O.C. Rural Jail No Picnic Anymore : Courts: Overcrowding from main jail floods Musick minimum-security compound.

“Welcome to Musick,” Sheriff’s Deputy Craig Nelson told the 24 stony-faced jail inmates, just off the bus from Santa Ana on a cold, rainy night and now huddled on wooden benches.

“This is the easiest time you’re going to do in Southern California, provided you follow the rules and regulations.”

Few inmates who have had the opportunity to compare accommodations at other jails with those at Orange County’s James A. Musick Branch Jail would argue.

After Nelson’s introduction, the inmates are shown a videotape that opens with an aerial view of the sprawling 100-acre complex--nestled between the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station and a Lake Forest neighborhood--as strains of soft pop music fill the background.

“Oh no, not the movie,” muttered one inmate, well-schooled in the routine.

The narrator begins a monotone recitation of the rules: “Mustaches must be neatly trimmed. The upper lip will be visible. Sideburns will be stovepipe in design and have no flares.”

This particular group of “swimmers,” as deputies call inmates not yet assigned bunks, looked like the kind of fellows who hadn’t followed a rule or regulation since junior high. But once checked in, most follow Nelson’s advice for the simple reason that not doing so means expulsion from the rural, camp-like atmosphere of the county’s most relaxed detention facility--and a quick trip back to the Central Men’s Jail in Santa Ana, where breathing room is scarce and tension runs high.

“The guys out here are much easier for our people to work with,” said Lt. Vincent Battit, the night watch commander. “There are no violent criminals, no dope salesmen, no sex offenders. . . . We err on the safe side, and it saves a lot of bruises and contusions.”

But Musick is not the “country club” to which law enforcement officials sometimes jokingly refer. The severe overcrowding throughout Orange County’s jail system has penetrated this compound; almost a third of the inmates live in huge, cramped tan-colored tents that were never meant to be more than temporary housing when set up five years ago. And incidents of violence--though mostly minor--are on the increase.

The Sheriff’s Department tries to restrict entrance to minimum-security Musick to inmates who seem not to be violent or likely to flee. Once there, they are housed in crowded barracks and are allowed to move freely within their own compounds several hours each day. Most leave the facility each morning to work on county projects or in kitchen and housekeeping crews at other jails--where the inmates are too high-risk to be trusted with such tasks.

“The overcrowding limits our ability to segregate inmates,” said Assistant Sheriff Jerry Krans, who oversees the county jail system. “I can’t remember an assault on a staff member, but fistfights between inmates are fairly frequent. I think we have one or two of those a day.”

Musick was originally a work farm, and it retains much of its agricultural heritage. Some inmates tend to the facility’s cantaloupe, corn and other crops, or to its chickens, pigs and cattle. Its 8,000 chickens lay more than 6,000 eggs a day, enough to meet the entire jail system’s demand.

“It’s not exactly pet therapy, but just the fact that they’re around the animals softens them a bit,” Krans said of Musick inmates. “You get a tough macho type, and he helps deliver a baby pig or calf. That has a warming effect.”

Visiting hours are more relaxed than at the county’s four other jails. While Musick lacks a visiting center and must make do with mess halls between mealtimes, prisoners are allowed to sit at tables with family members and hold hands with their loved ones. At Central Men’s Jail, communication with visitors is by telephone across a thick glass window.

Built in 1963 on land purchased from the Irvine Co. for $250,000, Musick--then called the Orange County Industrial Farm--was designed to house about 150 inebriates, non-supporters, and other low-level offenders.

The Sheriff’s Department took over administration of the farm in 1974 and it was renamed the James A. Musick Facility to honor the county’s sheriff, who retired that year.

In 1980, a women’s compound was added after women inmates sued the county, demanding that they, too, be given access to a low-security facility for minimum offenders.

Today, it holds more than 1,200 prisoners in four separate compounds, each of them surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with spiraling strands of razor wire. The women’s section alone--called South compound--now has space for 170 inmates.

The women have virtually no contact with the men. In one of the facility’s mess halls, about a dozen women inmates stand behind a wall and prepare food trays, which are then handed through a small opening to the men as they file by.

But the men never see who’s serving them.

“If they could see the women, there’d be trouble,” Battit said.

