Incentivized Prisons: an Insider’s POV

/ Debby Kerr-Henry

by RomanoUnlimited

Inmates at Tomoka Correctional Institution wrote stories for Project Unlimited for the purpose of educating and increasing awareness about our prison system and its affects on all of us. To learn more about Project Unlimited click here.

Photo by Andy Song on Unsplash

***

October 11, 2011. The day I arrived at Mayo Correctional Institution (CI)
Going directly from solitary confinement at Taylor CI to Mayo CI, the sunlight was unbearable and even the sounds of normal conversations caused minor distress. The orderly nudged me to a chair where he shaved my hair and beard. Then the property officer examined my personal stuff. She opened one of two trash bags that contained all of my life’s possessions, and then started cataloging.

“I count 60 pictures,” she said. “You can only have 50.”

“You have six books; you’re allowed four. I’ll donate two to the library or you can send them home. Only one pack of batteries, two bars of soap…” She continued, making two piles, a small one of things allowed and a bigger one of things she confiscated or let me send home. In the end, I got to keep a quarter of my personal property.

December 6, 2021.
With COVID-19 protocols in effect, instead of going through Lake Butler and Orlando Reception transfer hubs, they bus me directly from Mayo CI in northern Florida to Tomoka CI in Daytona Beach on the east coast. For the first time in over ten years I would get to see something of the outside world. I sat in the window seat, grabbed my tablet, and chose playlist two, a mix of Italian and Napolitano love songs. Then I sat back to watch the world roll by.

My bus ride to Tomoka was both exhilarating and reflective.

Bus Ride to Tomoka Correctional Institution

We hit a speed bump leaving the prison. My focus shifts from Mayo CI back to the windows. As we hit Highway 27, the bus turns north, and I catch glimpses of the prison through the trees. The roof of C Dorm, the first dorm I was assigned to at Mayo, is clearly visible above the tree line. It triggers more memories.

Mayo Correctional Institution

During intake all inmates must shave, get a haircut, catalog their property, receive a cursory medical exam, and be issued laundry. Bunk assignments fulfill the last step of the intake process. A sergeant who happened to be at my last camp calls my name.

“Estrada, you were in Bravo at Taylor, right?”

“Yes sir,” I respond. “How do you like it here?”

“Not bad,” the sergeant says. “Well, you got lucky. Charlie Dorm just opened up. It’s a new dorm with Air Conditioning. I don’t remember you causing any problems for me, so I’ll assign you there.”

The Florida Department of Corrections (FDOC) label dorms by alphabet, but officers prefer to use the military system of Alpha, Bravo, Charlie…

“Thanks. Never lived in AC before (in prison).”

I grab my stuff and head toward the “locked down” compound that restricts unescorted inmate movement. No recreation or canteen or barbershop. Remnants of blood remain on the sidewalk.

“Watch where you step, we haven’t gotten to clean up yet,” the escorting officer says.

When I get to C Dorm, they lock me in a cell, no calling family and friends to inform them of my transfer.

Lockdowns happen for many reasons. Gang violence is the most common. Or discovery of certain kinds of contraband (cell phones, weapons, drugs), drones flying over, clothing not issued through laundry or canteen; or staff shortages due to employment issues, exceeding the permissible amount of time they can work, too many sick staff, or too many assigned to hospitals or other places. Sometimes bad weather such as hurricanes or tornadoes cause lockdowns.

For some guys, Mayo CI was their first prison. Even though I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know this, I just do. Maybe it’s because some pretend to be tough, while others look wild-eyed. Those like me, who’ve been in the system a while, know what Mayo means—Max All Yours Out. Earning gain-time (early release) in Mayo is very hard as inmates have to navigate gangs, theft, drug addicts on binges, sexual predators, scheming assholes, and bullying officers.

I get to C Dorm as the only new arrival, and the sound of opening doors alert everyone that someone is entering. The dorm is U-shaped with two stories, cells with sliding doors, not with bars, but closed with small Plexiglass windows and what we call a bean flap, small opening used by staff to pass food trays to inmates without having to open the cell door. As a habit, people look out their cell doors to see what’s happening. I hear my nickname called several times. This was not unusual. People move around the state a lot, so in every prison, there’s usually a handful of people you know. Due to lock down, the officer uses his radio to call my cell number. The cell door slides open and slams behind me, barely enough time to get inside.

I greet my new roommate. We establish a baseline for how we will get along, and then he fills me in on what’s what (slang for how this prison runs and recent happenings). A gang war was going on between two factions.

“I’m not affiliated,” I say.

