My name is Rick Stoddard and I am 68 years old. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon). My faith and testimony drive everything I do.I want to write about my time in prison. My hope is that my experiences might be of some help to someone.
Why prison? A short version answer at this time. I and others owned a bank. The government took it; I fought back; I lost.
I served in the Sacramento County Jail for five weeks-plus; the balance of seven prison months in the Metropolitan Detention Center Los Angeles (MDCLA), a Federal Prison. Those who know me observe that I constantly use the initials MDCLA in multiple situations. While the approach and attitude may seem backward, for reasons that will hopefully become clear, I never want to forget my time of incarceration; where I was; who I was and who I still am - a felon. The second seven months of my 14-month sentence was in a half-way house in Sacramento.
The prospect of life behind bars is pretty frightening, even if the time is not that long comparative to some others. I was convicted in October 1995, and because of appeals, stays and other procedures, I began serving my hard-time in June 1999. Sometimes when I face situations that seem intimidating I will try to psych myself by saying - it can't be as bad as I am dreading; I am overstating the difficulties and challenges in my mind. Often, that approach helps. Not in this case, though. Oddly enough, I took the opposite viewpoint. I decided that this would be far and away the worst place I had ever been. I remember the day I reported to the Sacramento County Jail -- I told myself over and over again that I was walking through the Jaws of Hell. There was no reason to sugar-coat things in my mind in advance. Thankfully, this approach did actually help. In some ways, the situation and conditions were worse than I had ever imagined. However, in other ways it was not that bad as compared to the dire circumstances I had envisioned.
I soon realized that I had received some bad advice. I had two options for reporting- (1) directly to MDCLA in Southern California; or (2) to the Sacramento County Jail, where I would then be transported to LA. So why not save the travel and report locally? I soon learned why not. In my discussions with other prisoners I learned that there are differences between various types of prisons. The best conditions are in Federal facilities. Next comes Stateprisons. The worst are the local jails. I would have no reason to guess that before my experiences; and I don't know for sure how true these generalizations are; for me there was a huge difference between MDCLA and Sac County. Perspective is interesting. I spoke with a fellow prisoner (a doctor in for Medicare fraud) at MDCLA. When he first saw the accommodations, he actually cried to see how utterly deplorable the arrangements were. The negative aspects of the life he was about to live were overwhelming to him. From my viewpoint and perspective, after 5-plus weeks in the Sac County Jail, when I first saw MDCLA, I was thrilled -- what an improvement! what an upgrade!
The bad advice came via my misunderstanding that I would immediately be transferred from Sac to LA. Not so I soon learned. In fact my transfer was a very low priority. By calling my Public-Defender attorney's office, and through other research I was able to determine that the transfers generally only took place once a week. After a while, I resigned myself to the possible reality that I might spend my whole 7-months in Sacramento -- a daunting prospect. Some other guys in my unit who needed transfers were taken out, and then brought back to the cell because of a change in plans. It was quite depressing for them to get their hopes up like that.
One morning I was awakened early in the morning; about 3 AM as I recall. Way earlier than necessary, but then there is no respect for an inmates time - who really cares if we sit and wait? I was taken downstairs along with another inmate. We were both wondering if we were really leaving, or would it just be a false alarm? After a while we were stripped naked; full-body searched (quite common); put in handcuffs and ankle-cuffs, strapped to a bar and hunched over as the confinement system was so intense that we could not stand erect. So there we are, naked in chains, and this becomes another example of perspective. By rights we should have been humiliated and terrified. However, we reasoned that the guards would not be going to this much trouble for a false start, so we were really leaving this place -- albeit from prison #1 to prison #2. Our attitude was that we were visibly excited, to finally be getting out of Sacramento County Jail.
I spoke to a fellow inmate in LA who had been in quite a few jails, including Los Angeles County Jail and San Bernardino County Jail. I told him that I imagined that those were some very nasty places. He responded that yes that was true, but he had also been in the Sacramento County Jail, and it was the worst of all. Strangely enough, that made me feel better after the fact, that I had not exaggerated things in my mind.
