Level III

Level III approx 8,000 wds Looks inside Texas prison from perspective of one who seen the transition from Jim Crow east Texas to modernization of the cellblocks. It conveys the beaurcratic struggle beneath the public surface as the agency learns to be keeper of prisoners after the change. Level III depicts a custody status within the system, the lowest levei of existence a human can exist in; even beneath "death row." .q~'CQZfiZ{ Level III Coats I; e V7 e IL I II I Reminiscing on second day... I had always thought of going to prison as the "bottom of the barrel" of life, that one could not get more incarcerated than prision. But I have found that in Texas there is now a prison within prison; the underside of the barrel. Prior to the dismantling of the pre—l980s era in the wake of Ruiz vs. Texas Dept. of Corrections, most of Texas‘ red brick prison units were named for Texans of Great Depression politics. Convicts also named the prisons. To mention a few of the 24 or so of the time, Eastham in Lovelady, Texas is "The House of Pain." Clemens in Brazoria, "Burning Hell." Ferguson at Midway, "Gladiator School." Coffield, the last of the red brick units, constructed by inmate labor in the early 70s, is the "Glass Castle,“ so called because metal framed glass panes were used as a cost saving design for a prison to house 4,500 souls. The old days were serious times when "Building Tenders" and "Turn Keys"? ruled the bricks under the guards. Those were the days of slit-eyed convicts speaking from the corners of their mouths. Talking and any reckless eye-balling was painfully prohibited. It was a penitent era of doing time when fear and wisdom were the only rival gangs, 2 As title suggests, BTs and TKs had authority over other inmates. Most kept the peace. There were bad apples. .2 - Level III coats without which, things could happen to a convict's flesh. Each unit (compound) was as unique as its official and unofficial namesake. A convict was worked like a horse, fed like a hog, whipped like a mule if he acted like one, but at the end of the day regarded as a man if he carried himself as one. Things were were simpler then. Time did not tarry. Prisoners kept busy with work,knew his release date, or could calculate it since the governing laws were practical and simple. One could even understand how to shorten a prison stay through programs of good—conduct time credits. Or he could do the time the "hard way;" day for day without good behavior credits. Not many convicts at the House of Pain or Burning Hell deliberately chose the longest route out. Liberty still had value then. However, sometimes circumstances demanded retribution which had the consequence of the hard way. And sometimes mean men from the streets, for the first time in their lives overwhelmed by superior power, the power of the State, learned humility was better than brutality and that civilization was indeed fragile and good, requiring a sense of virtuous restraint. Those were deemed "reformable." Fear is to a prisoner what a bridle is to a horse. Where there is no fear there is no respect. In prison worthless men crowed togather compare themselves. Each seek traces of righteousness within themselves relative to others, creating a hierarchical range of good criminals and bad criminals. Whatever selfworth one perceived, on that they displayed their 3 -- Level III Coats character. Those without any discernable self worth rated themselves according to images of "cool" they aspired to be like, usually tagging themselves with a relevant nick—name. One could be "Preacher" and another "Slasher," both equally respected if they could generate an aura of fearsomeness. Many mama‘s—boy—wanna—be—bad—boys deliberately instigated circumstances where he could look the image he wanted to portray. This is the bully category. Sinse respect was fostered from reputation, an unknown convict would get tried by someone still trying to establish his. The convict's freeworld identity was the tangible man, the soul society sought to prosperously punish into penitence. As an inmate they become something else, for without their true identity which the State took in place of a number, they had no real identity. Where there is no identity there is no worth. No worth, no respect. No respect, no