ANNE

The officer told me that Vince would have to eat and shower before being allowed to come to the visiting room. Eating and showering would take me at least an hour and a half, but I figured they didn’t linger over such things here. I found the lockers and deposited my car key.

I exhaled and was finally able to take in my surroundings. The visiting room was “decorated” in 80s colors—oak furniture with teal and mauve upholstery and grey carpet. All very run down. Not skanky, quite, but shabby. I looked around for interesting details I could write about in the blog but there were none. The only reading material was a rack with brochures about support groups for children whose parents are incarcerated.

And there are plenty of them, if this waiting room was any indication. In the half hour I waited, five kids under the age of three or so waited with their mothers. Four of them were black. Was it good that they were too young to understand? Or by bringing them to visit daddy in prison at such a young age, where they being conditioned to think this was normal and acceptable?

There was an elderly couple. They looked like they were straight off a farm. I wondered who they were here to visit—their son, grandson? Their name was called and he had to clutch his pants to hold them up while they went through the metal detector, since he had to remove his suspenders and place them in a tray to the side.

I felt a strong urge to stand up and yell, “I’m not one of you!”

I know this about myself: One of my defenses when my life feels like a pressure cooker is to adopt a smug, superior attitude to everyone around me. But I keep it inside my head.

It was quitting time, and a stream of employees came out as I waited, scanning their badges, waiting as the bars slowly rolled open, then skirting the metal detector and vamoosing for the weekend. Five or six attractive women came out and I wondered what they did here and why they would work here.

There was a bank of security monitors along one wall. In black and white, hundreds of men inside streamed from point A to point B. The perspective was from above them, and tilted at an angle. It reminded me of leaf cutter ants I had seen in Costa Rica, marching along blindly, down one tree, across a path, and down a hill into a hole.

My last name—Vince’s last name—was called over a loudspeaker, mispronounced as usual, and I shot up to walk through the metal detector. The wall of bars slid back and I was inside a sally port—a controlled entry way with glass guard booths on either side and sliding walls of bars on either end. The guard told me to put my hand under a black light so he could see the number stamped on my hand.   He escorted me through two more doors of bars, then I was in.

ANNE

Hello, I’m back from my travels and eager to write about my visit with Vince from a few weeks ago.

First, this photo is not Vince. It’s a photo I plucked off the internet of some guy wearing “Instant Weirdo Glasses,” a gag gift I have bought myself to give to nieces and nephews. But it does look very much like Vince with his prison-issue glasses, and I laughed out loud at my first sight of him, thinking it was a joke, then realized they wouldn’t sell Instant Weirdo Glasses in a prison commissary, caught myself and felt guilty.

Being taken aback by his appearance after not seeing him for a long time is kind of a pattern. I remember after his relapse after five years of being clean, when he had been MIA for months using meth somewhere, I found him in Lanesboro and was thoroughly alarmed by how black and bottomless his eyes were. Another time, I came home from Kenya to find he had lost his job and everything he owned, including his apartment and all his clothes, and he was wearing an old tattered snowmobile suit and boots with no socks or, presumably, underwear. At least the glasses were good for a laugh. At least he can see.

—

I had assumed I would cry all the way to St. Cloud, so I’d stolen a box of Kleenex from work and thrown it in the Mini. I left from work to save time, and yet it was still a six-hour undertaking. Two-hours up, a half-hour wait, two hours with Vince, then an hour and a half drive back home.

But it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. I didn’t cry at all. I choked up twice but I didn’t cry.

The first choke up was when I caught my first look at the prison. Picture the grimmest, bleakest, most Dickensian-style prison you can imagine, and that’s it. Granite is grey, after all. You see the wall first.

There are no signs telling you where to go but you can’t miss the main building. Yes, there are bars on all the windows. I had read and re-read the visiting instructions, so I left everything but 50 cents and my car key in the car, hoping my purse would be safe in a prison parking lot. The 50 cents was to pay for a locker in which I would put my car key, because I couldn’t bring anything into the visiting room, not even a Kleenex. Although I’m sure other people smuggle all sorts of stuff in, I wasn’t going to drive two hours and then get busted for trying to smuggle in a Kleenex.

I felt uncertain walking up to the foreboding main doors but with no signage it was my best guess. I was anxious that I wouldn’t be let in, even though I’d been approved, according to Vince. Visitors don’t get any notification from the prison saying they’ve been approved; they leave that up to the inmates. Not the most reliable communicators.

I climbed two flights of stairs and found the reception area. Before I could even think about what I needed to do next, another woman visitor asked me, “First time?” How did she know? She waved me over to a desk where I filled out a form, which I then slid into a drawer with my ID to an officer sitting in a glass booth. He did something on his computer. My anxiety spiked, thinking he’d turn to me and say, “We have no record of your visitor form being received.” But he asked me to put my fist into the drawer so he could stamp it with something invisible. Why invisible ink? One of many “whys?” I will not bother to investigate. All that mattered was that I was in.

