Reading behind Bars

  Copyright © 2019 by Jill Grunenwald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Tom Lau

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3706-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3708-2

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Part I: The Voice of the Door-keeper

  Chapter 1: Out of the Frying Pan

  Chapter 2: And into the Fire

  Chapter 3: In the Doghouse

  Chapter 4: The Hole

  Chapter 5: Weekend Reading

  Chapter 6: Pomp and Circumstance

  Chapter 7: Three Strikes, You’re Out

  Part II: We’re All Mad Here

  Chapter 8: New Sheriff in Town

  Chapter 9: Finder’s Keepers

  Chapter 10: Bat out of Hell

  Chapter 11: Heartbreaker

  Chapter 12: Because I Could Not Stop for Death

  Chapter 13: Something Wicked This Way Comes

  Chapter 14: Gangsta’s Paradise

  Chapter 15: Deck the Halls with Boughs of Folly

  Part III: The Same Little Corner of Sky

  Chapter 16: Ghost in the Machine

  Chapter 17: I, Too, Sing America

  Chapter 18: Erin Go Bragh

  Chapter 19: Last Dance with Mary Jane

  Chapter 20: Them’s the Breaks, Kid

  Chapter 21: The Spider and the Fly

  Chapter 22: Check Mate

  Chapter 23: Taking the Matter into Your Own Hands

  Chapter 24: Ink Art Serrated

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  To Mom

  This book is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

  Introduction

  A man dressed completely in black snapped the steel bracelets around my wrists. “Don’t worry,” he said, taking a step back. The key to my freedom shone brightly in his oversized hand. “It’s just for a minute.”

  Then he winked, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  Prison. That’s what I had gotten myself into. Not jail. Not a detention center, or a holding cell, or even the drunk tank. Prison.

  The Clink. The Slammer. The Big House. The Pen. Lock up. Statesville. Sent up the river.

  Not only had I landed myself behind bars, I’d volunteered for it. Well, volunteered might not be the best term. I was an employee of the prison, so I was at least being paid to be there; but still. Very few people make the conscious decision to enter a correctional institution of their own free will.

  Against the backdrop of the cold, sterile warehouse, the man in black cut an imposing figure: that intimidating combination of advantageous genes that gave him both height and width. Not in the soft doughy kind of way, but in the “I could crush your head between my two bare hands without breaking a sweat” kind of way. With two very large bear paw–sized hands. His broad shoulders indicated that he had probably played football in high school. He might even have been one of those burly men who entertained thoughts of playing college ball until an injury sidelined him and cut his dreams short. In one fell swoop, he may have been forced to trade a lifetime of slinging footballs for a lifetime of slinging handcuffs.

  The pair he slung now slid into place around my wrists with an admittedly satisfying click, but even with their cool curves, the metal felt sharp against my skin. The cuffs dug into my wrists like knife blades. Even knowing it was futile, I still pulled my closed fists in opposite directions until the chain connecting them tightened.

  Surrounding me was a sea of unfamiliar faces. There were roughly a dozen of them, mostly men, dressed in ratty sweats and torn t-shirts. A mixed bag of races and ages, their eyes studied me. Suddenly my black yoga pants felt too tight, the neckline of my t-shirt too exposed. As I took stock of the group, a blush crept up my neck and a sense of unease washed over me. Of everyone in that room why was I the one who was singled out? All I had done was show up at a warehouse on the appointed day at the appointed time, and look at what had happened. He might as well have sewn a scarlet “A” on my t-shirt and called it a day.

  My eyes traveled over the group of strangers clustered around a long table in the corner and at that moment, I questioned every single life decision I had made in the past decade, all the way back to July 1999, the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, when I got an after-school job at the library in my hometown of Hudson, Ohio.

  It had been the perfect job for me. I am, and have always been, a bookworm. Books are in my blood, the written word etched upon my bones. (Although, surprisingly, despite my love of books and knowledge and learning, I am not a Ravenclaw but, instead, proudly wear the green and silver of Slytherin.)

  In elementary school, I spent recess holed up in the library, tucked into one of the window seats, devouring books that were way above both my reading and maturity levels. What I couldn’t find on the shelves of McDowell Elementary School could usually be sourced from the stacks of the local public library (just as long as I tucked them between more age-appropriate reading material so my mom didn’t see). Soon enough I started writing my own stories, scribbling away pages of high fantasy or historical fiction that were, once again, far above my maturity level; but that, of course, was part of the fun. At ten years old, my knowledge about the Vietnam War was gleaned almost entirely from a few paragraphs found in my elementary school’s copy of World Book, but that didn’t stop me from using it as the setting for my first novel.

  So at seventeen years old, needing a job, the one thing I did not want to do was work another summer at the hamburger station of my local McDonalds. Because of my love of reading, I was eager to apply and get a job at the library. After all, what reader wouldn’t want to hang around books all day?

