Seven Suicides in Seven Months

I had been employed with the State in the Correctional Institutions Division for three years, and have learned; seen, and been a part of things I don't care to remember. In no way will I attempt to compare what I am about to describe as something as profound as the war in Iraq, or the world trade center tragedies, or even the famines in the third world, or genocide, or anything that you may watch on the news, or in documentaries, or what you may read about in the newspaper or on your online news pages. I can only say what I am about to describe is real, and I have seen it with my own eyes. This in no way is a reflection upon my thoughts of corruption within the justice system. I am going to tell you about the decline of value for human life that exists within the penal system.

It was around 5:30 P.M. and we were preparing to change shifts by turning in our equipment and gathering our keys to be inventoried for the oncoming shift. I was the acting "turnkey," which meant I was responsible for all the wing doors on the cellblock, and whatever activities that occurred throughout the day; responsible for offender traffic during mass movement, and responsible for any mishaps on the cellblock. As I was letting the officer off of S-Wing to turn in his key, there came a call from another officer in the picket that there was a "man down" on three row.

The officer and I ran up to three row to find in the first cell a young black male hanging from the neck from his locker box above his bunk. This was the first time I had ever witnessed a person hanging. I had heard stories from the already callused veteran officers, but nothing can prepare you for your first hanging.

My mind went through a very analytical process at that point, I took a quick look around to soak up the scene, so that I would be prepared for anything, and would be able to answer questions that would come when the supervisors and medical team arrived. I called for assistance from medical, and called for additional staff to help get the young man down.

As I looked over the small frame of the offender and at his face, which appeared to be peacefully sleeping, I immediately recognized him as an offender that was normally smiling, and very friendly, but also quiet and reserved. I remember him to have large almond eyes, with particularly long eyelashes, and just a look of youth and innocence about himself. I also remember thinking to myself that he could be no more than 20 years old. Then the confusion set in my mind about why a person of such a young age, regardless of environment, would want to die.

As the additional staff arrived, a young strapping officer had the door rolled, and he, a supervisor and another large male officer from the relieving shift lifted the young man up to relieve the pressure from his neck and held him up while they were cutting the sheet and shoelace. We could not manage to get the intricately tied knot undone by hand. I noticed a group of inmates no more than six feet away in the dayroom laughing and pointing. Something inside me snapped, and I whipped around and proceeded to give the guys a speech on their lack of respect for human life. It was then that a white male offender, in his mid thirties said to me, "we aren't laughing about that, we are laughing at you. You are showing your true colors." I didn't realize that I had let my guard down, and my hard exterior had been washed away to reveal my human compassion.

I thought about it more that night, the idea of someone that age wanting to leave life, and how it seemed routine for everyone else around me. That was just the beginning of my personal struggle with what was going on in the system. I later discovered that the inmate had received a minor case for tobacco, and that he was trying to get out of disciplinary actions by utilizing the psychiatric department as a way out. In a later investigation it was discovered that the guy could have stood up, and been okay. The only thing that bugged me about the fact that he was faking was that when we pulled him down and laid him on the floor, he vomited profusely on the floor. This leads me to believe that his little "act" could have well ended in a tragic accident.

That was about a year and a half ago. Around the same time a new officer had her throat cut by an offender, and the officers that came to her aide beat the offender unrecognizable, twice, which resulted in fatal injuries, and the subsequent loss of employment of four employees and indictment. Not only were the officers and superiors deliberately indifferent, vengeful, and just professionally out of line, but they also neglected the woman who was standing on the wing bleeding from the face and neck. The officer who was turning keys that night locked her on the wing, and then froze up at the site of the blood. Two offenders carried her to the infirmary in the absence of staff support.

Recently there have been seven suicides in seven months at this unit alone.
One particular offender arrived on the unit, and you could tell right away there was something wrong with the kid. The first time I saw him, I was working security in the dining hall, when I noticed him in the line. He was a young Hispanic male, short and emaciated. He had distinguishable long hair, but it stood straight out, so it wasn't a noticeable violation of grooming standards, and his cheekbones stood high beneath the tight skin of his thin face. His left hand was missing every finger but the thumb from above the knuckle. His disfigurement was not what struck me as odd; it was the look in his eyes.

I remember him looking down, always, but at this moment ominously, he looked directly at me. I almost felt like looking away as his eyes sank into me and released his sadness. I knew at that moment, he was a dead man.

A few months later, they found him hanging in his cell, already stiff. One of the female officers I worked with told me that the day before she observed him hunched over in a ball in the corner of the dayroom, but she didn't mention it to anyone.

Another time, I was working a wing on a weekend, and an offender told me he needed to go see psych. I asked him if he was okay, and he said, yes right now, but it was very important. I took his I.D. and told the supervisor about the situation. The supervisor reminded me that the psych department was not available on the weekend. I returned to the offender's cell and explained the situation, but insured him I would check on him every 15 minutes until the supervisor could come and talk to him. I then explained to the supervisor that I would do a check every 15 minutes, but that I thought he needed to speak to someone. The supervisor, with his feet on his desk, replied, "Tell him I am in a meeting until 1:00, and I'll come talk to him.

The supervisor never responded to the offender, and we went home to return the next week, and he had killed himself while we were gone.

The most recent suicide that occurred while I was on duty was a white male that was found hanging in his cell at the last meal of the day. I was not aware of what happened until we were all gathered in the hall getting ready to be relieved by second shift. It was on the cellblock opposite of the one I worked that day, and it had happened about thirty minutes before I was relieved.

Everyone was talking about it in the hall, and the circumstances surrounding, and how the officer had not been doing her proper security checks, but according to her paperwork, she had, and that's all that matters in the system. People were saying things like, "Oh, well . . . it's just a fucking inmate."

I looked around at all the dead eyes around me, and I realized, that these are not the people I want to come to my aid if something seriously goes down in here. If there is a riot, or a fight, and my life is in danger, can I expect the deliberately indifferent people who wear the same uniform that I do, to care about what happens to me?

Then I thought about my father, who is doing time in the same system for DWI, and I thought about my grandfather on my mother's side, who died in the same system. I also thought about my grandmother on my mother's side that died in a state mental institution, and I have to wonder, what type of people were assuring that my family members were being taken care of?

There is a running joke about the state being 'reactive, not proactive'. Seven suicides in seven months, and they finally decide that they are going to make sure that there is sufficient staff to cover all of the housing areas, but with the attitudes of the staff toward the issue, who is going to really believe that additional staff is going to solve the problem?

I was told once, by someone dear to me that prison is the death of every joy, of hope, of happiness, of caring, of sympathy of consideration and love of your fellow man. It's a place where all the lessons your parents taught you about being human get unlearned - a place of regression, of devolution. It is the birthplace of rage, of pain, of loneliness - the womb of hate, suspicion and jealousy. It is a place where stupid kids get trapped for the rest of their lives and people with kids to feed get jobs that suck the life out of them. It is a place where any sense of identity, of individuality gets quickly stripped from you - whether your uniform is white or gray.

After three years of working in the system, I have to agree with that. I have seen the system chew up and spit out so many people, on both sides of the bars. Compassion is lost in seemingly hopeless situations. It's a dying emotion.

I was still working at the unit when I wrote this piece. In June, I resigned. I never walked past the crash gates of central control after I wrote this. I went on vacation, did some soul searching on all levels, and could not bear to walk back through those doors. And though I miss the benefits, the time off, and the sweet schedule, I never want to be in a place as dark and uncaring ever again.