This isn't really an opinionated item per se. It's more of a re-telling of a time when I was very opinionated about the Canadian penal system. This is also one of my most requested stories to tell. WARNING: If you're squeamish, don't continue reading.
A long time ago I was thinking seriously of joining the RCMP, Canada's much vaunted and smashingly dressed federal police force. I had a bunch of useful educational credits and other advantages that would help my application, and at the time I was pretty athletic. (Sidebar: Cartooning is not conducive to building your cardio.) But I was also aware that signing up with the Force meant that I'd be committing myself to quite a life change, similar to joining the armed forces.
So I decided to stick my big toe in the water, so to speak, before diving into the lake. I applied for, competed for, and succeeded in becoming employed by the British Columbia Correctional Service. I specifically applied to the province's (at the time, only) max-security remand centre, because I wanted to experience the worst of the worst, the hardest environment available in a provincial jail. Looking back, it was both a good and bad experience.
I had always felt that prisoners in Canada's penal system were coddled and given benefits that law-abiding Canadians below the poverty line couldn't afford to enjoy. Having seen first-hand what it's like in a modern provincial jail, I decided that "coddled" perhaps wasn't the right adjective. Not even close. Thus ends the "opinionated" part of this news item. What follows is far more entertaining and eye-opening.
For a while I was working in Records, and as the junior officer I was given all of the secondary jobs, assisting the senior staff. During the week, inmates who were going to court (this is a remand centre, where inmates are not convicted but are remanded into custody) would come down to Records and be processed out to their court dates. They'd be escorted by the B.C. Sheriff's service (sheriffs in Canada are court officers who handle prisoner transfers) once processed out of the jail. Prior to being handed over to the sheriffs, all of the inmates were frisked. They're permitted to bring nothing with them but a comb. Many times they'd try to smuggle a pack of playing cards, or tobacco, or even drugs. Cigarettes were the contraband of choice.
The procedure was to have officers frisk the inmates, and if an officer suspected than an inmate had stashed something in their underwear or any other place that was inconvenient, they would direct that inmate to a skin-frisk team. I was on one of those teams one fateful morning.
So the inmate comes over and we direct him into a changing room. I was paired with a sheriff, a big bear of a guy with a Wery Stronk Slavic Accent. Boris takes the lead position and stands inside the changing room with the inmate, where he gives directions and hand-checks the items of clothing as they're handed back. I stood at the door as an official witness so that the inmate couldn't falsely claim he was assaulted or abused. I was also there as backup.
Boris gives the inmate the usual litany: "Takink off socks. Pliz to be turnink them inside-out. Hand to me. Da. Takink off pants..." and so forth. Finally, the inmate is down to his institution-issued boxers. "Takink off underwear. Inside-out. Hand to me. Wery good. Run fingers through hair. Open mouth. Liftink tongue."
You know what's next. It's always left for last and it's unpleasant for searcher and searchee.
"Turnink around pliz. Bendink over. Spreadink chiks."
And so the inmate does this, exposing his chocolate starfish. Now, I'm not particularly experienced in medical matters, but this inmate had the absolute worst case of hemorrhoids EVAR. There was this loop sticking out of his bung that had to be an inch or two long. Boris' eyes light up, and he says, "AH HA! CONTRABAND!" And he grabs the loop between thumb and forefinger and yanks.
The inmate made no sound. He just collapsed like a sack of rice to the tile floor, twitching. Me, I'm desperately gasping for breath from laughing so hard. I'm leaning against the doorframe, trying to key my mike, and I manage to squeak out "Medical, assistance, in, Records, please." And Sheriff Boris, dear Boris, is standing over the inmate, puzzled.
I've finally slid to the floor myself, still laughing, but I'm at the point where I have no air left in my lungs. The only sound coming from me is a "click click click" as my diaphragm twitches back and forth. Right at that point, right at that godforsaken point, Boris says to the inmate, "Hunh. You should have somebody look at that."
And all I could do was convulse.
Next time: More opinion, fewer hemorrhoids.
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