Memoirs From An American Jail: My First Day In The Underworld

By Shaka Caesar

The traffic was lighter than expected, the morning sun was bright, and it felt like a good day. Job interviews are often nerve-racking, but there was something different about this one. I had never been to a jail before—had only seen some on TV—so I had no idea what an actual jail looked like, let alone how it felt on the inside. Yet there was I, on a parkway heading for an interview for the position of Correctional Officer.

In need of a well-paying job with good benefits and health insurance, I had applied for the position 16 months prior without giving much thought to the nature of the job itself. Who cares about the nature of the job anyway: shouldn’t the nature of the pay matter more?

The Garrison County Jail wasn’t hard to find as it was right off the parkway exit. No gridlock, no annoying red lights to wait for. Just off the highway and there it was. Situated in a rather busy part of the city and surrounded by the main streets of downtown Garrison, the jail was imposing and, like most government buildings in inner cities, had seen better days.

I parked my car and approached what looked like the facility’s entrance, where a burly officer was standing and staring at me as I approached.

“May I help you with something?” the officer asked.

“Good morning officer, I’m here for an interview for Corrections Officer.”

Maldonado, his name. He sized me up, then pointed me to the desk that would attend to me.

For twenty minutes I sat waiting at the jail lobby, until a middle-aged Black woman in plain clothes motioned for me to follow her. She had this indifferent look on her face, like she’d rather be somewhere else. Americans are known for friendly smiles. Here in the facility, everyone seemed to be in a bad mood, and I wondered why.

The female officer led me to a small conference room where we both sat down. “Glad to meet you,” she said, shuffling through a stack of papers. “I’m Undersheriff Linda Walsh. Matter of fact, while we wait for the others, I’ll have someone give you a tour of the jail. Come!”

At first Lieutenant Franco, my assigned tour guide, seemed unhappy leaving his coffee to take me round, but we soon got chatty, starting the tour with the medical section. “Medical Door!” Franco yelled into the intercom and almost immediately, a loud bang opened the door leading into Medical.

“You see, the guys with mental issues are housed on the second floor, but once in a while one of them acts up. So, we bring ‘em down here, maybe they’ll get some meds and stuff,” he explained. Disheveled men and women lay on beds, each of them consumed by unseen realities in their own world.

“See that cell at the end with the metal door? The guy in there, spits. That’s why he’s there. The crazy crazies go there,” Franco laughed.

“He spits?” I asked.

“Yes, he spits in your face. We can’t have him doing that, so in that pod he goes until he chills out.”

I felt a lump in my throat.

“Every time there’s a fight, all the parties must be brought to Medical for evaluation. Even if there’s no visible injury, you must bring ‘em here. We don’t wanna get sued, they have rights you know,” Franco laughed again, leading me out of Medical towards the kitchen.

The kitchen was a huge open space with large ovens. On one end were pots and vents, an automated dishwasher and some tables on the other. From one small office in the kitchen, a bespectacled officer sat yelling into the phone. There were about 15 inmates with overalls labelled Kitchen Trustee. These, Franco explained, were the kitchen workers.

“These guys here are the first shift guys, we also have second and third shift trustees responsible for lunch and dinner respectively.”

“They prepare meals for all the inmates?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s why we have them in three shifts working almost 24/7. They get vetted by Classification. They have to be of good behavior and get cleared by Medical before they can work here. The really good ones work in the ODR…the Officers’ Dining Room.”

“You mean these inmates make food for the officers too?”

“Yes, they do, and the food is free for all officers and jail staff. You can always bring your own food if that makes you comfortable. We kind of have a shortage of kitchen officers, so you may be assigned to the kitchen if you get hired.”

At this point, my surprise gave way to curiosity.

“What’s involved?” I asked.

“You just have to watch these guys and make sure they’re not doing anything funny. Keep an eye on the equipment. Don’t worry, the officers here will teach you everything you need to know. You wanna go see some killers in Max?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Maximum security on the second floor. Come let’s go.”

As we headed towards the elevator, I felt an uneasy sensation in my insides and had trouble walking straight, but I disguised this not wanting Franco to notice.

“Two Max!” Franco yelled his usual command, and a loud bang startled me. He held the heavy metal door and motioned for me to enter. I did.

 

I was doubly startled as the door banged shut behind me. Now literally in the underworld, a whole new journey had just begun for me in America, creating experiences from the dramatic to the dangerous, in which I came to learn that incarceration is a university in its own right, and that the human mind is clearly beyond our certain grasp.