Saltine Boxes and Nonsense

It finally came around--"Lockdown." And for what? I'm not sure. So, last Monday morning--with just 4 days to go before the graduation and with a selected 10 guys in here studying like crazy to complete a national IT certification program, the security chief decides to put the compound on lockdown. As I've written before, lockdown at this level is nothing but a waste of time and resources--its money not well spent--to conduct quick searches of lockers and turn a building into total disarray.

What goes on? The officers come in and snatch any cardboard boxes they find--"contraband" they call them-- even though they are used to store pens, letters, everything we have that needs to be organized. And it pisses guys off--their stuff is pawed and dumped on their beds. Nothing of significance is found--no drugs, weapons, porn--that stuff can be easily hidden or flushed.

It's costly and it's wasteful and it accomplishes nothing. That's why at other level 2s the wardens (who have discretion to even hold lockdowns) waive them. But when you have a guy in charge of security who wishes he was running a Supermax (the irony of that is, if he acted at a Supermax like he acts here he wouldn't last a day) and you let him handle things, nothing good happens.

The officers get worn down; the guys lay around for a week, and programs--precious time for schooling--gets put off.
That's DOC--no one knows how wasteful and foolish so much of this is. It’s just the same thing over and over and no one--not the officers or the inmates--change.

Lockdown is necessary at some locations. Higher level prisons, after gang fights or deaths or stabbings, use lockdown as punishment or to find the remaining weapons. But here, that isn't going on. What is going on is a battle to get men ready for return to the real world. Only, it's a losing battle because the hearts of the people in charge aren't with fixing things; and therefore, the hearts and minds of those behind bars are still closed.

Why is it that this silliness continues? I'd like to think I'm wrong, but the sad truth is politicians don't give a shit. They talk big talk about being "tough on crime" and making people pay for their lawbreaking; but they don't have the foggiest idea what goes on in here. They create a political system that rewards incompetence with promotion and lets little prison fiefdoms grow; they pay little attention to actual programs that will help; they release inmates still bitter and resentful and lying to themselves about their own responsibility and need to change; and then they bemoan the fact that released inmates commit new crimes.

The crime is the way DOC is allowed to function without adequate oversight. The crime is the waste in lives which becomes generational. But what do I know, I'm just trying to find few new saltine boxes to pick up my letters and envelopes!

Lockdown Blues

After all the speculation, all the rumors, it finally hit. We went on “lock” last Monday. In truth, we’d been on lock the whole week before with the computer blow up. Still, lockdown – like the changing of the clocks in spring and fall – is a way in here to gauge the passing of the seasons. And, as with most lockdowns at lower custody levels, it’s more hype than help. Nothing meaningful – drugs, weapons, or cellphones – is ever found. That stuff all gets hidden or flushed with the first strains of the morning P.A. announcement “Attention, attention, Lunenburg is now on lockdown. Cease all movement.”

            Lockdown. Waiting for twenty officers and staff to come in the building and rifle through all your stuff. Waiting. Waiting. I got into a habit during the week of rising at my regular 4:00 am time. I’d do my morning scripture reading and devotions, meditate, pray, and write until breakfast. Then, after breakfast I would climb back in my rack (a nicer term than “metal bed”) with a book. I’d read and drift back off to sleep until noon count. I read three books that way.

            Lockdown here means nothing but time being stolen from you. It’s not that way at higher levels. Up there, you are locked in your cell 24/7. You come out once every three days for a five-minute shower. You also come out when they shake your cell down.

            Shaking down means something at a higher level. You’re handcuffed while still in the cell, then walked out the door. Two officers move through your cell. Everything is dumped on your rack and examined. With mirrors and metal detectors they search every crevice, every corner. Homemade knives, crack pipes, tattoo guns made out of electrical adaptors, all of it has to be found. They leave all your possessions in a pile and then they leave. And you are right back in the cell where you sit – and eat, and use the bathroom, and sleep – and wait, wait for the door to open and “chow call” or “rec call” or “school call,” anything that says normalcy, prison normalcy that is, has returned. That is a real lockdown. And they can last a week, a month, sometimes a year (like after an officer is assaulted).

