Caged to Kill

by Tom Swyers

  At Kranston, every surface was metal, concrete, or brick. Nothing served to absorb the endless ricochet of sound except thin mattresses and the bodies of inmates. When the screams didn’t echo down the hallways, there was a constant buzz of distant voices—sometimes whispers. The noise would ebb and flow like a constant aural tide, washed over now and then by the sound track of prison life—keys jingling, locks clicking, hinges creaking.

  Now, in the absence of that sea of noise, he clung to his transistor radio like his life depended on it. Soon, the calm strains of Strauss and Debussy on the evening music show put Phillip into a deep sleep.

  Initially, Phillip had hoped his nightmares would fade after he left prison. But he could not have been more mistaken. He could deal with the old, established ones because it was like watching reruns of a familiar horror show. Over time he had grown somewhat numb to them. But these new nightmares were vivid, intense, and vastly different. It was like his brain sprung a jailbreak, which made anything and everything—no matter how bizarre—fair game.

  Phillip’s dream took him back to Kranston. Court was now in session. He found himself back in the hearing room where he was months ago. He sat alone at the single table bolted to the floor, wearing a hunter green jumpsuit—a pair of prison flyers on his feet—decked out in full jewelry; a waist chain, ankle shackles, and handcuffs.

  Unlike the hearings before the solitary confinement committee, Phillip could attend his disciplinary hearings. But, as a prisoner, he wasn’t entitled to legal counsel. He was on his own. Advantage: the system.

  A CO guarded the door from the inside. When the judge entered, the CO said, “All rise.”

  Leon Wolack entered the room dressed in a pair of wrinkled navy blue Dockers and an open collar, powder blue dress shirt worn white at the elbows. It wasn’t a casual workday. His stomach covered his belt buckle. They officially called him a hearing officer because calling him a judge suggested he had a legal education and license to practice law. Leon Wolack had neither, but he required inmates to address him as “judge” or “your honor” in his room.

  When there was an opening for the hearing officer job five years ago, Kranston’s superintendent, Martin Kleinschmit, could appoint anyone he wanted to the position. When Leon’s father, John—a twenty-five-year veteran CO at Kranston and an area sergeant—got wind of the opening, he made a call to Kleinschmit, his former bunkmate at the academy. John wanted a better deal for his son, who was a CO there at the time. Better for his son meant he would get away from the inmates and slide into some desk job. The old pals struck a deal. Leon could transfer from his CO job to the hearing officer position on the condition that he enroll in an online college degree program with a major in criminal justice from the State University of New York at Delhi. It irked Leon’s father that some cons received college credits, even degrees, from behind bars at his expense as a taxpayer, while he personally had to foot his son’s tuition bill.

  “It’s you again,” Wolack said to Phillip.

  Phillip wondered who else Wolack might expect to see since he held his case file. But he bit his tongue. “Yes, it’s me, Judge Wolack.”

  “I would have thought you might have gotten the message by now.”

  Phillip knew Wolack was trying to yank his chain. Wolack wanted to get him riled up before he turned on his tape recorder. A stark raving mad Phillip giving recorded testimony would make his job easier. “I’m here to exhaust my administrative remedies, Judge Wolack.” That’s what the prison aid lawyer said to do, the last time she visited Phillip five years ago: exhaust his administrative remedies in the prison system so he could take his appeal to the courts.

  Wolack nodded. He could sense that Phillip was focused today. It was the sixth time he had heard one of Phillip’s misbehavior ticket appeals. Still, he needed to probe to see if he could get Phillip to bug out on the record. It was part of the game. “Suit yourself.”

  Leon Wolack pulled out his state-issued, standard cassette tape recorder—the same type of recorder used in disciplinary hearings ever since Phillip could remember. Wolack clicked the button to record and the faint hum of the recorder filled the room. The cassette clicked with each revolution of the tape.

  “This is a tier three disciplinary hearing,” Wolack said. New York has three tiers of hearing with the third tier reserved for the most serious allegations, subject to the most severe punishment. “My name is Mr. Leon Wolack and I have been directed and authorized by Superintendent Kleinschmit to conduct this hearing. State your name and department identification number for the record.”

  “Phillip Dawkins, 85C1015.”

  “Inmate Dawkins, you may call witnesses on your behalf at this hearing. Nothing said by you in response to the charge pertaining to this misbehavior report shall be used against you in any criminal procedure. You should present any oral and documentary evidence that you wish to be considered by me. Any procedural objections, claims, defenses should be made promptly during this hearing so that may be considered by me. Do you understand your rights and obligations?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “The charge is a violation of rule 113.15 which covers unauthorized exchange between prisoners. I will now read the misbehavior report into the record. ‘On the above date and approximate time, I was providing security coverage for the morning recreation run when I observed inmate Dawkins, 85C1015, pass an unknown object to inmate Jones, 98A5420, through the cage bars. Both inmates were pat frisked and metal scanned prior to entering their separate recreation cages. This indicates that inmate Dawkins must have secreted the object on his person before passing it to Jones. I reported it to my supervisor and continued my duties.’ That’s it. How do you plead to the charge of violating 113.15 by participating in an unauthorized exchange?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “What do you have to say in your defense?”

