While everyone else was out shopping for bargains at Black Friday sales, I was locked up behind the prison gates of the Red Rock Correctional Center in Eloy, Arizona. No, I wasn’t an inmate. I was only a visitor. But, I have to tell you — during my 4-hour stay, I felt like a caged animal. (I’ll get political at the end.)
The entire experience, from getting “cleared” to visit ADOC inmate #328023 to having drug dogs go through my borrowed vehicle, to hearing the slam of the gate behind me once on the prison grounds, to sitting at the small table with my orange-cladded host changed me. I cried on the way home. And, I’m not sure why because after all, I got to go home after the visit. ADOC inmate #328023 won’t be home for another 5 years.
THE CRIME TAPE IS RED TAPE
I had never met ADOC inmate #328023. He is 19. African American. In a way, he is like family. I had been corresponding with him via letters for a few weeks before he told me I could “apply” to receive phone calls from him — and visit him. I didn’t plan on visiting since I lived 2,000 miles away, so I applied to accept his phone calls at .21 cents a minute, or $4 for 15 minutes. I set up an account at https://www.icsolutions.com/ — a website that promises to ” help you stay in touch with your loved one at your convenience.” The photos on the site were all of beautiful, well dressed, smiling single women and children, parents and families — of all races. I wondered if prison would be this diverse and this fucking happy.
I doubted it.
Once I learned I was going to Arizona, I decided to pay the visitation fee –$25 — to visit someone in Arizona prison. The fee covered a background check. Every person over the age of 18 who wants to visit an inmate must pay this fee. I thought about large families, those with limited funds, and how the could afford the fee on top of traveling to the desert. At least children could visit for free.
I quickly learned that there is a lot of red tape involved with visiting an inmate. Because I had only initially applied for phone calls, the online process rejected my fee and a notice telling me I needed to wait 90 days to apply for visitation popped up. There was only problem: my visit was about 4 weeks away. The inmate had to apply for “special visitation.” It was denied.
He was devastated since after 8 months, I would be his only physical connection to the outside world. But, I wasn’t about to be another adult in his young life to let him down.
I did what I always do: I prayed.
Then, I called a friend (a former student) I knew who had worked at the Arizona Department of Corrections. Although he no longer worked for ADC, he instructed me to reach out to the PIO — the public relations folks. Why hadn’t I thought of that being a former PIO in Phoenix myself? So, I did with a simple question: Who do I contact to get my visit approved?
My email was forwarded to the deputy warden who responded via email and a phone call. Wow. Impressive. After a few phone calls and email exchanges, deputy warden worked it out. I was “cleared” to visit and told to read Department Order 911.
STEAMY. EROTIC. RACY.
Now, Department Order 911 is better than any Harlequin book I have ever read — at least the parts pertaining to the actual visits and what is allowed, or prohibited.
Here goes: I couldn’t wear hip huggers, spandex, sheer clothing, a wig or clip on hair, the color orange, the color brown, anything sheer or netted, nor could I expose my cleavage. (I don’t have much cleavage.) Oh, and “undergarments shall be worn at all times” in case you planned on going in commando. How would they know if I was wearing drawers? If you know me, I know what you’re thinking. And, yes, I had to go buy underwear.
There’s more. A “brief kiss and/or embrace shall only be permitted at the beginning and end of the visitation period,” but I had to keep all of my clothing fastened at all times and (like the tray and seat back on the airplane) remain in “an upright position.” I imagined the CO (correction officers) as flight attendants throughout the visit. I wasn’t far off.
Further, “Visitors or inmates shall not place their hands inside the other’s clothing.” Whoa. I’m thinking that these things HAD to have happened for them to appear in Department Order 911. It makes sense. Although prisoners — they are still men with unmet needs.
I think 911.09. 1.8 is my favorite, letting me know that under no circumstances during visitation was I allowed to expose the genitals or breasts, lie on the “floor or ground, upon seats or tables or under tables,” or attempt to conceal the visitor and/or inmate from staff, sit on the inmate’s lap.
No “gyrating or thrusting with the pelvic regions, in a standing or sitting position.” And, no sitting with legs entwined or overlapping with another person’s legs, fondling and/or touching the breasts, buttocks, and/or genital area of another person in any manner.
Told you. Better than a Harlequin read.
I was fairly certain that I could adhere to all of these orders. Ok, I was 100% certain.
DOGS. XRAYS. UNDERWIRE BRAS.
When I arrived on Friday, November 23, at around 11:45 p.m. I had to wait in the car in a line that had formed outside the prison gates. When it was my turn to go through the gate, I was greeted by a energetic and friendly guard who asked to see my ID. I informed her that this was my first visit and I was nervous. “We call this Red Rock Resort.”
