The Lucifer Effect

OUR PRISONERS ARE looking raggedy and bleary-eyed, and our little prison is beginning to smell like a men’s toilet in a New York subway station. Seems that some guards have made toilet visits a privilege to be awarded infrequently and never after lights out. During the night, prisoners have to urinate and defecate in buckets in their cells, and some guards refuse to allow them to be emptied till morning. Complaints are coming fast and furiously from many of the prisoners. 8612’s breakdown of last night seemed to create a ripple effect among the prisoners, who talked about not being able to take it anymore—according to what we were picking up from their bugged cells.

With that as our canvas, we had to paint a brighter picture for the parents, friends, and girlfriends of the prisoners who would be coming to visit tonight. As a parent, I surely would not let my son continue in such a place if I saw such exhaustion and obvious signs of stress after only three days. Contemplating ways to cope with that impending challenge had to take a backseat to the more urgent issue of the rumored break-in by rioters that 8612 could bring down upon us at any time. Perhaps it would come today, maybe even synchronized with visiting hours, when we would be most vulnerable.

The day is just beginning for the morning shift at 2 A.M. Apparently the night shift has hung around and all six guards are on the Yard at the same time after they have conferred in the guards’ quarters about the need for stricter rules to control the prisoners and prevent more rebellions.

Seeing them all together makes clear that size does matter in deciding who will emerge as shift leader. The tallest guards are Hellmann, leader of the night shift; Vandy, moving into leadership of the morning shift; and Arnett, day shift majordomo. The shortest guards, Burdan and Ceros, have become henchmen of their shift leaders. Both are very bossy, quite aggressive vocally—shouting in the prisoners’ faces—and decidedly more physical with the prisoners. They push them around, poke them, pull them out of lineups, and are the ones who drag reluctant prisoners into solitary. We are getting reports that they sometimes trip prisoners down the stairs when walking them to the toilet or push them into the wall urinals when they are alone with them in the bathroom. It is evident that they love their nightsticks. They are constantly holding the billy clubs close to their chests, banging them against the bars and the doors or on the table to loudly make their presence known. Some analysts might claim that they are using their weapons to compensate for their smaller stature. But whatever the psychological dynamic involved, it is clear that they are becoming the meanest of the guards.

However, Markus and Varnish, who are also on the shorter side, have been relatively passive, much quieter, less vocal, and less active than the rest. I have asked the warden to make them more assertive. The Landry brothers are an interesting pair. Geoff Landry is a bit taller than Hellmann and has vied with him for dominance on the night shift, but he is no match for the creative exercises that our budding John Wayne continually concocted. Instead, he moves in to give orders and to exercise control, then drifts back and out of the scene over and over again in a kind of vacillation that’s not seen in any other guard. Tonight he is not carrying his nightstick at all; later on he even removes his silver reflecting sunglasses—a big no-no, according to our experimental protocol. His shorter brother, John, has been tough on the prisoners, but he is nevertheless “going by the book.” He is not aggressively excessive, as Arnett is, but he does usually back up the boss with firm, no-nonsense orders.

The prisoners are all about the same average height, about five-eight to five-ten, except for Glenn-3401, who is the shortest of all, around five-two, and tall Paul-5704, who is tallest at maybe six feet two. Interestingly, 5704 is moving into the leadership position among the prisoners. He appears more self-confident lately and assured in his rebelliousness. His mates have noticed this change in him, as was evidenced by their electing him spokesperson for the Stanford County Jail Prisoners’ Grievance Committee, which had earlier negotiated with me for a series of concessions and rights.

For yet another count at 2:30 A.M., the Yard is a bit crowded, with six guards present and seven prisoners lined up against the wall. Even though there is no reason for the night shift to hang around longer, they do so on their own. Maybe they want to check out how the morning shift handles their routine. 8612 is gone, and someone else is missing. Vandy drags the reluctant, sleepy Prisoner 819 out of Cell 2 to complete the lineup. The guards are berating some prisoners for not wearing their stocking caps, reminding them that they are an essential part of their prison uniform.

“Time for a count, Mr. Correctional Officer,” one prisoner answers in a weak voice.¹ The prisoners are all lined up against the wall, hands against the wall, legs spread apart. They are clearly sluggish counting this early because they have slept only a few hours.

