Cashing In

Chapter 2

2

“Inmate, have you calmed down? Can we take you out of the restraint chair?” asked the corrections officer at the Miami Dade County jail.

The jail was a dump, as it was falling apart. It was a “first generation” jail, which means that the gates to the cells close and the thirty inmates behind bars try not to kill each other while piled upon one another in the cell. The correction officers wished the inmates the best of luck, but they were not going into the cell to break up every fight. In fact, it would be impossible, as inmates fought all day. Gang leaders, drug dealers, and hardened criminals battled to see who was the toughest. Every week, someone got stabbed.

This world was a far cry from the hospital halls that John was accustomed to. This was a world of predators and prey.

“Inmate, did you hear me? Have you calmed down yet?”

“Yes ma’am,” said John, who was handcuffed to a restraint chair and hooded with a spit-mask to protect the officers. “I won’t resist or cause any trouble.”

Female corrections officers accounted for fifty-two percent of the Miami Dade County Department of Corrections staff. The officers were tough as nails and did not tolerate any nonsense. They had to be tough in the jail system, as it housed some of the most dangerous criminals in the United States.

“That’s what I want to hear,” the officer said. “We’re going to get you out of the chair and take off your mask. Don’t try anything stupid. Otherwise, we’re going to mess you up, son. I have some officers in here who would love nothing more than to beat up a fancy drug addict doctor.”

“Yes, officer. I understand.” John looked down at his lap. “I’m sorry, but the sentencing was very traumatic for me.”

“Well don’t make us traumatize you more by beating you to a pulp. You’re now property of the State of Florida. We’re your mommy and your daddy. And we aren’t afraid to slap you. Don’t ever forget that,” said the officer, who was strong like a football player.

The officer uncuffed John and said, “Get up slowly and follow me to the holding cell next door.”

John stood up and did what the officer instructed. “How long will I be in the holding cell?”

“We need to process you and place you on a floor. It’ll be a couple of hours.”

Nothing in the Miami Dade County jail system happened quickly. The jail processed as many as five hundred inmates a day.

John entered the holding cell, often referred to as the drunk tank, as it would fill to the brim with tourist and residents who had one too many drinks at the nightclubs on South Beach. This cell had fifty people in it. There was no place to sit on the benches, so John stood in the corner.

One man was about fifteen minutes into a conversation with a wall. The jail system had become filled to the brim with the mentally ill. Miami Dade County continued to s***h the budget for mental health services, and officers would arrest some individuals hundreds of times. Some of these inmates belonged in a mental hospital. Instead, the system had failed them and criminalized mental illness.

“Hey pretty boy, I hope you’re my cell mate,” a six feet-four-inch tough-looking inmate said to John.

John stared at the ground and did not respond.

“Hey. I’m talking to you, pretty boy!” screamed the inmate.

“I don’t want any trouble,” responded John.

The inmate got up from the bench and approached John. “What did you say to me?”

“I don’t want any trouble.”

The other inmates sat as though nothing was happening. The prison code was that inmates don’t get involved in other people’s problems.

“Oh, you don’t want any trouble. I see. Me neither. Let me go sit back down,” said the inmate as he turned around and started to walk away. He stopped, pivoted, and began to punch John as hard as he could.

Lucky for John, the officers monitored the drunk tank more carefully than the cells on the main floors of the jail.

“Knock it off!” yelled one officer.

The inmate punched John repeatedly, while the other people in the cell cheered him on.

“Knock it off. Don’t make us come in there,” yelled an officer.

Four officers came running in and tackled the larger inmate. They removed him from the cell and took John to the prison infirmary.

“Sit down on the table,” said the prison nurse. She had a calming voice. “It looks like he’s going to need stiches. He has a large gash on his eyebrow. Doctor, we need you now.”

The doctor walked into the room. He never thought that he would be working in a prison, but the pay was great and lured him in. Few people wanted to work in one of the most violent jail systems in the country. To incentivize people to stay, the corrections system provided the doctors not only with a great salary but with top-notch benefits.

“I’m Doctor Ruiz. Let me look? What happened?”

“Another inmate beat me to a pulp for no reason.”

“Is it your first day here?” asked the doctor.

“Yes, sir. I was just sentenced,” responded John.

The doctor gave John ten stiches, and the corrections officers moved him to the special management unit, a fancy name for solitary confinement. The prison put high profile and problematic inmates in the special management unit as well as a small percentage of people who asked for protective custody for their own safety.

“Inmate, you’re going to spend a few days here. We’re going to move you to the fifth floor,” said the officer.

