“To improve public safety by positively changing lives.” That’s the motto of the Washington State Department of Corrections. Of course, the realities faced by prisoners inside of Washington’s carceral facilities—as well as in most other states—are far from the PR-friendly, reform-focused tenor of this mission statement.
Mass incarceration is particularly problematic in Washington state, where the rate is 480 for every 100,000 residents, a number nearly triple that of the United Kingdom.
Of every 100,000 people in the United States, around 700 of them are serving time. Although the country makes up just 5 percent of the world’s population, it accounts for 25 percent of the world’s incarcerated. And of those released from U.S. prisons, 68 percent are arrested for a new crime within three years of their release.
Mass incarceration is particularly problematic in Washington state, where the rate is 480 for every 100,000 residents, a number nearly triple that of the United Kingdom, which is the second highest of the twelve founding NATO countries. According to the Washington Department of Corrections, of the 7,865 people released from their prisons in 2009, 2,190—or about 28 percent—of them were re-incarcerated within three years.
As someone who’s spent the better part of my life contributing to statistics such as these, and a current ward of the Washington DOC, my story sheds some light on the mystery of why and how the department has failed so miserably to accomplish its mission to “positively change lives.”
The answer is simple, yet sinister: Isolation discourages reform.
Six and a half years ago, I sat in Downtown Seattle’s King County Jail, facing a thirty-five-year sentence for a string of armed robberies that spanned three jurisdictions. I was twenty-nine years old, and though it had been five years since I’d seen the inside of a prison cell, that had been the longest stretch of freedom I’d experienced in nearly two decades.
My friends and family were devastated to be losing me, but they promised to stick around no matter what the outcome of my case. As it turns out, most of them didn’t understand the scope of such a commitment.
Companies like Globo Tel Link (GTL) and Securus provide phone services in prisons through contracts negotiated by DOC administrators. GTL charges Washington prisoners—or much more often, their loved ones—ten cents-per-minute for local calls, and extraneous fees to set up prepaid accounts. Calls are limited to twenty minutes, and with tax, they usually come to around $2 and fifty cents apiece.
Understandably, many incarcerated people with spouses and children call home periodically throughout the day in order to keep in touch. Assuming an incarcerated mother or father spends one hour a day communicating with his or her family, it would require three calls, adding up to $7.50 every day—and ultimately, $225 a month, including transaction fees.
This is more than quadruple what most people in the free world pay monthly on their cell phone bills.
JPay and similar corporations have found unique ways of capitalizing off mass incarceration, by charging for services such as emails, which are free to most of the rest of the world.
JPay and similar corporations have found unique ways of capitalizing off mass incarceration, by charging for services such as emails, which are free to most of the rest of the world. Prices vary from state to state, but in Washington, messages of no more than 1,000 characters can be sent for about thirty cents apiece—unless an individual purchases them in bulk, in which case they become slightly cheaper.
Incoming and outgoing emails are reviewed by mailroom prison staff and are often blocked for reasons such as “Writing for third party publication” or “Writing a book without permission from the prison,” both of which are clear violations of the First Amendment. Even a simple screenshot of a Wikipedia page about cats, for example,will likely be rejected for no apparent reason.
JPay also sells bulky outdated, and often malfunctioning tablets with limited capabilities. It sells MP3s and movies at rates of about $8 for a new release movie rental, much higher than those of free-world music vendors and streaming services.
With no competitors for prisoners to choose from, GTL and JPay have effectively monopolized Washington State’s incarcerated community. They can, as a result, offer inferior services for more money and still retain their contracts with prison administrators. The DOC has the discretion to choose among different vendors—and assist in setting prices—based on how much of a kickback it receives.
Meanwhile, those paying for these services—folks who are incarcerated and their loved ones—are only given one option—to pay exorbitant fees. For the DOC, communication between the incarcerated and their loved ones through vendors that provide kickbacks is a profitable potentially million dollar racket, raking in approximately fifty cents per inbound money transfer, five cents per outbound email, $5 per MP3 device, $10 per JP5 tablet device and 5 percent of JPay’s music download fees. Access to other modes of communication, like cell phones and the Internet, is restricted, and visiting conditions seem tailored to keep friends and family from wanting to come back.
In most prisons, visits take place on weekends, and are heavily policed. Tables are set close together, prohibiting any semblance of privacy, One brief embrace along with a short kiss is allowed at the beginning and end of each session. Between these times, it’s permitted to touch hands and forearms, but never above a shoulder. If a visitor should happen to lovingly brush her husband’s face with the back of her hand, she may find herself surrounded by hefty, uniformed guards, scowling, reprimanding, and threatening her.
This can be a very traumatic experience for those who come to visit prisoners, and it often discourages them from visiting again. (While visits are currently suspended due to COVID-19, they will soon be one-hour once each month and direct contact will be forbidden in any form.)
I received a twelve-year sentence, of which I’ll have served eight-and-a-half years by the time I’m released in 2023. Most of those who claimed they would stick around for me disappeared within the first year. Four years ago, I was fortunate to meet my amazing wife, who supports my dreams and was willing to navigate a system that seemed rigged against my successful re-entry.
Without my wife and the editors who have supported me, I would soon be facing release into a world with which I had little-to-no connection.
Most prisoners hope for little more from their spouses than money, food packages, and funds they can spend with vendors like JPay. I wanted to never again return to prison, so my wife has bridged the gap between me and society by submitting my writing to various publishers, magazines, journals, and newspapers. We emailed my work out and discussed submissions, formatting, and editing over the phone, creating a financially viable model despite the excessive cost of communication. Within two years, I had built a resume that free-world authors would be proud of.
Without my wife and the editors who have supported me, I would soon be facing release into a world with which I had little-to-no connection, in a social climate I would have forgotten how to navigate. Instead, I now have a career that will provide me with a future, and a loving, supportive partner waiting to help me reintegrate back into society.
Outside support is the only common factor that I’ve seen among those who have gotten out and not come back. And that is one sign of how badly the Washington DOC, like most other prison systems, is failing in its mission.