  “First off, I don’t know the CO who wrote the ticket.”

  “You don’t have to know him in order for it to be a valid ticket.”

  “I was presented with the ticket five days after the date of the alleged incident by another CO.”

  “So . . ..”

  “So, why wasn’t I given the ticket the day after the alleged incident? That’s the usual practice.”

  “Maybe because they were busy doing something else.”

  “In all my years in the system, I’ve never been given a ticket five days after it supposedly happened.”

  “It happens. Do you think at the time of the riot in Attica, the inmates got their tickets in a timely fashion?”

  “Judge, I don’t think Kranston had a prison riot that day. I think that time lapse suggests that it isn’t a valid ticket.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you what really happened. I walked into the cage and Jonesy was in the cage next to me already.”

  “Inmate Jones or Officer Jones?”

  “Inmate Jones. CO Jones wasn’t on duty that day from what I can remember.”

  “Okay.”

  “I went into the cage, a CO uncuffed me, and Jonesy said to me, ‘What’s up?’ I said, ‘What’s up?’ He stuck two fingers—ring and index—through the bars and I walked over to tap them with my fingers. That’s it. That’s all I did. We’ve been tapping fingers like that forever. I do it with other inmates too. I don’t recall the face of the CO who wrote me the ticket. Some other inmates told me he was new. Maybe he didn’t know that’s how we greet one another here.”

  “He said he saw you pass something.”

  “He said he frisked me before entering the cage. I took my sneakers and socks off and he checked them out. He passed a wand over me. How did I get it by him?”

  “He didn’t strip frisk you. Maybe you had it tucked between your butt cheeks or in your crotch?”

  “Assuming that I did, though I didn’t, why would I pass something to Jonesy in plain view of the CO? Why would I bring this ticket upon myself?”

  “I don’t k
now why cons do what they do. Motivation is irrelevant.”

  “I can’t speak for any other inmate, but my motivation is very relevant to me. I’ve fought every ticket I’ve received over the past five years and won eventually in the courts, if the state doesn’t fold first. My record is very important to me. A clean record is the only chance I have of getting out of the box back into the general population. So if that’s my motivation, why would I do something so stupid in front of that CO?”

  “The CO saw what he saw.”

  “Well, where is it then? Where is the thing I allegedly passed to Jonesy?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Exactly, because it didn’t exist. The rules say that if there’s a violation, the exercise period will be terminated, and a misbehavior report will be issued. The rec period wasn’t terminated. I got my ticket five days later.”

  “Anything else?”

  “After rec, I left the cage at the same time Jonesy left his. He wasn’t strip searched. Neither was I.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “If they saw something, they are supposed to strip search us. The CO said he saw me pass something, so why were we only pat frisked? Anyway, if I handed something off, where is it? Why wasn’t it recovered? If so, where is that something? What happened to the evidence?”

  “Is that it?”

  “No, there must be substantial evidence to find me guilty of a rule violation. If you don’t have anything, this case should be dismissed.”

  “I have the CO’s misbehavior report. That’s all I need.”

  “That’s insufficient. Where is the CO who wrote it? I indicated on the forms I filled out that I wanted to call him as a witness. I want to call Jonesy too.”

  “They’re coming.”

  “I also want the video surveillance tape for the rec cages that day. It will show all I did was tap fingers with Jonesy. There’s no rule against us tapping fingers.”

  Phillip felt his eyes get misty at this thought. He hated that he wasn’t allowed the simplest form of human contact—a greeting between two men. Sitting in his box day after day, he longed for human contact of any kind. He understood how some inmates bugged out because they were deprived of it. They’d slash their wrists or go crazy because medical attention was human contact. The CO extraction unit, the hats and bats team, sent to deal with out-of-control inmates was at least some form of human contact, too. Beatings from COs were considered better than no contact at all by some inmates—the physical pain they suffered at least confirmed their existence.

  “The camera was inoperable at the time. These cameras go down on occasion.”

  Phillip’s heart raced, his jaw clenched. “In all the years of coming to these hearings, anytime I’ve needed video surveillance tapes, the cameras are down.”

  “I know for a fact it was down because I know the people who work on them.”

  “Are you testifying, judge?” Phillip knew that if the hearing officer investigated the incident, by law he wasn’t supposed to preside over the hearing. But he also realized that argument wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  “Just stating a fact.”

  “If the cameras weren’t working on the day of the ticket, I want camera footage of the day before and the day before that.”

  “We’re not going to go back and watch tapes that have nothing to do with this hearing.”

  Now Phillip could feel his face begin to turn red, his jugular vein started to throb. “Well, they do have something to do with this hearing. Do you know why?”

  “I’m sorry, but they do not—”

  “Because if you look at the footage from the day before and the day before that, you’ll see Jonesy and I were tapping fingers then too.”

  “Well, maybe you were passing something on those days—”

  “Then the camera would show that we did. As if, we’re passing something every day but we we’re not getting written up on it.” Phillip had heard enough. Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself lunging across the table. He saw his hands wrap around Wolack’s pencil-thin neck, twisting his head around and around until it popped off, and blood squirted from the stump like an oil gusher. Phillip imagined the look on the Wolack’s face when, for a millisecond before he died, he saw his own decapitated body.

