The Real Cost of Prisons Weblog

May 21, 2008

The rights of detainees

Editorial: Daily Hampshire Gazette
Northampton, MA
The rights of detainees
05/21/2008

The Franklin County Jail has been sued by a man who says he was strip-searched twice before his court arraignment after being arrested for allegedly failing to pay excise taxes.

While both sides are due their day in court, one issue is not in dispute: Prior to the construction of a new Franklin County jail, the sheriff routinely conducted strip-searches of all detainees, except for those in protective custody.

The case is remarkably similar to a class-action suit that was filed against the Hampshire County sheriff for pre-trial strip-searches; the Hampshire sheriff eventually agreed to a $205,000 settlement last year to resolve the case.

In both cases, the sheriffs should have taken the extra step of separating those awaiting trial from the rest of their detainees, which would have eliminated the need for across-the-board strip-searches.

The Franklin County suit involves a Sunderland man, Gregory Garvey, who re-established residency in Massachusetts after his home in Mississippi was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Garvey was involved in a car accident in Whately on Nov. 29, 2006, at which time he was told by an officer that his license had been suspended for failure to pay excise taxes several years earlier when he previously lived in the state, according to the lawsuit.

Garvey said he paid the excise taxes but, on Jan. 30, 2007, Sunderland police arrested him on a default warrant for failing to appear in Greenfield District Court on a charge of operating with a suspended license. He was held in the Franklin jail pending his appearance in court the next morning; Garvey said he was strip-searched twice while in custody.

Garvey's case is being handled by Howard Friedman, the Boston attorney who also represented the plaintiff in the suit filed against the Hampshire County jail over improper strip-searches. In that case, Charles V. Ryan IV - the son of a former Springfield mayor - was strip-searched while awaiting a court appearance after he was arrested for allegedly violating an abuse-prevention order. The charge was subsequently dropped after the witness refused to testify against Ryan.

That incident occurred before Hampshire County opened a regional lockup facility, which has separate accommodations for those awaiting a court hearing.

In both cases, the sheriffs have argued that their older, cramped jails justified the strip-search policies. While we appreciate how difficult it can be to arrange the funding for adequate police facilities, their excuse does not pass constitutional muster. As in the Hampshire case, it may well turn out that it would have been a lot less expensive for the Franklin County sheriff to have provided separate accommodations. These cases provide necessary reminders that jails cannot skimp on basic rights no matter how short they are on funding.

Posted by lois at 08:52 AM | Comments (0)

MA; Supreme Judicial Court allows use of statistical evidence of racial profiling

SJC allows use of statistical evidence of racial profiling
By DENISE LAVOIE Associated Press
05/21/2008
Daily Hampshire Gazette

BOSTON - Drivers who are stopped by police and suspect racial profiling can use statistical information to make their case, and if they prove it, evidence seized during the stop should be thrown out, the state's highest court ruled Tuesday.

The Supreme Judicial Court said that defendants can compare the racial composition of people stopped by police along a certain stretch of road with the racial composition of all the people who use the road.

If the statistics show "impermissible discrimination" based on race, then the burden shifts to prosecutors to show that the traffic stop was not motivated by race, the court ruled.

Defense attorneys hailed the ruling as an important step for minorities who have long believed they are stopped by police because of their skin color, not a traffic violation.

"The court is saying that if the real reason for the stop was race ... then that is selective enforcement (of the law), and you can't enforce traffic laws based on race," said Murray Kohn, a staff attorney for the Committee for Public Counsel Services, the state's public defender agency.

The ruling came in the case of Andres Lora, who was a passenger in a car that was stopped by state police on Interstate 290 in Auburn on Dec. 20, 2001.

The driver was not operating erratically, but had committed a traffic violation by driving in the left lane when there was no traffic in the center or right lanes.

After a state trooper stopped the car and returned to his cruiser to run a check on the driver, he saw Lora step out of the car. When he went to tell Lora to get back into the car, he saw a small bag on the driver's side floor containing cocaine.

Lora was charged with cocaine trafficking, but later filed a motion to throw out the cocaine as evidence, arguing that the traffic stop was unconstitutional because the trooper initiated the stop based on his dark skin.

Lora's lawyer introduced statistics showing the trooper had a history of disproportionately stopping and citing nonwhite motorists for motor vehicle violations. A Superior Court judge found that the statistical evidence created an "inference of purposeful discrimination," and agreed to suppress the cocaine found in the car.

The SJC overturned the lower court's ruling, finding that the statistical evidence presented by Lora wasn't enough to rebut the state's claim that the trooper had acted in good faith and without intending to discriminate. The court found that Lora's statistics - which compared the racial makeup of drivers who were stopped along a stretch of I-290 with the racial makeup of the town of Auburn - were unreliable and not accepted within the scientific community.

But the SJC concluded that legitimate statistical evidence demonstrating disparate treatment based on race can be offered by defendants.
http://www.dailyhampshiregazette.com/storytmp.cfm?id_no=93850&CSAuthResp=1211373414019965%3ArNJDHLy4X6PyGw%3D%3D%3ACSUserId%7CCSGroupId%3Asuccess%3AwrfS6ujA%2FEGnG50KoWQBcw%3D%3D&CSUserId=8254&CSGroupId=5

Posted by lois at 08:34 AM | Comments (0)

May 05, 2008

CCA Immigrant Detention: Immigration agency, contractors are accused of mistreating detainees

U-T SPECIAL REPORT
graphs and other links at this URL:

Immigrant detention
budget soars
The number of people held by Immigration and Customs Enforcement has jumped 36 percent since 2005, when the agency held a daily average of 19,718 detainees, who include illegal immigrants, asylum seekers and legal U.S. residents facing deportation. By the end of 2007, that number had grown to 30,881.

At the end of last year, 13 percent of ICE detainees were held in agency facilities. Seventeen percent were in private facilities that contract directly with ICE; 21 percent were in facilities contracted from local governments, usually with the county acting as middleman for a private company. An additional 46 percent were in county jails, where ICE rents beds, and a handful in other facilities, including rented federal prison space.

Many of these jails and prisons, while under government jurisdiction, also are privately operated.

In the past three years, Immigration and Customs Enforcement has more than tripled what it spends on detention. Its annual appropriation for custody has grown to $1.6 billion this year from $504 million in 2005.

The White House has requested funding for 1,000 more beds by Sept. 30.

The immigration agency has no plans to build any more of its own detention centers, of which there are eight in the nation, including one in El Centro. Officials say it's easier to contract the beds.

“It just provides us with a quicker way to provide detention space,” said Gary Mead, acting director of ICE detention and removal operations in Washington, D.C.

The savings are substantial: According to ICE, it cost $87.99 per day on average in fiscal year 2007 to hold someone at a contract detention facility, while it cost roughly $119.28 a day to house a person at an ICE-run facility.

Detention increased after 1996, when legislative changes made it easier to deport immigrants residing here legally who had been convicted and served a prison sentence, and made detention mandatory as they awaited deportation.

