Lockdown on Rikers (27 page)

37

A couple of days later I was at my desk working on OBCC's daily statistics, my cynicism growing. Although the form was never without incidents of arm cutting, head banging, and attempted hangings, once I faxed it to Central Office, most of this data would disappear. Self-injurious behavior was considered strictly in terms of suicide attempts. If it was deemed that the
motivation
for self-harm was “goal-directed”—as opposed to a bona fide wish to die—then it would simply be deleted. In the case of Leonard Putansk, despite the fact that he was taken to the hospital for an attempted hanging, because the gesture came on the heels of his demand to be released from solitary, it was not considered a true suicide attempt. Using this formula, the big numbers of clawing, cutting, and attempted hangings that were so pervasive among the detainees were whittled down to a mere one or two a month, serving as the island's official numbers—the numbers that were served up to the public. I never trust statistics.

I was just finalizing the form when Theresa Alvarez burst into my office. “Mary! They're ransacking the MO! They think somebody's got a razor! I was in the middle of running the community group when the squad came in with nightsticks, helmets, riot gear . . .
and everything!
”

“Wait here,” I instructed her and dashed across the hall to the MO. I don't know why I went over—a sense of protectiveness, a reflex, I guess. But when I got to the door, I could go no farther.
Mental frailties notwithstanding, a razor blade was a security matter, and I had no business being here; if spotted, I would be solidly reprimanded. But no one had seen me just yet. The door was slightly ajar and I edged in closer, just close enough to see the helmets and to hear a nightstick crack against a metal cot. An angry voice yelled, “Listen up, ya motherfuckers! You're nothing but sorry pieces of shit—not one of you should have even been
born!
Maybe you think you're fooling the doctors with all this mental illness
crap,
but you're
not
”—
crack!
—“
fooling
”—
crack!
—“
me!
Now I want my razor back—and I want it back
now!
”

Heavy boots were pounding down the hallway. It was the Emergency Response Services Unit—the Ninja Turtles. I didn't dare stay a moment longer and darted back across the hall, but not before I caught sight of an oversized angular chair being rushed toward the MO. It always reminded me of an electric chair on wheels. One of DOC's most favored security apparatus, it detects weapons stored within the body. This was going to be bad.

Back at the clinic, we all buried ourselves in paperwork; no one talked about what was happening across the hall. I looked up at the clock—three-quarters of an hour had ticked by. Ten minutes later, Pepitone stuck his head in and told us the search team had just left.

We ran over to the MO. It looked like a bomb had been dropped. Lockers lay on their sides, family pictures were strewn about, the bookcase that Theresa had set up was on its side, books scattered on the floor. Mattresses were everywhere. The patients were rocking on their mattressless cots, too devastated to start the cleanup. A few sobbed. Victor, the mentally retarded inmate, sat on the edge of his cot; at his feet were his big eyeglasses, the frames twisted and the lenses nothing more than shards of glass.

At the bubble, the usually good-natured Officer Hartman was dazed. Hovering over him, arms flailing, was Burns, who alternated between berating Hartman and then trying to prop up his flagging spirits.

“What were you thinking?” asked Burns. “Mary, he calls security and tells them a blade's missing. Why'd you tell them it was
gone? All you did was get yourself in hot water. What are you? Stupid?”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Hartman said glumly. “I was just following procedure.”

Every morning disposable razors for shaving are dispensed from the bubble. In exchange for the razor, the inmate must turn in his all-important ID card. To get the card back, the blade must be returned.

Apparently, Hartman sent the inmates out to rec without checking IDs and without realizing he was still holding one ID card in the bubble, meaning that someone had walked out of the house with a razor blade. Only after the inmates were gone did Hartman notice the remaining ID. Following protocol, he called security and the squad arrived to search the inmate who'd left the ID behind. A strip search revealed no blade. He claimed he'd dropped it in the house and had simply forgotten about his ID. He was hauled off to the receiving room, and that's when the search team swarmed in.

