NEWS

May 10, 2010
Life Behind Bars at the Iowa State Penitentiary

For more than 170 years the Iowa State Penitentiary has housed Iowa's most violent offenders. Soon, it will be replaced by a new prison.

That has some inmates on edge, wondering what life will be like inside the new prison. The 40 foot walls of the Iowa State Penitentiary span 20 acres. About half of the offenders inside will never walk out. Dennis Lamar became inmate 0202806 on May 7, 1986.

"It was difficult because I knew I was going to be here the rest of my life." He is serving life for an armed robbery that resulted in the death of a police officer. "I feel bad for the family," says Lamar. "It's pretty tough."

Dale Royer is serving double life sentences for killing two children. The prison doors closed behind him 23 years ago. "It was very depressing, very dismal and I'll spend the rest of my life here," says Royer.

So will Charles Watkins. His offense -- kidnapping. "Prison is no fun," Watkins laments. "Prison is no fun at all. I don't care how easy it is. Prison is no fun." No one here describes doing time as fun. Most days begin around 6:00 a.m. Lamar says the first thing he does is say his prayers. More than a dozen religions are recognized at the State Penitentiary.

Lamar is an elder in his church. "I try to steer people in the right direction," says Lamar. Counselors and social workers also try to steer prisoners toward occupations and hobbies that might break up the monotony of prison life. Royer escapes the monotony by maintaining the gardens in the prison courtyard.

"At least out there it's like, I don't know, a little more like life or something to me -- doing something more meaningful I guess." Lamar works in the library. Watkins is a "lumper," which is prison slang for janitor. Others prepare their fellow inmates' meals.

Chris Tripp is the Food Services Director. He is in charge of making more than 1500 meals for less than $2.00 a piece, using some slightly unconventional cooking methods. There is no open flame in this kitchen, only steam pots. Utensils are kept under lock and key. Each utensil has a number. Kitchen workers must check out utensils and sign off on them again when they're returned.

"Nobody goes home until every dip, scoop and spatula is accounted for," says Tripp. Home is a relative term at the "Fort." "I guess some people try to keep more going on the outside than I do," says Royer.

"I prefer not to think about home too much." Watkins feels differently, "I never consider this my home. With me, once you consider it your home, you've lost all hope in everything." Watkins is appealing his case and clings to the belief that he's just passing through prison, even though he is serving a life sentence. Watkins is classified level six.

That allows him more freedom than inmates in other areas of the prison. For instance, some inmates in the clinical are unit never leave their pod. As one guard motions for us to enter, another warns us, "It can be a madhouse in here." Prisoners in the C.C.U. are either mentally ill, mentally challenged or under lockdown for behavioral problems.

These prisoners are separated from the general prison population. "Some have to be told over and over again on a daily basis to accomplish a simple task throughout the day.

And then you go to the other end of the spectrum," says guard Michael Peterie. "Others are just anti-social that do not like people in general, do not like staff members. You have a continuing conflict with them on a daily basis." Prisoners on lockdown are only allowed to leave their cell one hour a day for exercise in a confined, cage like area.

When inmates misbehave, the entire prison might be placed on lockdown. "You just sit in your cell 24-hours a day," says Watkins. "You might not have done anything or it might be from an incident at another cell house and they lock you down." Lockdown also means no visitors. For some inmates, that's not an issue. "I'm more fortunate than others on that," says Watkins. "There's some guys here who haven't had visits… since they've been here."

Lamar's mother used to visit him, but when she died his contact with people on the outside died too. "It's rough," says Lamar. "You gotta take the bitter with the sweet." Loss of family, loss of friends and loss of freedom are the price these men pay for their crimes.

One of the things they don't lose -- basic human rights. "People are sent to prison as punishment, not for punishment," says John Ault, the warden at the prison. He's worked in five prisons during his 36 year career. "We still have standards we have to live by," says Ault.

"We have to ensure inmates have a warm place in the winter, a cool place in the summer, a roof over their heads that doesn't leak, clothing, adequate food and health care. We have to maintain all those standards. It's the right thing to do." When asked if prisoners are treated too well, Ault replies, "We treat our offenders with dignity. We're courteous to them. We treat them as human beings."

At no time is that more evident than during an offender's final hours. Dying inmates are cared for by their fellow inmates in rooms set aside for hospice. Families are allowed to visit and when a prisoner dies a small memorial is stenciled on the wall.

They're angels -- for men who were anything but. When asked if he has any regrets, Watkins shakes his head, "No regrets -- I've never regretted anything in my life, never… There have been some bad choices of course, but there have never been regrets."

BACK TO NEWS PAGE