“Didn’t mean to get into all that, but . . . you’re easy to talk to. Maybe we can do more of it outside of this place—over coffee or something.”

8

There are four types of lockup in the Florida state prison system.

Protective-management lockup is for those who are at risk in the general prison population—rapists, child-molesters, ex-law-enforcement officers.

Close-management dorms are for those who, because of their custody, crimes, and behavior on the inside, are confined to a cell.

Confinement has two classifications—administrative and disciplinary. An inmate is placed in administrative confinement when the administration determines that it is best to do so—usually when he is under investigation for a crime. Disciplinary confinement is for those inmates who were accused of a crime and were found guilty. Jacobson was in the latter.

Whereas most inmates in the Florida DOC are housed in open-bay military barracks–style dormitories, those in lockup are housed in single six-by-nine cells. Some of the lockup cells house two inmates, some one. All have a sink, toilet, one or two bunks, and a very small window covered with steel mesh.

Inmates in lockup are fed through a slot in the metal door about the size of a food tray. Jacobson’s was open, and I was talking to him through it.

Squatting down to talk through the tray slot in the door always made my knees ache and my feet fall asleep. I usually chose to talk to an inmate through the tray slot because of the security hassle involved in arranging to meet him in his cell or the conference room.

For me to enter an inmate’s cell, he must be frisked and cuffed, and an officer must be present at all times. The same is involved if I meet with him in the conference room.

Many times what the inmate has to say to me is so short that being frisked and cuffed takes longer than our meeting. Other times the inmate has a lot to say, but is unable or unwilling to because of the security officer standing within hearing distance.

I was hoping that without an officer present, Jacobson would talk openly.

“Fuck you, motherfucker,” he said.

Guess open communication wasn’t going to be a problem.

From the last cell down the corridor to my right, I could hear Inmate Starn yelling, “CHAPLAIN, CHAPLAIN, COME HERE. COME HERE, CHAPLAIN.”

He did that every time I came to Confinement. It was Wednesday, and I had already seen him twice this week.

Crouching down on the bare cement floor of Confinement, I smelled the same odor I always did—sleep.

The stale air was thick it.

Drool. Perspiration. Halitosis.

Behind me, the gray block wall was lined with empty milk cartons, wads of crumpled napkins, and various other items of trash the inmates had tossed out of their cells.