It is a dreary night in April, and the rain is splattering against the windowpanes like bullets emitting from a machine gun. The storm raged through the darkness, and the only scent of light came from the full moon, which lit the sky like a single match in an unlighted room. The storm birthed gale-forced winds that ravaged the roof's shingles and produced a whistling sound throughout the house. Hopefully, the rain will be my aphrodisiac for a night of peaceful sleep.
As I relax in my bed, straining to hear the dialogue of the prison movie I am watching, I plunge into a deep slumber, captured by my dreams of working in a maximum-security prison as a correctional officer. The prison flick consumes my brain, and the prospect of being a correctional officer becomes the reality of the night. I envision medieval constructed buildings of concrete, steel, and barbed wire beckoning for my service. I see people constantly moving but going nowhere. They converse without recipients to hear them, shouting to be loud, and I hear the resonations of their voices, looking around as if they were lost in a maze of confusion and staring at one another as if they were looking at an alien.
I see inmates trying to get my attention, shouting erratically in high pitched tones,
" Hey, C.O., I need my commissary. Hey, C.O., It is rec time, open these Muthafuckin cells".
Yep, I am a correctional officer, nope, I mean a C.O., the dialect of the
prison culture for the profession of a correctional officer but wait,
professions are nonexistent behind the walls of the incarcerated society.
Disciplines are essential in civilized society, and they endow a person
with respect, courtesy, and notoriety. I am a C.O., and those I oversee
possess no accolades, no tributes to me, and no compliments for me.
Behind these walls, the Keepers are C.O.'s, and the Kept are Inmates.
The C.O.s are society's cops behind the walls without a gun. The COs
only have a badge and a brain as a weapon. The C.O.'s are the last line
of defense between chaos and order among society's least
reconstructible miscreants.

Again, another indecent solicitation targets me from an inmate known as Dense because his mental faculties are sluggish.
"Man, C.O., do you have shit in your pants; it is recreation time; when are you going to open the fuckin cells?"
I stare at Dense with disdain, trying to hide my scorn and every internal emotion within me wanting to disregard his request and keep him locked behind the steel barriers forever. Still, my training suffocates my negative emotions, and I respond casually." Mr. Dense, I know it is rec time, and the cells will open at 11 a.m.; those are the rules. By the way, my name is Officer Rose to you."
Holding the cell bars as if he were drowning from boredom, he glares at me with intensity emitting from his eyes like a rabid dog and retorts, "I know rec time is at 11 a.m., you idiot, it is 11 a.m. now, you jackass."
Looking at my watch, I respond, "Mr. Dense, it is not 11 a.m.; it is 10: 55a.m.by my watch ".
"Well, your cheap Muthafuckin watch is wrong, and you are too stupid to know how to tell time anyway." All the other inmates on the housing block give him an audience and laugh, so he continues his rant." What kind of watch are you wearing? I bet it is not a Rolex. You cheap ass C.O.'s cannot afford a Rolex. When I was in the street, I owned three Rolexes; how do you like that?"
Before I could even respond, inmate Fingers jumped into the fray. They called him Fingers because he was born with a deformity of six fingers on each hand." Where are your three Rolexes now? he queried
Stuttering because he fears Fingers, Dense responds," I, I, lost, lost them in a, a, a gambling game."
"Yea," barks Fingers," you lost them, right up your big jelly ass, you are lying pussy- faced stuttering bitch."
The entire block bursts out in laughter, and Dense's face is covered with humiliation. I tried to conceal my humor, but internally I felt a reprieve and proceeded to open the cells for rec time. Dense walks past me like he was departing from a funeral, with his head down, covered in shame. As the inmates file past me like soldiers in cadence, my thoughts and reasons for becoming a correctional officer flowed like a stream rushing down a mountainside.
My self-aggrandizement and the magnitude of my responsibilities consume my mind. My inner confidence is fragile, and I make every endeavor to reassure myself worth, for I am the bridge between civility and disorder, the conduit between the lawful citizenry and the lawless criminal of society. My world is fast-paced and consumed with unanticipated human crises every second of the day. I serve many diverse roles; I am the police, the counselor, the mediator, and the social worker to the millions of streetwise predators arrested for illegally wheeling and dealing their way through life.
As my thoughts continued to bolster my ego, my radio emitted a code three alert, preceded by the announcement, "Officer down, secure all areas, Officer down section three. I secure my housing area and immediately retrieve my protective equipment, realizing that section three is the adjacent housing area of cells. Arriving in section three, I observe two fellow officers arguing with an inmate known as Chink about returning to his cell. Officer Jenny spoke to Chink in a very casual, polite manner. "Mister Chink, please return your cell. I am asking you for the final time".