The look of relief in my roommate’s face tells me that neither is he. I smile and that breaks the ice. He tells me the war started over illegal cell phones and between what groups. This lockdown was three days old. Based on previous lockdowns, we have two more days to go.

Just as I put my stuff away, the doors open and I hear yelling from the common area. I look out and see 20 officers, all dressed in black.

“Shut-the-F***-up! Put your hands on your head! Step out of your cells! Keep your hands on your head!”

The officers order us to line up in single file and strip, then, using a flashlight, they examine every crevice of our bodies for hidden contraband. They find a couple of guys guilty with who knows what, maybe drugs, cell phones, or a weapon. They tackle the perpetrators to the ground and cuff them. I keep my eyes straight, making sure I don’t move even a little. If I get caught looking, I could be taken just like them. After that, things settle down. The officers order us to sit on the floor in our boxers. From past experience, I know that this shakedown of searching our cells, will be very thorough since they already found significant contraband.

Something someone owns gets thrown out and hits the concrete floor. Bang! A lock gets slammed down. Clank! The metal detector picks up something and a mattress goes through the x-ray machine. Swoosh! The high pitched whirring sounds of drills join the methodic mayhem as correctional officers disassemble everything—lockers, toilets, sinks. Everything.

18 cells downstairs, 18 cells upstairs. 

Bang! Clank! Swoosh! Whirrrrr!

Bang! Clank! Swoosh! Whirrrrr!

Over and over, and over again. Occasionally officers add to the chaotic symphony of sounds.

“Who lives in five downstairs?!” someone yells.

The two assigned to the room get up and speak to the officer. When they return, a look between them tell me that one of them is pissed. It couldn’t have been too serious though, or they would’ve gone to confinement. Anything not on the approved property list is considered contraband. Most is insignificant—having more than one plastic spork (the only permitted utensil), possessing more than ten stamps, keeping more than ten dollars of canteen food. Even a rubber band or paper clip can theoretically get you in trouble.

Most officers are practical though, discarding petty contraband with a no-questions-asked mentality. Once in a while an officer will call an inmate over to ask about something specific. For example, if an officer finds an apple from breakfast then usually they will either let you keep it or throw it away. But if that same officer finds three or more, then it may be an indicator that the inmate is making buck (prison wine).

A couple of hours later the officers finish their searches. They point to a few guys to sweep up the mess, never taking their eyes off them to ensure that nothing gets recovered. The officers grab the trash bags and walk out. I return to my cell, and just as I expected, I was missing a few things, even though the intake officer scrutinized my property. I’ve learned to keep nothing I truly care about.

A few days later, lockdown lifts as if nothing had happened—a few inmates stabbed, a few sent to confinement, contraband confiscated. But now it’s time to get back to normal incarcerated life.

Bus Ride to Tomoka Correctional Institution

The bus moves from state Highway 27 to I-10 eastbound. We pass the city of Live Oak, moving towards Jacksonville. I’ve been on this interstate several times as a free person. Memories of driving to Chicago, Valdosta, and San Diego come back to me from the nether memories of my past. I push them away. I can see cars and free people going about their business at the interstate ramp, gassing their cars, and ordering food. My mind returns to my cell.

Mayo Correctional Institution

At 5:00 a.m. the lights suddenly come on and the doors roll open. The noise of 26 electronic locks simultaneously opening finally wake me up. I go downstairs to the water fountain and make a cup of coffee. News blares from the TV. Someone turns down the volume and I sit and watch. Since I was new to the dorm, I didn’t know where I fit in yet. Eventually, the intercom announces, “CHOW-CHOW! If you’re going to CHOW go NOW!” The exit doors slide open and officers count us as we leave in single file following the yellow lines. We’re not allowed to eat where we want, so on the way, people strategically place themselves with whom they want to eat.

Once in the chow hall, correction officers scan our IDs to keep a count of how many inmates are fed and to ensure that no one eats two meals, one of the worst offenses in prison. After getting my tray, I follow the line and sit at the next four-person table. One cup of oatmeal, two turkey sausage links, two slices of white bread, a dab of apple jelly. Drink options consist of water, a white solution with vanilla flavoring to imitate milk, and chicory instant coffee. We have less than seven minutes to eat. The food is cold, so it’s easy to scarf down. The chow hall is a concert of screaming correctional officers.

“Get up!” “You’re done!” “Dump your trays!” “Charlie Dorm file out NOW!”

Bus Ride to Tomoka Correctional Institution

A honking car brings me back to the interstate. I’m instantly captivated by the myriad of cars on the road. The colors are the same, but the shapes and designs are completely different. I spot a Tesla! A car that didn’t even exist when I fell (slang for coming to prison). Then another car with a Tampa Bay Rays bumper sticker reminds me of my first softball game in prison.

