Corruption Officer

by Gary L. Heyward

  “I saw you last night at the party, nigga. Did you hit?” he asks.

  I give him a look of disappointment because I notice that the other male officers, who are standing in the lineup against the wall, all stopped talking to hear my answer. I sarcastically say to him, “Yo, who does that?” He gives me a puzzled look like he doesn’t understand the question. I say loudly, “I mean, really, who’s the only kid you know that not only tells his boys what females he’s going to hit, but also gives you the time and date of when it’s going down? Huh? Huh?” I ask him. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” I sing out.

  They laugh.

  “I told y’all he was going to front. This nigga ain’t hit,” he says to the other officers.

  I shake my head calmly and say, “Another nonbeliever.” Then I say, “Bet I did.”

  “Whooooooo?” everybody croons on this high school shit.

  “Bet a buck,” he says.

  “Ya know he’s still a jack; that might be a little too steep for him,” another officer says.

  “Bet,” I say.

  Then he pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. Looking at the rest of the fellas, he asks out loud, “What you do, bring in ya momma’s panties or something as proof?” They laugh. I step up to all of them as they quiet down and pull out my cell phone (yeah, the one we are not supposed to have inside the jail). As they look at me, I’m busy into my phone scrolling down pressing buttons whistling to myself. Then I calmly gesture for the group of tenth-grade, pathological, non-pussy-getting liars to come closer. Excluding the officer who bet me, I proceed to show them some pictures I took the previous night.

  “Daaammmmn!” they all respond simultaneously.

  The nonbelieving officer grabs my phone so he can get a closer look for verification. He looks at the picture I have of the female officer in question, on her knees with my dick in her mouth.

  “How I know that that’s you? I don’t see your face nowhere on that picture,” he says, making a last-ditch effort not to pay up.

  The others give me a look like he’s right, siding with his frivolous attempt to avoid paying me.

  “I knew that you were going to say that,” I say while taking my phone back from him.

  Then I push the button on my phone to move to the next picture and show him and only him the shot.

  “Daaaaamn!” he shouts out.

  Then he gives me my phone and my money and starts bowing down like I am a king or something. They all rush to see what he saw on my phone. They burst out laughing when they see that I took a picture in the mirror of me hitting her from the back in the bathroom.

  Yeeeeeah, man, time has blown by and I’ve become that bitch ass/faggot ass/stupid ass CO that the officers from the locker room were talking about. I mean I jumped right into the swing of things, from the parties, the basketball team, the going to Joey’s (a local bar where a lot of COs hang out) to the drinking on post, and the shitting on inmates every chance I got (thanks to Biz playing me). All the inmates I shat on should have said, “Thank you, Biz!” Yessir! Yessir! I am a full-fledged backstabbing, pussy-tapping, robbing-the-City-by-going-to-sleep-on-the-midnight-tour CO. Even though I still live with my moms, I have stepped my game up immensely. I’ve bought a green Dodge Caravan from Major World Auto—where everybody goes with fucked-up credit. Don’t act like it’s just me. I no longer have just one pair of black pants to go partying in. I now have two pair, one of them leather. I bought my first pair of gators and all dat. Yeah, baby, I’m ballin’! I am a crowd favorite when it comes to snapping and joking around the jail. And guess what? These fools done fucked around and let a nigga purchase a firearm. It’s a gat, a ratchet, a biscuit, a burner, an ooowhhop to anybody over fifty. Ha, ha, I am on top of the wooorrrld!

  Mental note: Negro ain’t say shit about taking his kids anywhere, spending time with them, or buying them anything. Well, I guess I can always blame it on all the overtime I am doing. Yeah, that’s it . . . overtime.

  The white shirts (these are captains or above) come down the hall to address us at roll call. We all stand in line formation on some paramilitary shit for morning inspection. We are required to have a memo book that we keep our daily activities logged in, a 911 knife, which is a switchblade that curves, used when an officer on the midnight tour wakes up to find an inmate dangling from a suicide attempt inside his or her cell, a flashlight, and OC spray, which is a form of pepper spray.

