“Leroy Mann, I am giving you a direct order to push that
buggy up the tunnel.”
It was June of 2002.
Most of the Unit 2’s death row occupancy had been transported to the
much heralded $20 million facility, known as Unit 3.
I was living on E-block at the time, and we
were the last of the death row residency to be hauled into this pristine box of
an existence.
For months I read about this “state of the art containment
unit” in the newspapers. It drew such a
high degree of media coverage; some inmates convinced themselves the state’s
intentions worked in favor of the death row prisoner. Prior to the mass exodus from Unit 2, I
overheard one inmate asking the unit manager, “how much longer before we go
home?” Home? This is what it’s come
to? The lair of your captors has
subjugated your mental to conceive this unjustly placement as home.
This inquiry of defeatism tickled the unit manager similar
to the way a skipper enjoys watching the fish jump out of the water and into
his boat; if the fish are clueless to its new environment, it simply makes the
skipper’s job that much easier. These
times have been tempestuous, and have put me down like a George Foreman right
hook, but I’ll never lay face down on the canvas, and call it home.
“I’m not pushing that buggy.” The sergeant squinted her
frog-like eyes at my anticipated defiance.
She knew this would be my responses before she volunteered me to push
this trashcan dumpster – converted into a transport cart – for the personal
property of the remaining E-block residents.
“Oh really?” Her tone indicated she took pleasure in my
display of insubordination. You see,
once an officer resort to the term, “I am giving you a direct order,” you
either comply, or you pay the $10 penalty that comes with inevitable time in
“the Bing.” My mind was already set on the latter.
Moving to this new facility meant more than having a larger
dayroom. It means so much more than
having our own canteen. To me, this
building represents the feather in the hats of politicians that want the public
to believe there is a drastic need for the death penalty in this state. This building is the embodiment of capital
punishment weaving its way into acceptance.
The brief standoff between the sergeant and myself was interrupted
by a male officer (the good cop). “C’mon
Leroy, just push the buggy so you won’t get in no more trouble man.” Trouble?
That was the last thing going through my mind.
At that time, my thoughts were occupied with the retracing the steps of
an 11 year old boy at Veteran’s Stadium in Philadelphia, standing stiff in the
middle of a dark, dank jail cell – subjected to this same “good cop, bad cop”
routine.
It was obvious the sergeant’s intent was to make an example
of me. In the weeks prior, she made it
known that our Unit 2 lifestyle would not be tolerated in this new
building. She stressed boiling water or
cooking our own food would trigger the fire alarm and sprinkler system. Then there was the oversold hype about the
security cameras. Before the migration
began, it was believed all movement was monitored; there was no privacy. A closed door meant nothing.
“I ain’t pushing shit!”
Nuff Said...for now,
MannofStat
Copyright © 2015 by Leroy Elwood Mann
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