I arrived at Corcoran State Prison in Northern California on April 4, 2002 at 5:30 P.M. This late arrival was a direct consequence of a scheme concocted by the transportation guards to parlay the ride into overtime; they drive at a low, fixed speed and make many unnecessary stops, resulting in a delay of two or more hours each trip they make.
This method is used by all transportation guards to secure overtime pay, as it is the only avenue to do so open to them, or at least that’s what they believe. It’s a game they have mastered over the years to siphon off taxpayer money. Indeed, this scheme is quite the joke to the guards who perpetuate it.
The other prisoner riding with me, an 18th Street Gang member who called himself “Diablo,” was taken off the special transportation vehicle to be released at the Corcoran bus station. However, Greyhound was obligated to reject him; although they were notified in advance of the parolee’s chronic psychiatric condition (extreme anxiety attacks), Amtrak was not. During the twelve hour ride, Diablo mostly talked about his profuse drug use, beer drinking, and hanging out with his homies at McArthur Park in Los Angeles.
We stopped at the Deuel Vocational Institute under the guise of a bathroom break, but this was only a ruse to enable the transportation pig to meet with some of the other pigs he worked with prior to transferring to transportation duty.
Despite being disabled and confined to a wheelchair, I was compelled to descend the bus steps in leg irons in order to use the bathroom, this after my desperation forced me to request the use of a bottle in the bus. The bathroom, located inside the Special Services Unit (SSU) office, required us to walk a good distance inside the building. The toilet was caked with grime, and the fat pig escorting us stood (unnecessarily) staring at our privates. Thoroughly violating and disgusting. Afterwards, in excruciating pain, I was forced to shuffle back onto the bus, and only in mounting the bus steps did I at last receive a little assistance from the officers–the entire process was a conspicuous violation of my ADA rights.
After we reboarded the bus, the officer issued us bottles of water, which he personally paid for as a gift we did not request. He claimed that a lot of guards at the D.V.I. were having liver problems as a result of the foul tap water. And, of course, our stop at the Institute was yet another procrastination device.
Upon arrival at Corcoran Prison, I was again forced to walk off the bus, and this time I fell from the steps. Though a correctional lieutenant and sergeant were standing mere feet away, I received absolutely no help as I crawled to the awaiting wheelchair.
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Two days later, just after breakfast, I heard a guard yelling, “Come to the door, motherfucker! I’ll spray you again, motherfucker! Get naked, motherfucker! I’ll close the food port and you can stay in there, motherfucker!” I could hear the spray being fired into the cell, while the guard’s verbal tirade continued. “Get naked, motherfucker! Show me your mouth, motherfucker! Your penis and your balls… turn around and show me your butt. Now squat down on the floor, motherfucker! Now lay down on your stomach.” I could hear another copious spray before a team of guards arrived to extract the inmate from his cell.
He was dragged out of the cell completely naked, surrounded by pigs, one of whom was holding the handcuff chain up behind him at an acute angle. There were also guards at each elbow dragging him in concert. Merely watching this was painful, and an observant eye could tell that only a smidgen more pressure would dislocate his joints or break a bone. As he was dragged past, his entire body glistened with pepper spray beneath the halogen lights. There was so much pepper spray on him that a shiny trail was left behind on the concrete dayroom floor.
Twenty minutes later he returned in the same naked, chemically-saturated condition in which he departed, with ten guards in tow; we could see heavy leather combat boots and limp toes. The cloud of pepper spray made its way into my cell, eliciting powerful coughing and sneezing fits, as well as mild regurgitation. I walked, disregarding the pain radiating from my herniated disk, as my lungs were burning for uncontaminated air.
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The first day, I was placed in an utterly filthy, unsanitary cell and denied access to any type of disinfectant or cleaning agents. Save for a half bar of state soap (which I was expected to use for showering, laundry and, apparently, cleaning the cell), I was denied everything but a tattered towel and three-fourths of a sheet. My medical condition was inconsequential to the guards, and in spite of repeated inquiries and complaints, I continued to be housed in a non-ADA compliant cell, completely devoid of handrails, a raised toilet, and other perfunctory modifications legally required in cells housing a wheelchair-confined inmate.
The obvious attitude of the Corcoran administration is complete apathy about the law. It’s as if they’re saying, “we’ll break the rules because we make the rules!” All this while maintaining the diametrically opposite position of ultra-strict enforcement as it applies to inmates. It was under this double standard that they proceeded to beat and chemically burn the aforementioned inmate in clear view of–and thus with de facto approval from–an MTA, a quasi-nurse with no more than an LVN certification who was, and still is, a Correctional Officer. The MTA failed to provide even fleeting medical attention to the abused inmate after the illegal extraction.
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The convoluted racial situation in California prisons is particularly bad for Black people, as they tend to treat one another as poorly as they do other races. If you are not affiliated with the Crips, Bloods, or some other gang faction, or if you are not 100% Black (as in my case–I am both American Indian and Black), you are effectively ostracized and usually end up dealing with Whites, Mexicans, or “others,” like Asians and Indians, to barter for canteen items. Unfortunately, this is oftentimes complicated by the tensions fermenting between various races.
