Mainline

Ed. Note: names have been changed.

The transporting of inmates between prisons lends itself to an interesting perspective.  Cops load the convicts onto a bus, sometimes shackled in pairs. They’re locked in a caged section, while corrections officers with firearms are sitting in the front and back, separated by steel mesh, ready to handle any inmate who gets out of line. 

The ride I took to my new prison was done in silence, save the voices of cops bullshitting with one another.  Talking to the guy next to you was tantamount to planning an escape, and the transportation officers could treat it as such, even if they knew it not to be so.  No one tried breaking the rule. 

    If there’s anything one should realize about the prison environment, it’s this: you can be killed at any time.  Whether it’s cop or con, your life has zero value, and is expendable to others as they see fit.  Get into a fight with another inmate?  He’ll try and kill you.  The cops?  They’ll pepper spray you, maybe fire off the block gun if there’s enough people involved.  If a CO gets into the mix with convicts, the real guns come out.  Ruger Mini-14’s, to be exact.

   As for me, the thought of hitting the mainline was intimidating.  I’d been in the hole for a couple of months; getting to take a ride on the bus and see the outside world sounded like a treat.  Thing was, I’d been in cell-living, on 23-hour lockdown.  Now I was on my way to dorm living, which meant a lot of people and movement.  The days of hanging out securely in a cell were over.  Now anyone could approach me unannounced at a moment’s notice, with no barrier to prevent them.  Not ideal. 

   There’s a misconception that because a yard is a lower level (in this instance, level-two), there’s less bad stuff happening.  This is not the case.  You have lifers and all types of repeat offenders on level-two yards.  They know the game, and many aren’t afraid to play.  If anything, there’s more useless, easily-avoidable confrontations on the lower levels; people who are new and don’t know the rules end up causing problems.  You’ll also have seasoned old-timers starting drama, because these convicts know they’re not on a level-three or four. Testing the barriers, trying to see what they can get away with. 

   The bus ride was uneventful.  It was a little under an hour long, and nothing really changed with the scenery, as most of Central California looks the same.  Was thinking about the new environment I was heading towards, and how it would all pan out.  I’ve never been worried about where I would land; being able to figure things out has never been a problem of mine.  Still, I was unfamiliar with the terrain, and that’s enough to give anyone pause.  The fact it was a place full of California’s worst didn’t help matters any. 

   My young son and extended family were also crossing my mind.  I’d finally be able to visit with them, sans a ballistic-glass barrier separating us.  The hurt I’d caused them all kept popping up.  It would be years before I’d be back on the outside; my son would have to make a go at life without me till then, and it was killing me inside, as I’m sure it was wrecking him. The life of a fatherless child is a familiar story to me.  I was feeling like a piece of shit, and rightfully so.  I’d cursed my son to live my past. 

   When we arrived at my new home, the bus entered a holding area to be inspected.   There was a catwalk with an armed-guard above this space, and a man on the ground with a mirror attached to the end of a pole was walking around bus, as if someone wanted to break into prison.   Once cleared, we headed towards the reception building, where the bus made its halt.  A transportation officer exited the bus with a bundle of paperwork; an intake officer was there to meet him, and signed for our delivery.  The two chatted for a moment, and had a laugh, as if they’d known each other for awhile.  When they ended their conversation, the intake guard when back inside of the reception building.  Not 30 seconds later, four COs in green jumpsuits came out, and stood in a line about 10-feet apart, facing the bus.  The transport officer came back aboard.

   “Alright, listen up!” he said in an unnecessarily-loud voice.  “Row-by-row, off the bus, single file!”  He was standing at the head of the aisle, looking at each one of us individually as he did a head-count.  He started down the steps to exit, turned, and addressed the row behind the driver.  “You two!  Let’s go!”  The two inmates stood up, and made their way out. They headed past the row of COs, and into the building.  The guy sitting next to me and I waited our turn, then took our walk in front of the cops.  They didn’t speak, but looked at us with stern eyes.  They were ready to make an example out of someone.

