Lockdown on Rikers (4 page)

As we continued through the halls, we passed a series of barred gates that lined the walls. Next to each one was a big black number. “These are the entryways to their houses,” Janet explained. “And the number just identifies the house—it's the address, so to speak. The houses, as they're called, are where the women essentially live, where they shower and sleep.” At one of these barred gateways that lined the halls, Janet stopped, and my soft-spoken supervisor rapped on the bars. “
on—the—gate!
” she shouted. As the gate shuddered and started moving, she winked at me. “Jail language.” Once inside, we stepped into the “bubble,” a Plexiglas booth where we were greeted by a chubby CO in a worn-out swivel chair who passed us a logbook. In front of his desk, a broad picture window looked directly into a cellblock, where mentally ill inmates milled about. “Hello, Miss W,” the congenial officer said. Janet introduced me to Officer Timlinson, who took an immediate interest in my jailhouse education. “This is what's called a protected house,” he said. “These MO inmates, they don't mingle with general population [GP]. Their meals are brought here, they don't go to the clinic—the doctors and nurses come here, for their own protection. We keep a good eye on them.”

We thanked him, stepped out of the bubble, and waited for him to “pop” the door leading onto the MO. Never having been in a psychiatric ward before, I was clutching my notebook tightly. But nothing happened when we walked in. In the middle of an old linoleum floor bordered by a long row of sulfur-colored cell doors, a dozen or so women, looking slightly “off,” sat in colored plastic chairs around a big TV set. I immediately recognized these women as those sad but familiar figures often seen on the city landscape, prowling the subways in tattered clothes and standing on street corners ranting and raving to the world and no one—the sorry souls that the rest of us sidestep.

Now, they were stabilized on Rikers Island, rocking back and forth, lightly tapping laceless sneakers to the floor.

“Side effects of their meds,” Janet said, referring to the tapping. “But even with the side effects, they're doing a whole lot better than they were out on the streets.” She also explained the missing shoelaces. “We take away belts and shoelaces when they're admitted, to thwart any suicide plan.” Fixtures that could potentially be used for a hanging also had been removed. As a further precaution, two GP inmates with laced-up sneakers and belted jeans sat at either end of the unit. “Suicide prevention aides,” Janet explained. “They alert us to any self-destructive behavior. It's the highest-paying jailhouse job,” she added. “Ten bucks for a forty-hour workweek.”

Around the shower area there was a little drama as a Mental Health worker tried to persuade a newly admitted patient into showering. Not yet stabilized, the poor woman was filthy. With the promise of a few cigarettes, she relented. “Go on! Don't forget the soap! Soap is your friend!” An officer stood by with clean clothes from the jail's clothes box.

Just like Officer Timlinson, these COs seemed kind and helpful, and Janet told me that these MO officers all had undergone training to understand the special needs of the mentally ill.

“Now, let's see,” Janet said, scratching her head. “Let's find Annie Tilden. She's a paranoid schizophrenic who stays to herself, and I'd like you to start working with her.”

A CO jumped up to help out. At cell number three, she pounded on the door. “Tilden! You in there?”

A pair of eyes darted out at us through the little window.

“Get dressed and come out!” the officer ordered.

Shortly, Annie Tilden emerged, looking a little woozy, as though she'd been sleeping.

“Hello, Annie,” Janet said as we stepped up to meet her.

Annie Tilden said nothing, but simply stared at Janet. Heavyset, with mocha-colored skin and wiry hair pulled back into a clip, she seemed mesmerized.

“How are you feeling today?” Janet continued. “Taking your meds?”

“Yes, Miss Waters,” she uttered robotically.

“Good. Now, Annie, I'd like you to meet Miss Buser. She's a student intern and she's going to be working with you.”

“Nice to meet you,” I offered.

But Annie Tilden just looked at me with a blank expression.

“So,” Janet continued, as if Annie had responded, “Miss Buser will be coming to see you. All right then, that's all.”

Annie Tilden started back to cell number three, but not before I tried to make some little connection with her. “I look forward to meeting with you!” But she never looked back, and the cell door slammed shut.

“That's okay,” said Janet. “A lot of schizophrenics don't do well socially—nothing personal. Your relationship with her will be a lot different than women from GP. Focus on her medication. That's what's most important with the mentally ill. The two of you can go upstairs and talk. There's a couple of empty cells up there that we use for sessions.”

I looked up to the second tier, where Mental Health staff were chatting with patients in open-door cells. I hadn't anticipated conducting therapy sessions inside a jail cell, but as Janet looked at me expectantly, I said, “Okay.”

