Confessions of a Young Prison Guard

Getting There

Growing up, the only thing I ever really wanted to be was a cop. My father was a cop, and not just any cop, but a member of the California Highway Patrol. When he hired on in 1964 it was an elite group of tall white men. The Patrol has of course since integrated to meet state and federal guidelines. Prior to the CHP, the old man was on the Delano Police Department, and a Deputy Sheriff for Kern County. To say the least, Dad was a cop to the bone, and I wanted nothing more than to emulate him. I was proud when I told friends what my father did for a living, and I had the chance quite often. Because he became easily bored in the places we lived, and he was willing to promote, we moved frequently. There were always new people to brag to about my father. This, and probably the fact that he would sometimes let me go on patrol with him, further instilled my desire to work in law enforcement. As we all know however; the best laid plans go awry.

I was very fortunate to have attended a horrid high school after Dad’s last promotion and transfer as a Lieutenant. It meant over three hours on the bus per day to be educated with a rowdy, predominately white trash school population. I say fortunate because the situation encouraged me to get out of high school two years early via a proficiency exam. This resulted in entering a community college instead of wasting two more years in that shit hole of a school. Upon receiving my Associates of Arts degree at 18, I thought the world of myself, but employers did not give a damn. I was a kid with no true work experience. I ended up with the last job I wanted: security guard. The job was always held in contempt by my father who referred to them as Rent-a-Cops.. In California, most uniformed agencies require applicants to be twenty and a half to apply for a position. The belief is that by the time the hiring process is complete, the candidate will reach the magical age of 21.

Working as a security guard was not as awful as I feared, outside of the occasional ribbing I would receive from my father, such as, When are you going to become a real cop? In spite of the embarrassment, the job paid the bills, allowed me to be on my own, enabled me to afford to get married, and eventually I received a promotion. It still seemed an eternity before I was able to apply to become a real cop. I made application to every agency that was accepting them: CHP, county sheriff, local police departments, Border Patrol, and as back-up the California Department of Corrections (CDC). The later was certainly not my preference, but knowing that I would have a growing family to support, I needed a secure job with good benefits. I took several department exams, but anyone who has applied for civil service knows that getting hired can be an arduous process. First one applies then waits, then if lucky eventually receives a testing date. Many agencies split up their testing, with the written, oral, and physical months apart.

This was not the case with CDC, and they were nothing if not efficient in the area of testing. After receiving the date and location, all tests were given on the same day. If candidates made it through the physical and written, they are directed to the oral interview. The latter score was the biggest determining factor in being hired and what institution one would be assigned after completing the correctional academy. Apparently the interview panel liked the bullshit I shoveled because a few weeks later I received a notice that I had scored 90%. Shortly after, a letter was sent stating to the effect, ‘Don’t quit your current job yet, but pick your first three choices for institutions." Of course I picked the California Men’s Colony (CMC) on the central coast as first. It was considered a jewel of an institution, and I had a lifelong fantasy of living near the beach. Another notice was received with the same proviso, but directing me to the nearby California Correctional Institution (CCI) in Tehachapi for physical exam. Interestingly, back in 1984, it was permissible for an inmate assigned to the hospital to draw blood of perspective staff. No doubt that practice has long since ended.

During this period, while waiting for my background check to be completed, I was becoming more enthusiastic about the idea of working in a prison. It was still a sworn peace officer position and offered decent pay, excellent benefits, and retirement. The perfect frosting on that cake would be living on the coast. Just a scant couple of months after first applying, I received notice that I was hired and was going to be working at my prison of choice. I was in a total state of ecstasy after receiving the news. That night I went to work, and my staff, which had been following my progress, was very happy for me. Even my boss, who had been a correctional officer (CO) himself said, I am so proud of you. Now you have a job with a future. That morning though, after getting off the graveyard shift, I received a call that truly upset the apple cart.

What the hell do you mean you can’t hire me? I yelled into the phone at the woman who had called from the state personnel board. I sorry Mr. Stephens, you don’t meet the age requirements. You should have known that yourself, she said to alleviate her department of guilt. With all due respect, madam, Bullshit! In good faith I waited until the allowable age to apply. My date of birth was on at least 4 separate documents and if you people can’t do simple math that’s on you. She responded, There is nothing I can do. You have to be 21 to be a peace officer, and it will be two weeks and two days after leaving the academy before you would become of legal age. By this time I had grabbed a bottle of brandy and was taking shots of liquid courage. If these people wanted a fight, I was ready. I decided for a direct assault, Madam, based on a hiring notice I received, I have given my two week notice and will no longer be employed. I have in my hand a letter that confirms that I have been hired full time. No doubt any court in the land would view it as a legal and binding contract.