Chink looked at her with disdain and unfolded his arms with a clenched fist. "Hell no, I want my rec time, like everyone else. I am not going into that cell. I am going to rec, so get out of my way."
I could see the reddish color from the rise in his blood pressure in his swollen eyes. Chink looked fierce, ready for confrontation, and determined to disobey Officer Jenny. She made one final attempt to sway him to enter the cell by grabbing his arm, and suddenly Chink swung around like a ballet dancer and slammed his fist into the nose of Officer Jenny. She fell to the floor from the potency of the punch, and he preceded to kick her like a football. More kicks follow the fist pummeling in rapid succession. I preceded to restrain Chink while the other Officer called another code for additional assistance. Within minutes, another 20 officers arrive and begin to hammer Chink with security batons throughout his body and on his head. They kick him in the groin, often reciting Officer Jenny's name, to remind him why he is receiving a whipping and thrashing, C.O. style. Several officers stomped his head against the steel bars while others took turns using his back as a punching bag in a boxing gym. He squirmed and screened with pain, relenting from being the aggressor to the victim. As my fellow officers continued to beat Chink, I could hear his bones cracking from the impact of the rubber batons jumping off his body like people on a trampoline. In awe, about forty inmates in the housing section stood on tables, watching the officers punish Chink for assaulting a female colleague. I could see the fear in their eyes and the subdued, emotional reaction of viewing Chink's introduction to the rage of retribution of C.O.'s. One inmate conjured up the nerve to shout, "Okay. please C.O.'s, he is down, don't kill him".
I respond arrogantly to the inmate, "This is how it's done; this is what happens when you attack a correctional officer."
Chink's body lay on the concrete floor, badly bruised, trembling, blood drenching from his orange jumpsuit and seeping into the floor. Blood flowed from his mouth like water from a dripping faucet, and his head began to swell slowly like an inflatable balloon. Three other officers and I picked up his limp body and heaved him into the cell like a sack of potatoes heaved from a delivery van. Inmates shudder in fear, but one inmate resurrected some courage and shouted," Get him medical; he needs a doctor."
I responded," Naw, all he needs is to remember the ass whopping we gave him."
"Right on," echoed Officer Blake, one of the first to respond to assist Officer Jenny," The only person seeing medical today is the Officer lying on that stretcher. Now, all you inmates line your ass up in a single file and march to your cells without saying a damn word, or you will end up like your friend. Get moving to those steel cages and lock in like the beast you are".
I could discern from their expressions that the inmates are constipated with fear and hostilityâ?"the fear of what they called C.O. gang bangs and the hatred of not being capable of retaliating. To them, the incident was so spontaneous, and Chain's reaction was a spur-of-the-moment reflex, providing no time to plan an offensive on the responding C.O.s. As we brought order to the housing section, a supervisor, Captain Amos, arrived on the tier. He was a 25-year correctional veteran, served 20 years in the Marines, and was distaste for cuddling inmates. He ordered a lockdown and commenced a count to ensure no one was missing because of the chaos. I passed by Chain's cell, observed a motionless body, like someone in a morgue, and thought, maybe he needs medical care. I walked over to Captain Amos and expressed my concerns tactfully.
"Captain, I think the inmate Chain needs to transfer to the infirmary and maybe a hospital."
"Why do you think he needs medical treatment? Are you a doctor or a correctional officer?"
A chill ran up my spine, but I responded, "I am a correctional officer, Sir, but he is not moving."
He gave me a stare that made me regret that I asked him a question and responded very bluntly." If your bleeding heart is so concerned about Chain's condition, you summon the infirmary and have him admitted, but if I were you, I would be more concerned about Officer Jenny."
"What is her condition, Sir?" She is in a coma, with a concussion and broken nose". I was in shock and tried to express my concern, but the Captain interrupted me. "And you are worried about the low-life inmate who attacked her. "Pointing to his gold shield, he continued," You are an embarrassment to this badge." She is in a coma, with a concussion and broken nose." I was in shock and tried to express my concern but was interrupted by the Captain. "And you are worried about the low-life inmate who attacked her."
