Reading behind Bars Read online

  At least grateful for the mild weather, I shut my alarm off, dragged myself out of bed, and began my morning routine, which started with feeding my cat Chloe (who was loving the early alarm because it meant she got fed earlier in the day). That was followed by a shower, getting dressed, breakfast, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Before 6 a.m. levels of coffee. With sugar. Lots of sugar. Anything to keep me awake and alert, since today had the added bonus of being Inmate Orientation.

  The prison had new inmates every single day. After arriving, the men were assigned their bunks and received their issued uniform, but they weren’t officially considered integrated into the system until Orientation, which happened every Friday. It was a lot like onboarding or orientation at any new job. There they would learn about how meals worked, how laundry operated, that sort of thing. Included in the lineup of information was library services.

  All week, I knew the days were leading up to Orientation. To me standing in front of a room of new inmates and explaining all about the library. I was dreading it.

  Despite my years of theater in high school, I don’t like standing in front of an audience. Theater, literally, required me putting on a mask of sorts and pretending to be someone else, but that’s why I had so much fun doing it: I could pretend to be someone else, so I wasn’t the person speaking in front of the crowd.

  Now, though, I was the librarian and the only one at that. There was nobody else to get on stage for me; I had to do it all. It was certainly a big change from where I was ten years ago when I first started working at a library. My time as a page was mostly spent in the stacks shelving books. But every once in a while I would be tasked with covering the circulation desk while someone was at lunch. I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I hated being put on the spot, on having to deal with confrontation or unhappy patrons. The unpleasantness of it gave me panic attacks. As soon as the regular circ desk employee would return from lunch, I would immediately scurry back to the comfort and safety of shelving books.

  What I didn’t know and only found out later from my then-coworker is that our manager, Sue, knew I had this very visceral reaction to working the circulation desk and so she told the circ staff to not call me for assistance. It didn’t matter if the desk was understaffed or lunches started late: Sue became a Mama Bear and decided that I was no longer required to work the circ desk. I was content and happy shelving books and that’s where I belonged. Until my first job, I didn’t know how grateful I should have been to Sue.

  Now, with a podium and a room full of strangers looming large ahead of me, all those old anxieties were starting to bubble back up to the surface, ready to overflow.

  “Kimberly will be by around 9:30.” Dr. Harald told me as he went over the schedule for the morning. In the future I would facilitate the library portion of Orientation myself, but for the first one, he wanted me to sit in, listen, and observe. “It will only be about ten or fifteen minutes. And then after you close for the morning, we’ll go to Segregation.”

  Right. Seg. In all my anticipation about Orientation, I had completely forgotten about the ominous-sounding Segregation.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding in an attempt to shake the nerves from my head. “Sounds good. See you in about an hour.” As I went next door to open the library, I kept chanting to myself, You can do this, you can do this. I needed some reassurance, even if only from myself.

  Like Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, the mornings at the library were quiet and far more subdued than the afternoon sessions. Afternoons brought the newspapers, and with the newspapers came the inmates. The papers always arrived rolled up, like messages that had been pulled out of a bottle. The inmates were Robinson Crusoes, castaways hungry for any information from the mainland.

  At 9:30, right on time, Kimberly walked into the library. “Just go on next door,” she instructed, taking my seat at the main desk. “It’s in the classroom all the way in the back, on the right.”

  I went to the log book on top of the counter and signed myself out and headed next door. Then, (feeling déjà vu rather quickly), I went to the log book on the correctional officer’s desk and signed myself in to the Education department. Like the inmates, staff movement around the prison was monitored.

  Dr. Harald was waiting in the hallway outside of the classroom. “They are just finishing up, but we’re up next.”

  The classroom door opened and a staff member I didn’t recognize walked out. I followed Dr. Harald into the room and while he took a seat up front, I found an empty spot in the back, behind all the inmates. There was a healthy mix of black and white inmates, closely resembling the ratio that already existed inside the prison.

