Before she went, I almost detected a slight curve to her outer lip, like a fishing lure just barely pulling it up into the ghost of a smile. It was so small, so indistinct, I might have imagined it.
The yard was empty, save for a few correctional officers doing their rounds during the mid-morning count break. On a bench outside the library, I had newspapers for today stacked next to me. Instead of going inside, I had stolen a few moments of quiet outside.
Williard appeared from around the corner of the Education building and sat down next to me. I had seen him around the yard, but this was the first time we’d really spoken since the unarmed self-defense course. “Hey, Miss G.,” he said with a smile. Somewhere along the line, even the staff started using my nickname, too. “How’s the library?”
I shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“That guy Jefferson still there?”
At the mention of my evening porter, I turned my head and stared at his profile. “Yes. Why?” I asked, warily. I had about a dozen men working in the library, so why was Williard latching onto Jefferson?
Williard’s eyes were also trained on the birds out in the yard. “Watch out for him.”
My skin tingled, a million little pins being run all over it. “What? Why?”
He gave a small shake of his head. “Just . . . be careful.” Before I could respond or press him further, Williard rose and walked down the path.
After he left me sitting there, alone, there was still plenty of time before the lunch crew started and the library opened, so I dropped the newspapers off on my desk in the library, then headed into the Education department. I made a beeline for Stephanie’s desk. “Heyyyyyy,” I said in a poorly conceived attempt at being casual. “I heard a weird thing from Williard.” Stephanie looked up at me from her desk, waiting for me to continue. “About Jefferson,” I finished.
Stephanie’s eyebrows shot up. “Williard told you about that?”
“Well, he told me I should watch out for him.”
“Ah.” She gestured to the seat in front of her desk. I sat. “Miss Carol, the librarian before you? She and Jefferson had . . . a thing.”
“What do you mean ‘a thing’?”
She cocked her head to one side, giving me a “You know exactly what I mean” look.
“Seriously?”
Stephanie nodded. Her eyes gleamed, the gossip too good. “Apparently,” she whispered, “they found a pair of her panties on him.”
I was too stunned to speak, my mind attempting the mental gymnastics to understand the logistics of how that would even work. For him to end up with any of her undergarments—while also remembering I was getting all of this third, possibly fourth-hand, so ample grains of salt were required—she’d have to be naked. It’s a prison, there are guards, not to mention other inmates, everywhere. Where could she and Jefferson have . . .
Ah. A lightbulb went off. The library bathroom. It was the only place. Rarely used by anyone other than me, there was little risk of being surprised or found out. Sure, it was snug, but with a little creativity it could definitely be done.
“So,” I said, finally voicing my thoughts to the final conclusion, “I only have a job because the former librarian slept with an inmate?”
Stephanie raised her palms, signifying both a shrug and a question, but there was a definite smirk playing on her lips.
All through the afternoon shift, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, mostly because I didn’t get it. I had so many questions, the least of which was why? Why, in all the men in all the world, would you want to hook up with an inmate? I mean, Jefferson was fairly attractive, bearing a passing resemble to Taye Diggs and, okay, if I saw him outside the fence, just walking along the streets of Cleveland, I would probably take notice.
But this wasn’t the streets of Cleveland; this was a prison. So, why?
The inmates’ urges I understood. This is an all-male facility and even for those inmates who were gay or bisexual, sex still wasn’t allowed, per statewide policy. Not that it stopped them, of course. But for those inmates who were straight and planned on staying that way while incarcerated, their only option was the female employees. It was against policy for us to have sex with them, too, and the inmates knew it. But for some of the inmates, it was a power play. A long con of sorts. Because once an employee crossed that line, that inmate had her by the proverbial balls.
I didn’t yet know it, but this was not an uncommon occurrence. If anything, it was routine more than anything else: I can’t speak for all prisons, but at ours, approximately every six months, like clockwork, another female at our facility was going to be caught and fired for having an inappropriate relationship with an inmate.
In the future, I’d laugh about it and gossip with Stephanie, but for now, I was too shell-shocked to even conceive of anyone entering into a relationship with an inmate, let alone more than one woman, including ones that I would eventually come to know well.
That night, Jefferson walked in and said “hello” just like last week. He took his seat at the circulation desk and picked up the stack of checkout cards that had been left by the day shift and still needed sorting. While palming them like playing cards, he slid his chair over to my desk.
“And how are you this evening?” he asked with a smile.
I looked at him for a beat, realizing that, yes, I could see how that smile had the potential to charm the panties right off a woman.
“Jefferson,” I said, sitting up straight, stern librarian again. “That red line on the floor there means no inmates over here, so I need you to roll back over to the circulation desk and stay there please.”
Something flashed across his gaze. He knew that I knew. He knew that I knew and he also knew that he wasn’t going to be able to charm me the same way he had my predecessor.
He dropped the smile, his mouth set into a firm line, rolled the chair back to his spot at the desk, and continued counting and sorting the cards.
