Greetings & Good Hello. Wow, what a day – it was a true riot and it was all about the mail. Let’s set the stage… it’s afternoon so I’m locked in my cell for the afternoon 10 hour stretch. This is a long one, and remember, the jail hates productive inmates. Access to the law library or external communications is blocked. We had a brief access to books a few weeks ago, so there are a few moving around – I have a Clive Cussler book in progress and a Danielle Steele on deck. I have tons of engineering materials in my personal property, but those are forbidden – the Cussler and Steele are top-of-the-line treasures passed from cell to cell. The Steele is missing its cover, I do not even know its title, because it doesn’t matter. I am also on my 2nd reading of Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History of the United States”, or is it my 3rd – that comes and goes now. That book is mine, and it is familiar – I read it now by topic, as I build pictures in my head – it is not so much fodder for the passage of time. As lunch finds its way out of my stomach and into the twenty three foot home stretch, I bulk up my laundry – which serves as a pillow, and read Cussler until I heat myself into a slumber under a triple folded blanket. Time passes.
I hear my name over the stainless steel intercom – at least I think that’s my name. It is some trebly, tinny southern accented noise that rouses me and I grumble out some acknowledgement. I think it responds with something about me being needed in the nurses station – so I sit up and hear the door buzz open. I am in t-shirt and boxers, so I need to change into my jumper – and I can taste that I haven’t brushed my teeth. Nurses station… hmm, we have been monitoring my blood pressure, so it could be that – but, more likely, it is about mail. The nurses station is also the staff room where the copier is and some part of the admin services are performed. I am at war with the mail staff – this is likely a day for battle. I brush my teeth and realize that yes – this is battle. I take deep breaths and center myself as my adrenaline starts to build.
A few days ago I had a short battle with Sgt. Clarida – it was Thursday, and I did not do so well. I handled it poorly. I allowed myself to get rattled and to react emotionally – instead the goal is a totally flat affect, so-called “professional” response but also, disturbingly, “sociopathic”. Today then I took deep breaths and just took a few moments to remember to stay “calm”. I felt the mix of adrenaline and whatever it is that mixes with the blood to make “calm”. I felt powerful – and I had to pee.
I set about relieving my bladder when the intercom came on again and I was chastised for not hurrying fast enough. I asked if the officer wanted me to wear my jumper and snapped about brushing my teeth and taking a piss. Clearly I wasn’t ready – and now I couldn’t pee. So, after a few more breaths, then out the door, down the stairs and over to the sallyport where the Colombian was also waiting and where dreadlocked Fredo was still out for some reason, doing some task on the kiosk. Fredo always has some excuse to be out. The Colombian however, confirmed our guess – this was a mail room visit. Sgt. Clarida was letting the Colombian have his book! The kiosk clock said it was 3:45pm.
We waited. Apparently the staff was not waiting for us and the urgency of the guard on the intercom was unwarranted. I considered pissing in the rec-room trash bin just to say thank you. Eventually both sallyport doors opened, defeating the point of the sallyport – and the Colombian and I walked out into the antechamber at the end of the facility hallway where an officer was waiting to escort us the 20 yards down the hallway to the nurses station.
The nursing room is actually a split room – it is two stories tall, maybe twenty feet wide and fifty long. The walls are simple painted cinderblock and the room is partitioned with box-store bulk office cubicle dividers which separate the admin officers area from the medical area. There is a photocopier and some communal desks in the officers area along with a mini fridge and a rack of mail boxes for staff. The whole effect is something much like a receiving or shipping area in a warehouse – it is cluttered, but with the clutter of activity. Very unsophisticated activity to be certain, but substantial activity.
When we enter there is no-one in the front area. The escorting officer and the nurse on duty confer over radios trying to determine why we are there. We stand around and eventually officers Howard and Clarida join us, carrying mail. They are tres tense. I am delighted – the battle begins.
