When you drive to Oxford, Wisconsin, by way of U.S. 51, the first commercial establishment you come upon within the town limits is a weather-beaten saloon called Spuds and Suds. Last summer, when I passed through, the building’s outer walls were decorated with advertisements for 7-Up, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and the Budweiser 1988 Lawn Tractor Races. During high season, the tavern doubles as a deer registration center, and the ads compete with posted instructions telling each hunter to attach a carcass tag to his animal’s ear or antler.
As I neared the entrance to the camp building, a jogger heavy with sweat passed by on a track that looped around the facility. No guards monitored the area and there were no fences–the runner was held back only by his conscience and by small signs that said simply, “Out of Bounds.” Inside I was met by no system of buzzers, locks, and requests for identification. A passing man in prison greens directed me to the office I was looking for.
“We’re the smallest camp in the bureau,” he told me. “We average 145 to 150 prisoners, but we’ve gone as high as 176. The camp was built for 104, for two men to a room. Today we have 143. It’s not as overcrowded as most camps. The general public thinks that most of the inmates are businessmen. In fact, 50 percent are drug abusers. The majority of the inmates, maybe about 55 percent, are blue-collar.”
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An inmate who gets into a fight is transferred to a security-level-two institution–a prison with fences, more rules and regulations, and less freedom of movement.
Stewart bristled when I brought up the news coverage of the camp. “It paints us as coddling inmates,” he said, “and it feeds the hysteria of the population that we are too soft on criminals. I think it’s a cheap shot. First of all, from a taxpayers’ point of view, it’s very economical to run these camps. If you housed 140 of these men in the prison it would be very expensive, you’d have to increase security staff operations, maintain the fence.
The camp does offer a drug-abuse program, an Alcoholics Anonymous chapter, and a Bible study group. Twice a year, the camp sponsors a marriage enrichment seminar for inmates and their wives (the seminar does not include conjugal visits). Protestant and Catholic chaplains are in the camp at least once a week, and a rabbi comes up from Madison every other week. One former inmate complained to me that the camp’s psychologist was no help at all. Stewart defended the man and the help available to inmates, citing the fact that in addition to drug and alcohol counseling available within the camp, a consulting psychiatrist was available when needed. “You talk about a lawyer coming in here making a hundred thousand dollars a year, what type of psychological treatment does he need?” Stewart asked. “Generally these men functioned very well in the community and don’t need psychological or psychiatric intervention in the camp, and when they do, they get it.”
All in all, the camp is clean and well kept, but its cement-block architecture left me feeling that living there would be like being incarcerated in a high school cafeteria. I imagined being a judge accustomed to having a big house, a full liquor cabinet, a cleaning woman, and a new Cadillac every year; someone used to spending Saturdays on the golf course and to having the power to decide people’s fates and to award millions of dollars in damages. You arrive in Oxford and not only do you have no car, but your sentence is so long that you’ll have to retake the driver’s test when you get out. You have one set of greens, one shirt, one tie, one suit. You do your own laundry. You work on an assembly line at a soldering plant. You eat cafeteria food. You have a choice of iced tea or coffee and 20 minutes to eat before the next shift of inmates arrives to eat. Your biggest decision is whether to take a walk, watch TV, or maybe make a nice cookie jar for the wife. No, made a cookie jar last week. Make a unicorn this time.
