The Big House Page 10

  The plan was ready. We were confident Olsen knew exactly what to do. Unfortunately, Olsen didn’t quite follow our instructions. When he spotted the drugs, instead of walking quietly to the Watch Commander, he ran to the security bubble, pounded on the glass, and screamed, “The drugs are in the kitchen! The drugs are in the kitchen!”

  It was over. No drugs. No suspects. No arrests. The only successful part of our operation was hustling the informant to a safe location in Segregation before one of the kitchen workers ripped his throat open with a cooking knife.

  With Dignity and Respect

  In California’s infamous Folsom Prison, a sign used to be posted in the cellblock for all inmates to see. It read: There Will Be No Warning Shots Fired In Here Because Of The Ricochet.

  When I first saw this message, I wondered if it was a joke. A guard quickly assured me the sign wasn’t there to be laughed at. It was literal: prisoners who caused problems would be shot. No ifs, ands, or buts.

  I could hardly believe it. It was an appalling way to communicate. First of all, this type of violent control completely disregards the safety of those involved. Second, it creates an environment of hostility, which in turn creates the need for this type of brutal control. In terms of creating a hostile atmosphere, the California prison system used to be one of the worst offenders.

  Shortly before my visit, an inmate had been shot down during a disturbance in the Folsom prison yard. And just as the sign warned, no warning shots had been fired. The Sacramento Times ran the story in a short article on the seventh page. If an officer shot an inmate in the Minnesota system, the story would be headline news for months. I was amazed at the difference in systems and how prisoners were controlled and treated.

  Unfortunately, some prisons do not operate on the principles of dignity and respect. In those systems, officers think that by threatening new inmates, they will set a tone of superiority. They think that by treating inmates with disdain, they will maintain control. They are wrong. Contempt breeds contempt. Mistreated inmates react with hostility and resistance. What’s more, this resentment against constant mistreatment continues past the release date when offenders are returned to the community and are expected to associate appropriately with the general public.

  I met inmate John Smith the day after his transfer to Oak Park Heights. What he told me reaffirmed the importance of treating inmates with dignity and respect.

  First, Smith thanked me. He said that after being processed in, escorted to his cell, and locked in for the night, he was surprised to hear one of the officers say, “Good night. We’ll see you in the morning.” This simple pleasantry, Smith said, had been absent from his previous prison experience, and helped ease the anxiety that exists with an institution transfer.

  Then Smith told me about a previous transfer experience. In that instance, he was greeted with the following question: “Where would you like your body sent if you’re murdered here?” It set the tone for the rest of his stay.

  Prisons do not run safely through intimidation. They don’t run safely through fear of automatic rifles or corporal punishment. Prisons don’t run safely by accident; they run safely by design. And it all starts with how you treat people.

  This is the most critical of all management principles in prison operations. It forms the foundation upon which everything else is built. Security and control–given necessities in a prison environment–only become a reality when dignity and respect are inherent in the process.

  When I was warden, I made it a priority to meet new federal inmates upon their arrival at Oak Park Heights. Most were high–risk inmates and had been locked up in solitary or Segregation–in some cases, for many years.

  If I happened to be away during a new inmate’s admission procedure, I made a point to visit him in the cellblocks within the next few days. This was the case with inmate Kenneth Wilson, a long-term federal inmate with a dark history of serious felonies and a record of trouble in federal prisons. I decided to stop by Wilson’s cell during my routine rounds a few days after his transfer. It was a Saturday morning, free of weekday Industry, Education, and unit programming, and we’d have time for a conversation about expectations.

  When I reached Wilson’s cell, the officer in the control center unlocked the cell door, which opened with a loud click. Wilson had been asleep, and he now leapt out of his bed as I entered his cell. His wild eyes showed he was ready to fight to the death to defend himself. He was agitated, aggressive, and instantly prepared to go to war. I quickly backed off, introduced myself, and explained that I just wanted to talk.

  Once Wilson saw that I wasn’t threatening him, he relaxed and apologized. He explained that in other prisons, a cell door opening unexpectedly spelled trouble. It meant he would be beaten, dragged from his cell, and moved to another location. He was genuinely contrite for his behavior of a moment ago. In the end, Wilson and I were able to have a good discussion about our expectations of him and what he could expect from us.

  Over time, Wilson proved to be a good inmate who never caused any difficulty. He went about his business, didn’t bother anyone, and was respectful to staff and other inmates. We often spoke of our first meeting and how it surprised us both. The reality was this was a different place from where he had been. The dignity and respect that was preached was also practiced. It worked both ways, and he responded accordingly.

  Bob Watters was no model inmate. A lean, mean man, he was guilty of numerous violent crimes while armed with weapons. But even without a gun in his hand, he was intimidating, and often caused trouble for staff. One morning, I saw him walking down the corridor toward the Segregation Unit. I asked him where he was going.

  “I’m checking into the Hilton for a few days,” Watters replied.

