Tyrannical by Nature: The reality of Oconee County Detention Center

In a wild twist of events, I served two separate sentences in the Oconee County Detention Center (OCDC)—one for eight days and the other for thirty. These eye-opening experiences taught me valuable lessons I believe we can all learn from. The transitions between becoming accustomed to incarceration and then returning to “freedom” are worth noting.

From the time of my arrest until I was processed into OCDC, the officers were courteous, despite the illegal nature of my arrest. Throughout the ordeal, I remained polite to all the officers. The first officer I encountered at OCDC was also kind. I submitted my personal belongings, including my phone, wallet, shoes, and belt. He allowed me to keep my ring.

I was then placed in a small, freezing cell with another man who sat on the opposite concrete bench, wrapped in a blanket. I was not given one. The officer who put me in the cell mentioned he would return with a blanket, but he closed the door with noticeable force. The sound of that door slamming shut for the first time leaves a lasting impression. I suspect the officer was well aware of this. Over time, I learned that the door could be closed gently and still latch securely, but some guards choose to slam it with authority. Those who close it quietly don’t complain when others slam it—they are clearly united on their side of the blue line.

The man under the blanket was significantly overweight and looked unhealthy, to say the least. He mumbled to himself almost continuously, occasionally speaking clearly, though his words rarely formed coherent sentences. I couldn’t tell if he was in a permanent state of mental collapse, still high on something, in withdrawal, or some combination of the three. What was clear was that he had not been given socks, and he was desperately trying to keep his feet and shoulders under the blanket. I was wearing formal socks—the thin kind—and my feet were uncomfortably cold on the concrete.

I quickly learned that inmates familiar with the traditions of incarceration would kneel down and yell through the food service port in the door whenever they wanted to communicate with the guards at the desk. In the booking section, a desk is visible through the narrow glass slot in each cell door. The tradition seems to be that the guards take requests and then fail to deliver on them for long periods of time.

I knocked on the door's glass, got the attention of one of the booking guards, and requested socks for the man with bare feet. One of the women at the desk said she would bring them shortly. I felt like she cared. Later, I learned this is always the response. Whether you ask for a blanket, a phone call, or toilet paper, you are often told it’s coming soon. After a while, when you ask again, you’ll hear the same answer. If you ask too many times, the guards become irritated. It’s just part of the tyrant game they play to feel powerful. You can sit and watch as blankets remain within arm's reach of the guards, who carry a key to the doors. To them, the comfort of an inmate isn’t worth the calories they’d burn to get up, walk a 50-foot round trip, and then plop back into their chair.

Eventually, I managed to get a paper cup for water and began drinking immediately. I was planning a 10-day fast, and I was already starting off dehydrated and sleep-deprived.

I was in this holding cell for more than a day, with no pad to rest on—just a concrete bench. The stainless steel toilet had a floating turd that wouldn’t flush, despite my attempts to push the small flush button repeatedly. Attached to the same unit was a sink with a button that released water long enough to fill the small cup halfway. I drank water at a pace that made me need to pee often, so I devised a plan: drink two cups of water every time I used the toilet.

The mumbling man would shift between trying to rest and sitting folded over, with his chest on his knees, displaying an incredible level of flexibility. I struggle to touch my toes, so I found his ability to be comfortable in this position impressive. At one point, a Seneca Police officer entered the cell with some paperwork for the mumbling man. The large, husky officer, in a clear display of power, walked up to the man and stood directly over him as he read a list of pills and other items the man was being accused of possessing. It was aa uncomfortable scene. How could a man of such obvious strength take pleasure in feeling powerful over someone so demoralized? This is the very definition of a bully, regardless of the context.

I called the officer a tyrant and urged him to show some compassion. The man was clearly not mentally stable. There was no need for the officer to loom over him while delivering such damning news. The prisoner seemed to understand that the officer was telling him he faced harsh punishment for possessing various drugs, along with scales and bags for distribution. Oddly, the man only objected to the possession of one type of pill. The officer shot me a cross look but didn’t back away. I then asked him how he could be so proud to work for the corrupt Police Chief Bowling. He left without a word.