civility. No civility, no reform. No reform, no breaking of the cycle of recidivism. Of course, there will always be those hard headed, slow to reality types whose blood had to ocassionally get smeared on the bricks before they could learn discipline and respect. Where there was fear and pain, something was getting done for civilization deterent—wise. P Now, the old red brick units are relics, mutilated by attempts to reconstruct them to fit the new laws of penal theory; as the newly designed prisons. Such laws remove virtuous restraints in the spirit of the Constitution. The result is the abolition of fear of State authority. Wisdom died lonely. Now blood 4 — Level III runs thickly in vain over the new grey cinder block and concrete walls. Since legislation has.done away with the corporal handling of antiesocial idiots, the new prisons are modeled as warehouses. In the place of hope of reform is pure incarceration. The cookie—cutter pre-fab prison units were tilted up like heavy houses of cards without the feeling of permanence. Built at a quicker rate than honorable statesmen were dying to provide names, corrupt politicians began naming the new prisons after one another. At one time State congressmen had resisted new prisons in the districts of their constituency. Now they scrap with one another to get a lucrative prison project in their realm, offering the State free land and utilities. The first things pardoned and paroled in the new prison era were the convict codes of conduct. The new "Offender" code is snitch first, snitch frequently. Fine print Offender Code; stealing, boisterous noise, gang association, homosexual atrocities, and general disregard for principles of moral integrity. Minding one's own business, doing one's own time, prohibition from drawing "heat" to others by one's nefarious actions are segments of the obsolete convict code. A new wave of youthful offenders has restocked the system, displacing the old school convicts. Without the Building Tenders and Turn Keys who kept the peace on the cellblocks there is no longer any lawful form of physical redress between prisoners and guards. The cellbocks are now governed by bullies and ‘gangs. Fearing inmates instead of authority, inmates have only ito politic with those in positions over a group. Right 5 — Level III and wrong have become relative to circumstances. Whoever prevails in numbers is right. Thus it is herd mentality instead of old school individualism. One does not have to stand on one's own feet to "make it" in prison anymore. Consequently, everyone is treated the same by an administration blind to reform efforts of individuals. Cleaved into the security of prison politics, a generation of conniving boys— the product of society's single parent households and treehouse clubs- roam the cellblocks like silent hyenas. These think—they—are—men have no idea what their release date is except "long way." In fairness, that is not all the fault of their crackhead mental deficiencies. A mosiac of laws regulating time served have muddled good—time conduct incentives. Ambiguity fuels hopelessness which feeds chaos. The prisons are spawning ground for racial conflict, rebellion against authority, a breakdown of personal discipline (drugs?), paranoia, and other things. The fruit of these are violent futures and perpetuation of recidivism. In fact, no longer are the majority of prisoners criminals in the original sense. Most are behavioral problems. And since the States have abolished asylums and mingled their mentally disturbed into prison populations, what eventually return s to society are mean and remorseless criminals. And somehow they demand respect, playing roles gleaned from their criminal idols. (Mario Puzo's The Godfather produced a crop of mimics, practically using his novels as their bible.) Beneath the facade of respectabilty is a phony sort of quid pro quo. This pretense of a baseless. plastic 6 -— Level III version of mob respect works well with ignorant youth who have no wholesome role models. To them worthiness is irrelevant. Indeed the more treacherous and ruthless the offender acts, the closer to actual respect he gets. It's hip to be stupid! This flip—flopping of prison protocols has rendered the new cinder block prisons, painted mental ward white or dead