Inmates on mission along Interstate 15

Sito Negron

Monday, March 1, 2004 | 11:18 a.m.

BAKER, Calif. -- Herberto Medina has tried to save lives on Interstate 15 between Las Vegas and Southern California since October. Along the way, he says, he's saved himself.

"This was a blessing to me," says the wiry, 36-year-old inmate at Baker Correctional Facility, who is trained as a volunteer firefighter and runs with Baker Fire Crew 53.

Medina, who is imprisoned because of a boating accident in which he injured a 12-year-old while under the influence of alcohol, is one of eight inmates on the crew, a 15-year-old program meant to put inmates to work serving a barren but heavily traveled stretch of interstate highway that serves as a lifeline between the Las Vegas Valley and Southern California.

The crew might be out of work come June 30, according to a California Corrections Department. However, California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger's office called that memo premature, and the issue is wrapped inside the larger budget battles in that state.

At Baker, Medina is one of only two inmates authorized to respond to emergencies, until this month when the rest of the crew becomes eligible for certification. Many of the emergencies he responds to on the highway involve alcohol, something he says hits hard.

"I used to like to drink and drive," Medina says, claiming that what he's seen -- six dead bodies in 3 1/2 months -- has changed him. "When I see what it can cause, it sure makes me think twice."

Those men, inmates who wear firefighters' uniforms and walk among the emergency crews unnoticed by most, are part of a team that covers 4,000 square miles of San Bernardino County, which abuts the Nevada state line, and also respond to calls for help up to 25 miles into Nevada.

The inmate crew is overseen by San Bernardino Fire Capt. Warren Crandall, who says Baker used to rely on volunteers, but in the town of less than 800 there simply aren't enough volunteers to field a crew without the help of the inmates.

An average of 37,000 vehicles per day flow in and out of Las Vegas on the highway, where according to California Highway Patrol figures more than 130 people have died between Baker and the state line since 2000. The nearest hospitals are in Barstow, about 60 miles from Baker, and in Las Vegas, about 90 miles from Baker.

"With construction it's even worse now," said Baker Community Correctional Facility Warden Charles Ayres, referring to the construction on I-15 that's widening the highway's two lanes.

The section of highway just north of Baker, known as the Baker Grade, is an 18-mile stretch that's been known as a killer since the 1950s.

In only three months, "We've seen some real graphic things," said Earl Shannon, 22, the other inmate certified to respond to the car wrecks, heart attacks, fires and anything else that happens in the region.

Shannon, in prison for auto theft, and Medina said they have seen everything from body parts -- "An arm ripped off. We found it like 20 yards down." -- to an ejection -- "The guy died." -- to a nine-car accident the day after Christmas, involving a minivan -- "The driver died."

"That kind of gets to you, when you see the kids and they see the mom still alive and they're trying to pull her out," Medina said.

In the next breath, he says, in a statement he repeats continually, "It feels good to try to help people, it's the experience of a lifetime."

He's not trying to excuse or avoid what he's done to deserve jail. None of the inmates do; they couldn't, even if they tried. They're prisoners, their lives regulated by the system that accounts for every minute of their time, for as long as they're jailed.

Few qualify

Ayres says 95 percent of the felons are in for nonviolent drug-related crimes. The prison is very selective about who it allows on the fire crew. Of the 250 inmates in this prison, less than 5 percent will qualify.

Crandall said he doesn't have any qualms about working with inmates.

"Maybe when I first started, but then I got to know them. You start learning they're just people too," he said.

Interested inmates fill out a form with basic personal information, medical history. They're screened for disciplinary problems and interviewed.

"We explain that they are expected to be available 24-7, and other things they may not expect. Somewhere during the interview you get a feeling, if they really want to do this," Crandall said.

Others only make it through initial lessons -- which include videos of accidents and the aftermath -- or to their first accident.

"They see a mangled body and they say ... 'That's not for me,' " Crandall says.

Ayres says security never has been an issue.

"We've never had a walkaway. If an inmate develops an attitude problem, Warren will tell us. If the inmate needs to be removed from the crew he'll be removed," Ayres says.

All inmates at the camp work -- in the kitchens, performing maintenance, and landscaping, for example -- and some work outside the compound, like the crews that pick up trash on the highway.

