When you work in corrections, you work in a mini-city filled with 100 percent
criminals. That's how Jack Santacroce sees it.
"People who are here are incarcerated for a reason," says Santacroce. He
is a correctional officer at Suffolk County Sheriff's Department in Long Island,
New York. Suffolk has an average of 1,500 inmates, whose crimes range from
drunk driving to murder. "It's a very, very active place."
Every day, Santacroce sees a side of the world that most people only glimpse.
He's seen people smuggle in hacksaws, blades, drugs and shanks. He's witnessed
violence. And sometimes, he's made a difference.
"Every now and then I think I've had some influence on a young person who
may have been out of line. I've treated them fairly and told them there's
more to life than drugs and crime. And if I never see them again, I know it's
a good thing."
One year, Santacroce received unexpected recognition for his work.
The Keepers' Voice, a quarterly publication for correctional officers, named
him officer of the year. It was quite an honor for Santacroce, who prefers
to put his head down and get the job done.
"The department put [the nomination] in -- I didn't even realize. You do
your job every day and you don't expect to get all these 'atta-boys.'"
For nearly 20 years, Santacroce has worked as a correctional officer and
an investigator. That means he's the one called in when contraband is found
at the jail, or when a fight breaks out. It also means being on call 24 hours
a day.
He recalls one occasion a few years ago when an informant passed on information
that hacksaws were being smuggled inside the prison. Santacroce's job was
to find out how.
A father whose two sons were in prison on a murder charge had the hacksaw
folded up inside a pile of Sunday newspapers he brought in during visiting
hours.
Before passing through the metal detector, the father would go to the visitors'
washroom and leave some of the papers behind. At night, a group of inmates
on clean-up duty would pick up the papers and bring them through.
"We foiled that escape attempt. Now we don't allow Sunday papers in at
all. We provide all the papers," Santacroce laughs.
Santacroce has a methodical yet easygoing nature about him -- that's what
makes him such a good investigator. Criminals respect him and open up to him
too. And that's a sought-after quality in a community where often everyone
is out to get the other guy.
"I guess I really enjoy my job and feel that I'm making a difference,"
he says. "It's a challenging job and it's never the same. You get on an investigation
and follow it through until it's solved, and that's a very rewarding thing."
Michael Laughlin's job is slightly different. He's been a correctional
officer at a maximum-security prison for a number of years.
His father was in corrections, so it was a natural fit for Laughlin. But
once he was in, there were a few surprises.
"It's pretty interesting. You see a lot of people in the newspaper who
end up getting sent here. It's pretty violent and you have to be prepared
for that. Even a medium-security institution can be quite violent," says Laughlin.
In the short time Laughlin has worked in the field, he's seen serious fights,
the use of weapons and even murder.
"The hardest thing is straightening everything out and trying to find out
who's involved -- that and the shift work. But when things are quiet, it's
quite a peaceful place to work."
Laughlin recalls being involved in a few violent incidents where he was
literally caught in the middle. "It's too dangerous to get involved....It
can be scary, pretty scary. You don't let anybody get behind you, you just
make your way to the nearest exit."
Laughlin reviews parole and transfer requests as part of his job. He also
appreciates being able to keep dangerous offenders behind bars. "In a maximum-security
jail, you're dealing with the bad of the bad. It's nice when you're able to
keep somebody back from going out into society."
Starting out in corrections isn't always easy, as Amanda Larsen learned
during a brief internship at the Joliet Correctional Center in Joliet, Illinois
-- one of four maximum-security facilities for men in that state.
Larsen wrote about her experience in a magazine for correctional officers.
"I was received with smiles, compliments and occasional hoots and hollers
by the inmates," Larsen said about her first entry into the cellblock. "They
seemed to be just as curious about me as I was about them."
Once Larsen got used to life behind locked gates, she worked alongside
a cell counselor and got to know some of the inmates. She learned what it
meant to treat inmates with respect.
"I like to believe that I'm a compassionate person without any prejudicial
views, who treats all people equally," she said in the article.
"Working with inmates in a maximum-security facility who have committed
various crimes from D.U.I. [driving under the influence] to murder put my
beliefs and morality to the test."
After feeling compassion for one man who told her he was framed and only
killed in self-defense, she later learned the inmate had murdered a young
woman.
"He was hardly the victim of abuse, nor did he act in self-defense," Larsen
said.
"I was very upset and angry. I hoped that I did not have to see him again
that day or in the near future. I was afraid of how I might react, knowing
the circumstances of his crime."
But perhaps the most important part of the job is remembering the purpose
of corrections. "I'm not here to punish these guys," Laughlin says. "The courts
have done that already."