What's it like for prisoners in a Marion County jail van?

By the time Deputy Steve Monday rolled up, the 30-year-old man was standing handcuffed and crying on an Indianapolis side street.

Monday pulled on a pair of powder blue plastic gloves and frisked the man. He patted around his white T-shirt, grabbed the legs of his blue jeans, yanked his belt and checked the ankles of his high-top gym shoes.

No guns, knives or razor blades — safe for moving.

Monday walked the suspect to the rear of his brown and tan Marion County Jail transport "wagon," a standard-sized windowless van carved in back into three compartments. Each section seemed no larger than those used for animals in a dogcatcher's truck, but 13 shackled people could fit on the narrow benches, if needed.

The suspect twisted his 5-foot, 11-inch frame inside with ease, and Monday drove off to the Arrestee Processing Center at 752 E. Market St.

It was the beginning of a non-stop human conveyor belt that moves 40,000 people a year through the Marion County criminal justice system.

Each day, about 460 of them would be led in shackles and orange jumpsuits to courtrooms and back to their cells. More than 22,000 a year would be treated in the jail medical office. Others would need rides to Eskenzai Hospital.

They would be fed three times a day. About 2.4 million meals a year would be cooked and brought to them. They would be entitled to visitors and phone calls.

Many would be be shipped off to prisons after convictions. Some could spend a year or more waiting for their trials. Others would be released.

Each step would be controlled by a deputy, a kind of personal valet — but with a gun and handcuffs and not in much of a mood to chat.

The assembly line starts with Monday and 31 other drivers, who bring every person arrested in Marion County to jail.

Monday pulled into the processing center garage with the drug suspect as his only passenger. He let the man out of the van and walked him into the small, locked, check-in area.

If one thing is readily apparent in the sheriff's transportation system, it's that everything locks: doors, windows, gates, cells, chains, handcuffs, holsters.

The man would be fingerprinted, photographed and assigned a number. In 24 hours, if he hadn't bailed out, he would be driven to the City-County Building a few blocks away for more processing and given his jailhouse jumpsuit.

After that he would be walked to either Marion County Jail through an underground tunnel, or driven to Jail 2, which is across the street from the processing center.

'Much safer'

Sheriff's officials say the number of trips required to simply get prisoners to their cells increases the risk that the prisoners can escape. It's why they support a controversial proposed new criminal justice center, in which the jail, courts and processing center would be centralized.

"One door in and one door out," said Capt. Louie Dezelan. "Much safer."

While Monday waited for his charge to be processed, four other vans pulled into the garage in succession, like cabs pulling up to the driveway of a hotel. Except these guests didn't have any bags and they didn't look thrilled about the accommodations.

One van let out four people handcuffed together, another let out two, and the remaining two wagons had solo passengers.

After 10 minutes Monday returned to his van and checked his dashboard computer — four new pickups popped up.

Never slows down

Monday swooped first to a halfway house and then a probation office on the Eastside to pick up three people who had violated probation or parole.

One was a young woman so she was put in a section of the van separate from the men. All three folded themselves into the tiny compartments with the elasticity of a contortionist and quite a bit of physical grace, given their predicaments.

They were silent in the van, as Monday said most are. Sometimes, he'll hail a nonstop talker or someone who raises a ruckus the whole way, but that's rare.

Because so many prisoners are drunk or under the influence of drugs, Monday keeps the temperature cool in the back cabin. He doesn't want anyone getting sick; if they throw up, he has to clean the wagon.

Most of Monday's passengers are hauled in for traffic-related offenses or probation violations, and he's practiced at detaching himself from their circumstances.

But recently one man's situation did generate a slight pang of empathy, he conceded.

A handyman was sent to a house to do a job and discovered the homeowner was dead. He called police who, as a matter of routine, ran a background check on the handyman. The cops discovered he had an outstanding traffic warrant and arrested him.

"He was trying to do something good, and now he was heading to jail," Monday said.

Only once has Monday carted a killer to jail; when a man was shot with a rifle during a tenant and landlord dispute. "I can't remember who shot who, though," Monday said. "That was on night shift when things are really busy."

Monday's last stop before heading back to the APC for another drop-off was in the 6000 block of East 21st Street, where he picked up a 46-year-old man for trespassing in his wife's house.

It turned out to be an old friend, of sorts.

"I've locked him up before," Monday said. "He's not supposed to go to the house. He's having a hard time understanding that."

No no-hitter

Monday said he has never had a 12-hour shift in which he didn't pick up someone — but he came close once.

It was Christmas Day 2013, and Monday said he had made it 10 hours through his shift without a call when he was summoned to 38th Street and Mitthoefer Road.

"The cop there said he didn't want to have to arrest the guy on Christmas but had to because he was so drunk," Monday recalled. "I told him, 'Great, you ruined my no-hitter.' "

Call Star Going Places reporter John Tuohy at (317) 444-6418. Follow him on Twitter: @john_tuohy.