Parole Release Date: April 22, 2006. Crime: Malicious Wounding.
I’ve read more than my fair share of Department of Corrections face sheets. But this one was different. This one was personal. Looking at it now takes me back to the summer of my third-year practicum at the Middleton Corrections Institute in Lima, Ohio.
“Do you think they ever change?” he asked as I plowed through the records of one of our latest arrivals.
How in the world was I supposed to answer that question? Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. If I said, “Sure, I think they can change,” he would accuse me of being na•ve. On the other hand, if I suggested, “No, of course not. We should lock them up and throw away the key,” he would challenge my faith in my chosen profession and tell me to abandon my dreams of ever becoming a psychologist.
At the time, I was a 25-year-old, still wet-behind-the-ears graduate student and one of only two women to set foot on prison grounds on a daily basis.
He pressed me again. “Sara, you haven’t answered my question. I realize you’re still a student. But for God’s sakes, you’ve been working with these men for the past ten months. Just give me your opinion on the matter.”
Dr. Blair intimidated me the moment I met him. He was, after all, a looming six-foot-five African-American who’d been forced to abandon his lifetime pursuit of playing professional football after tearing his rotator cuff in an untimely automobile accident. He went to graduate school instead, studied forensic psychology, and eventually became third in charge at the largest correctional institution in Ohio.
Sitting before this dark giant, not certain how to respond, I did the one thing I thought was in my best interest: I pled ignorance.
“I honestly don’t know, Dr. Blair,” I told him.
“Humph. That’s fine,” he said. “I can at least respect your honesty.”
I smiled, relieved.
He smiled back, and I knew then he had succeeded in playing me like a country fiddle at a backyard hoedown. My suspicion was confirmed when he said, “Well, let’s say we go find out.”
“What’s that?” I asked, gripping the arms of my chair as he stood to exit his office.
Motioning me to follow him, he said, “Let’s see if we can answer the question.”
“How do you propose we do that?” I asked, sounding more assertive than I intended.
“Pick an inmate from our group,” he suggested, referring to our Monday morning group therapy session with convicted pedophiles.
“Do what?”
“Pick an inmate from group,” he repeated as we exited the building. “I don’t want to appear biased or divisive in this project, so you pick someone.”
I wasn’t sure what his intentions were, but trusting that my selected guinea pig would not be unjustly punished, and like Pontius Pilate, I could wash my hands of the entire matter if the inmate just happened to have engaged in prohibitive behavior, I boldly announced: “Hoolihan.”
With that, he freed the walkie-talkie from his belt, pressed a black button, and spoke into the speaker requesting assistance from a Corrections Officer on cellblock D.
An unfamiliar voice responded immediately. “Block D here, Doc . . . Over.”
“I need a shakedown on inmate Hoolihan,” he quipped. “I’ll be by with Ms. Jordan momentarily. I’ll need two C.O.s pronto. Over.”
“We’ll snag him right away, Doc,” the broken voice cackled back. “C.O.s Anderson and Melloy are on the block now. They can help out. Over.”
Walking across prison grounds was never a pleasant task. Being a reasonably trim—and yes I know it sounds snobbish—but better than average-looking woman, the self-conscious stroll made me feel like a soggy saltine floating amongst a school of hungry guppies. With Dr. Blair at my side, the walk was less intimidating, though I still made only fleeting eye contact with passing inmates.
“When we get there,” he said, his baritone voice serious, “stand off to the side of the cell, opposite Hoolihan. Don’t address him, don’t acknowledge him, don’t look at him.”
Never having witnessed a shakedown before, I didn’t know what to expect. Lost in thought as I imagined worst-case scenarios, I failed to respond to his directive.
“Is that understood, Ms. Jordan?” he asked, keeping a hurried, purposeful stride.
“Yes sir. Understood.” I swallowed hard, trying to suppress the anxiety I knew he sensed.
Within a matter of minutes, inmate Hoolihan walked through the pod and spied the small group of individuals hovering outside his cell. His startled reaction told me he knew what was about to happen. The tension on his face quickly faded, replaced by a self-assured grin, worn in hopes of convincing all onlookers that he had nothing to hide.