Then the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, occurred, and the federal government intensified its focus on border security.

In 2003, there came a new emphasis on tracking down people who had missed an immigration hearing or ignored a deportation order. In fiscal year 2007, ICE fugitive teams made more than 30,000 arrests.

Detentions expanded again after late 2005, when the Bush administration called for an end to the practice of “catch and release” for non-Mexican illegal immigrants who were being released with a notice to appear in court. Most Mexican nationals are quickly repatriated at the border.

Plastic 'boats'
Until early last year, the 10-year-old San Diego Correctional Facility in Otay Mesa, built and operated by Corrections Corporation of America, held up to 1,000 detainees.

In June 2006, the company lost 200 beds when the lease on part of the county-owned property expired. Yet according to CCA's 2006 financial report, the population of detainees wasn't reduced “as we had the ability to consolidate inmates.”

The following January, in its lawsuit, the ACLU cited the per-person fees paid by ICE to the contractor as an incentive for putting three people in a two-man cell. The third slept on the floor in a plastic cot referred to as a “boat.”

Lead plaintiff Isaac Kigondu Kiniti, a Kenyan detainee in ICE custody since 2004, said his head was so close to the toilet when he slept on the floor that he was showered with urine when cellmates used it. Kiniti criticized the contractor.

“Because they are a for-profit company, they will give you only the bare minimum of things to increase their profits,” said Kiniti, a former student-visa holder, appealing a deportation order stemming from a drug conviction.

ICE has since set the facility's maximum capacity at 700.

CCA, which like its competitors touts its cost-effectiveness, says there is no skimping at detainees' expense.

“We do not cut corners,” said Louise Grant, a spokeswoman. “Safety and security is our highest priority. We are extremely committed to offering strong programming for offenders in our care, as well as the highest medical care.”

Grant said costs are reduced by using efficient construction methods. While wages vary depending on the contract, she said, staff salaries frequently reflect the local cost of living. Many private prisons, like public ones, are in low-cost rural areas.

Grant said almost 90 percent of the company's facilities abide by the voluntary standards of the American Correctional Association, which includes public and private prisons.

However, according to the overcrowding lawsuit, the association's standards for “adult local detention facilities” call for cells housing more than one person to provide 25 square feet of unencumbered space per occupant. At Otay Mesa, when there were three detainees per cell with the cot on the floor, it amounted to no more than 15 square feet for all three, the complaint reads.

Oversight concerns
Critics of prison privatization cite oversight as perhaps one of the biggest concerns when private companies perform public incarceration duties.

According to ICE, 71 people have died in the agency's custody since the beginning of 2004. Of these, 57 were in contract facilities that ranged from private detention centers to county jails, raising questions about whether a lack of government oversight played a part.

Three people have died at Otay Mesa since 2003, including Yusif Osman, 34, a Ghanian man who died in his cell in 2006 after complaining of chest pain.

According to the county medical examiner's report, it took personnel more than an hour to call 911 after Osman's cellmate began asking for help. The report claims that Osman was seen on his knees, and that a medical supervisor, upon finding no medical history on him, “informed the control officer to have Mr. Osman file a request to seek medical assistance.”

In the ACLU medical-care lawsuit, plaintiffs complained about delays in getting treatment and prescription refills. One plaintiff is a diabetic man whose requests for care for a small injury to his foot were delayed so long that he developed gangrene.

Also cited is the case of Francisco Castañeda, a detainee who had to wait several months to see an off-site oncologist for what turned out to be penile cancer. Castañeda sued the federal government a few months before his death in February. His family has continued the lawsuit. The government recently acknowledged that there was medical negligence, one of the allegations made.

Health care at Otay Mesa is provided by the federal government, which according to the ACLU complaint took over health services from Corrections Corporation of America in 2002 after finding the company's health program deficient.

However, because company guards are the first to hear requests for medical care, “that does not mean that CCA is off the hook entirely,” said David Blair-Loy, legal director of the ACLU in San Diego.

“They may be interfering with access to treatment,” Blair-Loy said. “And they may or may not have a direct financial incentive to prevent people from getting treatment.”

There is no way to know, he said, because the public cannot obtain government contract information from private companies.

CCA's Grant, whose company earned nearly $1.5 billion last year, said that if the quality of CCA's service to inmates was not meeting expectations, the federal agency would cancel its contracts.

In February 2007, the month after the overcrowding lawsuit, Immigration and Customs Enforcement created a new detention-inspection task force charged with responding to complaints at all facilities where it houses detainees.

Posted by lois at 04:22 PM | Comments (0)

CCA Detention Centers: For Immigrants Who Died in U.S. Custody, Few Details Provided

May 5, 2008
For Immigrants Who Died in U.S. Custody, Few Details Provided
By NINA BERNSTEIN
NY Times

Word spread quickly inside the windowless walls of the Elizabeth Detention Center, an immigration jail in New Jersey: A detainee had fallen, injured his head and become incoherent. Guards had put him in solitary confinement, and late that night, an ambulance had taken him away more dead than alive.

But outside, for five days, no official notified the family of the detainee, Boubacar Bah, a 52-year-old tailor from Guinea who had overstayed a tourist visa. When frantic relatives located him at University Hospital in Newark on Feb. 5, 2007, he was in a coma after emergency surgery for a skull fracture and multiple brain hemorrhages. He died there four months later without ever waking up, leaving family members on two continents trying to find out why.

Mr. Bah’s name is one of 66 on a government list of deaths that occurred in immigration custody from January 2004 to November 2007, when nearly a million people passed through.

The list, compiled by Immigration and Customs Enforcement after Congress demanded the information, and obtained by The New York Times under the Freedom of Information Act, is the fullest accounting to date of deaths in immigration detention, a patchwork of federal centers, county jails and privately run prisons that has become the nation’s fastest-growing form of incarceration.

The list has few details, and they are often unreliable, but it serves as a rough road map to previously unreported cases like Mr. Bah’s. And it reflects a reality that haunts grieving families like his: the difficulty of getting information about the fate of people taken into immigration custody, even when they die.

Mr. Bah’s relatives never saw the internal records labeled “proprietary information — not for distribution” by the Corrections Corporation of America, which runs the New Jersey detention center for the federal government. The documents detail how he was treated by guards and government employees: shackled and pinned to the floor of the medical unit as he moaned and vomited, then left in a disciplinary cell for more than 13 hours, despite repeated notations that he was unresponsive and intermittently foaming at the mouth.

Mr. Bah had lived in New York for a decade, surrounded by a large circle of friends and relatives. The extravagant gowns he sewed to support his wife and children in West Africa were on display in a Manhattan boutique.

But he died in a sequestered system where questions about what had happened to him, or even his whereabouts, were met with silence.

As the country debates stricter enforcement of immigration laws, thousands of people who are not American citizens are being locked up for days, months or years while the government decides whether to deport them. Some have no valid visa; some are legal residents, but have past criminal convictions; others are seeking asylum from persecution.