Jefferson never again said hello to me when he came into work Tuesday and Wednesday evenings. He spoke only when directly asked a question. He had targeted me as an easy mark, but now that I had shown I wasn’t going to play that game, he had no use for me anymore. I felt triumphant: after everything that had happened with Andrews, I had been determined to not allow myself to fall victim to any attempts at playing me and, at least in this regard, I had succeeded.
In just the span of a few days I had been faced with two very different inmate interactions. I honestly still wasn’t sure how I felt about the Andrews situation. Maybe he didn’t lie—maybe Miss Carol had given him permission to keep the repair supplies in his dorm. But, like it had been for me, that wasn’t something she had permission to give.
It’s also possible, though, that Andrews saw me as an easy target. I’ve read Primal Fear and seen the movie adaptation. In some ways, Andrews reminded me of Edward Norton’s character: shy and quiet with a nervous demeanor. A mouse, backed into a corner, twitching and scared. By the end of the film, viewers learn that this presentation is all an act, which is perhaps why I couldn’t shake the feeling that Andrews’s country boy politeness had been an act. If not for the saving grace of Finch, I don’t know if I’d still have a job.
Then there was Jefferson, a man who absolutely saw me as an easy target and, again, if not for Williard’s comments, I don’t know if I would have given a thought about why Jefferson was being so nice to me. I just sort of took it for granted that I’m a librarian and he’s a porter, and this was a routine manager/employee transaction.
His lack of communication and interest after the fact, though, proves that he was just trying to con me. Or, if nothing else, see how far he could push things with me.
I wasn’t used to this. It didn’t matter how many years I had previously worked in libraries or that I had received my master’s degree from a well-regarded program, nor did it matter how many books about prison librarianship I read: I was not used to or prepared for a position where every single interacti
on with my service population was a bomb waiting to detonate.
Chapter 6
Pomp and Circumstance
Each institution shall provide a comprehensive education program to meet the basic academic needs of the inmate population. The program shall provide eligible inmates with basic academic skills, literacy, Pre-GED, GED, career enhancement, high school credit, communication skills, and social-emotional skills.
—ODRC Policy 57-EDU-02
Slowly, I started to settle into my new job. Winter began to melt away. The roads from Cleveland to Grafton became more passable, my drive suddenly taking less time now that I no longer had to navigate snow on the roads. Inmates on grounds duty traded in their shovels for lawn mowers. The sun broke earlier and earlier each day and stayed around later each evening, crowning the day with light before dipping back below the horizon. With the change in season came a change in protocol: we had sprung ahead our clocks, gaining an hour of additional sunlight. Because the sun was still out when I left on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the yard stayed open and I was no longer required to call in the number of inmates leaving the library each night: they were allowed to move about the yard on their own, floating freely between the library, dorms, and the rec center until the sun swapped with the moon.
Warmer weather also brought activity to the yard, inmates walking on the track or using the stationary exercise equipment set in the middle of the track. To the untrained eye, it resembled a bizarre playground set in the middle of a sandbox. Heavy steel poles poking in and out of the sand pit in all manner of directions. Parallel bars set low to the ground. Sets of bars for both pull-ups and push-ups. It was like looking at a minimalist arena meant for gymnastics. All that was missing was a balance beam.
While I’m sure the equipment could be used for gymnastics if an inmate was so inclined, that’s not what it was designed for. Instead, now that the metal bars stood out against green grass, free of snow, I realized that they were meant as exercise equipment that required nothing more than body weight in order to be used properly. Other routine gym items, such a dumbbells and various free-standing weights, were a no go: those items are heavy by design, so imagine what damage could be done if someone got pissed enough to chuck a forty-pound kettlebell at an enemy. Not a pretty picture.
By using their body weight either with or against the metal poles and bars, which were standing free and out in the open, and thus within eyesight of multiple staff members and officers, inmates could bulk up in a controlled and relatively safe environment. (Because, honestly, if an inmate is determined enough, everything becomes a weapon.) Chin-ups, sit-ups, push-ups. There was a piece of equipment for all of them, as well as some others whose function I didn’t yet know. As the weather warmed, from my vantage point at the library’s only window, I saw more and more inmates taking advantage of the equipment. It was a popular way to rid themselves of pent-up energy.
The change in season extended to the porters in my library. Because the inmates at my facility in particular were in on lesser charges, they had shorter stays, so at any one time I could come in and find out I’d lost a porter because he’d been released. They could also request to be moved to a different job. It didn’t happen to me very often—the library was one of the better regarded gigs and inmates were loath to lose it—but it did happen.
Over the past few months, there had been a changeover. A few old porters left the library job, while new porters came in. When it came time to request new workers, I would turn to the blue binder at my desk. Inmates were constantly asking if they could be a librarian porter, so much so that I had a wait list. Names were constantly added, with many men patiently watching for their name to reach the top.
Of course, it wasn’t as simple as just picking the next name on the list. Prison has its own echelons of red tape and bureaucracy, and I was informed that I had to make sure to keep a fair balance of inmates that matched the demographics of our inmate population. Meaning, I basically had to keep an even number of black inmates and white inmates.