Then Geoff Landry gets into the act: “Wait a minute, this guy over here, 7258, doesn’t even know his number backwards!” But why is Geoff still active on this next shift? He walks around with his hands in his pockets, more like an uninvolved tourist than a prison guard. In fact, why is the whole night shift continuing to hang around after a long, tedious night? They should be on their way to bed now. Their presence is causing confusion and uncertainty about who should be giving orders. The counts follow the same formerly clever routines that are now becoming tedious: by twos, by ID numbers, backward, and singsong variations. Hellmann, having decided that this is not his cup of tea, says nothing, watches for a while, and then quietly exits.

The old rules are repeated, and they too are to be sung. As the rule reading goes on, Vandy exhorts the inmates to be louder, faster, crisper. The weary prisoners comply, their voices blending in dissonant synchrony. It is time for some new rules. So the guards, on their own, add some:

They all sound exhausted, but their responses are crisper and louder than they were last night. All of a sudden, Varnish has become a leader—he’s leading the recitation of the rules, insisting upon perfection from the prisoners, exerting dominance over them, and patronizing them. A new rule is proclaimed that is obviously geared to taunt Paul-5704, our nicotine addict.

Varnish is reading these new rules from a sheet held in one hand, while in the other he holds his club. The rest of the guards are also caressing their clubs, except for Geoff L., whose continued presence makes no sense at all. As Varnish leads the prisoners in reciting the rules, Vandy, Ceros, and Burdan move into and out of the cells, in and around the prisoners, looking for the missing handcuff keys, weapons, or anything suspicious.

Ceros forces Sarge out of line and forces him to stand with his hands against the opposite wall, legs spread, as he blindfolds him. He then handcuffs Sarge, orders him to collect the refuse bucket, and then leads him to dump it in the toilet outside the prison.

One after another each prisoner shouts out, “The superintendent’s!” as the answer to the question posed by Varnish: “Whose orders are supreme?” It’s my turn on our early-morning shift to tape-record the key events while Curt and Craig catch some shut-eye. Seems strange to hear this assertion that my orders are “supreme.” In my other life, I make it a point never to give orders, only suggestions or hints about what I want or need.

Varnish eggs them on, forcing them to sing out “Punishment” as the last word in the rule about what happens if any of the other rules are not obeyed. They must sing the feared word at their highest pitch again and again to make them feel ridiculous and humiliated.

This has been going on for nearly forty minutes, and the prisoners are squirming; their legs are getting stiff, their backs are aching, but none of them is complaining. Burdan orders the prisoners to turn around and face front for a uniform inspection.

Then Varnish orders synchronized group push-ups for the three bareheaded inmates. He jumps down off the table where he has been sitting as he bangs his billy club for emphasis. He stands over the prisoners, shouting “Down, up!” as they do their punishment ritual. Paul-5704 stops, protesting that he just can’t do any more. Varnish relents and allows the prisoners to stand up against the wall.

Varnish reveals his initial reluctance to get into the guard role, which was so apparent that I had to get the warden to set him straight. “It wasn’t till the second day that I decided I would have to force myself to really go about this thing in the right way. I had to intentionally shut off all feelings I had towards any of the prisoners, to lose sympathy and any respect for them. I began to treat them as coldly and harshly as possible verbally. I would not let show any feelings they might like to see, like anger or despair.” His group identification has also become stronger: “I saw the guards as a group of pleasant guys charged with the necessity of maintaining order among a group of persons unworthy of trust or sympathy—the prisoners.” He notes further that the toughness of the guards peaked at tonight’s 2:30 counts, and he likes that.³

Vandy, who has begun to share the dominant role with Varnish on the morning shift, is not as active today as earlier because he is very tired, feeling subdued from his lack of sleep. But he is pleased to see the prisoners getting so totally into their roles: “They don’t see it as an experiment. It is real and they are fighting to keep their dignity. But we are always there to show them who is boss.”

The depersonalization of the prisoners and the spreading extent of dehumanization are beginning to affect him, too: “As I got angrier and angrier, I didn’t question this behavior as much. I couldn’t let it affect me, so I started hiding myself deeper behind my role. It was the only way of not hurting yourself. I was really lost on what was happening but didn’t even think about quitting.”