Death is a reality in any jail, and the medical neglect of inmates is a perennial issue. But far more than in the criminal justice system, immigration detainees and their families lack basic ways to get answers when things go wrong.

No government body is required to keep track of deaths and publicly report them. No independent inquiry is mandated. And often relatives who try to investigate the treatment of those who died say they are stymied by fear of immigration authorities, lack of access to lawyers, or sheer distance.

Federal officials say deaths are reviewed internally by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, which reports them to its inspector general and decides which ones warrant investigation. Officials say they notify the detainee’s next of kin or consulate, and report the deaths to local medical authorities, who may conduct autopsies. In Mr. Bah’s case, a review before his death found no evidence of foul play, an immigration spokesman said, though after later inquiries from The Times, he said a full review of the death was under way.

But critics, including many in Congress, say this piecemeal process leaves too much to the agency’s discretion, allowing some deaths to be swept under the rug while potential witnesses are transferred or deported. They say it also obscures underlying complaints about medical care, abusive conditions or inadequate suicide prevention.

In January, the House passed a bill that would require states that receive certain federal money to report deaths in custody to their attorneys general. But the bill is stalled in the Senate, and it does not cover federal facilities.

The only tangible result of Congressional concern has been the list of 66 deaths, which names Mr. Bah and many other detainees for the first time, but raises as many questions as it answers.

For Mr. Bah’s survivors, the mystery of his death is hard to bear. In Guinea, his first wife, Dalanda, wept as she spoke about the contradictory accounts that had reached her and her two teenage sons through other detainees, including some who speculated that Mr. Bah had been beaten.

In New York, a cousin who is an American citizen, Khadidiatou Bah, 38, said she was unable to bring a lawsuit, in part because other relatives were afraid of antagonizing the authorities.

“They don’t want to push the case, or maybe they will be sent home,” she said. “This guy was killed, and we don’t know what happened.”

Lingering Questions

The list of deaths where Mr. Bah’s name surfaced is often cryptic. Along with 13 deaths cited as suicides and 14 as the result of cardiac ailments, it offers such causes as “undetermined” and “unwitnessed arrest, epilepsy.” No one’s nationality is given, some places of detention are omitted, and some names and birth dates seem garbled. As a result, many families could not be tracked down for this article.

But when they could be, they posed more disturbing questions.

In California, relatives of Walter Rodriguez-Castro, 28, said they were rebuffed when they tried to find out why his calls had stopped coming from the Kern County Jail in Bakersfield in April 2006. Then in June, his wife went to his scheduled hearing in San Francisco’s immigration court and learned that he had been dead for many weeks, his body unclaimed in the county morgue.

The coroner found that Mr. Rodriguez-Castro, a mover from El Salvador in the country illegally, had died of undiagnosed meningitis and H.I.V., after days complaining of fever, stiff neck and vomiting. The cause of death on the government’s list: “unresponsive.”

Immigration authorities said on Friday that the case was now under review, but would not answer questions about it or other deaths on the list. Sgt. Ed Komin, a spokesman for the jail, said the death had been promptly reported to immigration officials, who were responsible for notifying families.

Four sons in another family, in Sacramento, described trying for days to get medical care for their father, Maya Nand, a 56-year-old legal immigrant from Fiji, at a detention center run by the Corrections Corporation in Eloy, Ariz. Mr. Nand, an architectural draftsman, had been ailing when he was taken into custody on Jan. 13, 2005, apparently because his application for citizenship had been rejected, based on an earlier conviction for misdemeanor domestic violence. In collect calls, the sons said, he told them that despite his chest pains and breathing problems, doctors at the detention center did not take his condition seriously.

The Corrections Corporation said he had been seen and treated “multiple times.” But a letter to the family from an immigration official said his treatment was for a respiratory infection. The letter said that Mr. Nand was taken to an emergency room on Jan. 25, where congestive heart failure was diagnosed, and that he “suffered an apparent heart attack while at the hospital.” He died on Feb. 2, 2005, shackled to a hospital bed in Tucson.

Boubacar Bah had more going for him than many detainees. He had a lawyer and many friends and relatives in the United States, and his detention center in New Jersey was one of the few frequented by immigrant advocates.

But three days after he suffered a head injury in detention last year, no one in his New York circle knew that he was lying comatose in a Newark hospital, where he had already been identified as a possible organ donor.

“Thank you for the referral,” an organ-sharing network wrote on Feb. 3, 2007, according to hospital records. “This patient is a potential candidate for organ donation once brain death criteria is met.”

Four days after the fall, tipped off by a detainee who called Mr. Bah’s roommate in Brooklyn, relatives rushed to the detention center to ask Corrections Corporation employees where he was.

“They wouldn’t give us any information,” said Lamine Dieng, an American citizen who teaches physics at Bronx Community College and is married to Mr. Bah’s cousin Khadidiatou.

On the fifth day, they said, a detention official called them with the name of the hospital. There they found Mr. Bah on life support, still in custody, with a detention guard around the clock.

“There was one guard who knew Boubacar,” Ms. Bah said. “He told me on the down-low: ‘This guy, you have to fight for him. This guy was neglected.’ ”

Within the week, word of the case reached a reporter at The Times, through an immigration lawyer who had received separate calls from two detainees; they were upset about a badly injured man — named “something like Aboubakar” — left in an isolation cell and later found near death.

But advocacy groups said they were unaware of the case. And Michael Gilhooly, the spokesman for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, said that without the man’s full name and eight-digit alien registration number, he could not check the information.

For those who knew Mr. Bah, it was hard to understand how such a man could lie dying without explanations.

“Everybody liked Boubacar,” said Sadio Diallo, 48, who has a tailor shop in Flatbush, Brooklyn, where he and Mr. Bah had shared an apartment with fellow immigrants since arriving in 1998. “He’s a very, very, very good man.”

For six years, Mr. Bah had worked for L’Impasse, a clothing store in the West Village, sewing dresses that sold for up to $2,000 with what a former manager, Abdul Sall, called his “magic hands.” Mr. Bah often spent Sundays at the Bronx townhouse his cousins had inherited from the family’s first American citizen, a seaman who arrived in 1943.

In Africa, Mr. Bah’s earnings not only supported his first wife, sons and ailing mother, but in Guinean tradition, allowed him to wed a second wife, long distance. It was his longing to see them all again after eight years that landed him in detention. When he returned from a three-month visit to Guinea in May 2006, immigration authorities at Kennedy Airport told him that his green card application had been denied while he was away, automatically revoking his permission to re-enter the United States. An immigration lawyer hired by his friends was unable to reopen the application while Mr. Bah waited for nine months in detention, records showed.

Mr. Bah died on May 30, 2007, after four months in a coma. His lawyer, Theodore Vialet, requested detention reports and hospital records under the Freedom of Information Act. But by the time the records arrived last autumn, the idea of a lawsuit had been dropped.

So Mr. Vialet just filed the records away — until a reporter’s call about a name on the list of dead detainees prompted him to dig them out.

