In the fall of 2007, Floyd Irons was sentenced to one year
in federal prison. He had a price to pay society for his role in a felony real
estate scheme. At the time, Irons was the most successful and feared high
school basketball coach in the history of the state of Missouri. His fall was
well documented in the St. Louis area media. Accustomed to being paid copious homage,
he would now be told when to shower.
When a man is sent to prison, freedoms once taken for
granted are now denied. Simple lack of self-destination and determination
becomes precisely what he desperately now desires. Life in prison is a life in
suspension, one with no outward dignity.
Our nation has become remorseless to the human toll taken
upon our collective soul by the American prison machine, shedding lives as it
marches on its way. It is misery and waste dominated by darkness of retribution
often without rehabilitation, a marauding force that destroys the human spirit.
For any new prisoner, the anxiety of the unknown can be
overwhelming. Emotions polarize. There's a saying amongst inmates that in
prison, time stands still. Irons knew he
was in for an ominous odyssey.
In April, 2008 Floyd Irons began a phase of his life he now,
in retrospect, calls, “The Awakening.” On a clear spring day, Irons entered the
United States’ Federal Bureau of Prisons. Only a few years before he was the
renowned and feared leader of one of the nation’s top high school basketball
programs. Now, he was known only by his assigned prison identification number,
3470-044. For one of the few times in his life, Irons was humbled. He was also
very afraid.
Prison will leave no man unchanged. Irons discovered that he
was not as bulletproof as he thought, not as clever as he believed, and not as courageous
as he espoused. His downfall had led him to a place of brokenness and pain that
soon became almost unbearable.
The thought of leaving home and his ensuing incarceration
had dominated Irons’ thoughts for months, since his guilty plea in federal
court the previous fall. He strove to avoid sinking into a withering state of
self-pity. But the anxiety was palpable.
On April 5, 2008, a one-page notice on United States
Department of Justice letterhead was delivered to the Irons’ northside home. It
was chilling in its simplicity and directness:
“IT IS HEREBY ORDERED THAT: Floyd Irons, 34470-044, the
defendant, having been ordered by the court, is here by ordered to surrender to
the authorities at FCI Terre Haute Satellite Prison Camp (SPC), 4200 Bureau
Road North, Terre Haute, IN 47808 on April 22, 2008 by 1:00 p.m.
It was time and reality had set in.
“My original assignment was Leavenworth Correctional in
Kansas,” irons recalled, “and then it was changed to Marion, Illinois before I
was told I was to report to Terre Haute.”
A number of friends had attempted to both console Irons and
offer their advice. It was all in vain.
Floyd Irons’ world had come crashing down. Irons says today the biggest
fear was the unknown. “I didn’t know how I would be received at the prison. I
was 60 years old. Was it going to be survival of the fittest?”
In time, Irons would be relieved to learn that, unlike on
the street, “in prison the OG’s (Old Guys) are respected. Being a well-known
basketball coach also did not hurt when it came to respect in the yard.”
Irons says upon hearing the prison door close behind him
that fateful day he began his one-year term, he was determined to not let
prison define who he was or how he would spend the rest of his life. But he
admits he was on very unsteady ground.
Irons recalls that April 22, 2008 broke with a sunny dawn.
“As you can imagine, it was a sleepless night,” he says. “I had made
arrangements for my brother, James, to drive me to the site where I would
report to begin my sentence. My wife, son and two of my sisters wanted to go
with me. I told them no. I did not want them to see me in that kind of
distress.”
As Irons that morning embraced one last time his wife and
son, he mustered all the reserve he could find to stay strong and not break
down in front of them. He harkened back to a slogan he had often used over the
years to inspire his teams when the game was not breaking their way – “a true
test of a man’s character can best be measured in times of adversity.” For Irons’,
this was his test of a lifetime.
“I remember the walk from the house to my brother’s car was
longer than I had ever remembered it. I remember my legs felt very weak,” Irons
says.
“On the four-hour drive, my brother, James, and I made small talk just to break the tension. I was nervous, anxious and scared. I kept thinking, ‘how did this happen?’ I remember looking at my brother’s face as he drove forward and both of us holding back tears. It was
very disheartening for both of us. I thought of how much I have always loved and admired him for being such a good man. But I never told him. I now had the perfect opportunity to tell him, but I didn’t. Astonishingly, I believe we, as black folks, we do not do a very good job of expressing our feelings. Maybe that is an unfair indictment of my people but one I believe is true.” Irons would have 12 months to explore just such deep and neglected inner feelings and thoughts. In time the plaudits of appreciation would come easier.
