In fact, Gwen knew that women were the fastest growing sector of the prison population. Since 1980, the female inmate population nationwide had increased by more than five hundred percent. And this was not because women were involved in more violent crimes. It was because, nationwide, people were being imprisoned much more frequently for nonviolent crimes. In 1979, women convicted of nonviolent crimes were sent to prison roughly forty-nine percent of the time. By 1999, they were being sent to prison for nonviolent crimes nearly eighty percent of the time.
So privatization seemed a neat and simple answer to all these problems. Big business claimed it was ready to step in, take the risk, bear the expense, and turn prisons into moneymaking operations. Gwen of course knew that there were two major private prison corporations in the U.S. One of them, Wackenhut Corrections, owned fifty-two prisons ‘employing’ more than twenty-six thousand prisoners. The other, CCA – Corrections Corporation of America – had control over almost three times as many prisoners in eightyone prisons. At the last conference for prison wardens that Gwen had attended, there had been a heated discussion over the privatization of prisons. Someone pointed out how large corporations had the incentive and the political clout to encourage the creation of a larger and larger prison population – a larger and larger cheap labor pool. This meant increased sentences and the increasing incarceration of men and women (usually from communities of color). Gwen wondered if this would turn into a new form of slavery.
She shook her head, turned another page of the proposal, and wondered what JRU International stood for. Justice Regulatory Underwriters? Jesus Really Understands? Jails ‘R’ Us? Jammed Rats Unlimited? Why not be honest and call it PFP: Prisons for Profit? She turned another page of the proposal before her and began to take notes in her small, neat handwriting.
There was no way this plan was going to work! Gwen looked down at the dozen pages of notations she’d already compiled. Most were written in capital letters and underlined several times. They looked like mad ravings, and weren’t far from it. She’d have to somehow turn these blistering observations into cool bureaucratic reportage. She shook her head at the daunting task. What was the state thinking of?
She knew, of course, that her burgeoning budget presented nothing but trouble to them. Gwen knew that while her costs of maintaining one prisoner – including her bed, board, security, and the very limited health and education services that Jennings offered – was increasing to more than fifty-five dollars a day, private prisons claimed they could maintain prisoners at only forty-three dollars a day. She knew she couldn’t compete with that.
But how was JRU going to deliver what they were promising? How were they possibly going to reduce medical staff? As it was, she had reluctantly cut the staff dramatically. When she looked at the ‘Facilities Management Report’ she was actually shocked. They proposed turning the visiting room into a space for a profit-making telemarketing operation. Where would the women visit with their families? They were also proposing to expand the prison itself and enclose the U of the courtyard, to provide additional housing. That meant darkening all the units facing the courtyard. Where would the women exercise? Where would Springtime plant flowers?
She had to be missing something in this ridiculous proposal. After all, though they weren’t pleasant, the JRU staff didn’t seem to be insane or particularly cruel. Yet the more Gwen studied the details, the more horrifying the plan seemed. It appeared that they expected to house and feed more than two hundred and thirty new inmates, who would be transferred from other facilities, facilities they would later close or would subsume into the JRU empire. Surely there must be a typo, Gwen thought as she looked at the numbers. Then she realized that the current, badly designed cells (which had four bunks but held only two prisoners) were actually going to be used to house four. The additional cells, those built in the courtyard space, would hold the balance.
Gwen did some quick calculations. It was unbelievable! Had those JRU jaspers ever read about Telgrin’s experiment with rats? Decent, normal rats from good nests turned vicious – even cannibalistic – when they were overcrowded in their cages. Did they know Amnesty International’s position on U.S. prison conditions? Were they so inexperienced that they didn’t realize that the four bunk spaces were an error, far too small a space even for two? Clearly, JRU saw the inmates not as human beings or even rats but as a captive labor force. And based on their projection, a profitable force at that. How did they hope to transform this angry and sullen population of criminal inmates into chipper and cheerful telemarketers?