Organized sports were a big thing when I first got to prison. In the early 2000s they dominated prison culture. Every prison had several teams in various sports: basketball, flag football, soccer, Frisbee, football, volleyball, and softball. Softball was “the sport.” Christian teams associated with outreach programs would come to prison to play against the inmates. There even used to be inter-prison teams where inmates could go to other prisons and play. On special occasions, correctional officers and inmates challenged one another. All this halted in 2011. Due to security concerns, organized sports became a tattered version of what they used to be. In fact, by 2011, the times available for inmates to exercise shrunk. I distinctly remember going four weeks straight without rec.

I look out the window and see Lane Avenue to my right. The bus enters the city of Jacksonville. My jaw drops. When I came to prison over twenty years ago, Lane Avenue was a two-lane road with a Ramada Inn and a church near the I-10 onramp. Now Lane Avenue has four lanes. The Ramada Inn and church are still there, but two thriving strip malls, a bowling alley, and several fast food restaurants have joined them.

The outside world moves forward. The prison world backwards.

Mayo Correctional Institution

With breakfast done the officers march us back to the dorm. I make another cup of coffee from the water fountain. I walk to my cell and close the door. My roommate was chilling on his bunk, waiting for count. To pass the time, I ask what programs Mayo offered.

He chuckles. “Basic education and a couple of things in the chapel. That’s it.”

With a prison population of over 1,200 individuals, Mayo had no vocational or rehabilitation programs. This is normal in the Florida Department of Corrections (FDOC). As a new arrival, the prison would assign me a job. Options are slim: inside grounds (pulling weeds) or houseman (dorm cleaning); education aide (inmate tutor), library clerk (librarian assistant) or law library clerk (helping inmates with law work); food service, security orderly, maintenance, laundry, or barbershop.

After count clears the dorm officer’s voice comes over the intercom. “A.m. work call,” the time that inmates go to their jobs, and medical, dental, and mental health appointments. Classification (like a counselor), inside grounds, and all other orderlies also move about at this time. I go to my callout for classification. I’m assigned to inside grounds, but I don’t have to report to my supervisor until the next day.

Bus Ride to Tomoka Correctional Institution

The bus moves off I-10 and heads south onto I-95, passing Wolfson Children’s Hospital and Channel 4 News. Traffic is heavy, so the bus moves slowly. I see people in their cars. Now everyone has cell phones and they’re in constant use. What’s crazy is that in two hours of riding the bus I haven’t seen a single smoker. Although technically not allowed, inmates still smoke contraband cigarettes…and more.

Mayo Correctional Institution

With dinner done by 5 p.m. we’re now stuck inside until 9 a.m. I grab a book and start reading. The smell of cigarettes, tucci (synthetic drugs), and marijuana hit all at once. FDOC banned tobacco a few months earlier, but like any contraband, there’s still a lot of it in prison.

We can buy anything—cell phones, drugs, alcohol, sex, weapons, dorm changes, clothing, cologne, food. People in the free world think that those strung out on drugs can clean up in prison. That may be true for the strong-willed, but drugs are everywhere in prison. Tucci heads go on binges and when those binges end, the entire dorm knows it. Guys run around naked, throw themselves off the top tier, vomit, or simply slump in place and become zombies. Their skin becomes pale, green, jaundiced. Eventually they run out of capital and they reach out to their families.

When addicts call home they manipulate and guilt-trip family members into giving them money. When that capital runs out, they either turn to sex for drugs, take on hits (attack other inmates for drugs), steal, or get drugs on consignment. Bad things happen if they can’t pay back loans.

The next morning I plan to meet friends I hadn’t seen in a while and get a 10k run in before lunch. The cell door never opens though. I don’t discover why until after dinner when the food service workers tell us a serious fight had broken out between two guys in different gangs. To prevent a full-on gang war, the institution locked down everyone to allow time to cool off.

Bus Ride to Tomoka Correctional Institution

Once in Daytona Beach, the bus turns east, instead of west, onto International Drive. Tomoka CI is one of the few prisons in a city. Most prisons are in the boon docks, at least 50 miles from cities. I smile as we pass the Speedway. The wrong turn triggers happy times. I watched my first Rolex 24-hour endurance race here in 1998. Ferrari won. That memory felt great.

After the bus turns around and heads in the right direction, we finally arrive at Tomoka CI and maneuver around a corner to head behind the prison, allowing us to see the rec yard. Immediately something catches my eye. Inmates are playing softball! Suddenly everyone erupts!

