Prisons

So, you're going to prison. First, protective hookups. Actually, pre-first, there's a book called "You Are Going to Prison." You can buy it here. It's got a sort-of happy cover, given the subject matter. Back to "YAGtP" in a bit.

PROTECTIVE HOOKUPS
From "Hooking Up: Protective Pairing for Punks,” a pamphlet for male prisoners available by mail, online, and at some prison libraries. The pamphlet was written by Stephen Donaldson, a former convict who served a four-year term at a series of prisons for assault with intent to commit murder; he later served an additional term for violating his parole. Donaldson is now president of Stop Prisoner Rape, an advocacy group based in New York City. [Description cribbed from Harper's magazine. Let's assume I've given them full credit for what they re-printed, seeing as Donaldson was the guy who wrote it, and he deserved better than a bunch of liberals like me making fun, if only slightly and respectfully of it, because let's face it, they printed it because it's funny in an awful way, just like I am.]

Many prisoners who have been raped by fellow inmates or who have been threatened with rape decide to become “hooked up” with another prisoner. However distasteful the idea may seem [note to my gay friends: the going to prison crowd likes to pretend none of them wants to have gay sex], they believe it to be the least damaging way to survive in custody.

In most arrangements, the junior—in prison slang, the “catcher” or “punk”—gives up his independence and his control over his body to a senior partner—the “jocker,” “man,” pitcher,” or “daddy”—in exchange for protection from violence and sexual assaults by other prisoners. This arrangement, it must be said, is never totally voluntary for the punk, but it is preferable to a series of violent gang rapes and, in the age of AIDS, far safer.

If you want to be able to choose your daddy, tell the other prisoners that you want to hook up. The word will get around fast, and guys will start to talk to you about it. This has to be done quickly, otherwise events will overwhelm you and you may get gang-raped or forced to hook up before you can make a choice.

Spend as much time as you can with the jockers who want to hook up with you; ask them lots of questions and judge for yourslf how sincere they are. Ask other prisoners (especially punks and queens) about their reps. The more information you can get, the better your choice will be. Once you make your decision, you are pretty much stuck with it.

Check out how serious the guy is. Discuss what he expects from you in detail and try to work out the most favorable agreement. Even put it in writing! [Note: this was not covered in Contracts. Perhaps we will go over it in Advanced Contracts this fall? UPDATE: Is it more likely to be covered by "Sales" or "Leases"?] Protective pairing is a very serious matter for him, too, since it obligates him to put his life on the line to keep you from harm. Ask him about any previous catchers he’s had, how they managed together, and why they split. If any of them are still around, talk with them.

Ask jockers how they treat their women, because most jockers treat their punks the same way. If they form real partnerships with their women, they are more likely to do the same with you.

Jockers may well insist on having sex with you before putting a claim on you. This is not an unreasonable demand, since sex is such an important part of the deal. You can tell a lot about a jock by how he behaves with yu sexually. If he shows affection, such as stroking your body or hair, it is a good indication that he wants to treat you like a human being.

As soon as it becomes known that you are hooked up (and the news will spread like wildfire) everyone else will stop hassling you and will deal with you only through your “man.” Hooking up means you have definitely become a punk and will be considered a punk for as long as you stay in the joint, so if you decide to hook up, you might as well get used to that status.

Once the two of you decide to be hooked up, you may be given duties other than sex: for example, doing his laundry, cleaning his cell, making up his bunk, fixing coffeee for him, and giving him backrubs. Although the arrangement is firm—the “pitcher” makes the rules and the “catcher” follows them—the relationship will usually allow you some room to maneuver and have your wishes considered (as long as you respect the basic rules). While a jocker will never tolerate open rebellion, he usually seeks to get along with his punk, and to avoid an atmosphere of constant tension. He would rather relax around his punk, and over time he can and often does develop genuine affection for him. This allows a considerable degree of give-and-take in the nonsexual aspects of the partnership.

Some of the jocks who at first play the gorilla games and act extremely tough, callous, and coldhearted will calm down once they learn to trust you. They may even show an entirely different and unexpected side of themselves, sharing their own anxieties, fears, and deepest feelings. In turn, they will listen to you as you learn to trust them and talk about your own feelings. Thus you stand a good chance of developing a humane relationship in which each of you really cares about the other and works to keep the relationship smooth.

