Post by wabasher on Feb 15, 2010 9:19:17 GMT -5
Wabash Valley officers know their charges
By Garret Mathews
Sunday, February 14, 2010
CARLISLE, Ind. — Sgt. Jason Irvine is a guard at Wabash Valley Correctional Center. His work-a-day world is in the prison's transitional unit.
While the 176 offenders housed in the unit aren't the worst of the worst, the chance of being assaulted is quite real.
Irvine, 33, and the three guards who patrol this building protect themselves by letting only 22 prisoners out at any one time.
While the pay isn't the greatest, they have something to look forward to — quitting time.
Alfonso Harris, an inmate at Wabash, isn't going anywhere soon. In 1996, he was sentenced to 85 years for murder. His release date is 2039.
Harris has flunked two urine tests for drugs. The 39-year-old has been written up for making a homemade weapon.
He's one of the men the always wary Irvine is assigned to watch.
Irvine has many stories.
One is from late last year about the inmate who didn't want to leave his cell for a mandatory tuberculosis test.
"When I told the guy to come out, he came straight for me and started swinging. The fight was on and it took two officers to break it up."
Irvine has worked at Wabash since 2000. He says he's been assaulted "nine or 10 times" and threatened "at least once a week."
Several inmates, he says, "enjoy throwing fecal matter on the staff. They have anger management mental illness. When their meds run out on the street, they commit offenses and that gets them brought to us."
Irvine has seen weapons fashioned from dinner trays and plastic spoons. He has confiscated heroin and cocaine from offenders on his tier.
He has discovered illegal cell phones when patting down inmates who tried to hide the devices by taping them to their genitalia.
The unit was quiet on a recent afternoon. No offenders were hollering or pounding fists against their cells. Many were reading or watching television. Some had yet to bring in the four rolls of toilet paper they receive each week.
"Every guard knows that you could walk into this institution one day and not walk out," Irvine said. "There's not an inmate in this house that I would turn my back on for even three seconds.
"Everybody in this unit has the potential for a bad day and take it out on us. They all don't think clearly. One inmate stopped up his toilet when he tried to flush a blanket."
Some offenders have long histories of violent crimes. Some have been sentenced for murder. Felons who act out at lower-risk institutions such as Branchville Correctional Facility often are transferred to Wabash.
Escape from Wabash is almost impossible.
Razor wire surrounds the compound. Visitors must carry identification cards that are checked frequently.
Doors open electronically only after guards confirm that the person on the other side is supposed to be there.
More dangerous offenders are assigned to the segregation unit and wear bright red uniforms. Their movements are monitored closely and more guards are assigned to their dormitories.
"I don't really want to know who's in here for what crime," Irvine said.
"It's not really information I need to have. I don't want to be accused of treating one differently from someone else."
With three other officers, he helps supervise a transitional unit of 176. The men are not unruly enough to be placed in segregation, but they aren't considered a good fit for the general population because they have been written up for assault or disorderly conduct.
"We let 22 out at a time for meals and for recreation," he said.
He added that inmates are on a rotating exercise cycle that allows them an hour or so a day in the outside yard or in the gymnasium.
Most of the offenders in this dormitory have small televisions that they purchased from the commissary for around $160 each. They have access to basic cable channels, but no HBO.
The men are allowed to purchase Walkmans, but not video games. They can have up to 10 books and 15 magazines and are permitted to subscribe to local newspapers. Once a week, they can order food items from the commissary.
Contraband can be a problem.
Public information officer Richard Larsen said 106 cell phones were confiscated last year.
"Those items are strictly forbidden," Irvine said. "We can't have them talking on the phone to each other from one building to the next.
"Not long ago, we had a police officer from Indianapolis call us to say a guy from our institution was currently on the cell phone to a girlfriend."
Irvine estimates that there are "10 or 15" cell phones at any one time in his building.
"Tobacco products are a constant source of contraband. In the prison black market, a pack of cigarettes would go for around $100."
Marijuana, Irvine said, often is hidden in the cap of a tube of toothpaste. A joint fetches around $3.
"Homemade liquor is an ongoing problem," Irvine said. "The amount of hooch goes up during holidays and especially around Christmas. They make it from anything that will ferment, like juice and tomato sauce. The stuff is really nasty, but inmates will pay two bucks for a small glass."
Offenders new to Wabash frequently test the patience of officers.
"They want to make a name for themselves so the others will think they're tough. They end up confronting staff," Irvine said. "Once or twice a year, I have to use the pepper spray."
Officers try to pair inmates who have committed similar crimes with similar sentences and are not members of rival gangs.
"We'll try to accommodate a couple of guys who absolutely can't get along by moving one of them out," Irvine says, "but it has to be legitimate or all we'd do all day is make transfers."
The cells are 8 feet by 12 feet. Guards have inspections each week and conduct a thorough shakedown each month.
