From the Archives: Inside the Manatee County Jail

Port Manatee – Of all the jobs with Manatee County, Major Jamie Higginbotham may have one of the toughest. The longtime deputy sheriff runs the Manatee County Jail, a fifteen-year-old compound near the county line, in a part of Manatee many residents have never been to. The jail was built in 1995 and holds about a thousand prisoners, with a smaller annex to house up to 400 more.

On the day I visited, Higginbotham is breathing a slight sigh of relief. The jail's population, which constantly fluctuates, has temporarily fallen to 999, the first time it's been under a thousand this year. Continuous cuts to the county budget have left the facility understaffed by nearly 100 deputies, according to the MSO's strategic plan (PDF 8.4 MB).

Over the past few years, many positions have been cut, and unreplenished attrition has further reduced manpower. The effect has been constant state of alert. During my visit, I was escorted by SGT Neu, one of three shift supervisors. Neu's attention is constantly focused on his C.O.'s and the various situations that make them vulnerable.

On this day, he has the bare minimum staff (21) on duty. The strained force means that anything less than a perfect day with no surprises will be a challenge, and anyone who's ever worked in a prison knows that such days simply do not exist.

The jail is a constant balancing act between staff, prisoner count, facilities and resources. When the prisoner population swells and the various pods are more closely crowded, incidents always increase. When the annex is opened to alleviate crowding, no deputies are added. So while one problem is eased, staff is now stretched even more thinly.

When a shakedown of cells is required in the annex, additional deputies are pulled into the building, creating vulnerabilities at other posts. Today, the early arrival of a road gang throws a major wrench in the system. Since the road gang has contact with the outside, it must be searched for contraband before re-entering the annex where they are housed, separated from the general population to further reduce the chance of contraband introduction.

There are three deputies searching a pod of 48 prisoners, cell by cell, for a missing maintenance padlock, so that it doesn't become a weapon when deposited in a prisoner's sock. Shakedowns agitate the inmates. Their cells are being tossed, belongings put on display. The chance for an incident is raised significantly and the tension draws high.

Neu anxiously monitors both facilities and everyone is on top of their game, extra cautious until things return to their version of normal, which is to say the brief moments between such occasions, waiting for the next wrench.

This is the life of a corrections deputy and the part of the jail that most taxpayers fail to consider. Out of sight, out of mind, it is the last place to garner sympathy from the average citizen. The jail falls under the Manatee Sheriff's Office's budget, where the number of patrol cars in a troubled neighborhood, response time to a call, and deputies on the street are of far greater concern to most people.

Beyond the family members of the staff and those sentenced or held there, very few people give the facility so much as a single thought. Other departments may be harder hit when it comes to resources, though few have potential consequences so dire.

"What you see today is as good as it gets," says Neu. "The population fluctuates and we don't get additional personnel when it goes up."

What does change is two of the most important factors to a guard: the ratio of deputies to prisoners and the numbers of prisoners to a cell. I meet Deputy Jackson, a petite female guard who's overseeing 120 class 4 inmates that day, armed with only a can of pepper spray and a Taser that deputies must qualify with, in order to carry.

Neu credits Jackson as one of his best deputies and as I watch her maintain order with forceful, even-keeled authority, it is clear that she is in charge of her pod, but such control is a delicate asset in such an environment.

"Power shifts rapidly," Neu reminds me. "95 percent of what we do is somewhat routine to us, but it's that 5 percent where you're responding to a serious situation that matters most."
 
The bare-boned staff makes for more of such occasions than anyone would like to see and for the entire day, nothing remotely resembling a calm moment occurs. Inmates walk along the right side of the wall, always single file, and they address the guards calmly as "sir" or "ma'am."

Sergeant Neu, first shift supervisor

"We focus on enforcing the small stuff all of the time," explains Neu. "If you don't enforce the little things, everything will start to fall apart real quick."

The facility presents many challenges, though the department is amazingly self-reliant. Manatee County has long been a pioneer in inmate labor programs and everything from the food, to the uniforms, to the refurbishment of an entire pod is done by inmates.

An on-site prisoner work farm provides nearly all of the food that is prepared in the inmate-staffed kitchen. Vocational training programs that train inmates in diesel mechanics, carpentry, garment production, botanicals and auto body provide skilled labor for services that would otherwise need to be contracted out.

