Duffle Bags & The Consequences Of Covid-19 Tests In Prison
“The looming threat weighs on your nerves like a never-ending game of Russian roulette.”
Robert shares his life behind bars and has been widely published
Of all the horrors in prison, perhaps none is more terrifying than having a CO (Corrections Officer) show up with a green duffle bag and ordering you to pack up because you're being transferred to another facility.
Your heart rollercoaster-drops into your stomach. A swirling anxiety. You'll have about an hour to collect, pack up, and be ready to move everything you own to an undisclosed but, undoubtedly, hostile and unfamiliar environment.
It is absolute TORTURE.
The only anchor we have, behind prison walls, to keep our sanity from drifting away is the predictability of our routine. Being transferred is an epic dislodging of this anchor. Most people assume the stereotypical aspects of prison—the stabbings, the gang fights, the extortion and rapes—would top the list of an inmate's fears. But these things are all, at least theoretically, avoidable. The disruption of being transferred is inevitable. The looming threat weighs on your nerves like a never-ending game of Russian roulette. Everyday that passes without a CO handing you a duffle bag is the click of another empty chamber.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Of course there always more empty chambers than live ones. The terror is in knowing that eventually it won't be a click you hear. It'll be the explosion of a live round that paints the walls of your cell with your shattered peace of mind. Sanity set adrift.
It's been over a week since the National Guard completed facility-wide testing for both active Covid-19 and Covid-19 antibodies, of every inmate at Parnall. This pandemic has spawned endless rumors since it crossed the razor wire a few months ago. The most recent rumblings are that these test results will ultimately be used to relocate inmates based on their status. It makes sense. During the early stages of this pandemic any inmate confirmed Covid positive simply disappeared. We were told nothing. They were simply packed up by COs and evaporated. But this was back when they were testing just a few inmates a week. This time it's the entire facility. It's not like they can't move us all. Can they? The truth is no one really knows. Rumors are all we have. In prison gossip is plentiful, and very rarely does it ever prove true.
It's been over an hour since we locked down for the night. The energy in the unit has yet to wind down. Not surprising considering the lights are still on. Draping the unit in darkness usually does the trick of settling is down. Tonight I put in BOTH earbuds, to drown out the revelry, and I lay back to watch a terribly embarrassing reality show before I pass out.
Nation Guard at a Michigan Prison
Commercial break. 10:30 pm. It's been almost two hours since lockdown. The lights should definitely be off by now—only they're not. More than half the inmates I can see from my bunk are posted at the front of their cells with their arms dangling through the bars. Some are holding little mirrors so they can see down the galleries like extras in some cliche prison movie.
The lights, the revelry, now this? Something is going on and it warrants further investigation—at least until my show comes back on.
I join my fellow convicts and post up at the front of my cell. The competing voices make it difficult to pin down any specific reason for the disruption. Through the ruckus I pick up on the unmistakable sound of jingling keys. It’s coming from below. It's Mrs.(censored) a round sawed-off officer who looks not unlike a living depiction of Ben Franklin on a hundred dollar bill. She's walking past the ground floor (base) cells with a piece of paper in one hand and a wad of green duffle bags tucked under her arm.
Live rounds.
She stops in front of cell 52 brandishing a massive key tethered to her belt. Ol' Ben struggles to fit it in the lock. She has to stand on other tiptoes to twist it. The lock releases its grip. The door slides open. She extends one of the green duffle bags into the darkened cell. I can't hear what she says but the bag disappears. A moment later the cell's fluorescent light flickers to life. The victim revealed. An older white inmate.
Better him than me.
Four cells down the exact same routine plays out. The executioner works her way down base level ruining lives as she goes.
Click.
Click.
Click.
BANG. Another light comes on. Another victim.
Click.
Click.
Bang. Another one down.
Through the confusion, a voice on the first gallery shouts out some hot-off-the-press prison gossip. He says a sergeant told him the inmates currently being relocated are the ones who tested negative for both antibodies, as well as the actual virus.
A small glimmer of relief. I've already had the shit. Lost my sense of smell and everything. That was weeks ago. I have to remind myself it's only gossip.
