Idle Time Is The Devil's Workshop

By a California prisoner

Staying busy is how we fight off the penitentiary blues and keep our demons in check. It doesn't always work. So much dead-time on our hands is the recipe for disaster. While the repetitions of mindless duplication are enough to drive one into a dark abyss of despair, we voluntarily bear this burden by virtue of the mistakes we made. Such are the woes of the imprisoned.

Despite our transgressions and status as a reviled demographic, most of us are nothing like others would have you believe. Naturally some are worse than others, but most merely want a chance to work towards something tangible. We thirst for an opportunity to do something other than kill time.

"If the people (society) could see how we really live, they wouldn't be so afraid of us," said Steve Rathbun, 46, from Sacramento.

Rathbun's comment made a lot of sense. He's right. While "the people" consider everyone of us notorious outlaws, we act more like a bunch of restless kids than gangsters.

"I can't even remember the last time I seen a real fight," Rathbun added while we worked out on the exercise yard. "Oh yeah, there was that one last year. But that one barely counts."

Extreme acts of brutality leave lasting memories, while the aforementioned drew more laughter than blood. Most fights rarely amount to much more than a cut-lip or hurt feelings. Since I arrived here in late '03 there hasn't been a single stabbing.

Susanville

The California Correctional Center (CCC) is located in the northern California town of Susanville. This relatively isolated community, 85 miles northeast of Reno, is the home of two large correctional facilities; the other being High Desert State Prison (HDSP). While HDSP is maximum security (Level IV), CCC begins at medium (Level III) and descends to minimum (Level I & Fire Camp).

Rathbun and myself are housed in Lassen facility, which is Level III. Each of the six housing units holds roughly 200 of the facility's 1,200 inmates, most of whom are serving short sentences or headed to fire camp -- a coveted prison assignment.

The housing units are two-storied, operated electronically by an officer in a control booth, and contain 50 two-man cells on each tier. Thirty metal octagon tables are bolted-down to the floor of the unit. Televisions, collect-only telephones, and wood benches are secured in various places throughout the dayroom where we conduct our indoor activities.

Our cells, where we spend vast amounts of time, are 7 feet by 11 feet. Bunk-beds are welded to the wall. A desk is secured to the rear of the cell below a sliver of an inoperable window, with a toilet-sink combo by the door which faces the dayroom. Two identical storage lockers are located opposite the bunks, where we place our possessions like televisions, radios and personal effects.

These cells, which seem so small upon arrival, appear larger over time. The feeling of claustrophobia is supplanted by the tranquility that goes along with the place where you sleep. Concrete and steel are the main staples of our visual diet.

The Lifer Building

Building Five, my home away from home, is the lifer building. More specifically, it should be called the geriatrics unit. Due to sentencing mandates like three strikes and other draconian measures, the lifer is a long-term societal investment in need of specialized medical care and permanent housing.

"Hey, how you doing pops?" is a common salutation one gives to an older convict.

In the instant representation, Pops, an old man of 80, has been incarcerated for the last 30 years. He is serving a life sentence for a murder committed a very long time ago.

"I'm just fine, youngster," he always tells me, even though I know his medical needs aren't being adequately met.

"Who you calling a youngster?" I teased him. "I'm almost 40."

I came to the lifer building by way of' a '98 drug charge I caught when I was 32. Generally, a drug offense carries a year or two, except in my case I have a serious criminal record. Burglary and robbery convictions committed in my late teens and early 20s elevated the instant offense into a life sentence per the three strikes sentencing law.

Places like Building Five are exactly where people like me end up. We are three strikers, murderers and those serving lengthy sentences for other serious crimes like assault and robbery. Other housing units on the yard hold variations of the long-term inmate in smaller numbers, while this one exclusively holds "the lifer."

Moreover, those of us in Building Five are considered the worst-of-the-worst. From society's vantage point, we are an amalgam of monsters. From my perspective, the portrait others paint isn't representative. It's just like Rathbun said: "Tf the people could see how we really live, they wouldn't be so afraid of us."

Most of the insanity, chaos and senseless violence associated with the prison system generally doesn't depict how willing we are to participate in tangible rehabilitative programs, if some existed. Instead, we are forced to kill time by playing table games, reading novels and watching television. None of which coalesces with making a break from antisocial and self-destructive behavior -- which are rooted in drug addiction and the absence of re-entry programs that begin once incarcerated.