Gwen dropped her pen and began pacing around the dining table. This was never going to work. All of her years of experience, not just at Jennings and not just as a warden, but in social work, halfway houses, and other correctional facilities, told Gwen Harding that the plan was bound to fail. And what would happen then? Would there be protests? An uprising? And if there was violence – and with this plan there was bound to be plenty – would the inmates be blamed? Or would it be her head on the chopping block? If it all went up in flames – figuratively or literally – could JRU just abandon the project, leaving the state to clean it up?
She knew very little about businesses and how they operated. She had spent her life working in the public sector. So had her father, who had been a cop, and her mother, who had been a teacher. In fact, aside from an uncle (who had run a dry goods store that failed), she couldn’t think of anyone in her extended family who had any real business experience. The corporate world, with its financial realities and its politics, was a complete mystery to her. The one thing that she was sure of was that the executives who had toured her facility had been arrogant and much more prone to talk than to listen. But she’d noticed, of course, how little they wanted to hear from her. It was clear that they already felt she was an advocate of the ‘prisoners’. When these people took over – if they did take over – how long would she even get to retain her job?
This situation was awful. Gwen felt the call of the olives in her refrigerator. She had to convince the Department of Corrections that this proposal should – must – be turned down. But Gwen had no idea how she was going to convince them that the JRU proposal was not only unrealistic, but also a recipe for failure – or for something much, much worse. She looked at the tea mug, now cold on the table, with its inscription: BECAUSE I’M THE WARDEN, THAT’S WHY. What a joke! No one at the State Department of Corrections listened to what a warden said. Especially a female warden.
She would have to sit down and put together a brilliant counterargument, complete with her own charts and graphs and projections that would not only explain why this plan was flawed but would refute JRU’s assumptions. She’d also have to give the state some longer-range alternative strategy for cost-effectively handling an ever-growing prison population. She sighed and picked up the cold cup. How could she possibly do it? Gwen closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the tension in her brow. In her mind she heard cries of Attica! Attica! Attica! Jesus Christ! This was all too much for her. She wasn’t young anymore. Who was she kidding? They’d roll right over her. Gwen put the mug down, stood up and walked toward the refrigerator, only stopping on the way to grab a glass and the gin bottle.
12
Jennifer Spencer
Remember that you are always in a better position to ask for a job transfer if you have a good record on the job you already have. Failure to do well on a job may result in demotion or punishment.
‘Rules for Inmates’ at the Ohio Reformatory for Women in Marysville, Ohio. Kathryn Watterson, Women in Prison
Jennifer Spencer survived yet another night in prison, only to awaken to another day of working in the laundry.
Nobody wanted the laundry detail. Undoubtedly that was why Jennifer had been assigned to it. The laundry was a long room in the basement with a low ceiling. Between the steam and the pervasive smell of chlorine bleach and dirty clothes, the place reminded Jennifer of nothing so much as a cheap health clu
b back in what she was beginning to think of as her ‘other life’.
There was nothing healthy about this place; the work was heavy and dangerous. All of the prison’s dirty laundry – everything from the polyester jumpsuits to regular uniforms to underpants, socks, sheets, and blankets – came through this laundry. So did washrags and blood-soaked pillowcases.
In addition to the stuff that was supposed to be washed, there were two other categories: detritus and contraband. Detritus included bloody gauze pads that had been accidentally wrapped in a towel and thrown into a cart, or the speculum that had been entangled in a dispensary johnny. There were hair clippings from the barbers, stale and rotting food in garment pockets, puzzle pieces, and every possible piece of unbreakable plastic dinnerware (including sporks, pepper shakers, and plastic ketchup squeezers). Jennifer had been issued heavy-gauge rubber gloves and an apron, but it wasn’t enough. About the only thing she figured the gloves could protect her from were the roaches she was constantly finding in pockets, socks, or accumulated at the bottom of the bucket.