VINCE

Recidivism, Up Close

82 days since court, I think. I don’t know how many days are in each month. Four days have passed since I wrote the word month. I received several letters from a few of my friends in various jails in various counties so I spent some time writing back to them. If you know anybody in prison, write to them. I can’t stress that enough. Even if you’re mad at them, tell them you’re mad! This is a place where we begin to fix things. We begin to feel again. And I can assure you we think about all the people that have been hurt along the way. But we may be afraid to write. We don’t know what to say or how to say what needs to be said.

Katie is back in jail. She was unable to resist the temptation, she got high. That leaves me in prison for no reason. I could have been out on probation, working on my problems from the outside. Maybe I would have fucked up too. But I was not given the chance. I’m pissed. I’m sad. I’m hurt. Yet I am numb as I have always been, to one form of betrayal or another.

VINCE

Rain, rain, go away. You’re fucking up my plans for the day. Today was going to be the first time I would be able to go to the ball diamond in over a week.

Last night we had another fire somewhere in the prison. They herded us into the cafeteria after taking away our flag time, yet again. They didn’t count us, which leads me to believe it was just a drill. It seems like at least twice a week they find a reason to take away the little freedoms we have. One Sunday night they locked us in because of “severe weather.” To all of us it looked like a standard light rain. To the COs it was necessary to tell us all to hide behind our mattresses. Of all the people I have spoken with, none so far have admitted to actually doing that.

Just now over the PA they said they are “conducting a B-level Switch In due to visibility.” That means they are locking us in our cells because they can’t see far outside. I can see outside. I guess I should have thought of all this before I came to prison, right?

—

Yay! I got my radio! I won’t complain about commercials this time. I’m grateful to my neighbor for lending me his headphones for that. Headphones aren’t engraved. I can’t believe Pearl Jam is classic rock. I’m getting old.

—

One thing about the second career that I have chosen, the one that landed me in here, is that I have lost some, if only a few, good friends. Many of them I may see during my stay here. Some, unfortunately, are in Sherburne County, the federal holding facility for Minnesota. I sure am glad I didn’t catch a federal case. They routinely hand out sentences of 20-30 years. And you do 90% of your time vs. 66% of MN time. Of course most of the larger sentences are from weapons charges. A lot of time is added to a sentence when a gun is used in the commission of a felony. I don’t mean discharged. Just present. Not even on your person, anywhere. Believe it or not, cops lie all the time.

A gun is supposed to be within reach of a person to be chargeable. A gun can be moved from a trunk to a glove box with relative ease by a cop. And when only a suspect questions it, they lose their lives through time served.

In my case, the police moved my wallet with $500 in it. I was in the lobby of the hotel, 60 feet away, around the corner and through a door away from where they found the meth. But they took my wallet to “ID” me. Then they took pictures of my wallet next to the meth. That way they could seize the money. I’m in prison. I’ve already been convicted and can’t be tried again. So I have no reason to lie, do I?

The fact is, police are terrible at their jobs. Not all of them. But if all police were honest and followed procedure, there would be a sharp drop in conviction rates. And we can’t have that, can we?

VINCE

I mentioned in a previous post that the tension was rising between the black gangs and there may be some gang activity sooner or later. Well that’s over. Now, because one dumb-ass white person used the N word, there is racial tension.

The most annoying person on my side of the unit happens to be black. This will change every week or so as people cycle through. He never shuts up. No exaggeration. And a part of me definitely wanted to yell, “Shut the fuck up!” but I never would have inserted that extra word at the end. It’s not my style. But I am white. So I am grouped in with the rest of them. So if he was loud before, it’s amplified and now he throws in big words like Cracker and Honky. He implied that all of our mothers like N dick. To that I shrugged my shoulders. Go get ‘em, ma!

For a Saturday night the unit is relatively calm. The day is almost done. The mellow methodical humming of the fans will become the lullaby that guides me to sleep. I will drift off into fantasies unknown and awake to the same day, every day, with only minor differences that simply appear to be noteworthy because of the setting. Only outside these walls does real life take place.

—

Sunday morning and the COs are doing cell searches. Including strip search. I wonder what they’re looking for. My guess, they have nothing better to do. They have never found anything harmful since I’ve been here. So they will use their “power” and take away our extra towels, then go home and beat their wives. Then go to the bar and brag about being…oops. I was interrupted and searched. My room was destroyed after they read the part above.

When I came back to my cell the guy says, “I read your letter. I’m gonna go home now and beat my wife.” And I blurted out, “I was right!” before he had a chance to retract. He was so pissed I could see his face change color. But there isn’t a thing he can do. Nothing was found in any of the 120 cells that stand tall in a giant cluster in the middle of the rectangular-shaped unit. But we are all aware that they are on the prowl. If any uprisings are planned, they have been thwarted for a least a couple days.