brain matter grey drives simi—normal inmates nuts. And when blood is smeared on these wall, nothing is getting done but a precursor to vindiction. Glory starved misfits commit any sort of outrage in order to be deemed fit for the herd; these easily manipulated are called "crash dummies." To deal with these in the vacuum of hands on policies, the administration practices psychological disciplinarian tacticswhich only works on those who are conformists to begin with. Therefore the system has created a prison inside the prison. Administrative Segregation, a.k.a., Ad.Seg. The bureaucratic response to 63.9 r ;C\o.:e ./9[—— federal mandate of physiealwfree discipline of warehoused inmates. A M hm-~i-fvfirt In Ad.Seg. the State strips thgxpunishable or correctable identity the inmate has developed. What becomes the Ad.Seg. population are aimless minions who have become crash dummies, _ kJ£.LrJY\"\»lQ«€x _ mean psychiatric out-pat1ents,Agangsters and their dupes, weapon keepers, and of course the rare escapee and sometimes administrative exiles called "writ writers." For 24 hours a day 4 days of the week these dwell in a single bunked 6 X 9 cell. An inmate in Ad.Seg may exorcise a rare choice of refusing recreation to remain in his cell, or dressing out 7 — Level III in iron restraints for the ten foot escorted shuffle to a 10 x 14 bared cage for an hour out of cell liberty. One hour out of cell per day is optional when one has earned Level I status. Until then he is deprived of all sensory stimuli in Level III or II. In Ad.Seg Level III the eyes are deprived of distance and color which would award the repentant mind. Part of the punishment and probably why most inmates in Ad.Seg. need corrective eye glasses after a few years. Doors galore! One cannot travel more than twenty feet in any direction in the newly designed tilt—up prisons without passing through "security containment doors or barred "crash gates." Steel to steel joy all day every day. Electric solenoids release lock bolts as guards approach’passages, controlled by tracking guard inside a central control picket, who listens on an intercom system mounted in the ceiling above each row of cells. Guards making a security round; Buzz (open)...Crash! (closed). Lights on. Ping...ping...ping of the intercom. After they pass through...Crash! Lights out, pinging ceases when intercom is switched off. As the guards round the square pod the noise follows, growing fainter the farther away they get, or louder as they approach. The mythical notion of silent penitentaries went the way of asylums. Ear ringing, mind jarring racket is the new era norm to go with odors of rust, urine, sewage, and guards‘ Christmas Colognes. 8 — Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats In prison for armed robbery (you can't get more American than the country's oldest enterprize), I made my way into the Level III dungeon as a consequence of attempting to exorcise the American legacy; liberty. It is the first day in mylevel 3 cell that has stamped my memory. When the steel door- with vertical slits for viewing pleasure- slamed behind me, graffiti marred walls immediatley spoke out as a phantom chorus to the Buzzz-Crash—Lights-Ping—Ping of passing guards and shouting inmates. It was a solemn, haunting voice insistent for a reply. Very soon, and not to wear out the canine analogy, one finds that the Voices are actually ass—sniffers from neighboring cells calling through cracks and seams in the rickety new prison walls. "Say,say,say 16 cell! Where you coming from?" On the surface the question seemed like a hospitable gesture. Breaking the welcome ice for new man on the block. But the tone said otherwise. It sounded like an intrusive inquiry, like, "Who the hell are you, who do you know, whatcha in Seg fuh?" And before one figures out from which crack the voices are coming, more questions come from different seams demanding response. Then there is my dilemma of how to answer a hostile voice asking a vague question, for one in Ad—seg does not come from far. Buzzz—Crash...Buzzz-Crash...BUZZZ—CRASH! dubbed over the quizing inmates who seemed to grow irate as if feeling ignored. An imposing urgency bordering on threats, though subtle enough 9 — Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats to smooth over with phoney respect if or when a reply comes. Ping-Ping—Ping...Lights on. A guard appears, a horizontal rectangle of face in the slit of the door. "Name and number!" One wonders if he is lost. Or lost some inmates. It was one of the guards who escorted me to the Seg cell only moments before. I perceived he would linger until I gave him information he already had in his hand. "Wesson,_Colby, 334584," I said, noting how quiet the section became. Ping...Ping... The walls had hushed, listening. And presto! The guard disappeared. BUZZZ—CRASH!...Buzzz-Crash...Lights out. "Look out 16! 