After the Fall

There are 57 pages of documents, some neatly typed by medics, some scrawled by guards. Some quote detainees who said Mr. Bah was ailing for two days before his fall on Feb. 1, and asked in vain to see a doctor.

The records leave unclear exactly when or how Mr. Bah was injured in detention. But they leave no doubt that guards, supervisors, government medical employees and federal immigration officers played a role in leaving him untreated, hour after hour, as he lapsed into a stupor.

It began about 8 a.m., according to the earliest report. Guards called a medical emergency after a detainee saw Mr. Bah collapse near a toilet, hitting the back of his head on the floor.

When he regained consciousness, Mr. Bah was taken to the medical unit, which is run by the federal Public Health Service. He became incoherent and agitated, reports said, pulling away from the doctor and grabbing at the unit staff. Physicians consulted later by The Times called this a textbook symptom of intracranial bleeding, but apparently no one recognized that at the time.

He was handcuffed and placed in leg restraints on the floor with medical approval, “to prevent injury,” a guard reported. “While on the floor the detainee began to yell in a foreign language and turn from side to side,” the guard wrote, and the medical staff deemed that “the screaming and resisting is behavior problems.”

Mr. Bah was ordered to calm down. Instead, he kept crying out, then “began to regurgitate on the floor of medical,” the report said. So Mr. Bah was written up for disobeying orders. And with the approval of a physician assistant, Michael Chuley, who wrote that Mr. Bah’s fall was unwitnessed and “questionable,” the tailor was taken in shackles to a solitary confinement cell with instructions that he be monitored.

Under detention protocols, an officer videotaped Mr. Bah as he lay vomiting in the medical unit, but the camera’s battery failed, guards wrote, when they tried to tape his trip to cell No. 7.

Inside the cell, a supervisor removed Mr. Bah’s restraints. He was unresponsive to questions asked by the Public Health Service officer on duty, a report said, adding: “The detainee set up in his bed and moan and he fell to his left side and hit his head on the bed rail.”

About 9 a.m., with the approval of the health officer and a federal immigration agent, the cell was locked.

The watching began. As guards checked hourly, Mr. Bah appeared to be asleep on the concrete floor, snoring. But he could not be roused to eat lunch or dinner, and at 7:10 p.m., “he began to breathe heavily and started foaming slightly at the mouth,” a guard wrote. “I notified medical at this time.”

However, the nurse on duty rejected the guard’s request to come check, according to reports. And at 8 p.m., when the warden went to the medical unit to describe Mr. Bah’s condition, the nurse, Raymund Dela Pena, was not alarmed. “Detainee is likely exhibiting the same behavior as earlier in the day,” he wrote, adding that Mr. Bah would get a mental health exam in the morning.

About 10:30 p.m., more than 14 hours after Mr. Bah’s fall, the same nurse, on rounds, recognized the gravity of his condition: “unresponsive on the floor incontinent with foamy brown vomitus noted around mouth.” Smelling salts were tried. Mr. Bah was carried back to the medical unit on a stretcher.

Just before 11, someone at the jail called 911.

When an ambulance left Mr. Bah at the hospital, brain scans showed he had a fractured skull and hemorrhages at all sides of his swelling brain. He was rushed to surgery, and the detention center was informed of the findings.

But in a report to their supervisors the next day, immigration officials at the center described Mr. Bah’s ailment as “brain aneurysms” — a diagnosis they corrected a week later to “hemorrhages,” without mentioning the skull fracture. After Mr. Bah’s death, they wrote that his hospitalization was “subsequent to a fall in the shower.”

The nurse, Mr. Dela Pena, and the physician assistant, Mr. Chuley, said that only their superiors could discuss the case. The Public Health Service did not respond to questions, and the Corrections Corporation said medical decisions were the responsibility of the Public Health Service.

Mr. Bah’s cousins demanded an autopsy, but the Union County medical examiner’s confidential report was not completed until Dec. 6. It was sent to the county prosecutor’s office only as a matter of routine, because the matter had been classified as an “unattended accident resulting in death.”

Prosecutors said they did not investigate. “According to the report, Bah suffered a fall in the shower,” Eileen Walsh, a spokeswoman for the prosecutors, said in an e-mail message. “We are not privy to any other bits of information.”

In the home movies Mr. Bah made of his last journey home, he is only a fleeting presence: a slim man with a shy smile. But without his support, relatives in Africa say they have little money for food and none for his sons’ schooling.

His body went back to Guinea in a sealed coffin.

“I stayed here seven years, waiting for him,” his second wife, Mariama, said in French, recalling their long separation and the brief reunion that led to the birth of their son, now a toddler, while Mr. Bah was in detention.

“I wanted them to open the casket,” she added, “to know if it was him inside. Until today, I cry for him.”

Margot Williams contributed reporting.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/05/nyregion/05detain.html?_r=1%26hp=%26oref=slogin%26pagewanted=print

Posted by lois at 03:58 PM | Comments (0)

April 27, 2008

"Buried Alive: Solitary Confinement in Arizona's Prisons and Jails"

"Buried Alive: Solitary Confinement in Arizona's Prisons and Jails" by Caroline Isaacs and Mathew Lowen. AFSC Arizona
The report is the first attempt to catalog the use and impacts of solitary confinement for adults and juveniles in the Arizona Department of Corrections, the Arizona Department of Juvenile Corrections and the Maricopa County Fourth Avenue Jail. The report is part of the national AFSC StopMax Campaign
http://www.afsc.org/az/documents/buried-alive.pdf

Posted by lois at 08:28 PM | Comments (0)

April 26, 2008

CA: The state will search its database for relatives of unidentified suspects in hopes of developing leads.

California takes lead on crime-fighting techniques

The state will search its database for relatives of unidentified suspects in hopes of developing leads. Critics voice privacy concerns.

By Maura Dolan and Jason Felch,
Los Angeles Times Staff Writers
April 26, 2008

California will adopt the most aggressive approach in the nation to a controversial crime-fighting technique that uses DNA to try to identify elusive criminals through their relatives, state Atty. Gen. Jerry Brown announced Friday.

Employing what is known as familial or "partial match" searching, the policy is aimed at identifying a suspect through DNA collected at a crime scene by looking for potential relatives in the state's genetic database of about a million felons. Once a relative is identified, police can use that person as a lead to trace the suspect.

The new plan makes California a leader in such searches, which several states permit but do not vigorously pursue. Colorado has recently begun to examine its database for relatives of unknown criminals as part of a research project.

Brown said the new approach was justified by violent crime plaguing the state. He emphasized that it would be used only when all other leads had been exhausted.

"We have 2,000 murders a year in California -- that is 10,000 since the Iraq war started -- and that is a lot of killing," Brown said. "When you see it and see the victims and have to go to funerals, it is pretty serious stuff."

But Tania Simoncelli, science advisor to the American Civil Liberties Union, called Brown's decision a disappointment and said the organization is exploring its legality. The group has not decided whether to challenge the policy in court.

"The fact that my brother committed a crime doesn't mean I should have to give up my privacy," she said.