"They make from $12 to $56 a month depending what they do," says Ayres. "Plus, the fire crew gets $1 per hour per call."

That places them at the top of the prison hierarchy, in terms of work. They get the most pay, and the opportunity to shed their orange or green jumpsuits in favor of firefighters' turnouts when out in the field.

The "Dog Pound" of Firehouse 53 is outside the prison, less than 20 yards from the barbed wire fence surrounding the compound. The firehouse is a simple cinderblock structure, with classes taking place under a clapboard roof in the main room. Inmates sit on orange plastic chairs at one of two tables, or against the walls on a gray pleather couch or gray pleather chairs.

The room also contains a sink, a radio and tape player, a rack of hoses, a cast iron stove, a microwave, a cooler, dishware, a refrigerator and several bottles of Chinese vinegar.

A narrow hallway to the right of the entrance leads to a bathroom and the captain's office. Air tanks -- not oxygen, which is highly explosive and unsafe around fires -- are stocked in the bathroom.

A bulletin board in the hallway features a flier with skull and crossbones and the words: "If you're smoking in here you'd better be on fire."

The classes are serious. Crandall, 49, explains that inmates receive a 96-hour certification based on International Firefighter Service Training Association standards, then spend another 180-200 hours riding along as trainees. They also learn CPR and techniques for extricating people from wreckage.

Besides Medina and Shannon, the new class -- which should start making runs in the first week of March -- is Javier Rivera, 35, Manuel Sanchez, 29, Andre Pate, 32, Javier Gomez, 29, and Marc Colon, 27. They're in jail various offenses -- probation violations, drug possession, multiple DUI or assault.

Shannon and Medina try to help their fellow inmates learn the rescue ropes.

Learning to be safe

A recent class on protective clothing starts with a lecture.

"Make sure you get it to fit properly," Crandall says. "At the warehouse, the chances of you getting new stuff is not real good, and it's not because you're inmates. The policy is, if it's serviceable, it gets passed out first. They'll stick you with stuff that sometimes is not the right standard."

He shows them how to check their outfits, called structure gear. Each piece has to be carefully examined, because a relatively minor rip, tear or dab of grease could have consequences.

"Smoke, soot and ash are the byproduct of unburned fuel," he says. The substances can ignite in intense heat, and must be cleaned from equipment immediately.

"Don't let the pants touch the ground. If you get your liners dirty, if it brushes against the ground and picks up oil or gas, it's a wick," says Crandall. "And fire travels uphill" -- and now Earl Shannon joins with Crandall to emphasize -- "three times as fast as downhill."

Crandall also repeats, several times, the admonition that they are responsible for making sure their gear is up to standard.

"If you're wearing something that's ripped, and you didn't check it and report it, whose fault is it? Yours. If you tell me, the monkey is off your back and on mine," Crandall says.

"Like I had a hole in my boot," Shannon says proudly. Crandall takes the lead-in, emphasizing, "He took the liability off him and onto me."

Crandall goes back into the discussion about how to use the gear. As he speaks, the wind blows slightly, a woman's voice can be heard, and a car drives by, speakers thumping.

A person could almost forget that they're only about 60 feet away from the barbed wire fences of the prison. But when asked about the chance to go outside the prison walls as firefighters, they say whatever the situation, they rarely forget they are prisoners.

Medina, who has a broad smile under his black mustache, is a bit of an exception to the rule stated by most of the inmates that their lives are so programmed that they're always aware of their status as felons.

Always an inmate

When called to a run, the inmates are awakened from their barracks and sent to the front gate, where their equipment is stored in lockers.

By the time the fire truck makes the short drive from Firehouse 53 to the gate, the inmates are outside with their gear on and ready to go. On their return, they put their gear back and get driven around to the back of the jail where they undergo a strip search before being sent back in.

"When I'm out there sometimes, I feel like a real firefighter, not an inmate," said Medina, who said he plans to pursue firefighting with the California Department of Forestry. "When I get back (to the prison), I do feel a bit let down, when I get back and take off the uniform."

"The only thing I'm going to miss in Baker is this job. I have three boys -- teenagers -- at home. I gotta get home," he says. "I can't see myself seeing my kids in prison. If I go back on the streets and mess up they're going to end up here."

archive