Blaming the victims for their sorry condition—created by our failure to provide adequate shower and sanitation facilities—became common among the staff. We see this victim blame in operation as Vandy complains, “I got tired of seeing the prisoners in rags, smelling bad, and the prison stink.”⁴

In my role as prison superintendent, my mind has become focused on the most important issue facing the head of any institution: What must I do to ensure the safety and security of the institution in my charge? The threat to our prison by the rumored assault forced my other role as researcher into the background. How must I deal here and now with the impending break-in by 8612’s party of raiders?

Our morning staff meeting reviewed many options and settled on transferring the experiment to the old city jail, which was abandoned when the new central police station was completed, the one where our prisoners had been booked on Sunday. I remembered that the sergeant had asked that morning why we did not want to use the old jail for our study since it was vacant and had large cells available. Had I thought of it before, I would have, but we had already put into place the recording equipment, arrangements with the university food service, and other logistical details that would be easier to handle from the Psychology Department’s building. This new alternative was just what we needed.

While I am away making arrangements for new facilities, Curt Banks will handle the Prisoners’ Grievance Committee’s second meeting. Craig Haney will supervise the preparations for visiting times, and Dave Jaffe will oversee the day’s usual activities of his correctional officers.

I am pleased that the sergeant can meet me on such short notice. We meet in the old jail downtown on Ramona Street. I explain my predicament as the need to avoid a physical force confrontation, like the kind that happened last year when the police and students clashed on campus. I urge his cooperation. Together we inspect the site, as though I were a prospective buyer. It is perfect for a transfer of the remainder of the study and it will add even more prison realism to this experience.

Back at police headquarters, I fill out a set of official forms and request that the jail be ready for our use by nine that night (right after visiting hours). I also promise that for the next ten days we will keep it spanking clean, the prisoners will work at it, and I will pay for any damages that might occur. We make sure to shake hands with the firm shake that separates sissies from real men. I thank him profusely for saving the day. What a relief; that was easier than I had imagined.

Relieved by this stroke of luck and proud of my quick thinking, I treat myself to a cup of espresso and a cannoli, soaking in some rays at the outdoor café on yet another balmy summer day. It is still paradise in Palo Alto. Nothing has changed since Sunday.

Shortly after my celebratory staff briefing about our transfer plans, a disheartening call comes in from the Police Department: No go! The city manager is worried about getting sued if someone gets hurt while they are on the city property. Issues of false imprisonment are also raised. I beg the sergeant to allow me to try to persuade the city manager that his fears were unwarranted. I urge institutional cooperation, reminding him of my connection with Chief Zurcher. I plead for his understanding that someone is more likely to get hurt if there were to be a break-in at our low-security facility. “Please, can’t we work it out?” “Sorry, but the answer is no; I hate to let you down, but it is purely a matter of business.” I have lost my smart move for this righteous prisoner transfer, and clearly I am also losing my perspective.

What must that police officer be thinking about a psychology professor who believes he is a prison superintendent, wildly fearful about some assault on “his prison?” “Nutcase,” maybe? “Over the top,” likely. “Psycho psychologist,” probably.

You know what? I told myself, who cares what he’s thinking? Gotta move on, time is pressing. Ditch that plan, move to another: First, put an informant into the prisoner mix to get better information about the impending riot. Then arrange to foil the rioters by pretending the study is over when they break in. We will disassemble the prison cells to make it look as though everyone has gone home, and I will tell them that we have decided to discontinue the research, so no heroics, just go back where you came from.

After they leave, we will have time to fortify the prison and generate better options. We had found a large storage room on the top floor of the building where we would house the inmates right after visiting hours—assuming that the break-in does not occur during that time. Then later that night we will return them and fix up the prison so it will be more resistant to assault. Our shop technician is already working on ways to fortify the entrance doors, put up an outside surveillance camera, and enhance prison security in other ways. Seems like a sensible backup plan, no?

Obviously, I was irrationally obsessed with the imagined assault on “my prison.”

