You think you’ve found a weakness in my fence line. Let me explain what you’re actually dealing with.
Our perimeter is two 14-foot fences topped with rolls of gleaming, triple-bladed razor wire—a design personally twisted and perfected by my razorwire specialist, Sergeant B. One roll on the top. Two flanking the sides. Eight rolls stacked down each fence line, forming a pyramid of steel blades from the ground all the way up.
Imagine the entire perimeter as the open jaws of a giant great white shark, each roll of wire a row of steel teeth.
It’s 7:45 p.m., right after yard closure for Master Roster Count. You—gangster, mobster, escape-artist-extraordinaire—think you’ve found a blind spot.
Zone 18. The tower casts a shadow there during certain daylight conditions. You’ve stashed blankets and jackets to use as makeshift padding over the razorwire.
So while count is happening, you start your climb. You drape a blanket over the bottom roll, climb a few feet, reach back, move the blanket or jacket up… and with every move, the razors shred a little more fabric. You don’t notice that your protection is disappearing inch by inch.
Meanwhile, the control room already knows.
“Sir, Zone 18 alarm is active. We have an attempted escape. Post 10 is en route. The inmate is at the top of the inside fence.”
I call Post 10. Use deadly force only if he gets over the fence and refuses commands. (Truthfully, I already know you have less chance of success than a snowball in the SHU.)
I head to the control room, watching your little adventure on the monitors. Inside Security responds, and God decides it’s not your time yet—because Sergeant B is the one who answers.
We converge on Zone 18—me driving up the perimeter road, Sergeant B closing in from inside.
We arrive just in time to see you notice us. And that’s when you make your fatal leap of faith.
You actually clear the top roll. For half a second, you’re triumphant—perched at the peak of this pyramid of blades.
But gravity and razorwire don’t negotiate.
Your right cheek catches a single razor, which drags from the top of your ass all the way down your leg until it meets the top of your Achilles tendon. You flip, spin, and drop headfirst straight into the pyramid beneath you. Your ankle is sliced to the bone. You slam into the concrete.
You end up five to seven feet from me, face down, bleeding everywhere, looking like you were just filleted by a surgeon who lost control of the knife.
No fewer than twenty additional cuts. All deep. All needing stitches.
You’re screaming like a stuck hog. We’re trying to keep you calm because we legitimately think you might bleed out before EMS arrives. I lower my voice so you must quiet down to hear me. It works. You stop screaming. You start apologizing for being stupid. I tell you not to worry—your football team is trash anyway.
You laugh. Even bleeding to death, you’re embarrassed.
Then comes the moment I’ll never forget.
Sergeant B backs into the razorwire to get to you. He doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
Another officer starts cutting the wires around you. As the blades release, you fall—so Sergeant B slides under you, putting his own body between you and hundreds of razors. You’re upside down, clinging to him, bleeding all over him, while he’s being sliced open in six places, each wound needing ten or more stitches.
We free you and walk you out of what now looks like a shredded mountain of metal teeth.
By then, EMS is already waiting. From 7:45 p.m. to 7:56 p.m.—eleven minutes total—you went from “I got this” to “I’m lucky to be alive.”
And you were. Had that ambulance been anywhere else, you wouldn’t have made it.
Sergeant B saved your life that night. Most people have never heard that story.
Everything happened the way it did because we trained relentlessly. We trained each other. We prepared for this exact scenario. And when the real thing happened, the team moved like a machine designed to save a life.
And we did.
The inmate survived. Spent some time in the hole. Maybe he thanked us, maybe he didn’t. Doesn’t matter.
That night, after it was all over, we had a round of beers. Not because of the drama. Not because we stopped an escape. But because we saved a man’s life.
God is good, all the time.
Just sayin’.