By Mike Simmons
“He has to come out of there – Now!” said Billy. Mac shook his head in agreement.
I looked at Billy and asked, “But, what if he refuses?”
Billy said matter-of-factly, “Then we’ll just have to go in and get him.”
I shook my head as if I agreed with him, but inside, I had a hundred questions. The chief one was, “Who? You and me? And what army?” I looked at the two veteran officers as if there was more to come, like, “Call the cavalry – we need a lot for this one.” But neither man looked surprised, worried, or any other emotion I expected might show on their faces.
Corporal Countryman (Billy), had been at the Escambia County Jail for something like a hundred years, or so it seemed to a rookie like me. He, Mac, and I were working at the old jail. It was officially called “The Jail Annex,” but everyone called it the “old jail.” It had been built in the 1950s, complete with the center hallway, all manual doors, and a catwalk along the back. The year was 1982 and the new jail across the street had only recently opened a few months ago. Billy had known my late father, who was a police officer, and he had worked with my aunt at the old ambulance service. He was a nice guy unless he had to be otherwise.
I had only been an officer for a few days. Besides Billy and Mac, there was only me. Mac was the nickname for Kenneth McClelland. He was retired from the US Navy. He wasn’t very outgoing and friendly, but I learned a great deal from him. He was good at talking to people. I found out later that he had seen some real action in Vietnam during the war.
In a few minutes, Billy stood up from where we were seated and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
I still thought I must be misunderstanding. There was an inmate in one of the cells who had been threatening the officers, and now he was refusing to come out. AND…THE THREE OF US HAD TO GO IN AND GET HIM? Nope, I thought to myself. He has to be kidding. After all, there are only three of us, and there were about 15 or 20 of them, maybe 50 or 100 of them…maybe a thousand. I sort of dragged behind, hoping the SWAT team would suddenly enter and pull him out for us.
I wasn’t a coward. I grew up in a sort of rough area of town and got in plenty of fistfights in elementary, middle, and high school. I played linebacker and defensive end on the football team, so I was accustomed to being hit. That was no problem. But I wasn’t keen on being killed, either.
The cell in question was at the end of the hallway. It was kind of like a walk of death. While one part of me was dreading every step, another part of me still couldn’t believe these two guys were going to go into the cell with 20, 50, or 500 angry inmates and demand one of them to come out.
When we got there, Billy unlocked the door and threw it open, kinda cocky-like, I thought. Then he and Mac stepped into the day room of the cell. I was behind them. You could probably call my entry more of slinking in. As soon as the door swung open, the inmates stopped talking and stared at us.
This is it…We’re dead! I thought to myself. But I wasn’t about to let the veterans – or the inmates – know I was scared, so I put on my tough-guy face and went in with them. I was sure they could see my body trembling or the fear in my eyes, but no one said anything. They were silent, every eye on us. I figured I might die, but I would go down fighting.
Billy looked at the inmate causing the problem. I don’t remember who it was or what the problem was. The inmate was sitting on his top bunk. Billy brashly pointed his finger at the guy and said loudly, “YOU…GET DOWN HERE, NOW!
I remember thinking, Corporal, you don’t have to be so arrogant. Maybe you can ask him nice-like…
Nothing happened. He just sat there and looked at us. I was fine with letting him stay, so we could just get out of there. But not Billy and Mac. Like mountains, they stood there, fearless. I remember thinking, What happens now? A standoff?
Billy looked at him as if he was irritated as if to say, Do I have to whip everyone here to get you out? With his hands on his hips, Billy said, “Did you hear me? Now do I have to come up there and drag you out of here, or are you coming?”
Silence. The whole world stopped (along with my heart). Nothing was said for about five seconds. Then, slowly, the target inmate got down from his bunk and walked out, followed by the two veterans and myself. I had a sort of Yeah, see there? And there’s more where that came from! look on my face.
Since then, I have learned a lot. I learned that this was simply day-to-day task. It is almost a routine manner to get a guy out of a cell – no big deal. It is something that is done every day. Whether in a jail, a prison, or on the street, it is common to face up to possible defeat, and maybe injury. I have had to conduct myself in such a way many times. So, could it be said that, being that it was no big deal, Billy and Mac had nothing to fear? Not at all.
That day, I learned one of the greatest lessons of my career. I never told those two about it, but I learned a lot about courage. Those men were aware of the risks the same as me – probably moreso. They were aware that we were greatly outnumbered. Neither man was a trained killer – they were just…guys. But that didn’t stop them from doing their job. Of course, any officer can tell you that a lot was going on at that moment. The most important issue was the command presence that Billy and Mac were presenting to those in the cell (I doubt I was.) But what I realized was, if I was going to be in this profession, I had to embody that same courage. It is something that all officers have to possess, but most people outside our profession (corrections and law enforcement) don’t realize.
Courage, officers have it daily. It is a requirement.