Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Songs and the Singer
Bob writes songs. He sings them to anyone who will listen. Bob is in his 30's and looks like everyone else. He looks like a good guy, a straight arrow. His sandy hair is short, his brown eyes are direct and engage you immediately. Some of his songs are very good. Some of them even sound familiar. As soon as he finishes writing a song, he takes it to the law library and has his name notarized as the author. He uses that to copyright each song. I asked him if he ever wrote one to be sung by a particular artist. "Sure I do. I know exactly who I write each one for." I asked if he ever sold any. "I sell most of my songs and they are usually on the best seller charts. I make a very good living writing songs." So I asked the obvious question, "OK, then why are you here?" "Well," he said, "I'm gay even though I don't look and most people can't guess but I have this macho thing. I tell drug dealers that I'm a cop and they offer me money. I don't take the money but I get busted for impersonating a police officer. This is my third arrest. Hey, we all do what we do."
Monday, July 20, 2009
I Know My Rights
When Fred came into the CDU he was angry. "I am fifty years and I have no business being in jail. I was arrested for no reason. I had some chukka sticks in my backpack. This is not illegal. They're not considered a weapon. If I hadn't been poor, the police never would have hassled me and searched by backpack"
Everyone has an x-ray when they come to jail and Fred's x-ray was read as suspicious. He was sent to the CDU and was required to provide three sputums. If these sputums came back negative, Fred would be released to general population. "The mark on my lungs is the result of some scar tissue I got from a stab wound. I have had it for thirty years."
Fred refused to give sputums. By law, a resident can not go to court if medical services
says that he may be infected with a contagious disease. Fred did not go to court. The court date was rescheduled. Fred refused to give sputums. As a matter of fact, Fred did not leave his cell. He refused all contact with the medical staff. I saw him regularly to see if he was deteriorating mentally. If there was any sign that he might have a mental problem that might prevent him from cooperating with medical advice, it might be possible to get a court order. However, in practical terms, even with a court order, it would be difficult to force Fred to spit into a cup.
Since it was winter, some of the staff thought that Fred might have found a home with "three hots and a cot", the common expression for three meals and a bed. This is not unknown and jail population always increases when the weather gets cold. However, Fred had been here for six months. I realized that he wasn't getting any new court dates. It seemed as if the court had forgotten about him. Theoretically, that meant that Fred could spend the rest of his life locked up in this cell. Fred said that he was making a political statement about false arrest. I thought that he was spending an inordinate amount of taxpayer money. I really believed that he knew his medical condition and that he had an old scar from a stab wound.
April was warm and spring looked like was here to stay. It looked as if Fred was here to stay too. I couldn't find the lawyer assigned to the case but I was able to locate the district attorney. She couldn't believe that the case hadn't been settled and that Fred was still in jail. She asked me to call the judge. The judge say that he would have only gotten about 20 days if he had been convicted. The judge said that he would write the order the release him.
When Fred left, he winked. I still don't know if he was actually morally indignant about about his "false arrest" or if he preferred the CDU to a shelter.
Everyone has an x-ray when they come to jail and Fred's x-ray was read as suspicious. He was sent to the CDU and was required to provide three sputums. If these sputums came back negative, Fred would be released to general population. "The mark on my lungs is the result of some scar tissue I got from a stab wound. I have had it for thirty years."
Fred refused to give sputums. By law, a resident can not go to court if medical services
says that he may be infected with a contagious disease. Fred did not go to court. The court date was rescheduled. Fred refused to give sputums. As a matter of fact, Fred did not leave his cell. He refused all contact with the medical staff. I saw him regularly to see if he was deteriorating mentally. If there was any sign that he might have a mental problem that might prevent him from cooperating with medical advice, it might be possible to get a court order. However, in practical terms, even with a court order, it would be difficult to force Fred to spit into a cup.
Since it was winter, some of the staff thought that Fred might have found a home with "three hots and a cot", the common expression for three meals and a bed. This is not unknown and jail population always increases when the weather gets cold. However, Fred had been here for six months. I realized that he wasn't getting any new court dates. It seemed as if the court had forgotten about him. Theoretically, that meant that Fred could spend the rest of his life locked up in this cell. Fred said that he was making a political statement about false arrest. I thought that he was spending an inordinate amount of taxpayer money. I really believed that he knew his medical condition and that he had an old scar from a stab wound.
April was warm and spring looked like was here to stay. It looked as if Fred was here to stay too. I couldn't find the lawyer assigned to the case but I was able to locate the district attorney. She couldn't believe that the case hadn't been settled and that Fred was still in jail. She asked me to call the judge. The judge say that he would have only gotten about 20 days if he had been convicted. The judge said that he would write the order the release him.
