What do we, in here, is really think about what we’ve done to you. Most of us are not very honest about that — with ourselves or others. You’ll pick up cues of the deceptions in our stories, wherein we may “take responsibility” with a superficial sentence or two, then spend paragraphs blaming abusive or absent parents, corrupt cops, and inherently biased systems. Of course, these are a reality; but at the end of the day, we chose and acted the parts that led us here.
Maybe you’ve heard a little truth, a lot of lies, and even more stereotyping from us — and almost nothing from the truly shameless or resigned. So what about those who are unapologetic or stark enough to actually accept or even embrace their deviance as a norm — the truly dangerous ones? What can we learn from them?
Now that I’m on the Beto Unit, one of the largest and most dangerous in Texas, it wasn’t hard to find some of those willing to share the nightmares they embrace, or resign themselves to. Out of shame or fear of repercussions, they all chose anonymity after I explained the dynamics involved. Unfortunately for those searching for solutions to recidivism, an aftereffect of honesty in the criminal justice system is often punishment. This leads to the ripple effects of nondisclosure, non-identification of causes, obstruction of rehabilitation, and finally, recidivism. Yet, with a deficit of mental health — and lack of — counseling professionals, I fail to see what good it would do if honesty did not often result in punishment hare.
Each of the following “cards” I deal to you out of the deck we’re in comes with answers to four numbered questions: (1.) What did you do? (2.) Why did you do it? (3.) How do you feel about it? (4.) What would you do if you are released? These are meant to give you insight, and maybe evoke solutions, especially among those of you with the ability to implement them. In conclusion, I’ll share a historically proven solution that saves lives, lowers crime (inside and out) and recidivism, raises social productivity, and closes prisons when they are no longer needed. That solution seems universal and nearly instantaneous.
The Smoking Gun is an inner-city gang member who grew up in trap houses [often fortified houses turned into high-traffic drug/prostitution operations] and streets. He’s in on a robbery charge with a few months left to serve. (1.) “I put a gun in a ho’s [woman’s] face and took ‘er s–t [property, money, drugs, or anything else of value to the robber].”
(2.) “Cuz I ain’t had no money, an I wanted somethin’ to smoke [i.e., smokable drugs].”
(3.) “I ain’t got no feelin’s ’bout it. She knew where she wuz. You f–k wit monsta’s [seasoned and dangerous criminals], you get f—–d off — it is what it is; and if a m———a’ ain’t wit it [i.e., violent and street smart enough to survive and profit in the criminal underworld], b—-h needs to get out the way — ain’t got no time for m———-n’ feelin’s.”
(4.) “S–t, whatever the f–k I wanna do. I know what it is when I go back — you come wit it, or get the f–k out the car you ain’t had no business in in the first place [an allusion to people not criminal enough to participate in drive-by shootings, yet act as if they would to be accepted in gang environments]. If I catch a m———a’ slippin’ [unaware], I take ‘is s–t. If a m———a’ gets in my face, I put that thing [pistol] in ‘is. If a m———a’ don’t get out the way — I smoke [murder via handgun] ‘is ass. That’s what’s up — I’m a ride-or-die n—a’ wit stomp down boyz.”
The Sadist is an ex-college student who managed a computer store prior to his aggravated life sentence for sexually assaulting his girlfriend.
(1.) My girlfriend loved me and did what I asked her to do. She didn’t like it, but she’d let me do anything I wanted — bondage, burning, beating — totally submissive. Just wanted to make me happy. I just went overboard and f—-d her up. So I kept her tied to our bed for a couple of days, hoping things would get better and go away. They [the police] just showed up out of the blue–somebody knew something was wrong. She was messed up pretty bad when they found her, bloody — I hadn’t even let her go out of the bedroom, just brought water. She was crying. She didn’t make a statement against me, but we never spoke again.”
(2.) “I did it because I just enjoy torturing women for some reason. I like to do it, but I don’t like the fact I do — and I can’t figure out why, I just do.”
(3.) “I feel like a worthless piece of s–t.”
(4.) “I’d do it more, there’s no doubt in my mind. I’m going to do it again if I get out. Just a matter of time.”
The Bogeyman has a lower middle-class background and worked in fast-food franchises before getting 40 agg for molesting his daughter.
(1.) “I raped my 13-year-old daughter.”
(2.) “To get back at my wife for cheating on me, I’m not attracted to little kids — I did it for revenge, after something clicked in me. I did it though, I’m not denying it.”
(3.) “There’s nothing I can do, and I deserve the worst in life and death.”
(4.) “I don’t know — I never expected to do anything like that, especially to my own daughter. It was like I was on autopilot, without any feelings except anger. They shouldn’t even let me out, I deserve to be here.”
The Chemist identifies himself as “Trailer Trash” with pride (in his lifestyle and race). After a short career as a “chemist” [clandestine methamphetamine manufacturer] for a well-known gang, he found a new 20-year aggravated career on Beto.
(1.) “I manufactured methamphetamines.”
(2.) “I like meth, easy money, and everything else that comes with it.”
(3.) ”It’s f—–g great! As long as it’s cleaned [i .e, filtered of toxins to varying degrees], and you can stay under the radar [undetected by law enforcement], and straight [on good terms], and straight [on good terms] with everyone, you’re O.K. Everyone is doing it where I come from. If they don’t get it from me, they’ll just go somewhere else. Nobody is holding a gun to their heads.”
(4.) ”Check in [report to local headquarters of his gang and become a part of their criminal operations] and go back at it [manufacturing meth]. All I gotta’ do until then is just get by [put on a show good enough to make parole].”