Officer Howard and I have tangled a little before, but we have learned that as long as we respect each other we get along well. I do not treat her disrespectfully unless she treats me disrespectfully, in which case I am rather vicious. As long as we agree to speak quietly and softly with each other however, then we get along just fine and I am quite happy to say please, thank you, and yes ma’am. I understand she has a job to do, but as long as she does not treat me as a dirty criminal who is less than her, then I am ok with accommodating those bits of her restrictions that inconvenience me – it isn’t personal. Officer Clarida, on the other hand, says things that are just wrong and acts as if she is morally superior because she is good and I am criminal, therefore bad. Officer Clarida routinely breaks the law because, when she does it, it is ok because she is a law enforcement officer. Officer Clarida is not as smart as she thinks she is – and she is old enough, maybe in her 60’s, to consider herself beyond reproach. Officer Clarida and I are fighting, but Howard is doing the legwork.
Officer Howard makes a show, as is proper, of opening the legal mail in front of me, removing the contents and prepping it on the photocopier. The copies ensure the paper isn’t doped with chemicals. She hurries, like she usually does, so she misses the staples she tried to catch – if she slowed down just a little bit her life would be much less stressful. Much of the angst she creates, the chaos and confusion in her orbit, come from simply not pausing long enough to take stock of the information right in front of her – what someone is saying rather than just the fact they are speaking. In this case she misses some staples and it foils up some copies – but she saves it, rips the stack of source out again, grabs a few more staples out, replaces the same source stack and leaves me to collate the results later.
Of course, the paper now jams and there is a very clear indicator light showing, where, exactly, the paper has jammed. True to form, officer Howard begins opening trays and doors, pressing buttons, and embodying a hurricane of worry and agitation – aware that something has gone wrong, but steadfastly avoiding the bright red blinking indicators pointing calmly to a quick solution. I try to offer some soothing words – not to point out the solution mind you, but just to lower the temperature and help her to calm enough to notice the blinking red light that seems to convey some meaning. It has some effect. About the third time she opens the critical tray she pauses long enough to see the jutting shard of paper – which she rips out with great violence before slamming the copier and exhaling in a fury. The copier continues lethargically.
Officer Clarida watches from the hallway, where she is guarding the Colombian and supervising officer Howard in dealing with me, the terrifying inmate intent on suing her for blocking my mail.
Officer Howard completes the processing of the first envelope and offers to return it to my property. I thank her for this since I wrote an official complaint to the Lieutenant “1st Sgt. Jenkins” about the fact that Officer Clarida required me to destroy the originals. Officer Howard then opens the next envelope, which contains sub-envelopes, a stack of papers, and a little surprise I have waiting for them. She sucks air through her teeth at the surprise and sets it aside. The ceremony of copying and re-assembly is uneventful for the rest of the papers and sub-envelopes. Now comes the surprise. She picks it up and looks at me, and I begin my explanation.
“I’ve actually written to Officer Clarida about that”, I start, speaking calmly and smoothly. “I wrote several times, said I needed a Road Atlas for a few hours, but that was all ignored – so I had that sent”.
Officer Howard sets down the folded page as Officer Clarida steps into the room – spying the folded page from the 2023 Rand McNally Road Atlas on the table and immediately holds forth.
“Oh no! We ain’t lettin’ him have no magazines. Ain’t nothin like that gittin’ back. No way. Ain’t no magazines no, no way”.
I just looked at Howard and say “See, she doesn’t listen.” – at which point officer Clarida turns a unique shade of “anger-purple”, knifing me with her eyes and challenges me “You got something to say to me?” To which I respond, without any trace of heat, “Do you think you can listen?” – a little game we play as the veins strain on her forehead.
I then launch into my explanation. “Very well, …” and recount how I have discussed my request for a map several times, that it has been ignored, and that on the 10th of April I will ask for a case continuance as I have not been able to reconstruct the events of May-Oct 2020 without the requested memory aid – and that i will have no option but to sue Officer Clarida on behalf of the facility for delaying my case and violating my various constitutional rights.
