Corporate Prison: Our Best for American Citizens?

By R. Warren Schuenemann

Forced to live in prison, Matt Granger was shipped to a private corporation as a cost-saving measure by state employees. Nobody knew how the social experiment would pan out for any of the parties. Motivated by his desire to self-improve and make the most of his opportunities, Matt entered a new phase in his life.
Every prison is a big black box to the thousands of American citizens who drive past every day, going to and from work and home.
Would you like to know what goes on inside?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524692735

R. Warren Schuenemann

Marine Corps Sergeant R. Warren Schuenemann received the Purple Heart and medals for valor in Vietnam. Graduating summa cum laude from the University of Houston he worked as a licensed plumber in two states and with a Secret Security clearance on military bases. His marriage solemnized in the Salt Lake Temple produced one son. The American Correctional Association published an article of his on sex offender treatment in a criminal justice textbook. Twice put in prison, Warren first received a 99 year sentence for burglary from a Dallas jury, overturned by the Texas Supreme Court due to prosecutor misconduct. After seeing the state's antics, the witness refused to testify again and told prosecutors to go to hell. Warren, however, spent eight years in the Department of Corrections without rehabilitation or a diagnosis of his behavior problems. The second incarceration: a police chief promised on videotape emphasis on reformation and named the state school doctors. Relying on promises, Warren pled no contest to everything prosecutors filed. The judge labelled him a 'career criminal' and 'worst offender' although he did not come up to average offender criteria. There was not so much as a scratch or a dirty word. The judge made up a state record 69 year sentence, cute in media headlines for a sex offender. Appeal judges ignored his exceptional rehabilitation potential, major mental illness, and post-traumatic stress disorder, not just from Vietnam, but from severe childhood abuse, as they focused on the type of crime. The case and videotape went all the way to the US Supreme Court. After 26 more years in prison, Warren came up for parole. The Board in the hearing said all he had to do was retake the sex offender school he had graduated from 21 years earlier. Three hours later, a smirking parole officer handed him the Board's official ten year sentence.

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© 2017 R. Warren Schuenemann. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/12/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9274-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9272-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9273-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907998

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Prisons are a major American growth industry. Private prisons mushroomed exponentially with fertilizer, sunshine, and gentle, steady rain from state and national government. In some ways, they are more humane and progressive than state Departments of Corrections. Prisoners like them better. Thanks for showing us that prison living conditions can be better for us and our families.

CHAPTER ONE

When the prison sex offender school closed in the borough jail, three rooms in C-wing – the therapist’s office, plethysmograph room, and parole officers’ office – were converted back into regular cells. Within days, more inmates were moved into the 38-man wing now open to the general jail population. That first week, fist fights broke out in the dayroom over the television and in the hallway over the telephone. Decibel levels rose to astonishing heights as new arrivals yelled and screamed at their buddies to amuse themselves.

Seeing and hearing the contrast to their former orderly society, Matt and the 20 old residents shook their heads, knowing there was nothing they could do to restore peace. Their therapeutic and educational environment was lost. Matt busied himself in his room reading and letter writing, and spent more hours in the kitchen.

On the way back to work one morning to help serve lunch, he noticed maintenance men taking metal bunks out of B-wing.

What’s up? he asked, as they stacked the heavy iron bunk frames beside the unit office.

The warden lady says all top bunks are coming out of the cells. Didn’t give a reason. Just said to do it.

Anxious to get to the kitchen before all hallway movement ceased prior to the 11 o’clock count, Matt hustled on. At the central corridor intersection, pedestrian traffic was stopped by a uniformed guard. Beyond him, a local television station camera crew operated with a bank of bright lights and a long sound boom. He recognized the anchor lady from the nightly news. She interviewed the warden, who gushed with sincerity.

I just don’t know what we’re going to do about the prison overcrowding problem. Judges are locking men up faster than we can find places to put them.

Hearing the warden’s words as they came from her mouth, Matt thought, But what about the bunks they’re yanking out of B-wing right now? This very minute?

Once more he did not say a thing, simply stood as a silent witness.

Concluding her interview, the warden smiled and waved for normal corridor traffic to resume. Matt hurried on to the kitchen.

The gray-haired kitchen steward fussed and fumed.

All hell’s broke loose over that damn magazine article about this being the best jail in the country. DOC brass is putting the squash to it. Turning up the heat everywhere. I’m taking an early retirement. Getting the hell out of Dodge. Don’t need to put up with all the hassles. Funny how administrators are more of a pain than all the damn convicts put together. As of the end of the month, I’m out of here. They’re bringing in a new steward and he’ll crack down hard. I pity you guys who’ll have to work for him.

With four years’ experience as the lead cook, Matt had seen countless changes, not just in the kitchen, but in every department. Prison conditions never settle down. Changes happen fast.

Sorry to see you go. He wished the steward well.

This’ll be your second retirement? First was from the army. Now you can enjoy your motorhome and fishing boat.

From four o’clock until noon, the steward ran the kitchen before going home for the day. It fell to Matt to close up the kitchen before the six o’clock count. At five thirty, an overbearing kitchen guard started yelling, Get a move on with the clean up! All you should be out of here already. I don’t have all day. Quit draggin’ ass.

