Raiford

PREFACE:

The following is, in the most part, based on a true story of how a young man was changed from an innocent youth into a cock-loving slut in one of the most dreaded prisons at that time. Those readers who have been an inmate in the old prison at Raiford, Florida might possibly identify with some of the characters in this story and will easily agree how events as described could have, and actually did, happen.

Gene studied the monotonous landscape through the window of the van without really seeing it, his mind processing instead what was to be his future for the next three years; wondering what his destination was like; were the stories he had heard true? Could he survive? Even the thoughts of some of the things he had been told caused his stomach to knot up, the cramping seeming to get worse as the van ate up the miles, taking him closer and closer to his new home, taking him further and further away from his family, his safe life, his friends. The knotting in his guts had started the instant he had been placed in the van in the muggy, early-morning light in Fort Lauderdale, increasing in small increments as the van passed locations Gene had never visited but was aware of in the years he had grown up in Florida. . .the Everglades, Belle Glade with the fields of sugar cane lining both sides of Highway 441, the seemingly endless shore of Lake Okeechobee with small towns and fishing shacks and then nothing for miles and miles with only road signs populating the trip North.

Then there was Orlando, a city close to the size of Fort Lauderdale, but still a growing settlement in the late fifties. The highway cut through the heart of the city like it hardly existed, only pointing to nearby towns with the nunerous road signs, some towns that Gene had never heard of and some that he knew existed only by name, places like Winter Haven, Winter Park, Altamonte Springs, even Daytona. But the van wasn't heading to those places. No, the white van with the six passengers was heading towards some town named Raiford was all Gene knew, a town he had never heard of until he heard the judge pronounce that he was to serve three years in the state prison at Raiford.

Gene had barely heard or understood anything that was said after that pronouncement. The only thing he knew right then was that his life was over. No more swimming at the beach; no more movies; no dates; and definitely no pussy! Gene hadn't even heard the cry from his mother as the stern judge sentenced him for burglarizing that apartment amd stealing the sleeping couple's possessions while they slept, a crime that could have resulted in a life sentence he was later informed by a probation officer. It was only his young age of eighteen that had saved him from a harsher sentence, the man had said as he read the official sentencing document to Gene.

Five hours after leaving Fort Lauderdale, the man in the passenger seat turned and spoke through the steel screen that separated the front seats from the back and announced, "Well, boys, here's your new home for awhile. Take a good look 'cause you won't be seeing this side of the place for as long as you're here." He snickered and then leaned his head out the passenger window and spat out his tobacco juice that he had been working on for what seemed like the entire trip.

"Yeh, some of you kids may not even make it outa here alive," the driver chuckled. "This place has a lot of lifers that will love to get ahold of fresh meat like you boys."

All six of the young men in the back of the van strained to get a look out of the side and front windows, their faces mirroring their fear, a fear reinforced by the words of the driver. They had all heard the stories, stories of stabbings, of rape, of guard brutality, of 'the hole' and beatings. Gene had discounted some of the tales he had heard about the infamous prison, figuring they were just tales invented to frighten first-timers and certainly couldn't be true. But now, now that Gene could see the white stuccoed walls three stories high with dark barred windows punctuating the exterior, he wondered, questioning if the guard's words were true. Maybe?

The van stopped in front of huge gates that immediately began to slide open. Gene could see another identical gate a few feet beyond the first and beyond that gate he saw a vista that didn't strike him as such a forboding place. The brick road stretching past the second gate had large elm trees on each side and Gene could see men in what he assumed was prison clothing walking along the adjacent sidewalks, some of them engaged in conversation with others and a couple even with radios held to their ears. On the other side of the trees the same white stucco walls rose up above the trees and only the barred windows made it obvious that it was a prison.

Once the van was inside the sally port and the outside gates were closed, the tobacco-chewing guard in the front seat got out and came around the back to unlock the double doors held shut with a padlock. As he swung one door open, the portly guard, in his best redneck voice commanded, "alright, fresh meat, git your butts out and form a line by Mr. Steads ova there." He stepped back and pointed with the polished wood club in his hand towards another guard standing by what appeared to be an office.

