Prison Camp: The Guards
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
The following is an excerpt from my manuscript, Portraits from Prison, a collection of profiles of inmates and guards with whom I served. These pages focus on two correctional officers.
The guards were a sorry lot. Many were rejected by police and fire departments or were veterans who couldn’t find any other employment. The pay was paltry, but the benefits, vacations, sick days, and pensions were probably generous. Some were cruel, some aloof, and some were decent, but none were friends. Correction Officer was their official designation. Inmates called them COs or cops, or more often just obscenities.
THE PRISON CAMP COUNSELOR
Mr. Larkin, the Camp Counselor, was mid-forties, with a huge gut, and had a constant Cheshire-cat grin. He often dressed out of uniform in favor of Boston team outerwear. His low-keyed persona effused a continual disinterest in all things, other than leaving on time and inmates restitution payments, (court mandated fines) of which he was inflexible. His office was a mess: half-filled file boxes on the floor, his desk cluttered, bookcases filled with chachkas in random order, crooked photos on the wall (various: a dog, a stained award certificate of something, a Bruin hockey player), empty cartons of fast-food delivery with his phone always hanging on the corner edge of his desk. When you arrived at his office, you were required to wait outside until he waved you in. You could see that he enjoyed ignoring you for ten minutes or so while he addressed something on his desk. He always communicated that you were interrupting him or it was not a good time to engage him.
He had a terrible memory, often forgetting what he told you from prior meetings or past conversations. I never saw him angry or laughing, never demonstrable about anything. At most, that grin would be a bit wider if something pleased him. When you asked him for or about anything, he would respond with a long pause and blank stare so that you had no clue about his reaction. On one occasion, I was concerned that I might be sent to the Shoe ((solitary) due to another inmate’s behavior. When I asked for his help, he told me that he couldn’t intervene. He just stated, very matter of factly: “If they lock you up, they lock you up. They probably won’t. But I can’t do anything about it.” A long pause followed. The grin returned, and I left his office. Fortunately, the matter was dropped and I was never disciplined.
He seemed to always be either about to go on vacation or was just returning from one. COs had many free days, comprised of vacation, sick days, personal days and whatever days. Mr. Larkin, it seemed, took advantage of every free day possible. He had a special relationship with my friend Steve because of their common interest in dogs and Steve’s reputation as a trainer. Other than Steve, I never saw him relating to any other inmate in a personal way. Maybe he would call his way professional. It’s just that nothing about him evoked professional anything. Apparently, he was married with two young children. But it was difficult to imagine him in a relationship or a father of young kids.
He was a fanatical sports fan of all Boston teams. He would alternate his outerwear between the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins and Celtics regularly. Only on Wednesdays (when senior staff would come for lunch) or on special inspection days would he be in uniform. Although I was best friends with Steve, I never sensed that any of that accrued any special consideration to me. In fact, after Steve left, he kept assigning Bunkie’s to me despite empty bunks on either side of me. On the day of my release, he had to sign some papers for me. There were no words or recognition of anything. He merely handed the subject form back to me without a word. The same Cheshire cat grin I witnessed on the day of my arrival. In some ways, he was more impactful than the nasty COs. Something more personal about his bored, disconnected vibe that left you feeling even more exiled and ashamed than the COs’ who harassed us.
THE STRIPPER
Ms. Hunton, Camp Unit Manager, was mid-forties, tough as nails, and wore a blond wig extension, evoking a strip club manager rather than a manager of a federal prison camp. Gum chewing, and sexy in a cheap way, she was purposefully not flirtatious, even though everything about her suggested so. She was not liked by the inmate community. Despite that, all considered her attractive. The word among inmates was that she “looked good to us,” here in prison, but she wouldn’t earn a look on the outside. Interactions with her were dangerous. A friend questioned his release date and she had him transferred to the main prison. We never saw him again. At the town hall meetings, she conducted them with confidence and strength and usually ended the meetings with threats of retaliation. There was no subject she couldn’t handle, including incidents of inmates craping in the showers. She was feared and with good reason. You challenged her at your own peril. Those who did ended up in the Shoe and/or were relocated to the main prison. I only had one interaction with her. I requested a special meeting with my attorney. I groveled. She said no. I didn’t protest. Then I got a note from her that my request had been approved and my lawyer meeting arranged. The following day I went into her office to thank her. She greeted me with suspicion. I don’t think she remembered me. She seemed surprised when I told her I was just there to thank her. She nodded a kind of appreciation, then waved me out. In prison, that’s a win.
From my prison journal.
THE GUARDS
We call them COs
or cops,
or more often just
obscenities.
Does it matter:
Asshole
Mother Fucker
Douche Bag.
We garner solace
from our usual
mantra:
“They never get
to leave”.
But a few minutes after lights
out,
and in the darkness
of our tiny
beds,
they go home to
sleep.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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.
Thank you for reading White-Collar Journal. Subscribing is free, and I hope you’ll continue with me as I explore stories of incarceration, justice, and redemption.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
To leave a comment, Substack may ask you to verify your email address (a one-time step to prevent spam). You don’t need to subscribe or create an account. Just check your inbox for a one-time link.