The laundry at Jennings reminded Jennifer of a blue flannel suit: it attracted everything but men and money. Only two days ago Suki had pulled out a speculum and on another day Jennifer herself had felt a lump inside the tied leg of a pair of slacks. When she untied the bottom the meticulously taped package of cocaine dropped like an iced plum into her hands. ‘One day we found a scalpel,’ Suki told her.
Laundry came in on industrial rolling carts that, for some reason, Jennifer kept tripping over again and again. The carts were heavy to push, and because the sheets and clothing were often water-soaked, simply untangling the garments and putting her gloved-sheathed hand into the mix seemed almost more than she could bear. The smell of sweating women, the industrial-strength liquid detergent, the cheap perfumes, and the mildew were intolerable to her. I’ll call Tom and get him to charter a helicopter, she told herself.
After Jennifer unloaded the dirty linens into the huge front loader and snapped the lock shut, she would pull the cart back and watch Suki do her magic. It was the only fun that Jennifer managed to get out of the dirty work. When Suki turned on the huge stainless steel industrial washing machines, it was as if the little blonde girl was in control of the space shuttle at Houston. She could barely reach the flip switches on the top of the machine, but she managed to snap some of them all the way up, some in the middle, some all the way down. ‘You have to be careful to synchronize the water level push button with the “on” button or otherwise the water runs out over the top. It’ll get you wetter than you were when you were in Observation!’ Suki yelled over the noise of the tumbling drum.
Once the machine was activated, Suki and Jennifer would stand back and watch the water fill up the front of the glass and watch the bubbles consume the clothes inside.
When all the dirty clothes were sorted and washed it was time to go help out in the clean laundry. There were two black-topped Formica tables butted up against each other where women were folding the clean clothes. None of the women liked folding the jumpsuits, shirts, or undergarments. And forget about doing the socks – that was right up there with the popularity of having to wash silverware. There was always a silent contest, though, when it came to folding the towels and facecloths. It was a competition of speed, neatness, and the crispness of the crease (to insure that the stack of linens would stay vertical). The record for facecloth stacks was held by an older woman named Rory with seventy-five, while Dakota – a black teenager – held the record for twenty-five bath towels.
For Jennifer – who hadn’t done laundry since college – there was a certain fascination in watching the women work briskly, trying to outdo each other. She had to admit that the cleanliness of this part of the work area was nice, the fresh smell of the clean clothes, the heat that radiated from the sheets and towels. It was a homey kind of comfort that she couldn’t quite get over.
Later in the day, just after Suki had pushed and emptied a particularly large cart loaded with wet linens, Jennifer saw the girl clutch at her stomach, grow completely pale, and then pass out. Jennifer rushed to Suki’s side and caught her just under the arms. In another two seconds, Suki’s head would have hit the wet concrete floor. For a moment Jennifer stood there, paralyzed, holding the tiny body upright. She couldn’t lay her on the floor, nor could she let go of her grip to get a better hold and attempt to carry Suki to the infirmary. Unconscious, Suki was ninety pounds of dead weight and, unlike the wet laundry, she wasn’t on wheels.
Through the din, the vapors of the room, and the jerry-built lighting system, Flora, the supervisor, a middle-aged woman who seemed to really care about her laundry staff, made a motion to another inmate to help Jennifer pick Suki up and lay her across one of the black Formica laundry tables.
A cold cloth was brought for Suki’s head and a couple of aspirins were distributed. From her pocket, Flora brought out an ampule and snapped it open right under Suki’s nose. Suki’s eyes popped open – the bright blue color agitated by all that she could feel going on around her. When her eyelids closed again, Jennifer took a deep breath and almost choked as the supervisor cracked open another capsule of ammonia salt. Once again, Suki’s head snapped back and her eyes rolled open. This time, the supervisor cradled her head in her arms and began to ask questions.
‘Suki, can you hear me?’
The blonde bounced her head up and down.
