We all knew they were coming, as they had already begun to conduct their intense search for contraband the very first day that our lockdown began...
Around 9 o'clock this morning, they marched into my cellblock in a long column of twos, looking like Vikings or soldiers ready for combat.
The New York State Department of Correctional Services Cell-Extraction Team ("CERT Unit") was here. Their specialties, in addition to searching for anything prison inmates are not permitted to possess, are to quell riots and other disturbances, to end hostage situations, to disarm weapon carrying inmates, and to extract from a prison cell by any means possible, any inmate who refuses to leave his cell.
Every guard in this state-wide CERT Unit comes with a full complement of protective gear: steel-toed stomper boots, hard helmet with a Plexiglass face shield, rip proof gloves that look like big bear claws for wrestling a knife or razor out of an inmate's hand, a stab proof vest which looks exactly like a bulletproof vest, canisters of Mace, a gas mask, handcuffs, and a long black baton.
The guards who belong to this specially trained unit are not known for being gentle or polite.
They even came wearing knee and elbow pads like football players use to protect their joints in case these guards have to scuffle with an unruly prisoner. For not all the prisoners are intimidated by the battle-ready appearance of the CERT Unit, and they fight back.
And here they came, moving in Army style formation, a battalion of "Darth Vader" look-alikes, coming to let us know who was in charge. I had no doubt they were! Then came the actual search of my cell.
The Cell-Extraction Team gathered by the dozens on the ground floor of my cellblock, which they used as a staging area. Then the guards grouped into teams of three. And when this was done, they fan out in front of each individual cell.
Suddenly, a three-guard team appeared in front of my cell. My door, made of rows of steel bars, sprang open, and in came two of the guards. The third officer stood blocking the narrow entryway, his baton raised into the air. This is standard procedure.
I was immediately ordered to undress. Being "strip searched,” as it is referred to in jailhouse jargon, is a rite of passage for every prisoner. I must have gone through this hundreds of times, not only during these kinds of special searches, but also at the end of every visit from family and friends.
Off come the clothes. I have never gotten used to this. It's degrading, but necessary. Inmates are known for being very clever when it comes to hiding things, and stories abound of all the strange things that have been found in ordinarily private places.
So, as I took off each clothing item, each guard would take his turn to grab a piece of clothing and examine it. My pants pockets, the elastic lining of my undershorts, and even my socks were, one-at-a-time, held up in the direction of my ceiling’s fluorescent light to be carefully scrutinized. Then each sock was turned inside out, and the process was repeated.
As I stood undressed, one of the guards scanned my body from top to bottom, front and back, with a hand-held metal detecting wand. I was "clean." No contraband. And every prisoner gets the same treatment, no exceptions. Nevertheless, I was relieved when the search of my cell was over. It was an unpleasant adventure.
Next, however, came the clean-up. Right after the search, my cell looked like a home that was overturned by a hurricane with 150 MPH winds. Half of my property was piled on top of my bunk. The rest was scattered and crumpled all across my floor. Everything was moved around.
So I spent most of the remainder of the day reorganizing, and trying to restore my things to their original places.
The CERT Unit spent several hours in my cellblock, as they also had to check outside of the cells. They had to search the dayroom, examining everything. After all this, thankfully, they moved on to begin this same process all over again in a neighboring cellblock. The entire prison has to be searched.
I was left with an odd feeling, though. When the last of the Cell Extraction Team left, and I heard the loud slams of the electronically controlled sliding steel doors closing behind them as they walked out of the building to enter the prison's hallway, it felt as if I were invaded and violated by a foreign army.
They left behind a big mess. But at least everyone, including myself, now know that there are no weapons in anyone's possession to hurt somebody.
D.B.
The New York State Department of Correctional Services Cell-Extraction Team ("CERT Unit") was here. Their specialties, in addition to searching for anything prison inmates are not permitted to possess, are to quell riots and other disturbances, to end hostage situations, to disarm weapon carrying inmates, and to extract from a prison cell by any means possible, any inmate who refuses to leave his cell.
Every guard in this state-wide CERT Unit comes with a full complement of protective gear: steel-toed stomper boots, hard helmet with a Plexiglass face shield, rip proof gloves that look like big bear claws for wrestling a knife or razor out of an inmate's hand, a stab proof vest which looks exactly like a bulletproof vest, canisters of Mace, a gas mask, handcuffs, and a long black baton.
The guards who belong to this specially trained unit are not known for being gentle or polite.
They even came wearing knee and elbow pads like football players use to protect their joints in case these guards have to scuffle with an unruly prisoner. For not all the prisoners are intimidated by the battle-ready appearance of the CERT Unit, and they fight back.
And here they came, moving in Army style formation, a battalion of "Darth Vader" look-alikes, coming to let us know who was in charge. I had no doubt they were! Then came the actual search of my cell.
The Cell-Extraction Team gathered by the dozens on the ground floor of my cellblock, which they used as a staging area. Then the guards grouped into teams of three. And when this was done, they fan out in front of each individual cell.
Suddenly, a three-guard team appeared in front of my cell. My door, made of rows of steel bars, sprang open, and in came two of the guards. The third officer stood blocking the narrow entryway, his baton raised into the air. This is standard procedure.
I was immediately ordered to undress. Being "strip searched,” as it is referred to in jailhouse jargon, is a rite of passage for every prisoner. I must have gone through this hundreds of times, not only during these kinds of special searches, but also at the end of every visit from family and friends.
Off come the clothes. I have never gotten used to this. It's degrading, but necessary. Inmates are known for being very clever when it comes to hiding things, and stories abound of all the strange things that have been found in ordinarily private places.
So, as I took off each clothing item, each guard would take his turn to grab a piece of clothing and examine it. My pants pockets, the elastic lining of my undershorts, and even my socks were, one-at-a-time, held up in the direction of my ceiling’s fluorescent light to be carefully scrutinized. Then each sock was turned inside out, and the process was repeated.
As I stood undressed, one of the guards scanned my body from top to bottom, front and back, with a hand-held metal detecting wand. I was "clean." No contraband. And every prisoner gets the same treatment, no exceptions. Nevertheless, I was relieved when the search of my cell was over. It was an unpleasant adventure.
Next, however, came the clean-up. Right after the search, my cell looked like a home that was overturned by a hurricane with 150 MPH winds. Half of my property was piled on top of my bunk. The rest was scattered and crumpled all across my floor. Everything was moved around.
So I spent most of the remainder of the day reorganizing, and trying to restore my things to their original places.
The CERT Unit spent several hours in my cellblock, as they also had to check outside of the cells. They had to search the dayroom, examining everything. After all this, thankfully, they moved on to begin this same process all over again in a neighboring cellblock. The entire prison has to be searched.
I was left with an odd feeling, though. When the last of the Cell Extraction Team left, and I heard the loud slams of the electronically controlled sliding steel doors closing behind them as they walked out of the building to enter the prison's hallway, it felt as if I were invaded and violated by a foreign army.
They left behind a big mess. But at least everyone, including myself, now know that there are no weapons in anyone's possession to hurt somebody.
D.B.
