All Hail the Conquering Hero

It was bound to happen. By the sheer number of complaints I've filed against this prison chances were I was going to win one. And I did. I quote: "2 cookies return to inmate property per I.C.I. 1-13-11." I am aware of the irony of a fat guy grieving tasty pastries, but you can't rain on my parade. Not today. For today is my day, the Evil Empire has been routed. Tonight I sleep the sleep of the just.

So why is this so monumental of an event you might ask? Because over the course of 20+ years of incarceration in one gulag or another I had managed to win one solitary complaint lodged against the Wisconsin D.O.C. Today that ignominious total is two.

Let me tell ya how this game is played in the land of cheese and beer. In Wisconsin lock-ups inmates are allowed to complain about the "frustrations and irritations of institutional life." (Wisconsin Department of Corrections Chapter DOC 310.10 appendix.) The system is called the Inmate Complaint Review System or ICRS for short. This may seem like a good thing to the uninitiated. But those familiar with this little circus of the Bizarre will tell you that like any game of chance in in any circus worth its name, this game is rigged. The complaint examiners or I.C.E.'s are employees of the Department of Corrections, many are married to administrators, supervisors, and line officers. How do you think domestic life is going to be if you're finding in favor of the inmates? Plus, like any good bureaucracy this DOC is rife with regulations, rules, procedures, and policies. All written down, numbered and listed until you want to puke with it all. Nevermind that these regulations, rules, procedures, and policies are always in flux, with this one superceding that one and not to mention this rule contradicting that policy. The I.C.E.'s are good; they know the byzantine arcana of DOC policy because they do nothing else but handle and dispose of complaints from inmates.

Despite they're good points, they can be stunningly mindless. A few years ago I had a watch with a leather band. The band had a single row of stitching holding two thicknesses of leather together. This is called "double stitched" and its not allowed in the joint. Somehow the band avoided detection when I initially received it. I had the watch for years and despite several property inventories it presented no problem. Yet as things go in here all it took was one bored, diligent, or bitter officer and my watch was contrabanded and subject to disposal. The issue was the band: it was double stitched and there was no getting around that. Luckily I had found a store that had clear watch bands as the new regulations that had gone into effect after I had received my watch now stipulated. So I told the property room that they could contraband the watch band and I'd order a new band for the watch. I was stunned when the property room determined that the watch and the watchband were "all watch" according to them and if the band went the watch went with it. So I complained, filed my paperwork in a timely fashion and waited for the decision. I thought I was on firm ground with a good argument.

The examiner at that time, was the warden's wife and her determination was that not only was the band double stitched but the band must have been illicitly smuggled in because that's the only way it could have possibly gotten into the institution. Complaint dismissed and it was rubber stamped by the warden. Big surprise there. It was only after I appealed to the office of the secretary of the department of corrections did some semblance of sanity return.

The only sure-fire way to beat them is to be as well versed in policy and procedure as the examiners are. An inmate has to keep up with all the policy revisions and be certain to keep himself within the limits of all relevant rules. Or you can exploit loopholes. However to their credit a system has been installed that looks good on paper but is flawed in execution.

It was this array of bureaucratic power and indifference that I found myself in a contest of wills over...cookies. Christmas cookies to be exact. Tasty little treats sold but once a year for a limited time. Knowledgeable convicts look forward to this time of year not so much for the cookies but for the containers. These cookies come in a big resealable plastic tub, perfect for cooking in, eating out of, or storing your odds and ends in. And I had three tubs of cookies and plans for the tubs. But my faulty decision-making process had a hiccup and I found myself, once again, on the Hill getting Focused.

When you go to segregation the Philistines get to fondle your property. Of course, they're going to find something to contraband. But that day they picked the wrong convict and contrabanded the wrong piece of property. The property room told me I was over the allowable limit on the volume of property I was allowed to have. The department of corrections mandates that all of an inmate's property must fit into a 32" x 16" x 16" box, excluding electronics, legal work and one oversized hobby item. On its face that rule makes sense, but once again the devil is in the details. The property room invariably counts towards this limit state-issued clothing, particularly a bulky oversized winter coat and clod-hopper boots both of which are space hogs. So of course I was over the limit and when that happens the first items on the chopping block is an inmates' consumables, and my cookies were at risk. So I complained, went through the farce of trying to "resolve" the issue, and finally brought up the point that by policy state issued clothing should not count toward an inmates volume limit.

And what do you know: I won. While I wonder what kind of Hell I've wandered into where Grown Men argue over cookies, right now I'm dreaming of that day in March or April where I get to open that tub of stale Christmas cookies and taste sweet victory.

All hail the conquering hero.

Addendum - 1/14/11 - It's come to my attention that I didn't so much win my complaint as much as these buzzards just gave up. They quit! They tapped out, gave up and threw in the towel. Waupun is the France of Correctional Institutions! In Star Wars did the Emperor weenie out or did he go down swinging? When Rocky Balboa climbed through the ropes did that big goofy Russian just throw up his hands and say, "Nyet, not today, I'm feeling bloated." No! Perhaps the property room was demoralized by the crushing impact of my impeccable logic. Nah, probably just got tired of me bitchin' about some cookies. Either way: I still win! Woo-hoo!