My introduction to an intricate, effective communication network known as “lines” came immediately after arriving in 1991 at a federal lockup in Los Angeles.
When the massive metal door clunked shut and the officer lumbered away, I peeked out the tiny door window to survey my bleak surroundings and saw a blurred object silently fly by on the floor.
“Shoot me a line,” came from my left.
“Just did, stupid! Look out your door,” came from my right.
A few minutes later, I heard something faintly sliding across the floor.
Dropping down, I peered through the gap under my door. Just 6 inches into the hallway, I saw half of a stripped down, flat-bottomed, jail-issued shoe attached to a string slither by.
Entangled with another sole was a folded piece of paper nestled in the twine like a robin’s egg, and more lines running off in the other direction. Then I got it. The unseen guy on my right communicated with another, two cells to my left. He sent a message on the initial cast, and the reply returned over the distance of about 30 feet.
Smoke signals, jail style.
I also perceived the message was about the “fish” on the row — me, the new guy. How appropriate: a fishing line.
As I progressed through my initiation of Prisoner’s Jail Tactics 101, I found the use of lines was not limited to confidential written communications. Many new arrivals to prison, who lacked supplies, found this mode of contact vital.
My new neighbors soon “hooked me up,” or provided me with my own line, enabling transfer of writing materials and even food, to perpetuate this conspiracy of silence: a gift basket from my prison tier’s welcoming committee.
The package of goods almost did not make it. The shoe sole “leader” (another fishing term) expertly came to me, but stopped about 1 foot from my threshold. I had nothing to reach for.
Now what?
My benefactor, next to me on the right, solved the problem. He whispered loudly with needed instruction:
“Tear off a strip from the hem of your T-shirt, about 3 feet long, and tie one end around half a bar of soap they gave you.”
I figured it out and after a few attempts, hooked the leader into my cell. Pulling in his line brought in writing supplies and, gratefully, a candy bar and instant coffee packets.
The package was wrapped in the middle of his line with the excess running back to his cell. Mission accomplished, he pulled his line back. He later sent me a long length of twine removed from the elastic waistband of a pair of boxer shorts, a common source, along with shirts and sheets. (In case you’re wondering, typical rolls of dental floss are not available in California prisons.)
I later discovered the flat shoe sole was the preferred weight to propel your line down the tier or across a dayroom floor; toenail clippers were equally efficient.
A practiced “fisherman” can easily fling a line. They can skip it like a smooth stone across 50 feet of floor, like it’s a still pond, and under the doorsill gap. In lockdown situations where cells surround a large dayroom in a 270-degree configuration, I’ve seen lines bridge 100-foot gaps between cells with relay assistance.
Relays are accomplished by notifying a distant cell, “Hey, Cell 8, line coming — shoot it down to Cell 12!” Cell 8 then flings, or “casts,” the line after hooking it into his own cell. When a line is launched, everybody watches the progress like it’s a TV show.
Even when a line encounters a 90-degree turn, relays ensure progress. Going from the bottom tier to the upper requires the same procedure, with the top floor always initiating the treasure trail.
Two-tiered housing can present a small problem for fishermen. A powerful fling from the first or second floor can cause the leader to hit and bounce over the upper-tier railing. But when it happens, a friendly relay in the cell below will retrieve the upper line and propel it along the way. Almost everybody has a line and cooperates with relays, but nobody handles the package being transported — nobody. Officers seldom intercept lines in isolated housing either. The method is simply a way of life.
I have personally observed, in awe, a caravan of ramen noodle soup packets, 10 total, travel over 100 feet from an upper tier to the lower level. Soups must first be crushed to fit under most doors and tied securely to affect a successful supply train. This motivated connection took over 40 minutes to complete and only left a telltale trail of noodle crumbs from one partially breached package.
The hilarity of the skills, and missed casts, are worthy of a short documentary. When a cast hangs up on the dayroom tables and benches, people in other cells with better angles shoot out their lines to untangle the mishap. Sometimes it is fruitless and the line is lost.
Of course, contraband travels these routes too. But the primary motivation of fishing lines is taking care of needy brothers in the same isolated circumstances.