LIFE IN CELL 51

'A lot of us are incarcerated to make a political point'

This is the second of three columns from Cell 51 in the Vanderburgh County
Jail.

"I'm not a criminal," Robert Espy insists. "I'm trailer trash who's
addicted to meth."

The 38-year-old tells me he had a $200-a-day habit at the time of his
arrest last month.

"I'm looking at 20 years in jail for manufacturing and distribution," Espy
goes on. "I'm just somebody with a habit who went out and bought the
ingredients for somebody else. I can't manufacture macaroni."

The man in the next bunk is doing a crossword puzzle. "Give me some help
here," says Richard Lewis, putting the pencil on his tongue. "Actress, Russo."

"Rene, man," somebody calls out. "Don't you go to the movies?"

Espy, a large man with a shaved head, says he's been diagnosed as
borderline schizophrenic.

"But the deputies have cut my medication in half. I guess they want me to
go crazy on them."

An avid reader, Espy gripes not only about the lack of books, but their
poor treatment.

"Guys rip out the last few pages. I mean, Sidney Shelton doesn't exactly
write deep books, but I still want to know the ending."

James Stewart, 51, is in jail for pulling a knife on a man who insulted his
wife.

Small but muscular, he says he gets up every day at 4 a.m. for an intense
workout of leg lifts and pushups.

Stewart, who's from Chicago, tells me he shot up heroin for more than 20 years.

"My dad was dying so I came to Evansville to spend the last few days with
him. I promised him I'd get off the dope. That was two years ago. It ain't
been easy, but I've kept straight. Counseling, methadone, shaking in a
chair with sweat running off me - I done it all."

The 14 men of Cell 51 are in a space the size of a small rec room. I ask
how they mitigate disputes.

"We all agree and then we take action," said Lewis, the only inmate not
wearing an orange jumpsuit. His sizable stomach hangs down over boxer shorts.

"Like the other day, we asked one guy to leave," Lewis goes on. "Out of the
blue, he started getting loud and slamming the table. Then he got in a
man's face and tried to intimidate him. Funny thing was, he always carried
a Bible and talked religion. Just goes to show that anybody can snap."

And your handlers went along with your decision?

"Absolutely," Lewis says. "They want peace and quiet, too."

The 41-year-old Lewis was brought in for public intoxication while on his
bicycle.

He's cool with that part of the arrest. It's happened a half-dozen times
before. He likes to drink beer.

"But the resisting arrest charge is bogus and I'm fighting that. They
slapped the cuffs on me so tight the skin on my wrists came off. I was in
the Indiana National Guard for six years, so I know a little about being a
cop. What they did to me was totally unnecessary."

Lewis says in some jurisdictions he would either be given a ticket or be
put in the drunk tank for a few hours until he sobered up.

"A lot of us are incarcerated to make a political point about the jail
being overcrowded so they can build a new one."

Lewis says many deputies like to see how impersonal they can be.

"They pretend they're standing guard over death row. (Expletive), we're
just a bunch of petty criminals."