There’s something wrong with my stomach. Has been for a few days now, ever since last Thursday when I was told to pack out, I’m being transferred to a new facility.
This entire prison is shutting down due to budget cuts, so it’s not just me that’s moving. We’re all being shipped out of here.
Change is usually uncomfortable in the best of circumstances, traumatic in the worst. Our situation borders on the latter.
To make matters worse, our counselors are no longer allowed to tell us where we’re being transferred to. Just a few days ago, a fellow inmate found out he was being transferred to a prison he wasn’t supposed to be going back to and tried to kill himself because of it. Now they won’t tell us until the morning we leave.
No matter what happens during my stay here, I always call home with a cheery disposition, and do my best to paint a very different picture of what prison is like to my family. I don’t want them to worry about me while I’m here, but I think I’ve gone too far. My mom pictures me in a kind of long-term day spa that is full of top-notch addiction specialists and people that want the best for us when we get out. Like I said, I may have gone too far.
I pick up the payphone and call my family to let them know I’m being transferred. It’s a better facility, I tell them. I’m very excited about the move, I can’t wait to get going. I can feel my stomach turning as I speak. There’s nothing I can do, I’m state property.
I say goodbye and hang up the phone and run into a friend. He hasn’t packed out yet, one of the lucky ones who gets to stay another month. He wants to know what day I “packed out,” the process in which you box up your property and give it to the state to ship ahead of you. I tell him I did it last Thursday.
“You’re lucky,” he tells me. “What do you mean?” I ask him. “All the property that was packed on Monday was put onto a pallet and left out in the rain. Now it looks like a pile of wet trash.” People’s TV’s, radios, food, letters from home, books, everything ruined. It’s common to have property lost and damaged during transfer, but this is a new level. The inmates will likely not be compensated. Even to press the issue invites retaliation. Something most of us are personally familiar with.
The day before your transfer, the experienced inmate eats very little, if anything at all. If your nerves haven’t taken your appetite, the prospect of having to use the bathroom during transfer should. The one-piece jumpsuit coupled with wrist and leg shackles creates a logistical nightmare when trying to relieve yourself.
Your wrist shackles wrap around your waist and the jumpsuit has a front zipper at the chest. I will not go into detail but will say it is basically physically impossible to pass any solid waste during the trip.
Most people who have transferred prisons will have a story about having to ride in cramped conditions with the smell of human excrement the last half of the trip because someone couldn’t hold it long enough. One more thing to look forward to.
A friend of mine is on Suboxone and will be leaving with me. The day comes and he goes to medical to get his medication before the trip but is told that his medical records have already been packed. Without them, they cannot give out any medication. This is a problem because new facilities don’t give out “non-necessary” meds until you’ve been there for 24 hours. “Necessary” means life-threatening so he won’t qualify for a dose of his medication until he has gone close to 50 hours without. He knows that by hour 24 he will begin to feel withdrawal symptoms. They will get progressively worse until he gets his dose. He is pale when he tells me this. I don’t envy him.
The time comes and we are all called over the PA system, time to go. We are herded into a large cage downstairs, pulled out one at a time, stripped, searched, given a jumpsuit and then shackled.
Even if the shackles don’t hurt right away, the pain will come. Usually no later than 30 minutes and it’s all you can think about. The metal burrows itself deep enough to leave thick, purple rings around wrist and ankle. At least I’m not thinking about the move now. Getting on the bus, I’m struck by how little room there is. Both sides are lined with single-man cages leaving a narrow walkway down the center that leads to a twelve-man box in the back. It doesn’t dawn on me until I settle into the corral in the back that there is no bathroom on board.
Thankfully, it’s only a two-hour ride.
We pack in tight and shove off. A low hum of idle talk helps us take our minds off our situation but is broken a few minutes later.
“C.O.!” an inmate in one of the single cages calls out. We all stop and look toward the voice, wondering what happened. It doesn’t take long to see green vomit seeping out from under the center cage door. Oh, that’s gonna smell great.
The person in the center cage doesn’t call out again. He no doubt realized it was pointless; the bus will not stop.
Idle talk resumes and I stare out the tiny window. I realize how sheltered we are in prison. Seeing cars, roads, buildings is fascinating to me. I’m hypnotized.
“Walla Walla mean-face guys! Almost there!” someone calls out.
I can’t help but chuckle. It’s a saying in Washington state, reminding us to look tough when we get there.
We take the last turn and see the large security gate. We’ve arrived.
