If It's Not One Thing, It's Another

 

Dateline: Friday, October 6, 2023 -- 6:26 a.m. Okeechobee C. I.

No matter where one goes in the Florida prison system, nothing ever goes smoothly for long. "Hellified" applies over and over again.

I've mentioned a couple of neighbors in nearby bunks in this "open dorm" I am housed in, and I wanted to update you on what has happened since that last message.

We were entering the chowhall at early breakfast when I saw my bunk neighbor, the talkative black dwarf, emerge with hands cuffed behind his back, head lowered in shame, being led to confinement by a guard twice his height. We won't see him for a couple of months. The story quickly spread. He was a gunslinger, prison slang for an individual who exposes his sex organ to female (and the occasional male) staff members, guards, teachers, classification officers, volunteers, and others. I never even knew his name. He went by a prison nickname I won't repeat.

Standing in line for our trays that morning, a "table wipe," a worker who, obviously, cleans tables, shared his amusing witness, naming the female victim. "He was so proud of that little thing he thought everyone wanted to see it," he said, laughing.

It's not a laughing matter. Florida law makes such actions third degree felonies. Usually they serve sixty days in confinement instead.

Sunday night after midnight I was awakened from a deep sleep by screams in the darkened sleeping area. Three rows over an inmate lay on the floor swinging his arms and kicking his legs, like he was fighting off invisible demons, screaming incoherently, banging his arms and legs against steel bunk supports. Several prisoners tried to restrain him, but his superhuman drug-induced hallucinatory strength easily flung them off. I winced every time his legs slammed against the steel bunks, the bunk’s not giving an inch. He's gonna be hurting and bruised tomorrow, I thought, when the drugs wear off.

The next day the dogs came. I counted eight Belgian Malinois drug- and cell phone-sniffing dogs and K-9 handlers, but another prisoner said there was another team hitting another building. I've never seen more than three dog teams together, so this was unusual. "Sit up on your bunks, hands on your head," one guard ordered.

Dogs ran up and down the rows of bunks, sniffing foot lockers and the bunk area. One inmate was so scared he offered a guard his small package of dope, before the dogs found it.

"Strip down to your boxers, hands on your head."

Do you know how painful it can be with your hands on your head, all the blood draining from your arms? Several older inmates let their hands and arms hang loose as a guard with a metal detector wanded each prisoner's privates. The wand beeped when it came close to the rear end of the man next to me. "Beep..." It went off again. And again. The guard ordered my neighbor to the shower area for a more intrusive search.

Finally the inmate gave in, admitted he had something stashed, and removed the metal from his rear that had set off the wand. Cell phone? No. A knife! Ouch!

Wearing athletic shorts and tee shirts, we then marched out of the building and to the distant recreation field, a huge expanse of grass that is easily twice as big as the entire Lake C. I. Finally the dog pack emerged from A Dorm and went on their way.

Two nights ago, two a.m., it happened again. Awakened from a deep sleep by screams and loud banging on the officers' station Plexiglas, the same guy as before, able to walk this time, the nutcase begged for help. At first I thought someone was dying, and so did the guards. Ten minutes later a dozen guards rushed into the building expecting to see blood. The screamer was handcuffed and led away. The guards searched and confiscated petty contraband items like plastic bottles and bowls for awhile, then left. I couldn't go back to sleep.

Monday, October 6th, was supposed to be the start of the statewide prison canteen price raise protest. Nobody was supposed to patronize the price-gouging vendor who arbitrarily jacked up the canteen prices. The little Keefe coffee packets that cost fourteen cents rose to twenty cents, a thirty percent increase. Saltine packs tripled in price, to $2.80. Everything went up, impacting every prisoner's family, who struggle to send money to their loved ones in prison. Inmate dot com spread the rumor that a prisoner at another prison was stabbed for going to the canteen. At this camp, the canteen men didn't bother opening their windows, avoiding conflict. By Wednesday the boycott was over. The canteen line was long.

Now they are going to spray for bugs, roaches and fire ants. Mandatory rec for a couple of hours.

More later. 

Charlie

GOODBYE MIAMI, HELLO OKEECHOBEE —Transferred, Part 3

 

Friday, September 15, 2023

They get us up earlier and earlier. Thursday, 3:00 a.m. wake-up in the SFRC Miami. Transfer. Let this be the last one for awhile, Lord.

Same rigmarole as before, marching, searching, ransacking, strip-searching — isn't there a law against such forcible acts? Six hours later, after nine a.m., after every prisoner donned handcuffs, leg irons and chains, struggling to their seats, the crowded prison bus headed north on the turnpike, and eventually switched to Hwy. 441 North.

Within minutes, still on prison grounds, the bus filled with acrid burning industrial fumes from the drugs half the prisoners smoked. I shudder to think how they got those drugs past the strip searches.

One old junkie lamented the younger generation's dependence on synthetic chemical drugs. What happened to all the pot in prison?

