The Maple Tree — Franklin’s Bennies Installment 4

Chapter 10: The Maple Tree

I watched from our area doorway as Franklin headed back to his home, Six House, past Babcock who gave him a watch-yourself glare. “No special favors allowed here, Cleary,” Babcock called out. “You spent more time with that Franklin than the other three men you saw.”

Raised brow. Oh well. My cover for spending extra time with him is that Franklin takes some heavy duty medications, just in case Babcock wants to check out my reasoning. 

Facility protocols in the Department of Corrections are strictly followed and all inmates must be cleared out of the mental health office and the waiting area by 10:30 to return to their houses for chow, also known as lunch or dinner. A facility count is done of each housing unit, making sure the some 1500 men on any given day are safe and sound in their respective cells. If the chow count doesn’t coincide with early morning count, or any of the other two counts done in the day, a facility lock down can occur until the count comes out correctly.

Most men who had crowded the waiting area have been sent back but Babcock informed me I have a last arrival straggler client. I motioned the man into my cubicle. He wants me to order sleeping medication for him as did my first client of the morning. I told him the camp psychiatrist won’t do that because sleeping medications are against Department of Correction policy. The client, a pasty skinned, white kid, with a patchy blond beard who is doing a first sentence for the sale of methamphetamines, started to raise his tone that I am trying to kill him because I won’t honor his request, but quickly caught himself. 

“Sorry guy,” I said, “I know it’s rough in here.” I gave him the print out on how to sleep in prison, then told him about the three ‘P’ rule: “Say a prayer, get yourself in a good sleep position and think about a person, place or thing you like.” The kid shook his head in disgust, looked at the print out, got up and threw it in the wastebasket and left my cubicle. I called Babcock on my phone and asked him to watch the kid. 

In the hallway, I heard Babcock tell the inmate to sit down. The kid asked why. Babcock hollers back, “Because I said so, inmate!” 

I signed out on the white board near secretary Laurie’s desk that I am taking an early lunch and headed out of the facility.

My half an hour break for lunch most days is spent in my Escape and over the years I have listened to Rush Limbaugh. But the talk show host has died, and another conservative has filled his time slot. 

In the past years upon returning to my post I’d tell my brethren all about what the man had said. It incensed most of them. Helping profession-people are known to be a touchy, feely bunch. And Rush Limbaugh was anything but that. 

In my Escape, today, though, I have no reason to listen to anyone, anywhere, expound on how to better view the world. The maple tree sits in direct view of House Six where I am guessing Franklin is negotiating a to-and-fro from chow, contending with his new cellie.

It is easy to adopt a generality about the men I treat; they are guilty and should have known better. One belief, or truism I have adopted, the only one really, is that all the men in some way are broken. Contrary to the images portrayed on prison reality TV shows, I have run into very few tough guys. The biggest number just want to do their time and go home. Rough tattoos and raspy tones aside, there seems to be very little else that makes the men I treat, scary.  

This morning, Franklin didn’t get to the point about why the law would want surveillance on him. I will find out more tomorrow when I call him out. Worry flooded in, did I stick Wanda's note under my desk calendar before I left for lunch? Yes.  I know I’m ruminating over nothing.

I ate my peanut butter sandwich prepared by my wife, Nora. An apple follows. A breeze helped cool my angst.

I called Nora to check in as I do so most days at lunch, mostly to hear her melodious Irish brogue, which was one of the reasons I fiercely courted her on a summer visit to Donegal some 5 plus years ago. 

I’d traveled alone to the ol sod to do family research, which led me to Donegal, a town in the northwest of the Republic of Ireland. Nora had been doing summer stock at the Balor Arts Centre, a production of MidSummer Nights Dream, cast as Titania, Queen of Fairies. I wound up at the playhouse, thinking I’d better understand the Shakespeare play as an adult; something I was unable to do as a teenager and later as a sophomore in college. After the play, the director invited the small audience backstage. All homey and very Irish.   

At the coffee, tea and cake table, I turned with a too full plate and bumped into the person behind me. The cake fell, the coffee splattered. 

“Oh my, I am sooory. Please forgive me,” the young woman said, racing off for a towel, before I could say no problem. She returned, dabbed up the mishap on my sweatshirt. She was half my size, with emerald eyes, auburn hair, and milk toast skin. 

“ I am so sooory,” she repeated in the most sincere way. “I am just a fill-in and this was my first night. I am a bit nervous. You’d think with performance over I’d be bit more calma… uh, calm.”

When she was done with the dabbing, she said, “There now.” 

And that was it for me.

I never remember being dumb struck, but that night for that one half minute of Nora cleaning me up, I remember thinking, “I hope this never ends.” 