Since Matt made sure the water, steam, and electricity were off, and all storage doors securely locked, he was the last one out, the only prisoner for the guard to yell at. He returned to the wing in time for mail call. Standing in a ragged circle around the guard in the dayroom who called names and passed out envelopes, he received a card and letter from Del, his former high school steady whose husband had passed away years earlier. In his room, he plopped down on the bunk, giving thanks for his blessings.

She makes me feel loved and appreciated for what little I can do for her, just conversation and attention in regular letters. Her company, however, makes me miss my ex-wife, Ali, and our son Mattie all the more. All I ever wanted was to be a good husband, father, and have a family, but I never knew how and had too many major personal problems.

In the shower under drumming water, the day’s vexations worked on his conscientious mind. The aggressive kitchen guard had acted like it was Matt’s fault because the place was not closed early. Closing time, however, was set by the steward and reinforced by two decades of institutional routine. Matt resented having to politely listen while chewed out for something that was not his fault. The pushy guard was a known crude loudmouth.

Standing under hot cascading water, he let the disturbing confrontation wash away and flow down the drain. Good at letting go of endless daily aggravations, he forgave as well as he breathed.

At six feet tall, one hundred and seventy-five pounds, his athletic body stood well proportioned. Chestnut colored hair thinned with every combing. The nose would have been straight except for a lifetime of fights. In the second grade, he started boxing on the naval base dependents team. Later in the US Marine Corps he fought in smokers from the South China Sea to Camp Lejeune. In prison, he fought as necessary to keep louts from taking advantage of his easy-going nature. Hazel eyes on an intelligent expressive face peered out beneath unruly eyebrows. Thanks to a mixture of European and Indian genes, he was trim. In high school, girls had thought he was cute.

That night in kneeling soft spoken vocal prayer beside the bunk, he poured out his heart to Heavenly Father.

Please let Ali and Mattie know I love them and am doing all I can for us to be a together eternal family as soon as possible. Thou knowest I’ve repented of my serious sins and why I committed them. I give thanks for the medical attention, treatment, and professional counseling I needed for so long. Please enable me to continue making amends. Thank you for Christ’s atonement and his paying for all our sins. I owe Him more than I can ever repay. Please help me be the best I can in all ways.

In bed that night he kept thinking about family responsibilities.

How are they doing? How can I help them? Where are they? When will she write again? It’s been a long time. Maybe the best I can do is what I’ve been doing, simply honor her silence and let them be? Stay out of their life? Give her room to find someone else? Her number is unlisted. I don’t know the mailing address or where they’re living. She’s essentially kidnapped our son, even though according to the divorce decree she’s required to tell me about any change of address and grant reasonable visitation, which would be, at least, talking to him on the phone. But the Texas divorce decree is unenforceable from this northern prison. There’s nothing I can do to make her comply, without risking sending her to jail for contempt of court and possibly other charges. I don’t want to expose her to the law.

On the first of the month, the new kitchen steward took charge. Meeting with the cooks, he stressed with a heavy Middle Eastern accent, From now on we’re following recipes to the letter. No more extra ingredients. Anyone who deviates from the recipe cards will be fired. I don’t care who he is.

But boss, a lunch cook tried to explain, we’ve got USDA commodities to use up. They’re not on the recipe cards; we looked. When we follow the recipe with our ingredients, things don’t always taste right. They need a little help to make them tasty.

No more tasty! No more of that! We cook according to the recipe. We use the military recipe cards. That’s what we follow.

Next, the steward gathered salad men. No more salad bar out in the dining room. No more of that. Coleslaw and carrot salad will be served from the steam table when men pass down the line with their trays. No more self-service with salad dressings. Just one spoonful of the kind we make that day.

Bakers also caught the riot act over ingredients and serving sizes. Four-ounce scoop for jello. No more. And no more pies. Pie is no longer on the menu. You’ll have more time for cleaning your area.

After a month, the steward called Matt into the office.

"I’ve seen what you do here all-day long. From now on I’m changing the hours. Instead of three in the morning, the kitchen will open at five. That still gives you enough time to have steam kettle beans ready for lunch at eleven. I see you can do everything by yourself, get every meal out on time. Every kitchen guard calls you ‘special.’ You’re my ace, the one I can depend on.

But the head parole officer, Ms. Reader doesn’t like you. She wants to ship you to the big prison, where I just came from. So, I called Central Office and told them I need you here to get meals out on time, regardless of the problems that come up every day. They want me to clean up this mess. No more magazine stories. Central says I can have who and what I need. So, they’re leaving you here. I can only be in the kitchen forty hours a week. No more. When I’m not here, I depend on you.

Thank you, sir.

Thriving on responsibility, trust, and accomplishment, Matt continued in a comfortable routine. The major mental illness of obsessive compulsive disorder had worked to his advantage all through school and at every job, making him literally the prized student and worker. In the Marine Corps, 16 months after enlisting he was promoted to sergeant in Vietnam. In college, he graduated summa cum laude. As a construction plumber, he was the skilled conscientious one who wrapped jobs up on schedule.