At a recent FBI conference on familial searching, Jeffrey Rosen, a constitutional law professor at George Washington University, warned: "I can guarantee if familial searching proceeds, it will create a political firestorm."

The policy, which takes effect immediately, is designed to work like this: The state's crime lab will tell police about DNA profiles that come up during routine searches of California's offender database and closely resemble, but do not match, the DNA left at a crime scene. (Previously, the state refused to tell police about these partial matches.)

The lab will then perform calculations and tests to determine the likelihood of a biological relationship between the person found in the database and the unknown offender believed to have left DNA at the crime scene.

When such partial matches do not surface or fail to produce a lead, a more customized familial search can be done in which computer software scans the database proactively for possible relatives. The software measures the chance of two people being related based on the rarity of the markers they share.

California appears to be the first state in the nation to use this second technique as a matter of policy. Drafted with the heavy involvement of lawyers, the new policy requires a series of meetings with police and prosecutors to ensure that the relative's name is vital to the investigation and that all other leads have been exhausted.

Once a relative has been identified, police can interview him or construct a family tree based on existing records. If a suspect is identified, police can obtain a warrant for his DNA, or even gather it surreptiously from an abandoned drink or cigarette butt. The suspect's DNA sample would then be compared to the crime scene sample and possibly used as evidence.

"The people of California will know that we are using the database to try to solve as many crimes as we can, unlike virtually every other state in the country," said retired Alameda County Dist. Atty. Rockne P. Harmon, who consulted with the state on the policy.

Civil libertarians oppose using DNA databases to search for relatives of unknown offenders, saying it puts family members under "genetic surveillance" for crimes they did not commit. For now, all the people in the state's database are convicted offenders, but the state plans to expand the database next year to include arrestees, heightening concerns over privacy.

Critics say familial searching could expose sensitive and secret genetic relationships. A son, for example, could learn that his father was not his biological parent. DNA databases also reflect the racial and ethnic biases of the justice system, exposing minority communities to more surveillance than others, critics maintain.

FBI officials in charge of the national database network have also expressed concerns, making them unlikely allies of civil libertarians on familial searching. They urge a cautious approach, worrying that the courts will balk at this type of sleuthing. No law specifically authorizes it, and some legal scholars consider it unconstitutional because they say it amounts to an unreasonable search.

Brown called such objections hypothetical. The policy forbids the release of the names of relatives until genetic tests and analysis convince the state that the person is indeed a relative.

"It is still not going to be a fail-safe system, and we are going to make mistakes," said Simoncelli, the ACLU science advisor. "We are opening the door to using the database in such a fundamentally different way than the purpose for which it was established."

No one knows how well the state's plan will work. Harmon said he was absolutely convinced that it would provide at least some new leads for police.

Lance Gima, the state's top forensic scientist, agreed. But he conceded that the search for relatives would be a longshot because many unrelated people share genetic markers. He said he hoped the state's decision would spur technology to improve the accuracy of such searches.

Britain has done familial searching for years, using more sophisticated software. With a 10% to 14% rate of identifying perpetrators, Britain's searches have had limited but dramatic results, cracking some sensational crimes.

A serial rapist whose DNA was not in Britain's national database was caught because he was genetically similar to his sister, whose DNA was taken after a drunk-driving arrest. The so-called shoe rapist had a fetish for stiletto heels. When police captured him, they discovered scores of high heels he had stolen from his victims.

Police in the U.S. have used genetic relationships to help catch criminals in a different way, and on a much smaller scale.

After Kansas police zeroed in on the serial killer who dubbed himself BTK -- initials for bind, torture, kill -- they obtained a court order for the pap smear of his daughter. Without her knowledge, police performed a DNA analysis of the specimen, obtained from a medical laboratory.

The genetic similarities indicated they had the right man, Dennis Radar.

Posted by lois at 11:44 PM | Comments (0)

April 20, 2008

Lawsuits test crackdown on sex criminals

Friday, April 18, 2008
Lawsuits test crackdown on sex criminals
By John Gramlich, Stateline.org Staff Writer

A death-penalty case argued before the U.S. Supreme Court this week marks the latest constitutional challenge to an ongoing, nationwide crackdown on sex criminals.

From California to North Carolina, a flood of litigation has accompanied an expansion in the scope and severity of penalties imposed by local, state and federal lawmakers on those who commit sex crimes.

Penalties for molesters and other sex criminals have toughened considerably in recent years and now include execution in at least five states, chemical castration in eight states and the use of technology to monitor offenders’ every move in more than half the states.

In some instances, punitive measures are limited only by lawmakers’ imaginations. In Louisiana, for example, a proposal being debated this legislative session would forbid offenders from wearing masks on Halloween or Mardi Gras. In New Jersey, a new state law prevents molesters and others from surfing the Internet unless it is for work-related purposes; Florida and Nevada have similar laws.

The recent legal challenges take aim at laws that sex criminals say violate constitutional guarantees, including privacy, due process and protection from cruel and unusual punishment. Supporters of the laws say they are necessary to protect children from predators who are capable of committing brutal crimes.

One such brutal crime, the rape of a young child, is at the center of a closely watched case from Louisiana argued April 16 at the nation’s highest court. The justices heard an appeal from a 44-year-old inmate who claims it is unconstitutionally cruel and unusual for the state to execute him for raping his then-8-year-old stepdaughter a decade ago.

Lawyers for the inmate, Patrick Kennedy, say the death penalty for child rapists is cruel and unusual, in part because only four other states (Montana, Oklahoma, South Carolina and Texas) allow it, while similar laws in Florida and Georgia may be invalid after court or legislative action. They stress that only Louisiana actually has sentenced child rapists to death, and only in two cases, and that the Supreme Court already has struck down the death penalty for those who rape adults.

“Evolving standards of decency,” however, should allow for the execution of such criminals, lawyers for Louisiana counter, noting that child rapists are universally acknowledged as being among the worst of the worst.

Attorneys general from nine states (Alabama, Colorado, Idaho, Mississippi, Missouri, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Texas and Washington) filed a brief supporting Louisiana’s side in the case. Missouri Gov. Matt Blunt (R), who has pushed for the death penalty for child rapists, joined legislators from his state in a separate brief supporting Louisiana.

Despite the attention drawn by the Louisiana case, the ultimate punishment is far from the only punishment that sex criminals are challenging as excessive.

In Georgia and Ohio, sex criminals have successfully challenged residency restrictions that forbid them from living within 1,000 feet of schools or other common gathering places for children. California’s highest court also is considering whether to strike down zoning laws that could make huge swaths of the state off-limits to offenders.

In Missouri’s Supreme Court, a convicted sex offender is challenging aspects of the state’s practice of “civil confinement,” which has allowed him to be held indefinitely in a treatment program for a crime he committed in 1983 and for which he finished serving time years ago. More than 20 states allow civil confinement after it was upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court in separate decisions in 1997 and 2002.

