Reading behind Bars

by Jill Grunenwald

The correctional officers rotated posts every few months, their position and tasks changing with them. This meant that every officer was essentially cross-trained on every position within the prison, but it also meant nobody got too comfortable or complacent.

  The Education department and, by extension, the library, now had CO Dutch on duty. Dutch always seemed out of place in prison. Too earnest, eager to please. He was like a big giant puppy dog. Granted, I never saw him in action when there was a situation between inmates, but he always just seemed far too . . . nice.

  On that particular morning, I was having a bad day. Like, a really bad day. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. The kind of day where I knew five minutes after arriving that I should have just stayed home. I could have cashed in some sick time, taken a mental health day, and slept. Of course, by then, it was too late: I’d already made the hour commute and was signed in and had had my bags checked. I was just going to have to go to the library and sit and wait until the end of the day.

  And wait I did, my eyes constantly counting down the minutes until I could go home for the evening. I was just so tired. I was tired of work and tired of working. I was tired of the entire concept of work. Why did we have to work at all? Why couldn’t I just stay at home all day and sleep? Why wasn’t that an option?

  Really, I was just tired of everything. I was tired of the inmates and the staff and having to come to work every single day and deal with people. So many people. I was surrounded by people. As an introvert, I was already always drained by the end of the workday, but my depression only compounded the issue. It was as if the marrow deep in my bones had crystallized into heavy pieces of stone the length of my limbs. I had to drag and pull my extremities behind me, their weight felt in every step, every movement of fingers and tilt of the head.

  I just wanted to sleep. But I couldn’t because of this whole work thing so it was, on this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, that Dutch walked in on his normal hourly rounds.

  “Heyyyy, Ms. G.,” he said. Dutch always spoke softly; slowly. “How ya doing?”

  Dutch, unknowingly, had walked right into my crossfire.

  I snapped. I snapped from exhaustion, from grief. I just snapped, like a sheet of ice that breaks, shards cutting every which way. “How do you think I’m doing?” I scoffed, half exhausted, half exasperated. “I’m stuck here with these stupid inmates!”

  It was only after the words were out of my mouth that I realized, a) what I had said and b) how quiet the library had suddenly become.

  Fuck.

  I stared at Dutch. Really stared at him. My eyes bore into him, drilled down. I had to channel all of my energy and focus on the correctional officer standing in front of me, because I was too terrified and too embarrassed to shift my gaze to the inmates who had witnessed, and overheard, the exchange that had happened.

  Directly to my right, I knew, was Lincoln, who was quietly counting that morning’s circulation cards. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see the table in the front row. Both inmates had lowered their newspapers, watching. Waiting.

  Dutch narrowed his eyes at me. Suddenly, he looked mean. Hard. This was not a guy I wanted to fuck with. Suddenly, I realized why he made such a good correctional officer.

  “Ms. G.,” he said, voice cold. “You just went through Orientation, right?”

  “Yes,” I answered meekly. My voice was so small, I could barely hear it as it came out of my mouth. I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.

  “And in Orientation, did they talk to you about how you are supposed to treat the inmates here with respect?”

  In that moment, my cheeks hot with embarrassment, I hated him with every fiber of my being. How dare he dress me down in front of the inmates—in front of my employees. Weren’t we, as coworkers, supposed to show a united front when it came to the inmates? If he wanted to take me to task in private, that was fine. Because he was right—just a few weeks ago, I had sat through a lecture, at least one lecture, on the appropriate way to communicate with the inmates.

  Spoiler alert: calling them stupid was not okay.

  I knew it wasn’t okay and I also knew my personal issues happening outside the prison weren’t an excuse. I hadn’t left my shit at the gate, and look at what had happened.

  But, even then, I thought, did Dutch really have to talk to me like that in front of all of them?

