Correctional Officers (CO's)

Yesterday, I was at a maximum security prison to do an evaluation. I go to this prison quite often. My assignment was to evaluate a man who had never had a relationship with an adult male or female and who has had several relationships with boys and girls under five.

The way this specific prison functions, there are interview rooms for people like me, lawyers, and the like at the "back door". When any of us are ready to interview our inmate (after reviewing the master and medical file), we ask the correctional officer (CO) who staffs the "back door" to locate and call our inmate to the "back door". That CO position looks easy from afar. It looks like he sits at a desk and phones the housing unit personnel to send people to the "back door". In reality, his job is to keep lawyers and people like me in line, keep us safe, manage the ebb and flow of a lot of people, provide back up for the visitors room and so forth. In truth, it is a busy job. One unpleasant task is that he must take every inmate who comes for an interview or visit into the shakedown room, watch him remove all his clothing, search the clothing, collect any contraband (including shanks) and do a cavity search. Inmates often store shanks where the sun never shines.

Yesterday, I'm waiting for my inmate. The CO is busily searching other inmates for visits and other interviews. My inmate arrives and is standing in the airlock entry portal awaiting the opening of the door by the CO. I cannot let him in because I do not have access to the electronic button that opens the door for him to enter. So, he's standing in the airlock--all 6' 2", 225 pounds of him with a big goofy lopsided grin, waving at me, and an erection that you could easily fly a flag upon.

I'm standing there thinking "Well, this could be problematic". He's 45, 6'2", 225 pounds of muscle and I'm nearly 62, 5'5", 160 and little to no muscle. And, following the shakedown I'm supposed to enter a small room alone with this man for 4 to 6 hours. But, I remember that he has never had a sexual contact with an adult and far prefers children under the age of 5. And, I can be a relatively forboding woman when I choose to be.

The CO finishes his shakedown and calls my inmate. He escorts him into the shakedown room. I go back to my little interview room to await his arrival. A few minutes later, the CO knocks on the door and enters. Still wearing his clean rubber gloves, and speaking in his soft southern drawl, he says "I'm sorry Ma'am, I got him in the shakedown room and he didn't have a stitch of underwear on. He told me he never wears underwear and I told him that he can't come up here and see the SVP lady without underwear on. So, I sent him back to the housing unit to put on underwear and to take care of some personal business. He'll be back when he finishs."

So, I continue to sit on my tush, cooling my heels and waiting for the man to return.

The inmate returns , is wearing underwear, is minus the erection and submits to another body and cavity search. He enters the interview room, I ask him to read the entire informed consent out loud, he says "The whole thing", he struggles through the one page document and tells me there is no way he is talking to me without a lawyer present. I tell him that it is his right not to speak to him, but by law I'm required to give him the opportunity. I return him to the long suffering CO.

Now, I'm stuck with writing an emergency report (we had very late notification) this week end on a guy who refused to interview with the pre-release evaluator and who refused to speak with me.

I left annoyed because he'd wasted a lot of my time, I'd driven 214 miles one way, and I had a lot of difficult work ahead of me on a weekend (again). I just spent all of Easter Sunday writing a report on another guy who refused to talk to me.

But, I was overwhelmingly appreciative of the job those CO's do. Truth is, there are some places I don't want to put my hands even if they let me double or triple glove my hands. And, he has to do it repeatedly all day long--every working day. Those guys don't get paid enough! Further, all my experience with this specific CO for the last two years is that he is always a gracious, kind, dutiful employee who does his job to the very best of his ability.

FLOODING

The common saying around here is "Don't like the weather, Blink". Well this winter, it has been snow and ice following blizzard after blizzard. Now, it's the rains and the flash flooding. Given what the winter has brought us, I'm scared to death of what the summer will bring.



I think this winter has finally broken me and I'm dreaming of the southwest--the far southwest--the desert. A few years ago, I was in New Mexico and fell in love with the climate, the terrain, and the people. Santa Fe would be delightful except for the problem of being forced to live in a cardboard box. One needs the funds of a very wealthy movie star to live there. Checking on realtor.com it is possible to buy a 694 square foot condo for a mere $350,000. I think Dakota would be cramped not to mention the nearly 12,000 books I own and have no intention of throwing out.