"Some guys are pretty clean, but a lot aren't. I have to put a bucket of cleanser outside the cell door and say, 'Hey, your place is a mess. Get after it.' I can usually get my message across. If you're firm but fair, they'll respect you. They might not like you, but in my mind that's not necessary."
Alfonso Harris is an inmate in Irvine's housing unit.
He enjoys the Harry Potter stories. He has a stack of books by Patricia Cornwell, a writer who specializes in crime stories. He hopes to take college courses.
"I was accused of killing a drug dealer during a drug deal in Indianapolis," Harris said. "It happened on Jan. 9, 1996. I had just done almost all of an eight-year sentence for theft and was on parole. I went back to selling drugs in the same neighborhood. That was the only life I've ever known."
The murder netted Harris an 85-year term. Allowing for good time, his release date is March 16, 2039.
"My father pulled 17 years for robbery," Harris said. "My mother was murdered when I was 10. Was it over drugs? I don't know for sure, but you hear things. I was raised by my grandmother, who was a pretty successful person."
He says he started selling drugs when he was 13.
"We called 'em 'teddies' and 'betties'. I don't know what was inside 'em, but it made you high. I ended up dropping out of school in 10th grade."
Harris has been at Wabash for 13 years. He's been written up for making a homemade weapon out of a piece of steel. He's failed two urine tests, the latter after graduating from the prison's Purposeful Living Units Serve program.
"I wanted to celebrate so I smoked some marijuana."
He admits to battling depression.
"My grandmother passed away, and it's not easy for me to talk with other convicts. Yeah, you have TV and books, but the days get pretty long. I had some mental counseling, but the man said I was too smart to see a psych doctor."
He earns 12 cents an hour for serving chow, but says he only has 50 cents in his commissary account.
"My brother is a minister, but I don't ask for help from the outside. I've got a lot of nieces, and I don't want to be a burden on them. I've probably only had about five visits in the last 10 years."
Harris says his drug use never advanced beyond marijuana, "because I saw what the hard stuff did to people. In a year, I probably made around $150,000. Buying clothes, drinking with women and going to parties — that was me.
"I never had a job in my life and never owned a car. I'd steal one and drive it all day and then dump it. When I needed another ride, I'd steal another vehicle. Stick a screwdriver through the steering column — that was my method.
"I'm an example of somebody who grew up in the prison cycle. I consider myself a nice guy. I've just made mistakes, that's all."
www.courierpress.com/news/2010/feb/14/always-on-guard/?print=1
By Garret Mathews
Sunday, February 14, 2010
CARLISLE, Ind. — Sgt. Jason Irvine is a guard at Wabash Valley Correctional Center. His work-a-day world is in the prison's transitional unit.
While the 176 offenders housed in the unit aren't the worst of the worst, the chance of being assaulted is quite real.
Irvine, 33, and the three guards who patrol this building protect themselves by letting only 22 prisoners out at any one time.
While the pay isn't the greatest, they have something to look forward to — quitting time.
Alfonso Harris, an inmate at Wabash, isn't going anywhere soon. In 1996, he was sentenced to 85 years for murder. His release date is 2039.
Harris has flunked two urine tests for drugs. The 39-year-old has been written up for making a homemade weapon.
He's one of the men the always wary Irvine is assigned to watch.
Irvine has many stories.
One is from late last year about the inmate who didn't want to leave his cell for a mandatory tuberculosis test.
"When I told the guy to come out, he came straight for me and started swinging. The fight was on and it took two officers to break it up."
Irvine has worked at Wabash since 2000. He says he's been assaulted "nine or 10 times" and threatened "at least once a week."
Several inmates, he says, "enjoy throwing fecal matter on the staff. They have anger management mental illness. When their meds run out on the street, they commit offenses and that gets them brought to us."
Irvine has seen weapons fashioned from dinner trays and plastic spoons. He has confiscated heroin and cocaine from offenders on his tier.
He has discovered illegal cell phones when patting down inmates who tried to hide the devices by taping them to their genitalia.
The unit was quiet on a recent afternoon. No offenders were hollering or pounding fists against their cells. Many were reading or watching television. Some had yet to bring in the four rolls of toilet paper they receive each week.
"Every guard knows that you could walk into this institution one day and not walk out," Irvine said. "There's not an inmate in this house that I would turn my back on for even three seconds.
"Everybody in this unit has the potential for a bad day and take it out on us. They all don't think clearly. One inmate stopped up his toilet when he tried to flush a blanket."
Some offenders have long histories of violent crimes. Some have been sentenced for murder. Felons who act out at lower-risk institutions such as Branchville Correctional Facility often are transferred to Wabash.
Escape from Wabash is almost impossible.
Razor wire surrounds the compound. Visitors must carry identification cards that are checked frequently.
Doors open electronically only after guards confirm that the person on the other side is supposed to be there.
