The New York Times - USA (2020-06-28)

6 SR THE NEW YORK TIMES, SUNDAY, JUNE 28, 2020

GRAFTON, OHIO

A

FEW of us were talking at Roc

and Dave’s bunk about writ-

ing a petition about keeping

inmates safe during the pan-

demic. Suggestions of what to include

were trickling in throughout the long,

dragging day — through in-depth con-

versations or notes passed under the

cell door.

As I talked to Dave, Roc got up from

the lower bunk. “Do you really think

that anyone is going to hear y’alls’ list

of complaints?” he asked. Prison offi-

cials don’t care “whether you don’t

like what they’re doing,” he said. “It is

what it is. Just do your bid.”

It was early May at this point, and

Lorain Correctional Institution had al-

ready taken many steps to cabin-in

the coronavirus. We didn’t know it at

the time, but a few prisoners and staff

members had already gotten sick.

The virus was spreading like wild-

fire at the prison in nearby Pickaway,

where more than 25 had died, and in

Marion, where more than 10 had died.

At the beginning of the outbreak, Ohio

was testing all inmates; after testing

found that nearly 80 percent of in-

mates in both prisons were infected

with the coronavirus, officials started

testing only those with symptoms.

No matter how many masks pris-

ons distributed or how strict the lock-

down was, the plain fact of our over-

crowded incarceration put us at risk of

illness or death. And no one was going

to do anything about that.

Lorain Correctional Institution —

LorCI — is a “reception” facility. (Wel-

come!) All prisoners in northern Ohio

go to LorCI to get classified according

to their security threat levels before

being assigned to a “parent” institu-

tion to serve their time. Consequently,

LorCI was intended to be a temporary

housing facility with limited ameni-

ties. But even before the coronavirus,

the prison was grossly overcrowded;

now it was worse.

I arrived at LorCI on March 17, hav-

ing spent three weeks in Lake County

jail. My group was the first cohort to

enter LorCI under the new pandemic

protocols. Inmates came from all

counties — busloads from Cuyahoga

and Summit; vans from Portage, Hu-

ron and Lake.

We were first housed in the intake

house — 4B — and told we would

quarantine there for 14 days. There

were 50 cells, with two men each, and

more bunk beds in the large open

room in the center that we called “the

floor.” The bunks were end to end,

each row no more than four feet from

the next. Each floor had three bath-

rooms, one stall each, and there were

eight showers for all 160 of us. When

we complained, a corrections officer

we all called Shiny Boots pleaded with

us: “Haven’t you even been camping?

You go days without showers!”

There was a television that was

never turned on, and no newspaper.

We knew the virus was spreading, but

little else. We were allowed two phone

calls, one piece of paper, one envelope.

The only communications from the of-

ficers were brief declamations (“The

library is closed”; “You’ll know more

when we know more”).

We were permitted to send “kites”

— letters to various departments

within the prison — with questions or

complaints. But the system was over-

whelmed. It took weeks for kites to

the law library or the public defend-

ers to get answered, if they were an-

swered at all. The Ohio Department

of Rehabilitation and Correction dis-

puted this, telling The Times that the

average response time was faster.

But from what I saw, inmates in the

middle of appeals were left in the

dark (with the exception of the few

who were able to afford a lawyer).

Parole hearings were delayed, then

delayed again.

During this time, new inmates were

still being admitted — we could see

the lines of guys with sacks of prison-

issued clothing and blankets slung

over their shoulders. No one knew if

“ride outs” (what we called being

transferred to your parent institution)

were still happening. And still more

inmates were coming in.

After 10 days (instead of 14) we

were transferred to a longer-term

house — 10A. We got to watch some

TV, including some of Gov. Mike

DeWine’s press briefings. We were let

out on “indoor rec” a few days a week

for an hour. We could get a few min-

utes on the email system, take a

shower, use the microwave. Once a

week, we got outside for two hours.

Three times a day, well into April,

we continued to go to the cafeteria, all

150 to 160 of us, shoulder to shoulder.

