Lockdown on Rikers (13 page)

“Whaddya think this is—the Russian Tea Room? This is Rikers Island!”

“I'll bring in the food and we'll sit at our usual desk.”

“She's goin' up the river, you know.”

“Yes, thank you for that. Any objections?”

“Hey, you want to waste your money—feel free.”

“Thank you, Officer Overton, thank you very much! After I'm gone, I'll always have such fond memories of you!”

“Baahhh!”

Just as Rhonda had rebounded from my departure news, so did the adolescents. When I next met with them, I pointed out their changes, reminding them of how they used to lunge for the donuts and of their new strategies for handling anger. In the same way I told Rhonda that her changes were for keeps, I told them that they had matured, and that that could never be undone. Although they weren't happy, they were a resilient bunch, and, skilled listeners that they'd become, they heard me out. And then there was giggling and impish looks. They had a secret, and when they could contain it no longer, Ebony pulled a big pink homemade card out from under the table.

“Read it! Read it!”

On the cover was a carefully traced rose, and inside were the words: “If this was a perfect world, and if dreams really did come
true, then our dream would be that you would stay with the group.” It was signed by each of them.

I wanted to cry. Instead, I looked up at their beaming faces. “Thank you,” I said. “I can see that a lot of thought went into this—and it means so much to me.”

“You really like it?”

“I love it!”

The hour went by quickly, and just like old times, they walked me to the bubble for a final “You—got—friends—on—Ri–kers Island!” And then this bunch that had become so dear to me gathered in front of the bubble window, waving. I walked backward, waving back, holding up my big pink card. It wasn't till I turned a corner that I let the tears flow.

After obtaining Officer Overton's grudging approval for lunch with Rhonda Reynolds, I told her about it in our second-to-last session.

“We're going to have lunch together—you and me?”

“Yes, I thought it would be a nice thing for the two of us to do.”

She looked a little suspicious but said, “Okay.”

We decided on pizza, soda, and cupcakes for dessert.

On the appointed day, I poured soda and nuked the pizza.

“I haven't had soda or pizza in over a year,” she said.

“How does it taste?”

“Delicious,” she smiled.

After months of intimate conversation, all of a sudden we were a bit like strangers. “Hey,” I said, “remember the first time I met you, when you came down in that fuzzy blue headband?”

“Sure do!” she laughed. “I loaned it to someone. Reminds me, I need to get it back!”

As always, time sped by and our little luncheon was over. She started to cry again, but this time just a little. We stood up and hugged. “I'm so glad I got to know you, Rhonda. You'll be in my thoughts and prayers.”

“Good-bye, Miss Buser,” she said. “Thank you.”

As Overton unlocked the clinic door, she turned back one more time and waved, and then Rhonda Reynolds was gone.

* * *

On our last day at Rose Singer, the three of us were packing up our papers from our anti-TB room, leaving early since our supervisors were taking us out to lunch. We had toyed with the idea of closing the windows in April. After having made it safely to spring, we figured we were home free. But then Wendy said, “Wouldn't it be something if we got through winter, let our guard down now—and got TB?” That did it. The windows stayed open. But now, on our last day, we shut them, stood back, and clapped. We made it!

“Yeah, sure,” said Overton, who'd poked his head in, “now that it's warm out—time to
open
the windows—you decide to
shut
them. Thanks a lot!”

“Oh, Overton!” said Janet. “Say good-bye to the students. Today's their last day.”

“Yeah, and in September there'll be three more to ruin my life. Least I'll have the summer in peace.” But as he walked us to the door and unlocked it for the final time, he gave up a smile. “Baahhh—good-bye, already!”

Out in the lobby, I gazed up at the portrait of Rose Singer, recalling her wish that this jail be a place of hope and renewal. For many of the women in here, it had been just that. Change comes slowly, and while it remained to be seen just how these women would fare once released, those who had sought support were certainly better positioned for managing life on the outside. For my part, I was thrilled to have been part of their growth and, of equal importance, to have given something of value to the most beaten-down among us. I knew I'd found my niche, and as we stepped out of the gritty jail and into the sunshine of the day, I also knew that I would be back.

14

As a reward for trekking out to Rikers Island, all the Rikers students were handed plum assignments for our second and final year of fieldwork. For me, this meant a family services agency in Midtown Manhattan, just a few doors down from Carnegie Hall. From this smart new address, I continued to hone my therapy skills, branching out to work with troubled families and children. But much as I appreciated the pleasant surroundings, my mind always drifted back to Rikers.