Before I could redeem myself, Code Two emanated from our radios in the special housing section. Code Two indicates a life and death situation with an inmate. The special housing section, also known as the Bing, housed some of the most dangerous inmates in the system, usually gang leaders. Again, the radio blurted out a code with a further explanation," This is Sergeant Bowes, we have inmates out of their cells, no supervision, send the squad," I knew the problem right away, a security nightmare. The most secure housing unit in the entire prison complex where the most dangerous inmates lived was inundated with lame locks. Inmates can release the security locks of their cells and freely roam the tier. There are times when they utilize tools, such as soap or shoelaces, to remove the ancient locking mechanism. The inmates refer to the unjamming of the locking mechanism as "keying the door" and unauthorized freedom from the cell as "pop out." They engage in conversation while milling around when they pop out, but each pop out is a serious security violation. The way the inmates can key the door and pop out is quite ingenious. A few years ago, a death row convict I befriended showed me the diverse methods for keying the entry for pop out. They usually shove cardboard, dominoes, wadded up paper, or the tiny green bars of state-issued soap-issued soap into the door while it is open to ensure the latch does not fully engage. It will look fully shut once the door is closed, but employees confirmed it is not secured. Sometimes that triggers an alert, but guards do not always follow up and check. When an inmate prisoner wants to open a cell door, a carefully placed shoelace or a piece of metal or even cardboard is enough to jimmy the lock, according to prisoners at three different units who said they'd done it themselves: powder and dental floss.
Officers consistently complain about the security violation to management, but their complaints have gone unanswered and on deaf ears. Even the correctional Officer's union issued the faulty locks to the Governor two months ago. It made it a major public relations issue on all the news channels. The union stressed that the fundamental purpose of corrections is to keep inmates locked up, and the pop-outs along with the faulty locks are a matter of life and death. The Governor will expend the funds to fix the faulty locks when a correctional officer is injured or killed.
Code 999 indicated an officer was in distress and required all officers to report to the location. Again, another radio message emitted," Code999 in special housing, repeat, Code999 in special housing"; Now, I had to drop everything and suit up in my riot gear. As I ran to retrieve my riot gear, I bumped into Sergeant Bowes, who we referred to as Big Bo because he was 6feet nine inches and 350 pounds. He was a very close friend of my father, my mentor, and convinced me to become a correctional officer. I greeted him with a joyous smile of confidence, knowing he responded to the Code999," Hey Sarge, what the hell is going on in special housing?"
Towering over my 5feet nine-inch frame, he said," Rose, it is those damn locks and pop-outs again."
"Oh, Sarge, manipulation of those locks is nothing new. When I went to the training academy, I viewed a video sent from one prison this year showing men in an ostensibly locked-down unit get the doors off with toothpaste powder and dental floss."
"No shit?" the Sarge said comically.
"Yep, Sarge, and, the locks at the Telford East Maximum prison in Mexico, the mechanisms are so old and worn down that the latches don't even fully engage."
Retrieving his security vest, which looks like a vast steel-plated bedspread to cover his massive chest, he responded, "Yea, Rose, I know that, but we have a real security situation this time. Dozens of inmates have popped out, swarmed the day room, and taken a female recruit hostage in the day room. They have barricaded the tier with chairs and desks. We have a hostage situation in play and possible sexual assault on an officer,"
"What started this, Sarge?" I naively queried.
Patiently, he responds while still finishing up his riot gear," From my informants, I understand a gang meeting became an argument over the proceeds and kickbacks to the leaders. One leader extracted more money from his members, and they turned on him. The two gang leaders, the Aryan and Mexican cartels, were popping out to fight in the dayroom until one knocked the other nearly unconscious and dragged him back to his cell. The female recruit attempted to call a code; she met resistance from the gang members and became a hostage."
The Sarge put his riot helmet on the top of his massive head and walked into the corridor where twenty correctional officers stood at attention. They are tall, with bodybuilder physiques, and are intimidating. These are the Men in Black, a fierce force created by the Commissioner, and their task is to seize the moment and control the situation. I decided to accompany them and asked the Sarge for his consent; he nodded approval and races to the Bing, along with 20 other correctional officers, resembling a stampede at an outdoor concert trying to get the best viewing spot on the grass.
