My Time as An Inmate

Or,  "the clerical error and the convict"

"A MAN'S ERRORS ARE HIS PORTALS OF DISCOVERY" - James Joyce 

I remember my year as a convict.  I guess some things just stick in our memories.  Getting sentenced to a year in jail is, unfortunately, one of those things.  The other night I was speaking with a Gather friend on the phone and during the course of the conversation I made the comment, "that reminds me of the year I spent in jail".  At that point the conversation paused.  In the silence, I realized I had not previously shared this knowledge with my listener.  It wasn't the first time I just tossed the fact out there without premeditation.  And like most times, my listener was taken aback.  When the conversation recommenced, it was agreed that I should tell this little story on Gather.  It is not your everyday, 'man-goes-to-jail' story.  It is far more humorous than that.  A lot sadder than that.  And a little bit more ironic than that, seeing how I still thank God for putting me in that situation.  The year was 1998.............

I was interupted by a formal knock on the door of my West Columbia, South Carolina apartment.  I cannot tell you how I knew it was a formal knock, I just did.  My instincts did not lie.  I opened the door and there stood the county sheriff, all 6'3" and 280 lbs of him.  He was wearing his full uniform, a Colt and that ever-present law enforcement smile which translates into; "I'm here, you're in some sort of trouble, now deal with it". 

He held out his hand which prompted my gentlemanly instincts to reach out for the handshake that never came.  As soon as my open palm was extended, the sheriff's other hand briskly filled my open palm with a summons to appear.  I expect they teach this little ploy in all the police academies across the land.  Proficient and efficient.  I swear I saw him wink at me as he declared I'd been served, turned on his heels and rambled away into, I'm not making this up folks, the sunset.  I remember the sun in my eyes as I shut the door, and remembering my hand was no longer emptied, looked down.

Sitting down at the table and opening the papers, I braced myself for the oncoming calamity. 

"Oh", I thought to myself, "it's just child support, they're probably requesting more money, what a relief that's all it is".  The requesting courthouse was in Conway, SC, the Horry County seat and only about fifteen miles from my dad who lived in Myrtle Beach.  I had not been seeing my dad much and I really owed him some of my time, especially since the recent passing of my mother.  Yes, Columbia is only a couple hours drive but mostly when I had been making the trip it was to spend time with my friends and not my dad so I called him up and told him I had to be in court the following week and would he like to meet after court for lunch.  He agreed.

The fateful day came and as I arrived at the courthouse, my dad was already sitting out front in the late summer breeze.  We talked for a few minutes, I told him I shouldn't be long and if he wanted to he could just wait for me there.  My courtroom assignment was on the second floor and my dad's days of fighting crowds and climbing stairs were wll behind him and so he agreed to wait for me either in the courtyard or if he got too chilly, in the lobby.  And so I made my way upstairs to hear the judge tell me they wanted another $10, $20, whatever more a week to apply to my child support in the state of Maine.  At the present time Maine had set me up to paying $74/week, of which $15 a week was to be applied to my arrears.  I knew I could afford a nominal increase and therefore I had absolutely nothing to worry about; or so I thought.

For two hours I sat there listening to this poor judge handle case after case of civil unrest, most concerning delinquets who have not paid any child support but whose lawyers were offering blatant excuse after blatant excuse and for the most part resulted in a sigh from the judge and a half-hearted promise from these derelict dads to begin paying followed by a little smile and pat on the back for their attorneys. 

When my name was called, I was thinking finally, a couple of minutes and Dad and I will be going to eat.  I had no lawyer so there wasn't going to be a lot of time haggling and offering excuses.  Besides, I've been paying my child support each week for about five years now.  I was just going to wait and hear how much more the judge wanted me to pay, agree with him and be on my way. 

But you know what?  If you want to give God a chuckle, tell Him your plans - even if they're nothing more than afternoon plans.  I was totally unprepared for what was about to happen; so much for the seven youthful years I spent as a Boy Scout.  You know; "Be Prepared".

"Mr. Burnham, are you not being represented here today", so began the judge and after I assured him I was there on my own behalf, he continued, "I see you have not made any payments on your child support arreas in over three years, or, let's see, as long as you've been living in South Carolina."  it was not a question but I started to speak anyhow.

