Scenes of Prison
45. A Spasm of Violence
I t was a Thursday, and the day had started peacefully as it usually does with a line of people standing at Central Control. It was early, and the line consisted of nearly everyone on first shift who would soon go inside the prison, break deadlock, and get the day’s operations underway. There were caseworkers, case managers, kitchen workers, correctional officers, and anyone else who would find themselves working with inmates that day. I was in the line.
When our turns came at the head of the line, officers inside Central Control quickly tossed the keys we would use and the two-way radios we would carry into a tilting tray and then tilted it outward toward us as we stood behind the heavy glass windows that separated us. We would quickly gather our keys and radios and begin our trek through Turnkey, and then we would walk the familiar route to our posts inside the prison. As we walked, we attached our radios to our duty belts and clipped the microphones to our shirt collars near our ears. When we turned them on, we could listen to the radio traffic and monitor everything that was going on in the prison.
Once we were all in our places, Central Control carried out a test of our emergency alert system. We did this every day, and it became so routine that we scarcely noticed we had even done it. One by one, a Central Control officer called each of the radios that had been issued, and when our radio was called, we identified who we were and where we were stationed, then we activated our emergency alert - a red button located on the top of our radios. When it was activated, a distinct signal sounded, both in Central Control and in every radio being carried that day by all the staff on duty throughout the entire prison. If an emergency arose, we would all hear the alert.
Our radios would play a crucial role in responding to any emergency and reestablishing control, and on this day, we would be grateful for them before our shift ended.
Seventy miles to the northeast, preparations of an entirely different sort were underway at the very same time in the newsrooms of the major television network affiliates located in downtown Omaha.
In these studios, editors, producers, and reporters were pouring over the AP and UPI news wires and the local police reports from the previous night. They identified the stories they wanted to cover, and they began the task of filling minutes with words and videos to fill out the time they had available for the news programs they would soon broadcast. What they didn’t suspect was that the news they would report this morning would light a fuse that would ignite a spasm of violence in a prison seventy miles to the southwest.
Nearly everyone who watched the morning news that day dismissed the story about a drive-by shooting in a neighborhood of the Near North Side of Omaha. Violence. Gangs. People of color. Most viewers had long ago become numb to such stories and would likely forget they even listened to it by midmorning. But in the prison cells at the Lincoln Correctional Center, the inmates with TVs tuned into the same news programs, and some of these inmates watched carefully as the details of the drive-by shooting were revealed and the witnesses questioned.
They knew this address! It was a frequent gathering place for their gang. It was a place where they celebrated life events of gang members. The people the news reporters mentioned were people they knew, and the injured and dead were brothers. The gathering visited by the shooters driving by slowly in their car had been a happy time, a celebratory event transformed in an instant to tragedy by bullets tearing through the walls of the house where they had gathered and ripping apart the flesh of those huddled inside. It was the survivors who spoke to the microphones pushed into their faces by the local news reporters.
Drive-by shootings are a battle tactic employed by gangs in their ongoing struggles with rival gangs. Police investigators have a hard time collecting enough evidence to make arrests to stop the violence, so the gang wars continue unabated. But gangs know their rivals, and they recognize the identities of their enemies long before the police do.
Far worse for our prison, gang members also know how to strike back at the gang that has attacked their brothers in Omaha: by attacking gang members from that gang who are incarcerated at LCC. That’s the response they settled upon, and that’s the response they planned during breakfast that day. Shortly after work call at 9:00 AM, when all the general population inmate doors in the entire prison were all open at the same time, the attack began.
Members of the targeted gang who lived in E Unit were set upon as they emerged from the Unit. Their brothers quickly came to their aid, pouring out of the Unit and attacking those who had attacked their brothers. These were not polite boxing contests. An outnumbered combatant would find himself attacked from all sides at once, and the struggle would continue uninterrupted. Fists, boot-clad feet, and homemade weapons would all be employed. A fight would only end when a victim showed no signs of life lying quite still in a pool of his own blood.