            Not so here. Here we have the same routine without school call and rec. We even kept our regular chow schedule. The only “segregation” (i.e. keeping us separated from other buildings) was between the “shook” and the “unshook.” Tuesday afternoon – it’s always Tuesday afternoon for us on lockdown – and 4A was shookdown. We started at 1:00 and were done by 3:00; sixty-three beds (that’s right sixty-three. It’s almost spacious in here!) all examined. Of course nothing of significance was taken. There was a collection of cracker boxes – for some strange reason, storing things in boxes inside a locker is prohibited – and the resold electronics (headphones, CD players and trimmers mostly). And there were the extra shoes.

            DOC allows one pair of boots, one pair of sneakers, and one pair of shower shoes. And most everyone has an extra pair of something. For five years, I’ve had two pair of sneakers – a workout pair and a clean, white visitation and work pair. My luck ran out on this lockdown. They found my second (size 10 Nikes). They’re waiting at visitor pickup – no sense disposing of a new pair of sneakers! In a few months, I’ll order a new pair and replace the set I gave up. That’s how it is in here. Everything can be replaced.

            Friday morning we came off lock. But, school was still closed, the aftermath of the factory computer bust. Here’s what we know: eight factory workers were fired. Six received series “100” charges for violation of DOC’s computer security regs. All six – currently still in the hole – are being transferred. Richmond sent a team of forensic computer techs up here to examine every inmate-accessible computer. The factory computers turned up porn and gambling; the kitchen computers: music videos and games. The school – with the exception of the library – was cleared.

            Friday afternoon I had to go to work – special request. See, the GED graduation is set for June 6^th and I’m responsible for invitation design and mailing, and visitor lists. And those things had to get out. “Your computer’s been cleared, Larry.” I was told. I did my work and headed back to the building. But, all the while I had a bemused smirk on my face. Come Monday everything will go back to the way it was. They’ll give us a new “contract” warning us of the repercussions of violating the DOC computer policy. We’ll sign and we’ll be back at work keeping all their programs running. And the guys in the hole? They’ll be transferred and a year from now during the next computer crisis or spring lockdown their screw up will be remembered in a different light.

            That’s prison. Lockdowns come, lockdowns go, but the cycle of life in here goes on. The faces and crises change but the song remains the same, the song is nothing but blues …

Lockdown … Maybe

            Word is out that we’re going on “lockdown” Monday. The source is pretty good; still, we won’t know until the announcement comes through. Lockdown at this level – as I’ve written before – is a waste of time.

            Prisons lockdown for all sorts of reasons. You have a murder, an assault, or a host of other issues at a high security prison and you “lockdown.” At this level, lockdown is “going through the motions.” Everything stops – all programs, classes, and activities. And, we lie around and wait – wait to be called to chow; wait to be called to the gym to wait for your bunk to be called so you can go back to the building and strip down and then be searched.

            They never find anything – not here anyway. Any serious stuff a guy may have, like a real knife or cellphone, or drugs are dumped before the officers get in the building. It’s all form over substance. Oh, you’ll lose an extra blue shirt or set of sheets, but so what – you buy them on the yard after lock lets up.

            What is lost is routine. Guys in school who barely read or write and you work with them every day, and they begin to make progress and then “lockdown” and a week is lost and those students – those men who desperately need school – regress.

            Lockdown never turns up drugs. Lockdown never turns up cellphones. Lockdown just wears you down and increases everyone’s frustration level.

            Years ago at the receiving unit I went through a real lockdown. For four and a half days we were confined to our cells. Meals – Styrofoam boxes – were brought to us. Wednesday evening, my cell and the one to my right popped open. “You four are up for showers,” the C/O said. “You get ten minutes.” Shower and then back in the cell ‘til Thursday midday when our cell door popped again. My cellmate and I were placed in handcuffs and our cell was torn apart – that’s a real lockdown.

            The strange thing is, this vestige of higher security levels isn’t even needed at this facility. A former Warden here went five years between lockdowns. And, we now have random monthly officer shakedowns (two C/Os go through two or three guys stuff every other day).

