Silent Joe Read Online Free PDF Page B

respect and vengeance, of endless and infinite bullshit.
    I like it. I like my friends and coworkers, and the delicate predatory balance between us and the inmates. I like some of the inmates at times. Their scams are clever and they manage to get away with things that surprise me. But what I like most is the orderliness of things: the buzzers and bells and schedules and rules, the heavy keys, the food we eat in the staff dining room. These are institutional things, and as an institutional boy I came to rely on them. My four years at Hillview Home for Child brought those things into my blood in a way I can't get rid of.
    That morning I was scheduled to work in Module J, which is set up for protective custody of the particularly dangerous, the notorious, the well-known, for child molesters and sexual deviants who would upset the general population, sometimes even for law enforcement personnel doing time on the wrong side of the bars.
    Mod J is set up in four sectors, with a total of one hundred seventy inmates. It's one big circle, with our guard station in the center. Between the cells and the guard station are the day rooms, which have picnic-style benches and tables, and a TV. From the dimly lit confines of the station, we can look through the glass and see into every cell. In-cell cameras make every inmate visible on the station video console, and each cell is wired for sound.
    It's very quiet in Module J, and the inmates are slightly more respect of us than they are in the other mods. Maybe it's because of the seriousness of their crimes, or because many of them are on trial and facing very long or perhaps capital, sentences. Whatever the reasons, the men in Mod J are little less likely to amuse themselves with chatter about my face.
    My first two years I rotated between the Men's Central modules and got my fill of "shitface," "acidhead," "Frankenstein," whatever. The names didn't get to me, though the repetition almost did. I never cracked, showed my anger or lost my manners. I just learned to withdraw into the quiet spot and view the inmates with the detached interest of a birdwatcher.
    Happened to you?
    Nothing, why?
    'Cause you got shit all over your face, shitface!
    You get the picture.
    Of course, people behind bars are braver than most. You're protected from them, but they're protected from you, too. Even my most sincerely murderous stare often brings nothing but added volume: OH, look at SHITface starin' at me NOW! As a keeper, once you step through the heavy doors of the jail, you're not just working there, you're in it. Sometimes, you forget. Sometimes, it feels like you've been there forever and you're going to be there another forever. It's hard on a guy who tries to have good manners.
    Then you take a deep breath and remember that you've got a shift and they've got a sentence. It's like coming out of a nightmare.
    In the briefing room I signed in and sat down for roll call. After that, Sergeant Delano gave us the morning book:; yesterday ten blacks and ten Latinos got into it in the mess hall. It was over quickly, didn't escalate, no time for us to get out the bats and hats—our batons and riot helmets. A few bruises, a few cuts. No weapons. As a result, we were 9-13—cleared and ready—to conduct a Module F cell search at 1300. We call a surprise search a shake. Deputy Smith had discovered a shank hidden in the sole of a shower sandal—sharpened and slid directly through the rubber. There were rumors of trouble upstate. They say that inmate violence trickles down from the max pens to the jails, and at first I thought it was myth. But after three years here, I can tell you that it's true, so rumors of trouble at Pelican Bay or Folsom or Cochran or San Quentin are always taken seriously. We took up a collection for a barbecue to celebrate our captain getting a promotion, then broke.
    I checked out my radio and keys, then walked the tunnel down to Mod J. When I got to the guard station I glanced at the video