This Prison Guard Is So Tough He Checks Warden’s Car--Twice

From his perch at a forlorn high-desert outpost, the ever-watchful Al Taylor squints through pitch-dark sunglasses like some Marine Corps drill sergeant waiting for fresh meat. Or an angry traffic cop.

Slowly, steadily, he walks out to meet the maroon mini-van, holding up his hand as the woman driver rolls to rest in front of the oversized stop sign. Taylor peers in at the timid-looking woman--a mother, wife, sister or girlfriend of some inmate confined at the hulking state prison at Lancaster, located just to the east in the hazy distance.

And then he goes to work.

He checks the inside of the van for contraband, peeks under the front seats, opens the rear doors. Then with a grunt, he reluctantly lets the woman pass.

Taylor is a state prison guard who works the front gate at the 3-year-old Lancaster prison--a sometimes-surly, mostly businesslike, gatekeeper to the not-always repentant men who languish behind bars.

There’s good reason for caution: There have been at least four escapes from this prison, including one Teflon-coated inmate who climbed over an eight-foot block wall and two 12-foot chain-link fences--all topped with razor wire. Another slipped out in the cargo bay of a garbage truck.

And this Good Friday morning is particularly busy with pre-Easter visits. So Taylor isn’t taking any chances. He eyeballs everyone--every car, truck, delivery van or kiddie-laden school bus--both coming in and going out--with the focused fury of a man who suspects his wife is having an affair.

“I check everybody, “ says the 51-year-old Taylor, who has minded the prison gate since it opened in 1992. “My job is to make sure that no extra bodies leave this place. The way I see it, the boys in denim are here to stay.”

Heck, he even checks out the warden’s car twice each day.

“He doesn’t mind one bit,” Taylor says matter-of-factly. “The warden is very religious about showing me his ID.”

Taylor wears a green uniform with a gun in his holster and a whistle on the lapel of his jacket. On the front of his cap, he sports a badge that reads simply “Corrections.” It might as well say just “Tough Guy.”

When it comes to inmates and con games, he doesn’t take any guff. If he wore one of those smiley-faced greeting buttons, the face wouldn’t be smiling and it would just say “Have a day, creep.”

Maybe it’s the place he works that makes Taylor such a stickler for law and order: It’s a whitewashed shack, really, with a tiny bathroom and space heater to comfort officers from the stinging high-desert winds that blow cold from November through March.

Whatever the reason, nearly everyone at the far-flung prison agrees on one thing: Al Taylor is obsessed by his work.

“Al is the consummate professional,” said fellow gatekeeper and corrections Officer Jesus Cruz. “He feels that this position is the No. 1 most important security post at the entire prison. Anything can happen if he makes just one wrong decision.

“Contraband could come in. Or a prisoner could get out. After all, this gate is the only way in and out of the place. Unless, of course, you go over the wall.”

Taylor sees another role.

“My job is to protect the warden,” he said. “I’m like a pawn and he’s the king. And let me tell you, there’s a lot of pretty questionable-looking people who try to pass through this gate. My job is to make sure they check out.”

In fact, Taylor is one of few gatekeepers who carries a revolver--a privilege he secured from the warden.

Mostly, Taylor is on the lookout not just for some disgruntled ex-con who might try to even an old corrections score, but for less dramatic contraband like alcohol, pocket knives and cameras that visitors might try to spirit into the prison.

Born and raised in Kentucky, Taylor served in the Army in Korea but never dreamed of a job like his: “This is just like an undertaker’s job. Nobody wants it, but somebody’s gotta do it. What I’ve found is that once you do it, it’s really not so bad.”

And so Taylor stays vigilant. Nothing funny ever happens on his job, unless you count the time Taylor shut his tie in the trunk of one car he inspected and had to scream at the driver not to speed off.

His challenge is knowing when to turn off. “I don’t want to be so hard-line that I scare kids who come here,” he says. “It’s not their fault their dad went to prison.”

And he doesn’t want to argue with the journalists, lawyers and others who insist on bending prison regulations by wearing denim jeans on a prison visit--forbidden so they cannot be confused with denim-clad prisoners. “I let them have their say, offer their explanations,” he said. “And then the answer is still ‘no.’ They’re not coming in. Not wearing blue jeans. Not on my shift.”

*

Taylor doesn’t think there’s another officer at the prison who could come close to doing the job as well as he does. And as far as those escapes are concerned, none of them happened on Al Taylor’s watch: He knows his link in the prison security chain remains as strong as ever.

Well, maybe there’s one guy Taylor believes could give him a run for his money.

His hero: actor Charles Bronson.

“I like the way he handles things,” Taylor deadpans. “No matter what the challenge, no matter who gets in his way, Charles Bronson always gets things done.”

But bet on this: If Charlie ever shows up at Checkpoint Taylor in blue jeans, he damn well won’t get in.