Abolition of the salad bar was short lived. The chief of security made a stink about it to the warden and led a revolt, organizing the guards to stage a protest.

Prisoners whispered among themselves. The chief really wanted the salad bar, so he got it back.

Yeah, but it’s only half of what it used to be.

Half’s better than none. We’ve got a variety of dressings again and all sorts of healthy fresh veggies.

Better enjoy it while it lasts.

Cells at night were never actually dark. Security lights maintained a dusky glow. Preferring to sleep with lights out, Matt slept on his side facing away. Nighttime in prison holds monsters and gremlins. In the Texas system, he had heard men tortured in midnight hours with the warden’s blessing and a man being killed, gurgling his last breath with a slit throat. But those haunting memories were not the worst. Night after night trying to go to sleep, his compulsive mind reviewed things he should have done differently as a husband, worker, Marine, defendant, and abused child. Memories and endless variations worried his rest and tortured his conscience.

I suppose it’s the same for all prisoners, he assumed. This was one of the many things men never talk about.

When he slept, personal plagues filled his dreams. As a homeowner, he had three big dogs and as many cats. As a prisoner, he often worried; What’s become of them? I know Ali will take good care, but are they free in a big yard like we used to have? Years have gone by, are they still alive, or how did they die?

Dreams became nightmares as he lived in ambiguity and with second guesses. I should have pled not guilty to everything and kept my mouth shut. Only two women identified me at the lineup. The state could only convict me of those two cases at best. They had no other evidence. But I identified myself as the culprit in every case so the women would have peace of mind. I didn’t want them to worry and live in doubt. I also pled no contest to everything the prosecutor wanted to file, because the police chief promised on videotape that my case would be handled with emphasis on rehabilitation. I believed and trusted him, proper authority, an agent of the state. I relied on his promises in good faith. Then the judge made up a new state record sentence.

He had empathy for all people, especially victims, since he had been one himself, as he was surprised to learn in the state school. Prior to the school, he never considered yesterday. That was a compulsive rule, never look back, certainly not to nights when he was a boy bamboozled to get into bed with her or viciously beaten by Cutter.

Graduated from the sex offender school where he had to stay mentally and emotionally open to feedback and constructive criticism for over three years, Matt now changed psychological gears to defend himself from the law’s oppressive administrators. In the law library, he outlined his predicament to the clerk.

At sentencing, Judge Ramsport made up a state record 69-year sentence, calling me a ‘worst offender’ and a ‘career criminal’ while denying my rehabilitation potential and the statutory mitigator ‘degree of compulsion’ by claiming, ‘You’re no more compulsive than the average sex offender.’ He’s partially right. I am just an average sex offender, or less, when you look at what I did and didn’t do. However, I’m the only one in the DOC who has two diagnoses of OCD, the major mental illness. And they’re from the state’s two leading psychiatrists.

You know, the law librarian answered, every legal issue has to start at the trial court level, so each tier of judges gets to have a say about it. Those are called ‘administrative remedies’ even though they rarely remedy anything. And you only get one shot at having judges reconsider anything. So, your reasons have to be really good.

My OCD qualifies as newly-discovered evidence, since both diagnoses came after sentencing. The judge should consider the major mental illness because it accounts for all of my offenses. OCD affected my thoughts, feelings, and behavior in all sorts of ways. OCD isn’t an excuse. Coupled with my childhood abuse and resulting PTSD, it is the reason. OCD, PTSD and the effects of abuse are treatable and correctable as demonstrated in the state’s sex offender school. Along with everything else in the curriculum, that’s what the doctors had me work on for those three years.

The law clerk scratched his head. You’re going to need representation. Public defenders are bogged down with an average caseload of a 120 clients. Prosecutors average 60. It may be a while before you can get one to do anything for you.

I can wait, Matt smiled. I’m entitled to representation. I’ve seen too many guys grow tired of waiting for court-appointed lawyers to act, so they charged ahead on their own and were cut to ribbons. Judges don’t like men who represent themselves. I can wait the lawyers out. However long it takes.

Could be years.

So be it. I seem to be in for the long haul.

First thing you need to do is write to your judge asking him to appoint counsel.

I’ll get right on it. Matt turned to a typewriter.

In two weeks Judge Ramsport answered, naming Mr. Jones from the Office of Public Advocacy, a separate organization from the Public Defender’s Agency.

Matt wrote to Mr. Jones explaining about obsessive compulsive disorder, and how judges are required to consider major mental illness as significant material evidence. With issues in the hands of a lawyer, Matt waited for a response, knowing it would take months.

Communication from Ali and Mattie, his ex-wife and son, continued non-existent, even though he wrote monthly letters and sent birthday cards and Christmas presents. He lived on faith and hope where his family was concerned. His mother, Liz, lived in the same city as Ali and said she would try to get Ali’s new unlisted number. Ever an optimist, he expected to hear from Ali at any day. I suppose the lack of communication is a misguided condition set by her judgmental side of the family in exchange for financial and emotional support, he thought.