"What do you mean, I have been paying...", 

The judge interrupted, "Stop right there, Mr. Burnham, I'm too tired to hear your excuses and frankly I've heard most of them today already.  I am sentencing you to one year in the county jail for non-payment of child support arrears.  Good day, sir; bailiff!"

And the lightning struck just as fast and as brutal as that.  Even before the judge's words struck home or before my head could even begin to spin, I found myself in orange jail coveralls and locked in a holding cell.  For forty-five minutes I yelled through the bars trying to get someone, anyone, to understand that my elderly dad was sitting downstairs waiting for me.  Seems no one wanted to listen. 

Finally, this one older African American officer with a kind face and pleasant demeanor asked if he could be of assistance.  I solemnly bit the cuss words off at my tongue and politely informed this officer that my dad was waiting for me, that he indeed had now been waiting close to three hours and that he had no notion as to what had transpired.  The officer agreed to escort me down to my Dad but if I wanted to do so, I was going to have to wear shackles on my wrists and ankles.  Pretty humiliating attire, but what were my options?

As we approached my father I could tell he was trying to make up his mind if it was really me approaching him or not and his first reaction was, "What? did you find it necessary to argue with the judge." 

My penchance to argue back then was almost legendary and my dad had assumed that he was looking at the end result of some such argument.  I just shook my head and as I reiterated what had happened inside the courtroom, the whole episode came back to me as if a dream.  At this point, as my words flowed from my mouth to my dad's ears, the severity and injustice of my situation started to sink in.  My Dad then assured me that he would be at the jail tomorrow with my sister and with an attorney in order to get me released. 

And then, as I stood there, partially in shock of my situation, we parted ways.  My dad for home and me for a short ride out highway 701 to the J Reuben Long Detention Center, which apparently, was going to be my home for awhile.  Turned out, a long while.

My first night at the jail is little more than a blur.  After processing in and calling my then-employer, I was placed in solitary for five hours while the administration located me a pod and a bed. 

There are plenty of movies and novels in our lives where a character is thrown in solitary, 'the cooler' or 'the box' for days and weeks at a time and we think nothing of it.  I am here to set the record straight, even a few hours locked behind a steel door with no windows and no furnishings is more than enough.  If you want a physical definition of desolation, folks, that is it. 

Five hours into the deepest pity party I have ever attended, the door opened and I was taken to 'A' Pod.  I would learn over the next few days how fortunate I was. 'A' Pod is a dormitory style housing facility where individual cells had no doors and the concrete walls were only four feet high.  There was a combination game / television room, a small library of paperbacks, showers which were accessible for anyone who wasn't 'working' to enjoy right up until "lights-out" and two basketball courts available from 5:30pm until 8:30pm each evening.  Couple this with three squares a day and I once was led to quip to the captain that if they would bring me a girl once a week from the women's pod, I'd stay forever.  Of course this quip came several months after my incarceration began; once I settled in and adjusted to my life as a convict, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

'A' Pod also provided access to two telephones for making collect-only calls.  I probably still owe my sister for about $700 worth of phone calls during my time inside.  I was only in the pod for five minutes before I called her the first time.  I was still pretty much in shock, a little scared and a whole lot bewildered.  My sister suggested I just go lay down, read the Bible and wait for the lawyer to get me out the next day.  Lawyers just can't 'get' people out of jail but at that precise moment we were pretty much naive to that little fact. 

I took my sister's advice, grabbed a Bible from the library and went and got as comfortable as possible on my 2" thick mattress and steel frame cot.  No pillows.  I flipped the Bible opened to a book at random and began to read.  This was the beginning of my first jail-time irony.

I have read many of the Bible stories and passage up to this point in my life but I had never read the book I had just coincidently turned to.  Within an hour's time I was hopelessly lost and confused inside the book of Ecclesiastes.  So much so, that I had to get up and call my sister back.

"Randi, you told me to read the Bible, well, that's what I am doing but you know what? It's telling me that there's no hope, all is lost and I may as well basically kill myself!" I explained to her.

"What are you reading?  The Bible doesn't say that!" was her reply.