Human beings are remarkably adaptable creatures. It is true that if you become a punk and are locked up for a long time, you will get somewhat used to the punk role. This varies a lot from one punk to another. Some still hate every sex act after a decade of doing it every day. Others focus on the other aspects of the relationship and find some value there. Some treasure the security it brings. Many punks who have good relationships actually become fond of their jockers. It is not so uncommon, in the unusual conditions of confinement, for two straight guys to fall in love with each other over time. Psychologists generally consider adaptation to be a healthy reaction to a situation that you cannot change, so don’t worry about it if you find yourself adapting to the role. [Note: psychologists have said far crazier shit about homosexuality than this.] Once you are out, you can reverse the process and work on reclaiming the full expression of your masculine identity. [Note: It also occurs to me at this point that this article reverses the gay equation... homosexuality as lifestyle necessity, but not a choice or preference.]

Unfortunately, many, (if not most) jockers will try to get their punks to be as feminine in appearance and behavior as possible, because they are more comfortable pretending that they are relating sexually to some kind of female than to another male. But they also know that you are a punk, not a queen, and that such things don’t come naturally to you. You should ask about such things before accepting a claim, and make it clear that retaining your masculine identity is important to you. Some jockers don’t care. I was hooked up once with a guy who let me grow a mustache! Most will still refer to you as “him” and use your male name. Others may insist that you shave your legs, grow long hair, and use a feminine nickname. No matter what you have to do, remember that it is all an act and that you can go back to your normal behavior as soon as you get out.

That’s a lot of advice, but you’ll need it. Good luck finding a decent man, and remember you will leave it all behind (except for a much better understanding of men—and of women!) when you walk out the front gate.

PRISON WINE
Most people who know me know that I'm a bit of a snob, and generally wouldn't drink Pabst Blue Ribbon even if it was given to me for free. That having been said, I have other options. If I were in prison, however, I would not. And thus "prison wine." Prison wine is exactly what you might think it is, except grosser to make but slightly less gross to drink (!).
From "You Are Going to Prison":

"Prison hooch can be made in your cell toilet (as long as you don't mind using other people's toilets or finding some other solution), or more often, in plastic trash bags. The recipe is simple: make a strong bag by double or triple-bagging some plastic trash bags and knotting the bottoms. Into this, pour warm water, some fruit or fruit juice, raisins or tomatoes, yeast, and as much sugar as you can get ahold of (or powdered drink mix). Now tie off the top of the bag, letting a tube of some kind protrude so the thing won't explode while it gives off carbon dioxide. Now hide the bag somewhere and wait at least three days. A week is enough.

One of the problems you have right away with making wine in prison is the difficulty getting yeast. It's a strictly forbidden item and you might not be able to get any. In this case you can improvise the by using slices of bread, preferably moldy (but not dry) and preferably inside a sock for easier straining.

If you choose to brew your wine in your cell, you'll need to hide it behind your bunk and do what you can to hide the smell. Burning cinnamon as incense is one way. Spraying deodorant around is another. Normal wine takes at least a month if not six weeks to make at all properly -- but in hell, this is all you get."

Like I said, apparently it's not as awful to drink as you might think. I know this second hand, given my previously mentioned aversion to bad-tasting stuff, but this guy has no such aversion, and he does it for me. Thank God for that!

SHANKS V. SHIVS
Apparently our federal attorneys have discussed at length whether shivs and shanks are the same thing. Wikipedia even covers it. I always assumed that "shiv" was Yiddish. It is not. It's Romani (what we used to call gypsies; I guess they need shivs even more than us Jews.) Shiv is a generic noun covering sharp objects. A shank refers specifically to the steel used to stiffen work boots, but the word is used more broadly today. It is also the verb. You can shank someone with a shiv. You can shank someone with a shank. You cannot shiv someone with anything. Like the prison wine, people are pretty inventive in their desire to create weapons "inside." I don't know if I'd go so far as to call them artistic or pretty, although these guys would, and they know more about design than me.

FUN FACT
The United States has more people incarcerated than any nation on earth, including China, which has four times the population.

MURDER ONE
I didn't do as well in Criminal Procedure as I would have liked, but if I remember one thing, it's to keep your freakin' mouth shut when the cops are talking to you. Because, like the Man said, "anything you say can be used against you..," even if it has nothing to do with what the cops are talking to you about. Seriously, shut up. Don't even make eye contact if you can help it. Here's an interesting take on it as a running monolog from the book "Homicide." At some point in the show they filmed it, but any if anyone can find it on YouTube (this sequence, not bits of the show) I promise I'll give you full credit (and we know how much that's worth.)

You are a citizen of a free nation, having lived your life in a land of guaranteed civil liberties, and you commit a crime of violence, whereupon you are jacked up, hauled down to a police station and deposited in a claustrophobic anteroom with three chairs, a table and no windows. There you sit for a half hour or so until a police detective—a man you have never met before, a man who can in no way be mistaken for a friend—enters the room with a thin stack of lined notepaper and a ball-point pen.

