The Big House Read online

  A good time to deliver a message is at 10 P.M. when the inmates are all secured in their cells. This will give officers many hours to assess the prisoners’ reactions before cells are opened in the morning. You have to do what you have to do, but the timing is critical to maintaining control. Simply put, it is essential to stay one move ahead in the game.

  To keep in control, we also had to keep our word. We had to stick to our own rules religiously, whether they were key, life-threatening regulations or minor ones. Changing the food menu without notice is a minor transgression, but it is a foolish mistake to make and can result in the loss of good faith. If the menu called for hamburgers and French fries–a popular meal in prisons–then hamburgers and French fries it better be. Making a last-minute switch to peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches is a sure recipe for trouble. There is no reason to put the staff in a position to be hurt, have the prison damaged, or lose control over so insignificant an issue.

  There are acceptable surprises that the inmate population learns to deal with on a regular basis. These are the surprises that directly connect to security–surprise searches, unit shakedowns, preventative lockups, and so forth. There can be no warning for these, and although unpopular, in most respects inmates accept them–albeit grudgingly.

  It’s essential in a supermax prison to have proactive preventative lockups and searches. These searches sometimes can take as long as a week to complete. At Oak Park Heights, the inmates were usually notified while locked in their cells that the unit was on immediate lockup status. Several cells were quickly entered as shakedowns of certain suspicious prisoners’ living quarters were made. A memorandum outlining exactly what was going to occur was then delivered to all of the other inmates so they knew what was happening over the next few days.

  Subtle messages are often sent back and forth between the inmate population and the prison administration. At Oak Park Heights, the preventative surprise lockups have been a practice since the prison’s opening. The inmates expect it, even though they never know when it might occur. Sometimes, however, they try to get control of the decision-making by forcing the lockup so they can have it when they want it. Simply put, it’s a power play on their part.

  One day, a small screwdriver was missing from the industry shop. A missing tool is a major issue in a supermax prison: It could become a murder weapon or aid in an escape. We had to make every effort to locate the screwdriver as soon as possible, including locking up the unit in the process, if necessary.

  The tool was not located, and the unit was locked up. For one full week, officers searched every inch of the industry area, the unit, and the cells. We didn’t find it.

  At some point, if the search is unsuccessful, a decision has to be made to re-open the unit and get the inmates back to work. I reluctantly made the decision. I believed the tool had been disposed of–flushed down a toilet or somehow destroyed. The unit was re-opened.

  A few minutes after the inmates were back at work in the industry shop, the missing screwdriver reappeared, sitting innocently on a chair. Why? A message was being sent: “We will decide when lockups occur.”

  The inmates estimated it was about time for a surprise lockup, and they wanted to show their power by setting the date and time; they knew a missing tool would initiate it. They took control for a short time, forced the lockup, and by returning the tool, told us what they did.

  The inmates figured it would be several months now before the next lockup, giving them some breathing room for whatever plans they might be hatching–escape plots, drug deals, and so on. But just weeks later, I ordered a proactive surprise lockup. The inmates were stunned; they had just come off their forced week-long lockup and weren’t expecting this. Our message back to them was clear: “We make the decisions around here.”

  Sometimes, training requirements, holidays, or other prison activities required inmates to be locked in their cells for long periods of time. When their behavior was good and the action routine, I tried to send a message to them in appreciation–a snack of a candy bar or ice cream delivered to their cells in the afternoon. The public may not appreciate giving inmates treats for any reason, yet it was important to the running of the prison. The inmates appreciated it, and it was so little to give for so much in return, a subtle message going a long way toward operating a humane environment.

  This game never comes to an end. The opponent’s move may be spontaneous or it may be a strategy years in the planning. Against such opposition, staying a move ahead is not an easy task.

  One move I made might appear minor, but probably was significant enough to make Oak Park Heights a safer institution for the future.

  We had been having too much noise and one fight too many in the corridors. The prison corridors have to be reasonably quiet in order to hear radio communications and assess the daily mood of the prison environment. Fights always occur in prisons–at Oak Park Heights, almost every prisoner has a violent history. But fights involving large numbers of inmates in the corridors can’t be tolerated. The next step is a riot.

  Inmates were warned many times about yelling in the corridors. Some had their movement time suspended. But this strategy was not working-the noise level was still too high.

  Finally, a large fight broke out one afternoon between several inmates. After the fight was halted, I issued a new order: No more than seven inmates could be free in the corridors at one time. The rule was exhaustive to enforce, but it made for a safer and quieter environment. It was a step to stay one move ahead, and had a lasting effect on the safety of staff and other inmates.

  There are other moves we make behind the scenes–secret moves the inmates may never learn of–designed to pre-empt their game. Escapes are always a concern in supermax prisons. A primary responsibility of a prison is to protect the public. When taxpayers spend millions of dollars to build such facilities and millions more to operate them, they expect that inmates sentenced to live there, stay there.