Busy with work and the daily commotion of prison living, he had to pay attention to immediate and ongoing hazards. An incident-free life behind bars took vigilance and flexibility. Any altercation with a cranky guard or inmate could turn into a write-up with serious parole repercussions.

Correspondence with high school sweetheart Del in Texas, Claudia in California, and Joy in Idaho provided weekly schmoozing, pulling his head and heart toward their families. Hungry for connection in his state of official isolation, he followed the development of their children as if they were his own.

On the dayroom bulletin board, he noticed a brochure and sign-up sheet. Guys buzzed about it. There’s a new private prison opening in Oklahoma and we can go there if we want.

Transfer to prisons in other parts of the country had been standard practice for decades. State prisoners had recently been stationed in South Dakota, Minnesota, California, and throughout the federal system. Considering color pictures in the brochure touting the private prison, he thought, I don’t qualify. My sentence is too long. Only guys with 20 years or less are eligible for this one.

Dr. Guy Lasley, Department of Corrections staff psychiatrist, maintained an open-door policy for Matt, who had minored in psychology in college. When it came time for Matt to graduate from the university, he had enough credits for either a degree in psychology or management, but not enough for a double major. The dean gave him a choice. He elected the management degree because it seemed more marketable. Originally, he was drawn to psychology looking for answers to his perplexing behavior.

Matt read and discussed the latest journals and trade newspapers Dr. Lasley regularly received. Without the school doctors around anymore, ever since the state closed the SOTP, you’re the only one there is to talk to about new developments in psychology and behavior.

I’m afraid you won’t have me around either for much longer. With all the DOC turmoil going on, I’ve had enough. I put in for retirement at the end of the year. Dr. Lasley smiled benevolently from his side of the double pedestal desk.

Who they hiring in your place?

Probably nobody. Budget cut-backs all over the place. My duties will be taken over by the assistant warden. DOC is phasing out the position in all the camps.

I’ll be sad to see you go. Your retirement is as much of a letdown as the school’s closure.

Following a philosophy of If we build prisons, they will incarcerate American Rehabilitation Corporation sent advertising feelers to the Department of Corrections in all 50 states, territories, District of Columbia, and possessions. Then executives canvassed for personal meetings. The northern state’s deputy commissioner made an appointment, listened to the corporate presentation, and thought, These sample contract figures are worth serious consideration.

Broaching the idea to the Department of Corrections commissioner, he added a twist of his own. This could be a solution to the sex offender problem.

The commissioner’s eyebrows arched and she cocked her head to hear more.

Her deputy continued. We could send 200 sex offenders down there, save money, and relieve overcrowding.

Hmm . . ., she considered. That would give those perverts a break from other convicts’ harassment. Not really a factor, but it could lead to fewer discipline problems, fewer assaults.

Statewide newspapers carried the Department of Corrections’ press release. As an emergency measure to meet court mandated prisoner reductions, 200 long-term inmates will be shipped out of state and housed in a private correctional facility in Arizona.

Newspaper articles reported how this would be a cost-savings bonus for taxpayers, since the corporation contract price per day was $25 less than the state’s current cost of $90. Since the public pays for the pleasure of keeping men in prison, there would be more money and space available in the state Department of Corrections to do more of the same. The private prison spokesman quoted in the article boasted that American Rehabilitation Corporation, could incarcerate prisoners indefinitely at a fixed rate pre-arranged and guaranteed by contract.

Touted as a great savings for taxpayers, the deputy commissioner held up the plan as evidence of how DOC state employees aggressively look after the public’s interests. The cost of shipping convicts to the American Rehabilitation Corporation facility in Arizona, Western American Rehabilitation, would be a Department of Corrections expense. But since these would be long-term prisoners, transportation cost would just be a one-time expenditure to fly them down there. Later, years later, at the end of their sentences the convicts would be brought back with another relatively small expense. It looked good on paper.

If there were any contradictions or inconsistencies in this official policy and announcement, they were overlooked in favor of the advertised cost savings, very much how new cars are advertised in the newspapers. (The fact that upon signing the contract for 200 bed spaces, the deputy’s sister received a gratuity of a 1000 shares of American Rehabilitation Corporation stock was not shared with the media.)

The deputy spearheaded the latest Department of Corrections policy by posting notice in each of the state’s 13 penal camps. He counted on sex offenders to rush to sign up for this opportunity to escape tormentors. However, less than 50 volunteered. Few wanted to be away from their families, mothers, wives, children, and friends.

Since the contract was already signed, the Department of Corrections needed more bodies. The deputy’s plan B was hastily posted on all bulletin boards. He called for all sex offenders to be designated for shipment, all who never graduated from the treatment school, and those who had 30 or more years left in their sentences. When those who met the expanded criteria were numbered, he still only had 150.

The next week, the deputy posted plan C, requiring all prisoners regardless of their type of crime who have (1) More than twenty years remaining; (2) Declined school and program participation; and (3) Exhausted their appeals, to be designated as transfer eligible. Designations fell to the head parole officer at each camp who functioned as the classification officer.