The barracks of the original East compound, a quadrangle of buildings that opens onto a courtyard of neatly trimmed hedges and billowing shade trees, are crammed with rows of closely spaced bunk beds. West compound, a quadrangle that is considered the facility’s most secure area, was created in 1986 from construction housing trailers purchased in Oregon. The trailers were supposed to be temporary; they held more than 460 prisoners on a recent night, and the county has no plans to replace them.

North compound is the most vivid reminder of the county’s struggle with overcrowding. There, behind the intimidating chain-link fences, stand five huge tents, each supported by aluminum framing, with plastic windows all around.

The windows were put in when the county refurbished the tents last year. Now that inmates can see out, Krans said, they are less likely to poke holes in the expensive fabric so they can keep an eye on guards.

Four of the tents--labelled yellow, blue, red and green for identification purposes--hold 90 prisoners each, while a fifth tent serves as the group’s day room, with a pool table and exercise equipment.

The tents have linoleum floors on concrete foundations, independent heating and air-conditioning systems. Newly constructed bathrooms in adjacent structures, with rows of toilets and sinks, are a big improvement over the single toilet and urinal that previously served each tent, Battit said.

But the air is stifling even on a cold night and the odor of cigarette smoke is strong. Small groups crowd around card tables, others watch the TV in the front part of the tent; still others lay on their bunks and read, write letters, or stare at the high, canvas ceiling.

“Some of the conditions are atrocious, and it frustrates the hell out of me,” said Battit. “You feel like your hands are just tied together.”

Similar tents are used at the Rikers Island Prison Complex in New York and in state prisons in Michigan. But the California State Board of Corrections doesn’t recognize them as permanent inmate housing.

“It’s shelter or housing that is barely constitutional, but we haven’t been sued to get rid of them,” Krans said. “They provide ample shelter for the inmates that are there . . . and it’s basically use them or release them.”

The four compounds together have bunks for 1,086 men and 170 women. On a recent night, the facility held 1,075 men and 120 women.

The numbers change almost constantly; as the Central Men’s Jail approaches its court-ordered population limit, sheriff’s officials search their records for Musick inmates who can be released early. Then they scan the prisoner lists in Santa Ana for inmates who are safe enough risks to be shifted to Musick.

One such list comes across Musick’s fax machine about 10:30 each night. Those prisoners are eligible to be released the following day; they are roused shortly before midnight, “dressed out,” given their personal belongings and remaining cash, and released as soon into the new day as possible--often just a few minutes after midnight--freeing up valuable bunks.

Sheriff’s officials have an agreement with nearby residents not to release prisoners directly into the neighborhood. Inmates are allowed to arrange their own transportation away from the jail; if no one can pick them up, they are put on a bus to downtown Santa Ana and released there.

With tents and trailers serving as inmate housing, and more than 600 prisoners leaving Musick each day to work, it is not surprising that escapes are relatively common. So far this year, 13 prisoners have decided they’d done enough time--nine escaped from the facility, and four others left their work crews outside the jail. Ten of the 13 have since been rearrested.

“Most of the people here who leave are homesick, and we know where to find them,” Battit said. “They run right to their mother or girlfriend.”

A prisoner who escapes is not eligible to return to Musick. The relative ease of escape, however, forces deputies to keep a close watch on prisoners’ moods and personal situations, as bad news from home can send an inmate over the fence at the first opportunity.

Those with family emergencies can apply for a court order freeing them to attend a funeral or visit a hospital bed. In the meantime, though, if Musick deputies think an inmate is upset enough to try an escape, he is quickly transferred back to Central Men’s Jail.

One night this week, a 36-year-old Mexican immigrant with six months to go on a failure to appear conviction got word that his son was in an Anaheim hospital, suffering heart problems.

The inmate was clearly troubled, and Battit asked a deputy to bring him in for a talk.

“If I let you stay, you’re not going to take a walk?” Battit asked the man. “You understand my concern that I don’t want you to do this?”

“Yes, I understand, sir, I don’t want more time.”

“I want you to promise me something,” Battit continued. “If you need some help, see the deputy. Don’t do anything dumb.”

Battit let the man stay.

“We’re here to take care of these people, not to punish them,” Battit said. “That’s already been done by the county.”

INMATE SHUFFLE: Deputies have added burden of shuffling inmates. A34

LONGTIME RESIDENTS: Two inmates have seen evolution of jail crowding. A35