Post by scotkaz on Jun 10, 2006 3:10:49 GMT -5
DIRTY SECRETS OF LOVE, LIFE BEHIND BARS
Patty Loewenkamp checked incoming mail Tuesday at the Criminal Justice
Center. Jail workers said they don't read inmates' mail but look for
banned content.
By ANDREA BROWN THE GAZETTE <mailto:andrea.brown@gazette.com>
Romance. Longing. Betrayal. Lust.
It's a daily soap opera in the mailroom of the El Paso County jail.
Mail is one of the few privileges of the nearly 1,500 inmates at the
Criminal Justice Center.
Inmates look forward to greeting cards from Grandma, drawings from
children and steamy letters from lovers.
But first those missives must pass muster with the jail-mail squad - two
middle-age women wearing gloves and scrutinizing glances.
"You know it has bodily fluids when the envelope says 'Smell it, it's
me,' " said Patty Loewenkamp, 57, a veteran Sheriff's Office employee
who is long past the point of blushing or flinching.
Those letters get returned - unopened.
She and Carolin van Barneveld, 48, a former Air Force jet mechanic,
inspect about 1,000 pieces of mail daily in a tiny office in the main
jail compound on Las Vegas Street.
They don't so much read the letters as skim between the lines.
Scanning, not snooping.
"I've got a life," Loewenkamp said. "I don't need to live vicariously."
They look for codes and maps. They shake for contraband. They've found
drugs and jewelry. More often, it's a Marlboro crushed inside the folds
and tucks.
Much of it is ordinary mail: A two-page letter detailing the doings of
the day. Bills. Graduation photos. Father's Day cards are starting to
roll in.
Pictures must pass the decency test.
"No parts or pieces," as Loewenkamp puts it.
This isn't limited to photos.
"Folks are artistic and can draw these anatomically correct things," van
Barneveld said. "That can't go, even as a hand drawing."
The art ban covers more than body parts.
Using a simple razor-edged device, Loewenkamp opens an envelope with a
handwritten letter and unfolds a crayon picture of a happy family.
She takes a moment to admire the sentiment and detail a child has put
into the drawing, then sticks it back in the envelope.
She doesn't bother to skim the letter.
"The whole thing must go back," she said. "It breaks your heart."
Crayon drawings aren't permitted because drugs could be hidden in the
wax.
Ditto for lipstick and smudges of suspicious origin.
<http://oascentral.gazette.com/RealMedia/ads/click_lx.ads/www.gazette.co
m/Headlines/1476923393/Position2/COSprings/FarmersIns300x250instory/farm
ers300x250.gif/64383537343434633433626538623930?>
The sender gets a reason for refusal and the inmate gets a note from the
mailroom of what could have been.
Rules are rules.
If one item is rejected, the entire contents are returned. For items
that are deliverable, postage stamps and envelope back flaps are removed
- anything sticky that could disguise drugs.
Van Barneveld pushes the mail cart to the wards, where deputies do mail
call.
Deputy Steve Deno is the mailman for the 72 residents on his cellblock.
"That is the high point of the day. That is their connection to the
outside," Deno said.
"You can tell if someone has been expecting mail or pictures. It changes
the day from very positive to gloomy."
Even bills are appreciated.
"I've had people run their businesses out of here," Deno said. "These
people still have lives on the outside and we make their lives go on the
best we can."
Inmates don't have access to e-mail. Telephone calls are collect.
Videoconference visitations, started last year, are free, but the
sessions are limited.
Outgoing mail is unrestricted - and unread. It gets sent out marked
"uncensored."
Indigent inmates, those with less than $2.99 in their jail accounts, are
given three free first-class letters a week to send out.
"They use them," said mailroom supervisor Frances Le-Page, who figures
about half the population qualifies.
"The art of letter writing is given a rebirth for those who are
incarcerated," LePage said. "That's their way of corresponding with
loved ones."
Some have more than others.
"We do have some gentlemen with multiple ladyfriends," Loewenkamp said.
"You know they're married because the first letter is from his wife and
she's talking about the kids and the next is from his girlfriend and she
says, 'I love you so much, when are we getting married?' "
And the female inmates?