We need more precise information about the impending attack, so I decide to put an informer into the jail, a presumed replacement for the released prisoner. David G. is a student of mine who had the kind of analytical mind we needed. Surely, his big bushy beard and unkempt appearance will endear him to the prisoners as one of their own. He had helped out earlier with videotaping during the initial stages of the study, to relieve Curt, and so had a sense of the place and the action. David agrees to participate for a few days and to give us whatever information he could glean that might be helpful. We will then have him sent to one of the staff offices on some pretext so he can spill the beans.

No one questions David’s introduction into the study. Nonetheless, he feels that the guards know he is different from the others—but they aren’t quite sure what he is doing there. They do not know his identity and simply treat him like all the others—badly. David is soon distressed over the bathroom routine:

“I had to shit in 5 minutes, to piss with a bag over my head while someone tells me where the urinal is. I couldn’t do it, in fact, I couldn’t even piss in the urinal, had to go to the john and close it and know that somebody’s not going to jump on me!”⁶

He befriends Rich-1037, his Cell 2 mate; they quickly bond. But all too quickly. In a matter of hours, our trusted informer, David G., is transformed, wearing the old uniform of Doug-8612. Dave reports “feeling guilty being sent to rat on these great guys, and was relieved when there was really nothing to tell.”⁷ But was there really no information to share?

1037 tells David that the prisoners cannot quit at any time. He goes on to advise him not to be as rebellious as he was in his first counts. It is not the best thing for them to do at this time. The way to plan an escape, 1037 confides, is to make “the prisoners play along with the guards so that we can get them at their weak spot.”

In fact, David told us later that 8612 had not organized any escape plot at all! However, we had already wasted a lot of time and energy in preparing to blunt the attack. “Sure a few of these guys sort of dreamed of their friends coming during visitors’ hours and busting them out,” he said, “or of slipping away during washroom breaks, but it was clear it was all a dream”—a scrap of hope to hold on to.⁸

We gradually realize that David has violated his verbal contract with us to enact the informer role in this emergency. Accordingly, when someone steals the keys to the police handcuffs later that day, David tells us that he has no idea where they are. He had lied, as we learned from his diary report at the end of the experiment: “I knew where the handcuff key was after a while, but didn’t tell, at least not until it didn’t matter anymore. I would have told, but I was not about to betray these guys right in front of them.”

This rather sudden and amazing transformation into the prisoner mentality was even more evident in some of David’s other feedback. He felt that during his two days in our jail, he was no different from the others, “with the exception that I had knowledge of when I would get out, but even that knowledge became less and less certain since I was depending on people on the outside to get me out. I already hated this situation.” And at the end of his first day in the Stanford County Jail, David, the informer, tells us, “I fell asleep that night feeling dirty, guilty, scared.”

The same committee of three prisoners that I met with earlier came armed with a long list of grievances that they had delivered to Curt Banks while I was away dealing with the city police. The same three-prisoner team, headed by 5704, along with 4325 and 1037, were elected by all the prisoners. Curt listened respectfully to their complaints. Among them: unsanitary conditions due to toilet restrictions; no clean water to wash hands before meals; no showers; fear of communicable disease; handcuffs and leg chain irons too tight, causing bruises and abrasions. They also wanted church services on Sundays. In addition, they requested the option of alternating the chain from one leg to the other, exercise opportunities, recreation time, clean uniforms, allowing prisoners to communicate between cells, overtime pay for Sunday work, and, in general, the opportunity to be doing something more valuable than just lying around.

Curt listened impassively, as he usually did, without any show of emotion. William Curtis Banks, a light-skinned African-American man in his late twenties, father of two children, a second-year graduate student proud to have made it into the world’s top psychology department, was as hardworking and high achieving as any student I had ever worked with. He had no time for frivolity, excess, weaknesses, excuses, or fools. Curt kept his emotions to himself behind a stoic façade.

Jim-4325, who was also a reserved person, must have interpreted Curt’s detached manner as his being displeased. He hastened to add that these were not really “grievances,” rather “just suggestions.” Curt thanked them politely for their suggestions and promised to share them with his superiors for their consideration. I wonder whether they noticed that he took no notes and that they had failed to give him their penciled list for the record. What was most important to our System was to provide the semblance of democracy in this authoritarian setting.

