It was February and given that about 50 percent of the inmates contained at our prison were people of color, it was important to me that I celebrated Black History Month by calling attention to the accomplishments of Ohioan African Americans.
My plan was a scavenger hunt of sorts: on the bulletin board were different bits of information related to African Americans who had lived in Ohio for some period of time. Like Harlem Renaissance poet Langston Hughes, who graduated from high school in Cleveland. Or Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winning novelist Toni Morrison, who had been born just a few miles away in Lorain, Ohio. It wasn’t just writers, though. I also included inventors and activists. The only rule was they had to have some connection to the Buckeye State.
In conjunction with the bulletin board was a stack of printouts sitting on my desk that had fill-in-the-blank questions the inmates needed to fill in, with all of the corresponding answers found either on the bulletin board or in one of the reference books nearby. I also had a plan to utilize the whiteboard and whenever possible, putting up “This Day in History” facts that answered questions on the scavenger hunt sheet. If an inmate wanted to get all of the answers, he’d have to come to the library every single day to see if the daily history fact was an answer to one of the empty blank spaces.
I was truly evil.
All of the inmates that filled in all of the correct answers by the end of the month would be entered into a random drawing. I had already cleared it with Dr. Harald that the winner of the random drawing would get a king-sized candy bar of his choice.
It wasn’t much. But inside, a free candy bar—and a king-sized one at that—was like a gold brick.
I was awkwardly standing on my tiptoes, trying to staple a factoid to the upper right corner of the bulletin board when I felt a presence standing next to me. Turning my head just slightly to the left, I saw Monroe standing there, his eyes washing over the information presented on the bulletin board.
After a few seconds, he looked me straight in the eyes. “When’s White History Month?”
I lowered my heels to the ground and straightened my spine. Watching him, I kept waiting—or, well, hoping—for him to break character. For him to give me some indication, a smile or a wink, to let me know he was just kidding.
“That’s every month, Monroe.”
Warily, he put his single earbud back into his ear and walked away, shaking his head.
With a sigh, I grabbed the next piece of paper with a data fact on it and scanned the available spaces on the bulletin board to find the best fit. It was a little like taking a step back from your lit Christmas tree and squinting your eyes to find gaps where the next ornament should be.
I couldn’t wait for March and Women’s History Month.
The river of blue that poured into the library parted as Lincoln cut his way to my desk.
Cocking an eyebrow, I gestured to the clock hanging on the wall above the law library. “You’re late.”
Lincoln shook his head. “I’ve been reclassed.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean you’ve been reclassed?” I asked, giving a short shake of my head.
He shoved a piece of paper in my direction. I took it, my gaze not breaking eye contact.
Opening it up, I immediately recognized the standard inmate classification sheet. I scanned it quickly. “The lobby?” I lifted my head, stunned. “You got assigned to the lobby?” Most inmate classifications were done at random, with little to no prerequisites required. (One exception was the library, where all porters needed to have at least a high school diploma or GED.) But getting a job up front, such as the inmates who cleaned Admin, required a higher level of trust than most. But the job that required the most trust were inmates who cleaned the lobby. The same lobby we employees used day in and day out. The same lobby with a door that led directly to the outside world.
“Gerry requested me.”
Of course he did.
Gerry was a Captain, the highest ranking officer below Major. He was in charge of overseeing and selecting the porter who cleaned the lobby. He was mostly well-liked by the inmates, and had a habit of working up a rapport that usually got him what he wanted, which, more than anything, was information. During our in-service, he bragged about his snitch: a young man who would relay information to Gerry in exchange for special favors or some of those king-sized candy bars.
I handed the form back. “Well.” I shrugged, resigned.
Lincoln’s eyes widened. “Ms. G.”
I held up my hands, a sign of helplessness. “I can’t do anything. If Gerry requested you, there’s nothing to be done.” And there wasn’t, as much as I hated it. I had little say in porters being reclassified, and I definitely didn’t have a say in it when it came to Gerry requesting them.
Staff weren’t supposed to have favorites, or play favorites, or show favoritism in any way when it came to inmates. One of the rules of success that was drilled into us was consistency. Always be consistent with your interactions with the men at our facility. It was the main reason the situation with Gardner pissed me off so much—the Warden had shown Gardner favoritism. He’d marked him as someone outside of the rules and now Gardner could type up whatever he wanted on the computers. If any other inmate came in wanting to type a non-legal document up, I’d have to tell him no.
All of that said, it was easy to find favorites among the men who were porters in the library, and Lincoln always stood out among the rest as a hard worker, dedicated to the library, and a voracious bookworm. I would have fought for him if I could, but my putting up a fight about his reclassification to the lobby would have raised suspicion among the security staff.
Lincoln looked like I had broken his heart, his jaw dropped, slack.
I sighed. I didn’t know what to tell him, there was literally nothing I could do. Except . . .