Next stop — Belle Glade — famous for sugar cane and football running backs who learned their trade of zigging and zagging from chasing down rabbits in the cane fields. I've never been there, but it didn't take long to realize that Belle Glade had the same stores and fast food joints as every other town in America.

Prison buses can't use the drive-thru windows, so the driver parked across the street from KFC and his partner took a walk. Next stop was the Winn Dixie supermarket. The deli beckoned. The fellows yelled through the window grates at local women who yelled back. Revelation — I never knew Winn Dixie had their own liquor stores.

Finally the guards stocked up on lunch and we got back on our way north. We had a "bag lunch," turkey bologna and dry bread, and a gummy peanut butter sandwich. In years past those bag lunches were sought after — ham and cheese sandwich, real peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange, apple or banana, and a half-pint of milk. No more. Those days are gone. The Everglades may be called the Sea of Grass, but everything north of the Everglades should be called the sugar cane ocean, miles and miles of sugar cane, along with drainage canals and the occasional cow pasture. Okeechobee C. I. sits in the middle of a miles-long cow pasture.

You can see the standard white prison water tank rising above the flat land from miles away. Same old same old. These Florida prisons are nothing if not consistent. Go back and read my accounts of what another prison did, and you can fill in the blanks of how it went at “ 'Chobee," as they call this place.

First thing off the bus, the guards delighted in telling us we were in lockdown. Two stabbings that morning had put the prison in a three-day shut down, mainly cutting off canteen access. Great. No cold Diet Cokes for me.

We finally got processed, fed and spread out to our various housing areas. I am now in A-2, an open dorm of eighty mostly young and foolish men of every ethnic background. To my right, my neighbor is a talkative black dwarf from Tampa who works in the kitchen, and to my right a 300-pound West Palm Beach native also appears starved for conversation.

Lots of Hispanics here, who I get along with fine, since I speak Spanish. Most of them call me " Abuelo," grandfather.

This is a real prison, unlike the clown factory at Lake C. I. Now that I'm out of their censorship clutches, I can write more about how the people there don't know how to run a prison.

Here, the bad news is the Wi-Fi is out, which means I can't send or receive any email, rent any movies, read the newspaper, no copies of snail mail, etc. The workmen are installing new cables, which will take about 3 weeks, then JPay will need another week to install new software. No rush, of course. 

At least the phone works, for now.

So if I don't answer your email, please don't be alarmed. I'm certainly not ignoring you, just no technical capability.

You can email to Libby, who can then pass on any messages by phone to me.

 More later.

Best to all. Thanks for caring.

Charlie

TRANSFERRED! PART 2 — Another Hellified Week in Prison

 

Wednesday, September 13, 2023

I woke up this morning, Wednesday, September 13, 2023, in Miami, for the second day, at the South Florida Reception Center (SFRC).

I'd expected to transfer to my permanent institution this morning, but they passed me by. Maybe tomorrow.

I last wrote about my transfer Friday, September 8th, at the Orlando reception center. I spent an uneventful weekend in Orlando, then, Monday morning at 4:00 a.m., I was rudely awakened by a guard slapping my mattress. 'Norman, pack up."

4:00 a.m.! We weren't actually to leave Orlando until 2:38 p.m., a sweltering hot tin can bus packed with dehydrated and suffering prisoners finally hitting the turnpike south. We made good time, relatively speaking, and arrived at SFRC at 6:15 pm. Our journey wasn't over. At least the chains finally came off.

I don't know how the FDOC does it, shuffle hundreds of prisoners on dozens of buses from four reception centers to prisons statewide every day. It's a miracle of mass movement and coordination. The prisoners' comfort is sacrificed in the need to process people like cattle.

When we staggered off that last bus, every man was exhausted, overheated, clothing soaked in sour, smelly sweat, wiped out, interested in only two things, water and a bathroom.

Soon several dozen prisoners were ordered into a big circle for a group strip search. I don't need to explain how dehumanizing and demeaning that is. A guard conducts the mass search. Like strippers losing their clothing one piece at a time, the prisoners hold up each item of clothing and shake them out. "Hold your socks up by the toes. Shake 'em out. Set 'em on the floor in front of you...Your pants... shirt...tee shirt... your boxers...Raise your penis... your testicles...Turn around... bend over... spread your ass cheeks... cough three times..." Sounds like a tuberculosis ward, all the coughing. "Get dressed."

Similar scenarios occur at every stop. Finally, after 9:30 pm, we got to our dorm. Stripping practice came in handy. I hurried out of my clothes for the second time that evening and raced to the showers, cold water — fine with me. I beat the crowd.

The thin, lumpy, stained mattress felt like a Simmons Beautyrest. I conked out.

This is a huge prison. You could fit Lake C. I. on SFRC's rec yard, with room to spare. It is a hike to go anywhere.

We are under the flight line of Miami International Airport, and outside the dorms wide-eyed prisoners stare at the big jets landing.

A major prison consideration — the food is better here, too. That's where I'm going next — the chow hall — lunch.

More later.

Charlie