Lockdown
Downshifting, the old truck slows down as I turn into the gate and up the curving driveway to work. Without thinking I back into my normal spot so my license plate is towards the outer perimeter fence, as opposed to the rec yard fence. I secure my personal weapon in the glove box and double check the truck's door locks before I step out into the damp morning air. Five in the morning always comes too soon, but then, sometimes leaving a job you love is harder than getting out of bed earlier than you believe should be legal. I shoulder my duty belt and clear plastic backpack, looking around to see who else has arrived. A couple officers near the rear entrance getting their last breath of nicotine for twelve hours, wave in greeting. The pale yellow street lamps shining off the brass badges remind me of a few scattered stars on a cloudy night. Considering our profession, quite an apt metaphor.
A few more minutes pass as more officers arrived, eight of us in total. It feels like a skeleton crew against around four hundred inmates, but the weekends meant a lack of high brass. No outside rec, no visitation, no court other than bond court. We might even send the rookie on a food run for lunch instead of enduring jailhouse cuisine yet again for those of us lacking significant others to prepare meals for us, meaning everyone except Sergeant Stone. With a name like that, how could he not go into law enforcement?
Control. Headcount Clear. The whisper mic on my shoulder crackles twenty minutes after our headcount slips were turned in. Everyone's count accurate meant all inmates accounted for and our day can start. Cleaning supplies removed from the locker and distributed among the pod officers en route to their posts. Passdown logs updated with any pertinent information for the relieving officers in Central Control, Front Desk, and Booking. There is always a brief exchange of gossip, though lately it had been nothing but the virus. As far as we cared, it held no effect this far from town.
Control tower maintains watch on the perimeter cameras until the last vehicle of the previous shift departs and then, the perimeter gate is shut. All units, facility secured. The voice from control over the radio now belonged to Corporal Juarez, our control officer and a damn good drinking buddy. Off the clock of course.
Juarez and I sat in central control, a small round room with one way glass facing the four pods and illuminated only be the pale glow of three computer monitors. One touch screen held the constant interactive picture of the facility blueprints that allowed Juarez control over every door, light, water source, and electrical outlet in the jail. The other two were a myriad of camera views through the facility. The forward window looked into the sallyport between the main hall and B and C pods, two tier units for violent and nonviolent males. To the left we could see D pod, the female area above A pod, separated by a two foot concrete floor. Juarez's trainee, Pvt Creed, sat beside him writing almost constantly in the log book. She scribbled along while we chatted about our upcoming day off on monday, what bar most deserving of our patronage tonight, and mostly we talked about Juarez's new baby girl, Appolonia.
"She sat up yesterday, like she was expecting me when I got home." I couldn't help but smile at the man inmates once referred to as Diablo. I've seen him reduce hardened criminals to quivering lumps of jelly without putting a finger on him, but he melts at the sight of his wife and daughter. He's also the first officer I've seen actually promoted to keep him out of trouble, since the incident involving the high velocity contact of an inmate's shower shoe with said inmate's face put him in a pending lawsuit. Such is the life of a corrections officer, constantly in fights where you are the only one required to follow the rules and they wonder why we all become cynical and jaded towards society.
"Don't worry Tony, in time Cheryl will pass the leash to her and you'll be the one sitting up when she comes home." His eyes shone in the glare of the computer monitor at my comment. Everything had to be a joke, a defense mechanism that keeps us in blue instead of orange.
"Ass douche." Juarez's comeback brought a chorus of quiet snickers all around.
"Since my company is growing stale and I am exhibiting too much of an example for your trainee," I stood, adjusting my duty belt. I unlocked the drawer next to Creed and withdrew a Taser X26 in a hard plastic holster. "I believe I'm going to perform an inside round then trash run. Creed, log Corporal Gavin checking out Taser number 4."
"Yes sir." Her pen flew across the page in a flurry of scratches.
