Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. Parsell (ready to read books TXT) 📕

first day, however, I gathered as many details as I could. But no matter how much I learned, nothing would prepare me for what I was to face in the days that followed.

The longer a prison sentence, the higher the security, and the higher the security, the greater the violence. Close-custody prisons were the most dangerous, because the state had the least control over inmate behavior. In a minimum-security, where most inmates were within a few months of parole, the state held good time and early release dates as leverage, so violence was minimal. But in the higher custodies, where no one was going home for years-maybe never-convicts could give a fuck about the rules.

Inmates who weren't seeing the Parole Board for a decade or more, believed they'd have plenty of time to clean up their records, once they were transferred to a lower security prison that didn't demand as much violence. Many believed it was not a good thing to go to the Parole Board without any misconduct reports in your file. "They'll call you conwise," an inmate said, "and they'll give you a flop." (A denial of parole in six- or twelve-month increments.) "It's always better to have a few tickets," he said, "Cause otherwise, they'll think you'd been laying low and you're trying to manipulate."

As for inmates who were never seeing a parole-those inmates serving life-they had nothing to lose. What could the state do, give them another life sentence? There was no death penalty in Michigan, so there was no death row. Inmates who caused too much trouble in close-custody were sent to Marquette, the state's only maximum-security prison.

Marquette was located off the shores of Lake Superior in the upper tip of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where legend had it security was so tight that inmates were welded into their cells. Only the most violent prisoners were shipped there, after having killed someone while at another prison. I doubt they were actually spot-welded in, but as Rooster put it, "They might as well be, 'cause unless a motherfucker's got him some snow shoes-he ain't goin' nowhere."

Convicts liked the word motherfucker a lot. They used it mostly when referring to other inmates, but These Motherfuckers or The Motherfucker usually meant The Man, Authority, The Courts, or The System. It was the function words like the or these, or the singular or plural form that indicated which motherfucker they were referring to. Some motherfucker could be either, like "Some motherfucker stole my shit" or "Some motherfucker jammed me up, sending me down for a dime" (meaning they were set up and sent to prison for a ten-year stretch).

They talked about time in terms of nickels and dimes, and serving a quarter-deuce (twenty-five years to life). Now that's a motherfucker, because with a quarter-deuce you won't see the parole board until after you've finished serving the full twenty-five. By then, it's very possible, because you've spent so much time here-you may not want to leave this motherfucker.

11

Quarantine

The largest part of Jackson Prison, called Central Complex, was home to over 6,000 inmates. Each was housed inside massive cellblocks that contained up to 600 prisoners each. Seven Block, one of the largest, was reserved for Quarantine. The very site ofwhich, made me forget my hunger, which had been haunting me since sentencing. It was hollow inside, with five tiers of cells that went on for almost a mile. On each floor a set of catwalks overlooked the base while another separated the back of the cells from the exterior wall. Several windows were either open or broken, letting in the damp winter cold. Nevertheless, it was hot where we had entered at base, and the air felt static and old. I was struck by the sight of birds flying around in the vast open space, in between the tiers.

At base level, there was a large cluster of tables where the inmates had their meals. Cantilevered from the second tier above, was a control desk where a lone guard sat, observing the area from his station. A black telephone and stacks of paper were on his desk. There were two horizontal openings some 80 feet above where armed guards could maintain control by shooting at the inmates below.

Noise echoed from everywhere making it hard to hear anyone. Screaming, yelling, the rumble of rollers, the pulling of release breaks, and the sounds of a hundred sliding cell doors. The high-pitched squeal of squeaky wheels and the scrape of mop buckets being pushed by porters. Occasionally, a metal food tray crashed to the floor, or another was slammed into the dishwasher that was just beyond the chow line.

As we entered the chow area from the intake bubble, inmates from one of the floors above were already sitting down, while others waited in line. Everyone stopped to look. The heavy metal door closed behind me, heading off any impulse to run. Whistles and catcalls came from everywhere, and a round of applause broke out from the tables.

The guard motioned us to the serving line, even though we hadn't been taken to our cells yet. "You guys go ahead to chow," he yelled, "but stay together. I don't want to have to come looking for you later."

Fat chance of that, I thought.

I couldn't show it, but I was shaking inside of my state shoes.

Never, let them know what you're thinking.

Suddenly, I wasn't hungry.

As we walked between the tables, someone grabbed my ass. I spun around, but the inmates sitting nearby all looked away. The cons on the other side of the table looked up, but said nothing. They seemed to be measuring my reaction.

"That's a pretty motherfucker there," I heard one of them say.

"I'm gotta get some of that," another yelled.

They all laughed.

"We're gonna need to put this one on Two-Special," one of the guards said, looking at me. Two-Special was the group of cells just to the right of the guard's station. It was where they