For the next year Irons knew his life would be completely
out of his control. “It ran through my mind, ‘but why me?’ Then it struck me
out of the blue, ‘Why not me?’ God has a plan and I silently vowed on the ride
up that I would find a way to make the next 12 months into something God would
want me to make of it.”
Irons says that it crossed his mind several times on the
drive north to tell his brother to turn the car around and head south towards
Memphis. “I thought of taking my chances on the run,” he says. “I never thought
of suicide,” he claims. “That just hurts those who care about you and is a sign
of personal weakness. This was something I had to face, but I was in a state of
despair as we drove north.”
Irons remembers his first view of the sprawling prison complex
upon arrival as. “It was enormous, dreadful looking building surrounded by
razor wire fencing. My heart just dropped.” An officer, with an M16 thrown over
his shoulder, approached their car demanding the two immediately exit “your
ride.” Irons was given 30 seconds to say goodbye to his brother before entering
the facility.
“I held on to my brother for dear life. I honestly did not
know if I would ever see him again. I had no idea what the next 12 months may
bring and if I would ever walk as a free man again.”
As soon as he walked through the reception door, Irons
remember feeling his freedom had been, “zapped.”
Irons knew facing the reality of prison was something he had
to do on his own. “I made up my mind in that instant that my body might be
incarcerated but my mind never would be. I was determined, with God’s help, to
grow from this horrible experience.”
After a thorough body search, Irons was placed in a 10 x12
holding cell. The room contained a bench and an open floor toilet in the middle
of the room. For four hours he sat alone in the cell, reflecting he said, “on
what got me here and what will get me out.”
Having a light sentence as a first-time offender for a
non-violent crime, Irons was to be placed in the less restrictive
minimum-security prison. He would after processing be transferred to a facility
outside the main walls, known as an Honor Camp. The camp had no fences or
walls.
The inmates in the honor camp were known as “Campers.” Those
placed in the main maximum-security prison were known as “Convicts”. It became
clear immediately to Irons that it was preferable to be a “Camper” as opposed
to a “Convict.”
Still, he says, “walls or not, don’t kid yourself, prison is
prison. Mentally, for me, it was very tough.”
Irons was ordered to report on a Thursday. He could not be
placed in the honor camp population until after he cleared his medical exam and
his TB test. That would take up to two days. With Monday being a holiday, the
earliest the new inmate could enter the general population would be Tuesday.
That meant five days in the isolation unit known as The Hole.
Irons had made an attempt to make his entry into the system
as seamless as possible. “Before surrendering to the authorities,” he states, “I
had a complete physical and made sure that my necessary shots were taken per
instructions. My physical records, including all medications taken had been
turned into the bureau. I remember telling the admittance clerk that my record
should indicate that I had taken the necessary shots, but was told that they
had no such records or paperwork on file. If there were some it had not reached
them or had not been filed in their system. Plus, I was told, they did not have
the time to check. I thought to myself that all they had to do was make a
simple call to verify what I was requesting. Reality set in again that all
rights and privileges were not going to be a luxury offered to me, so get used
to it, I told myself. Those who have experienced being incarcerated can truly
attest to that reality.”
“I had to realize that I was just a number. The only thing I
could have complete control of is my mind. Accept, adjust and move forward. I
had to stay strong and stay on that course, or I would not survive.” Irons was
determined to remain sanguine in his approach to prison life.
“I finally told the guard I was supposed to be in the Honor Camp.
The Honor Camp was like a college campus. It was more of a military base set
up. I was shocked I was in The Hole. “
“Think of it being like living in a bathroom with a bunk bed
and a toilet,” Irons says of the isolation of The Hole. “You have one cellmate.
Five days I was in the Hole. It was not a good start to serving my sentence.
But as it turned out it was a blessing as I met Torrance.”
“I had a friend from back in St. Louis named Gooney who had
been in the federal prison system,” Irons says. “When he turned himself in, he
was late and drunk. He spent the first month in The Hole. He had told me that
story and now here I am in The Hole and I had done everything right. It was not
how the first day was supposed to start.”