One by one the six inmates stepped down from the van, their handcuffed wrists depriving them of any means to steady themselves. Gene was the last to step down from the van and was rewarded with the guard jabbing him in the back with his club. "Move, boy. Git yer ass ova there."

The guard named Mr. Steads removed the handcuffs from the six inmates one by one and then handed them to the van driver as he asked, "Where's the paper work on these? Who has 'em"

The driver stepped to the van and removed a clipboard that held a stack of papers. "Here they are, Steads. Got you a load of young ones this time."

Steads turned to look at the six inmates standing in a row in front of him and nodded, "Hmm, they are young, Buster. Probably send some of them to the youth center." He glanced through the papers and looked at the youth standing next to Gene. "You been here before?" he asked and referring to the top piece of paper, added, "Jenkins?"

Gene was surprised to hear the boy who appeared to be a couple of years older that he was reply, "Yeh. Yeh, I was here a year ago."

Steads gruffly responded, "Thought so. And that's 'sir' when you talk to us, boy. Got it?"

Jenkins shrugged, his face showing his contempt for the guard, his eyes appearing to defy the guard who was now standing less than six inches in front of him.

In a move too fast for either Gene or Jenkins to realize it was going to happen, Steads punched Jenkins in the stomach hard, causing the defiant youth to double up. Steads grasped the gasping boy's hair and pulled him up straight before snarling in his face, "I said that's 'sir', punk, and don't you forgit it." He let go of Jenkin's hair and turned to another guard standing at a small gate that was set in the large inner gate and ordered, "Take these boys to processing, Holmes." He handed the stack of papers to Holmes and went back into the small office.

"Sure thing," the guard named Holmes answered as he unlocked the small gate then turned to the line of new inmates. "You boys follow me in single file now. And you don't talk to any other inmates, you hear?"

Holmes led the single file of six through the gate and onto the sidewalk to the left of the brick-paved road. As soon as the column started down the sidewalk, the catcalls started, appearing to come from nowheres, but Gene surmised it was from the different cell windows in the building facing the sidewalk.

"Whoooeee! Fresh meat!"

"Tight ass! Lookat those cheeks!"

"Hey, Blondie, give me someof that head!"

One inmate seated on a bench beside the walk even pursed his lips and blew a kiss at Gene as they walked by, causing another sitting beside him on the bench to laugh in a girlish voice and then berate the kisser for his infidelity.

When the column of men reached the end of the sidewalk, Holmes stepped to the front and guided them to a barred gate and called out, "Got six new ones for processing" and a guard on the other side of the gate quickly used a large key to unlock the gate and swing it open for them to enter.

"Hmm, all young meat," the guard snickered as the six inmates passed through.

Holmes barked to the six youths, "You men stay in a line and follow me. And keep yer mouths shut. No talking, you hear?" Obviously not expecting a reply, Holmes began marching the six through a wide corridor formed by the cell block they had passed previously and what appeared to be a large cafeteria-styled building on their right, evidenced by the group's quick glimpse through large barred doors that revealed rows of steel tables with connected benches.

Gene saw several inmates that were dressed in white pants with a narrow blue strip running down the outside length. All of them appeared to be doing some task or another, but made a point of looking over the column as they passed throught the corridor to another wall of steel that was a copy of the first. Another guard unlocked the gate wordlessly and held it open as Holmes guided his flock through with a nod.

Immediately the entire atmosphere seemed to change as the group entered a long corridor with several steel doors on each side. Gene noticed each of the steel doors were painted with large black lettering identifying what layed behind the doors as "Cell Block A", "Cell Bock B", and lastly "Cell Block C". The few inmates Gene saw in the corridor were dressed in different uniforms from those he had seen before entering, their pants now blue/gray with white stripes down the outside of the legs.

Whether it was the realization that the new inmates were now "inside" or the stark surroundings, all six of them suddenly felt the depression which almost every newcomer experienced upon entering the inner prison. Even the pale green paint covering the stuccoed walls and steel gates couldn't alleviate the complete sense of impending doom--the sense that their previous lives were now a thing of the past; that their will was no longer their own, but was the property of the State of Florida. Even the smart-mouthed Jenkins had cast off his wisecracking demeanor, his face now echoing the fear and consternation showing on the youthful faces of the others.

