JAIL TIME by Gary Pickering
The huge, ominous stone building sat prominently on the hillside overlooking the Don Valley, its massive front entrance doors guarded by an intimidating gargoyle directly overhead. Mere mention of this place causes a multitude of impressions and feelings to leap into the minds of those who, for one reason or another have come to know the Don Jail. All manner of men have passed through those huge oak portals. Rich men, poor men, young men and old. Both guilty and innocent have seen the inside of this place, some for longer periods than others. For some it created fear, for others control, and for still others, hate. But for all, it creates memories; good, bad, and everlasting.
My first day in the Don found me on Death Row though I didn’t know it at the time. There were four small cells and a tiny day area directly in front. I was very nervous. Being locked in was a brand new experience for me. I had never been in a jail before, let alone the infamous Don Jail and exactly the location from which the Boyd Gang escaped. I didn’t want any trouble and for sure I wanted to do what was expected of me. The clothing issued to me made me hot and itchy. I was afraid to open one of the dirty windows behind the bars for fear it would set off an alarm somewhere. I wished there was someone around to talk to. Unfortunately, the only other person nearby was the inmate locked in cell two and he wasn’t very talkative. I later found out he was sentenced to hang.
I could not see out beyond the steel barred gate that led into the centre of the building because a fine steel meshed screen covered the bars to prevent contraband from being passed in. I could hear the jail beginning to wake up, though. There were noises of people coughing, dishes rattling, and keys jingling. The repeated clanking of steel doors being opened and shut rang through the air. It went from dead silence to a hum of activity. I probably felt like thousands of inmates who experienced their first time in jail except there was one major difference. I was not an inmate. I was a guard!
I began to read the logbook used to record all the times and activities that transpired the day before. The first entry read, “0700 — assumed duties and keys for 9 holding. One inmate in custody.” This was followed by “0720 — dishes removed from cell.” I looked at my watch and noticed it was 7:25 AM. I had been on the job for less than one half hour and already I was behind schedule. “Hey guy, hand out your dishes will ya’?”, I said to the inmate sitting on his bedside in cell two. “I’m not finished yet.” He replied as he took – another spoonful of rice crispies and milk from the Styrofoam bowl he held. “I don’t care”, I said. “I’m five minutes behind- now give me your dishes!” With that, he handed the bowl, spoon, and little remaining cereal out through the food service hatch.
“What next?”, I thought. Better check that log book again. The next thing recorded was “0735 — dishes to kitchen.” I yelled for a guard. “Guard.” pausing and yelling louder, – “Guard-anyone. Can I see you?” There was no response. It was now 7:50 AM and I was now fifteen minutes behind schedule and worried. I was hotter, itchier and getting more and more nervous. My first day on the job and I have do this right.
I kept peering at the doorway hoping someone would come to get the dishes. No such luck. I looked at the yellow cream coloured wall behind me and noticed what looked like a doorbell button and a wire leading from it toward the landing. My first thought was this must be to buzz for the guard so I pressed it. Immediately the hum of activity I heard before became much louder. I heard shouting outside and boot steps and clambering on the floor outside the meshed door. I heard someone excitedly say “Quick. Open the door!” Keys dropped on the floor. It was obviously quite a commotion right outside 9 holding. All the while I stood impatiently holding a yellow plastic tray with a soup spoon and Styrofoam bowl. Finally the door burst open and several supervisors and guards rushed in. Through another locked gate one of them asked, “Did you press the alarm?” “No, sir. I just rang the buzzer.” I said, pointing to the button. “No! No!,” he said. “That is the panic button. Do not press that unless there is an emergency!” So began my career in corrections. It was another day and another day shift. I was assigned to 2A court cells and pen range.- There were thirty six cells back to back with a small narrow pipe chase running the length between them. In front of the eighteen cells on the south side there was a day area with three stainless steel picnic tables scattered down the length of the corridor at which the occupants ate their meals and played cards. At the rear, there was one communal toilet –and the gang shower. Entry to the range was through an electrically operated sallyport entrance. The outside door could not be opened unless the inner door was closed and locked and vice versa. In this way, whenever allowing an inmate in or out of the corridor, there was no way that the others could rush out. The other side was laid out in an identical manner.
The North side inmates were sent off to court for the day, leaving only the twelve occupants of the South side. These were men looking at lengthy sentences of fifteen years to life for serious offences like armed robbery, manslaughter, and even murder. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to an easy shift. After all, how busy could it get with just a dozen inmates?
Before any of his fellow inmates were even out of their beds, Saunders approached the sallyport dressed only in boxer shorts. He kicked one of the bowls of cereal sitting on the tray near the door to get my attention. He grasped the bars with both huge fists and tensed his tattooed biceps. “I want to get something straight with you,” he spat. “What’s that?,”I – asked. “Well, I don’t like anyone going into my cell. Is that clear?” he asked.
“Interesting,” I replied. “But this is not a hotel and if someone has to go into your cell, I guess they will just go in.” Saunders turned abruptly and went back towards his cell which was about midway down the range. After breakfast, routine called for one guard to inspect the cells and slide the cell doors closed so they would lock. I knew what I had to do. “Keep a sharp eye on me, partner. I’m going in to lock the cells.” My fellow guard let me through the sallyport doors and, at cell number one, I began checking and locking the cells. By the time I got to cell number three, I sensed Saunders following me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I was sure everyone could hear my heart pounding, but nobody let on. When I got to Saunder’s cell number nine, I noticed that he had very neatly piled his personal belongings like tobacco, soap, shampoo, and letters on the floor across the doorway. In my mind, he had done so for two reasons. The first was so he could have access to these things during the day when the cell was locked up.