   As we made our way into the reception building, I could see the inmates who had exited the bus before me lined up against an interior wall.  Once we were all inside, the COs who had guarded our entry into the building came back in, and joined the other officers who were sitting and standing behind a partition.  The phones, computers, and paperwork were back there, along with inmate clerks.  Within a day, the clerks could check people’s paperwork, and get word back to any yard an inmate was being sent.  Prisoners had all types of jobs, behind and beyond the prison walls.  The cops were in charge, but the cons ran the joint. 

   “Alright, gentleman!” The intake officer said loudly.  “Strip down!”

   At this point, all of us began taking off our clothes down to our bare skin.   If you’d made it this far through the system, getting naked had become second nature.  Once you entered the jail system, you were open game for strip-searches.  Came with the territory. 

   “Turn around, bend over, and spread your cheeks!”

   Compliance.

   “Cough!”

   Again, we obeyed. 

   The four COs were walking behind us, presumably looking at our assholes.  

   “Pick up your clothes!” The intake officer yelled.  “Head into the holding cell on the left!”  We grabbed our clothes, and went where directed.  Of course, there was that one guy who went in the cell on the right.

   “CELL ON THE LEFT!” one of the jumpsuit-wearing COs said in a booming voice.  The guy in the wrong cell looked around, and realized he was the one being addressed.  He hurriedly came into the other cell with the rest of us. 

   For the next few hours, we were individually taken from the holding cell, photographed, and given our prison ID card. We were also given our state-issue clothing, or blues as we used to call them.  Finally, we were assigned and escorted to a yard. 

   The place I’d be calling home for the next few years. 

   When I first arrived on the yard, there were no catcalling convicts, or other bullshit you see in the movies.  I was taken to the gym, which had been repurposed as a new-arrival housing unit.  Bunk beds filled the basketball court, with small walkways in-between, giving the place a claustrophobic feel.  After checking in with the housing unit officer, I was assigned a bunk, and quickly made my way there.  

   I needed to find out who my homeboys were, and get my paperwork checked.  This involved someone from the same county as me looking at my 128 slip, which was a form listing my crimes.  The sooner you got through with that formality, the better.  If you weren’t a child molester or rapist, you were good to go.  If you happened to be one of those things, you were dealt with harshly. 

   I found my rack, and the guy who slept on the bottom bunk.  His name was Chris.  Older, taller guy from the Inland Empire.  I could instantly tell he was a tweeker on the streets.  Chris was very lanky, and his teeth had the tell-tale signs of decay which go along with using speed.  Really cool, though.  Was friendly from the moment I met him. 

   “Hey, bunkie,” Chris said, as he stood up from his bed, and shook my hand.  “Chris, I.E.”

   “Bobby,” I replied, as I threw my laundry bag on the top bunk.  “Orange County.”

   “Nice to meet ya, Bobby,” he said.  “You just came in on the bus?”  Chris was asking because he wanted to find out if I had come from another yard.  This could indicate someone who had been in trouble, and had needed a transfer between yards to avoid harm.  If that was the case, you wanted to know why.  No one wanted a piece of shit bunkie, or the trouble it could mean if someone came for him. 

   “Yeah, just got here,” I replied.  “First time down, too.”

   “Really?” Chris asked.  “How much time you come with?”

   “Five,” I replied, meaning years.  “I already have a little time-served.  I get out in o-four.”

   “What’d you come in for?”  There was the question.  According to prison etiquette, this isn’t what you’d ask someone you had just met.  However, Chris was to be my bunkie; he had a right to know who he was sharing a rack with.  It also removed his culpability, should I have turned out to be no good.  Chris could claim to have checked my paperwork, and it having appeared legit.  If something were come to light as being wrong later, he could say I must’ve showed him fake papers.  This was important: if it was believed you were trying to help or hide someone with bad paperwork, you’d be treated like one of them.  That was the last thing you wanted to happen. 

   “A two-forty-five, with a GBI,” I answered.  Reached in my pocket, and found the folded piece of paper I had put there an hour earlier in anticipation of this question.  I was ready.  Handed it to Chris, who appeared to thoroughly check it over.  He handed it back to me.  We were good.

   “That assault?” Chris asked.  He sat down on his bed, a little more comfortable in my presence. 

   “Yeah.”

   “Was it a chick?”

