became a roofer. He made good money, but because he issued a bad check he went to prison again in 1988. He was sent to jail yet again in 1992, but this time it was due to dope charges.
He used to spend over 200 to 300 dollars per month for weed. But now he told me that he was certain he would stay clean and away from drugs and weed. He said he had a new girlfriend who was supporting him sincerely, and he confided in me that he didn’t want to lose his girlfriend. I prayed for him. I certainly hoped that he would keep his promise this time not to touch street drugs and keep his relationship with his girlfriend in good faith.
October 20, 2 p.m.
Shakedown
The officers quickly came inside our cell, handcuffed us, and then shook us down. I could not imagine why but just watched them doing their so-called duties. They checked where they wished to inspect, then they walked away. I thought it was probably because of my cellmate Perry’s drug charges that they randomly shook us down.
October 23
From the morning, the new arrivals began to see the counselors for their retail store destinations with regard to their sentences and type of felony classifications, and then the counselor gave a recommendation depending on each inmate’s qualifications.
October 26
Mallet Sound
The sound of a mallet pounding cell bars disturbed me all the time. First thing in the morning, what I would hear was the mallet sound. One officer would begin to hit the bars with a mallet so its sound echoed inside the prison, then the echo would travel to my ears and then make me upset.
I was thinking that if society and government could keep checking people’s lifestyles or individual lives the way the cops were hitting the bars here, perhaps society would never have to worry about crime.
I still did not understand why the officers had to hit the bars twice a day. I knew they were checking up on inmates and the security of the area, but what in the world did they have to hit the bars for, so hard as to make those steel bars bend? Anyway I hated the mallet sound.
Everyday I was fearful of visible dust from having the blanket all the time on the floor, as it might cause cough and sneezing. I believed each blanket contained millions of bugs and drugs so I wondered why they did not hit our blankets then.
October 28
In the morning, an officer called me so I followed. He took me to the psychologist, Dr. Jim Huston, who was a behavior specialist, mid-fifties, and white. He had been at this facility since 1974. He boasted that he had a lot of experiences with prison punks. He took my personal history as was routine, and then we discussed my charges.
All of a sudden, he asked, “Are you guilty or not guilty?”
I was frozen at his abrupt question and frowned.
Then, “How much did you pay to your lawyer?” he quickly asked again. I hesitated for a few more seconds.
“Did your attorney ask you to get a plea bargain?”
“No.”
“No matter what, you have to pay the girl because of conviction. You lose,” he told me proudly in an irritating way.
I listened but could not understand what he tried to tell me.
“You see, you are a big fish. Did she file a civil suit?” he asked.
“Why do I have to pay her? Give me a break!” I replied.
“America is a crazy country. Everybody wants some from you. Your lawyer has to pay some ransom to the judge, prosecutor, and policemen before conviction, otherwise you will face difficulty, and sometimes the problem will be solved without further discussion.”
I heard his words but never thought about that.
“My lawyer said nothing about penalty.”
“I am saying, paying a sum of money although for nothing. You are naïve,” he expressed his sympathy by describing his own theory. “You’d better go to the CIC, because it is safer, but Westville has a bunch of gangsters.”
He recommended I go to the CIC but I had no idea why I even had to see him today. I wondered how he became a behavior psychologist in the prison. I hated remembering how he was smiling when he talked. He humiliated me in many ways but I was patient.
October 30, Friday
My cellmate, Robert Perry, was feeling very agitated over not getting any letter from his girlfriend. He was a chain-smoker. He went down to see the counselor today, but when he returned, he became wilder. He learned that he was going to be transferred to Westville, where he would be far from his girlfriend.
“You see, Koo, I don’t want to go to Westville. I was there before and that place is dangerous. I don’t know how my girlfriend will visit me if I go there. It’s too far from her house. She lives in Bloomington,” Perry said as he kept pacing around in the cell, smoking.
I had no idea how to help his situation so I lay on the bed and watched his rants.
October 31
Early morning, the officer walked into the cell and took Perry away to his new retail store, Westville, to extend his prison education. Perry looked very depressed and reacted like he was being taken to the death chamber.
At around 10 a.m., for the first time, we went out to the range and watched a movie, Crazy People.
New Cellmate Howard’s Story
As soon as Perry left that morning, the officer brought in a new cellmate, whose name was Donald Howard: black, 17 years old, 5 feet 7 inches, 140 pounds, and a boys’ school graduate. As he walked into the cell, he did not say hello to me but began to light up a cigarette.
He glanced at me on and off without greeting. He soon noticed I was one of the expensive commodities of the DOC and then jumped up to his bunk. I felt an increasing curiosity about him for a while but said nothing. Soon, he jumped down, stood in front of the bars, and kept smoking and began pacing around in the cell.
He looked at me again as if he saw a stranger, and then, “Where’re you from, man?” he asked strangely.
I did not answer but instead just stared back at him for a few seconds. He stopped pacing and then asked me again. I knew I was in the same boat so I quickly replied to him.
“I am from Hammond,” I said and stood up.
I faced him as though adapting to the prison situation like street dogs. He looked at me and moved his eyes up and down like an inspector. He probably thought I was the wrong merchandise in the wholesale distribution system so he turned away. He kept smoking for another few minutes. All that smoke irritated my nose but I said nothing.
A few seconds later, he stood and asked, “Are you a Chinese?”
“No. I am a Korean.”
“I am from South Bend. Oh! You said you are from Hammond. I know a lot of GI.”
When