  Most sat slumped defensively, or, well, as slumped as they could get in uncomfortable metal folding chairs. Almost every one of them had their arms crossed against their chests, feet sticking as far out in front of them as possible, which was a challenge for some of them, given their height and the cramped configuration of the room.

  As Dr. Harald droned on about the offerings of the Education department, discussing the various levels of the GED program and computer programs, several inmates closed their eyes and tilted their head back, deciding it was nap time.

  “The library is run by Miss Grunenwald sitting there in the back. She’s new, just like all of you.”

  I sat up straighter in my chair as a dozen heads swiveled in my direction.

  I hate being stared at. Even with my heightened emotions and anxiety, I can usually mentally hide in a fight-or-flight mode that overtakes me. My body, on the other hand, operates strictly on a compulsion to blush, causing my entire round face to match my red hair. I could feel my cheeks flaming just then, and more than one inmate gave me a sly smile. Once again, I understood how Red Riding Hood felt when she first met the Big Bad Wolf.

  Dr. Harald continued on, going over the hours of the library and the services offered. I mentally took note, trying to remember everything he covered, while regretting not bringing a piece of paper and pen with me. Next Friday I would be doing this alone and notes would probably have been quite helpful. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an opportunity to run to the library, grab some scrap paper, and do a quick mental brain dump of everything I remembered because it was time to head to the Segregation unit.

  The exterior door of Segregation was a nondescript, stand-alone white door, and the only door in the building without an accompanying window. So nondescript, if it hadn’t been pointed out to me, I would have walked right past it, which was probably the point of its stark design.

  Dr. Harald was carrying a stack of books that he had to shift to his other arm in order to pull out his set of keys again. “Only a few of us have a key for Seg,” he explained, putting a key into the outer door. “If I’m not over here, you can ask one of the captains.”

  The door opened to reveal a long hall with a second door several yards ahead of us. Dr. Harald shut the exterior door behind us, then walked up to the second door. He pointed to a camera high in the ceiling.

  A loud, familiar buzz ricocheted around the space and Dr. Harald pushed open the door in front of us and the hallway extended.

  In Hollywood prisons, Segregation is often referred to as “the hole”: a deep dark dungeon of a room barely large enough for a grown man to sit, let alone stand. I had a feeling the reality would be a little less dramatic. Or at least I hoped it would be. If nothing else, the white walls gave it a lighter, brighter feeling than I had expected. In reality, instead of being a single dank, dark cell, Segregation is a prison within a prison. Its cells are reserved for those inmates that need to be removed from the general population. Sometimes it is for safety reasons—the inmate in question is a victim, or likely victim, of violence—while other times, inmates are sent there for punishment purposes.

  (In case you’re wondering: The old adage regarding how perpetrators of certain crimes, like rape or anything involving children, will basically get fed to the wolves once they arrive? In truth, often those inmates are segregated
immediately, and are never even given the opportunity to mingle with the general population.)

  At the end of the hall was another locked door, this one with a small window. On the right-hand side of the hallway was a tiny office with a high desk. Behind it sat a large white woman with cropped gray hair. She leaned forward across the high desk, squinting, clearly in need of a pair of glasses. I learned that this was Donnor, the head of the Rules Infraction Board, or RIB. The board operated as a panel that had the authority to administer punishment, up to and including time spent in Segregation.

  Dr. Harald ushered me in. “Donnor, this is Miss Grunenwald. Our new librarian.” Donnor gave a pleasant wave and a bright smile. “Guess I’ll be seeing you on Fridays!” she said. With that, Dr. Harald and I stepped back out into the hall and the door into Segregation buzzed open.

  The gray floor stretched out several yards in both directions. Lining the walls were heavy-duty doors, each sporting its own porthole window. At the back was what appeared to be a two-story cage with a freestanding basketball hoop. The cage reached high into the sky, marking the outdoor recreation area for Segregation inmates. Catty-corner to it was a room with a table: indoor recreation for the Segregated inmates. Aside from their allotted two hours a day in these places, the rest of the time, Seg inmates were in their cells.

