The Dutch Perspective

A Maximum Security Prison in the Netherlands

I went to Houston last week to discuss the restoration of food-assistance benefits to people with drug felony convictions on The Prison Show, a radio program that reaches nearly 80,000 of the State’s 150,000 incarcerated individuals. The station also invited Frans Douw, a warden of three prisons in the Netherlands, to be a guest on the program. Frans, the producer of the show, and I met for dinner prior to the show, where I found a rare opportunity to learn about corrections from an entirely different perspective. After the program, I invited Frans to come to Austin for a day to continue our conversation. He joined me at the State Capitol, where we discussed criminal justice policy with legislative staff. 

The following are some reflections from my conversation with Frans.

The Netherlands is a country of 16 million people, yet, as of late-2013, there were only 13,749 people incarcerated in the entire country.[i]  Frans indicated that his country is rapidly closing prisons, and that the actual prison population is now closer to 8,000. For perspective, New York has a population of 19 million with an incarcerated population of 53,000[ii]; and New York is the leading state in terms of reductions in its prison population. I asked Frans his thoughts on why there is such a stark difference between our two countries in terms of the number of people they incarcerate. His response should be instructive.

First, the Netherlands simply does not incarcerate people for possession of a controlled substance.  Conversely, Texas incarcerates more than 14,000 people in prison or state jail for possession[iii]—not trafficking or dealing—but merely for possession. The state pays more than $265 million per year to house these individuals. Imagine the improvements in quality and availability of drug treatment we could achieve with even a fraction of that amount. It is important to note that, despite the Netherland’s relaxed drug policies, the prevalence of drug abuse in that country is actually far lower than in the United States.[iv]

Second, prison is seen a last resort in the Netherlands. Frans reminded me that his country’s attitudes toward incarceration were informed by leaders who had themselves been incarcerated. Nearly 350,000 people from the Netherlands were abducted and forced into labor under Nazi rule during World War II.  Frans mentioned several times during our visit that many Dutch consider incarceration to be one of the most devastating things the government can do to another human being. 

As a result, the country utilizes many other approaches, such as community supervision, treatment, and electronic monitoring, to avoid placing someone in prison. 

Frans emphasized that criminal behavior often mirrors the very circumstances one finds within a society.  Where there are communities with high rates of abuse, violence, drug addiction, and alcoholism, criminal behavior is an inevitable consequence. Therefore, the Dutch are more diligent in supporting the resources that address those issues. During his stay in Houston, Frans was shocked by the number of homeless people walking the streets. He also noticed an astonishingly high number of armed police walking those streets. Frans questioned why Texas would spend such an inordinate amount of money on police when we could achieve even better and less costly public-safety outcomes by investing in mental health and substance abuse resources. 

These are not outlandish ideas. Seattle developed a similar approach to criminal justice. Instead of arresting people for crimes such as drug possession or prostitution, police in that city divert them to community organizations where they receive treatment. These are populations that tend to cycle in and out of jails and prisons, yet the same population in Seattle was 60% less likely to be re-arrested when diverted to community organizations compared to those who were arrested and taken to county jail.[v] 

In terms of corrections, our countries could not be more different. In the Netherlands, nearly all incarcerated individuals are seen as “temporary residents.” In fact, there are only 35 people in the entire country serving life without parole. Further, people tend to serve fewer years in prison in the Netherlands for the same crimes committed in the U.S. The result is an emphasis on preparing incarcerated individuals for inevitable release. While incarcerated, people work in jobs that instill meaningful skills. They engage in treatment. Frans is the warden of three separate units, yet he could tell me the cognitive and intellectual deficits of each individual in his custody so that he could ensure that the programming is individualized to their needs. 

They don’t throw people away in the Netherlands. Frans told me of one exceptionally violent individual in his care. The individual had committed crimes serious enough to warrant a lengthy sentence. After years of incarceration, the man had given up hope of a life outside prison. He had receded into himself, and spent most of his days in his cell. Frans tried a different approach.

Frans had collaborated with a community dog shelter to house and train dogs that had been abused by previous owners. Rather than euthanize the animals, prison residents were invited to train the dogs to the point that they were ready for adoption. The man serving the lengthy sentence watched the classes from the window of his cell. Surprising everyone, the man volunteered to become a trainer. He had such a gentle way with the dogs that he eventually become the instructor, teaching fellow residents to become dog trainers. In response to people who don’t believe that prisoners can be rehabilitated, Frans responds with a question,

“If it were your child, would you give up on rehabilitation?” 

