Visit to a Gated Community

OK, already many weeks have gone by since my latest misadventure, so I’d better get it down before I start to forget stuff.  Although, I must say, this one I think I’ll remember for awhile!

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–THURSDAY

I had never been arrested or jailed before.  (I’m 61 now.)  Fortunately, I was able to experience it from the smug distance of complete innocence, unencumbered by fears of real incarceration and the discountenance of society.  The result was a niche travel experience, one akin to ‘slum tourism’—those controversial vacations available now to the bored, curious, and rich.

Well, ‘prison tourism’ didn’t disappoint. As a typical middle-aged white guy, I’ve seen me some prison documentaries, hey, and I can tell you that my five-day experience met all my expectations. Indeed, there is hardly a block that didn’t get checked, and a hefty tip to the Travel Agent is in order.

So. I was working in Lowell Massachusetts clearing brush when I received an alarmed phone call from Memory: “Anna says the Police are at the door and asking if you’re there and where you work!” OK. I called the Gloucester Police Station and assured them I would stop by after work today. Is this about yet another bogus Protective Order being levied against me by my angry ex-wife whom I haven’t seen in three years? Yes. OK, see you then. Meanwhile, Memory had a beef and vegetable crockpot meal waiting for me for dinner and she is the best cook and I was very hungry.

I stopped into the Police Station when I got into Gloucester, now just two minutes from dinner. Here’s the Protective Order. Sign here. OK. “Also, we have a warrant for your arrest.” Wha? Now I knew why I was surrounded by three Police Officers for the mere serving of a routine Protective Order.

 Click.

“You’ll be staying here tonight and arraigned in the morning at about 09:00am.” 

Oh.

It soon became apparent that I was a normal reasonable guy and not a threat and so the handcuffs came off at some point during the ‘booking’. Fingerprints, mugshot, let’s see your drivers license, do you own any guns?, etc. Remarkably, and not to be seen in the aforementioned documentaries, the conversation quickly shifted to a long collegial discussion of all things military as it turned out that all four of us in the room were veterans. I was surprised, and was told that about a third of the force in Gloucester are veterans and the fact that the four of us in the room were all veterans was a bit of a fluke. In and out of this, I was allowed to make a couple of quick phone calls to “Guess who won’t be home for dinner” and “Guess who won’t be in for work”. I also made arrangements to ‘surrender’ my pistol at that time. (I wasn’t surrendering shit: I was being robbed of my supercool Mark IV Colt .45 Automatic Match Pistol by a hysterically biased Family Court system. Yes, I used the H-word.) I made the first of several inquiries about my car getting ticketed and/or towed as it was parked outside the Police Station in a metered spot—perfect spot to run inside somewhere to pick something up right quick. I was suddenly captured, however, thereby stranding the car. I guess when you’re running errands, you have to be prepared for the occasional accidental arrest. Oh, and there turned out to be at best tepid interest in my vehicle plight.

Anyway. It came time for the cell. I marched in, and spun around slowly as they slid the big metal-barred door closed with a Clang! Know what? That sound, that iconic moment in a new Prisoner’s life, it really lived up to the moment in all respects. It echoed up and down the narrow basement corridor and hollowed out a respectable amount of my self-assuredness. It was emotional in a goofy but deep way. In the sudden quiet, I held the bars in my hands and looked outward like the outlaw in every Western Movie town jail. I wondered briefly if I can use something to hook the key ring off the Deputy’s belt while he snoozes with his feet up. The metal bars were cold and smooth with thick black paint. I was cold and starting to get hungry. Where’s the beef?

For dinner that night near I guess 9pm I received a couple of pizza hot pockets. I have never had a hot pocket before and they were great, Mr. Gaffigan. Maybe partly because the room was cold? My shirt was still damp from the day of work in the sun. I had been soaked in sweat. Happily, I was indulged later that night with an extra blanket from one of the Guards (I’m already starting to think of them as Guards! Is this the beginning of a Stanford Experiment?). I slept on the concrete slab well enough, probably because the green wool blankets were the scratchy Army type I was so familiar and cozy with. At some point I remember a blurry encounter with one of the Police (one of the veterans who booked me in) outside the bars telling me that they had retrieved my pistol (with Memory’s help); he had some nice things to say about it, being a gun guy himself. He informed me that he’d oiled the outside as best he could and would have taken it apart to oil it completely but for the gun lock. And he’d put it in a weatherproof bag of some sort. He said the weapons storage area is slightly damp. A gentleman.

Recap of Day 1: 

Surprise Capture?  √ 

Handcuffs Hurt a Little Bit? √ 

Fingerprints & Mugshot? √

Desperate Phone Call?  √

Dramatic Closing of Cell Door? √

Cement Bench to Sleep On? √

Stainless Steel Sink and Toilet? √

Decent Cops Despite Gruff Exterior √

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

FRIDAY

I woke up to no coffee nor any way to procure it. Oh shit, maybe this could get bad. After folding up my blankets very neatly, I waited until well after 09:00am before asking politely what the Jesus was going on. “Oh yeah. You have to be transported to Worcester.” WTF? I learned that there was a jurisdictional issue that mandated the case be heard in Worcester and that the Gloucester Police hadn’t caught it the night before; they were now obligated to surrender me to the ‘Prisoner Transport’ system. I asked about my car again and got another noncommittal response. (I’d wanted to have Memory come and grab my car key and move the car but the key was already sealed in an evidence bag with my wallet, belt, glasses and other stuff. They didn’t want to break the seal, I guess.)