“Look,” I said, “the best I can offer is allowing you to, I don’t know, volunteer in here when you have free time.” His face broke into a grin, teeth bright against his dark skin. “But,” I continued, lowering my voice, “you cannot let Highland find out. Volunteers aren’t supposed to be a thing, and we’ll both get into trouble.”
“Sure, sure,” Lincoln said, head bouncing like a toy. “Not a problem, Ms. G. Thanks, Ms. G.” He said this last bit slowly, sincerely.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. I waved him off. “Don’t keep Gerry waiting.” I watched Lincoln leave, wondering how, if ever, I was going to manage to replace him and his strong work ethic here in the library.
A few days later, on Saturday, I woke up to snow. Lots of snow.
Snow in Northeast Ohio in February is fairly common. We get snow throughout December and January, but February is when it always seems to hit the hardest. Aside from the two years or so I lived in Kentucky, I’ve been up here my entire life. I’m used to snow.
But this? This was something else entirely.
This was Snowmaggedon.
The snow had started the day before, on Friday. I spent the afternoon at my computer, constantly refreshing the weather website for any and all updates on the trajectory of the impending storm. The rest of the Education department was lucky: they could go home and make their hot chocolate and curl up in bed, layers of blankets piled high. In the morning, they could sleep in, snuggled deep into their cozy beds like hibernating bears.
But not me. Because I had to work.
When I woke up the morning of February 6, 2010, the first thing I did was look outside. My downtown apartment overlooked the city skyline, the buildings’ shadows against the 5 a.m. dark cloaked the still-sleeping city.
This particular area of the city was often neglected by the snow plows. On the one hand, that meant getting out of the neighborhood could be a challenge on particularly snowy days. This was not helped by the fact that Cleveland is situated in a valley, down by the river. There were two roads to get out, both of which required a hill of some variety. More than once I was convinced I’d have to essentially call in “sick” bec
ause my cute little Honda Civic just could not and would not get up that hill. I think I can, I think I can, I think I . . .
On the other hand, because the roads were usually not plowed, they were always a good litmus test for my morning drive.
This morning, it didn’t look that bad. There was a couple inches on the ground, but nothing like the storm that had been predicted across all of the news stations the day before. So, none the wiser, I made my coffee, finished getting ready, and got in my little Honda Civic, and while I struggled a bit to get her up the hill, she eventually made it and then I made my way towards the prison.
And that’s where things got interesting.
Turns out, in all of my weather website stalking the day before, I had missed one key fact: I was so focused on what the weather was going to be like in downtown Cleveland when I woke up, I sort of forgot to pay attention to what it was going to be like when I got in my car and started driving to the prison.
More specifically, I missed the part where the snow was going to be worse the farther west. Which was the direction I was headed.
Because of course it was.
The prison was just over thirty miles from my apartment and I always had the benefit of driving against rush-hour traffic, so on a good day—the kind of good, clean spring day that inspires Shakespearean sonnets—I could get there in about forty-five minutes.
This morning, it took me over an hour to drive fifteen miles.
I made it as far as North Olmsted, a west-side suburb located halfway between my apartment and the prison. The snow was horrendous out here, the drivers acting like complete assholes who had apparently forgotten how to drive in snow.
Even just getting as far as North Olmsted was treacherous, the inches of snow on the roads increasing with every mile I drove west. I was already late, and since I was only halfway there, I knew there was no way I was going to make it anytime soon.
As slowly and as carefully as I could, I merged right and took the next exit. The ramp curved up and I had another panicked moment that my car wasn’t going to make it. That I was going to have gone through all of this, only to get stuck on the side of the road on the exit ramp in North Olmsted in the middle of a fucking snowstorm. But luckily, with a little pressure and a lot of praying to a deity I don’t believe in, the car made it up the final hurdle and I was able to turn around and head back into the city.
On the drive back, with the snow calming down as I made my way east, I pulled out my cell phone and called the prison. “This is Ms. G.,” I said. “The librarian. Yeah, I’m not going to make it in today. The snow is just too much.”
The caller on the other end, a correctional officer I’d never spoken to before, gave a heavy sigh as he wrote down my name. Turns out, I was the next in a long, long line of similar calls: it sounded like most of first shift had run into the same issues and also hadn’t made it in. Third shift (who were on duty currently) was going to be getting a lot of mandatory overtime this weekend.
The rest of the weekend flew by, as I had essentially earned myself a bonus three-day weekend. I got home, made some hot chocolate, and curled up on the couch with my cat and some books.
By the time Tuesday rolled around, the snow had melted enough to make the roads passable. Still, I gave myself a big buffer of extra time just in case there were any more issues on the road.
When I made it to work for my normal shift, I told Dr. Harald that I didn’t make it in on Saturday and he told me it wouldn’t have mattered: the snow was so bad inside, the prison closed the yard for the day. Inmates weren’t allowed to leave the housing units, so even if I had made it in, I would have spent the entire Saturday sitting in an empty library.
The end result would have been the same, I would have spent the day reading, but at least I was able to spend it in my pajamas.