   “Nope.  Some dude.  Hey, man, when’s the next unlock?  Wanna see if I can find some homeboys.”  I still didn’t feel comfortable talking about the details of my case, especially with someone I had just met.  My changing the subject was meant to give off a hint, and Chris took it.

   “The unlocks are done every half-hour,” Chris said.  “I can go out with you, and introduce you to some guys who I know are from the OC.”  Chris didn’t have to do that, and I appreciated the gesture.  A smile spread across my face.

     “Yeah, man,” I said.  “That’d be great.”

   That night, I met a few different homeboys on the yard, and found the shot caller in the gym to show my paperwork.  Each housing unit had a representative, or rep for their race and gang.  They made decisions, sure, but they were also mouthpiece for the cops.  COs knew who the shot callers were, too.  If there was a riot, or it looked like one was about to kick off, they’d call the reps to one of the offices and interview them.  No real convict wanted to talk to the cops, which meant there weren’t a lot of guys who wanted the position.  The movies make shot callers out to be criminal masterminds; in my opinion, they were guys who didn’t have anything going on the streets, so they raised their hand for a position that would give them clout.  Some were cool, don’t get me wrong.  Most, however, were dumb as fuck. 

   As I laid on my rack that first night, I felt exposed.  Sleeping on the top bunk, I was only two feet or so from the guy sleeping on the rack next to mine.  I’d roll over, and get the same view.  Dudes farting, snoring, coughing, sneezing, picking their nose; if it’s not the physical warfare getting you, there’s always the biological type. 

   Caught myself thinking about my future.  Knew I was going to be there awhile.  Being outside, walking the track, I’d seen how big my world would be for the next few years.  Wasn’t impressed.  There was a baseball diamond, a grass area big enough to play soccer, and a basketball court in front of one of the large housing units.  An outdoor urinal area with two toilets, and a drinking fountain.  When someone had to do a number-two, he did it in front of the whole yard.

   My entire world was to be this area, which was surrounded by electric wire.  There were two fences about 10 yards apart, with a set of electrified cables in the middle.  We used to call it the death wire.  If you touched it, you died.  There was an outside crew who used to survey the fences, and clean up any dead animals who’d had the misfortune of touching the cables.  If you were trying to get away, that’s not where you did it. 

   There was a guy I’d heard of who did try.  He worked in facility maintenance.  He’d managed to smuggle some thick rubber gloves and a wire cutter back to the yard.  One night after count, he’d snuck out when the two COs on duty had fallen asleep.  Dude donned his rubber gloves, cut through the first fence, and then gave a try at the cables.  The electricity didn’t kill him, but it did melt rubber into his hands, causing a severe injury.  He actually snuck back into the housing unit and tried to hide the fact he’d done anything.  However, his injuries were so severe, he eventually confessed to the housing unit officers, because he was in need of medical attention.

   And that was from the first cable he cut. 

   There was no going anywhere, once you were on the yard.  If the death wire didn’t get you, the armed COs in the towers would.  If someone made an attempt at running, the cops would try to gun them down.  No warning shots; just a 5.56mm round to the back from a Mini-14.  You had a better chance of being smuggled out some other way, than through the fence. 

   I’d heard the actual housing units were nicer, and supposedly set up better than gym, which I could totally believe.  Was really looking forward to leaving the gym.  It smelled, and was stuffy.  The ventilation was non-existent, next to a few open windows.  It felt like you were breathing other people’s expended air; too close for comfort, and I wanted out. 

   Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long.  A few days after my arrival, a homeboy I’d met named Jimmy pulled some strings to have me moved into one of the housing units.  Jimmy knew one of my uncles, which meant he was at least halfway-connected on the streets.  People who were familiar with my family usually had done some dirt with them, or at one point been under their employ.  Jimmy was in for forgery, which was probably what he’d done in some capacity for my people.  I didn’t care what Jimmy did or didn’t do; he got me out of the gym, and that’s all what mattered. 

   I met all my homeboys, and made sure to talk with the people who had sway.  Even though this was my first time upstate, I was familiar with how the game worked.  If I acted like a nobody, that’s how I’d be treated.  Didn’t plan on doing my time that way.  If I had to be stuck in the joint, I was going to make sure my time was done in comfort.  Being a loser wasn’t in my repertoire.  I was going to make a name for myself, whatever the cost.