In Transit

my journey from the courtroom to prison

Preface

About fifteen years ago, I got into some real trouble, and ended up serving 5-1/2 years in federal prison.

I made some very good friends during my time there. While there, one friend was writing on a book on how to survive the prison experience. He asked if I'd be willing to write about my experience being in federal transit - from the time I was remanded at sentencing, to the time I arrived at my assigned prison.

What follows is my account of those 8 weeks — though it seemed like forever. I originally wrote this when I was still inside, nearing the end of my incarceration.

Sentencing

I was sentenced to 90 months imprisonment. At sentencing, my paid attorney made a weak attempt at arguing for self-surrender, but the request was denied. (I’ve heard that many people — even those with long sentences — were allowed to self-surrender; this practice seems to vary a lot by district).

So I was taken immediately into custody. Officers escorted me, from where I had been sitting, right out the side door of the courtroom. I have been in custody ever since (approaching 5 years).

Local County Jails

After waiting several hours in the courthouse, I was transported to the local county jail, only a few minutes away. I was searched and held in the “bullpen” for several hours, then eventually processed into the jail and sent to a general population “pod”.

County jails are cold. Bullpens are cold. Holding cells at federal courthouses are cold. That is one of the things I remember the most — being cold all the time. This is very on-purpose; it's a psychological tactic to keep prisoners docile. While in county, I remember taking 4 or 5 hot showers a day, just to stop from shivering.

Nobody tells you anything. You don’t know where you’re going or how you’ll get there. After “only” a week, I was awoken at 3am and told to pack out. I was sent down to a holding cell, where I spent the next 6-7 hours — and again, I was cold, hungry, tired, and didn’t know what was happening next.

Eventually I was cuffed, shackled, chained… and 4 or 5 of us were loaded into a van. We were being transported to another county jail about an hour away — being moved to a location that was on the federal marshals' pickup route.

It took several hours to get processed into the new county jail. I was given another TB test (never mind that they’d already taken one at the last place). This jail was louder - TVs blaring, people screaming at each other constantly. It wasn’t an open dorm — it had cells with sliding automatic doors. During “count time”, you had to make it into your cell before the door slammed shut on you. Yes, it makes a slamming sound that is exactly as depressing as you would think.

I was in this county jail for two weeks. Again, I had no idea how long I’d be there — other than overheard rumors that “the bus comes every two weeks”. But I still didn’t know where I was ultimately going, or how I’d get there. I was in the federal transfer pinball machine, and all I could do was accept my situation.

Bus to Terre Haute

Early one morning, a group of us were told to pack out. There were 20 to 25 of us being picked up by US Marshals. We spent a couple hours in a bullpen, and were going to get on a federal transport bus. At that point, Marshals called each of us by name and told us to which prison we’d been designated. For me, that was “Milan”. But I didn’t understand what he’d said — Mylin? Midland? Marlin? — one thing for sure is that Milan was never mentioned by my attorney as a possible landing place (and had he known his stuff, he certainly would have).

We got on the bus, which was already half full of inmates coming from other places, and headed out. We stopped at MCC Chicago to exchange a few passengers, then we continued on. But still: on to where? These details are not shared. Keep in mind that we are in handcuffs, chains, and leg irons, and have been, since 0530. You have to try to use the bathroom, and to eat your lunch, while in cuffs.

We eventually pulled into the federal prison complex at Terre Haute, Indiana. I will never forget the complete feeling of despair to see fences with razor wire, and guard towers — and then have the feeling, the understanding, that the bus has just driven INTO the prison, the gate is closing behind us, and I am now on the INSIDE of that fence.

When I got off the bus, the Marshal asked for my “number”. I had no idea what my number was — nobody had ever told me. They asked for my DOB instead.

There were probably 35 or 40 of us that were transferred into Terre Haute. People in transit are kept separate from the rest of the Terre Haute complex (which has several separate facilities of various security levels); transfer inmates are held in the “old SHU” for the USP.

We sat in a bullpen — crowded, hungry, tired, (and yes, cold) — for what seemed like an eternity. At one point we were brought a tray of warm food (chicken: get used to it), and then eventually we were called in small groups to be processed in.

A lot of this is a blur; I have probably blocked out a lot of details. I remember being strip-searched and being issued a prison jumper, underwear, a t-shirt, blue slippers, and a bedroll. I was interviewed in a room by a medical person - I think they mainly wanted to assess my physical and mental condition, to see if there was "anything they needed to worry about”. I was given yet another TB shot (3rd one in 3 weeks!). I was given a sheet of paper that had my name and my “register number” on it. I was told that that piece of paper was the only thing that I could keep with me while in transit. It had a specific name and purpose, but I don’t remember what that was.