Time to explain the charges and the jurisdiction thing! You can skip this painful part, but I’ll condense it to one paragraph for those who slog on: I was actually arrested merely for ‘Failure To Appear’. I was supposed to be at a Hearing (interestingly, a remote one due to COVID-19) but I never knew about it because I never got served the Summons mandating my appearance. The Gloucester Police recognized this misstep during booking, as they had no ‘Proof of Service’ document riding with the arrest warrant per protocol and so they believed that the warrant originated accidentally—it should not have been sent out by some Worcester clerk without proof in the clerk’s hands that I had been properly served and subsequently failed to appear. Though empathetic, the Police don’t have the authority to second-guess the validity of an arrest warrant and so they had to grab me. In this case, I was already walking into the Police Station to pick up and sign for a Protective Order, so they got a twofer. Now, put the Protective Order aside. The charge I was to be ‘Heard’ on is another erroneous charge, engineered by my ex-wife in the death throes of a four-year legal battle over my right to visitation of my children. (A battle she’s already won, by the way—I haven’t seen my children in three years and she’s alienated them against me. With this new criminal charge, she’s now walking about the battlefield checking the slain for any signs of life and running a sword through any moan or movement.) This charge, which I will go on Trial for many months from now, is a terrible accusation about inappropriate activity with my own daughter and is completely untrue every which way and this will all come out at the Trial. Incidentally, this same allegation was raised in Arizona with a finding of ‘Unsubstantiated’ after investigation by Arizona Child Protection Services (the children live in Arizona) and yet my ex-wife somehow has the legal right to get another bite at the apple by bringing this charge against me, in Massachusetts, since I lived in Worcester, Massachusetts at the time of the alleged incident. Worcester PD is finally acting on this, I’m guessing due to unabated pressure from my ex-wife. I’m guessing this because when I got wind of this charge ten months ago I immediately called Worcester Police, and got all the way through to the Detective who was handling this case—she said it had just landed on her desk. I told her the whole story of malice behind all this and offered, even politely demanded, that I be allowed to drive to Worcester right now to look everyone in the eye, tell them the truth, take a lie detector test, and provide them all kinds of key documents: the Arizona Finding on this same allegation and other documents that show a pattern of frivolous, and strategically escalating, allegations from her that have been burning up Court resources for years. By the end of the phone call, the Detective, though trying to be objective, must have known that this one wasn’t real and so was probably hoping it would die on the vine. She said the legal version of ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you on this if I need to”. And nothing for ten months. For an arrest warrant to issue on this charge, a terrible crime against a child, a full ten months after the complaint hits a big-city Police Sexual Assault Division, well, that’s hard to understand unless the Detective had good reason in her mind to devote her resources elsewhere instead. That’s why I’m thinking the ex-wife might have just kept pushing that Detective. I also believe that, after delay, details may have been added to the charge to ensure pursuit, if you know what I mean. So, eventually, Worcester set a Hearing date for a Pre-Trial Hearing and I never knew about it: hence this arrest after my failing to appear at that Hearing.

Back to me in the Gloucester Jail. By the way, I will be using the terms Jail and Prison interchangeably for dramatic effect; I know the difference between them and am hoping you don’t. So, mid-afternoon I get rousted. I figured a Gloucester cop was taking me in a squad car to Worcester and maybe I could lay on my side in the back seat and get some sleep for a couple of hours. But then the Prisoner Transport folks showed up. The Prisoner Transport Van backed into the secret back door garage of the Police Station where I had been led. Two Storm Troopers, bedecked in all things Authority Figure and Batman, jumped out and approached me briskly. Everything was white shirt, white van, black and blue pants and equipment, all gleaming and crisp. And the way those big black pistols ride up a little too high on the hip is oddly menacing. This was high-caliber stuff, and I was impressed.

This Prisoner Transport Van was big, strong, and brutally simple. (The Storm Troopers perhaps, also, but I’m not going there.) The whole interior was like fiberglass, thick, white and smooth like you’d find in a boat or hot tub, as well as the bench we sat on which was inclined slightly forward to make us all lean involuntarily forward, cuffed hands in lap, as if in penitence. I wasn’t penitenting, though, I was thinking about how I would’ve had Sourdough bread toast slathered with butter to dip into the broth of that beef dish that Memory made. Sorry to keep going back to that. Anyway, seat belts were ignored. The seat belt issue actually surprised me, and not just because of my own safety, but because I’d assume this was a regulated thing wrapped up in liability issues, and a general moral obligation to belt someone in who is in the care of the state, and quite literally, and thoroughly, handcuffed.

Handcuffs: I’m talking about the real thing now. The Storm Troopers came with some serious extra handcuff stuff. I was handcuffed and they put a chain around my waist connected to the handcuffs! But wait, also leg cuffs with a chain connecting ankle-to-ankle. You’ve all seen these guys so decorated: an offshoot of the merely-handcuffed perp-walk, these super-chained-up guys have to shuffle along ignominiously on camera while glancing about like a guilty dog. How long does it take to learn that perp-shuffle? One step. As soon as those ankle cuffs bite into your ankle bones, you learn a new way to walk. (Hint: much shorter steps). I later learned that 40% of Prisoner escapes happen during Transport so I get it―we’ve all seen that movie where the vehicle crashes, the drivers are killed or stunned, and some surviving prisoners wriggle out and make it into the tree-line.

As I shuffled a short distance to the Van, I actually had the thought of asking one of the Prison Transport guys to take my picture and send it to my text or email.  I really did, I wanted to capture me so chained and shuffling.  It didn’t seem real to me then, nor now, and I knew the value of that picture being a great souvenir of the experience.  More about souvenirs later.  Later, my brother Keith independently raised how great it would be to have a picture of me like that shuffling to the Van and I seriously regret not attempting the picture.  I really think I could’ve talked the guys into it and I was just a little lazy about it at that moment.      

So, back to the seat belts. An accident would be an ugly thing in terms of money and explaining why these fine folks tumbled around in back like a cement mixer while all chained up? By the way, didn’t a black man die during a rough ride in a Police Van by getting all banged up with a neck issue? Wasn’t this was one of a big series of events in a string of police brutality issues that effected “Black Lives Matter?”

But, I digress. The point of mentioning the seat belts is that it got me thinking how maybe we are under the radar of oversight and maybe nobody at this level gives a fuck. And above me, managerially, who really wants to investigate prisoner transport, of all issues, when we’re all just glad that it is being handled by the Good Guys, some big strong competent authority types with guns. Also, if we start with ‘no seatbelts’, how much further down the devalue slide do we go due to my status as a person in the custody of Police and Correctional professionals? Fortunately, there’s no big reveal here. I’m happy to say that ‘the system’ didn’t devalue me any more than a normal amount for the circumstances, sort of, I guess, in a way, I think, maybe. Um. In other words, I’ll just keep writing this piece and see how I feel about it in the end.

OK, so I’m in the van, alone, thankfully, and bent slightly over, and we’re bouncing down the highway, chains a’clinkin’. Between the amount of chain I was allocated and the high-end Prisoner Transport system, I felt under-qualified for the treatment I was getting. I desperately wished that I had killed someone over a girl at least once in my life. Or bashed someone’s head in during a botched robbery.

After awhile, we picked up passengers in some town or other. I was disappointed because I realized then that I was just on a bus running a bus line and not getting nonstop service to Worcester. The lighting at the big fenced entrance and exit sites to these facilities is amazing, by the way. Coming in off the dark highway at night, it’s like a sudden flashlight in the face during a DUI. So, we get in there and pick some people up; I watched them shuffle to me across a short stretch of pavement. Yep, everybody knows that careful shuffle. Two guys are now sitting next to me on my bench. The closest guy is in T-shirt, shorts, about 30-something, balding and unshaven. His legs were all banged up with scabs and bruises for some reason. He looked hungover but docile. The second guy was a little more amped up, just as cheaply dressed, and unkempt as well. A thin young woman, tiny, bedraggled, and obviously deep in drug-dependance-land, was escorted to a special small side seating compartment of the van for folks to ride separately from the benches. And there was now another guy on the bench across the interior wall on the other side of the van. We could all hear each other perfectly: either a shift in the seat, the slight tink and rattle of chain, or a cough, etc.

