The Big House

by James H. Bruton

  During the visit, Johnson asked his parole officer for a favor. He said, “I see that my old friend, Gerry Getts, finally got his parole. You know he was the lead milkman on the farm. The job is open now and I always wanted that position. Do you think you could find a way for me to get back inside so I could have Gerry’s job? It would mean a lot to me.”

  These stories are sad, but they depict the strange reality of a life spent in prison. These men have been incarcerated for years, decades–almost a lifetime. They know little else.

  Parole officers often extend extraordinary patience and kindness to these former inmates. One of the most compassionate cases was that of Adkins Flowers, who had been incarcerated for murder for more than twenty-five years. He was granted parole some years back and, despite the signed papers in his file, refused to leave.

  Eventually, several years later, he was coaxed out of the prison. He moved to Minneapolis to start his new life on the outside. A few weeks after his release, I received a call from Tom Lamb, Flower’s parole agent. Apparently Flowers had demanded to return to prison. He couldn’t cope with the strange new world or his newfound freedom.

  “We are not running a hotel,” I told the agent to tell Flowers. “Offenders are not allowed to check in and out as they please.”

  The agent advised me that Flowers was serious in his request, so much so that, if we refused to accommodate him, he intended to commit a crime so horrible he’d be sent back.

  In the end, the parole officer wrote Flowers up for violating the conditions of his release. He had been ten minutes late for an appointment the previous week. The parole was revoked, and Adkins Flowers returned to prison for the rest of his life. He remained there, content, until he died of cancer a few years later. He was at home and at peace when he died.

  Managing the Yankees

  I have held many jobs during my thirty-five years in corrections, and my various job titles often left my family and friends hazy on what I did all day. They weren’t exactly clear on the duties of a Probation Officer or a Parole Board Member. Nor did they quite understand the complicated responsibilities of the Executive Officer of Adult Release or the Internal Affairs Investigator.

  The titles provoked many questions, but even after I explained, I’m not sure anyone really understood what the jobs entailed. The worst was when I worked in the Central Office as Deputy Commissioner of Corrections. That really confused people. They probably thought it was some kind of political appointment that involved a lot of bureaucracy–which isn’t too far from the truth.

  Then I became warden at Oak Park Heights. There’s a special ring to that title, warden. It’s a powerful word, like “Alcatraz,” “the Rock,” or “maximum security”–all words with bite.

  I liked to explain the job change with an analogy. “Before,” I told my friends and family, “I worked in the Commissioner of Baseball’s office as a Deputy Commissioner, managing various aspects of major league baseball.” There’s a job description that would even mystify baseball purists and most assuredly the general public. I’d pause, then say “Now, I’m managing the Yankees.”

  Everyone knew what that meant. It meant being in charge of the most famous baseball team ever–with all the pressure and expectations that job demanded.

  And being warden at Oak Park Heights meant running one of the most famous prisons in the world.

  What was it like to be in charge in this strange world of supermax prisons and high-profile criminals? I’ll say this, it wasn’t easy.

  No family vacation ever went uninterrupted by a telephone call from the prison. I couldn’t sit down to watch the Super Bowl or help my grandchildren unwrap their Christmas presents without worrying when a call would come. The hotel room telephone light never blinked with a positive message. At home, no call from the prison ever brought good news. No one paged at two o’clock in the morning to say things were going well. I could never escape the pressures of the job; it was a full-time responsibility, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  When the pager was invented years ago, it was a skinny, funny-looking piece of equipment, much different from the sleek gadgets of today. It looked like a steel rod clipped to your belt, and there was no vibration option. When a page came, the whole world knew about it. The dictates of the job did not allow me to turn it off, and my pager sounded in the middle of my back swing on the golf course, in the movie theater, at dinner in a restaurant. One time, it went off when I was attending an event at my child’s school. We were seated in the middle of the crowded auditorium, in the middle of the row, listening to a fourth-grader read a poem. My pager sounded. It started with several quick, short, loud beeps in a row. Next came the static, like on walkie-talkies, that seemed to go on forever. Finally came the caller’s voice: “Jim Bruton, call the prison immediately.” As I stood up and worked my way out of the row, I was sure everyone thought I was a felon on work release or day furlough.

  When I was Deputy Commissioner, I had one particularly bad day. The pager went off about every minute all morning long. I needed a break and decided to take it into the restroom with the sports page. I just got comfortable when the pager went off again. Back in my office, I told my secretary I was going to throw that pager through the window and enjoy watching the glass break. Then I would go out to the parking lot and stand over the pager until a truck came by and drove over it. Then I would grind it under my shoe until it was mixed into the blacktop. Finally, I would enjoy looking at the spot when I came to work every day.

  Karen Lueken, my secretary, is a wonderful person. While I ranted and raved, she listened patiently. When I finished, she politely said, “Why don’t you just shut it off?”

  Sadly, I couldn’t.

