Shabbat Dinner in LA County Jail
Doreen Shenassa
May 08, 2009
Hell. That´s the word that comes up when people describe Men´s Central Jail, the chilling flap of territory in downtown LA, one of the nation's most fierce and violent facilities. They call it a training camp for hate. It´s been referred to as Devil´s Island. They say deputies are trained to be mean. Detainees quickly learn not to make eye contact with them. Actually, it´s best not to look at anyone at all. Despite the department´s zero tolerance policy against discrimination of any kind, inmates say bigotry is part of jail politics. Provoked with derogatory remarks about their sexuality or religion, inmates are pushed to their capacity.
Racial tension spawns an ugly dialogue that could rattle even the ignorant. Latinos say blacks are the most hated in jail. Blacks swear Hispanics are detested more. Others say pedophiles are rightfully despised and don´t stand a chance. Homosexuals are scorned so much that they are sectioned off from the rest of the jail population and dressed in a light blue uniform indicating they are gay. One thing everyone seems to agree on, however, is the Jews.
There are at most 110 Jewish inmates, at any given time, in LA County jails. They are loathed more than blacks, Hispanics, homosexuals and sex offenders. At least that´s what they say. If you´re not prejudice when you go in, you will be when you get out. And thus, each inmate, stuffed with revulsion, musters a quiet rage while he serves his time.
Such is the experience of the dozen or so Jewish inmates who spend the first Friday of the month in the care of Rabbi Yossi Carron. On that particular day, Carron, a bustling man, darts about the city to prepare for his evening Shabbat services in jail. He picks up the food from the family that supplies the kosher meal, along with the flowers and the paper goods and the Torah. He loads his car, stops at the grocery store for whatever extras are needed then makes his way downtown. He routinely has a guest or two, (three on this evening), joining him for services. Visitors may accompany Carron if he informs jail officials two weeks in advance. "You must follow some rules," he says just as we´re approaching the jail´s entrance. He hastily puffs a cigarette and gulps his coffee. Agreeing to Carron´s unbending preferences and official jail regulations is the ticket into the storied facility.
"No pictures whatsoever. No identifying inmates. No talking to deputies," he says. No problem. Following a series of strict ID checks and clearances, we pass through the locks and barricades that lead to a stretch of hallway. Along the extended corridor, an occasional inmate is chained to a bench, face calm, staring intently at the sauntering tourists. It is a leisurely walk with the rabbi´s entourage down the hall to the Shabbat room. Judy the cantor carries with her a guitar. Joe is a rabbi-in-training who can´t help but break the uneasiness with, "God is an acronym for ´Get off Drugs.´" He chuckles and continues to wheel the heavy supply cart to the destination.
The room´s foul aura is unforeseen. It´s like standing haplessly on a bare and battered street corner in the wrong neighborhood. "We have to remember that this is jail, and it is not supposed to feel like a hotel," says Carron. "It isn't supposed to be cruel, but it definitely is not supposed to be easy." The "chapel" is half the size of a basketball court. At one time a mess hall, it´s now used for just about nothing. The walls are cracked and graffiti-stricken. Above them, windows, separated into small squares, run along either side of the room.
Sunlight penetrates through the punctured, grimy glass. Yet an imaginary shadow looms over the oversized cell. We proceed to set up the Shabbat table before the inmates arrive. The flowers are tastefully arranged in a plastic vase. The sodas, hummus and pita bread are unpacked and spread out on the table.
It´s 4:33 p.m. Inmates start to trickle in, despondent and glum, but surprisingly mannered. Their ages and alleged crimes ranging from 22-70, vandalism to murder. "Shabbat Shalom!" Carron halts the sullen mood and takes hold of a hand, drawing it in for a hug. "How´ve you been?" By now, the room warms up to the transformation, the table garnished with bright blossoms, paper plates, plastic forks, napkins and all kinds of goodies. The torah leans against the wall next to the rabbi. "For the next couple of hours, you are in my living room," declares Carron. Each takes a seat on an iron stool, alongside the steel Shabbat table. The sermon begins.
Gus, one of the many souls in the system, examines the floral arrangement of daisies, calla lilies and daffodils. Fixating on the colorful array, he aligns his nostril with a delicate petal, closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "This is a privilege" he murmurs. "Feels like I´ve been relieved for 3 hours." Gus is in for vandalism and awaits trial. "I was starting to go crazy, anxious."