While being processed, inmates are evaluated for skills and experiences indicative of positions they might be suited for. From the "trustees" walking among us as they performed various cleaning and maintenance tasks, to the the road gangs and farm crews, there are plentiful opportunities for inmates to pass their time and even learn a skill.

Make no mistake, there is no shortage of dangerous criminals and while many of the inmates blend into the walls around us, there are significantly more to remind an outsider why such facilities are built. 22 inmates are awaiting murder charges and a close look at a level 3 or 4 pod is striking. With over a hundred such prisoners crammed four to six in a cell, the air is thick with tension. Perhaps the most disappointing aspect is the revelation of how many inmates are repeat guests.

Neu stops to talk with several that he's known since they were teenagers, others who he's known a father or an uncle that was previously under his guard. When asked for success stories, he admits there are few.

"You do occasionally see someone who gets here early on and they decide, I'm not ever coming back. You know, they're non-violent, they're in for a misdemeanor or something and this experience scares them straight, " he tells me.

I ask what seems to be the determining factor and he's quick to respond.

"Drugs -- the vast majority of people in here are here for some reason related to habitual drug use," he laments while shaking his head. "Either they got arrested for buying drugs or possessing drugs, dealing, or committing a theft to support a drug habit, and when that's the case we almost always see them again. The days of someone committing a crime to feed their family – you don't really see that as much anymore. Even if someone is not an addict, they see this lifestyle and they might commit a crime because they're looking for a drug stake, because they see that as a path to easy money. But they always end up here and when they get out, it's back to the same neighborhood, hanging around the same people – this becomes all they know. Before long, they're the customer. They're the guy they used to be selling to and they're back in here even faster."

Neu and Higginbotham both lament the cycle that they are all too familiar with, and in separate interviews I am somewhat surprised at the full spectrum of their viewpoints. Both have the somewhat conservative view that longer sentences are at least a big part of the equation, because they've lived too long amid the realities of policies that are quick to return criminals to society, especially habitual drug users. However, neither are obtuse to the challenges that face even the most reform-minded convict.

"I remember an inmate that did two good years, got himself clean, and spent that time focused on staying that way, " says Neu. "In his mind, he was never coming back. He was released and then literally arrested 45 minutes later for trying to buy drugs from an undercover officer. Now, we're a good 35 minutes away from town, so that tells you how badly this thing had a hold on him and you see that all of the time. Once it gets a hold on them to the point where they've wound up in here, you don't see a lot of them break the cycle."

The story is one of many that demonstrate why faith in rehabilitation is so hard to come by among jail personnel, from top to bottom. Higginbotham strikes me as a pragmatic realist and like Neu, the long odds that ex-cons face are not lost on him.

"When you've got a guy that's been in here for a while, maybe even more than once, and he gets out – where's he gonna go? What's he gonna do?" he asks with contemplative exasperation, his warm Florida drawl dominating my impression of a former road deputy who now watches over the criminals he once put away.

"They've got no place to go, so it's back to their momma's house or to live with grandma and they're in the same neighborhood, around the same people, without a lot of skills and they've got to compete for a job with educated people with clean records – in this economy?" he asks rhetorically.

"They end up right back here and once again we're in a big hurry to get them out. They're set up for failure. I don't know what the answer is, and if there is one I know we probably don't have the money for it either, but hurrying them out of here as soon as we can hasn't worked. They just end up goin' in a circle."

Obviously there is no easy solution, but the frustration of the those who work within the jail's walls is understandable. The failures of the system mean more than extra work or layoff worries. Unlike most jobs, workforce strength can literally be a matter of life and death.

Last April, while jail population was on an upswing, Manatee Corrections Deputy Jeff Hare was vigorously assaulted by a prisoner while conducting a routine cell check. The inmate, Stevie Hunt, was agitated when Deputy Hare discovered a second mattress in his cell and confiscated it. When Hunt began to act out, Hare attempted to cuff the prisoner, who then struck him to the ground and continued to kick the fallen deputy to the face until guards were able to respond.

"When you don't have as many deputies as you'd like", Neu explains, "you've gotta do your best to do everything right and try and have them in front of a camera as much as you can. But as you can see, there is a lot of ground to cover and a lot of bad things can happen in a very short time in that sort of situation. Think about how long it takes us to get guards over to the annex (about two city blocks away) for back-up, even at a full sprint.

