Editor's Note: Joe Santana sent this to me in December 2009, and we printed it in the Hartford News in December while I was studying for exams. I am finally putting it up now.

When Joe sent this, he included a personal letter telling me that he is really hoping that he can get out and get his associate's and bachelor's degree and become a teacher. Joe, I'm rooting for you. We all want you to succeed, and I hope this helps you get to your goals.

Joe has been transferred from HCCC to Gardner Correctional in Newtown, and it looks like he will be getting a long stint on his violation of probation charges. He was under a microscope for publishing items here and in the Hartford News, and he apparently made a mistake and was transferred to a higher security facility.

I haven't had a chance to talk to him, this is what I am told from friends and family. I look forward to hearing from him, and when I do, I will post an update.

 

55 days it took for the medical unit here to finally respond to my paper request form. I was on my bed reading The Cider House Rules by John Irving when my cell door opened.

 

If it were a Monday, then my assumption would be that my counselor was calling me down for a legal phone call to my public defender. But it was a Friday afternoon, and the whole facility had been in locked down since Monday.

 

If I were familiar with the medical unit, I would’ve recognized that Fridays are sick call days. Sick call is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a call out to the sick.

 

As the cell door opened, I decided that putting Mr. Irving’s book down would be the smart thing to do. Mind you, in a cell, at H.C.C., during lockdown, is nothing like a regular day.

 

The cell doors open all the time. For breakfast, recreation, lunch, recreation, dinner, recreation, then one more open window of recreation.

 

So I flung the book across my mattress in a hurry to get out of the cell I have been kept in since Monday. That’s four days of no shower and no communication with anybody.

 

I rushed out of my bed, put my khaki pants on, brushed my teeth and grabbed my inmate identification card in under 60 seconds. When I stepped out of the cell, I heard the usual from the other inmates.

 

“Where you going?” and “Why you out of your cell?” I gave everyone the “I don’t know” shrug and kept it moving towards the command center of this floor.

 

We call it the “Bubble” because one correctional officer sits inside of box-shaped booth, opening and closing cell doors.

 

As I approached the “Bubble,” the C.O. mouthed “sick call” through the thick plastic window. I walked around the “Bubble”, exited the door and he pushed a button to release me to the stairwell.

 

The officer told me to tuck in my shirt and to go to the nurse on the first floor. During lockdown, inmates are allowed the minimum travel in the facility.

 

The nurse is stationed downstairs, inside the day room. There is a dayroom on each floor of the tiers, with a 10-foot long stainless steel table, and a built-in television protected by this thick plastic.

 

I hurried downstairs, to be confronted by another C.O. tucked inside of another booth who also makes sure my shirt is tucked in before buzzing me through another door.

 

I pulled the heavy door towards me and almost right in front of me stood the nurse. First thing, she asked me, “What is it that brings you here?”

 

I knew right there my chances for medical treatment were slim to none for any medical condition I have. The moment I began explaining my concerns, her eye contact immediately dropped and she fiddled with the thermometer.

 

I started to regret sharing that kind of information with her because not only was she not my primary care physician, but it felt like my six year old niece Kaajah could’ve done the job she was doing and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

 

Trying to tell this woman that I was suffered from an infection was not as easy as I write. And to get an adequate response made me feel that another 50 days would pass and no treatment would be given.

 

She said she was going to put me on a list to see a doctor, so I waited to see if she would produce this list, or at least write it in my medical chart, which she had.

 

My temperature was average. The nurse, who seemed a little to impatient with sending me back on my way to lock down, began to give me a look as if to signal me to leave. I thought this was a perfect opportunity to discuss some of my other health issues, but she interrupted me and insisted she’d place me on a list to see a doctor.

 

I’ve been locked up in a cell for four days, with no shower and no contact. Why would I want to rush back to those living conditions? I felt like a dog in a pound who is anxious and ecstatic to see a possible owner. If I was with the nurse any longer than five minutes, I might have broken a record.

I guess she felt bad, because she handed me a box of nasal decongestant and warned me not to take more than the recommended dosage. After I thanked her and told her to have a blessed day, I thought to myself “Are these nasal pills free?”

 

From my experience in prison in the past, I remember always being charged $3.00, which was automatically deducted from my “inmate trust account” for a visit to medical. I didn’t want to press my luck and annoy the nurse any more by asking another question, so I left.

 

Going back to my cell, I showed everyone I passed in the tier the box of nasal pills so that no one suspected that I was getting something they weren’t.

 

Returning to lock down was depressing. Lockdown is the closest I’ve ever been to thoughts of suicide. It is bad enough you’re freedom is taken during prosecution by being placed here. Then to be stripped of the few hours to stretch and communicate with others is insane.

 

There’s different stages for all inmates, whether in county lock-up or state prison. I’ve grown accustomed in the last 60 days to be able to use the phone and shower and even play cards during our hours of recreation here at HCC.

 

There are inmates who are locked up 23 hours a day and have one hour of recreation in high security prisons. My complaints on lockdown can be seen as childish compared to what they face.

 

My point is that these few hours of being able to do things at your leisure becomes gold. Lockdown prevents that.

 

I remember the second night of lockdown, my block became so delirious that individuals started yelling, quoting specific scenes in a movie, arguments broke out and inmates even imitated animal noises.

 

I myself joined and howled like a dog and whistled. We all shut up as soon as the Lieutenant came to do his count. He makes the appearance not only to count the inmates in the tier, but also it gives us a chance to ask someone in authority a question of importance.

 

My suggestion would be to ask when the heck are we going to be able to shower. Unfortunately, someone on my block started off on the wrong foot. As the Lieutenant approached the tier, he was confronted by barks, howls, hisses and banging on the cell doors.

