Jailhouse Blues

I’ve been to jail. Not due to my bad judgement, although there’s been plenty of that. I was there in an official capacity, as a member of the Washington County grand jury. Like a twisted thank-you gift from hell, grand jury members are given a jailhouse tour and lunch for their service. Personally, I’d have preferred a nice fruit basket or scented candles, but you work with what you’ve got. In this case, a prison full of inmates.

The night before the tour I stood in front of my closet wondering; what does one wear to prison? I made off-color jokes to my husband about wearing stripes and orange being the new black, finally settling on jeans a t-shirt and tennis shoes. An outfit I could run in if I had to.

The morning of the tour the grand jury members gathered at the Justice Center to meet our tour guides, two female sheriff’s deputies. Both deputies were perky blondes who seemed to enjoy spouting interesting jail and prison stats as we trudged through the streets toward the jailhouse.

Most of the jurors looked as if they were being sent to the gallows. One complained about the amount of walking required on the tour, another complained that the prison food might upset her stomach. It was almost as if they weren’t looking forward the tour. Imagine that?

As we filed into the cool marble lobby of the jailhouse our group fell silent. Shit was about to get real and we knew it. Lining up like cattle, we shuffled through metal detectors and traded our driver’s licenses for lanyards. The lanyard signaled the prison guards that we were NOT to be left unescorted. I clutched mine like a lifeline, flashing it like a backstage pass at a Steve Miller concert.

After a brief video presentation touting the virtues of the Oregon penal system, our group toured the library, laundry facility and finally the kitchen. It was close to noon and the kitchen was swarming with activity as inmates in orange jumpsuits hustled to prepare lunch for over 500. This astounded me as some days I find it a challenge to whip up tuna casserole for five.

We were directed to a small metal cage at the rear of the kitchen, the perky blondes told us this is where we’d be having lunch. In a cage…in jail. Pretty meta, right?

We took our seats behind a small wooden work table and enjoyed the ambiance while we waited. One wall was covered with various clipboards, another with a locked knife cabinet. Keeping the sharp implements locked up; smart move.

An inmate who looked a lot like Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption scurried in with a pitcher and some plastic cups. He kept his head down and avoided eye contact as he splashed green Kool-aid into our cups.

I’m not sure what I’d expected for lunch; a filet mignon or a Happy Meal, perhaps? What arrived was a plate of beans and what can only be describe as “gruel.” One of the jurors asked Shawshank what we were eating. He froze, his eyes darting wildly around the cage like a trapped animal. He obviously didn’t want to get involved. “Some kind of ground meat and pasta,” he muttered before backing out of the cage. No one ate much after that.

After lunch our tour continued with a visit to the Day Room. A common area where prisoners could watch TV, play cards and generally socialize. It was institutional but warm. Cheery cushions adorned the seats and a brightly patterned carpet covered the floor. It looked like the carpet was capable of covering a multitude of stains. I didn’t want to think about the things that had spilled on that carpet.

As we filed out of the Day Room I knew I had to ask “the question”. The one my kids had insisted I ask.

“Where’s the hole?” I blurted out. The deputies stared at me, mouths gaping. I wasn’t sure they’d understood my question, so I repeated it. “You know; the hole, the cooler, isolation, solitary confinement?”

After putting her eyeballs back in her head, one of the perky blondes explained that solitary confinement is more commonly referred to as “Segregation”. The other deputy asked if we’d like a tour. I’d have rather shaved a baboons ass, but nodded anyway. My fellow jury members shook their heads and glared at me.

At first glance Segregation looked much like the rest of the prison. The common area was similar to the Day Room we’d visited earlier, but lacked any creature comforts. There were no whimsical cushions or Stainmaster carpet underfoot, just cold dark concrete as far as the eye could see. Concrete that could be hosed down if things got messy.

A glass enclosed guard station sat like a squatting toad in the center of the room. We were told the inmates were on lockdown due to a minor skirmish, and for our safety we need to be locked in the guard booth. One juror swooned and fanned her ample bosom. The rest of us hauled ass into that booth like zombies were nipping at our heels. The swooner padded in last and the door slammed shut behind her.

My stomach began to clench thinking about the words “minor skirmish”. What did that mean? Had someone taken a shiv to the gut over a pack of butts? Who knew what was behind those cell doors. This was Hannibal Lecter country. Men so bad, so evil that even their fellow inmates couldn’t deal with them. They were the worst of the worst. And I’d asked to visit their lair!

“If this is a bad time, we can come back later,” I offered. The two guards on duty looked bored and cast no more than a glance in our direction. Their attention was riveted to the video monitors overhead showing a live feed from each inmate’s cell.

A loud steady banging echoed throughout the chamber. I wondered if they were experiencing plumbing problem. Rats perhaps? Really big rats…with metal bats? My fellow jurors eyeballed one another, but no one spoke. As if reading our thoughts, one of the guards announced, “That’s a prisoner. He’s not happy and wants out.” My stomach did a somersault.

“You aren’t planning to let him out anytime soon, are you?” I asked, my palms sweating.

The guard explained that this kind of protest was a regular occurrence. If noise didn’t get the guards’ attention, the inmates often resorted to overflowing the cell toilet by clogging it with their prison uniform. As punishment they’d be stripped of their clothing, and given what amounted to a horse blanket. Apparently horse blankets cannot be ripped and stuffed into toilets. Good to know.

If the inmate still refused to cooperate, their food privileges would be revoked. Instead of three square meals, the inmate would receive a brick of gelatinous goo known as “Nutria-loaf”. Apparently Nutri-loaf met the inmate’s nutritional requirements, but lacked any semblance of real food. One of the guards told us that during holidays the kitchen staff molds the Nutri-loaf into festive turkey shapes. This seemed to delight the guards to no end, a real knee-slapper. None of the jury members laughed. I guess you had to be there.

Glancing up at the two stories of cells surrounding us, I could see faces filling every narrow window in each cell door. Some of the men glared at us, some laughed maniacally. One man licked the window (probably trying to get the Nutri-loaf off his tongue). And one inmate striped off all his clothing. I didn’t want to know what that meant. I’d had enough. I just wanted to leave. And more than anything I wanted a burka.

But a burka couldn’t protect me from the vulnerability and sadness I felt. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in our penal system. I believe people can be rehabilitated and lead productive lives. But a solid week of jury duty had taken its toll. For five days we’d heard violent cases that had curled my toes, haunted my dreams and generally scared the hell out of me. Every night, for a week, I’d driven home, windows down, 80’s rock blasting from my car speakers. Anything to quell the sadness. But the tears still came. No amount of loud music could stop them.

Most of us don’t want to think about prison life. We’d rather look the other way, pay our taxes and hope our criminal justice system works. My week on the grand jury taught me that even though I live in a wonderful neighborhood, near great schools with a Starbucks on every corner, safety is an illusion. Every community has a dark underbelly, and it’s usually lurking much closer to your backdoor than you’d like to think.

Our jail tour was a thank-you gift for fulfilling our civic duty, but it felt like something else; a cautionary tale mixed with a kick in the teeth. But perhaps it was a much needed kick in the teeth. A wake-up call. And after a week of hearing cases filled with rape and torture, maybe we needed to see for ourselves that the system works. The tour offered our team insight and perspective and a reality check that will linger with us forever.