            We’ll see what Monday brings. Hopefully, it’ll be business as usual with work and a college IT class. Or, we’ll be back on lock …

Shakedown Week

Almost everything in prison is routine.  Every moment of every day observed by someone.  Counts – six a day (midnight, 3:00 am, and 6:00 am in your bunk; 11:30 am, 6:00 pm and 10:00 pm standing); calls to “13” (the boulevard officer) that there are “four exiting 4A for personal property”, or “school” or “medical”.  Every moment of the day is accounted for and choreographed.  Still the twice a year lockdown/shakedowns create a stir and a discomfort in the inmate population beyond the normal day to day struggles guys face with a lack of privacy and freedom.

Our “fall” shakedown hit this past week.  For months rumors have been running through this place about lockdown and shakedown.  The new warden and assistant warden, it was said, were going to turn this place upside down.  “We’ll be locked down two weeks.”  “They’re gonna feed us in the buildings.”  “Every guy is gonna be piss tested.”  Here’s the thing about prison rumors:  you can’t reason with them.  Every guy telling the story heard it “from a guy who got it from the Sarge, or the ‘Lt’, or the maintenance head.”  For the past four months we’ve heard “Monday’s lockdown.”

So, this past Monday morning, as the diabetics filtered back in from medical at 6:15 am they brought word:  “school and work cancelled”.  A few minutes after breakfast the speakers blasted the announcement:  “lockdown, lockdown.  Lunenburg is on lockdown.” (As an aside, every message in prison is repeated “lockdown, lockdown” or “chow call, chow call” and at a decibel range near that of a jumbo jet).

And it began; the dreaded lockdown/shakedown was underway.  You know what we discovered?  It was the shortest lockdown in my three years of incarceration.  Being confined in the building for three full days is no fun.  You are locked in a basketball size court space with 95 other guys.  Everyone is on edge, trying to hide the extra bowls, shoes, and other stuff inmates accumulate.  The “dayroom” (our building common area) is full of card games, dominoes and guys fixing food.  Meals are staggered:  only one building at a time.  That meant breakfast could be eaten at 6:30, lunch at 3:00, then dinner at 4:30. 

Guys look out the front door and yell back “they finished in ‘1’, goin into ‘2A’,” as though where the mass of officers headed bore any relation to the shakedown coming to our building.

Tuesday afternoon we were called to lunch early:  12:15.  Twenty minutes to eat, back to the building and the announcement came from the booth.  “IDs ready; you’re heading to the gym.”  Outside the building 25 officers and staff stood ready with clipboards, bins, carts, and bags waiting to pour into our building and ransack our stuff.

We were led to the gym and sat down; ten pairs of bunks called at a time.  My cut-mate and I were in the first group:  “95 & 96 come on.”  Back to the building; ID turned over to the “CT”, into the bathroom to strip, squat and cough (you lose all sense of personal privacy in prison); get dressed and get matched with your bunk-mate to a shakedown team; you head to your locker, open it and watch while someone pulls out and examines every sock, pair of underwear, every scrap of paper.

Half an hour later it’s over.  Some guys lost bowls, writing boards, empty peanut butter jars. I lost nothing.  They saw all my folders and books and said “this is the lawyer, he’s clean.”  Then, out of the building and back this time to sit in the visitation room until our entire building was examined.

By 3:30 we were back.  I washed my sheets and blankets (you have to strip your mattress – make sure you haven’t hidden anything inside) and spent a solid hour re-arranging everything.  They pull it out; you have to put it back.

Guys griped about losing extra pair of sneakers, or three extra t-shirts.  They complained about losing bowls and sporks they stole from the chow hall.  I helped a few guys file grievances:  they’d left their laundry bags at the washers and their clothes were confiscated.  By 7:00, things were back to “normal” – whatever that entails in prison.

The sweep of buildings ended Wednesday afternoon.  “Ball courts only, ball courts only” rec call went out Wednesday at 3:00.  Fresh air and stretching.  I was back at work Thursday morning (classes – GED and college were cancelled for the remainder of the week).  As I write this, normalcy has returned to the compound.