Albuquerque is significantly more reasonable. I've gotten spoiled I guess. We live in a nice little house. At least I always thought it was little. Compared to New Mexico, it's gigantic. We have a full basement with rooms that we actually use. We have plenty of fresh clean water that comes from the tap. Of course, right now we have a backyard full of water and mud but at least it's not in the house.

This search for potential housing in New Mexico is very depressing. Thinking about packing up and moving is even more depressing. Maybe we should just give up on this dream and stay here. They don't have much ice, snow, or many floods there. But, storing all those books in a cardboard box would be difficult. Not to mention keeping Dakota from wandering from her section of the cardboard box.



So, I checked out other sites in New Mexico. Other places are more reasonable. Then, my son who is a realtor informed me that he thought the cost of living might be higher because apparently New Mexico has to import water. Right now, with the flooding, that sounds good but we really like bathing a lot in this house.

LEVEL ONE LOCK DOWN

Whew--what a day yesterday was. Overslept, so I was discombobulated.

Went to a prison so I could do a routine evaluation. Upon arrival I had no problem with the front gate. It was a prison located in the central portion of the state as opposed to a southern prison where there's usually problems with the front gate. Got back to Master Records and reviewed the master chart. The Records Director mentioned that they were on Level One Lock Down so no inmate was being moved off his housing unit. Normally, they would bring the inmate to Medical Records where I would interview him at that prison. Each prison has a place set aside for people like lawyers, SVP evaluators and the like to interview inmates. But, I was going to have to go to the housing unit and interview this one where he lives.

It was housing unit #22, B wing, Cell 8. I told her that I have no idea how to get to housing unit #22. I know where Medical Records is and can get there alone, but there are many housing units and they all look just alike. It's like an incredibly large and very confusing maze.

She gave me the phone # and name of a "counselor". She told me to phone him when I finished reviewing the inmate's Medical Records and he'd come get me and escort me to housing unit #22.

I did as I was told. He was an incredibly nice young man, very gracious. We walked to housing unit #22, winding around through identical red brick buildings. By the time we got there, I told him that I'd never be able to find my way back to the gatehouse. It was an absolute maze.

This is not a place any person with a modicum of good sense would want to be lost when everything is calm and running in an orderly fashion.

I asked the counselor why they were on Level One Lock Down. Level One is the most serious Lock Down. Something really bad had to be happening. Seems there had been a lot of "chatter" among the inmates and the correctional officers had intercepted some notes they had been passing illegally. The "chatter" and the notes suggested strongly that the Ayran Brotherhood and the Gangster Disciples were planning to stage a major uprising. So, everyone was locked in their individual cell and the only way they could be removed from their cell was in handcuffs and ankle shackles by a Lt.

Meanwhile, all the correctional officers and all the Lt's. were shaking down several housing units. A shakedown means "search". A search of a prison is not simply looking around to see if anything is out of order. A search of a prison means that there is nothing (and I mean nothing) that is not dismantantled, torn apart, shredded. I mean there is nothing left when those correctional officers finish. Every cavity (including all the human ones) are searched and urine is collected from everyone in search of drug use. Invariably the correctional officers find many shanks and shives. Rarely is their an inmate in a prison without at least two (usually more) shanks at the ready.

I've been a member of search teams when I worked at the old place. It's a bad day with a lot of back breaking work and a lot of angry searchees. And, it can go on for days until all the prison property is searched. It just depends on how much property there is. This is a big prison. But, while Lock Down is on no inmate moves.

So, the "counselor" and I get back to housing unit #22 and enter. There is one correctional officer on duty in the "bubble". He's been left alone there to monitor the activity of the nearly 200 men in housing unit #22 while everyone else has been sent to shake down other housing units. The "bubble" is a transparent enclosure that looks out on two opposite day rooms. The day rooms are furnished with round steel tables securely bolted to the floors. The tables are surrounded by four very small steel stools which are also bolted to the floors. The walls and floors are concrete. There are no pictures or decorations. There is nothing that can be yanked off a wall or picked up an thrown. There is a water fountain in each dayroom and a bathroom with a large window to the dayroom such that when you use the bathroom you can be observed by the correctional officer in the bubble. There are "spokes" that shoot off from the dayrooms. On each side of those "spokes" are individual cells of about 9 X 5 feet. Each cell contains a solid metal shelf constructed as part of the wall, a steel wash basin built into the wall and a steel toliet built into the floor and wall. Each man's bunk has a pad about 2 inches thick to provide comfort when he sleeps and to sheild him from the cold of the steel shelf upon which he sleeps. Nothing has bolts or screws that would permit the items to be removed from the wall and or floor. There are no decorations or pictures on the walls. There are no bars. The steel cell doors have some sort of thick unbreakable security glass or security plexiglass in them with security wire enbedded, This is so the inmate can be observed at all times and cannot break the window to hurt himself or others. It was barren and remarkably clean with no noxious odors. Overall, it's a barren, sterile environment. This is a medium security prison.

