At the Men’s Reformatory, count sheets prepared for each of the areas of the prison list every room with an inmate’s name and institutional number next to the room number. A check mark in a small box next to the room number records that a staff member has observed this inmate in this room at this time on the date and time listed at the top. Count sheets are then collected and tabulated, and when the totals match the number of inmates assigned to our prison, count clears, doors open, and routine activities resume. We are certain no one has escaped since the last formal count, and we have proof that we have fulfilled our primary responsibility, which is to confine the inmates assigned to us so that they are not free to commit more crimes in the community. The signatures at the bottom of the count sheets are the proof. Simple, but crucial.

I conducted my first formal count in the Cell House, the building where the second-floor meeting room was located. The Cell House was a red brick building with a three-story stack of iron cages inside. The cages had thick steel bars that formed the front of the cells. Sliding iron-bar doors on these walls opened and closed by operating a huge mechanical lever at the end of each tier of cells. There were no electric motors to help move the heavy iron-bar doors. Narrow steel steps in a steep staircase led upward from the ground level to the second and third levels, and steel catwalks led down each tier of cells to gain entry into individual cells.

When I conducted my first count, I counted inmates in a section of the old Cell House that consisted of small, single-person cells. There were eight cells in a row, and they shared a common back wall with an identical eight cells on the same level, facing the opposite direction, one row facing east and the other facing west. These double rows were stacked on top of one another, three stories high.

When I counted in this area, I moved silently and purposefully down each gallery looking into each cell just long enough to be sure that the inmate in the cell was the one whose name appeared on the count sheet. Benjamin and Richard directed me to examine a picture board of mug shots for each tier of cells before beginning my count, so I could recognize the faces.

When I stepped out onto the narrow steel walkway to look into the individual cells, the air was heavy with the heat and humidity of a July day and the pungent odor of sweat from dozens of bodies trying to cool themselves inside their shaded but stifling cells.

As I went cell-to-cell up and down the catwalks, there wasn’t time to stop and chat. The entire prison was on pause waiting for everyone to complete their counts, so the totals could be tabulated, and routine operations could resume. However, once I had completed and submitted my count sheet, I had a down period while we waited for count to clear for the entire prison. It was a break that could last ten minutes or half an hour.

While I waited for count to clear, I remembered my personal caseload and noticed that I had a fast-approaching deadline for one of my inmates. To complete the report, I needed to speak to him. We had time to chat right then, and I knew where he was. I had just finished counting his row of cells. I knew he wouldn’t be busy, and I had a good reason to return to his cell after finishing my count to chat with him. And so, on a warm July day, shortly before leaving for the day, I walked down the second story east-facing gallery to speak to one of my assigned inmates, Thomas Jones.

I’d counted this section ten minutes earlier, and my appearance on the outside of his cell was not expected. The walls between the cells were solid steel, so he did not see me coming. As I stepped into his view, I greeted him.

“‘Evening, Mister Jones,” I said. “I have some questions for your upcoming review. I’m writing a report . . . “

My voice trailed off to a stop. There was a strange sight in Thomas’s room. One that hadn’t been there ten minutes earlier. Thomas was standing and leaning back against a small steel sink in his room. At first, I thought he was holding a mop handle between his legs as a child would do if he were pretending to be riding a toy horse made of a broomstick. But Thomas’s hands were lathered up with soap suds, and so was the broom handle. It suddenly dawned on me that this was no ordinary broom handle. I didn’t know penises could get that long, but it was a penis. No doubt about it. And a long one, too! I was flummoxed. I didn’t know what to do, but Thomas did.

“What questions do you have, Mister Larsen?” he asked without stopping what he was doing.

I turned slightly to the side, looked down at my clipboard, and I picked out two or three questions that I thought were most crucial, and I asked them.

Our conversation was business-like and brief. We did not make eye contact. I kept my eyes down and made a few notations on the paper on my clipboard. I thanked him, and I excused myself. Presumably, Thomas finished his personal business shortly after I left.

Goodness!! I had a story to tell my wife when I got home.

Two weekends and another week of training at the Academy would pass before I next saw Thomas, but there was no conversation between us about the activity I’d interrupted. He was friendly and asked if I had any more questions. Thinking it over, it did occur to me that I might give a little warning in the future as I approached a room. Perhaps I should tie a small bell to one of my shoes, but I never did.

Discussion

1. What about sex needs of people in prisons?
2. Do you think conjugal visits should be allowed? What problems would they solve? What problems would they cause?

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