“Hey honey, look at these children playing basketball,” said the women to her disinterested husband seated next to her on the plane. The jet was coming in for a landing at Bradley International Airport. “Connecticut is SO beautiful,” she said admiring the trees, oranges and reds and browns in a mosaic beneath the clouds.
Those people were in fact not children. They were prisoners outside for recreation. The facility, poised to become one of the nation’s top prisons, was already a leader in prison reform. In the near future, prison reform sweeps the nation due to international outrage led by European nations.
***
The autumn sun burned bright in northern Connecticut. Dear gambled through the wooded areas surrounding the prison; jays sung in the lush trees and hawks circled diligently overhead. The prison sat on a hill on the outskirts of Enfield, a bustling city busy with other prisons, community college students, and the burden of being a shining example for the rest of the world.
Warden D. Damien Grover sat alone in his office, typing away at his computer. He hummed the melody of a song, the lyrics long forgotten as he thumped his right leg under his desk along to the beat. He acted this way every day. It was his routine for the last year since Governor Walker appointed him Warden after the previous administration had to be replaced, and quickly.
However, today was not a regular day. It was opening day – the day for which Warden Grover had been preparing since his appointment. At noon sharp, he expected the arrival of Governor Walker, Mayor Rosado, and a representative from the United Nations Council on Prison Reform. For D. Damien Grover, today was a big day, it was the day, and there could be no room for error in execution. His retinue of department heads needed, in his opinion, constant reminders.
“If the day hadn’t been rescheduled by the UN, the President would be here,” he said, pacing back and forth, walking the line of department heads in the lobby. “You all know that today, we are on display for the world.” He made sure to make direct eye contact with each person as he spoke, a tactic he had learned after becoming warden. “And each of you,” he continued, “each and every one of you know first had the importance of the work we do here, day in and day out.”
The Counselor Supervisor and the Deputy Warden smiled. The Correctional Officer Captain kept his gaze ahead, the glint in his eye signaling tacit agreement and understanding. Grover eyed his staff, a motley crew thrown together with haste. He knew – or had hoped deeply – that in their combined experience, they’d be able to come together as a unified and, most importantly, competent prison administration. He allowed himself a curt smile and adjusted his tie.
“Warden Grover, I believe they’re arriving now,” said Captain Link, the only holdout from the old administration. Warden Grover had had many run-ins with Captain Link and believed him a fair, if not good, man.
The Warden spun on the heel of his black dress shoes to face the sprawling glass doors of the lobby. The loafers were new. In fact, they were the only new part of his ensemble, bought at Target down the road two nights before the visit. The black suit, he borrowed from a friend and the tie had been his uncle’s, and before that, his grandfather’s. Grover straightened the jacket of his suit as he watched the entourage exit the sleek white limo
Finally, he saw two figures he recognized: the husky mayor and the tall slender governor. He assumed the woman that followed was the delegate from the UN. She had olive skin; her eyes brown, but light, almost auburn. Her hair, a black that seemed to reflect hues of deep blue and purple, was pulled back in an austere bun. The governor and the mayor appeared to argue about who would have the honor of helping the lady from her state-sponsored chariot. In the meantime she helped herself.
Grover hurried to open the door for the delegate who’d walked ahead of the mayor and the governor. She smiled and nodded politely as she passed the threshold into the prison. Governor Walked and Mayor Rosado followed with their suited, sunglasses-wearing associates.
“Warden,” said Mayor Rosado, extending his hand. The mayor was average height and stocky, but not out of shaped. He sported more hair on his face than head, mostly in the form of a moustache that could make a walrus envious. His rosy cheekbones sat high on his face.
“Mayor Rosado,” said the warden, taking the proffered hand, “a pleasure to see you again.”
Mayor Rosado squeezed Grover’s hand a little tighter than normal and held on an imperceptibly small bit longer. Warden Grover took this as a warning of sorts.
Governor Walker stepped forward as if to grab the men’s attention. He motioned with is left arm to the woman beside him.
