8:17 am, yard opens. I’m headed out to the picnic tables to do pushups when a slew of cops surround, handcuff and escort an inmate up to the front.
(I say “cops” or “police” to refer to correctional guards out of habit, though technically it’s inaccurate. “The front” is the admin building where medical, the hole [solitary], the visiting room, etc. are all located. In almost all cases, it’s never a good thing to be called or brought up to the front.)
I never saw what occurred prior to the arrest, but figured it must’ve been serious if the amount of attention and manpower is any indication.
Moments later, the horn blows. A high-pitched wail, it immediately instills a sense of panic and dread; I imagine a similar siren sounding during the bombing of London in WW2. Every inmate on the yard knows what time it is — emergency count.
Over the loudspeaker, a stern voice intones: “Yard is closed. Return to your unit. Exit the yard immediately.”
The protocol for emergency mobilization requires everyone to return to their bunks for another count. More often than not, a unit is raided, where every inmate is hustled out to the gym of back forty as the guards tear up everyone’s bunk, but not before getting stripped naked and searched on the way out. Back in the unit, inmate.com is already buzzing with multiple rumors of what was found on dawg to trigger emergency count, but they’re all some variation of either dope, a cellphone, or a knife. Those are the big 3; you can catch a case for each.
This is the third emergency count in as many weeks. The new warden is both sending a message and trying to get to the source of all the drugs flooding the joint. Seriously, copping dope is easier than it is in the streets — no matter which unit you lock in, someone is selling something within a 25 yard vicinity. It may be wildly overpriced, scandalously under-sized, and not your drug of choice, but it’s there.
While there’s always been drugs here, because of its relative proximity to the city, the problem has gotten worse during COVID. Moreover, in-person visits were discontinued for the first 18 months of the pandemic, which leaves only two routes through which the bag can arrive: over the fence or an employee of the prison.
The former requires coordination with someone in the world and a tolerance for risk. The civilian collaborator will stuff a tennis ball or jar full of wax, meth, suboxone, and other drugs — though these three are by far the most common — and strategically throw it over the fence to an area where an inmate can retrieve it as inconspicuously as possible. The downside is that the slightest hint of this operation will trigger an emergency count to thwart it.
The latter just needs a self-assured, charming convict to cut into a guard or kitchen worker with some weapons-grade persuasion/intimidation (or both) to convince them to smuggle the bag in and get rewarded handsomely for the trouble. It’s more common than you’d initially suspect.
Over the past two years, various guards, counselors, and kitchen workers have been handcuffed and escorted off the compound. Nothing seems to stop the deluge of drugs hitting the yard, however. Judging by their wide availability and quantity, the drugs and phones flow through both avenues, although an inside job seems to be responsible for the bulk of it.
Drugs are so ubiquitous and readily available you start to wonder how many guards are on the take and how high it goes up in the administration.
As we’re sitting on our bunks during count, we all know a raid is coming, it’s just a matter of which unit is getting hit. There’s 10 units on the compound, all with their own vibe, because MDOC organizes prisoners according to the nature of their crimes, PREA score, institutional record, and other considerations.
D, F, and G units are mostly sex offenders; C is the programs unit; J is the Wild West, gladiator school. I’m in B unit, which is filled with old heads and the handicapped. The other half are younger guys, like me, who are generally well-behaved and have some time to do. Thankfully, this makeup makes the unit much tamer than the others, where there’s a mini-brewery and dopeman in every cube. There’s less drama and hubbub as inmates surreptitiously prepare for a raid, hiding or disposing of their contraband — anything from illicit TV remotes and onions stolen from the kitchen to spud juice.
In the past, when I was in other units, the smell of orange juice would permeate the air as guys scrambled to get rid of their half-cooked hooch [homemade wine], either by dumping it or drinking it. Even worse, I’ve seen a guy panic about his stash which he decided to keister. Afterwards, he dug out the two grams of meth and sold it, reeking of shit.
From the window, we watch the fence sally port fill up with guards in riot gear, fifty of them! It’s the raid squad. That put to rest any speculation: every single unit is going to get hit. They first head up the hill and rush the units there, which are the most unruly. Occasionally, two guards usher an inmate to the front, because something was discovered in their “area of control.” The raid squad splits up and steadily hits every unit on the yard until only Unit B remains.
Finally, I see them approach as one big black horde, but I am still surprised by how quickly they bum-rush every entrance, repeatedly yelling “Don’t move, don’t move!” as they run down the hallways. A group of them congregate at the entrance of the cube across the hall. Before issuing any orders, they wait for their sarge with a clipboard to confirm this is the cube they want. It is.
They command the inmates to immediately leave the cube without touching anything; they’re watched like hawks for any sudden movements, and ushered down the hallway. I know what awaits them (because if you’ve been locked up for a decent amount of time it’s happened to you).
One at a time, they’ll be sent into the bathroom and be made to strip in front of a guard, who then examines your clothes for anything before handing them back. Next, he tells you to squat and cough, lift up your package and show the bottoms of your feet, leaving no part of you un-inspected for some fragment of carefully concealed contraband. Every part of your body is assumed to harbor some evidence of criminality. Afterwards, when dressed, you wait in the dayroom, handcuffed as they tear through your stuff. Meanwhile, as that’s going on, I watch the raid squad push all the lockers to the center of the cube, flip mattresses, and drag bunks away from the wall.
There’s a method to their madness – they’re looking for something specifically, acting on a tip. After a brief check with clipboard sarge, one takes a hammer to the drywall, and rends open a hole. Another scans the wall with some handheld gadget, probably to detect cellphone pings. The origins and purpose of the list becomes more obvious; it contains the bunk numbers of any inmate they have dirt on, whether from rats or anonymous kites, no matter how dated. A year ago, that wall held phones, bangers, grams of wax, among other things.
When they’re finally done, coming up empty-handed but leaving a giant gap in the wall, and the inmates return to slowly pick up the pieces and put their houses in order.
I figure my cube is next, and quickly hide my TV remote. Better than blatantly flaunting the rules. Instead, the guards don’t even look my way, fortunately, and rush to the back hall to hit their next target.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I let my guard down and lay back, but not because I’ve much to hide, just thankful I’ve averted the random indignity of prison life this time, as I’m still watching the cube across the hall sort through their property and decide whose stuff is which. Mostly, I’m tired of the sirens, alarms, raids, random strip searches, tired of always walking thru metal detectors, and never being fully at ease.
Don’t know how many more raids I’ve to endure, but I know it’s one less than what it was before today.
Brendan McCoffery is half way done with an 8-year sentence. He spends his time working out, writing, and learning to draw. He writes about his criminal justice experience at: www.easytrouble.wordpress.com
Brendan McCoffery #511007
3100 Cooper Street
Jackson, MI 49201
