SUDDENLY, a man enters the room. He walks over to give his prisoner ID card to the supervisor and heads for his visitor. The smile lighting up his face says everything: a visit is a moment of freedom stolen from the penitentiary institution. Tewhan Butler, the person I have come to meet, follows him. Khaki jumpsuit, bright orange plastic shoes, standing straight and dignified, his eyes search for me. A brief embrace. Already we are seated and we start talking.
Around us the noise reaches a crescendo. Visitors enter on one side of the visiting room, prisoners on the other. Coins tumble down the vending machines, conversations mix with the back and forth journeys to the microwave, people laugh, children cry when they win or lose at a game with their father, others cry because time drags by when you’re sitting on un uncomfortable plastic chair…
And then there is the flow of people when the photographer arrives to take snapshots and the flow of wardens who continuously pace the room, when it’s not the chief supervisor bellowing to call to order all those who are violating a rule.
Across from me, Tewhan doesn’t look at me. His eyes, like his neighbours’, never stop moving from right to left, sweeping over everything in his field of vision. He’s watching the visiting room, ready to react if anything abnormal occurs. The visiting room is also a dangerous place.
Suddenly, the supervisor shouts even louder. Silence follows. All the prisoners stand up; it’s time for them to be counted. New order, they sit back down and conversations pick up as if nothing had happened. This interruption serves to remind everybody, in case someone forgot, that we are indeed at the heart of the penal system.
We talk, we talk. About all sorts of topics. About Tewhan’s work, around 45 hours per week at the laundry, remunerated 17 dollars a month. About his children, their plans, their next birthdays—one more he won’t be celebrating, about his daughter who told him that her mother has agreed to drive her here so she can visit him. We talk about what he, Tewhan, wants to do later, about his university application, his reintegration into the general population. About the rules in this establishment where he recently arrived, about the window he has in his cell and through which he can see the moon in the evening. Ironically, since the buildings were created for top athletes, there are real windows. We talk about his hope of one day seeing deer roaming around the prison’s enclosure, about “Chien blanc” by Romain Gary and other books, Donald Trump’s election, the ongoing presidential election in France, common friends outside, and about my visit…We talk without pausing, because even if no one mentions it, everyone knows that time is being counted. Besides, the supervisors yell that the visiting time is almost over.
It’s Saturday. There are some who will come back tomorrow, or at least they hope to as anything can trigger a visiting ban or a prison “lockdown,” and who thus pursue their conversations fairly serenely. There are others, those who will leave.
Conversations speed up, the sound volume increases. “Visit over!” It’s the end. Already “after.” We have to leave. Say goodbye to each other. See you tomorrow or not. Prisoners stand with their backs to the wall at one end of the room, visitors, too, but at the opposite end.
They are the ones who leave first. We take the same journey as this morning with the same checks but in reverse. Pick up my belongings. Return the locker key. Leave the grounds. Try and shed some of the emotional burden, oh, so heavy. Think about the next visit, knowing all the time that everything will be like today, with the same routine, but that everything will be different because the rules change from one time to the next, without any notice, just to keep everyone under pressure, just to be able to say, “We’re the ones who enact the rules and we do as we please.”
Prison is the triumph of the arbitrary. It’s “after” and consequently, once again “before,” the infernal cycle of visits that can last a whole life for prisoners. Thirty years in fact for my friend Tewhan.