The 4th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, meanwhile, is preparing to hear arguments on the constitutionality of the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act, a wide-reaching federal law that requires all states to dramatically toughen penalties for sex criminals by July of next year, or risk losing funding from a congressional grant program. A trial judge ruled against parts of the law last year.

A broad spectrum of critics — including civil-rights organizations such as the American Civil Liberties Union and Human Rights Watch, law enforcers, prosecuting attorneys and even some victims’ assistance groups — has criticized some of the recent local, state and federal laws aimed at sex criminals.

Many say the laws are more about political opportunism than public safety. Elected officials recognize that they can appeal to voters by piling up penalties on a widely detested criminal population that has few advocates willing to stand up for its rights, critics say.

“It’s still an easy, no-lose-politically situation,” said Corey Rayburn Yung, a professor at John Marshall Law School in Chicago and author of a blog, Sex Crimes, that reports on trends in sex-offender legislation.

But politicians who support the measures say they are simply reflecting the will of their constituents, who want to crack down on sex criminals.

“Most people who talked with me about it said they would have been rougher (on sex criminals),” Georgia state Rep. Amos Amerson (R) said of the state’s residency restrictions.

Amerson recently voted to revise and reinstate restrictions that the Georgia Supreme Court ruled unconstitutional last November. The revisions now are on the desk of Gov. Sonny Perdue (R), who has until May 15 to sign them into law. Opponents have predicted a new round of litigation if Perdue approves the restrictions.

In Iowa, where a law preventing sex offenders from living within 2,000 feet of schools and other gathering places is considered among the toughest in the nation, the state supreme court twice has upheld the statute.

But a coalition of groups, including sheriffs and county attorneys, has lobbied the Legislature to repeal the measure, claiming it wastes public resources trying to track molesters who are essentially made homeless because of the rules. In a sign of the political difficulty of that lobbying effort, however, opponents of the residency restrictions have decided to wait until next year to ask legislators to reconsider.

“This is an election year, and so we have consciously backed off it,” said Corwin Ritchie, executive director of the Iowa County Attorneys Association. Ritchie said the issue was “held hostage to politics.”

Meanwhile, the federal Adam Walsh Act is likely to face more litigation than any other statute because of its breadth. The law requires some juvenile offenders as young as 14 to be included in online registries and retroactively applies new registration requirements to offenders who have been out of prison for years.

Sarah Tofte, a Human Rights Watch researcher who has studied sex-offender laws and advocates for a comprehensive approach that focuses on treatment, said she thinks it is unlikely that lawmakers will back away from tough new laws — despite the mounting legal challenges.

She noted that the federal Second Chance Act signed by President Bush this month — which eases convicts’ re-entry into society by focusing on rehabilitation — does not apply to sex offenders, who are viewed by the public and by legislators as immutable, lifelong criminals.

“I think it’s going to be quite a while until we let sex offenders be treated like other ex-offenders,” Tofte said.

http://www.stateline.org/live/details/story?contentId=302066

Posted by lois at 02:50 PM | Comments (0)

Department of Justice FY 2009 Budget Request

Department of Justice FY 2009 Budget Request
President's Request Supports Increase for Department's National Security Efforts

http://www.prnewswire.com/cgi-bin/stories.pl?ACCT=104&STORY=/www/story/02-04-2008/0004749082&EDATE=

WASHINGTON, Feb. 4 /PRNewswire-USNewswire/ -- Attorney General Michael B. Mukasey today announced that the President's fiscal year 2009 budget proposal for the Department of Justice is $22.7 billion. The FY 2009 budget request includes a 6 percent increase over the FY 2008 enacted budget for the Department's law enforcement and prosecution programs, including $492.7 million to improve the Department's counterterrorism and intelligence capabilities.

"The Department of Justice's mission is multi-faceted: It ranges from investigating and prosecuting terrorists, online predators and drug kingpins, to fighting corporate fraud, to protecting the government's interest in a wide range of litigation," said Attorney General Mukasey. "The fiscal year 2009 budget supports our mission and includes targetedenhancements to ensure the nation's security and to bolster our law enforcement efforts along the Southwest Border."

Since the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, the Department has significantly strengthened its efforts to enhance our national security and protect our homeland, and the FY 2009 budget reflects those priorities. Key priorities and requested FY 2009 program increases are as follows:

-- Protecting the American People by Preventing Terrorist Acts: $492.7 million

-- Fighting Criminal Activity on the U.S. Southwest Border $100.0 million

-- Supporting Essential Federal Detention and Incarceration Programs $67.1 million

In addition, the FY 2009 budget includes a total program level of over $1 billion for state and local law enforcement assistance.

PROTECTING THE AMERICAN PEOPLE BY PREVENTING TERRORIST ACTS

The Department's top priority remains the prevention, investigation, and prosecution of terrorist activities against U.S. citizens and interests. The FY 2009 President's Budget requests $492.7 million in investments to improve the nation's counterterrorism investigative capabilities to identify, track, and dismantle terrorist cells operating in the United States and overseas, and to fortify the nation's intelligence analysis capabilities.

The FY 2009 President's Budget bolsters the national security functions of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) with $7.1 billion in total resources, including $447.4 million in investments that will support FBI's intelligence and counterterrorism programs, improve surveillance capabilities, bolster weapons of mass destruction response, and protect the security of the nation's cyber systems. In addition, this budget provides $84 million in total resources for the National Security Division, which will strengthen its ability to support intelligence operations to combat terrorism and other threats to national security. The following summarizes the key program changes, for preventing and combating terrorism and improving intelligence:

Federal Bureau of Investigation

-- Operations: $235.5 million to identify and analyze national security and criminal threats and to develop and execute operational strategies, including resources for national security investigations; enhancement of the weapons of mass destruction, cyber and Render Safe missions; computer intrusion investigative support; and foreign intelligence collection and operations.

-- Surveillance: $88.5 million to support a surveillance technology capability to meet operational requirements, including resources for physical and electronic surveillance and collection processing exploitation, analysis, and reporting.

-- Infrastructure: $28.4 million to ensure a safe and appropriate work environment and updated technology, including resources for central records management, field facility infrastructure, and IT disaster recovery.

-- Leveraging Technology: $36.1 million to enable an enhanced capability for providing services to FBI's partners, including resources for analytical support and applied technologies in DNA, communication capabilities and forensic analysis.

-- Partnerships: $5.7 million to promote an established and productive network of partnerships at all levels, including resources for the expansion of the Legal Attache and Fusion Center programs.

-- Workforce: $43.4 million to provide a professional workforce that possesses the critical skills, competencies, and training required to perform the FBI's mission, including resources for security and background adjudications, and human intelligence (HUMINT) and other training initiatives. Further, resources are redirected to the Office of the Director of National Intelligence for the centralized oversight and execution of the Intelligence Community's Worklife Program.

-- Academy Construction: $9.8 million in support of the FBI Academy, including construction contract management services and architectural-engineering services for upcoming projects and a new substation to handle increased electrical power loads.

