Yesterday I had a pretty scary day in the jail.  I usually go on Thursday mornings to Division 8 RTU, that’s the hospital division in Cook County Jail.  I just found out lately that it’s the largest mental health hospital in Illinois, and maybe the largest in the country.   That’s because Cook County is the provider of last resort for mental illness in Chicago, and Chicago’s a pretty big city.  Anyway, it’s a big mental health jail.  And, it’s understaffed these days.  That’s because nobody wants to be the sheriff lately.  And the people who are working in the jail are stretched pretty thin.  It’s like the police department, the armed services, the restaurant business, and all kinds of other jobs… The end result is that the people who are working are overstressed.  Working double shifts, problems at work and at home.  It means that they’re having some trouble with suicide among the sheriff’s people.  Lately they’ve lost 3 officers to suicide.  Anyway, yesterday morning was scary.

Division 8 was understaffed yesterday, that’s the usual drill these days.  Until lately, they had an officer to accompany me as I walked around the place.  These days I have permission to walk around alone.  Last week, I took the elevator up to the 4^th floor and walked around unaccompanied for the second time in my life.  I went to one of the tiers (they are the dorms where the guys sleep), knocked on the bullet-proof glass and got the officer’s attention on the inside.  He opened the 2-inch-thick steel door and I told him, “Ask the guys if anyone wants to see the chaplain.”  He shouts to the guys, “anybody want to see the chaplain?”  They line up and come out one by one.  I ask their names, and booking numbers, and write them in my little logbook.  Then I ask them how I can help them.  Some of them want just a prayer, some want a little pamphlet.  One or another of them wants to ask a religious question.  I take care of them one by one.  They’re a little scary looking because they all have gang tattoos, you know the kind, the teardrop by the eye, the letters on their knuckles, the drawings all up and down their arms, and so on.  And, they’re way bigger than I am.  And the guard is shorter than I am.  I figured out that they were all in the same gang after two or three of these guys.  And, they probably weren’t in the jail for stealing a candy bar, either.  So, it was a little scary last week.

Then yesterday came.  Yesterday, they came out one by one, like the week before.  Only this time, the last guy, a big guy, comes out and is standing there.  He says, “I’m not going back in there.”  The officer asks, “What?”  “I’m not going back in there.  They’re going to kill me if I go back in there.  I won’t go.”  There’s a pause.  Silence.  Then the guard asks, “Can you go back in for a minute, then we’ll arrange for you to transfer to a different tier?”  “No…. the voices in my head are telling me that they’ll kill me if I go back in.  I won’t do it.”

Now, I’m thinking “Holy shxx, now what?”  The guard calls on the radio and says quietly “Sarge, we have a problem here.”  I hear some kind of a quiet answer.  “Yep, we have someone who doesn’t want to go back into the tier.”  A squawk of some kind in answer.  “Yep, I think he wants protective custody.”  Now I’m getting a little nervous.  I see some movement and one of the guards from a different tier is approaching from the left.  Then another one, then another one.  Pretty soon, it’s a circle of guards around the 3 of us.  The little guard, the big schizophrenic with tattoos, and me.  “Oh my goodness,” I think.  Truthfully, I was cursing in my head!  “When the XXXXX is this going to end?”

To make a long story short, it took around 10 minutes for the sergeant to show up, to put handcuffs on the guy, and walk him down the hallway to the protective custody cell.  He was really busy somewhere else, for sure.  In the meantime, I’m standing outside the tier, the door’s open, there are a bunch of guards standing there very still, and I’m trying to keep my breathing calm.  The little guard returns, goes into the tier, and says, “I have some paperwork to do, father.”  “Yep,” I answered him, “that’s about enough drama for one day.  Have a good Easter.”  “You too, father!”  I got to leave the jail a few minutes later.  The people inside had to stay all day, or for a few months or longer.

You’re not in jail. Lucky you!  Happy Easter!