* The contents of this, and all previous ideas for blog posts, are entirely fictional. Any resemblance of characters or situations or prisons to those in the real world are coincidental. I do not condone or admit to any criminal activity herewithin.

VINCE

My neighbor and I got six days each for the radio. Loss of privileges is just that. No phone, no outdoor activities. Since those are literally the only privileges we have it may not sound so bad, but that brings our out-of-cell time per day to meals and medication. They cannot prevent me from going to religious services and, I believe, AA/NA. This’ll really show us. I tried to take all 12 days but they said no. The neighbor shrugged it off. I’m glad about that.

I did sign up for the library last night and I hope we’re allowed to go to that. Reading is my only option for in-cell entertainment. They can’t take that away, can they? I tell ya. The service here is a home run!

—

Back to my first arrest. I sat in the cold, dark, disgusting holding pen of the SPPD only for a few hours until we were all chained together and driven to the nearby Ramsey County Adult Detention Center. They crammed us all in one room, which smelled like hot dogs and wet dogs, and left us for hours. Every now and then they would call people out. Bring more in. But not me. I stayed in there the whole night. I dared not use the bathroom in fear of contracting a mixture of rabies and syphilis. I now know the reason they did not take me out. It was my first crime ever, and I was going to be released after arraignment in the morning.

After I was seen by the judge, I was released right from the courtroom. I don’t believe they do that anymore. I walked from the jail to the place I was staying, a couple miles away, and sat on the toilet for a bit. That was a helluva walk with the internal waste containers full.

Eventually, through the legal system, I was sentenced to one year of Project Remand. Upon successful completion of said program, the charge would be dropped to a misdemeanor, and I would move on with my life, felony free.

Yeah. About that.

I wasn’t really ever one for following orders or obeying the law.

The first thing they wanted me to do was go to in-patient drug treatment. Since I wasn’t addicted to anything other than pot, I surely did not need treatment. And I was kicked out in under a week.

I immediately called my case worker and told her. I was not punished for that, simply told to follow all future directives. I think I lasted maybe a month and I started drinking for the first time in my life. Alcohol is the easiest thing to cheat with because it leaves the body quickly. What I didn’t know was that alcohol leads to poor decision making. And I eventually started getting high again and not showing up for my meetings. Turns out they get all pissed off about that sort of thing and issue something called a warrant. The first of many throughout my life.

That first violation was a slap on the wrist. The second time, a few months later, the judge re-structured my sentence. He changed my stay of adjudication into a stay of imposition, and sent me to the work house for a few days. My new sentence gave me one year and one day in prison if I didn’t complete three years of probation successfully, which I almost certainly did not. Stay tuned!

VINCE

I got my last letter to Katie back in the mail today which means she is finally out of that horrible jail. I should find out soon if she’s free or back in prison somewhere else to finish out her term on her last charges.

I’m excited for her. She’s had a tough life. Yah, yah, yah, she’s made some bad choices. They didn’t affect you so keep it to yourself. She’s a good girl. And I truly hope she’s making good choices if she is out there. I love you, baby.

I learned a lot in one hour on the radio. Tomorrow’s forecast. Sale of the Century at every car dealership. Every day. My all-time favorite band is Pink Floyd. They haven’t put out an album since the 1900s. I believe they are all in their 70s. And they have decided to put out a new album. I mean…that’s pretty bold. If there’s even one song about world hunger, poverty, or something in the world being broken, let’s all get together and fix that, I’m gonna shit.

—

I have to complain about one thing. Although it is truly amazing to be able to drown out the sound of people yelling back and forth with music on my radio, the commercials are almost as bad. Carrier Air Conditioning uses professional baseball players, naturally from the MN Twins, to advertise for them. Comparing everything about Carrier to the sport. The service is a “home run,” and they’re going to “strike out” the old prices, and come meet the “rookie of the year” on the sales team! Get it? Do you get it? A home run is good. So the service must be good. But in all reality, and in comparison to it, a home run is actually very rare. A good season will yield 30, out of 600 at-bats. So what he’s saying is, five percent of the times you buy air conditioners in your life, you’ll get good service. Maybe that’s just how I see it. But I only looked at the facts. Fact is, I’m in prison. I shouldn’t complain, but I just did.

What I could say, and I will, is that the food here is a home run!

—

Fuck my life. I should have mentioned that it is against company policy to have a radio in your room if you didn’t purchase one from the canteen, which I did not. When electronics arrive they are engraved with the OID number and the offender’s last name. So my guess is my neighbor and I will be getting Loss of Privileges. I will find out soon. I went out only for five minutes to get my pill and I came back and it was gone. $17 that wasn’t even mine. These guards are assholes. I know I’m supposed to follow the rules. But I think it’s a little ridiculous. My neighbor has plenty of money. Wasn’t using his radio. And I have none, and he went out of his way to help out a fellow inmate. Well I suppose the right thing to do is take all of the LOP if they let me. He shouldn’t be punished for being kind.