‘Talk to me. Talk to me, then,’ Flora said.
For no discernible reason, Suki began to sing. Her voice was as petite as the supervisor but a good deal more polite ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ as she warbled some lines from the flat stage of the linen folding table.
‘Are you on your period?’ Flora asked.
Suki shook her head.
‘We’d better bring her down to the dispensary,’ Flora said.
‘No, no!’ Suki remonstrated. She struggled to sit up, then lost her strength and collapsed again on the table.
‘If you take her to medical, they’ll do a quick once over and take money from her canteen fund, and she doesn’t have that much in it,’ Springtime told Flora.
‘They make you pay for medical treatment?’ Jennifer asked in disbelief.
‘Yep. A co-pay. Five bucks for a doc, four bucks for a nurse,’ Flora explained.
Suki came to again and assured them she was fine. As the group broke up Suki grabbed Jennifer’s arm. ‘Jennifer, lean over,’ she said, and Jen bent her head over the table. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ asked Suki, her eyes bright with news.
‘Sure,’ Jennifer asked, as the supervisor left.
‘I’m not on my period,’ Suki giggled. ‘I can’t be.’
‘Well, you might be weak anyway,’ Jennifer told the young girl, and patted her head. ‘Sometimes people are affected differently.’
‘No, no, you don’t understand,’ Suki giggled again. ‘I’m going to have a baby.’
For the first moment, Jennifer felt panic. She looked at Suki’s flat stomach. Was the girl delusional? Did she think she was going to give birth here? Jennifer had seen her crumple and was sure that Suki hadn’t hit her head, but somehow she was out of it. ‘Suki,’ Jen said gently, ‘you’re not having a baby. You just passed out.’
‘Promise you won’t tell nobody?’ Suki admonished.
‘Oh, I won’t tell,’ Jennifer told her. But how could she be pregnant? How could she get pregnant? Maybe she was just having some kind of seizure. Jennifer looked over at the petite blonde. She seemed to be completely recovered. ‘Suki,’ Jennifer went on boldly. ‘You can’t be pregnant, can you?’
Suki just smiled. It was the same smile that Jennifer had seen her give to Roger Camry.
When the workday was over and Jennifer had settled Suki into their cell, she realized that she had a little free time before the bell rang for dinner. One of the phones in her ‘pod’ wasn’t being used. She approached the phone as if it were the magical port that would take her out of this forsaken place. She p
icked up the receiver and entered Tom’s number. But as the phone began to ring on the other end, Officer Byrd came into the rec area of the unit. ‘Head count,’ he announced. ‘Take your places.’
Jennifer kept listening to the ringing. She watched the inmates leisurely move to the entrances of their cells. She, however, was frozen in place. She had to get the call through.
Officer Byrd walked up to the first doorway and, with clipboard in hand, marked off something on his papers. He moved to the next, looked over the women, and marked again. The phone rang again. When he got to Jennifer and Suki’s doorway, Jennifer could see Suki leaning against the door for support. Pick up, she thought. Come on. Pick up, Tom.
‘Jennifer Spencer,’ Officer Byrd growled in a voice loud enough for her to hear all the way down the hall. ‘Jennifer Spencer?’ he repeated. ‘Where is she, the infirmary?’
From her place at the phone Jennifer could see Suki’s head shake strenuously and her mouth form the word ‘no’. Then she smiled flirtatiously at Officer Byrd and pointed in her direction. He turned around quickly and Jennifer couldn’t help but shrink back as he started toward her, though he was a long hallway away. But in what seemed like two steps he was in her face. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he asked. He grabbed her upper arm roughly. ‘It’s head count. You’re supposed to be in your cell.’
Jen could hear the phone ring. Pick up, pick up, she silently prayed. ‘I’m just trying to call …’ she began.
‘I don’t care what you’re doing!’ he snarled. ‘You stop everything – even if you’re taking a leak – and get to the entrance of your house for head count.’
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