  Watters was a huge man with the physique of a body builder, just short of a Mister Atlas. When he was upset, the veins in his neck swelled and his face reddened to a fiery glow. Yet here he was walking on his own to Segregation–nicknamed “the Hilton”–where he’d be checking in without luggage. The staff had treated him fairly and he responded accordingly. He had admitted his guilt in a minor infraction, agreed with our discipline officer on an appropriate disposition, and was cooperating with the punishment.

  A different scenario could have been a group of officers dragging this huge man kicking and screaming to Segregation. This dramatic scene would have unnecessarily endangered the officers, riled up the other inmates, and foretold a difficult future with an already difficult inmate.

  Dignified, respectful treatment–even for problematic inmates–creates a safer environment for all. It is effective, in prison and in the free world.

  The public is often not overjoyed by the idea of treating inmates with dignity and respect. “Lock them up and make them pay for what they did!” is the general outcry. Under most circumstances, the public does not understand what goes on within the walls of a prison, yet they readily offer their opinion of what ought to happen to the incarcerated. Dignity and respect are normally not a part of the public’s concern.

  Most folks would love prison administrators to make the lives of the incarcerated miserable, to–in essence–“poke them with a hot stick every day.” They believe that if prison life is so deplorable as to be barely tolerable, the offender will think twice before committing another crime. Or they operate on the theory that prison, in addition to removing offenders from society, is a place to truly punish them for their crimes. The truth is, this just doesn’t work–not if you want the offender rehabilitated before his release.

  Ninety-five percent of offenders that serve prison time in this country are eventually released. It makes sense that rehabilitation be a strong focus. Offenders simply cannot be mistreated on the inside and at the same time be prepared to live a productive lifestyle on the outside.

  We cannot choose our next door neighbor or the person sitting next to us on a bus. Since anonymity is the reality of life in the free world, it makes good sense to attempt to rehabilitate o
ffenders who someday will be released. If a former felon moves into the house next door to me, I’d want this person to have changed from the individual who went to prison. But changes don’t just happen. Only by providing opportunities for change can we hope the offender will choose to take advantage of those opportunities.

  Why wouldn’t we teach an offender to read if he wanted to learn? Why wouldn’t we teach job skills if the offender wanted to develop an ability to work after his release? Why wouldn’t we assist in the earning of a high school diploma or even an advanced degree if the offender wanted an education? Why wouldn’t we create reasons for an offender to get up in the morning? Why wouldn’t we give him something to look forward to, something positive in his life? It all contributes to a safe, secure prison environment, and toward the offender’s eventual release into the community. The ability to read, work, or simply to have some self esteem may encourage an offender to stay crime-free after release. Indeed, the lack of these same factors may have contributed to the negative behavior that led to his incarceration.

  We don’t blame a doctor who fails to cure a cancer patient, so long as we know the doctor made every effort to combat the dreadful disease. We would be justified, however, in blaming a doctor who did not do everything possible to fight the illness. We can look at the rehabilitation of offenders the same way.

  It is the responsibility of the state, via the warden of a correctional facility, to provide an environment for change. Oak Park Heights operates on the philosophy of its founding warden, Frank Wood, who said our job is to create “an environment conducive to the rehabilitation of offenders who are inclined to want to make a change in their lives.”

  Not all offenders will change. Nor would it be fair to hold the warden responsible for a failure to rehabilitate, so long as that prison provided opportunities to do so. The responsibility should be justly placed on the shoulders of the warden, however, if no opportunities existed at all.

  Frank Baylor had plenty of opportunity to change in prison. He had been in and out of institutions since his teens. Now he was in his fifties, but looked much older due to his hard life. He was out of shape and balding on top, bearing the worn-out look of a man who had spent most of his life behind bars. He was first sent down for the first-degree murder of a police officer. Baylor had been a drug addict and was transferred to the Big House for drug smuggling. He is also the only lifer I have known who was brought in full restraints directly from the Segregation Unit to his parole review hearing.

  Baylor’s long history of drug use not only complicated his life outside prison, but inside as well. For the first fourteen years of his incarceration, he caused many problems for prison staff in his quest to obtain a fix. At the time of his review, Baylor was confined in Segregation for attempting to smuggle contraband into Stillwater prison.

  Baylor’s sentence made him eligible for release after serving seventeen years. This didn’t mean he actually would be released; it only meant a review would take place. In Minnesota, the Commissioner of Corrections holds the authority to release lifers. Previously, this authority rested in the hands of the State Parole Board, which was abolished in 1982 shortly after the state sentencing guideline law was implemented. This law sets a mandatory release date after two-thirds of the sentence has been completed. The exception is first degree murder convictions, in which case there is no mandatory release. These inmates are sentenced to life, with the possibility of release after a determined amount of time is served.

  The process for release consideration is careful and deliberate. Three years before the offender is eligible for parole, the Commissioner conducts a hearing with an advisory panel made up of administrative staff and the warden. I have reviewed lifer cases for over fifteen years as a member and vice-chairman of the State Parole Board, as a member of the Commissioner’s staff, and as warden of Oak Park Heights.