In the meantime, a grim-looking Captain Catalano, the MO captain, told me the culprit was still in the receiving room and advised me to transfer him to an MO in another jail. Since he'd brought this upon the house, he was in danger of being soundly beaten if returned to the dorm. I filled out the paperwork promptly.

The following day, the blade had not yet turned up and the house was still “on the burn.” Once again, the dorm was ransacked.

Afterward, we decided to gather the inmates in the dayroom and try to comfort them. At first, only a few would get up, but once we got the group going, they started trickling in. They were initially reluctant to talk, but once they started, the floodgates opened. They repeated the speech I'd heard at the door. Then they said they were ordered to strip, lined up against the wall with legs outstretched and palms against the wall, and warned not to make a sound while the team ransacked their belongings and inspected their rectums. They told us their arms were aching, but they all knew the officers were waiting for one of them to flinch—so someone could be made
an example of. They said one of them looked at Victor and said, “Hey, Goofy,” pulled off his glasses, and stomped on them.

Back in our office, Dr. Ketchum was beside herself. “For God's sake, why are they doing this? They're torturing these fragile people! The razor's gone—that guy got rid of it in the hallway. Don't they realize that?”

Even Catalano thought the searches were going too far but told me it was out of his hands. But he did have an interesting take on the whole thing. “The problem here is that it was our mistake. Nobody should have left that dorm without an ID. Now if somebody gets cut up with that razor, especially in an MO house, it would look very bad for the department. That's why they're pushing so hard to find it.”

Buzzie Taylor, an older inmate with a long history of drug and alcohol addiction, was a permanent resident on the MO who suffered from major depression. After the third search, we had to console a shaken Buzzie, but not because of the search. He told us he was heading into the bathroom: “I was just going to take a pee and try to forget about everything. I went around a corner and a pair of sneakers banged into my head, and I said, ‘What?' and then I look up and it's Teddy—hanging!”

Teddy Gibson, the patient with the crisscross scars who'd been sexually abused as a child, was barely clinging to life. He was already being intubated when the gurney was rushed through the clinic. The ambulance arrived quickly. It was only after a week that we got word that Teddy had survived. I told a much-relieved staff, and they in turn shared the news with the patients. However, there were murmurings that there'd been brain damage. We would never know for sure, as he never returned to OBCC, but after Teddy Gibson's attempted suicide, the searches ended.

38

After I had spent eight weeks running OBCC alone, the heat let up, the summer vacations ended, and the audit was history. Even the calls from the Bing had fallen off. But best of all, Kelly returned. The long nightmare was over. As soon as Kelly got settled, I took a badly needed vacation and did my best to forget all about Rikers Island. While I was out, I saw a doctor about my abdominal pain. After a series of tests came the diagnosis: duodenal ulcer. He told me that most ulcers are caused by a virus, but further tests ruled out any virus. He said that some ulcers are, indeed, caused by “good old-fashioned stress.” I didn't doubt it for a second.

When I returned to work, Kelly's presence felt luxurious. Together, we oversaw the unit, compiled statistics, traded off on meetings, and handled the daily crises. In short, the place became manageable. And then, an exciting development: we got a clinical supervisor! The enthused psychologist set up shop at the third desk, and our office was complete. Everything was finally coming together. I was well rested and should have felt great—but strangely, I did not.

About two weeks into Kelly's return, we were catching up on paperwork when the phone rang and Kelly answered it. I wasn't paying attention to her conversation, but when she got off she softly said, “Mary.”

I was distracted and didn't respond.

“Mary!”

I swiveled around in my chair, but by now she was busy reading something.

I turned back and resumed assigning referrals. A few minutes passed before she said, “I have an interview.”

I took a deep breath and said nothing.

“Well, it's just one interview.” But there was a sparkle in her eye, and I knew the interview would fall into place and that she, too, would be gone.

Sure enough, one week and two interviews later, Kelly had a job offer. “I'd have to be crazy not to take it,” she said. “Things here are too ridiculous.”

“I know, Kelly. I wish it wasn't so, but I understand.”

“You'll be taking over here at OBCC, Mary. You'll be the new chief.”

I wished I could have been excited at the prospect, but I wasn't sure about it at all. But I needn't have worried about any agonizing decision.