Between passages, the rabbi pauses to remind his small congregation, "If you think this is a terrible place, it´s not. It´s what you make of it. Yes, the system stinks. You get in and it´s hard to get out. But it´s not impossible." He pauses again and resumes. "I don´t want this to be too easy for you. I want you to remember this so you don´t come back." He swigs his coffee and tells of former inmates who have severed ties with crime. They have jobs and good lives. The men gaze up at Carron, holding on to his words, immersed in the possibility. They pass around pita and hummus while the rabbi lectures, their conscious heightened to fellow inmates.
"How do we get pure again?" The rabbi introduces the next segment and the fortyish Judy is cued to sing. With a brisk strum of the guitar, the general mood shifts and the men buoyantly keep up. Judy´s hum ricochets, her voice bouncing off the ramshackle walls. The inmates grip their bibles, studying the language, as the rabbi goes around to acknowledge their presence. A gentle pat on the shoulder, a squeeze of the arm reassures them they are worthy and accepted.
Time, inmates having an infinite amount of it, accelerates on this evening. In the midst of stark surroundings and wilting hope, broken bulbs and flickering lights, the mildew and the mysterious drip-drip of a busted pipe, a moment of calm finds them. All of a sudden we´re not in some dank downtown jail. We´re in good company.
WHO IS YOSSI CARRON?
"He´s a guy who´s willing to take a chance on us," says 24 year-old Eddie. "He´s proof that through a little faith and giving, you can overcome the criminal." Eddie, a life-long drug addict has no family and claims to have been "raised by the system." He expects to join Beit T´Shuvah upon his release in December. Carron pulls strings to get certain inmates into the distinguished rehab program on Venice Blvd. "He´s getting me to look outside the box. He´s getting me to establish faith." Carron dissuades the boys from rekindling with old friends and other harmful influences from the past. "It is up to us to choose the people we want to surround ourselves with," Carron´s says at one point in the lecture, his heartening tone starting to sink in.
Rabbi Carron, 59, his hair salted and peppered and his complexion flushed, is a hero to his boys at Men´s Central. But his job requires patience. When his monthly affairs began at MCJ three and a half years ago, funding was scarce. Carron couldn´t afford to buy dinner for 25 grown men, so he played foodie, cooking up the fancy, elaborate feast.
Since his days hunched over his stove in Encino, this breezy chaplain´s cause is cherished. The grateful parents of a former inmate donate the supplies and food. "He´s my special one," says Carron of the ex addict who was incarcerated for drugs. Carron helped him kick his habit, get a job and into medical school. "My job isn´t to make them religious, it´s to help them find their path to a better life through Judaism and God," he says. "If we can do that, then we did good."
Bandleader turned rabbi, with his bronze skin and smooth visage, Carron doesn´t look the part of rabbi. His kippah or Brooklynite accent is no giveaway either. "I´m not a person who´s ever been in the closet about my life," he affirms. As a gay single parent, he fits the role of mentor and spiritual advisor, reminding his boys that he´s been sober for 14 years. "I work on it everyday because I´m just as human as you," referring to his 3-year stint with cocaine. "One day I looked in the mirror and said, ´what on the earth are you doing?´" He wasn´t a rabbi in those days. He sang for Merv Grifffin´s band at the Beverly Hilton. He was also a cantorial soloist for high holidays.
The Board of Rabbis of Southern California and the Jewish Federation hired Carron full time to work the jails. Without their support, Carron´s mission would be tiresome. And contrary to jailbird sentiments, it´s the deputies who make Shabbat run smoothly. Gathering different colors from different modules for services could take hours.
WHAT DO THE COLORS MEAN?
"Shh, it´s just easier in here," whispers Jason, when asked about his sexuality. Jason, 38 has been tossed in and out of the system since he was 12 years old. He sports a light blue smock, the color homosexuals wear in jail. "But I´m not really gay," his voice faint and muffled. Jason and other "light blues," not all gay, are kept separate from the general population who wear dark blue. Softer inmates who are vulnerable to assault and harassment slip into the gay unit for safety´s sake. Jason holds up his ID bracelet during Shabbat dinner. It reads, SPECIAL-K G. Jail code for gay. Ten of the dozen men in tonight´s service wear light blue.
Trustees are inmates in green uniforms and have jobs in county jails. Those with medical needs are brown and the ones that are a threat and require high-level security wear orange. "Oranges" live in segregated housing and aren´t permitted to participate in group services. Too risky. The rabbi can visit them privately if he chooses to.
Word of mouth keeps Carron´s group small. Too small for every unit to hold a separate religious service. It took six months for the jail captain to allow colors from all modules to integrate and celebrate Shabbat with Carron.