The Men in Black approached the Bing with precision and dedication. Other correctional officers were already there when we arrived. Still, their superior officers, including Captains and Majors, knew the Men in Black outranked them once they and their leader, Big Sarge Bo, arrived on the scene. Inmates barricaded the entry to the tier, but I could view activities through the spaces of the objects. At the same time, Sarge could observe everything from the ceiling video cameras that the inmates forgot to cover or even knew existed. I could see the female Officer taken hostage in the dayroom, terrified but unharmed. I could also see inmates mulling around with makeshift weapons, but everything looked too organized to be a riot, with no rumbustious activity or escape plan foiled. The critical priority to Sarge is to ensure the safety of the female Officer being restrained as a hostage and restore order. Sarge wanted to commence negotiations immediately and waited for a spokesperson from the inmates to submit demands. Our spokesperson and negotiator appeared on the scene immediately. He was a rotund state policeman and with training at the FBI school of negotiation. He knew the safety of the hostage took priority over any aggressive action by the Men in Black and requested a conversation with the inmate leadership. Unfortunately, there was no response, and we waited and waited to no avail.
During the wait, Sarge Bowes informed me that intelligence from one of his informants identified the initial incident as a power struggle between two foremost gang leaders over control of the drug trade within the prison complex. One leader represented the Aryan nation, while the other represented the Mexican cartel. The intelligence disclosed that the Mexican cartel leader experienced severe wounds and lacerations and was unconscious in his cell. We knew of the friction between these two leaders, but they recently enacted a truce for peace and non-aggression. Some unforeseen incidents ended the ceasefire, and aggression or retaliation became the daily menu of the day.
Still waiting for some dialogue and demands from the inmates, we notice movement in the tier and several inmates locking in their cells. Sarge observed the cameras vigilantly and intensely. He mumbled to himself, "What in the hell are they up to. Something strange is going on.". Suddenly, all the inmates began to be locked in their cells, leaving just a couple of inmates on the tier. We could discern from the body tattoos that the inmates remaining outside their cells are members of the Aryan Nation, and they were carrying a large object wrapped in the green prison-issued blankets. Those Aryan members move toward the rear of the tier, near the last cell, and congregate. Their bodies block our view of what activity they are engaging in, but they proceed with their tasks very surreptitiously. They all adorn bandanas covering their faces, so their identity remains obscure. We watch the cameras, diligently keeping an eye on the officer hostage, who three inmates are guarding, we observe the rear cell open and an object carried by the other inmates thrown into the cell and locked. From the tier map, the last cell belongs to inmate Noriega, the leader of the Mexican Cartel. The object is the body of the Mexican cartel leader, who is unconscious or dead. Suddenly, we view a second inmate coming from the utility closet and throwing a bucket filled with a water-like solution into the cell. Another inmate pulls out a cigarette lighter and heaves the lighter into the cell. Within a split second, inmates retreat from the area like ants running from bug spray and lock-in; the cell erupts into an inferno like a bomb detonating, and flames emit from the cell similar to a volcanic eruption. Smoke and fire consume the entire tier; visibility is nonexistent.
We must act and save the officer hostage before the fire expands to the dayroom; Sarge gives the order, "Move out, Move out," shouts relentlessly. I snatch a radio and call the central command for fire assistance and ambulance service. As the Men In Black move to the dayroom to free the hostage, the fire begins to accelerate, occupying each cell in rapid succession, and the thickness of the smoke permeates our eyes and lungs. The only working component of our bodies is our ears, hearing the salient cries of the inmates locked in their cells, unable to pop out because of the blindness of the smoke. I hear the crackling of state-issued property, beds, blankets, clothes, and people burning like a holiday barbecue as the fire ravages out of control. The entire tier is consumed with the imminent reality of suffocation, blindness, immolation, and death.
Finally, the fire rescue and ambulance service arrive, and they begin to challenge the onslaught of the living fire with flame retardants and water extinguishers. The fire is relentless; it is persistent and does not surrender an inch but marches on to each cell in its path. The Fire Chief approaches Sarge, greets him with a hardy handshake, and says, "This fire is active and getting stronger; I need to know what started this fire?"
Sarge looks at the Fire Chief with a blank stare and responds," What do you mean what started the fire? How in the hell do I know? All I know it is a fire. You tell me what started the fire; you are supposed to be the expert."
The Chief could see the Sarge became agitated with his question, so he changed the format of his approach and said, "Look, Sarge, there are different kinds of fires.
Sarge looked surprised, "Really, I thought a fire is a fire."
"Negative, Sarge, there are five types of fires, depending on the agent that fuels them. Each type involves different flammable materials and requires a special approach".
Sarge politely interrupted, "But Chief, what difference does it make? Water is the weapon for fires, right?"
"Negative, Sarge," the Chief retorted, "Trying to fight the blaze with the wrong method might worsen the fire. Water is not effective with every fire; as a matter of fact, water can feed a fire to spread, and this fire seems to be spreading. Were you present when the fire started?" Sarge feeling a little ignorant, weakly responded, "yea, I saw the fire start."