Chapter 18
Erin Go Bragh
Section 5120.035 of the Revised Code requires the department of rehabilitation and correction to establish and operate a community-based substance use disorder treatment program for eligible prisoners. The purpose of this program is to provide substance use disorder assessment and treatment through community treatment providers to help reduce substance use relapses and recidivism for eligible prisoners while preparing them for reentry into the community.
—Ohio Admin. Code 5120-17-01
My porters were running late from lunch, so I was handling the checking in and out of the newspapers until they arrived. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an arm reach over the barrier that divided the far corner of the circulation desk and the stacks. At the apex was the edge of the newspaper shelf.
I quickly snapped around. “Gardner.”
His outstretched arm froze midair, inches above the newspaper he was trying to pilfer. Clutched in his hand was his ID badge. “I’m just going to—”
“No,” I said sharply. “You’re not. You know the rules.”
He withdrew his hand and stalked over to the line, getting in position at the back. By the time he got up to the front, the only issue of that particular newspaper was one he had already read. Had he just gotten in line when he first arrived, chances are he would have gotten the edition he wanted, but I didn’t feel it necessary to point that out to him.
Gardner had a problem with not caring about the rules. Gardner only cared about what he wanted and getting what he wanted. Much of the time that included getting an edition of his hometown newspaper, the Canton Repository, and if he didn’t feel like he should have to wait in line, well, then he’d just reach over and get it himself. It was often a daily battle.
This had been an ongoing problem with Gardner. Sometimes I caught him in the act, other times he was fast and stealthy enough to get it before any of us noticed. To his credit, he did leave his badge in exchange for the paper, but I had had enough. The following day, I had a sign printed above that corner of the circulation desk: Newspapers are to be handled by library porters only. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be enough to deter Gardner, but at least I had something to point to.
Sure enough, Gardner came in and completely bypassed the waiting line. He maneuvered around the crowd and angled his body over the barrier.
“Gardner,” I said firmly, walking over. “What does the sign say?”
Confused, he looked to where I was pointing. “I—”
“What does it say?” I repeated.
“But—”
“No.” I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. “Get in line. I will write you up for this.”
He held my gaze for several seconds, as if attempting to employ some Jedi mind trick to get me to back down. But I wasn’t going to. This was a hill I was going to die on. The Warden might play favorites and let Gardner get away with shit, but I wasn’t going to. After a minute, he huffed and got in line. Once again, to his credit, he never attempted to reach over the barrier again but, suffice it to say, I was not his favorite person, and this was not going to be my last time going toe-to-toe with him over library services.
Other men had seen the exchange and clearly remembered it, because a few days later two inmates came in mid-conversation. I missed the first half of the conversation, but didn’t miss the part where my name got mentioned.
“Ms. G is tough,” the first inmate said, his face solemn and serious. “She’ll fight.”
His companion screwed up his face. “No, she’s a nice, lovely lady.”
The first inmate vehemently shook his head. “Nah, man. ‘G’ stands for ‘gangster.’”
I raised an eyebrow in surprise. Apparently the whole “Ms. G as in Gangsta” was catching on.
I was back in the law library when Lieutenant Hall arrived. Previously in the day, McDougal had informed me that we were out of the Power of Attorney forms, so I would need to make new copies. I usually relied on the law library porters to inform me when we were low on forms, and then would only make copies after they had just used the last one, so while I was back there, I decided to go through and make a list
of all of the forms that needed copies.
There were certain forms, like assigning someone your power of attorney, which we were always low on. Others that were popular were motions to change filing deadlines or hearing dates. Many of the inmates didn’t have the option of a support system outside, including having an attorney who could do the work for them, so they were left navigating the legal system entirely on their own. It was overwhelming, and also why an inmate like Monroe was able to set himself up with an in-house side hustle helping his peers.
It was only as I was walking back to my desk, list in hand, that I saw Hall standing by my desk. A Lieutenant, and our resident IT technician, Hall was rarely seen down in the yard. His appearance here in the library could only mean one thing.
“It was approved?” I asked, hurrying over.
Grinning, he held up a box of software. “It was approved!”
After Highland had given me permission to research cataloging software systems, I had started immediately. I knew it was a big ask, and if I was only going to get one shot at this, I wanted to make sure that whatever software I chose did everything I needed it to do—both right now and in the future—but also wasn’t going to break my library’s non-existent budget.
While the main focus was the cataloging software, there were other functions I needed as well: I wanted to be able to check out inmates by their ID numbers, which meant along with keeping a database of books, the system also needed to keep a database of patrons; beyond just knowing what books we owned, I needed to know where they were at any given time: on the shelf? Checked out? Being repaired? Eventually, I also wanted to have access to patron records. I didn’t care what they were checking out—this wasn’t 1984 and I wasn’t Big Brother—but I did want to know if anyone was over the two-book limit. I also hoped to be able to set up a system that gave inmates the ability to look up that same information about the book from a separate computer in the library.
Reading behind Bars Page 21