Chunks of Ugly Ben Langston (bio) I. Marvin was a crack baby. This isn't an insult. He really was a crack baby. His mother used crack daily. And inside her, he was altered, addicted. That Freudian saying about how men spend their entire lives trying to get back in the womb—imagine how he felt. Right now I'm looking through the wired safety-glass window of Marvin's observation cell. It's solitary confinement (the bucket, in jail-speak). I, in my state-issued prison-guard uniform, am looking baggy and cheap. I've got these official-looking patches on the shoulders of my gray shirt. Long sleeves mean winter. Winter means a required black tie. Clip-on, so you can't be choked. The black pants are wrong. The crotch is closer to the knees than to the crotch. Above the washing directions, the tags read, "Made by Inmate Labor." Every jail (joint, in jail-speak) works the inmates. This one has a cannery, a leather shop, and cows. Big House Industries, that's the brand name. Inmates pack beans and corn into industrial-sized cans. They make belts and purses. And they used to eat the cows. Now the cows are for show. They're here so the state doesn't take the jail's land—use it or lose it. Plus it gives inmates something to do. A few low-risk inmates get taken down every day to shovel out the barn and serve up inmate-grown hay. The cows, though, they don't do anything. Hauling themselves to the trough is the only exercise they get. Once they escaped, but stood outside the fence, waiting, I guess, for dinner. I'm watching Marvin. He's strapped down flat on his back. Marvin, in his state-issued, suicide-resistant gold smock, is looking sick and cold. The [End Page 55] smock's a sack. Holes cut for his head and arms—triple stitched for strength. He's immobilized. Five-point restraints, it's called. Number four on the Use of Force Continuum. It falls before lethal force and right after the use of chemical munitions (jail-speak for pepper spray). This is punishment for breaking the rules in jail. He painted his cell with his shit—the window's still streaked. So now he's in the jail of the jail. This is it for Marvin. This is as good as it's going to get. At least here he gets some attention. From birth, Marvin was taken into state custody and placed—more like deposited—in foster homes his entire life. He was raised—more like stored—in a dozen different homes until he was old enough to go to jail. At 25, he stands four feet six inches tall. He has the mentality of a 15-year-old. This crack baby, this product of pollution, this seven-year resident of a state correctional facility, is a convicted arsonist. Inside Marvin's cell, there are no sheets or blankets. His comforts are his smock, his mattress, and the torso, leg, and arm straps attached to the bolted-to-the-floor bunk frame. Every few hours he's flipped—it takes six guards. Five to flip, one to videotape. The walls of his cell are at odd angles, as if the cell was an afterthought during the building process. There's a cluster of these cells all pointed at the guards' station (the bubble, in jail-speak), so we can sit and watch—when we're not flipping. These cells aren't just for the Marvins of the world. A week's worth of observation-cell vacation's only five whispered words away: "I'm going to hurt myself." They have this policy, jails do, that requires observation for anybody suicidal—fakers or not. Guys break down in jail. It happens. Rape victims, guys who lose fights, and guys who come up hot (jail-speak for positive) for incurable STDs are all given timeouts here—to rest—to be looked at every 15 minutes, suicide watch. These cells are for them. Except during football season. Then they're for the guys who can't pay...