However, citizen dissent demands changes in the system. If taken wisely, such change prevents open disobedience and rebellion. But when dissent is co-opted by the system, disobedience is curtailed and rebellion shelved. In fact, without getting any assurances of reasonable attempts to address any of their complaints, these elected officials had little likelihood of achieving any of their goals. The Stanford County Jail Prisoners’ Grievance Committee failed in its main mission to make a dent in the system armor. However, they left feeling good about having openly vented and having some authority, even a low-level one, listen to their complaints.

The prisoners’ first letters were invitations to potential visitors, some of whom would be coming by tonight, on this, the third day of the experiment. The second round of letters could be to visitors invited for the next visitor night or to any friend or family member who was too far away to visit. After the prisoners composed them on our official stationery, the guards collected them for mailing, and of course, as duly noted in one of the rules, they were screened for security. The following samples give some sense of what the prisoners were feeling, and at least in one case came as a major surprise to us.

Stew-819, whose complaints have been increasing, sends mixed messages to his friend: “The food here is as good and plentiful as the 3rd day of Ebenezer’s second voyage to Thailand. Not much happens here of interest, basically I sleep, shout my number, and get hassled. It will be great to get out.”

The diminutive Asian-American prisoner, Glenn-3401, makes clear his disdain for this place: “Having a miserable time. Please fire bomb Jordan Hall as a diversionary tactic. My buddies and I are damn frustrated. We intend to make a run for it as soon as possible, but first I’ve promised to crack a few craniums on the way out.” Then he adds a puzzling P.S.: “Be careful not to let the nitwits know you’re real . . .” Real?

The surprise came from a letter by nicotine-addicted Paul-5704, the new leader of the prisoners. In that letter, 5704 does a stupid thing for a self-styled revolutionary. He tips off his girlfriend—in an unsecured letter—that he plans to write a story about his experience for a local underground newspaper when he gets out. He has discovered that the Office of Naval Research, of the Department of Defense, is supporting my research.⁹ Consequently, he has hatched a conspiracy theory arguing that we are trying to find out how best to imprison student protestors who are opposing the Vietnam War! Obviously he is not an experienced revolutionary, because it was not smart to discuss his subversive plans in a letter that we would be likely to screen.

Little did he know that I myself was a radical, activist professor, against the Vietnam War since 1966, when I had organized one of the nation’s first all-night university “teach-ins” at New York University, organized a large-scale walk-out at NYU’s graduation ceremony to protest the university’s awarding an honorary degree to Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, and in the last year, at Stanford, I had organized thousands of students into constructive challenges to the continuing war. I was a kindred political spirit but not a mindlessly kindred revolutionary.

His letter begins, “I have made arrangements with The Tribe and The Berkeley Barb [alternative free radical newspapers] to carry the story when I get out.” 5704 then brags about his new status in our little prison community: “Today I have gotten together a grievance committee of which I am chairman. Tomorrow I am organizing a Credit Union for our collective wages.” He goes on to describe that he is benefiting from this experience: “I am learning a lot about revolutionary incarceration tactics. Guards accomplish nothing because you just can’t keep the old freak morale down. Most of us here are freaks and I don’t really think anyone will crack before this thing is over. A few are starting to get servile, but they exert no influence on the rest of us.” In addition, he signs off with a big, bold “Your prisoner, 5704.”

I decide not to share this information with the guards, who might really abuse him in retaliation. But it is upsetting to think that my research grant status is being accused of being a tool of the administration’s war machine, especially since I have worked to encourage effective dissent by student activists. That grant was originally given to fund empirical and conceptual research on the effects of anonymity, of conditions of deindividuation, and on interpersonal aggression. When the idea for the prison experiment occurred, I got the granting agency to extend the funding to pay for this research as well, without any other additional funding. I am angry that Paul and probably his Berkeley buddies are spreading this falsehood.

Whether driven by his sporadic mood shifts, nicotine cravings, or his desire to make exciting material for his journalistic exposé, 5704 has created a lot of difficulty for all of us today—a day when we already had too much to handle. With the help of his cellmates, he also bent the bars on Cell 1’s door, for which he got Hole time. While in the Hole, he kicked down the partition between the two compartments, for which action he was denied lunch and also received extended solitary time. He continues to be noncooperative during dinner and obviously upset that no one has come to visit him. Fortunately, following his meeting after dinner with the warden, who sternly rebuked him, we notice that 5704’s behavior has changed for the better.

