116. Earning Freedom (3.1) with Michael Santos Prison Professors

I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
Chapter Three: 1988-1990
Months 14-36
I’m assigned to A cellblock.  It’s a long, rectangular, hollow shell of a building with high ceilings similar to the Oklahoma housing unit I just left at El Reno. Pigeons fly around in the open space above. It’s late summer and the oppressive heat, without air conditioning, makes me sweat. Burgundy tiles cover the floor. The beige, enamel-faced brick walls have been stained yellow from nicotine smoke that has accumulated over decades.
In the center of the shell, a freestanding metal and concrete structure reaches five stories high. Each tier supports a four-foot wide catwalk that wraps around the caged tower. Steel bars evenly spaced four inches apart enclose the side-by-side cells in the building’s core, and metal mesh screens the catwalk. From the looks of it I suspect administrators ordered the screens as an afterthought to keep prisoners from throwing bodies off the walkways.  This is going to be a tough place to live, but in my mind I’m getting ready for all the challenges that I expect to come.
As I climb the stairs I wonder how much blood has spilled on that tile floor below. I’m only carrying a bedroll–two sheets and a pillowcase wrapped inside a green woolen blanket–but apprehension weighs on me.
After reaching the top tier I walk toward my cell. Through the bars of the cells I see that four steel bunk bed racks accommodate eight prisoners in each cell. An open toilet is mounted against the wall at the back of the cell. There isn’t any privacy, just a commode. As I continue down the long tier I pass an open shower area.  It’s just a huge vacant space laid out the same as a cell, but instead of sleeping racks it has five spigots sprouting from the far wall. I catch sight of four men soaping themselves beneath spraying water.
“See somethin’ you like, young’un?” one of the prisoners jeers at me and I hear the others laugh. I keep walking, ignoring the taunt, eyes straight ahead with the bedroll in my arms as if it’s a bundle of firewood.
Near the tier’s end I find cell 517. I walk through the open gate and I notice a small table to my left.  One prisoner lies atop his rack with the newspaper’s sports section absorbing all of his attention. I stand motionless and look around, wondering which bunk I should claim. Three top racks are empty.
“What’s up?” The other prisoner finally notices me. He is in his 50’s, fit, baldheaded, and sporting a goatee.
I nod. “My name’s Michael Santos. I’m new, assigned here.”
“Oh yeah? Where you from?”  His interrogation begins.
“I grew up in Seattle, but I’ve been living in Miami for the past couple of years.”
“How much time you got?”
“Forty-five years.” The length of my sentence makes a statement. In here I don’t need to feel ashamed of it. “Old law,” I clarify.
The prisoner sits up from his rack, sets the newspaper aside. “How old’re you?”
“Twenty-four.”
He shakes his head. “Well, youngster, you got some trouble to pull. Welcome to the big house. Ever been locked up before?”
“I’ve been in jail for a year, been through transit. This is my first prison. How’s it measure up?”
“Suits me just fine, but one spot’s the same as another for me. Question is, and I gotta ask since you’re in my house, how’re you gonna get by? What’re you into?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’d like to go to college if possible, study, work out, that’s about it.”
“You a doper?”
“What do you mean? I’m in here on drug charges.”
“So is everyone else.  What I wanna know is whether you get high.”
“No.”
“Gamble?”
“I don’t have any money for gambling.”
“That would only make things worse, but it don’t answer my question. What I asked was do you gamble?”
I shake my