In the spring of 1993 I received my master's degree. To celebrate, my mother hosted a backyard party, and friends and family stopped by to offer congratulations. This degree was a long time coming—four years, in fact, including night classes for two years prior to the Rikers placement. To support myself while attending school, I'd worked for a Manhattan investment bank, first as a late-night word processor and then as an evening receptionist.

After graduation, I considered job possibilities, with Rikers at the top of my list. Since I'd left Rose Singer, Janet and I had stayed in touch, and we'd been discussing my return—not if, but when. “But this time around,” said Janet, “we'll be working side by side. How does that sound?”

As much as I loved the idea, the memory of my rich experiences at Rose Singer was starting to fade, and I was growing ambivalent about an immediate return. As a full-timer, things would be different: three days would become five, and nine cases would balloon to
over thirty. And then there was the practical matter of getting to Rikers. As a student I was lucky to have been in a carpool. But without a car and on my own, accessing the island would be a two-hour ordeal by train and bus. But something else was bothering me. Although family and friends had been supportive of my jailhouse internship, a return was another matter. While my mother was enthused, my father and others echoed Wendy's first-day-at-Rikers sentiments—that it was one thing to work in jail as a student, but to
choose it—no!

Between practical considerations and this unexpected wave of anxiety, I thought I might try something else for a while, maybe work with a similar population, but just in a different setting. Janet understood, adding that the island was in the midst of staffing changes and that it made sense to hold off anyway until the right position opened up. This sealed it for me, and with a decision made, my interest turned toward drug addiction. If nothing else, my year at Rikers had shown me that our jail and prison populations are driven by addiction, and I wanted to learn more about this modern-day scourge. With this in mind, for the next couple of years I worked with parolees at a South Bronx–based drug rehab facility called El Rio, followed by a stint in the alcoholism unit of a Manhattan outpatient clinic. My immersion in the world of drug and alcohol recovery was a rich and valuable experience, but two years later, my interest in returning to Rikers had not waned. During this time, Janet and I had continued to stay in touch, and she'd kept me up to date on the doings at Rikers. By now, the staffing changes were complete, and with this came the bombshell news that Janet was no longer at Rose Singer: she had been transferred to a men's jail. As always, Janet took it in stride. “It's working out very nicely,” she said. “I actually think I like working with men better—they're quieter. Not so much drama.”

In the spring of 1995, Janet alerted me to an opening in her new jail. “This is it, Mary Mac. You ready?”

Although this was the moment I'd been waiting for, now I wasn't so sure. I hadn't expected to be working with men, who were likely charged with more serious crimes.

“It doesn't matter what they're charged with,” Janet said. “It's the exact same work. Believe me, you'd adjust easily. Besides, we have a first-rate team here, a lot of support. You'd learn a lot, and you'd fit in very well.”

Sometimes we have to take things on faith. Regardless of whether it was men or women, I sensed that the time had come. I told Janet I'd see her soon.

15

On a sunny June morning, I drove across the Rikers Island bridge, no longer a student but a neophyte professional. Although several years had passed since I'd left Rose Singer, things still felt familiar—the seagulls, the roaring jets, the barbed-wire compound unfolding as you got closer. Not only did it feel familiar, it felt right. By now, my family and friends had more or less accepted that this was what I wanted. But even better, I had met someone special who was solidly behind me. Alex was a psychiatrist whom I'd met through one of my jobs. Originally from Ecuador, he had a limited license to practice medicine in New York State. Although fully licensed in his native country, he was studying to pass stringent exams in order to become fully licensed in the United States. As I encouraged him in his studies, he supported me in my unusual aspiration to work with the incarcerated, even helping me to find a reliable secondhand car. The night before my return, we'd gone out to dinner to celebrate.

But now, as I shifted gears in my little car, I felt tension in the briny air. Frenzied black sedans with flashing blue lights whipped back and forth across the bridge. And along the riverbank, a beefed-up fleet of security jeeps patrolled the island's edges. Most ominous of all were two gray tanks creeping down the main roadway, ready to squash any uprising. In the time I'd been gone, there'd been a surge in the inmate population, and the island was on high alert.
The city had a new mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, whose trademark was an emphasis on crime reduction. Suddenly, even minor transgressions such as trespassing and jumping turnstiles at the subway were being aggressively policed, resulting in unprecedented numbers of arrests. The jails were now packed to capacity, with barges ferried in to house the overflow. On this 415-acre island, a record 24,000 detainees awaited their fate. Considering that entire prisons typically house about 2,000 inmates in total, the numbers here were staggering.