I had hoped Carlo would be able to come from Oakland to work with me on how best to prepare for the onslaught of parents. But, as usual, his old car has broken down and is being repaired, hopefully in time for his scheduled appearance the next day as head of our Parole Board. After a long phone conversation, the game plan is set. We will do just what all prisons do when unwelcome visitors descend on them, ready to document abuses and confront the system with demands for improvement: prison officials cover the bloodstains with doilies, hide the bodies by putting troublemakers out of sight, and make the scene pretty.

Carlo offers sage advice about what I might do in the short time available to create the appearance to parents of a well-oiled, benevolent system that is taking good care of their children while we are in charge of them. He makes it clear, however, that we must convince these middle-class, white parents to believe in the good we are doing with the study and, like their sons, make them comply with the demands of the authorities. Carlo laughs as he says, “You white folks sure like to conform to the Man, so they know they are doing the right thing, just doing like everyone else is doing.”

Turn on Action Central: Prisoners wash the floors and their cells, the Hole sign is removed, and a disinfectant with a fresh eucalyptus scent is sprayed all over to counter the urine odors. The prisoners are shaved, sponge-washed, and as well groomed as can be. Stocking caps and head towels are stashed away. Finally, the warden warns everyone that any complaints will result in premature termination of the visit. We ask the day shift to do overtime until 9 P.M. both to cope with the visitors and also to be ready to assist should the anticipated riot materialize. For good measure, I invite our entire group of backup guards to come in as well.

Next we feed our prisoners their best hot meal, chicken pot pie, with seconds and double desserts for the gourmands among them. Music gently infuses the Yard as the men eat. The day guards are serving the dinner, while the night guards are watching. Without the laughter or snickering that usually accompanies the meals, the atmosphere is strangely civil and rather ordinary.

Meanwhile, in the corridor outside the main prison door, we are making final preparations for the visitors, whose potential for making trouble is a realistic fear. Opposite the wall housing the three offices of the guards, the warden, and the superintendent are a dozen folding chairs for visitors while they await entry. As they come down into the basement, full of good humor at what seems a novel, fun experience, we deliberately and systematically bring their behavior under situational control, according to plan. They have to be taught that they are our guests, to whom we were granting the privilege of visiting their sons, brothers, friends, and lovers.

Susie Phillips, our attractive receptionist, welcomes the visitors warmly. She is seated behind a large desk with a dozen fragrant red roses at one side. Susie is another of my students, a psychology major and also a Stanford Dolly, chosen for the cheerleading team for her good looks and gymnastic abilities. She signs each visitor in, noting time of arrival, number in party, and name and number of the inmate he or she will visit. Susie informs them of the procedure that must be followed tonight. First, each visitor or group sees the warden for a briefing, after which they can go into the prison when their relative or friend has finished his dinner. On the way out, they are to meet with the superintendent to discuss any concerns they may have or to share their reactions. They agree to these terms and then sit and wait while they listen to music piped in over the intercom.

Susie apologizes for their having to wait so long, but it seems that the prisoners are taking a longer time than usual tonight because they are enjoying double desserts. That does not sit well with some visitors, who have other things to do and are getting impatient to see their prisoner and this unusual prison place.

After conferring with the warden, our receptionist informs the visitors that because the prisoners have taken so long to eat, we will have to limit the visiting time to ten minutes and admit only two visitors per inmate. The visitors grumble; they are upset with their kids and friends for being so inconsiderate. “Why just two of us?” they ask.

The visitors try to make the best of it, chatting among themselves about this interesting study. Some complain about the arbitrary rules, but, remarkably, they meekly comply with them, as good guests do. We have set the stage for them to believe that what they are seeing in this lovely place is standard, and to distrust what they might hear from their irresponsible, selfish kids and buddies, who are likely to complain. And so they too become unwitting participants in the prison drama we are staging.

(This kind of awkward exchange involving minimal body contact is what happens when one is visiting a real maximum-security prison, but we never made that a condition for visiting in our prison. It was our previsit manipulation of the visitors’ expectations that worked to create confusion about what behaviors were appropriate in this strange place. When in doubt, do the minimal amount.)

