Jailhouse Poker, Online Casino Poker Gambling Strategies, Poker Casinos Articles, Play Poker Games, Poker Tips, Online Casinos

Jailhouse Poker

By: Geno Lawrenzi

 

They play poker differently at America's toughest jail, operated by America's toughest sheriff, Joe Arpaio, in downtown Phoenix, AZ.

 

The Madison Street Jail, where I had the pleasure of dining on Arpaio’s famous green bologna and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, is housed in a concrete and steel building at the corner of

Madison and Third Avenue

. It’s a fairly easy place to get into if you go through the electronically controlled gates and pass the inspection of a flint-eyed guard, but once inside, after they assign you a booking number, it’s a lot harder to get out.

 

In the case of Yours Truly, I had had a spat with my then live-in girlfriend, a wild woman from the Phillipines who turned out to be as sexy as she painted herself on the Internet Dating Service — but who was as emotionally wrecked as a baboon on locoweed. Our discussions about how to handle a new relationship got out of control one night and I was escorted down to

Madison Street

by an understanding deputy who
claimed he had no choice but to listen to the ravings of a woman who had claimed domestic violence.

 

And so there I was, collecting my new striped uniform, pink shorts and pink socks for a stay that would hopefully be short. After being assigned to cellblock 33, I met my new roommates. They turned out to be a fine bunch of citizens, in there for a variety of offenses ranging from driving under the influence — Arpaio is well known for going after drunk drivers, people who fail to pay traffic fines, and other charges. “Do you play poker?” demanded Brian, a smooth-faced 19-year-old who was serving time because he had sex with his 16-year-old girlfriend and her mother found out about it. The fact that Brian was also a juvenile when the ‘offense’ occurred had no impact on the judge. Under Arizona ’s system of laws, Brian, then 17, was as guilty as a serial killer and would be punished to the full extent of the law.

 

“I’ve been known to play a hand or two,” I responded, not telling him about the $42,000 I had picked up in an Omaha High-Low tournament at the World Poker Open in Tunica.

 

“Great!” said Brian, a deadringer for Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He told me that the inmates’ favorite game was Hold’Em and that the game usually started right after chow.

 

I was just a little confused. When I had been booked, they confiscated all my money, leaving me nothing but a uniform of stripes with one pocket. “What are the stakes?” I wanted to know.

 

“Candy. You can bet peppermints, which most of the guys do, or hard candies. Your choice. We buy them through Arpaio’s commissary. He makes the profit and we get the candy. If you don’t have any, I’ll lend them to you. You can pay me back next week.”

 

I didn’t bother to tell Brian that I fully expected to be released long before next week rolled around, but I accepted his generous offer.

 

That night, the 40 inmates in cellblock 33 dined on something they not so affectionately referred to as the ‘Red Death’. I didn’t find out what its ingredients were — only that it tasted awful; there was some indescribable kind of meat base to it, and I tossed most of my evening meal into the trash can. It was red in color if that means anything. And most important to Arpaio and the Maricopa County Jail system, the meal, mouldy bread and the somewhat overbaked potato that went with it cost less than 18 cents, the sheriff’s budget for the average inmate dinner.

 

Brian loaned me 10 peppermint candies. I took a seat at a long table with nine other inmates ranging in age from 19 to 60, all of whom were well supplied with candies in plastic bags.

 

The first thing I noticed was the deck. It was bent, broken out of shape and there were marks on many of the cards that any sharpie could have spotted in a second. When I brought this up, Brian smiled cheerfully.

 

“That’s all we have to play with,” he said.

 

“If you want to furnish us with a new deck from the canteen, be our guest. But you’ll have to pay for them.”

 

There were four Mexicans at the table who were being held by U.S. Immigration. They would face a hearing for being in the country illegally and, after a proper length of time, would be sent back to with orders not to return. One, Oscar, had an evil-looking goatee and tattoos all over his arms. He leered at me and said something in Spanish that included the word Gringo. I never understood a word he said for the duration of my stay.

 

Each player was dealt two cards, Texas Hold‘em style. Then the dealer placed five cards face down on the table. The backs could easily be read by anyone with half a brain, including someone whose thinking powers may have been deranged by crystal meth. Then the players each placed one piece of candy into the pot after checking their hands. Hell, some of them didn’t even look.

 

I did look: a pair of queens. I raised. Gomez, who was dealing, said, “What are you doing?”

 

“Raising,” I explained. He shook his head. “Can’t do that. You can only raise after the last card.” I offered a protest to the effect that this is the way they did it in Las Vegas , not to mention Tunica, and I was acting according to the rules.

 

Brian interjected, “This is the way we do it. This is jailhouse poker.”

 

Oh.

 

All of the players called the bet and the dealer turned over three cards, the flop. Nine, seven, deuce, unsuited. I came out betting and everyone called. The fourth card was a four of spades. Same thing. Nobody folded.

 

The final card was a ten. Now you could bet two candies. Someone threw in two peppermints, I called and Oscar raised. I reluctantly called, knowing I was beat and he proudly turned over a deuce four making two pairs. As he raked in the chips, somebody gave him a high-five. I threw my cards into the muck and Oscar picked them up, looked at them and without a word shuffled the deck.

 

My ten candies didn’t last long. Brian didn’t mind.

 

“Don’t forget, you owe me,” he said with a big grin. “We play tomorrow, same time. I’ll stake you.”

 

During my stay at the Madison Street Jail, I don’t recall a winning session.

 

They had another jailhouse rule that did a number on my brain. If the board contained, say queens and tens with a nine, and a player had a pair of sevens in his hand, he won the pot against another player who
had an ace kicker.

 

Why? Oscar explained to me it was because the player had a pair. “But it’s a smaller pair than the tens!”

 

Didn’t matter, said Oscar, shrugging. A pair is a pair.

 

“This is jailhouse poker,” said Brian, looking at me like I was an elementary student who needed to learn the rules.

 

There wasn’t much to do in our small cement closure except play cards — spades, gin rummy and poker were the favorites. We also did a lot of reading. I caught up on Charles Dickens and Leo Tolstoy, reading War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Little Dorrit and Great Expectations.

 

I genuinely liked some of the inmates of Cell Block 33. For the most part, they turned out to be gentle decent human beings, not at all like the convicts in Cool Hand Luke. They were very helpful in showing a newcomer the ropes. And they were always happy to take my money — I mean, my candy chips – in the card games.

 

The night before I was to be released, Charles and Steve came to my bunk, where I was reading a murder mystery.

 

“We know you’ve played for real money in Vegas,” said Charles. “So we’re going to play a little blackjack in your honor. Care to join us?”

 

“Of course” I said, putting the book away.

 

That night we played blackjack. I must say I did better than I did in Texas Hold’Em. I won enough candy to repay Brian for his courtesies.

 

That night the Detention Officer came to the front of my cell and said, “We’re kicking you out. Get your stuff.”

 

I jumped out of bed off the hard foam mattress, picked it up along with my pink towel and personal belongs, and left the cell. As I walked down the stairway to freedom, the pod erupted into applause and cheers. It was very touching, a ritual that happened every time a prisoner left Cell Block 33.

 

I turned and waved at them, my mattress over my shoulder. For a moment I actually felt tears threaten. Hell, I thought, this is stupid. I followed the D.O. out of the pod after promising myself I would never eat another bologna or peanut butter sandwich as long as I lived.

 

(© 2005 BluffMagazine. All Rights Reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed)