JAILHOUSE CHRONICLES: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER CAMERON COUNTY HOOSEGOW

"How can you expect a man who’s warm to understand a man who’s cold?” One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

By Juan Montoya
Having had the misfortune of forcibly having to enjoy a taste of the hospitality offered county residents by the Cameron County Sheriff's Dept., I began the journey into the belly of the beast through the second-story corridor of the judicial wing between the judges' chambers and the courts.

There, a constable escorted half a dozen of us through an iron door, a barred gate, and then into the gray concrete tunnel leading to the Old County Jail and the holding transport cells.

A frisking, inspection of shoes and socks, and then into a cage to await transport to booking at Ruckers-Carrizales in Olmito, the main processing center for the county's four detention units.

Before we left, we were handcuffed, shackled and placed in leg irons. Before we left, we were given a questionnaire asking whether we had even been suicidal, served in the military, suffered from depression, or were depressed at the moment (well, yeah!!!).

After the short ride to Olmito, through the gates and to the booking area where the possessions that had been placed in an envelope at the court were emptied, we signed off on the contents. A plastic baggie for wallet, belt, etc., and another separate envelope for any currency. Again, another questionnaire was filled out asking whether we were we suicidal, served in the military (what branch), suffered from depression, or were depressed at the moment.

Then, on to the iron benches to await our turn to give up our civilian clothing for the bright orange jumpsuits. No colored underwear or socks were allowed, so the majority of us had nothing on but the jumpsuit. After a long wait (everything takes an eternity around booking), the finger and palm printing, the photo that appeared on the jail website, and the particulars of each inmate (full name, date and place of birth, military service, were we suicidal, suffered from depression, served in the military (what branch), or were depressed now.
This time there was a new twist. "Con quien corres?," asked the guard.
To the uninitiated, the question went over their heads. "Eres Valluco, Mexican Mafia, el Texas Syndicate, Sureño, or anything else?"
In other words, do you belong to a prison gang? The guard was very specific about this question because he explained that if you did belong to a particular gang or wore their tattoos, placing you in a rival gang could result in dire consequences to your health.
"If you do, for your own good you better tell me tho so I don' place you in a cell controlled by some other gang."
As we sat there, older prisoners in the cells of the booking area said that there are cells in the blocks that were totally controlled by Vallucos, Texas Syndicate, Mexican Mafia, or Sureños. The guards let them basically run their cells and discipline their members.
"There are some cells where the guards don't even enter," said a prisoner who had been there half a dozen times. "Los dejan que manden los jefes."
Then, one by one we are called to have a TB test consisting of a needle stuck horizontally under the skin of your inner arm. The nurse of whatever unit you eventually end up at will check to see whether you can be placed in the population, or more importantly, whether you can work in the kitchen as a trustee to prepare food.
During the examination, your height and weight, blood pressure and ears are checked and recorded by the nurse, and another give you another questionnaire.
"Are you suicidal, suffer from depression, served in the military (what branch), or are depressed now?"
If you came in from the air outside Carrizales, you will immediately feel the frigid atmosphere inside and sit shivering in a concrete bend inside the holding cell awaiting your placement in a cell block. This has been known to take entire days. While inside, cold sandwiches and a carton of milk is the fare for all.
One of our fellows, knowing that he might be incarcerated, was dressed for the occasion. He had on two pairs of white crew socks, a long john bottom and top, two white boxer shorts on top of that, and two T-shirts on top of the thermal top.
"Este si venia preparado," said a jailer laughing with another. "Ya sabia."
Inmates have no access to the commissary to purchase any of these items until they're in the general population, which could take days. Then, they must time the commissary service rotation of their unit and have money placed in their inmate trust account by relatives or transferred from their belongings when their property is removed. Until then, they have only the jumpsuit to protect them from the unnaturally cold temperatures there.