  While we were being inspected, two officers from our security department roll out a wooden cabinet with two doors on it. They position it in front of our line, upright, so that everyone can see its contents. Then they open the doors and reveal to us all sorts of weapons that they have confiscated from inmates at some time in the past. They had all kinds of shanks in there produced by innovative inmates. One captain starts to point to some of them and tells us where they were found.

  “This one was found under the radiator, this one on top of a light fixture,” he said.

  It was a sharpened piece of plastic. He stated that the inmates got smart and started using them to pass through the metal detectors. With a serious look on his face, holding up the plastic shank wrapped in rubber bands, he continued, “This can and will go right through that stab-proof vest that y’all be wearing if the right amount of force is applied. This one’s my favorite,” he says, taking a seven-inch sharpened pipe out of the display case. “I call it the stool softener because it was removed from an inmate’s anus.”

  All of us relatively new officers looked on in shock. A senior officer belted out, “Goddamn, Cap, how many times are you going to show us these old shits?” The captain gives a look like, “Okay smartass” and then says, “You’re right, CO Chase, so now let’s take a look at some other items that we found on inmates recently.”

  He then pulls out a small box from the bottom of the display case. Then he takes out of the box some Gemstar razors and about fifteen surgical scaffolds. We all stand there stunned. Then the captain says, “And these are no makeshift bangers or shanks. Sheeeit, some of them still have the price tag on them from the store.” He looks at big-mouth Chase and says, “Maybe we need to dust them for your fingerprints.”

  Chase responds, “Stop playing, Cap, that ain’t funny.”

  “No, it ain’t funny,” the captain says while walking down the formation with the items held up in his hands. He says, “These items were not made up by inmates, these items were brought in here”—he pauses to let his words sink in, then continues—“either by way of counselor, or inmate visitor, or, ultimately, an officer.”

  Dead silence. No one said a word.

  He continues, announcing some more good news, stating that our fearless mayor has decided to add to our already dangerous and tough job by putting into law a no-smoking rule for all city-owned buildings.

  The complaining starts.

  “That’s bullshit,” officers complain. “That don’t include us, right, Cap? He always starting some shit and we got to clean it up.”

  “Calm down, calm down,” the captain said.

  Everybody got quiet so he could speak. “We still have a job to do. We still have to maintain care, custody, and control of these inmates.” Then he dismisses us and we look at each other for a moment, letting all the risk sink in, understanding the new law will trigger tension with the inmates. Then, simultaneously, we hit him again with a barrage of complaints and questions.

  “Why we always gotta get hit with the bullshit?” “What’s going to happen with these inmates that have been smoking all their lives?” “Is the mayor bringing his ass down here to help us out?”

  Officer Swartz, who always has a sick sense of humor, blurts out, “Go on now, go on now. Y’all keep yo trap shut and do what y’all’s told. Now git! Ya hear me? Git back to them fields and get massa’s cotton.”

  CHAPTER 17

  CARE. CUSTODY. CONTROL.

  Every
officer has to adhere to the three Cs. I’ll break it down for you, Big Heyward style.

  Care: Officers must tend to all the inmates’ needs, such as feeding them, getting them their medication, and occasionally, if the officer feels generous, allowing them to take a decent shit by giving them toilet paper.

  Custody: Officers must escort the inmates wherever they need to go, by getting up from their comfortable seats to lock and unlock gates and cells, handcuffing and shackling them for various reasons, and occasionally, if the officer feels generous, allowing them the option every hour on the hour to go into their cells for various reasons. Tah! Try that shit for eight hours, talking about a muthafucka running back and forth.

  And last but not least, control: Officers must maintain control by making sure their inmate count is correct, by checking inmates’ passes as they walk the hall so that, for example, inmate Abdul from area 1 main cannot sneak around the jail to go to area Sprung 4 to see his man Ice. This helps prevent the occasional juggling of goods, gang communication, such as kites (a written request from one inmate to another), and inmate assaults, such as face cuts or stabbings. And if the officer is generous, he or she maintains control by issuing an occasional ass-whipping.

