A visit to the prison in Bowling Green MO 02/09/24 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Remember my friend in jail[1]? When he first got in, I submitted an application to visit him. But things were complicated, the application got stuck somewhere, somehow, and neither of us heard anything more. Then it turned out he could only have one visitor on his roster while in that prison, and I wasn't the first choice (his wife came first, go figure), so I was told to hold off. He eventually got transferred to another prison, where he'd (I guess) serve his full time. And finally, we figured the visiting thing out. I re-submitted an application, which was approved after some time. In reality, his case worker tells him when an application is approved, and he has to tell the applicant. The whole thing was a little messy feeling, but it's done. About a week ago, I finally got to visit him, along with my wife who is also his friend, after almost 7 months. During the application process, they do a decent job scaring you about the rules surrounding visits. They talk about your clothing, what you can bring into the building (even the waiting room), what you can store in the lockers provided, how you'll be processed, what you can and can't do when visiting, limits on physical touch, what you can say, etc. I've never visited anyone in prison, so it was all new. I imagined driving up to a gate with an armed guard and controlled access. After flashing my ID, they'd ask me to pop my trunk, which they'd search. With one more suspicious glance just for good measure, they'd reluctantly agree to let me enter. I'd park, stow everything except my license (nothing else can come in the building), and walk in. They'd scan me, metal-detect me, pat me down, and finally escort me in. Reality wasn't nearly so dramatic. There was no gate, just a sign telling me to turn right. The parking lot was a lonely, wind-whipped blacktop of the most banal type. "SECURE ALL VALUABLES AND LOCK YOUR DOORS" signs were a little out-of-the-ordinary, but even those you sometimes see at malls and airports. On one side was employee parking, visitor parking on the other. There was a tired old flag in front of a building that only looked reasonably maintained when viewed from a distance. We were told to get there at 9am, and that visits were first-come, first-serve. We got there at 8:55, stowed our things (really, you're not allowed to bring in anything but your ID), and went to the door. It was locked, and we were the first ones. A sign indicated that visits started at 9:30am. Other visitors started to trickle in and form a line. We learned that the waiting room generally opened at 9am. One lady insisted that she'd never, ever been there when it wasn't open at 9am. Another lady insisted that she'd never, ever been there when it was open on time at 9am. A lot of people were carrying homemade food in containers. Large amounts of it, in point of fact. They have what are called "food visits", and we thought we'd missed some boat--but later learned that depending on a prisoners status, they may get more than the one allotted food visit per month. We hadn't missed any opportunity, showing up empty-handed (well, ID only). It was cold, and we passed the time bantering with the other visitors. I had plenty of opportunity to note the beat up metal door, the peeling paint on the hand rails, and the general overworked state of the place. We were let in around 9:25am or so. I'll never understand why people complain about such things when the answers are so obvious, but someone did make a comment, and the guard started on what must have been a rehearsed series of statements about being understaffed. He sounded beleaguered, and I'm sure he felt it. I tried to smile and nod sympathetically, but he didn't see. Inside, the building was somewhat dilapidated. A series of lockers lined the wall to the left, the metal kind I might have seen at a skating rink when I was a kid. Except they didn't have those cool cylindrical plastic keys that only come out when you put in a quarter. Some plastic chairs were lined up in rows in the center of the room, and the far right wall had two change machines and a bank of pay phones. Maybe they were visit phones, and just looked like old pay phones? I didn't check on them. The far wall had a reception desk, with the entrance behind it and to the right. There was narrow hall off the right wall, with a bathroom. The metal detector and x-ray machines were next to the reception desk, not really barring the path to the visiting entrance, but nearby. There was one of those scanners they have at the airports now, I can't recall their name, sitting unused behind the less modern gear. We approached the desk, second in line. Someone else had somehow positioned themselves before us, and we didn't care at all. My friend's last name is a little long and unique, and I didn't have his Dept. of Corrections number, so I spelled it out for the young woman when we got our turn. She typed fast for a prison guard (you see, in my mind, a prison guard would type slowly, like a DMV worker). Seriously, like programmer fast. I threw in his first name for good measure, and she said in a quiet voice, "I know, we all love him." That was really reassuring. We asked a few questions, said a few nice things in commiseration with the understaffing issue, and got a locker key. You see, we both had jackets on, and nothing with pockets or hoods is allowed in. We stowed them, and went to get some change. I forgot to tell you: you're allowed to bring in your ID, and a plastic bag full of change for the vending machines. Visits are 4 hours long, and no food is provided for the prisoners. If you want to eat, or want them to eat, you can buy food inside. We had about $20 of quarters that we brought, and traded a bit of cash for some Susan B Anthonies, just in case. We sat next