  Dr. Harald stopped at the desk that sat at the front of the room. Upon seeing me, the two correctional officers perked up.

  “Who do we have here?” the one on the right asked. He was rotund and bald. The overhead fluorescent lights provided a glare off his pale head. His name badge read Michael Bolton.

  I cocked an eyebrow at the nametag. Bolton noticed and laughed. “Trust me, I’ve heard it all before.”

  His partner was a tall, graceful African American woman of Amazonian stature. Her thick, black braids were coiled and piled atop her head like a crown.

  “I’m Davis,” she said, shaking my hand. “You’re the new librarian?”

  “I am. I just started this week.”

  “Welcome to Seg,” Davis continued, taking her seat back at the desk she shared with Bolton.

  A white dry-erase board hung on the wall behind the desk. I craned my neck up to read the columns of inmate names and numbers, each assigned to a bunk, followed by the infraction number and the reporting staff member. It went so high up on the wall, I came to the conclusion Bolton and Davis were probably forced to stand on the desks just to update it.

  Dr. Harald was walking around to the different doors along the perimeter of the room. I hurried over to catch up to him.

  “Mr. Masterson?” He put his voice close to the door. “I have your books for you.”

  Movement began to stir from the far side of the room. Standing on my toes and peering in, all I could see was a metal bunk bed. A round white face came into view in the porthole window.

  “I was sleeping, man.” Masterson rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times then ran a hand through his blonde hair. He looked past Dr. Harald and locked on to me.

  “I brought your books,” Dr. Harald repeated. He looked to the correctional officers’ desk. Bolton pushed himself off his chair and came over.

  I hadn’t noticed before, but at Bolton’s hip hung a gigantic key ring. It swung with each step across the room. He found the appropriate key and put it into a key hole in the middle of the door. A slot pulled open, revealing a gap just wide enough for a couple of books.

  Dr. Harald slipped the books into the slot, and they disappeared into the room along with Masterson. Bolton slammed the fold-out door shut.

  I followed Dr. Harald as he went around to each cell, asking inmates if there were any books they would like brought back the next day.

  Dr. Harald finished up at the last cell and headed back towards the main door.

  “Nice meeting you!” Davis said, nodding in my direction, as I followed Dr. Harald out.

  As Dr. Harald pushed the heavy steel door out into the sunshine, he handed me the piece of paper he had been carrying around. I opened it up, attempting to decipher what could only politely be described as chicken scratch. “These are the requested books you’ll need to bring back tomorrow,” he explained. Fridays were for requesting books, Saturday for delivering them. He elaborated, saying most inmates weren’t specific about titles; they would usually just request authors or genres, and it was up to me to pick the books to bring back the next day.

  The only rule was no hardback books. None. Under no circumstances were hardback books allowed into Segregation—paperbacks only. The weight and flat, hard cover made the hardbacks too dangerous.

  Books are considered dangerous for all sorts of reasons: content, language, violence. There is also a philosophy of arming oneself with books and knowledge, as if preparing for a battle of wits. But this was the first time I realized they could be used as literal weapons.

  Since this was a minimum-security prison, I knew most of the inmates were in on nonviolent charges. I also knew that my porter Spencer had been right: nobody was going to do anything dumb enough to get themselves into trouble and risk extending their stay. Still, there was a room full of gentlemen tucked behind steel doors that proved otherwise, and visiting them was now on my weekly task list.

  Since our initial meeting, Andrews had been in every day to repair books, most often with tape, glue, or some combination of both. “Hey, Miss G, can I get the box?” he asked, leaning across my desk.

  With a nod, I stood up from my desk, went to the supply closet, and pulled out a blue shoebox that rested on top of the pile of surplus office supplies. Inside were dedicated safety scissors and a collection of tape varieties.

