Justice Notes: Jobs in Prison
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
JUSTICE NOTES: JOBS
Prison camps are working camps. Everyone’s assigned a job. Inmates are paid for the jobs they perform, but only cents on the dollar. There are no great options: orderly, maintenance, the kitchen, landscaping, the commissary, the power house, and the military base. Otherwise, there’s dog training and education. Dog training is popular because the trainers live in a larger bunk with only their pet as a bunkmate. However, it has its downside: walking at 5:00 in the morning, just before lights out at 10:00 pm, in any weather. There’s only one slot for education, and it’s like teaching high school in a second language, maybe a third language.
I chose the kitchen; I sort of chose it. The Camp Counselor, Mr. Larkin, said they were short on kitchen workers at orientation. He was mid-forties, had a huge gut, and a continual Cheshire cat grin. His low-keyed persona effused a disinterest in all things other than leaving on time and inmates’ restitution payments (court-ordered fines), of which he was inflexible. Hoping for a favorable first impression, I volunteered. Myself, Dr Death— an Asian GP from Connecticut, in for prescription drug violations—and Harry the alchie—a roofer in for tax evasion—were the other new guys. Three jobs were open: two table washers (the preferred ones) and one dishwasher. The Corrections Officer (CO) in charge of the kitchen, a black former Marine, a no-nonsense guy with something reassuring about him, said we should decide among ourselves. Dr. Death said he had a bad back, and Harry said he had seniority, so I was the dishwasher.
I learned to do the washing, the loading, and even operate the long stainless steel washing machine, a frightening apparatus that had to be reassembled every morning and was rumored to have taken limbs from prior inmates. By the time I was released, I was the Number one dishwasher. Guys used to kid me. “DiMenna, you can always get a job now when you’re out.” Such a distinction. Actually, I was proud of it. I even got to like it. Something about the tactile there. I can’t explain it. Sometimes, I think it saved me.
The kitchen is a confined space, with the dishwashing area separated from the food preparation. The food is served on trays. Imates pile their trays after eating, and the cooks place the dirty pans in the same area. Dishwashers often struggle to keep up. There is a lot of pressure to finish quickly so the COs (correction officers) can leave. Like any workplace, bonds and rivalries emerge. The following are profiles of some of the men I worked with.
THE JAMAICAN
Everyone called him Dee. I never knew his real name. He was a Black Jamaican in his mid-60s who worked with me in the kitchen. He was “number two” in the kitchen (prison speak for assistant chef) on the AM shift. As the number two man, most of his work was in prep, slicing and dicing. A deliberate, meticulous worker, he moved so carefully in the kitchen that he never seemed to be in the way, despite the tight quarters we worked in. He had a kind face and never once lost his temper. He never appeared to be in a hurry, walking to or away from the dorm with the same deliberate stride. Although not estranged from the Black community, he was independent from them. He was more educated than most of the Black inmates who were there for drugs and/or gang membership. He had a deep, sonorous voice and a distinct island accent that was rich and hypnotizing.
Although he had a kind, even-keeled temperament, he was passionate about politics. He loved Donald Trump, often guarding the television during our work hours in the kitchen to ensure it was always tuned to Fox News. We didn’t connect at first. He told me later on that when I first arrived at work in the kitchen, he thought I would be a prima donna. He said that he changed his mind about me after I didn’t shy away from the “dirty work.” After that, he was always friendly, never missing saying good morning or acknowledging me in the halls with a nod and a smile. He approached me once about politics, but I told him that I didn’t discuss politics with anyone. And if I did, he wouldn’t want to be my friend. He smiled broadly and put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s ok John John,” which is what he called me. “Not everyone is born with brains,” he said with an even bigger smile.
He had great patience, never complained, and he was always the last to finish his meal. When he’d place his tray for me to clean, he’d always bow slightly and say “Thank you.”
I never found out what he was in for. We never communicated outside of the kitchen, except for one time when someone mentioned that my mattress needed fine-tuning. There was a way to tie your sheets to make the mattresses more comfortable. The mattresses in prison were barely two or three inches thick and sat on firm steel frames. I don’t even know how he knew about it. But he arrived unannounced, proceeded to push me out of the way and remade my bed, tying the sheets in the prison fashion (a complicated, time-consuming process using shoestrings and toilet paper) so that the mattress was more balanced and supportive. Almost everyone in the kitchen pilfers some food, especially apples and bananas. But I never saw Dee take anything.
The night before I was released, he came by my bunk, put his hand on my shoulder, and shook my hand. “Good luck John John. I’m happy for you. You’re a good man.” I don’t feel like a good man anymore. It meant a lot to hear that from Dee. But for some reason, every time I think about him, I’m overcome by remorse and guilt.
THE STEEL WORKER
One of the bakers in the kitchen was a former iron worker in his late fifties from Philadelphia. Eddie was a long-term inmate, and we became friends because I had worked construction at one time. He looked like an old sailor, with tattoos on both arms and forearms, reminiscent of Popeye. He worked out like a madman in the afternoons. He had a brutal regimen of crawls, one-armed pushups, wheelies, and some other ones I had never seen before. He was a union boss and went too far on a job action, burning down a garage.
“Johnny, I got a little carried away. We were battling these non-union fucks. They were killing us. Fuckin hall packed every day. Guys screamin. What are you doing about it? You gotta stop this shit. Some guys wanted to burn some equipment in their garage. Just send a little message. I okayd it and then the assholes burned the fuckin building down. I got fifteen years. Son of a bitch.”
All this happened after 30 years in the field, standing on top of beams forty floors up. The union job was supposed to be a reward, a kind of semi-retirement but with full pay and a title. He told me he always wanted to be a steelworker. In high school, there was a high-rise under construction right next to his classroom.
“I hated school. Had no use for that academic shit. But I watched those guys every day on those beams like skywalkers. I knew what I wanted to do the first time I saw those guys.”
Despite the reversal, Eddie made the best of it. Always hacking around with me. A good baker, too. My family business had been in sewer construction. We connected on that. Eddie would hand me a pot to clean.
“Looks like a fucking sewer in there, Johnny,” he’d say, with a big smile and a tap on the arm. After he made a batch of coffee cakes, he’d drop two or three of them behind me while I was washing dishes. When I looked up, he’d wink at me on his way back to the ovens.
“Looks like you're eating too many salads, Johnny.”
He was transferred before I was released to a facility with a program called RDAP for inmates with drug or alcohol issues. Inmates who were accepted to the program could reduce their sentence by a year. I lot of guys fudged their issue, including Eddie.
“Will it really help you?” I asked the day before he was transferred.
“I don’t know, Johnny,” he said, looking away like he was trying to decide himself at that moment. “If it gets me home one day sooner, it’ll be worth it. My wife’s losing more of me every day.”
The above is an excerpt from an essay published in Minutes Before Six. It’s another firsthand account of my life and that of others, providing portraits of people most affected by a broken system. To look beyond the surface and into the heart of what incarceration really means. Here is a link to the full essay. A Muddled Brotherhood.
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