It seems crude, now, to put it in such, well, black-and-white terms, but that’s how it was, and almost certainly still is. Granted, there were times I passed over a black inmate for the next available white inmate, and just as often the reverse happened; but no matter what, I still had to make sure that there was some sort of equilibrium.
That’s how I found myself with a new crew of inmates to manage. Childers was long gone; released at the end of his sentence. One of the law porters who had been in place when I started was released so soon after my arrival that his name has been lost to time. Only a hazy memory of his brown hair and gruff appearance, like a bulldog, remains. When porters did leave—mostly because they had served their time; very few ever asked to leave the library—it was my job to fill their spot on my roster using the binder.
The day-to-day operations of the library didn’t change, we still functioned the same as always, but something was different now. Before, I had inherited the inmates I managed. I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. Now, though, these were my inmates, or, well, they were in the sense that I effectively hired them, even if it merely meant finding their names close to the top of the list. But somehow it was enough of a difference to make me feel more confident at my job and to take more ownership of the little library. It’s like the line between renting an apartment and owning a house. I wasn’t going to start painting or knocking down walls, but with this new class of inmates trained entirely by me, I had the opportunity to really cultivate the atmosphere I wanted to see and I wanted the inmates to feel every time they came to the library.
Spring was here and the desire to make positive changes was in the air.
One morning in early spring, I pulled into the parking lot and found my unofficial spot right under the lamp that rose like a skyline above the parking lot. As I tucked my cell phone into the glove compartment, I couldn’t help but smile. I never really knew what I was going to be walking into once I went through those sally port doors and entered the yard, but today was different. No matter what shit went down, I knew today was going to be a good day.
Because today there would be cake. Actual cake.
Ahead of me, my coworkers moved in a pack, like a school of fish. I queued up behind them, the current pushing us forward towards the main class doors. We maneuvered around Dr. Harald, who had traded his unofficial uniform of polo and khakis for a full suit.
“Good morning, Dr. Harald,” I said cheerfully as I slipped by. He gave a short wave of acknowledgment, then fell in line, shuffling along behind us.
The queue of employees lined up, first at the control booth window to drop off our badges, then at the metal detector to have our items searched. Already the lobby was starting to fill with visitors. Families sat together, mothers wrangling their children. Everyone was dressed up a bit more than usually seen on a normal Visitation Day. Because this wasn’t Visitation Day, it was Graduation Day.
Every day, inmates sat through the multiple GED classes offered. Some were there willingly, fighting for the chance to put their time behind bars to good use. Others were there because state law required them to be. Regardless, all of them had the opportunity to come out of this experience with some sort of a win by passing the GED exam and walking across the stage in a cap and gown as part of a graduation ceremony.
Every inmate who took part in the graduation ceremony was allowed to have visitors witness the event. This was made even sweeter by the fact that this visitation was a bonus day, and so it didn’t count against the number of monthly visits they were allowed.
I snuck into the library to drop my things off, then hurried next door to the Education department to get any last minute instructions before the library opened for the morning. Our daily schedule was thrown in upheaval with graduation. The library would only be open for the morning shift. While I was helping with graduation, Knapp would take the library cart around to the dorms, aided by a supervising correctional officer.
The entire Education department crowded into Dr. Harald’s office. Kim was tucked into the corner behind her own desk in the office, which didn’t leave much room for the rest of us. Roberta had grabbed the one empty chair, while Nancy and I stood in front of Dr. Harald’s desk. Mr. Hooper, arms crossed awkwardly across his thin frame, hovered nervously behind us.
Dr. Harald sat behind his desk. Today, his suit and larger-than-life body made him look like the Godfather of graduation. “The inmates will be down at their dorms for count than are instructed to be here for lunch. The kitchen will take care of the pizzas and we’ll eat in the library.” He looked at me as he said this last bit.
Right. That definitely would have been good to know in advance.
“Sure!” I forced a wide smile, hoping that the surprise didn’t show on my face.
He gave a short nod and continued. After lunch, Dr. Harald would lead the graduates down to the visitation area to get ready and run through the ceremony, so everyone knew where he needed to be. As Dr. Harald did that, Kim, Nancy, and I would help set up to refreshments.
“Jill. I’m putting you in charge of the music.”
“Oh. Um. Okay.” Music. Okay. I think I can handle that.
He scooted his chair back until it bumped up against the wall, and pulled out a drawer of his desk. He rifled through loose papers and miscellaneous office supplies until he pulled a CD out. “Pomp and Circumstance,” he said, handing it to me across the desk. “Just make sure it’s queued up in advance.” I took the CD from his outstretched hand and flipped it over to read the track listing.
Kim flagged me and I followed her out into the outer office. “Here,” she said, pointing to the small gray CD player that sat next to the computer. “We’ll take this.”
The CD player shared a low wooden table with our large printer. While the printer wasn’t industrial-sized, like those floor models found in most contemporary offices, it was several steps above the personal printer I had at home that aided in the slaughtering of so many trees during my graduate school years.
Reading behind Bars Page 9