FPC N.Y.E. 2012

It's not New Year's Eve, and the year is still young; this week is cold, and winter so far has been a single long blur of frozen mist and cabin fever -- like being locked down in the fog on New Year's Eve three years ago.

The FPC Duluth was cloaked in a sound-dampening fog. You could see from dorm to dorm but not much farther. I couldn't see one side of the walking track from the other. That's where I was when we were recalled without warning around 7:30 p.m. I assumed it was because of the fog and started heading toward my unit to be counted.

On my way back to the dorm I walked past the admin building, where all the lights were on. My dorm-mate Pat pointed out the cars parked alongside the building and then one of the windows, through which I could see the warden, the AW, two lieutenants and the HR officer. Given the fact that it was a holiday Saturday night, this seemed really strange. Maybe they were going to have some kind of shakedown.

Back in the dorm, after count. Everyone was on edge. We were back early on a holiday evening. People in the theater had to leave their movie. The TV rooms got crowded and loud. Throughout the evening, COs would randomly pop up and conduct breathalyzer tests, trying to flush out hooch.

Earlier that same week, a large cache of contraband -- including tobacco, a cell phone, an MP3 player and creatine supplements -- had been found above a ceiling panel in our unit. The CO who'd found it, Carlson, was known among the inmates as Jack Bauer for his doggedness in tearing apart fixtures and structures in his search for contraband. As a result, the TV rooms and microwaves locked up for several days, and our unit was placed in the last position for the dining hall.

In addition, inmates in our unit were required to write a page-long essay describing how we all played a part in letting contraband into the dorm (e.g., not ratting out people we may have known were using tobacco or simply not being observant enough to notice such things). We each had to read our essay in the theater in front of the rest of the inmates. It took us weeks to get through the 150 people in our dorm.

On New Years Eve, in the midst of all this going on, the staff-appointed inmate leadership of the dorm (the CORE) was on edge about contraband use. They were walking the halls confronting people doing things they they thought could get us into more trouble as a unit. They caught one of my roommates, Thalen -- an unusually twitchy pill-peddler from Tennessee -- smoking hand-rolled cigarettes at the top of one of the fire escapes. A couple of the CORE group members came to our room and were trying to get all thuggy with Thalen, which made for a rather tense moment for the rest of us who were just chilling in the room. I got into an argument with one of the guys when he started mouthing off to the rest of us. A weird tense evening all around.

Next day -- New Year's 2012 -- the flags at FPC Duluth were all half-mast. Info seeped in fits and spurts, but it eventually came out that CO Jack Bauer had committed suicide in staff housing the previous evening, precipitating the recall and the presence of all the brass on the compound on a holiday weekend night. The stress that incarceration creates among individuals is not just limited to the inmates. It stretches out its tentacles to their families and even to the staff who have to remain in the setting long after inmates get to go home.

I'm Going to Fall

When I was a first grader, I fell out of my bunk bed and broke my collarbone. I didn't wake up but dreamt about falling and feeling burning pain in my shoulder. Dad woke me from my screaming sleep.  The thin carpet layered onto the concrete floor of our ground level apartment had done almost nothing to cushion my fall.

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Afterward, Dad fashioned a safety rail out of a two by six pine board. I had to wear a brace to school for a few weeks. It was a neutral, creamy colored, hospital terry cloth-covered foam contraption that made me think of a parachute without the pack: just the straps...

As I regarded the gray steel bunk frame and the thin bare, stained ticking mattress laying on it, this is what I thought about. The bunk was at my adult eye level; the floor, tile covered reinforced concrete. No guard rail. At 43, a fall from such a bunk would probably do a lot more than fracture my collarbone. My two new roommates, Chris and Gary, watched me from the safety of their bottom bunk perches. - Take either one, Gary said. Both upper bunks were vacant. I was numb, wishing my nine-years-dead father would shake me out of this bunk bed nightmare.