When Fred left, he winked. I still don't know if he was actually morally indignant about about his "false arrest" or if he preferred the CDU to a shelter.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Leaders are Leaders
Kip was gorgeous. He was 6'1", brown curly hair and a buff body only seen on television, a beach show, or in the jail yard during exercise time. The only difference about Kip was that he only had one leg. A shoot-out with a drug dealer cost the dealer his life and Kip his leg.
Most of the time Kip used a wheel chair. He was the unchallenged leader of the dorm and he managed it very well. Whatever was coming into the dorm, legal or illegal, Kip controlled it. He checked out the other residents received during visits. He ordered some deliveries himself. He always got some part of the gifts that came from families. He was the chief and he expected tribute. No one defied him.
Even the officers respected him because he kept fighting at a minimum. If there was a resident that I thought need protection, I could ask Kip to keep him safe and if there wasn't some special conflict, Kip would see that he was protected. Residents come and go. Once a leader, always a leader.
One day a resident who came in. He was from a rival gang faction on the street. He challenged Kip. Kip came up from his wheel chair and stood on his one leg. His other leg had been amputated at the hip. His body did not waver. He was as steady as a tree. He beat up the interloper and there was no more trouble.
Kip kept what was his and no one came looking for him again.
Kip said that when he gets out, he is going to develop body building exercise tapes for other who are disabled. He said that he might open a body building studio when he comes in 8 1/2 to 12.
Most of the time Kip used a wheel chair. He was the unchallenged leader of the dorm and he managed it very well. Whatever was coming into the dorm, legal or illegal, Kip controlled it. He checked out the other residents received during visits. He ordered some deliveries himself. He always got some part of the gifts that came from families. He was the chief and he expected tribute. No one defied him.
Even the officers respected him because he kept fighting at a minimum. If there was a resident that I thought need protection, I could ask Kip to keep him safe and if there wasn't some special conflict, Kip would see that he was protected. Residents come and go. Once a leader, always a leader.
One day a resident who came in. He was from a rival gang faction on the street. He challenged Kip. Kip came up from his wheel chair and stood on his one leg. His other leg had been amputated at the hip. His body did not waver. He was as steady as a tree. He beat up the interloper and there was no more trouble.
Kip kept what was his and no one came looking for him again.
Kip said that when he gets out, he is going to develop body building exercise tapes for other who are disabled. He said that he might open a body building studio when he comes in 8 1/2 to 12.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Communication is Inportant
Clyde was brought into the Communicable Disease Unit when his x-ray indicated an area of concern on his left lung. The Communicable Disease Unit (CDU) houses residents in individual units when they are suspected of having tuberculosis or other infectious diseases. The residents are placed in these isolation units until it is determined medically that there in no danger to them or to the general population. The unit was very helpful in cutting down the number of people infected with TB because many of our residents do not seek medical attention when they are not in jail. In addition, since some residents are infected with HIV, they are more susceptible to infections and need additional protection.
The units have a very elaborate air-filter system with two locking door to allow for the air exchange. All personal wear masks when these patients are out of their units for medical treatment. The units are equipped with a shower, toilet, phone, a shelf with an attached seat bolted to the floor, and a television. Meals are placed a shelf between the inner and outer door. Both door are locked unless there is a reason and both door are only open when the patient comes out to see the doctor or nurse. On occasion, a nurse, doctor or mental health professional may go into the cell to speak with a patient. Whenever I go in, I always ask permission. I always ask permission to sit at the table. After all, this is his cell and I am entering only with his consent. Good manners are as important here as they are anywhere else.
The fourteen units are in a semi-circle. The fourteen units are separated by two sets of security door operated by an electrical system house in a building called the Sprung. It is a modern equivalent of a Quonset hut. Each door is opened by an officer with a key. There is a system whereby all the doors can be opened at once in case of an emergency. As with many newly built facilities all doors do not operate exactly as planned. One of the biggest complaints is about the phone system. The intercom that connects the resident with the outer world and the Correction Officer is frequently out of order. The Correction Officer can not see into each unit unless he/she takes a tour and the units are not visible from the nurses station.
The phone is the single most important privilege for a resident. He is usually given two phone calls each day. He is given a pin number as his identification number. He has six minutes of phone time. Residents may use their commissary money to charge additional phone calls. Only one resident can use the phone at any time. He must call the officers to have his phone turned on. The patient can cannot ask the officer to use the phone if the intercom doesn't work.
Clyde was a very well-groomed young man with a British accent. His manner were charming. He said that he was born in Jamaica but raised in London. He said that he went to Eton and was graduated from Oxford with a first in literature.