“Mr. Grover,” he said, his voice welcoming. Grover always thought Governor Walker had the voice of a man triple his size. “How’s it going?” he said, “This is Billie Blakeley, head of the UN Council on Prison Reform. She’s traveled a long way to see what you’ve built here. I’m sure she’ll be thoroughly impressed.”
Grover stepped forward and shook hands with Blakeley. The firmness in her grip both surprised and delighted him. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Blakeley.” “Miss Blakeley.” she corrected. “You won’t mind if I take notes for my reports?” Warden Grover smiled. “Not at all.” He introduced his trusted management team to the visitors. “Shall we proceed with the tour? What’s up first?” “That would be me, sir!” said Counselor Supervisor Westerlund with a smile borderline comically large. “We start today at the dorms.”
The group followed Westerlund’s lead through the lobby. Blakeley made a note of an inmate mopping the floor. They made quick eye contact before the inmate looked away, focusing on her task.
Governor Walker reached his lengthy arm out and placed it on Warden Grover’s shoulder as they walked. The gesture startled Grover and made him jump, causing the Governor to retract his long-fingered hand.
“Be assured,” said Governor Walker, “Commissioner Miller wanted to be here for your glory moment.”
“Why isn’t she?”
“There was an incident at one of our traditional facilities.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The Deputy Warden and Captain got into it with some inmates. You may have a few new transfers by end of day.”
Warden Grover gave him a shy grin, “By all means, sir.”
And on they walked through the unplugged metal detectors and the remotely locked doors into the main section of the building. Blakeley noted prisoners buffing floors already shiny enough to do makeup and painting walls a vibrant yet dull blue-gray. Together, the walls reflected in the floor created a grimness in the air.
Amazing, thought Blakeley, just amazing.
The group made their way down along hallway painted the same lifeless color as the lobby. Correctional officers greeted the group as they walked, passing entrances to housing units on their right and various facility officers on their left. Counselor Supervisor Westerlund came to a halt outside a door marked with a red letter: J. She turned to address the group.
“This is J dorm. It’s our privileged dorm.” She made air quotes as she spoke the phrase “privileged dorm” and giggled.
Grover and Walker looked at Blakeley to see her eyebrows raised in response to Westerlund’s joke. The men wanted to read her face and, try as they might, they could not.
“Shall we take a look?” said Westerlund and unlocked the door.
Blakeley stepped past the others and surveyed the living area. The dorm had thirteen cubicles lined along the walls, each with four sets of bunk beds. Inmates sat at one of four tables in an open dayroom playing cards or staring blankly at television static. Two corrections employees conversed in the bubble while a line of male and female inmates formed behind it. Blakeley felt the eyes, the sad pleading eyes of the prisoners pore over her.
She leaned toward Governor Walker and said, “I see the dorms are co-ed.”
“Yes,” he said. “All part of this man’s -” he reached our as though to touch Grover’s shoulder again, but thought better of it “- ingenious plan. Please, Miss Blakeley, address your questions to our esteemed warden over here.”
Grover sniggered. “You see, the old way of doing things included promising inmates their safety was permanent.” He paused and looked around the morose room. “After the switch, we still assure the same …but clearly, it’s not. We strive to make sure conditions are as similar to the old ways as possible.” He pointed out a few inmates. “You can see the inmates shivering. We still keep the air on year long and provide one sheet and one prison -labor blanket…” A prisoner walked by wrapped in his blanket and Grover cheerfully added, “sometimes with holes.”
“And we charge egregious prices for warm clothing while keeping inmate wages at about one dollar per day,” said Deputy Warden Williams.
“Incredible thinking,” commended Blakeley. “And this line?”
“They’re lining up to speak with the counselor.” Said Grover pointing to the man dressed in plain clothes speaking with the correctional officer at the bubble.
“But he’s ignoring them.”
“Exactly.”
