Back to Jail

On Jan. 2, my wife, Ellen, and I drove to the Sussex County Jail in New Jersey. We hugged outside the entrance. Then I entered and began serving a 20-day sentence for civil disobedience at the state’s black bear hunt.

I had served jail time during the previous two Januaries, but I hadn’t expected to return. Gov. Phil Murphy had made a campaign pledge to halt the hunts. But once elected, he stopped them only on state-owned land. He allowed the hunts to continue on county and private land, where most of the bears are usually killed. 

I dreaded going to jail again. But I felt I had to demonstrate how seriously I regarded the killing. 

For the first three days I was in medical lock-in. This is the standard practice. The jail holds new inmates in a cell until they receive a medical exam and the staff determines their permanent placements. During the lock-in, inmates spend only a few minutes a day outside their cells. 

In the past, I had spent the lock-in alone. This time I had a roommate, a young man arrested for drug possession. It would have been great to pass some of the time in conversation, but my roommate wasn’t up to it. He was withdrawing from drugs and mainly moaned and expressed hopelessness. My efforts to cheer him up failed. 

After medical lock-in, my roommate was placed in a large, minimum-security section of the general population. I requested the same placement, but I was kept in a small, special housing area. The area housed up to six men, two to a cell, with each cell opening to a common dayroom. While I was in the area, two inmates left and two came, but the area was always full. 

The jail used this special area to separate men from the general population. Some men had gotten into too many arguments or fights in other units, or had been harassed. Others had been charged with or convicted of sex crimes against minors. These inmates are generally despised by the others, and the jail kept these men in special housing to protect them from attack.

During my stay, there were three such inmates. All anticipated long sentences in state prisons. In addition, they all took pride in being tough fighters. When I asked them if they feared attacks in the state prisons, they said no. As one told me, “If they jump me, there better be 10 of them or they’ll all end up in the hospital.” 

I didn’t entirely understand why I was placed in this area, but a corrections officer told me that one reason was the publicity surrounding my case. Apparently the jail believed that it could keep a closer eye on me in a small area and help prevent bad press.

My fellow inmates had read about me in a local newspaper. They knew I was a 75-year-old college professor who owned a farm sanctuary and was in jail to protest the bear hunts. Several told me they didn’t necessarily agree with me about the bear hunts but respected me for acting on my convictions. 

The other inmates and I had numerous personal conversations. We were quite open about our lives. The men also got into some heated arguments, often during card games, and they played practical jokes that could be upsetting.  

The chief prankster was a tall man who liked to tell everyone he was bisexual. One afternoon when I was resting in my bunk, he pretended to be sneaking into my cell. I found this unnerving and told him never to do it again. He agreed.

On another occasion, some inmates hid a man’s razor. Because razors can be used as weapons, the jail gave them to us only twice a week and required us to promptly return them. When the man couldn’t find his razor, he became frantic. He searched his cell over and over. All the others laughed. I could understand the humor, but after a couple of minutes I asked those who had hidden it to give it back. They then moved it to a place where the man readily found it.

When a corrections officer came into our area to pick up the razors, a young inmate asked him what would happen if a man’s razor were missing. “A rectal search,” the officer replied. “And it wouldn’t be just him. Everyone in here would have it.” That statement produced a nervous silence.

During my jail terms I learned about the inmates’ values. Many of the men, especially those charged with sex offenses against minors, valued power over others. When I asked one man why he didn’t seek sexual relationships with females his own age, he said. “I can’t mold them.” Another man said he would like to be a dictator or a tyrant.

All the men had a low opinion of those who try to steal from other inmates. But they saw nothing wrong with deceiving others in the course of selling and buying. They told me about state prisoners who sold cigarettes filled with tea leaves instead of tobacco. They also told me about prisoners who misled others into thinking they were getting great bargains. Whenever I asked my fellow inmates if they approved of such practices, they replied with statements like, “Yeah, that’s business.”   

I had always assumed that criminal values are different from the values of our mainstream society. But as I thought about what the inmates said, I began to wonder. Doesn’t our mainstream society also promote, at least to some extent, the quest for power? Doesn’t our society frequently accept deception as part of doing business? 

In some respects, jail was easier this time. The building wasn’t as cold, and the kitchen staff tried to accommodate my vegan diet — an effort I appreciated.

But on the whole, this January was more difficult. For one thing, my area was more crowded, noisier, and more boisterous. When the men pulled pranks and got into heated arguments, I didn’t always know whether to intervene, and this uncertainty was an added stress. 

This time, in addition, we had less freedom to move from our cells to the dayroom and back. We frequently had to go to an intercom to ask an officer for permission. 

And this jail stay was more difficult simply because it was longer. In the past two years, I served eight and 12 days, after my sentences were reduced for good behavior. This year, I was in jail for 16 days, receiving four days off for good behavior.  

Sixteen days is shorter than what most inmates must endure. Even so, on two occasions I felt quite downhearted. At those times, brief phone conversations with my wife helped immensely. Ellen reminded me that I was in jail “for the bears.” Focusing on my purpose gave me strength. 

When I was released, my first steps outside the jail felt wonderful. I felt so free! But I hadn’t completely left the jail in my mind. Night after night I dreamt I was lying on my back in my bunk, wondering if I would ever be released. This same dream occurred for seven straight nights. Then it went away. 

Bill Crain is a professor of psychology at the City College of New York and a part-time Montauk resident.