"Ecclesiastes" I said.  And then, to my amazement and wonderment, my sister was chuckling and giggling.  Just one year earlier, she had earned her doctorate in Theology and had swapped in a 30+ year career as a waitress for the new adventure of teaching in a Christian School.

Still laughing, she exclaimed, "Why Ecclesiastes?"  I told her it was the book that I had flipped to just by chance.  A book I had not read and a book, I soon discovered through my sister's revelation, I had no understanding of.

"You're silly Robert, the Bible does not say life is worthless and we should all give up.  What Solomon is saying in that book is that 'apart' from God, life loses meaning". 

Once she concluded her diatribe, my sister had calmed me down enough that we said our goodbyes and I went back to re-read Ecclesiastes through the knowledge I had just ascertained.  Needless to say, the second reading made so much more sense and although I thought I would never be able to, I closed my eyes and for the first time as a prisoner, fell asleep.

During my sleep that night something wonderful took place that I would be thanking God for over the next six months of my life although I had no idea such an event was even taking place. 

There are three jobs for minimum security prisoners at the Horry County lock-up.  The most dreaded, unless you were a smoker, was 'highway trustee'.  Each day Monday through Friday you got to go off-site under armed guard and pick up trash along the roadways.  On average, you covered 15 miles per day.  This is the job most minimum secure inmates performed. The second most populated job was 'building trustee' and just as the name implies you took care of the upkeep of the jail facilities; mopping, sweeping, painting, repairing etc.  Lastly, and the most coveted job in the joint was 'kitchen trustee' where, depending on shift you got to prepare, deliver and clean-up breakfast and lunch or dinner.  As a perk, you got to eat in the kitchen and did not have to follow the other inmates daily menu.  If it was available, you were allowed to cook and eat it.  The most coveted shift was early shift as you got to eat both breakfast and lunch in the kitchen and seeing that most breakfasts consisted of grits and one turkey hotdog, a kitchen 'breakfast man' would thank his lucky stars to be flipping pancakes and enjoying them with some fresh fruit.  At any one time there were eleven kitchen trustees; six in the a.m. and five in the p.m. 

The work was so coveted that once you got onboard, you never asked for a transfer and basically stayed there until you were released or got in enough disciplinary trouble to get thrown out of 'A' pod.  'A' pod was the only source for inmate workers.  In all the other pods you were relegated to your cell twenty out of twenty-four hours and these were real cells, not the half cubicles like I was in. 

Anyhow, the building and kitchen trustees were chosen by lottery whenever a vacancy came open.  That night my name went into the lottery and they drew for a 'breakfast man' as one of the breakfast trustees had been released the day before.  My name was chosen.  I didn't even know this until two days later when they woke me up for my first shift. 

This is what truly saved my life.  I am not a southern man and turkey anything, other than the whole bird, as in Thanksgiving, was a complete turn off for me.  I would have never survived on grits and turkey dogs, I tell you what!  Praise God, He knew this and for the next six months my breakfasts consisted of hamburgers, hash browns, oatmeal, pancakes, french toast and fruit.  You might say i was culinary styling, baby.  But, let's get back to that first night and my first full day of incarceration.

At my first notion of consciousness, with my eyes still firmly locked together, I was thinking that the entire previous day had been nothing but a hideous dream.  Illogically, I surmised that if I took my time opening my eyes, all of it would disappear and I was going to come awake in my own bed.  No such luck and as my eyes opened and I sat up and looked around, all I could hear was Tom Jones' 'Green Green Grass of Home' playing in my head.

"Then I awake and look around me, at the four gray walls that surround me, and I realize that I was only dreaming.  For there's a guard, and there's a sad old padre, arm in arm, we'll walk at daybreak.  Again, I'll touch the green, green grass of home."   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsGm-DqbmSA  Just one night and I was already feeling like I had been locked up for an eternity.  I knew immediately if I live to be 150, I will never hear that song in the same light again.  It had become personal.

Most of that first day I was in a trance.  Didn't want to be there.  Didn't believe I was there.  And thought there was no way I was going to survive being there.  I found out that the guards and the administrators pretty much leave you alone for that first day.  All of the real perinent regulations are posted so a rookie inmate could basically spend the first day reading for himself what rules now governed his very existence.  My very existence.  The rules were listed on every wall and each one extraordinarily devoid of any gray, interpretational, areas.

