Lockdown on Rikers

by Ms. Mary E. Buser

  “So, how’s everyone doing this week?” Janet started.

  “Stresssssed,” they chimed in unison.

  “Very stressed,” said Michelle, a slight girl with neat braids. “I don’t know what’s happening with my case, and I can never reach my lawyer. And I’m grateful to be here in the nursery, of course, but it’s one thing after the next: chores, parenting classes, Narcotics Anonymous, nutrition classes—”

  “Yeah,” Kim agreed. “It’s a lot, but we’re trying.” With a light scar running from ear to mouth, Kim looked old and tired for her short years.

  “For me,” said Addie, clinging tightly to the little bundle in her arms, “I love Jacy so much, but the longer I have her, the harder it’s gonna be to let her go. My lawyer’s talkin’ about a three-to-six. Jacy’ll go to foster care. I just hope my baby gets a good home—that’s all.”

  As Addie bit back tears, a painful silence fell over the room. Addie seemed nice enough. Looking at her round friendly face framed by a white kerchief, I wondered what she could possibly have done to merit such a harsh punishment. And as baby Jacy’s tiny hand reached up and cupped her mother’s chin, I tried not to think of what the split would mean for this fragile new life.

  I glanced at Janet, who was smoothing her skirt, taking it all in. “Well, now,” she said, comfortingly, “we just have to take things a day at a time—that’s the key here—a day at a time.”

  “About all we can do, Miss Waters,” said Carmen. “But it’s so hard; we don’t know how our cases are going to turn out, whether we’re going home—or to prison. We don’t know if we’ll be able to hold on to our babies or lose them. Some days it’s just so hard.”

  But not everyone was perturbed. “Well, I know one thing,” Millie piped up. “Calvin’s my sixth, and I’m gonna hold on to this one.” But while Millie beamed, little Calvin was sliding off her lap. At the far end of the couch, Tasha and Swanday were whispering, sharing a little laugh at Millie’s speech.

  “What’s so funny?” Millie said, struggling to pull Calvin back up, the orange pick flopping out of her hair.

  “Hey,” Janet said to Tasha and Swanday, “we’re not having private conversations here!”

  “What’s so funny?” Millie demanded.

  “It’s okay, Millie,” said Janet. “It’s okay now.”

  But it was not okay. Millie jumped up from the couch, Calvin no longer in her lap but dangling from his armpit with Millie gripping him like a ragdoll.

  “Millie!” Janet gasped. “The baby!” Janet was on her feet, her clipboard and folders scattering to the floor, long arms outstretched. “Give me the baby, Millie, give me the baby!”

  But Millie, shaking in hurt and rage, heard none of it. “Ya rotten bitches,” she quivered. “I hate you. I hate all of you!” As she shook her arms for emphasis, the baby also shook.

  Janet was inching closer. “Give me the baby, Millie! Give me the baby!” With a calculated lunge, Janet grabbed poor little Calvin, just as Millie was returning to her senses.

  Janet handed the shrieking child over to Camille Baxter, who’d rushed in with nurses’ aides and an alarmed officer in tow. As Baxter nestled the child against her lab coat, a weeping Millie reached out for her son. “Cal–vin!”

  “Oh, no, miss!” said Baxter, reeling back. “Now you want to be a good mother? Doesn’t work like that! Go to your cell—now!”

  Millie stormed out, her own wails even louder than her son’s cries. The spectacle over, the crowd disbursed and the mood turned somber. Accusing looks were shot in the direction of a subdued Tasha and Swanday. After a few more minutes of strained conversation, Janet opted to end things early. She set out the box of donuts she’d brought along, and the mothers lined up for a sugary treat. “See you next week,” a few of them quietly said to me, taking a donut as they walked away.

  On our way out, we stopped by the nursery director’s office. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with her,” said a shaken Baxter. “She’s always flying off the handle. After this stunt, she should be thrown out of here and sent back to GP. But I hate to do it—her charge isn’t that serious and she’s got a good shot at a drug program. If I boot her out, it all falls apart.”

  “Well, wait a minute now,” said Janet. “What if we were to work with her? Help her develop some coping strategies, tide her over till she goes to the program?”

  Baxter’s face lit up. “Hey, couldn’t hurt . . .”

  “And Mary,” Janet said, turning to me, “ready for another case?”

  “Yes, sure,” I said, taken a little off guard. “That would be fine.”

  Baxter instructed a nurse to summon Millie, and the sniffling mother reappeared.

  “Millie,” said Baxter, “how would you feel about meeting with Miss Buser for therapy? You’re skating on very thin ice, miss!”

  “Yes, that would be good,” Millie mumbled.

  As I smiled at Millie, I was trying to picture the two of us sitting down together, talking, maybe sharing a little laugh now and then. But as I grasped her limp hand, all I could really think was that this woman had already lost five children—and just jeopardized the life of her sixth. What could I say to her—in the space of a few therapy sessions, no less—that could possibly make any difference in this woman’s life? Camille Baxter’s words started booming in my head: These girls had been out on the streets, using drugs, barely able to care for themselves . . . As I looked around at the nursery, at the teddy bears and crib mobiles, my grand hopes of making a difference were dimming, and I began to wonder if this whole nursery program was nothing more than an artificial window imposed on hopeless causes.

