Special Reports

by Laura Diaz
  California prisons are bursting at the seams. The people who work there have tough jobs. Correction officer is a job many men would fear -- let alone women. Last week I was granted unprecedented access to tell the stories of some brave female officers, who face mortal danger every day.

"I've had inmates in my face, telling me that they were going to kill me or stab me. I've had inmates doing sexual misconduct, where I've had to write them up," Officer Armstrong said.

Calipatria State Prison, maximum security -- it's located in the sweltering desert of the Imperial Valley, 180 feet below sea level. But way above capacity -- 4,000 inmates jammed into a place designed for 2,000.

The mood is tense. People are still recovering from a riot here two years ago. Two-dozen officers were hurt. It didn't end until an inmate took a fatal bullet, fired by an officer from a tower.

"And an inmate stabbed somebody who has the very same job as you, in the head?"

"He was stabbed," Officer Mejia responded. "He was patting down and the inmate had a weapon. So the inmate turned around and stabbed the officer. After that incident happened, minutes later inside the chow hall, the female correction officer asked for help. As soon as the door opened, the inmates turned on the female officer--starting to kick her and beating her up, as well as the responding staff."

With that terrible day serving as a constant, ominous backdrop, our prison tour begins.

We are told to refer to officers by last name only. We are warned against running across the prison yard. Just that is enough to incite the inmates.

We are reminded of a sobering state policy -- if we're taken hostage, they will not negotiate for our release.

Before we enter the next building, even more drastic security measures are taken.

they call this "the hole". The badest of the bad are housed here, and the level of tension is reflected accordingly.

Anyone who enters here is required to wear a stab-proof vest.

Any time an inmate is removed the cell, he's shackled at the hands and often at the feet.

"We have murderers, we have rapists, we have people, who committed robbery, people who battered people with great bodily injury, car jacking, gang-type crimes, drug-related offenses," said Officer Alvarez.

"And why do you always wear gloves?"

"A lot of the inmates here have hepatitis C," Officer Armstrong responded. "Some have HIV and then not only that, but because I'm a female and these are male inmates, you know, just as a way of not having skin-to-skin... "

"No arousal?"

"Right, exactly," Armstrong replied.

Of the 20,000 correction officers in the state, less than one-fourth are women. When females were first hired in the 70s, some of the men quit in protest. They've come a long way since then.

"It's a dangerous unit, We have staff-assaultive inmates in here. Or a lot of these inmates are here for stabbing other inmates. So, we have a close, tight-knit group here."

And they need to be tight knit. One mistake and you could be dead.

Half of the inmates here are lifers. The officers arrange a meeting with one of them.

We are allowed to talk to him as long as he's inside a cage. He's a murderer, who has been in and out of jail since he was 12.

"And what is it like to have them be some of your only daily contact with other human beings?"

"Well I mean, I'm a man. I love women," inmate Seabourn said. "You know, you see them, but I'm no sexual predator or nothing like that, you're just like… It's like having a steak or something you can't eat, always right there in front of you. You know what I mean?"

After our talk, Armstrong cuffs the murderer and leads him back to his cell. But make no mistake -- he's still a threat. He's known for making lethal weapons out of the most common objects, like a fork or a pen.

Time to leave "the hole," Armstrong's shift is over.

On the way home, she throws on a shirt to cover her uniform. She doesn't like to advertise where she works.

Once inside, the mother of two is like any other mom -- she cooks dinner. But she also comforts a son, who worries about his mother at work.

"Um that like, I think that she's, checking the cells and a prison guy is trying to get her," Armstrong's son, Marc Anthony said.

"And that I broke my heart. I told him, 'you don't need to worry about me; you're too little to worry about me. I'm a big girl; I'll take care of myself. I'll make sure I come home!'"

Over the years the male correction officers accepted their female colleagues. Now, many praise the women for being a calming influence in volatile conditions.

(© MMVII, CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved.)