It was clear that my YouTube posts of my presenting at Seneca City Council meetings, where I detailed how the Seneca Police, under Chief Bowling, had defamed my wife in a criminal manner, hadn’t gone viral. However, I believe the videos did make the rounds within the Seneca Police department. It’s possible the officer realized who I was. Chief Bowling had stopped attending city council meetings as my appearances became more regular. I wonder if they’ve returned to normal now that I’ve missed a few months. The guard, who had been waiting by the door for the officer to leave, closed it more gently than before.

- I look forward to the next Seneca City Council meeting on August 13. It feels good to be a free American.

The mumbling, delusional, and remarkably flexible man never received a pair of socks despite my continuous requests. At one point, I suggested that my wife could go to Walmart and bring enough socks for everyone, but this was before I realized that the problem wasn't access to socks but rather a lack of empathy. Eventually, I was given a blanket after I stopped asking for one. Occasionally, I saw guards who seemed to step up. For instance, there was one man who was yelling angrily through the door. Though I couldn’t see him, his frustration was loud. Lee, a guard behind the desk, managed to calm him down effectively, and he seemed to genuinely care. (I will use names where I know them so that the story can be validated and the individuals involved can respond.)

After several hours, I was escorted out of the booking cell for processing. Here, the tone and objectives of the OCDC employees shifted dramatically from the initial check-in process. It became clear that their goal was to make me feel humiliated and demeaned. Initially, this was done through a condescending tone, with guards laughing and joking among themselves as if their lives were so much better. When I pointed out the tyrannical nature of their behavior and suggested that it indicated their lives lacked meaning, they escalated to louder voices and subtle intimidation techniques, such as hard looks and sharper tones. It was evident they were well-practiced in this approach but had little experience dealing with proud citizens who accept the consequences of exercising their rights. I felt it was my responsibility to resist the tyrannical behavior of those who seek superiority through the abuse of low-level power.

When it was time to take my picture, the woman who escorted me to the photo station instructed me on how to face and where to look. Immediately, a different woman behind the counter yelled at me not to smile. I asked why, and she stated it was policy. When I questioned the policy, suggesting it was meant to make the incarcerated look defeated for public consumption rather than ensuring justice, the woman behind the counter went into a rant. Two overweight women who seemed to prioritize sitting over attending to the needs of the inmates were upset that I didn’t look sufficiently sad. The woman behind the counter complained that I was the reason her job was difficult. I suggested that her desire to be a tyrant was why she had a miserable job. I used a polite tone.

The fingerprinting process, conducted by the same short, blond-haired, overweight woman who took my photo, was surprisingly pleasant. We engaged in a reasonable conversation as she methodically guided each hand through the process. Initially, she took one finger at a time, pressing it against a glass plate on a modern machine. Then, she took all fingers at once, as well as the sides of my hand and thumb. She didn’t need to refer to the instructions on the screen, but occasionally, she had to reposition my fingers if the image was rejected. Her methodical and gentle approach made the process more agreeable, and I wondered how many men might have felt the touch of a woman for the first time in a long time during this process.

She then brought me over to sign a form that lists my belongings that had been taken into their possession. The description of my cell phone simply said “black.” Given that I had critical evidence on my phone—specifically, recordings of my illegal arrest—I was concerned it might "go missing." . I have reason not to trust the Oconee County Sheriff’s Department. I had previously made a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, only to find that recordings from the sheriff's department line had been erased.

Despite having solid evidence in my phone log of multiple calls to this recorded line, my FOIA request yielded no records from that time. I was investigating lead investigator Jimmy Dixon, who had intimidated my family while allegedly off duty, driving an unmarked car and wearing an Oconee County Sheriff’s Office polo. I suspected that Sheriff Crenshaw might have been involved in covering up for Dixon by erasing these calls from the public record.

I mentioned to the booking guard that a more detailed description of the phone would be helpful, which seemed to trigger the short, heavy set young woman who was handling the paperwork. She snatched the document away with a snappy correction that the cover wasn’t black, but the phone was. She then made it seem like a punishment that she wouldn’t let me sign the document. She also asked me to sign a permission slip for medical care. I declined, as I planned to go on a hunger strike. This only aggravated her further, and she quickly moved on.

