I don’t really know Mr. Levi.
He’s a correctional officer at the prison where I spent 9 months of my incarcerated journey but he was never assigned to my particular units or zones. I glimpsed him, once or twice, making the old women in the med lines blush when he complimented their hair. He seemed nice, but he really wouldn’t be able to tell me from a can of trouble-making paint, so I was only startled — not offended– when he stopped me on a Friday afternoon.
“Hey,” he shouted from more than 20 feet away.
I came to a dead stop.
Your movements are not your own when you’re a prisoner. You sit when an alarm sounds, you stand when you’re told to stand, and you stop when anyone with a badge calls you.
“Where’re you goin’?” he asked.
I hesitated because I didn’t actually have a pass. The…
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