She informed me that when it was my turn, I would be asked to exit the car and drug dogs would search my vehicle. Drug dogs? We are not in Kansas anymore. This is federal prison. And, like Bigmama, they don’t play. The sign outside the gate was clear: “No weapons, drugs, narcotics, cameras….blah, blah. blah.” I think it ended with “We ain’t playing.”
For someone like me who has only reported other people’s crime, I was nervous. This wasn’t my car. I wondered if my ex was hiding anything, or if my daughter had used the vehicle once and left marijuana under the seat. I had already taken off Dan’s “self defense key chain” that was surely not allowed. But, what else did he have in this car? Damn. I was sweating — and it wasn’t because the Arizona sun was heating up.
A blonde woman putting on makeup occupied a pickup truck in front of me. Blonde? I remember thinking how attractive she was and how she was so concerned about her makeup while I was focused on the dog about to enter my borrowed car. Who was she primping for?
When it was my turn for the search, the officers were joking and laughing. “And that’s how you get a telephone number,” one officer boasted. “Really? You got her cell number? We don’t even need numbers,” the other one replied, clearly jealous that he didn’t think of the ruse. They were still laughing when I got out of the car. And, neither asked for my number on the form that I had to sign giving permission for the search. Blondes do have more fun — even in prison.
The officer with the dog asked who’s car I was driving. I replied,”My ex husband.” He asked, “How well do you trust him?” Shit. Had he discovered something? What? “Well enough to have his child.” We all laughed. The dog went through the front and the back seats quickly and seemed disappointed not to sniff out anything that would get him a tasty treat.
I was cleared to park. Still, I’m not inside yet. It’s been 30 minutes.
When I walk up to the door to check in, about 20 other people — families with children, a Hispanic woman, and the blonde — are all standing in line. It was my first time. What are we doing? What’s happening here? The Hispanic woman seem to know. The blonde was on her first visit as well — but she didn’t read order 911. She had on a top that wouldn’t “pass,” underwire in her bra, bangles on her wrist, multiple keys on her key ring, two rolls of quarters NOT in a clear ziplock bag. I figured she was likely the the student who didn’t read the syllabus either.
She returned to her car several times as the nice Hispanic woman in line found violation after violation.
As a journalist by nature, I ask a lot of questions — to anyone.
I discovered that the Hispanic woman was visiting a boyfriend. This was her 13th visit. She explained which guards were nice and which ONE was nasty. “She’s always finds something wrong when I go through the security. I always come with several changes of clothing now in the car.”
Security at the prison was similar to TSA at airports — you had to answer some questions, take off your shoes and go through a metal detector. Except — if you set this one off — you were sent away. No wand. No pat down. No second chance.
Another woman in line (a middle class white woman with a family of 3) said she had been turned away the day before because the metal plate in her shoulder set off the detector. “We came from California. I had to go back to get a doctor’s note. (Pointing to her child) She had shorts on that they wouldn’t allow.” She was clearly not happy.
Another tomboy looking woman (also white) with short black hair, said she had was turned away at 8 a.m. because she had jeans with a hole in the knee. “They said I was exposing too much skin. I had to drive an hour back to the hotel to change. But, if I had a skirt on, wouldn’t that be exposing more skin?”
As we stood sharing stories of being turned away or the policies on Order 911, the blonde stood trying to pry the underwire out of her bra. She was wearing Ralph Lauren boots, so I knew the bra she was destroying was equally pricey. What man was worth destroying a $60 Victoria’s Secret bra? He was her “ex” boyfriend — and she had learned of his incarceration a month ago, prompting her to book a flight from Pittsburgh, rent a car, get a hotel and stand in the desert taking underwire out of her bra to see him. I couldn’t wait to SEE what man was worth all of this!
We all agreed that Department Order 911 was biased against women — and likely written two decades ago.
Before going in for the TSA-like search, we had to complete a form that lists the name, address, birthdays and license number of everyone wanting to visit an inmate. You also have to write down the inmate number. The blonde didn’t know it — so back to the car she went for the 7th time to retrieve it.
Finally. It was my turn to go inside to be searched. It had been another 40 minutes. Luckily, it was only about 60 degrees outside. I thought about standing in the line in the Arizona summer. Is this even humane?
TSA IS FRIENDLIER
The friendly Hispanic woman in line was correct: one guard was super friendly — the other one took her job seriously. She was brash. She spoke quickly like someone who says the same information over and over all day long, that they forget that this is the first time you have heard the instructions. She was cold. I didn’t like her. She never once made eye contact with me — treated everyone like our visit to see our loved ones interfered with her telenovela watching time. She had the power to turn you away and she knew it. In fact, she had turned away the friendly Hispanic woman who gave us all information outside in line: her shirt was too see thru. I heard her boast to another guard who was just coming on duty, “She says to me, “I can’t ever make you happy.” It’s not about making me happy, it’s about following the rules.”