  I was looking down at the floor, feeling about as bleak as the cold cement walls, when there was a loud rap on the window. I looked up to see a beaming Marisol holding up her little pink princess. She was waving the baby’s hand at me, in the same way Dorothy held Toto’s paw when they were leaving Oz. Despite my sinking spirits, I laughed. Behind her, the others were feeding and rocking their little ones, smiling and gazing into their babies’ eyes with such love that I could almost feel the bond between mother and child. There was so much at stake here—not only for the mothers, but also for these babies. Drug addicts or not, these mothers were first and foremost human beings, and it was far too soon for me to rule out the power of the human spirit. I’d be darned if I was going to let one incident discourage me. I waved back at Teresita and Marisol and resolved that if there was any way to help these women—even if the gains were modest—then I was determined to find it.

  4

  By the end of the week, I had three women on a caseload that would eventually build to nine—Annie Tilden, Tiffany Glover, Millie Gittens—and Janet gave me the green light to start. The therapeutic modality we were learning in school was called “insight-oriented” therapy, the general idea being that we were to meet our clients “where they were”—to try to see the world from their perspective, gain their trust, and then to gently help them to broaden their own insights. I was ready to find out where they were.

  My first session, I decided, would be with Millie, followed by a trip to the MO to meet with Annie and Tiffany. I asked Officer Overton to summon Millie to the clinic, which was the procedure for contacting our GP “clients.” While I waited, I returned to the conference room and reviewed various mental health forms. Wendy and Allison’s clients had arrived promptly, and they were already meeting with them in semiprivate booths in view of correctional personnel but just out of their earshot. Despite all their grumbling, both were reluctantly acclimating to jail, and our car ride conversations were now filled with chatter about our developing caseloads. Maureen had been assigned to work with HIV-positive women exclusively, an assignment most would have found unenviable. But Maureen was delighted, which only reinforced my belief in the idea of a “calling” in life. After that, her schedule cha
nged, and we didn’t see much of Maureen for the remainder of the year.

  After ten minutes had ticked by, I looked out at the crowded inmate waiting area—rows of plastic seats mounted on steel rods, much like those in a bus station—but Millie wasn’t there. The women chatted quietly, although someone on an end seat held her face in her hands and wept. All at once a door banged open, and a thirtyish woman in a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt bolted from a psychiatrist’s office. “I can’t believe he won’t give me any sleeping pills! I’m stressed! I’m having real mental health problems and these people won’t help me! What good are they!”

  Officer Overton was on his feet, backed up by another CO. “Out!” he shouted, holding the door open. “Get the fuck out now!” yelled the other officer. “Back to your house!” The woman burst into tears and charged out, with Overton slamming the door behind her.

  Although we’d been forewarned that sleep meds were a constant inmate request, it was the Mental Health Department’s policy not to prescribe them. “We can’t just hand them another pill,” our supervisors explained. Instead, we were to dispense handouts entitled “Natural Techniques to Fall Asleep,” which Janet told me went over like the proverbial lead balloon.

  After the commotion died down, I ventured over to Overton’s desk to be sure he’d called for Millie. Since our arrival, Overton had maintained a cool distance. We didn’t even know his first name—and never would. Of all the information we were learning about life behind bars, we were told that, for security purposes, the first names of correctional personnel are never divulged. While the men were to be addressed as “Officer,” with the women we had the option of “Officer” or “Miss.”

  Despite Overton’s aloofness, I hoped things would get a littler friendlier, and it was with a warm smile that I asked him about Millie.

  “Yeah, sure, I called her,” he growled. “You wanna know why Millie Gittens hasn’t come? I’ll tell you why—she doesn’t wanna come, that’s why!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, looking up at me through horn-rimmed glasses. “She’s got better things to do right now—probably busy smoking crack.”

  “What!”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he smirked.

  I didn’t know what to make of this guy, but I wasn’t going to let him get the better of me. “Oh, I see. I didn’t know the Department of Correction allowed drugs in here. That comes as a big surprise.”

  “Hey, you never know. Listen, let me clue you in—these inmates, they got a racket going on. They come in for the winter, lay up, eat, get off drugs . . . they come in all scrawny, then they get better and do it all over again.”

  “Yes—they’ve really got it made! If only we could all be so lucky! Listen, could you please call the nursery again?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, picking up the phone, grinning all the while.

  I returned to the conference room, but when the clinic started emptying out for the afternoon count, I knew my first session with Millie Gittens would have to wait for another day. I was disappointed, but I still had Annie Tilden and Tiffany Glover on the MO, so I secured my ID, ignored Overton’s smirk, and prepared to brave the hallways.

  When I reached the protective cellblock, the the TV was blaring and a circle of women were parked in front of it. In a far corner, I spotted Tiffany Glover. The despondent waif from the receiving room was up and about, busy sweeping the cement floor. Walking over to her, I said, “Hello Tiffany. Do you remember me from the other day?”

  She gave me a quick nod of recognition, but kept sweeping.

  “How about if we sit down and talk a little?”