  Now, though, a decade later, I get it. I had crossed a line. I’d crossed a big line in regards to how I was supposed to treat and speak about the men in our care. Their being in prison, regardless of the crimes they had been convicted of, did not mean I was now entitled to treat them as lesser than me.

  Dutch had to call me out on it, right then and there. He had to both let me know that my behavior in that moment was completely inappropriate and he had to let the inmates know that my behavior would not be tolerated.

  Satisfied he had gotten the message across, Dutch left.

  I kept my head down the rest of the day, if not physically—as I still had to keep an eye on the library—but mentally. I barely spoke to anyone and was grateful for the high desk that I could effectively hide behind.

  Not leaving my shit at the gate had other consequences as well. It also left me distracted to the point that, over the course of several weeks, an inmate was allowed to walk out of the library with books he hadn’t checked out.

  Inmates were allowed two books at any one time, but during a bunk search, COs discovered that Jameson had about twenty in his bunk. None of them had been checked out. He just walked out with them, paperbacks stuffed into the oversized pockets of his oversized coat. I was too up in my own head to notice.

  Why anyone would steal library books, which are already free, I’ll never understand, but Jameson did. Frequently. All right out from under my nose.

  I was struggling. I didn’t just need a mental health day, I needed a mental health life.

  But, as Jane Eyre once said, “Even for me, life had its gleams of sunshine.”

  One afternoon, a few days after my breakup, I came into the Education building and was cornered by Stephanie. Looping her arm through mine, she took the paperwork in my other hand and put it on top of the copy machine. “Those can wait,” she said, leading me towards the door.

  “But—” Like a salmon moving against the stream, I turned away from her in an attempt to go back towards the copy machine.

  “We’re going to lunch,” she said, pulling me closer to her. “All of us.” Stephanie stopped short and looked at me, eyes questioning. “How do you feel about Mexican?”

  Over the past week, I felt like a leaky faucet. Everything set me off. It was as if a lifetime worth of tears had been stored in my ducts and the dam had broken and the tears had nowhere else to go except out my eyeballs. “Thank you,” I whispered, my eyes prickling, the dam waiting to break once again.

  With a smile, Stephanie squeezed my shoulder.

  Leaving the prison for lunch just wasn’t done. Not that it wasn’t allowed or anything, but it was such a production that staff members rarely left during their free time. We would had to have bags searched on our way out, and then searched again on our return. Plus, the prison was out in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t really anywhere to even go.

  But Stephanie was not deterred. The group of us, including Kwame, Kim, and Nancy, piled into two cars and headed into town. Turns out, much to my admittedly privileged surprise, the village that I had pegged as nothing more than remote and dusty six months ago, had a cute downtown section. It was small to be sure, but cute all the same, with a Main Street lined by storefronts and mom-and-pop shops.

  One of the stops along Main Street was a Mexican restaurant. Stephanie pulled her car into an open spot in the parking lot and we all headed inside.

  It was a hole in the wall, the lamination peeling at the corners of the tables and the wall decorations faded from too much sun exposure. But the food was cheap and tasty. We ate our fill of chips and salsa until our entrees arri
ved, all orders served with a side of hearty laughter that, at least momentarily, made the rest of the shit in my life not matter.

  I knew that this was just a small respite. That after lunch was over, we’d have to go back to the prison and back to work. Life would resume for all of us, the good and the bad.

  Still, desperate times called for desperate measures, and this lunch helped to make things a little less desperate. Too bad drinking margaritas at a lunch in the middle of the day was frowned upon.

  A few days later, I received a call from Catalina. A former state patrolman, Catalina took a position as a correctional investigator after retiring from that gig. Any issues that arose that seemed to need a deeper level of inquiry were handed off to him. This included possible gang affiliations or inappropriate relationships between staff and inmates.

  So what the hell was he calling me in for?