  Weekends and holidays didn’t bring much relief from work responsibilities. Saturday and Sunday often meant more phone calls, and I routinely went in to catch up on paperwork and make rounds. And I never missed a holiday at the prison. It was my practice to go in every Thanksgiving and Christmas to recognize staff for being away from their families. I went in every shift, three times a day, to make sure each staff member felt appreciated. It was as important as anything I did as warden.

  I was never truly separated from the prison. It got to the point where every time the phone rang, even if it didn’t turn out to be the prison, my mind would be back inside the walls, the razor ribbon, the magnificent complex that housed the most violent and dangerous of the world’s prisoners.

  A couple of months after I retired, I was playing golf–one of my favorite pastimes–and I got a hole in one. It was my first ever, and the golf course sent my name to the local newspaper. When the article ran, I commented to a friend that it was the first time I had seen my name in print in connection with something good. In the past, my name always appeared in the same paragraph with a serial killer, drug dealer, murderer, or rapist.

  Working in a prison is like entering the Twilight Zone every day. You wake up in the morning, shower, and get ready for work. All very normal. You get into your car and drive to work. Normal. You turn onto the manicured prison grounds, park your car, and walk to the front door. Normal. Then you enter this strange place and your world turns upside down.

  The us-versus-them mindset starts when you walk in the front door. Most of your wards have killed at least one person; the rest are rapists and thieves. These people kill, maim, assault, rape, steal, manipulate, extort, and in general live a violent lifestyle. Some would take a life over a lost card game or a stolen candy bar. It is a work environment filled with lies, misrepresentations, and con games. You never know what is real. You always suspect a diversion. You get caught up in a game–one that is critical for you to win. The doors, locks, security, uniforms, stairs, long corridors, bars, fences, razor ribbon, handcuffs, restraints, mace, pepper gas, suicide gowns–it’s all here, inside the walls, waiting for you every day. I worked in this environment for many years and learned every single day. Sometimes it saddened me; other times I just shook my head in dis
belief.

  On the outside, a bar of soap is for washing. Inside, it becomes a weapon, deadly if hidden in a sock and swung at someone’s head.

  Outside, string is for tying packages. Inside, it becomes a means to pass contraband under doors and between cells.

  Outside, toothpaste is for brushing teeth. Inside, it becomes adhesive for covering hiding spaces in walls.

  Outside, television is for relaxing in front of a program. Inside, it becomes a cache for weapons and drugs; prison televisions now have clear cases so the inside parts are always in full view.

  Outside, leftover food is for snacking. Inside, it becomes the base product of homemade alcohol.

  Outside, a microwave oven is for warming a meal. Inside, it becomes a tool for heating liquid to the boiling point. I once watched the skin peel off an inmate’s face after a fellow prisoner threw microwaved soup at him.

  In this work environment, sometimes you have to go on gut instinct. That means never turning your back on certain inmates, such as Jim Morgan. He was a multiple murderer who seemed to contain a pent-up hatred for anyone in authority. His eyes were like cold steel, and even his body movements were unnatural, like an animal set to pounce. I didn’t trust him from the day I met him. He had his share of trouble in prison, and perhaps that was one of the reasons I felt the way I did about him. Mostly, though, it was just a coldness I felt around him, like human life meant nothing to him. I have asked other officers what they thought about Morgan, and some feel the same way I do, while others think of him as just another inmate. When I was around him, however, I always made sure I knew where he was. The prison probably contained more dangerous men than Morgan, but I never found another inmate that bothered me as much.

  Even the simple act of sending a memo is different in this environment. Few executives write a memo several times and make seven or eight staff members edit it before sending it out. Some memos take weeks to write, even though they are no more than a few lines. When you are sending a message to violent offenders, you don’t want any misunderstandings.

  It was arduous, demanding work, but it sure was interesting. Sometimes, I took grief for things I had no control over, but occasionally I got credit for something I didn’t do. One of my favorite moments was when inmate Gerry Cook was transferred to the Industry Unit. He had been on the waiting list for a time, and one morning as I was making rounds, he approached me complaining his transfer should have happened by now. I told him I would look into it, jotted myself a note, and put it in my pocket. I had every intention of checking into it when I returned to my office. About an hour later, I was still making rounds when I spotted Cook being moved into the Industry Unit with his belongings. Cook saw me and said, “Thanks a lot, Warden. I appreciate you getting me transferred.”

  I hadn’t done a thing. The transfer had been in the works, and he simply got moved as the schedule dictated. But I just smiled and nodded as I walked by. I probably should have told him the truth, but it felt too good.

  One of my favorite stories is a fable about a warden who retired and gave a gift to his replacement. The old warden had been around for years and had experienced many joys and difficulties during his tenure. On his last day, the new warden arrived and moved in some office essentials. Before leaving, the old warden quietly wished his successor well and handed him three sealed and numbered envelopes.

  “Someday,” he said, “you’ll be in trouble here. When you are, and things are looking bad, think about the envelopes. There may be some advice in them to help you.”

