Laura stepped down a razor-straight walkway to the brick Administration Building. She passed through a metal detector, then a lobby with shifting shadows, barred windows, and portraits of former prison administrators. She could almost feel the stares of the dead white men in the frames as she continued down the corridor, reaching an office door with a sign that read, “Registration—All Attorneys Sign In Here.”
The young lawyer entered the office, stepped to the service counter, and addressed the corrections officer on duty. “Laura Tobias. I’m with the Council Against Wrongful Convictions.” She set her briefcase on the counter and opened it, extracting her Certificate of Good Standing from the New York State Office of Court Administration, and her business card from the Council Against Wrongful Convictions. She slid them to the CO.
The short-haired, stocky, middle-aged guard examined the certificate and card before sliding them back to her. He picked up a clipboard and ran his finger down a list of names. He found hers with a rigid scowl. “What else is in the briefcase?”
Laura turned the open case toward him for the requisite contraband search, saying, “I have a one-hour, non-contact visit with inmate Edward Thomas Nash. Lawyer-Client Interview Room Two.” She told him Nash’s inmate number, 00088417.
The guard snapped like a pit bull whose kill switch had just gone off, “I know that. It’s right in front of me.” He slid her a sign-in sheet and took a step back.
“Thank you, Officer…?”
“Cox.” The CO tapped the name badge above the pocket of his starched shirt. “Jim Cox.”
“Thank you, Officer Cox.”
Cox’s demeanor screamed ex-military. No surprise there. Laura expected most of the guards to be cut from that particular block of granite. After all, honorably discharged military personnel were given hiring preference for jobs with the New York State Department of Corrections and Supervisory Services. In rural backwaters like the town of Attica, those DOCSS jobs were one of the few remaining routes to a middle-class lifestyle.
The CO’s sneer seemed to be standard operating procedure. Prison staff always gave the impression they were dedicated to blocking lawyer-client visits. Laura’s request to meet her client had been delayed for weeks due to lost paperwork, sudden rule changes, bad communication, and incompetence. To put an end to the foot-dragging, she’d threatened a formal complaint. The whole rigmarole had made her more determined to see it through.
Even if she had to break into prison to do so.
Laura scribbled her name on the sign-in sheet and slid it back to Cox. She posed for a security photo and awaited instructions. After he collected her driver’s license, car keys, and wallet for safekeeping, Cox fiddled to get the photo into the plastic sleeve of the visitor’s badge. As he dallied, Laura studied a poster on the wall behind the CO:
Dress Code for Female Visitors:
No short skirts.
No halter tops.
No tight sweaters.
No hats or headbands.
No jewelry or watches.
No green clothing of any kind.
Laura hoped her thrift-store black jacket, long-sleeved, white cotton shirt, loose-cut black slacks, and black ankle boots would pass muster. Most of the time, her light brown hair hung loose to her shoulders and swayed with her steps. Today, it was washed, conditioned, moussed, and combed into neat conformity—the conservative look.
Handing her the badge, Cox barked another command: “Take a seat on the bench against the wall. A block CO will be down to escort you to the visitation center.” Cox made no comment on her attire; his silence amounted to her passing muster on the prison dress code. Laura slid the sign-in sheet back to Cox, who sneered, turned his back, and walked to a file cabinet, ignoring her as he slipped papers into folders.
Thank you for your excellent service, Officer Cox.
Laura took a seat on the wooden bench and snapped open her briefcase. She’d never been in the place before, and she’d planned to read a report on Attica before her visit, but actual casework had gotten in the way. Figuring she was in for a wait, she pulled out the spiral-bound booklet bearing the logo of the Corrections Association of New York—an independent organization authorized by the state legislature to inspect and report on conditions of the state’s major penal institutions. She scanned the title: “Violence and Abuse of People Incarcerated at Attica C.F.” Reading the description put a lump in her throat:
Attica Correctional Facility continues to operate as a real and symbolic epicenter of state violence and abuse in New York State prisons. The history of the 1971 Attica rebellion, and the state’s violent suppression of that rebellion, still infuse Attica’s walls and operations.
Staff brutality, racism, and abuses of power remain pervasive at Attica, creating an overall environment of abuse and violence. Incarcerated persons reported frequent staff assaults, including punches, kicks, beating with batons, choking, smashing people’s heads against walls, and abusive searches.
“Laura Tobias!” The block CO spat out her name like it was spiked with poison.
“Here,” she shot back. “I’m Laura Tobias.”
“Follow me.” The CO blurted the words through a tight smile. “You’re taking the Tour.”