  And then there’s the fourth C (although not an official C), which is the consoling officers do by listening to an inmate talk about his case, his family, and how he’s either going to beat a murder charge in trial or finish his sentence when the sun burns out.

  I can’t forget about the arguing either—yes, the arguing with your spouse over the phone about why you ain’t home, how come you had to do overtime again. I know many officers have heard this: The officer: “Why aren’t you answering your phone at night when I call you from work where you know that I can’t just leave and go find your ass?” And the significant other’s response is: “Why you always wait till the last minute to say you’re working overtime and when I call the jail they can’t find you and you know that there is no way that I can come over there and find yo black aaassss?”

  Not to mention the officer can’t pick up the kids from the babysitter, missed another birthday, another holiday.

  Officers must deal with all these things and so much more. Yeah, this job comes with a lot of stress.

  —

  Roll call is over and we are dismissed. I leave and do what any red-blooded CO would do who knows his anxious and deserving coworkers are waiting to be relieved of duty. I run my ass to the staff kitchen. Yeah, baby. You know, I need to talk some more shit to that dude who thought that I did not hit.

  I enter the staff kitchen and the usual is going on. One officer is over by the serving station asking an inmate for more grits on his plate and the inmate is just smiling while giving her an extra scoop. I shake my head. Another officer is yelling, “Goddamnit! Somebody ate my food that I brought from home out of the refrigerator.” A fat officer nearby is just sitting there whistling while cleaning out his fingernails. I chuckle. Then I see my three favorite officers, Bryant, K. Johnson, and Z. Jones. These three female officers, along with a few inmates whom I have gotten to know, were responsible for everything that I knew at this job up to this point. So I go over to sit down and chat with them.

  Note: The officers awaiting relief were supposed to be on their way home by 7:30 p.m. By the time that I sit my black ass down with the three officers it’s 7:28 p.m. So the waiting officers were now either a) calling the control room to see if I came to work; b) waiting impatiently in the hallway for me to enter my post; or c) keeping it gangsta and coming down to the staff kitchen to meet me, leaving their inmates unguarded and handing me the keys to my post.

  YEAH, I’M A PIECE OF SHIT!

  Then, all of a sudden, BLLIIINNG! BLIIIING! A muthafuckin’ alarm. I get up and run for the door, passing the smiling inmate staff kitchen workers. They’re smiling because they know that the officers who had food from home or the store have to leave it right there for them to clean up. To them, someone’s half-eaten fast food from outside is like hitting the Lotto.

  I’m running toward the staging area, where we put our protective equipment, when the captain yells, “Ten-thirteen! Come with me now, there’s no time for that.” He means that an officer is in need of immediate assistance. Four other burly officers and I run down the corridor toward the area where the officer is being assaulted. As we’re running, I hear hard breathing and panting from the officers and I smell last night’s drinking on all of us. I have a flashback about my training. I recall the lesson about how to control my breathing when running, how to not let the excitement and adrenaline control my actions, and how to assess the situation in seconds and take the best course of action. Most of all, I remember to pace myself, because getting tired is not an option while running into battle. That training didn’t come from the Corrections Academy; it came from my being the true marine that I am on the inside and will always be (Semper Fi).

  We are a few yards away from the area when we see two officers struggling with an inmate. There are one female and one male and both of them are relatively small. The inmate is really giving them a tough time and the female officer has pulled his hoodie over his face so he cannot see. As we get closer we notice that her nose is bleeding. That is it! If there is anything that will send the pack into a frenzy it is the opportunity to avenge a damsel in distress. We converge on the inmate like an army of ants on the Discovery Channel. I strike first and hear a loud thud when I land a hard left to his ribs. The female officer then falls back into “I am a woman and he hit me” mode. Then the other officers and I begin to pound and stomp the inmate. Our attack is so fierce that I feel the wind on my face from the blows the other officers are giving him. The inmate is now down on the ground in a fetal position trying to fight back. The stomping continues and he is receiving scuff marks from Timberland, Mountain Gear, Bates, and Skechers. Who the fuck was wearing Skechers? As the rest of the probe team arrives to join in on the onslaught, I back up to take a breather, and that’s when the inmate’s hood comes off and I can see the damage that I have done to his face.