In Pelican Bay Prison, Black and White inmates were embroiled in a race war, while Mexicans merely observed. Initially, the Blacks defeated the Whites, though this resulted in a series of retaliatory ambushes by the Whites, from which the Blacks generally fled. As Whites were considerably outnumbered by Blacks, they adopted a policy which required every able-bodied White to be present on the yard to fight the Blacks or else they would suffer retribution from their own race.
This cycle of violence continued for some time, only escalating once the Mexicans joined the Whites in attacking the Blacks. It was almost deja vu: these same sorts of tensions culminated in the 1996 riot at New Folsom. They continue unabated to this day as petty animosity and ridiculous factional rivalry.
It’s sad and disgusting that Blacks have this fierce hatred for one another. I’ve seen White Crips and White Bloods, but I have never in my life seen a Black Nazi or Black KKK member, and I am going on fifty years old! There’s more trust between Blacks and the other races than there is between Blacks and other Blacks.
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It’s just another day in the Corcoran SHU with Sirhan Sirhan only one section over from me, and from what I’ve seen, not much has changed since the scandals that rocked this place a few years ago. Back then it was standard practice to place known rapists (so-called booty bandits) in cells with weak prisoners, and Blacks were used for target practice by the tower cops. There was even a betting sport amongst the COs, who would set up fights between inmates in a pseudo-gladiatorial style, until it escalated to such a point that someone blew the whistle and a federal investigation commenced.
The atmosphere of arrogance by the prison administration and mutual corruption between guards and inmates was founded upon the prevalent notion that society at large is unconcerned with what happens inside prisons, as all inmates are cast in the light of brutal rapists and serial murderers (regardless of their actual crime) and the COs in the heroic light of a decorated soldier (regardless of the reality of his actions). In so doing, the public can’t conceive of endemic, system-wide corruption and human rights atrocities. This is reinforced by the minimal family support for prisoners, accentuated by myriad California Department of Corrections and institutional impediments such as restrictions on visitations, ambiguous and constantly changing mail-room regulations, the scandalous 45% penalty on all money the family attempts to place in the inmate’s trust fund account, frequent long term lockdowns, and so forth.
It is certain that this prison system will only become worse unless there is a system-wide overhaul by an external agency such as the Justice Department. This will also require either completely disbanding or severely restricting the prison guards’ union, the California Correctional Peace Officers’ Association. During Governor Gray Davis’s administration, this union swelled in size and power until it became effectively immune from all oversight. And because the CCPOA was by far the largest contributor to Davis, he and the socialists in the California Congress rammed through any bill at the slightest whim of the CDC. Lawsuits against the CDC were summarily dismissed by the corrupt socialist judges with whom the courts are packed, or they were settled out of court for paltry sums, which served to preclude reforming the prisons. The CDC admitted no wrongdoing in these settlements, of course.
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I am housed in 4A4L-05. The dayroom floor immediately outside my cell door is coated with a fragrant compound of dirt, grime, dust, the tacky remnants of spilled juices, molds, and various unknown substances. It has not been swept, let alone mopped, since I arrived over a week ago. The shower is not much better. What’s worse is that this is considered a “medical” building (more prison guard humor). The next section over, A, is filled with AIDS patients.
In the morning, prior to breakfast, I requested a spoon from Officer Love, a Black guard. He absently replied, “If we got any.” His tone alone made it clear that he hadn’t the slightest intention of finding one, though he had neither the integrity nor the balls to simply tell me so. Once the food cart had made its way through all three sections, I looked out from my door’s narrow window to see the pigs, one of whom must have weighed in excess of 400 pounds, relaxing on a bench while I remained spoonless. So, I took my cup and, like it was a 1970s jail movie, began to pound it on the door. I started to yell arhythmically, “SPOON!…SPOON!…I NEED A SPOON!” They did not budge.
The pigs know they have the inmates in checkmate. All the guys on the bottom tier are disabled, most being in wheelchairs, and they’re the most miserable bunch of bastards I’ve ever seen! Alarms regularly go off in A, the AIDS patient section. Predominantly this is instigated by cops themselves, who routinely harass the inmates by insulting them, making vulgar physical gestures, or giving away their sack lunches, at
times going so far as to eat them in front of them! The AIDS guys retaliate when possible by spitting at them through the vertical cracks in their doors. I readily admit, there is no one more deserving of spit than a corrupt bully cop.
On April 10th, I received a sack lunch containing peanut butter, but no jelly. I immediately brought this to the guards attention, going so far as to dump out the entire bag before him so that he could see for himself the legitimacy of my complaint, but to no avail. As one of my neighbors observed, irresponsible supervisors allow guards to do as they please, absent of even the slightest repercussion.
There is a racist guard (who is Mexican). He speaks in Spanish to my neighbor next door and takes good care of him on all levels. But when it comes to Black inmates like myself, he displays a conspicuous and intentional disregard.
The blase attitude toward regulations certainly extends to food preparation, as not one guard wears the required hairnet. Complaints of hair in food merit only a condescending “we wear hats.” This type of response applies to any sanitation complaint. The audacity of us inmates, expecting sanitation! How dare we! To expect law enforcement officers to comply with the laws they’re expected by the body politic to enforce! Damn that Magna Carta! Their answer is only the sanguine aroma of pepper spray.
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