Regular pens have been replaced by “softies;" Timberland boots were banned, replaced with jail-issue sneakers, dubbed “Air Darts.”
By Neil Steinberg
The Chicago Sun-Times
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CHICAGO — ‘Go! Go! Go! Go!” Nine men dressed entirely in black, from their jump boots to their slash-proof gloves, rush in a half-step quick march into a cellblock in Division 9, the maximum-security wing at Cook County Jail.
They are members of the ERT, or Emergency Response Team, an elite jail squad that swoops in on disturbances or, today, conducts sweeps for weapons.
“Against the wall! Now!” one shouts, and 19 inmates in beige cotton scrubs stop what they’re doing -- playing checkers, watching TV, reading novels, eating the famous County Jail baloney sandwich -- and stand up, bracing themselves against the wall, hands held high. Several ERT officers methodically pat them down before handcuffing them; others begin checking their cells. On average, the jail sweeps more than a thousand cells, common rooms and hallways every day.
Almost anything can be made into a knife -- “shanks are the formal name,” says Cook County Sheriff Tom Dart, who in his 15 months in office has made it a priority to reduce the number of homemade weapons floating around the jail.
Because toothbrushes can easily be melted to a point, he introduced a squat 2-inch brush with a wide thumb pad. Because the spray cans used in the barbershop were being crushed down into spikes, the shop switched to plastic bottles.
Prisoners were taking apart the vent grills in their cells or removing the stiff wires from the staircase railing screens. They were taking the metal supports from their Timberland boots and honing them into blades, or turning pens into daggers. Look at any cell floor, and you’ll see scratch marks from metal being sharpened.
“The place was a literal shank factory,” says Dart, a former assistant state’s attorney, who found himself not only up against the ingenuity of prisoners with time on their hands, but the apathy of the system.
“We would have a stabbing, and I would talk to the officers and they’d say, ‘Oh yeah, they stab each other with that,’ ” recalls Dart, amazed. “They just put up with it. Nobody asked where are they coming from and how can we get rid of them. It was mind-boggling.”
So Dart put solid vent grills in the cells and welded them shut. He got rid of the protective wire mesh along the stair railings. Regular pens have been replaced by “softies” -- flexible 3-inch mini pens. Timberland boots were banned, replaced with jail-issue sneakers, which inmates have dubbed “Air Darts.”
“They’re not the nicest shoes,” says Dart, “but this is jail.”
In January 2007, 40 weapons a week were turning up when Dart began his “Weapons-Free Committee.” Last month, they found five a week.
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With some 10,000 inmates on any given day, Cook County is the second-largest jail in the country after Rikers Island in New York City. But while Rikers has 10,000 corrections officers for its 15,000 inmates, Cook County squeaks by with 3,500.
“We’re definitely understaffed,” says Dart.
It doesn’t take a political genius to understand why. With the inept, corrupt county government eternally short of funds, the easiest place for the Cook County Board to cut is jail -- who wants to spend money on crooks? -- forgetting that the money goes to fund security and run the programs that can offer the only slim chance many of these guys have of staying out of jail.
In addition to being understaffed, the jail is famously overcrowded, a legal hot potato for decades. On Wednesday, 55 prisoners were sleeping on the floor, while a former kitchen has been converted to a jammed 300-man dorm. Dart is experimenting with “hot bunking” where two prisoners sleep in shifts in one bed, like on a submarine.
Factor in a prisoner population kept far longer than usual. The national average for a stay in a county jail is 20 days. The average stay in Cook County is 120 days, and some prisoners have been here for years.
Given all that, reducing their access to weapons is very important.
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Officers Domenech and Lamas --no first names please! -- work their way methodically through cell 3103, bunching up blankets, feeling the hems of jackets.
“We find ‘em everywhere,” says Domenech. “In the food, in the mattress.” And yes, files were baked into cakes, like in the movies, which is why all food must be bought from the commissary.
The officers flip through books -- between pages is perfect for razors. They use mirrors to look under desks, and awls to probe cracks in the walls. They take their time.
“As long as it takes,” says Lamas. “Thorough is important.”
An officer with a video camera records the sweep -- in the past there have been accusations of brutality during searches. An infamous 2000 melee sent a dozen guards and prisoners to the hospital.
Weapons aren’t the only thing being sought. Drugs too, of course. Inmates also make their own booze.
“Incredibly disgusting stuff,” says Dart. They somehow contrive to make hooch from . . . whoops, we’re out of space. More later.
Copyright 2008 Chicago Sun-Times, Inc.