I grew up in Texas and worked law
enforcement there for a decade, considering myself pretty fluent in ‘cop
Spanish’. When our youngest was seven, a Sunday school teacher once asked the
class if anyone knew some Spanish words. My son raised his hand and said “Suelta la navaja o disparo—drop the knife or
I’ll shoot.” Not sure if I made many points as a parent that day.
Anyway, I didn’t learn the esposas thing until I was on special
assignment to the border area around McAllen, Texas. We were broken into teams
of two or three, and then given a tall stack of warrants along with the
admonition to go put as many of these fugitives in jail as we could over a ten
week period. It was Deputy Marshal Heaven.
During this trip, I was assigned to help with the extradition of a
prisoner from the US back to Mexico. He’d already been convicted in his home
country of murdering a prostitute by tying her to a bed and tracing the outline
of her body with machinegun fire, shooting off bits of her as he went (a scene
I re-imagined in a later book.) He was also wanted for the murder of a Mexican
Federale. My team was to walk the
prisoner across the Rio Grande on the pedestrian portion of the bridge near
Roma, Texas. We’d meet Mexican authorities halfway over the river for the
handoff while each of us stayed on our own side of the border. The Mexican
consul asked if they could borrow the “esposas
por las piernas.” Turns out he meant leg
irons, not wives for the legs, as
I first thought. He promised he’d return
them the next day after they got their guy to prison. He returned them, but the
locking mechanism was filled with dried blood, making us wonder if the prisoner
even made it around the corner once he was across the border…
Border Crossing at Roma |
Deputy marshals arrest more
fugitives each year than all other federal law enforcement agencies combined.
We’re pretty good at slapping on the esposas. For long trips our policy mandates what some
affectionately call a three-piece-suit—handcuffs,
waist chain, and leg irons. There’s a display in front of the marshals office
in Alaska with an old ball and chain (which, I should point out, are not called
esposas), several types of handcuffs,
some leather ‘mitts’ that strapped the prisoners’ hands to a belt, a leg brace
to keep the prisoner from bending their leg and thus running away, and a few
other restraints that lawmen used to use to transport prisoners to jail. Now,
we have the three piece suit, a ‘black box’ that covers the key holes for
higher level escape risks, plastic Flex Cuffs, electronic stun-belts, and hoods
for spitters—though a pair of pantyhose works just as well with the added
benefit of the little nylon leg ‘ears’ drawing the ridicule of other prisoners
on the one who has chosen to spit on us.
When we first meet Rooster Cogburn
in True Grit, he’s unloading his prison wagon in Ft Smith. I think one of the
reasons deputy marshals like this show so much is that we see Cogburn, not only
going after outlaws, but demonstrating two of our other duties in the Marshals—serving
papers—“you can’t serve papers on a rat, baby sister” and transporting
prisoners.
There is something supremely sad
about a person who has lost their freedom. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no bleeding
heart. I was glad to put outlaws in jail. But even after nearly thirty years, I
still got a little chill when the jail door slid shut behind me and didn’t
quite draw a full breath until I was back outside.
I already
touched on having to spend a few weeks working at the jail when I was a rookie
police officer. I hated it, but it taught me a great deal about human
behavior. There is something about that
odor of confinement—Lysol, urine and despair. To me, old bread smells like the
inside of jail. I’ve picked up so many inmate lunches from jail kitchens that
the smell of a bologna sandwich still makes me think of long van trips with a
load of chained prisoners.
old US Marshals cells in Ketchikan, AK |
Not all
jail food is bad. Ardmore, Oklahoma served some of the best beans and cornbread
I have ever eaten. In the early
nineties, I spent nearly two weeks in the Lamar County jail in Purvis,
Mississippi, guarding three ‘lifers’ who were witnesses in a Dixie Mafia trial
in Hattiesburg. Back then the jail had no sworn officer on duty at night, with
responsibility turned over to a “Key Man”. I gained several pounds during that assignment
because the lady down the street, who did all the cooking, made us platters of
good old Southern fried food every night. We played cards with the trustees,
had pushup contests, and listened to stories—that I have since borrowed in some
of my books. I remember one of the prisoners we were guarding told how he’d
gotten into a bloody fight in Angola State Prison over a certain library book
that a couple of other inmates wanted. Ah, the power of books.
In Adventure novels, it’s rare that
the protagonist simply goes out to assassinate the fugitive—though I’ll admit
this happens a little more frequently in my Thrillers that it did in my
Westerns. Usually, the bad guy pushes the good guy’s hand, forcing some higher
level of violence. Often, it’s an increased anxiety about going to prison that
forces a showdown.
There is a paradigm that every
deputy marshal is shown early in their training. Think of the mindset of the
two parties during an arrest. The deputy (or officer, or sheriff, etc.) is at
the highest level of anxiety leading up to the actual contact. The arrestee’s
anxiety level might be extremely high at the time of arrest, but it goes up
even further the closer he or she gets to the prison gates while the deputies' level of apprehension goes down. This is a dangerous time, and I’d bet it was
doubly dangerous back in the day when lawmen were transporting on horseback and
in prisoner wagon.