This was the first specific fear I tripped over after arriving at prison camp: falling out of the bunk and hurting myself. To that point, everything had been a fog of robotic unreality from noon, when John (my brother) dropped me off, all the greened inmates standing along and in the street, watching; to R & D, where crazy Eddie Reed took my paperwork by mistake, and I was parked in a holding room with Martin, late of the Bahamas via Chicago; to being told by Nurse Lind that I had high blood pressure, that she was putting me on medication so I don't "stroke out" and, oh by the way, since I admitted to having drunk the night before (really? who wouldn't?) here's a breathalyzer and if you blow anything above 0.0, you'll spend the night in The Hole; to being walked across the compound to Dorm 210 by the Chris O'Donnell looking guard; to Whiskers hollering at him as we walked by a disarrayed array of feathers, seagull, dead -- eaten... raccoon? -- and saying he suspected "fowl" play, get it, "fowl"? Into the dorm and up the stairs and turning right into the hall and then right (even though it was a left-and-a-left; I turned right at the top of the stairs the whole time I lived in 210) again into the room where the fog lifted and the background blurred and the 1080 dpi hi-def vision of the bunk slammed across the flatscreen of my sight and I thought, I'm going to fall.

Bearing Bad Weather

Last Friday night, June 21, the Twin Cities saw some nasty-ass weather. No tornadoes or anything, but straight line winds and flash-floody rain. Thousands still don't have power -- nearly a week after the storm. Random trees and branches are scattered throughout the city.

Longfellow neighborhood in Minneapolis
after Jun 21, 2013, storms.

So what does this have to do with prison camp? Because last June, almost to the day, I was at FPC Duluth during the storm that caused the worst flooding on record in northeast Minnesota. 

Built on a hill above Lake Superior, where the St. Louis River, along with numerous smaller streams, empty into the lake, Duluth received almost 10" of rain over a two-day period. That is bad.

According to the Washington Post, "Massive flooding swept throughout the region. The floodwaters submerged two-thirds of the Lake Superior Zoo, drowning 11 animals. MSNBC reported: 'All but one of the zoo’s barnyard animals died, zoo spokeswoman Keely Johnson said in a statement earlier. That included the zoo’s donkey, goats and sheep'” The Associated Press said workers safely recovered two seals and a polar bear which had escaped."

A June 20, 2012, storm caused the worst flooding in Duluth,
Minn.'s history.

Unlike the zoo animals, those of us living in the faux-natural habitat of FPC Duluth were pretty much fine. Wet. But okay. That's because the camp is situated on high ground, next to the airport. The rain was so hard that they recalled the compound to the dorms at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesday night and didn't reopen it until 2:30 p.m. the next day. We lost power in the dorm for a short time during the night, and the PA system in our unit shorted out.

It started with an electronic hiss that keyed with each fat drop of rain. It was Wednesday night by the time they cut power to the PA all together. The had rain stopped, too. The obtrusive silence was broken only by breathing inmates and a slight breeze rustling the trees -- no AC, so windows are open -- in the dark, amber-lit air. I had to pee.

I climbed down from the bunk and slipped on my shower shoes, walked the dozen or so steps down the hall from room 214 to the bathroom, which was shrouded in shadow -- only the auxiliary light in the shower room was on. But I could see my way to the urinal by the light coming in from the compound through the window's broken screen.

I exhaled, savoring the relief of my relaxing bladder; finished, shook and flushed. I washed my hands and stepped to the window, surveying the compound grass in the 3 a.m. dark. The rusty red of the nextdoor commissary building was washed to an amber gray by the streetlights scattered throughout the camp. Behind the commissary, a bright white light shone from the door of the compound officer's station. All the lights were out in 211 and 210, the wide dip of law between the units reflecting the pale orange of halogen lamps. A polar bear.

A polar bear.

A polar bear glided silently, one giant paw in front of the other, its snout swinging vaguely left side to right, across the dewy grassblades. As it approached the sidewalk between unit 211 and the commissary, the bear stopped and turned its head, aiming his gaze up the length of his snout, targeting me. I sucked in a sharp breath and pressed an open palm and my forehead against the screen, as if waving goodbye through a bus window, trying to get a better look.