The tables had turned somewhat and she asked, Can’t you talk to your boss and get your job back? I lied without reservation: failure was not an option, My boss hates my guts and is glad to see me go. If you do not have the authority to correct this situation please connect me to someone who does. I went through this routine with several other staff up the chain. When they realized how obstinate I was, they would send me to their supervisor. After over an hour on the phone I was talking the head of the department who I informed, I have a legal and binding contract in my hand. I swear one way or the other, the state is going to pay me either as a working employee, or someone who sits at home, eating chocolate bon bons, watching The Price is Right, and developing zits on my ass. The head boss lady finally offered a deal, Let’s schedule you for the next academy, and by the time you graduate, you will be 21. Looking for loopholes I asked, Does that guarantee the same prison, CMC? She replied, I can’t promise that. Being a total ass, I would not budge, No, not good enough, try again. With a deep sigh she caved, OK, this is what we’ll do then. You will go through the academy on the original date. When you finish you will be placed in a non-custody position in the mailroom or records until your 21st birthday with an automatic rollover to correctional officer. It will be at a reduced pay rate until then, and please, don’t mention your age to anyone. I was happy again, Well, I’m reasonable. That sounds like a deal, and no, I won’t say a word.

Academy Days

The CDC training academy is in Galt, California about 15 miles from Sacramento. Those inducted would reside there for six-weeks. Prior to reporting I took the pre-provided cadet handbook to my barber and had my hair cut to above the accorded standard. I also bought a fine pair of black uniform boots and polished them to a mirror finish, as my father always did. The day I arrived, a passing sergeant, who barely gave me a glance said, Get a haircut, and oh yeah, those boots are not legal for cadets. Grumbling to myself I purchased the type of shoe sold by a vendor at the training center. To prevent having to spend $5 per week in haircuts I went to the on-grounds barber and said, Take it all off. Adjusting to a new haircut and some shoes I already despised, several hours were spent in an orientation listening to the facility’s do’s and don’ts. It became quickly apparent that correctional sergeants held God like powers that no doubt many reveled in.

The academy was structured in a paramilitary style which included ugly brown UPS looking uniforms and long periods of standing at attention. Push-ups were used for discipline, and in the overall it felt very familiar. Prior to and during to my father’s law enforcement career he was also in three different branches of military. I fit right in with the order, and the place rather felt like home.

I made an unexpected mistake during the first week. Classes began after rigorous physical training and breakfast, and other than lunch and dinner, were constant until 10 PM. Every Friday a lengthy exam was given that determined if one continued at the academy. Late evening on that first Friday, Sergeant Robles, our company commander, came into our crowded dorm and asked, Where is Cadet Stephens? I wracked my brain; did I do something wrong? I stepped forward and identified myself. Sergeant Robles extended his hand and said, Congratulations, out of 300 plus cadets you are the only one to score 100% on the exam. After thanking him I thought, Shit, now that’s going to be an expected standard. Shortly after, I was given the AKA Brainiac, and found myself giving study sessions weekly to our company. It would have been much less trouble if I had missed a few questions.

The training continued, and frankly, I had quite a wonderful time. The food was good, and after the first three weeks we received Wednesday liberties which resulted in some heavy drinking. By the end of it I think we were all eager to be working at or assigned prison. Graduation day finally came, and the top cadet of the class beat me by .15%. I took solace in the fact that the guy was not giving Sunday class reviews, going out drinking every chance he had, or flirting with all the female cadets. My father later jokingly said, Why weren’t you number one? This did not surprise me in the least but that was OK. On graduation day we were informed of our first assignments. Much to my surprise I was not told to report to the mail room nor the records department. My assignment was to be D Quad, building 7, first floor. I had already toured the prison and knew that my assignment was to the worst psych floor in an institution of over 5000 inmates. I’ve often wondered if this was some type of revenge for fighting the state in the first place.

First Days

The psych unit was like no other place I had ever seen. The floor, or tier as they are called in prison, contained 100 cells. These were set along a large hallway with 50 cells on each side and an officer’s podium in the middle. As with all eight inmate housing units at the prison’s Eastside (we also had a Westside, which was a lower custody level) there were three identical floors. In building 7, the upper floors were considered psych units as well, but for the higher functioning. On the first floor there were droolers, catatonics, schizophrenics, others who would shout for the demons to be gone, and for subcutaneous bugs to depart. Also notable were those who had the Thorazine shuffle, which was usually a result of years of forced medication. The common factor connecting this lovely bunch of coconuts was the conviction of a crime. I discovered quickly CMC had a very high percentage of sex offenders, especially child molesters. The psych unit was no exception, though there were a number who had not raped or played sexually with children, but had committed other fairly heinous and vicious assaults and murders. It was a scary place for a young new guard, but fear could not be displayed in any way. Even mentally unbalanced, many of those confined could sense any apprehension. I was quite fortunate to be working with excellent training staff who taught me how to hold my mud.

The first floor also contained a special unit of 10 cells at the far end of the left tier called SITU. I do not recall what the acronym stood for exactly but basically it meant that those housed there were the worst of the worst. My grandfather would have eloquently described these lost souls as a bunch of crazy shithouse rats. All were stripped down to boxers and only given a safety blanket and safety mattress. Both items were designed to discourage suicide attempts, strongly made, and quite uncomfortable. Though SITU had its own dedicated staff, I had to pass through the area to reach the restroom. It was truly bedlam at this end of the tier, with what seemed the voices of 50 rather than 10. Some of the inmates would physically abuse themselves through punching, scratching, or biting. One inmate would often scream loudly at his genitals, blaming