Some accepted procedures in jails a few years ago would, today, land Sheriffs and Chiefs in their own jail. Today, we've oversteered in the other direction: too many rights. But, you can see where it came from.
A good friend of mine got in the law enforcement business because of his size, considerable strength, and ability to open up a barrel of whupass. He was hired at the Immokalee Road Camp when it was privately operated by contract with the County. Being physically in control of the prisoners was very important in those days. Still is, but jailers aren't allowed to do it.
Another revered concept was the "Boss Trustee" or "Head Smasher" or other sobriquet that appropriately indicated a convict who was large and in charge. The boss trustee freed jailers of the tiring and sometimes messy job of beating unruly prisoners.
It worked like this. Lets say there was a prisoner, usually some punk that didn't know how to make time, who was a disquieting factor in the lockdown. The Boss Trustee would get the keys, lock himself in the cell with the Ahole and take care of business. You seldom had any more trouble with a jerk after the Boss Trustee had tuned him up.
Sometimes, a prisoner was causing trouble in more subtle ways that the Boss Trustee hadn't noticed. Then, you'd give him the word: "You have a turd back there in cell 2 that's crapping in your sand box." This simple alert always produced the desired corrective action, with the troublemaker soon a bruised but compliant camper in the Crossbar Motel.
Experienced prisoners, especially ex-cons who'd done a lotta time, knew how to make time and seldom disrupted tranquility. Most would sleep about 20 hours a day.
But the young, self-proclaimed badasses were sometimes a bother. Until they met the Boss Trustee.
Ah, for the good 'ol days.
It worked like this. Lets say there was a prisoner, usually some punk that didn't know how to make time, who was a disquieting factor in the lockdown. The Boss Trustee would get the keys, lock himself in the cell with the Ahole and take care of business. You seldom had any more trouble with a jerk after the Boss Trustee had tuned him up.
Sometimes, a prisoner was causing trouble in more subtle ways that the Boss Trustee hadn't noticed. Then, you'd give him the word: "You have a turd back there in cell 2 that's crapping in your sand box." This simple alert always produced the desired corrective action, with the troublemaker soon a bruised but compliant camper in the Crossbar Motel.
Experienced prisoners, especially ex-cons who'd done a lotta time, knew how to make time and seldom disrupted tranquility. Most would sleep about 20 hours a day.
But the young, self-proclaimed badasses were sometimes a bother. Until they met the Boss Trustee.
Ah, for the good 'ol days.
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