At any rate, the inmate wouldn't talk to me. He has a legal right not to talk to me. I have a legal responsibility to offer him the opportunity to speak with me. He has an IQ (from his records) of just slightly above mentally retarded and he presented as incredibly paranoid. He's unable to read at all so I had to read him the informed consent. I read it paragraph by paragraph and them have them explain the just read paragraph in their own words. I had to read each paragraph 2 or 3 times because he couldn't understand what the words meant. Just the process of trying to help him understand the informed consent took well over an hour. Then, he refused to interview because he never really understood that I was not from the Dept. of Corrections and nobody was trying to trick him. So, now I'm stuck with writing a report on a man who wouldn't interview with the pre-release evaluator and wouldn't interview with me. That makes it really hard.

SPITZER'S DEMONS

Well, something has knocked the presidential campaign off the front pages and the TV screens. Thank you, Mr. Spitzer.

I suspect that Spitzer was one of those folks who was and probably still is wrapped a little too tight. He apparently made most of the politicians in NY and most of organized crime hate him with his zealous pursuit of corruption. It may well have been that his zealous pursuit of corruption was a defense mechanism against his dark side. And, his dark side broke through.

In psychology we could probably refer to his zealous pursuit of corruption as "reaction formation" or doing exactly the opposite of what your heart and soul longs to do.

It's a sad sad state of affairs for Spitzer, his wife, their children and his parents. My heart goes out to all of them. I'm even sad for the alleged hooker. All she did was engage in free enterprise, sell what she had to sell and now TV cameras are parked outside her front door. I feel sorry for her mother because TV cameras are also parked outside the mother's door.

I'm biased. I've had many patients who were hookers and many of them were the nicest people you'd ever hope to meet. Of course, I've had many patients who were murderers and you couldn't find nicer people except for that problem they had with killing people. So, I sometimes have a distorted view of the world.

Of course, sex sells. Because sex sells, the media park their vans and their cameras outside folk's doors. They clog the streets and tie up traffic. They have a job to do and the truth is that if none of us were interested in Spitzer's sex life, they would stop reporting it, clogging up traffic and so forth.

I can't help but wonder why all of us are so interested in Spitzer's sex life. He's a sad little man who lost the fight with his demons. I'm sure some of the gleeful frenzy about this has to do with enemies celebrating his fall. He was truly hated because he did truly fine work as an Attorney General. He did work that benefitted New York and the rest of the country.

I suspect far more of the interest (from the regular folks) is just the appeal of the venomous gossip and ridicule that this man's personal tragedy allows them. The truly sad state is not his fall from grace, but our love of the venomous gossip.

BEAU

Recently, Eric and I had sort of a lunch/supper with my former husband and Diane. As usual, we enjoyed their company greatly. They had just returned from Mexico and a convention of professional photographers. Apparently, the convention was very enjoyable and useful to them. There was some door prize (software to help them in either photoshoping or marketing photos) that they won. Roger said that Diane jumped up and down as if she was on a game show.

Their cruise was less than pleasant for one phase of the trip. They encountered 35 foot waves. Apparently, Diane got very sick (as did almost everybody else including the crew) and Roger actually fell once due to the lurching of the ship. However, they have been cruising before so the 35 foot waves has not deterred them from future trips. Thirty-five foot waves might deter me.

Shortly after returning home, Roger went to work one day and called Diane at work. It seems that a nearly starved to death Black Lab had entered his vehicle. So, he brought him home. We got to meet Beau (the Black Lab). He had put on considerable weight since finding his new home although he was still skinny as a rale. He clearly had also been mistreated. He had wounds where his previous owners had put one of those collars on him with internal spikes which had cut his skinny neck. He also had chewed up ears. He also is very jumpy if and when you put your hand out to stroke him. Clearly hands have hit him in his short life. But, he's growing used to his new home, is devoted to Roger, and is clearly in ecstacy over an unlimited supply of food.