With nearly 40 years of experience in corrections, the Netherlands gave Frans the latitude to try even more innovative approaches.  As warden of three prisons, he was able to turn one of them into a self-supporting unit.  The residents grow and cook their own food. They develop products such a landscaping tools for sale on the open market, which provides a small income to prepare incarcerated individuals for release while decreasing overall prison costs by 30 percent. Frans created reintegration centers within his prisons where residents can meet employers and prepare for inevitable release. 

In Texas’ prisons, incarcerated individuals can obtain a G.E.D., and may be able to obtain vocational skills if they can afford to pay for the classes themselves. Waiting lists for vocational training in high-demand trades such as welding can be years long. Very little is done to prepare people for release other than helping them to obtain a Social Security card and providing a list of community resources upon release.  There is no wonder that the overall re-arrest rate for people coming out of Texas prison is 46 percent, and above 60 percent for those released from state jails.[vi]

There are many differences between the U.S. and the Netherlands.  It is unrealistic to expect our criminal justice models to mirror one another.  However, Texas could create safer communities at a lower cost by simply shifting to a mindset that:

• Does not criminalize addiction,
• Makes incarceration a last resort,
• Invests in resources to address social problems such as addiction and mental illness, and
• Treats prisoners as “temporary residents” who will one day rejoin our communities. 

I plan to stay in touch with Frans in the months and years to come. In my job at Texas Criminal Justice Coalition, we are advocating for sentencing reforms to lower penalties for drug possession. Much of this work will involve shifting resources to make community supervision far more effective. It gives me hope to know that other countries have achieved even lower crime rates than the U.S. without such a heavy reliance on incarceration.  

More than that, I’m grateful to have a friend who treats those involved with the criminal justice system with genuine compassion.   

Citations

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[i] Subramanian, Ram and Shames, Alison, Sentencing and Prison Practices in Germany and the Netherlands: Implications for the United States, (October, 2013), Vera Institute Center for Sentencing and Corrections, http://www.vera.org/sites/default/files/resources/downloads/european-american-prison-report-v3.pdf

[ii] The Sentencing Project, http://www.sentencingproject.org/map/map.cfm#map

[iii] Texas Department of Criminal Justice, 2014 Statistical Report, (February, 2015) http://www.tdcj.state.tx.us/documents/Statistical_Report_FY2014.pdf

[iv] World Health Organization, Prevalence of Drug Use Disorders, http://gamapserver.who.int/gho/interactive_charts/substance_abuse/bod_drug_prevalence/atlas.html

[v] Law Enforcement Assisted Diversion (LEAD), http://leadkingcounty.org/lead-evaluation/

[vi] Legislative Budget Board, Statewide Criminal and Juvenile Justice Recidivism and Revocation Rates, (February, 2015), http://www.lbb.state.tx.us/Documents/Publications/Policy_Report/1450_CJ_Statewide_Recidivism.pdf

SNAP

In 1996, Congress passed the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act, also known as welfare reform.  The law included a provision which imposed a lifetime ban on the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), formerly called Food Stamps, to anyone convicted of a drug-related felony.  It didn’t matter whether the felony conviction related to drug possession or dealing.  This was the era when Democrats and Republicans at every level of government were caught in a “tough on crime” frenzy. The “war on drugs” raged furiously, and “three strikes you’re out” applied to any felony, not just the violent crimes that inspired the movement in the first place. In the mad rush to severely punish all wrongdoers, the SNAP policy seemed reasonable.

Only when the dust cleared some years later did Congress realize what it had done. The SNAP program is a crucial resource for people trying to start new lives. It not only provides help with buying groceries in the first months out of jail or prison, it connects people with employment and training programs. Most convicted felons have drug and alcohol problems, but Congress had targeted the most minor of all “offenders.”  People convicted of rape and murder could access SNAP upon release from prison, but not those caught with half a gram of cocaine.

It was like trying to prevent cheating in public schools by permanently expelling first graders when they copied the answers from someone else’s test.