What did the lockdown/shakedown accomplish?  From an institutional standpoint, not much.  No drugs or weapons were found; they didn’t even bring the drug dogs in.  Economically, it costs a fair amount to shake the compound.  Extra officers have to be brought in and shifts lengthened.  Does DOC have the money to afford twice a year lockdowns at low custody facilities?  Probably not.  The same day we came off lock the news reported Virginia state employees would receive no raise this year.  Low custody facilities such as this are not required to shakedown.  They do it because, well, it’s part of the ambiance of prison life I guess.

Another shakedown over.  Another strip search and disruption of our things, of our routine, completed.  I wonder how treating people the way we do when we lock them up helps to turn them into “law abiding” citizens.  Most guys become institutionalized.  They run their hustles, collect their contraband, lie, cheat and steal their way through their sentence fed by a system that perpetuates itself with dehumanizing the man without worrying about rebuilding his character.

Corrections?  Each shakedown, each lockdown, shakes a little more out of the foundation of prison as a place to correct and rehabilitate.

Lockdown Again

Lunenburg was on lockdown all last week for its semi-annual shakedown. At higher custody level facilities, lockdown is serious business. For example, Nottoway prison – about seven miles from here and which is a level 3/4 violent felon prison – has been on lockdown for over a month since the stabbing death of an inmate and an assault on an officer.



Here, however, lockdown is more like a parent sending their child to their room and only letting them come out for meals. For most guys here, lockdown is viewed as a vacation, a chance to get out of work for a few days, catch up on sleep, TV, and reading. Other than the actual search of your things, it’s a pretty boring week interspersed by the occasional fist fight that breaks out as a result of 96 guys being crammed together without break for four straight days.


As I reported last spring, everyone knows lockdown is coming. Much like moving the clocks forward and back, lockdown comes in spring and fall. The concept is this: eliminate all unnecessary movement of inmates around the compound, then swoop in with a large mass of officers and search every building for drugs, weapons and contraband. In theory, it’s a necessary component to the effective maintenance of security and order at the prison. In practice, it’s a joke.


At 7:45 am last Monday morning, the intercom announced “cease all inmate movement. Lunenburg is on lockdown until further word”. Within ten minutes of the announcement a pile of blue state shirts and jeans appeared along with dozens of towels, sheets and pillowcases. Then, inmates began hiding plastic knives (used for cooking) and extra shoes (inmates are limited to one pair of boots, one pair of sneakers and one pair of shower shoes).


There are thirteen housing units that are in use here. There is a vocational education building; a maintenance shop, two chow halls, two kitchens, a staff dining room, an enterprise factory, a medical unit, a programs building holding four classrooms, a library, a law library, barbershop, school and psychologist office, gym and visitation room, as well as two large rec yards. Every one of those areas needs searching during a shakedown. Even with extra staff working overtime, there is a limit to what can be searched in one day. During this shakedown three housing units a day were searched.


My building went through “shakedown” on Tuesday morning. We were led up to the visitation room after passing by the drug dogs. The dogs then pass through the building (no drugs were detected). Inmates are then called back ten at a time (five sets of cut mates) for individual shakedown.


You are taken into the bathroom and undergo a strip search. Following getting dressed, inmates (by cut) are assigned two officers that actually go through your things, and a third officer to keep records.


In my case, I was assigned the chief investigator for the compound. Being mildly OCD has its benefits. All of my property is organized. I have numerous file folders set up with paperwork, including receipts for every purchase I’ve ever made during my incarceration.


The investigator picked up a few things, looked at me with a smile and said “You’re that lawyer here. I know there’s nothing in here to worry about”. He then made me toss out two empty peanut butter jars. That was it.


The big “contraband” item found was 53 televisions inmates left behind for friends who didn’t own their own set. All electronics are engraved with your inmate name and number. DOC prohibits inmates from giving or receiving anything from another inmate. In principle, the policy makes sense. You never want to be indebted to another man in the penitentiary. But, as a practical matter, guys look out for their “stick men” (friends).


Friday at lunch, “lockdown” ended. I headed outside for a nice run. Six more months and the whole process starts again. I can’t wait!