Integrated Wireless Network

-- Integrated Wireless Network: $43.9 million for law enforcement wireless communications, which is vital to national security and to the life and safety of our law enforcement officers. The 9/11 Commission identified the inability of first responders to communicate with each other and recommended that this issue be addressed. These resources will employ a multi-pronged approach to providing tactical wireless communications capabilities for law enforcement personnel across the country. This approach provides for: $19.0 million to replace outdated legacy equipment with narrowband compliant technology for the FBI, the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), the U.S. Marshals Service (USMS), and the Alcohol
Tobacco Firearms and Explosives (ATF); and $24.9 million to implement the Integrated Wireless Network (IWN) in the Washington, D.C. area. The Department intends to implement IWN on a nationwide basis over a multi-year time frame.

Office of the Inspector General (OIG)

-- Oversight: $1.2 million to enable the OIG to assist the Department in ensuring that its counterterrorism funds are used effectively. With these resources, the OIG will continue to examine issues such as the FBI's use of national security letters and USA Patriot Act Section 215 orders to obtain business records and its progress in hiring, training, and retaining intelligence analysts.

FIGHTING CRIMINAL ACTIVITY ON THE U.S. SOUTHWEST BORDER

The Southwest Border is the principal arrival zone for most illicit drugs smuggled into the United States, as well as the predominant staging area for the subsequent distribution of drugs throughout the country. The Southwest Border also poses significant challenges for enforcing the nation's laws against illegal immigration, including human smuggling. In addition, the threat of terrorism looms large wherever criminals regularly exploit gaps in homeland security. Given the magnitude of the threat, it is imperative that the Department add resources to better disrupt the organizations responsible for the movement of illicit drugs, proceeds, and weapons across the Southwest Border and to bring their leaders to justice. To address this ever-growing threat, the Department proposes $100.0 million in new resources to create the Southwest Border Enforcement Initiative to strategically focus the Department's law enforcement and prosecutorial efforts on the U.S. Southwest Border to combat violent crime, gun smuggling, illicit drug trafficking, and illegal immigration. Specific increases include:

Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF)

-- Firearms Industry Regulation: $948,000 to enhance ATF's ability to inspect and investigate the firearms industry to strengthen oversight in the region and implement a focused inspection program to identify purchasers, traffickers and non-compliant licensees that may be sources of illegally trafficked firearms used by violent criminals.

Criminal Division

-- Reducing Gang Violence: $289,000 to work in tandem with the DOJ Gang Targeting, Enforcement, and Coordination Center's enforcement efforts to combat ever-increasing gang threats facing the nation along the Southwest Border.

Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA)

-- Foreign-deployed Advisory and Support Team (FAST) Expansion: $7.0 million to establish two additional teams to assist DEA's host nation counterparts in Central America, South America, and the Caribbean, where drugs flowing to the United States are produced or transited. These teams will provide the expertise, equipment, and personnel to augment DEA country offices targeting the most significant violators, Priority Organization Targets and Consolidated Priority Organization Targets (CPOTs).

-- Strategic Drug Flow Enforcement Operations: $2.0 million to conduct an additional Operational All Inclusive (OAI) deployment each year in the western hemisphere. OAI is DEA's primary large-scale and successful Drug Flow Attack enforcement operation in the source, transit, and arrival zones. This operational funding provides for travel, aviation support, intelligence collection, and host nation support.

-- Tactical Aircraft Section: $8.9 million to purchase, operate, and maintain one new Bell 412 twin-engine helicopter to support interdiction operations in the transit zone, including FAST deployments, and address air, maritime, and land drug trafficking threats.

-- Southwest Border Staffing: $2.6 million and 16 positions to prevent the flow of drugs across the Southwest Border.

Executive Office for Immigration Review (EOIR)

-- Information Technology: $10 million for EOIR, including $8.3 million for a Digital Audio Recording System to be provided to immigration courts nationwide to improve the audio quality in the immigration courts; and $1.7 million for the Immigration Review Information Exchange System, through which EOIR will share mission-critical information with other federal agencies, including the Department of Homeland Security and the DOJ's Civil
Division.

Interagency Crime and Drug Enforcement (ICDE)

-- Vehicle Identification Initiative: $2.8 million to support communications costs associated with the Vehicle Identification Initiative, an effort to gather valuable law enforcement intelligence regarding Mexico-based Consolidated Priority Organization Targets and affiliated
"Gatekeeper" organizations involved in bulk cash smuggling. Also included is $500,000 to provide sufficient IT infrastructure for the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force (OCDETF) Fusion Center to process and develop the data collected.

-- Fugitive Apprehension Initiative: $1.7 million and six Deputy U.S. Marshals to increase USMS's capability to apprehend OCDETF fugitives both domestically and in foreign countries, particularly those fugitives linked to South America and Mexico-based drug trafficking organizations.

-- Drug Prosecution: $5.1 million to support prosecution activities against significant drug trafficking organizations and money laundering organizations responsible for transporting, importing, manufacturing or distributing drugs and smuggling illicit proceeds across the U.S./Mexico Border.

Office of the Federal Detention Trustee (OFDT)

-- Detainee Housing and Transportation: $37.6 million to accommodate an anticipated increase in the number of detainees housed in non-federal facilities. These resources will be utilized to fund the costs associated with prisoner detention, care and transportation of detainees along the Southwest Border.

U.S. Attorneys

-- Southwest Border Prosecution: $8.4 million and 83 positions (50 attorneys) to support additional prosecutorial efforts along the Southwest Border. Additional Assistant U.S. Attorneys and paralegals are needed to respond to cross-border criminal activities and the increases in immigration cases resulting from the substantial increases in Border Patrol agents and the U.S. Government's overall effort to gain operational control of the border.

U.S. Marshals Service (USMS)

-- Prisoner Security and Transportation: $12.7 million and 73 positions (52 Deputy U.S. Marshals) to manage the increasing workload along the Southwest Border. As the number of illegal immigrants entering America has risen, the USMS has experienced substantial prisoner and fugitive workload growth along the Southwest Border. This funding will allow the USMS to meet its responsibilities for protecting and securing federal detainees before, during, and after their judicial proceedings.

SUPPORTING ESSENTIAL FEDERAL DETENTION AND INCARCERATION PROGRAMS

As a result of successful law enforcement policies targeting terrorism, violent crime, and drug crimes, the number of criminal suspects appearing in federal court continues to grow as does the number of individuals ordered detained and ultimately incarcerated. The FY 2009 President's Budget request provides significant resources needed to increase capacity for the detention and incarceration of those accused or convicted of violent crimes. During FY 2007, the nation's federal prison population rose approximately 4 percent to 200,020, and it is projected to exceed over 213,000 by the end of FY 2009. The request provides $67.1 million in additional resources for the Bureau of Prisons (BOP) to manage this growth, including funds for additional contract beds.