The state attorney general facilitated the deputy commissioner’s plan by ruling that prisoners on appeal need not remain in the state for court appearances. Teleconferences were authorized and speaker phones installed in every courtroom. This million-dollar expense for equipment, installation, and service was footed by the judicial system through apportionments from the state legislature.

The exemption from transfer for the handful of school graduates still in the prison system was never honored by parole officer classification chiefs. Instead, each head parole officer was telephoned by the deputy, who emphasized, Don’t pay any attention to that condition. Sex offenders will get more and better programming where they’re going. Oh! And the time-to-serve criteria, that can be relaxed down to six months. His verbal modifications were never published.

Reading the latest notice posted on the wing bulletin board, several men laughed and signed up their buddies to take the trip. Since Matt only met one of the criteria, had over twenty years thanks to the contrived 69-year sentence, he was not concerned about being designated for transfer. Currently in the middle of the federally funded baker culinary arts program with the steward as his teacher, he expected to stay at the borough jail for years to come. Furthermore, his appeal concerning obsessive compulsive disorder was pending in front of Judge Ramsport in the courthouse across the street. This qualified as another exemption. Besides that, in the craft shop in his free time he made custom leather goods for guards and staff members who wanted sunglass cases, pistol cases, purses, belts, rifle cases, archery quivers, and seasonal gifts. The quality of his leather work was the best in the country. He had more orders than he could fill with limited shop time.

Head parole officer Ms. Reader summoned him to a special classification hearing. When an in-jail parole officer handed him notice of the hearing, Matt felt inconvenienced, not alarmed.

For one, the kitchen steward wants me here. Two, I didn’t sign up or volunteer to go. Three, I don’t meet the posted criteria. Darn it! Another disruption in the weekly routine. Now I’ll have to take an afternoon off from work just to stay ready for whenever she decided to call me to the stupid hearing. Why can’t they leave workers alone? There’s dozens of inmates without jobs around here who she can jerk around.

At the end of the hearing, Ms. Reader droned her summary.

It is the recommendation of this committee that you be re-designated as eligible for immediate transfer to the corporate prison. You probably read about it in the newspaper.

But I don’t meet the criteria, Matt protested. I’m in the baker culinary program. I’m a graduate of the sex offender school. I have appeal hearings.

The other two committee members, regular guards drafted from the floor, had not said a word since he entered the room five minutes earlier. They sat still and quiet in their chairs, subdued by the parole officer’s well known vindictive power.

That will be all, Mr. Granger, she lorded over the proceedings.

Rushing to the kitchen he told the food steward everything that had just happened.

What?! The excitable man leapt to his feet. I’ll see the warden about this. No way am I giving up my best man just to fill that witch’s silly quota.

The warden vetoed the parole officer’s recommendation and wrote down her reasons. Official paperwork, however, continued through channels to central office. The next day at lunch, passing down the serving line, the warden assured Matt, It’s all taken care of. I overrode Ms. Reader and recommend you stay right here. There’s nothing to worry about.

Quick to believe proper authority, he felt relieved, relaxed, smiled, thanked her, and kept working.

Judge Ramsport set a hearing date for the mental illness issue. In court that morning the lawyer from the Office of Public Advocacy failed to appear. Matt explained to the judge from the defense table, He never wrote back. Never came to see me. We never talked things over.

Ramsport fired the absent lawyer and immediately appointed a private attorney to look into matters.

Returned to the jail, Matt resumed working in the kitchen and believed the status quo would continue indefinitely.

The private attorney came to meet Matt in one of the lawyer booths. Wearing an expensive pinstriped suit, silk shirt with matching silk tie, he came accompanied by a knock-out Barbie secretary. After sneering at the type of crime, the peacock attorney blustered, So the mental illness is what makes you go around raping women?

Shocked by such rudeness, Matt spoke his mind. Is that your best understanding of my and other sex offenders’ motivation? What TV show did you get that from? Standing on high heels, the pretty secretary shifted behind her boss’s back, waiting for him to make a witty comeback. Seated across the table the men held steady eye contact.

Venturing into no-man’s land, Matt said, Is it true that in a democracy, stress must be placed on the primacy of law and ensuring that citizens, especially the vulnerable, have access to their rights?

Without saying anything, the private attorney picked up Matt’s court file, rose to his feet, and left with his secretary.

The next hearing had already been scheduled for the following day in Judge Ramsport’s courtroom. This time everybody was present. From his high wooden bench the judge asked the lawyer, Well? Is there any merit to Mr. Granger’s claims?

Rising to his feet, the lawyer looked down at Matt, then said, Your Honor, Mr. Granger has significant legal issues.

Ramsport thanked him and appointed yet another lawyer, Mr. Smith from the Office of Public Advocacy to represent Matt, and set a hearing date for the following week. From the jail, Matt wrote to Mr. Smith, outlined the issues, and sent copies of his medical reports and applicable law.

At the next hearing in the courtroom, Matt met Mr. Smith for the first time. Seated beside each other at the defense table, Mr. Smith passed a four-page set of forms for post-conviction relief. Wearing handcuffs, Matt filled in the blanks, answering what questions he could using a short pencil. Silently he reasoned, Before this motion can be filed, Smith and I need to discuss the particulars, and it has to be typed. He left the form and pencil with the lawyer.