I imagined this guard bullied other children on the playground in elementary. Zero empathy.
Was it not tough enough for families to have to make this journey into the desert to be subjected to drug dogs, the hot desert sun, stripped of everything but one watch, earrings, one ring, one key, a ziplock bag of quarters, garbed in turtlenecks covering our unsupported boobs? Wasn’t it bad enough to have to see a loved one — husband, father of your children, son, brother, boyfriend, friend — in those neon orange uniforms, locked behind bars, for crimes (most likely) of stupidity, seated across the table unable to even hold your hand? Must you be cold and insensitive, Miss Guard?
But, I was in. I stood waiting to be told where to go. I guess Miss Guard assumed I had been there before because she gave me no further instructions once she returned the bid with my heels. I could hear her auctioneer-like instructions over the sounds of the bins being pushed through the detector. Finally, she saw me. “Follow her.” She points to a woman who clearly had been “inside” before. So, I do.
She was visiting her husband. We go through a door to the outside. “You have to wait until the gate closely behind you, then this one will open.” We stood inside a small 4×4 cage. The front gate opened as she said, when the rear one closed.
I was official on the prison yard. The theme from Orange is the New Black didn’t play in my head. This shit was real.
I followed the woman to a nearby door with “visitation 1” written on the wall.
When the door opened, I took a quick look around the room. It was about the size of a McDonald’s dining room — large enough for about 4 rows of 20 tables. Vending machines lined the left side wall, with a few machines in front across from the guard station. I could see doors leading to what I assumed were bathroom stalls on the back right, a small patio through a back door, and on the right wall, a row of 4 chairs and telephones facing small glass windows with the words “non contact visitations ” written above them.
A black male guard approached me, took my license and gave me a small card with #12 on it. He took my paper and again asked me who I was visiting: I knew the number by heart — #328023. “You can sit at the table in this row. He’ll be out.”
I made my way to the round table and began to look around. There was a Black family — a mom and 4 children, one teenager and 3 little boys under the age of 10. They had clearly been there before. The children busied themselves with games and playing cards taking from a disorganized book shelf near the front of the room. The child holding onto a large ziplock bag full of quarters held on to them tightly. The mom tried to keep the kids from running to the vending machine before the inmate, their father arrived. I thought about the stat I had just read before coming to Arizona: that kids with incarcerated parents have a 70% chance of going to prison themselves. It broke my heart.
I looked around and since this was the beginning of the visitation hours, Noon to 4, inmates dressed in orange shirts, or sweatshirts, and orange pants and white shoes began to parade in the room heading to the tables were their families waited.
The room began to buzz with greetings: “Hi, daddy.” “Hi, baby.” “Oh, I’m so happy to see you.” “Hey.” I saw a lot of “brief kisses and embraces” as per order 911.
The sound of quarters dropping in the coin slots filled to air as the machines began exchanging them for what was likely special treats for the inmates: name-brand candy, chocolate bars, chips, soda, ice-cream, prepared sandwiches, even chicken wings.
Tattooed men, holding children as young as infants in their arms, walked around and around the room as if taking their child on a stroll around the park. No one paid attention to anyone else as they all went about their visits — as if this was normal. It was not normal for me. I was in prison seeing ADOC inmate #328023, a 19 year old African American man who I have never met.
The woman who had been turned away for the jeans with the hole, sat at the table next to me…the friendly Hispanic woman finally came in and sat behind me, the blonde waited at the table in front of me. We all smiled at each other as we waited for our orange-cladded hosts to enter the room through a front door, on the opposite side of the door we came in. Our door truly lead to an “EXIT.”
The door opened. It was a man who looked almost identical to the woman in jeans. I mean, it had to be a twin brother. They embraced, and immediately went to a vending machine.
The door opened again. It was a good looking Black man, well groomed, with the biggest grin on this face I had ever seen. He was there to see the blonde. But, he looked like he enjoyed “being seen.” His short sleeve orange shirt was tucked neatly inside belted orange pants. His uniform almost seem tailored to fit his muscular physique. He had rolled the sleeves up to reveal professionally done tattoos.
The door opened again. A tall, young Black man with the swag of a hip hop artist strolled out. His hair had the most perfect cornrows I had ever seen. The lines, so straight, and the braids were all the same size. A mustache and beard that looked about a week old adorned his baby face. He smiled. Inmate #328023.
I stood. We exchanged a “brief” embrace per the rule.