Holy shit...I just remembered I have a TV in someone else's cell. A buddy of mine who's been bragging that he never caught the Corona virus. Bastard. I've been letting him use it until the guy who is buying can come up with the money. If "Buddy" catches a live round while were locked in our cells like this, he'll have no choice but to pack it up and take it with him. Goodbye TV. Adios $35. Bitch! My chances of getting fucked over by a green bag just doubled.
Another rumor shouted across the unit claims these unfortunate souls are moving to 16 block, on the other side of the compound. The not-so-bad news is they won't have to endure the torturous ride, stuffed in a bus and shackled from head to toe. The terrible news is that 16 block is an open-cube setting. And the unlucky inmates will be forced to give up the luxury of a single-man cell for a cramped cube with a bunkie, seven other inmates, and absolutely ZERO privacy. Oh please no. Having my own cell is the ONLY thing about this wretched joint that keeps me from going nuts.
Ol' Ben Franklin, the sadistic bastard, has disappeared from view. I lean my mirror out as far as I can through the bars of my cell. I can't find her but I can see two inmates on base waiting with swollen duffle bags underfoot. I can't make out their faces from way up here but I know they're no longer with us. Mirrors, on every gallery, angle around looking for the executioner's location. The white haired harbinger of death is nowhere to be found. The tension rises like one of those horror movies where the killer is out of sight but still certainly not gone.
“
I lean my mirror out as far as I can through the bars of my cell.”
I hear keys. They sound like they're somewhere underneath me. Those of us on this side have to rely on the inmates across from us to keep us informed of the death toll on the galleries below and above us. Turbo, up on the fourth, is my eyes over there. He informs me they're currently passing out bags on the first gallery. He calls out the cell numbers like the names of fallen soldiers.
Twenty tortuous minutes later and they've made it up to the south side of second gallery, across from us. Now it's my turn to inform the comrades on the other side who is being executed over there. When I call out a familiar cell number you can hear the disbelief in their voice. They do their best to stop short of showing any actual sadness. We all know it's there.
The amount of body bags they've passed out is frightening. I count nine illuminated cells being dismantled by dead men on the second gallery. Nine of thirty six cells.
Another CO has joined the massacre, only this one is armed with nothing but a a list. He stalks down the galleries saying nothing, looking into cells, and checking his paper.
What the fuck does it mean? I wish they'd just tell us already. Who lives, who dies? I need to know. He disappeared towards the stairs to make his way up to the third gallery. My gallery. And there he is. He starts on the south side. I watch him intently, searching for any sign that might explain the selection process. I got nothing. He reaches the end of the gallery and disappears. I hold the mirror out and watch him turn the corner with his evil little list. I retract the trembling reflective surface just before he reaches my cell. He looks in at me as he passes. My heart skips a beat. I try to read eyes for a tell. Stupidity and indifference make for a strong poker face.
One of the recently deceased inmates stammers in frustration that he was sick weeks ago. I'm sure he was. Another dead man joins the chorus. And another. I'm sure most of them are telling the truth. Almost everyone I know was sick within the last two months.
And now you see where my fear is rooted. There is no rhyme or reason here. The biggest mistake you can make in prison is assuming that those in charge know what they're doing. Or that prison gossip is anything but reliable. I've been down seven years now. It didn't take me seven hours to come to these realizations.
As far as I'm concerned, stupidity is infinitely more terrifying than evil intentions. At least evil acts follow some predictable direction. Not stupidity. Every administrative decision in prison is another fucking wild card flip of nonsensical buffoonery. And when your fate is dictated by such unpredictability, dread is an permanent underlying emotion and rumors are comping mechanisms.
Somewhere on my side of the unit voices swell. I holler at Turbo to check on Buddy's status. He gives me a thumbs up. I lean my shaky little mirror through the bars. Ben Franklin is up on my gallery now. This time she has one of the unit porters with her. He's carrying a massive stack of body bags under his arm. A part of me hopes they'll start on the south side just in case these are the last breaths I'll draw in the privacy of my own cell. A larger part of me wants her to start over here so I can just lean my forehead against the barrel of the gun and either hear the click of an empty chamber, or be blasted into another unit
The inventor of bifocals, and know philander, porter in tow, starts on the south side. I take a quick inventory of my cell. I have WAY too much shit. Should I lose this game of Prison Roulette, I will seriously consider refusing to move just to see if they have the balls and the manpower to haul me off to the hole.