  Baylor’s first release hearing occurred at the fourteen-year mark. It is hard to fathom that, after serving fourteen years of a life sentence, an inmate would show up to his parole review hearing in full restraints. After all that time, he was still inciting trouble. With his history of drugs and disruption, he had little chance of being released. At the conclusion of the hearing, the Commissioner made the decision to continue Baylor for ten years with no consideration for release. In ten years, another evaluation would take place.

  After the hearing, an officer returned Baylor to Segregation. Eventually, after he had been transferred back into the regular cellblock, I decided to pay Baylor a visit. I had known him for many years and figured it was time to give him a kick in the rear.

  First, I told him he was the only inmate I knew who came to his lifer hearing directly from Segregation. I said it was incredible that someone was still facing problems by the time of his review for release consideration. It was time to get his act together and give himself a reason to get up in the morning. We discussed the possibility of his spending the rest of his life in prison. I tried to help him realize that even if that happened, he needed to make a difference in his life and the lives of others. Our conversation seemed to make sense to him, and I was hopeful he’d think about it.

  Some months later, Baylor applied for the education program at Oak Park Heights. Organized when the prison opened in 1982, this is an incentive-based educational concept that allows inmates to take classes contingent on their behavior and willingness to cooperate with all aspects of the program. I have always been amazed at the program’s accomplishments. Though its formative stages were marred by troubles, including a severe assault on a teacher, devoted staff worked for years to make it successful. Even though this is a supermax prison where the most difficult and dangerous offenders are housed, the last serious incident in the program was more than fifteen years ago. Dignity, respect, and a constant commitment to help inmates learn have been the program’s trademarks. Most offenders realize they have an opportunity to change their lives through their participation in this educational program.

  Baylor was accepted into the program, and he became a model student and inmate. He worked hard and thrived on what he was learning in school and the changes it was making in him. Eventually, he achieved an Associate of Arts degree.

  There have been a lot of stories like Baylor’s at Oak Park Heights. What makes his memorable was the letter he wrote to his fellow inmates in the program shortly before his transfer to a less-secure facility. The letter explained how important the program was and what it had meant to him. It was the first time in his life, Baylor wrote, that his family had been proud of him. His children and grandchildren were now saying that if Dad can do this in prison, if Grandpa can achieve this, then they ought to be able to do better in school.

  Whether Frank Baylor would ever be released is not the issue. He found a way to make a difference in his life and in the lives of others. His story illustrates the importance of programming in prisons and how it can affect those on the outside. A man set aside the misery in his life to take advantage of an opportunity placed before him.

  Dignity and respect. They pay dividends over and over.

  The results of humane treatment are often concrete–a less-hostile inmate, a safer prison environment, a rehabilitated offender. These are all excellent reasons for treating inmates with dignity and respect, but there is another, more elusive reason.

  Sometimes, it is simply the right thing to do.

  A prisoner once told me a disturbing story. He was a lifer with no chance of parole, formerly housed in a federal prison in a double cell. One day, he went out for his allotted recreation time and returned an hour later. During that hour, his cellmate had been murdered and another inmate had already been assigned to his cell. No officer ever spoke to him of the incident.

  This story epitomizes the disregard shown to inmates in some institutions. No, the details of the murder could not be shared; however, some type of discussion was in order. It never happened.

  Dignity and respect. This kind of treatment doesn’t repla
ce control or security. It doesn’t interfere with what must occur to keep a prison safe and secure. It merely provides a catalyst for a successful operation. You don’t need to read a policy manual about how to show it. You don’t need to train staff what to say or do. It does not come in a neat package for review. It is simply about being considerate and professional when interacting with others. In a prison, it is fundamental.

  Holding All the Cards

  Maintaining control in a supermax prison involves more than physical restraints and locked doors. There’s also a mental component. That’s why I like the expression, “When you hold all the cards, you don’t have to play them.” It reminds me that officers possess ultimate control; it’s just a matter of how and when we exercise it.

  The successful operation of a prison happens by design, not by chance. It involves timing, approach, and making split-second, informed decisions. Everyone makes decisions every day.

  The difference in prison is that a bad decision can cost lives.

  One morning, I was performing a routine prison walk-through, and as I entered the library of the Education Unit, I saw an inmate watching me closely. As I approached his area, he quickly hid a piece of paper in a file folder. Instantly, I knew I had to see what was on that sheet of paper.

  The problem was how to see it without causing a disturbance. The library and adjoining classrooms were filled with at least thirty inmates. I had to factor their presence into my response. Inmates are often reactive. When something out of the ordinary occurs, they sometimes become violent.

  I approached the inmate and quietly asked him to show me the piece of paper.

  “It’s personal,” he said.

  Now we had a serious problem: he had refused the directive of a staff member. A few inmates looked on with interest. The ones closest had heard my question and his response, and were waiting to see what would happen next.