  “No, thank you,” she managed. “I won’t be in here for long. This is all a mistake.”

  “Yes, well, maybe while your case is getting sorted out, it could be a good opportunity—”

  “Listen,” she said, stopping to face me. “I am not a cri–mi–nal. I’ll be leaving soon so there’s no point talking.”

  For someone so depressed, she certainly had a spark in her.

  “Well, all right, but if you change your mind, I’m here,” I offered, as she scooted away.

  Staving off the sting of rejection, I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t personal, that talking to me would mean she was actually participating in a jail program, and jail was something that Tiffany Glover wanted no part of. Still, I couldn’t help but feel discouraged. First, Millie Gittens was a no-show, and now this snub by Tiffany Glover. Instead of the lively sessions that I’d imagined, I was standing alone on the MO, feeling self-conscious and out of place, gazing up at the second tier, where floor-to-ceiling chicken wire kept the despondent from jumping.

  As I contemplated my next move, a slight woman with one eye bigger than the other sauntered up to me. “Did you see the Easter Rabbit last night? Did you?”

  The picture of innocence, I couldn’t imagine she could be held responsible for much of anything. Hard to believe our answer for her was Rikers Island.

  “He was here—right here!” she insisted before running off to spread the news.

  My last hope was the robotic Annie Tilden, who was nowhere in sight. Figuring she was asleep in her cell, I asked an officer to rouse her. While I waited, I reviewed my classroom directives on working with the mentally ill: Stick to basics—medication and hygiene. Avoid emotionally stimulating conversations—they could trigger a decompensation.

  Medication and hygiene. Not too hard—assuming she would even come out and speak to me.

  “Miss Buser,” said the officer. “Your patient is ready.”

  Outside her cell stood a groggy Annie Tilden. I approached her a little warily. “Hello, Annie. Do you remember me from the other day?”

  She regarded me with a hard stare. “Uh-huh,” she finally uttered.

  “Good! How about if we go upstairs where we can sit down and get a little acquainted?”

  She gave a barely perceptible nod that I took as a yes, and I turned for the staircase, relieved that she was following. She was climbing slowly, though, clutching the waistband of her beltless jeans and taking care not to step out of her open sneakers.

  “Take your time,” I said.

  As we reached the top, I noticed there were no other sessions in progress. We would be alone up here, which suddenly didn’t seem like such a great idea. Although familiar with the mentally ill from a distance, I’d never actually spoken with one of these fragmented human beings. But there was no turning back now. I awkwardly entered an empty cell and sat down behind a little desk, with Annie Tilden taking her place across from me.

  I folded my hands on the desk and cleared my throat. “So, Annie,” I said, cheerfully, “I understand that you’re taking medication. Do you feel it’s working for you?”

  She began a slow rocking motion, which I found a little unnerving. She also seemed to be glaring at me, but I told myself it only appeared that way because of her illness.

  Finally, she said, “Yes.”

  “That’s good—very good, great. And do you take it when you’re supposed to? At the times the doctor has—”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you having any problems with the meds? Any side—”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s good.” I fished around for something more on the topic. “You do realize, of course, that it’s very important for you to continue to take them, otherwise . . .”

  “Yes.”

  Well, that was it. The medication topic had been exhausted in less than one minute. Annie Tilden was rocking rhythmically now, her eyes boring straight into me, awaiting my next question. I flipped through my notebook, stalling as I considered topic number two—hygiene! Was I really supposed to ask this woman, whom I’d known for all of five minutes, how often she bathed? No way! The discussion of hygiene, whi
ch had seemed so plausible in the classroom, fell apart in real life.

  Outside our makeshift office, laughter and snippets of conversation echoed up to the second tier. On an impulse, I decided to veer off the prescribed path. Pointing toward the door, I said, “The others are watching TV, playing cards, but you’re always in your cell. How come?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she rocked harder, back and forth.

  I tried a friendly smile, but her mouth never budged. Annie Tilden was definitely glaring at me, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with her illness, and even if it did, what difference did it make? An awful silence followed, just the two of us looking at each other. And then it dawned on me that she’d taken the seat closest to the door, a strategic error. I also became acutely aware that officers were nowhere nearby—they were meandering around on the main floor, chatting in the bubble. What am I doing here? I thought. Sitting in a jail cell, no less! And to think—I had requested this!

  Just then, Annie Tilden stopped rocking, sat up straight, and pointed to the doorway.

  I braced myself for I knew not what.

  “You know what they watch on that TV?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You want to know why I stay in my cell, right?”

  “Yes . . . yes!” I’d almost forgotten my question.

  “That TV downstairs—you wanna know what they watch on it? Cartoons—listen.”

  I tuned in to the sounds from below, and sure enough, Bugs Bunny was chattering away.

  “I’m not gonna watch cartoons,” she said. “They’re like little kids down there.”

  She might have been mentally ill, but this Annie Tilden was not unintelligent.

  “I just want to do my time,” she said. “Stay away from the troublemakers around the TV and get out of this place.”

  Although her tone remained flat and her face, expressionless, there was someone inside, and this someone was telling me about herself. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be engaging her like this, but it sure beat going around in circles about medication.