Nightmare on Durango Street :: C JOHNSON WEST

ARTish The Magazine

http://www.artish.org/ARTishTheMagazine-CJohnsonWest-Arpaio.html


Allow me to share with you a dream I had last night.
Okay, let me rephrase that, it was more like a nightmare. I dreamt I got into my car and drove down Buckeye Road, I saw a landfill on one side of the road and a gazillion dollar sinking jail on the other.

After a few short blocks I pass a dog pound and I arrive at one should-be-condemned building famously titled Durango Jail. Apparently in this nightmare, I was attempting to offer moral support to a friend, who is now named inmate-number-whatever.

We’ve all had those dreams where you try like hell to wake yourself up and when you do, you spring out of bed sweating, your pulse racing and wondering what the hell is happening. You turn on all the lights and the television so you can distract yourself with something containing no violence, like a paid programming channel or even a religious station, anything to erase the trauma.

What can be even worse are those experiences that you pray to god are truly bad dreams and eventually you will wake unscathed. Just then you realize you never even fell asleep and what is happening is very current and very real.

Dipping your toe in the Justice system in Maricopa County is a perfect example of the aforementioned statement.

Welcome to a truly bona fide nightmare.
Let me begin this next sentence by saying I am not a person with a weak stomach, nor am I shocked by much. I have worked in a Prison, I have worked with the seriously mentally ill, the crack and heroin addicted homeless population and in turn, I have witnessed more than my share of sickness, death and strange and deranged happenings.

I visited Durango Jail I left traumatized.

By traumatized I mean I felt as though I had just been the victim of something dastardly.

I did not sleep nor did I ingest anything solid for twenty-four hours.

On my first visit, I walked through the front doors into an extremely overcrowded room of startled faces with no names. After standing in line for twenty-minutes I was finally given a number.

I strode back outside into the swarms of people, screaming children and flies and I found myself a seat and waited.

And waited and waited.

After three hours and two diet cokes, I found myself in need of a restroom. I looked about and noticed that instead of a public restroom there were approximately five port-o-potties.

I walked up to the port-o-potty, grabbed the handle and attempted to enter until the horrendous odor convinced my bladder to hold out, the fact that there was no toilet paper available offered a very convincing second opinion. I searched for running water to wash the goo from my hands and found none.

Outside of a dilapidated water fountain, surrounded by flies and screaming hyperactive children, no running water was available, anywhere.

I checked my reflection in the sticky fingerprinted window to be sure I was still alive and well and awake in The Great United States of America.

Beyond my reflection I see ghostly images resembling our many forefathers and I must say, there are some very disappointed faces lingering around this place.
I take a seat on a metal bench and hang my aching head in shame.

An eternity later, my number was called and I joined the mad stampede back into the building. I stood in line for another fifteen minutes and was given albeit, another number. I went back outside to wait and could not help but overhear long-winded stories exchanged by those around me.


I listened to a mother rant about her son, arrested and now incarcerated because he violated probation when he went out of town to earn money to feed his children. His trade required him to travel and his envious competitor ratted him out.

I heard a wife recant a story of how her husband violated his probation when he paid rent to keep a roof over his family's head instead of paying his fines. I lived through the story of the guy who still sits in jail because the probation officer cannot make a recommendation to the courts because no one in the entire probation department can locate his file.

Does any of this ring a bell? "...The Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution reads, in part, "No person shall be ... deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law..."

What this means, in simpler terms, is that “constitutionally you cannot be executed, imprisoned, or fined without the proper course of justice taking place. Though, due process itself is not defined in the constitution, it is universally recognized as meaning what we term as "a fair trial."

With that said, “a fair trial by a jury of one's peers requires that the jurors approach the case with the thought that the prosecution is required to prove the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Since the trial begins with the prosecution not having introduced a single piece of evidence, it follows that a defendant must be innocent, until proven guilty.”
What has become of constitutional rights?

Forget all that constitutional hoopla for a moment and focus on BASIC HUMAN rights.

What happened to those?

Criminal or no criminal, there is a line that must be drawn between strict reverberation and inhumane and humiliating maltreatment.

How in the hell has ARPAIO or anyone directly involved gotten away with this for so long?

On and on I hear, through the screaming, tired and impatient children, stories of woe.

I eavesdrop on the family discussing a man who has faithfully been taking various psychiatric medications for six months at the instruction of a psychiatrist. I should also mention that this man has been denied access to all of his psychiatric medication since his incarceration four days ago.

He is currently housed in General Population.

Now, having been exposed to what the mentally ill who abruptly stop taking medication are capable of, you can bet an entire posse that this man will soon be in lockdown and facing new charges after he flips out and injures an inmate or an officer.

I then overhear that there are inmates currently sleeping on the floor because there are not enough bunks to go around.

I pinch myself to make sure I am not dreaming.


Ouch.

Nope, not dreaming, this is reality.