Instead of simply overturning the policy, which is the prerogative of Congress, lawmakers simply left it up to the states to retain or discard the lifetime ban. Nearly 41 states had eliminated the lifetime ban by 2015, but Texas remained entrenched in its instinctual distaste for public assistance programs. Nearly 70,000 people are released from prison each year with a $100 check, a ten-day supply of medication, and the clothes they wear as they exit the prison.  Because of Texas’ inaction on SNAP restoration, about 20 percent of these men and women were unable to access SNAP assistance, making their reentry back to the community a challenge for even the most resourceful person.

I learned this first hand.  When I got out of prison, I experienced a solid wall of rejection from employers. I turned to the SNAP program for short term assistance during that time. The state gave me three months of emergency food assistance. More importantly, I connected with unexpected employment resources such as the Texas Veterans Commission and Goodwill.  Because of support from the reentry organizations I learned about thanks to the SNAP Employment and Training Program, I found a temporary job.  A short time later, I found my dream job.

I don’t need SNAP assistance any longer.  

After many attempts over several legislative sessions to eliminate the SNAP drug felony ban, a bill by Representative Senfronia Thompson made it out of Committee. The bill still faced daunting opposition despite the favorable committee vote. With almost two-thirds of the Texas House affiliated with the Republican Party, the bill was likely to die. Instead, two conservative lawmakers offered a compromise in the form of an amendment that would restore eligibility, but impose a two year lock-out if the recipient violated probation or parole, and revert back to the lifetime ban if the individual was later convicted of another felony. In this way, Texas would become a “second-chance” state while remaining tough on drug crime.

Within seconds of offering the amendment, a progressive member stepped to the back microphone to be recognized by the Speaker. “Mr. Speaker, will the gentlewoman yield for a question?” The Texas House chamber is a massive square theater, with the audience observing from the gallery on the floor above. Exactly 150 desks form neat rows enclosing the Speaker’s platform, which is elevated to give authority to the presiding officer. A lonely microphone stands in the central aisle near the back row.

Members wishing to interrogate someone laying out proposed legislation or an amendment stand at the back microphone until recognized by the Speaker. Members use the front microphone to defend their position or answer questions.  The strict parliamentary procedures add a comical element to every debate. Members at the back microphone can only ask questions, and members at the front microphone can only answer questions or state positions. The dialogues are not so much debates as they are clumsy dances where the leaders must follow, pulling their partners in the direction they want to be led.

 

The debate ensued with the member at the back microphone making arguments in the form of questions: “If someone violates probation, what happens to their kids? Do we starve them? Is that what we want to do?” The barrage of inflammatory questions forced the conservative member to defend not only the amendment, but the SNAP program itself: “Right now, people with drug convictions get no SNAP benefits. This is an effort to go from the very most punitive, which is a lifetime ban, and to give people a chance to do the right thing once they have served their time.”

She went on to highlight the employment and training programs attached to SNAP, arguing for increased opportunities for people who made mistakes. She argued for second chances to those who made mistakes. She also argued that the amendment would keep the bill alive and help thousands of people trying to start new lives after prison. Two-thirds of the Members voted for the amendment, and the bill passed the Texas House of Representatives.

Despite the renewed efforts by advocates to push the measure through both chambers of the Legislature, the bill never received a committee hearing in the Senate. Therefore, Representative Thompson, who authored the SNAP bill, masterfully amended the language from her bill, including the second chance amendment, onto another bill reauthorizing the continued existence of the very agency that administered the SNAP program.  The SNAP restoration passed the House again, and the Senate grudgingly accepted the language. The Governor signed it several weeks later, giving the SNAP program a second chance to assist people to start new lives after past mistakes.

On Tuesday, September 1^st, people getting out of prison or serving time on probation for drug crimes will have an additional resource to help them stay off of drugs and begin productive lives.  

3g

Months ago, I attended a hearing of the House Judiciary and Civil Jurisprudence Committee to give testimony for HB 1510, which ultimately passed. When the legislation goes into effect in January, it will remove the risk of lawsuits from landlords when they decide to lease property to individuals with criminal background records.  The bill was entirely about the perception of risk.  The actual risk associated with leasing property to someone with a history of involvement with the criminal justice system is rather low. 

