TAMMS -- Although he's confined to his cell for all but about an hour on most days, Steven Wuebbels doesn't mind being isolated at Illinois' lone "supermax" prison -- a place human rights activists consider inhumane.

The man serving life for killing his brother-in-law in 1992 admits he's a cauldron of rage he doubts any therapy or medication will ever control. He vents by doing jumping jacks and push-ups. He figures if he ever had to share a 7-by-12-foot cell at the 11-year-old Tamms Correctional Center, either he or his cellmate would come out in a body bag.

"As long as I'm in segregation, I know I'm in the right spot," 49-year-old Wuebbels told reporters Thursday, echoing a theme the state prisons chief and Tamms' warden stressed during the first media tour since the prison opened.

Prison officials made Wuebbels and other inmates doing hard time available to reporters to show the lockup is needed even as reforms are made.

While human rights advocates have complained prisoners are kept at Tamms indefinitely, often in isolation and to the detriment to their mental health, the state's new Department of Corrections chief said four dozen inmates have recently been deemed fit for transfer to lower-security lockups. Ten had been moved as of Thursday, he said.

Mental health evaluations

With Gov. Bob Quinn's blessing, Michael Randle also has pledged that every Tamms inmate will have a mental health evaluation within 30 days of arriving and mental health staff will conduct weekly checks on inmates. He said changes also would include informing all prisoners on their approximate length of stay, giving them a transfer review hearing, letting Tamms prisoners take the GED and get increased incentives for good behavior, like telephone or out-of-cell privileges.

"There is and continues to be a need for this facility," said Randle, who stressed that warehousing the state's most-dangerous inmates at Tamms keeps other Illinois prisoners safer. Still, he said, "this facility continues to evolve."

"What we're trying to do with activities like today is demonstrate to people what we do and how we do it," Randle said.

Thursday's tour was tightly controlled, with reporters seeing only empty cells and recreational areas. Inmates get meals in their cells, where they can also read prison-approved books and magazines and watch basic cable. Some recreational areas are cages. Others are concrete slabs the size of small offices, enclosed by towering walls.

Brian Nelson, 45, has been serving time for murder, armed robbery, escape and aggravated battery at Tamms since it opened. He casts his days as "23 hours of nothing" and "so depressing."

"Before here, I was an institutional tailor. Now, I don't know if I can thread a needle," said Nelson, who volunteered to speak to reporters gathered in a spartan courtroom with baby blue walls. "You're told you're the worst of the worst, the rottenest of the rotten."

Scheduled for parole in 2011, Nelson didn't answer directly when asked whether he thought he was likely to commit another crime.

"I'm afraid to be around people, honestly," he said.

Another inmate, Demetrious Papademetriou, said he couldn't think of another place he should be, given the "dangerous side of me." He killed his cellmate at another prison and roughed up prison guards.

"I have enemies. If they try to hurt me, I'm gonna hurt them," said Papademetriou, a 37-year-old inmate who spends much of his time in isolation reading Tony Robbins self-help books. "Now that I'm here (in isolation), I'm safe."