What especially bothered me was that the jails were filled with so many ordinary people who simply had been born into circumstances that most of us couldn’t begin to imagine, and they were just trying to survive. I constantly tried to figure out the whys and wherefores of life’s gross inequities, but it was futile. But the one bright spot for me was always the valuable human attention we provided through our mental health support. In relating to these people with dignity, care, and respect, we were water on arid soil. But now, with all this cost cutting, even that was being chipped away. Maybe from a bean-counting perspective this fragmented style of care was working out well, but from the standpoint of anything meaningful, I feared that all was being lost.
30
The day after my visit to the dorm, I presented the names of the predators during our clinical meeting. After a perusal of their charts, it was agreed that they were all fit for discharge to the AMKC general population. “Let them try to pull that fire stunt in GP,” Karen asserted.
Though our decision was swift, the real question was whether or not we could keep them from returning. Virtually every time we discharged malingerers, the following morning their names popped right back up on our census. The problem was the new overnight doctors, the moonlighters. With no connection to the larger organization, they ignored logbook directives, and when discharged malingerers threatened suicide in the middle of the night, these doctors simply readmitted them. When questioned, their defense was that suicide risk put their licenses on the line. Although this sounded plausible, there was no true threat of suicide, which they would have realized had they been part of the larger staff working daily in the Mental Health Center with one biweekly overnight shift, which had been the arrangement in the past. But these doctors simply finished up and left for the week. With this gaping hole in our overnight defenses, the stage was set for infiltration by the worst brand of malingerers, those who preyed upon the weak. And in they came. Fights became daily occurrences, slashings commonplace, and extortion of the weak and sick was rampant. A steady flow of patients with gashes, broken bones, and bloody noses streamed through Hart’s Island to be stitched and bandaged or, worse, wheeled out on gurneys.
One afternoon on a trip to Hart’s Island, I heard a low, sickening moan. Alone and pushed to the side, a disheveled inmate lay on a gurney, writhing in pain.
“What happened to him?” I asked a nurse.
“The bone around his eye was shattered—very painful,” she said. “We’re just waiting for the ambulance.”
One of the two COs sitting watch chimed in. “He didn’t pay rent.”
“He didn’t pay rent?”
“That’s right—didn’t pay rent. They jumped him and broke his face to make an example out of him.”
I felt sick. Without even looking at this inmate’s chart, I knew he was mentally ill, that he rightfully belonged in the Mental Health Center, yet in this “protected house” he’d been brutally attacked. He’d have been better off in GP.
Alarmed by the violence, captains and deps descended upon George’s office, imploring him to keep the predators out. Things got so bad that DOC informed us that the Mental Health Center, which held only 350 of AMKC’s 2,500 inmates, was responsible for 75 percent of the jail’s violence. Since we had sole authority as to the Mental Health Center’s occupants, our inability to handle the situation was as demoralizing as it was embarrassing.
Since George had one foot out the door, he was disinclined to push the matter with Central Office, and even when he had tried, he was told that the recruitment of fully licensed doctors was a contractual obligation. Our new employers simply had little understanding of their unique domain.
But if I held out a single hope that this whole mess could be salvaged, it rested on George’s departure. On a brisk November morning, George informed me he’d nailed down another job. With our leadership limbo ending, I looked forward to what the next chief might offer. With a little luck, we’d get a competent leader with experience and vision, someone who could forcefully communicate with Central Office, contractual obligations or no. Since George was giving a month’s notice, I only hoped there was enough time to interview a battery of candidates before his final day. Some speculated there might even be a nationwide search to find the right person for this unique post.
But none of this was to be. George announced his resignation on a Monday, and by Tuesday a decision was made. Evidently skipping over any customary interview process, Suzanne Harris handpicked a newly hired St. Barnabas clinician to take over, someone with less than a year’s experience at Rikers.
The stunning news was met with outrage. Not only were solid administrators with years of management experience passed over, they weren’t even given an opportunity to apply for what was considered the crown jewel position. After this insult, there was loud talk of labor law violations, while everyone vowed to step up their job-seeking efforts and quit.
For me, this move was as disturbing as it was disappointing. With a relatively inexperienced person at the helm, nothing would change; in fact, it seemed likely that things would get worse. On the heels of George’s farewell party, I contemplated a move to another jail.
But as luck would have it, there were no open positions on the island. I had to bide my time—and in the interim, run from one crisis to the next, often literally. Whether it was the arrival of a celebrity inmate, uncovered shifts, violence on the units, anxiety over audits, or bickering among staff, calamity was the norm. One morning, I arrived at work to find a rush of correctional personnel running in and out of Hart’s Island. I found out why when I stepped inside. The medical side of the clinic had been trashed: desks upended, file cabinets on their sides, papers strewn ankle deep. One of the holding pens’ Plexiglas walls was lying on the floor amid the debris. It looked as though a tornado had whipped through Hart’s Island. A sea of officers were surveying the damage, including Captain Sikorski and Officer Putney.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They sent somebody over from the Bing last night,” said Sikorski, “and when the psych told him there was nothing wrong with him—that he was going back—he went ballistic.”