There are a number of factors that mitigate risk.  Consistent participation in recovery groups is a strong indicator that the person will be a responsible renter.  Successfully completing probation or parole are good signs, but so are meeting all community supervision conditions such as paying fees on time and fulfilling all community service requirements.  From the standpoint of a potential landlord, the most likely indicators that an individual is unlikely to commit a new crime include employment and housing stability. 

That is to say, if a person can meet the criteria on a rental application, a landlord can rest assured that the applicant is worth the risk, regardless of criminal history. 

All HB 1510 does is encourage landlords to place the criminal background check aside and have a conversation with someone who is trying to create a new life.  Landlords who take the risk and lease property to people with criminal histories actually promote stability and reduce the risk of recidivism.  They can do this today.  They don’t have to wait until the bill goes into effect. 

Despite the gap between the perceived and actual risk, Legislators remained concerned that the bill would remove the right to sue landlords who rent to people who have committed violent crimes like murder, aggravated robbery, or sexual assault.  These are known as “3g” offenses, shorthand for the section of the Texas Code of Criminal Procures that lists the most serious crimes.  Before HB 1510 could proceed through the legislative process, the bill had to be modified to retain imaginary barriers between violent “offenders” and unsuspecting neighborhoods. 

The Committee hearing ran very late, so only a few people testified. It was one of those strange moments in the session when a bill has such strong support that too much testimony actually does more harm than good.  I decided to merely thank the Members and invited them to read my written testimony.  Then I sat down.  There is so much I wish I could have said. 

I thought of my own time in prison and the “3g offenders” I knew.  Every incarcerated individual doing time in the general population of Texas state prisons wears white.  There is nothing that distinguishes one individual from another with respect to the crimes that led them to prison.  There are three paths available to them:  become more entrenched in criminal thinking, make no progress at all, or work to change the factors that led them to prison.  I surrounded myself with people who chose the more difficult path.  My mentors and friends were people who had fully committed themselves to exemplary lives.  Most of them had committed 3g offenses. 

Seldom have I met people more selfless than the “men in white” serving others while serving time.  For example, when an increasingly large number of young men were transferred to my unit, a group of mature men created a ministry to mentor these younger individuals. They formed group discussions and developed classes. They taught these young men to take pride in living upstanding lives, and they helped them to see that being accountable for your behavior is a sign of strength.  

The sad irony is that, had these young men experienced as youth such unconditional regard from committed adults who were truly invested in their lives, they would have gone to college instead of prison. 

I joined another group of men to teach classes on sexual assault and HIV prevention. My fellow educators had spent years in a culture that told them to mind their own business if they witnessed a rape. In the decades they had spent in prison, they learned that there is nothing worse than a “snitch.” Somehow, my peers summoned the courage to oppose the culture of silence.  They refused to tolerate sexual assault, and they dared to encourage others to report incidents to prison authorities. Because of them, the culture is changing. I deeply admired the courage of these men, most of whom had committed violent crimes.

My greatest teachers were so called “3g offenders.”  The man who helped me to take responsibility for my crimes was serving 40 years for aggravated robbery.  I learned from him that, in refusing to blame addiction for the robberies I committed, I empowered myself to change the destructive ways in which I dealt with anger, fear, and shame.  Another man spent hours every week teaching me how to find serenity in the face of grief and uncertainty. He is serving a life sentence for murdering his wife during an alcoholic blackout. He became a father figure to me, especially after my own father died.

These men were not atypical. I found positive lights on every unit, in every dorm, and on every cell block. When I asked for help, men-in-white stepped up to help me live a productive and meaningful life. 

Every challenge I successfully master out here in the “free” world, be it professional, emotional, or interpersonal, I owe to my neighbors inside prison. 

About 95 percent of those serving time will eventually return to the community.  Interestingly, the recidivism rate for those convicted of violent offenses is slightly lower than the rate for those convicted of certain nonviolent offenses.  Further, when the crime is drug-related, those convicted of violent offenses respond even more favorably to drug treatment than those convicted of nonviolent offenses. I saw this first hand while in prison.  The "3g offenders" I knew embraced rehabilitation and worked hard to share it with others. These are exactly the types of people I'd like to call "neighbor."  

Arrested Humanity

Last Thursday, July 30^th, I gave testimony before the House Committee on County Affairs regarding the issues arising from Sandra Bland’s death in a small county jail in East Texas.  The tragedy raises so many concerns, that it’s impossible to frame solutions within one policy.  The series of mistakes span the distance from racial profiling to dismal treatment inside county jails.  To emphasize one aspect over another deprives Sandra and her family of justice. 