The next week without talking to Mr. Smith or seeing him again, Matt received official notice in the mail that his petition had been filed in court and a hearing date set.

What petition? What was filed? I haven’t yet talked to my lawyer about anything.

At the scheduled hearing, Judge Ramsport held up the penciled-in form which Mr. Smith had filed. Prosecutors sat at their table, eager to debate its merits. At the first opportunity, Matt stood up and explained to the judge exactly what had happened. Mr. Smith did not say a word.

Judge Ramsport rolled his eyes up to the ceiling before glaring at lawyer Smith seated beside Matt. Is that true?

The lawyer said, I think it’s frivolous.

You’re fired, Judge Ramsport declared. Then he appointed another lawyer, Mr. Gun from the Public Defender Agency to represent Matt.

The next day, after breakfast work in the kitchen, he returned to the wing. A guard told him, Roll up. You’re leaving on this morning’s chain.

What?!

Roll up. You’re leaving.

Let me dash back to the kitchen and tell the steward.

After a telephone call to central office, the steward slumped, defeated in his chair.

You’ve got to go. I tried everything to keep you here. That parole officer is too strong, stronger than the warden. I don’t know how it happened but parole officers run the system. I’ll try to get you back as soon as possible. The warden’s calling the commissioner about you later this morning. But you’ve got to go for now.

During the short plane flight south with five other passengers, everybody in irons, Matt looked out of the window at snow-covered winter scenes and familiar landmarks.

Maybe I’ll get one last look at my homestead?

Fleecy clouds occasionally blocked the view as they followed the one highway. At the big city, state troopers drove the prisoners to jail in a van. He was processed into a pod with 40 men designated for out-of-state transfer.

Anxiously, they waited for several days. At two in the morning they were rousted from sleep by screaming guards dragging rattling belly chains, leg shackles, and handcuffs. Locked into uncomfortable hardware, they waited for two more hours in holding tanks before the guards started screaming.

Up on your feet! Move it! We don’t have all day to wait on you!

They shuffled their way outside into a special quarter million-dollar bus built specifically for this cross-city transport, less than ten miles to the airport. Escorted by a dozen city police cars and a dozen state trooper cruisers, all with colorful swirling lights on top, they paraded through the city in early morning winter darkness.

After every block, at each intersection, squad cars leap-frogged with flashing lights and waiting sirens to block off all cross traffic – there was none at that hour – so the silver bus could roll through without stopping. Approaching the international airport, prisoners started laughing, seeing it surrounded by National Guardsmen standing at the ready, with drawn automatic weapons and dogs shivering in winter sub-zero temperatures.

Who isn’t on the parade payroll? an inmate wisecracked.

They’re probably being paid overtime big bucks, another answered.

With wide eyes, a Native youngster seated beside Matt exclaimed in awe, This is the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Matt sadly shook his head.

Other buses soon arrived from two prison camps further south. All totaled, a hundred men shuffled up a ramp into the plane flown by US Air Marshals. Someone wondered out loud, How much does a dozen air marshals cost? During the flight, the federal crew talked casually with the prisoners. We’re based in Miami.

You flew all that way? From the far corner of the country?

Sure did. The female air marshal sounded tired.

We’ve been flying since early yesterday to get here. And after dropping you guys off, we have to fly another bunch of hours to get back home.

Late in the afternoon they landed at Sky Harbor in Phoenix and shuffled off the plane down a ramp into a wall of blast-furnace heat. Regular buses, painted white, carried them on a two-hour ride into the Sonoran Desert. Staring out of the windows at passing cars, one fellow commented, Women here are a lot prettier.

Another answered, Yeah, each looks about thirty pounds lighter without a winter coat.

Some asked, What’s this place like?

Riding with them, the lady guard in a white short-sleeved shirt with corporation shoulder patches worn over plain black slacks, the corporate uniform, answered, Western American Rehabilitation is a brand-new prison, 500-men capacity at present, but growing to 2000 with more construction. Last week 200 federals moved in. You guys bring the total up to 200 from your state. You’ll have your own unit, half of the facility, consisting of two pods and across the hallway two dorms. You get your own recreation yard, basketball court, weights, and commissary store separate from the federals. There’s a central kitchen, but no chow hall. Meals roll into your pod on push racks. You eat in your pod at dayroom tables. Every pod and dorm has two wall mounted TV’s in the dayroom.

What about jobs and pay?

You apply for a job through your case manager. Just use a regular cop-out request form. We use the exact same forms you’re already familiar with. The pay is the same as what you were making before. Your state DOC handles payroll every month. They pay it; we don’t. We tell them how many hours you work each month and they credit it to your inmate account.

Questions and answers continued until the bus slowed to pass through the prison’s perimeter gates. Two fences, some observed. Must be maximum security.

What’s the use of classifications and good behavior, a fellow groused, if they keep everybody: maximum, medium, minimum, and community custody level locked up in the same joint?