The bear turned away and quickened his pace as he pawed off behind the admin building, past the Special Housing Unit -- the SHU, or "hole" -- and not 20 feet from the open compound office door, disappearing down the hill toward the visiting center.

I stood there in the quiet bathroom. Water dripping echoed off the tile walls and floor. The image of the white (amber in the light) bear on the dark compound, burned in my mind like a retinal spot after a a camera flash. I waited until I was convinced the bear wasn't coming back. Then I walked to back to the room.

I was distracted as I climbed up to my rack, shaking the frame. Kou, my bunkie, started awake: "Jonas..."

"I saw a polar bear."

"Mmmm." He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Berlin, the Lake Superior Zoo's polar bear, escaped
during the June, 2012, floods.

Federal Prison Economics 101: The Basics

The federal prison economy pretty much reflects the way things work in the real world. Except that it's just that: a reflection. Everything's a little blurred around the edges and illusory. On the other hand, there's nothing quite like a little time in prison to make you realize just how much a fiat currency -- like the US dollar -- is based on faith and cooperation to begin with. A little rocking of the boat and all hell breaks loose.

The prison economy has two distinct bases: "outside" finance and "inside" finance. In this post, we'll take a look at the former. I'll follow up with a look at the inside economics of prison camp in my next entry.

Where Does It Start?
The prison economy has to start somewhere, and for all intents and purposes, it begins with our family and friends. You all "put money on our books" -- i.e., make a deposit in our Bureau of Prisons (BoP) inmate trust account -- by sending a money order or wiring funds to the BoP lockbox facility in Des Moines. After it's processed, the funds are then available to us:  for use at the commissary; to purchase educational or craft materials; to downloand songs for MP3 players; for medical or dental co-pays; or, in large chunks, to make payments toward fines, criminal restitution and child support. Most importantly, for many, the funds were used to pay for phone calls and email minutes.

The other source of income that inmates receive is from prison "jobs". In some cases, where a facility has a Unicor operation -- a manufacturing arm of the BoP that makes chairs, desks, file cabinets, bed frames, plastic spoons, etc., to be used in government agencies like the BoP itself -- inmates can make several hundred dollars per month. Where I was, FPC Duluth, anyone earning more than $30 per month for his job (about 30 hours per week) was "prison rich". I made around $18 per month cleaning the bathrooms in our dorm. 

That being said, it's not like we really had to work very hard; nor did we exactly have bills to worry about. The wages we earned were simply a little extra to spend on the email terminals and a subject about which to piss and moan -- probably, the most popular prison camp pasttime.

For most, camp wages are not a major source of income. At camp, the majority of US dollars comes in from friends and family. Others, however, don't use -- or need -- US dollars to make a living in federal prison. They rely, instead, on the facility's "inside" economy, which a future post will examine a little more closely.

Motherf***ers: A Field Guide

In case the title of this post isn't enough of a clue, children and those disdainful of the vulgar should look away. I apologize in advance to grammarians, as well: I will be doing the English language no favors here (as if I ever do, anyway, but this post is particularly bad).

Do you all know what a simile is? If you go to that magic search engine dictionary that pops up definitions without telling you where they came from, you will learn that a simile is "A figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, (e.g., as brave as a lion). " Thanks to my time at FPC Duluth, I will never be at loss for a simile again. Because in one amazingly versatile word, I have found the only comparison I will ever need.

Motherfucker.

I've tried to track down a typical motherfucker, but they are elusive -- and seem to be ever-changing. For example, just as I would begin to detect a chill in the air (It's motherfuckin' cold in here!), a blast of warmth would head me off in another direction (It's hotter than a motherfucker up in this bitch!).  They are not easy to pin down. If anyone has any pictures of a motherfucker in the wild -- there are many in captivity, but cameras are typically not allowed where motherfuckers are kept -- please post them in the comments section.

Meanwhile, for those who wish to stalk motherfuckers in the wild, keep an eye out for these particular characteristics:

They are attractive (Sexy as a motherfucker!) but also homely (Ugly as a motherfucker!)