I showed up to offer six strategies for reform.  My colleagues and I had worked 14 hours per day leading up to the hearing, studying racial profiling data, de-escalation techniques, and Supreme Court decisions urging states to stop arresting people for minor infractions.  We also researched pre-booking diversion programs, mental health assessments, and county jail oversight.  We prepared our written testimony, and I drew the short straw to testify at the actual hearing. 

The hearing room was crowded with news media.  I had to edge past camera crews to make my way to a seat near the front.  More importantly, the room was crowded with people who had ventured across the state to give witness to generations of police encounters that have divided communities into “us” versus “them.”  I could hear the women in the row behind me groan with impatience when the first panel spent too long discussing mental health assessments and jail standards.  

To them, the issues were clear – Sandra Bland dared to assert her rights, and she was treated with brutality as a result.  She shouldn’t have been in jail at all, and now she’s dead. 

I realized that we were grappling with issues as a community, and that I couldn’t go to the microphone as merely a policy analyst.  The issues were too personal.  I remembered my own treatment inside county jail, and I shared it with the Members.  I admitted that my descent into addiction and criminality included several stops at psychiatric hospitals along the way, including two Intensive Care Units after I had attempted suicide.  Out of desperation for drugs, I had committed four counts of robbery with a highlight marker wrapped in a shirt.  When I was arrested and taken to county jail, I told the truth about my mental health history. 

What happened to me because I told the truth was nothing short of torture.  They sat me in a metal chair and strapped my head, arms, and feet to immobilize me for hours.  Later, they stripped me naked and put me in an icy cold padded room for the night.  They kept me in isolation for days. Someone in the next cell had combined alcohol with Xanax, and spent the night screaming at imaginary attackers.  It was a horrific experience. 

I recounted my experience to the Legislators to help them see the inhumane treatment people experience inside county jails.  It didn’t change the fact that Sandra should never have had to step foot inside of a jail.  I tried to relate the issues to mass incarceration, the need for bail reform, and pre-booking diversion, but it was my personal story that seemed to have the most impact.  When I sat down, one of the women seated in the row behind me put her hand on my shoulder and leaned forward to say something in my ear: 

“I want you to know how much good you’ve done for my people today.” 

The issue is about inhumanity at every level of the criminal justice system from law enforcement to corrections.  Racial minorities are treated with suspicion and contempt by law enforcement.  We arrest people for minor infractions, and allow counties to complain about jail costs and overcrowding.  We treat drug addiction as a crime instead of a disease, investing untold sums into the criminal justice system that could have been used for treatment.  We allow the bail industry to dominate the system for their own profit, holding low income people in jail for months, often for crimes they didn’t commit, simply because they can’t afford to post bail.  We do this despite the fact that people are just as likely to show up for trial on a personal recognizance bond as they are when they post bail. We deprive people with mental illness continuity of care while they are incarcerated, and subject them to torture.  And then we deprive children and families the right to a face-to-face visit with loved ones, because jails have learned to cut costs and make a profit on video-only visitation. 

Yes, there are so many issues involved that it’s difficult to name just one reform.  It starts with humanity.  Police must have an actual reason to stop someone.  Suspicion is not enough.  Nearly 71% of the people whom police perceive as “suspicious” are racial minorities.  Anytime a police officer uses force outside of the context of defense of self or others is a failure of good policing, and police departments must be held accountable when it happens.  We have to recognize that the criminal justice system is not equipped to deal with problems of addiction and mental illness, and we must divert people to community organizations more frequently.  Finally, we must acknowledge that most of the people who enter the criminal justice system will rejoin our community.  

When we allow mistreatment of our once and future neighbors by police and jailers, we all must be held accountable. 

For more information about the six strategies for reform in the wake of Sandra Bland's death, check out our written testimony on the Texas Criminal Justice Coalition's website:

http://publicpolicycenter.texascjc.org/download/county-affairs-law-enforcement-and-jail-standards-testimony

Dear Human Resources Manager

I am writing to request an interview to work for your organization.  When I filled out your online application, you asked about my criminal history.  Because I answered honestly, I fear that we’ll never meet face to face in order for me to explain my past.  This is disappointing, because I have something valuable to offer.

