Prison guard in training: On the job, behind bars

Published 11:11 pm Saturday, April 5, 2008

MONROE — The ceremony begins at the Monroe prison complex. The graduates sit in chairs facing their families and friends. Within days, most will become correctional officers here.

The Department of Corrections is referred to as the department of change, associate superintendent Howard Anderson says to the crowd of 80.

From a podium, Anderson tells the graduates he’s seen many changes in his career.

But what exactly is change? Anderson asks. What does change bring?

“Anxiety,” someone in the crowd says.

“Stress.”

“Fear.”

“Growth.”

“And wonder,” Anderson says.

Shermon Fultz listens. He wears a crisp navy blue uniform. In 10 days, he will start as a correctional officer at Monroe.

Fultz has changed over the last six weeks of training.

Only a few months ago, Fultz knew little about prisons. He didn’t know what it’s like to stand in the middle of inmates behind the walls topped with razor wires. He didn’t know how to protect himself and others in a place where small mistakes could turn deadly.

After the ceremony, Fultz mingles with his family and others. He pauses and smiles for a camera. Chatter and laughter dominate the room.

A typed message on a door reads: “If you knew you’d be fighting for your life tomorrow, would you change the way you train today?”

Fultz came to a crossroads last year. He was scheduled to retire from the Navy in September after more than 20 years of service.

Several former servicemen suggested that he become a correctional officer. The idea sounded right. Fultz wanted a job with the structure of the military.

“I learned how to conform to the military rules and life,” he said. “I like that.”

In the Navy, he started as a radioman and retired as an information systems technician chief. The career took the New Orleans native to foreign countries and different states. In 2004, he first visited Everett serving on the USS Abraham Lincoln.

He liked the area. Now at 40, Fultz was ready to settle in Snohomish County. He applied for a job at the Monroe prison.

All he knew about prisons was from TV shows and movies. People commit crimes, get sent to jail and do their time. He gave little thought to what happens day to day behind the prison walls.

Training for his new job opened his eyes.

The Monroe prison complex is the state’s largest with about 2,500 inmates. The complex has five different units to accommodate different types of inmates. Some are sex offenders. Some inmates have mental issues.

It takes about 1,100 people and costs $107 million a year to run the prison. The state not only pays to house inmates, but also to give them job training and educational programs. Most inmates eventually get released and return to the real world.

Fultz would make a little more money than what it costs to keep an inmate behind bars. His annual pay starts at about $39,000, not including overtime. An inmate costs taxpayers about $37,000 per year on average in Monroe.

“It was a great surprise to me that the government pays a lot to house these inmates,” Fultz said. “That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

Academy supervisor Tina Rosemore taught Fultz that verbal skills are the key to handling inmates. It’s not so much about using force, but it’s mostly about paying attention, giving specific instructions and teaming up with others.

“Be fair, firm and consistent,” Rosemore told Fultz again and again.

Rosemore also challenged Fultz to be a role model for inmates.

The idea didn’t make any sense to Fultz.

“How can I be an example for those offenders?” he thought. “These are convicts.”

Long 10 seconds

Before dawn, Fultz arrives at the prison. He and the other trainees gather at an outdoor yard. The sky is cloudy on this winter morning.

Today will be intense, he knows.

Trainees will take a shot of pepper spray to the face. Prison officials can use the spray in emergencies against inmates and, if things go wrong, it can be used against them. Correctional officers need to learn how to fight if they get sprayed.

One by one, trainees get sprayed and turn to a sergeant holding a thick rubber mat. Everybody reacts differently, Fultz says. Some hit the mat with fists. Some kick. Others use legs and arms.

How will I react? Fultz wonders.

An officer calls his name.

Fultz steps forward.

Close your eyes, the officer says.

Fultz follows the order.

Open your eyes.

Fultz does.

The officer sprays between his eyes. A burning sensation spreads fast all over his face. His nose hurts. His eyes fill with tears.

He turns to the sergeant. The rubber mat looks blurry.

Fultz clenches his fists. He punches the mat again and again.

One second passes. Two … three … four …

Fultz keeps hitting with all his strength.

Five … six … seven …

He punches and punches.

Eight … nine … and 10.

A handful of classmates take Fultz aside to a bucket. Fultz scoops water with his hands and washes his face slowly.

Later, instructors write down in a report: “Once sprayed, (Fultz) displayed sheer determination and aggression when he locked on to his target.”

Fultz gasps for breath. His face still burns.

The first day

Inmates form a long line outside the cafeteria in the Monroe prison’s Twin Rivers Unit, which mainly houses sex offenders. They wait to pick up their prescription drugs at a window.

Fultz stands nearby, with his legs as wide as his shoulders. He keeps his hands in front of his body, ready.

The chilly morning on Feb. 29 turns into a gorgeous afternoon. He started his first day on the job at 5:30 a.m. He enjoyed a chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy and salad. The lunch cost him $1.80.

At the window, an inmate receives his medication. He swallows it with water. He walks up to Fultz, opens his mouth wide and moves his tongue around. Fultz looks into the mouth to make sure the medication is gone. Some inmates try to hide drugs in their mouth to sell them later.

Another inmate comes up and opens his mouth. Fultz checks it out.

“It’s a job. Nothing personal,” Fultz says.

Another inmate. Another mouth. Another OK.

He keeps it consistent.

Be fair, firm and consistent, he learned in training.

As much as he watches inmates, they watch him. That’s what Rosemore meant, Fultz realizes. Maybe, if he does his job well, he could set a good example for them.

“Even in the prison, I can still make an impact on people,” Fultz says. “They might be my next neighbors. You don’t know.”

He’s still green. When a phone rings in an office, he looks around wondering if someone else will pick it up. Before speaking into a radio, he rehearses what he will say in his mind.

He’s learning from veteran officers like Cindy Kline, who has 10 years of experience. Fultz tags along with Kline.

They watch the inmates move around, some going from their cells to exercise yards. Others going to the prison library or to their job training. All inmates must arrive at their destination within 10 minutes.

“We are going to have just one more movement today,” Kline says.

“That’s it?” Fultz asks.

“Yes,” Kline says.

Kline stands outside. Fultz is nearby. Inmates crisscross around them.

“Keep it moving, guys!” Kline shouts. “Let’s go, gentlemen!”

Fultz watches inmates move along. That experienced officers surround him gives him a peace of mind. He also knows that officers up in surveillance towers are watching.

Still, he feels strange.

“This is the real thing,” he says. “I’m surrounded by some of the worst that the state has to offer.”

Fultz focuses on his job to cope with his apprehension.

Things go smoothly. Inmates disappear into buildings. Fultz walks back to an office.

He grabs his belongings out of a locker. He opens a door and steps outside. He heads to another unit for inmates with mental issues. He is ready to work overtime.

The door closes behind him.

Reporter Yoshiaki Nohara: 425-339-3029 or ynohara@heraldnet.com.