We had walked to the annex earlier and his point is well taken. The facility was not designed for moving prisoners to the degree that's become necessary, nor was it designed to be staffed with less people today than when it opened in 1995. The infirmary routinely sees twice as many inmate patients as it's designed to. The juvenile holding center taxes resources, when a single guard might watch over only a few inmates who must be separated by law, or various gang elements that must be kept separated by common sense.

The obvious reality is that Manatee County needs a new jail – though it is perhaps more obvious that it is not going to get one anytime soon. A possible tenth of a mill property tax increase is the only chance the Sheriff has of even holding his budget steady after $5 million in cuts over the last two years, and like I noted, few taxpayers will be eager to spend dwindling service dollars on the county jail.

Higginbotham knows this and accepts such reality.

"I know there's no money in the county budget and I know what pressure the Sheriff's under. We've been making cuts everywhere we possibly could for three years, because we've seen the writing on the wall."

The jail, however, may be a victim of its own success. They've proven so self-sufficient, so adept at making do, that it is easily assumed that they will make ends meet with whatever crumbs fall from the table, but Higginbotham explains the stark reality.

"If there was any fat, it was trimmed a long time ago," he laughs. "I've got departments that had four deputies that now have two, that had three and now have one. Those positions are gone and the money for them are gone. It's real tough on my people and they're the ones that make this thing a success. They're dedicated professionals who take pride in their work, but you can't run the whole thing on overtime.

"I've got deputies that want to go to classes so that they can get their second and first class to test for SGT, so that they can get a promotion. But how can I let them all go to class when I'm running this thin? Overtime is nice, and it makes up for some of it, but you've got to balance the job with family life and right now, I'll tell you, that's tough to do. They've got vacation time they can't use, because I can only have two deputies off at a time – it's really tough on them."

Higginbotham admires the men and women who work for him – law enforcement and civilian, and he's clearly sympathetic to the environment that reduced resources has created.

"These men and women make it happen. I'm just the guy puttin' out fires. Most of the time, I try to get out of their way and let them get the job done. I know the county doesn't have the money in their budget for the things we need and we understand that we've got to get things done regardless. We do a good job with what we've got."

Government inefficiency is a common clichŽ, but Higginbotham's jail turns such notions squarely on their ear. Over the years, they've cultivated relationships with local farmers who often call to offer an otherwise plowed under harvest at a moment's notice. They get one-day-over bread. The cattle operation (500 head) brings the county's general fund a hundred grand each year before the jail sees a dime of it, and none of the savings are spent on prisoner comforts.

"We've figured out how to use our cooking oil as diesel fuel for the farm. We've worked out trades with other counties to get crops we don't produce on barter and when the county throws somethin' out -- we take it, fix it up and use it," he explains with pride in the department's self-reliance.

The operations save the county nearly $2.5 million each year on services that would otherwise be contracted out. The county farm is one of the oldest and most sophisticated in the country and has served as a model for countless others. It is often said that desperation is the father of innovation and it is worth noting that the Manatee Jail has figured out a way to make do far more often than it has stuck out its hand, an example other departments may be wise to study. Still, Higginbotham cautions how little room for creativity remains.

Solitary Confinement

"I'm at the point now, where if we didn't have the rapport with the local farmers that we do, or the day old bread people cut us off, we'd be going back and asking for funds to keep our head above water, " Higginbotham admits.

Like other areas of the jail, cost-cutting has impacted those very operations that save the county millions, endangering the very aspect of the facility that makes it so sustainable, demonstrating how disastrous and expensive further reductions could be. Still, nothing sticks in my memory like the image of an unarmed, ninety-pound female deputy, infinitely outnumbered by hardened criminals, or the injury report for Deputy Hare.

Both might serve to remind us all that jail conditions are about much more than the comfort of inmates. The safety of spouses, parents, sons and daughters is at stake, and should weigh heavily against the temptation to cut corners on our least visible protectors – the corrections deputies who guard the drug pushers, pedophiles, rapists, murderers and thieves that have been removed from our streets, far from the playgrounds on which our children play. They go to work each day to live among such people so that we don't have to, and they should do so in an environment that affords their own loved ones a good night's sleep.

Stay tuned for an upcoming look at the Manatee County Jail's communal work farm.