The Taker is a former truck and cab driver who kidnapped and meant to rob his ex-girlfriend. He’s now serving an aggravated life sentence for kidnapping.
(1.) “After being on meth for days, my ex and I went out drinking and I ended up getting mad and flipped out. I hit her in the face, put her in the car in another state, drove to Texas and pulled up to an ATM intending to make her withdraw money. But I just dropped her off and drove back [to the other state]. When the authorities found her, she didn’t even know what state she was in, only getting into the car. She ended up getting reconstructive surgery on her face.”
(2.) “I had been up for days on meth, and got pissed about something.”
(3.) “I think it was outside Texas jurisdiction. The feds [federal law enforcement authorities] threatened me because I drove across state lines, but something was messed up and they decided not to prosecute me. My ex stayed with me for a while after everything — she even got the warden at my last unit to let her visit me. She ended up falling off [severing contact with The Taker] though.”
(4.) “My ex told me she’s never seen me like that before. I certainly never did anything like that up to then, and no one [working for Texas prisons] has tried to help work that out of me. I don’t want to do anything like that again, but it’s a possibility.”
There’s your hand — and it is yours because every one of them is either definitely or potentially getting out to your free world at some point. Are they all wild cards? Looks like it. It also looks exactly how people who get out of Texas prisons often come back. So far, it seems the quick-fixes of the last few decades like prison religion, under-/non-qualified or understaffed mental and social workers, cookie-cutter programs, for the most part, range from useless to counterproductive — smiles on faces and numbers on paper. Other methods such as reactive mass-shippings just shift problems to different prison units, and ludicrous measures, such as bribing the worst acting prisoners with entertainment results in a culture of extortion wherein dangerous criminals are habituated into acting out when they don’t get what they want from others in here and out there — there’s no actual change beyond becoming worse.
What about rehabilitation? Education and restorative justice programs (like Bridges-to-Life, where victims come into prisons to rehabilitate prisoners and share the impact of crime upon their [the victims’] lives) have proven themselves as effective, but what about the inmates most at risk of recidivism? Especially those like our wild cards — who will be coming to a home near you (or influencing those who do)? Well, beyond the smiling mouths and deceptive words of politics is a brick wall of reality we all hit eventually.
And what does reality have to say? That requires asking what cut the number of prisons and recidivism in half over a few years in the Netherlands. It’s the same measure that reduced suicides to 1 total — 1, at the front end of nearly 12 years (January 1983 through October 1994) at Louisiana’s Elayn Hunt Correctional Center — 1 among approximately 68,125 inmates. What the hell did all that — lowering crime and recidivism, making half the prisons obsolete (freeing funding for education, medical care, etc.), saving lives inside and out of prison, not to mention reducing victim stats and lost revenue?
The answer is simple — an adequate number of effective counselors and mental health professionals. Sadly, across the 11 facilities I’ve been assigned to or passed through in nearly 24 years (today: 8/14/22), there appeared to have been an extinction of professional counselors (actual masters, and even associate LCDCs), and a deficit of mental health professionals. For example, when the Elayn Hunt Correctional Center had 1,875 inmates, they had 19 mental health professionals on staff. On TDCJ.gov, the Texas prison system lists 3,471 inmates on Beto, with 5 mental health professionals. This means they either have to triage, work with an extremely limited number of inmates, or be overwhelmed and unable to provide adequate care. And aside from education counselors who only handle college admissions, and a few unknowns who people see for a few minutes as a formality prior to release, I’ve never even passed a rehabilitation counselor in any prison hall — and I’ve been down about every kind.
So what’s the holdup to embracing the same things that have changed — virtually instantaneously — every prison in the world wherein they were implemented? Professional counselors and additional mental health workers cost more money, shut prisons down, and create societies that lack the conditions to necessitate criminal justice industries. If more people become suitable for parole and get released, criminal mentalities subside to the point that it’s safe to implement retroactive laws to get prisoners out who have no reason to be here, more prisons could be shut down and funding re-allocated to education, healthcare, etc., and society would benefit in a variety of ways as the real problem inmates receive actual treatment conducive to their rehabilitation.
Unfortunately, in Texas it is political suicide (I hope the person who actually used that verbiage in a pnivate room somewhere in our Texas capital reads this and wonders how some inmate stuck in a cell a world away heard it) to venture too far into prison reform, early releases, and non-punitive (whether partially or wholly) criminal justice measures. Just as prisoners can be punished for their honesty, criminal justice workers and politicians often face repercussions for doing the right thing — even when it’s proven to lower crime and save lives. Yet in the case of the right thing for Texas prisons, not doing them can perpetuate death and destruction in the very society prison is meant to help protect.
The hand I dealt you reflects the wild-card mentality which pervades every Texas prison to some degree. Whether it aligns with what is showcased or not — it’s in here and will repeatedly come out there. While there are viable solutions, it takes a willingness to embrace and fund them — and in the case of Texas prisons, a willingness to risk careers. Is it worth it? I say easily – for human lives and a better society for everyone.
2 Comments
Agreed!!! ^^^^
I’m sure the brother of the young man slain by his hand would too!
I’d like the author of this interesting piece to answer the same questions he posed to others. He’s in for a murder so it’s silly to presume he’s a “good guy” who’s simply pointing out a few bad apples. Maybe he just got caught up and went too far, landed in the penitentiary, turned his life around, and is a good guy. Let’s have him answer this.