He had already been to the VET, but he got taken again the week after we met him. He needed to get fixed. It was a little more complicated than usual and an incision needed to be made. So, he ended up in an Elizabethan collar (to prevent him from getting to his incision). He was oblivious to the fact that he was wearing an Elizabethan collar and was bumping into all the furniture, doors, etc.

I'm very thankful that Beau got in Roger's car. Clearly, his life was at significant risk and his life will be a good life and will last much longer at Roger and Diane's home.

Beau is quite beautiful and I am grateful to have met him. We also enjoyed looking at all the pictures Roger snapped of the Mexico trip. Eric also borrowed Roger's reciprocating saw to remove the pantry that has offended him from the day he had our house built.

Overall, it was a lovely afternoon.

Admiral Fallon

Great sadness here. Admiral Fallon turned in his resignation after 40 years of incredible service to this country. His entire career he has been known for not only being a superbly brilliant naval officer and patriot, but for being a no nonsense straight shooter. He loves this country and always has.

But, speaking truth to power will get a man every time.

We lost another great one.

ERNIE

A couple of years ago, I quit my old job. I had been there since 2001 and was considered the architect of the program. In truth many folks had participated in building the program, I simply guided the program and put words to the program. Well, I also did supervision of clinical staff, did assessment, testified in court, did group therapy, did individual therapy, taught. But, for the most part my job was to create and implement a cohesive program. I poured my time, energy, life and soul into that program.



I quit my old job because speaking truth to power was no longer permitted. In fact, any speech other than parroting the propaganda of the party line was not permitted.



Shortly before I quit my job, I was at Wal-Mart and picked up a Bon Jovi CD among several others. It was a very long drive between home and work. I listened to music CDs and audio books during the drive on a daily basis. I had never paid much attention to Bon Jovi, but had recently seen an interview on TV with him where he was discussing some of his political views and his philanthropic contributions to Habitat for Humanity. I had no idea if the man could sing, but I liked his political views and his philanthropy. I decided to take a chance and try his music.



So on my last day at the old job, security walked me to my car after carefully searching what few personal possessions I had removed from my office. I was not being fired. I had quit. But, the reality of the place is that nothing goes into the facility or leaves the facility without passing inspection by security. I never knew if anyone searched security or the COO. It's a completely closed system where random impromptu searches and pat downs of stff (including the Chief of Clinical Services) were routine, standard operating procedure.



At any rate, I got into my little Spyder convertible and punched the automatic retraction of the rag top. Lost Highway was on the top of the stack of CDs and I popped it in and backed out. I listened to the first track throughly taking in the lyrics. I punched the back button and listened to it again. I punched the back button and listened to it again--singing at the top of my vocal cords as I drove down that long highway all the way home.



Never has anything precisely matched my feelings--excited exhilaration, ambivalence mixed with fear..... The lyrics follow:



"In my rearview mirror/ My life is getting clearer/ The sunset sighs and slowly disappears/ These trinkets once were treasure/ Life changes like the weather/ You grow up grow old or you hit the road round here/ So I drive/ Watching white lines passing by/With my plastic dashboard Jesus/Waiting there to greet us/I finally found my way/Say goodbye to yesterday/Hit the gas there ain't no brakes/On this lost highway/I busted loose I'm letting go/Out on this open road/It's independence day/On this lost highway/Don't know where I'm going/But I know where I've been/And I'm afraid of going back again/So I drive/Years and miles are flying by/And waiting there to greet us/Is my plastic dashboard Jesus/I finally found my way/Say goodbye to yesterday/Hit the gas there ain't no brakes/On this lost highway/I busted loose I'm letting go/Out on this open road/It's independence day/On this lost highway/Oh patron saint of lonely souls/Tell this boy which way to go/Guide the car you got the keys/Farewell to mediocrity/Kicking off the cruise control/And turning up the radio/Got just enough religion/And a half a tank of gas/Come on, let's go/I finally found my way/Say goodbye to yesterday/Hit the gas there ain't no brakes/On this lost highway/I busted loose I'm letting go/Well I'm out on this open road/It's independence day/On this lost highway. " Bon Jovi

I left my old state job on my terms, when I chose, for a better paying job that promised the opportunity of doing genuinely useful work that interested me and challenged my skills. At the same time my old state job was "safe". When you work for the state (if you survive it), you get really nice benefits (pension plan, liberal vacation, an additional 13 paid holidays a year, liberal sick leave, good health insurance, rarely a deadline). But, the opportunity to work at home on my own time, doing genuinely useful work that benefitted the community, and challenged my skills was an overwhelming draw. In truth, for three months before I quit I had been taking vacation days to do the new job--just to see if I liked it and could really do the work. Nevertheless, I felt as if I was jumping into what looked like a deep dark abyss of private practice and I had no idea if I would be able to succeed or even survive. In many way, the new job is a pressure cooker. I was excited and I was very scared.