Oh, yes, there were coughs. In the back of a van, five people, no ventilation, maintaining an average social distance of I-can-elbow-that-guy, and coughing from people who couldn’t point out a bar of soap in a lineup. (What else would they put in that lineup, you ask?: a toothbrush, a High School Diploma, a salad, a job, and a book.) Well, at least we’re not all directly on our way to a crowded place where we’ll be in a position to spread a virus to other people.

Back on the road, after a little while, I said “Anyone here read The Wall Street Journal today?”

No. No I didn’t say that. Not because it would be a rude and condescending affront in its sarcasm, implied prejudice and elitism, but because I didn’t think of it. Part of me is glad I didn’t think of it and part of me is not. Nor do I know if I would have said it had I thought of it. I would hope that I would have had I had. I love that last sentence. In any event, I satisfy the condescension requirement by pretending to address it analytically here when in fact I am simply being condescending in a different realm. A bait and switch.

There was some minor chitchat among my fellow passengers but I politely telegraphed my disinterest. Eventually I heard the girl on the other side announce that she got out of the handcuffs―and she had! I remembered how tiny she had been. When the Guards pulled her out later they were nonplussed. “Yeah, I figured you might be too small when I put them on.”

After a long time, maybe an hour, we arrived at ‘Middleton Jail and House of Correction.’ I’d heard many stories about this place from my AA Meetings (sorry to dime this out―I love AA and the people in it―but it seems relevant that the vaunted ‘Middleton” had long intrigued me, though not because I had myself been incarcerated there). Approaching the fantastic high walls with razorwire rolls under blazing lights, I noted the Guard Towers. Nothing good ever starts with Guard Towers. If you see Guard Towers, you have either stumbled into North Korea, or you done fucked up. As we were just getting out I asked, before I could help myself, about my just staying in the van since I’ll be moving on to Worcester anyway. Immediately I felt stupid. Of course not. They’re not going to just leave me alone for a couple hours while I try to escape or kill myself. I was to be in-processed to a degree as a Transfer. This stuff takes time and we’re going to be here awhile.

It all seemed impressive and official enough as I was in-processed. I was in a big bustling room with lots of Corrections folks and a few civilian Administrative folks at various stations.  Quite businesslike.  I did an abbreviated in-process, got a picture taken, got a full body scan by sitting in a high-tech chair that scans, then I just waited separately in an adjoining holding cell that was one big plexiglass-like box.  . 

In my holding cell was one other person.  I came in and sat at the opposite end of the cell while he remained standing by the cell door, staring out impassively at the reception station/transfer station activities.  He was standing relaxed but firmly, if that can be said.  He was notably well dressed.  I remember that he had on a red collared civilian shirt, nice black pants, shoes.  Sharp haircut, modern glasses.  These must be the clothes he was arrested in, given back to him now for transport somewhere.  Also, tall, dark and handsome-looking, in a Latin American way.  He was staring without moving for a long time.  Maybe a full hour of this goes by.  Then he turns toward me slightly: 

“You going to Walpole too?”

“Ah, no.  Going to Worcester.”

Walpole!  This guy is going from Jail to Prison, to Walpole State Maximum Security Prison.  He’s in the transfer hold, processing it.  I’m processing him processing it, and my immediate thoughts bring me back to my upbringing in Maplewood Park, a Housing Project.  Here, the biggest street credibility came from a stint at Walpole, ultimately.  As a kid, ‘Reform School’ was the thing and then as kids got older, real Jail and Prison stuff happened.  For example, a circle of friends of my older brother and sister were all busted for a string of stunning bank robberies and so some people we really knew went to ‘Walpole’.  After long stints at Walpole, we saw some of them return home as adults.  It was strange.  And so, I knew Walpole was big-time Prison. 

Eventually I’m back in the Van, alone again, for the long ride to Worcester. Same Prison Transport Team driving, but just me in the back now, having dumped my van-mates into the Middleton Jail system like throwing grease out the back door of a restaurant. As we pull into the entrance to Worcester County Jail and House of Corrections, I was again impressed with the security and fences and lighting. The driver was chatting to some of the initial Gate Guards and I heard him say “Just one punk in back.” That irked me a little bit to hear, and it just didn’t go away. As I sat there for a few minutes, I got more and more pissed off. It was Friday night, and it had been a long day, and not one of my best. After we got through another gate and parked, finally, one of the Guards flung open the back door. I leaned forward and said, “Are you the Driver?”

“What?  No.”

“Can you get him over here?”

“Why?”  A little perplexed and on alert now.

“I’ve got something to say to him.”  Louder.

“I’ll tell him, why, what’s up?”  Taking a step back.

He’s not getting the other guy.    

“You tell him I’m 61 and have never been arrested.  Tell him that the current charge is bogus as will be found out shortly.  I am a hardworking tax-paying citizen and have respect for authority.”  My voice rising even a little more.  “I don’t drink or do drugs.  I’m a retired Army Lieutenant Colonel and a good normal guy.  I am not a punk!”

The driver had been on the side of the Van, and now appeared.  They both looked a little stunned at my sudden dressing down.  Then one said quietly “Who called you a punk?”

“The driver.”

“I never said that.”  Emphatically.

“You said ‘I have a punk in back’.”

“No, I said ‘I have one in back!’” 

Wha?

I kind of believed the guy, the way he said it.

Whoops.

OK, jeez, sorry about all that. Heh-heh.

Wow.  That was uncomfortable.    (For people ‘in the know’, it reminded me of my ignominious start to the Appalachian Trail where I started off without my hiking poles.)  So, I’m getting processed into Worcester County Jail now, the Storm Troopers are taking a coffee break before they hit the road again and I’m hoping that they aren’t surfing about in the background saying that this one here, Perrin, is delusional and paranoid.  I’d be doing that.  Anyway, a lot of in-processing happens.  And―I should have seen this coming―I’m told that since it is now a Friday afternoon, I can’t see the Judge for the Arraignment in the morning and will be held over the weekend to see him on Monday.  Wow. 

In-processing was very interesting.  They get a lot of data from/about you at several different stations.  You really get a decent orientation as a guest at your new gated community. 