  There has never been an escape from Oak Park Heights or, as far as I was aware, even an attempted escape. With the most high-risk and incorrigible offenders housed there, it is unusual to boast such a record. Yet the preventative practices in place have been a strong anticipatory type of management through the last two decades. The element of surprise and avoidance of routine have kept the inmates off guard and unable to do long-range planning for escapes.

  When I took over at Oak Park Heights, one of my first directives to my administrative staff was to form individual teams involving staff from all levels of the organization. Their mission was to find an escape route out of prison by any means. Working out these possible escapes, we learned a great deal about the prison, uncovering several construction flaws and vulnerable areas. I slept better at night when we finished.

  Over the years, we used other exercises to test different areas of the prison’s security and resolve. Each test helped us to maintain the edge and to understand our opponents, preparing us for their every move and keeping us in control.

  The game continues throughout the day and in the dark of night, on weekends and on holidays, during the Super Bowl and the World Series, whether we’re awake or asleep. It’s played every minute without rest. It is us against them, and we’d better hope we are always one move ahead. It’s a tough game, played for keeps, with no holds barred.

  I received a phone call early in my career; the speaker on the other end didn’t identify himself, only said, “You’re going to be shot when you leave today.”

  As I left work that evening and walked to my car, I tried my best to keep my cool and not be intimidated. No shots were fired, and I breathed a big sigh of relief.

  I never found out who the caller was–perhaps a felon, perhaps a joker–but I still remember that voice and those words.

  Doing Time

  The key to surviving in prison comes down to one thing–respect. If you don’t win the respect of other inmates, your time will be spent in hell. And if you don’t in turn respect others–
especially the cons demanding that respect–you might never see the end of your sentence.

  Respect is central to inmate culture, yet it is a different type of respect than we practice outside in the free world. Treating each other in a dignified and honorable manner is for the most part important to all of us. But among murders and sex offenders respect means something different. In prison, respect can be a matter of life or death.

  More prison fights, assaults, and murders have probably been committed because one con disrespected another than for any other motive. Here, respect may mean stepping aside for another con in the corridor or letting someone ahead of you in the meal line. It may also be a demand to subject yourself to another con’s orders–whatever they may be. Disrespect may be looking at someone wrong, talking about someone behind their back, not paying a debt, cheating at cards, or a variety of other acts. Disrespect can make you a marked man–and you’ll never know when the retribution will come.

  There is a strict hierarchy among cons that demands respect. A con’s place in this hierarchy comes from the crime committed. At the top of the scale are those who have killed a law enforcement officer. Among fellow cons, these criminals are believed to have performed an honorable act and made the world a better place. To rid society of someone whose job is “To Protect and Serve” is an example of doing right. It’s a perverse viewpoint–especially to correctional officers whose job it is to guard these cons at the top of the inmate hierarchy.

  Next down on the hierarchy are the lifers–cons serving life sentences for first degree murder. In addition, the more years of their sentences they have served, the higher the regard from fellow cons. Those that have done many years in prison and met the challenge to become comfortable in their surrounding are the true “convicts,” a term of pride to many. They are warriors and survivors who become institutionalized and live in prison every day like most of us do in the free world. These lifers are seasoned veterans in the prison world, and they are looked up to and mostly left alone. There’s one key reason for this: They have nothing left to lose.

  Cons who committed a violent act with a gun, such as an armed robbery, are next on the scale. Using a weapon to obtain money is a quality demanding respect in this neighborhood.

  A serial killer, although terrifying in the eyes of the public, doesn’t automatically earn respect or carry his fearsome reputation into prison. I have seen some serial killers who brutally murdered many people, yet were in constant danger from other cons because they were weak and frightened no one in prison. They had been vicious to a helpless or vulnerable victim, but in these surroundings, the tables are often turned and they’re the victims. Serial killers do not earn a reputable status in prison by their body count alone. And often they are viewed as simply insane, which places them outside the respect hierarchy as simply someone to stay away from or ignore.

  At the bottom of the hierarchy are those cons doing time for sex crimes. These cons are blatantly disregarded as scum by most other inmates who view sexual offenses as an aberration from what is acceptable criminal conduct. It may seem ironic, but it’s a commonly held belief.

  High-profile sexual assault cases that garner lots of media attention often attach a bull’s-eye to the back of the perpetrators of such deplorable acts. When they arrive in prison, these offenders are in immediate life-threatening danger. I recall some years back when a horrifying case received a great deal of media attention. The offender kidnapped, raped, and murdered a young waitress on St. Paul’s west side. Shortly after the offender entered Oak Park Heights, he was stabbed in the face, a needle-sharp laundry pin driven up his nose as retaliation for his despicable crime. The con delivering the payback was a double murderer, but in his mind there was no similarity between the crimes.

  The lowest of the low in the prison hierarchy are child molesters. Other cons call them “low life” or “baby rapers” to their faces and will tell them flat out that they’re “sick motherfuckers.” I’ve heard it all.