Two or three times a week now, I drive down long highways to prisons and then I go home and write up the resuls of my evaluation. Or, I drive down long highways to courts and testify on cases I've evaluated. Still, when I'm driving down those highways, Lost Highway is usually the CD playing and I'm still singing at the top of my vocal cords. Sometimes, when Eric is at work, I pop it in the CD player at home and sing to my cats while they sit in rapt attention on the couch. Every now and again, I even get up and dance a little in my flannel PJs or Mom jeans and play a little air guitar. Without any doubt, Lost Highway is my own personal anthem.

Speaking truth to power is a value I treasure. When I was a child, I read everything I could find in the public library. My mother placed no limits on what I was allowed to read from the public library. Once my mother was called to school for a parent teacher conference and the teacher confronted her about my choice of reading material. Seems that I was somewhere between 12 and 14 and had just finished reading every single thing Ernest Hemingay had written at the time and was starting on Steinbeck. The teacher believed my reading material choices would have been rated "R" had such ratings existed back 50 odd years ago. She would have preferred I read Rudyard Kipling and the like. My mother was portrayed as a "bad mother", but she continued to allow me to read uncensored. My reading also caused some consternation from my father. I can remember him walking through the house and saying to my mother "Janie Mae, that girl has her nose stuck in a book again. One day the house will burn down around her and she won't notice because she has her nose stuck in a book. That girl would read labels on tomato juice cans". Mother continued to permit me to read uncensored.

I just finished reading "Fair Game". It's about the price one pays and one's family pays for speaking truth to power. In a much less tragic way than Valerie Plame Wilson and her husband, I know personally the cost of speaking truth to power. It's a dangerous value and the price is high. Do not read "Fair Game" unless you can tolerate being told the unvarnished truth and learning the price of speaking truth to power.

As I was driving home from a prison yesterday, I was listening to "Lost Highway" and thinking about "Fair Game". I remembered something Ernie said or wrote. He either said or wrote something to the effect (come on folks, it's been 50 years) that life breaks everyone, but some people heal stronger at the broken places. When I was 12 or 14, I thought I knew what that meant. I understand better now at nearly 62.

Yesterday, I realized that although there is still phantom pain, I'm healing stronger at the broken places. Ernie was right.

And, I will continue to speak truth to power.

FAIR GAME

Bought Valerie Plame Wilson's book (Fair Game) yesterday. Well written and hard to put down. Have to put it down because I have a case that must be done today. But, if I can get the case done, I can read more this weekend.

The book is a little difficult to follow. She's an excellent writer, but the CIA redacted huge passages (sometimes pages at a time) and that sometimes interferes with following her reporting. There is also an excellent afterward which was not written by her and which she didn't know about prior to the book being published. The publisher hired another writer to write the afterward. Everything the CIA redacted was public record so if you read the afterward, you can fill in the blanks. You just have to do a tad more work.

Nevertheless, one cannot help but be impressed by how hard these people work to become case officers and, in her case, NOCs. Nor can one help but be impressed by the amount of energy, effort and money the government invested in training these people. Likewise, one cannot help but be horrified by the utter waste of money and the utter lack of respect for her life and the lives of all the foreign nationals she recruited over the years to serve this country. Without doubt her "outing" has led to loss of life for those foreign nationals who spent years providing necessary intelligence to and for this country.

It's a fascinating book and she has lived an incredible life providing remarkable service to this country. I wish her the best and hope she can live in safety in Santa Fe. At least the georgraphy of New Mexico probably works to allow her to see enemies coming.

It's a book that will fascinate you if you choose to read it. I recommend it highly. Many of my family and friends will not choose to read it because it reports behaviors they don't want to acknowledge happened within our government. But, for anyone who chooses to read it, you will be better educated and wiser. Far wiser!