At no less than three different stations, I was asked, among many other questions, if I currently had a job. Do you work? This was so they could factor that variable into three different assessment determinations: Overall Classification of Badness? / Appropriateness for General Population placement versus more restricted ‘housing’ as they call it / and Mental Health Classification. It was interesting to see the groups of questions tailored to these particular concerns but employment status was one of a few that showed up understandably in all three interrogations. And the reaction to my answer to this question was the same with all three people that I spoke with:

“Yes, I have a job.”  

“Oh!.”  Glancing up at me from the computer screen, too late to hide a slight surprise.  Then, recovering, “Name of employer please?” 

I’d chirp that out and then we’d move on, but one guy took a little more convincing. He asked me the question twice in quick succession, pretending not to hear my quick ‘Yes’ to the first one, perhaps thinking I’d have a change of heart and decide not to lie after all―given an eighth of a second to think it over. He looked at me like “ Really? Don’t you hang with that gang downtown at the corner of Lazy and Shitbum?”

Same thing for the ‘Years of education’ question: 

“18”. 

“Oh!.” Looking up at me like I‘m a colorful salamander.

Now it is time for clothing issue: take everything off: Lift ‘em. Turn around, bend over and spread ‘em. OK, now put this orange jumpsuit on and these stupid humiliating shower-shoes things. (Up until the shower-shoes thing, I hadn’t felt humiliated.) My Prison ID picture is taken with me in orange! I look great in orange! I am Inmate #0711048. And the jumpsuit is quite comfortable and I actually wouldn’t mind having one. Maybe not orange, though.

At the last minute, I have to read and sign some stuff at a final booth pertinent to my housing and the guy leans forward conspiratorially and says quietly “You know, due to the nature of your charge . . . “ and he listed some restrictive housing opportunities. Now I’m thinking that I must be headed to General Population and this guy is telling me I might get into some shit there. I’d always heard of course that people convicted of and probably even just accused of bad stuff with children get rough treatment in Jail and I’d always believed it of course. Now this guy is confirming that it is a real thing, and about to happen to me maybe. So, I ask if he’s saying I have the option to be alone. “Yes, but you’d only get out for a half hour per day.” I’ll take it. Now I don’t have to tolerate a strange man shitting in a stainless steel toilet three feet away from me while I wait to get shanked from someone who was abused as a child. Ok, yeah, I’ll take that being-alone deal.

Upon this, I was asked to change to a brown jumpsuit which designates something, probably not something good.    

Now, I’m finally led to my cell.  I walked into my cell without much fanfare carrying one big efficient bundle of clothing and bedding and some literature about the facility and various brochures about resources available to me, etc.

Clang.

There’s someone else’s stuff in here!  I thought I was supposed to be alone!  Fuck.  I hope it isn’t someone uncool.  There was clothing and towels draped around and several Styrofoam meal boxes and various trash.  I didn’t touch a thing and lay down carefully on the bottom bunk since the top bunk was made up tightly with a couple of blankets.  Where’d this guy go?  Medical?  Shower?  I waited for him while dozing on and off for the next several hours and the lights went out and I eventually slept through the night.    

Recap of Day 2

Chain Gang Shuffle?  √ 

Real Prisoner-Transport Van? √ 

Sketchy Characters in Said Van? √

Handcuffs Escape? √

Lift ‘em!  Spread ‘em!? √

Orange jumpsuit? √

Solitary?  √

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

SATURDAY

I woke up at 5:00 and still nobody here but me.  OK.  Great, I simply got left an unclean cell.  Who knows where the previous occupant went, and it was probably a mistake I guessed.  Everything has up to now been about just getting here and now I’m here.  Just glad I’m alone.

I started to organize the stuff left in the cell by stacking the leftover clothing and blankets and consolidating the trash, which consisted largely of white Styrofoam clamshell type fast food containers.

Meanwhile, people were working behind the scenes on my behalf!  My girlfriend Memory was in touch with my nephew, a Gloucester Police Officer, and my boss Jamie O’Hara, who is also a City Councilman and quite savvy.  Memory got my car towed for free with her AAA service, thereby saving me a lot of money.  Between them, they also figured out my itinerary and even started tracking me by my inmate #, which they had obtained!  And, unbeknownst also, my boss was planning to pick me up after my Arraignment on Monday.  I tried to call Memory and Jamie this day, Saturday, but found out after a few failed attempts that the phone lines available to me near the shower areas have to be activated by my registering in the Prison Phone system first.  The COs handed me another form, but the form indicated that the process would take 3-5 days.  I was planning on being gone by then, and so I realized that I just had to wait it out, having ostensibly disappeared from society.  Ah, but no . . . they were all tracking me.  (They even later became aware on Monday of the disposition of my Arraignment and Jamie appeared in Worcester after I was freed to drive me home.)        

Back to H-Block, Saturday morning. I’m cleaning up my cell. Stirrings are happening and I get my first look out of my little window at the Block. The rectangular window is like a World War II Tank driver’s view port and I scan out of it with the same vigilance. This is a giant square building, with two tiers of cells surrounding a big interior common area on the ground floor. Metal stairwells climb up to the second floor at the four corners. The opposite leg of the square, as I look straight across the common area, is the only side that doesn’t have cells. The bottom floor is a row of showers, some pay phones and some installed computer screens for people to use money for ‘Commissary’. The whole top floor above the showers is the Corrections Officers (COs) Control Center, behind slightly smoky glass. From my distance, they were shadowy figures akin to the Banker silhouette guy in Deal Or No Deal.

People are stirring, some talking, but not too much yet.  For some reason, and this remained true over the next three days, the noise never even bothered me that much, even when it got bad.  I’d always imagined this would be a much bigger deal for me.  I flagged one of the COs over, a big muscular bald guy who I eventually gathered was the lead CO on the day shift.  (Incidentally, all of these COs seemed like they could take care of themselves; it was reassuring to see that.)  I asked him if I could get the trash out of my cell.  He looks in and says “Holy Shit, what happened to your toilet!”  I hadn’t even got to thinking about that yet.  But this led me to say “Hey, I’ll clean this whole place if you give me some paper towels and cleaner?”  He opened my food port and put a trash can abutted to it so I could happily rid my cell of all of the trash, he pushed in some paper towels, and then a big spray bottle of generic industry cleaner.  As he pushes the cleaning bottle through, he stops, looks me dead in the eye and says seriously and sternly:  “Don’t drink this stuff.”  This was a buzzkill.  I went from “Hey, cool, I’m going to clean my room!” to “I guess I’m in a place where people want to kill themselves.”  I cleaned my room cell methodically, wiping down everything, got the trash out, got the previous guy’s stuff all in one zipped up container in a corner by the door, made my bed neatly and even cleaned the toilet. 

Soon it was time to distribute breakfast. 