 

First thing the Lt. said was “Gentlemen, I don’t mind the animal noises, but the banging has got to stop.” Of course there’s a smart alec in every bunch (which probably was every one of us at one point in time).

 

But we all knew the importance of that one phone call, that last spades game and most vitally, that shower. The whole block returned to silence during the Lieutenant’s count. You could hear a soap drop. LOL.

 

But right when the Lt. was done counting the last cell, someone decided it was very necessary to push his buttons. The revolutionist next door, who had the best impression of a Chihuahua, barked at the Lt.

 

The Lieutenant was taking his last step when he turned around, instantly, as if he was waiting for this moment, and said “I gave you guys respect by calling you gentlemen, I told y’all I didn’t care about the yelling, but not y’all getting disrespectful. Why won’t y’all just grow the *&^% up?”

The majority of us knew what time it was. We were already on lockdown, how else could he punish us? So once again as he was turning to leave, the revolutionist said, really loud, “&^% out of here!!!”

 

The Lt. came back and told us that our lockdown was extended until Monday, which would total seven days of no movement.

 

I call this troublemaker the revolutionist not out of respect or to praise him like one would praise Malcolm X or martin Luther King, Jr., but out of sarcasm. This man is 40 years old, barking and hollering at the top of his lungs, but the minute his immaturity extends our lockdown, he wants to bring up Rosa Parks and MLK.

 

Everything he said about standing up for your rights is true, but why not teach that first before we all got delirious in the first place? After the Lieutenant left, one of the younger guys we call Big Pun yelled out of his cell “A bunch of grown ass men acting like a bunch of kids.”

 

Although Pun was yelling, too, his comment was directed to the troublemaker who was responsible for the extension of the lockdown. Pun said “I like taking showers!”

 

This is when the rebel decided to conflate his bull with what Huey P. Newton stood for. The guy even brought up Haile Selassie (Ed: the former emperor of Ethiopia, considered by Rastafarians to be the second coming of Jesus Christ).

 

For me, as soon as I heard the Lieutenant say extension on lockdown, I undressed, washed all my t-shirts and underwear and socks and took a bird bath in the sink in my cell. Water began to pour out of my cell and into the hallway.

 

I figured if anyone was going to slip and fall, be it some C.O. or the prison brass, I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to allow any many or any type of authority to rule over my hygiene at that point, especially when I have soap and running water.

 

I sat on my bed in only my khaki pants and waited for my clothes to dry. I noticed for the rest of the night that everyone in the tier was extremely quiet. It would remain this way for the next couple of nights.

 

Friday came and it was the usual. At 6:20 a.m., the cell doors opened and breakfast was served in Styrofoam trays left in front of our cells. It was either grits with hard boiled eggs and a cup of concentrated juice or oatmeal and a piece of freshly baked cake with milk.

 

After we eat, we’re supposed to dispose of the tray by squeezing it out the opening between the cell door and the floor. The door will not open again until about 11 a.m. for lunch.

 

This process would have continued to dinner, like it did during every other day of lockdown, but to our surprise, the doors opened at 4:30 and we were let out to shower. It was a good Friday afternoon.

 

This to me was the highlight of lockdown, better than the meals. The Lieutenant must have come to his senses, or the word got around to him who the troublemaker was, because we were all released for recreation in the dayroom that night except for you-know-who.

 

I noticed that all that time spent in a cell built up so much tension and frustration between inmates that almost immediately after the Friday night, Saturday morning there was a fight downstairs and lockdown again was inevitable.

 

Even though the Lieutenant decided to keep one individual person on loss recreation until Monday, and allow the rest of us to enjoy the weekend, two inmates downstairs fought and caused all of us to lose rec time for the morning.

 

Finally, after the dread of staying in a cell for more than 24 hours again, Monday arrived and we were again locked down for an unknown reasons. We were released later that night at 6:30.

 

Right when I think it’s all over with, I go to take a shower and there was this awful smell. Not the usual drain scent that still makes you wonder, but a smell of feces.

 

I stepped out of the shower, and I looked at the shower floor, and there it was – a turd wedged into the shower mat. The shower itself is a one person shower, so identifying the perpetrator would not be a problem. It would be broken down to a science who was in there last.

 

At that moment, that was the least of my concerns. I wanted to take a shower. I figured I would talk first to the tiermen who get paid to keep the tier clean. All of them opposed, stating “$20.00 a month doesn’t cover cleaning up after someone’s turd.”

 

I then went to the black C.O. that was working, who tells us on his free time he dances to salsa and other varieties of Spanish music. I figured him being cool with us would give me the chance to tell him there’s a dingleberry in the shower.

 

I told him because I imagined that D.O.C. would take care of the situation accordingly. I imagined Lieutenants, Sergeants, Generals and a forensics crews with a DNA kit wearing masks and gloves and finger print powder would come in and clean it up while someone films it.

 

I honestly believed that would happen. But when the C.O. decided it wasn’t that serious and said “Oh, it’s not that big.” He took matters into his own hands, not by cleaning it and not by calling his brass. He had me clean it.

 

I put on gloves and removed the mat entirely, I scrubbed the mat clean and shower clean and left it for the next person. I was hoping brass would see the job I did.

 

I personally believe that D.O.C. should be responsible for incidents like these because if they are not going to take health more seriously, than what will happen when someone becomes ill from e. Coli?

 

After being in jail for this long, the facts of the medical unit, the lockdown, the lack of cleanliness show me that this is an environment where health is at risk. This is not acceptable.

 

I am glad to be given this opportunity to share with you readers what is going on here at HCC, behind closed doors.

Letter from Inside the Belly, Part III, top...