to manipulate."
As for inmates who were never seeing a parole-those inmates serving life-they had nothing to lose. What could the state do, give them another life sentence? There was no death penalty in Michigan, so there was no death row. Inmates who caused too much trouble in close-custody were sent to Marquette, the state's only maximum-security prison.
Marquette was located off the shores of Lake Superior in the upper tip of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where legend had it security was so tight that inmates were welded into their cells. Only the most violent prisoners were shipped there, after having killed someone while at another prison. I doubt they were actually spot-welded in, but as Rooster put it, "They might as well be, 'cause unless a motherfucker's got him some snow shoes-he ain't goin' nowhere."
Convicts liked the word motherfucker a lot. They used it mostly when referring to other inmates, but These Motherfuckers or The Motherfucker usually meant The Man, Authority, The Courts, or The System. It was the function words like the or these, or the singular or plural form that indicated which motherfucker they were referring to. Some motherfucker could be either, like "Some motherfucker stole my shit" or "Some motherfucker jammed me up, sending me down for a dime" (meaning they were set up and sent to prison for a ten-year stretch).
They talked about time in terms of nickels and dimes, and serving a quarter-deuce (twenty-five years to life). Now that's a motherfucker, because with a quarter-deuce you won't see the parole board until after you've finished serving the full twenty-five. By then, it's very possible, because you've spent so much time here-you may not want to leave this motherfucker.
11
Quarantine
The largest part of Jackson Prison, called Central Complex, was home to over 6,000 inmates. Each was housed inside massive cellblocks that contained up to 600 prisoners each. Seven Block, one of the largest, was reserved for Quarantine. The very site ofwhich, made me forget my hunger, which had been haunting me since sentencing. It was hollow inside, with five tiers of cells that went on for almost a mile. On each floor a set of catwalks overlooked the base while another separated the back of the cells from the exterior wall. Several windows were either open or broken, letting in the damp winter cold. Nevertheless, it was hot where we had entered at base, and the air felt static and old. I was struck by the sight of birds flying around in the vast open space, in between the tiers.
At base level, there was a large cluster of tables where the inmates had their meals. Cantilevered from the second tier above, was a control desk where a lone guard sat, observing the area from his station. A black telephone and stacks of paper were on his desk. There were two horizontal openings some 80 feet above where armed guards could maintain control by shooting at the inmates below.
Noise echoed from everywhere making it hard to hear anyone. Screaming, yelling, the rumble of rollers, the pulling of release breaks, and the sounds of a hundred sliding cell doors. The high-pitched squeal of squeaky wheels and the scrape of mop buckets being pushed by porters. Occasionally, a metal food tray crashed to the floor, or another was slammed into the dishwasher that was just beyond the chow line.
As we entered the chow area from the intake bubble, inmates from one of the floors above were already sitting down, while others waited in line. Everyone stopped to look. The heavy metal door closed behind me, heading off any impulse to run. Whistles and catcalls came from everywhere, and a round of applause broke out from the tables.
The guard motioned us to the serving line, even though we hadn't been taken to our cells yet. "You guys go ahead to chow," he yelled, "but stay together. I don't want to have to come looking for you later."
Fat chance of that, I thought.
I couldn't show it, but I was shaking inside of my state shoes.
Never, let them know what you're thinking.
Suddenly, I wasn't hungry.
As we walked between the tables, someone grabbed my ass. I spun around, but the inmates sitting nearby all looked away. The cons on the other side of the table looked up, but said nothing. They seemed to be measuring my reaction.
"That's a pretty motherfucker there," I heard one of them say.
"I'm gotta get some of that," another yelled.
They all laughed.
"We're gonna need to put this one on Two-Special," one of the guards said, looking at me. Two-Special was the group of cells just to the right of the guard's station. It was where they placed inmates that needed extra supervision.
"They put pretty young prisoners and sissies in those cells," Randy, the donut thief said. "So that nothing happens to them."
With over a hundred cells in each row, it was hard for the guards to see what went on after the first ten or fifteen, especially with the chain-link fence on the outside of each catwalk. The caging was installed to keep prisoners from either jumping, or being thrown from the upper tiers. The base floor was solid concrete.
