1 Feb 09
The Dangers Involved with a Gay Cellmate (Part 1 by Warrior)
Warrior - Serving fourteen years for kidnapping and aggravated assault. Half Hispanic and Scottish-Irish with family still in Mexico. Brought up by a family steeped in drug commerce. He writes some of the best prison-fight stories on the Internet.
One officer handcuffed me to the bellychain around my waist. The other had a firm grip on the lead attached to the bellychain. If I had turned rowdy, a yank of the lead would have swept me off my feet, as I was wearing leg shackles so closely linked they only permitted slight foot shuffles as opposed to a walking stride.
You can tell which prisoners have done a lot of lockdown time by the way they walk in shackles. They’re the ones who’ve mastered what we call the “penguin shuffle,” and they know how to land when yanked by a cynical guard.
I did my penguin shuffle – once again in an orange jumpsuit two sizes too large – until the escorting officers placed me in an office. Then in stepped a tall blond-haired sergeant in his late Forties. His flat top told me he was probably a military man or used to be or wished he was. This was confirmed when I noticed his spit-shined shoes and a Marine bulldog tattooed on his forearm.
“Semper fi, eh?” I said, which is Latin for “always faithful.” It’s the motto of the U.S. Marine Corps.
The sergeant tried to hold back an enthusiastic grin.
Still a proud Marine, I thought. Cool, I just scored some points.
“Look here,” he said with a firm tone. “Let’s cut the bullshit. Yer maxed out and none of the yards want ya, so we both know where yer next stop is. I’m the supervising sergeant of this motherfucker. This is limbo till ya get where yer going. Ya can do this shit one of two ways: cool or a pain in my ass. Either way I don’t give a fuck. This here is just to let you know.”
I figured this was the speech he dished out to all the new arrivals as a deterrent to further misbehavior. So I gave him the same answer he’d probably heard almost as many times as he’d given his speech. “I’m just passing through and trying to be cool until I get where I’m going.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. Do you care who you cell with?”
“My own kind [race] is all.”
The sergeant called in the two escorting officers, and directed them to which cell to put me in.
I shuffled my way through two sliding security doors, guards in tow. I caught my refection on the Plexiglas window shielding the control-tower entrance. I looked like a dog being walked. I reached cell 3, and was happy it was particularly close. The leg shackles were on so tight for so long that when I walked I felt them rubbing the skin on my ankles raw. By this time, I knew they’d be a little bruised.
“Step to the side by the door and face the wall! On your knees so I can remove your shackles!” said one officer.
The other was in front of the cell door, unlocking the feeding trap located dead center.
The feeding trap in lock-up was the safest way for the officers to give us what we had coming with the least amount of contact possible. As long as what we were getting was no bigger than 6 by 12 inches. It also allowed access to an inmate’s wrists in order to be cuffed and uncuffed. Any time we were out of our cells for any reason we were always belly-chained and cuffed.
“Sanchez! Come cuff up!” the officer who had unlocked the feeding trap, instructed my new cellmate.
As my cellmate was being cuffed, I paid close attention to his hands, attempting to gauge his size. In here, where cellmates sometimes kill their new cellmates, you have to notice such things, in case the compatibility to live with one another is not there. I noticed small hands, more feminine than a man’s. I also noticed lengthy fingernails, which meant my new cellmate was a homosexual. Then it dawned what the sergeant had meant by asking if I’d cell with anyone.
Click here to read Part 2.
Click here to read Warrior’s previous story.
Why might having a gay cellmate lead to trouble in prison?
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Shaun P. Attwood