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STRIKES: Boredom reigns |
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| Inmates are escorted from the exercise yard to the education room. Other doors lead to a library, and art room, a chapel and clothing exchange. At the chapel, regular sermons are well attended. Tall wire fencing encloses a Native American sweat lodge, where people of all nationalities pray and meditate. |
| They are reminders of a world Jones knows he may never see again, and, on good days, they manage to mask the darkness of a life behind bars. |
| On this rainy morning, Jones rests on his lower bunk and longs, as he does so often, for freedom. |
| "If I had another chance out on the street," says the three-time burglar, "I'd get my life together. I'd do everything it takes to do the right thing. I'm not a bad person; I never have been." |
No more chances
While Jones would like someone to believe in him to give him just one more shot in society the three-strikes law does the opposite. It assumes the worst about repeat felons: that they won't ever learn to "do the right thing." |
| Outside the heavy steel door of Jones' cell, inmates in orange jump suits or blue chambray shirts and jeans buzz around metal tables in what can best be described as a lobby. The large, open room is surrounded on three sides by two levels of cells. The white linoleum floors and concrete walls are shiny and spotless. |
| Lancaster's population, which fluctuates daily, is 4,142 inmates, says prison spokeswoman Diane Gonzalez. Most are housed in one of 2,000 cells, divided into four "blocks," or campuses. The overflow crowd sleeps in a gymnasium. |
| Here, in cell block B nicknamed Bravo it's a typical day. |
| Inmates arise by 5:30 a.m. and begin filing out of their cells and into the dining hall at 6 a.m. Those with jobs begin their 9-to-5 shifts, as clerks or cooks, librarians or porters. |
| Others are free to roam the yard or loiter in the lobby. On this morning, two TVs placed high on one wall are largely ignored. Most inmates prefer to talk, pace or just sit quietly and observe the workings of a caged culture. |
| Inmates are ordered back to their cells by 8:45 p.m., but there is no specific lights-out time unless a lock-down occurs. That's when trouble occurs such as a fight between inmates and guards force inmates to stay in their cells 23 hours a day. Then, they're fed in their cells and prohibited from showering. This can go on for several weeks. |
Community Center
The only forms of rehabilitation occur in a rectangular building a few yards from the cell block. The non-descript, gray building houses a series of rooms including the dining hall that are all accessible from the yard: a library, an art room, a school, a chapel and a clothing exchange. |
| "It's a little community inside a community," says Gonzalez. |
| The dining hall, like the rest of the prison, is sparsely furnished. Shiny silver tables and stools are bolted to the floor below large signs reading, "No Warning Shots Fired." That doesn't mean the guards won't shoot, Gonzalez explains. It means that the concrete walls pose a ricochet risk to bystanders, so any shots fired will be directed at an inmate. |
| Prisoners eat in shifts and bring their own plastic utensils and cups to and from their cells. Meals are prepared on a monthly schedule. |
| "It's basically like your school cafeteria menus," Gonzalez says. |
| On this day, the makeshift chapel complete with pulpit and fold-up chairs is empty, save for one inmate entertaining himself on an electric organ. Religion is embraced here, and regular sermons are well attended, Gonzalez says. Tall wire fencing encloses a sweat lodge for Native Americans, where people of all nationalities mediate and pray. |
| "We offer numerous religious services for almost every denomination under the sun," Gonzalez says. |
Books and art
The library has several bookcases full of literature, pulp fiction and resource guides, but law books are the most frequently checked out, Gonzalez says. |
| The art room allows an outlet for creative inmates. |
| But much more of the prisoners' time is spent in the prison yard, where a large, paved track surrounds several sports fields soccer, basketball, handball. Members of prison gangs hunch over picnic tables. Others stand aside, smoking cigarettes and talking in hushed tones. Most wear blue jeans and dull gray jackets with "LAC" on their backs. |
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| Curtis Roberts, 37, Gets a haircut. The third-striker pleaded guilty to robbery and burglary. His priors were robbing a drive-through restaurant of $76 and possessing $20 worth of rock cocaine. He blames all of his criminal activity on his drug habit. |
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| Guards do random pat-down checks and keep an armed watch from a tower overlooking the yard. Prisoners speak relatively openly of drugs being smuggled in and sold on the yard. |
| The yard allows inmates some privacy away from prison personnel to discuss their plans, criminal or otherwise. A few years ago, Gonzalez says, the state ordered all weight-lifting equipment, except exercise bars, banned from prison yards. Too many inmates were getting "beefed up" only to continue their lives of violence and intimidation on the streets. |
| In the cell blocks, just as in the yard, prisoners congregate largely by race. Whites use one shower, blacks another, Latinos a third. Eight prisoners do duty as barbers, says Correctional Officer Duane Bennett, and it's rare to see a barber cut the hair of a man of a different race. |
| Prison officials don't approve of the voluntary segregation, Bennett says, but they don't try to stop it. It's one of the few ways in which prisoners can assert their own boundaries. |
| The rest of the time, the prisoners are treated largely like children sleeping when told, moving in single file, abiding by rules every hour of the day. |
Law unfair?
Not surprisingly, those convicted under the three-strikes law tend to say it isn't fair. |
| Randy Johnson, a 40-year-old Bakersfield man with a neck covered in tattoos, says he was convicted in 1998 of possessing heroin after serving prison time twice for robbery. |
| "I don't feel it's right that someone like me" should be targeted for a three-strikes sentence, he says. "I got kids. I got family. I want to see my family grow up." |
| Few inmates here think of themselves as career criminals a term they save for the most ruthless offenders, such as rapists and murderers. |
| When asked what alternative the state has to deal with repeat offenders, the inmates overwhelmingly suggest rehabilitation. They blame their crimes on drug use, primarily. And they complain of too few programs aimed at helping prisoners kick their addictions and stay out of trouble. |
| Johnny McKinney, 50, says he knew nothing of the three-strikes law when he was sentenced in 1994 for stealing plastic containers in Los Angeles a petty theft. The former robber and burglar says he should have been put in a voluntary work program to pay back the debt, and then allowed to transition back into society. |
| For Curtis Roberts, a 37-year-old third-striker from Big Bear, prison means sobriety. |
| A husband, father and former plumber, Roberts says he's one of a few prisoners who admit their crimes in his case, a couple of robberies, a burglary and cocaine possession. Now, he's serving 50 years to life. |
| "I never would have done any of this without the drugs," he says. "I do believe I should be punished, but I don't believe it should have cost me that much." |
Multiple burglaries
Richard Banales, a tall, lanky man of 35, was caught with a small quantity of heroin, which he says wasn't his. He says multiple burglaries in 1991 made him eligible for the three-strikes law, which he hopes will be amended soon. |
| "I think it'll change," says Banales, a former San Fernando Valley resident. "There's too much money being spent (that) could be spent on rehabilitation. Is 25 years of incarceration going to kick their habit?" |
| Says another inmate, 32-year-old Michael Banyard: "You have people here who may have drug problems, but they are not 25-to-life people. They are not murderers." |
| Banyard had a robbery and an assault with a deadly weapon on his record before he was sentenced in 1996 for possessing a small amount of cocaine. The scar extending from his left eye to his cheek bone is a symbol of his hard life a life that isn't getting easier. |
| "Everyone has hope," he says, glancing around at the men who make up Lancaster State Prison. "We don't really believe that something like this could happen." |
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