A regular then informs me, that I cannot wear my jewelry or my sweatshirt in the visitation area but there are lockers offered at my convenience.

I make my way to the row of sixty-some lockers and soon discover that not only do I have to pay for them, there are only about ten that actually work properly.

Though I am convinced it not be a wise decision, I very hesitantly go and lock my belongings in my car.

I return again to the small and overly populated waiting area and out of boredom I begin counting heads. I stopped counting at about sixty. I wonder if in the event of an emergency, should the need for a quick evacuation arise, what would happen.

An image of the running of the bulls flashes through my mind as I picture a room full of irritated individuals trampling each other to make it out of the building alive.

I chuckle aloud out of sheer nervousness.

The lady sitting to my left looks at me and her forehead crinkles.

I look away and I focus my attention on the screaming youngster whose fingers and face are covered in a layer of Cheetos and sugar.

The child begins to voice his opinion about sitting still. Loudly.

The mother begins to holler at the child in Spanish, I’m not sure what she was saying but the tone of a frustrated mother is universal, no matter the language.

The child ignores her and his pitch raises seven decibels causing the lady next to me to now focus her glares on him.

Thank you God.

She certainly had a look in her eye, as if she wanted to fight.

Everyone’s attention is suddenly aimed towards the sound of an opening door and A cranky burned out elderly woman in uniform appears.
Six hours after I first stepped foot on the Sheriff’s property, I was informed that my one hour visit has been reduced to thirty minutes in order to serve all who have been waiting. The door closes and the woman disappears.

The child continues to scream and I now feel like joining him in his chorus of impatience and rage.

Realizing that besides one other girl and myself nobody in the room speaks the English language, I wonder how any of them have managed to make it this far in the judicial process when I cannot even comprehend the chaotic system in my own language.

It’s miraculous and sad that I now feel like a foreigner in my own country.Moments later, the door opens again and the same cranky woman appears and begins calling numbers.

The child is still screaming and the woman at the doorway screams louder.

For the love of god, I think to myself please do not encourage him!

Godzilla lady in the brown polyester suit shoots an irritating glance at the child’s mother and continues screaming numbers.

I grow impatient hen the next number is called and nobody moves. I look down at the paper in my hand and realize it is mine and my heart jumps a beat.

I tiptoe past the Oshkosh tyrant and am tempted to stick my tongue out at him and instigate his cries; hoping to irritate the woman who glared at me for chuckling.
I ponder the kid’s personal safety and opt to wave at him instead as I take my place in yet another long line that will eventually lead me to my friend, or my demise.

The door buzzes and we are all instructed to enter.
I feel as though I am officially about to enter hell.

I watch as the herd of folks ahead of me pass through a metal frame intended to screech if someone were to actually attempt to enter with any metal objects.

Behind me the door slams shut and through the screams of a child on the other side of the door, the cranky woman bleats out the rules of conduct once we step inside the visitation area.

Standing in the holding area, it occurred to me that due to the crowd of people who entered before me blocking the entry, I personally never passed through the metal frame.

I was able to step into the two feet of open area around the metal frame and the five others who entered after me, all followed suit.

Mr. Arpaio should thank his big pink stars that no one has entered into this facility with a 24k gold necklace or a 45.
Inside the visitation area, a line of men wait along a wall, staring intently as the women parade into the room.

I gasp at the stark contrast of the black and white striped suits and the fat, bold words UNSENTENCED INMATE carefully stenciled across the backs. I catch a glimpse of two (very out-numbered) officers, shudder and scan several faces for one, (hopefully one) face that looks familiar.

A hand waves in the air and the face beyond it is that of a familiar sight, sort of. I approach cautiously and take a seat at a wooden bench across from my friend now ten pounds lighter, unshaven and cuffed and shackled.

I’ll be the first admit I didn’t pay much attention in school but I do remember being taught in my Junior High Government class that the law once stated "all are innocent until proven guilty."
I silently question the innocence of his treatment.

I then notice all the children who ache to hug the UNSENTENCED ONE that sits across from them.
At home on their television, the bad guy wears the handcuffs, how can a child differentiate that bad guy from grandpa, uncle or worse, daddy?

I wonder how they rationalize the restrictions placed on their need to have and give a hug, I certainly cannot and I am an adult.


I look down and see the wooden barrier between us and I notice the deep grooves engraved into the wood by hours of nervous fingers, without looking up I ask, “how the hell are you?”

We both laugh, momentarily, and my own fingers begin a fresh engraving in the same wooden barrier.

Aside from the facial expression of a man stripped of all dignity I am most disturbed by what this thirty-minute visit has taught me.

I’ve been cultured by a new concept; the constitution doesn't apply here any longer and "un-sentenced" and "innocent until proven guilty" are not one in the same in Arpaio-Ville.

Five days into his incarceration, in addition to a continual denial of medication verifiably prescribed to him, he was denied medical attention for other ongoing medical problems, as well. Several requests later, he was issued a hand full of Tylenol, sent to his pod, still not having seen a doctor.