“Look they’re playing softball!”

I can’t believe it! I look closely and notice that others, dressed in different colored jerseys with whistles, are playing basketball, flag football, and soccer. My heart races. I just can’t believe what I see.

Tomoka Correctional Institution, an incentivized prison

 “Welcome to Tomoka,” a few officers say. “Please grab your lunch bags and wait for the nurses to call you.”

I open my lunch—two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two bologna and cheese, an apple, and a cookie. Nowhere else do lunch bags look like this. There’s usually only one sandwich and one cookie.

The nurse calls me, takes my vitals and asks a few questions. Classification asks me a few questions, and then the property officer calls me over. He asks if I have an electric razor, radio, tablet, lock. I answer yes, he logs it and gives me my dorm assignment. That’s it? I couldn’t believe it. Before I transferred I got rid of most of my stuff expecting the typical harsh treatment.

As I walk to B Dorm there’s no smoke in the air. No one walking like a zombie. No one asks if I want drugs. No one asks if I want to buy a knife. No one asks if I want a cell phone. The dorm count clears quickly and I head to chow. Everyone walks side-by-side, instead of single file. In the chow hall I’m allowed to sit where I want and no one rushes me out. This is an alien world. I don’t know how to act. I aimlessly walk around with my tray.

“Hey buddy, you look lost,” a voice says. It’s James, a really good friend. He’s grinning ear to ear.

“You can sit where you want?” I ask.

“Yeah, pretty cool right? Just relax. We get plenty of time to eat. I’ll catch you up.”

James and I worked together at Mayo for five years and he left for Tomoka five months before me. He tells me that they have not had a lockdown since he’s been here. No mass searches, tucci heads are nonexistent, and he hasn’t seen a fight. Programs abound: general education, masonry, landscaping, irrigation, and Stetson University are only some of the programs. The chapel is always open with all faiths represented. There’s even a Gavel Club, a Toastmasters-affliliate club that focuses on building communication and leadership skills. He insists that I join.

The rec field is full of organized activities. All the old sports have been resurrected, plus a runner’s club. There’s even music on the rec field. The officers don’t cuss as much, and they’re not heavy-handed. Visitation is only canceled because of really bad weather. Best of all, instead of having visitation once a week, we’re allowed visitors four days a week. And the telephones are always on.

I interrupt James’ narrative. “My mattress is super thick and I saw huge flat screen TVs in the day room!” (At Mayo the dorms still had vacuum tube TVs with digital conversion boxes).

“They’re not just flat screens,” James smiles. “We have DirectTV!”

“We have cable? For real?” My jaw drops at the revelation. “ESPN? Fox Sports?” I continue, realizing that I may actually get to watch a Formula One race.

James smiles then continues, “There’s a Wellness Center too.”

“What’s a Wellness Center?” I ask.

It’s a place where inmates can relax. There are televisions, arcade machines, indoor basketball hoops, pool tables, air hockey machine, foosball and ping-pong tables, board games, role playing games (banned from other institutions), and video games. There’s even a canteen where we can purchase food and drinks and have access to a microwave.

After twenty plus years of incarceration, I’m both lost and elated.

I look down at my tray to finally eat, when I stop. There’s pizza, tater tots, and ice cream. I just stare at it.

James laughs. “Twice a week we get ice cream.”

Incentivized Prisons

Incentivized prisons are not paradise, although it may seem so at first. We’re still incarcerated, we still have to follow strict rules, and not all officers support incentivized programs. Why should we get “special” treatment after all? Some still bully or yell. But in the morning when I wake up I don’t have to take the temperature of Tomoka. The environment fosters learning and growing.

Are gangs waiting to kill each other? No.
Does the dorm smell like cigarettes or illegal substances? No.
Are guys fighting every day? No.
Do inmates impede those of us who are trying to do better? No.
Are programs used as places to connect and deal drugs? No.

Incentivized prisons aim to create safe environments while restoring dignity through education and skill-building to better prepare incarcerated individuals to reenter society and contribute to prosperous communities.

“Good Morning”

The true revelation of incentivized prisons came to me a year after arriving to Tomoka. I was fast-walking the track, warming up for a run when I passed a guy. He looked up and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too,” I replied without being the least bit suspicious of his motive.

 At Tomoka, “Good morning” means “Good morning.”

***

If you missed the first stories in this series, find the links below. A whole-hearted “thank you” to Jonathan for serving as copy editor and Jacob as master typist. 

Print 🖨 PDF 📄

Leave a Reply