WHITBY FREE PRESS, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19, 1980, PAGE 9 Between You and Me ~uu Bv RUTH CHAMBERS One evening at a late hour I arrived home to find a letter waiting for me, unsealed with a printed address on the back flap. More junk mail I thought. So with a cup of tea at hand I read the letter; a three or four page plea from an old family friend. He was in a maximum security prison! Incredulous and horrified I read on. A detailed explanation of the reasons for the incarcernation. A fracas with two policemen, lost tempers and anger on both sides. I suppose there can be mistakes made by either side, mistaken identity and so on. However, one has to believe if someone is confined in a penal institution there must be a just and valid reason. Not being a judge or a juror my thoughts have to remain my own, not to be shared. I'm reminded of the of ten told stories of fathers telling their sons if they got into trouble at school to expect more of the same when they got home. This no doubt generated a very healthy fear and certainly produced on the whole, decent law abiding citizens. Af ter much thought and enquiring by phone about visiting I ventured forth. Now after many years of driving past this building on occasion I would be walking up those steps and going in. As I stopped in front of the door to gain a minute, the door very suddenly opened, a very large massive door made of heavy metal substance. I found myself in a rather small ver- tibule with a counter on one side, well protected, bars maybe and two quite large, burly men inside. They asked for my name and the name of the prisoner I wanted to see. This ante room was small but the heavy doors looked so big, one on either end; I felt like a child intimidated by size. Ail of a sudden the street door opened, swiftly and with no warning as a dignified, well dressed man walked in, clutching his brief case and looking as unerved as I felt. A professor, I thought, that's it, probably from U of T. I tur- ned to him, an ally in an unknown world and said,"I have never been here before." An inane remark and he replied,"I haven't either. I received a telephone call from the chaplain this morning to tell me an old friend wanted to see me. It ap- pears he pushed a girl over in the library! Pushed a girl, "he repeated," I knew this man years ago; always a gentleman. Pushed a girl; I can't believe it". He shook his head is disbelief. I told him my story and we stared at each other; tow middle aged people totally confused. The other door opened and we walked through. We were in a large room, a reception room with church like benches along the walls and rather nicely decorated. Across from us a desk and counter like affair with a pleasant man sitting in front of the desk. He motioned to us to sit down which we did side by side, no doubt feeling we might gather strength from each other. By this time the room was filling up, mostly with young women and small children who were running about, it must have seemed to be a very familiar place. I heard the name Ruth being called out and turned to see who it might be. But no, the man at the desk was smiling at he and beckoning me to go over. My "friend" whispered, "good luck" as I stoodiup. As I approached, the official said, "Ruth, we call everyone by their first name in here, anonymity you know. "Then he produced a form for me to fill out. "Your name, address and relationship to the prisoner." My relationship; an old family friend trying to take the place of the parents, both deceased. "Someone will show you what to expect," he said. "A new experience for you I think. This will not be a touching session as you and I are having now." He must have seen the amazed expression on my face for he said, "I could reach out and touch you or you could touch me but not in there." At this point he called a guard who took me across the room and then a few steps to a long narrow room with a counter and above that a glass panel right up to the ceiling. "When you are called you will walk in here, look for the person you have come to visit, stand in front of him, pick up the receiver here on the counter and talk. On the other side of the panel at each end of the room there was a table and two chairs where I learned later the guards sat. Back to the desk again to ask if I could see a chaplain or a Salvation Army Officer before I saw the inmate. No, because they weren't here but I could go down to the office and get all the information I wanted. A woman clerk pulled out the files and told me the same thing I had read in the letter. "The judge wants to teach him a lesson, he'll be out soon," she said. Back to the reception room to sit down again and my "friend" decided he should go down there too and ask some questions. The names were being called out, mine first and we made our way into that room. There was our old friend, his head bent low over a cigarette he was trying to light. Shame, embarressment, defiance maybe and pleasure to see someone from the outside. We talked and he toid me about life in the in- Whitby Comm unity Care A Volunteer Service U rgently Needs ~ Volunteer Drivers For Seniors and Office Help 668-6223 I I side; the meals, the library and how many books he had read. About how good the guards were to him and how pleasant, all about the food, eaten wîth spoons as no knives and forks are allowed for obvious reasons. How some inmates become great heroes to the others and the young ones, many of them repeaters. Suddenly the phones went dead and we were told to go to another room, identical to this one on the other side. A refinded, troubled looking woman beside me turned and said, "your name is Ruth, I heard them call it out. My name is Ruth too." She was talking to a young man, tall and fair, her son no doubt. My friend asked me immediately where he was in the building! The windows are high, the corridors with many tur- ns, winding about disorientate the inmates so he was amazed to hear he was near the front door and facing south. Now it was time to say good bye; the visit was over. Over to the desk again to ask if I could leave a package of cig'arettes. "No", the guard said, "nothing goes in there but nothing. See this envelope?" I was holding it, inside a velen- tine and a picture of a baby and mother. "See the glue on the flap?" he asked. "Could be dope there and one lick, that's all it takes." He went on to explain what other methods were used to send "things" in to the inmates. "Even sealed cigarette packages aren't allowed in, under no circumstances. Now if people leave money that's different, we see that they get their smokes." The families are the ones who suffer, often having to go on welfare as their livelihood is gone. The children, what happens to them? Do their fathers become hereos? Quite often I should think. Volunteers help or try to help these people and give aid to the inmates when they leave. Bleeding hearts) For whom? Maybe we should rethink our penal system. Stiffer sentences, higher bail. We need our prisons because of people's frailties, If things were toughened up it might make people think twice before they break the law and sometimes kill our policemen. It costs money to provide services for these people and it could be better spent on medical research rather then on law breakers. This has been an unhappy and sad week for police personnel and their families. Blatant killings and injuries. We are all outraged and feel violence is becoming too commonplace. Most problems can be solved to a great extent but not with soft soap. Let's have more policemen on the beat so that they will become familiar figures to all. By mingling with the young people policemen generally become well respected and for those who are into mischief watch out. Your shannigans may be found out sooner than you think. mirG - E SEffective Rserve Until to uimi APRIL5 Quantifie R t Rowntree Milk Chocolate .4 Filled with "s fmtSMARTIES, MAPLE BUDS OR JELLY TOTS Lowney FRUIT AND . 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