As a result, his medical problems previously under control recurred if not worsened, during incarceration

Seven days into his incarceration, no Public Defender or any Probation officer, for that matter, made an effort to visit the jail to update or counsel with him.

When this inmate appeared at his initial court hearing, the only counsel he received consisted of a conversation with a public defender five minutes prior to his appearance before a judge.

The Probation department could not make a recommendation to the court because they were not familiar with his case.

Eventually, it was discovered that no one in the Probation Office knew where his file was.


The Judge informed him he would remain incarcerated for an additional fourteen days, until which time probation has been given an opportunity to review his file.

If they can find it.

This inmate has not committed a crime of a violent, sexual or repetitive nature nor is he considered an immediate threat to the community. The astounding truth being, this jail is overflowing with similar situations, literally and figuratively. Many share the opinion that because these folks are in jail and accused of a crime, they should buck up and take it like a man but do two wrongs really make a right?

According to information posted on Arpaio’s website this jail was built in 1976 as a minimum security jail to house selected inmates who would be provided skills training to prepare them for reintegration into the community.

Originally, Durango Jail was built to house 448 inmates, and was designed for single-cell occupancy.

Today, Durango houses over 1,700 inmates on a daily basis, over four-times the inmates it was designed to hold.

It now faces plumbing problems, (well, so does the new jail but we won’t get into that) it also suffers from fixture and electrical problems. There is not adequate space for classrooms, for medical examination rooms, or for visitation.

Joe says he is dedicated to the everyday care, custody and control of inmates, and supplies their basic needs - food, clothing, medical care, recreation, and educational and spiritual needs.

Oh yeah, and his mission is being fulfilled in a professional and effective manner.

What a guy.

After posting the original copy of this story on the Internet, I was ambushed by some interesting comments; “…Somewhat embellished, with dramatic prose inserted, but nonetheless, I'm sure the experience was unpleasant.”

“…Funny part of this is that Joe Arpaio is the only one among us all who is actually doing something about it…”
“…You had a bad experience and you want to blame the one person who is the least to blame…”

Personally, I feel we are all equally to blame; we all share a part in assuring the system functions. WE, as a society have the most say; most of us fail when we believe we are powerless in creating change. In no way was I attempting to create an outlandish story, justify any criminal action or impart leniency on any person who has fallen short of being a law abiding citizen.

Jail is intended to teach a person a lesson and to protect the community from harmful individuals that roam the streets.

Teaching someone a lesson means coaching, training, enlightening, informing and tutoring, break out your Thesaurus it spells it all out for you.

Teaching is not inflicted on someone; teaching is imparted on to individuals that lack skills in a certain area, like decision-making skills.

Should being incarcerated be uncomfortable?

Yes.

Uncomfortable enough to remind certain individuals to not commit any further crimes.

Ever.

Should a person be tossed in a rat hole and forgotten about until someone feels like doing something? The "I don't give damn attitude" of the entire system is similar to the "I don'tgive a damn" mentality of the individual doing the crime" except those with the most money, win.

That’s not teaching it is an irresponsible tactic to control people and demand notoriety and attention. The system is full of brutal minded cogs and if you have ever been on any side of the system, you know who they are, they have no idea what justice is about and the oath they take, to them is meaningless.
Usually, their own lives are screeching out of control and suddenly the power of controlling an overcrowded jail is bestowed upon them after a few weeks of training.

Fuel to a fire.

There is a way to maintain control and custody in a respectful manner. Power trips only create anarchy and rebellious behavior. Remember we are talking about people here; personalities and issues vary from one extreme to the other.

Approach almost certainly determines response.

While working in the system, it wasn’t always the individuals I was serving that worried me; it was the infectious power trip that seeped through the weak minds of fellow staff.
The danger lingers in the attitudes of those who escalate situations that can be maintained with a little old fashioned respect.

Unfortunately, this ignorance is visible in the courts, the mental health field and even the probation department; probation assuming the attitude that one more violation will add to their quota.

In an essence, if you performed your job functions, you would be guiding your defendant into the proper channels and your defendant would be less likely to violate.


Most defendants violate by not making contact.

If you are treating someone who is trying to rebuild their lives, as if they are useless.

and no good, can you really blame them for not trying?
All parties involved carry the responsibility of meeting the expected behavior that will produce the most positive outcome, for the community as well as the defendant and their families.

A final quote from my Internet fan says, "..It sure is easy to find fault when you have no idea what it is you are looking at, let alone how to run it..."

Do the people, who are running it, know how to run it?

Did I miss the jail and enter the dog pound?

Nowadays it’s so very hard to tell.

Story and photos by C Johnson-West

:: contact C Johnson-West :: cjknows@hotmail.com
C Johnson-West's ARTish Gallery :: www.ARTish.org/artist-ccwest.html