21whom they may live and how they may spend their time.
These “collateral consequences” prevent them from fully par-
ticipating in the labor and housing markets. Today, there are
19,419 employment restrictions that keep people with crimi-
nal records out of the workplace; 1,033 housing restrictions
that keep them from being able to rent an apartment; 3,954
restrictions that limit their civic participation; and 1,612 that
constrain their family and domestic rights. This means they
may not be able to hold most public offices. They may not be
able to sit on juries. There are hundreds of categories of em-
ployment for which they need not apply. They may not be
able to rent an apartment and will struggle to find a place to
stay. In some states, they may not vote. But if all politics are
local, the policies of mass incarceration are hyper local. Just
pick a state. New York has 1,052 laws and policies that lock
people with criminal records out of the economy. Michigan
has 659. Illinois has 1,289, including 512 that target employ-
ment, 177 political and civic regulations, 30 housing restric-
tions, and 50 policies that regulate family life.
There are so few places where formerly incarcerated peo-
ple can turn in their times of need. This is due to changes in
liability law, which began in the 1970s and the 1980s. Tenants
sued negligent landlords when they were robbed or mugged
in their buildings. The courts sided with the tenants, finding
that crime prevention was part of every landlord’s responsi-
bility. Landlords were fined under nuisance ordinances for
letting their buildings fall into disrepair, for harboring drug
users and gang activity, and for leasing apartments to people
with criminal records.
In 1988, Congress passed the Housing Opportunity Pro-
gram Extension Act, requiring public-housing agencies across
the country to evict tenants for “any criminal activity,” includ-
ing crimes committed “on or off such premises” by “any mem-
ber of the tenants’ household... any guest, or other person
under the tenants’ control.” Almost overnight, private citizens
were conscripted into the nation’s crimefighting machinery.
Offering help to someone with a criminal record could now
cost you your livelihood. Mothers were being evicted for the
crime of letting their children, who had been to prison, sleep on
their couch. Cousins, lovers and friends who let people with re-
cords visit their home were evicted too.
I knew that this is the world that my brother would re-
enter, where the laws that prevent him from getting a job or
renting an apartment also made it risky for people to offer
him help. I knew that the support he needed in prison would
pale in comparison to what he would need when he returned.
My brother, like the 19.6 million people estimated to have a
felony record, would enter an economy of favors, where he
would be tasked with soliciting support from people who are
encouraged not to help him to meet his basic human needs.
“You have one minute remaining,” the voice said. I jotted
down Jeremiah’s requests. “I love you, bro,” my brother said.
“I appreciate all you do.” “I love you, too, man,” I replied be-
fore the digital woman disconnected the line.Miller is a professor at the University of Chicago. This piece is
adapted from his new book Halfway Home. Copyright © 2021.
Published by Little, Brown and Company.lockdown or because someone’s dress isn’t long enough. It’s
the way the guard talks to you when you visit, and how you’re
herded single file through dingy corridors to pay too much for
microwave concessions. It’s watching your loved ones demol-
ish that food and how they’re marched away when the visit
ends. It’s feeling alone, though everyone you know has expe-
rienced this.
One in twO AmericAns have lived some version of this
story, because half of all U.S. residents and 63% of Black peo-
ple have a loved one who has done time. However, it’s not just
the family members who are frustrated. It’s especially hard
for people in prison.
The combination of bad cell-phone reception and a busy
life means your incarcerated loved one can’t reach you. After
four attempts, he wonders if your distance is intentional.
It’s your tone when you finally accept the charge, from frus-
trations they couldn’t have caused. He’s gone weeks without
mail and months without a visit. He’s hearing another lecture
from his younger sibling about what he should be doing with
his life. He’s trying to raise his children through collect calls,
15 minutes at a time. He knows what he’s put you through,
but he calls because he needs you.
Prison exacerbates these needs, and it escalates these ten-
sions, changing the nature of even the most intimate relation-
ships. But it’s not just like this on the inside. The prison is like
a ghost, haunting formerly incarcerated people as they look
for work, or a place to stay, or as they sit for dinners with the
people they love most.
Upon release, people with criminal records are greeted
by over 45,000 policies that dictate where they may go, with