Free The Prison Book Club by Ann Walmsley Page A

timely and meaningful. I made a mental note to think about that during my next round of book selections.

5
    RED SKY AT MORNING, JAILERS TAKE WARNING
    T HAT SUMMER, THE INTENSE HEAT in the cells at Collins Bay forced some inmates out of their bunks and onto the floor to stay cool and sleep. In the absence of air conditioning, the smell of sweat was all that circulated in the cells. But that June, something else was heating up the prison. A new federal government measure to increasingly house two inmates in cells that were designed for one sparked an inmate work strike at Collins Bay. The men refused to wax floors, cook inmate meals, clean bathrooms or show up for anger management programs. I pictured double-bunking during the heat wave, with two men trying to find enough space on the floor of a singleton cell. One man might have to lie with his head close to the toilet. But the strikers were concerned about more than that. Graham told me they were worried about their own safety. He said that doubling up the population could increase the risk of violence as the men attempted to share cells, showers, laundry facilities and telephones, while competing for spots in correctional programs. The competition for telephone time was already intense.
    The strike was only twenty-four hours old on June 29, the day I had planned to meet each of the four book club ambassadors one-on-one for the first time. The correctional authorities had agreed that I could write the story of the inmates’ great “adventure” in the book club and, to that end, talk to some of them at length. And I now felt comfortable enough with these four men to do so. The chaplain broke the news about the strike when he met me at security. He warned me that the men might not materialize. He explained that it would take guts for the four guys to leave their cells to meet me because anyone crossing the yard during “Work Up” (work hours) might be suspected of strikebreaking, especially since I was meeting them in the same building as CORCAN, the prison industry workshop.
    The guard at reception looked at my tape recorder suspiciously—a tiny Sony digital recorder. But the chaplain assured him that the warden had approved it. All that needed to happen then was for the men to show up.
    As predicted, Dread and Ben were no-shows. I didn’t blame them, given the pressure. With Graham and Frank scheduled for the afternoon, I spent the rest of the morning sorting the latest book shipment and thinking back to the previous week’s book group—the last one before the summer hiatus.
    We had discussed Canadian author Rohinton Mistry’s gorgeous debut novel, Such a Long Journey , about a Parsi bank clerk in Mumbai named Gustad Noble, who is unwittingly drawn into a money laundering scheme. Gustad tries to do the right thing with the stash of rupees he’s asked to safeguard, a situation that Carol and I thought had the potential to trigger interesting debate because of the ethical dilemma it posed. And we hoped the men would enjoy the chance to laugh a little at the book’s comic episodes and to escape in their minds to the bedlam of 1970s politics in India. We assumed that books that enabled armchair travelling beyond the prison walls would be popular in prison.
    Twelve guys showed up for the meeting that week. I could see that the Lawrence Hill Effect had evaporated. No surprise really. Back in London at my “Literary Ladies” Hampstead book club, attendance always surged when we had author visits. I looked around the room. The four ambassadors were there: Graham and Frank, Dread and Ben. Three guys were sitting just inside the door. “The Muslim guys,” explained Graham, indicating three black men. “They’re all buddies.” One of the three, Winston, had arrestingly intense eyes. Elsewhere in the room were Rick, Juan the writer and Marley, with his pink-mirrored sunglasses. I could never discern what Marley