On our way out, we passed the rocking women peacefully planted in front of the TV. Janet shook her head. “When I first started working here, we had a few mentally ill inmates here and there, but now, the numbers are huge. They don't belong in here. It's no way for a civilized society to treat its mentally ill. But here they are. Jail's their new home. It's really sad.”

3

In the days that followed, my tour of the jail continued, and I met more key officers and clinic staff. But it was an afternoon agenda that I was most excited about, which was accompanying Janet to a support group for new mothers. During our orientations, we had learned that within the barricaded world of Rikers Island was a nursery. A pilot program, we were told, one of only three in the entire country. If a pregnant inmate gives birth while incarcerated, the baby can stay for a year, the idea being that it's best for the baby to be with its mother for that first year. After that, though, the child must leave, before developing an awareness of its surroundings.

We set out early one afternoon, trekking through the corridors until we reached what was obviously the nursery entrance, a door with a Mickey Mouse decal and the civility of a doorbell. Janet pushed the bell, and a female officer unlocked the door and led us down a narrow passageway where the delicate sounds of newborns echoed strangely off the concrete and steel. The passage opened into a softly lit, carpeted nursery, where kerchiefed mothers, most little more than teenagers, tended to their babies, bottle-feeding the infants, changing diapers, and patting the babies' backs. Others were sitting in a glass-walled “living room,” tots on their laps. Outside the living room, neat rows of cribs were filled with stuffed animals and crocheted blankets. The cell doors that lined the walls—the
cells where the mothers slept—were the only feature to remind us where we were.

Nurses' aides kept a watchful eye, and the nursery director supervised the operation from a windowed office. The nameplate on the window read “Camille Baxter, R.N.” Janet rapped on Baxter's open door, and the nursery director hopped up from behind piles of papers to greet us. Fortyish, she wore red-framed eyeglasses, a white lab coat, and stylish high heels. She pumped my hand when Janet introduced us. “Welcome!” she beamed. “Glad you're on board. These mothers need all the support they can get. Living in the nursery is a big cut above general population, but it's not an entitlement—it's a privilege. If these girls don't toe the line, they can be expelled and their baby sent home. Before they were arrested, most of them were out on the streets, using drugs, barely able to take care of themselves. Now they're expected to be model inmates, model mothers, model people. It's a tall leap, gets wild in here sometimes, doesn't it, Janet?”

But Janet just smiled and moved to the center of the nursery. “Ladies, group is starting!”

In the living room, we joined the early arrivals, and following Janet's lead, I sat down on the couch alongside the mothers, an arrangement that was cozier than I'd expected. But it felt natural, and I was immediately drawn to the babies, who cooed and gurgled, oblivious to their circumstances. Seated next to me, a dark-haired girl was cradling her baby for me to admire. “This is Teresita, my little pink princess.” Adorned in a pink satin headband, Teresita looked up from her bottle to give me a gummy little smile.

“Nice to meet you, Teresita!”

“And I'm Marisol,” her mother whispered as the room came to order.

Janet started things off by introducing me to the group, who were semi-interested in my presence. Carmen smiled shyly; Tasha and Swanday, seated together at the end of the couch, shrugged. Addie and Michelle, both fussing with their babies, managed a quick wave. Kim and Josette stifled yawns but still nodded politely.
The gangly Millie, with a neon orange pick planted atop thick tufts of hair, said, “Yeah, hi,” without looking up. And in a rocking chair angled off to the side was Lucy, who said nothing. Like the women in the halls, all of these mothers were Black or Hispanic.

“So, how's everyone doing this week?” Janet started.

“Stresssssed,” they chimed in unison.

“Very stressed,” said Michelle, a slight girl with neat braids. “I don't know what's happening with my case, and I can never reach my lawyer. And I'm grateful to be here in the nursery, of course, but it's one thing after the next: chores, parenting classes, Narcotics Anonymous, nutrition classes—”

“Yeah,” Kim agreed. “It's a lot, but we're trying.” With a light scar running from ear to mouth, Kim looked old and tired for her short years.

“For me,” said Addie, clinging tightly to the little bundle in her arms, “I love Jacy so much, but the longer I have her, the harder it's gonna be to let her go. My lawyer's talkin' about a three-to-six. Jacy'll go to foster care. I just hope my baby gets a good home—that's all.”

As Addie bit back tears, a painful silence fell over the room. Addie seemed nice enough. Looking at her round friendly face framed by a white kerchief, I wondered what she could possibly have done to merit such a harsh punishment. And as baby Jacy's tiny hand reached up and cupped her mother's chin, I tried not to think of what the split would mean for this fragile new life.

I glanced at Janet, who was smoothing her skirt, taking it all in. “Well, now,” she said, comfortingly, “we just have to take things a day at a time—that's the key here—a day at a time.”

