Letting prisoners use cellphones makes sense – now more than ever
Not long before the Covid-19 outbreak was declared a worldwide pandemic, there was a shakedown here on death row at San Quentin state prison. It was a massive search and I wasn’t surprised to learn officials confiscated at least 60 cellphones. I know what it feels like to be caught with a contraband phone. It happened two years ago and as punishment, I was sent to the “Adjustment Center” – solitary confinement – for two months. I was sent to solitary for the crime of wanting connection.
With almost 40 years as a prisoner, I’m old enough to remember a time when a shakedown wouldn’t have resulted in the confiscation of 60 phones – it would have been 60 shanks and other deadly weapons. This demonstrates what most prisoners really want now: to communicate with their family and friends, those precious parts of our lives not caged up in here. This basic need is all the more pronounced in the shadow of the coronavirus.
A friend of mine told me he “won’t be able to take it” if the pandemic lasts for another few weeks. He’s managed to survive for 15 years as a condemned man, but the fact that the outside world is in such a state of pandemonium is a bridge too far. He’s not concerned about catching the virus himself, but he’s scared to death about the safety of his friends and family.
We are literally in a sci-fi movie, witnessing a never-ending barrage of scenes from the film Contagion, bound to our radios and TVs for the latest updates. We don’t have the luxury of breaking away from the horrific news cycle by watching a Netflix movie, going on a nature walk or connecting with a loved one on FaceTime. And, because nearly all visitations have been suspended indefinitely and exercise yard time curtailed, our only reprieve is the few precious minutes we’re allotted on prison-sanctioned phones. Even then, one prison phone is shared among dozens and dozens of inmates, posing a sanitation risk that may spread the virus.
On top of the double-scourge of mass incarceration and coronavirus disproportionately affecting poor people of color, the current crisis magnifies the inhumane regulation that prohibits cellphones in correctional facilities. Rikers Island prison, for instance, has a Covid-19 infection rate seven times that of New York City, the center of the outbreak. If cellphones were authorized there, family members could keep a tally on the now more than 800 inmates who are being held in isolation or quarantined. But instead, they’re left to agonize whether he or she hasn’t already been ravaged by the virus.
Throughout the prison system across the country, cellphones are the lifelines that keep prisoners connected to hope. It’s hopeless men and women who are the ones who become violent and self-destructive. For that reason, I believe cellphones make prisoners safer. Connection for any human being is central to life, and ample research proves that inmates who remain connected to their families and friends are far more likely to re-enter society successfully and not reoffend.
Not only does cellphone access enhance the lives of prisoners but consider the approximately 3 million American children who have a parent in prison today. According to the Fragile Families and Child Wellbeing Study, kids with an incarcerated parent are three times more likely to suffer from behavioral problems and depression than kids without one. Imagine the positive impact it would have on the lives of these children if they could call their mother or father and share what life was like in this new socialdistancing reality, how sad they are because they miss their friends, or how happy they are to see their teachers online. The ability to call a parent could be transformative. And it could be lifechanging for prisoners like me, too.
All of us in this godforsaken place would rather stay in our own cells to talk with our families than anything, and now more than ever. For people isolated from the world, hearing a loved one’s voice or a grandbaby coo for the first time is healing. In addition, this is time spent NOT being violent in the yard. It’s time spent not stewing in our own rage, frustration and depression. We would have time to be normal, thinking, feeling human beings.
I know guards who’ve been here for decades who are grateful for the abundance of cellphones. Why? Because rather than being obsessed with weapons, inmates are preoccupied with a voice from outside and news from home.
It’s true that most of us have access to the prison’s phone system but most prisoners I know and their families can’t afford to use it. According to a study from the Prison Policy Initiative, at a time when phone calls from people on the outside are decreasing, those of us behind bars are paying astronomical rates to call a loved one or a lawyer.
San Quentin has a contract with Global Tel Link (GTL) which charges more than $2.00 for every 15-minute phone call. Even more appalling, city and county jails often charge inmates $1 or more per minute. The average minimum daily wage for incarcerated workers is under a buck. If inmates were allowed cellphones, families or friends could add them to their family plans at a fraction of the cost of sanctioned phones. They’d also be able to better hear the person on the other end of the line, because the audio quality of the state phone is terrible. Not to mention, calls placed through the state phone are interrupted every few minutes with reminders that we’re being recorded.
The current system is predatory, government-sanctioned theft. It’s taking advantage of traumatized families in poverty that don’t have the funds and are often afraid to admit it. What mother wants to tell her son, “I can’t afford to talk to you?” What daughter wants to say to her father, “Daddy, I lost my job because of the pandemic, and I can’t afford to put more money on a prepaid account?”
Certainly, when contraband phones get in the hands of the wrong inmates, prison administrators may worry that security will be compromised. But “managed access” technology that tracks calls and would allow security to monitor calls and texts already exists. The
National Institute of Justice takes the position that managed access is, “one more piece of the puzzle to mitigate contraband cellphone usage”.
The secret that the prison system doesn’t want to acknowledge is how much more serene and less disruptive it is when inmates are on their cellphones. My favorite memory with my phone was staying up all night talking with my brothers and sisters in a group call. I hadn’t talked to them together like that in more than three decades. Considering we were all separated in different foster homes as children, we had a lot to remember together. We laughed. We cried. Whispering to my siblings, I felt alive that night. When the world overcomes this nightmare, who knows if we’ll ever get that chance again?
Jarvis Jay Masters is the author of Finding Freedom: How Death Row Broke & Opened My Heart. It will be reissued by Shambhala Publications on 14 July