to a young woman who was visiting her fiance. He had been in for 7 years, not sure how long he had left or what he did. My wife went to the bathroom, and the young woman started using far more colorful language to complain about the prison system. I don't know why she thought I'd be more receptive to that brand of communication, but I listened and laughed with her. It's the scruffy beard, maybe. Anyway, I don't really mind any sort of honest communication. Our friend's name was called over a speaker, but it was garbled and the woman at the desk was busy. My wife insisted she heard it, and I told her to just wait until we were called. She was right, of course, as usual, but we didn't find that out until his name was called again in a few minutes. In the meantime, a woman somehow didn't understand that she had to be informed by the prisoner when she was approved to visit. She had driven 4 hours to visit, and the woman at the desk was now having to explain why she couldn't enter. Neither one of them was happy. Also while we were waiting, a male guard came out to run all the foot items through the x-ray machine (yum!). I kid you not, one person brought a large plastic tub filled with food items. There's supposed to be a limit, but we learned that they don't bother enforcing it. He had a feast in there. Good for him. So, our friend's name was called again, and this time my wife got up and spoke to the desk lady, who hadn't heard it again (they really were quite understaffed.) She told us to go ahead... but no one was working the metal detector, etc. Anyway, we walked over there ourselves as she busily typed away, processing new arrivals still. My wife made it through, but I beeped. No one cared. I took off my belt and walked through again in silence. I gathered the plastic bin with my ID, locker key, and belt, and looked around for the guards that were surely going to jump out any moment. No one came, so I asked the lady at the desk if she wanted to look in the bin that I was grabbing stuff out of, stuff that I had passed by the side of the metal detector (hey, anything could be in there!). She said sure, and looked, then opened the doors for us. Understaffed, overworked, and insecure. That's not a complaint, just an observation. The insecure continued--again, not complaining. The entrance is a small room with four doors, all with reinforced glass throughout, the kind with metal wires between the panes. Once you're in, they close the door you entered from. There's a big sign that says "HAVE ID READY", but no one asked for ID. Well fine. There's a little table that says "MAKE SURE TO GET YOUR HAND STAMPED", but no one was there to stamp our hand. The door to the visiting room slid open without any ceremony, and we walked in. Aside from the non-contact visit booths lining the left wall, the room looked mostly like an elementary school cafeteria. Well, those booths and the acoustic foam panels all over the place. Maybe an elementary cafeteria turned sound studio. The center of the room was small tables with rounded edges, about knee-height off the floor and surrounded by smooth plastic single-piece chairs. Prisoners were led in and seated to wait for their visitors. The folks who cut in front of us in line were seated with our friend's cell mate at the back of the room near the vending machines, our friend in front of them, and one or two other waiting inmates around the room. You're allowed a brief hug at the beginning and end of your visit. My wife and I hugged our friend for a good long while, as long as we figured the security guards around the perimeter would tolerate. I hugged him hard, because he's a physical touch person and I know it means a lot to him (it always has). Then we sat around the table. Apart from that hug at the beginning and end, our friend wasn't allowed to get up from the table, period. We could move around the room as needed, but he had to sit there. The table really was right at knee-level, and it was impossible to sit at it comfortably. You had to sort of position yourself at a corner and straddle the thing in the most absurd way. The prisoners weren't supposed to lean or put their feet up, but the guards didn't seem to care about any of that. Everyone just made themselves as comfortable as possible. We got a lot of updates from our friend about what things had been like. Unaccountably (unless you believe in prayer, as I do) his situation was incredibly favorable. After some time in protective custody (which they call "in the hole"; a small room with a thin mattress, no tablet or other items, food on a tray in the room, and if you ever come out you have to wear shackles the whole time) he was moved from general population into a specific wing of the prison. In this wing, you can only stay if you have zero bad behavior--one infraction, and they move you out. So, everyone around him there was incentivised to behave well. Then, a short while later, he got a job, which mean more time out of his cell and area. His cellmate had changed from the one we had heard about, and he was getting along great with the new one. Some art supplies we had sent him money for had finally arrived. We knew all this though, through emails. What we hadn't heard yet was that he had a new job. In the whole prison (this one, at least), there is a single inmate who is able to move between all the different areas of the prison. This inmate has the job of delivering files for the prison workers, when those files need to move between areas. That worker is a sort of errand-runner, and they get more pay than some other jobs. The guy with the job currently is named Charlie, and he's an older fellow who has been an inmate for years. Charlie wanted an assistant, and he chose our friend. He had wanted to work in the library, but this job was even better. He gets to know all the guards, move around more freely, and get good