"Girls are more true, Loewenkamp said. "They don't wander as much as the
boys do."
Patty Loewenkamp checked incoming mail Tuesday at the Criminal Justice
Center. Jail workers said they don't read inmates' mail but look for
banned content.
By ANDREA BROWN THE GAZETTE <mailto:andrea.brown@gazette.com>
Romance. Longing. Betrayal. Lust.
It's a daily soap opera in the mailroom of the El Paso County jail.
Mail is one of the few privileges of the nearly 1,500 inmates at the
Criminal Justice Center.
Inmates look forward to greeting cards from Grandma, drawings from
children and steamy letters from lovers.
But first those missives must pass muster with the jail-mail squad - two
middle-age women wearing gloves and scrutinizing glances.
"You know it has bodily fluids when the envelope says 'Smell it, it's
me,' " said Patty Loewenkamp, 57, a veteran Sheriff's Office employee
who is long past the point of blushing or flinching.
Those letters get returned - unopened.
She and Carolin van Barneveld, 48, a former Air Force jet mechanic,
inspect about 1,000 pieces of mail daily in a tiny office in the main
jail compound on Las Vegas Street.
They don't so much read the letters as skim between the lines.
Scanning, not snooping.
"I've got a life," Loewenkamp said. "I don't need to live vicariously."
They look for codes and maps. They shake for contraband. They've found
drugs and jewelry. More often, it's a Marlboro crushed inside the folds
and tucks.
Much of it is ordinary mail: A two-page letter detailing the doings of
the day. Bills. Graduation photos. Father's Day cards are starting to
roll in.
Pictures must pass the decency test.
"No parts or pieces," as Loewenkamp puts it.
This isn't limited to photos.
"Folks are artistic and can draw these anatomically correct things," van
Barneveld said. "That can't go, even as a hand drawing."
The art ban covers more than body parts.
Using a simple razor-edged device, Loewenkamp opens an envelope with a
handwritten letter and unfolds a crayon picture of a happy family.
She takes a moment to admire the sentiment and detail a child has put
into the drawing, then sticks it back in the envelope.
She doesn't bother to skim the letter.
"The whole thing must go back," she said. "It breaks your heart."
Crayon drawings aren't permitted because drugs could be hidden in the
wax.
Ditto for lipstick and smudges of suspicious origin.
<http://oascentral.gazette.com/RealMedia/ads/click_lx.ads/www.gazette.co
m/Headlines/1476923393/Position2/COSprings/FarmersIns300x250instory/farm
ers300x250.gif/64383537343434633433626538623930?>
The sender gets a reason for refusal and the inmate gets a note from the
mailroom of what could have been.
Rules are rules.
If one item is rejected, the entire contents are returned. For items
that are deliverable, postage stamps and envelope back flaps are removed
- anything sticky that could disguise drugs.
Van Barneveld pushes the mail cart to the wards, where deputies do mail
call.
Deputy Steve Deno is the mailman for the 72 residents on his cellblock.
"That is the high point of the day. That is their connection to the
outside," Deno said.
"You can tell if someone has been expecting mail or pictures. It changes
the day from very positive to gloomy."
Even bills are appreciated.
"I've had people run their businesses out of here," Deno said. "These
people still have lives on the outside and we make their lives go on the
best we can."
Inmates don't have access to e-mail. Telephone calls are collect.
Videoconference visitations, started last year, are free, but the
sessions are limited.
Outgoing mail is unrestricted - and unread. It gets sent out marked
"uncensored."
Indigent inmates, those with less than $2.99 in their jail accounts, are
given three free first-class letters a week to send out.
"They use them," said mailroom supervisor Frances Le-Page, who figures
about half the population qualifies.
"The art of letter writing is given a rebirth for those who are
incarcerated," LePage said. "That's their way of corresponding with
loved ones."
Some have more than others.
"We do have some gentlemen with multiple ladyfriends," Loewenkamp said.
"You know they're married because the first letter is from his wife and
she's talking about the kids and the next is from his girlfriend and she
says, 'I love you so much, when are we getting married?' "
And the female inmates?
"Girls are more true, Loewenkamp said. "They don't wander as much as the
boys do."