A Bed-and-Breakfast That's Tough to Leave

Under cover of night, a white bus marked SHERIFF PRISONER TRANSPORT pulls into a sprawling concrete compound with a cargo of new fish--convict slang for first-timers. The passengers are segregated by iron grilles into minimum-, medium- and maximum-security seating. They cannot see the shadowy outline of the snow-capped Wasatch mountains because the only windows on the bus are narrow and situated high above their heads. The bus lurches to a stop, and an officer cheerily calls out, "Welcome to jail. Does anyone want to be handcuffed?"

On this brisk evening, the Salt Lake County Adult Detention Complex is moonlighting as a bed-and-breakfast, offering citizens a one-time-only opportunity to experience punishment without crime. Price: $55 for adults, $30 for children. So just who came up with this screwy idea? Sheriff Aaron Kennard, who says with a missionary's zeal that the public needs to "see what my people are going through." His people are the 665 officers and civilians who will staff the $135 million facility when it opens to real criminals this week. But some of the sheriff's visitors have another goal. They want their kids to see what they will go through if they get in trouble with the law.

As the guests file into the booking area, an officer types insistently into a computer and barks, "What are you in for?"

"Robbery, I guess," says Matthew Ostler, 14. He has been body searched, hustled through metal detectors and photographed for a mug shot. Dressed in a faded black T shirt and baggy khakis instead of jail stripes, he has a hangdog demeanor. He was caught trespassing on elementary school grounds and trying to steal a bike last fall. The law dealt with him lightly (a $75 fine); tonight is his dad's turn.

"Any drug use?" The barrage of questions continues at the "psychological station."

"Well, I take a calm-down pill because I get hyper and stuff," replies Ostler, shuffling his feet. (His parents put him on Adderall last fall to help him focus.)

"Know what we're going to feed you?" asks the counselor. "Bread and water?" answers Matthew, who had earlier bolted down a McDouble and fries just in case. He seems sincerely concerned, but his manner is mistaken for belligerence.

"Want to go to the padded cell?" the guard asks testily. One guest, an architect who has vowed to break out of the jail, is already pacing one of the three padded cells reserved for "noncompliants." Matthew shakes his head and goes to get fingerprinted.

The 97 guests are a motley assortment. Two Mormon missionaries who work with prisoners wanted to experience life on the inside, and a postal worker and his wife came for what they insist is "the educational value."

After collecting coarse blankets and plastic cups, the guests report to their assigned cells. They're segregated by gender, and the men are led to Unit 3C, where an officer monitors 32 two-person cells from an elevated control center. There are no windows, only small, dim skylights. A concrete racquetball court adjoins the common room, which doubles as a cafeteria, and a visiting room is located on the second floor. Prisoners leave the unit only in case of an emergency.

When the designated free time arrives, Robert Ostler plays checkers with his son at a steel table in the common room. "I've grounded him. No TV. No Nintendo," says the burly truck driver with a weary sigh. "I've tried to lock his bike up. Nothing worked." He frowns at Matthew, who pretends not to hear while contemplating his next move.

Then comes the highlight of the evening--and Robert's best chance to scare his son straight. An officer in a yellow inmate outfit and red helmet and pads begins shouting in cell 3C06, as if he's a convict gone berserk. On cue, four officers in riot gear march to the door of the cell and shout, "Ready and stop!", before one unleashes a burst of pepper spray. Then they rush in, pinning the prisoner to the wall, handcuffing and evacuating him.

By morning, Matthew is raring to go home. "I feel trapped," he says, as he awaits his release papers. "I don't want to be here." The feeling is mutual. The jail staff hopes never to see him again.