I have seen some newspaper articles since my time there, where Sacramento County Jail guards were disciplined and even fired for prisoner abuse. I cannot judge as I do not know the whole story in these instances, but I must admit I was glad to read of these outcomes.
The first place you go in the jail is the holding cell. Again -- perspective. It is so bad there, that it makes the actual tiny cell seem not so bad. In the holding cell there is no furniture. The toilet is just a hole in the floor. There are way too many guys crammed in a tight space, not really even enough to even sit down, if you dared. Disgusting food on a tray shoved under the cell door. All of the guys are yelling or otherwise making a lot of noise. The guys are fighting to use the one phone to call friends, bail bondsman, etc. After a few minutes I actually relax a bit. I reason, that I am not dead; I have not been attacked; people are generally leaving me alone. Yes, this does seem like the Jaws of Hell, but I can do this, I can survive this! Later, a group of us are taken out, stripped naked and taken to our cells. I am not able to get my wedding ring off, so the guards cut it off with bolt-cutters.
The cell is very small - basically bunk beds and a toilet. Inmates come in and leave frequently, as the Jail is often a temporary place, but there are some who have been there for many months. There is a lot of movement in and out next door for court appearances. Sometimes we are let out for a while into the day room for short periods, however, other days we are basically on 23-hour lock down. I have two different cellmates (not at the same time), and during other periods, I have no cellmate; I am alone. I spend the time pacing for exercise, reading, playing solitaire, etc.
Once a week we all get to go to a room with a one basketball hoop for about an hour. We form a league and play some very wild games. There are three teams, divided by race -- blacks, Hispanic and whites. Even though I am less than 6-1, I am known as The Giant. The play is rough and very physical, but it is fun as a break from the usual. We all look forward to it. I make friends.
At MDCLA I have plenty of time to think; all prisoners do. I work very hard to stay positive. I tell myself -- don't whine, nobody cares. Then I think, I have family - lot's of people care, and care deeply. So I change my mantra to - don't whine, nobody wants to hear it. And that in my opinion is very true. True friends and family are willing to hear you whine and complain, but truthfully, they would rather not. I think of that often ever since. There are so many things I learned being incarcerated that have helped me. I still whine and complain sometimes, but not nearly as much. Sometimes people have asked me in a tough situation -- why does this not appear to bother you? My response -- I've been toprison, this seems pretty easy compared to that.
The best thing I have learned is that I am not alone -ever. My testimony of God is that he can always be with us, with his spirit to comfort and buoy us up, no matter how vile and negative the circumstances. Not being close to God comes from making bad choices, not from the present environment where we find ourselves. My God-where-are-you? moments come when I have sinned and fallen short by my own mistakes. I can feel his presence and influence in the wonderful and peaceful Temples, and he is just as available in a nasty prison or jail. At least, that is my experience.
Being a felon has given me more self-confidence in two ways. (1) the opportunity to rely more than every on God and his love for me, and (2) just the knowledge that I have survived a very hard thing, gives me hope that I can survive other very hard things. A line from my favorite poem Invictus -- "My head is bloody but unbowed". The whole poem is inspiring to me, as it was to Nelson Mandela. My few months seem pretty insignificant compared to his 29 years.
The Serenity prayer was a great inspiration too -- accepting things we cannot change. I remember chuckling once with an inmate who was having a rough go of it, he thought he needed constant medication to survive the reality of lock-up. He would say over and over again -- I cant do this. I am afraid that I was not as sympathetic as I should have been. My response was -- well, tell the Warden, I am sure he will let you out right away! My warped way of saying -- of course you can do this, you have no choice. I guess in a way the choices are to make the best of it, or sink into despair.
In MDCLA our floor was comprised of inmates who had less that 2 years to serve before release. Some were short-sentence types like me, while others had been in the system for years, but were now nearing the end. We did a lot of the jobs in the prison. I had two jobs -- cleaning the lobby and restrooms where the visitors come to see inmates, and landscaping and clean-up -- actually outside the prison doors. The guards decided that they could trust me not to run away. It makes sense of course, as the sentence for run-away attempt would be longer than the original sentence. We did get paid for the work -- my pay was lower than others -- 9 cents an hour. Less than minimum wage because of the excellent room and board we enjoyed. One of my duties was washing the Warden's car from time to time.