Folks, rules in the 'big house' are all black and white:  "Do this", "Don't do this", and that's it.  Cut and dried.  Quite overwhelming really.  The one that really stuck into my brain that morning was this gem: "Toilet visits will NOT last longer than 10 minutes".  No flexibility.  No, "what if I have the runs?"  Nada.  "Toilet trips will NOT last longer than 10 minutes!"  Folks, I did not like where this was headed.  I just knew that my daddy, my sister and the Johnny Cochran of local lawyers had better show up soon or my 'toilet visit' was going to take place in my inmate coveralls.  Speaking of the coveralls, I was still wearing bright orange and looking every minute like a deer in front of headlights.  Road trustees wore green, building trustees wore blue, kitchen trustees wore the cool whites with black trim and 'newbies' wore bright orange for their first couple of days.  That's right orange.  You all know I am a poet and damn - nothing rhymes with orange! 

And yes, these were some of my thoughts bouncing around my cranium that day.  Excuse me, but Robert had never been in such deep doo.  Oh, he thought he had, but listen up and take heed, there is always deeper doo to fall into.  I know, I've been there and after I moped around a few long hours I really learned just how deep doo could go.

At about 4:00pm I was notified by the captain that I needed to call my sister, that she and my dad had talked with a lawyer and she needed to let me know what was going on.  My spirit rose a little and my trance abated enough for me to make the call.  I knew something was wrong as soon as my sister said hello.  She did her very best to hide it, but I could still hear her voice breaking. 

The news from the lawyer was the most devastating words I had ever heard right up to the point of a certain morning in 1999 when my pastor woke me up to tell me daddy died.  The words that shook me up, as I stood there in that cold dark jail went something like this.  There wasn't anything the lawyer could do since I had already been sentenced and it broke my heart further when the lawyer added if she had been representing me the day before, I probably would have never gone to jail. 

It seems in the Horry County court of law, lawyers get to finish there sentences and arguments and do not get abruptly cut off by a tired judge.  The lawyer had just explained to my dad and my sister that there were only two ways for me to get out of jail before the end of my sentence.  The first, having the judge rescind his judgement, had already been shot down.  The second was to pay my arrears balance in cash, in full. 

You know, I just didn't have $12,500 in my pocket.  Neither did my dad, neither did my sister.  My cousin Arthur did, but as he responded to the request, "I didn't help my own son with his child support, I can't help you".  Yes, he could have.  He had been awarded millions a few years earlier for a forklift accident but he didn't. Since that day I have learned to respect his decision.  But at the time, I just got mad at him.

The rest of my conversation centered on the inevitable question: "What the hell happened".  I weren't sure I wanted to know.  My instincts told me that it was definitely more than a tired, cranky judge and that whatever it was, to me, would sound stupid.  As is usually the case, my instincts would have one any bet. 

As a construction professional I have spent my adult life moving from one project to another; from one employer to another.  About six years after my daughter was born, I was ordered by the state of Maine to surrender child support payments to the Maine Dept of Social Services.  I will not lie; I didn't want to but to my own astonishment, I had gained enough maturity to accept my responsibility and without a fight or an argument, signed all the necessary papers.  Lots of papers. 

The order was written up that I was to pay $74.00 per week, with $15.00 of that amount being credited towards the arrears.  The order followed me around from city to city and state to state, always transparent and without a hitch.  I barely gave it much thought and grew accustomed to the payroll deduction and unfortunately never checked the accounting of my account.  There was never a problem once I accepted the order and grew complacent with the status quo.  That is, until South Carolina got involved.

As required, my employer notified the SC DSS when I arrived in the state of my child support obligation and I was requested to appear for a brief interview and to sign papers giving the state of South Carolina authority to become an agent for the Maine DSS.  They ensured me that my account information was still intact and I would still be paying the same $74.00 per week. 