From this angle, it's hard for me to see the exact location, but several cell lights have been turned on down the rock. The dealer of fate is directly across form me. In quick succession she stops to unlock cell 57, 58, 59, and 61. I'm not religious but I feel like I should cross myself in honor of the dearly departed. All of them I know. They're my across-the-gallery neighbors. I let my fellow inmates know the locations of the deceased.
I watch as the executioner disappears down the back stairwell. Is she done? Certainly there are murders to be carried out on this side of the gallery. Right?
A trembling terror of the unknown.
“Through the ruckus I pick up on the unmistakable sound of jingling keys.”
I stand at the door, waiting. My fellow onlookers eventually disappear into the darkness of their cells. Other than watching dead men pack their belongings, I guess there's nothing to see. I lay back on my bed and do my best to convince myself I'm in the clear. It's of little help.
It's been thirty minutes with nothing new to report. The fleeting adrenaline in my system and these early morning hours have left me drained. The rest of the executions happen randomly over the next few hours.
One on fourth gallery above me.
Three on this side of the third gallery.
I have to fight to stay awake. A part of me is convinced that the moment I fall asleep I'll be awakened by a jingling set of keys and a duffle bag. The executions have slowed. I've managed to accept my fate just enough to stop running to the door every time I hear keys. I figure I'll know if I'm chosen. And I assume Turbo or Chef, as long as their awake, will let me know if Buddy gets smoked.
I can take no more. I drift off into a semi sleep state. The executioner's assistant, the one with the list, continues his hourly rounds. I can hear him. The inconsiderate rookie doesn't know, and apparently can't figure out, that the third shift COs hold their keys when they do their rounds so as not to wake every fucking inmate as they pass their cells.
Stupidity is more terrifying.
In spite of it all I manage to finally slip into actual sleep. No more than an hour later I'm startled awake by a grating indecipherable announcement blasting over the unit intercom. I do my best to steal a few more minutes of rest. My struggle pays off in tiny little snippets of oblivion.
Another BLARING announcement.
I give up.
I check my tablet. It's 7:30am.
The buzz from the night before continues. I'm too tired to understand what it means. I sit up groggy eyed and exhausted. Before I can even brush my teeth, Baker, from three cells down, is at my door asking me if I'm staying. I can't even process. Without waiting for an answer he disappears down the tier. He returns with an armful of blankets. He asks if I want them and shoves them into my chest. The entire unit is abuzz. I spot Turbo and Chef on the forth gallery stuffing green duffle bags with clothes. What is happening? Turbo sees me under a pile of blankets and says, "They got us."
Dead men talking.
He tells me thirty more inmates have met their fate. Most are already down on base waiting to leave.
An unadulterated massacre.
The entire unit is organized chaos. Inmates everywhere scramble to tie up loose ends.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, down a shot of instant coffee, and go to check on Buddy. Walking towards the stairs I count ten deserted cells, on my rock alone, with bare mattresses and hollowed out lockers. Somehow I slept through the second wave of the massacre.
Up on the fourth gallery I count three more deserted cells. I approach Buddy's cell expecting to find another bare mattress folded in half on a rusted rot iron bunk, but when I stop in front of cell 72, Buddy is sitting there, with the shit-eating grin of someone who dodged a bullet, watching my TV.
“Click…Click…Click…Click”
Holy shit.
He survived the massacre.
We both did.
The rest of the day passes with inmates moving out and inmates moving in until the unit is no longer recognizable. They never open yard.
I'm too tired to go outside anyway.
Honestly, I'm too tired to finish writing this.
Of all the potential hazards the Corona virus has dropped on this prison, this has been the most nerve racking.
Click.
And though I was lucky enough to survive this specific firing squad—this is prison.
Click.
There is always another bullet with your name on it just around the corner.
Click.
And at some point I know I'll find myself with a green duffle bag in my lap and my piece-of-mind blown all over the wall next to me.
Click.
But until then, I should to get some rest while I still have this single man cell.
Click.