Imagine a prison built to house 1,500 inmates that holds 7,000. Welcome to La Mesa Prison in Tijuana, Mexico. A cell designed for two holds as many as eight, one designed for four holds twenty-four. Bunk beds to the ceiling and mats covering the floor make it impossible to move without everyone else repositioning themselves first. Cooperation is essential to survival. These men and women are the poorest of the poor, the least of us. I’m here with Eric Prager of Baja Christian Ministries and Jorge Garcia of Prison Fellowship. They preach the Gospel to the men behind bars in fervent Spanish. I don’t understand their words, but I see the faces soften, arms coming through the bars as they lift their hands up in worship. It’s the most desperate place I’ve ever been. I see how powerfully small acts of kindness can change men’s hearts.
I spend my time handing out soap, toilet paper, and Bibles. Not everyone can come up to the bars, so the men in front pass gifts to their cellmates before keeping anything for themselves. I hear ‘’ Gracias’’ over and over before managing a weak ‘’ De nada’’ in return. I wander away from our group making my way farther down the hallway that connects to row upon row of cells filled with men. They look at me with the hollow expressions of the truly damned. As I move farther down the hallway I hear something so familiar, my name “Phil.” As a criminal defense attorney who has visited countless jails and prisons I instinctively ignore the calling. But as I remember where I am, it comes again, this time more forcefully “Phil.” I turn and look through the bars to find a tall, graying, thin Caucasian man whose blue eyes now capture mine.
“Phil, that’s your name isn’t it?”
“Yes, but how do you know that?”
“We’ve met before, don’t you remember, you visited me.”
“No, I haven’t been here in twenty-seven years, and I don’t recognize you. How long have you been here?”
“Five years now, but your name is Phil right, maybe the other guy’s name was Phil too, I don’t know; I guess I thought you were him.” I am both perplexed and deeply moved emotionally. I have experienced such “coincidences” before and I have learned to not brush them off lightly.
“Yes you are right my name is Phil, and you are?” “Bruce,” he puts his right hand through the bars and we shake.
“Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles.” I know better than to give too much information.
“Which part?”
“The northern section.” I am still attempting to process the encountered as our conversation shows signs of strain as he appears more confused than me. He looks as if he’s not sure he believes me, still convinced we have met here before.
“How much longer do you have?” I ask, breaking my own set of rules.
“Five years, but I think I’m going to get transferred to the U.S., I have a lawyer working on it.”
“That would be a good thing right?” I ask, having some familiarity with the program.
“Yeah, they tell me once I get transferred I could be out in six months.” I see where this conversation is going, if I don’t end it soon I’ll wind up giving legal advice in a country that still follows the Napoleonic Code. The message has been received and I must move away to further process it.
“Well good luck Bruce, and God bless you my brother.” I say as I walk away.
“God bless you too, and thanks for coming Phil.”
I head back down the hallway towards the saints who come here every week and the guard posted to look after us. I notice he is not happy with me, but he says nothing, probably knowing I wouldn’t understand him anyway. Jorge comes up to me and says, “...our twenty minutes is up, we’re going to the HIV section next.”
“The what?”
“The HIV section, they put them all together so they can’t transfer it to someone else.” My epiphany deserts me as my inherent dread of disease seeks to take control of my rational mind. I once again fall back on my professional training as I force myself to maintain a calm exterior and go forward boldly. After all, my greatest fear has always been to be labeled a coward, and no one else seems the least bit distressed.
We walk through another series of steel gates and doors to a more remote area in the prison. The pathways between cell blocks are closed in with chain link and razor wire at the top. Looming above are the guard towers keeping watch over the inmates out on the concrete exercise yard. Hundreds of inmates are engaged in some type of physical activity, but none of it amounts to much as the yards are small and jam packed with men.
Going through the last steel door we enter a hallway that seems darker than the others a dank smell permeates the area as water drips down from inmates clothes hanging from lines running the length of the hallway. I fear what I will see when I look into the first cell, but there is no discernible difference from what I’ve already seen. At least six to a cell, as many as will fit come to the bars to greet us. After friendly introductions in Spanish, the preaching begins again in earnest. This service is different however, Pentecostal in nature the inmates are vocally participating. Uncomfortable, I turn to a safe task picking up bars of soap to distribute. My effort is frustrated however as most of the inmates eyes are closed and their arms are lifted high up through the bars that imprison them. I don’t know the language so their responses to the preaching take on the aura of speaking in tongues. Eric walks from cell to cell touching each man’s hand, blessing every one of them, it’s more than I can bear. I join the service. My prayers are weak in comparison, but heartfelt nonetheless.
Eventually we are able to distribute our gifts and they’re once again much appreciated, but not with the same fervor as the worship that has just ended. Our twenty minutes spent, our guard gently lets us know it is time to go. We leave with the promise to return again soon.
Processing out of a prison always takes too long, but once outside there is a sense of relief that is mixed with pity for those left behind. On this day however, I have more to contemplate. Having gone through a significant transition in my professional life recently I have been looking for a new direction. The scripture comes to me; “He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.” The wisdom of my former pastor also comes to me, “be careful what you pray for, you just might get an answer.”
The answer remains the same for me. Injustice, cruelty and oppression still move me like nothing else. If it no longer comes to me, I will seek it out. Whether in a courtroom fighting it out for all I’m worth, or simply handing out soap and toilet paper to those that have none, I will continue to fight the good fight.
-Phil