Story Tales

Typing a report, I was the night Lieutenant’s clerk in Program. The Sergeant’s clerk warned, “Officer Story is reviewing a rules violation you prepared and he’s unhappy.”

Story had left in my box a rules violation worksheet, indicating while conducting a security check he had heard an electric motor. Creeping down the tier, he had peeked in multiple cell windows before spying a hanging bed sheet blocking his view. The cell’s light cast shadows across the sheet. Studying intently, Story had deduced one prisoner was tattooing another. The theme of Mission Impossible no doubt pounding in his brain, Story quietly radioed the housing unit control booth officer directing the cell door open. Bursting into the cell, he tore down the sheet and secured a homemade tattoo gun powered by an electric motor scavenged from a razor.

I’d reviewed Story’s multi-page narrative and reduced the writing to a few lines. Essentially, a tattoo gun had been secured and placed in an evidence locker.

Rules violation folder in hand, Story ordered, “Hunter, come with me.”

Following along, I noted Story’s nine service stripes on his uniform sleeve indicating at least twenty-seven years. At odds with his assignment as a sick relief officer, filling in each day where needed, a slot usually manned by rookies.

Placing the folder on Sergeant V’s desk, Story stated, “I have problems with Hunter’s narrative. I won’t sign the report.”

Glancing at Story’s worksheet and then the report I prepared, Sergeant V said offhandedly, “You can go, Hunter.”

“No!” Story protested. “Hunter chopped my narrative. Why?”

Looking placidly at me, Sergeant V waited for me to answer.

“The elements of Possession of a Tattoo Gun are in the narrative,” I said cautiously. “The gun was discovered and secured.”

“I wrote the act of tattooing not possession!” Story snapped. “Are you trying to sabotage the disciplinary process?”

I knew what was coming, and I really wished Story had let me leave. I had discussed the issue with the sergeant before I’d written the narrative. If Story had just written he’d observed tattooing, the report would have sailed through, but his pages filled with intricate details did not hang together.

Tapping the worksheet, Sergeant V inquired, “When you racked the cell door open, did the inmates ignore the sound and continue tattooing?”

“No. They turned off the gun and hid it.”

“What exactly were they doing when you pulled the sheet down and could directly observe them?”

“They were sitting on the lower bunk looking at me. I ordered them to relinquish the gun, and they complied.”

“So, you did not observe tattooing, only shadows.”

“I could deduce from the shadows they were tattooing, and I observed a fresh tattoo that I documented in the worksheet.”

“Do you have medical training that allows you to determine the age of a tattoo?”  

“No, but common sense . . .”

“Even if you had training,” Sergeant V interrupted, “you can’t verify your own report. You should have had Medical perform a 7219 evaluation. It’s too late now, all you have is possession.”

Silently, I had eased away almost out of the office.

Much to my surprise, Story accepted Sergeant V’s judgement, amiably signed the report and departed.

“Do you even care about tatts on a maximum-security facility?”

“The reason for the rule,” Sergeant V explained, “is to shield us from liability. If someone gets an infection or some other negative health consequence, it’s on them since it’s illegal.”

“If it’s only about liability, why . . .”

“Story has the right to report. The Hearing Lieutenant can decide what to do with it. Above my pay grade and no one cares what you think, Hunter. Stop quizzing me, go back to work.” He waved me away.

Laughing, I returned to my computer.

PRUNO

A few months later, I was stepping out of the shower preparing for work when I saw Twisted, a housing unit porter, pull a plastic bag from a cleaning supply locker in the day room.

That bag’s full of pruno! I exclaimed to myself. I watched Twister scamper towards his cell. 

Emerging at warp speed from the housing unit office was Story, I hadn’t known he was in the building.

“Stop!” ordered Story in hot pursuit.

Ignoring orders, Twisted slid into his cell dumping prison wine into the toilet.

Story followed Twisted into the cell, secured the two gallon bag that had at least a quart remaining. Plenty for the sergeant to verify alcohol.

Shaking my head at the antics of Twisted, I went to work.

Later, I received Story’s worksheet. The narrative was correct, the sergeant verified alcohol. I was puzzled Story had written Twisted and his cellmate, Zero. If alcohol had been discovered in a cell, the violation fell on both inmates. In this case, the alcohol was discovered in the day room on the way into the cell. If Zero was not in the housing unit, and I hadn’t seen him, Story would have to prove he had knowledge of the alcohol. I thought about talking to the sergeant, but decided to leave it alone, prepared both reports and Story signed.

After Twisted and Zero were served their violation reports, they got at me.

“I’m going to the parole board soon,” Zero said with worry filling his voice. “A wine beef will destroy my chances.”

“I saw Story come in the building,” Twisted added, “and I know he likes to search. I panicked, tried to dump the wine and got caught.”

“I saw the whole thing.”

“You know I wasn’t even here then,” Zero responded. “Can I pay you and have the violation go away?”

“No.” In truth, I could shuffle the papers away a half dozen ways, but I wasn’t entering in a criminal conspiracy with dumb and dumber. I can get in trouble on my own without their assistance.