We introduced ourselves. That one episode summoned me to stay in Donegal. I called the adolescent treatment center back home where I had been working, told my boss that something had come up overseas and I couldn’t get back. My boss, I am sure thought I’d been busted for drugs, or something, even though I’d never given him the impression I was a user. He gave me an extra week to return. I didn’t and was fired.

For six months I stayed with Ms. Moloney in her B and B, using up most of my savings. 

I made myself an item with Nora, her mother and younger sister, attending her other performances, by night and bringing her lunch at the clinic where she was a nurse by day. I never asked whether she had a significant other, nor she, me. No strange men hung out around her. But, I couldn’t work without a visa and reality finally set in. My time was up. I asked her to marry me. She got teary eyed and said she couldn’t. I left dejected.

At the Shannon Airport, a day later, I sat dazed, jobless with my plane ticket in hand. We hadn’t consummated our feelings for one another in the intimate way; she being a devout Catholic, believing sex was best left to the sanctimony of marriage. Although that behavior wasn’t typical of all the Irish girls I’d met, for her it only added to my wanting. In the small town of Donegal, of some 2500 people, everyone knows each other’s business. 

At the last call for my flight, as I waited to board, I felt a tug on my coat tail and turned to a smile. 

“Please don’t go. I just need more time,” she said.  “I had to be creative to talk my way past security.”

I stayed in Donegal, returning to my old room with Ms. Moloney, hoping the Irish state police, the Garda, wouldn’t haul me in for overstaying the time allotted to travelers. Ms. Maloney said, “I knew you wouldn’t leave, Peter. You belong here.” She let me run her small bar which was nook in her living room used exclusively for the guests to cover my rent and food. 

By the Fall, Nora and I were married in an hour mass at St. Patrick’s with wedding pictures taken on the River Eske bridge. After guaranteeing Nora’s mother, Margaret, we’d return home yearly, we left for my home. Nora got a work visa, anticipating her nursing license would help land her a position. 

“How’s your peanut butter, love,” Nora asked as I watched a county bus discharge its air brakes and enter the receiving circle drive of the prison.

“Chasing it down with the Red Delicious Apple you bought.” 

She detects some angst in my tone. I tell her about Franklin, saying he was a man without anyone to talk to, but me. 

“You are a good man, Bobby Brown,” she said. “Is that right?”

“Close enough. Charlie Brown.” 

I told her I loved her and that we should plan a pizza after work. 

Chapter 11: Three House

I took a slow walk back to my post. The small roadway outside the last electric gate of the prison is patrolled by two vehicles which are always on constant sentry. Each vehicle driver is equipped with a high-powered weapon. While no escapes have been reported in decades, the sentry detail watches for suspicious activities from the wooded areas outside the prison where family or friends might hoist contraband such as marijuana and tobacco packed in tennis balls over the fences for their loved ones walking about in the Yard. 

Inside the fences each of the eight inmate Houses has four wings, upstairs and downstairs. Men bunk in 8 by12 cells, two to a cell. There is a toilet, a sink and a child’s size metal desk. The wings are arranged like bicycle spokes from the front door in. 

Officer Wells on duty in the morning when I came in has been replaced by a white haired male CO, nearing 60, who is frustrated about managing the body traffic at the conveyor machine. I don’t know him and he is either a transfer from another prison, new to the day shift or as likely a new hire. Older persons looking for work, who have no arrest record or drug problem and a high school degree can find work at the prison, quickly. A month-long training and the passing of a test about the orientation material is required.  

I smiled and tried not to add to his difficulties by striking up conversation, placing my car keys in the small tray, letting it pass through the monitor before me. 

The Yard is mostly empty since most men are at chow as I take my walk back to my cubicle. 

At my desk I reverified that Wanda’s note is still under my desk calendar, running through scenarios about what I’d say if someone found it. I checked my list for the rest of the day, realizing I still have to type my summaries, called SOAP notes, from my morning sessions.

Across the narrow corridor Mr. Downey was typing in his notes. Catty Corner across the hall Dr. Fordham was doing the same. In the past three elections, our across-the-hallway discussions have turned heated about government policies, as they have throughout the prison. So much so that our boss, Maria, put the kibosh on political talks.

After pounding out my SOAP comments into the Dell about the morning sessions, I signed out on the dry erase board for a trip to a housing unit.

My afternoon rounds today are scheduled in the isolation house, called Ad Seg. for Administrative Segregation, commonly referred to as Three House. Men are housed there for behavior problems, protective reasons, such as being homosexuals, or sex offenders, along with those who are too fearful to live in the main population. Inmates deemed suicidal are placed in a special area of that building.  

Inmates confined to Ad Seg can not leave their cell except to make phone calls, shower, or to see someone from mental health or the doctor. They are allowed to walk in a small circle in a bottom floor cage, alone, for a half-an-half hour a day. Meals are served on a tray through a chuckhole, which is located just below the plexiglass window and wide enough to slide in an eating tray.