It was awkward at first as we got acquainted with each other. He complained about the yard being on “lock down.” He complained about not getting his mail. He complained about having to wait to come to the visit. He had just came from “chow” and complained about the meal. I shifted the conversation to my time with his family at Thanksgiving. He smiled. He missed his siblings. I told him how much they had grown.
I complimented his hair. He said he did it himself.
He showed me his new tattoos the “chief” had done with deodorant, plastic wrap and a tattoo gun. He had the faces of his nephew and sister now emblazoned permanently on his left arm. I didn’t understand. But, I tried not to judge as he seems proud of his new jailhouse art.
I told him about the drug dogs. He didn’t seem shocked. The guy with the blonde stopped by the table and greeted him like they were on a basketball court, or two friends who were seeing each other at the club do: “What’s up?” The inmate threw a $100 grin my way. Weird. Who is this guy?
Another Black man gave my host a “fist bump.” Another, a nod. Clearly, he had made friends. I guess it’s better than enemies. I have watched too many crime shows. This was nothing like it.
Throughout the visit, we got some vending machine items: a root beer, SunChips, Hot wings, and later ice cream. A guard reminded him not to touch the machines or the money. “My bad.”
A visiting woman came up behind me and instructed me to pull my shirt down. “I can see your butt. You have to pull your shirt down.” Had I inadvertently violated a rule? I didn’t see one about exposed ass cheeks. I guess that’s why hip huggers are prohibited.
I was ready to get some sun. We sat outside in the fenced area talking about his future plans. The same guard who sat me down, asked to see his ID. The face on the ID was of a high yellow guy about 15 pounds heavier with a large afro. It looked nothing like him.
The guard, Johnson, told him he needed a new photo taken since he now had a beard. “Let them now you’re growing out your beard, and they will give you a pink slip until it’s all grown out like mine, then take a new ID photo. You need to take care of this on Thursday, or you going to get written up. Ok? Thursday.”
He was annoyed of being told what to do.
We sat at the outdoor picnic table with about 10 other inmates and their families at other table. An inmate dropped a cigarette at the table. They embraced. “What’s up?” “Thanks.”
He smokes. I didn’t know. He did. He had to go to the other side of the caged area to smoke — the designated “smoking section.” He told me that they are allowed to smoke in their “cells” and inside the “dorm.” So a felony also gets you 5 years and cancer? Nice.
Along with the bag of quarters, visitors could bring in one unopened box of cigarettes. I had wondered why he didn’t ask me to bring him cigs. I don’t know if I would have.
Our talks at the outside table focused on Jesus, his growing up with a father who had been in prison since he was 7 months old, visiting prison with his siblings, and whether or not his mother could “handle” visiting him. He talked of their tumultuous relationship since at a very young age. “I can’t talk to my mom like this. If she was sitting right there, she would be crying. I don’t want to see that.” He told me of the fight he had with his mother’s boyfriend, “I hate that dude.”
He told me of the incident that lead to his arrest and ultimate incarceration. We talked legal options, and how his lawyer didn’t care about him. We talked about the books I had sent him directly from Barnes & Noble.
He decided to smoke the cigarette. When he leaned up against the fence, a guard asked him to move away.
When he returned to the table, I had made a discovery: “You don’t like being told what to do. Rules don’t apply to you.”
Time went by quickly. A guard came around to ask if the visit would end at 3:30 or the official end time of 4 p.m. We opted for the 3:30 p.m.
I had a few quarters left in my ziplock bag and got him an ice cream. I could tell that he didn’t want the visit to end, but neither one of us mentioned the now quietness of the room as families begin to exit and inmates lined up along the wall to return back to doing their time through the other door.
The bookshelf of games and cards looked as if a tornado had gone through it. I wondered whose job it was to return all the game pieces in the right box. I wondered if there was a better system.
He, on the other hand, said very little. It was now 3:45 p.m. We stood. “I appreciate you coming.” “I had a nice visit. Take care of yourself.”
I watched as he stood in line waiting to be scanned to return to his cell.
I returned my #12 card for my license. Made small talk with the guard. Looked back one more time and waived.
I opened the door and headed back to the cage that separated the outside and the inside world. The gate open and closed behind me. The front gate opened and closed.
I was free.
Once outside near the car, I looked back to the prison yard. I took a photo.
I had gotten away with violating another order, #911.09. 1.3. You see, after our “brief embrace” at the end of the visit, I turned back, wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him tighter. I had promised his mom that I would give him a hug for her.
On the drive back to Phoenix, I cried. I thought about ADOC inmate #328023 and the look on his face when he had to return back to the line. I know he will never admit it, but the real prison that has him locked in and locked up have nothing to do with the iron gates around the yard.
I was in desperate need of a drink.
#CASSHINGIN