“I was at work with the plumber,” Zero persisted. “Should I call him as a witness?”

“You’re putting him in a bad spot. He could be investigated for overfamiliarity and lose his gate pass. You might be written up for manipulation.”

“How in the hell can I defend . . .”

“Call me as a witness, I’ll testify to the Hearing Lieutenant that you were not in the cell or the day room.”

The hearing had to be held within thirty days. A few weeks later, I went to work and the now Lieutenant V, wearing brand new bars on his collar, was filling in for the night. 

“Hearings tonight?”

“I haven’t looked,” the LT responded. “Are any due?”

“Lane and Monroe have wine beefs, Lane is guilty, but Monroe is not.”

Leaning back in his chair. “Tell me about it?”

Lieutenant V sighed when Story’s name came up but made no comment except to commit to the hearing after dinner.

I got at Twisted and Zero.

“I’ll ride the beef,” Twisted insisted, “and say Story is lying about Zero.”

Dumber than I even imagined.

“Story didn’t lie,” I explained patiently, “he’s just mistaken.”

“I make a mistake and Zero loses parole,” Twisted stated hotly. “Story makes a mistake and it’s all good.”

“Story made a mistake,” I tried to school him. “You made a choice. You chose to make wine, you chose to take it to your cell. All bad choices.”

“If you had just left the wine in the locker . . .” Zero started in on Twisted.

“Twisted is not the only one making bad choices,” I interrupted. “You know he has an alcohol problem and still celled with him. That was your choice.”

“We agreed no wine in the house. Twisted broke our agreement.”

“You entered into a criminal conspiracy, got caught and want to complain about it. Parole is for people who follow the rules, people who do the right thing. Parole is not for people who are just trying not to get caught. Go into your hearing and accept some responsibility.”

“You’re tight with Lieutenant V,” Zero asserted, “he’ll believe you over Story.”

Shaking my head, I answered, “You have to understand the bottom line. Lieutenant V knows if there’s an alarm, I will follow procedures and sit down. Story will run to the alarm and save lives. Staff safety, backing each other up, is the primary consideration and trumps everything else.”

“So, I’m done,” Zero said sourly.

“No. Lieutenant V will listen and be fair. You need to tell the truth and accept responsibility. You can say an officer might be mistaken or there was a misunderstanding, but if you start calling them liars you’re through. Understand?”

At the hearing, Twisted admitted he made the wine outside the cell, panicked when he saw Story, and tried to flush it.

Guilty!

Zero admitted he knew Twisted had an alcohol problem but celled with him anyway. The alcohol had not been in the cell when he left for work, and he was not in the building when Story confiscated the bag.

Lieutenant V called Story into the hearing, and asked, “You observed Lane transport the alcohol into the cell?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you charge Monroe?”

“Monroe was not in the cell, but he was in the day room. He must have known what Lane was doing.”

Lieutenant V lasered me.

Subtly, I shook my head no.

Puzzled, Lieutenant V looked from me to Officer Story and then pointed at Zero. “This guy? He was in the day room?”

“Not him. Lane’s cellmate was there.”

“This is Monroe, he’s Lane’s cellmate.”

Stepping closer, studying, Officer Story looked confused but said decisively, “Oh, no, he was not there.”

Lieutenant V relaxed.

Not guilty.

I wasn’t asked a question; my sole contribution was a small head shake.

I processed the hearing folders and brought them to the LT for signature.

“You know,” Lieutenant V said softly, reflectively, as he signed, “Story’s mom might have to dress him, pack his lunch, and drive him to work . . .”

I grinned.

“. . . but he’s honest. If he stayed on his narrative that Monroe was there, I would have found him guilty. I would have known for sure that you were telling me the truth and were right and also have known Story was telling his truth but mistaken and wrong. I would have had to go with my officer. I know it’s not right, but that’s our due process.”

Twisted and Zero offered to pay me, I declined but accepted their invitation to watch football on Sunday and eat their burritos.

A few days before his parole hearing, a cell phone was found in their house, and Zero received a three-year denial for parole.

At that time, Correctional staff vested at three percent a year for retirement. If they did the full thirty years, they pulled their pin and collected ninety percent of their pay each year ‘til they passed away. After the twenty-ninth year, generally they’re promoted one rank, so they retire at ninety percent of their higher pay or just about full pay.

With just a year to go, Story was bumped to sergeant but continued sick relief filling in wherever needed.

As lead Lieutenant’s clerk on nights, I had Sundays and Mondays off. I always worked Mondays, but on Sunday I usually checked in to ensure everything was good and headed home. If there was a melee or riot, I was only a phone call and a few seconds walk away.

One Sunday, I was checking in and Story wearing sergeant’s stripes was manning the desk for the night. After about twenty minutes, I left for home.

The gaggle of guards outside the Program door monitoring the yard asked me where I was going.

My beloved 49ers were playing the hated Cowboys.

You need to stay, they advised, Story is a brand-spanking new sergeant.

“If something jumps, call me, and the lieutenant can help him out.”