I didn't know what to think about being placed on Two-Special. I was told it was where they put the fags, and I didn't want people to think I was one of them. At least up until that point, at best, I would have considered my sexual orientation undecided. And if anyone were to find out, I would be the one to decide what exactly I was. But it was beginning to feel like some of my choices were quickly being taken away.
"You've got to watch yourself, little bro," Randy whispered. "Your pretty blue eyes and long curly hair might be too much for these motherfuckers. They're going to want some of that fine white booty."
"Fuck that," I said. I grabbed my crotch like I had seen done back at the county jail. "They can have some of this fine white dick."
"Oh, now, now," he quipped. "That's just a little white handle to turn you over with." He and the guy next to him laughed.
They were both in their twenties and bigger than me, so they didn't have the same worries.
"Yeah, well, they can pull on this all day long then 'cause I ain't giving up shit."
Randy tousled my hair and smiled. "Just stick close to me kid, I got your back." He leaned over and checked out my ass.
"Fuck you too," I said.
He and the other laughed.
I smiled too, but I didn't think it was funny. One of those guys at the table had grabbed my ass, and I knew they were testing me, as Rick said they would. I didn't know which one had done it and I couldn't have taken them all on, so I just pretended it hadn't happened. I knew that was probably a mistake, but I didn't know what else to do.
Lunch was a watered-down stew, with potatoes and carrots, a few celery bits and a shredded piece of meat that looked pretty creepy. The roll was stale, and the coleslaw had started to turn sour. But the Kool-Aid, unsweetened in a metal cup, tasted like well water. But that and a skinny piece of yellow cake, topped in a dark brown chocolate, was the only thing I could swallow. Randy said they mixed something called saltpeter into the Kool-Aid to keep us from wanting to fuck each other. I looked over at the other tables, where someone had grabbed my ass and hoped that this was true. But later on, when the library cart came around, I read in the dictionary that it was used for curing a different kind of meat.
As we waited for the guard to come back, I tore off a piece of my bread and tossed it to the floor. I watched as one of the birds sat at an empty table, patiently perched, waiting for a moment when no one was looking. I turned my head for only a second, and when I looked back, both bird and bread were gone.
In the first three cells of Two-Special, there were three black drag queens. Charlene, Tiffany, and Lisa Marie. Lisa Marie was a pre-op transsexual, who already had breasts. She looked just like a woman, except for her genitals, so Charlene and Tiffany started calling her Miss Thing.
I was
never clear which of the other two was who, and all three made me too uncomfortable to ask. All three were in their twenties, with exaggerated feminine features: arched eyebrows, long hair and nails, and tin-sounding voices intended to imitate women. I felt embarrassed to walk past their cells. I didn't want to look in, but at the same time I couldn't help myself. All three stared back in uncharacteristic silence. They usually had something to say about everyone, but with me, they just stared quietly.
I was placed in a cell a few down from theirs. In between, were several white guys who looked young and mostly frightened. I hoped I did a better job hiding my fear.
The drag queens' cells were filled with all the trappings of a wealthy prisoner: cigarettes and coffee, commissary items, potato chips, pastries, and bags of candy. The inmates called the goods Zoos Zoos and Wham Whams. I don't know if those were the names of specific treats, or just the slang, but it was the currency of prison, along with drugs and homemade liquor. As far as material goods were concerned, the queens were well treated. The more time an inmate had to serve, the sooner his fantasies were replaced. Drag queens were the closest thing to women some of these guys would see for a long time, and there weren't that many of them to go around, so they were in high demand. I often smelled pot coming from the direction of their cells, and I noticed they were called to the infirmary on a daily basis. Inmate clerks inside the walls prepared the call-out lists, so the "girls" left each morning and returned late in the afternoons, often with fresh boxes filled from the commissary.
Once lights went out that night, I saw something crawl up my wall. It was a cockroach, the size of the one I'd seen that morning at the county jail. I killed it quickly with my heavy state shoe, but no sooner had I smashed that one, then a few more appeared. There were two walls in my cell, one on each side, and a rack of bars at the front and back. The guards walked both catwalks, sometimes sneaking up on inmates, to catch them violating rules.
Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison Page 6