If they´re not grumbling about the deputies, the mistreatment and the racism, the inmates are lamenting about jail food. Lunch includes a suspicious, "round, mystery meat." Peanut butter and jelly one day, a bologna sandwich the next, and more likely than not, peanut butter and jelly for the next five days. Eating is not an issue from the vantage point of us who aren´t captive, and have a non-stop food chain to choose from. "Sometimes a hard-boiled egg isn´t hard or boiled," says Frank, 66, one of the elders of the group. His frosty beard coating his face, pallid and frail, blazed against his dark blue uniform. He is kosher, "but they don´t care." Tonight´s kosher chicken is quite a treat. Frank has been incarcerated for nearly three years. "My wife was murdered and they thought I had something to do with it," he says. Given the severity of some these alleged crimes, it´s hard to sympathize. However, as unnerving as it gets to dine with alleged murderers, addicts and third strikers, their fine table manners and etiquette is notable.
Rabbi continues his lecture at dinner. "I don´t care what you´ve done. Just don´t lie to me. I don´t lie to you. Don´t lie to me." A few heads nod. The men are focused. "The fact that you trust me is a miracle," Carron adds. "The fact that I trust you is not a miracle. You think it´s a miracle." Jason chokes up but is soothed when a fellow inmate reaches over and takes his hand. Tough guys who want to not be tough for a while; an intriguing concept it is, their emotions unfastened. "Jail becomes a savior. It´s not always a bad thing," says Jason once he regains his composure. "I´m tired of doing drugs and getting high," his stained, jagged teeth a backdrop to his stubbly mustache and glossy blue eyes, his crimped hair pulled back in a tail. "You really mean a lot to me," Carron chimes in. "I look into your eyes and get to know you, and I still come back. This is my favorite Shabbat of the month, the one I share with you."
A DIFFICULT ENVIRONMENT
Men´s Central Jail is extreme and racial. You´re beaten and abused. The food is terrible. Inmates can go on about how horrible it is. No one denies that it´s a hard place to be. But efforts are in place to improve the situation. "We care a great deal about helping everyone in our custody," says Sergeant Randall Zemple, LA County supervisor for religious and volunteer services. "I don´t know anyone that allows mistreatment when they see it.
It´s against the department´s policy."
The Office of Independent Review monitors the LA County Sheriff´s Department and investigates allegations of officer misconduct. One Jewish detainee who retorted after being hassled claims that he was thrown in "the hole" where no one could find him. It could be 3 days, maybe a month. No one knows how long he was to languish in solitary confinement. "Obviously, that´s not true," says Steve Whitmore, spokesman for Sheriff Lee Baca. "If all of that was occurring, we would know."
Complaints are documented and assigned to a supervisor. If it´s found to be valid in the case of mistreatment, an investigation follows. It´s one word against another.
"The Sheriff believes that the deputies should be a leader of civil rights," says Whitmore. "He believes that everybody has a right to be heard, regardless of their position, fortune or misfortune."
The biggest issue surrounding the out-of-date facility is overpopulation. Whitmore adds: "It should be torn down and replaced. We´re talking billions of dollars."
The American Civil Liberties Union follows up on inmate complaints and hires a full-time monitor to oversee Twin Towers and Men´s Central Jail. "It´s not up to correctional and constitutional standards. Not in our view," says Mary Tiedeman, ACLU jail´s project coordinator, who works with the Sheriff department to address some of those issues. The way the building was structured brews overcrowding and tension.
To alleviate some of the chaos, the population has been drastically reduced this year, from 6,500 inmates to 4000. All the six-man cells have recently been converted to four-man cells. The four-man cells now hold two. The situation is dire nonetheless. The law requires that inmates spend three hours per week outside their cells. At Men´s Central Jail, those three hours are often times clustered into the same day. This leaves them locked up for the next six days, unless they need medical attention or want to attend religious services.