Burdan is standing over the prisoner and his parents. Hellmann comes and goes at will, invading the privacy of 819’s interaction with his folks. He looms over 819 as this little familial triad pretends to ignore him and carry on a normal conversation. However, 819 knows that he has no chance to say anything bad about the prison or he will suffer later. His parents cut their visit short to only five minutes so that 819’s brother and sister can share some of the limited visiting. They shake hands again as they say their good-byes.

They and other friends of the prisoners act a lot differently from the uptight ways of the generally more intense parents. They are more casual, more amused, and not as intimidated by the situational constraints as the parents. But guards are hovering over everyone.

The sister asks about the number on his smock and wants to know what they do all day. 819 answers her questions and also describes the impact of the police arrest. As soon as he begins to talk about problems he has with the night guard shift, Burdan again stops him cold.

Burdan ends the visit after precisely five minutes. Ceros has been sitting at the table the entire time, with Varnish standing behind the table. The guards outnumber the guests! 819’s face turns grim as his guests smilingly wave good-bye.

His dad asks whether they will stay inside for the entire two weeks. Son is not sure but imagines that is the case. This visit seems to be going well, the conversation is animated, but Mom shows that she is worried about her son’s appearance. John Landry saunters over to chat with Burdan as both stand within hearing of the visitors’ conversation. 1037 does not mention that the guards have taken away his bed and so he is sleeping on the floor.

The guards all perk up when they spy Hubbie-7258’s attractive girlfriend enter the yard. She is carrying a box of cupcakes, which she wisely shares with them. The guards eagerly munch them down, making hearty sounds for the benefit of their captives. 7258 is allowed to eat one cupcake while he and his girl get into an animated conversation. They seem to be trying hard to be oblivious of the guard’s breathing down their necks; all the while Burdan hovers next to them, rapping his club on the table in staccato.

The intercom background music is playing the Rolling Stones’ hit “Time Is on My Side.” This irony is missed as visitors come and go for their all-too-brief encounter.

I thank each of the visitors for taking time from their busy schedules to make this visit. Like the warden, I try to be as accommodating and congenial as possible. I add that I hope they appreciate what we are to do by studying prison life in as realistic a fashion as possible within the limits of an experiment. I answer their questions about future visits, about sending gift boxes, and counter their personal asides urging that I especially look after their son. It is all going like clockwork, only a few more visitors to process before I can turn my full attention to dealing with the expected danger to our dungeon. However, thinking ahead to the next game, I am blindsided by 1037’s mother. I am not prepared for the intensity of her distress.

This reaction is immediate, automatic, and like that of every authority confronted by a challenge to the operating procedures of his system. Like all other perpetrators of institutional abuse, I ascribe the problem of her son as dispositional, as his problem—as something wrong in him.

Only half listening to the words but understanding their tone and accompanying gestures, I bond with Dad. “I’m with you. Your son seems to have the right stuff to handle this tough situation.” Turning back to Mom, I add to reassure her, “Rest assured that I will keep an eye on your boy. Thanks for coming; hope to see you again soon.”

Dad grips my hand firmly in a manly shake, as I wink at him with the assurance of the boss who is on his side. We silently acknowledge that “We will tolerate ‘the little lady’s’ overreaction.” What swine we are, and we do it all on automatic masculine pilot!

As a postscript to this smarmy episode, I received a tender letter from Mrs. Y., written that same night. Her observations and intuition about our prison situation and her son’s condition were completely accurate.

My husband and I visited our son at the “Stanford County Prison.” It seemed very real to me. I had not expected anything so severe nor had my son when he volunteered I am sure. It gave me a depressed feeling when I saw him. He looked very haggard, and his chief complaint seemed to be that he had not seen the sun for so long. I asked if he was sorry he volunteered and he answered that at first he had been. However, he had gone through several different moods and he was more resigned. This will be the hardest money he will ever earn in his life, I am sure.

Mother of 1037.

Although I am getting ahead of our story, I should add here that her son Rich-1037, one of the original band of tough rebels, had to be released from our prison in the next few days because he was suffering from acute stress reactions that were overwhelming him. His mother had sensed that change coming over him.