The detective offers a cigarette, not your brand, and begins an uninterrupted monologue that wanders back and forth for a half hour more, eventually coming to rest in a familiar place: “You have the right to remain silent.”

Of course you do. You’re a criminal. Criminals always have the right to remain silent. At least once in your miserable life, you spent an hour in front of a television set, listening to this book-‘em-Danno routine. You think Joe Friday was lying to you? You think Kojak was making this horseshit up? No way, bunk, we’re talking sacred freedoms here, notably your Fifth Fucking Amendment protection against self-incrimination, and hey, it was good enough for Ollie North, so who are you to go incriminating yourself at the first opportunity? Get it straight: A police detective, a man who gets paid government money to put you in prison, is explaining your absolute right to shut up before you say something stupid.

“Anything you say or write may be used against you in a court of law.”

Yo, bunky, wake the fuck up. You’re being told that talking to a police detective in an interrogation room can only hurt you. If it could help you, they would probably be pretty quick to say that, wouldn’t they? They’d stand up and say you have the right not to worry because what you say or write in this godforsaken cubicle is gonna be used to your benefit in a court of law. No, your best bet is to shut up. Shut up now.

“You have the right to talk to a lawyer at any time—before any questioning, before answering any questions, or during any questions.”

Talk about helpful. Now the man who wants to arrest you for violating the peace and dignity of the state is saying you can talk to a trained professional, an attorney who has read the relevant portions of the Maryland Annotated Code or can at least get his hands on some Cliff’s Notes. And let’s face it, pal, you just carved up a drunk in a Dundalk Avenue bar, but that don’t make you a neurosurgeon. Take whatever you can get.

“If you want a lawyer and cannot afford to hire one, you will not be asked any questions, and the court will be requested to appoint a lawyer for you.

Translation: You’re a derelict. No charge for derelicts.

At this point, if all lobes are working, you ought to have seen enough of this Double Jeopardy category to know that it ain’t where you want to be. How a little something from Criminal Lawyers and Their Clients for $50, Alex?

Whoa, bunk, not so fast.

“Before we get started, lemme just get through this paperwork,” says the detective, who now produces an Explanation of Rights sheet, BPD Form 69, and passes it across the table.

“EXPLANATION OF RIGHTS,” declares the top line in bold black letters. The detective asks you to fill in your name, address, age, and education, then the date and time. That much accomplished, he asks you to read the next section.

“YOU ARE HEREBY ADVISED THAT:”

Read number one, the detective says. Do you understand number one?

“You have the absolute right to remain silent.”

Yeah, you understand. We did this already.

“Then write your initials next to number one. Now read number two.”

And so forth, until you have initialed each component of the Miranda warning. That done, the detective tells you to write your signature on the next line, the one just below the sentence that says, “I HAVE READ THE ABOVE EXPLANATION OF MY RIGHTS AND FULLY UNDERSTAND IT.”

You sign your name and the monologue resumes. The detective assures you that he has informed you of these rights because he wants you to be protected, because there is nothing that concerns him more than giving you every possible assistance in this very confusing and stressful moment in your life. If you don’t want to talk, he tells you, that’s fine, too, because first of all, he’s no relation to the guy you cut up, and second, he’s gonna get six hours overtime no matter what you do. But he wants you to know—and he’s been doing this a lot longer than you, so take his word for it—that your rights to remain silent and obtain qualified counsel aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Look at it this way, he says, leaning back in his chair. Once you up and call for a lawyer, son, we can’t do a damn thing for you. No sir, your friends in the city homicide unit are going to have to leave you locked in this room all alone and the next authority figure to scan your case will be a tie-wearing, three-piece bloodsucker—a no-nonsense prosecutor from the Violent Crimes Unit with the official title of assistant state’s attorney for the city of Baltimore. And God help you then, son, because a ruthless fucker like that will have an O’Donnell Heights motorhead like yourself halfway to the gas chamber before you get three words out. Now’s the time to speak out, right now when I got my pen and paper here on the table, because once I walk out of this room any chance you have of telling your side of the story is gone and I gotta write it up the way it looks. And the way it looks right now is first-fucking-degree murder. Felony murder, mister, which when shoved up a man’s asshole is a hell of a lot more painful than second-degree or maybe even manslaughter. What you say right here and now could make the difference, bunk. Did I mention that Maryland has a gas chamber? Big, ugly sumbitch at the penitentiary on Eager Street, not twenty blocks from here. You don’t wanna get too close to that bad boy, lemme tell you.

A small, wavering sound of protest passes your lips and the detective leans back in his chair, shaking his head sadly.

