A LOOK INSIDE SING SING

MWA-NY member Catherine Clark attended our recent outing to Sing Sing Correctional Facility on July 23. She was kind enough to write about her experience.

Michael Capra, superintendent of Sing Sing, stands before us. “What is your new now?” That is what he asks every prisoner during the initial line up when they enter his prison. The men will be under his jurisdiction for the next 10, 20 years of their lives. Some will be here for life.

He runs down the rough statistics: currently, 1601 prisoners; recidivism rate, 42% down from 56% few years ago. Educational programs — metalworking, computer repair (no access to the Internet), woodworking, adult education, college degree and a master’s program. There is a mental health clinic and hospital. New to the prison is cable TV. Prisoners buy their own sets (at $150) and pay monthly cable fees. Channels are limited, based on content.

A day for each prisoner consists of two blocks when they are outside of their cells, and one block of time for sleeping. Disciplinary actions are organized into three tiers. Tier one is minor, such as smoking in your cell. Tier two and three are more serious. Tier threes send you to solitary.

Capra is proud of his staff. He relies on the Corrections Officers — do not call them guards. There is one CO for every 60 prisoners. COs, Capra says, are not given enough respect or media attention for what they do. He was a CO. He knows.

The COs accompanying us are Pickney, the prison historian, and Caban, who heads up the rear of our group.

Outside, double barbed-wire fences topped with slinkies of razor wire snake both sides of our walkway. Over on the Hudson, sailboats dot the opposite shore and you can see the leafy banks of New Jersey. Down the hill, an old stone wall with black bars stands apart from any building. Caban explains that those are the walls of the original prison, built in the 1820s.

Buildings behind the wall now house the school and shop programs. A building on the left is oddly shaped, as if a slice was taken from it. “That’s where they had the electric chair.”

“What is it now?”

“The electrical shop.”

In another building, COs unlock, then lock gates behind us. We are in a long hallway. Fluorescent lights, a polished cement floor, a yellow line down the exact middle of the floor.

“If an alarm sounds, place your backs to the wall on the right,” booms Capra. “Let the COs pass. You will be escorted out.”

We come to Cellblock A: The Honor Block. Sixty men live here, and there is a three-year waiting list. These men have had no tier citations. Three COs stand up as our group enters. The gates lock behind us.

The cells are clean, the doors are open. A couple of men peer at us from the walkway. Some men smile, some don’t. There is an air of dignity.

We go out into Cellblock A’s private yard. There is a small vegetable garden, lifting equipment, old free weights.

“Can’t someone use them to kill or beat someone?”

“This is the Honor Block. No one wants to go back to general population. But something happened. I’ll show you when we get downstairs.”

Near the door is a tiny house. Caban says it is for the cellblock cat. Everyone takes care of it.

Back inside, down a staircase, is a large kitchen. A man tends a pot of sauce on the stove.

“Smells awesome,” I say. He waves at me.

“What do they use to cut things?”

The ends of cans, Caban answers.

Next to the kitchen are showers, a section for laundry, three washers and dryers, and, oddly, a weight machine. The washer and dryer area is unlit.

“We had a guy, nice guy in his fifties, a hit man for the Colombian Cartel,” says Capra. “Kept to himself well dressed, was polite. A young guy disrespected him. Slapped him in the face in front of everybody. Then one afternoon the old man appeared at the CO’s station. He turned the shiv he made so the handle was to her. He said, ‘I just killed a man. He’s bleeding out near the washing machines.’

“The old guy is in solitary. Ten years. It’s about respect in here. That’s all some of these guys got.”

Now, walking up the corridors I ask, “How many COs are there in the general yard and how man men?”

“About 360 men and four COs in the yard.”

My mind boggles. “Four COs? How is that possible?”

“There are guard towers in all four corners. But when you are on the ground and 88 men start fighting, that’s when you have a problem.”

Cell block C: More gates. There are five COs here. They knock knuckles with Caban but are clearly concerned.

This is the meat of what we will see. General population. Three storeys of cells, with crinkled chain link along the walkways on each.

In the cells are a cold water sink, a steel toilet, and cots with green blankets. The cells are cramped and the sinks filthy. The anger is palpable. Two cells are covered with blankets. Pickney goes over to one and a toilet is immediately flushed. Caban explains that when they use the toilet they can cover the cell door. Ten minutes.

A large prisoner begins to come at the group. He is blocked by Pickney, Caban, and two COs. He is backed into his cell. Someone above us calls out, “We’re not animals! We are human beings!” Guys start yelling, hands waves through the cell gates.

Caban gets us inside the rec area. He relaxes once our group is locked inside.

Tables and benches are riveted to the floor. There is one old weight machine, a TV on one wall. A basketball court is separated by mesh, floor to ceiling. A mural of two basketballs players covers one wall. Caban says it is one of his favorites. There is no art program here, but this guy took maintenance paints and mixed these colors. Caban shakes his head. “This guy has true talent.”

A room before the meeting place has triangular boxes holding folded flags on the walls. Below each is a wooden plaque.

Says Caban, “These flags were flown for one day in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kuwait. I served in Iraq for 11 months. This was the flag we flew.” The plaques are dedicated to the COs of Sing Sing.

Back in the conference room, Capra talks about guys released from Maximum Security and how they are dumped outside with just their clothes and the pay they have racked up.

“There should be a slow release,” he says. “A time where they can be taught how to use the Internet to look for jobs, how to use a cell phone. They are 10, 20 years behind the times. We should be able to release them for 8 hours to go to that job interview, have a sandwich at Katz’s Deli, use the subway and then come back to the world they have been living in.”

Later in Grand Central I think about a prisoner who has been in for 20 years, just looking at all this. What is his new now?

For the full version of this story, check out Catherine’s Facebook page.

— Catherine Clark

Catherine Clark (aka C. Clark Criscuolo) is the author of two novels, Wiseguys in Love and Bank Robbers. Both have been reissued by Macmillan and are currently available on Kindle. The author was born and raised in New York City.