OK, here’s the food thing: Three times a day a couple of big wheeled carts make their way methodically through the tiers, dropping first a drink and then a Styrofoam carryout container with the meal at every cell. After a bit, someone comes around and retrieves the containers or you can keep it in your cell and drop them in the trash buckets later in the common area during the half-hour of free time. They place this on a metal lip midway in the door which gets unlocked by a CO preceding the cart. You can gauge when to get off your bunk by how loud the food slot opening clangor is getting. This morning’s breakfast was a folded piece of egg fluff stuff, probably a bit of cheese in there, a small apple, a piece of bread and a small carton of 2% milk. OK. I finished about half. Overall, the meals came in at a consistent C- and the food was clearly steps lower than Army food in both quantity and quality. No wonder the last guy in my cell left so many containers that were barely eaten.

Chatter picks up as the day goes on and I figure out that I am in cell #H113, thought of here as simply 13.  I can see most of the numbering system and see people intermittently looking out their Tank windows and talking, yelling, faces appearing and disappearing.  The acoustics are terrible, and if you downshift your attention level a little bit, it all washes out as often many people are talking at once.  A guy several doors away from me on my floor soon becomes the main event though; he was in 10, I think.  He’s talking the most and the loudest, and it was the same every day.  I can see him when his face appears at an angle to me as we are across from each other at a corner.  I can see that he is dark, and short by the way he’s lifting his face up to the window slightly and I later hear him referred to by one of the COs as “The Puerto Rican that won’t shut up.”  He gradually amps up his rhetoric, generally speaking and yelling to the whole H-Block as a whole and occasionally to one of his acquaintances.   

“Hey, Time Check, it’s 09:30! Hey, they’re shutting down J-Block because of a fight! Hey, 8, I’m sending a message, get ready to grab!” Then he sends a note on a string two cells down with a deft slide-throw from under his door and across the floor and a hand at the other end darts out and grabs the note. 10 reels in the string, announcing, “Hey, (to someone else) I’ll leave you half the string when I go! This is a 30 footer!) Said with pride. And on and on. Talk about the weather, sports, and other generic subjects came and went but most of the talk was about who is where, how long they’ll be there, what’s going on with their lawyers, and that sort of stuff. A lot of talk about how the lawyers aren’t representing them well enough, to put it politely. Then 10 starts harassing 23 as he can see him across the way talking quietly to a CO standing patiently outside of his door.

“Hey 23, what are you talking to that CO about?  You been talking to him a LONG time!”

Meanwhile, I need to talk to a CO too and soon get the attention of one who is walking by.  I need eyeglasses and he brings me a form to fill out.  I fill it out and give it back.  My glasses are at the Gloucester Police Station and I want to be able to read; the medical folks here have some reading glasses for inmates I’d heard and hopefully I’ll get some glasses before I leave.

Lunch.  Another solid C-.  Some kind of sandwich with pressed meat in it.  I ate most of it before my pride returned. 

Meanwhile, 10 is increasing pressure on 23, who is still talking with a CO.  10 is now yelling “Are you snitching?  What’s so interesting over there 23?  Why THE FUCK are you still talking to that CO?”  Holy shit, this is starting to get real.  That kid could just as easily get his message to that CO some other way, right?  If you are being accused of being a rat in prison while the entire block jeers at every new escalation of the accusation, for Chrissake, do something to save yourself!

In an out of this, 10 is telling someone else to do something for someone else and tells him “You tell him the Shot-Caller said . . .”  I forget the end of the message, as I was surprised to hear this guy identify himself as the Shot-Caller and nobody blinked.  OK.  10 is the boss of this whole block!  And everyone knows it, including me now.  Now I’m worried about 23.

The CO eventually left but 10 kept pressing 23.  “Are you a Rat 23, you gonna tell us what you were talking to that CO about?” Unexpectedly, 23 starts yelling back at 10 here and there and I’m paying attention now.  This kid has some moxie at least.  So, the Shot-Caller himself is in it with another inmate, and it’s been going on for hours.  23 is yelling back, but I can barely make out what he’s saying but Shot-Caller seems to have no problem making out what’s being said.  23 sounds defiant, though a little whiney.  Suddenly, later that evening, with this hate still flying back and forth across the block, something big happens.  Everybody in the block suddenly yelled BOOOOOOO!!…..literally Booing 23 like baseball fans would ‘Boo’ a bad call on the field.  Shot-Caller yelled out as loud as he could YOU DONE FUCKED UP NOW 23, YOU’RE DONE BOY!  YOU’RE DONE!”  The whole place went grenade-in-a-monkey-house loud and was almost gleeful about what had happened. 

What had happened was, and I still can’t believe it, but, 23 must have said something in rebuttal to 10 that accidentally gave away the fact somehow that he was indeed an informant, a Rat! WTF? I can’t imagine what could have been said but everyone got it’s import immediately; it went through the block like electricity. Shot-Caller is now yelling about what’s gonna happen when this guy gets out in general population. He said “You’re going down 23! You’re DEAD!”

Holy fuck. These people aren’t playin’, hey. And, not for nothing, but the COs can hear and see everything as well as I can. They’re not hiding in the Control Room; several are always slowly moving about the cell-block at all times, watching the six that happen to be on their half-hour of freedom, and answering the occasional question from one of these six or yelled out from a cell and of course for a good portion of the day the COs are working the meal rotations and right in the middle of things. So, why aren’t they telling the Shot-Caller to shut the fuck up or stopping the passing of notes with the string, etc.? I really don’t know, but perhaps there is something to the Urban Dictionary definition of a Shot-Caller in a prison: “An individual who runs the prison, even respected by the guards. The Warden of the inmates, runs the asylum, unbreakable, high Commissary status, most likely a lifer and deadly. Always keeping people from taking his place.” Elsewhere I read that Shot-Callers control outside events too: “Go kill this dude named Tone, you can find him on the corner of 34th street, apartment 419.” As a believer in law and order, and an Army Officer, I can’t help myself and after I got my glasses I refer to the 2019 Inmate Handbook I received upon in processing. Sure enough:

            [The following acts are prohibited; commission by an inmate shall constitute a disciplinary offense: 

          (18)      Fighting with, assaulting , or threatening another person with any offense against his person or property.

          (18A)   Fighting with, assaulting or threatening another inmate.

(18B)   Fighting with, assaulting, or threatening another person.]  

A few observations here:  Inmate #H123 is an inmate, and a person.  The COs saw and heard him being threatened clearly; indeed the threats were yelled repeatedly.  Some of the 46 offenses listed in this handbook can qualify as a Minor or a Major offense, ostensibly with respect to the circumstances surrounding the offense, but 18, 18A, and 18B are all deemed Major offenses only. 

Interesting, isn’t it?   