They may be a little zaftig (Shit! This is heavier than a motherfucker!).  I also understand that they tend to be savory (This nacho bowl is tastier than a motherfucker!)

Motherfuckers are also wet, dry, windy, tired, fast, slow and foul-smelling. In some cases, they are bad (He is one bad motherfucker!). But just as often they are not (This is gooder than a motherfucker!).

If you surprise one, use caution as you approach (Mean as a motherfucker!). However, chances are you'll be okay (Happy as a motherfucker!).

Perhaps you'll be luckier (Lucky as a motherfucker) than I've been in tracking down a wild specimen. I can only hope so. In the meantime, happy hunting Motherfuckers!

The Bunk, part 2

And when the trucks came, they brought horror, discomfort and a lot of pissing and moaning to the FPC Duluth compound: they brought new mattresses. Yes, our old mattresses varied in size, thickness, odor and levels of both stain and duct-tape over rips; but they were still mattresses.  These new things... well, were not.

Crinkly, aqua-teal, plasticized batting replaced mattresses at FPC Duluth.

On that last Wednesday of September, about three weeks after I'd arrived in Duluth, everyone in E-dorm was told to remain in the unit and not report to work until we were told to. Around 7:30 a.m., a couple of slow-moving, overloaded trucks pulled up to the back of the building. A voice on the intercom told us to strip our beds and carry our mattresses to down to the trucks, where we could swap them for a new one.

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As much as I would miss my old mattress, I did not particularly titter with glee at the prospect of carrying it down two flights of stairs, its besmirched fabric pressed against my skin and face, years of inmate skin dust clouding around my head. But I did.

When I got down to the back of the dorm, I tossed my mattress on a pile, coughed out a cloud of bed dust and was handed a six-foot long, greenish-blue vinyl bag of heavy recycled rags. Wrapped in dusty plastic. It was really heavy. And it was my new mattress. So I hauled it back upstairs to my my room, managed to lever it onto my upper rack and re-make it to FPC Duluth standards -- two sheets, square corners, one blanket on the bed, the other folded into thirds at the foot of the bed.

The entire exercise took about an hour. I was dusty and tired. I waited for count to clear -- which means that somebody says that we're all still there and are free to roam the compound -- then hopped in the shower and got cleaned up. I finished up my work detail for the morning, just wiping down the bathroom, went to lunch and came back to the dorm to read until it was time to start my afternoon routine.

As I was sitting in my chair, reading, my name was called over the intercom. I was told to report to the counselor's office in Dorm 209. When I got there, the counselor informed me that I would be moving dorms and to go get my stuff packed and hauled over before the 4:00 p.m. count. "And hey," he called after me, "Don't forget to strip your bunk and bring your bedding with you!"

The Bunk: Your Bed Away from Home

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Whatever you call it -- bed, rack, pad, piece-of-shit green thing -- your bunk is about the closest you get to a parcel of real estate in prison camp (I guess your locker is, too, but that's more of a condo, really). Many spend a large amount of time in or on their racks. The lower-bunk guys use them as recliners, work tables, sofas and all-around go-to pieces of furniture. The upper bunk guys have a perch.

After three weeks at FPC Duluth, I moved from a 4-man to a 6-man room.

A bunk is more than just a dorm-room furnishing; it's also a form of identity. "Where's Jonas?" "Two fourteen, back wall, up." Your rack is a receptacle for mail, commissary repayments, books and anything else that someone wants to get to you but doesn't want to leave on a desk, or even your chair. Even though your chair may be right next to your rack, it's still a little bit out in the room: too public. More private -- or even clandestine -- deliveries often end up under your pillow, or the regulation-tri-folded blanket at the foot of your bunk. Really private stuff (like onions, peppers or fruit from the dining hall) goes in your pillow case. Hopefully, it's wrapped in a trash bag or disposable kitchen glove. Just as often, it won't be. And that's okay.