What the hell is wrong with you, son? You think I’m fucking with you? Hey, I don’t even need to bother with your weak shit. I got three witnesses in three other rooms who say you’re my man. I got a knife from the scene that’s going downstairs to the lab for latent prints. I got blood spatter on them Air Jordans we took off you ten minutes ago. Why the fuck do you think we took ‘em? Do I look like I wear high-top tennies? Fuck no. You got spatter all over ‘em, and I think we both know whose blood type it’s gonna be. Hey, bunk, I’m only in here to make sure that there ain’t nothing you can say for yourself before I write it up.

You hesitate.

Oh, says the detective. You want to think about it. Hey, think about it all you want, pal. My captains’s right outside in the hallway, and he already told me to charge your ass in the first fuckin’ degree. For once in your beshitted little life someone is giving you a chance and you’re too fucking dumb to take it. What the fuck, you go ahead and think about it and I’ll tell my captain to cool his heels for ten minutes. I can do that much for you. How ‘bout some coffee? Another cigarette?

The detective leaves you alone in the cramped, windowless room. Just you and the blank notepaper and the Form 69 and…first-degree murder. First-degree murder with witnesses and fingerprints and blood on your Air Jordans. Christ, you didn’t even notice the blood on your own fucking shoes. Felony murder, mister. First-fucking-degree. How many years, you begin to wonder, how many years do I get for involuntary manslaughter?

Whereupon the man who wants to put you in prison, the man who is not your friend, comes back in the room, asking if the coffee’s okay.

Yeah, you say, the coffee’s fine, but what happens if I want a lawyer?

The detective shrugs. Then we get a lawyer, he says. And I walk out of the room and type up the charging documents for first-degree murder and you can’t say a fucking thing about it. Look, bunk, I’m giving you a chance. He came at you, right? You were scared. It was self-defense.

Your mouth opens to speak.

He came at you, didn’t he?

“Yeah,” you venture cautiously, “he came at me.”

Whoa, says the detective, holding up his hands. Wait a minute. If we’re gonna do this, I gotta find your rights form. Where’s the fucking form? Damn things are like cops, never around when you need ‘em. Here it is, he says, pushing the explanation-of-rights sheet across the table and pointing to the bottom. Read that, he says.

“I am willing to answer questions and I do not want any attorney at this time. My decision to answer questions with having an attorney present is free and voluntary on my part.”

As you read, he leaves the room and returns a moment later with a second detective as a witness. You sign the bottom of the form, as do both detectives.

The first detective looks up from the form, his eyes soaked with innocence. “He came at you, huh?”

“Yeah, he came at me.”

Get used to small rooms, bunk, because you are about to be drop-kicked into the lost land of pretrial detention. Because it’s one thing to be a murdering little asshole from Southeast Baltimore, and it’s another thing to be stupid about it, and with five little words you have just elevated yourself to the ranks of the truly witless.

End of the road, pal. It’s over. It’s history. And if that police detective wasn’t so busy committing your weak bullshit to paper, he’d probably look you in the eye and tell you so. He'd give you another cigarette and say, son, you are ignorance personified and you just put yourself in for the fatal stabbing of a human being. He might even tell you that the other witnesses in the other rooms are too drunk to identify their own reflections, much less the kid who had the knife, or that it’s always a long shot for the lab to pull a latent off a knife hilt, or that your $95 sneakers are as clean as the day you bought them. If he was feeling particularly expansive, he might tell you that everyone who leaves the homicide unit in handcuffs does so charged with first-degree murder, that it’s for the lawyers to decide what kind of deal will be cut. He might even go on to say that even after all these years working homicides, there is still a small part of him that finds it completely mystifying that anyone ever utters a single word in a police interrogation. To illustrate this point, he could hold up your Form 69, on which you waived away every last one of your rights, and say, “Lookit here, pistonhead, I told you twice that you were deep in the shit and what whatever you said could put you in deeper.” And if his message was still somehow beyond your understanding, he could drag you carcass back down to the sixth-floor hallway, back toward the sign that says Homicide Unit in white block letters, the sign you saw when you walked off the elevator.

Now think hard: Who lives in a homicide unit? Yeah, right. And what do homicide detectives do for a living? Yeah, you got it, bunk. And what did you do tonight? You murdered someone.

So when you opened that mouth of yours, what the fuck were you thinking?

RIGHT TO SILENCE IN THE UK
For my faithful UK readers, none of the above applies. The Fifth Amendment in the US allows us to say nothing, and then add facts later, without an assumption that our silence implied we had nothing to say (or something like that.) In the United Kingdom, however, juries are allowed to infer that silence followed by esculpatory facts means that the criminal made up the facts. I explained all of that quite poorly. If you get arrested in the UK, ask for an attorney as soon as possible, and list every possible alibi as soon as you can.