Ed Ahrens, Jr., Esq. writes monthly thought provoking Editorials on mediation. These views are Ed's and do not necessarily reflect those of Florida Mediation Group.
I confess. I was in prison last week. My crime? Being a mediator at the wrong time and in the wrong place.
Well, not really. In fact, it was a successful mediation day, albeit an unusual one. After over 600 mediations under my belt, the experience was a new one for me. The female claimant was an inmate incarcerated, for second degree murder, for the past twelve years with another five to go. Surprisingly, she was pleasant, polite and articulate, and she made no unreasonable settlement demands.
When we—the attorneys, Florida Department of Corrections risk manager, and I—arrived at the main building of the women’s prison compound, we were told we could not bring in any bills in denominations of five or greater. (They didn’t say what we could have done with one hundred ones.) "So, what do we do with them?" we asked. I nervously counted $85 in larger denominations in my wallet.
"Well, you might put it in your car," she suggested politely. She did not offer to hold the funds herself and receipt us for them.
Returning from our respective cars—I stuck the wad in the corner of the trunk compartment that, upon reflection, I’m sure would be the first place a thief would look—we then were told to leave our driver’s licenses—and our car keys! Now wait just a goldarn minute, I thought. "They" know our stash is in the car, and now they insist on access to it? Hm. Oh well, there were enough witnesses to this curious transaction, we felt confident we would not be returning home or to the office flat broke. As it turned out, we had nothing to worry about. Our cars, after all, were on the other side of the barbed wire fence. The question, of course, was whether the bad guys (or gals) were all on the other side.
The reasons for surrendering these belongings were pretty obvious. With money and car keys, an inmate could bribe her way out and take off.
After we passed through the electronic security check—they also took my cell phone for safekeeping, depriving me of any means of a rescue call—we were escorted through one door after another, a total of five as I recall, until we found ourselves somewhere in the bowels of the prison yard. Our escorts were trusted inmates, who I must admit could not have been more polite and respectful.
As we were led down one long hallway, I noted an attractive but disgruntled looking young woman, in her early twenties at most, sitting on a small metal stool, her legs and wrists shackled. I assumed she was awaiting further disposition and was not too happy about it.
We finally reached our destination, a bare, empty office that forced the six of us, including the claimant/inmate, to sit so closely our knees almost touched. We were informed that a second room for caucusing was not available, and we anticipated a series of hallway conferences. As it turned out, we invaded and took possession of the employees’ coffee room and hoped nobody would evict us.
During the course of the joint and caucus meetings, I found it at least a bit unnerving that inmates, trustees I guessed (and hoped), frequently passed us in the hallway. It occurred to me at the moment that, if we were abandoned by our "escorts," I for one would have no way of remembering how to maneuver my way back out of that compound and would be passing out this missive via some secret courier.
The mediated dispute was resolved in settlement, but not without a surprise ending. It appears the FDOC has a right to impose a lien on the assets of an inmate for "room and board," etc., at the rate of—hold onto your hat—$50 per day. Now, you don’t have to be a master mathematician to figure out what that means for someone already imprisoned for twelve years with five to go. When you put that up against the $100,000 sovereign immunity waiver, you have to wonder whether the plaintiff/defendant roles are ripe for reversal. In any case, it chilled plaintiff’s enthusiasm for a major settlement amount. Obviously, it is true that crime does not pay, even after imprisonment.
During the close of proceedings, as the parties and their counsel were signing the settlement agreement and I was finishing up my paper work, I asked the FDOC risk manager for his telephone number. I was puzzled by his stammering and stuttering in giving me the series of numbers. Later, he privately told me that the last thing he wanted was for the inmate claimant to have his number and pass it around to every complaining inmate!
The whole affair was an experience that, in retrospect, I do not regret. The operative word here is retrospect…
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