As He Runs for a 4th Term, ‘Toughest’ Sheriff Is Ever Inventive

He likes to be called Sheriff Joe, “America’s toughest sheriff.”

But some folks here in Maricopa County--Arizona’s most populous--think Joe Arpaio’s just plain mean.

Since taking office seven years ago, he’s blended a penchant for cost-cutting with a hard-line attitude toward the people accused of crimes in his territory.

He feeds prisoners aging, surplus food. He clothes them in black-and-white-striped uniforms with pink underwear (which he also autographs and sells). He’s reinstituted chain gangs for male prisoners and started one for women. And he houses detainees in military tents.

Recently, the sheriff reopened a jail that had been closed by plumbing problems so dogs and cats from animal abuse cases could be put in the air-conditioned cells. And Arpaio has instituted a bread-and-water diet for misbehaving prisoners.

His latest innovation? To scattered applause--and threats of legal action--Arpaio has introduced “jail cam.” The Web site, the first of its kind, focuses on life behind bars at the nation’s fourth-largest jail.

Arpaio, 68, calls himself uncompromising and says he won’t coddle criminals.

Others claim the sheriff is bent on humiliating everyone in his charge. His recent policies, they say, are simply more self-aggrandizing antics during this, his third reelection campaign. He is expected to win easily.

That Arpaio is unconventional is indisputable. How his controversial ideas percolate is undefinable. “When I decide to do something, I do it within a week,” he says. “I don’t have committees, I don’t run it by lawyers and all that garbage. I just do it.”

The jail cam has elicited the loudest cries from Arpaio’s critics. As drama, the herky-jerky images are less than captivating: A suspect being routinely booked fills one screen, a suspect being quietly searched is available on another. And while there is the potential to view a psychotic detainee being wrestled into a restraint chair, those who log on are usually treated to the grainy sight of empty corridors.

Still, such was the interest in the Madison Street Jail Web site that its first day drew 3 million visitors, causing its Internet server to crash. The site now claims an average of 2.5 million visitors a day.

Arpaio says that giving would-be criminals a Web preview of the grim conditions inside the county lockup will serve as a deterrent.

And, he explains, the peeks into cells serve another social function: an updated version of being placed in the stocks in the town square.

“I like to think that the ‘johns’ we arrest in prostitution busts will be able to wave to their wives: ‘Hi,honey. I’m in jail,’ ” Arpaio says with some relish.

The jail cam has been attacked as an unnecessary humiliation of people who, in most cases, have not even been charged with a crime. The county’s jails are filled with those awaiting trial and those convicted of petty crimes requiring terms of less than a year.

The American Civil Liberties Union is considering legal action against the sheriff.

Arpaio’s correctional concept “seems to bypass the niceties of presumption of innocence until proven guilty,” says Eleanor Eisenberg, president of the ACLU’s Arizona chapter. “We think this is clearly punishment by humiliation. The exposure to someone who has been arrested can have a profound impact on their lives. I question whether the sheriff really thought this one through.”

Arpaio and the ACLU have tangled often--most recently a few weeks ago when the sheriff introduced what he called a bread-and-water diet for troublemakers. The disciplinary action is meant for inmates who throw food, feces and urine at guards, which is a felony in Arizona. Arpaio says there were 180 such incidents last year.

Under the program, any assault will draw a seven-day diet of the “nutritionally enhanced bread.” The 5-ounce loaf is served twice a day on a piece of paper, eliminating the need for plates or utensils, which inmates also have hurled at guards. Inmates may drink water out of the spigots in the cell.

Each small loaf contains 1,500 calories and is made from shredded potatoes, carrots, meat, dried beans and other items. Inmates, not surprisingly, have complained that the diet is unappealing.

The move from three squares to two rectangles a day has drawn the ire of civil-rights groups, which already had criticized Arpaio’s “green bologna” policy of buying surplus food for the inmates that is healthful but aesthetically unappealing. Likewise, his menu offering of ostrich casserole, after a local farm donated 40 of the animals, was not well-received.

