University of Virginia Library

Matt Dillon, Johnny Ringo, And A Plate Full Of Beans

(With the permission of Charlottesville City
Sheriff Raymond C. Pace, and after signing a
waiver absolving the city of all responsibility
for his possible "death, injury or damage
sustained," Cavalier Daily staff writer Bill
Bardenwerper entered the city jail on
February 5, posing as an inmate. He spent one
night there and was released the next
morning.

Recounted below are his impressions of
that night in the city jail. – Ed.)

When Matt Dillon finally rode into Dodge
City to bust up an attempt by local bad guys
to take over the town, we could hardly
suppress our excitement over his arrival.
Slaying gunslingers and locking up thieves is
definitely exciting.

The only catch is that had we been
inserted into that same scene, we also would
have been on the wrong end of Marshall
Dillon's 45's. After all, we were watching
Gunsmoke from inside a jail cell. And
because of Matt Dillons and what they stand
for, it was easier for us to identify with the
villains than with Matt Dillon himself.

He was our hero, if for no other reason
than that he was a winner, and everyone
wants to be one of them, especially the real
losers...like us.

Thrown Into City Jail

When I was first thrown Into
Charlottesville City jail at 4:30 on Monday
afternoon on a fabricated charge of driving
with a revoked license, I was so scared that I
couldn't even look at the other inmates. I just
stood in the hallway and stared out the barred
window. Through the dark smoke of a passing
train, I saw a string of garbage trucks parked
across the street and row upon row of dingy
slum dwellings.

City Sanitation Department employees
leaving work and small children returning
from school passed in front of the jail; I
stared at them but they appeared to notice
neither me nor the jail.

I turned around once or twice to see who
my cell mates were, but their intense stares
forced me to keep looking out the window. I
was convinced that they could see right
through me and were going to kill me for my
bluff.

In my mind I kept conjuring up images of
homosexuality and racial conflicts, suicides and
stabbings, things I had been led to believe
went on in all jails. I had also read somewhere
that a good left hook was a necessity in prison
and had been advised to be ready to "do
battle."

Never before had I felt so lonely and
seldom so scared. I shivered inside, refusing to
admit the possibility that these were only
myths and that I had nothing to worry about.

CD/David Ritchie

'After All, We Were Watching Gunsmoke From Inside A Jail Cell.'

When dinner came I was forced to retreat
back into the bullpen where the other inmates
were lounging. The huge steel barred door was
locked and our metal plates of food were
slipped through a hatch at its bottom.

I took my plate to an empty bench and
began sorting through the beans with my big
metal spoon, searching for roaches. I was
intently trying to pick out the nonexistent
roaches until I glanced up to suddenly realize
that the other inmates were through eating
before I had taken my first bite. So I quickly
downed my Kool-Aid and devoured my
beans, peaches and bread in a few gulps. I
kept feeling that I would have to vomit; this,
though, was a sensation more psychological
than gastronomical.

Pushing my plate back under the door, I
then quickly sat back down with a "Johnny
Ringo" comic book hoping that if I kept
quiet, no one would notice me. I figured that
that was the best way to stay out of trouble.
Unfortunately, my silence was conspicuous.

"You're pretty quiet," growled one
scruffy inmate whose name I later learned was
Uncle Ben.

"Yeah." I said as I buried my head deeper
in my comic book. He walked away but I now
realized that I could no longer pretend that
they didn't know that I was there. Eighteen
people crammed into a small 20 by 40 foot
cell will all sooner or later recognize each
other's presence. I knew now that I could not
ignore these guys forever.

When the evening news began I finally
managed to pull myself away from the comic
book which I was beginning to read for the
third time. The last serviceman to die in
Vietnam was being buried with all the pomp
and ceremony characteristic of military
funerals.

Talking With Uncle Ben

"You know, I used to be one of those
honor guards," said Uncle Ben. "In 1950, I
had to present the flag to the widow of a
serviceman who had died in Korea.

"But when I was about to give it to her,
she grabbed me instead of the flag. Now that
was really rough to take, having to stay at
attention, and all, with her crying on my
shoulder."

I began talking with Ben, and in a little
while a few more inmates joined into the
conversation. An amiable dispute arose over
which was the better branch of the service,
the Army or Marines. I really had, nothing to
contribute to this discussion, so I moved away
and went back to staring at my comic book,
trying desperately not to attract attention.

It was difficult, though, to really move
away from anything here. All the inmates
were packed into such close quarters that
everyone was a part of everything that
happened. And it was just this which finally
forced me, despite myself, to feel a certain
sense of community with the rest of the
inmates.

I soon overcame my initial paranoia,
though, and passed the rest of the evening
watching television, playing cards and just
gabbing with the other inmates. The bullpen's
atmosphere oddly enough had a distinct
resemblance to dorm life. For me, the lack of
activity was relaxing; but for the inmates who
had already spent three to six months here
the routine had already become a stifling
tedium.

Our conversations that night involved
mostly what we were in for, how we were
arrested and how much time we thought we'd
get. Over and over again we rehashed the same
subjects. Then we would sit still and say
nothing, smoking cigarette after cigarette and
staring impassively into empty space.