  So I was surprised when a few years ago, my mother told a group of people that the only reason I started working in the library was because of her. Say what now? According to my mother, I was lazy and unmotivated and needed to be dragged and nagged to apply.

  One of us is clearly lying. Or, perhaps more accurately, one of us has a faulty memory. I don’t want to make any bold declarations I may come to regret, but only one of us is writing a book and has the opportunity to set the record straight per our own memories. (Ah, see, there’s that Slytherin pride: refusing to admit that perhaps I am indeed wrong.)

  After getting hired, I spent the next seven years working at the Hudson Library & Historical Society. From the summer before my senior year of high school through every winter and summer break during college, I shelved books and checked out books and came to know every inch of that library like the dog-eared pages of a bel
oved, well-read novel. When I wasn’t home on breaks, I was in school, getting my BFA in creative writing, with a minor in English literature. I practically lived and breathed books, so upon graduation I returned to my parents’ house in Hudson and continued to work at the library while I decided what I really wanted to do with my life. As much as I wanted to spend the rest of my life writing books, that almost never pays the bills; I needed a Plan B.

  Admittedly, it took me far longer than one would presume to realize that what I wanted to do and what I should do was become a librarian. For a year or two, I hovered on the periphery of adulthood, working jobs here and there, never finding that elusive “career.” It was only in my mid-twenties that I reached a point where I wanted something with more of a stable trajectory and—light bulb moment—decided to go to graduate school to become a librarian. After graduating from the University of Kentucky with my masters in library and information science in December 2008, I once again migrated back to Northeast Ohio. Unfortunately, the economy had taken a huge downturn and jobs were scarce. Libraries—including Hudson’s—were hemorrhaging money, reducing both hours and staff just to keep the lights on and the books available.

  During our first semester of graduate school, my classmates and I had been sold the fairytale that by the time we graduated there would be a plethora of opportunities for us because all of those librarians who had been employed for decades would soon be retiring and their jobs would need to be filled. Eighteen months later, however, diploma in hand, I knew how overly optimistic that simple narrative was. Most of those old librarians couldn’t afford to retire and even if they did leave, the libraries didn’t have the funding available to hire replacements. Add to that the fact that library science masters programs were still producing graduates who needed jobs, which meant that there were hundreds of newly minted librarians fighting for and applying to the same handful of jobs.

  And as 2008 sundowned into 2009, I was one of those newly-minted, job-seeking librarians. I added whatever creative writing flair I could to my resume while I put my internet searching skills to use looking for jobs. No part of the country was off-limits in my quest for gainful employment, although I hoped to remain in Ohio. But even well-established (and well-funded) institutions were struggling. More than once I applied to a position only to receive an email a few weeks later from the Human Resources department saying that they pulled the job ad. They just didn’t have the money to pay someone.

  One evening I was scanning the State of Ohio’s government job boards when I came across a position for a Library Assistant at a correctional treatment facility. On a whim I applied, was interviewed, and was hired. (Only later would I learn what “correctional” actually meant.)

  I was one of the lucky ones—I had a job. One of the very lucky ones, in fact, as many of my peers would still be searching after two years.

  But now, looking down at the steel bracelets around my wrists, I didn’t feel lucky. All those previous moments stacked on top of each other like a pile of books had brought me here, to this exact moment, and I still had no idea exactly how I ended up in the situation I was currently facing. Because when I had pictured my very first day as a professional librarian, it did not involve getting handcuffed.

  Yet here I was. Even though I was a full-fledged librarian who had managed to find a job in a failing economy, I was getting handcuffed by one of my new coworkers. Evidently when it comes to picking an employee to use as an example, why wouldn’t you take the newbie? Especially when she’s the meek and quiet librarian who felt like a copy of Macbeth that had accidentally been shelved alongside the Florida travel guides.

  Having worked in libraries in some form or another for twenty years, I was used to the many institutional rules that must be upheld, even in the face of frustrated and sometimes angry patrons: no food except in designated areas; no cell phone usage except in designated areas; a library card is required for all checkouts, no exceptions. I understand that it’s your wife and you can provide her address, her birthday, her social security number, and her blood type, and I also understand she’s been on hold for this book for quite a while, but without her library card, you are not leaving this library with the latest book in the sadistic saga of Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele. Rules are rules.

  There are the same fairly standard rules in a typical library. But I wasn’t working in a typical library now. I was working in a library within a men’s correctional institution and, as I would soon learn, correctional institutions come with a lot of rules.

