Memories of a Wyoming Life
By Phil Roberts
February 24, 2018
From time to time, I’m going to use this page as an informal personal memoir about incidents I’ve been involved with over what I believe has been an undistinguished, but very interesting life. The incidents will appear in no particular order–or even in any level of significance. This first installment describes some experiences I had while working in state government during the summers of 1975 and 1976 when I was a law student at the University of Wyoming College of Law.
Installment 1: In (and Out) of Every Wyoming Jail
In an earlier life–some 43 years ago now–I worked for a state agency, with two other 2nd year law students. During that summer, we traveled the state, inspecting jails, counting court dockets, and convincing sheriffs and police chiefs to compile crime statistics by filling out forms known as FBI’s Uniform Crime Reports (UCRs). As an incentive for local law enforcement to cooperate in the process, we offered them, through grant applications, a chance to get guns, bullet-proof vests, and other toys furnished by President Nixon’s Law Enforcement Assistance Administration (LEAA).
Jail inspections required detailed reports of the quality of facilities, construction and condition of jails, and whether or not written procedures for lock-up and incarceration were being followed–or even existed. Many had been built early in the century, some as early as territorial times. The State didn’t want to chance lawsuits for inhumane treatment of prisoners, a right guaranteed in the State Constitution and subject of increasing litigation around the region.
Inspecting the jails seemed the most straightforward of our duties. But sheriffs and police chiefs were an independent lot. When we arrived, announcing we were “from the State and here to help you,” we’d not be greeted enthusiastically at most places. We had no formal legal authority for anything we did–not even in carrying out the mandate to inspect jails directed by the newly created State Jail Standards Commission. I was a Marine Corps veteran, accustomed to the variable moods of gunnery sergeants and other NCOs–and their civilian counterparts in the form of county sheriffs in those years. I had been editor of a weekly newspaper, too, so I wasn’t easily intimidated by judges or by politicians, even if they were ones wearing badges. Thus, it was left to me to talk our way in and I’m happy to say that I succeeded almost every time.
The first task at each stop was to interview the sheriff and, if one existed, the jailer. I’d follow the questions on the standard questionnaire (“How often are the prisoners checked on during the night?” “Is there a visitation policy?” “Is there a room designated where a prisoner may meet with his attorney?” “Are there separate facilities for juveniles? For women?”) Sometimes, I’d compose my own questions just to be able to vary the contents of the reports I’d have to file each Friday in Cheyenne.
Once the initial interview was completed, the sheriff/jailer would escort me into the jail. Due to the rules at most large county or city jails, I was equipped only with a short pencil, a clipboard, a small single lens reflex camera, and a tape measure (no belt, no pen, no shoelaces, no comb or even a pocket-protector).
Each cell had to be measured and photographed, in black and white 35-mm print film, using the wide-angle lens on the SLR, from three directions. I couldn’t just measure one cell and assume that all of the others were the same. Sometimes, the jailer brought the prisoners out into the bullpen while I did the photographing and measuring of their cells. The inmates stood around in groups and watched me take the five or so minutes necessary to record each cell.
Each of the cells had to be treated separately–regardless of whether or not they were occupied. Usually, I was happy when I encountered an occupied cell and a jailer didn’t bother to remove the prisoners to the bullpen. It speeded up the process because I’d ask the prisoner to hold the end of the tape measure or hold it and the clipboard while I shot the pictures. In the occupied cells, the jailer asked the prisoner(s) to step back, unlocked the door, motioned me to enter, and then locked the cell door behind me.
In the beginning, it seemed a bit awkward, trying to share an 8×6-foot cell with a total stranger who either had a conviction for a misdemeanor, the low-level crime that we could only imagine, or who was awaiting trial for a felony charge, possibly resulting in eventual permanent transfer to Rawlins.
As anyone would assume, there was little incentive for the prisoner to help so I’d have to quickly strike up a conversation, if anything, to improve the prospects of getting out without an incident. I didn’t want to ask what they were in for–“murdering an inquisitive law student with his own tape measure” might have been an answer, or “smashing in the head of some annoying questioner with his own camera.”
In a few instances, the jailer might place me in the cell with a particularly violent or possibly insane prisoner. In those rare cases, the jailer stood at the cell door, sometimes with his gun in his hand. As he unlocked the cell, he’d shout, “Get back! Get back!” to the seemingly crazed cell occupant. I’d slip in quickly and he’d slam the cell door, locking me in with the inmate. The jailer wouldn’t leave me entirely defenseless. He’d go to the opposite side of the cell and gain the prisoner’s attention by jingling the keys just barely out of his reach, sometimes clinking them against the bars. Usually, the prisoner dashed to the other side, his hand outstretched attempting to grasp the keys. One had only about 30 seconds of intense measuring and photographing in such cases–and always without the prisoner’s assistance!
In any of these brief visits inside a prisoner’s cell, the best question I could use was: “How’s the food here?”
The food question opened up conversations from every cell occupant. “It stinks.” “Well, not the greatest.” Many couldn’t wait to answer–they’d still be holding one end of the tape measure while letting me record the dimensions on the clipboard while they shouted their dining critiques. Sometimes, I didn’t have to ask individually. The entire jail population, in the bullpen or in their own cells, would overhear the question and a jail-wide conversation would ensue. “Were you in here when they fed us that awful tuna salad last week?” “What was that mystery meat in the sandwiches last night?” “Was that slop supposed to be stew?”
