The realization that I was closed-in didn't come until almost midnight, when I was in the middle of a second game of pinochle with fellow inmates.

I was one of about 24 citizens of my town, male and female, who had chosen to stay overnight at the newly-built prison facility. The men were kept in Pod C, and the women in Pod A.

The stay overnight was a public-relations exercise for the prison, but it was also an opportunity for the staff to take care of the prison while real people were in it -- part of the preparation for when actual prisoners arrived.

I was staying to satisfy my own curiosity, but also, the stay was part of my job. I planned to write a story on the visit for the local newspaper where I work.

The other inmates and I had been joking all night about being in prison, but none of it had seemed real. Not the simplicity of my tiny cell. Not the loud click of the electronic latches when one of the doors was opened. Not the corrections officers, who played the role of being tough prison guards, but did so with a smile.

Then the realization came: If I was a real inmate this would not be a game. What if I got tired of being here and couldn't demand to be let out? What if I was destined to remain here day after day, with no sunlight except what I could see through two vertical slits for windows, 3 feet tall and 6 inches wide, at the back of my cell? The bareness of the walls suddenly seemed oppressive.

At the time of my realization, I was sitting in the "day room" or common area of the pod I shared with the other men. The day room is a long room with a high ceiling. It is lined on one side and across the end with two levels of prison cells. It also includes a shower area and large, stainless-steel tables with stools permanently attached.

It is an empty, drab place surrounded by gray, cinder-block walls. Sound echoes and seems amplified, emphasizing the room's barrenness.

We were, without a doubt, the best behaved and friendliest set of prisoners ever likely to sit in Pod C. Shortly after we were "booked," Sheriff John Kahl -- who supervises the prison and all other county law enforcement -- entered and had coffee with us. Occasionally, the electric latch to the pod's door opened with a loud click -- released by an officer in the control room who watched all we did.
When the corrections officers strolled through, a lot of role playing took place. The officers joked about what they could do to us, and we scowled at them and demanded a form so we could file a complaint.

My stay in the prison began earlier, about 7:30 p.m., when I was let into the law-enforcement center and met by Sgt. Ron Nodland. Nodland, who stands about 6 feet tall, smiled wickedly through a thick mustache down at my 5 feet 6 inch frame.

"Are you staying overnight?" he asked politely. I said I was. He then asked if there was anything in my back pack that the staff should be aware of. I told him I had some pens.

"Oh, we'll be taking those away," he said.

I also confessed that I had a notebook and a sandwich.

"We'll be taking away those too," he said, jokingly.

Nodland explained to me that if I was a real prisoner, I would be required to remove my clothes and take a shower. Then I would be given a set of prison coveralls.

"I will then give you a bed sheet and a blanket, and we will take you down to your cell. You will be locked into your cell until you make the bed. Once you make the bed, you can go out into the day room," Nodland said. It was a speech that had, obviously, been well practiced.

He then instructed the officer behind the counter to book me in.

"Remove your belt and all of the items from your pockets, please," she said politely, while being firm.

After I had done as she asked, I dug a tablet out of my knapsack and began taking notes.

One of her eyebrows went up.
"What are you doing?" she said. I told her, lamely, that was planning to write a story, and I had to take notes.

"You will sit down and comply with me. If you do not sit down, I will get another officer to assist me," she said.

I sized her up. You must realize that in our small town, frequently people we meet in one role we have already dealt with in other roles, and I knew this particular officer rather well. She was Officer Delanie Mecklenburg, and when she is not a corrections officer, she is my wife. I couldn't tell if she was joking or not, so I sat down.

Even though the role playing was all done in good fun, there were hints that behind the acting there was something very serious going on.

As I entered my cell with Nodland, who is a veteran corrections officer, his demeanor changed. He seemed on his guard -- as if he was not waiting on a semipublic figure, but dealing with a real prisoner.

I asked what he would do to protect himself if the pod was full of actual inmates.

"You develop a kind of instinct for it," he said. He would never turn his back on a prisoner, and he avoids walking into groups of them. He added that he has learned to size people up.

"I grew up on a ranch, and you could always tell when a cow was about to try and take you," he said.

Later that night, after the pinochle game had ended and I had grown tired, I went to my room to go to bed. The lights inside of the rooms had been turned off from the control center, but the lights in the day room remained on. The day-room lights illuminated my cell through the small window in my door, allowing me to see what I was doing.

Before I laid down, I looked outside through the slit-like windows at the back of my cell. A yard light brightened a bare patch of gravel outside my window -- other than that, I could see nothing.

The cot was hard and just wide enough for my shoulders. Occasionally, as the night progressed, the door to the prison pod released itself loudly, and I heard the footsteps of the corrections officers making their rounds. A light shined in the window of my cell door as the officer checked on me, then the footsteps moved on.

In the morning, some of the other inmates commented on the noise.

"I got so I had to count how long it was from the time I heard the door to when I saw that flashlight," one fellow inmate said. "I heard that door open every time."

At 7 a.m., a friendly voice came over the public-address system: "Good morning gentlemen. It's time for you to get up. There will be rolls and coffee in the booking area."

I got out of bed. As I pulled on my clothes, I was surprised to see through my window the distant hills. Above the hills, the red light of the approaching sunrise brightened the open sky.

	-- Originally published in The Glendive Ranger-Review in a slightly different version.

A Stay in Prison