SEE YOU NEXT MONTH
Shabbat services at Men´s Central Jail ends while the men sit graciously. It´s half past eight. The rabbi places his hands on each inmate´s head and recites the "birkat hacohanim," (priestly blessing.) Then they form a circle and pray. They sing for going away, going back to the reality of where they are. It´s to help them get through the week with a sense of purpose and possibly a fresh connection with God. It´s a prayer about who they can be. In just a few moments we will leave this room and that initial angst will start to simmer. The rest of us will depart, with a heavy heart, effortlessly walk passed the deputies, back through the locks and barricades and into the world to find our place in the sun. The men of Men´s Central will be cuffed and individually escorted down the corridor and locked away into a unit. "You don´t have to get turned on by robbery, you could get turned on by something else," Carron says huddled with his boys before sending them off. "All you have to say is, ´I want to be better than I was yesterday, and mean it.´"
This article was originally published August 2007
Racial tension spawns an ugly dialogue that could rattle even the ignorant. Latinos say blacks are the most hated in jail. Blacks swear Hispanics are detested more. Others say pedophiles are rightfully despised and don´t stand a chance. Homosexuals are scorned so much that they are sectioned off from the rest of the jail population and dressed in a light blue uniform indicating they are gay. One thing everyone seems to agree on, however, is the Jews.
There are at most 110 Jewish inmates, at any given time, in LA County jails. They are loathed more than blacks, Hispanics, homosexuals and sex offenders. At least that´s what they say. If you´re not prejudice when you go in, you will be when you get out. And thus, each inmate, stuffed with revulsion, musters a quiet rage while he serves his time.
Such is the experience of the dozen or so Jewish inmates who spend the first Friday of the month in the care of Rabbi Yossi Carron. On that particular day, Carron, a bustling man, darts about the city to prepare for his evening Shabbat services in jail. He picks up the food from the family that supplies the kosher meal, along with the flowers and the paper goods and the Torah. He loads his car, stops at the grocery store for whatever extras are needed then makes his way downtown. He routinely has a guest or two, (three on this evening), joining him for services. Visitors may accompany Carron if he informs jail officials two weeks in advance. "You must follow some rules," he says just as we´re approaching the jail´s entrance. He hastily puffs a cigarette and gulps his coffee. Agreeing to Carron´s unbending preferences and official jail regulations is the ticket into the storied facility.
"No pictures whatsoever. No identifying inmates. No talking to deputies," he says. No problem. Following a series of strict ID checks and clearances, we pass through the locks and barricades that lead to a stretch of hallway. Along the extended corridor, an occasional inmate is chained to a bench, face calm, staring intently at the sauntering tourists. It is a leisurely walk with the rabbi´s entourage down the hall to the Shabbat room. Judy the cantor carries with her a guitar. Joe is a rabbi-in-training who can´t help but break the uneasiness with, "God is an acronym for ´Get off Drugs.´" He chuckles and continues to wheel the heavy supply cart to the destination.
The room´s foul aura is unforeseen. It´s like standing haplessly on a bare and battered street corner in the wrong neighborhood. "We have to remember that this is jail, and it is not supposed to feel like a hotel," says Carron. "It isn't supposed to be cruel, but it definitely is not supposed to be easy." The "chapel" is half the size of a basketball court. At one time a mess hall, it´s now used for just about nothing. The walls are cracked and graffiti-stricken. Above them, windows, separated into small squares, run along either side of the room.
Sunlight penetrates through the punctured, grimy glass. Yet an imaginary shadow looms over the oversized cell. We proceed to set up the Shabbat table before the inmates arrive. The flowers are tastefully arranged in a plastic vase. The sodas, hummus and pita bread are unpacked and spread out on the table.
It´s 4:33 p.m. Inmates start to trickle in, despondent and glum, but surprisingly mannered. Their ages and alleged crimes ranging from 22-70, vandalism to murder. "Shabbat Shalom!" Carron halts the sullen mood and takes hold of a hand, drawing it in for a hug. "How´ve you been?" By now, the room warms up to the transformation, the table garnished with bright blossoms, paper plates, plastic forks, napkins and all kinds of goodies. The torah leans against the wall next to the rabbi. "For the next couple of hours, you are in my living room," declares Carron. Each takes a seat on an iron stool, alongside the steel Shabbat table. The sermon begins.
Gus, one of the many souls in the system, examines the floral arrangement of daisies, calla lilies and daffodils. Fixating on the colorful array, he aligns his nostril with a delicate petal, closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "This is a privilege" he murmurs. "Feels like I´ve been relieved for 3 hours." Gus is in for vandalism and awaits trial. "I was starting to go crazy, anxious."
Between passages, the rabbi pauses to remind his small congregation, "If you think this is a terrible place, it´s not. It´s what you make of it. Yes, the system stinks. You get in and it´s hard to get out. But it´s not impossible." He pauses again and resumes. "I don´t want this to be too easy for you. I want you to remember this so you don´t come back." He swigs his coffee and tells of former inmates who have severed ties with crime. They have jobs and good lives. The men gaze up at Carron, holding on to his words, immersed in the possibility. They pass around pita and hummus while the rabbi lectures, their conscious heightened to fellow inmates.
