For most of my life, I lived in
northern Indiana about a half hour away from down town Chicago. Got tired of
the pollution and wanted out. My wife and I moved to Missouri on November
5th, 1998, and plopped a new doublewide in the middle of 9.45 acres of woods
to live happily ever after. One small problem- I couldn't find a job.
I had over 20 years restaurant experience and had driven a taxi for
ten years. I had probably eighty resumes spread out over the countryside. I
eventually got a job through a temp agency and started at a resort at Lake
of the Ozarks. Thought I was going to be a banquet server- wound up in
housekeeping, still, it was a job,and at that point, I wasn't too
particular. I saw a flyer for a job fair on corrections and went and took
the test for cook I, II, and III also for correctional officer I. I got a
99.9% over all for education and experience on the cook's jobs and scored in
the 80's for the CO exam. I had mixed emotions about corrections. I had once
applied for the job of cook at Indiana State Prison in Michigan City, In. On
my interview, they asked me what I would do if a 250 pound black guy, all
muscle, took an extra pork chop while I was working the line. Told them I
would ask him if it was done enough for him. I was happy when I didn't get
the job. The State of Missouri sent me a letter telling me when and where to
report for the physical test, which included a 300-yard run in two and a
half minutes. I started training and ran everywhere at the resort, much to
the amusement of my co-workers at the resort. Passed the tests and waited. The FBI check turned up a "probable cause, homicide" arrest (see story). Got
Missouri and Lake County, Indiana faxing back and forth to each other and
that mess was cleared up. On June 8th, 1998, I began training for a job I
knew nothing about, except for what I had seen on TV and in the movies.
The engine on my car blew, but I got a ride from the head of fire
and safety at the prison that lives in my town. After the second day, I
negotiated a ride with a classmate, Jim Wolf.
Shortly before my classes started, I surfed into
www.serialkillers.net, the site Amy and Bryan owned before beginning this
site,
Deviant Crimes. The idea was, serial killers would probably be
the worst criminals I might ever come across, and so if I could figure them
out, I could deal with anyone. Easy! (Yeah, right!)
In class we learned to pat search, apply handcuffs and leg irons,
to use pepper spray and self-defense to render that 250-pound guy with the
pork chop helpless, (uh, sure). We learned about gangs and to be culturally
sensitive. We learned enough to give us a vague idea of what we would be
doing inside the walls. We had a week of on the job training before
receiving our post orders.
The most memorable thing for me happened in housing unit one. There
was a code 16, immediate medical emergency. A little old guy was on the
floor of his cell- an apparent heart attack. While I and other COs waited
for the nurse to arrive, he kept trying to hand us religious pamphlets. I
called another code 16 for a different one I found on the cell floor. He had
been stabbed earlier in the day. The nurse came over and told him that he
had seen the report and that he should get an academy award since the wound
was only one centimeter deep.
I learned the old guy with the heart attack was doing time for
rape, a crime I find most despicable. I was surprised, because I felt sorry
for him. I e-mailed
Amy and asked her how I could feel sorry for a rapist. She e-mailed
back, saying that it was because I was a caring person, and that it was all
right to react to someone in distress and still find his crimes disgusting.
I decided that I am neither judge nor jury. It isn't necessary for me to
know why they are in here. I am not here to punish, but to enforce the rules
and to preserve public safety.
July 26 arrives, and with it, my post orders. I am a utility
officer! They told me to take notes. I have a shoebox full of notes, which
is what you will be getting here. Logically, this series should be called,
"From the Shoe Box."
A word or two of warning for the reader. All opinions expressed
herein are my own and should not be construed as those of the Missouri
Department of Corrections. Not all information is accurate. People lie. I
make mistakes. You get to learn with me. Boredom and repetition are two of
the biggest pitfalls to be avoided. This is a daily diary, so sometimes you
get to be bored with me.
Before I begin, let me tell you a little about Jefferson City
Correctional Center. It is the old Missouri State Prison, located in the
capital city on a bluff above the Missouri River. It received its first
prisoner in 1836. Once called "the bloodiest 47 acres in the United States",
a thirty-foot high wall of natural limestone quarried on the site by inmates
surround it. We have had our share of the famous and infamous. "Pretty Boy
Floyd was once a guest. Serial killer, Robert Berdella died there. Then,
there was the boxer, Sonny Liston, who changed his life,and James Erle
Ray,who changed everyone's life. MSP housed Indian insurgents and civil war
prisoners. Once, black prisoners were segregatedand housed eight men to a
cell. It was a place you didn't want to serve your time, a rough and bloody
place.
It still is.