Since the Mental Health Center was the only facility that operated twenty-four hours a day, it was common for inmates held in solitary confinement to be bused over for evaluation if they threatened suicide during the night. While some were admitted for brief periods, most were diagnosed as malingering and sent right back.
“Whatever Bing time this guy was looking at before, he’s looking at a lot more time now,” commented Putney, referring to the tickets this inmate would incur for the tirade. “They gotta get a policy that these Bing monsters stay cuffed while they’re being evaluated. They’re the baddest of the bad—the worst of the worst.”
“Bing monster” was the familiar term for inmates in solitary who resorted to desperate measures to get out. While their frantic attempts at relief rendered them a nuisance, Dr. Gardiner continually reminded us that their desperation only demonstrated the grueling nature of solitary confinement.
* * *
By April, I had been at the Mental Health Center for close to a year and I was miserable. In figuring the census, filling shifts, and calculating the payroll, I felt like nothing more than a well-educated clerk. Any type of meaningful management I’d hoped for had fallen by the wayside. But relief finally came when I received a call from a unit chief named Kelly Gordon. Since I only knew her casually, I was surprised when she asked if I’d be interested in joining her as assistant chief at the Otis Bantum Correctional Center, another of the men’s jails. “It’s pretty nice over here, as far as jails go,” she said. “I’m trying to build a new team and I need an assistant chief. I think you and I could work well together.”
I thanked her but didn’t take the offer seriously. We had just learned that our new chief was pregnant, and I would be re
lied on to take over during her maternity leave. “There’s no way they’re going to let me go,” I told her.
“I think this could really be great,” she persisted. “It’s a smaller building—1,600 inmates—and we actually have an adequate number of staff. I think it could be really good.”
What she described was appealing, but the conversation was pointless, and when we hung up I gave it no further thought.
On a sunny day about a week later, I decided to weather all the time-consuming security checkpoints and go off the island for lunch. I drove down to the river and found a quiet spot near the Triboro Bridge. It felt nice to take in the open sky and wide expanse of the East River. With the lazy jangle of an ice cream truck in the distance, I watched as tugboats pulling tankers from around the world steamed into New York Harbor. I was just finishing up when my beeper went off. It was Central Office. I called in and was instructed to report to Suzanne Harris’s office.
Hugh Kemper, third in command, greeted me. A diminutive man with a crinkly smile, Hugh was generally well liked. He ushered me into Harris’s office, where the deputy director was lighting up a cigarette. A team picture of the Yankees smiled down from above.
Hugh cleared his throat and started, “Mary, as you know, we’ve been moving people around, trying to get the right fit for each jail—”
“Because,” Suzanne interrupted, “each jail has its very own personality!”
“Yes,” continued Hugh, “and we’re trying to put the right managers into the right buildings. And we’ve decided that you would do well at OBCC. In fact, Kelly Gordon has specifically requested you as her assistant chief.”
“Which is really quite flattering, Mary,” Suzanne threw in.
I was stunned. They knew there was an upcoming maternity leave. I was familiar with the Mental Health Center’s operations, I knew the staff, and I’d developed a decent rapport with DOC. None of this had happened overnight. I couldn’t imagine how they were going to just throw someone else in here to learn all of this so quickly.
“Kelly needs you as soon as possible,” Suzanne continued, “so as of Monday, you’ll report to OBCC.”
For a moment I struggled to figure it out, trying to understand their logic. And then it dawned on me that I didn’t need to understand. All that mattered was that I was leaving a job I disliked, and this time their zany reasoning was working in my favor. Just like that, the Mental Health Center fiasco was over. Maybe things would be different at OBCC. It was a smaller jail and didn’t have the high profile of the Mental Health Center. A smaller staff meant less time devoted to administrative tasks and more time for meaningful management. This was the break I’d been hoping for, and once again I found myself getting excited about my work. But as enthusiastic as I was, something was gnawing at me: within the confines of the Otis Bantum Correctional Center was the Central Punitive Segregation Unit—the Bing.
31
I spent my last morning at the Mental Health Center clearing out my desk and saying hasty good-byes. At noon, Kelly Gordon picked me up and we drove off the island for lunch at a local Chinese restaurant. Though small in stature, Kelly was an administrative dynamo. “We have a great staff,” she said excitedly. “The last chief quit so the place has been in limbo. It’ll be up to us to rebuild and get things stabilized. We don’t have a clinical supervisor yet, but Hugh Kemper is interviewing for one now, so when that spot’s filled, we’ll be in good shape. Hugh is our liaison with Central Office, and we’re lucky—he’s okay. At least we’re not stuck with Yankee Doodle Dandy!”
With that, we both smiled and then started laughing. But when the laughter subsided, Kelly fell silent, and in a measured tone, she said, “Mary, there’s something I should probably tell you.”
This had the same ring to it as George’s announcement when I arrived at the Mental Health Center. “Let me guess. You’re quitting?”
