County lockup a lot brighter these days, but it’s still a gloomy place to be

I went to jail Tuesday.

My last time was in 1984.

The time before that was 30 years ago, and that was the worst. I caught strep throat and was sick for a week. That time, I was inside the Clark County Jail in the old courthouse, and my memories dwell on how dark and depressing it was. Prisoners were sleeping on mats on the floor.

Former Federal Public Defender Ken Cory (now a district judge) sued in 1977, saying the jail was overcrowded and inhumane. A federal judge agreed, and the Clark County Detention Center was built in 1984 to satisfy a consent decree.

Tuesday in booking, I stood next to a man snoring in a chair. Overly ripe, he was oblivious to me. Nearby was a man in handcuffs wearing a black T-shirt proudly declaring “The World Is Mine.” Probably a misstatement.

But once I was out of booking, there were no bad smells. In fact, at one point, when I was in the elevator with someone moving a pushcart filled with trays of freshly baked cookies, the situation didn’t seem half bad.

But I was bothered by the glances of some young at-risk kids who were touring the detention center. They looked pretty grim as our paths crossed.

Perhaps they were imagining what it would be like if they were actually jailed there that day. Or maybe they contemplated sharing space with one of the 195 gang members. Or what if they were one of the 12 pregnant women in custody. Or one of the 44 juveniles, including a 14-year-old.

If they weren’t imagining it, I certainly was, grateful that like the bug-eyed kids, I was on a tour, just as I had been 30 years ago and in 1984. So far, I’ve retained tourist status in jails and state prisons.

Escorted by Capt. Wayne Peck and Deputy Chief LeRoy Kirkegard, the Review-Journal editorial board visited the building at 330 S. Casino Center Blvd., which was built for 2,957 prisoners and usually houses 3,100.

It’s overcrowded, but not like the old jail. Nobody in the general population sleeps on the floor, although some sleep on cots. The floor-sleepers are in the holding cells while the admission process is under way.

In 1997, federal officials again threatened county officials with civil rights violations, forcing improvements in the holding area, health care, sanitation and safety.

Chief Kirkegard, assigned to the jail when Sheriff Doug Gillespie took office in January 2007, said, “We have no secrets here; we run a great shop.”

In April, there were 5,636 people booked into the jail and 5,745 released. Peck reminded me that most of them haven’t been convicted of anything. They’re mainly pre-trial detainees who haven’t made bail. “They’re your neighbors,” he said. “They’re shopping with you in the grocery store.”

The 2K dorm was a minimum-security area, one officer for 74 inmates. The beds were narrow, but there was a place to store personal items and family photos. When lunch arrived at 9:45 a.m., it was two slices of bread, a potato casserole, canned cherries and slaw. Breakfast had been served at 4:30 a.m. because inmates are fed before court.

In 2C, we were with high-risk prisoners. They got their food in Styrofoam so they couldn’t use trays and utensils as weapons. There were double doors to each cell.

In 5C, we saw a lockdown unit where inmates are in single cells. Death row inmates stay there. “We figure somebody on death row has nothing to lose. Another charge means nothing,” Peck said.

I realized that throughout the tour, things were quiet and calm. There was no screaming, no din. No sense of anger. That was a major change from 30 years ago.

But the lighting was the most memorable difference.

“The additional light is for safety,” Peck explained. “Every module has some natural light, so they still know night from day. It’s much better psychologically.”

It’s not what everybody expects, Peck said.

It was a far cry from what I remembered. But like the at-risk kids, I didn’t want to spend any real time here.

Yet one drink too many and a DUI could put any of us inside, sleeping on a bench or on the floor of a holding cell.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0275.