  Catalina’s office was in a part of Administration I’d never been to before, way back in the far corner. The rest of Administration was painted standard, industrial beige (save for Hall, head of IT, who had an office in scarlet and gray, indicating his The Ohio State University affiliation), while Catalina had the walls of his office painted a dark brown that almost looked wood paneled. Throw a moose head or two up there, and I could momentarily pretend it was a hunting lodge.

  Instead, what he did have hanging on the wall, behind glass, was his former state trooper uniform, alongside medals earned while in the service of his duty.

  “Grunenwald,” he said, welcoming me. “Come on in.”

  I was so used to being called Ms. G. by both staff and inmates that it was a bit bizarre to hear myself referred to by just my surname. It also added an intense air of formality to this meeting, and put me on the defensive.

  Catalina’s desk was large and ornate, made of heavy wood. It reminded me of the Resolute desk in the Oval Office, and all I could do was stare at it, wondering how he’d managed to get it into the room. The room itself was also large, far larger than any of the other rooms or offices I’d seen around the prison Administration building. Filing cabinets lined the walls, full, no doubt, of information from all his previous investigations and findings.

  I took a seat in one of the chairs seated in front of his desk. Nervous, I sat on the very edge, not wanting to make myself too comfortable.

  Catalina settled himself in his own chair behind the desk. He made a steeple with his index fingers and placed them under his chin. He stared at me for a minute or two, gray eyes steady. I forced myself to maintain eye contact, not wanting to be the one to break it. My only previous experiences with law enforcement had involved speeding tickets and fender benders. Catalina’s beady gaze felt like being in a noir mystery, the tough detective playing Bad Cop in order to get information out of the unsuspecting suspect.

  Finally, Catalina leaned forward and picked up a pen. “How often do you visit Segregation?”

  I momentarily stumbled. “Oh, um. Twice a week? Fridays I go down to see if inmates want books and then I go back on Saturday if needed to deliver them.”

  Catalina scribbled something on the legal pad in front of him. The jagged scratch of pen against paper was the only sound in the room.

  “And when you were there last Friday, did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?”

  I thought back to my visit last week. Davis and Bolton were both on duty, just as they had been for months now. I’d come to enjoy the company of both of them, enough that even after I’d spoken to all of the inmates and written down their book requests, I’d stay down in Segregation for another ten or fifteen minutes to chat with Bolton and Davis. Both were parents, so our conversations centered upon their kids. On that day in particular, I remembered that Davis was feeling frustrated with her son.

  Many of the inmates were still asleep when I went around on my rounds, just as they were most Fridays. Nothing really stood out as being out of the ordinary, and certainly not at the level to require any kind of internal investigation.

  “Um, I don’t think so,” I finally answered. “It was just like any other visit.”

  “And the officers,” Catalina pressed. “How were they acting?”

  I shrugged. “No different than usual.”

  “There wasn’t a disagreement between them at some point?”

  Disagreement? “No,” I answered. “Not a disagreement exactly. I guess there was one point when one of the inmates needed to speak to one of the COs, and it was sort of a holdout. Neither Bolton or Davis wanted to have to get up, but Bolton finally did.”

  That sound of pen scratching on paper again as Catalina jotted down notes.

  “Davis didn’t say anything that struck you as odd?”

  I furrowed my brow. Davis? “No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, the only thing she said . . .” I paused, reflecting back on the entire visit. I sighed. “Her son was having trouble in school with his grades, and she said she was going to beat him over his report card.”

  Catalina scribbled down some more notes, then put his pen down. He looked up and smiled. “That’s all I need, thanks.”

  Startled, I pushed the chair back and stood up. “So . . . that’s it? I’m all done?”

  “All done,” he confirmed. “But, please be discreet about this visit.” I left, still as confused as I was when I walked in.

  I returned to the Education department in the middle of lunch. Nancy had picked up a lunch for me from the chow hall, which I grabbed and took down to Stephanie’s office to eat.

  “What was that all about?” she asked. They’d known I’d been called down to Catalina’s office.