Years ago, my partner and I arrested
a man on a federal parole violation of some white-collar crimes. He was a
successful real estate salesman who’d done something to violate—I think maybe a
DUI— triggering us to show up at his door at zero dark thirty and cart him off
to prison. Federal parole has been abolished, but there were still a few like
this guy who were on parole at the time of the new law and were grandfathered
in. A parole violator went straight back to prison without a court hearing. Do
not pass go. Do not collet two hundred bucks. This guy was kind of heavy set
and a plodding Baby Huey type. He answered the door in his robe and seemed
resigned to the fact that we were going to come for him sooner or later. He is, in fact one of two people I ever
arrested who I allowed to give their family a goodbye hug. Such a thing is
generally just asking for trouble—but that’s a subject of another essay.
The
prisoner was talkative and seemed to be a genuinely nice guy so we bought him
breakfast at McDonalds and had ourselves a good chat on the two-hour drive to
the Federal Correctional Institution in Seagoville. About fifteen minutes from
the gate, I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed our ‘nice’ prisoner was
beginning to look like a deviled toad. His eyes had gone dark and his
countenance was seething and angry. I
asked him if he was okay. He answered me in short gasps, as if he was holding
his breath. “I’ve gotten soft since I’ve been out,” he said. “Have to put back
on my prison face if I want to survive.”
In basic
training to be deputy marshals, we handcuff each other and spend time behind
bars role-playing as prisoners. Not sure if they still do it, but when I went
through, we also strip-searched each other—not so much, I think, to teach us
about searching—but to demonstrate how intrusive such an act is and how the
prisoner being searched feels at that moment. A little empathy is never a bad
thing in a lawdog—and as a writer, its imperative.
Lack of freedom—whether its being
handcuffed, searched, or imprisoned— changes people. If you’re writing about an
outlaw on the run or someone whose wrongly imprisoned, confinement has
consequences and those consequences inform the character.
Prisoners and their behavior is fascinating
stuff. I'm sure I’ll write a little more on this in the future, but for now, I need
to take mi esposa to dinner.
Marc Cameron is a retired Chief Deputy US Marshal and 29-year law enforcement veteran. His short stories have appeared in BOYS’ LIFE Magazine and the Saturday Evening Post. He's published ten novels, six of them Westerns (several as a ghost writer and two under his pen name, Mark Henry).
TIME OF ATTACK fourth in his USA Today Bestselling Jericho Quinn Thriller series, is the newest release from Kensington February of 2014.
Marc lives in Alaska with his beautiful bride and BMW motorcycle.
Visit him at:
www.marccameronbooks.com
http://www.facebook.com/MarcCameronAuthor
Man, I love this stuff you write. I can see it in your books, too, although Jericho and the Bayou Bum can get pretty bloody at times. Haven't done a review of Time of Attack yet. I need to write you about it.
ReplyDeletecharlie
Hwy, Cheryl, why don't you get this guy to do a weekly blog. Marc, you always give us fascinating looks into places we have not been. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteAbout prison... I had my car repaired at the Idaho State Penitentiary. We had to take out everything, including the gearshift knob, and excluding only the driver's seat. Once we got there, they removed the seat and we took it home with us. I had to wear clothes from chin to toes, no perfume, hairspray, or deodorant--and it was 103 degrees. Neither my husband or I went in any area that held prisoners. Still, I have to tell you I could barely breathe in that place and we were both relieved to be out of there. Talk about oppressive.
ReplyDeleteMy husband had designed several prison and jail security systems, so he'd been in prisons in several states. He told me they were all that way, and he dreaded site inspections even though the new prisons were empty. There's just something about incarceration that threatens the fiber of our souls.
Marc, as always, great stuff. And Frank, if I thought I could talk him in to a weekly blog I would jump on it...but he's retired now and has places to go and people to see!
ReplyDeleteAll kidding aside, this is a fantastic blog. You made me want to drive down to Ardmore for a day trip for some of those beans and cornbread. LOL Lots of great experience to call on in your books.
Hubby just bought your Time of Attack the other day at Wal Mart. He's read the others, and had told me he was going to go look in the books while I was in the cards section. When he came back to join me he had your book and a couple of others.
I really enjoy your posts, too, Marc. You have lived a life that the rest of us just can't even imagine. Keep it up--seems like none of us can get enough of these posts of yours!
Cheryl
Thanks, guys.
ReplyDeleteJacquie, that was mean of those prison guards to not let you wear deodorant…
Frank and Cheryl--I'm self aware enough to know that a little of me goes a long way. Y'all would get sick of me quick if I wrote every week.
Oh my, the memories of the door closing. When I would take juveniles to court or transport them it was always a tense time. When I retired from working juvenile lock-up, my shoulders went down at least 5 inches, just letting go of the stress and worry of being jumped. This was a great and informative post. Doris
ReplyDeletePrison life can be a truly harrowing thing. This is why people should always try to stay at the path of what is right and true, and abide by the law. But as you’ve said, the police should also take the other person’s situation into consideration, and see why he might have strayed off the proper path. Anyway, thanks for sharing your thoughts on the matter. Good day!
ReplyDeleteEliseo Weinstein @ JR's Bail Bonds