"I feel institutionalised," says Eric, a member of staff showing me around Clackamas County Jail. "But the money's good. There has to be some benefits. Most people here are bad. Sometimes there are good people who've made bad decisions and I can see that because of my experience. But working here makes you think about people differently, even on the outside."
"What? You're more suspicious?" I ask. "Yes," say Eric.
I'm chatting to Eric as we're going through a dark passage, like an underground tunnel. In this secret, narrow, dark, long tube-like passage way, only illuminated by red light bulbs, you can see the prisoners in their cells. You're not looking through their door window. You're looking through a window at the back of the cell, so it feels surreptitious. To me anyway, but Eric says it's OK. There are two men to each cell. It's 1.15 in the afternoon and some of them are sleeping. Others reading. They don't notice me, or if they do, they ignore me. It looks in there, and there's no other word for it, boring. Boring and bleak.
I'm getting a unique insight into Clackamas County Jail because someone who I'll write about in the next post is a teacher here and invited me in. She set up the radio programme called The Concertina Wire, which is what brought me to Oregon in the first place. In today's blog post though, I'm not going to talk about radio programmes. I want to try and describe what I saw. Cameras and audio equipment weren't allowed in so I'll try and find the right words.
Eric is wonderfully frank when he shows me around. He doesn't hide anything. He doesn't seem to have any agenda but he does come across as a bit world-weary. But what else do you expect? The guy's been there for 11 years, and before that he was in Nevada Prison for 15. Nevada holds 5000 prisoners. This jail is tiny in comparison with just 500. It's also men AND women, but they're housed seperately.
First of all, Eric takes me to the control room where two officers are looking at a bank of TV screens and opening jail doors remotely when requested. My eyes are drawn to a TV which shows ten or more men collapsed on the ground. I can't make it out. I get closer to the screen, and I'm about to suggest that they're doing a yoga class. But, no, they can't be. They look a bit too "collapsed" and thank God I don't mention it because I would have been laughed out the room. These man have just been arrested and are due to be processed. Eric says that they're probably on the concrete floor because they're high, or completely exhausted from staying up for three nights, high.
There's a larger, concrete room with circular stools dotted around. The screen shows us that it's empty. It's for "Weekenders", or people who stay Saturday and Sunday. There's another empty room and that's called "The Tank". It's a holding area where people go before court. At busy periods it can be rammed, with up to 40 prisoners.
Then we go to the place where men and women are processed when they arrive at jail. It's called the Booking Area. I see shelves of padded suicide blankets and smocks. Then black and white striped trousers and tops which are for the maximum security prisoners. Then all blue ensembles for more mainstream prisoners. Then orange and white stripe suits for dangerous, violent and high-profile inmates. There are brown underpants for the men and off-white, sports-type bras for the women. Cheap, plastic, orange slip-ons are for the feet.
When I'm in the processing unit it's quiet apart from the occasional shout and swear word but Eric says it's normally noisy with kicking and screaming and it stinks of "faecal matter" as he puts it, because people throw it around.
On white-boards there are codes beside prisoner names. "1234" means someone's "crazy" as Eric puts it. (By the way, you say it: twelve, thirty four.) There's a symbol which is a capital "O" with a dot in the centre. Picture it. How can I put this? It's for people who are uncooperative, abusive and annoying. "It's for ars*****s," says Eric.
Eric escorts me down all the holding cells, telling me that people can be there for days and weeks, especially if they won't comply. A 50 year old Russian man who's lying huddled on his bed and looks skinny and unkempt won't leave this cell, won't wash and won't change his clothes. He'll probably only move on the day he appears before the judge. "He's a 1234," says Eric.
There's a row of padded cells as well. I can only see the socked-feet of one man lying on his bunk, but they're trembling. He must sense us at the door and window because he looks up with his face hidden behind a blanket. If he's coming down I don't want to make things worse, I think, and encourage Eric to walk along more quickly. The padded cells aren't soft. It's hard foam that's used but prisoners have been known to eat into it. Suicide-watch means that officers are bleeped every 15 minutes to go and check on prisoners who are thought to be at risk.
Then we go into the housing units; the "proper" jail if you like. Here prisoners are in units of about 20, where their cells are grouped in one place. They have a table and chairs and a shower room to share. There's no contact between prisoners and officers. Even food is delivered to each unit through a hatch. The Rec Area, where people can exercise, is like a school gym with the very top bit sliced off but still a roof attached. "So is this area considered as being outside?" I ask Eric. Yes he says, because there's some fresh air coming through at the top. There's no gym equipment anywhere in the jail so the only thing for people to do is walk in a circle.
Sex offenders are placed together. There's one block for prisoners who don't get on with others or have committed high-profile crimes. And there's a Disciplinary Seg Unit for those who have gone against jail regulations. They're there for punishment and can be without any human contact for days.
No prisoner has a radio or access to music. The only ones who watch TV are those who work. Men are in the kitchen or do the cleaning and pick up rubbish. The only work option for women is in the laundry, but at least they can listen to the radio and chose their own station. Reception, though, isn't very good apparently.
I've tried to give you the facts up to now without giving you my view on it. What I'll say is this: as Head of Prison Radio in England and Wales I went into a prison once a week. Compared to back home, what I saw today is harsh. Staff I spoke to agreed it was harsh, and, no surprise, the inmates weren't too keen either, saying it was worse than other jails or prisons they had been to.
But I also met a mix of prisoners. Some extremely intelligent and social with a future after this experience in jail, and some who are so broken, for whatever reason, that they are unable to function or could be very dangerous.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it's complicated. And maybe that's precisely why we need more information about places like this.