  My heart sinks and my whole body goes numb. I stand there as the officers continue to stomp on him. It is like I am watching it in slow motion. I see a boot repeatedly come down on the left side of his face and the delayed reaction of the right side of his face hitting the floor. Blood spews everywhere. That is when my eyes and the inmate’s eyes lock. He looks at me and just stops fighting back, even though the officers continue the “rehabilitation process.” I don’t know what to do next. My mouth opens but no words come out and I can’t move. The inmate just stares at me with this I-can’t-believe-this-shit-is-happening expression on his face. I want to say something. I want to do something. I want anything to happen that would make them stop. Instead, I do nothing. I ask myself, “What am I supposed to do, jeopardize my job?” I mean, how would it look if I jumped in there on this inmate’s behalf and pushed and shoved officers, telling them to stop this excessive beating? I know what would happen if I did that. I would be crucified throughout my entire career, that’s what. My mind, my heart, my soul say that this is wrong and that I should do something. Yet I still stand there with my eyes about to tear up knowing, deep down, that I have started this and that they are finishing it. I do nothing to help this person, this human being, this inmate. I do nothing to help my friend. I just stand there and watch them fuck Biz up.

  CHAPTER 18

  GOD, HUH?

  After target practice was over, the captain told me and the other officers who first arrived on the scene to leave and that the probe team would fill out the incident reports. This way we would not be named in what just happened. As we walked away down the corridor, senior officers were patting me on the back and applauding the ass-beating. It was like now they could trust me. I was official. I had proven myself. I was one of them. Word had traveled throughout the jail that Big Heyward had put that work in. I was getting nods of approval from male office
rs and stares from some female officers. Later that day bits and pieces of information about the incident began to surface. I’d heard that the female officer got into it with Biz because he didn’t have an ID card and that he didn’t assault the female officer after all. It turns out that she just gets nosebleeds every time she gets excited.

  I knew the other officers didn’t really care whether Biz deserved the ass-whipping or not. All they knew about the incident was that an inmate had fought back and busted a female officer’s nose. And any inmate who does stuff like this is going to be made an example of so that when word gets around the jail, the other inmates will think twice before pulling such a stunt.

  Hearing about what led up to the incident made me feel worse, because I was still feeling like shit and wondering how I was going to explain this to Biz’s mother once she heard about what I’d done, and to the people in my neighborhood who found out. What would be the consequences of my actions? The fact that I, along with my coworkers, had just violated an inmate’s rights didn’t worry me. I knew that that would be handled in-house. Nor was I worried about how Biz was going to answer the questions from the hospital staff about how this happened. Biz had been in and out of the system for a while, so he knows the “I slipped and fell in the shower” routine. What had me worried was what was going to happen when he got out or when he recovered and called home to the hood to tell them what I did. Word would spread faster than a crack dealer giving out free samples. For a CO, it’s always a risk to run into inmates that you know. Now I had beef with one of them who happens to live in my building and knows my whole circle of friends. This is why COs move out of the hood, to avoid an encounter with a former inmate. I would’ve moved out, too, if I had had more money saved. Now I wanted to move more than ever.

  When I arrived at the staff kitchen to have lunch, I saw Bryant and the other amigos at one table and at another table I saw three new jack officers filling out reports on the incident. They had nothing to do with it, but by writing the report they were admitting that they were there and that in some way were responsible for that inmate ending up in the hospital. I know this trick. Supervisors get the new jacks to take responsibility for the incident because they have less time on the job, which means there’s more room for error. And supervisors need enforcers like me to stay off the reports.