What the lawyer (more Minnie Mouse than Johnnie Cochran) had ascertained was that the SC DSS clerk who set up my South Carolina account failed to notice the provision made for my arrears.  Yes, I continued to pay my weekly amount but there was no longer any portion being attributed to my arrears and therefore the judge was technically correct that I had not made any arrears payment since moving into South Carolina.  The action he took, the judgement he made was perfectly legal within the laws of South Carolina.  Long story short, my goose was proverbially cooked.  As I hung up the phone, I could smell the singeing.

It is amazing how quickly the institutionalization effect can sink into one's being.  By the end of the second week my position in the kitchen was firmly established, my daily routine was down pact and my entertainment of playing chess and watching football on Sundays seemed to be the greatest gifts of all life.  Gifts, they were.  Priviledges.  Not something I had a right to do, but something that the correctional establishment, in their great kindness, allowed me to do. 

The rest of my time was spent reading novels, writing letters and poems, showering and occasionally playing ball.  Playing ball was only used when I really needed a diversion from inner doldrums.  I was a lot smaller than most of my fellow inmates, and let's face it, I was a whole lot whiter than most of my fellow inmates.  I am not attempting to imply any conclusions here, just stating a couple of facts.  The point being; in less than two weeks I went from a viable, enterprising member of society to a fully routine-following institutionalized inmate.  Hook line and sinker.  My one true saving grace; I vowed to God that I would use my time to finally read his entire word.

My Bible reading became so regular within the first few weeks that I started hearing heckles (nice to finally be 'one of the guys') such as, "Hey Joe, must be 7:00 again, Burnham's got his nose stuck in that Bible".  "Yeah he must be praying for new chess moves so he can whup your ass again".  In addition to the heckling I was surprised and a little nervous when some of the guys started asking me questions about God, the Bible, Life after death and Salvation. 

Most of my answers were of the grade school variety I picked up from my youth attendance in summer Bible schools or in some cases, the person inquiring and myself would go through scripture together trying to locate an answer to the question posed.  One of the old women civilians who worked in the kitchen alongside me even brought me in a fine concordance when she heard I was conducting 'Bible Studies'.  Gee, that sounded funny.  Was that what I was doing?  Hosting Bible studies.  Simultaneously, the thought of it scared me and thrilled me. 

The following Thursday afternoon I talked to the captain and he allowed me to put a little note card by my cubicle: "Bible Reading 7pm Thursdays - Here".  I could not believe I was taking such a spiritual step.  It was true that I became a Christian way back in 1978 but I had never witnessed the Gospel to a single soul.  Hell, I didn't even know the so-called 'Plan of Salvation' scripture path.  That night three fellow inmates brought Bibles and showed up for an hour of Bible reading and fellowship.  The next week I had five and the week after that, eight - which broke the rule for the number of people that could hang out in any one cubicle.  The captain seen what was happening and told me "No more, it's turning into an organized, scheduled event and that's against the rules." 

The next Thursday came and I was back to reading the Bible on my own but during the week I must have gotten the same question a half of dozen times: "Why did God put me in jail?" 

I couldn't answer it.  My first thought of an answer was to tell them God didn't put them in jail, they did whatever they did to themselves.  But something bothered me about that answer.  I knew we had to accept personal responsibility for being there, but what if, God did place a person in that jail at that particular time for reasons unknown?  It's called God's Will and although I am most assuredly not a saint; I do, and I did back then, believe in God's Will.  I knew that some of these guys were reading the Bible for the first time and I knew they had answers that they couldn't find on their own, answers that I probably couldn't give them, but answers that, perhaps, we could find together.

So, without divulging my purpose, I asked the captain to see if he could place me on the warden's meeting schedule.  The warden had this program where he would meet with a few inmates one on one each week and talk about whatever came to mind.  I think it was an attempt to help us salvage a sense of humanity.  I think it worked to a certain degree because it was apparent that the warden really cared.  If he didn't, if it was just a front to keep violence down or to learn about any shady dealings going on then the warden was most definitely in the wrong business; he should have been in Hollywood playing lead man to Halle. 

