Other times I was disheartened by the inhumanity and incivility that I witnessed.

There’s no question that mass incarceration, particularly as it affects African-American men and other impoverished minorities, is out of control in our culture. The prison industrial complex largely runs on the injustice of our justice system. Yet once we take custody of inmates, we by and large take care of them.

Of course there is abuse. Of course there is neglect. But from what I witnessed on a daily basis these are largely isolated incidences, the abuses of power by isolated individuals rather than a systemic problem within our prison system.

One of the ways we care for the incarcerated is by the way we classify each according to his crime and custody level, his skills and abilities, and his psychological and medical needs.

In a prison like PCI, there are all types of inmates—those who received a DUI and resisted arrest, those who sexually abused children, those who committed murder, rape, or theft—the last usually in the pursuit of drugs. There are inmates who are dangerous and others who are themselves in danger. Putting all these various individuals in one institution is a very precarious endeavor.

Some inmates are violent. Others are not. Some are escape risks. Some you’d have a hard time getting to leave. Others need close medical or psychological supervision. And all must be assigned a job that they are qualified to do, even if it’s just picking up trash.

The department responsible for giving inmates a security evaluation and a job assignment, as well as determining whether or not they are a risk or at risk, is Classification.

Since Daniels made it clear he didn’t want me working with him, and because the feeling was mutual, I decided to conduct a little inquiry of my own, beginning with a classification officer named Anna Rodden.

Anna, who I had been in love with since childhood, was my older sister Nancy’s best friend all through school.

“Anna,” I said after tapping on her door.

She was seated behind her desk wearing a sleeveless white silk blouse and a fire engine–red skirt, with the matching jacket draped over the back of her chair. Her long brown hair was gathered in a single long ponytail at the nape of her neck, held by a red and white bow. The white of her shirt made her olive skin look even darker. She was dark in other ways too. As she looked up from her work, I was again amazed at the depth of her seemingly bottomless brown eyes.

“John,” she said, sounding happy to see me.

I loved the way she said my name.

“Come in,” she continued. “How are you? I heard what happened yesterday. I was just about to call you.”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

I nodded. “How’re you?”

“Had better days. Escape attempts are difficult enough, but when the inmate gets killed . . .”