His grin widened with each step taken. Did he think this was some kind of joke? It was as if he had just thrown open the door to his own surprise birthday party. Like usual, Hoolihan was disheveled. His state-issued navy-blue shirt, spotted with spill stains and bits of crusted food particles, looked like a well-used napkin after Thanksgiving dinner. His shirttail hung out like a limp flag on a windless day, and his pants, bunched in the front making makeshift pleats, were two sizes too big for his gaunt frame. Peering from a pockmarked complexion were two oily, gray eyes that had likely witnessed heinous acts born of the most evil of intentions. As I watched him, I wondered if this was the same mischievous grin he held while violating his young victims. Is this what they saw?
Dr. Blair was the first to address him as he approached.
“You have anything you want to show us before we rummage through your belongings, Mr. Hoolihan?” he asked.
All inmates were afforded the opportunity to turn over any contraband before their cells were rummaged. Coughing up any prohibited goodies didn’t necessarily negate punishment, but it certainly minimized the severity of the imposed sentence. At the very least, it saved a few days in a windowless, seclusion cell in the basement of cellblock F. Or what was coined by the corrections industry as “The Hole.”
“No sir,” Hoolihan replied.
“Very well then,” Blair said with a nod. “Gentlemen, proceed with your shakedown.”
Without batting an eye, the corrections officers began searching every nook and cranny of Hoolihan’s cell, leaving no pillow, mattress, or desk drawer unturned. From my vantage point, I could hear more than I could see, but it became readily apparent that inmate Hoolihan would be spending the better portion of the next 30 days in solitary confinement.
It was over within minutes. To my surprise, the C.O.s reordered the cell and returned all of Hoolihan’s permitted belongings, including a couple of hardcover textbooks, a stack of Rolling Stone magazines, and even his underwear, back to their rightful place.
Dr. Blair exited the cell with a stack of papers and what appeared to be a three-ring binder in his left hand.
He stood next to Hoolihan, whose gaze remained fixed forward, and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning in the hole. If it’s as bad as I think, you just banked yourself a good four weeks down there.”
Hoolihan remained silent, his crooked grin long gone.
Turning to me, Dr. Blair said, “Ms. Jordan, come with me. I think we may be able to answer that question.”
The walk back to his office, usually no longer than a five-minute trip at a casual pace, seemed longer that day. Perhaps time was slowed by my own eager, voyeuristic curiosity to review the stash concealed under his arm. More likely, it was the fear and apprehension for what I was about to see that rattled my innards and lengthened the silent walk.
Once in his office, he dropped the stack on his desk. Speaking for the first time since leaving the cellblock, he encouraged me to review inmate Hoolihan’s collection.
The images, predominantly hand-drawn, were vile and repulsive. Detailed, close-up sketches of erect penises penetrating small mouths and children’s anuses covered most pages. Pristine photo clippings from teen magazines of the young actor who played Doogie Howser, candid portraits of a bright-eyed Fred Savage, and a potpourri of prepubescent celebrity pictures were glued into a spiral-bound notebook like it was some kind of makeshift family photo album. These, Dr. Blair later explained to me, were sacred trophies collected by Kevin Hoolihan that would remain untarnished.
As I continued to timidly peruse the perverse collection, Dr. Blair finally answered his own question. “They can’t change, Sara. Incarceration or capital punishment is the only effective means of treatment.”
That was a decade ago. Despite graduating from Ohio State University seven years ago with a doctorate in clinical psychology, I have yet to sit for my licensure exam. After giving birth to my daughter Elizabeth, I became a stay-at-home mom and swore no depraved monster like Kevin Hoolihan would ever lay a contaminating finger on my child. But even a maternal oath like that can’t always be kept. And that, I believe, is the harshest lesson any parent can learn.
Now, standing in line with several women before me—a row of orange jumpsuits looking like an overgrown pumpkin patch—I await my turn to be processed into the Dayton Correctional Institute for Women. I glance at the DOC face sheet in my hand.
Parole Release Date: April 22, 2006. Crime: Malicious Wounding.
Silently, I wonder how the man who sexually molested my daughter will be free in six to nine months, while I must serve the larger portion of a three-year sentence for having good aim.
I frequently reminisce about the day of Kevin Hoolihan’s shakedown. I remember what Dr. Blair said to me: “They can’t change, Sara.”