Officer Clarida decides to summon the Lieutenant – “1st Sgt. Jenkins” – and as we wait for Jenkins, the Colombian and I switch places so he can finish his mail processing and Clarida and I can glower at each other in peace.
As we wait I inquire about a notary. One of the documents that was delivered requires a notarized signature. Officer Clarida asks officer Howard to respond. Officer Howard says she has no idea. Officer Clarida informs me that the jail does not provide notary services. I will have to have “my people” set something up. I mention that my family is overseas but she squints at me and I relent – “well, except for my daughter, who is in Iowa and sends me this mail.” Clarida suggests my daughter is probably “internet savvy” and can find a notary and hire them to come on down to the jail. I laugh inside because I know that Clarida is just scrambling for any kind of win. I confirm her position and make sure everyone present is clear on the jail’s position on notaries. Once upon a time I participated in a forum discussing the legal situation of notaries in the states, in the context of electronic signatures – North Carolina was discussed. I also discussed notarial law with some gang members recently. We are all better versed than officer Clarida.
Soon spacetime bends as a small planetary mass approaches from down the hall. Officer Jenkins is the kind of obese that requires “leaning back” so as to center her mass over her support struts – her eyes swollen shut into slits from the sheer bulk of her mass. She is a very American image – and, true to form, the most dominant intellectual feature she brings to the table is belligerent sass. She immediately points to the map and says “that ain’t legal mail! We ain’t never let stuff like that back there.” – Officer Clarida holds up the page that has a map of Alabama and makes some grotesque faces. It dawns on me that the people now assembled might never have actually used a map – so I gesture a little and in confusion Clarida opens and reverses the document, revealing a two-page display of the interstate highway system of the United States.
I inform Officer Jenkins that I am attempting to get a copy of that map back to my cell to reconstruct events leading to my charge. I ignore the fact that “legal” mail has nothing, at all, to do with content of the mail – but rather, has to do with whether or not the content is subject to censorship by the facility – such as we are engaged in at the very moment. Officer Jenkins asks me why my attorney can’t reconstruct the events for me and I explain that is because he does not have my memories. You can see that Jenkins thinks she almost has me, and she exclaims “but your attorney can visit?”
I gawk in disbelief. “We meet once a week, as allowed, via JurisLink” – that is the attorney/inmate video conference system, and inmates can use it once a week, or about 5 hours of attorney time per month. “Are you suggesting my attorney hold up a map for an hour in case I remember something?” – She shifts her bulk and her squint clenches briefly – “Your attorney can visit in person. There is a chair, a table, everything.” I repeat back what she said, and then add “ok, but on April 10th I will still inform the court the case is delayed on account of 1st Sgt Jenkins. And I will name you instead of Officer Clarida in the lawsuit.” This sends her off on a mild tirade – not one of anger, just incoherent gibberish and pseudo-sass to let me know she is non-plussed and to mention other hypothetical officers. Once she is done I start to summarize her position with, “Just to clarify, let me get this all straight, you want my attorney to…” but she just won’t have it.
“Get this guy outta here. Lock him back up.” she huffs to Sgt. Faulk, another giant officer who has joined our little huddle. I just chuckle as Faulk and I walk away towards the cell-block antechamber.
“You witnessed all that?” I ask as we walk.
“Man, I’m stayin’ out of it” he says – exasperated. You can tell something didn’t sit right with him – and perhaps it was a memory of the last time he and I tangled – which actually got me some cred on the block. He’s now seen me, cool and calm as everything with his boss and his fellow officers acting like deranged children throwing tantrums over stupid, stupid shit like “can I have a copy of a map”.
He lets me, the Colombian, and another guy into the block. I go up to the cell and read through the mail that made it. One line from the North Carolina Prisoner Legal Services catches my eye: “The jail is required to provide you with a notary service. If they continue to not provide you with one, please…”
Eric Charles Welton
Prisoner #94911
Columbus County Detention Center
March 25, 2024