As he walked, with his head down, a small bald spot could be seen right at the crown of his head. He was raised in the old Southern school of repression, in an era when a black man was to be seen and not heard—seen working, that is.

Mr. Smith and I had developed a good rapport since I had been at PCI. After returning from Anna’s office, I decided to ask him to explain a few things to me about life on the inside, but when I reached my office there were several inmates waiting to see me.

On an average day, I had contact with over a hundred inmates, twenty of whom usually came to my office for some form of crisis counseling.

Some inmates actually came to my office out of a desire for rehabilitation, recovery, and spiritual growth. Most came over trivial matters relating to their jobs or bed assignments or wanting to use my phone.

“Chap, I’s wandering if I could use your phone,” Inmate Jones, an elderly, slow-talking, and slow-moving black man said when we were seated in my office. “My aunt is real sick. I need to call my peoples.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “As you know, the department will only allow me to place a phone call for you in the event of the death or serious illness of an immediate family member. Even then I have to verify it by an outside official like a doctor or funeral director.”

“Just this once. I really need to talk to her. She raise me, you know.”

“Is she at home or in the hospital?”

“She at home.”

“The only thing I can do is give you a phone pass that will allow you to call from your dorm. I’m sorry.”

I opened my desk drawer to retrieve a phone pass form. As I did, I saw the inmate request from Ike Johnson. In my discomfort and distress of dealing with Daniels I had forgotten about it. I quickly closed the drawer.

“She got a block on her phone,” he said.

If he perceived the contradiction in what he was asking for with what he was saying, he gave no indication.

If she really wanted to hear from him, why would she have a block on her line? I often wondered how inmates could tell me with a straight face how close they were with their families and yet admit that their families had gone to the trouble of placing a block on their phones that prevented them from calling.

“If she has a block on her phone, she obviously doesn’t want to be called. Have you tried writing her?”

He stood up angrily and stormed out.

As soon as he was gone, I opened my desk drawer again and pulled out Ike Johnson’s request.

The triplicate inmate request forms are how inmates ask for help from staff members in prison.