Under Watch - Franklin's Bennies Installment 5

Chapter 13: Fingering His Food

My other two inmates were brought down, one right after the other. I recognized their names, as being in my Re Entry group, which I hold for those men who have sentences less than 2 years. Both wound up in Ad Seg for smoking in their cells, and when caught, they told a CO to “get fucked,” and were promptly shipped off for punishment. Both asked for their group assignment. I told them not to worry, when they are released from Three House to show up for the group. 

My last stop was in the suicide wing. A day earlier, I had placed a new arrivee on watch. It is our job to assess new arrivees the day they come in from the county jail to begin their prison sentences, to determine whether they are suicidal. This man, a Mr. Gordoni, had told me that he didn’t know whether he could “do time.”  

In the interview I conducted with him the day before, he said he wasn’t like the other men. “These guys have been in prison before. I have not,” he’d said. “I have a job, a family. My wife loves me. I don’t do drugs, or even drink. I don’t belong here.” 

I recall him telling me he had embezzled money from a county office where he worked as an assessor. He had been sentenced to five years. He’d arrived with a prescription for antidepressants. Three times he told me, head bowed, tearful, “I don’t think I can take this.”

I told him for his benefit, he needed to be placed on suicide watch. Unlike many men who are placed on watch, Mr. Gordoni went willingly. Many scream at me and call me a mother fucker.  

I stooped down next to the cell chuck hole and call out, “Mr. Gordoni.” He is in one of 12 such cells designated for men on watch. All movements of men on suicide watch are viewed by a CO on a video camera in the Ad Seg control room high above the ground floor of the suicide wing. No eating utensils, or property were allowed in suicide cells. Most men are stripped of their clothing and must wear a medical smock. I chose to let Mr. Gordoni keep his prison issue clothing when I placed him on watch.  

“Mr. Gordoni, how are you doing today?” I called out again through the chuck hole.

He was fingering his food from a tray, sitting on the edge of the cot-like bed, which had been stripped of sheets. He was shivering. Other than his prison-issued clothing, his only covering was a very lightweight blanket. He put his metal food dish on the floor and stepped the few feet to the door. He met me eye-to-eye at the plexiglass window. “Am I getting out of here today?”

“Well, yesterday you said you didn’t know whether you could do time. How are you feeling today?”

“I know, I know, I wasn’t thinking straight. But I can make the best of it.” 

I nodded, wanting to believe him. Of the mental health counselors, I am the most cautious. My brethen call me “Lockem Up Cleary.” I decided early on in this job that I needed to sleep at night and I wasn’t going to be bothered by trying to mind read whether an inmate was suicidal or not. If an inmate gives me an indication they might harm themselves, I place them on watch. I got a rude awakening my first week on the job by not trusting my instinct about an old guy, charged with child molesting.

Mr. Schultz, a kindly, cordial, 60 year old, who had done prison time and was back in, but had no record of trying to hurt himself. 

He seemed sad when I talked to him. While he didn’t overtly make suicidal comments, his manner told me a different story. I asked him if he was going to hurt himself. He assured me he would not. That night he was found hanging. He was in a cell alone due to his charge. No one blamed me. But I somehow felt responsible.    

Mr. Gordoni waited for me to give him a sign. “So you have had time to think?” I wanted him to be able to give me some reassurance of future thinking. I coaxed him along. “Your wife and family I am sure miss you.” 

He teared up and started to sob. I let him. While there is large fan noisily blowing in the corner of the suicide wing, the inmate in the next cell on watch, who has been listening to our short conversation gave out a devilish laugh, and yelled out. “Go ahead and kill yourself. She’s going to leave you anyway!” 

The CO who is following a Three House trustee picking up food trays nears Gordoni’s cell stepped up to the neighboring cell. 

“Conrad, keep it up and I can get Doc here to keep you here for a month. Want that?”

Conrad just continued laughing devilishly, and yelled, “Fuck you, fat shit faggot policeman.”  

Conrad is one of Dr. Fordham’s placements. I know the man is psychotic and has been placed on watch, not so much that he has made threats of hurting himself, but because no one has a clue what to do with him cell-wise. 

Mr. Gordoni settled down. “Don’t worry about that guy. He is just envious that you have a wife and family,” I said. Mr. Gordoni nodded to himself. 

“That guy has been yelling at me that I am going to die in here and that my wife will leave me,” Gordoni said, “cause all wives do once a man is in prison. Is that true?” 

I didn’t comment, knowing a fair amount of men do get Dear John letters. “Let’s do this. You will need to sign a release for me to talk to your wife. I will have to bring back a form for that. You cool about that?” 

He sniffled and seemed to believe this might be a plan. “Sounds good?” 

Chapter 14: Sittin On The Dock Of The Bay

I left Mr. Gordoni standing, looking like a lost child, staring out the plexiglass. My last comment was, “I will see what I can do. And I’ll bring back the form to call your wife.” My gut sense was that he is okay to be taken off watch. I will likely fill out the forms for that later in the day and forgo the form to have him sign to reach his wife. 