A young, scrawny man leaning back in a chair suddenly blurted out, “I will be sleeping in my comfortable bed tonight.” There was no setup for this comment; I had no prior interaction with him. Before this outburst, he had been a silent, lazy figure in the background, with his feet propped up on a stool. I took the opportunity to address all the 4 or 5 officers present, explaining why their combined behavior was tyrannical and unnecessary, and suggested they could lead better lives by adopting a more compassionate perspective. Oddly enough, this seemed to have a brief effect.

These guards are impulsive and unsophisticated, much like some of the inmates. To correct this tyrannical behavior, consistent oversight would be necessary over an extended period to foster change in habits. I am confident this is not one of the goals of management.

Finally, I was permitted to make a phone call. Over the day and a half I spent in booking, I saw many men—perhaps eight—being checked in and placed in cells. The narrow slot window in our cell overlooked the guard desk and, to a lesser extent, down the hall to the entry area. This hallway led to a two-bay garage where squad cars unloaded arrestees. Once a cop pulled in with a prisoner in the back, they closed the rollup door to prevent the handcuffed individual from escaping. Since I was in the last cell on the right, I had to look hard left through the slotted window to see new inmates being checked in.

The building was constructed with exposed block walls, creating acoustics similar to those of a school hallway or a parking garage stairwell—an environment you'd never want in your own home but is deemed acceptable for children, prisoners, teachers, and guards. Our cell door had a thick slotted window in a heavy metal door. While I couldn’t make out the words of those being checked in, I could hear them without trying. I was struck by how many people were arrested in this small corner of the world. I had been arrested around 10:30 AM on May 29th, a Wednesday—not a holiday or weekend.

I would quickly come to realize that the biggest leverage the guards had over the prisoners was control over phone access. Many prisoners would beg persistently for a phone call, but most guards would merely respond, saying it would be “just a moment.” I finally managed to call my wife after I was missing for half a day, having asked for the phone about five or six times in evenly spaced intervals, even after figuring out the guards' game. It seemed that about half the prisoners never figured out this game, or if they did, they were too desperate and impulsive to avoid falling into the trap. I heard many people begging to call about urgent matters—dogs locked in houses, kids needing rides. Some had very valid reasons to plead, and it was painful to watch these men try and extract sympathy for the guards.

As I made my phone calls, Lee noticed my wedding ring while I dialed with my left hand. He commented about the ring from across the room but did not interrupt my calls. I managed to make three calls, each limited to five minutes, all to my wife. I expressed my gratitude with a sincere “Thank you.” As the call time naturally ended, Lee informed me that my wife had called the desk looking for me, claiming she was my fiancée, which implied I wasn’t married. He said my ring needed to be removed for safety reasons, as if an unmarried man wearing a wedding ring posed more danger than a married man.

I firmly stated that I would not remove the ring and did not consent to its removal. Someone threatened that if I refused, it would be removed by force. A large officer with long locks named Officer Wint appeared. It seemed the guards were preparing to get “hands on” if necessary. I simply repeated that the ring would not be removed, and the tension in the room rose sharply. I imagined that if the room weren't under video surveillance, the guards might have been less patient.

Lee, perhaps attempting to resolve the situation or to assert additional authority, threatened me with solitary confinement if I did not remove the ring. I opted for solitary confinement, and the tension immediately eased. Lee then escorted me to a small room, instructing me to remove one piece of clothing at a time until I was naked. He seemed patient and comfortable with this process. He then asked me to lift my scrotum for inspection. He inspected. He requested I turn around, squat, and cough. I objected, but he insisted it was necessary. I considered escalating the matter but chose instead to spin in a quick circle and cough without fully squatting. It seemed to satisfy Lee, though I wasn’t sure if he was fully content with the limited exposure.

I was given brown boxers and an orange jumpsuit with “OCDC” printed on the shirt in black block letters. I was placed back in the holding cell with the mumbling, delusional man who still didn’t have socks. Now, I had thick orange socks. Again, I requested socks for the man, who thanked me. The cold temperatures in those cells in May in South Carolina seemed designed purely as a form of torture, alongside the discomfort of sleeping on concrete without padding.