My first room at FPC Duluth was Room 215 in Unit 210, or E (for "Erie") Dorm. In a classic example of unnecessary bureaucratic redundancy, each building had 3 different monikers: its number (207-211); its Great Lakes Name (Huron - Superior); or the first letter of the Great Lakes name from the mnemonic H-O-M-E-S. No one knows why. However, different staff members were quite attached to their own way of referring to a building and refused to acknowledge the existence of the other names. For example, going into a visit once, I was asked by a guard what dorm I lived in. I replied with my unit number. He asked me again, and I once again gave him my unit number. Then he asked if I meant "M" Dorm -- this was after I'd moved -- and after thinking for a second, I agreed that yes, perhaps I meant M Dorm. And then he let me into the visiting center so I could see my children. I really appreciated the object lesson buried in that exercise. I learned a lot from it and will carry its meaning with me throughout my life. Really.

Anyway, when I was first led into Room 215 -- E Dorm! -- the two guys already in the room had long-since occupied the lower bunks. It was a four-man room. As I walked in one bunk was pushed back, lengthwise against the far wall, directly opposite the doorway. The other was pushed against the wall to my left, opposite the lockers. The room's windows were in the wall at the foot of the former rack; the desk was attached to the wall between the doorway and the head of the latter set of bunks. I chose the upper bunk on the latter.

I was freaked out, overweight, sad, scared -- and had literally just been diagnosed with high blood pressure. Getting into the top bunk those first few days was not fun. I had to step up onto my chair, put one foot on a peg bolted to the bunk frame and swing myself up onto the bed without falling or hitting my head on the ceiling. If I had to go to the bathroom at night, I had to do this both ways and try not to wake up Chris, my bunkie.

Those first couple weeks were not horrible from a prison-camp living perspective: three of us in a big, four-man room. After a couple weeks, a fourth guy -- Joe -- moved into the other top bunk. Although I envied the ease of use that the lower-bunk guys enjoyed, I got used to the upper bunk in Room 215. The mattress itself was about 4 inches thin... the mattresses in the room were all of varying materials, thicknesses and levels of stain. I was told that mine had been lain on for seven months or so by a 400-lb. short-timer named Country (or occasionally Big Country) who did most of his time in the bunk. I wondered if that was why it was no thicker a couple of pork chops stack on top of one another.

And then one day, at the end of my third week, the trucks came...

Thank You

I was numb when I arrived at FPC Duluth. The sentencing in United States of America v. Trent Christopher Jonas (how's that for an attention getter if you happen to be the named defendant?) had occurred two months to the day earlier, on July 7, 2011. Sentencing itself was a relief. I had waited seven months to find out where I was going and for how long.

The plea agreement I signed in December 2010 had a "box" of 51 to 63 months for the crime to which I admitted. This meant that my family and I waited more than half a year expecting that I could spend as many as five years in prison, all the while hoping, of course, for less. I felt detached from almost everything. I couldn't make plans more than a few weeks out because I never knew what was going to happen or when. Nothing but the most important -- my children -- mattered. I drank a lot.

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Ultimately, Judge Montgomery, who was very kind throughout the process and empathetic at sentencing, determined my own stupidity was considerable punishment in itself (it probably helped that I admitted everything along the way; which makes me either a nightmare or dream client depending on my attorney's point of view) and decided that a downward departure was in order. In sentencing me to 24 months, and recommending the nearby minimums security camp in Duluth, Judge Montgomery made reference to the extraordinary letters of support she had received on my behalf. I was not given a chance to see most of them, and still don't even know who all wrote to her.

To know about such letters, though, was bittersweet. Not only did it show me the quality of friends that I have, letters or no, but exposed the level of disappointment I must have caused in those who care about me. As one friend expressed it in different correspondence, I had suffered a precipitous "fall from grace." Realizing that so many are willing to stand by me in spite of my toxicity still blurs my eyes. More importantly, it gives me an imperative to live a better next chapter in my life. To my friends and family (including ex-family) who are reading this, thank you.

I promise more interesting prison-y bits in the next post, but this one had to be written.