“Walla Wall mean-face,” I laugh as I say it under my breath. The gate opens and we drive in.
Two hours and fifteen minutes. I’ve had shackles on for longer periods of time, but for some reason, this feels like the worst experience I’ve had. As the bus pulls up to a nondescript single-story building, I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic. My heart rate quickens and all I can think about is getting out of these handcuffs.
We stand and file out taking care to avoid the puddle of vomit in the center of the aisle. I see the person who got sick; he’s easy to pick out because his shins are wet with bile. He laughs and tries to make light of his ordeal but still looks somewhat pale, a little green.
The shackles come off, we’re given a P.B. sandwich and told to wait in line for the nurse. She’s there to assess whether we need immediate medical attention. “Otherwise,” she says, “send a message to the doctor one you’re housed.”
I’m done and am sitting in a different cage now. I realize that most of my life consists of this. Going from one cage to another. It feels normal to me but, still, I notice it.
My friend sits next to me. “They won’t give me my Suboxone until tomorrow,” he says.
“Yeah, I know,” I respond.
Opiate addiction is something I know a lot about from personal experience, so I know what he’s about to go through. It’s not just physical pain but psychological as well.
I tell him he’ll make it through just fine. He stares at some faraway spot down by his shoes, barely nodding in response. There’s nothing we can do; we are state property.
Before our bus ride, we inmates had received a message regarding our transfer. It said that due to a statewide clothing shortage, we are to pack our own green duffel bag with the clothes we want to keep. We did as we were told.
Our housing assignments are handed out and we all stand and leave together. One line of 18 prisoners and one guard. He’s not there for security; even if we wanted to run, we wouldn’t get far. High concrete walls mixed with razor wire make sure of that. He’s there to make sure we don’t get lost.
The complex seems massive and I’m glad I’m not in front. I’d have to ask for directions and the less you have to speak to a C.O. the better.
Our housing unit is shaped like a giant “plus” sign with four arms connected by a central booth-type area where the guards are stationed. This way they don’t need to have a C.O. on each unit. Budget cuts come to mind.
Inside we are told to find our duffel bags which are lined up against the far wall. I see mine and pick it up but immediately notice that something’s wrong. It seems lighter than it should be, much lighter.
I set the bag down and open it. Inside I find not what I packed but brand-new clothing. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal but this time it is.
We were told we would get our own bags back and were encouraged to pack them. Taking DOC at their word, we packed personal shoes, hats, sunglasses and other items that we bought from store.
When we ask where our bags were, no one knew a thing. They hadn’t even heard of a “state-wide clothing shortage.” You’ve got to be kidding me. The C.O.’s were indifferent to this and, again, it is unlikely we will be compensated.
I’m housed in “F” unit, so I grab my new duffel and head in.
When you’re the new guy, walking into a new prison, there is always an underlying uneasiness in the air. It can be nerve-wracking if you’re not used to a room getting quiet when you walk into it. The eyes sizing you up don’t help either.
I walk through the silent day room and down the hall to find my cell. I open the door and find a short, older guy sitting on the bottom bunk. He’s bald and looks like he spent most of his time outside. He looks like a retired construction worker. I introduce myself. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Carpenter.” Ha! No shit.
I get settled in, unpack my clothes, make my bed. Then I head out. I need to know what the program is like here and the sooner the better.
Learning as much as you can about the schedule can go a long way. If you constantly have to ask people what’s going on, it makes you look dependent, weak even. Your cellmate is supposed to run everything down for you, but he is a first-timer and also just arrived. I’m on my own.
Getting settled in takes different people different amounts of time. My motto of “fake it ‘til you make it” works just fine. Just act like you belong and, all of a sudden, you do.
The next morning, I see my friend and he looks awful. It has been 50 hours since his last dose of Suboxone and he hardly wants to move. I feel for him. When the dose finally comes, he’s clocked 52.5 hours between doses. Something he wants to forget. I don’t blame him.
All-in-all, by the following week I’m settled, almost comfortable. My stomach is back to normal, I’ve memorized the new schedule and let my family know how truly amazing this new health spa is. Though I hope I never have to do this again.
The next Thursday, I’m in the day room playing cards when we see a line of 18 inmates, clad in bright orange jumpsuits being led in by one single officer.
When our unit door opens, we all quiet down and watch the new inmates walk in, green duffels over their shoulders, and I wonder how many people see what I see. Furrowed brows, set jaws and eyes slightly squinted. I chuckle when I see their faces. Yeah, they get it.
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