Trial by Ordeal

It was a hot July day. I was walking in the yard in R&D, the prison's Receiving and Diagnostics Unit. The yard is a small piece of tarmac separated from the rest of the prison yard by a twelve-foot fence.By law, all inmates get at least one hour of exercise time each day. In fair weather, we usually sat in the sun with our backs against the red brick wall of R&D or walked circles in the yard. We called it doing the R&D shuffle. It was a respite from the sweltering steel, two-man, 5 by 7 cells where we spent the rest of the day.

I had been there for 33 days watching inmates being taunted and abused by other inmates. They were paying for their crimes. A gang of young toughs made it their job to ferret out the rats and skinners. A rat has broken the convict code by informing on another inmate or turning state's evidence at trial.  Maybe they've dropped a dime on a fellow inmate to get special treatment from the guards. A skinner is anyone who, like me, committed a sexual offense. I had watched the gang's membership change as inmates graduated to the general population. It always managed to re-form around some new arriving thug and continue its vigilante work.

The goal of this harassment was to drive undesirables into protective custody. Inmates who need P.C. are the lowest of the low. They live on a separate tier, eat in their cells, and get separate yard time. Life in P.C. is lonely and boring.

Harassment of targets begins with taunting. It can go on late into the night. Yells of “Pervert” or “Kill yourself!” echoing down the tier. It escalates into theft or destruction of personal items; to throwing food, urine, or feces onto the prisoner or into his bunk. Threats of physical violence are common. Tormenters hope you’ll throw the first punch and give them an excuse to beat you down with fists or metal trays or anything that comes to hand.

I had somehow managed to remain below the radar. I kept to myself and answered few questions. This day I was walking the yard, talking to another inmate. I forget now who it was. Inmates come and go. There are no lasting friendships in R&D. There was a commotion in the middle of the yard. Someone was shouting. I heard the words "doctor" and “sexual assault" I guessed it was happening to me. I had that feeling you get when the roller coaster starts its descent. Hang on for the ride.

“They're holding court on me,” I said out loud. The guy I was with disappeared. The speaker was a tough from my tier, in on a drug offense. He stood on an overturned milk crate. He read from a news clipping. He stumbled over the longer words. He stepped from his podium to wave the article in my face. I just saw the headline, "Convicted Child Molester Seeks New Trial." Then I was surrounded.

"Skinner!" "Ripper!" "Pervert!" they yelled.

I tried honesty. "Yeah, I really messed up.”

The shouting rose. They weren't interested in repentance. Their goal was humiliation.

Ringed by angry faces, I said, "She wasn't a child. She was fifteen." 

I don’t know why I said it. It was a useless thing to say, an excuse that no longer worked even for me. Besides, this wasn't a discussion of legal technicalities. This was a lynching. The hecklers followed me to a corner of the yard. The ringleader got right in my face.

"You're going to have to go, Horner. I've got kids of my own. I don't want to be around skinners. Understand?”

I sat down on the tarmac waiting for a blow, wondering how it would end. I had heard the only way to respond to violence in prison was in kind. But I had never been in a fistfight in my life. An arc of warm urine from a cup splashed over my head and shirt. I sat dripping.

"Clear the yard!" The guard's command seemed like a reprieve. I sat alone until the last prisoner had entered the stairwell leading to the cellblock. The guards took me to the first-floor office. I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't want to add the title “rat" to that of "skinner." I needed some time to collect my thoughts.

"I need to speak with the Officer In Charge," I said.

"Sit there, Horner." The guard indicated a chair in the hall.

He went into the office. I listened to the discussion. It was loud enough for me to hear.

“That's messed up," someone said.

"Yeah. You'd think you could trust a doctor. Can you imagine taking your kids to someone like that?" I guessed who had passed the news clipping to my inmate jury.


I entered the office and stood in front of the desk. I smelled of urine.

"I've talked to Classifications," the sergeant said. "You're being transferred to the Hancock Building tomorrow. There are enough like you out there that you shouldn't have any more problems."

I didn't know whether to thank him. The next day I was released into the general population. I found out he was pretty much right about life out there. A year later, my principle tormenter, the supposed drug dealer, was enrolled in the prison sex offender program. He had his own way of flying below the radar.