The tobacco bans that Georgia Department of Corrections implemented in 2010 changed the way things were done here, the way the COVID-19 pandemic did a decade later. One of the early effects was that prison gambling faded almost out of existence. Once the price of a pack of cigarettes hit $50, it was no longer a worthwhile hustle to go to the trouble of hosting a poker game; there weren’t enough people who could afford to play.
But gambling never died out completely. Like smoking and substance use disorder, compulsive gambling is disproportionately prevalent in prisons. Approximately 2 percent of the United States population meet the DSM-V criteria for gambling disorder, while research suggests that the prevalence of compulsive gambling in the US prison population—though estimates vary widely—is probably upwards of 30 percent.
By the time COVID arrived the era of contraband cell phones was already in full swing, and internet access opened up a new world of gambling for those who were really serious about it. But online gambling isn’t for everybody, especially if it poses a tech barrier or if someone’s driven more by the need to socialize than the need to gamble.
Since COVID removed any semblance of surveillance or security, an increasing number of gang-affiliated prisoners are doing well for themselves moving contraband, and have more money to gamble than they did before. And separately, a lot of people are no longer buying tobacco; same thing. So COVID and the tobacco bans have created a class of prisoners with leisure money (relatively speaking) but who don’t find online gambling particularly appealing. Thus, the classic poker game making its comeback.
A game that starts on Friday morning will need a fresh deck of cards about every 10 hours.
It takes about four decks of cards to start a prison poker game. Playing cards are sold at commissary, so whatever enterprising person is acting as the House will first acquire a couple of decks and fashion some makeshift chips. A standard prison poker chip is one-quarter of a playing card, with some sort of signature permanent-markered on both sides to forestall counterfeiting.
In their circle of life, worn-out cards will soon become chips. In the span of one night a fresh deck will deteriorate to the point where the sharp players can spot the high-value cards via thumbnail indentations, creased corners or frayed edges. A game that starts on Friday morning will need a fresh deck of cards about every 10 hours. Anyone caught marking up a card gets kicked out of the game—violently if necessary—their chips divided equally between the remaining players.
“Rehabilitation, I think that’s called,” said B*, a regular player who’s serving a life sentence. “Learning how to behave from paying a fine.”
Games run for six hours, three nights a week starting whatever night commissary orders come in. On weekends, those who are serious will be in games that start Friday and play through Sunday.
When it’s time to begin, the House will drape a bedsheet over a table, which comfortably seats six but can seat eight if it has to, and hand out chips in exchange for commissary items. Chips here are usually valued as dimes and quarters, and it’s a $10 buy-in to get a seat at the table. Players can buy more at any time during the game, but rarely will chips be issued on credit.
The ante is usually a dime. Sometimes a quarter, but that’s good money in prison and the House service has to warrant it.
If there’s a shakedown, the House might lose all the chips. But this isn’t the deterrent that it once was.
“The House knows exactly how many chips have been issued and wants every chip returned at the end of a game,” said Al*, also serving a life sentence. “Otherwise people will come back days later playing with leftover chips. That causes accounting problems.”
Al is not affiliated with any gang, but respected enough by all of them to host players with different affiliations at the same table. The House is his hustle, and it’s a good one. As the House, he’s also the banker and concession stand, and lives comfortably (relatively speaking) on the proceeds without needing any other hustles to make ends meet.
As the banker, Al is responsible for the pot. It’s understood that people won’t necessarily be paid out with the exact items that they originally exchanged for chips, but there are still certain expectations. For example, the House cannot take in only food items and return only hygiene items. So Al advertises up front that a pot is Food or Mixed, the latter usually including things like ink pens or postage stamps. Then he’ll math out the value of whatever’s in the pot and pay everyone out as fairly as can be done.
If there’s a shakedown, the House might lose all the chips and have to start over the tedious business of making them. But this isn’t the deterrent that it once was. It’s been years since policies that prohibit gambling were seriously enforced. They still exist; there are just no longer any officers around to care.
There’s some evidence that people become more vulnerable to compulsive gambling as they get older. The prison population is certainly getting older. Anecdotally though, if someone looking around this place were to come to the conclusion that there’s a correlation between gambling and age, what they’re really seeing is a correlation between gambling and excessive sentences. B is barely 30.
A lot of long-timers play cards because cigarette prices reached a tipping point. The tobacco market these days is mostly newcomers and/or those with short sentences—stressed, trying to white-knuckle their way through it, desperate to avoid strips. More people may have a little more disposable income than they used to, but very few can afford to smoke and use other contraband drugs and gamble. So the poker table skews toward sobriety, and those of us who live here, while cigarettes are for the folks just passing through.
Read Part 2 of this story here
*Names have been changed for sources’ protection
Image via Town of Somers, New York