Environmental News and Information . My Four Months as a Private Prison Guard: A Mother Jones Investigation. Chapter 1: . Am I really going to become a prison guard? Now that it might actually happen, it feels scary and a bit extreme. I started applying for jobs in private prisons because I wanted to see the inner workings of an industry that holds 1. As a journalist, it's nearly impossible to get an unconstrained look inside our penal system. When prisons do let reporters in, it's usually for carefully managed tours and monitored interviews with inmates. Private prisons are especially secretive. Their records often aren't subject to public access laws; CCA has fought to defeat legislation that would make private prisons subject to the same disclosure rules as their public counterparts. And even if I could get uncensored information from private prison inmates, how would I verify their claims? I keep coming back to this question: Is there any other way to see what really happens inside a private prison? CCA certainly seemed eager to give me a chance to join its team. Within two weeks of filling out its online application, using my real name and personal information, several CCA prisons contacted me, some multiple times. They weren't interested in the details of my r. They didn't ask about my job history, my current employment with the Foundation for National Progress, the publisher of Mother Jones, or why someone who writes about criminal justice in California would want to move across the country to work in a prison. They didn't even ask about the time I was arrested for shoplifting when I was 1. When I call Winn Correctional Center in Winnfield, Louisiana, the HR lady who answers is chipper and has a smoky Southern voice. Do you like to hunt and fish? You ever squirrel hunt? I know it's not a lot of money, but they say you can go from a CO to a warden in just seven years! The CEO of the company started out as a CO. Not only does Louisiana have the highest incarceration rate in the world—more than 8. Winn is the oldest privately operated medium- security prison in the country. I phone HR and tell her I'll take the job. I drive past the former Mexican restaurant that now serves drive- thru daiquiris to people heading home from work, and down a street of collapsed wooden houses, empty except for a tethered dog. About 3. 8 percent of households here live below the poverty line; the median household income is $2. Residents are proud of the fact that three governors came from Winnfield. They are less proud that the last sheriff was locked up for dealing meth. View the latest news and breaking news today for U.S., world, weather, entertainment, politics and health at CNN.com. Oklahoma Mother of Five Dies After Allegedly Jumping Out of Moving Car to Escape Husband: Reports; SNL Hits Back at Donald Trump in Final Debate Skit. Thirteen miles away, Winn Correctional Center lies in the middle of the Kisatchie National Forest, 6. Southern yellow pines crosshatched with dirt roads. As I drive through the thick forest, the prison emerges from the fog. You might mistake the dull expanse of cement buildings and corrugated metal sheds for an oddly placed factory were it not for the office- park- style sign displaying CCA's corporate logo, with the head of a bald eagle inside the . A tall, stern- faced man leads a German shepherd into the cab of my truck. I tell the woman I'm a new cadet, here to start my four weeks of training. She directs me to a building just outside the prison fence. I exhale. Mother Jones Senior Reporter Shane Bauer (pictured above in his prison uniform) has previously reported on solitary confinement, police militarization, and the Middle East.
