(In my best Morgan Freeman voice)
I must admit I didn’t think much of Andy Dufrense first time I laid eyes on him; looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over….
…..Wait, wrong story.
The quiet port side city of Brunswick is the county seat of Glynn County, Georgia. Home to Glynn County Detention Center, where the local criminal recidivists reside. Like most small towns in America, trouble is easy to find there. And you’ll find it. Whether you’re looking for it or not.
It’s a fact, small town police don’t like outsiders invading their peaceful municipalities. And they aim to preserve their incestuous communities by any means necessary. Even if those means include ignoring the letter of the law as well as all common sense. Trust me, you don’t want to have the misfortune of crossing paths with an overzealous small town police officer. Chances are that officer was born and raised in the area and doesn’t care for out-of-state city dwellers. In fact, he may despise all city folk and want nothing more than to see you shipped back to Sodom and Gomorrah for your hedonistic proclivities!
But it’s not fair to generalize all law enforcement officials in that way. I believe the majority of them to be fair, just, and upstanding. It can be a dangerous line of work. Many of them put in long hours for minimal pay and do not receive the gratitude or respect that they deserve.
It’s the ones who consider themselves “above” those they are sworn to protect that give the rest a bad reputation. The Overzealous ones.
My nerves were frayed by the time we arrived at the GCDC. I had just been arrested and accused of shoplifting from an adult sex shop (because that’s what hedonists from the big city do) a few miles from the hotel where I slept as my car was being repaired. By the time I was handed over to the Sheriff’s deputies (who were all very professional throughout my incarceration, by the way) I was convinced there was a county wide conspiracy to frame me for a felony I did not commit, just to teach me a “lesson” for having the audacity to pass through “their” province without “their” permission.
Times have changed since I was last arrested and brought to jail. The booking process is so much more efficient now! You no longer have to wait anxiously for hours and hours in a holding cell before being transferred to the block. They have an empty cot with your name on it, already reserved for you! And did you know fingerprints are all taken digitally now?? No more messy charcoal grease all over your hands!
Within an hour of my booking I was escorted to my cell block.
Entering a cell block for the first time is like being the new kid in class on the first day of school. Only slightly more menacing. Whatever activity had been going on before I walked through the door abruptly ceased. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on me. Watching me. Sizing me up. Wondering how they could exploit my gullibility for their benefit.
How you enter the cell block is also crucial to your survival while in there. If you’re too meek you’ll be perceived as scared (although you may very well be, you cannot show it) and inmates will sense that and constantly mess with you. If you’re too aggressive you’ll be perceived as adversarial and the inmates will sense that and constantly mess with you. I chose mid-spectrum; cool and self confident. I didn’t avert my eyes but I didn’t engage anyone’s stare. A single nod of my head as I passed through the group.
Then I asked, “Where’s C10?”
A few guys pointed up and to the rear of the cell block. A few more replied, “upstairs”. And a few more continued to watch and assess me.
Cell block “C” housed 32 inmates including myself. There were 16 private cells with two cellies a piece. The institutionally beige colored brick walls formed a narrow right sided isosceles triangle. A metal staircase in the middle of the cell block ascended to the second floor, where eight of the rooms were. Directly above where the other eight rooms below were. The communal showers were in the back left corner. The common area had nine or ten heavy square tables with inlaid chessboard or backgammon graphics in the middle of them. Plenty of plastic chairs and a 24″ flatscreen tv mounted on the wall 15 feet high. There were three payphones and one kiosk on the wall where you could buy commissary, phone minutes, or obsessively check the time. I hated having that clock on the wall! It made time go by even slower. Its my belief it was an intentional torture device mandated by the state!
The private cells had metal bunk beds, a toilet, and a sink. I was in the top bunk again because I was the new guy. My cell mate was a local guy about 35 years old named Daniel. My height and a slender build like myself. Only I weigh around 190 lbs. And he weighed probably 165 lbs. He had ginger hair and a light complexion. And he was in for his fourth or fifth visit. When I asked what he was in for this time he kind of shrugged his shoulders, chuckled and said he got high, got naked, and proceeded to trash the motel room he was staying in. He was so high he kicked a hole in the bathtub and didn’t even remember doing it. Then he streaked out of the motel room and was tackled by the cops! You know, a typical Friday night.
It seemed like at least half of the inmates in C block were there on methamphetamine related charges while the other half were doing bids for car theft. As far as I know, I was the only kinky klepto in the bunch. I saved myself the embarrassment of sharing the details of my offense with everyone.
I spent the first couple hours decorating my new cell. According to Martha Stuart, a small bag of cinnamon potpourri and a few throw pillows will really add a touch of homeliness to any drab cell. It’s a good thing!
Just kidding. I threw my laundry on my bunk then walked back downstairs. I didn’t want to immediately be perceived as a “slug”. For those of you who are not hardened lifelong criminals like myself, a slug is someone who rarely comes out of his/her cell.