At the bus depot, I boarded a different bus than the one I'd taken to Rose Singer. As it rumbled down the road, we passed a dump truck, its bed filled with male inmates in olive drab uniforms on some sort of work detail. Unlike the detainees, who were the mainstay of the Rikers population, these were actual prisoners, those who'd been sentenced to a year or less and were permitted to serve it on Rikers itself. The jail they resided in was technically a prison. With cases behind them, and sentences of less than a year, they were often referred to as the “lucky ones.”

The bus made a quick unfamiliar turn and pulled up in front of an imposing, boxlike building, the George Motchan Detention Center, my new workplace. One of Rikers Island's largest jails, GMDC housed 2,200 men. A bronze plaque commemorated the jail's namesake, George Motchan, an officer killed trying to thwart an inmate escape from a city hospital.

The lobby was crowded with correction officers and civilian workers in the midst of a shift change. Framed photographs lined the walls: photos of a smiling Mayor Giuliani, of the correction commissioner, and of George Motchan. Although I saw nothing comparable to the Rose Singer portrait, just above the entryway bars someone had scrolled the famous Dostoevsky quote: “A society can be judged by the condition of its jails.” I wondered what life at GMDC would say about us.

After navigating security windows and magnetometers, I waited as the entryway gate inched open. A throng of navy blue–uniformed officers spilled out, and behind them was Janet, waving
to me. Though her hair was longer, she still wore her trademark suit and in every other way remained her stately self. “Hey there, you,” she said, giving me a big hug. “Finally!”

Beside Janet was a short, pretty woman in her mid-forties, whom I recognized from my interviews as GMDC's Mental Health chief, Pat Ballard. “We're glad you're here!” the chief smiled, shaking my hand. “We're so glad you decided to come on board!”

“Come on,” said Janet, “everyone's waiting to meet you.” We hustled back through the open gate and past an inner security window. But once inside the jail, we stopped short and stood back along the wall. Officers in riot gear were streaming down the hall, shedding helmets, face shields, and chest padding. “They're returning from a housing search,” Janet whispered. “They look for weapons.” Two big German shepherds, held in check by an officer in a DOC baseball cap, were wending through the commotion. “Part of the K-9 unit,” Pat said. “They take dogs into the houses to sniff out drugs. Believe it or not, Mary, there's plenty of drugs right here in the jail.”

I'd seen neither search teams nor dogs at Rose Singer, and I knew in that moment that working in a men's jail was going to be very different. But with the escalating inmate population, I also knew life behind bars was simply becoming more violent, for men and women alike. A 1994 cover of
New York
magazine asked, “Is Rikers About to Explode?” Mayor Giuliani boldly brushed it off while quietly mandating that order be maintained; I assumed these search teams were part of that effort.

When the coast was clear, we crossed over to a stairwell and ambled up to the second floor. Halfway down the corridor was a set of double doors. “Home base!” said Pat.

Inside were office cubicles, bulletin boards, and a small conference room where coffee and bagels had been set out. Charley Simms, the assistant chief, a tall strapping man with a big toothy smile, was rounding up the troops. “Come on, everyone—let's welcome Mary!”

We all sat around the table, and Pat introduced me to the crew: Robert Goodwin and Victor Alfaro, two psychiatrists; Richard
Delgado, a psychologist; and therapists Ellie, Chuck, Frederick, and Connie. Later, I would meet the evening staff.

“So, Mary,” said Dr. Delgado, a twinkle in his eye, “you ready for the big leagues?” A squat, fiftyish man with salt-and-pepper hair, Delgado was the unit's clinical supervisor.

“Of course she's ready,” said Janet, with feigned indignation.

“After all,” he winked, “I heard that Rose Singer's like working in Mickey Mouse land.”

“Oh, go on!” Janet laughed.

“Well,” said Charley, “with nine men's jails to one women's house, you can see who the real criminals are—although you'll find the men are quieter.”

“But then again,” said Ellie, “the men will quietly cut your throat.”

“Whoops! She's going to quit before lunch!” joked Dr. Goodwin. The psychiatrist, speaking in a soft Haitian accent, wasn't going to miss out on the fun.

