head or land a helicopter in the yard at 12pm sharp, firstly don’t, and secondly, don’t tell the chaplain because I am obliged to inform prison management about any security issues.’ His presentation is over in a matter of minutes and his closing jibe at Collingwood supporters animates a few of the men to the point of a fist pump and a ‘Carn da Bombers’ from a man with a neck tattoo. James’s larrikinism seems the perfect device to lower the men’s guard, overturning the stereotype of what a man of God is meant to be. On our way out, two more prison staffers saunter in to deliver their threetimes-a-week info spiel, which, judging by their demeanour, neither they nor the prisoners care to hear. After the orientation we’re buzzed through an iron gate and then another, past armed officers in blue uniforms, their hands sheathed in purple sanitary gloves. Some are polite and say hello to James, others suck cigarettes through square, grimacing faces. James admits that the orientation process may appear blasé, but his good work is really done through one-onone meetings and interactions known as ‘pastoral contacts’. ‘A large part of what I do is just sitting with the guys, listening to their stories and supporting them. What they want is someone who will treat them with dignity and respect. We all want that, but in the prison system they don’t get it.’
in the yard. ‘As you can see, a lot of these men look like you and me. They have hopes and dreams and desires and emotions just like the rest of us. They’re totally human. Yet the media often portrays them as less than human. ‘I find a great sadness in it all,’ James confesses, telling me that prisons are a revolving door and that he often sees the same faces time and time again. ‘There are no winners. Everyone loses.’ Men of every age and ethnicity slide past us, nearly every one huddled with a chosen ally. Very few walk alone. In a lowered voice the chaplain tells me that not long ago, in the evening before lockup, the prison had a suicide. ‘A bloke took a leap off the second tier of the cell block and dove headfirst into the concrete.’ Immediately after the incident the prisoners were locked down for several hours until ‘the mess’ was cleaned up and the body taken away. ‘This isn’t the kind of the stuff you’d expect to see on the outside, let alone when you’re in prison,’ says James. ‘In this instance it was pretty messy. It was incredibly difficult for [the other inmates]. They had no one to talk to and it played on their minds.’ As we’re talking an announcement rings out over the PA system in a lethargic voice, stating that an AA meeting is set to start. Metres ahead of us, a prisoner with a shaved head calls across the fenceline to a scrawny bloke in C-yard. ‘I heard ya was taken last night. Why’d they move ya?’ he
fortified cage at the centre of the prison known as Inner Movement Control. The yards of A, B and C blocks fan out next to each other in a semicircle, each separated from the others by three-metrehigh chainlink fences. The two-storey cell blocks are a dull grey, the yards sparse and dotted with fitness machines, but modified so that any potentially dangerous elements such as removable seats have been replaced by foam. A large Pacific Islander leans on the barricade between A and B yards, a hand tucked into his pants, slinging slang to his friends through the crosshatches. The chaplain admits there are always things bubbling below the surface that he doesn’t see. ‘There are assaults that take place here, physical, verbal. Standover tactics and sexual assaults.’ Obviously this constant threat of brutality takes its toll on the men. One of his fellow chaplains describes prison as ‘Institutionalised violence on behalf of the state.’ ‘It’s a very artificial environment. It is violent. It’s aggressive and it’s dehumanising. Everything they do is monitored.’ He points to the black-glass eye hovering above us like a street lamp. Most of the inmates who talk to James do so tactfully. ‘Some of the guys won’t talk to you in the yard, you know. It’s seen as a sign of weakness.’ A prisoner usually passes on a request to an officer for a meeting with their chaplain of choice, whether Anglican, Catholic, Uniting Church, Islamic or Buddhist. A
‘A bloke took a leap off the second tier of the cell block and dove headfirst into the concrete’ As we wander down a concrete path the icy air bites my cheeks. I notice red blotches around James’s neck and throat, scars left from brutal radiotherapy treatment he endured after being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. He’d told me the lasting side effects of his treatment: one of his saliva glands is fried, his throat is constricted and he has permanent ringing in his ears. And despite all this he spends his days trying to give comfort to the imprisoned. As we continue on James’s rounds he points out the different units, waves to prisoners and cracks jokes with me. Some prisoners wear warm casual clothes sent from home. Others hunch over in waferthin tracksuit ‘greens’ supplied by the Salvation Army, some out of necessity, the rest as a criminal badge of honour. He motions to the men standing about 26 • OWL FARM
asks. The man hesitates and gestures our way with a smirk. The men fall quiet and wait for us to pass. Once we’re a safe distance away, James asks if I’d noticed the rolled-up pant legs of the man in C-yard: ‘a traditional sign of a drug dealer.’ James may have a Christian outlook, but his time in prisons has taught him a great deal about man’s capacity for evil. Like prisoners, he uses humour and a persona to protect himself. ‘Everyone has to. Any sign of weakness and they’ll manipulate you and put pressure on you to do things you don’t want to do.’ Some prisoners may even try to befriend staff to dig up personal information about family or friends that can be later used for threats or blackmail. We stroll away from the Orientation Unit, through B block and toward a large
daily printout tells the chaplains which prisoners need help. ‘I have most of my meaningful conversations with men behind closed doors, and you know what, you meet some really nice guys in prison. [laughs] Yeah, okay, they stuffed up, but who hasn’t? And who of us wouldn’t like to take two minutes of our lives back every now and then?’ After a brief lunch bought with prison tokens, we make a call to the solitary confinement unit. The official euphemism for this area is the Management Unit, but it is known to insiders as The Slot, after the letterbox-type flap used to communicate and deliver food. Here James arranges to meet a prisoner we’ll call Adrian. The Management Unit houses men who have ‘played up’ or are deemed to be a danger to themselves or others, and is