When Kelly returned after tendering her resignation, she said that Suzanne Harris asked her who she thought should take over. “I was a little surprised,” said Kelly. “After all, it's obvious you'd be the next chief. But she said they'd have to think about it, maybe consider candidates from outside.”

I couldn't have been more stunned if Kelly had slapped me across the face.

“Listen, don't get upset,” said Kelly. “It was just talk.”

Just talk!
Yes, I had sent an unwelcome memo. But I had also singlehandedly pulled the unit through a horrendous summer—overseeing the Bing, guiding us through a successful audit, maintaining staff coverage during a lengthy vacation cycle, not to mention managing a psychiatrist crisis—in every way demonstrating my ability to supervise OBCC's Mental Health Department. How dare they! My world was coming apart. I grabbed my jacket, ran out to my car, and drove off the island and down to the Triboro Bridge. The beastly heat had finally relented, and summer's green
leaves had changed colors and fluttered to the earth. I walked down a leaf-covered path and sought sanctuary at the river's edge. The dark water, buffeted by stiff winds, crashed along the rocky shoreline. I looked out on the water, and as I did, a powerful realization was taking shape:
It was over.
There was nothing left of the meaning and fulfillment I had once found on Rikers Island.
It was over now.

I lifted my face up to the wind and felt the soft spray of water. Images from the beginning started flashing through my mind—I smiled at the memory of the mothers and babies in the Rose Singer nursery. I thought of Lucy and Annie Tilden and Rhonda Reynolds. Where were they now? I recalled my first day at GMDC when Janet and Pat had met me in the lobby, and how enthused I'd been. I thought of my first case, Antwan Williams; of Chris Barnett, the motorcyclist; Alex Mora, whose brother had been shot; and Alex Lugo, forced to be a prison gladiator. I recalled Michael Tucker and his mother, and the many worried families of the mentally ill that I'd tried to comfort. Countless others flashed through my mind, hundreds of people struggling, trying to find their way. Maybe my father was right—maybe I couldn't change the world. But in some small way I'd always tried. I'd shaken hands with every single person I'd met. I'd looked the disdained, sick, and forgotten in the eye, listened with an open heart, and treated all with dignity. Despite everything I'd been through, I still believed in the dignity of all life.

Yes, it was over now. St. Barnabas may have just done me a favor.

I started back to my car, and then I stopped. I turned around and walked back to a trash bin and reached into my pocket. I pulled out my cigarettes and tossed them away for good.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, my heart was immediately flooded with the ugliness of the previous day, the bitter sting of rejection. Yet I also felt a deep sense of peace at the thought of my
decision to leave. For the remainder of the week, I kept things to myself, allowing the staff to first process the news of Kelly's departure. When she'd gathered everyone to inform them, they were surprised and disappointed. And then, inevitably, conversation turned to talk of the new chief. Everyone looked in my direction. “Don't assume it's going to be me,” I cautioned. But my warning wasn't taken seriously. “Oh, Mary,” Theresa said, waving her hand, “you're so modest!” Under the pressure of summer's events, we had forged a strong bond. This whole group had grown dear to me, and the thought of telling them that I would also be leaving was almost unbearable.

But at the first opportunity, I called over to my old friends Janet and Charley. “Now, don't do anything rash, Mary!” Janet said. But by now, even Janet's admonitions were drowned out by the roar in my own heart; my time on Rikers was done.

The following day, I typed up my resignation letter. My first stop at Central Office was Hugh Kemper's office. As soon as he saw the envelope, he knew. “Why, Mary? Why?”

I liked Hugh and knew he'd been in my corner. “I just feel it's time to move on.”

“Does this have to do with not being asked to replace Kelly?”

“Honestly, Hugh? No . . . not that I wasn't upset about it, but I think it was a catalyst, the push that I needed.”

“I'm sorry, Mary. I'm really sorry.”

Next was Dr. Campbell's office. When I handed him the envelope, he seemed mildly surprised but received the news politely, wishing me well in my “new endeavors.”

Thankfully, Suzanne Harris was out that day.