  The new warden thanked him then tossed the envelopes into his bottom desk drawer. They didn’t seem significant at the time.

  The new warden’s “honeymoon” was wonderful. The prison was quiet and he enjoyed his new responsibilities. Then things started going wrong. Prisoners began committing assaults and smuggling in drugs. Finally, there was a massive escape: four murderers serving life sentences absconded and terrorized the city.

  It was a bad incident that brought lots of press, none good. A news conference was scheduled. The warden knew his job was in jeopardy. As reporters gathered in the conference room, he sat at his desk, nervous and depressed, certain that a great career was about to end.

  Then he remembered the gift from the old warden. He reached into the bottom drawer and found the envelope marked “Number I.” He tore it open and found a small piece of paper that read, “Blame your predecessor.”

  He walked calmly into the media room and told the reporters of the mess he had inherited. He said the previous administration had done a poor job running the prison, and it had taken his first months to straighten things out. The escapes, he said, were an example of the problems he had faced upon arrival, and they did not reflect the current positive operations of the prison.

  It worked. The media bought it. His superiors bought it. Instead of facing humiliation, he came out a hero. He had cleaned up the prison. It was now obvious to everyone that his arrival was a good thing, and the prison was moving forward. The escapes seemed to vanish from everyone’s mind. Things seemed even better than before. The old warden’s advice had been well-received, and best of all, there were two more envelopes if ever needed.

  Several months passed, and the prison looked better every day. The new warden seemed solidly entrenched in the leadership role when suddenly another nightmare occurred. A two-day battle over drugs and weapons ended in multiple inmate homicides.

  Once again, media swarmed the prison. It would be difficult to survive the bad press, and it looked like it was all over for the new boss. He was in turmoil. As the media set up in the conference room, he remembered the envelopes. He raced to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and removed envelope “Number 2.” He ripped it open and took out a small piece of paper bearing a single word. It read, “Reorganize.”

  The new warden went into the news conference and, with the cameras rolling, fired the captain of security and both his associate wardens. He then announced the promotion of the governor’s nephew to captain and promoted two legislative leaders’ relatives to the other posts. It was a monumental decision. He publicly ridded the prison of all staff connected to the previous administration, and vowed new leadership and direction during the tough times ahead.

  It worked again. He was recognized for his tough decision-making during the most trying of times. He was in solid with the governor’s office and the legislature, and was thought to be a bold leader. Once again, the old warden had come through for him. There was a burst of confidence like never before. And there was still another envelope.

  Several more months passed quietly then a massive riot rocked the prison. Assaults, escapes, and severe damage sent the prison out of control for several days.

  When the riot was over, the media was back. It was again time for concern about the warden’s future, but now he wasn’t worried. In fact, he felt bolstered with confidence for the future, because lying on his desk was the third envelope. It would, once again, contain expert advice. He hadn’t even called his superiors this time. He just knew it would all work out as before. He would simply follow the advice in the envelope. It was a sure a thing. A cinch. A done deal.

  The media was waiting, and he was ready for them. As he walked to the door to enter the conference room, he opened the last envelope, prepared to follow the advice from the old warden. The piece of paper read, “Make three envelopes.”

  I was fortunate. I never had to use any envelopes.

  I believe in trying to make a difference. One reason I liked my job as warden so much was that I had the opportunity to make a difference every single day. In a supermax prison like Oak Park Heights, the warden holds tremendous power. The audience is always captive. When the warden speaks, everyone listens. When the warden walks around the prison, everyone takes notice. A shift lieutenant once told me that he not only knew when I was inside the prison, he knew the moment my car turned into the prison driveway.

  When this kind of power accompanies a job, believe me,
you have the opportunity to make a difference. A word of encouragement or a special thank you from the warden makes an important statement. “Thanks for the good report,” I often said to a staff person, or to an inmate, “Congratulations” on completing a class or degree. I was incredibly fortunate to work every day with officers and staff who were the best of the best-highly trained and committed, confident and compassionate, worthy of the highest esteem.

  I loved the job. It was challenging, fascinating, unusual, and I knew I was doing important work. Some days, I think I did it well; other days, I’m not so sure. But it was a great job, and one that made me proud. Yes, the work seemed endless, and every day brought new problems, but it was incredibly stimulating, and I never lost the passion.

  It was the best job I ever had.

  As warden, I was often troubled to read about the possibility of the death penalty becoming law in Minnesota. If it were to be reinstated, there is little doubt that Death Row would be established at Oak Park Heights. Because it generally takes about seven years for appeals to be exhausted before an execution, I would probably have been happily retired before I would have had to give such an order. Still, the thought of managing offenders who had a circle marked on their calendar signifying their last day sent a chill down my spine.

  I am horrified by the thought of uninformed politicians trying to solidify their next election bid by determining the fate of offenders in our criminal justice system. Yet the reality of the death penalty is probably right around the corner for the few states where it does not already exist. It only takes one media-frenzied case and one politician with big aspirations to set the wheel in motion and soon Death Row becomes reality.