Holmes led the silent group of six down the full length of the corridor to a steel door at the end and stood aside as he motioned his charge through the door with the order, "Line up against the wall, men, and strip. Take everything off and put 'em at your feet. Shoes, too."

Holmes then walked over to a opening placed in the opposite wall about shoulder height and handed the stack of folders through, announcing to an unseen body inside, "Here's the latest bunch, Sarge. Got six of 'em."

A overweight, belly-over-belt guard emerged through a door set beside the small window and peered at the stripping group lined up against the far wall. "Hmm, young ones, huh? What in the hell am I goin' to do with all these boys? Ain't no beds on the A3 floor."

Holmes shrugged, "Don't know, Sarge. Guess some of them will be sent to Apalachee camp over in Sneads. Others, like Jenkins here, will be fine in population." Holmes stuffed some more chew in his mouth and added, "Not my problem anyhow. I'm just delivering 'em."

"Yeh, yeh, I know," the portly sarge mumbled and then turned to the window and barked, "Backus, git yer ass out here and take care of these boys."

An inmate hustled through the open door of the small room with the window, immediately answering in a shuffling tone, "Yes, sir, yes sir. I got their bags all set up." He read the names on each of six large paper bags and handed them to the one answering the called name and then instructed, "Put your belongings in the bags, men. Anything you don't want kept for when you get outa here, just leave on the floor. Everything else will be stored."

Gene, just like most of the other six, didn't really have much to put in the bag. For his part, all that Gene had was a couple of letters and a cheap watch along with his clothes. He stuffed the items in the paper bag and held it in his arms, unsure of what he was supposed to do with it. He was soon relieved of the bag as the inmate named Backus went down the line and collected the bags, then disappeared back through the door he had earler emerged.

Within a couple of minutes, Backus re-emerged and walked up to a door at the other end of the small area. He opened the door, painted the same sickening green, and instructed, "Alright, guys, time to get that shower. Each of you go in and stand in front of one of the shower heads."

After each of them were situated in front of a shower head placed high in the wall behind them, Backus came into the room carrying a cylinder like a fire extinguisher. He stepped up to the first of the group, a frail-looking boy named Phillip, and ordered, "Put your hands and arms above your head and close you eyes. For your own good, you better not open 'til I tell you." Without another word as soon as Phillip had raised his hands, Backus raised the wand hooked to the cylinder and began to spray the youngster with a pungent, green fluid. Beginning with his head, the inmate sprayed Phillip all the way from his head to his toes and then told him to turn around where he repeated the process.

Backus went down the line of six, repeating the same process with each of them and when he was finished with the last one, advised in what appeared to be a joking tone, "Okay, now reach behind you and press that button so you can rinse off."

As soon as Gene felt the cold water hit him, he understood why Backus' voice sounded like he was joking as just about all of the six victims screamed when the icy cold water hit. Gene could hear Backus laughing as he forced himself to stand under the spray of water, making sure the smelly green slime he was coated with was rinsed away before he opened his eyes. He looked to his side at Jenkins standing next to him and asked, "What-what was that stuff?"

"Bug killer," Jenkins stuttered from the cold. "Kills lice and everything else."

After each of them were well rinsed and had dried off, another inmate, also dressed in the white uniform of a trustee, led them to another room that was set up with a camera. Each of them was photographed while standing behind a metal frame that held their individual number and then taken to a table where they were fingerprinted, much like they had been when arrested.

It seemed to Gene like he was on an assembly belt, for the next stop was another adjacent room where, after he was asked his pants size, he received three pairs of Raiford-blue pants and white boxer-style underwear that he would soon learn was way too large. Without asking his size, he was handed three long-sleeve shirts and five pairs of white socks. The last stop was where he was asked for his shoe size and then handed a pair of brown lace-up low top boots. When he asked if he could try them on, he was gruffly told to "move on". Fortunately for Gene, when he was finally able to dress, the shoes actually fit. He was to learn in later days that he was one of the lucky ones for a lot of inmates had to suffer through wearing shoes that were either too large or too small.