  It’s tough to keep child molesters safe from other offenders who deplore their acts against a child. Some inmates think of their own children and the rage they would feel if their loved ones were the victims. In the early 1980s, an inmate was stabbed to death in the corridor at Stillwater prison. The assailant later admitted his motivation for the killing was simply because the victim was a child molester and “needed to be killed.” The “prison justice” logic might not make sense outside, but I sometimes wonder how much really does in this strange world inside the walls.

  When the crime committed is not a factor in earning respect, the conduct of the offender is paramount. There is great respect for and distance kept from those who are physically large and think nothing of using their brawn to get their way. There are others who survive because they let it be known early on in their confinement that they are not afraid to go to war if necessary. Sometimes it takes aggressive behavior to get the message across to the predators.

  The other type of offenders who are generally left alone are those that are clearly recognized as mentally ill. If a con gets a reputation for being sick or insane, he is for the most part not preyed upon because others are never quite sure what he might do. He may attack someone twice his size or go after anyone at any time. The mentally ill inmates are wild cards, and most cons simply choose not to mess with them.

  Adjustment to the bizarre environment of prison doesn’t come easy. The inside is filled with unusual activity, from running inmate “stores” to clandestine tattoo “parlors” to gambling rackets, and unusual people, from drug dealers to sexual predators.

  Most prisons have a secret and illegal inmate store run by a special type of offender. These cons gather supplies and food, buying and bartering from other inmates, and stockpiling items in their cells or other locations. Their stores sell just about anything cons need; the most common items are snack foods–potato chips, cupcakes, soda pop, and cookies. This food is in demand because inmates are not allowed unlimited access to the legal prison canteen; they are scheduled to go only at certain times. Or they may have run out of money and want something immediately and on credit. The store operator might hide his wares in clothing, shoes, behind books, in the unit washing machines or dryers, secured under tables, or beneath pillows, blankets, and mattresses. Random surprise cell searches usually uncover the store stock and catch the culprit, but he is often back in business as soon as the search is over. It takes a special type of con to run such a store–a scheming and conniving expert that understands the unique aspects of supply and demand within prison.

  Other inmates offer drugs and shanks for sale. These are truly black marketeers running undercover lucrative businesses. Keeping these items safely hidden is obviously essential, and a crafty con may hide them in a variety of places. Some inmates painstakingly drill holes into their shoe heels or soles, or sew secret pockets or knife sheaths into their clothing. They might cut out portions of book pages as clandestine compartments to store a marijuana stash or slide a shank down the binding of a Bible. Hypodermic needles can be stuffed into the putty surrounding a cell window. Knives might be attached to a string and hung behind sinks or lowered down the plumbing of a toilet. The mechanical interior workings of machines in the Industry programs or everyday items such as washers and dryers, irons, TVs, radios, and other electronic equipment all make ideal hiding spots; electronic items can only be purchased by inmates from certain approved vendors and even then, everything is carefully taken apart and checked by officers before it’s passed to the inmates. Contraband is also commonly hidden in toothpaste tubes or toilet paper rolls, inside watches, in bags of snack food, or inside a simple ballpoint pen. Within a prison classroom–which is similar to any school classroom–every single item is fair game as a hiding place. We once found a bag of tobacco on top of the security-room’s bubble-shaped window that jutted out into a hall.

  During a spot search, cons might stuff things into their mouths for a quick, temporary hiding place. I recall an offi
cer took a large shank from an inmate who had it in the small of his back as he tried to get through a search. The groin area, the hair, and under the arms are all common hiding places. The extreme is for a con to swallow an item in a plastic bag or balloon, store it in his stomach, and then vomit it back up or pass it through his digestive system. Others secret items inside their rectums.

  The inmates carefully watch the guards and know from experience who will do a full search and who will not–who will just do a pat search and prudishly only go close to the groin and buttocks compared to those guards who will look in their mouths and have the inmate spread their butt cheeks for a thorough search. Inmates are also ingenious at moving items around during a search, sometimes with several inmates involved in the transfers. Cons know more about the officers than the officers sometimes know about each other–or even themselves.

  Weapons are made in prison with mind-boggling imagination. A scrap of metal, a piece of hard plastic, a chair leg, a broken wastebasket, a sliver of wood–all are raw material for prisoners to form into dangerous weapons. Pencils or toothbrushes rubbed to razor-sharp points become stilettos. Plastic and wood are ideal materials because they wont be picked up by a metal detector. Small objects are coveted as they can be easily hidden in the mouth to be carried about within prison.

  It’s an art, and inmates are master artists.

  Confiscated shanks, knives, and other weapons.

  Inmates have made serious assaults on one another with just a bar of soap held in a sock and swung with powerful–and potentially deadly–force.

  Ingenuity is the key ingredient. Revenge the mother of invention.