"How do we get pure again?" The rabbi introduces the next segment and the fortyish Judy is cued to sing. With a brisk strum of the guitar, the general mood shifts and the men buoyantly keep up. Judy´s hum ricochets, her voice bouncing off the ramshackle walls. The inmates grip their bibles, studying the language, as the rabbi goes around to acknowledge their presence. A gentle pat on the shoulder, a squeeze of the arm reassures them they are worthy and accepted.
Time, inmates having an infinite amount of it, accelerates on this evening. In the midst of stark surroundings and wilting hope, broken bulbs and flickering lights, the mildew and the mysterious drip-drip of a busted pipe, a moment of calm finds them. All of a sudden we´re not in some dank downtown jail. We´re in good company.
WHO IS YOSSI CARRON?
"He´s a guy who´s willing to take a chance on us," says 24 year-old Eddie. "He´s proof that through a little faith and giving, you can overcome the criminal." Eddie, a life-long drug addict has no family and claims to have been "raised by the system." He expects to join Beit T´Shuvah upon his release in December. Carron pulls strings to get certain inmates into the distinguished rehab program on Venice Blvd. "He´s getting me to look outside the box. He´s getting me to establish faith." Carron dissuades the boys from rekindling with old friends and other harmful influences from the past. "It is up to us to choose the people we want to surround ourselves with," Carron´s says at one point in the lecture, his heartening tone starting to sink in.
Rabbi Carron, 59, his hair salted and peppered and his complexion flushed, is a hero to his boys at Men´s Central. But his job requires patience. When his monthly affairs began at MCJ three and a half years ago, funding was scarce. Carron couldn´t afford to buy dinner for 25 grown men, so he played foodie, cooking up the fancy, elaborate feast.
Since his days hunched over his stove in Encino, this breezy chaplain´s cause is cherished. The grateful parents of a former inmate donate the supplies and food. "He´s my special one," says Carron of the ex addict who was incarcerated for drugs. Carron helped him kick his habit, get a job and into medical school. "My job isn´t to make them religious, it´s to help them find their path to a better life through Judaism and God," he says. "If we can do that, then we did good."
Bandleader turned rabbi, with his bronze skin and smooth visage, Carron doesn´t look the part of rabbi. His kippah or Brooklynite accent is no giveaway either. "I´m not a person who´s ever been in the closet about my life," he affirms. As a gay single parent, he fits the role of mentor and spiritual advisor, reminding his boys that he´s been sober for 14 years. "I work on it everyday because I´m just as human as you," referring to his 3-year stint with cocaine. "One day I looked in the mirror and said, ´what on the earth are you doing?´" He wasn´t a rabbi in those days. He sang for Merv Grifffin´s band at the Beverly Hilton. He was also a cantorial soloist for high holidays.
The Board of Rabbis of Southern California and the Jewish Federation hired Carron full time to work the jails. Without their support, Carron´s mission would be tiresome. And contrary to jailbird sentiments, it´s the deputies who make Shabbat run smoothly. Gathering different colors from different modules for services could take hours.
WHAT DO THE COLORS MEAN?
"Shh, it´s just easier in here," whispers Jason, when asked about his sexuality. Jason, 38 has been tossed in and out of the system since he was 12 years old. He sports a light blue smock, the color homosexuals wear in jail. "But I´m not really gay," his voice faint and muffled. Jason and other "light blues," not all gay, are kept separate from the general population who wear dark blue. Softer inmates who are vulnerable to assault and harassment slip into the gay unit for safety´s sake. Jason holds up his ID bracelet during Shabbat dinner. It reads, SPECIAL-K G. Jail code for gay. Ten of the dozen men in tonight´s service wear light blue.
Trustees are inmates in green uniforms and have jobs in county jails. Those with medical needs are brown and the ones that are a threat and require high-level security wear orange. "Oranges" live in segregated housing and aren´t permitted to participate in group services. Too risky. The rabbi can visit them privately if he chooses to.
Word of mouth keeps Carron´s group small. Too small for every unit to hold a separate religious service. It took six months for the jail captain to allow colors from all modules to integrate and celebrate Shabbat with Carron.