  I shrugged, flipping open the white Styrofoam lid of my lunch. “Oh, he just had some questions about an incident from Seg.”

  Stephanie nodded, satisfied with my answer. I was grateful she didn’t press the issue, as I wasn’t sure what I would have told her. Mentally, I’d been prepared to talk about some incident involving inmates. I wasn’t prepared to talk about a fellow colleague. Especially a colleague I really liked. I was still sorting through my feelings on the matter.

  I never found out what had happened with the information provided to Catalina or even what sort of information he’d been fishing for. But by the following Friday, Davis had been rotated out of Segregation and placed in a post in one of the housing units.

  Apparently, Catalina had found whatever he’d been looking for.

  Chapter 12

  Because I Could Not Stop for Death

  Constant Watch: A more intense level of suicide precaution that requires continuous, uninterrupted observation, with documentation at irregular, staggered intervals not to exceed fifteen (15) minutes on the Crisis Precautions and/or Immobilizing Restraints Log (DRC2534).

  —ODRC Policy 67-MNH-09

  The memo was directed to all staff. Those of us who had dedicated computers received it through our email while the security staff got to read it on the bulletin board outside of the Major’s office.

  Deputy Warden Francis was leaving, transferring to a prison down south. An opportunity had presented itself and she was trading in the snowy winters of Northeast Ohio for the balmy summers of Florida. Can’t say I really blamed her.

  She had also planned her exit well: the heat of summer was starting its descent into autumn, meaning she had missed the height of the steamy heat in Florida, but was going to also leave before winter began its annual crescendo, the snow piling high around the prison. After Francis left, summer continued its languid pace, slowly shuffling along into fall.

  Autumn has always been my favorite season. Long before the stereotype of the Basic White Girl emerged, I spent all year longing for the crunch of leaves beneath my boots, the crisp snap of air that sends a shiver down my spine. I live for the time of dressing in sweaters and boots, my hands wrapped around steaming cups of pumpkin spice lattes, the sweetly spicy smell of cinnamon filling my nose. I love that in autumn, stores start stocking up their back to school supplies, of which I still buy far too
many despite not being a) a child or b) going back to school. (Ah, to be a kid again, armed and prepped with my new backpack and My Little Pony lunchbox, toting a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils and a collection of notebooks to guide my way.)

  I love that during fall, there is a sacred sense of renewal. Like a snake shedding its skin, trees are given new life, new opportunities for growth. It’s like opening the cover of a brand new notebook and staring at a blank white page. This isn’t a test, there is no wrong answer, just a chance to take a deep breath and reset.

  But—despite all its benefits and blessings—with autumn also comes a deepening of my depression. During this season, the grooves of malaise and melancholy etch themselves, like carvings on my bones. Sometimes in September, often in October, never in November was always my mantra for the autumn months, a way to track my slide down. I could usually get through September without much trouble and was usually starting to come out of it by the time my birthday rolled around in mid-November, but October always presented a challenge even when everything else in life was fine.

  This year looked to be a challenge: on top of my usual seasonal depression, I was also fighting against the post-breakup wave of depression inflicted on me by the end of my relationship. So as eager as I was for autumn’s renewal, I entered the season with hesitation and trepidation.

  Prior to taking the job at the prison, I considered myself a fast reader. I averaged about fifty books a year, helped, in part, by listening to audiobooks during my commute.

  I had first discovered the magic of audiobooks a few years prior, when I first graduated college and moved back home. I was working two jobs at the time, but my main job was forty-five minutes away from my parents’ house. This was before Spotify, and while Pandora and iPods were both on the market, I wasn’t aware of either. I wasn’t really a radio person, so CDs or silence were the only options for me on those rides.

  When I wasn’t working my Monday through Friday office job, I spent Saturdays working at the library in my hometown. There, I was able to scan the collection of audiobooks available on compact discs and check them out. Depending on the length of the audiobook, I could reasonably get through one a week while driving.