The Jail Diaries
12/10/2005
I check in at the Pima County Minimum Security Facility at 6am, drop off my work clothes and give up the keys to my vehicle that is to stay in their parking lot, space #45. The rude desk clerk logs in the possessions I will be bringing in . One tube of clear toothpaste. Check. One clear toothbrush. Check. One small battery powered alarm clock still in it's packaging. Check. Etc. Then, per their instructions, I walk over to the main jail facility a 1/4 mile away in the freezing cold to be "processed" as an inmate. Waiting outside with an older gentleman at a small unmarked side door we chat about our DUI convictions and sentences until an officer shows up to let us in.
The stench of disease, old alcohol and bodily fluids wafts into my nose as we are led through the catacombs of the Pima County Main Facility. We are put though a series of procedures by common looking people working behind bulletproof glass and bricks. They take all of our belongings except for our clothes and have us remove our shoelaces (string suicide, anyone?). We are then escorted into a large room with a swimming pool sized depression filled with metal benches and about 75 people, surrounded by correction officers. These people have obviously been here for many, many hours, half are curled up on the cold metal seats trying to sleep, putting their heads and arms inside their jackets and sweaters to block out the flourescent lighting. It looks how DMV might be envisioned if in hell. Along the outer walls, behind the guards are 6' by 6' rooms with bulletproof windows, a few filled with pacing shadows and angry faces. A black man continually yells things like "That little puerto rican is a snitch bitch! He led the po-lice to our house!" out from the little crack under one of the secured metal doors until two armed guards forcefully remove him by dragging him out of the room to parts unknown. His profanity fades into the background noise.
Two hours later my name is called and I report to someone in a doctor's smock. She questions me about suicidal thoughts, sexual diseases and tuberculosis. I pass her tests and sit back down.
Another hour later my name is again yelled over the P.A.. I am photographed and fingerprinted, both electronically and with ink, and a band with my picture and information is attached to my wrist. I am ordered to return to my seat. I sit for a couple more hours watching some extremely skinny longhaired guy coming down off of meth pace furiously in figure eights around the benches.
A small group of us is ushered out through a locked sidedoor to an awaiting minivan which takes us the 1/4 mile back to the Minimum Security Facility. We are led inside and into a tiny claustrophobic room with no windows. One of our party, a short drunk indian guy tries to fuck with each of us with a little homosexual banter. "You don't look like a pitcher, you look like a catcher. I'm a pitcher, dogg.", he taunts and laughs histerically. He is constantly spitting in the corners of the little room. We wait with this jackass for a half hour until a guard lets us out in pairs. We are told, "Remove your clothes, lift your balls, spread your cheeks, show me your hands, soles of the feet. Now your teeth." (This is the common mantra repeated whenever entering the facility from the Outside.) We are then issued a pair of bright red pants and shirt with "Pima County Jail" printed on them in large letters and a pair of chinese made plastic open-toed sandals.
I am led into a large dormitory with about 100 bunk beds, everything is made of basalt or steel. There aren't bars or locks on the doors, the guards provide all the "protection" and "security" we need. I am greeted by two mexican inmates and then take to my bunk and sleep for awhile. I wake up on my plastic sleeping pad (they had not given me any sheets or blankets) a short time later. A mexican guy named Hector comes up to me and says, "Hey man, have you had your mattress scanned yet? You know, for drugs and contraband? If they search your bunk, anything they find they will pin on you. You better go talk to the CO (Correctional Officer)." I drag my mattress out of the dorm and across the Dayroom to the CO's desk and ask him if I can get my mattress scanned. He looks at me blankly for a second and then points over to the other side of the room. "Run your mattress back and forth across that metal bar on the wall behind the TV set and get back to your bunk." I carry the mattress over and start moving it back and forth against the metal bar and start to realize that I had just been snookered. I hide my embarrassed laughter and start walking back to my bunk, the CO yelling from behind me, "Tell your bunkmates that the barbeque signup isn't until tomorrow!" Ha ha. I open the dormatory door and a group of inmates are laughing after watching me fall for their trick. A young black man with a mohawk and a big smile says, "Welcome home, man. Now you're one of us."
The bathroom is adjacent to the bunkhouse and can be viewed by the guards through small windows. A group of showers, a row of sinks and a stretch of slightly partitioned shitters are the only things allowed. Drinking water comes from the sinks, sulfery and hot. Everything smells like bleach and other chemicals. At least it's "clean" I think to myself.
5:45pm. The call for dinner is announced over the P.A. system. It consists of some really bad homemade chili, two peices of white bread, some yellow green beans, butterscotch pudding and a dixie cup of red cool-aid. Mmmmmmm. You also recieve a spork and a napkin.
It takes me four tries and about ten hours to procur some bedding from the guards, they do anything they can to try to fuck with me or ignore my requests.
I finally get to sleep after twisting and turning on the uncomfortable mattress while the other inmates loudly play card games or listen to their commissary purchased portable radios.