I got my meeting.  I pleaded my case for my one-hour Bible study in Thursday evenings and the warden accepted my word that I would be responsible for the conduct during the meetings.  He brought it up to his administrative counsel and two Thursdays later, the jail opened up the mess hall at 7:00pm for the recommencement of Bible study.  That first night, ten inmates signed in and within another month it was not unusual for twenty or thirty inmates to be participating in the group.  I would like to be able to tell you that I directly led someone to Christ.  I cannot; to this day I have never had that priviledge.  I have led some to another person who has led them to Christ but never myself.  What I can say is on the final Thursday night that I was there to attend, there were over thirty inmates participating, three guards actively participating and two 'guest' pastors from outside churches.  Of that I am proud - which may be wrong, but it's honest; I was and am proud of that evening.

One Saturday night near the end of January 1999 the warden was there late, walking around 'A' Pod.  When the warden visits a pod most inmates eye him steely until they can figure out his purpose for being there.  Did he come to enforce rules, deliver discipline or maybe give encouragement to an individual.  I have witnessed him do all three.  So, like my brethren cellmates, I watched him approach out of the corner of my eye, feigning indifference when he stopped by my bunk.  Over the past six plus months I had been in his charge he learned I was an avid football fan.  I had been incarcerated the entire season and watching games each Sunday was one of the ways I marked the passing of time.  Standing at the foot of my bunk, he spoke.

"Robert, I been meaning to tell you that I appreciate the attitude you have shown here.  Your work in the kitchen seven days a week; the kitchen staff thinks you're great.  The help you gave us in chasing the bugs out of our computer system; you made Alana (secretary) very happy.  And that Bible study you built (I didn't build it - inmates just kept coming); that was pretty cool.  I wanted to let you know that you've done more good here since September than most of my staff since they've been here. (now I was getting embarrassed) You know, the Superbowl's coming up, why don't you pack up your things tomorrow and I'll let you get on out of here on Monday.  Why don't you go home and watch the Superbowl with your dad?" 

I was choked up and I was speechless and I had no idea that a warden had such power.  I didn't know he had talked to the judge.  Damn, that warden was a real good man hidden under the exterior of a thankless job.

As I conclude this story, I want to mention my sister and my dad and two funny anecdotes received early on in my incarceration from my loving brothers.  I'll start with my brothers. 

The first time I talked with Alan from jail he said that I had him beat.  He had been to jail for DUI and for Cocaine and he found it humorously ironic that in one sentencing I got more time than he did all totalled.  Quaint, glad I could lift that burden from off his shoulders.  Since my brother Ted was somewhere along the Appalachian Trail when my butt got detained I was almost into my second month before he visited.  His comment was similar to Alan's.  Even though he had been to jail a dozen or so times, I broke his record of nights spent in jail on my first attempt.  Lovely.  So happy to ease his pain also.

As for my dad and sister; they were there for me, in person, each and every Saturday - each and every Sunday for three hours each.  My sister brought me KFC, McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's - all of them.  She accepted all my collect phone calls and always made sure I had cash for canteen.  She orchestrated the gathering up of my things and the storage of all I owned.  She prayed relentlessly.  In fact on her third or fourth visit she asked if I had been praying for myself.  I told her sort of.

"Sort of", she asked, "How does one sort of pray?"

I told her the truth.  I said, "When I get down on my knees on night I say 'dear Lord, I know my sister's praying for me, I know she only wants the best for me and I kno that she has your ear!  So, Lord, whatever she's praying; ditto, amen". 

I think I rendered my sister speechless at that point.  Folks, way back at the beginning of this story, this missive, I mentioned that I still thank God for placing me in that jail, at that time.  As I close, I want to share with you just why I feel that way.  For more than six months, my dad had my undivided attention for six hours every weekend and we would talk.  Well, mostly for the first time in my life - maybe my only time, I listened.  I listened as he told me so many stories from his life: his love for my mom, his days at war, his forty-two years working in the same mill.  Some of these stories I had heard, some I hadn't and all I cherished. 

The quality time with my dad that my forced incarceration created was beautiful.  Eight months after I walked out of that jail, my daddy was gone.  What a great year we had shared.  If I could have him back like that, under them circumstances, hell, you could lock me up and throw away the key.

God bless you all.  Thanks for giving me a little of your time.

©2007 Robert Charles Burnham,

ex-con, Christian, poet, brother & son.

Where I was held:   

<a href="http://www.horrycounty.org/depts/pubsafety/detention.html">J Reuben Long Detention Center</a>