Not Mayberry

After all the testing was done I had nothing to do but sit back and wait. It was about three weeks later when, out of the blue, I received a phone call asking me if I wanted to go to work. The question was rather dumb, I thought. Why on earth would anyone go through such an extensive hiring process, including the dread polygraph, if they did not want to go to work? But I replied in a friendly, nonplussed tone, “Yes, please”. The voice on the telephone went on, “And since you have a degree in art, would you be interested in working as a forensic and composite artist as well? It would not be often, but when we need you?”

I explained that I had never done a composite drawing in my life, although portraits were one of my greatest interests. The voice on the phone didn’t sound like he had heard me. He simply said, “That’s okay, we’ll teach you!” (I was sent to school for a certificate in Composite/Forensic Drawing the second year of my employment.) I was also told to report to the jail the following Monday morning at 0800 hours sharp!

Yavapai County jail was an old jail, even back then. If one creates a mental image of what a jail is like, the old Yavapai County jail would fit that description to a tee. The cell floors were cement, the whole building was cinderblock and steel, the passageways back by the cells were narrow and somewhat dark, badly in need of paint and some sort of ambience, and there were iron bars and metal mesh screens between the inmates and the officers. Nowadays the new jails are well lit and have replaced metal bars and screens with heavy duty, non-breakable plastic. The floors are still cement and the bunks and furnishing are still metal but even that will be improved upon with time, I suppose.

There have been no changes in the inmates, however, and I doubt there ever will be. I was a girl from an upper-middle class family, raised by educated, mannerly parents (like I mentioned earlier; Ozzie & Harriet), who had never even heard most of the words that now flew around me in a constant barrage. Not at me, mind you. I don’t believe in all my years in the jail I ever had an inmate actually curse at me, but to say their every day language was colorful would be a tremendous understatement. Most inmates have about a fifth grade education and it really made itself clear in their conversations. It took some adjusting on my part. A lot of things would take some adjusting on my part over the next several years. Not the least of which were the inmates in general.

I grew up watching Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Hawaii Five-0, and The Fugitive, which gave me a somewhat unrealistic view of the world of crime. There were Good Guys and there were Bad Guys and it was very easy to distinguish between the two because the good guys were smart and witty and clean-shaven, while the bad guys smoked cigarettes, needed to shave, talked nasty, wore dark clothing and ended up in jail. It never occurred to me when I was a kid, that people who ended up in jail might not all be Bad Guys, that is, in some instances they were relatively good guys who made very bad decisions and choices in their lives. It took my working in the Yavapai County Jail to bring that realization to light for me, and while this education was taking hold, I ran into quite a few fascinating people along the way. People who wore orange uniforms and occasionally handcuffs on their wrists. People known as Inmates.