The second was a reminder to me to keep out. I knew that if I did not go into his cell now, I would lose control of the corridor, such as it was, to him. I took a deep breath and stepped over his stuff and into his cell. I looked around, but I don’t remember seeing anything because at that time I was expecting an attack. As I stepped back out, Saunders gave me a look that could kill, but then wheeled around and sat down at one of the tables. I continued locking the rest of the cells trying to appear as nonchalant as I could. I then sauntered back to the sallyport doors, my partner let me out and I went around the corner, wiped my brow and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Only six hours to go.
After lock up and inspection, the next routine to complete-was lunch service. Today the menu consisted of kraft dinner, bread and butter, pears for dessert, and coffee. With only twelve inmates, lunch service was going to be a snap. Wrong! After handing twelve meals through the food service hatch, Hutchison, the corridor man, approached me and said, “Hey boss, I didn’t get my meal.” I replied, “Well there are twelve guys in there and I put twelve meals in. Twelve divided by twelve equals one each.”
Another inmate approached carrying his plate of kraft dinner. He was new to the range and obviously did not want his dinner. Instead of offering it to Hutchison, though, he said, “Give the guy a meal eh?” I repeated that I had put enough meals in for everyone and responded by saying, “You better put another meal in here or you are going to wear this one!” I said, “Listen, do your own time and go sit down.” With that, he threw the plate through the bars directly at me and I was covered in Kraft dinner from head to toe. Just then, the Staff Training Officer came in accompanied by a new recruit he was showing around. “What happened?” he asked. I said, “One of the guys didn’t like lunch.” He kind of smiled as he left. I never saw the new recruit again. I phoned the Chief’s Office and told my supervisor what happened and that I was putting this guy on charge. Shortly after, the Sergeant showed up and escorted the offender to segregation or as we called it, “the hole.”
I had noticed on previous days that, after lunch, four or five inmates would gather in Smith’s cell where they would drink their coffee, smoke and get into animated discussions. Anytime they saw me come near, they would lower their voices and even whisper. I was very curious. What were they talking about in there, I mused. I made up my mind that, today, I was going to find out. I unlocked the access door to the pipe chase and went down to the rear of Smith’s cell. The pipes from his sink and toilet carried their: conversation very clearly to the pipe chase. I heard him bragging to his buddies about – how he had been acquitted for a bank job that he had pulled the previous January. They all had quite the laugh about it. He had beat the system again.
A few days later, on the same range, Smith approached me at the bars and became quite belligerent about some inconsequential thing. Ever since the incidents with Saunders and Hutchison, the other inmates had been giving me a hard time over everything. They would not bring the dishes out and they were slow to clean up. They were just generally uncooperative. So I said to Smith, “Listen, you might be able to beat the system with the odd bank robbery you get away with, but you won’t get away with that stuff here. I have ways of knowing what’s going on.” Smith became speechless and the look on his face was priceless. He turned abruptly and went to sit at a table by himself. I knew exactly what he was thinking- “Which one of my buddies told him about that robbery?” There is
nothing worse than a rat in the prison subculture. And when you don’t know who it is, it’s even more troublesome. I made an entry in my log book, “Patrol area quiet and in order.” I felt really good.
Many years had passed since my early days at the Don. I had worked my way up through the ranks and now I was Assistant Superintendent. Line staff referred to me as “one of the suits.” I no longer wore a uniform, but instead regular business attire. One of my responsibilities now was to adjudicate misconducts committed or allegedly committed by inmates while in custody. Likewise, my colleague, Dan Fotheringham had the same rank and same responsibilities. Both of us were in segregation one morning when we heard very loud banging from cell twelve. There were several officers there and water was pouring out from under the door. As we approached, I asked one of the guards what was goingon. “Tiango has flooded his cell and he’s going nuts in there!” I looked through the tiny window in the door and saw Tiango banging his head violently into the steel door. I yelled into him, “Tiango, what’s going on?” He stopped banging long enough to identify me. The banging had made his eyes cross and he had to refocus. I asked, “Can we talk?” He nodded in the affirmative, so I gestured toward the guard to unlock the door. Dan – followed me in and I got Tiango calmed down and said, “Mr. Fotheringham is going to adjudicate your misconduct now.” Because of Tiango’s volatile behaviour, Dan had him stand up to be handcuffed. He got one cuff on his left hand when all of a sudden, Tiango lashed out with a roundhouse right that caught Dan flush on the jaw. Dan staggered back, obviously dazed and I jumped at Tiango restraining him with a bear hug. He continued struggling violently and with one handcuff dangling, he had a dangerous weapon with which he could do a lot of damage. In the background, I heard someone say, “Mace him!” With that, I saw an arm come over my shoulder and spray a stream of Mace into Tiango’s face. Some of it bounced back into my eyes and I couldn’t see! I just kept holding on! Finally Tiango was cuffed and leg-ironed. We were back in control.
Too often, when people hear the phrase “jail time” they think only of criminals. The fact is, the staff that are working in prisons are doing time too. Those of us in the system relate to one another differently than those outside looking in. We don’t get the glory that other professions such as firefighters and policemen do; but it doesn’t mean that our jobs are any less important. We too keep the women children and public at large safer by doing a good job. We do so because we want to. We, too, do jail time.
Life Unfolding 