Counselor Supervisor Westerlund cut in: “The policy is the same as before. The inmates don’t exist until you want to acknowledge them and -” she shrieked. “Eww! Too close.” An inmate had walked within a few feet of her.
“A little more about what Miss Westerlund was saying,” said Captain Link. “That wasn’t actual policy before the switch; it was just staff culture.”
“And with the reform, we thought making it policy would be best,” finished Grover.
“Grover here is a damned near genius,” said Mayor Rosado, followed by a deep, bellowing laugh. The group joined in laughing at the inmates.
Warden Grover exhaled a nervous chuckle.
“What’s next on the agenda?” asked Captain Link, taking in the mirth. The visit was already proceeding better than expected.
“That would be operations,” said Deputy Warden Williams and he stepped to the front of the group. “If you’ll follow me out of the dorm.”
Captain Link lingered at the back of the group and looked over his shoulder. He locked eyes with a woman sitting on a steel stool, her hair matted, her white t-shirt ripped, and state issued pants soiled with unknown stains. She staired with glossy, wet maudlin eyes. He nodded sharply and turned away and followed the group, catching the tail end of a conversation between Westerlund and Blakeley.
“And my goodness,” said Blakeley, “that smell!”
“Oh, you noticed that?” said Westerlund, smile bright as ever. “I like to call that scent: The Illusion of Cleanliness.” She giggled.
“The disinfectant is just lemon-scented yellow colored water,” called Deputy Warden Williams from the front of the line. “Left over from the old admin, before the switch.”
“If it was good enough then, it’s good enough now,” said Blakeley matter-of-factly.
Warden D. Damien Grover walked in silence as Deputy Warden Williams explained some operational intricacies of the prison. How they decided whether the inmates enjoyed inside or outside recreation with a flip a coin, no matter the weather. That was, of course, if they didn’t tell the inmates they were short-staffed and deprived them of any recreation. He’d worked extremely hard over the last year and Blakeley’s positive reception to his policies warmed him. Before the switch he’d gone a long time, trying and trying without any recognition for his work.
“Ah, yes. The balls are definitely flat,” he heard Williams say. “We have the funds to fix the equipment, but we’d rather pit the prisoners against each other. The rehabilitation’s better that way. Let’s get back inside – it’s freezing out here.”
“Aren’t you going to call them inside?” asked Blakeley, pointing to the inmates dragging their feet around a dilapidated rec yard.
A silence fell over the group. The department heads threw furtive glances at each other. Grover felt his face warming, his cheeks flushing. He opened his mouth to speak-
A high laugh broke the silence. Grover saw Blakeley laughing hysterically. “I’m only joking!” she said through shrill cackles.
“Did you notice we only have leg equipment? That’s because upper arm strength is considered contraband.”
“Brilliant!” said Blakeley, scribbling away in her notebook. The group started towards the offices. “I saw some people working. How do you assign jobs?”
“This is my favorite part,” said Governor Walker.
“Mine too,” said Warden Grover.
“We’ve kept the antiquated request system in place,” explained Williams. “The prisoners write paper requests for jobs, but just like before the switch, we don’t tell them who to write or what the jobs are.”
Captain Link said, “We employ something called intelligence control: tell them the absolute minimum – about the process, everything – until it’s too late to do anything to stop their job assignment.”
“They write the counselors asking for details, lists of jobs, which officers to write,” added Westerlund. “We mostly write back that they’re being reviewed. We don’t tell them what for by whom -”
“And sometimes we just throw the requests in our compost.” Said Warden Grover, motioning toward a glass wall through which a small courtyard was visible, the garden full of wilting plants and dead flowers. Scraps of white paper were scattered throughout the dark, dry soil.
“Threw…in…compost,” muttered Blakeley as she wrote in her notebook. “- Then we assign a job at random,” continued Westerlund. “Or the opposite of what they request. Just ignore their qualifications.”
“And if they refuse, they’re issued a poor work report, lose their good time, and get a ticket,” said Link. “Is anyone else starving?”
Blakeley nodded.