But then officials made a stark change

in protocol. We were going to go to two

meals a day. We would get “brunch”

(which was basically just lunch — a

sandwich or a noodle casserole —

with a milk and coffee added to it) and

then dinner. Sometimes brunch was

as early as 8 a.m., with dinner as late

as 8 p.m. Soon after, another change

was made. They staggered our meals,

sending only a third of us at a time.

Eventually, all trips to the cafeteria

ceased. They started bringing the

meals to us.

In mid-April the number of porters

— inmates responsible for cleaning —

went up from four to 12 or more. They

disinfected surfaces constantly. The

facility was no longer accepting new

inmates. We were receiving tempera-

ture checks every day. At night they

had us all sleep head to toe so that our

faces would be as far apart as possi-

ble. The officers rolled their eyes, but

they insisted on it — pointing up to the

cameras, indicating that “the higher-

ups” would be checking.

We were all issued masks, but the

corrections officers I saw, who came

in and out of the prison, still didn’t

wear them. One said to all of us,

“When you see me wearing a mask,

that’s when you know they are actu-

ally concerned.” A week later, she was

wearing one.

They had finally done everything

they could. Everything except release

prisoners.

There were prisoners who still did-

n’t know why they were there, pris-

oners who were due for release soon,

prisoners who had done nothing vio-

lent. There were prisoners with

chronic medical conditions. Older

prisoners. There were so many, like

myself, who were there on probation

violations that weren’t based on a new

case or charge.

Governor DeWine had announced a

plan to decrease and disperse the

prison population. Inmates could ap-

ply to him for early release based on

their personal circumstances and the

threat of Covid. One corrections offi-

cer made us 160 copies of the applica-

tion form — undoubtedly without per-

mission. Meanwhile, we were all also

filing motions to the court for “judicial

release.”

The law library was closed, but the

librarian would let an inmate wait out-

side while he made a copy or printed

off a section of law for the inmate to

include in his motions or petitions.

The librarian wasn’t following proto-

col; he was just making things work in

the limited way he could.

Yet when I went to my case man-

ager to make duplicates of my judicial

release motion, he said I should kite

the law library. When there was no re-

sponse there, he said to file a griev-

ance. When the grievance went unan-

swered, he said to kite the warden. It

was clear there would be no official

help.

In the end, the governor denied me

reprieve. In fact, none of us knew any-

one who’d been released by the gover-

nor. You fit all the criteria, but you

weren’t over 60. You were over 60

with a chronic condition, but you had a

prior incarceration.

Still, we all watched on TV as the

governor and the director of prisons

kept congratulating one another on

their empathetic response.

When Roc told us to give up on our

petition, it wasn’t because he didn’t

think there was a problem. He knew to

his bones there was a problem. He’d

grown up in one of Cleveland’s poorest

neighborhoods. He knew it was naïve

to think that something would be

done, even if something could be

done. We would die or we would not

die from the virus. The institution

wouldn’t care, nor would the public.

The system would roll on, one back-

slapping news conference at a time.

You couldn’t trust the system that

incarcerated people like this in the

first place to worry very much about

saving their lives.

I was eventually granted an early

release by my judge and got out on

May 22. I am grateful — I was in for a

probation violation on a charge of

driving while under the influence of

alcohol, and I will take the terms of my

probation seriously and soberly. Roc

and so many others are still inside. He

has undoubtedly been transferred to

his parent institution by now, to join

the other long-term inmates of the

Ohio prison system.

Ohio has, in fact, reduced its prison

population — by 6.2 percent since

March 24. That still leaves more than

45,000 people behind bars.

I’ve been thinking about what Roc

would say about the killing of George

Floyd, the police response to protests

or the suburban response to rioting. I

imagine he’d shake his head and say,

as he said about Covid: “The world is

what it is. They’ll kill us or they won’t,

and won’t care either way. In here or

out there. So you live with integrity.

That’s what you do. Live with integri-

ty.”

Just do your bid.

Prison During the Pandemic

TOMA VAGNER

Officials did everything they could to

keep inmates from getting the virus.

Everything except let them go.

OPINION

BY PETER

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