“About all we can do, Miss Waters,” said Carmen. “But it's so hard; we don't know how our cases are going to turn out, whether we're going home—or to prison. We don't know if we'll be able to hold on to our babies or lose them. Some days it's just so hard.”

But not everyone was perturbed. “Well, I know
one
thing,” Millie piped up. “Calvin's my sixth, and I'm gonna hold on to
this
one.” But while Millie beamed, little Calvin was sliding off her lap.
At the far end of the couch, Tasha and Swanday were whispering, sharing a little laugh at Millie's speech.

“What's so funny?” Millie said, struggling to pull Calvin back up, the orange pick flopping out of her hair.

“Hey,” Janet said to Tasha and Swanday, “we're not having private conversations here!”

“What's so funny?” Millie demanded.

“It's okay, Millie,” said Janet. “It's okay now.”

But it was not okay. Millie jumped up from the couch, Calvin no longer in her lap but dangling from his armpit with Millie gripping him like a ragdoll.

“Millie!” Janet gasped.
“The baby!”
Janet was on her feet, her clipboard and folders scattering to the floor, long arms outstretched. “Give me the baby, Millie, give me the baby!”

But Millie, shaking in hurt and rage, heard none of it. “Ya rotten bitches,” she quivered. “I hate you. I hate all of you!” As she shook her arms for emphasis, the baby also shook.

Janet was inching closer. “Give me the baby, Millie! Give me the baby!” With a calculated lunge, Janet grabbed poor little Calvin, just as Millie was returning to her senses.

Janet handed the shrieking child over to Camille Baxter, who'd rushed in with nurses' aides and an alarmed officer in tow. As Baxter nestled the child against her lab coat, a weeping Millie reached out for her son.
“Cal–vin!”

“Oh, no, miss!” said Baxter, reeling back. “
Now
you want to be a good mother? Doesn't work like that! Go to your cell—now!”

Millie stormed out, her own wails even louder than her son's cries. The spectacle over, the crowd disbursed and the mood turned somber. Accusing looks were shot in the direction of a subdued Tasha and Swanday. After a few more minutes of strained conversation, Janet opted to end things early. She set out the box of donuts she'd brought along, and the mothers lined up for a sugary treat. “See you next week,” a few of them quietly said to me, taking a donut as they walked away.

On our way out, we stopped by the nursery director's office. “I don't know what I'm going to do with her,” said a shaken Baxter. “She's always flying off the handle. After this stunt, she should be thrown out of here and sent back to GP. But I hate to do it—her charge isn't that serious and she's got a good shot at a drug program. If I boot her out, it all falls apart.”

“Well, wait a minute now,” said Janet. “What if we were to work with her? Help her develop some coping strategies, tide her over till she goes to the program?”

Baxter's face lit up. “Hey, couldn't hurt . . .”

“And Mary,” Janet said, turning to me, “ready for another case?”

“Yes, sure,” I said, taken a little off guard. “That would be fine.”

Baxter instructed a nurse to summon Millie, and the sniffling mother reappeared.

“Millie,” said Baxter, “how would you feel about meeting with Miss Buser for therapy? You're skating on very thin ice, miss!”

“Yes, that would be good,” Millie mumbled.

As I smiled at Millie, I was trying to picture the two of us sitting down together, talking, maybe sharing a little laugh now and then. But as I grasped her limp hand, all I could really think was that this woman had already lost
five
children—and just jeopardized the life of her sixth. What could I say to her—in the space of a few therapy sessions, no less—that could possibly make any difference in this woman's life? Camille Baxter's words started booming in my head:
These girls had been out on the streets, using drugs, barely able to care for themselves . . .
As I looked around at the nursery, at the teddy bears and crib mobiles, my grand hopes of making a difference were dimming, and I began to wonder if this whole nursery program was nothing more than an artificial window imposed on hopeless causes.

I was looking down at the floor, feeling about as bleak as the cold cement walls, when there was a loud rap on the window. I
looked up to see a beaming Marisol holding up her little pink princess. She was waving the baby's hand at me, in the same way Dorothy held Toto's paw when they were leaving Oz. Despite my sinking spirits, I laughed. Behind her, the others were feeding and rocking their little ones, smiling and gazing into their babies' eyes with such love that I could almost feel the bond between mother and child. There was so much at stake here—not only for the mothers, but also for these babies. Drug addicts or not, these mothers were first and foremost human beings, and it was far too soon for me to rule out the power of the human spirit. I'd be darned if I was going to let one incident discourage me. I waved back at Teresita and Marisol and resolved that if there was any way to help these women—even if the gains were modest—then I was determined to find it.