Once the last visitor had left, we could all breath a collective sigh of relief that the rioters had not crashed into our party when we were most vulnerable. But the threat was not over! Now it was time to swing into counterinsurgency mode. Our plan was for some guards to dismantle the jail props, to give the appearance of disarray. Other guards would chain the prisoners’ legs together, put bags over their heads, and escort them in the elevator from our basement to a rarely used, large fifth-floor storage room, safe from invasion. When the conspirators charged in to liberate the jail, I would be sitting there all alone and would tell them that the experiment was over. We had ended it early and sent everyone home, so they were too late to liberate anything. After they checked out the place and left, we’d bring the prisoners back down and have time to redouble the security of our prison. We even thought of ways to capture 8612 and imprison him again if he was among the conspirators because he had been released under false pretenses.

Picture this scene. I am sitting alone in a vacant corridor, formerly AKA “the Yard.” The remnants of the Stanford County Jail are strewn about in disorder, prison cell doors off their hinges, signs down, the front door wide open. I am psyched to spring what we consider to be our ingenious Machiavellian counterplot. Instead of the rioters, who should appear but one of my psychology colleagues—an old friend, a very serious scholar, and my graduate school roommate. Gordon asks what’s going on here. He and his wife saw the bunch of prisoners up on the fifth floor and felt sorry for them. They went out and bought the prisoners a box of doughnuts because they all looked so miserable.

I describe the research as simply and quickly as possible, all the while expecting the sudden intrusion of the invaders. This scholarly intruder then poses a simple question: “Say, what’s the independent variable in your study?” I should have answered that it was the allocation of pretested volunteer subjects to the roles of prisoner or guard, which of course had been randomly assigned. Instead, I get angry.

Here I had an incipient prison riot on my hands. The security of my men and the stability of my prison were at stake, and I had to contend with this bleeding-heart, liberal, academic, effete professor whose only concern was a ridiculous thing like an independent variable! I thought to myself: The next thing he’d be asking was whether I had a rehabilitation program! The dummy. I adroitly dismiss him and get back to the business of waiting for the attack to unfold. I wait and wait.

Finally, I realize that it is all a rumor. No substance to it at all. We had spent many hours and expended a great deal of energy in planning to foil the rumored attack. I had foolishly gone begging to the police for their aid; we had cleaned out a filthy storage room upstairs, dismantled our prison, and moved the prisoners up and out. More important, we had wasted valuable time. And, our biggest sin, as researchers, is that we had not collected any systematic data the whole day. All this from someone who has a professional interest in rumor transmission and distortion and who regularly does class demonstrations of such phenomena. We mortals can be fools, especially when mortal emotions rule over cool reason.

We resurrected the prison props and then moved the prisoners back down from the hot, stuffy windowless storage room where they had been stored for three mindless hours. What humiliation I suffered. Craig, Curt, Dave, and I could barely make eye contact for the rest of that evening. We tacitly agreed to keep it all to ourselves and not declare it “Dr. Z’s Folly.”

Obviously we all reacted with considerable frustration. We also suffered the tension of cognitive dissonance for so readily and firmly believing a lie and committing ourselves to much needless action without sufficient justification.¹⁰ We had also experienced “groupthink.” Once I, as leader, believed the rumor to be valid, everyone else accepted it as true. No one played devil’s advocate, a figure that every group needs to avoid foolish or even disastrous decisions like this. It was reminiscent of President John Kennedy’s “disastrous” decision to invade Cuba in the Bay of Pigs fiasco.¹¹

It should also have been apparent to me that we were losing the scientific detachment essential for conducting any research with unbiased objectivity. I was well on the way to becoming a prison superintendent rather than a principal investigator. It should have been obvious that this was so from my earlier encounter with Mrs. Y. and her husband, not to mention my tantrums with the police sergeant. However, even psychologists are people, subject to the same dynamic processes at a personal level that they study at a professional level.

Our general sense of frustration and embarrassment spread silently across the prison Yard. In retrospect, we should have just admitted our mistake and moved on, but that is one of the hardest things that anyone can ever do. Just say it: “I made a mistake. Sorry.” Instead, we unconsciously looked for scapegoats to deflect blame from ourselves. And we did not have to look far. All around us were prisoners who were going to pay the price for our failure and embarrassment.