“Working with those in need of corrections is calorie consuming.” Said Westerlund with a tight, high giggle.
They reached the conference room and Warden Grover held the door for others, doling out ”After yous” and “My pleasures”. The conference table sat in the middle of the room. The floor was carpeted, and old red travesty that had been freshly vacuumed by a convict at five that morning. The warden had called for a resident of the privileged dorm to be woken up without explanation to clean the conference room, twice.
“So,” said Blakeley, placing both hands, fingers laced on the table and leaning forward. “Are we going to eat authentic jail food, the stuff you give the inmates?” Mayor Rosado gave a heartly laugh. “Oh heavens, no!” He turned to Grover, eyes quivering, uncertain, “Right, son?” Grover closed his eyes and shook his head with a smile. “We ordered Wendey’s.”
Blakeley sat back in her seat and frowned. “What do you feed them anyway?”
Grover deferred to Deputy Warden Williams.
We kept the diet the same: expired canned vegetables, lots of rice and instant potatoes. And never any seasoning. Before the switch, this diet kept inmates lethargic. We decided it’d be detrimental, a true disservice, to make any improvements. We did, however, place a calendar with each day’s meals in every dorm. He paused and looked around, scanning faces. “We never serve what’s on the calendar.” He laughed, perhaps to himself; a pat on the back.
The fast food arrived and they indulged themselves with large sodas, fries, triple burgers, and nuggets. A knock on the door interrupted their feast. Warden Grover invited the person in; it was an inmate come to tidy up. The man started his work but frequently stopped to watch them eat. Warden Williams noticed and as the man finished around them, he threw a nugget with a terse, “Here you go.” The nugget landed on the carpet and the inmate dove at the morsel, devouring it from the floor and was dismissed.
“Well,” said Mayor Rosado, reclining in his office chair and rubbing his substantial midsection. “What’s next? Are we done here?”
“I believe Captain Link wanted to show Miss Blakeley our solitary units,” said Grover.
“Sounds about right,” said Governor Walker and he belched a powerful, acidic burp. “Excuse me,” he added turning to Blakeley.
Billie Blakeley peeked at her gold Rolex watch and sighed. “It’s only fair. All the others did their song and dance, but I’m fairly certain I’ve made up my mind.”
“I’ll be quick,” said Captain Link. He rose from his seat and the others followed suit. “Follow me.”
Link guided the group to a staircase at the end of the hall with the housing units. That same dreary blue-gray covered every wall in the building. After years of working in the Department of Corrections, he thought he knew why. The color projected calm; it was non-threatening. It worked in conjunction with the food and mental and verbal abuse to demoralize and institutionalize inmates. The color helped break them down, make them feel less than.
“This is our cell block,” said Link. “We wanted a classic look and feel for our problem inmates.” He referred to the cracked cement walls, leaky ceiling, dirty vents and barred cells. “If you’ll inhale -” he deep yoga-inhaled “-you’ll smell the mildew odor we pump in here.”
“Such a nice touch. What makes an inmate a problem?” asked Blakeley. She lightly rubbed her fingers along the bars of the cells as she walked the corridor. “I thought this was a minimum security prison.”
“Make no mistake about it,” explained Link, “this is a minimum-security prison. Pre-switch, these low level inmates were treated more poorly than the lifers at max-sec facilities.”
“We decide what makes an inmate a problem,” said Grover. He pointed to the two inhabited cells. “For example, this is…”
“Robinson,” finished Captain Link. He examined the prisoner and her clean cell. A small black woman with a tight curly afro sat on the bed, looking out of a tiny two-by-two window, a makeshift wig composed of loose threads from old tans on her lap. “She’s an avid reader, so we placed her bunk where it receives direct sunlight most of the day. She hung her pants on the ladder to block the sun, so we brought her here. Harmless, but necessary for her rehabilitation.”
“And here, we have…”
Link cleared his throat. “MacDougall.”
“What did he do?” asked Blakeley.