“No, she's not,” Janet asserted. “Mary knows that for these inmates, we're the good guys. They know we're trying to help them. The violence in here is pretty much inmate on inmate.”

“Sad, but true,” said Pat.

As we chatted, I felt immediately at home with my new colleagues and fortunate to be joining this highly regarded team. With a combined total of close to twenty years on Rikers, Pat and Charley had an island-wide reputation for strong, competent leadership. And based on what I was learning, their leadership, and the support of this team, would come in very handy in the days ahead.

“Count just cleared!” somebody yelled. Out in the corridor, a rush of noise and activity interrupted our little gathering, and the crew scrambled up from the table, tossing Styrofoam cups into trash pails. Armed with piles of charts, they headed down to the clinic to meet with the morning's patients.

When all was quiet, Pat showed me around, pointing out a bulletin board that listed GMDC's mentally ill inmates—one hundred
in total—who were housed on not one but two MOs. We leafed through various logbooks, and she showed me the all-important basket of referral slips. Just as at Rose Singer, the basket was overflowing. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you'll start evaluating some of these—anybody who needs follow-up will go onto your caseload.”

While Pat took a phone call, I flipped through the pile of referrals and swallowed hard. The referrals read:
“Wants to die,” “Says he'll kill himself if he blows trial,” “Can't hold on much longer,” “Says he's innocent and no one will listen,” “Mother just died—distraught,” “First incarceration—can't stop crying.”
I put them back in the basket. The stakes here were much higher than at Rose Singer. But it was okay, I told myself. I'd do what I'd always done—listen to these men, connect with their humanity, and learn from this veteran team.

Pat then suggested a tour of the clinic, just a short walk down the hall from our office. At the clinic entryway, a female officer was seated at a small desk. The nameplate pinned to her uniform read “Edwards.” “Mary,” said Pat, “I'd like you to meet Miss Edwards. She's our Mental Health officer and we'd be lost without her.” I reached out my hand to a petite Black woman. “Hello,” she said, tersely. After the dour Officer Overton, I wasn't surprised by her tepid welcome, and Pat gave me a little wink as we stepped past her desk.

The Mental Health area was long and narrow, divided in half lengthwise by a Plexiglas wall. A door at the end connected the two sides. The right side was a waiting area with a long row of colored plastic chairs pushed up against the cinder-block wall. On the other side were semiprivate session booths; toward the back was an open space for group therapy.

The waiting room chairs were empty, the morning session almost over. But in one of the booths, an inmate who was little more than a teenager quietly wept; in another, a scruffy older man in a torn flannel shirt struggled to answer Dr. Goodwin's queries as to where he was and the time of day.

Pat directed me to an empty booth. “This one will be yours.”

With a little desk and two chairs, it was small but adequate.

A sharp yell came from Officer Edwards: “That's it, folks!” For emphasis, she beat the plastic window with her small fist. “That's it!” she shouted. “Feedings are starting—time for inmates to clear out!”

I looked at my watch. Although it was only 10:15, lunchtime at Rikers is at 10:30.

After the remaining inmates had left, Pat resumed my orientation, pointing to a small button on the wall behind my desk. “That button,” she said, “will sound an alarm if you ever feel you're in danger. If you push it, the squad will come running.”

“Do these buttons get pushed often?”

“No, but good to have them—just in case.”

With the clinic tour complete, we were about to leave when Pat stopped short in the doorway. “Too late!” snapped Officer Edwards. “Houses are moving!”

Out in the corridor, long silent lines of inmates now filled the halls, each line representing an entire fifty-inmate house. With green plastic cups in hand, the houses were headed to the mess hall. Unlike in the women's jail, where the women noisily meandered to the cafeteria, talking here was prohibited.

A few yards away, one of these lines had halted in front of a strip of duct tape affixed to the floor that served as a traffic marking. The men were dark-skinned, heavily tattooed, and mostly young. With ID badges clipped to their T-shirts, they shifted from one leg to the other, eyes darting about. Although their jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers were the garb of the detainee, they bore the subdued look of prisoners.

An angry officer marched back and forth, inspecting the line.
“I said—
shut—the fuck—up!
”

A youth caught my eye and gave me a sad little smile.

“Take—the bodies—down!”
came a command from around the corner.
“Take it down!”

The house started moving. With sneakers squeaking against the floor, the line silently rounded the bend, while the next house was coming forward.

“Come on,” said Pat. “Let's go!”

The two of us darted out and ducked into our office just as the new line approached.