The final stop in the processing was standing in front of a guard in a sergeant's uniform seated at an old desk. He had several charts and lists spread out on the desk top and, after studying each of the new inmates and their accompanying record, would make a decision as to where to place them.

A few times the sergeant would rely on a trustee standing beside him. Like in the case of the puny Phillip when he commented, "He won't last a day in population, Sarge. Better send him to Apalachee." The trustee must have carried some weight with the sergeant, as apparently Phillip was temporarily assigned to an area called A3, which Gene learned was a floor that housed the youngest inmates that might be abused.

When Jenkins stood in front of the sergeant, he was greeted with a shaking head from the man. "Ain't you learned nuthin, Jenkins? How long since you got outta here?"

"Bout eight months, Sarge. I was set up."

"Yeh, yeh," the sergeant sneered. "Just like the last time, huh?" He looked at one of the charts and declared, "Putting you back where you were, then. With your old friends in 'B' block. Now get yer ass outta here. You don't need anyone to guide you."

When Gene got to the desk, the trustee leaned over and whispered into the sergeant's ear. Gene couldn't hear what was said, but had a sense of dread as the Sarge looked up at him and seemed to be analyzing the blond youth standing nervously as though he was awaiting his fate. Little did Gene know, but that was exactly what he was facing, for the Sarge's decision was one that determined Gene's fate for the rest of his life. One final look at Gene and then a raised eyebrow at his trustee and the segeant pronounced, "Cell block "C" for you." He studied a list and added, "C-3-8". Looking at his trustee, the sergeant ordered, "You can show him where, Adam. And git right back here, you hear?"

Adam grinned, "Sure thing, Sarge." He motioned with his thumb to Gene and said, "Follow me, Gene. And you better stay close if you wanna stay safe."

Gene followed in Adam's footsteps, almost having to jog to stay up with the fast moving trustee. While they hurried back down the corridor heading in the direction of the sally port where Gene had entered over an hour earlier, Gene studied the dark-haired, middle-aged Adam, curious about the man's many tattoos and his confident stride, the way he was greeted by several inmates with respect almost as if he was one of the guards.

After they had entered throught the steel door marked 'Cell Block C', Adam guided Gene up three flights of stairs to a floor plainly marked '3' and then down a very narrow walkway with cells on the left side and a solid wall with interspersed barred windows on the right side, through which he could see another cell block paralleling Block C. Each of the cells were made with a solid wall of steel bars with a sliding barred door facing the walkway. Gene could see a double bunk against one wall of the cell with a combination sink and toilet on the wall at the opposite end of the cell. The walls were painted the same sickening green that he had seen throughout the prison and Gene wondered if they had received a huge discount on that paint.

Midway down the walkway, Adam stopped in front of a cell that had the numeral '8' painted in black above the door. "Here you are, Gene. Your new home." He looked down the walkway and called out "Open number eight, boss." Gene hadn't seen the guard at the beginning of the walkway, but now he saw someone in a guard's uniform unlock the steel cabinet and pull down a lever, causing the door to cell number eight to slide open noisily.

Adam motioned to Gene to enter and then followed him. "Looks like the top bunk is your's, Gene, so put your stuff up there." He watched as Gene did as suggested, and then asked, "How much time you got?"

"Uh, three years. I was told I might have to only do one, though." Gene looked at Adam as the inmate lit a cigarette and asked, "How about you? Been here long?"

"Me? Shit, I got life, so I'll be here awhile. Done five already."

Gene was shocked by Adam's revelation. He had heard of lifers, but didn't think they would be with other inmates because the jail talk always made lifers appear to be dangerous people. "Life? Wh-what for? I mean, what did you do?"

Adam stepped up to Gene and in a conspiratorial manner, put one hand on Gene's shoulder, gripping it hard, "Piece of advice, kid. Don't, and I mean really DON'T ask another inmate what they're in here for. If they want you to know, they'll tell you. You could get shanked for asking that."