"Okay, just describe what occurred," the Chief retorts
While folding his arms, Sarge said, "Well, I saw two inmates come out of the utility closet with a bucket and throw the contents of the bucket into the cell. I saw another inmate throw a cigarette lighter into the cell, and the fire erupted"
Rapidly, the Chief exhorts," 'Oh, my gosh, we have a Class B fire, and we are fighting it as a Class A. No wonder it is getting stronger."
"What are this Class A and Class B bullshit?" inquires the Sarge
"Listen, Sarge, you have been accommodating, but from what you described is a Class B fire, it involves liquids, fluids, and chemicals and cannot be extinguished by water but requires foam or powder extinguishers."
The Sarge interrupts the Chief's dialogue, "So right now we are feeding the appetite of the fire" "Right," exclaims the Chief, "so let us commence starving the fire and hit it with foam and powder."
As the Chief moved briskly to inform his firefighters of the change in tactics, the Men in Black finally found their way to the dayroom and retrieved the female Officer and the three inmates holding her hostage. All were unconscious, succumbed to smoke inhalation, and are immediately taken to the hospital. The firefighters continue to wage battle against the fire but abandon water as the weapon and commence using foam and powder extinguishers. I could see the fire receding and the fire crew gaining control of the blaze. They also brought in large blowers to dissipate the smoke, which covered the area like a cloud hovering over the horizon. I became very alarmed at the tranquility of the tier; I could no longer hear the inmates' cries and whimpers. I wondered, did smoke inhalation overcome them, or were they burnt to a crisp? I knew we would not find out the status of their lives until the fire and smoke wholly cleared.
While everyone watched the firefighters tackle the blaze, I maneuver closer to the command center where the Sarge and the brass congregate. The Warden enters the command center, everyone stands at attention, and he waves them down to dispense the formalities. He is a veteran correction professional, starting his career as a correctional officer and promoted through the ranks. Everyone respected his level of knowledge and commitment to the field of corrections. He is charismatic, strict, and a no-nonsense type of person. He commences the meeting with a question," Okay, gentleman, and ladies, what is the situation here?"
The Assistant Warden for Security was the first to respond, who joined the command center just before the Warden appeared. I saw the Sarge bristle because he knew that the Assistant Warden did not have intimate details.
"Warden, Sir, we have a hostage situation which is well under control. Our security team rescued the female Officer held as a hostage."
The Warden responded with another question, "A hostage situation, well why are we up here fighting a major fire?
Again, the Assistant Warden blurted misinformation," The fire is a diversion tactic from the inmates."
The Warden looked puzzled and threw another question," What are you talking about? Are you saying the inmates set the place on fire to divert us from freeing the hostage?"
Humbly, the Assistant Warden responded, "We are still in the investigation stage, Sir."
The Warden became very agitated and voiced his feelings." I have the Commissioner and the Governor up my ass. They want to know what is happening in this prison, and I must have some details before leaving. Now cut the bullshit and give me some points."
The Sarge looked down at the floor to hide his displeasure, and the Warden observed his demeanor. He knows the Sarge, respects him, holds him in high esteem, and knows the Governor will seek his consultation soon.
Ignoring the Assistant Warden, he blurts our "Sarge, "what do you reckon happen here? Give it to me bare bones."
Everyone in the room became tense, apprehensive but yearning to hear Sarge's opinion.
Sarge commences offering his perspective in a very deliberate manner." Well, Sir, As the Assistant Warden stated, we did respond to a hostage situation. "
"I told you so," exclaimed the Assistant Warden.
The Warden became incensed and shouted, "Shut the hell up and allow the Sarge to finish. I did not ask you a damn thing. I want to hear from the Sarge and no one else. Go on, Sarge, proceed with your version of the events."
Sarge nodded and proceeded to annunciate, Sir, the inmates' hostage-taking was a ruse or subterfuge to murder a gang leader. The hostage served as a deceptive ploy to assassinate another inmate. The inmates understand in a hostage situation; our focus will be on negotiating to secure the safety of the hostage. Preoccupied with setting up the negotiation scenario, which the inmates never responded to, provided them sufficient time to execute their plan and murder another inmate right in front of us. Unfortunately, they never perceived nor anticipated the method for the murder would endanger the lives of all the residents living on the section."