On the way back to my cubicle I ran over the steps of paperwork needed to get Mr. Gordoni off of suicide watch. I spend as much time preparing forms, writing notes about what I do in sessions or didn’t do, than I actually talking and helping the men. It is a constant frustration for most of us in mental health. 

There was less traffic on The Walk, but the CO’s were still maintaining vigilance, monitoring the comings and goings. I didn’t see Franklin among the men. My curiosity had been stirred with his belief the Feds have a plant in his cell. I wonder if such a thing could be a possibility, given his history. Wanda’s note is still hidden under my calendar. 

The air is crisp. A slight breeze kicks across the yard. At the turn to my building I see faces staring out their cells from the second floor of 4 House. A melodic baritone sings the Otis Redding classic Sitting on the Dock of the Bay. Surprisingly, he sounded like the real deal. And just as surprising is that anyone today knows the lyrics to the Sixties tune. 

The CO’s who manage the houses have their own rules. A good tune is appreciated, as is a good voice. The youngsters, as they are called, all too often hook into wanting to do rap. Both the COs and the older inmates quickly put the kibosh on that. I slow down to listen.

“I’m sittin on the dock of the bay, 

watchin the tide roll away.

Sittin on the dock of the bay wastin time.”

From another cell,  “doin time, doin time.”

Talent not realized. 

It’s mid afternoon and inside the building, a trustee, Mr. Skoal, an ol timer, is mopping the floor of the foyer. “Hi Doc.” 

“Hi, Mr. Skoal. Looks good.” 

Officer Babcock had his radio turned down low into the local country station. The hallway was packed with men waiting to see mental health or a parole officer. Babcock said, “Call outs for tomorrow, Cleary?” Babcock had an urgency from his high chair, but didn't glance up from his computer. 

“I’ll get them to you. Thanks.” 

“Tell your other folks in there to do the same,” he said, still looking at his computer. 

I saluted. 

An inmate sitting in one of the chairs chuckled. Babcock shot a lookup to find the perpetrator. All heads went down.

Inside, all my colleagues were busy, nodding and responding, or typing verbatim what their man was saying. Our daily routines vary somewhat between the therapists, but all of us are in a never- ending chase of calling out inmates, writing labor intensive summaries of our encounters and managing caseloads which can go as high as 100. Each day is different, yet the same in the sense there is little time for play. 

The female therapists have differing approaches to the work. They nod and enter the information into the computer as the man responds to questions. The males, Dr. Fordam, Downey and myself tend to make our entries after the interview or at the end of the day. 

We have been told that it’s more efficient to get the information right into the machine, as the man gives it to us. But to me, that all seems too secretarial. And it doesn’t allow eye-to-eye contact with the client. 

Privacy of the encounter is a very secondary aspect of our job. If someone in the institution wants information on a man, we are cautioned about giving it out randomly, but we do to keep the peace and offer up our notes, depending on the rank of the person asking for it. 

Sitting at my desk was the Chief of Mental Health, Dr. Maria Calderon. “Hola, Pedro.”

“Hola, el comandante.’

“La comandante,” she said.

Maria began to get up from my chair. 

“Stay. Are you correcting my errors?”

“Just taking a napkin to them. I don’t think your notes show the wealth of the information gotten in your interview. Too brief.” She looks across the corridor at Mr. Downey who is engaged in an interview. “And that goes for the both of you,” she said, gesturing his way. 

I sat in the chair across from my desk where Mr. Franklin and all others sit to impart their worries to me, as Maria packed up some papers she had evidently taken notes on. The seat of the chair felt warm for some reason. A big body must have recently been here. Maria detected my curiosity. “The sergeant was just here.” 

“Here, as in here in the cubicle?”

“Right, he called me about one of your men. A, Mr. Franklin. Ring a bell?”

“Sure. I just saw him this morning. What’s the problem?” My stomach turned. I shot a look at my calendar, paranoid, Maria had discovered Wanda’s note.

“No problem. But the Sergeant said Franklin comes down to see you more than regular. And he wanted to know if the man is having any problems his House should know about.” 

Maria could have accessed my notes from her office, but I suspected she wanted a face-to-face meet with me. 

“As you can see, I haven’t entered my notes from Mr. Franklin’s session this morning. But his comments from past weeks are there for all to see.”

“Your notes don’t say much about what’s going on with him, other than his diagnosis and that he is doing a long sentence. And something to the fact he doesn’t want to go to the camp he believes he’ll be sent to. That seems to be his ongoing presenting concern.”   

“Right. He is black and doesn’t want to go down south. Said there are too many peckerwood Nazis there.” 

Confirming chuckle. “He is right about that. But did you tell him he has few choices? That though is really not our job.”

“Well he wants to be where more brothers are. And a little closer to his home.”

“Has he been to classification yet?”

“I think they let him know he might have to go down south.” 

Maria studied the computer, then turned. “Peter, the sergeant doesn’t as a rule ask me to inquire about an inmate and the reason for visiting us. Are you sure there is nothing else?”

