To Free the Truth

Convicts love to give nicknames to newly opened farms. Eastham is known as “Ham.” At the “Friendly Boyd,” where everyone’s a trustee, there’s almost no violence. “Burn in Hell” aptly describes Clemens, where the nearby Brazos and surrounding swamps make living in the thick, brick buildings during the hot, humid summers feel like you’re burning in Hell. There were lots of riots and murders on the “Terrible Terrell” (now the Polunsky where death row is housed) in the early 1990s. A  unit like that is said to be “rockin and rollin” because of the high levels of violence, which is why the Connally unit is known as the “Rockin’ Connally.”

The Connally unit opened its doors in 1995. It was called Gladiator Farm because it was filled with trouble making youngsters from other maximum units who loved fighting and competing against each other. After several deadly gang wars and frequent rioting that first year, it was widely considered the most dangerous farm in the system. I drove up in the summer of 1997.

One of the first things you learn about Texas prisons is that they are racially divided. Look on any given outside rec yard in the system and you’ll immediately notice how the various races separate themselves. Of course you have dudes of all races who hang out and do things with people  of other races, some of which are their best friends, but generally speaking, the races are divided inside these gates. You’re taught by older convicts to be loyal to your race, to be present during racial conflicts and fight during race riots. If you refuse to support your own race, they won’t support you if you are jumped on by multiple people at once, robbed, or have other problems with one of the other groups. 

Some of this was apparent my first day on Connally. As soon as I was given a housing assignment, I carried my property to my cell, stuffed it all into my locker box, slammed the lock closed, tied my key to my ankle (I’d heard about people being knocked out and their key being yanked off their neck. That wasn’t going to happen to me.), then went out to the dayroom prepared to prove myself. I scanned the dayroom. A group of 20-30 black guys were under the T.V., eyes shooting darts at me. 20 or so hispanics filled the tables and benches to my right, sizing me up. Maybe 10 white dudes convened at 2 tables at the center of the dayroom, watching my every move. I calmly walked to an empty table and sat on a metal stool waiting. I tried to slow my breathing down, wiped the sweat off my face. An older white guy, in his 50s and clearly the leader of their group, approached me and extended his hand, “Hey, youngster, I’m Rusty.”

And then I replied tentatively, “Yeah, I’m Pruett. How do ya’ll do things around here? Who’s gonna check me?” (To check is basically being challenged by someone who wants to see where your heart’s at–the fight, f*ck, or bust a sixty question is a typical form of checking)

“Huh?” Rusty looked confused.

“Who’s gonna check me? Who do I got to fight?”

“Oh. Youngster, that’s what I’m gonna call you. Anyhow, youngster, we don’t exactly do things the way you think here on minimum custody. Sure, you’ll be tested soon enough but there’s no rules as to how or when. Now, if you get put on the other side of the farm…look, just be ready when the time comes. Don’t stay down if you get knocked down, keep swinging, and you’ll be okay. Do that and you’ve got the backing of the Peckerwoods.” He nodded towards the group behind him. “Break weak and they’ll fight over you,” he pointed towards the black guys and Hispanics. Rusty then waved the other white guys over and introduced them to me. 

Later on that day, a lanky black youngster with a tear drop tattooed under his eye asked me about my shoes. I already knew from my experiences in the Harris County jail that shoes cause many fights. The dude told me if I gave him my shoes I could “ride with him,” meaning he’d protect me, because he had everyone’s respect–no one dared disrespect him or his “property.” I’d already decided I wasn’t going to be anyone’s property. Before he could finish his speil, my fist connected with the side of his face. The fight was on. In the midst of our fight, we were surrounded so the guards couldn’t see. Again, I lost the fight, but I landed a few good punches, and I refused to stay down when he knocked me down. He knew I’d be there afterwards.

Rusty shook my hand and hugged me after the fight, “Boy, I ain’t goin’ to lie,” he said with pride in his voice. “When I first laid eyes on you, I felt sick to my stomach because I thought you’d be someone’s wife by nightfall. I hate to see one of mine go out like that. Glad you proved me wrong. Long as you stand your ground, you’ll be okay.”