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“Is this the most surreal thing you’ve ever seen?” he says, laughing. “I mean, I’m no more equipped for this than you are.”
For this visit, the first of five I paid to him over an eight-month period, Downey is in his “bonneroos”—jailhouse slang for being dressed to the nines. He looks gangsta chic in blue jeans and a prison-issue denim overcoat. Beneath the denim he’s wearing designer undergarments (known as “love-loves”)—a white Emporio Armani T-shirt and Calvin Klein boxers. His face has a healthy glow from his morning racquetball game, but there are stress lines in his forehead, and his eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Downey wastes no time getting over to the vending machines for a breakfast burrito, a jalapeñto cheeseburger, and several coffees. I insert the coins and make the selections, since inmates aren’t allowed to touch the machines. “Now, don’t forget the condiments,” he says. “They’re crucial to the enjoyment of this fine fare.” Back at the table, Downey digs in, warning me not to eat from his snacks. “I’m probably, like, creepy-crawling with every disease in the book,” he says matter-of-factly.
For this visit, the first of five I paid to him over an eight-month period, Downey is in his “bonneroos”—jailhouse slang for being dressed to the nines. He looks gangsta chic in blue jeans and a prison-issue denim overcoat. Beneath the denim he’s wearing designer undergarments (known as “love-loves”)—a white Emporio Armani T-shirt and Calvin Klein boxers. His face has a healthy glow from his morning racquetball game, but there are stress lines in his forehead, and his eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Downey wastes no time getting over to the vending machines for a breakfast burrito, a jalapeñto cheeseburger, and several coffees. I insert the coins and make the selections, since inmates aren’t allowed to touch the machines. “Now, don’t forget the condiments,” he says. “They’re crucial to the enjoyment of this fine fare.” Back at the table, Downey digs in, warning me not to eat from his snacks. “I’m probably, like, creepy-crawling with every disease in the book,” he says matter-of-factly.
Having lost 15 pounds—due in part to having in his system no cocaine or heroin, which gave him a doughy appearance when he was “using”—he looks muscular and lean. While he is noticeably Robert Downey Jr., the actor, he’s not recognizable to most inmates. Robert Altman’s The Gingerbread Man is not exactly in the prisoner’s film canon; neither is Richard Attenborough’s grand 1992 biopic, Chaplin, for which Downey, playing the title role, earned an Oscar nomination for best actor. Then again, there was Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers. In that one, Downey’s character helps incite a prison riot—something he’s certainly not going to attempt in real life. When Downey arrived here, he recalls, the assistant warden told him, “If we have any discipline problems with you, we’re going to come down on you like a ton of shit.”
Downey and I step outside, into a mini-yard surrounded by tall fencing. From here you can see some of the two-story buildings that make up the California Substance Abuse Treatment Facility and State Prison, Corcoran. This is no country club. The buildings on the prison grounds have security levels ranging from “minimum” to “maximum”; Downey lives in a “high minimum”-to-“moderate” building. Adding to the menacing atmosphere is the fact that right next door stands the maximum-security California State Prison, Corcoran, home to Charles Manson, numerous Crips and Bloods, and guards who allegedly forced inmates to engage in “gladiator” fights, shooting one who refused to participate.
Downey and I step outside, into a mini-yard surrounded by tall fencing. From here you can see some of the two-story buildings that make up the California Substance Abuse Treatment Facility and State Prison, Corcoran. This is no country club. The buildings on the prison grounds have security levels ranging from “minimum” to “maximum”; Downey lives in a “high minimum”-to-“moderate” building. Adding to the menacing atmosphere is the fact that right next door stands the maximum-security California State Prison, Corcoran, home to Charles Manson, numerous Crips and Bloods, and guards who allegedly forced inmates to engage in “gladiator” fights, shooting one who refused to participate.