Finally, we were led to our cells — two men to a cell. We were given a towel, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. The cell was concrete, probably 7 feet by 12 feet. The bottom “bunk” was actually a solid slab of concrete with a 2” blue foam mattress laying over it. The upper bunk was a metal tray (no springs) that was cantilevered out of the wall, also with a 2” mattress.

There was the standard stainless steel toilet/sink combo, and the room had a small shower. We were allowed one hour of “recreation” per day - but it was like at 4:30am or something, so we never did that. So we were in this cell for 24 hours a day, for 11 days.

My cellie was transferring between prisons. He had been at one “low” for just over a year, and was being transferred to another one. We got along well, and he gave me a lot of good pointers for how to get along in prison. I am very grateful for the help he gave me.

It was COLD in there. We took to pacing the room and taking showers to try to warm up. We had only our issued clothing — t-shirt and pants, and a sheet and thin blanket — it was not enough to keep us from shivering. Inmates up and down the block were pleading with the officers to give out more clothing and blankets, but they did not. Finally, after 6 or 7 days, they did come around and pass out heavy wool blankets. These helped immensely.

Our meals were brought to us through a “bean slot” in the door. Breakfast came really early, probably 3:30 or 4:00am (we had no way of knowing what time it actually was). I remember that we were given two half-pint cartons of milk; we got into a routine of having one with breakfast, and saving one for lunch. We put them next to our mattress in the corner of the cell, up against the concrete walls; when we had them with lunch 6 hours later, they were just as cold (or colder) as they had been when we got them.

When you are in prison, you do NOT take a shower without shower shoes. I did not know this, but my cellie did. Well, we were in prison, but we did not have shower shoes. We got creative and fashioned some out of our empty milk cartons.

The SHU block had an inmate orderly — he would come by occasionally, mainly with a book cart, or to take whatever trash we might have. He was also able to bring us pencils and paper and envelopes so we could write letters. I don’t remember how I got postage...

The BOP has a computer system (TRULINCS) that can be used for email, storing personal contacts, and managing your financial account. In order to log onto this system, you need to know three numbers: your inmate register number, your telephone PAC number (phone access code - 9 digits), and your PIN number (4 digits). At this point in time, I had no idea that this system even existed. I also didn’t know what my PAC and PIN numbers were or how I could find them out. Nor did I know whether anybody had sent money to my account, or how to get instructions to my people for how to send money. I was still just trying to get through each day.

When nature calls: we dealt with this as best we could. We hung a sheet up in the room for a modicum of privacy, and put up with whatever smells and sounds were generated. This is probably as good a place as any to mention standard prison toilet flushing protocol: apparently, it is expected that you employ Continuous Flush Technology™ — that is, flushing continuously, repeatedly, the entire time that you are “going”. I think inmates imagine that this technique creates some kind of event horizon at the rim of the toilet, preventing any evidence of the dookie-in-progress from escaping beyond the toilet bowl.

There was very little to do. Eat, sleep, read, talk, and pace the cell for “exercise” were about it. The orderly brought the book cart around — the reading selection was atrocious. But I read anything I could get.

Con Air

After 11 days of Terre Haute, it was time to move again. We went through the usual: awakened way too early; sit in a bullpen for hours; shiver in the cold; get handcuffed and shackled...

We eventually got on a bus, and this time our destination was the local airport. That’s right: it was time to fly ConAir. I feel like if I describe this scene with any degree of specificity, that I will get in trouble. Suffice it to say that there were many trucks, vans, buses, etc., from various county jails in the surrounding area, parked on the tarmac, circling the transport plane. Prisoners were everywhere on the tarmac, being herded in different lines and various groups. And marshals wielding shotguns were everywhere. This is about as horrible as it gets. After several hours of shuffling inmates around and dealing with whatever logistics they were handling, I was on the plane.

It is a large plane. If I recall, it was 3-5-3 seating. There are several hundred prisoners on board.

Again, I have no idea where I’m going. I know my final destination — Milan, MI — but have no idea if we’re going directly, indirectly, or somewhere else entirely. Unfortunately, it was the latter.

Prison transport planes do not fly with the comfort of the passengers in mind. There are accelerations, turns, ascents, descents, etc. that are noticeably more abrupt than anything you’d normally experience on a regular commercial flight.

I don't know how often this is done, but on one flight segment, as the plane turned onto the main runway at the end of its taxi, the pilot came on the PA and said, “Welcome to Con Air, gentlemen.”