I headed over to the building just after the noon count was tallied. I have four men to visit the Ag Seg, one of whom is on suicide watch.

Since it is Fall making the walk through the camp yard is bearable. During the winter cold, it can be brutal. Inmates keep the sidewalks shoveled during snow, but it is the ice that is tricky. Ms Challice slipped last year on a slick spot and broke her ankle. She was out of commission for weeks, which made us all have to cover her load.  

The walk over to Ad Seg only takes minutes. After Count is over the yard fills up with men coming and going to the commissary, the chapel or med calls, so dodging those coming and going is an art. CO’s monitor the movements, ready to separate men who are walking in anything other than two’s. Stopping to chat is forbidden and can result in an inmate being written up or automatically being sent to Ad Seg for an infraction. 

I often get flagged down by inmates, desperate to talk. My procedure is to tell them to send a MSR to me, a medical service request. “I’ll see you right away,” I say. 

Men at this camp, due to a Department of Correction requirement, get a mental health or doctor visit within two days after sending an MSR. In the free world, as life on the outside is called, a medical visit would not happen so quickly.

The Yard quickly fills up. I nod at the men who nod at me. An old timer is pushed in a wheelchair by a young freckled-faced kid who seems to enjoy the job. The kid is talking a mile a minute; the old man has a pile of papers spread about in his lap. He seems frail and I guess on the way to medical. 

Midway over, I see Franklin hurriedly making his way toward the commissary, head burrowed in the crowd of men, his legal folder gripped tightly. A CO’s standing on a terrace ground just off the Walk calls him over. Franklin skids to a stop. The other inmates hurry up a step at the directive. I near the CO and drop my clipboard to catch the conversation.  

“Inmate what’s in your folder?” The CO sticks out his hand. Franklin hands the folder over. I am certain that breaks some protocol of search, but it’s not my place to pipe up and question. 

“What’s you looking for Smithton?” Franklin asks, not using the preferred title of Officer. 

Franklin asks again. “What’s you looking for?”

Smithton doesn’t answer, but just keeps looking through the papers. I collect myself and stand just behind Franklin acting like I am waiting to ask Smithton a question. Franklin gives me a look, but doesn’t address me. 

“Says here you are appealing your sentence. Got the Notice of Appeal all filled out, do you?” Smithton says. “Sure you got the right county there. What I know is you are a third-strike man.”  He peers down at Franklin, waiting for a response, then hands the folder back. Franklin straps the string around the folder and gets back in stride with the other men headed to their appointments. 

Smithton watches Franklin, then asks, “What can I do for you Doc?” 

“Uh, wondering if Three House is open?”

Smithton looks across the yard to check, as I quickly glance at Franklin melting into the others walking to their appointments. 

“Counts over Doc, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, well it never hurts to ask.” Smithton gives me the once over, as if I am pulling a fast one. I wave a goodbye, clipboard in hand. 

The Yard, at my camp, is not a typical prison yard, as seen on reality TV with tattooed men engaged in weight lifting and other hang-out activities. This is because, being a Receiving Center, most men are here for a short time so this camp does not let the men settle into any activities.

Except for Three House, men can participate in recreation at their House, which consists of playing basketball in a small caged court just outside their House door, separated from the Yard.

At the House, I pushed the small wall buzzer. It’s coated with slippery film from decades without being cleaned, like the cell doors inside. “Yes?” a female voice calls out. 

Chapter 12: A Soured Shirt

“Mental Health here to see four men,” I called out. Grating click. I grabbed the door handle, also slimy. Inside, echoing yells from the unit, a young, 20 something CO, small paunch beginning, asked me who I wanted to see and directed me to a sign in sheet on the wall. He took the names. “Which one do you want first?” he asked 

I opted to leave my suicide watch inmate to the last. I handed over the name of the first of three, a Mr. Kincaide, to the kid CO, who opened the interview room. I sat at the small institutional desk which wobbled. It faced the door. A large fan was spinning in the back, mostly to keep the air circulating so the stench wouldn’t be so overwhelming. This House is not air conditioned. But it was Fall and the stench was mild compared to the warm months.  

Mr. Kincaide arrived minutes later. He reeked of a soured shirt. I smiled. He sat across from me, frontally handcuffed. The kid CO stood outside the door, peering in. 

I looked at the MSR the man sent in. “You sent in a MSR indicating that you can’t sleep and that you are having bad thoughts.” 

Mr. Kincaide nodded. He is in his thirties. The summary said he is a level 4 security risk and will likely go to a high security camp, like Mr. Franklin. I noticed the man’s fingernails are chiseled to points. I have seen this finger nail look before. The man has let the nails grow, then somehow files them down. Nicotine has stained his hands although smoking is prohibited in the cells. He looks ten years older than his 34 years. Likely, a meth addict. 