Shot-Caller keeps it up:  “You’d better get in PC 23, (Protective Custody), YOU’D BETTER GET IN PC!”  All evening this goes on. 

Happily, at dinner-time meanwhile, some medical folks showed up with glasses for me and they were the perfect reading glasses. I had requested 2.0 or 2.5; they had me try the 2.0 first and it was perfect. Yay! I was so happy that I could read again. (I was also happy that I’m not 23.) Two weird things here: I noticed how the medical folks were very nice and how good it felt to be talked to nicely, versus the guarded clipped discourse ever-present since this journey began. And, I found myself thinking that “I’m glad it’s not me” thing regarding 23’s plight. Of course, I don’t want anyone to get hurt or anything bad to happen but there really is a little something to that good but guilty feeling when something bad happens to someone else. I hadn’t known how real that was. I wasn’t gleeful or anything, but some of the “glad it’s not me” thing does leak into the gut. Not proud or it, just a messenger here.

Dinner comes and goes. C-. I’m actually losing interest in food, having by now been consistently presented with such poor fare. At about 8:00pm, my cell door opens up GRRRRRAANNNGG! and it’s time for me to get my half hour of free time. My door is open. I felt very exposed when that door opened me up to the common areas. Now, they were only doing six people at a time and sets of six doors at a time had been opening up periodically all day. Each small liberated group would sparsely populate the showers, phones, perhaps sit at one of the common area tables and watch one of the TVs for a little bit. Chitchat with the COs and generally sulk around sullenly. So I wasn’t surprised my time had come but I was surprised that I hadn’t thought about it. For a second I thought about riding it out in my cell; who knows if any of the six got the word about ‘the nature of my allegations’ yet? I’d seen the Prison telegraph system in play for two days now and it is quite something. Maybe I would have not hesitated if I was 27, but at 61, with a replaced shoulder, even a quick scuffle that gets broken up by COs right away could screw up my shoulder forever and I’ve gotten used to being able to use my left arm. But then, I thought, I shouldn’t overthink it. I want a shower. I want to see if the showers are any good. So, I down-dressed to shower shoes, shorts, t-shirt and towel and sauntered over to the showers. Externally I was playing Mr. I-Been-Here-Before but internally I also felt a little bit like an animal raised in captivity being released into the wild. Treading gingerly across the Savannah, shower shoes squeaking away, I’m listening for every sound and looking for escape routes should a blur of leopard appear in my periphery. I get to the showers, dramatically pausing to watch the TV for a few minutes on the way. Incredibly, a Patriots Game was on and I watched a few plays. (I won my Fantasy Football game that week despite having been stopped from managing my Team on Thursday.)

The showers were wonderful! Oh My God that felt great. Pretty well set up too, with individual showers big enough to undress, shower, and redress, all inside the curtain. And the water was good and hot and jet blasting. Soap and toothbrush/paste in my little welcome kit. Just what I needed! First shower since Wednesday. I have to give them an A on shower facilities. On my way back to my cell I grabbed a book from the little stand of books in the common area. It was about a member of a rock band, an autobiography of sorts. I read some of it that night, and was reading it when 23 got outed as an actual Snitch, and that’s why I didn’t hear the inculpating statement made. I don’t remember a goddamned thing about the book, or even the Band’s name by the way, and I stopped reading it after a short time and switched it out for another, the only other book that wasn’t damaged, at shower time the next day.

At some point, 23 covered his window.  This is a major no-no, as it allows the inmate to go unobserved by the COs who need strict accountability and can’t have bad stuff happening behind the veil.  The veil is a long sheet of wet toilet paper that sticks to the inside of the Tank view port.  So, noise starts as this gets noticed―23 covered his window! 23 covered his window!―and the monkey-house amps up again.  I quickly read the situation as this kid trying to appear anti-CO to claw back a little street cred with his accusers.  The accusers weren’t buying it for a second, and it was pathetic to watch until a CO appeared beside his cell and convinced him to take it down.  But . . . it was still a good half-hour drama and I’d wondered if some type of SWAT Team would eventually break in to deal with it.  Accountability through the window comes in several forms.  Sometimes the COs walk around and just peer in randomly; they also get a visual at every meal distribution; and they even have periodic Standing Counts where it is announced for everyone to stand and be counted while a Team goes around and tallies everyone.  I got the feeling that I distinguished myself early by simple compliance with the Standing Count;  every time it happened I stood politely in the middle of my cell until they counted me.  Soon it was ‘Thank You Mr. Perrin’ every time.  Wow.  They are grateful for even this crumb of civility on my part.  Some guys were a little sluggish on compliance though:  “Get up, 44, get UP!, hey, 29, on your FEET.  Standing Count Dude, nothing new, GET UP!, etc.”  Jesus, the COs aren’t asking for much.  They have to count you and merely standing gives them a quick read on you medically.  For example, if you’re dead, you’re probably not getting up for Standing Count. 

Shortly before lights-out, there was another big commotion as a small team of COs converged on 23’s cell door.  This was long after the window-covering incident and was clearly something else.  “23’s going to PC!  23’s going to PC, LOOK, they’re getting him!”  from everyone.   As Instantly, “BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!…..”  Sure enough, 23 was rousted, shackled up and got shuffled off to a Protective Custody cell, which may have bureaucratically been in the works since the morning.  All the while, inmates were letting him know what they thought of him, and they were predominantly unkind, unchristian-like thoughts.  All this against the backdrop of a sustained rising and falling “BOOOOOOOOO!!”. 

Wow, we’ve come a long way from the days when prisoners would rake their pewter cups against the cell bars in a cacophonous show of solidarity.  

But ‘Boooo?’

Alright.  I got into my bunk and slept pretty soundly again.  Man, I am seriously catching up on sleep.    

Recap of Day 3:

Iconic Tiers of Cells?  √ 

Bad Prison Food? √ 

Shot-Caller? √

Prison Rat? √

Protective Custody? √

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

SUNDAY

Next morning starts typically.  The whole day was fairly uneventful in retrospect.  All the lights go on, the noise swells, an abominable breakfast comes around.  There was a pile of Pterodactyl shit in my container and I ate some because it had a slight odor of food.

Today, around mid-morning I began to pace my cell in a brief nod to Papillon.  Had to see what that was like.  Answer: slightly soothing.  I’ll keep it in mind in case I actually get convicted.

