THE GUARDS
Another portrait from A Muddled Brotherhood. Having spent the past several weeks writing about the inmates I knew, I’m continuing with the guards. The following is the final portrait in this series of the correctional officers I encountered in prison.
THE FINAL CO
They released me from the main prison. It was like the arrival. They stuck me in a room and then another room and then another room.
Finally, they called me out.
I stood there waiting. A tall, thin CO shuffled some papers without looking at me. I was being released, but I was still an inmate, a felon, a criminal.
He kept putting paper after paper in front of me to sign. He explained each one, but I wasn’t listening. I didn’t care. I’d have signed anything.
Then I waited in another room.
Another guard came out.
“Follow me,” he said.
I walked down another corridor. There was an opening in the wall, but it was closed. He knocked on the window. The door opened, and a CO in a different uniform took my papers.
He handed me a credit card.
“There’s $110 in there.” My commissary balance. “Don’t lose it. If you do, you won’t get it back.”
Then I walked through the same door where I had arrived. The motor revved as the door slowly opened. It cracked against the wall.
A final reminder:
Don’t fuck up.
Remember this sound, or you’re coming back here.
Then it was back to reception, which was also departure, and I waited for my brother. It was the same waiting area as the arrival. Still cold as ice. No life there. Only an occasional staff member came through. They stared at me. One last nasty look. A kind of warning.
It worked for me.
My brother showed up. His car pulled under the entrance. He got out, his big smile the only thing I could see.
He had been a mentor growing up, coached me in Little League, a buddy after that, and a business partner later. Everything calculates differently when the end is close. When you really feel it. Prison brought me there. I got that much out of it.
All the before didn’t matter. I just knew I loved him and he loved me. At that moment, I loved him more than anyone I had ever loved in my life.
He’d brought me shoes, socks, and clothes. I took off my camp sweats and broken sneakers. Eventually, I changed, and we were on our way.
I can still feel the feeling of that drive out. I don’t care what anyone tells me.
That car drove to the airport and never touched the pavement.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
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