16 Cell! Look out Wood!" said a gruffy Voice. "Seexteen cell. Go to da Vent!" sounded as if echoing from a can. Tap-tap—taps reverting from everywhere. "Hey, say 16!" came a softer voice, familiar in a hard prison. But the vent call offered direction. I knelt to the wire mesh square about a foot off the floor next to the toilet. "Hello?" "What they call you seexteen?" "Yeah. 16," I say. "No, no. I mean, what they call you? They call me Sticky Fingers. Where you coming from?" There it was again. The singular question demanding multiple answers. "General population. I was a trustee." "What they Seg you for, you anybody?" 10- Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats "No. I'm nobody. Just me and my brave, bare feet. They took my shoes." "Huh?" "Escape. They Seged me for escape. Took my tennis shoes." "Oh. Theese Level III. You can have no sneakers, 16." "Makes sense. In general pop I can have shoes to run fast and jump high. Locked in a dungeon I can't have any." "Sometimes you can git state shoes if they gots 'em. I got a extra pair if you want to buy them. I want 9 stamps." "What size, how can I get them?" "Size seex. I might can get a boss to--" "Say, say, say 16!" "Look out Wood." Both summons came from back wall. "Hold on Sticky," I say. "Stickeee Feeengers!" "Right. Hold on." My knees were protesting the rough concrete. "Look out, Wood!" "Say, say, say 16!" Being louder and persistent, "Say, say, say 16!" demands a response before subtle, "Look out, Wood." I hommed in on the Voice at left corner of back wall. "Yeah?" "Say, what dey calls you, ma'n?" Speaking into corner I said, "My name is Wesson. Colby Wesson." . "At what dey calls ya?" "Sometimes." ll — Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats "Dey calls me Triple 6. Wheres you from, man?" A frequent question in Seg. "Here, earth." "Whu-? Oh. I hear ya fool! Ha—ha! Me too." "Homey. I got my time at Ft. Worth." "Fote' Wuth! Funky-Town? I mean is you coming from GP? Whut they Seg ya fuh?" "Let's see. Yes, yes, and leaving the premises." "Crazy fool, ha! What you do dat fuh? Tryin'a git somewhere?" "Look out Wood! 16 cell!" "Excuse me a minute, Mr. Six. My other wall is calling." Sliding across the steel bunk, I aim my mouth to the right corner. "What's up, 15 cell?" Buzzz—Crash...Buzzz-Crash! Lights. BUZZZ-CRASH...Ping— Ping—Ping... Rap-Rap-Rap! "Wesson! Shower?" snarls a guard's rectangular face through the rectangle slit as if the offer should be declined. "Yes, sir." I was about to ask about a mattress and sheets and towel. "Be ready, you're next!" Poof! Gone. BUZZ—CRASH!...Buzz— Crash!...Lights out. My attention redrawn; "Look out Wood, y'ear me? You anybody?" "No," I reconfirm. "Nobody." "What they call you, Wood? You get food loaf? I'll buy it if you do." "Wesson. What's food loaf? I don't get it whatever it is " 12 — Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats "It's food loaf, y'ear me? What ever is on the trays that day all mixed up and baked into a loaf. You get on it for 'fiacking" or "chunkin'". "Jacking or chunkin?" "Yeah. Look out,Wood. Wesson, y'ear me? They call me Hexter, huh. You get any medications? Dan-Dans, Elavil, Bezelbubs, I buy 'em. I was getting Big Blues but they took me off, y'ear me?" ' "Yeah, I hear ya. What'd they do that for? Sounds crazy." "Man, these psyche doctors don't know shit, y'ear me? I'm CompulsiVe—impulsive Disorder. Not a psyche patient, huh. There's a lot of out—patients back here in Seg. They ain't got to treat 'em this way. Just hidin' us out, y'ear me? "Yeah. I hear ya." "I buy pills to make me sleep. I ain't no psyche patient, huh. But they want me to go off on these punk ass guards, u that's why they took me