More dangerous offenders are assigned to the segregation unit and wear bright red uniforms. Their movements are monitored closely and more guards are assigned to their dormitories.
"I don't really want to know who's in here for what crime," Irvine said.
"It's not really information I need to have. I don't want to be accused of treating one differently from someone else."
With three other officers, he helps supervise a transitional unit of 176. The men are not unruly enough to be placed in segregation, but they aren't considered a good fit for the general population because they have been written up for assault or disorderly conduct.
"We let 22 out at a time for meals and for recreation," he said.
He added that inmates are on a rotating exercise cycle that allows them an hour or so a day in the outside yard or in the gymnasium.
Most of the offenders in this dormitory have small televisions that they purchased from the commissary for around $160 each. They have access to basic cable channels, but no HBO.
The men are allowed to purchase Walkmans, but not video games. They can have up to 10 books and 15 magazines and are permitted to subscribe to local newspapers. Once a week, they can order food items from the commissary.
Contraband can be a problem.
Public information officer Richard Larsen said 106 cell phones were confiscated last year.
"Those items are strictly forbidden," Irvine said. "We can't have them talking on the phone to each other from one building to the next.
"Not long ago, we had a police officer from Indianapolis call us to say a guy from our institution was currently on the cell phone to a girlfriend."
Irvine estimates that there are "10 or 15" cell phones at any one time in his building.
"Tobacco products are a constant source of contraband. In the prison black market, a pack of cigarettes would go for around $100."
Marijuana, Irvine said, often is hidden in the cap of a tube of toothpaste. A joint fetches around $3.
"Homemade liquor is an ongoing problem," Irvine said. "The amount of hooch goes up during holidays and especially around Christmas. They make it from anything that will ferment, like juice and tomato sauce. The stuff is really nasty, but inmates will pay two bucks for a small glass."
Offenders new to Wabash frequently test the patience of officers.
"They want to make a name for themselves so the others will think they're tough. They end up confronting staff," Irvine said. "Once or twice a year, I have to use the pepper spray."
Officers try to pair inmates who have committed similar crimes with similar sentences and are not members of rival gangs.
"We'll try to accommodate a couple of guys who absolutely can't get along by moving one of them out," Irvine says, "but it has to be legitimate or all we'd do all day is make transfers."
The cells are 8 feet by 12 feet. Guards have inspections each week and conduct a thorough shakedown each month.
"Some guys are pretty clean, but a lot aren't. I have to put a bucket of cleanser outside the cell door and say, 'Hey, your place is a mess. Get after it.' I can usually get my message across. If you're firm but fair, they'll respect you. They might not like you, but in my mind that's not necessary."
Alfonso Harris is an inmate in Irvine's housing unit.
He enjoys the Harry Potter stories. He has a stack of books by Patricia Cornwell, a writer who specializes in crime stories. He hopes to take college courses.
"I was accused of killing a drug dealer during a drug deal in Indianapolis," Harris said. "It happened on Jan. 9, 1996. I had just done almost all of an eight-year sentence for theft and was on parole. I went back to selling drugs in the same neighborhood. That was the only life I've ever known."
The murder netted Harris an 85-year term. Allowing for good time, his release date is March 16, 2039.
"My father pulled 17 years for robbery," Harris said. "My mother was murdered when I was 10. Was it over drugs? I don't know for sure, but you hear things. I was raised by my grandmother, who was a pretty successful person."
He says he started selling drugs when he was 13.
"We called 'em 'teddies' and 'betties'. I don't know what was inside 'em, but it made you high. I ended up dropping out of school in 10th grade."
Harris has been at Wabash for 13 years. He's been written up for making a homemade weapon out of a piece of steel. He's failed two urine tests, the latter after graduating from the prison's Purposeful Living Units Serve program.
"I wanted to celebrate so I smoked some marijuana."
He admits to battling depression.
"My grandmother passed away, and it's not easy for me to talk with other convicts. Yeah, you have TV and books, but the days get pretty long. I had some mental counseling, but the man said I was too smart to see a psych doctor."
He earns 12 cents an hour for serving chow, but says he only has 50 cents in his commissary account.
"My brother is a minister, but I don't ask for help from the outside. I've got a lot of nieces, and I don't want to be a burden on them. I've probably only had about five visits in the last 10 years."
Harris says his drug use never advanced beyond marijuana, "because I saw what the hard stuff did to people. In a year, I probably made around $150,000. Buying clothes, drinking with women and going to parties — that was me.
"I never had a job in my life and never owned a car. I'd steal one and drive it all day and then dump it. When I needed another ride, I'd steal another vehicle. Stick a screwdriver through the steering column — that was my method.
"I'm an example of somebody who grew up in the prison cycle. I consider myself a nice guy. I've just made mistakes, that's all."
www.courierpress.com/news/2010/feb/14/always-on-guard/?print=1