“How long before I’m sent to state prison?” asked John. “When will I know where I’m going?”

“I just looked up your case. You’re still waiting assignment. I imagine that it will be around a week or two. They must classify you and determine where to send you. My guess is a medium security prison, based on your charges.”

“I could be shipped out to anywhere in Florida?”

“Correct. You’re ours now, son. This isn’t the Holiday Inn.” The officer started to feel sorry for John and said, “Stay strong, man. You’ll be out of this dump soon. Inmates here are predators. They smell fresh blood like a shark swimming in the ocean. Try to keep to yourself, but don’t look vulnerable. This jail houses murderers, rapists, drug dealers, you name it. We have one guy who’s been waiting for trial for ten years.”

“Thanks, officer.” John touched his eyebrow and winced. “I appreciate your advice. As you can tell, I’m new to the criminal justice system. Quite the learning experience.”

“Grab your stuff,” instructed the officer.

John grabbed his bedsheets and the prison basics, toothpaste, and a change in uniform. “Does the fifth floor have cells with two or three inmates?”

“No sir. The cell doors close, and there are around twenty-five or thirty inmates. This floor is better than the other ones. The seventh is the worst. The people on that floor fight all day and are totally nuts.”

“What if this happens again? Is there anything that I can do?” I hope I can make it out alive. This place is a madhouse.

The officer shrugged. “You can scream. Bang on the doors. This jail system is a dump. There is not much we can do. We’re underpaid and outnumbered.”

John and the guard continued walking down the corridor. The inmates banged on the cell doors and yelled.

“Welcome to your worst nightmare!”

“Fresh meat, boys!”

The corrections officer escorted John to the end of the hall. John was six feet tall and had a hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. He could protect himself on the street. Jail, however, had predators who spent all day fighting.

“Here you go inmate. Welcome to your new suite at the Holiday Inn. Guard, open cell seven.”

The heavy metal gates opened. The officer passed through the first gate with John and pulled out a large key hanging on his belt. He inserted the key and opened the heavy door. “Good luck, John,” said the officer.

John entered the cell and looked around.

“What’s up, man?” asked one inmate.

“Do you mind if I take the bottom bunk in the corner?” asked John.

“The bottom bunk is for players. I don’t think you fit that profile,” said another inmate. “I run the cell. If you want a top bunk, you need to fight me.”

“I’m okay with sleeping on the bottom bunk.”

“Either way, you’re gonna have to fight.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” responded John.

“Rule number one: You have to fight to enter this cell and have the right to sleep here.”

“Why?”

“Those are the rules, son. I didn’t make them. If you don’t fight well, you need to get your stuff and leave.”

“Leave?”

“Get your stuff and move to another cell.”

Four tough-looking inmates approached John. One inmate started to rub his hands and lick his lips.

“Tighten up,” said one inmate.

“Excuse me?” asked John.

“We’re going to see what you’re made of,” said another inmate.

The four inmates started to circle John. He began to sweat profusely.

One inmate pushed John, and the three others started to punch him. Two inmates landed punches to his gut, and the other hit him right in the eye.

“Leave me alone, you animals!” screamed John. He c****d his fist back and landed a punch. The other three inmates started to kick John. He bent down, and another inmate hit him in the stomach. Blood dripped from his mouth.

“You aren’t tough enough for this cell,” said one inmate.

John could not breathe. His legs began to buckle. One of the inmates kicked him in the jaw, causing John to fall over.

“Get your stuff, son. You aren’t a real gangster. You can’t stay here. Put your stuff by the cell door.”

An inmate walked over and grabbed the bag with John’s other clean uniform and sheets and threw it at the door. John lay on the ground, blood pouring down his face. He struggled to breathe.

“Guard! This inmate isn’t welcome here,” yelled the cell leader.

Two corrections officers walking down the hall saw John on the ground.

“Inmates, get back to your bunks,” yelled one officer.

The officers opened the door, peeled John off the ground, and escorted him to the

infirmary.

“Inmate John had another introduction to the kind folks who reside in our hotel,” one correction officer said, laughing.

A prison nurse came over and helped John onto the stretcher.

“We hate to see you in here again,” said the nurse.

The doctor came in and asked, “My goodness. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” replied John, wincing. “I can’t breathe. My ribs are killing me.”

“I’m going to order an X-ray. You may have some broken ribs. Nurse, can you get me some sutures? I need to stich up his eyebrow again.”

The doctors discovered that he had two broken ribs. He stayed in the infirmary for three days.