Sarge's briefing is interrupted by the Fire Chief, his face shadowed by soot and ashes from the smoke, "Warden, the fire is extinguished, our job is done, but the Fire Marshall and Medical Examiner just arrived, and I understand the media is gathering like ants devouring a chunk of sugar. Well, go luck, my friends, you have a lot of dead bodies to account for and bury. The families are going to sue the shit out of the state."
"Where is the Fire Marshall? inquired the Warden." he will provide us the official cause of the fire."
The Fire Chief turned around, spoke, and pointed to the housing area that looked discolored from the smoke and dark as a cave." The Fire Marshall is on the tier, collecting evidence and samples."
"May we join him?" asked the Sarge
The Fire Marshall gave Sarge a faint smile and responded, "Sure, the Medical Examiner and Emergency Services are there, so you might as well join the party or, should I say the funeral." The Warden smirked, leaned over to the Sarge, and whispered," I don't like that bastard; he is a pompous ass, an ignorant know-it-all."
Sarge placed his arm around the Warden and said, "He has it in for us; he is not on our side; I anticipate a terrible report; let's see the damage."
I accompanied the cadre to the tier, and it resembled a dark, uninhabited cavern smothering the stench of death with the whiff of smoke-laden property and melted steel. As we passed each cell, medical staff worked feverishly to examine the occupants to determine any signs of life. Death lingered in the air as we visited each cell, with some inmates just reclining on the floor and others under their beds attempting to shield themselves from the flames. The further we ventured down the tier, the worst death manifested its rage and displayed the hideous torture of being cooked alive.
As I viewed each body being draped in a black body bag, I thought about my own life and questioned the purpose of being a correctional officer. Every day and night, I face sickness, disease, maiming, injury, and death from the drug dealers who devalue life; the drug addicts who give up on life; the violent who snuff out life; the robbers who prey on life; the arsonist who cash in on life; the rapist who curse life; the muggers who shadow life, the sexual predators who malign life and the burglars who steal from life. I toil and work in a place that should be known as the toilet of society. It holds the human feces discarded by modern civilization, and I represent
the handle that flushes the waste from society. I am the guardian of recycled waste that is the foundation of a multi-billion-dollar economic business supporting law and order and the prison industrial complex machinery of a country that imprisons more people than any nation. I function in a closed institutional environment designed to punish criminals, the scourge of society. I was mandated to co-exist with people who have been excluded from society and have many disabilities. I am legally bound to safeguard an inmate population of sociopaths, psychotics, mentally ill, sexual predators, murderers, thieves, rapists, and terrorists. Unlike police officers, I possess no weapons to maintain order or enforce regulations. My only arsenal is my mind and skill of persuasion. The element of control over the miscreants that I watch is an illusion or mirage. I am trapped in a maze of unrewarding circumstances, beset with problems such as mandatory overtime, shift work, economic disparities, and exposure to aggressive behavior.
My thoughts became foreclosed by the Sarge," Hey Rose, Rose, are you daydreaming again?
Stunned a little, I said," Oh yes, I mean no, Sarge, just thinking about the repulsiveness of this job, just thinking."
"Thinking is good; he quipped," self-examination is therapy. Follow me to the end of the tier; I want to show you something that verifies my opinion of what occurred here."
We reached the end of the tier, where the last cell is located, and I could see the reasons for this tragedy. Unlike the other cells, this cell looked like an inferno, and the worst part was the stench of the gasoline combined with human flesh. I knew this cell was the murder site because the evidence confronted me, and the sight will forever be memorable in my memory bank. The leader of the Mexican Cartel, I think it was him, was embedded in the steel bars, his hands implanted in the steel bars, due to the intensity of the heat from the gasoline fire. He was attempting to summon help by shaking the cell bars, and the fire baked his hands into the bars. He looked like human ash, totally dark, so dark I could not see any of the burn lacerations nor determine his race or ethnicity. His cell mirrored his body, dark, full of ashes, and the glow of paint barely visible but the concrete walls charred like a used barbecue grill on the 4th of July. I looked at the Sarge, shook my head, and with words barely coming out of my mouth, I said," Sarge, you're right, this was a hit, a murder, an assassination. "
Sarge looked into my sad, sympathetic eyes and said, "No, my friend, this is a mass murder; look at the number of deaths."
Again, I sought some empathy and said," Sarge, why do they do this to one another? It doesn't make any sense?"
Sarge, again looked down from his tall frame and said," I ask myself the same questions every time I enter these prisons, and I have not come up with an answer yet; I guess they do not give a damn about life."
I could not take my bereavement flushing my body; I rushed from the tier at a pace like an airline passenger about to miss a flight, find a restroom, and cry because I am a C.O.