04/10/2011 11:32 pm ET | Updated Jun 10, 2011

How a California Prison Became The Tear Gas Capital of America

This is a photograph of a room where people have died:


(Robert Walsh photo)

It is in a building next to other buildings filled with hallways where bodies have disappeared only to reappear — perforated, lifeless and jammed under bed bunks exactly like this one:


(Robert Walsh photo)

A fence surrounds these buildings. It looks exactly like this:


(Robert Walsh photo)

To stand inside this fence is to stand in the prison where the notorious Mexican Mafia gang first spilled blood in 1957.

To stand inside this fence is to stand where, in the early 1980s, more tear gas was sprayed on inmates annually than in the entire rest of the nation's prison systems combined.

To stand inside this fence is to stand in the Deuel Vocational Institution (DVI) of Tracy, Calif., or as it used to be known, "The Gladiator School".

But this story isn't about DVI.

And it isn't about pepper-sprayed inmates.

It's about the people paid to do the spraying.

Bob Walsh was hired as a correctional officer at DVI between Christmas and New Years of 1980.

At that time, Walsh said, the prison was, "statistically one of the most dangerous places on the planet."

And though it had been opened to house 18 to 24-year-olds deemed capable of rehabilitation, DVI became somewhat of a warehouse for youths too violent for youth facilities.1

It was as if bushels of violent teenagers were gathered like dead wood and tossed together in a concrete shed.

Gang members rubbed shoulders like dry sticks. Knives struck like matches.

Tear gas canisters doused like fire extinguishers.

"Places like Folsom and (San) Quentin had gun coverage inside the institution. We didn't," Walsh said. "So when the shit hit the fan, we pumped in tear gas."

"Gas 'em 'till they puke" became the unofficial officers' motto back then -- so much so that, "You can still see it written on license plate frames in the parking lot," Walsh said.

Chemicals clung to concrete walls, drifted down hallways, swelled in eye sockets and lingered on laundry.

Officers were unable to trade in their cars because the upholstery stunk so badly of the throat-swelling stuff.

After work, they'd change clothes in the garage.

But like all problems, this one faded.

In the mid 1980s, California opened new prisons. Gang members were separated. DVI's violence declined.

People weren't dying anymore.

But now there wasn't enough room for all the living.

"Gradually, you end up with almost the whole institution double celled," Walsh said.

"Then you're putting people in the day rooms... And then in the gymnasium... And then in the old laundry room."

"Eventually, you're putting bodies where ever you can put them."

With time, all this affects the way an officer operates.

"But I don't think it's particularly negative," Walsh said. "You get to the point where you spent a lot of your day on condition orange."

Condition orange is a common term in law enforcement. It is a state of mind, an elevated level of awareness.

"You're not just sitting there," Walsh said. "You're actively looking around — listening, planning... where is my avenue of escape?"

"You get two correctional officers on the yard talking to each other," Walsh said, "they don't stand face to face, they stand offset so they can watch each others backs."

"You don't stand at the edge of the tier overhangs. That way people can't drop things like batteries or garbage cans on you."


A cell block at DVI. The tiers are the elevated walkways on the right and left. (Robert Walsh photo)