Jailhouse Rock

It may have been a stroke of correctional genius to offer the prize to the winner’s entire pod, because as the contest progressed, whole housing units united behind their contestants. Maricopa County jails house 10,000 involuntary residents, a small city of mostly unhappy criminals, often brimming with tension and danger, but with Inmate Idle in full swing, everyone noticed a brighter mood inside the wire. All facilities reported that violence in the yards dropped, as inmates stayed on best behavior so as to not get their pod disqualified. Racial clans and homemade shanks, it seemed, were no match for the camaraderie generated by putting a few personal pan double Meat Lovers pizzas on the line. But even that may not quite explain how much the inmates really worked together. As early as the first auditions, all the inmates were supportive of each other, even if they sang like harpies. “It’s cool,” they’d say. “You did all right, man.”

John H. Lowery, Jr. pretty much nailing Otis Redding

Bret and his co-host Grant saw it with their own eyes by the time the semifinals were broadcast. The videos — plain, static shots of men and women in stripes and bad light with little room to do much in the way of performance — were a welcome change from the normal programming selection, limited to C-SPAN, the Weather Channel and the Food Network, the irony of which did not go unnoticed by the inmates as they watched Rachael Ray make baked eggplant in her matching sweater sets and learned that it was sunny in places they couldn’t visit. During the contest, Sheriff Joe had started allowing broadcasts of American Idol, but it was when their own homemade version of the show finally appeared that the inmates went wild. Bret and Grant watched, along with one of the contestants in his pod. He sang “The Dance,” by Garth Brooks, and Bret and Grant were surprised to see the pod absolutely united in cheers. Black, white, Latino — they “all went nuts, even those who were clearly not Garth Brooks fans, really coming together.” Grant was glad, because he’d joined the Sheriff’s Office to make a difference in people’s lives. It sounds corny and counterintuitive, he knows. But Grant is a tall, friendly and preternaturally cheerful Mormon missionary whose political idol is Bobby Kennedy. Since he picked up Spanish on a mission in Colombia, Grant teaches an extremely popular English-language class in the jail, in addition to his K-JOE hosting. And as one of a half-dozen D.O.s in the entire system who can speak Spanish, Grant hears all the prisoners talking. Of all the programs the jail has offered — parenting class, anger management, GED course work — none has ever caught fire like Inmate Idle. Over the next few days, 7,000 ballots came back. Bret was sorry to see some of the contestants go, but he was not at all surprised to see Corey wind up with the highest tally. Christopher came in second, with John and Gary just behind. And Katrina, who watched all the videos and then filled out her own pink ballot for Corey, seemed karmically rewarded for her honesty when she just barely edged out her next competitor by a single vote for the sixth and final slot. As K-JOE spread the word, the finalists discovered they’d become jailhouse celebrities. Katrina’s nickname is Cookie, because everyone says she’s so sweet, and every time her name was mentioned, the women in her yard would yell out, “Cookie — you did good, girl!” People she didn’t know would stop her in the day room, by the laundry, on the ramp where everyone hangs out: “We know you’re gonna make it, Cookie! Sing for us right now!” On-the-spot requests were the norm for all of them. Gary would entertain with a country repertoire. John used the new listeners to try out his own material, autobiographical ditties about tragic disappointments. On the loading docks, where Corey carried in the huge, never-ending boxes of cheap and sometimes-expired ham and bologna that make up the jail’s infamously bad chow, the D.O.s kept asking to hear a few bars of “My Girl.” Even working his second shift, where he’d serve that chow in other jails, he’d be recognized from the tapes. “Aw shit, it’s ‘My Girl’! ” he’d hear. “You sounded good! Maybe one night you won’t have to eat this stuff.” Once, Christopher found himself pounding out his favorite song, “Hold My Hand,” by Hootie and the Blowfish, in a holding tank on his way back from court. “If they had that one on the song sheet,” Christopher told the other inmates, “I know I would take the finals — no doubt, man.” Back in his pod, when news about Christopher’s ascent to the finals circulated, he was immediately cornered by a couple of guys with big ideas. “Yo, man, I tell you what,” one said. “I think you should forget the judges and play to the crowd. It’s all about energy, man.”