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We stood outside the control center, waiting for someone to escort us back through all the gates. The inmates were getting restless again; I saw them approaching the bars out of the corner of my eye. Don’t get me wrong—this wasn’t one of those Silence of the Lambs situations where crazy people reach through the bar to grab you (or do other nasty things) as you walk by. We were on the far side of the control center, away from the detention areas, and even if we hadn’t been, there was enough buffer built in for people to pass by them safely.
I didn’t feel unsafe. Most of the inmates weren’t violent offenders. But they were bored. What do you expect from a few dozen bored young men, all of whom have demonstrated poor judgment and impulse control, when there’s someone new to look at? Espe