J-Block and H-Block are pretty close to each other, about 15 yards away and separated by a wide asphalt path and some fencing.  I could see this out the back window of my cell.  A few people in my line of cells had established relationships with J-Block guys and they’d yell back and forth, trading news and opinions.  This wasn’t William F. Buckley stuff but it was interesting to listen to, and was much clearer acoustically to me:  “Dude, he smashed the Police car, they’re aluminum I think, and the windows shattered.  He got stun-gunned twice!  Was up for multiple charges, attempted Murder.  He was on probation, he violated probation, but that’s another story . . .”  Wow.  Let’s hear the other story too.  Lots of these H to J, J to H interjections all day long.  One was a fairly sincere discussion of religion, and Jesus, between two guys.  I was tempted to think “OK, here we go, now they find religion.  Sure.”  But, it seemed sincere, and what can it hurt if these guys find that kind of solace?     

During the day, about mid-day, I noticed something really strange.  Two inmates, from somewhere, were in the common area and racing about getting food and drinks from ‘Commissary’ and heating them up and delivering them to people in various cells.  They gave a lot of stuff to Shot-Caller and his cell-mate and to others that Shot-Caller directed.  But also to other people on both floors.  And so I’d see them running up the stairs and around the tiers with hot coffee, etc. with great concentration.  There were two microwaves in the center of the common area and they were in constant use.  Hot coffee!  Pop Tarts!  Ramen!  What was really strange was how extremely quick and concerned these guys were and I came to believe, sadly, that they were under orders from someone.  Man, those two guys moved.  Fuck.  Imagine being here and being a forced Microwave Food Delivery slave to others because they will hurt you otherwise?  I remembered seeing a version of this from the day before but I studied it today.  A hierarchical construct allowed only at the most primitive levels of human social development.    

Near dinner today, the word went around that we’re having chicken tonight.  The word was passed around almost quietly like a piece of good news.  “Chicken and Rice.”  Well, I found out why this was newsworthy.  The chicken was baked, and it tasted just like . . . wait for it . . . chicken.  And the rice wasn’t half bad either.  I guess when they bake chicken here, it always comes out good.  So . . . a B, maybe B+ meal and one that is an A compared to the other meals we’ve been getting.   

All day the usual noise, rising and falling capriciously.       

At shower today, I picked up a book about an adventurer in the great old days of sailing warships.  It was great reading and I read it on and off for the rest of the time I was there.  I was swept out of my bunk and onto the deck of a great English Warship under fire from the French, but I was turning with the wind to deliver a devastating broadside with double rows of 16-pound shot cannon.  God, I hope I have the range right! 

Anyway.     

Sunday was coming to a close and I wondered what my Arraignment would be like.  I wondered more if the French Warship would react to my turning movement too quickly. 

Goodnight. 

Recap of Day 4:

Pacing Back and Forth?  √ 

Prison Servant Class? √ 

Books in Prison? √

———————————————————————————————————————————————MONDAY

I woke up Monday and immediately began to pack all my stuff quite neatly and professionally.  I’m going to my Arraignment today and I’ll probably be home by the end of the day!

Lots of delays, and I am finally taken out of my cell and brought to an area for my digital and remote meeting with a Judge and it was way across ‘campus’―not sure of the right word for this network sprawl of buildings, fencing, pavement, and policed deprivation.  When I finally get into a very small room, I’m seated at a monitor that shows a lot of people at once; the Judge, DA, various staff helping with the flow of Arraignments for this Judge.  The COs are outside; they’re handling several Arraignment people here, and the people waiting to get to the monitors are sitting in the pews of the Prison Church!  I’m in a little side room of the church, and can see the altar while I wait.  There were a surprising number of technical glitches while people figured out how to hear/see each other onscreen.  I’m sure I wasn’t their first Zoom-like digital remote Arraignment in the COVID era, but there were problems.  Meanwhile, I could see myself onscreen, confirmed that they could see and hear me, and sat there in my jumpsuit.  Things finally get going, the Judge seemed very patient and one of his staff even semi-admitted to being the cause of the technical screwup and they all chuckled. 

I watch my name come up in the rotation onscreen and the Judge is finally shuffling some papers in front of him pertaining to me.  The very first words he says, loudly and to no one in particular, are “What’s Perrin doing in Jail?”  A minute of further shuffling, searching goes on.  “Anybody see any Proof of Service here?”  Nope.  Then he asks me who my lawyer is.

“Um.  Nobody.”

The Judge makes me get a CO, instructs the CO to bring me to a separate room and await the phone call of a lawyer for me.  We comply, and a minute later the phone rings and it’s my new lawyer.  I am impressed that this guy is asking all the right questions and very fast.  And I’m answering them:

“Nope, no criminal history.  No, I never knew about the Hearing.  Yes, I’m employed.  61 years old.  Yes, I’m a veteran.  What are my ties to the community?  Well, family, job, car, driver’s license, boat, girlfriend, gardens, etc. . . .I explained how an earlier version of this allegation got dismissed in Arizona.  And many other details, rapid-fire, in two minutes.”  We hang up.

We get back to the online Arraignment.  There is now one person ahead of me in line and I can watch her Arraignment on the screen, all parties are visible, to include her in all her jumpsuit glory, and I am astounded.  It is a middle-aged female and she is belligerant.  She is mentally wandering, is the big victim here, is insulting the Judge, swearing, and all manner of craziness.  She ended up giving the Judge the middle finger!  Holy shit, I’m thinking, I think I can do better than that!  I looked at the CO at the door and said, “Are you seeing this?” and we both started laughing.  He ‘didn’t recommend’ that I do the same.  We both chuckled again. 

The woman finally got shut down, and now I’m up for real.

The Judge and my lawyer, who was now dialed in but not visible, both confirm out loud that I should never have been arrested.  To my very big surprise, ‘my’ lawyer rapidly rattled off all the relevant facts I had told him.  He forgot nothing.  It briefly restored my faith in lawyers, and a hope flickered in me the way that last match flickered in the Jack London story.  I won’t tell you the name of that story―I can’t be spoon-feeding you people.  Anyway, I couldn’t believe it; it was if we had actually prepared for the meeting.  The Judge quickly and crisply arrived at PR for me (the word I’d been waiting for!  Personal Recognizance!) even though the DA recommended $5,000 cash bail.  I was suddenly on my way out.  I was told to call my lawyer back after the meeting and I did, and he confirmed again that I got screwed and sort of apologized for the legal system.  He than asked me a lot more questions, was correctly incredulous about my troubles within the Family Court systems, and told me to call him next week if I wanted―he was interested in representing me.    

So, the Pre-Trial Hearing was set for me for December 4^th.  Fine.  Plenty of time to prepare. 

I got led back to my cell, moved some stuff out and was ultimately led back to the room which was the scene of the original and famous lift ‘em and spread ‘em event.   I was given my bag of the civilian clothes I arrived in and was told to change back into them.    