Once they can order the items, it will generally take two to three days before they can receive the items. The inmate who came in wearing his own saved himself a bundle. For while a thermal top and bottom goes for as little as $5 to $6 at Wal-Mart, each item sells for $8. .30, a T-shirt for $3.30, socks are $1.25 a pair, and boxer shorts are $4.50 each. The inmate who wore his to jail saved himself (or his relatives) $34.70 for clothing alone.
Hygene, food, or writing articles are also marked up to exorbitant prices.
If the inmate is here illegally, he is doomed to do without the protection, shiver for his entire stay (months in some cases, or do someone else's clean up duties (talacha) in exchange for items he may need. The item of barter is usually Maruchan noodle soups usually sold at grocery stores for as little as 15 cents. The commissary run by Rick Zayas and Ruben Cortez under the DBA of Snakre Vending LLC. sells each one for 65 cents, more than a 300 percent markup.
An Central American inmate in the federal prisoner X-Ray cell at Detention Center 1 does the talacha every morning and evening and earned 2 soup packets daily from the prisoners who paid him to do their turn on the cleaning rotation. In real money, the poor inmate was getting paid the equivalent of 30 cents for his labor. It was the only way he could get his soup packets for barter for everything from socks to underwear or an occasional bar of candy ($1).
The Cameron County Auditor's Office reports that based on gross sales of $876,974.64 in fiscal 2010, the county's share came to $254,364.03 and Snakre netted $665,098.55 that includes sales tax in the amount of $42,487.94.
By law, the Sheriff's Department must bid the vending contract every five years. Since Sheriff Omar Lucio has been in office, Snakre, owned by Brownsville attorney Rick Zayas and his partner Ruben Cortez has been awarded the contract. Both are former Brownsville Independent School District trustees. Until the issue was raised by the local daily, Sheriff Omar Lucio had a free hand in awarding the contract to whatever vendor he wanted without the benefit of competitive bidding. Since Chief Deputy Gus Reyna was Cortez's cousin, it seemed too convenient that Snakre got the lucrative commissary contract. But even after the contract was let out for bids, guess who ended up getting it? Yup, Snakre.
Among the prisoners in an 18-year old from Los Fresnos who was caught smoking pot with his girl friend in his car. He was arrested and ended up in the booking cell with prisoners who had been to this circus before. One, at 48, had served more than 11 years in various state institutions. This time he had been charged with a third DWI and was looking at serving at least a coupe more years with parole. Another, a 29-year-old, had served seven years for a number of crimes, including assault with a deadly weapon.
As the prisoners told each other why they were serving time, the old-timers advised the young inmate on how to get around the system, what to plead, and how to get over in the future. The young guy just listened and nodded.
Another inmate said he was there for Failing to Appear for a court date. The only thing was that he was illiterate and didn't know how to read or write.
"Yo no sabia que decian las cartas," he said.
And how, he was asked by a fellow in the group, did he sign his paychecks when he worked?
"Oh, me enseñe a escribir mi nombre pa cambiar cheques, pero no se leer," he replied.
At about 10 p.m. (after being there since before noon), the prisoners huddled in the concrete cells in the booking area see a trustee wheel in a cart with dilapidated rubber-coated mattresses and thin gray woolen blankets wheeled. Shivering, they await the guards to bring them to their cell. The half hour wait seems interminable as they eye the cart from their cell. Finally, they are handed a thin mattress and the thin blanket and they curl up on the floor to sleep.
After an hour or two, the symphony of snoring fill the crowded cell. Then, the clanging of the guards' keys announce their arrival.
"What's up, boss?" asked an old-timer.
"We're moving you to a cell in transport," the guard replies. "Everybody get your mattress and blanket and follow me."
Groggy and cold, the group is herded to another cell in the transport unit. They hunker down to sleep, only to be woken up at 5 in the morning to turn in the blankest and mattress, subjected again to the frigid temperatures in the concrete cells. If they're lucky, they will be assigned a cell in a prison block in a day or two. If they're not, it could be four or five days of suffering the cold before that part of their ordeal is over.