12/10/2005
I check in at the Pima County Minimum Security Facility at 6am, drop off my work clothes and give up the keys to my vehicle that is to stay in their parking lot, space #45. The rude desk clerk logs in the possessions I will be bringing in . One tube of clear toothpaste. Check. One clear toothbrush. Check. One small battery powered alarm clock still in it's packaging. Check. Etc. Then, per their instructions, I walk over to the main jail facility a 1/4 mile away in the freezing cold to be "processed" as an inmate. Waiting outside with an older gentleman at a small unmarked side door we chat about our DUI convictions and sentences until an officer shows up to let us in.
The stench of disease, old alcohol and bodily fluids wafts into my nose as we are led through the catacombs of the Pima County Main Facility. We are put though a series of procedures by common looking people working behind bulletproof glass and bricks. They take all of our belongings except for our clothes and have us remove our shoelaces (string suicide, anyone?). We are then escorted into a large room with a swimming pool sized depression filled with metal benches and about 75 people, surrounded by correction officers. These people have obviously been here for many, many hours, half are curled up on the cold metal seats trying to sleep, putting their heads and arms inside their jackets and sweaters to block out the flourescent lighting. It looks how DMV might be envisioned if in hell. Along the outer walls, behind the guards are 6' by 6' rooms with bulletproof windows, a few filled with pacing shadows and angry faces. A black man continually yells things like "That little puerto rican is a snitch bitch! He led the po-lice to our house!" out from the little crack under one of the secured metal doors until two armed guards forcefully remove him by dragging him out of the room to parts unknown. His profanity fades into the background noise.
Two hours later my name is called and I report to someone in a doctor's smock. She questions me about suicidal thoughts, sexual diseases and tuberculosis. I pass her tests and sit back down.
Another hour later my name is again yelled over the P.A.. I am photographed and fingerprinted, both electronically and with ink, and a band with my picture and information is attached to my wrist. I am ordered to return to my seat. I sit for a couple more hours watching some extremely skinny longhaired guy coming down off of meth pace furiously in figure eights around the benches.
A small group of us is ushered out through a locked sidedoor to an awaiting minivan which takes us the 1/4 mile back to the Minimum Security Facility. We are led inside and into a tiny claustrophobic room with no windows. One of our party, a short drunk indian guy tries to fuck with each of us with a little homosexual banter. "You don't look like a pitcher, you look like a catcher. I'm a pitcher, dogg.", he taunts and laughs histerically. He is constantly spitting in the corners of the little room. We wait with this jackass for a half hour until a guard lets us out in pairs. We are told, "Remove your clothes, lift your balls, spread your cheeks, show me your hands, soles of the feet. Now your teeth." (This is the common mantra repeated whenever entering the facility from the Outside.) We are then issued a pair of bright red pants and shirt with "Pima County Jail" printed on them in large letters and a pair of chinese made plastic open-toed sandals.
I am led into a large dormitory with about 100 bunk beds, everything is made of basalt or steel. There aren't bars or locks on the doors, the guards provide all the "protection" and "security" we need. I am greeted by two mexican inmates and then take to my bunk and sleep for awhile. I wake up on my plastic sleeping pad (they had not given me any sheets or blankets) a short time later. A mexican guy named Hector comes up to me and says, "Hey man, have you had your mattress scanned yet? You know, for drugs and contraband? If they search your bunk, anything they find they will pin on you. You better go talk to the CO (Correctional Officer)." I drag my mattress out of the dorm and across the Dayroom to the CO's desk and ask him if I can get my mattress scanned. He looks at me blankly for a second and then points over to the other side of the room. "Run your mattress back and forth across that metal bar on the wall behind the TV set and get back to your bunk." I carry the mattress over and start moving it back and forth against the metal bar and start to realize that I had just been snookered. I hide my embarrassed laughter and start walking back to my bunk, the CO yelling from behind me, "Tell your bunkmates that the barbeque signup isn't until tomorrow!" Ha ha. I open the dormatory door and a group of inmates are laughing after watching me fall for their trick. A young black man with a mohawk and a big smile says, "Welcome home, man. Now you're one of us."
The bathroom is adjacent to the bunkhouse and can be viewed by the guards through small windows. A group of showers, a row of sinks and a stretch of slightly partitioned shitters are the only things allowed. Drinking water comes from the sinks, sulfery and hot. Everything smells like bleach and other chemicals. At least it's "clean" I think to myself.
5:45pm. The call for dinner is announced over the P.A. system. It consists of some really bad homemade chili, two peices of white bread, some yellow green beans, butterscotch pudding and a dixie cup of red cool-aid. Mmmmmmm. You also recieve a spork and a napkin.
It takes me four tries and about ten hours to procur some bedding from the guards, they do anything they can to try to fuck with me or ignore my requests.
I finally get to sleep after twisting and turning on the uncomfortable mattress while the other inmates loudly play card games or listen to their commissary purchased portable radios.
posted by gringoloco at 7:55 AM
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