From my booking cell, I couldn’t determine the time. The lights were always on full blast, but at some point, the staff would shift from night to day, and meals would be served. I would repeat the booking process a few weeks later, by which time I had learned the timings of shift changes and meals, allowing me to better gauge the time of day. The first visit was disorienting due to the newness of the processes, the constant shouting from unseen men in neighboring cells, the cold, and the lack of padding. On top of that, life was going on outside the walls—contracts pending and bills due. The mumbling man turned out to be harmless, which was a small relief.

The night before, I had worked grinding concrete floors until 2 AM and then had an hour-long drive home. This contract was nearly done, behind schedule but under budget. There was still work to complete before submitting the final invoice. It had been a long, hard night. I was in bed by 4 AM, anxious about Oconee County Probate Judge Danny Singleton’s threats to incarcerate my wife due to his corruption and incompetence.

By 10 AM, I was awake, dressed, and documenting myself requesting a summons for a Rule to Show Cause in the Oconee County Probate Lobby. I was arrested around 10:30 AM on very little sleep. I suffer from a severely herniated L4-L5 disk that flares up from time to time, causing significant discomfort. On that morning, I wasn’t standing straight and was in noticeable pain. Maintaining proper posture, including while sleeping, is crucial for managing my condition, and I have developed effective strategies for sleeping at home. None of these strategies were possible on a concrete bench and no pad. I informed them of my condition during booking, as if someone might care. Silly me. I did my best to maintain proper posture without sleep for another day.

On a schedule, plastic trays of what appeared to be the least expensive food were delivered to our holding cell. My cellmate was eager to eat both his and mine. Despite his crude and unhealthy demeanor, he thanked me each time I gave him my food, making him much more respectable than the guards. When I was removed from the cell, dressed in my orange jumpsuit, my cellmate remained in his street clothes, still without socks. I would later learn that people are left in this holding cell until they are sober and the worst of withdrawals have passed. It seemed the strategy was to take advantage of people at their most vulnerable and make sure they knew how little value their lives were considered.

After some time, a guard came to escort me to my solitary confinement cell. First, we went through a locked door, down a hall and into a room to grab an old, beat-up flat sleeping mat, a sheet, a thin blanket, a medium and small towel, and a small Ziplock bag containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, a cup, a comb, and a safety pencil. I was then escorted down the hall to Cell Block D, clearly marked in bold block letters on the prison beige walls. We unceremoniously walked to the last cell on the left, D106. As the guard requested over his radio, the cell door was buzzed open.

To get to the cell, we walked through the common area for the inmates in this block. The common area is a large, open room with a two-story ceiling. Two of the walls are covered in two stories of cell doors, and there is a wraparound balcony with an industrial stairway. There were a few people out playing cards and engaging in other activities, but the energy in the room was low and did not seem to change with my arrival. I could see people looking through the slot windows in their doors, but no one shouted out. When the guard opened door D106, we found the cell in disarray from the previous occupant. One man, dressed in orange, came to help clean up the garbage and collect items of interest. In the mix, I ended up with an extra blanket, which turned out to be a critical score.

I was exhausted. Despite the flimsy mat, it was still better than the concrete. I was grateful not to be someone who needed things a certain way. The cell seemed acceptable to me. I don’t usually prefer being alone, but this option seemed better than being in danger. Although I pride myself on being a strong man capable of defending myself, fear is an inherent part of that process. Everything about this environment was unfamiliar to anyone who had never been incarcerated, and I was unsure what to expect. I wanted to avoid confrontation.

At first, the sounds in the facility were unsettling. Every sound echoed like yelling in an empty concrete building, and it was difficult to determine how far away some noises were. Occasionally, there was a very loud slam that shook the place. Weeks later, while in a different block, Roy would explain that this noise came from a man who kept a plastic food tray in his cell to slam against the door at night. This was unsettling, partly because I anticipated that at some point, the doors would open, and I could be in close proximity to these men. This was before I realized that solitary confinement meant I would be let out of my cell for one hour every other day, alone, at around midnight. Before I watched the men interact through my door proving to be a more reasonable social environment than I had imagined.