He was settled in a second unit, which was to the left of the officer's station and out of sight of the nursing station as well. Clyde was a model patient and resident. He was always polite, always pleasant and made no demands on anyone. He seemed to spend time on the phone but no officer remembered opening his line. Since no one remembered anything but complaints, no one took notice of Clyde beyond the usual nursing administrations and the meal deliveries.
Mental Health has the responsibility to see that every patient in isolation is at least well enough to respond by acknowledging a greeting. Clyde was always obliging. One day however, it was nearly time for Clyde to be discharged to general population. The scar on his lung was determined to be benign. He invited me into his cell and asked me to convey his thanks and appreciation to all the staff for their many kindnesses toward him. I told him that he had been a model patient and I wondered how he was able to pass his time so peacefully, without stress. "I'm always on the phone, you see. I talk to my friends and family all over the world." he said. My first reaction was fright. Had I missed some florid psychotic process? "Don't be alarmed " he said. "I'm a computer expert. I am able to tap into the computer here to make my calls. If you don't believe me, give me any phone number any place in the world and I'll connect you." I gave him the number of my sister's office in Cincinnati and he connected me. "All the calls are undetectable. They won't show up on any bill because I re-route them. I'm never bored, you see. For my next trick, would you like to see me open my cell door...all the cell doors in the unit?" I thanked him kindly but declined. The security breeches were too profound and I could not even contemplate the consequences.
A few weeks later, I went into a cell to speak with a patient. The officer opened the door to let me in. Unbeknownst to me, he was a meal relief officer. My conversation with the patient went on for some time and when I was ready to leave, I press the intercom and typically it was not working. Unfortunately when the regular officer came back from lunch, his relief did not tell him I was in the cell. It was not until the shift changed, three hours later, that the new tour began that the incoming officer checked all the cells and found me. The patient and I had watched the afternoon soaps operas together. Since I am not generally available between noon and three to watch television, the patient was kind enough to tell me the plots. It was a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
The units have a very elaborate air-filter system with two locking door to allow for the air exchange. All personal wear masks when these patients are out of their units for medical treatment. The units are equipped with a shower, toilet, phone, a shelf with an attached seat bolted to the floor, and a television. Meals are placed a shelf between the inner and outer door. Both door are locked unless there is a reason and both door are only open when the patient comes out to see the doctor or nurse. On occasion, a nurse, doctor or mental health professional may go into the cell to speak with a patient. Whenever I go in, I always ask permission. I always ask permission to sit at the table. After all, this is his cell and I am entering only with his consent. Good manners are as important here as they are anywhere else.
The fourteen units are in a semi-circle. The fourteen units are separated by two sets of security door operated by an electrical system house in a building called the Sprung. It is a modern equivalent of a Quonset hut. Each door is opened by an officer with a key. There is a system whereby all the doors can be opened at once in case of an emergency. As with many newly built facilities all doors do not operate exactly as planned. One of the biggest complaints is about the phone system. The intercom that connects the resident with the outer world and the Correction Officer is frequently out of order. The Correction Officer can not see into each unit unless he/she takes a tour and the units are not visible from the nurses station.
The phone is the single most important privilege for a resident. He is usually given two phone calls each day. He is given a pin number as his identification number. He has six minutes of phone time. Residents may use their commissary money to charge additional phone calls. Only one resident can use the phone at any time. He must call the officers to have his phone turned on. The patient can cannot ask the officer to use the phone if the intercom doesn't work.
Clyde was a very well-groomed young man with a British accent. His manner were charming. He said that he was born in Jamaica but raised in London. He said that he went to Eton and was graduated from Oxford with a first in literature.
He was settled in a second unit, which was to the left of the officer's station and out of sight of the nursing station as well. Clyde was a model patient and resident. He was always polite, always pleasant and made no demands on anyone. He seemed to spend time on the phone but no officer remembered opening his line. Since no one remembered anything but complaints, no one took notice of Clyde beyond the usual nursing administrations and the meal deliveries.
Mental Health has the responsibility to see that every patient in isolation is at least well enough to respond by acknowledging a greeting. Clyde was always obliging. One day however, it was nearly time for Clyde to be discharged to general population. The scar on his lung was determined to be benign. He invited me into his cell and asked me to convey his thanks and appreciation to all the staff for their many kindnesses toward him. I told him that he had been a model patient and I wondered how he was able to pass his time so peacefully, without stress. "I'm always on the phone, you see. I talk to my friends and family all over the world." he said. My first reaction was fright. Had I missed some florid psychotic process? "Don't be alarmed " he said. "I'm a computer expert. I am able to tap into the computer here to make my calls. If you don't believe me, give me any phone number any place in the world and I'll connect you." I gave him the number of my sister's office in Cincinnati and he connected me. "All the calls are undetectable. They won't show up on any bill because I re-route them. I'm never bored, you see. For my next trick, would you like to see me open my cell door...all the cell doors in the unit?" I thanked him kindly but declined. The security breeches were too profound and I could not even contemplate the consequences.
