The Inmate and the Medium

The second visiting day lasted from 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. I got into line and was once again struck by the relaxed nature of the people. But I also noticed an underlying pressure I had not seen the day before because I’d been paying attention to my own concerns. Suddenly, two guards drove up, got out of their vehicle with guns in hand, and yelled at us to get behind the red line in the parking lot. I did not understand what was going on but was captivated by the scene. It was an inmate transport. The guards kept us about two hundred feet away from the inmates who were being moved. All of the inmates were in the same drab, tan, one-piece uniforms. Chains were wrapped around their legs, which made it difficult to walk. They extended up the legs, around their waists and hands, and then to another inmate. Watching this tore my heart out. I don’t want people to see anyone like this, much less someone they love. I cried. I cried for the inmates. I cried for their loved ones, for all the families that prison tears apart. I cried over the demoralizing of a human being, who was yelled at to move faster but couldn’t because of the chains. I cried realizing Phil had been in this position many times in the last twenty-four years as he was transported from one prison to another. Two years later, I watched Phil being treated this way. We were sitting together, enjoying each other’s company, when he was called to the guard’s desk and asked to go to a medical appointment. Phil said it was his right to decline the checkup. Cancer had been removed from his forehead, and all was well. He was allowed to come back to me and sat beside me, holding my hand. The guard called him to the desk again, to say he had to go to the medical part of the compound and write a formal statement that he was denying the visit. Once he was away from the visiting area, they forced him to go and made me wait for fortyfive minutes before telling me what happened. I was escorted out of the facility. I waited in my car. I couldn’t leave. I had to see Phil. I had to watch. I could not turn away. When he walked outside, he saw me in my car; I had sent him pictures of it previously. He smiled, but I could tell, was uncomfortable about me seeing him in this position. He could not reveal I was close by; that would have been trouble for us both. He had to pretend I was not watching. I moved to another area of the parking lot where the guards had to drive directly past me. I played games, so he could see the car. They put him in the van, and it sped past me, as he looked back at me. By that time, I had resolved to observe everything that happened. I was no longer crying; I was a witness. Once the inmates were secured inside, the guards left in the van. The guards with the guns got into their vehicles and left without letting us know it was safe to move closer to the building. Funny how yelling at us to get away did not inspire them to let us know their action had been completed. It was traumatic in every way. I looked around at the visitors and asked, “Can we go back to the line now?” Nobody moved; they were frozen. I suggested we all move forward together. Nobody moved, so I said, “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to get in line, and if someone doesn’t want me there, I will come back here with you.” They were shocked at my bravery, but I had nothing to lose. I stood there alone for more than two minutes, unsure about what to do. The others straggled in behind me. Once inside, I asked questions about visitation and what the parameters were. A sweet and quiet lady named Brenda—she and I later became friends—told me the entire process. She explained that years ago, visitors had come up with a number system. Whoever arrived at the complex would initiate the number system, take the first number, and everyone else would take a number in order. I had no idea there was a system and was surprised nobody told me about until I asked. Brenda explained that I had to pay attention to the number on the form, because it marked the end of the visit. Some guards called visitors by our names, and some called us by the numbers on the form. I told her I had no idea what my number was, or where I would find it. She said, “Then you have to go up to the guards and ask them before you go back to the visit.” I left the waiting area, went to the guard station, and said, “I heard I have to know my number.” The guard smiled and responded, “That is easy. You are number one.” I was ashamed of myself for stepping in front of these people who had done their due diligence. When I opened the door to the crowded room of visitors, I said, “I am so sorry! I just found out you have a number system, and I stepped in front of all of you. I am so sorry. I didn’t know.” One lady said, “That’s okay. We were going to let you get shot for all of us!” The room roared with laughter, and I said, “Fair enough.”