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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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