I casually descended the stairs as not to attract attention and scanned the area for an empty chair. I wanted to use the phone more than anything right then but they were all in use. I would have to wait my turn. By now most of the inmates had returned to the activities they were involved in before I’d entered C block. A couple of tables had card games going on. Two guys at another table were in the middle of a game of dominoes. A few more stared intently at the television while a couple guys paced the perimeter in circles. The mood felt light but there was definitely an underlying edge of nervous energy.
“Where you from, man?” One of the inmates asked.
“Houston, Texas”, I responded.
“OH! WE GOTTA TEXAS BOY HERE!!” He exclaimed.
This elicited one or two glances and a couple of nods. From there on out I would be referred to as “Texas”.
I found a table occupied by two fellows who immediately stood up and walked away when I sat down. I wasn’t sure if I’d just committed a rookie offense by approaching the table or if it was common practice to avoid the new guy until he’d proven his worth.
The inmate culture is a tricky one. It is not like life on the outside for obvious reasons. A seemingly innocuous act can be interpreted as a blatant and disrespectful offense.
Strike one. I sat at the table by myself just long enough to let my shame subside then walked over to the library cart positioned next to the microwave. The literary choices were slim. Plenty of old books on religion and self improvement. And a number of works of fiction by authors I’d never heard of. I was able, however, to find a paperback copy of The Given Day, by Dennis Lehane, one of my regular reads when I’m on the outside. Over 700 pages long this would occupy my time just fine during my stay. Assuming I were only there temporarily, this is.
The first lockdown occurred at 4 pm. A “lockdown” is when all inmates are sent to their cells and locked inside for whatever duration the corrections officers deem appropriate. Usually the result of some kind of disturbance, like fighting, lockdowns at GCDC were a regular part of the daily routine. And it took some getting used to. The first few lockdowns I had no idea what was happening. Like Rottweilers reacting to a whistle pitch too high for me to perceive, everyone rose from their seats and started heading to their cells.
“What’s going on?” I asked
One guy whispered, “Lockdown. Go to your cell.”
It was oddly robotic to watch. The entire cell block stopped whatever they were doing, simultaneously stood up, walked to their cells and closed their doors behind them, without so much as a word.
That particular lockdown would last two hours. Once our cell doors electronically reopened and we were allowed to leave our cells again I noticed the phones were free. I hastened to use one of them but could not get a dial tone.
“Phones are down.” Another cellmate offered. “They go down everyday at 6. Won’t be back up till tomorrow morning.”
Wonderful. The phones were occupied all day long and now they were off for the rest of the night. My first night locked up and I never got to call anyone!
Dinner chow was served everyday between 6:30 pm and 7 pm. And if you weren’t in line you didn’t eat. A tall, stocky cellmate who I hadn’t yet seen out on the floor came to my side of the table. He towered above where I sat, invading my personal space. “I’mtakingyourcornbread” he managed to say in one word.
Not sure what it was he’d said, I replied, “What was that?”
“I said I’m taking your cornbread!” he repeated. And with the flick of his wrist, sent the empty chair next to me toppling end over end across the floor.
In jail, any hesitation can result in serious repercussions. So I reacted first.
Our chow trays weren’t the thin, shiny tin variety. They were made of a thick, durable plastic composite and had good weight to them.
In one swift movement I was on my feet with my tray, like a batter swinging for the fences. Before he could react, I connected solid, square to his face! Slop, blood, and spittle sprayed in all directions! The force of the blow sent him reeling back and on to his ass! I scanned the floor until I saw my cornbread. As the bully sat prone, cupping his bloody nose between his hands I tossed the cornbread to him and said, “Here ya’ go. I wasn’t gonna eat it anyway.”
What?
It could have happened!
Okay, maybe I exaggerated that last part a little bit. I just felt like this story needed some action!
Here’s the way it really went down –
A tall, skinny cellmate, who looked like he could have played in the NBA generously offered to let me sit at their table. Stretch, as I’d come to call him, was a decent guy. We’d struck up a couple conversations that first day and he kind of looked out for me. He’d been locked up before for minor, non violent offenses. He didn’t strike me as a bad person, just someone who couldn’t keep from making the wrong decisions.
Chow time is barter time. It’s like being at an outdoor market in India. Active, crowded,and noisy with the hustle and bustle of people making deals.
I traded most of my meal for packets of instant coffee. Coffee was the only thing available that would give me some semblance of life on the outside. The main entree was supposed to be chicken and rice, I think. With clear gelatinous cubes of something sweet mixed in with it. A completely unnecessary flavor element. It was GROSS! The cornbread was dry and flavorless. The green beans were soggy. And the milk was luke warm. About the only thing I enjoyed was the bread pudding. (At least I hope that was bread pudding!)
After dinner I would retire to my luxurious cell to read until I would doze off. That was my first day in. Fortunately, With the help of family, I would come to be released four days later.
The story of my legal troubles in Georgia ends with one more chapter. However you’ll have to wait to read it because it hasn’t happened yet.
(Cue Morgan Freeman again)
Andy crawled to freedom through 500 yards of shit smelling foulness I can’t even imagine. Or maybe I just don’t want to……
johnparrishtravels 