The jail does not serve coffee to inmates, a decision Arpaio says saved the taxpayers $100,000 a year. In fact, the sheriff’s culinary penny-pinching has helped him reduce the cost of feeding about 7,000 detainees to 66 cents apiece each day.

That figure became an issue when the sheriff started putting dogs and cats into air-conditioned cells. About 1,400 prisoners, meanwhile, sweat out Arizona’s blistering summer in Arpaio’s uncooled tent city.

The dozen or so former pets are being held as evidence in animal abuse cases, and Arpaio proudly announced that he is spending nearly twice as much to feed the animals as he is the inmates. “They deserve it,” he says.

Each dog and cat has a private cell, complete with mattress and blanket. Inmates have been put to work painting park-like scenes in the cells.

“I’ve got inmates cleaning up the crap,” Arpaio says, responding to complaints about the program. “That’s the way the ball bounces.”

The pet population exploded earlier this month when 12 puppies were born behind bars.

Despite attacks on his handling of prisoners--including condemnation from Amnesty International and criticism from the U.S. Justice Department--the short, stout Arpaio remains one of the state’s most popular figures. His policies have dramatically cut costs, and his refusal to coddle criminals has gone over well. In March, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld his ban on Playboy magazine and other explicit materials in jail.

A recent endorsement of Arpaio’s candidacy by the Arizona Republic led to a blizzard of letters to the editor, including one outraged taxpayer who called Arpaio a “crusty little camera magnet.”

Sheriff Joe can get sensitive about the height of his profile. “Everybody says I’m a publicity hound, but they call me. I don’t hide from the news media,” he says, returning a reporter’s call after having led a Japanese film crew on a tour of the jail. “They say I want to be the governor, but I just want to be the sheriff. . . . I get more attention than the governor.”

Some of Arpaio’s self-promotion has backfired, however. After the electric fans at the tent city were destroyed by inmates last month, a local man donated 1,000 hand-held fans with the imprint “A Sheriff Joe fan.” Arpaio happily ordered his deputies to distribute the fans. Ever resourceful, the inmates tossed the paper portion out and began to carve knives from the wooden handles.

The Web site, by the way, is not Arpaio’s first foray into photo technology. He once strapped cameras onto the backs of German shepherds, which the dogs toted around as they patrolled the fenced perimeter of the tent city.

To the detention officers who work under the ever-present eye of the jail cam, it’s just another wacky rule. Lt. John Rankin, shift commander at the aging jail, was diplomatic when asked about the purpose of the cameras, saying: “I don’t know, I’m not the PR man here. But I can’t imagine it’s a very exciting Web site.”

Few in the jail one recent morning even seemed aware of the cameras--or that their actions were part of a Web site, https://www.mcso.org. Detention officers said they either don’t notice the cameras, which are placed next to existing surveillance equipment, or they don’t care.

But the presence of the cameras does concern some officers. Those who work undercover take precautions to hide their identities, and others say there are personal safety issues with having their faces and names known to the world. Detention Officer Shawn Greshle said she was apprehensive that inmates with a grudge or with gang affiliations could identify officers off the Web site images.

“None of us do our jobs any differently because of the cameras,” she says. “But my family is really concerned that someone could get me. It’s so new, we don’t know what could happen.”

Arpaio responds that a jail guard who fears inmates is a jail guard who should get out of the business.

At least one person has pronounced himself thrilled with the cameras. Elzie Kennon, an inmate trusty whose job is to keep a hallway clean, says he knows all about the Web site. His every move is made with his “audience” in mind.

“Oh, I always go past the camera with my best side forward,” he says, pointing excitedly to the lens and smiling broadly.

“I might pick up some trash along here, like this,” he says, bending primly from the knees and squatting. “And I always give them my best pose.”

With that, Kennon freezes into an exaggerated body-builder pose, revealing small, lumpy biceps.

You never know who might be watching.