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

TRANSFERRED!

 

Friday, September 8, 2023

I have been expecting it for weeks.

Lake C. I. has been transferring out those with life sentences and swapping for younger prisoners with shorter sentences.

The quality of the typical prison inmate has been careening downhill rapidly over the years, and these younger men are mostly drug-addicted gang members disinterested in changing their lifestyles. Prison is a badge of honor for many.

Wednesday night, September 6th, one of the orderlies working for The Man told me, "You're leaving in the morning, Norman."

Thanks. "They" don't want anyone to know when they are transferring in case Sylvester Stallone, Vin Diesel, and "The Rock" are plotting a jail break. Did I mention prison staff are probably the most paranoid people outside a mental hospital?

I don't have such connections. Knowing when I'm leaving simply gives me a chance to sort out my property and prepare for the next day. And do I have property! Five mesh canteen bags of papers and legal documents, a bag of books, one bag of personal laundry, and one bag of canteen items make up for a load that I could never carry without spine surgery. So what do I do? Coffee packs and Crystal Lights juice packs are highly sought after in prison, where at least half the men are broke and have no resources. I offered canteen items to younger men carrying small bags of personal property, to carry mine, and in seconds my problems were solved by coffee addicts.

The prison bus was packed like sardines with transferring prisoners and their property, some with far more than I had. At eleven a.m. The inside of the rickety old bus was already stifling hot, and it only got worse. It took an hour to get to the East Unit of Central Florida Reception Center (CFRC) in Orlando. We passed Orlando International Airport, and I saw two lemon-yellow Spirit Airlines taxiing.

At one p.m. we were parked in the hot sun outside the gate waiting for three other prison buses to unload and leave. It took HOURS! Hours in the sweltering heat, no air, no ventilation, no water. The bus drivers' compartment is the only part in the bus with air conditioning, so they didn't care.

Seven buses unloaded about 350 men this day. Our bus was number five of seven, and the last two suffered the same as we did. One bus came from Washington County, way north, and those poor souls endured several hours longer than we had.

I felt certain I had suffered heat exhaustion, and came close to heat stroke. Getting out of that bus I almost collapsed on the steep exit steps.

It took hours to finally get to our housing assignments. It was dark, and we didn't make it to the chowhall for supper until almost eight p.m. When we were finally released for chow two tall, gray sandhill cranes greeted us at our door, panhandling. This morning at 6:22 a.m., when we came out for breakfast, they were back outside the door. At least they can leave when they choose to.

 Quiet day Friday. Heavy thunderstorms came during lunch at two-thirty, and we were soaked. After broiling in the heat Thursday, I revelled in the cool, soaking rain.

Now it is 4:30 p.m. Friday, and all is quiet during count. An orderly told me I was listed to go to Okeechobee C.I., somewhere west of Fort Pierce, at least a four-hour drive one way for my wife, Libby. That won't work. Meanwhile, I will put my brain to work on my upcoming parole release plan, and hope to turn sour lemons to lemonade.

Prayers are always accepted.

Charlie