On the other floors of MDCLA were some pretty rough characters, including, as we understood it, some of the leaders of what was called the Mexican Mafia, who were under "temporary lock-up" for a long time. One of the jobs that some inmates had was suicide watch for these other floors. The particular cells would have one inmate who had been determined to be a suicide risk. The cell door was see-though, and the worker would sit a desk attached to the door for hours at a time to watch the other inmate for anything that looked like attempted suicide.
My daughter and son-in-law visited me in LA. In the visiting room are tables where the inmates and visitors can sit and talk, with lots of guards on watch. They sang me a song, which was very nice. My daughter Emily asked me - how do you get along with these people, these prisoners? I corrected her to remind her that it is not a matter of me and them in contrast. I am one of them; I am a prisoner and a life-long felon. My attitude was and is that way because it is true -- I am no better than anyone else there serving time. Additionally, that sort of attitude would have very negative reaction with the other inmates -- the air that I am better than you, and I shouldn't really be here with people like you. Eventually that attitude will get you beat up, with the usual way an attack while showering where the guards cannot see. I've seen it happen.
Emily also asked me how the guards treated me at MDCLA. I put it this way. Some people treat dogs very well, are not physically abusive, and treat dogs like people in some respects. However, at the end of the day, you know you are still a dog.
It is so interesting to me how as a prisoner and a felon, it affects the way you think and look at things. As I worked my jobs, I noticed flaws in the security system which would have allowed me to sneak a loaded gun into the prison, inside the locked doors. The only way that I would have been caught would have been through a random strip search, which did happen from time to time. I had absolutely no inclination to sneak a gun inside the prison, it was just interesting that I even thought that way in terms of observing procedures. Someone might ask -- why didn't you report the flaws to the Warden and the guards? My response is simply this -- there is no way I would do something like that, and you would have to actually be a prisoner to understand why.
Making liquor at MDCLA was a constant activity by the prisoners. I was surprised how quickly it fermented and how powerful it was. I have never tasted alcohol, and I certainly was not going to start in prison, but I did observe inmates getting very drunk. The key ingredients were bread and grapefruits, the liquor was called Pruno. The Warden and guards would not get mad that the liquor was being made and consumed, but rather that it was sometimes spilled, making a mess. They took a look-the-other-way attitude. They could have curtailed the activity by stopping serving grapefruits at meals. Sometimes I felt like the only guy actually eating grapefruit. Whenever it was served, there would be one inmate openly and brazenly collecting grapefruits for the next liquor batch.
We hear stories of prisoners having their own codes and standards, and that they don't like child molesters. I observed an example of that. A new prisoner came in for a crime not relating to children. There was an unsubstantiated rumor that the had molested his own child. Actually, all rumors in prison are unsubstantiated. Anyway, he did not last long. After a few days, he was attacked in the shower and beat up. He had to be removed to solitary confinement.
Every morning I would clean the restrooms in the lobby that were used by the visitors. On a very regular basis in the women's restroom there would be a disgusting mess left for me to clean up. I assume that some lady (girl-friend, wife, etc of an inmate) did this to strike back at the "system", or something like that. It was interesting to see the kids in the lobby. I could often see them pointing at me and whispering to each other -- look, there's a prisoner. Sometimes youth groups would walk through the day room with guards to see what the inside of a real prison looks like. We would be out among them and not behind bars. Often you could see how nervous they were to be in such close proximity to real live prisoners. I never found this degrading or offensive; rather I found it amusing. I though about growling or something to scare them, but I thought better, as that might have invited unwanted action on my person by the guards.
We hear stories about the gay/homosexual activity in prison, including sexual assaults. I have no doubt that these assaults do happen, and possibly frequently. However, for me, this was thankfully never an issue. It was prevalent, but my stance of having no interest was respected. For some inmates, Saturday night getting drunk and having sex was a regular deal. One gay inmate (openly so), turned out to be probably my best friend. This was one factor in my Jaws of Hell pre-prison concerns that turned out to be less threatening that I had feared. For some readers I imagine that I have offended sensibilities with these observations, and for that I apologize, but one of my goals is to be real with my account of the way it was.