It was shortly after nine in the morning when the emergency alert sounded in Central Control and also in every radio on the duty belts of all the staff. When we heard it, all conversations stopped. All casual tasks were abandoned. People who were walking stopped in their tracks. Throughout the entire prison, we all stopped whatever we were doing and listened.
“Radio 418 tack alert going off,” said the Central Control officer. “Caseworker Smith on E-2. All ERTs report to E-2”
Now we held our breaths. A fellow caseworker was in danger, maybe even fighting for his life.
“Caseworker Smith to Central Control, fight on E Unit compound.”
We all breathed again. Smith was trying to control a fight. He’d have help shortly when the three First Responders arrived, stopped the fight, and restrained the combatants. We’d all been in this situation before.
“Officer Kirby to Central Control, multiple fights on the E Pod compound. Send Second Responders.”
The initial First Responder to arrive on the scene called for additional help.
“Central Control to Second Responders, report to E Unit compound.”
Second Responders? That never happens. The three First Responders always get control of fighting inmates.
Three more officers hurried to the scene, and as they rushed across the yard toward E Unit, they noticed they weren’t alone. Inmates eager to join in the melee were outrunning them and attacking other inmates as soon as they passed through the gate at the entrance of the E Unit compound. The third and final Second Responder to go through the gate wisely slammed it shut behind him. There would be no more inmates joining this fight.
Now there were six officers and a couple of caseworkers trying to get control of the inmates and stop the fighting, but it wasn’t enough. That’s when the desperate radio call came that chilled everyone who heard it. It was a female’s voice.
“Everyone! Anyone! We need help!”
“Central Control to all portables, send all available staff to E Pod compound. All available staff to E Unit compound.”
This was uncharted territory. It elicited both fear and resolve. There was no conversation on our unit. I looked at my supervisor with a question on my face. The silent question was, “ Am I available?” He answered with a single word, “Go.”
I was on my feet, down the stairs, and running full speed across the yard in a few seconds, my keys loudly jangling on my duty belt. As I ran, I could see the struggling bodies on the E Unit compound. As I neared the entrance gate, I radioed ahead: “Open the gate.”
The woman who had summoned us had taken a position in the security capsule of E Unit. This was a secure location with electronic controls for all the doors, and it provided a good vantage point to observe activities in the unit. She heard my call and opened the gate just as I arrived. I rushed through and closed the gate behind me. Then I turned and joined the first struggle I encountered to my left. Shortly, after joining this struggle, I heard the gate open again. I looked up and saw more staff pouring into the compound. Even more staff were now quickly crossing the yard to help us regain control. The posse was arriving.
Soon, we outnumbered the fighting inmates, and they had no interest in fighting with us. One by one, they went down onto the concrete face down, and we secured their wrists with zip ties. Then, we stayed next to them on the ground, making sure they did not move. With all the fighting inmates now lying still on the ground with their hands secured behind the small of their backs, I had an opportunity to look at what we had done.
Kitchen workers dressed in white, buff recreational supervisors, correctional officers, office staff, and others whom I barely recognized were sitting and standing around me on all sides. We had stopped it. There would be no serious injuries suffered by anyone today, at least not in this conflict.
When the inmates I was holding down had their feet secured with leg irons and were led away to Medical to be checked and treated for any injuries they sustained, my contribution was complete, and I returned to my Unit. At the Unit, I was met by a host of questions from the staff who were required to stay at their posts and had not participated. I had much to tell.
In the days that followed, there was much conversation about the event. The woman from E Unit who had stationed herself in the security capsule and summoned us in her last call for help made a point of seeking me out and thanking me for coming so quickly. She had watched me sprinting across the yard and had opened the gate when I arrived.
“You were the first of the posse to arrive,” she said, “and boy did you come fast. You were a welcome sight running full speed across the yard. Thank you.”
The prison administrators conducted a Critical Incident Review of the event, and one conclusion that emerged was a critical need for First Responders to carry chemical agents. If irritants had been sprayed on the combatants when the First Responders arrived, the officers wouldn’t have needed help getting the inmates to stop fighting. They would have needed help getting everyone showered.
Discussion
- Once again, chemical irritants are cited as a critical tool to regain control when it is lost. Imagine how chemical agents could make a situation worse.
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