“We just didn’t like his attitude -”
“Or his eyebrows,” added Deputy Warden Williams.
The thin lines of hair on the Hispanic inmate’s face shot up then scrunched in anger. Counselor Supervisor Westerlund giggled.
“- He was always mean for no reason,” finished Link.
“There’s way too much of that across the country,” said Blakeley. She snapped shut her notebook and looked at her sparkling Rollie. “It’s almost time for the press conference. I’m so excited for the future of prison reform.”
Warden Grover smiled but hung back as the tour shuffled out of the cell block. He listed to his staff explain other ways they kept prisoners in line: threatening whole dorms for indiscretions of one known culprit; allowing correctional officers to change rules on a whim. He knew well how these actions traumatized inmates, how they cultivated discord and distrust among those forced to become a community. Grover knew well those tactics worked. He took one final look over his shoulder and uttered a loud relieving sigh. He closed the door behind him.
Thousands of people waited outside the prison for the press conference to begin. Today was a special day – it was opening day and the Enfield Police Department needed to create a perimeter; they could not risk the safety of the public or the officials. The public knew very little about the prison and most of their “facts” came from online rumor mills like Facebook and Twitter. A reaction in either direction wasn’t guaranteed. At three PM Blakeley stepped up to the podium, reporters front and center.
“We are here today to celebrate the latest advancement in prison reform. After years and years of fruitless attempts to improve conditions for prisoners – better beds, cleaner and safer facilities – we’ve found the area most in need of reform.” She paused for dramatic effect and the crowd watched and waited in awe. “The people! No matter the conditions of living, access to phones, whatever material things – if corrections employees are abusing the system, their power, then nothing else matters.”
The crowd remained silent for a moment. Grover, his team, Governor Walker, and Mayor Rosado held their collective breaths. And the crowd burst into wild applause. Blakeley took it in for a moment, the adoration, before holding her arms above her head like a politician. The crowd fell silent for a cult waiting on their leader to give directives.
“What Warden Grover, along with Mayor Rosado and Governor Walker, has accomplished here is nothing short of extraordinary.” She continued with a sparkling ostentatious smile and exaggerated slow head nods. “A former incarcerated person himself, Warden Grover has ensured these prisoner – all former corrections employees from across the country who’ve mistreated inmates in one way or another – are subject to the same draconian treatment and conditions he experience at this very same facility before the switch. Give it up for Mr. Grover.”
The uproarious applause was short-lived. The crowd’s attention turned to a black and white state trooper’s Ford Taurus, sire blaring, pulling up just outside the press conference perimeter. Two officers exited the vehicle and removed two more men from the backseat. One dressed in a blue button-down shirt, slacks, expensive leather shoes; the other wearing a correctional officer uniform with gold accents and lettering, indicating rank. Both in handcuffs.
Grover’s eyes met those of the well-dressed man and he nodded in the man’s direction.
“Screw you, Grover!” shouted the man, struggling against both his cuffs and the restraint of the state copper holding him. “I’ll see you behind bars again someday scon! Believe me!” he tried to spit at Warden Grover, but the saliva bubbled from his thin lips and dribbled down his chin into his shirt, settling there in a frothy tear drop shape.
“Nice to see you again, Deputy Warden Willard,” said Grover.
“Former Deputy Warden,” corrected Governor Walker. The other man remained silent.
A giggle squealed from Counselor Supervisor Westerlund’s pursed lips. She clapped both hands over her mouth to cover her smile or to stifle more sound, or both. The state police led the new transfers to the entrance labeled Admitting and Processing, their gazes fixed firmly at their feet.
“Wow!” said Blakeley, turning to face the crowd again. “Real, live justice at its finest.” The crowd applauded and over the ovation, she concluded: “Let his experiment be an example for prisons across the world. I declare the first ever United Nations Prison Reform Correctional Institute and Museum open to the public.”
Like an angry tide, the sea of patrons moved to the entrance, eager to see first-hand the switch heralded by their great state of Connecticut.
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