I looked nervously again at my desk calendar. It didn’t appear to have been disturbed. I have always been honest with Maria. And we are close, in the sense I know she trusts me. And I, her. She is a good, diligent boss and with a command of her craft, forensic psychology. “I don’t think there is anything about Mr. Franklin that pops out. He has been here a while like all the other men who are waiting to be transferred to level 5 camps. He is paranoid and is wrestling with a little schizoidal stuff.”    

I didn’t tell her about Mr. Franklin’s concern about having a snitch in his cell, much less the note Wanda asked me to give to him. 

“Very well, Pedro.” Maria stood and scooted toward the door. “Everything else Okay?” She looked at me with her almonds for a moment. 

“Good.” 

She half smiles then exited briefly looking at Mr. Downey across the hall before leaving the area. I sat in my desk chair. There was a strong scent of her perfume, some lavender extract. I breathed in. 

I pulled up the suicide discharge template and entered Mr. Gordoni’s name and checked the box to discharge him. Sometime later this afternoon he’ll be released to the main population. 

Chapter 15: Maria

“The factory bell is whistling,” Maria said, walking back into the mental health space at 4, o’clock. “Let’s clean it all up for the day.” She began using the axiom after a memo was handed down by Buelly Knox saying overtime pay would no longer be paid for work over 8 hours. Our company which contracted with the state was most obliging. 

Babcock stepped into the area and called out,“Let’s vacate everyone.” As if a command from the heavens had been levied, computers were turned off, desks were closed and staff slowly began to pack up.

The secretary, Laurie, threw me a wink as she left the area, chuckling out, “Don’t break the computer, Peter.”

Babcock said, “Cleary, the Ad Seg officer called me and said they needed another sheet on that inmate you released from watch. You only sent two copies over to her on the computer earlier.” 

I pulled up the release report on Mr. Gordoni. “I’ll send another one over.”  The digital age has its perks. Everything is done by the push of a button. Voila, message sent.

Maria waited until Babcock left and edged back into my cubicle and sat in my spare chair as I packed up.“All your notes done, Pedro?” She crossed her legs, kept her eyes glued to the stacks of books piled on the table behind me, then stepped around my desk and reached for one, “Exiles from Eden.”  She sat and thumbed through the book. 

“Evolutionary Psychology,” I said. “Out of print.” 

“Summarize.” 

“Our emotions and behaviors, guilt, jealousy, gossip and all served a purpose in our survival. But in our information age, management of them has gotten out of hand.”

“Are you using it for one of your groups?”

“For the Thinking Error group. I have found the lads, especially the old timers, find it interesting that the very emotions that have put them in here were at one time useful.”

Maria continued perusing the pages. “So, gossip?”

“Gossip was a behavior in the hunter-gatherer tribe that arose as a way to keep the tribe in line with their tasks. If someone wasn’t doing their job they’d be talked about.” 

“Makes sense. But today our guiding institution DOC has rules against talking about another staff member.”

“Well, probably a good idea,” I said. “Suppose gossiping can get out of hand. Nose to grindstone, no talking might be a better way.”  Chuckle.

“Take it home for reading,” I said. “You can better understand Lt. Jody and yourself.”  

Jody is Maria’s husband of several years. He had done a hurry-up courtship of her as soon as her first marriage had ended. He is one of three lieutenants, along with the sergeants, captains and the warden who run things in the prison. All don white shirts, which sets them apart from the blue shirts for the CO’s. Jody is a career correction officer and a nice guy, but has a wandering eye for the young female, 20-something correction officers, who are becoming more the mainstays of the prison staff. 

“I’ll do it. Think this will explain his roving ways?”

“I don’t know if the hunter gatherers were a monogamous bunch. So you might find out that evolutionarily Jody is just a typical tribesman.”

“Thanks, Peter. That’s what I want to hear. I can always expect you to be honest.”

Babcock returned and stood at the mental health doorway and called out to us. “You two also have to vamoose,” he said. 

We joined the small crowd exiting the building. I know Maria wanted to get back to the real reason she has visited my cubicle, which I guess is about Mr. Franklin. 

“Quiet this time of day on The Walk,” she said. 

“So,” I said, coaxing the conversation on, “You said earlier the sergeant is interested in my Mr. Franklin.”

“Yes. All he told me was that it seemed the man had been visiting you more than what seemed normal. And wanted to know if I knew why.”   

“I didn’t know that CO’s kept tabs on who and how often mental health sees clients.”

Two female parole officers assigned to the prison joined us, interrupting our talk with some perfunctory questions about sharing information between mental health and parole. I let the ladies converse and drifted back to thoughts of Mr. Franklin and what he was trying to tell me in our morning conversation. I’d put in a request for him to return the next day.

At the administration building a crowd of exiting staff waited to be buzzed through two doors to the outside lobby. The door cranked open. I followed Maria and the other two through. 

At the final gate, Lt. Jody was waiting for Maria. She nodded goodbye to me, the book tucked under her arm. I flashed my ID to the CO looking down at all from a perch behind plexiglass, and made my way out of the building.

Mr. Downey and Ms. Challice were smoking cigarettes at the parking lot edge.

“Beer at Churchill’s?” Downey asked.  

“Need to get back home today, folks,” I said. 

“To that Irish lass of yours?”

“I promised her I’d take her out for pizza.”