A few weeks later, I went into a cell to speak with a patient. The officer opened the door to let me in. Unbeknownst to me, he was a meal relief officer. My conversation with the patient went on for some time and when I was ready to leave, I press the intercom and typically it was not working. Unfortunately when the regular officer came back from lunch, his relief did not tell him I was in the cell. It was not until the shift changed, three hours later, that the new tour began that the incoming officer checked all the cells and found me. The patient and I had watched the afternoon soaps operas together. Since I am not generally available between noon and three to watch television, the patient was kind enough to tell me the plots. It was a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Too Expert...Or Not Too expert
"It wasn't as if I was trying to blow up the house and to kill my kids. I am not a terrorist." said John. John looked more like a freshly wrapped mummy. Most of his head, except for two large green eyes and a mouth with only one tooth, was wrapped in white gauze bandage. Both hands were similarly wrapped. "I live in a bad neighborhood and I got robbed three times. I get tired of telling the police and nothing happens. I decided to rig up a big surprise for the the next guy that tried to rob me. I got some cookies (small plastic explosives) and rigged up a device in the closet. I learned about demolitions in the army. I figured that when the thief opened the closet door, it would go off and have a real loud bang. It wouldn't hurt anyone but it would sure scare the hell out of them. It seemed like a really good idea. But then my wife started to talk me out of it. She said it was a bad idea. She said that maybe I would be drinking and forget about it. Anyway, I was going to dismantle it. As I was kneeling down, about to take off the wire, my stupid dog pushes in. I dropped the wire to push the dog away before he got hurt and the damn thing goes off in my face. You see, I expect the thief to open the door by the handle. No one would have gotten hurt. But I was right over the thing. I am lucky that I just got burned and didn't get anything blown off." John said that he learned demotions in the army. He didn't say he was any expert.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Master Artist
Among the other examples of creativity are Frank's tools. Jailhouse tattooing is very common. Designs include gang signs, hearts, names of lovers, family members, children, tributes to mother, religious pictures, and a wide variety of animals. Local jailhouse artists apply most of the tattoos. They use needles and ink for the task and it is very time consuming. Frank decided that his artistry was not sufficiently demonstrated by this method.
Frank used the inside of a cheap ballpoint pen, the motor from a portable radio, the batteries from a Walkman and he made his own mechanical tattooing pen. He said that it more nearly compared with the professional devices used by tattoo parlors on the street. Since all advertising is word of mouth, Frank used his own body to demonstrate his artistic talents. After he produced a few illustrations on other clients, they too became his advertisements.
Inmates get one hour a day of exercise in the yard and this opportunity expanded Frank's clients. Naturally his clientele was appreciative and rewarded Frank accordingly. There is something about necessity being the mother of invention and I suppose this is like building a better mousetrap.
Frank used the inside of a cheap ballpoint pen, the motor from a portable radio, the batteries from a Walkman and he made his own mechanical tattooing pen. He said that it more nearly compared with the professional devices used by tattoo parlors on the street. Since all advertising is word of mouth, Frank used his own body to demonstrate his artistic talents. After he produced a few illustrations on other clients, they too became his advertisements.
Inmates get one hour a day of exercise in the yard and this opportunity expanded Frank's clients. Naturally his clientele was appreciative and rewarded Frank accordingly. There is something about necessity being the mother of invention and I suppose this is like building a better mousetrap.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Talent
There is so much talent in jail. Louis has a great deal of imagination. So much so that he designed a flying vehicle called the "Flying Duck". Louis used regular 81/2 by 11 inch paper. The design is so well executed that it could be build as a model or full scale. The engine room is complete, all the electrical wiring is illustrated, the stairs are in, the the rails, walls, floors, etc are all perfectly visible. There are several views, showing the "Flying Duck" from above, cross section, and from below. The details are exquisite. What makes this even more amazing is that Louis has no mechanical arts training and he didn't even have a ruler but had to use the side of a book for a straight edge.
I have hung his drawings in my office. I love it not only because it is a beautiful rendering and so clever but I also use it to illustrate that goals that are well-defined are most likely to be realized.
I have hung his drawings in my office. I love it not only because it is a beautiful rendering and so clever but I also use it to illustrate that goals that are well-defined are most likely to be realized.
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