“Story is acting Lieutenant as well. Remember when you started in Program. You need to stay.”

Years ago, my second Saturday as Sergeant’s clerk on days, the Lieutenant’s clerk went to a visit, and I was all alone. I could call in a clerk from nights for help but didn’t want to be that guy.

Heavily referring to my notes, I was writing the Daily Activities Report. Alarm. I went to the yard, sat down, nervous, sweating, fighting off panic while reviewing my notes on handling alarms.

“False alarm. Resume program,” the public address system announced.

Overwhelmed with relief, I fumbled my way through the shift without calling for help or being fired.

“Can someone unlock a classroom? I’ll stay and watch my ‘9ers there.”

The guards made it happen next door in Education.

After a while, a guard came, and said, “Harris is checking in.”

If a prisoner informs staff he has safety concerns, the reason is almost always because he has drug debts he can’t or doesn’t want to pay.

The captain mandated a procedure to deal with safety concerns check-ins, a protocol not written anywhere because I suspected it’s probably illegal. 

The procedure is to move the prisoner into an orientation cell. Personal property was inventoried and stored. After a day or two all alone in an empty cell, the prisoner is interviewed. The facts he relates better match with what the informants are telling staff.  If it’s drug debts, almost always the situation, he’s required to reveal his suppliers. If he refuses to talk, he’s moved out of orientation and back to his housing unit where everyone knows he tried to check in and bad things happen right away.

My friend, Rick, ran up a thousand dollars in drug debts. Phoning his mother as usual to pay his debt, Rick learned his dad  had a troubling medical test and might have cancer. The focus for the next few weeks was going to medical appointments not Rick’s debts, and the dealers were not really understanding.

Rick wanted to leave the facility but did not want to give dealers’ names. Leaving owing money was a problem, one he could solve by throwing money at it later. Leaving and informing created problems money could not solve.

An alarm sounded, Rick was locked into a cage.

The sergeant sent me to work change to write the narrative. Officer Cantu told me Rick was passing through from his assignment in the main kitchen when he heard the tinging of metal on concrete. Looking over, Cantu observed Rick already face down, proned out, hands behind his back. A prison knife had not yet stopped bouncing on the floor. Cantu hit the alarm, applied handcuffs, and Rick was off to the hole. Drug debt postponed.

Chuckling about Rick’s antics, I looked up Harris’ info and started to do a cell move to orientation.

“Hunter,” Story called, “write a captain’s agreement. Sending Harris to Facility D.”

No way!

I didn’t respond for a moment and then another. Finally, I replied, “Think the Captain wants him in orientation. If a move to Facility D is appropriate, the Captain will do that tomorrow.”

“In the absence of the Lieutenant or Captain, I have the authority to sign a Captain’s agreement.”

The Captain of a facility is like the captain of a ship. No matter where physically located at the moment, the Captain is in command and can almost always be reached on the Captain’s cell phone. 

“You might want to phone the captain,” I said softly.

“There’s no riot,” Story said scornfully, “no one died. Write the Captain’s agreement.”

Really wished I’d gone home. 

I wrote the agreement, Story signed. I made an extra copy and had a guard open the Captain’s office and left a copy on his desk with a note. I wrote I had asked Story to place Harris in orientation or phone for instructions, and he refused.

Early Monday, the Captain wanted me. Walking over, I accepted I was fired.

“Hunter!” barked the Captain. 

The Captain was a muscled big man, served in the Marines, intimidating. I tried to stay calm.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Do you have a concept of what’s going on today?”

“My guess is every dope fiend with drug debts saw Harris slide easily off the facility and you have cages full of check-ins.”

“We’re delaying yard and day room program to inventory and pack property. So many inmates going to orientation, we’re going to have to double-cell them. We’ll shutdown again tomorrow for interviews. The Warden is going to want to know about the sudden spike in drug issues on my facility.”

“If I hadn’t written the Captain’s agreement, Sergeant Story would have fired me and summoned another clerk.”

“Sunday, Story will be writing a memo explaining his actions for me to take when I meet with the Warden. You will be writing it with him.”

It’s my day off, the ‘9ers are playing the Eagles! That’s what I did not say.

On Sunday, I waited an hour for Story to write a draft that I could start rewriting. Nothing.

Finally, I asked, “You want me to draft something?”

He shrugged.

I wrote a first-person narrative from Story’s perspective:

Harris approached staff with security concerns and was locked in a holding cage. I attempted to interview Harris, and he was unwilling to communicate specific threats while housed on Facility A.

In the absence of a Lieutenant or Captain, I have the acting authority to sign a Captain’s agreement sending Harris to Facility D and did so in the interests of institutional security.

Sergeant Story said it would not fly.

You have to have wings and an engine for powered flight, and we had neither.

“Maybe if you change the font,” Sergeant Story suggested.

No longer fearing firing, I embraced being terminated.

Without a word or explanation, I went to my cell and watched my ‘9ers lose. Perfect end to a perfect day.

Thought I was fired but turned out no one wanted to do me that favor.

-The End-