I spent time with one cellmate, and others, helping them to learn in hopes that they might proceed on a path to get a GED. I made cards and drilled my cellmate on the multiplication tables. As I helped two other guys who were interested, I thought -- wow, if I ran across these 2 guys on the outside, they were some pretty scary looking dudes, I would have probably turned the other way and run to safety as fast as I could. It was interesting that we could be semi-friends here on the inside, but most likely not on the outside.
My conclusions from my limited incarceration time is that the concept of rehabilitation is a farce. At MDCLA there was a highly compensated teacher and regular classes, but the teacher had seemingly stopped caring at all. It was a joke. There were computers available but never used. My suggestion would be that the classes should be optional for the inmates, but that the classes have the goal of the actual granting of a GED, and that this attainment would give an inmate a certain amount of months taken off his time. With that motivation, some would definitely take it serious. In addition, it would be quite simple for the prison to obtain a lot of computers, just by taking the older, slower ones that might be tossed anyway. Let the inmates spend the time to learn how to use various programs. This could be done without Internet connections, so as to avoid security concerns from on-line access.
With the little money I made, I was able to buy some food like jelly and peanut butter, and then I saved bread from the meals. Each morning as I went down the elevator to work I encountered the menu for the day. Not a lot of variety. For certain meals that I saw, my reaction would be - well, PBJ today! Some of the food was amazing bad. To this day I will still not eat meatloaf. Some bad experiences inside with that dish.
Some of the inmates worked in the kitchen. They would often steal spices and such from the kitchen and bring these to the unit. Actually, runners would bring the stolen food, following the procedure that pick-pockets use, where the thief "never holds". With some of the food not used at the dinners, these guys would make some amazing meals for us, as we did have a microwave in the unit. They were nice to me in making some milder version as the Jalapeno's and other spices made for some very hot meals.
Every inmate knows exactly how many days to go before he is released, and sometimes there was a possibly an earlier release for good behavior. My time was fixed, with no change possible. We are let out the in morning, so there was a certain protocol to describe how long we had left. I might say I have 22 days left, and I was corrected -- the correct description was -- 21 days and a wake-up. Those were the counting rules.
Fighting did take place, which the guards tolerated, but what was not tolerated was to have a bruise or other mark the next morning at breakfast. Do your fight thing, but don't show anything for it. I remember fights where both guys afterwards were frantically doing whatever they could to hide the results the next morning.
The morning I was to leave the guy in the cell next to me wanted to fight me because I would not give him the belt I had from work. He made it clear that the guard in the day room was not going to help if I went crying to him, which was unfortunately true. I was able to dodge him somehow and avoid the fight. This was important because (1) He would have wasted me, and (2) I wanted no bruises and story to delay my imminent release.
In planning for prison, I told my wife Jean that it would be better for us if she did not visit for the 7 months, so that she did not have to be exposed to conditions at the facilities. Luckily for me, she ignored me on this point. The visits at Sac County Jail were brief and very restricted. I was behind glass. She came to MDCLA once month on Friday evenings for longer visits where we could sit at a table and hold hands.
Separation from Jean was hard,but at least we got to see each other a little bit on visits. And then during time at the halfway house in Sacramento for 7 months, I was able to work at the office by our Penryn house and see her a little in the afternoons. The real hard thing was the three boys at home. No contact at all for the first 7 months, and very limited contact for the second 7 months. So for 14 months at a critical time in their lives, I did not get to be their dad. The compensating factor in this situation, is and was, their amazing mother.
I cannot adequately describe it, even today, but my time behind bars ended up having a profound positive impact on my life. The lessons I learned made me a better person; maybe I needed that experience to smooth over some rough edges? I don't know. I wouldn't wish that on anybody, but I did benefit from the whole ordeal. One obvious observation is the frequently quoted -- what doesn't kill you makes you stronger -- but there is something even beyond that, which I am struggling to describe and articulate. Suffice it to say, with all that I have experienced, I still would not trade my life for anyone else's. I think about a life history without prison, and a current status of not being a felon, and while it sounds pleasing in many respects, it does not feel like me.
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