Sometimes, prisoners used the food question to urge me to intervene with the sheriff about the meals. In one county jail, the ten or so prisoners unanimously agreed that something needed to be done about the food. “How’s the food…?” Two seconds passed. The guy in the cell shouted, “Every meal–breakfast, dinner, supper–we have potato salad, damn potato salad! Every day! Can you tell the sheriff we’re goddamned sick of potato salad?” I promised I’d bring it up with the sheriff and I did, as we were closing out the visit. But before I could say “mayonaise,” the sheriff said, “Well, one thing I’m sure you found–the prisoners all loved the food. My wife cooks for the prisoners, you know, and she’s a great cook—she makes the best potato salad in the whole county!”
At each stop, one of us would be working with the judges, counting dockets, while the other would be inspecting court rooms for acoustics, lighting, heating, ventilation and the like. The remaining person was measuring cells and checking on jail standards. Usually, we’d alternate the duties, but often to speed up the process, the same person might deal with all of the jails for that one day. Commonly, we’d complete the tasks at roughly the same time so that we could have lunch together and take off for the next courthouse/jail, often doing county facilities in the mornings and municipal ones in the afternoons. In the case of small non-county seat towns, we might be able to cover three or four each day.
In those days, there weren’t county or circuit court judges. A justice of the peace, usually not formally schooled in the law, occupied the local bench in most small towns. Municipal judges were part-time, often schoolteachers, local merchants or retirees, doing judging in late afternoons or even over their lunch breaks.
Most of the time, inspecting their dockets would be a breeze. They’d commonly log a couple of dozen cases per quarter. JP jury trials were possible under the law, but practically unheard of in those years. In that rare event, the record often consisted of a cassette tape made with a recorder with a built-in mic. At full volume, one could imagine listening to voices echoing through a highway drain pipe.
Sometimes, an inspection stop took a lot longer than we expected. Justices of the peace rarely were accountable to anyone but the county commissioners and since they were not presiding over a “court of record” that might require a trial transcript for appeal, the records might be kept in unique ways.
Some JPs were reluctant to open them to us. But in one JP office in southeastern Wyoming, we were greeted enthusiastically by the Justice of the Peace. “Thank goodness, you’re here!” he said, as he pointed to his small desk piled high with legal file folders and he then opened a closet packed to the rafters with lots more, jammed into every space. “I was starting to wonder what I was going to do with all of this stuff!”
Inspecting city jails usually took only a few minutes. Often, they were separate rooms at one end of the town hall where a steel door opened from a cinder-block wall into a short hallway bounded by two or three cells. Used mostly as holding facilities, sometimes they held public intoxication prisoners–the local weekend “drunk tank.”
Fortunately, security didn’t have to be first rate. Sometimes, the jails were in a separate building, but, if so, usually right next door to town hall. The jails, often unoccupied except on weekends, were seldom opened (or even visited) by the local police force (i.e., the one town marshal) during the week. Nonetheless, we had to inspect every jail in the state–even these casual lock-ups.
In one small town in northeastern Wyoming, we found the town hall, but the adjacent jail was locked up and there was no sign of law enforcement anywhere. Finally, we stopped at the post office and asked how to locate the local constable. “Oh, that’s easy,” the postmaster said. “Go down to the cafe and you’ll see a heavy-set guy in the second booth on the right, having coffee. No, he doesn’t wear a uniform. He’ll be in civilian clothes, but you’ll recognize him right away because you’ll see his badge pinned to the front of his baseball cap.”
In another town, we were escorted through the two-cell jail and around the outside of the free-standing cinder-block structure by the sole police officer in town. As we went around to the back of the building, it wasn’t hard to notice that the windows in each of the two cells were plain glass. Each was covered outside by chicken wire fencing, stapled on each end. “Do you ever have escapes?” I asked. “Sure we do,” he answered, “but they don’t get very far. See over there?” He pointed across a vacant lot to the drug store on the opposite side of the next street. “The pharmacist has a clear view of the back and whenever anybody tries to break through the chicken wire and climb out the window, he’ll call us up and tell us that somebody’s about to get out.”
Sometimes, we hit unexpected delays. One occurred in a small county-seat town in northeastern Wyoming. We broke off to do our designated task. I went with the sheriff to inspect the jail. It happened to be empty that day so the sheriff said, “Since it’s getting to be about noon, how about if I just let me in and you can do your job while I go off to lunch?” “Fine with me,” I responded. He smiled as he put on his cowboy hat and, turning toward the cell block I had just entered, calmly closed and locked the cell block door.
Instantly, I realized he was making a comment about state guv’ment’s interference with his county and traditional way of doing things. I didn’t protest. I just took the clipboard, the tape measure and camera, and began the inspection routine. I knew he’d not dare to leave me there too long–he knew about liability for such tricks–so I sat on a jail cot and waited until I heard him coming into the office. When he got to the cellblock, he was disappointed when I said to him, “Gee, that’s good timing! I was just wrapping up!”
Years later, the by-then long-retired sheriff came to a history program I gave at a museum very close to that jail. He didn’t recognize me at first, but I could never forget his face! I reminded him of the incident and we shared hearty laughs about it.
He wasn’t very amused though when I told him what one of my colleagues said right after that incident. “When he came back after lunch, I would have yelled, ‘Hey, sheriff! There’s a guy in here who is awful sick! You’ve got to get him to the hospital.’ When the sheriff came in, I’d have taken his keys, locked him in and then mailed the keys back to him from across the county line–you know, like you mail back a motel room key?”
As I was repeating the story, the retired sheriff grinned nervously and I changed the subject. (Sheriffs don’t want to consider ever being locked up in their own jails). Who knows, if my colleague had been in my place and did what he asserted he’d have done, how long would he have been out of the slammer by then? And what would have been the shape of state-county relations over those past 30-40 years?
Next installment: Napping Under a Highway Overpass