exposure to the people who will eventually be interviewed when he wants parole. It's a job that normally wouldn't be given to a new guy. I call it a blessing, you can call it whatever you want. A fun thing happened to him recently as well: you're only allowed a certain number of books in your cell, so once you're at your limit (I think it's 6), you have to get rid of books if you want to buy new ones. Well, while he was at the library, right after he got his new job, the librarian asked him if he wanted to be a judge in a prison book contest. He'd get copies of 4 books by award winning authors, which he'd get to keep and which didn't count against his allowance. He'd read all four and vote, and when the national winner was chosen, he'd get to attend a book signing in the prison, when the winning author went on tour. He said yes, of course. About an hour in, we were informed that if the room got too busy, they'd have to reduce visits to 2 hours instead of 4, so we took some time to buy our friend lunch. He had an jalapeno Angus burger, some jalapeno Cheetos, and an orange Mountain Dew. Super healthy, of course. I had a chicken-friend-steak burger, and my wife refused such nonsense and settled on a bottled water and some mixed nuts. One of the machines rejected a coin I put it, and as I reached into the coin return I encountered a small pile of quarter and dollar coins. Apparently, it was rejecting a lot, including coins it was couting. I finished my transaction, then took the remaining coins and handed them to a guard, telling him that someone had forgotten them and might come looking for them (I later saw him with some Cheetos, but I'm not judging). I didn't suggest the machine was broken, as I didn't want them to slap an out-of-order sign on it and ruin everyones terrible lunch prospects. There were microwaves to heat the food. While getting this all ready for him (he couldn't get up, remember), I noticed that the floor was outlined in thick floor tape and marked with zones where the inmates weren't allowed to walk (presumably when entering and exiting). I will also tell you that on the wall where the microwaves lived there was a photo area with various pull-down backdrops, as well as a bookshelf and table full of board and card games. The sandwich wasn't horrible, considering it came from a prison vending machine. Next time, I think I'll try what he had. Things were getting pretty loud by the middle of our visit, which explained all the acoustic tiling plastered about. The tables were all full. Some people were incredibly loud, so much so that to hear our friend we had to cup around our ears. Quality conversation became difficult, so I went for a deck of cards so we could learn two games he had learned in prison: Spite and Malice, and another appropriately bleak game that I can't recall. There were no regular cards left, so I came back with Phase 10. As he explained Spite and Malice (he was quite excited about it), I realized that it sounded just like Skip-Bo, which was on the table. I went and grabbed it (he had never played), and we compared the games. We ended up playing Skip-Bo, which apparently is much the same. I think there was just a tinge of disappointment for him, to learn that his prison game was just like a popular kids game, but maybe I imagined that. He described the prison economy to us a little. Apparently the modern currency isn't based around cigarettes, but around ramen noodles. Everything trades in that culinary treasure. If you want an extra blanket, you pay in noodles. Since you can only buy stuff one a week (including more noodles to trade with), you can borrow noodles as needed--with interest. Our friend never charges interest, but don't tell anyone, as he doesn't want to offend Charlie, who is a Bank, and who does charge interest. Except that there are no banks, because that is against the rules. I asked if they played any gambling games with noodles, but learned that they only gamble with tootsie rolls--noodles are too big, too easy to get caught with. Gambling games are against the rules. They never, ever gamble, of course. A few times, our friend shouts some comment at a passing guard (you have to shout at this point). He's on really good terms with them, and they really do seem to enjoy him. I'm sure he makes their life easy. I failed to mention that my friend was an ASL interpreter before prison (though he'll likely never be one again because of his plea deal, which is heartbreaking to him). He's been able to help interpret in prison, which the guards appreciate. I only heard of one inmate who needed it, but one is enough to make the understaffed guards life miserable I'm sure, trying to figure out how to meet that need. We learned a few signs. I live in Fulton MO, which has a state School for the Deaf, and so there are a lot of deaf people in my daily life. I have a friend who is teaching my wife and me, but learning has been slow, as she's had health challenges. I'm also using lifeprint.com, but learning has been slow because I haven't been as dedicated as I could be... Our friend let us know that he now believes that he might be able to get out in as little as two years. I told him that by then, I'd like to be conversational in ASL, so we can have some fun that way. Four hours is a long time to visit, especially in a loud and crowded room. We were the last ones in there as the second hand slowly rolled toward the top of the final minute. We stood up and hugged, and started out. Several inmates were standing around by the exit door, but I guess with the security it didn't much matter. In and out with no hoopla beyond the timed sliding of the doors. The waiting room was quite and empty, and we were able to properly thank the guard there before gathering our jackets from the locker and heading out. [1] gopher://zaibatsu.circumlunar.space:70/0/~tfurrows/phlog/2023-07-23_jail.txt