It is also frustrating, because productive employment represents one of the bridges that could lead me back to a trusted place within my community.  I can explain what led me to commit criminal acts. For me, it was out of the desperation of addiction; but, everyone has a unique story.  The point is that I fractured the bond that existed between me and my community.  Now that I’m out of prison, I have to heal that wound.  Using my skills and passion to help you achieve your goals is one of the ways that the bonds of trust are restored.  It shouldn’t be a surprise that the likelihood of me and anyone with a criminal past going back to prison decreases significantly when we find gainful employment. 

For many years, I was defined by the crimes I committed.  I wore the label “offender”.  It represented a permanent state, not the actions of my past.  The label doesn’t go away just because they released me from prison.  People ensure that it remains a permanent mark of shame that separates me from my community.  In the rare instances when I get an interview, employers quickly race to the end of the interview when I try to explain what I’ve done to overcome my past. Even if they wanted to give me a chance, their lawyers or senior executives would veto the decision.    

Ironically, it is what I’ve done to overcome my past that makes me an asset beyond what you can imagine.  In prison, I learned to deal with stress, anger, and pain without turning to alcohol or drugs to change my mood.  How many of your current employees can say that?  In prison, I learned to do the right thing at every moment, even when no one was looking.  Can all of your senior executives say that?  How many of your workers embrace their jobs with the type of gratitude and passion that I would bring with me every day?  Believe it or not, it was in working to overcome my past that I learned all of these things.  

The criminal record you see on that application represents untold efforts to overcome the worst about myself.  How is that not a strength? 

If you took the criminal background question off of your application, you and I might get an opportunity to have this conversation.  You wouldn’t be alone.  Hundreds of cities and counties around the country removed the question from their employment applications.  Already, 18 states followed suit.  Major corporations like Walmart, Target, Home Depot, and Koch Industries removed the question from their application.  I included links below that will allow you to read about these decisions yourself. 

These employers know something that you don’t.  They know that we all make terrible mistakes in our lives, and that we should never be permanently defined by our darkest moments.  When they welcome people into their organizations who have worked to overcome past mistakes, they build a bridge back to the community that anyone can walk across, even themselves. 

Respectfully,

Doug Smith

Fair Chance Employment Resources:

“Ban the Box is a Fair Chance for Workers with Records

“Ban the Box:  U.S. Cities, Counties, and States Adopt Fair Hiring Policies to Reduce Barriers to Employment of People with Conviction Records”

“New York City Bans the Box:  Mayor De Blasio Signs Fair Chance Act”

The State of Georgia, Executive Order, Governor Nathan Deal

The Furnace

I read the 5^th Circuit Court of Appeals ruling in regard to air-conditioning for death-row inmates at Louisiana State Penitentiary with bewilderment.  The Court agreed that the extreme temperatures constitute cruel and unusual punishment, but overturned a previous ruling by a lower court that would have compelled the state to install air-conditioning.  Many in Texas were watching this case with great interest, especially in light of the heat-related deaths that spurred lawsuits against the Texas prison system.  The families of those incarcerated in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice as well as correctional officers, who must work in these extreme conditions, hoped that the decision in Louisiana would result in safer conditions in Texas.   

The 5^th Circuit asserts that Louisiana may employ less expensive remedies like additional cold showers and access to ice.  My personal experience is that these remedies do little to prevent heat-related illness or death, and fail to alleviate the effect of extreme heat on people with chronic health conditions.  Even younger and healthier men and women suffer terribly during the summer in Texas prisons.

To deem a condition as inhumane without providing an adequate remedy essentially condones the cruelty. 

I served almost six years in the Texas prison system for the crimes I committed when my addiction spun out of control.  I spent the first 18 months at the Holliday Unit, a transfer facility in Huntsville.  People can stay up to two years in these under-resourced units waiting for assignment to a regular institutional division unit.  Many transfer facilities were constructed rapidly during the Texas prison building boom of the 90’s.  They house people in metal buildings that trap the heat, causing temperatures to soar into the triple digits.  Two large industrial fans operate constantly, circulating the hot humid air like a furnace. 

