Illinois’ supermax prison with no way out
On paper, Michael Johnson fits the profile of dangerous inmate. Reputedly a high-ranking El Rukn gang leader, he was a few months into a 35-year sentence for kidnapping and murder when he was indicted in 1987 for ordering a hit on Pontiac Correctional Center superintendent Robert Taylor. Johnson was eventually convicted and moved to Menard Correctional Center, were he mingled with the general population, taking college courses and becoming president of the Afrikan American Culture Coalition.
Six years later, in the wee hours of March 31, 1998, Johnson was rousted from his bunk by a captain and three correctional officers and taken to a holding cell where he was joined by three other inmates. The next morning, the four men were transported by van about 85 miles south to Illinois’ then-brand-new “supermax” prison, Tamms Correctional Center.
In a booklet published by his mother later that year, Johnson described his arrival at Tamms: “Eight C/Os [correctional officers] in black, bulletproof vests took us from the van, one at a time. Hands-on, they escorted us through the glass doors. They told us to put both feet on the yellow line and to face the wall,” he wrote. “As soon as a man walks through these glass doors, the psychological torture begins.”
After a brief introduction to the Tamms curtsy — a ritual in which the guards count to three, drop the inmate to his knees, apply (or remove) handcuffs and shackles, then count to three again and bring the prisoner up to a standing position — each man was put into a small cell and ordered to remove all clothing, Johnson wrote. “Then they searched me — fingers through my hair, opened my mouth, they said lift your tongue, top lip, bottom, behind the ears, lift your arms, wiggle your fingers, turn around, raise your left foot, your right foot, and ‘spread ’em.’ ” By now, a decade later, Johnson has undoubtedly grown accustomed to these rites of humiliation.
At Tamms, every prisoner must undergo this kneeling, cuffing, poking, prodding genuflection every time he leaves his 7-by- 12-foot cell for anything other than his shower (five times a week if he’s had good behavior, twice a week if he hasn’t) or, if he’s earned the privilege, his private hour-long visit to the mesh-topped barren concrete enclosure euphemistically called “the yard.” The rest of the time, Tamms inmates live in solitary confinement. They have no telephone privileges.
They have no religious services. They have no communal functions of any kind. Reading materials, family photographs and art supplies are limited — an inmate can have 20 magazines, 15 photos and the flexible plastic tube of ink from the inside of a ballpoint pen. They receive each meal on a tray through a slit
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