Sweet Hell on Fire by Sara Lunsford Read Free Book Online Page A

line every day. We’re officers the same as any other law enforcement and enforce state and federal laws within the scope of our duties. A guard is sloppy, lazy, inconsistent, illiterate, easily bought—a finger-up-the-nose-to-the-first-knuckle waste of space. To call us guards is an insult that’s damn near in the “fighting words” category.
    This convict went about the business of readying the equipment for use, and I went about finishing my prep too. I had a pre-rec check of the yard to complete. Checking for holes in fencing, modified equipment, contraband, etc.
    “That’s an interesting rapport you have with him,” a man said from outside the fencing as I began my checks.
    I shrugged halfheartedly. In corrections, that shrug translated to “it is what it is.” A common phrase used universally throughout law enforcement.
    “Can I come in?” he asked.
    I looked at him again, assessing him. He was as tall as I was, and I was about six-foot-one in my boots, wearing khakis and a white polo. He had dark hair, cropped closely to his head, and wore the type of no-nonsense black framed glasses that are often called “rape prevention goggles.” Very cheap, also very easy to replace. He wore tennis shoes, not the boots that officers wore.
    “Can I see your ID?” I had no idea who this guy was and when in doubt, always ID. He could have been a visitor who’d wandered off, someone sent to test me to see if I would challenge him for his ID, or he could have been an inmate who was trying to get into one particular yard/rec time or another—one where he wasn’t supposed to be. He could have even stolen those clothes from somewhere and this could be part of an escape.
    He flashed his ID. The Unit Team Manager for Segregation. This was the oh-my-God interview. Son of a bitch. And here he’d caught me without my company face on. Well, nothing to it but to do it, right? I let him in and he walked with me as I completed my checks.
    “Yeah, well, you know we’re all individuals and what works with some people doesn’t work for others. You have to communicate in a language they understand.”
    “Very interesting. Tell me more,” he said as we continued around the yard.
    God, I can’t believe how thick the crap was that was coming out of my mouth…I’m good at that, affecting my behavior to blend in with those around me. Although working at the prison made me less inclined to bother with any filter for anyone and effectively killed any tolerance I had for bullshit. And that’s what it was, changing my mode of speech to suit someone else’s sensibilities. Bullshit. Yet, as I spewed what I knew he wanted to hear, I knew some of it was true.
    I debated the next example and decided to go ahead and tell him. “For instance, when I first worked in D cell house out on OJT (on the job training), I asked an inmate to please go to his cell, and he laughed at me. He said, ‘Look at this bitch here with her pretty manners. Don’t you know you’re in prison, girl?’ I smiled and asked him if he’d rather I said, ‘Lock the fuck up, you shit-bag motherfucker.’ He stopped for a minute and really did take time to consider, and he decided he’d rather I said please and treated him like a man. I told him I would be happy to treat him with respect and courtesy as long as he did the same.”
    “You know you’re not supposed to use that kind of language. He could have written you up.” The unit team manager looked at me disapprovingly.
    “Yes, I know.” I nodded. “But I could have written him up for failing to follow a direct order and sent him to Seg. It comes down to communication. Some of these guys grew up in an environment where courtesy and respect are seen as weakness, and they don’t understand what you’re saying to them unless there are a few ‘fucks’ sprinkled throughout. It doesn’t get their attention otherwise because it’s not their native language. It’s also thinking outside the box. There