Thoreau in a Week

American philosopher and essayist Henry David Thoreau said, “Under a government which imprisons unjustly, the true place for a just man is prison.”  I don’t profess to be the man Thoreau was talking about, though I do know the American Criminal Justice System is broken.  What passes for justice these days is not what our national myths about justice look like.  And prisons are too full of too many people.  America is a land of 47,000,000 convicts.  That is the number, roughly fifteen percent of the country, who have criminal convictions on their records.  Two million are behind bars with over half of those doing time for nonviolent crimes.  Another six million are on probation or parole supervision.

The “Land of the Free” is now the “Land of the Convicted”.  The cost in real dollars, not to mention lives lost, families broken, and communities damaged, exceeds $60 billion annually.  And that’s just the prison/incarceration costs.  Add to that the cost to prosecute (from arrest, arraignment, bail, hearing, preliminary hearing, etc.) and the real costs exceed $250 billion.  That’s a quarter of a trillion spent annually to arrest, convict, and lock up over one million Americans each year.

The system breeds corruption, graft and incompetence.  One need only read one chapter of Conrad Black’s memoir, “A Matter of Principle”, to see that the issues I raise in this blog are not unique to this Southside Virginia prison.  Every day, in every state and in the Federal system, the mismanaged, unjust, failed corrections paradigm is repeated. 

Each day this week, from Monday through Saturday, an incident occurred here which reinforced everything wrong with prison.  As I write this recap of my week on a crisp winter Sunday morning shortly after completing my run and workout, I can’t help but think of the Psalmist’s words of comfort:  “The Lord hears the groaning of prisoners….”  I have no hope in the elected officials of this state or this nation to do the right thing, the just thing, as it relates to the epidemic of unchecked incarceration.  I have the utmost hope in God.

Monday:  At dinner Monday night an old inmate was unable to stand up after eating.  His legs buckled, his head sagged.  He shook, almost as though he had Parkinson’s disease.  “Do you want to go to medical old timer?”  Two different officers asked him.  “No”, he mumbled.  What did the officers do?  They got a wheelchair and had another inmate wheel him back to our building.

College student, you ask?  No.  The “old timer” is a 67 year old man brought in here directly from the local jail to do his last eight months and go through “re-entry”.  He lacks a high school diploma (education level is 4^th grade).  He is hepatitis B and C positive and uses a cane.

He’s brought back to the building where he promptly rolls out of the wheelchair and into his bed.  Shaking violently, he is unable to stand for count.  The officer waits until count “clears” (twenty minutes) before calling for a wheelchair.  They pack his personal belongings up at 3:00 am.

Tuesday:  At 7:30 am we lose water pressure.  The water intermittently returns through 3:00 pm.  When the pressure fails, ninety-two men are denied access to toilets.  When the water returns it is chocolate brown with sediment.  The officers are instructed to turn off the washers and ice maker; “Don’t want to ruin the filters.”  Inmates are told the water is fit to drink yet carts are wheeled around the compound with bottled water for the staff.  After the night shift arrives – 6:00 pm – a memo from the warden mysteriously appears worded as though notice was given about the water problem in the a.m.  By Wednesday, the water has cleared.

Wednesday:  As we are walking up to the school building we notice all the yard men in line on the boulevard while two “drug” dogs swoop around them.  Looking to our left, we see another team of drug dogs with about ten officers heading into building 6A.  Rumors are all over the compound that the dog team “sat” on two guys in 6A.  Drug use, evidenced by dirty urines, is rampant.  The amount and choice of drugs available on the compound right now isn’t from visitors sneaking them in.  Quantities such as these require CO assistance.

Thursday:  “Adaptor Check.  Adaptor Check.”  It’s 8:00 am and the building intercom suddenly announces that everyone need return to their bunks and show their electronic adaptors.  A dozen officers and counselors swoop in.  I show my Sony CD adaptor to a building counselor and intern from the college nearby.  She asks my name.  When I give it she looks up.  A very pretty college junior, I can’t help but think my ex is her intern advisor and she recognized my name.  Tattooing – with homemade guns – is everywhere on the compound.  And, with the weekly turnover of inmates (fifty each week into and out of re-entry) there is a huge black market in electronics.

Friday:  The four academic aides are two weeks into keeping the lid on DVD porn smuggled into the compound.  Guys are getting laptops and then covering them with towels to take into the bathroom.  I wonder if we should spray the computers with luminal and use a black light to see what body fluids we’re being exposed to.  At the least, we are getting disposable gloves.  It is a moral dilemma.  You don’t rat out another inmate.  But, these guys could be jeopardizing the program.  We do what we can and make arrangements to disable the “D” drive eliminating DVD and CD use.

Saturday:  I have my monthly visit with my parents who drive ninety miles to see me.  My father will be 80 this year.  My mother will turn 78.  They are in excellent health and enjoy an active life.  My mother said to me, “I hate coming here to visit you; the pat downs, the loss of privacy….”  Her chin quivered and her voice trailed off.  I understand.  I hate that they have to see me in here.  But, I appreciate their visits and support.

My father is a Korean War veteran.  He and my mother have been married since 1955.  They have paid their taxes, voted in every election, and represent what this country stood for.  They sat silently in the courtroom when I admitted my wrongdoing.  They listened as the judge handed down a sentence harsher than most get for murder, rape or child sex abuse.  For the first time in their lives they saw that their nation’s criminal justice system isn’t fair.  It’s driven by politics and revenge.  Most importantly, my parents visit because they love me and know I am not the sum total of my conviction.  I think that’s why my close friends and other family continue to stay by my side throughout this sentence.

Just a typical week inside this place.  But, it gave me insight into Mr. Thoreau’s remark.  He didn’t say a perfect man.  He said a just man.  Perhaps there is a reason for all this.  Perhaps one small thing I write will make a difference.  Perhaps Mr. Thoreau will be vindicated and justice will prevail.