In my cell, there was a small desk and a seat hanging off the wall. My back wouldn't allow me to sit and work in this configuration, but it provided a place to put things. My back is a bit "weird," as my wife describes it. When my disk swells, I am visibly crooked. In 2013, several doctors recommended surgery, but arranging my life around the procedure seemed impossible. I manage as best I can. With nothing to rest on but concrete, I was thankful to have a place now with more support for my back. The pad was so inadequate that my body parts would fall asleep, and I had to use the "extra" blanket as a lumbar roll. I constantly had to roll and move to prevent my back from worsening. There was no pillow, and the room was so cold that the provided blanket was insufficient.

I would later discover that the shower in the cell was quite hot at certain times of the day. Some relief from the cold could be found by taking hot showers or just turning on the shower to warm up the room. It was late May in Greenville, SC—mild outside at night and hot during the day. The extreme cold in the cell seemed designed purely to torture the inmates, at the taxpayers' expense. I felt the AC pumping from the vents on the high ceiling, out of reach. I tried to block the vent with wet toilet paper, but it would fall over time. This wasn’t my original idea; I saw evidence of previous attempts to block the vent and used them as inspiration.

There was a bright light in the center of the room, which dimmed to about half power at night, though it was still bright. Someone had “glued” pieces of paper up there in the past. I repeated this practice using pages from torn books left by the previous occupant and toothpaste. This helped to temper the light at night while still providing enough light during the day. There was no way to see outside or get any natural light. During the day, I could see people going through a door to another room, which I later learned was a handball court with a window. I was never allowed in this room. When I was let out of my cell briefly, the door to this room was locked. I was more focused on calling home than on seeing out the window into the night anyway.

By the time I reached my cell, it had been almost two days without food. I was sentenced to ten days, and if I managed to complete this, it would be the longest water-only fast of my life by far. My previous record was five days while working at the Navy Surface Warfare Center in Maryland. During that fast, I had survived a catered Chick-fil-A lunch. I recalled a quote from one of my favorite speakers, Jordan Peterson: “If you don’t choose your suffering, someone will choose it for you.” Here, I might not have control over all my suffering, but I could choose this part. I was on a hunger strike, and day two was challenging, marked by hunger pains and a headache.

I kept track of my fast on the cover of a small Bible—one of those with tiny print and thin pages that I couldn't imagine anyone actually reading. I simply listed the days. I had been arrested on a Wednesday late morning, so I marked my first hash as Wednesday lunch. I would need to skip 30 meals if I were to complete this fast. The room walls were covered in pencil drawings—some mildly impressive, but most quite childish, like the ones I might draw if I were so inspired. There were also random writings on the walls, mostly unintelligible. On the door, which had a smooth surface perfect for writing, someone had listed the meal times: Breakfast – 5:30, Lunch – 10:30, Dinner – 4:00. I was grateful to whoever wrote this; it helped me keep track of time.

My right knee was swollen from work over the previous week. I wanted to start a calisthenics program in my cell right away, but it turned into a combination of calisthenics and physical therapy. I couldn't squat down, so I bent my knees as far as I could without too much pain and bounced until it hurt. I spent a lot of time on core exercises, doing crunches, leg lifts, and supermans. Pushups were a staple. I saw a man doing pull-ups on the underside of the metal-framed stairs from my slotted window. I did a couple sets of pull ups each time I was let out of my cell.

It turned out that most people in D-Block got out for a four-hour shift each day—two shifts, one before dinner and one after. Some people came to my door to talk. Talking through the door was a trick; it was loud in the common area when people were out and the door made it hard to hear.

I learned the hard way that getting out of the cell was a game. Initially, I held my pride and didn’t ask. I stayed in the cell without pushing the little button beside the speaker. When food arrived, I simply and politely asked to have it taken away. I never saw the face of the man who delivered the morning food trays, but I assumed he was a youngish Black man based on his voice. Phil brought the lunch and dinner trays. The reality of the challenge ahead was beginning to take shape.