Then I make sure to use the washroom because all the water in the building will be shut off. So maybe, just maybe, we’ll get lucky this time and they won’t hit us. Recalling the last time Orange Crush came, maybe six months ago, I remind him - and myself - that they didn’t do C House. I brush my teeth and make a joke to my neighbor, trying to lighten the mood. If they come today, we could be stuck handcuffed in the chow hall for three to six hours, and last time, some guys ended up going on themselves because we weren’t allowed to use the bathroom. I drink a small shot of coffee and a little water to wake me up, but not too much. I periodically wake up every 30 minutes until then. I try to lay back down and stay asleep until 6:00 am, but my mind won’t let me. Wednesday, about 4:00 am, I hear the sounds of toilets flushing and quiet talking much more than usual. One time it’s okay to have something the next time it’s not. No shakedown is the same as the last it’s always different. But I know all of this may be in vain since Orange Crush can and will take what they want with no logical reason and there is no recourse whatsoever. I make sure all my food is new and unopened and not in the wrong bag or container. I untie my TV from the metal bars of my bunkbed (that’s how I hold it up since there are no shelves here) so they won’t tear it down and break it. I pour out all my liquid bottles so they won’t pour them on my papers or bedding. Immediately opening the larger of the two suitcase size boxes I am forced to live out of, I start trying to condense all of my belonging by throwing out what I can spare. So, as the whole cell house now anticipates the impending tsunami, I try to prepare myself as best as possible. Many of their helmets have skulls and crossbones, blacked-out American flags and other military insignia as if they’re going to war and we’re the enemy. They carry a solid wood baton, a shield about half the size of one of them (usually only used for cell extractions) and a can of chemical agent on their hip that will bring you to your knees when sprayed. Their outfits consist of a one-piece orange jumpsuit, a protector vest, elbow and knee pads, boots, and gloves - all black - with a helmet with a face shield. These are usually big white guys with insecurities, poor communication skills and a power complex that makes for a horrible mix. They are bullies dressed in riot gear who kick you when you’re down, both figuratively and literally. Orange Crush - or the tact team, as they’re called officially - is the Illinois Department of Correction’s (IDOC) most oppressive armed wing. So, we’re confined to a space with a toilet, absent a shower and a bunkbed, also known as a 7 x 10-foot concrete cell. That means nomovement unless it’s a medical emergency, and then that means dead. We’ve already been on lockdown since Sunday afternoon here at Stateville Correctional Center, a maximum security prison in Joliet, Illinois. They’re making their rounds due to an unauthorized pair of headphones found during a cell search in another cell house. We’re able to hear them through the utility alley that the cell houses share behind the cells. Though it’s not our cell house, it’s E House right behind us. That’s three-foot-long, two-inch diameter solid wood batons hitting the steel bars as “Orange Crush” runs down the gallery clunking every bar along the way as they yell. “Shit!” I say to myself as my cellmate and I look at each other wide-eyed. About 7:45 am on Tuesday, January 17, 2017, I muster the energy to get out of bed and walk the step to the sink from the bottom bunk and I hear it.
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