If they´re not grumbling about the deputies, the mistreatment and the racism, the inmates are lamenting about jail food. Lunch includes a suspicious, "round, mystery meat." Peanut butter and jelly one day, a bologna sandwich the next, and more likely than not, peanut butter and jelly for the next five days. Eating is not an issue from the vantage point of us who aren´t captive, and have a non-stop food chain to choose from. "Sometimes a hard-boiled egg isn´t hard or boiled," says Frank, 66, one of the elders of the group. His frosty beard coating his face, pallid and frail, blazed against his dark blue uniform. He is kosher, "but they don´t care." Tonight´s kosher chicken is quite a treat. Frank has been incarcerated for nearly three years. "My wife was murdered and they thought I had something to do with it," he says. Given the severity of some these alleged crimes, it´s hard to sympathize. However, as unnerving as it gets to dine with alleged murderers, addicts and third strikers, their fine table manners and etiquette is notable.
Rabbi continues his lecture at dinner. "I don´t care what you´ve done. Just don´t lie to me. I don´t lie to you. Don´t lie to me." A few heads nod. The men are focused. "The fact that you trust me is a miracle," Carron adds. "The fact that I trust you is not a miracle. You think it´s a miracle." Jason chokes up but is soothed when a fellow inmate reaches over and takes his hand. Tough guys who want to not be tough for a while; an intriguing concept it is, their emotions unfastened. "Jail becomes a savior. It´s not always a bad thing," says Jason once he regains his composure. "I´m tired of doing drugs and getting high," his stained, jagged teeth a backdrop to his stubbly mustache and glossy blue eyes, his crimped hair pulled back in a tail. "You really mean a lot to me," Carron chimes in. "I look into your eyes and get to know you, and I still come back. This is my favorite Shabbat of the month, the one I share with you."
A DIFFICULT ENVIRONMENT
Men´s Central Jail is extreme and racial. You´re beaten and abused. The food is terrible. Inmates can go on about how horrible it is. No one denies that it´s a hard place to be. But efforts are in place to improve the situation. "We care a great deal about helping everyone in our custody," says Sergeant Randall Zemple, LA County supervisor for religious and volunteer services. "I don´t know anyone that allows mistreatment when they see it.
It´s against the department´s policy."
The Office of Independent Review monitors the LA County Sheriff´s Department and investigates allegations of officer misconduct. One Jewish detainee who retorted after being hassled claims that he was thrown in "the hole" where no one could find him. It could be 3 days, maybe a month. No one knows how long he was to languish in solitary confinement. "Obviously, that´s not true," says Steve Whitmore, spokesman for Sheriff Lee Baca. "If all of that was occurring, we would know."
Complaints are documented and assigned to a supervisor. If it´s found to be valid in the case of mistreatment, an investigation follows. It´s one word against another.
"The Sheriff believes that the deputies should be a leader of civil rights," says Whitmore. "He believes that everybody has a right to be heard, regardless of their position, fortune or misfortune."
The biggest issue surrounding the out-of-date facility is overpopulation. Whitmore adds: "It should be torn down and replaced. We´re talking billions of dollars."
The American Civil Liberties Union follows up on inmate complaints and hires a full-time monitor to oversee Twin Towers and Men´s Central Jail. "It´s not up to correctional and constitutional standards. Not in our view," says Mary Tiedeman, ACLU jail´s project coordinator, who works with the Sheriff department to address some of those issues. The way the building was structured brews overcrowding and tension.
To alleviate some of the chaos, the population has been drastically reduced this year, from 6,500 inmates to 4000. All the six-man cells have recently been converted to four-man cells. The four-man cells now hold two. The situation is dire nonetheless. The law requires that inmates spend three hours per week outside their cells. At Men´s Central Jail, those three hours are often times clustered into the same day. This leaves them locked up for the next six days, unless they need medical attention or want to attend religious services.
SEE YOU NEXT MONTH
Shabbat services at Men´s Central Jail ends while the men sit graciously. It´s half past eight. The rabbi places his hands on each inmate´s head and recites the "birkat hacohanim," (priestly blessing.) Then they form a circle and pray. They sing for going away, going back to the reality of where they are. It´s to help them get through the week with a sense of purpose and possibly a fresh connection with God. It´s a prayer about who they can be. In just a few moments we will leave this room and that initial angst will start to simmer. The rest of us will depart, with a heavy heart, effortlessly walk passed the deputies, back through the locks and barricades and into the world to find our place in the sun. The men of Men´s Central will be cuffed and individually escorted down the corridor and locked away into a unit. "You don´t have to get turned on by robbery, you could get turned on by something else," Carron says huddled with his boys before sending them off. "All you have to say is, ´I want to be better than I was yesterday, and mean it.´"
This article was originally published August 2007
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