Reorganization

Senate Bill 737, a bi-partisan, adult and youth prison reform plan, recently became law. While the critics claim SB 737 doesn't accomplish enough or jeopardizes public safety, the supporters believe otherwise.

"This is reorganization, not reform," said state Sen. Gloria Romero, a Democrat from LA, in support of SB 737. "But it lays the foundation for reforms."

From the trenches of the domestic war-on-crime, the California prisoner is just waiting for the transformation of penalogical methodologies to manifest. We are more than willing to participate.

"What's the word, Eugene? Have you heard anything lately?" asked Thomas Wallen, 34, from Kern County.

Wallen, like Rathbun and myself, three strikers all, joined us as we headed back to the building. A life sentence transforms us into criminal justice activists, studying state politics like investors follow Wall Street. For us -- and I speak for all -- it's not if, but when? When will the correctional Renaissance finally begin.

"The legislature passed a prison reform bill the other day," I replied. "It's actually just a reorganization bill, but it's a good start."

"I think it's a great start," Wallen agreed. "This is the most movement I've ever seen on prisons."

People come to me en masse. I eat, sleep and breath criminal justice-related topics while practicing law without a license. I feel it's my duty to participate in the struggle for a better life. The politics of justice capture my attention for a myriad of reasons. I'm a jailhouse lawyer. It's a lonely and frustrating sojourn, but I preach a doctrine of optimism. Someone has to do it. Hope is all we have.

Code of Solidarity

One of the most encouraging developments is how the prison administration has addressed guard malfeasance. For years correctional officers did what they pleased, openly bragged about owning the Davis administration, and even formed a prison gang in Salinas Valley State Prison (SVSP) called the Green Wall (GW).

But now, with the ouster of Gov. Davis, the scandals, out-of-control spending and negative press that keeps corrections in the spotlight, the guards are beginning to realize they will remain under the microscope until they come into compliance with the law. The California Department of Corrections (CDC), under the Schwarzenegger administration, has taken a zero-tolerance policy in regards to the officers' code of silence.

"I had to take a class on how to be a snitch," I've heard a number of officers complain.

For years their code of silence was a matter of honor, enabling them to stifle inquiries into misconduct and reinforce their solidarity. Now it's a public relations disaster. Lawmakers from both sides of the political spectrum have demanded huge changes in how the CDC operates as an agency, especially the manner in which the guards conduct themselves as peace officers.

"You know the difference between a whistle blower and a snitch?" an officer rhetorically asked me not too long ago. "A whistle blower tells when he thinks it's the right thing to do, where the snitch tells for personal gain."

Personally, I always thought any cooperation whatsoever made someone a snitch. But I'm a convicted felon, not a peace officer. Since a correctional officer had to learn as much in a class, it's going to take a lot more than a couple of seminars to crack their code of solidarity that has been in existence for decades.

I often raise the subject of the GW to Wallen due to the fact he spent so many years in SVSP. Since he decided to walk with us back to the unit, I chose to visit this subject again.

Wallen said it wasn't until he transferred to the relatively calm environment of CCC did he realize the irony of guards forming a gang. The chaos of Level IV drew them to the dark side of the badge, he remembered, and they were a gang in every sense of the word.

"You could tell which ones were Green Wall just by the way they carried themselves," Wallen said. "Whenever something was about to happen, they would always know. They had a front row seat."

Since warring factions reluctantly tolerate one another, peace among the gangs is always temporary. Wallen said the GW had the ultimate advantage by playing both sides of the law. "If you messed with them, you were a goner."

Lock It Up

Entering the unit, I nodded to my companions as I weaved in and out of the pedestrian movement. This is our version of rush hour traffic -- a scene repeated throughout the annuls of prisondom. The daily migration pattern of the California prisoner.

"It's count time," the control booth officer yelled over the intercom. "Lock it up. It's time for count."

Like a reoccurring dream from which there is no escape, my cell door slams shut -- leaving me alone to ponder my doomsday dilemma. Yearning for a chance to prove my worth as a person, I just try and do the best I can until the pendulum finally begins to swing.

If idle time is the devil's workshop, then the CDC must be located directly south of heaven.

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