From the buses, they shuffled onto a loading dock, then stutter-stepped down wide corridors into an air-conditioned pod at the end of the complex where two dozen Western American Rehabilitation employees waited with handcuff keys, clipboard rosters, hygiene kits, and complimentary hooded sweatshirts. It was cool in the pod. Guards with keys walked up to the men and unlocked ankle shackles, handcuffs, and belly chains. Relieved of cumbersome restraints, men rushed into the bottom row of open cells to use the steel commodes. A guard with a huge cardboard box walked down the row tossing in rolls of toilet paper.

A petite beautiful Latina clutching a clipboard stood up on a tile bench in the open showers located at the short side of the triangular pod. She raised her voice over the general din, Listen up! I’m a case manager. If I call your name, you need to go across the corridor to the dorm where you’ll find your travel box.

Happy to not hear his name called, Matt realized he was one of the 60 who would be living in this pod in two-man rooms.

That’s way better than a dorm room with ten inmates.

The case manager continued announcing information and instructions. Matt found his cardboard travel box in one of the stacks against the television wall. Carrying it upstairs to the second tier, he kept walking until finding a vacant room. Close behind, a young Native stepped inside asking, Anyone else staying here?

Make yourself at home, Matt welcomed.

All we have is a set of bunks, steel commode with a wash basin on the top, and a light switch.

Don’t forget the plastic mattress, the youngster corrected him, and threw his box on the top one. Maybe they’ll come around later with blankets?

We can only hope, Matt agreed. We’ve got a room. Now we’d better go back downstairs and hear what they’re saying.

In the dayroom, a half-dozen Western American Rehabilitation employees identified themselves by job title, and held informal discussions with clots of inmates. While steadily talking and answering questions, two case managers accepted job and visitor applications. Blank forms were laid out in neat stacks on the tile shower bench. Nurses and physician assistants, recognizable in purple hospital scrubs, accepted medical requests and spoke to those concerns. An assistant warden, wearing a black felt Stetson, business suit, Tony Llama boots, and a tooled, buck-stitched belt, drawled answers to a group around a steel stationary table. Administrators smiled and showed their sociable side.

Spotting the custom-made leather belt, Matt knew, It’s prison made. He’s the one to ask about a craft shop. When there was an opening, he asked, Excuse me, sir. Up north we had every kind of craft and hobby. All the usual prison ones like leather, wood, jewelry, and painting. Are we going to have anything like that here?

Will in time, the assistant warden drawled as he chewed a plug of tobacco in his cheek, and spit every so often into the white Styrofoam cup he held in one hand. First, we need to build a shop. It’s in the plans.

Canvas laundry carts arrived with bedroll linen, blankets, and pillows. Each man scurried to his room with a bundle.

A flat bed cart rolled into the pod. The older lady pushing it yelled, Two lines! You get a choice. Either a can of soda pop, or a package of instant coffee. There’s hot water at the sink beside the microwave oven. There’s ice in the cooler sitting on the countertop on the other side of the microwave. Everyone gets a spork, an orange plastic serrated spoon. This is yours to keep. Hold onto it. You’ll need it to eat at meal times. Treat your spork as if it were your toothbrush.

Another staffer yelled, Everybody line up here! as he stood over cases of cigarettes on the dolly. I’ll check you off my roster when you come through the line.

His uniformed assistant took a steel seat at a table and asked, Regular or filter? while marking off names.

Matt’s new roommate sidled up beside him.

Holy cow! Can you believe this place? It’s pretty nice.

They’re trying to get favorable reports and more of our business, Matt said from the soda pop line. Would you like to trade your coke for my cigarettes?

Heck yeah! That’s a good deal. The Native youngster jumped on it.

You seen the commissary list yet? Cheap food. Ramen’s only twenty cents. We paid over twice that in the borough jail.

Yup. They’re trying to reel us in. Wonder if they’ll be acting so nice in a few months? Or in a couple years?

We won’t be here that long. The newspapers and governor said we’d only be here as a six-months emergency measure.

Matt looked up at the idealistic youth.

I hope you’re right. But when I was your age I heard some stories, too. Top government leaders told us all sorts of things before shipping us off to Vietnam.

CHAPTER TWO

After a good night’s sleep, the new arrivals were eager to go outside and see the yard. To leave the pod, Matt pushed a call button beside the vestibule door and said into the speaker box, Out to rec. The evening before, both vestibule doors, one from the corridor and one into the pod, were blocked open so everybody in leg irons could walk right on in. According to standard operating procedure, henceforth only one vestibule door would be open at a time.

Located between the two pods and jutting out into the hallway, the elevated unit control room, surrounded with windows, allowed the guard inside to see in all directions. Acknowledging Matt, he pushed a button to open the pod door. Both pods opened to the vestibule which emptied through one door to the central corridor. After the pod door closed behind Matt, the guard opened the corridor one. The unit control bubble managed doors in the pods and dorms, and to all the cells, as well as to offices in that section of the central corridor.

After walking 100 feet down the corridor, Matt stopped at the yard door and pushed another wall-mounted call button. From his bay window into the hallway the bubble guard waved recognition. The exterior door buzzed, clicked open, and Matt stepped outside into dazzling sunlight.