We were given a bag lunch to eat on the plane — bologna sandwiches, pretzels.... The bologna slices are shrink-wrapped in thick plastic and need to be torn open. There are mayonnaise and mustard packets that need to be opened. The bread is in its own packaging. You have to get through all of this packaging and assemble your own sandwich — while in handcuffs. In between two bubbas who are trying to do the same thing.

We flew to Harrisburg, PA. I knew this only because I’ve flown there before, and the cooling towers at Three Mile Island are kind of hard to miss. We did the whole spiel again out on the tarmac, transferring people between the plane and several vehicles out on the tarmac. This seemed to take at least 2 more hours. I stayed uncomfortably in my seat on the plane. I’ve been in chains for 10 hours at this point.

We finally took off and headed west. West, to where? We’re not flying all the way to OK City, are we? Yep.

Oklahoma FTC

We landed and taxied to the concourse that was connected to the Federal Transfer Center. It’s conveniently located right at the airport. We got off the plane and were herded into a massive, all stainless-steel bullpen. We had our shackles removed. There had to be over 100 people in there. It was crowded and noisy. People were standing, sitting on the floor — it was packed. And we were in there for several hours. At one point we were given sack lunches — more bologna sandwiches, if memory serves, and chips and an apple… and a bag of water. Eventually we were moved out in smaller groups, only to be directed into another, smaller holding area. More waiting.

Finally, we were called one by one to be questioned (I have no recollection of the details here; it seems I was seen by 2 or 3 different people for various purposes). More waiting.... At some point we were finally issued a bedroll and taken to the housing block. Sometime after midnight, I was shown to my new cell, and new cellie, and tried to make my bed and go to sleep without bothering him too much. He was Hispanic, and didn’t speak much English. He left a few days later, and I had the room to myself for a couple days. A couple days after that a new cellie arrived - in the middle of the night, just as I had.

In the unit there are TVs, books, games, and a cement enclosed area that is open to the outside air that serves as a rec area. Meals are served in the day area at the tables. I remember not getting very much to eat; I was typically hungry, despite the fact that I hadn’t been getting any physical exercise.

I pretty much kept to myself, and read in my room. The book selection was better, I recall. I still had no idea how or whether I could make phone calls, or log into the TRULINCS system to try to set up email, etc. I was still a cork floating across an ocean...

I was in the FTC for only a week. I was awakened early one morning: time to go. I got to do the whole Con Air thing again... more chains and shackles, more waiting, more waiting... we stopped at St. Louis (I think), and Terre Haute (hey, wait a minute, wasn’t I just...), and finally the plane landed at an airport about 10 minutes away from Milan, MI.

About 20 of us were loaded onto a bus and taken to...

Milan FDC

We arrived at and were processed into the Milan Federal Detention Center, about 25 miles SW of Detroit. The FDC is a high-security detention center that handles people awaiting transfer, or people who are pretrial and are waiting for sentencing or who are fighting their case. It is a high-security facility, so there is a mixed bag of people there (including some really not-good people).

We went through all the rigmarole again — waiting in a holding cell, being fed suspect food, and being questioned by various people at various times. There were medical people (yes — I was given YET ANOTHER TB TEST — government efficiency in action!!), and somebody who took my official prison picture, which is the picture that I’ve had to look at on my prison ID for the last five years. I have the look of somebody who has been hauled around the country in chains for 7 weeks.

Most people at the FDC are housed in 2-man cells. I got a black guy from Detroit. Here I am, a brand-new prisoner, still scared and not knowing how to get by, and I get this guy who (only half-jokingly, I thought) would come into the cell and greet me with gems like, “Hey, man, get your howdy-doody, George-Bush, mother-f***in’ ass up out of bed.” Good times. (He showed up on my compound three years later, and we actually ended up talking quite a bit - not a bad guy).

The place is fairly similar to OKC — there is a common day area and various things to do. I finally was able to find out my PAC and PIN numbers, and was able to log on to TRULINCS and look around. I was able to call MY FAMILY on the phone and let them know I was okay ( was I okay???).

My room was cold — very cold. I feel like I’ve been shivering nonstop since I was taken into custody. Will I ever be warm again?

My final destination was right across the street — Milan FCI. It was almost Thanksgiving. It was rumored that we might not get over there until after New Year’s. I just wanted to get to wherever it was I was going, so I could try to get settled in, to have something more than the single piece of paper I’ve been carrying around.

Again, after only a week of being at the FDC, I was told it was time to go. More of the usual... but this time the bus took us just across the street to Milan FCI. We walked in the front door of the prison... and that’s where I’ve been for the last 1740 days.

I was assigned the top bunk in a very small cell, made my bed, went to laundry to get my clothing issue, and laid down to rest. It was two days before Thanksgiving. I had arrived. And then I noticed that... I wasn’t cold. My room was warm.