"Creed!" Juarez barked and her pen stopped. "What you are writing in is a legally subpoenable document that will save your ass when you get sued, or condemn it if the defense attorney can't read your chicken scratch. The legibility of your handwriting is your legal defense, so treat it as such." I clipped the Taser to my left side for a cross-draw configuration with a loud snap to punctuate Juarez's point. Creed nodded and her pen became slower and more deliberate.
"When I get sued? Don't you mean 'if'?" Juarez and I just laughed at her question, Creed sighed. She may have mumbled something good-naturedly sarcastic, but I already made my way to the tower door. A few taps of the screen and Juarez had the door cycled open.
"Don't be a stranger, Corporal Bitch!" He hollered after me.
"If I got any stranger, I'd be you, Corporal Asswipe!" It's good to have friends.
The inside round went as quiet as always on the weekends. Pfc Rainey in A pod casually observing the graffiti on the wall by the phones and making notes in his little book. Big guy, red hair so short he looked fresh from boot camp. Rainey declined a Corporal promotion almost a month ago, recommending me instead.
"Anything new?" At first glance some people thought Rainey met the personification of the big dumb guy, but he held at least two degrees. He loved the job almost as much as I did.
"Nope." Man of few words.
I found Pfc Ashton in B pod, casually observing the inside of his eyelids. I chose that moment to spark test my Taser. A standard spark test consisted of removing the cartridge and pointing the device in a safe direction. I turned off the safety and squeezed the trigger. The loud crackling two inches from his ear reminded him of his duties. I'm pretty sure he called me a prick on my way out, but that was normal.
C pod seemed especially quiet, especially with the absence of Pfc Bellamy. His empty chair not a welcome sight. I keyed my mic.
"Bellamy, what's your 20?"
"Making a round in C2." Silence as I glanced up, then the well-known sound of a knock on a steel door. C pod held only two cells, but they were both dormitory style cells holding up to thirty six inmates in each. C1 on the bottom floor and C2 on the top. The knock came from upstairs. At the door I looked through the steel lattice window to see Bellamy's face, grinning sheepishly. He liked it here well enough, but constantly worked to get out of the jail and into the Sheriff's office. He looked around my age, but always seemed distracted and notorious for not paying attention.
"I really was, but the door shut on my while I was in here." He sounded a little afraid. In the non-violent pod.
"And you didn't call Control to open the door because...?"
"I didn't want to be made fun of." I cocked an eyebrow. I have to admit, we do make fun of eachother a lot.
"So you chose to be trapped off in a room with inmates instead of just taking a few jokes?"
"Control, Charlie two please." Bellamy's voice sounded meek over the radio, but crisis averted, I thought.
No male officers in D pod, so my round completed at the door to E pod. The trustee, I mean inmate worker, dorm held the free labor of the jail, all guys in for failure to pay child support or alimony, anything with family court. The memo in my mailbox read calling them Trustees may incite officers to actually trust the inmates, when we should never forget they are here for a reason. New nomenclature: inmate worker.
"Control, Echo pod door." The familiar muted buzzing of the electronic lock cycling the steel tab clear of the door. I reflected briefly on how much I hated that sound. It should be silent so inmates never knew when we came through the door, or at least faster. I let the door slam into the concrete wall with a bang, just to let them know I'm there.
"Trash run, gentlemen! Trash run!" A few blankets stirred, but nothing too enthusiastic. "GOD DAMMIT IF I DON'T HAVE SIX BODIES READY AND IN FRONT OF ME IN TEN SECONDS I WILL PERSONALLY SHOVE MY BOOT UP EVERY DENIM CLAD ASS IN THIS FUCKING ROOM AND CANCEL VISITATION FOR A MONTH!" It helped to be inspirational and put things into perspective for those who forgot whose walls they resided within. It is all in how you arrange the wording for accurate meaningful communication, said my interpersonal communication skills training manual.
Five minutes later, all hell broke loose.