off my medication, y'ear me? I m with RK. Radical Knights. I'm a Captain, huh." "Well, maybe that ain't why they took you off your medication. Maybe~" "Hell it ain't! I done smashed the shit out of one of them psyches!" "They might be putting you on something else," I suggest, thinking strychnine inducedsleep, imagining he might be hooked on stupid pills. "They already did. Lithium and some shit called Something- zine, but I refused it, y'ear me? I don't like it. Keeps me 13- Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats up and fucks with my thinking." "Say, Say, say Colt 45! Colby Wesson!" "Hold on a second, Hector, 17's hollering at me." "Hex, y'ear me? H-e—x. Hexter, huh? And screw that bonehead over there. That's a pure piece of shit, y'ear me? All he does is jack-off on these guards. Perverted mother f-" "Say Colt 45! Colby Wesson!" "Let me see what he wants lest he start calling me other things." Sliding ahxg the bunk, switching corners: "What's up, Six?" "Dat go'n be yo new name. Tell ev'body Triple 6 give it to ya. Colt 45!" Flattered, I have nonetheless avoided ducking behind nick names so far, though I did not mention it. "Let me ax you sumptin. Yous a ma'n, 'rat? My nayba in 18, Killa Tom, say I'm wrong. Let me ax you a question. Whut wrong wid a man makin' love to anuda ma'n? Now, wary as I was, I appreciated the strength of steel for once. A quiz question, no doubt. Or a test. Or proposal. I decide to play it by ear. "Gee, Six. What's wrong with it?" "Yeah. What wrong wid it?" Now, I was convinced he wanted a positive opinion. Justification. I thought I ought not.mention that none of us would be here if nothing was wrong "wid" it. If I mentioned it being just a liberal perk- for some— in a secure, civil society, I was afraid I would have to follow up with other explanations which 14 — Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats might be difficult to convey to a 40 I.Q. as much noise as there was. Hesitation niggled him. "Whut wrong wid it? Whut difference...why it wrong to make love to a man but not a woman tha same way? Whut I mean is, why it not wrong to have sex wid hur but not him tha same way?" I had other things to think about. But I tried to come up with an answer for the wretched man, wallowing in guilt or lust, that would not tag me as a redneck. I figure he already had the answer he wanted. I imagined a hairy, hard ass bent and spread before me balls-a—swinging. I did not know about Mr. Six's past, but the idea was unappealing and I decided a neutral answer would beg for more philisophical inquiries. Eontrary morals are already a wedge between cultures. "Oh," I said, "Men fart, women don't." , "Whut? You damn fool, Colt 45! Yous a crazy fool! Ha- ha!" "A little old fashion, too." "Seexteen cell. Theese Stickey Fingers. Go to vent!" "Pardon me, Six." Crouching before Vent, "Yeah, Sticky Fingers?" My feet hurt from skittering over the concrete floor. A caffine withdrawal headachewas coming on. "Check theese out, Wesson. You read? You wanna buy some magazines? I got 2000 October Maximum, 1998 April Hussy, and TIMES. Two stamps each one." Something to read sounded alright for when I got settled in. I did not have any property yet. The guards relieved me 15 - Level III/ Punctilious Hypocritous Coats of all of it on the way to Seg, saying it would be searched and inventoried. "What's the date on the TIMES?" I did not have any stamps, but he might let me read it anyway. "Uh, July." "Which one?" I say. He says, "Uh, '99." I say,"History. I'll pass, Sticky. I probably read it already. I have some novels in my property. I'm waiting on the guards to bring it." "What property? Theese Level III. You don't get no property, mon." It could have been vent reception. Or Sticky's English. Or a sales pitch. I thought I heard him say I was not going to receive my property. "Sticky Fingers, the guard told me on the way down the corridors that he would bring my stuff later, when he got time." "Hey Mon, he ain' goin t'git no time. Dey bring you only Level III property. Chower shoes, toot brush,~legal work, that's eet. I got chots of coffee, one stamp. You want?" I was too nervous to fanagle a deal for a shot of coffee. No radio, mirror, typewriter, hygiene supplies, T-shirt, cup to drink o "chot" of coffee. "No