When I sat at the day-room tables, I’d need to put a towel down so as not to drip pools of sweat when I reached across the table.  The officers on duty supervised the dorms from an air-conditioned picket, so they seldom remembered to open the ventilation shafts inside the dorms.  Prison authorities decided to alleviate the heat by rolling large trash cans filled with iced water to each of the dormitories located on either side of a half-mile long concrete slab.  By the time the trash cans reached us, the ice had long melted and the water had warmed to room temperature during its journey down the concrete slab. 

Later, I was transferred to the Huntsville Unit, the oldest prison in Texas.  I took anti-depressants at the time, and old-timers warned me to get off the meds before the summer months.  My journey from addiction to criminality included several stops at psychiatric hospitals, so I was hesitant to defy my doctor’s advice.  In early June, I received a new cell assignment in Five Building. This ancient windowless monstrosity with giant metal exhaust pipes running along the sides of the building extends nearly the entire width of the unit, and was a separate unit reserved for the worst of the worst at one point in its dark history. 

I reported to my new cell block on the bottom floor of this depressing place.  I walked down the hard concrete floor past dimly lit cells with paint peeling from the masonry walls, and imagined myself inside a medieval dungeon. I learned that prison authorities moved everyone who took medications with heat warnings, especially people with mental illness, to these forgotten cells during the summer months.  The Captain claimed that the blocks were cooler, and I learned quickly that this was untrue.

The absence of windows hindered circulation, and the external bricks conducted heat to the walls and bars like an oven.  At 2 o’clock on a July morning I couldn’t lean against the wall without a shirt to protect my back from the heat.  Sleep was impossible.  I’d get out of bed throughout the night, pour water in a bowl, and douse myself head to toe.  Then I’d lay dripping beneath my fan until my body cooled down enough to sleep, only to wake up fifteen minutes later to repeat the process. 

Aging men with heart conditions shuffled lethargically through the scorching days with ashen faces, often skipping meals and showers because of the super-human effort it took to walk the half flight of stairs to the exit of the building.  The extreme temperatures hit diabetics and cardiac patients the hardest, and an ambulance frequented the unit several times per day during the summer months.  I learned later that people most at risk of heat-related health issues were placed in Five Building, because it was easier for medical personnel to carry men out on stretchers from this block versus the five-story windowed cell block near the front of the unit. 

One summer, the Texas Department of Criminal Justice ordered the unit to conduct its biannual lock-down in July. These routine affairs require men to remain locked in their cells for one week, while officers search every workplace and living area for hidden contraband.  When it came time to search a particular cell block, officers ordered the men to pack all of their belongings and carry them across the yard to the gym, where security staff waited to go through each item piece by piece.

One of the members of my small group in a chapel rehabilitative program endured this ordeal.  He returned to his cell sweating from carrying 50 pounds of personal property across the unit under the late afternoon sun.  Shortly later, he fell to the ground from a massive heart attack.  The warden responded immediately, performing CPR until the ambulance arrived.  Despite these efforts, the man died.  Failing to learn its lesson, TDCJ ordered another lock-down the next summer, this time in August. 

Texas spends $6 billion every two years to operate its massive prison system.  Installing air-conditioning will certainly bring a hefty cost to the state.  It’s important to put this issue into perspective.  The state spends far more to provide healthcare to an aging prison population that no longer poses a risk to public safety.  Moreover, the state incarcerates tens of thousands of men and women for non-violent offenses that would more effectively be addressed through less costly treatment and intensive supervision.  The cost of providing air-conditioning to prevent medical emergencies and death is dwarfed by the amount Texas wastes on ineffective criminal justice policies. 

Despite its massive budget, TDCJ actually spends less per person than most states.  Its response to the heat issue is entirely consistent with public attitudes toward criminal justice, which is to incapacitate criminals at the lowest cost.  Our attitudes ignore an important point:  nearly 95% of incarcerated individuals will return to their communities.  They will once again become your neighbors.  You’ll sit next to them at church.  Your children will share classrooms with their children.  When we make decisions that promote rehabilitation in a safe and healthy environment and ensure that people have employment opportunities upon release, we improve the likelihood that formerly incarcerated individuals will return home as productive members of the community.

For more information about this topic, check out the amazing work of the UT School of Law's Human Right's Clinic:
Deadly Heat in Texas Prisons 
Reckless Indifference:  Deadly Heat in Texas Prisons