One step beyond the air-conditioned building, ninety-degree desert heat engulfed him. On the concrete sidewalk guys lounged around soaking up rays. A full size concrete basketball court was covered by a high roof, supported on tall steel I-beams. The roof gave players shade from direct sun.

At a short end of the court, a universal weight machine sat on a separate concrete slab. Another aluminum roof 12 feet above the ground protected both the machine and users from bright sunlight. Standing in line at all six stations, men took orderly turns with the weights. Their small yard opened to the northeast corner of the compound to a gravel track, like the oval found at most high schools. An unlocked ten-feet-tall gate allowed men from the small yard to the big. Federal prisoners shared the big yard. State inmates had it on even days of the month, federals on the odd.

Walking around the oval track in brilliant sunlight wearing a t-shirt, Matt wondered, What on earth am I going to do here? How am I going to support myself, make any commissary money? I’ve got $500 on the books. Most jobs pay fifty cents an hour, four bucks a day. If that’s the best I can do, so be it. Twenty dollars a week. He contemplated an unfathomable future.

The next morning, he was outside playing basketball when the guards yelled, Count time! Everybody quit what they were doing and lined up against the white building. Three yard guards took turns counting as they paced up and down the line. After four tries, the trio came up with the same number, seventy-four. One radioed the tally to the security office.

Ten minutes later the guards whistled for everybody’s attention. Line up again! They yelled, We need another count. Inmates griped about repeated interruptions to their basketball games, weight lifting, jogging, and chess matches, but obediently stood up against the whitewashed wall. With angry posturing, the guards acted like their counting problem was the prisoners’ fault.

The first load of state convicts had arrived two weeks earlier, filling the other pod and dorm. First-comers had nearly all available jobs in the kitchen, laundry, maintenance, recreation, landscaping, library, and central corridor departments. Matt applied for kitchen work and resigned to a long wait.

Until I’m hired, the best thing I can do is work on my health, building strength and endurance.

Most men slept-in on weekends. Even for the lucky few who got pod porter clean up jobs, this was their chance to be lazy. Matt had seen the pattern ever since coming to jail, especially as a breakfast cook. On weekend mornings, few men in general population bothered to get up for breakfast.

That first Saturday morning, he likewise slept in. As the morning progressed he stirred in bed and wondered, Why isn’t the door open as usual? Rolling out of the bunk at nine, he tried the door, found it locked, and looked through the door window down into an empty dayroom. No one was at the tables. Both televisions were off.

That’s odd. The place looks deserted. What’s going on? he thought.

Back on his bunk he started a letter to Del.

Around noon, the building captain opened the door, held two trays, and asked, You want lunch?

Sure. Matt accepted one.

Still mostly asleep in the top bunk, his roommate shook his head, No.

After closing the heavy steel door, the captain moved on to the next room.

What was that about? Matt questioned.

No telling, the youngster said, pulling up a sheet to cover his head.

Around two that afternoon, the cell doors unlocked and men streamed into the dayroom with questions. What’s going on? Several put empty trays in the pickup rack.

A pod porter said; Since so few people got up for breakfast this morning, all the guards thought we were staging a hunger strike. So they got worried and started closing all the doors.

Men burst out laughing. They really thought that?

Serious as a heart attack.

Just then a female guard entered the pod making required hourly rounds, and confirmed the institution’s reaction. What else were we to think? Only a few came out of their rooms.

Before the end of the week, newspapers up north contacted the Western American Rehabilitation spokesman and carried front-page stories about the Arizona hunger strike and alarming prisoner solidarity. One positive result of the misinterpreted sleep-in was that portion sizes increased, and henceforth every tray slot was filled at mealtimes.

After a month of trying to clear the count at 11 o’clock by numbering men on the recreation yard, prison staff gave up and blamed the inmates.

They keep moving around. Ones in the cells keep hiding. They mess it up deliberately.

Prisoners grumbled and blamed the guards.

What’s wrong with these employees? Can’t they count? Some can’t even speak English. No joke. They need to take off their shoes to count higher than ten.

Men wanted institutional routines to run smoothly. It was aggravating to have to stop what they were doing outside and go line up against the wall. Each man fashioned his own slender daily comfort zone. It was irritating to be jerked out of pleasant pastimes back into prison anxieties by guards’ incompetence.

In order to clear the 11 o’clock count, Western American Rehabilitation staff came up with a new policy.

Morning recreation now ends at 10.30. All inmates will return to the building and be in their assigned cells at count time.

There they go cutting into our outside rec. They keep changing things just to make their jobs easier.

Won’t make any difference. They still can’t count.

When not playing basketball, lifting weights, or jogging around the track, Matt looked for good chess players. Four-man steel tables anchored in concrete surrounded the basketball court. Some evenings, desert wind blew so hard it knocked over plastic chess pieces. On those occasions, they played on the ground around a corner of the white building which blocked direct prevailing gusts.

An afternoon kitchen boss strode outside to the basketball court and asked the yard guard, Which one’s Granger?

He did not know, so he asked inmates until finding one who broke the know nothing code, and pointed to a steel table where two men played chess.

Walking up, the boss asked,