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