He is the co- author, with Sarah Shourd and Joshua Fattal, of A Sliver of Light, an account of his two yearsas a prisoner in Iran. James West. I park, find the classroom, and sit down with five other students. I'll call him Reynolds. My uncle killed three people. My brother been in jail, and my cousin. One, he says, is from a shootout in Baton Rouge. The other is from a street fight in Winnfield. He elbowed someone in the face, and the next thing he knew he got knifed from behind. He has a baby to feed. He also wants to put speakers in his truck. They told him he could work on his days off, so he'll probably come in every day. He perks up when she tells us that if we recruit a friend to work here, we'll get 5. She gives us an assortment of other tips: Don't eat the food given to inmates; don't have sex with them or you could be fined $1. If we have friends or relatives incarcerated here, we need to report it. She hands out fridge magnets with the number of a hotline to use if we feel suicidal or start fighting with our families. We get three counseling sessions for free. I studiously jot down notes as the HR director fires up a video of the company's CEO, Damon Hininger, who tells us what a great opportunity it is to be a corrections officer at CCA. Once a guard himself, he made $3. Federal Bureau of Prisons. We need your enthusiasm. We need your bright ideas. During the academy, I felt camaraderie. I felt a little anxiety too. That is completely normal. The other thing I felt was tremendous excitement. Not one person—not the recent high school graduate, not the former Walmart manager, not the nurse, not the mother of twins who's come back to Winn after 1. Mc. Donald's and a stint in the military—looks excited. I feel a shaky, electric nervousness as I put a pen that doubles as an audio recorder into my shirt pocket. In class that day, we learn about the use of force. A middle- aged black instructor I'll call Mr. Tucker comes into the classroom, his black fatigues tucked into shiny black boots. He's the head of Winn's Special Operations Response Team, or SORT, the prison's SWAT- like tactical unit. Some cadets say they would write him up. One woman, who has worked here for 1. Depending on where the camera is, he might would get hit. Tucker pauses to see if anyone else has a response. I don't care if the camera's rolling. If a inmate spit on me, he's gonna have a very bad day. Tucker says we should call for backup in any confrontation. You still supposed to call for backup. You don't supposed to ever get into a one- on- one encounter with anybody. Whether you can take him or not. Hell, if you got a problem with a midget, call me. Me and you can whup the hell out of him. I don't care if the camera's rolling. If they don't pay attention to you, hey, there ain't nothing else you can do. They both might lose, but hey, did you do your job? The only thing that's important to us is that we go home at the end of the day. So if them fools want to cut each other, well, happy cutting. Tucker sets a tear gas launcher and canisters on the table. But with just this class, we could take it back. If we do not sign, he says, our training is over, which means our jobs end right here. Tucker tests the wind with a finger and drops a tear gas cartridge. A white cloud of gas washes over us. The object is to avoid panicking, staying in the same place until the gas dissipates. My throat is suddenly on fire and my eyes seal shut. I try desperately to breathe, but I can only choke. Tucker shouts at a cadet who is stumbling off blindly. I hear a woman crying. My upper lip is thick with snot. When our breath starts coming back, the two women linked to me hug each other. I want to hug them too. The three of us laugh a little as tears keep pouring down our cheeks. Map of Winn Correctional Center Jon Stich. I keep one in my breast pocket and jet into the bathroom periodically to jot things down. They also encourage us to invest in a watch because when we document rule infractions it is important that we record the time precisely. A few days into training, a wristwatch arrives in the mail. One of the little knobs on its side activates a recorder. On its face there is a tiny camera lens. On the eighth day, we are pulled from CPR class and sent inside the compound to Elm—one of five single- story brick buildings where the prison's roughly 1,5. When we go through security, we are told to empty our pockets and remove our shoes and belts. This is intensely nerve- racking: I send my watch, pen, employee ID, and pocket change through the X- ray machine. I walk through the metal detector and a CO runs a wand up and down my body and pats down my chest, back, arms, and legs. The other cadets and I gather at a barred gate and an officer, looking at us through thick glass, turns a switch that opens it slowly. We pass through, and after the gate closes behind us, another opens ahead. On the other side, the CCA logo is emblazoned on the wall along with the words . Another gate clangs open and our small group steps onto the main outdoor artery of the prison: . Yellow lines divide the pavement into three lanes. Clustered and nervous, we cadets travel up the middle lane from the administration building as prisoners move down their designated side lanes. I greet inmates as they pass, trying hard to appear loose and unafraid. Some say good morning. Others stop in their tracks and make a point of looking the female cadets up and down. We walk past the squat, dull buildings that house visitation, programming, the infirmary, and a church with a wrought- iron gate shaped into the words . At the top of the T we take a left, past the chow hall and the canteen, where inmates can buy snacks, toiletries, tobacco, music players, and batteries. There are almost never more than two floor officers in a general population unit. That's one per 1. The units sit along the top of the walk. Each is shaped like an . Every unit is named after a type of tree. Most are general population units, where inmates mingle in dorm- style halls and can leave for programs and chow. Cypress is the high- security segregation unit, the only one where inmates are confined to cells. In Dogwood, reserved for the best- behaved inmates, prisoners get special privileges like extra television time, and many work outside the unit in places like the metal shop, the garment factory, or the chow hall. Birch holds most of the elderly, infirm, and mentally ill inmates, though it doesn't offer any special services. Then there are Ash and Elm, which inmates call . The air is slightly sweet and musty, like the clothes of a heavy smoker. Elm can house up to 3.
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