“I need sleep meds,” Kincaide said. “And I been havin nightmares.” 

I waited for him to continue. “I use to have a script for them on the outside,” he says. “In this place I been tryin to get my script filled. County jail doc gave me pills. That foreign doctor over in medical here says that no sleep meds allowed in the fucking place. That true?”

I scooted back in my chair, deflecting the question. “You have a family?”

He nodded with a short scowl. “Use to anyway, Fucking bitch ran away with my baby boy. That’s why I am in this place.”

I waited. He continues. “Fucking cunt took him. He is mine. She got him with some other ol man. Can’t even talk to him. Fucking woman judge got a restraining order on me. Last time I saw that ol bag, wearing her fucking black robe, she said that I am goin to have a long time to think bout it. Fucking cunt. When I get out of this place I’ll show her.” 

“Show her?” 

Kincaide stared at the desk top. He shook his head. “Just pissed that’s all. Don’t mean nothing.” 

I am glad Kincaide didn’t say he was going to shoot the judge. If he had, I'd have had to deal with the protocols of reporting a threat. And he knew that. 

“So this says you’re level four. This camp has its own rules and medical won’t issue sleep medications, because medical doesn’t want to get someone started on them before a man goes to his mainline camp.” Lie.

Prison policy doesn’t allow any sleep meds at any camp. But I want to give Mr. Kincaide hope that at his next stop he might get his sleep medication. My thought is that if he could smoke in his cell his sleep problems might not be so bad. In main population he might have found a way to sneak smokes in his cell. But, not in Ad. Seg. Meth addicts especially have a hard time sleeping in prison. I take a quick look at his teeth to make a better assessment, but he covers his mouth with his hand when talking. 

He sighed and eased back some more in his chair. “You said you are having nightmares?”  

For a moment he drifted away. An entry on his summary sheet said he was placed in Ag. Seg for a write-up. An inmate also can be locked up in Three House for assaultive behaviors. A committee meets after the fact to determine whether the man stays in the Ad Seg or is released to the main population. A punishment can be levied for an extended period. Kincaide was accused of assaulting another inmate in the chow line. 

“Yeah. It’s my fucking old man. He been comin back to me every night in my dreams. ” Kincaide looked at the fan in the corner, which resembles a big wheel spinning. 

“Too noisy,” I said, getting up and flicking the speed level down to low. “Better.”

Kincaide nodded. I checked to see he didn’t cop my pen while I turned my back. The boy CO, still watching from outside, moved closer to the interview door.

Kincaide shook his leg under the desk. He has a vocal tick, a kind chronic clearing his throat, done in threes. “So, nightmares and your old man, uh father.”

“Stepfather, only dad I ever knowed. But he molested my baby sister. And his ugly dog face been comin to me in dreams. He used to whack on me. My mama didn’t do nothin. Too scared. But can’t get that ol fuck out of my mind.” 

Kincaide’s story is common. In prison it is hard to determine the degree or intensity of dream figures when a man says he is having nightmares about another. Many men just can’t sleep and somewhere in their tossing and turning they have recollections of people in their lives. Kincaide might have some recurring presence of his stepdad he obviously despises. But, I am not a dream specialist. And even if I had some grand technique to help Kincaide with his preoccupation, his real sleep problem I am guessing was created by his lifestyle before lock up. He’s likely never had a sound sleep schedule. 

I let him talk for several more minutes, then tell him things will get better at his next camp and when he gets out of this camp.

He asked me about myself, avoiding talk about his stepfather or nightmares, or another request for medication. Although Department policy frowns on staff talking to inmates about themselves, I told him a little innocuous information about myself; how long I have been doing my job. He shook his leg, not really listening. Cell doors slammed shut from outside the small interview room.

“So, where is your stepfather now?”

Kincaide stopped shaking his leg… “He’s inside somewhere. Think he’s down south. They send all the old convicts there, don’t they?”

“Hard to know. Depends on the Level.”

“That’s a four or five camp, right?”

“I can’t do time down there, if that old fuck is there.”

“Don’t blame you. Did you tell Classification that? If they know that, they might send you north.” 

Kincaide’s nightmare, dream, whatever he calls it makes more sense now. He is fearful of being sent near the man who abused him and his family. “Can you tell C and A for me?” 

I hesitated, knowing that requests by mental health don’t go far with the prison organization that classifies inmates into levels of security. “I’ll see what I can do. Write down your step dad's name.” 

He scratched out the man’s name. We sat in silence. The fan spun. Finally he got up. “Cold in here. You check on that?”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, seeming to have forgotten his immediate need for sleep medication. The CO opened the door and escorted him back to his cell.