  Stepping out of the closet, I handed Andrews the box with one hand while locking the door with my other. He turned on one heel and disappeared into the crowd, headed for the law library.

  I scanned quickly. Tattered books lined the walls of the library. Covers torn, pages missing. With his collection of tape, Andrews did what he could to revive them to a passable condition again. Without a budget for buying new books, we had to make do with what we could.

  Koch appeared at my desk as soon as I sat back down. I had recently learned that Koch had been an engineer before prison. I had worked with engineers in graduate school, when I worked at a science research library. Admittedly, my privilege had made me naïve enough to paint a very inaccurate portrait of the kind of guys I was working with in here. “Miss G.,” he started, “I don’t want to complain . . .”

  I clasped my hands together on top of my desk and waited.

  “Well, it’s just.” Koch shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. “Andrews, ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s always back there in the law library with them books and he’s not a law porter. He’s not even a library porter!” Koch’s eyes grew larger behind his oversized glasses, horrified at this minor infraction.

  “I know, but the books need to be repaired and he’s willing to do it.”

  Koch stared at me, silent. His eyes magnified through the thick glass. Finally, with a resigned nod, he turned and went back to the law library.

  Andrews walked up to the desk, the blue shoebox tucked under this left arm. He separated himself from the mass exodus and politely waited until there was an opening before coming over to where I stood waiting.

  I outstretched my hand, ready to take the box back, when he spoke: “Y’know, Miss G., there’s a lot of books back there that need to be repaired.”

  I did know, plus the pile grew every day. Books were returned with covers half torn off, if not missing all together. Not just single pages, but complete sections were often pulled clean from the spine. My porters removed the ones in the worst condition but were forced to keep everything else until they were too far gone to be circulated.

  “Miss Carol,” Andrews said, referencing my predecessor, “well, she let me repair books back in the dorm.”

  “She did?” I failed to minimize the uptick in my voice.
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  His blue eyes flickered brightly and he continued in a rush. “Oh yeah. Y’know, I can only be here a few hours a day and I got my own job I gotta do. In the dorms I can repair them even when the library isn’t open.”

  This seemed an unusual practice in the realm of library science, but so much of what I had learned before had been thrown out the window the minute I stepped foot in the prison. Beyond that, what reason would Andrews have to lie? I mean, if he wanted to tape and repair books in his free time, on top of whatever job he already had, who was I to stop him? The pile of books in need of attention was never ending, and if his ability and desire to do it outside of regular library hours helped us stay afloat, well, okay then. Especially if my predecessor had already agreed to it.

  “Okay,” I said slowly, drawing out the first vowel. “I suppose that’s alright then.” From the book repair supplies box I removed a roll of tape and pair of safety scissors and handed them over.

  “The thing of it is,” Andrews continued, ducking his head apologetically as a lock of strawberry-blonde hair fell into his eyes. “This stuff isn’t really allowed in the dorms. It’s contraband, see, so, if you could just, like, write a note saying it’s okay that I have it that would be great.”

  I narrowed my eyes. I had a niggling feeling in the back of my brain that something about this just wasn’t right, but I kept coming back to my initial question: Why would Andrews lie?

  At this point in the night, the library was nearly empty except for a few stragglers who were slowly making their way to the exit, and my porters, who were all finishing up their tasks and cleaning up their work areas. Count would be starting soon and the inmates needed to get back to the dorms.

  Andrews hadn’t moved. He waited expectantly, eyes scrutinizing me, impatient to leave but not wanting to leave empty-handed.

  I felt my skin flush. I didn’t know what to do, but I was anxious to just get him out of the library, so I nodded and sat down. I pulled a piece of blank computer paper from the printer and dashed off a quick note: Andrews has my permission to have the scissors and tape in the dorms. I signed and dated it and handed it over to him.