Page 54 of The Right to Remain

Chapter 18

It wasn’t Elliott’s first time in a women’s jail. It was the first time as an adult. And as a trans man.

The bus ride from the courthouse to Turner-Guilford-Knight Correctional Center was Elliott’s reintroduction to prison life. TGK was the only facility in Miami-Dade County that held inmates of every stripe under one roof: men and women, adults and juveniles, petty thieves and accused murders. Each morning, dozens of inmates—some still intoxicated or injured from circumstances leading to their arrest—were bused to and from the justice center for court appearances. It was no easy task. The guards were visibly on edge.

“Move along,” an officer shouted as Elliott stepped off the bus.

First stop was the intake office. Every other inmate on the bus had spent at least a night in jail, which meant they’d already endured the indignity of a strip search and a guard-observed shower. But not Elliott.

“Stafford, this way,” the guard said.

Elliott was taken to a room and left alone with two female officers, both wearing body cams. The room had a table but no chairs and, off to the side, a toilet and a shower with no curtain. Elliott had been dreading the strip search, but in a way he was glad it was sooner than later, like ripping off the Band-Aid. There was no conversation. Just a stream of orders from the officers, which Elliott followed without question.

Remove shoes, jewelry, body piercing, wristwatch. Empty pockets. Now, sweatshirt.

“No bra,” one of the officers said, noting it on the chart.

Take off jeans and hand them over. Socks. Underpants. The officersturned all clothes inside out and checked all pockets and stitches. Elliott was left standing before them, totally naked. All his belongings were packed into bags and labeled.

“Open your mouth,” the officer said.

She looked inside with a flashlight as Elliott, on command, lifted the upper lip with his fingers, then moved the lower lip, tongue out, up and down. They checked the ears and nose too. Elliott closed his eyes, following directions, as the examination became more invasive. He kept reminding himself that this had nothing to do with being trans—every inmate underwent the same strip search—but it was not hard to feel like a source of morbid curiosity for the guards, a break from the routine, something to talk about at the next coffee break.

Finally, it was over, except for the shower, which the guards observed closely. Elliott was given an orange prison uniform and dressed quickly. Upon return to the intake room, he was grouped with thirteen women who, like Elliott, had been denied bail by Judge Garrison that morning and were being held beyond their first court appearance.

“Everybody, take one copy of the Inmate Handbook and a pamphlet,” the intake cell unit manager announced. “Follow the guards to the orientation room. Single file!”

A pair of armed guards led the line of new inmates down the corridor to a stuffy room with a polished concrete floor and walls of painted cinder block. Elliott avoided eye contact with anyone, his gaze fixed on the pamphlet title:sexual battery abuse harassment awareness.

Welcome to TGK,he thought.

With thick concrete walls and fences topped with miles of coiled razor wire, TGK was equipped to house the most dangerous inmates. The “worst of the worst,” Elliott had heard, were on the eighth floor in solitary cells, but there was no shortage of intimidation in the orientation room. Elliott pegged at least two women as maximum-security veterans. The guards knew one of them by name, a badass named Mona.

“Back so soon, Mona?” said one of the guards.

“Fuck off,” she replied.

Elliott chose a folding chair well off to the side, away from Mona, but for some reason, Elliott couldn’t get by her without being noticed.

“Damn, girl. You got the flattest chest I ever seen.”

Elliott wondered how long it would take Mona and the others to figure out he was no “girl.” He moved all the way to the end of the row, saying nothing for the rest of the orientation. They broke for lunch at noon and walked as a group to the cafeteria. Elliott avoided any conversation while waiting in line to collect a soggy bologna sandwich. The cafeteria was about half full. Seating at “Mona’s table” was by invitation only. Elliott hoped he wasn’t invited.

“Hey, Flatsie, get over here,” said Mona.

Elliott took a deep breath, then walked toward Mona’s end of the long table and stopped.

“Lemme hold your sandwich,” said Mona.

It felt like high school all over again. Elliott offered his tray, and Mona took the sandwich. No great loss. Elliott hated bologna.

“Now get the fuck outta here,” said Mona.

After lunch was the final step in the intake process: cell assignment. The cell unit manager broke the new inmates into three groups, assigned each group to a cell, and sent them on their way with the guard.

“Not you,” the manager told Elliott. “You need to see the doctor.”

Elliott didn’t question it, and the reason for the medical examination didn’t need to be spelled out for him. The guard came and led him down the hall to the infirmary.