It was a Sunday morning well over 25 years ago, at a small Federal prison in the Midwest/South that had better remain nameless. Right about this time of year. The air at this...place...was exhausted from pushing its way half across the continent. There were no mountains, just land stretching in all directions to meet a flat, white, hot sky. It was so humid I felt breathless all the time. It was so hot my eyeglass frames burned my face. It had a surviving enclaves of junglelike green -- and zillions of insects. They were big. You could hear their haunting insect cries and the thuds as they hurled themselves against the window screens in the night.
The prison had been "locked down" for months, along with frequent beatings of prisoners, denial of medical care, denial of exercise etc. etc. A group of lawyers, including me, agreed to bring suit over conditions there. The prison administration knew this. It was in the local papers. Two of us drove up to the entrance early that Sunday morning, with appointments to interview our clients so we could finalize the complaint. That's when things started to get weird.
When we arrived at the front desk, we were unsettled to learn that we were expected. There's a protocol when you go to see a client at a locked down prison. The guy at the front desk claims that he has not gotten a memo about your visit and therefore you can't go in. You respond by describing in intricate detail with whom you made the appointment (at least 24 hours in advance), when, what they said, what you said, and that the right to counsel is guaranteed by the Constitution. You ask for the shift sergeant, demand that they call the associate warden, and quote the Magna Carta ("To no one will we deny or delay... justice"). The guy at the desk looks under his crossword puzzle and finds the memo.
Go right on in, ma'am. Thanks, Officer.
But this time the guy at the desk buzzed us right through the two grilles to the visiting area. At that point things got even more unusual.
Usually the only staff around on weekends were low level guys (male guys -- no women worked inside the prison). But today there was a pod of senior-type men who seemed to be there just for us. They had each of us, in turn, sit down in a chair right next to a grilled door. On the other side of the door was a State Patrol guy with a dog. The Feds didn't have their own dogs, and they didn't have much truck with the State Patrol, either. They were on a little island of Fed-dom and they usually scorned the locals.
The dog sniffed each of us through the bars. Being a professional he didn't concentrate on the crotch area. He was looking for DRUGS. Maybe explosives too. Either way, he turned up his nose at us and looked bored. I bet they wished they'd trained him to detect draft civil rights complaints.
They ushered us on in and we met with our clients for about six hours (most of the time was consumed by waiting as they escorted prisoners back and forth festooned with handcuffs and leg irons and chains).
Then we left and walked out towards the front desk. As soon as we got through the second grill, a bigger pod of bigger officials walked up to us. Four of them, all in suits. All tall. All male. I suspect they saw us as Clantons and themselves like this:
There was no one else around, except the guy at the desk, who seemed like an old friend by comparison.
My cocounsel and I were short, female, and not wearing suits. I think I had on jeans, a T shirt and running shoes. I usually did in those days, except in court.
Tall guy #3 was the associate warden. He asked me, and not my cocounsel, to go with them to the warden's office. I knew where that was, more or less, but I'd certainly never been there.
We trooped to the office and all sat down. Tall Guy #1 (whom I didn't know) started intoning. A cross between Sgt. Friday and then-President Reagan.
"We received confidential information yesterday that SOMEONE visiting the prison today would be transporting contraband." Everyone nodded, exactly once, tightening their lips. 'Someone' had to be us because we were the only visitors.
"We used a canine unit to search the parking lot earlier today. The canine 'struck' one vehicle, signaling that it contained drugs. The vehicle is registered to you. We have therefore obtained a search warrant for your vehicle. However, we are asking your consent to search the vehicle. If we have your consent, we will not need to execute the search warrant." He looked at me commandingly.
A valuable insight punched me in the gut: I wasn't as cool as I'd thought. I was comfortable in court, with rules, but otherwise I was pretty unsure of myself:
As I reeled, scraps of thought scrambled through my mind:
"Holy crap. I cannot believe this is happening. This is so mean! My stomach hurts. This is intimidation! Hey, they don't need a search warrant OR consent to search my car. All vehicles entering a Federal prison are subject to search, it says it out there at the entrance. Why did I ever become a lawyer? There's so much conflict! Gee, is the registration current on the car? Does my hair look okay? I'm sweating. I bet they planted something in my car. I need a lawyer! I think I'm going to faint."
All hope was lost. The universe was a dark void of terror. Even my 12 years of Catholic school hadn't prepared me for this.
Then, like the "Accio Firebolt!" moment in Harry Potter And The Goblet of Fire, something came to my aid: My profession. I wasn't wearing a suit or makeup, I couldn't imitate Sgt. Friday, I didn't have a gun or handcuffs or drug sniffing dogs -- but I did have that bar card. It stiffened my spine and I reacted as a lawyer should, no matter how counterculture.
I found I was taking a pen and a yellow legal pad out of my briefcase and turning to Tall Guy No. 1.
"What is your name, please? And what agency are you with?"
Their training bound them, too. They gave me their names and their agencies and I wrote them down. One FBI guy, one prison guy, one U.S. Marshall, and one State Patrol guy (he must've commanded the canine unit). Then I wrote down what they'd told me. When I asked the names of their direct supervisors, they snapped back into command mode and got to the point.
I told them I would not consent to a search of my car and they'd have to execute their warrant. Also that there was nothing contrabandish in my car unless they or their minions had put it there. I felt like I was going to throw up and I still can't believe I was able to walk out to the car in the hot, hot parking lot with the pod. And my cocounsel, who joined us en route.
I don't think these supervisory guys had actually seen my car until then. One of them drew an audible breath. It was a 1972 Volkswagen station wagon. It was both dark blue and dark green as the result of an ambitious repair job that had melded two dying V Dubs and allowed them to live on as a fused whole. I loved it, but at that moment I kind of wished it was all one color and was maybe a Porsche.
The uniformed State Trooper brought the same dog back over while I gave my cocounsel a summary of events to date. The dog looked at us as if to say, "They ruined my weekend with my handler's family for this?" The trooper pointed at my car. The dog looked at the trooper, looked at the car, looked back at us, and rolled his eyes. He didn't 'strike."
The besuited guys lacked the grace, or the facial muscles, to even look embarrassed. They executed the search warrant, looked through the car, found nothing except empty sunflower seed bags and old newspapers, and turned away. I told them in a trembling voice that my father had been an FBI agent and he USED TO BE proud of it. That was the years of Catholic school kicking in.
They left, except for the State Patrol dog handler. I asked him how the dog could 'strike' my car one minute and then have no interest in it the next. "Well, you know -- wind shifts," he mumbled. I guess it was probably Doc Holliday who had the cocaine in HIS car, parked next to mine.
We drove back and met with our fellow lawyers for an indignation fest. Within two hours I'd broken out in hives from the stress, a dramatic demonstration of the mind/body connection.
The experience reminded me irresistibly -- if inaccurately -- of Billy Joel's "The Stranger:
Well we all have a face
That we hide away forever
And we take them out and
Show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel
Some are silk and some are leather
They're the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on.