  Whoa! He told himself to inhale, hold it, exhale, and to think positive thoughts.

  Phillip knew that he had almost lost it then and there. It wasn’t the first time. Primitive aggressive fantasies of revenge, torture, and mutilation of the COs and staff consumed a lot of his time in the box. He tried to block out the thoughts, but sometimes he couldn’t stop them. He didn’t blame himself for having these thoughts. He told himself that anyone locked in a cage all day for decades would be angry at his incarcerator. But the thoughts did frighten him. They were a sure sign to him that he could bug out at any time and could end up a screamer, throwing feces around like a chimp in a zoo.

  Again, he forced himself to take control of the moment—to inhale, hold it, exhale, and to think positive thoughts.

  Phillip closed his eyes for a second and tried harder to get ahold of himself. He spoke slowly and calmly, “I don’t accept that the cameras were just down on the day of the incident. I object, judge, to the denial of the tapes for the other days too.”

  “Is that it then?” Wolack asked, tapping his pen on the stainless steel table.

  Phillip looked down at the floor. He didn’t want to let the look on Wolack’s face interfere with his concentration. “Judge, I’ve seen this movie before. It will be my word against the CO’s word because there’s nothing else. Nobody is going to believe an inmate or ten inmates over the word of a CO. I know I’ll be found guilty even if there’s no evidence whatsoever, let alone evidence that can be considered substantial. I’ll lose because of the blue wall of silence—prison staff backs prison staff no matter what. An independent party needs to conduct these hearings. I’ve been through these fake hearings—these show trials—so many times. This is just insanity. But maybe that’s your goal—to drive me mad, to make me bug out. Is that what this is all about, judge? Is this what’s going on here? Are you trying to drive me mad so that I kill myself? Do you want me to hang by a noose made from my bedsheet, ram my head against the wall, or slash my wrists? Is that what you want? It’s not going to happen, judge, because I’m not going to let everyone in this state off the hook. If you really believe I killed that officer, the state should have put me to death. But, no, the people in this state want to feel good about themselves, want to think they are above the death penalty. What they don’t realize is that they’ve created a fate worse than death. They’ve created a system of torture—a system that would have them up in arms at the cruelty if I were a kitten or a puppy. But what they don’t know, won’t hurt them, right judge? Nobody outside of the system ever sees us. No pictures allowed of us in our cells, right judge? Any pictures of us must be approved and must be in front of a false backdrop, like a forest or a waterfall. No inspections by the United Nations? An inspection would raise security concerns, right judge? But we both know the only security issue is to prevent people from knowing what really goes on in here.”

  When Phillip was done ranting, he raised his eyes from the floor and saw Leon Wolack had been transformed into a huge kangaroo eating a butterfly.

  This fantastic image was such a surprise that it caused Phillip to toss and turn in bed, mumbling something. He shook his head while his voice grew louder and louder until he woke up and yelled, “David Thompson!”

  Phillip shot up in bed. The alarm clock said it was 9 a.m. He had slept for more than nine hours, though it felt like fifteen minutes to him. Yanking out the earphones, he shut his radio off. He propped a pillow up against the headboard and leaned back against it. The dream was about an actual hearing, one like the countless other bogus hearings he’d endured. He tried to make sense of it all from the point where the dream got weird and ended. No kangaroos at Kranston
, just a never-ending loop of kangaroo courts and rubber-stamp judgements.

  After he ranted to the judge, he recalled Jonesy arrived in cuffs and chains. He took a seat and corroborated Phillip’s testimony. Then the new CO came to the table. He said he saw Phillip pass something and that he reported it to his supervisor. Though nothing was done about the alleged passing, the area sergeant testified that they weren’t required to do anything about it.

  Judge Wolack decided to end the hearing after this testimony, even though Phillip wanted to call other witnesses. He ruled on the record that Phillip was guilty. He wrote that finding in a single sentence on a Bureau of Justice form. No legal justification was forthcoming in the form of a written opinion. There was no review of the facts and there was no discussion of the law. Phillip was just guilty and that was the end of it. He was given the maximum sentence allowed—180 more days in solitary confinement—six months more of box time. It was a sentence to more of the same, which he was going to serve anyway, given the indefinite sentence to solitary he was already serving. It was like getting a life sentence plus 180 days--a fake sentence for a fake hearing, a shining example of the system at its best. Superintendent Kleinschmit affirmed the decision later that day, just as he always did for any CO.

  With the help of a Prisoners’ Legal Services lawyer, Phillip had filed his appeal with the court in Albany. In response to his appeal, a transcript of the hearing proceedings was submitted by the Bureau of Prisons through the Attorney General. Even though a prison secretary swore under oath that he transcribed the tape to the best of his ability, there were over one hundred instances when he marked the transcript as “inaudible.” Chunks of testimony, including a large part of Phillip’s testimony and his rant against the system, were supposedly lost somewhere—tangled in miles of brown ribbon—on the tape cassettes.