I glanced about nervously.  Not because I had any modesty issues, of course, but because I was about to make my big move―smuggling out my souvenirs!  I took in the disposition of the room with deadly interest.  I needed to conduct this change of clothes in full view of two guys near the far door, the ones who had escorted me here and gave me my civilian clothes back.  They knew I was low/no threat and so were disinterestedly doing something and shifting about in my periphery.  They were close, five feet maybe, but they were not watching me.  Behind fogged glass directly in front of me were a few more people in some sort of admin control room.  These guys could see me perfectly, but I could barely make them out, but I could see that they were in relaxed posture.  So, I was facing them, pretending to figure out how to open the giant Ziploc bag with my clothes in it, and then executed the following plan:

Wait―what souvenirs? I told you we’d get back to souvenirs. When I cleaned out my cell on Saturday morning, I found, way in the very back of a built in steel desk area, an amazing pair of ‘Prison Dice’! So cool! They are extremely light, and made of compressed toilet paper―cubes no doubt shaped carefully when wet and allowed to dry thoroughly. Then, the little pens they let you write with provide the black dots. I swear that my first thought on seeing these was that I wanted to smuggle them out when I left and here I am. As I was packing up, I found the only shirt item with a pocket; literally one shirt had one pocket out of a wardrobe of four sets of prison clothing. Thus, my simple plan was hatched. The dice would ride in the shirt pocket and, during rehearsals, I noted that they weren’t noticeable beyond the general wrinklage of the whole garment. Therefore, I also slipped my Inmate ID into the same pocket and saw that still nothing in the pocket was noticeable at a glance. I figured I could try to waltz into the changing area under escort and hope the escort guys don’t notice anything nor ask me to turn in the ID. I still don’t know if I was supposed to turn in the ID or not. Anyway, so now I’m here with both souvenirs in my shirt pocket.

I take my shoes and pants off first and nonchalantly dress, though being careful not to lean forward at all so that nothing went tumbling out of my pocket.  Come-On lucky sevens!  So, it looked like I was changing pants standing up in a phone booth but I did it quickly.  Then, I turned slowly to my left just far enough to get my back to the fogged window and not far enough for the guys by the door to see beyond my side.  I then with my right hand slid the souvenirs from my upper left shirt pocket into my front right pants pocket in a motion that was smooth with me taking my jail shirt off.  Then I pulled my civilian shirt on in a manner that kind of matched my other motions.  Voila! 

After changing, I was led to the holding area for being released and waited a couple of hours, souvenirs safely in my pocket.  (Hope there’s no final shakedown going out the door!)  During this time, bag lunches were handed out to several guys in various holding pens for various reasons and I put mine aside.  When I heard the guys in the next cell over asking themselves “What is it?”, I had to look.  It was a sandwich with two big pieces of meat in it, I guess.  It looked terrible, didn’t smell all that great, and when I took a bite it was my last bite.  If they had said, “yeah, no, it’s a mistake, that’s what we feed the horses” I would have understood.  This was an F.  Really, it failed on presentation, taste, and it probably didn’t technically qualify as ‘food’.  Nice meal to go out on.  On the plus side, I got to hear another long thoughtful conversation about religion between two guys close to me in the adjacent cell who figured out that they are each on that path.  I’m not religious but again, I was impressed with the amount of sincere peace and love that these two guys were immersed in.  I’m aware of the importance of spirituality from my meetings in AA, and I see the religious piece as a cousin effort.  I know also that AA is big among the incarcerated but I didn’t get a chance to get involved in any programs in my short time there.  Per the Inmate Handbook, there are tons of great life-building programs and educational programs available to the inmates at Worcester County Jail and House of Corrections, and I hope that they are well-attended. 

So, I sat there. A prisoner being led by was whining and being pissy quite a bit to the CO who was escorting him. Since they had now sort of stopped in place, they were suddenly putting on a one-act play in front of ten or twelve of us in a long line of holding cell benches. We can only look one way, and it’s into the hallway stage, mere feet away, where the escort CO was being impatiently patient with his charge. Meanwhile, just off-scene, but visible to me as I was at the far end of the bench-line, I’m watching another CO watch the action. He is a huge and tall muscular bald-headed guy, maxed out in Prison Guard bling, and I watch his interest ratchet up. His arms are big enough to pull trees out of the ground. He is staring at the belligerent inmate with unkind thoughts in his head, but he’s hesitating out of professional courtesy to let the other CO deescalate in his own way first. But he can’t help himself. After a minute or two he yells at the inmate “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” and that pretty much ended it. It was admirable farce* and I almost applauded lightly.

*FARCE: / NOUN  a comic dramatic work using buffoonery and horseplay and typically including crude characterization and ludicrously improbable situations..           

Later, an Extraction Team paraded by the holding cells. These are the ‘SWAT’ teams that have to ‘extract’ hostile prisoners from their cells or otherwise respond to violence in the compound up to and including prison riots. And they are another big, strong-looking bunch of guys. They have the helmets, shields and all manner of impressive gear. They look prepared to attack enemy headquarters on Mars. Wow, at the last minute, I get to see these guys. Granted, they’re just sauntering by, but that block is now checked, and I get a good look at them and all their gear. (I have a particular interest in the gear as I trained with SWAT Teams during my time as the OIC of RECONDO School in the Massachusetts Army National Guard. Separately, I was an instructor at our Close Quarter Combat School and would love to have stopped these guys to talk tactics under various situations.) Anyway, it’s like they said “We got this guy Perrin leaving today, anything big we miss with him? No, we pretty much got it all? Oh, wait, did he get to see our Extraction Team? No? OK, we got an hour left with him, let’s just have the guys parade past him. He’s in the holding cells, so just go by pretending you’re downshifting from some horrific encounter in J-Block and you’re on your way to Miller-Time.”

Eventually a CO came with documents.  Sign here, sign here, take this, take this, sign here.  I finally got released.  Yep, that’s the door there.  (No final shakedown!)  There was a free phone in the entrance area, and I called Memory to catch her up.  But she was ahead of me, already knowing I’d been released and having already talked to Jamie about me getting picked up.  Wow.  Holy Shit.  So, I called Jamie and he pulled up in about 20 minutes.  While I was sitting in the sunshine on the stone stairs outside the main entrance, I realized I was in the middle of a Corrections Officer shift change, and they came streaming by in both directions.  Very interesting.  professional and fit-looking group of folks.  Confident military bearing generally.  They looked at me in my wrinkled and stained work clothes with just a touch of wariness. 

Jamie pulls up and I get in.  Big stupid smiles.

“So, you ready to go back to work?” 

“I may need some time.  I’m having trouble adjusting back to normal life.”      

Recap of Day 5:

Bad Prison Food?  √ 

Judges and Lawyers? √  

SWAT Team? √

Souvenirs? √

Walkin’ Out That Door! √

(And Then That Happened.) √