The campers and convicts were segregated, even upon arrival.
By late afternoon, Irons finally had company. A man named
Torrance Miller was placed in Irons’ cell. Miller, like Irons, was a “Camper.”
It was apparent that Irons’ cellmate knew the prison
“ropes.” His “Celle” was doing 10 years for running a Continuous Criminal
Enterprise. “I was very fortunate to meet Torrance that first day,” Irons
recalls.
Miller’s sentence was draconian by today’s standards. “Gave me 151 months for running a Continuing Criminal Enterprise, or so they said. I mean come on, CCE is what they got John Gotti for. I just sold a little bit of drugs. Never been in trouble before and haven’t since. I would not accept a plea, wanted a jury trial of my peers. Big mistake. They don’t like it when you will not roll over with a plea and make them take you to trial.”
Miller was, for the next week, doing time in The Hole – the
segregated housing unit - for arguing with his counselor. “Or, maybe it was
when I got caught with an MP3 player. I was in The Hole a lot,” he laughs.
Later that evening a bus arrived from Michigan with a new
cast of prisoners. Eighteen other convicts were placed in an adjoining cell,
that Irons said from appearances should hold no more than four to six men. The larger group were “Convicts”, headed to
the maximum-security wing of the huge penal facility. Irons now had clear visual
proof that he wanted to stay with The Campers and outside the world of The Convicts.
A guard brought a serving of food. Irons was not hungry and
also did not want to eat anything and risk having to use the provided restroom,
“a disgusting open hole in the middle of the cell.”
A half hour later, a guard arrived to escort Irons to a room where he was forced to
strip off his civilian clothes and was provided prison attire.
Irons had brought a new set of clothes with him. “Waste of
time,” the issuing guard told him. Irons asked if he could keep his own
underwear. No way, the guard said, “get naked now.” Irons calls it the most
humiliating experience of his life. To Irons, the loss of dignity was a microcosm
of the downward spiral his life had taken.
The clothing issued included a one size fits all pair of
brown prison pants, a set of blue Gilligan island shoes, socks, a pull over
tee-shirt and a pair of underwear with already installed “skid marks,” Irons
says. A man once known for his natty and stylish dress would for the next 12
months endure the most basic prison garb.
It was obvious to Miller, a veteran of the system that this
man with whom he now shared a cell was not your normal new intake. “About every
five minutes the guards would come around peering into the cell and looking at
Floyd,” Miller recalls. “This guy is 60 years old and everybody wants to get a
look at him. I asked him if he was some kind of famous murderer or child
molester. He told me he was a basketball coach from St. Louis. I had never
heard of him but it was obvious he was a big deal. I soon figured he was also a
good dude.”
“Torrance demanded that first night, that due to my age, I
take the lower bunk,” Irons recalled. “He taught me the way of prison life,
what I needed to know to survive. He told me to never show emotion. It will be
perceived as weakness and will at some time be exploited. Never let your guard
down. He was friendly and enlightening. It was good I met him on that first
day.”
With his heart pounding, Irons sagged back onto his bed,
curled up and tried to sleep for the first time amid the spartan prison setting
that would be his home for the next 12 long months.
Sleep that first night in prison Irons found to be next to
impossible. There was no mattress, no box springs, just a hard-slate pallet.
The noise was incessant, the smell nauseating. “Torrance encouraged me to stay strong. “
Miller taught Irons about the vagaries of the criminal
justice system, that you have no rights. Miller explained the various opaque
regulations.
“It wasn’t like this in general population, Torrance told
me,” Irons recalls, “(he) said that I should remind myself of that. ‘Control
your mind,’ he said, ‘you will not make it in here if you do not.’’”
“The few days that I spent in The Hole with Torrance was
truly an insightful experience. He took the time to try and educate me to some
of the nuances of present life. “T” had worked his way down from maximum to
medium and now he was spending the rest of his time in The Honor camp. He had
an array of knowledge about the penal system and I was an avid student.”
“I understand now more than ever how important encouragement
is,” Irons states. “It is a wonderful gift, one we can all give. It is
priceless to those who receive it. It is also humbling to receive
encouragement. Sometimes we have a
tendency to see humility as a weakness. Prison taught me to see it as a
strength.”
“We talked all night,” Miller recalled. “I got out my hot
plate and made him some Ramen noodles. He had not eaten all day.”