  When an inmate first arrived at the facility, he sat through orientation where he learned all about how the facility worked—meal times, laundry (also known as quartermaster), and activities, including library services. He was also given a copy of the “Inmate Handbook.” The handbook included some of the more nuanced rules related to the dress code, identification badges, recreation hours, commissary, and even how often inmates were required to shower (“at least three (3) times per week”).

  Included in the “Inmate Handbook” were the “Inmate Rules of Conduct,” written into law via the Ohio Administrative Code. Inmates who violated any of the rules had a conduct report written up by staff and were subsequently punished. The breaches of behavior that inmates can violate are varied. The “Inmate Rules of Conduct” include some fairly innocuous items, like (21) Disobedience of a direct order and (35) Being out of Place but quickly escalate to more alarming things like (57) Self-mutilation, including tattooing and (1) Causing, or attempting to cause, the death of another, and a violation I would soon be intimately familiar with, (14) Seductive or obscene acts, including indecent exposure or masturbation.

  Along with that, the employees also had their own set of rules to follow, which were set forth by the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction (ODRC). Ultimately, every rule had the exact same end goal: the safety and security of the facility and everyone inside of it. We all operated under the same premise: if, when we left the prison at the end of our shift, all persons inside were still alive and unharmed, then we had a good day no matter what other shit may have gone down.

  This may seem like a low bar but it was not without precedent. Prison riots may be few and far between, but when they occur, they often are deadly affairs. Unfortunately, riots are an occurrence that the ODRC is intimately familiar with: on Easter Sunday 1993, over four hundred inmates at the maximum-security Southern Ohio Correctional Facility in Lucasville, Ohio, rioted and took control of the prison. Eleven days later, nine inmates and one corrections officer were dead.

  Luckily, Lucasville is an extreme example and I had been hired at a minimum-security camp. Still, safety was paramount and while the most important rule for staff could be debated, the first rule for staff was that no employee was allowed around the facility unaccompanied unless they had passed the prison’s unarmed self-defense course.

  Which is how on a crisp February day in 2009, I stood in a small warehouse wearing sneakers I had just purchased a couple of days before, a ratty old t-shirt from the back of my closet, and a pair of black, coffee-stained yoga pants from my previous life as a barista.

  I also now had a pair of handcuffs locked tightly around my wrists. The man in black, otherwise known as Correctional Officer Williard, turned me around the room, showing off his handiwork of proper handcuffing procedures to our colleagues.

  “Welcome to the team, Miss Librarian,” he said as he slipped the key into the lock and set me free. I darted away from Williard and slipped into an empty seat at the table with my new coworkers. As Williard continued his presentation, I momentarily tuned him out as I gently rubbed my wrists.

  Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.

  PART I

  THE VOICE OF THE DOOR-KEEPER

  He came to the prison. A bell-chain hung by the doorway and he pulled it. A panel in the door slid back.

  “Monsieur,” said the man, removing his cap, “will you be so kind as to let me in and give me lodging for the nigh
t?”

  “This is a prison, not an inn,” said the voice of the door-keeper. “If you want to be let in you must get yourself arrested.”

  —Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

  Chapter 1

  Out of the Frying Pan

  It is the policy of the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction (DRC) to ensure a background investigation is conducted on each state employee, intern, contractor, and volunteer under primary consideration for employment or entrance into any of its offices/institutions unless otherwise exempted by this policy. The purpose of the background investigation is to identify offenses or behaviors that may impact job performance, volunteer participation, or internship work, or their ability to provide services.

  —ODRC Policy 34-PRO-07

  The small, dusty village of Grafton, Ohio (population 6,636) is located on the far western outskirts of Cleveland. So far west that it isn’t really fair to even use Cleveland as a geographical reference point; but as a recent transplant in the opening act of 2009, that’s all I had. Although transplant isn’t the right term, either. “Prodigal Daughter” might be more appropriate. After high school, I—like LeBron James—had fled the quaint comfort of my Northeast Ohio hometown in an effort to find greener pastures, only to return after realizing Dorothy was right: there’s no place like home. (Granted, LeBron left again, but he brought us home a championship title. Between stints in Miami and Los Angeles, I can’t really blame the guy for escaping Cleveland winters.)

  I had grown up not in the city of Cleveland but in the suburbs surrounding the city. Even then, Hudson was on the southeast side and I was far more familiar with the communities on the east side of the city than the west, where Grafton is located. Grafton was so far west from all familiar terrain it might as well have been in California.

  As a town, Grafton offers its residents one industry of employment: corrections. It isn’t a flashy field and it definitely isn’t for everyone, but after the steel mills of nearby Youngstown had shuttered their doors, and the automobile industry was falling off the rails in Detroit, and the rest of the Rust Belt was struggling to survive, the prisons of Grafton could provide one thing very few employers could in the wake of the Great Recession: job security. Unless there was a major overhaul to our criminal justice system, prisons and the inmates housed in them weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.