“Well, not right away,” she stammered. “I mean, I’m hoping things will work out, but if something else comes up, I’m out of here. Everyone’s trying to get out—you ought to think about it too.”
I just sighed. We drove back in silence.
But as we pulled up to the Otis Bantum Correctional Center, my spirits picked up. The relatively modern building was bordered by a neatly manicured lawn, and just down the hill the East River sparkled. I had a good feeling about this place. Maybe this was the new beginning I was searching for.
The lobby held the requisite pictures of Mayor Giuliani, Bernard Kerik—newly installed as correction commissioner—and Otis Bantum, the jail’s namesake, a popular former warden. A couple of “trophy cases” showcased dozens of confiscated weapons. Made from odd scraps of metal sharpened to a razor’s edge, some were long and pointy, resembling ice picks, while others were small and compact. The weapons were crude but deadly, a reminder that as nice as OBCC appeared, it was still jail.
Just inside the entryway gate, a picture window revealed an interior courtyard where inmates played basketball. Except for the watchful presence of correction officers, it could have been any city playground.
Kelly steered me to the clinic, where nurses in colorful uniforms that always reminded me of pajamas moved in and out of examining booths, loaded down with stacks of charts. In the center aisle, a row of hapless detainees awaited treatment. Keeping an eye on them was the clinic traffic cop, Officer Pepitone. Another gruff CO, he was on the phone, barking orders to an officer in an outer waiting room. “Send in three more bodies . . . no more than three!”
The clinic captain, standing next to Pepitone, fumbled with a hand-held radio. Two blue chevron patches stitched to the sleeve of his white shirt indicated at least ten years with the department. A chunky man in his late thirties, Captain Ryan put the radio down, and with a ruddy smile pumped my hand. “Welcome to OBCC!”
“He seems kind of nice,” I said to Kelly, as we stepped away.
“He is—and everybody here likes him.”
At the rear of the clinic, an inner recess led to our office, where I met Dr. Ismael Sackett, the chief physician. Wiry and nervous, he shook my hand with an iron grip and informed me he wouldn’t be chief much longer, that he was just waiting on his “demotion.” As a creative alternative to quitting, administrators distrustful of the new regime were lining up for demotions, seeking safety in the union ranks.
The Mental Health office was clean and comfortable, the cinder-block walls painted a soft blue. Around the perimeter of the rectangular room were three desks: one for Kelly, another for me, and a third for our eventual clinical supervisor.
Out in the clinic, Pepitone shouted the start of the afternoon count, and a few minutes later, the Mental Health crew meandered in, and it was with high hopes that I met our staff. Theresa Alvarez and Kathy Blakely, two recently hired young clinicians still fresh with ideals inculcated in school, were eager for managerial stability and support. Lynn Cosgrove, a longtime Montefiore veteran, was older and a bit jaded, but still friendly and receptive. Pete Majors was another clinician from the Montefiore days; he and I knew each other from GMDC, where he’d worked the night shift. Dr. David Diaz, a psychiatrist, was a hefty man in his early fifties who worked exclusively in the Bing. Originally from South America, his ability to flick into his native Spanish was a huge asset in treating the jail’s large Spanish-speaking population. Another psychiatrist, Dr. Christian, was warm and chatty.
We pulled up chairs and, over the next hour, discussed our future work together. As ideas and suggestions were tossed about, it was with a sense of camaraderie and goodwill. An evening meeting with the night staff was equally encouraging. When we locked up the office for the day, I felt that this was it, that I’d finally found the team I was looking for.
* * *
Over the next few days, I became acquainted with the jail, starting off with its Mental Observation Unit, a single fifty-bed dorm. “We’ve go
t no cells here,” Kelly said, “so if we get a paranoid schizophrenic who needs a cell, we have to send him to an MO in another jail.”
Conveniently located across the hall from the clinic, the Mental Observation Unit was airy and spacious. An abundance of natural light streaming through the mesh-covered windows lent a mellowness to an otherwise depressing scene. Even the cigarette smoke wasn’t as thick here. With the warmer weather, the windows were open, allowing a gentle breeze to flow across the rows of cots where the patients were reading, writing, or dozing. Toward the rear, a suicide prevention aide was engrossed in his paperback.
“It’s calm in here,” I noted. “Where’s the gang? Where are the malingerers?”
“In general population!” Kelly asserted. “This dorm is for the mentally ill only—and I intend to keep it that way!”
“Good!”
In the dayroom, older men played cards while the usual bunch sat around the TV watching a kung fu movie, a jailhouse favorite.
Perched on the edge of a suicide observation cot, an older man with a trim build and closely cropped white hair smoked a cigarette. Behind his dark glasses, his right eye was distorted. “His name’s Roy Evans, and he’s one of those murder-suicide deals,” Kelly whispered discreetly. “He’s here for major depression.” Roy Evans had apparently shot and killed his wife, but the bullet to his own head did little more than mildly affect his speech, disfigure his face, and put him in jail for murder. He nodded at me but did not smile.
Lockdown on Rikers Page 23