The FY 2009 request addresses BOP's responsibility to protect society by confining offenders in the controlled environments of prisons and community-based facilities that are safe, humane, cost-efficient, and appropriately secure, and that provide work and other self-improvement opportunities to assist offenders in becoming law-abiding citizens. Specific increases include:

Bureau of Prisons (BOP)

-- Contract Confinement: $50 million to add prisoner space (4,000 beds) in contract facilities to house low-security inmates for six months in FY 2009. Using contract beds for the confinement of low-security inmates provides a flexible approach to manage this population.

-- Institution Population Adjustment: $17.1 million for costs of the increasing inmate population above the number of newly activating beds. Resources will enable the BOP to meet the marginal costs of providing security, food, medical care, clothing, utilities, unit management, education, records and maintenance associated with the population increase.

STATE AND LOCAL ASSISTANCE

The Department's portion of the President's FY 2009 budget contains over $1 billion in discretionary grant assistance to state, local and tribal governments. The budget request also eliminates all earmarks from state and local grant programs; the FY 2008 Department of Justice appropriations act included over 1,500 earmarks totaling over $675 million.
Included in the FY 2009 budget request is funding for the creation of four new, competitive grant programs. These programs will provide states, localities and tribes with considerable flexibility to address the most pressing problems facing communities today: violent crime, domestic violence, and crimes against children. The four grant categories and their amounts are:

-- Violent Crime Reduction Partnership Initiatives: $200 million to help communities suffering from high rates of violent crime to address this problem by forming and developing effective multi-jurisdictional law enforcement partnerships between local, state, tribal and federal law enforcement agencies.

-- Byrne Public Safety and Protection (Byrne) Program: $200 million to assist state, local, and tribal governments with their highest-priority concerns, such as violent and drug-related crime and presidential priorities, such as DNA backlog reduction and offender re-entry programs.

-- Child Safety and Juvenile Justice Program: $185 million to consolidate existing juvenile justice and exploited children programs, and to assist state, local and tribal governments in addressing multiple child safety and juvenile justice needs: reduce incidents of child exploitation and abuse, including those facilitated by the use of computers and the Internet.

-- Violence Against Women Grants Program: $280 million to consolidate all the Violence Against Women programs into one new flexible, competitive grant program, creating a new structure that can help state, local and tribal governments address multiple domestic violence needs.

Posted by lois at 02:40 PM | Comments (0)

March 06, 2008

MA: Breakdown: The Prison Suicide Crisis (3 articles)

3 articles in the Boston Globe
BREAKDOWN | THE PRISON SUICIDE CRISIS
A system strains, and inmates die
December 9, 2007
This story was reported by Globe Spotlight Team members Beth Healy, Michael Rezendes, Francie Latour, Jonathan Saltzman, and editor Thomas Farragher.
It was written by Healy.
First of three parts

His mother couldn't understand how he got the shoelaces.

After all, everyone knew Jarred Aranda was in danger. He had just tried to kill himself in jail.

Now, the handsome 27-year-old, with a to-do list in his pocket and a smile that hid his troubles, was being evaluated for mental illness at the state prison hospital in Bridgewater. He should have been safe there.

Locked up for stealing sneakers and violating probation, Aranda was deeply depressed. His mind was ravaged by crystal meth and other drugs his mother had begged him to quit. He'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and he was hearing voices.

But he told prison doctors he didn't want to die, and they believed him. Then they forgot about him.

No one from the prison clinical staff checked on him for 10 days. When a doctor finally did show up again, Aranda said he felt hopeless, and couldn't sleep. But the next day, he was allowed to walk into a shower, unattended, for 17 minutes. He had a set of shoelaces with him.

When an officer found him hanging from the shower door and sounded the "Code 99" alert last March, Aranda became the next in a series of 15 suicides in Massachusetts state prisons since early 2005. The deaths were coming at an alarming pace, roughly triple the rate in other states.

Last year alone, seven inmates killed themselves, and another's attempt left him brain dead; four have taken their lives so far this year.

Department of Correction officials say the suicides are random and unrelated. But a Globe Spotlight Team investigation of the deaths and detailed reconstruction of how they occurred found that they were far from random.

Most of the suicides came after careless errors and dangerous decisions by correction officials and the staff at UMass Correctional Health. And the trail of violence is far wider than the number of dead would indicate, as hundreds more inmates each year have wounded themselves or attempted suicide.

In fact, such incidents are soaring.

So common has it been to find a man with a makeshift noose around his neck that some correction officers have taken to carrying their own pocket tools to cut them down. The tally of suicide attempts and self-inflicted injuries - 513 last year and more than 3,200 over the past decade - tells a story of deepening mental illness and misery behind the walls of the state's prisons, despite repeated calls for better training of officers and safer cells for mentally troubled inmates.

The Globe found that background screens were botched as inmates arrived at prison. Medical and mental health records went missing or were never reviewed. Security rounds were skipped. Inmates in distress were punished for behavior that amounted to a cry for help, or at least a signal that greater precautions were needed.

"You're taking people who are vulnerable and can't cope in society," said Dr. Carl Fulwiler, a psychiatrist who consults to prisons and is an assistant professor at University of Massachusetts Medical School, "and putting them in the worst situation imaginable."

The Department of Correction guards the details of these events in secrecy, revealing little to the public, or even to the families of the suicide victims.

But internal investigative reports obtained from other prison sources by the Globe show that, in case after case, the suicides occurred at times when inmates were predictably at risk - within days or hours of arriving at prison, being sent to isolation, or withdrawing from drugs. Or, as with Jarred Aranda, in the tenuous period after a prior suicide attempt.

Aranda's grandfather was the first to get the call that he was dead. Then his mother.

"Who let him go in the shower alone?" Leslie Aranda would later ask tearfully. "I thought he was safe."

A system under strain

They are people whom society has, in many cases, written off.

Among the 15 suicides, almost all of them men, half were criminals convicted of murder or rape. Some were small-time thieves or drug dealers. A few hadn't been convicted of anything; they were in prison awaiting trial. The one woman was in only to detox.

Virtually all of them were troubled long before they were locked up, with mental health issues or drug abuse dating back to their youth. They and others like them increasingly are populating prisons in Massachusetts and across the country.

Today, one-quarter of the state's 11,000 prisoners are being treated for some kind of mental illness, up from 15 percent in 1998. It's a legacy, in part, of the elimination of many state mental institutions in the 1980s and half the state's detox beds in 2004. In June, there were 1,097 inmates taking antipsychotic medications, up from 595 in December 1998.

The suicides are just the most visible signs of a system under strain. State taxpayers spend $55 million a year on medical and mental health care for inmates in the state prisons, and nearly half a billion dollars for all prison costs. And while troubled inmates are dying and hundreds more are trying to die, most will serve their sentences and one day be released - often sicker than when they arrived.

"That's the danger of the larger prison culture we're creating," said Dr. Scott A. Allen, a former prison physician in Rhode Island and now co-director of the Center for Prisoner Health and Human Rights at Brown University. "As a society now, we've taken mental health problems into this prison setting, and we're dealing with them in a punitive way."

The casualties are people like Andrew Armstrong, 22 and mentally ill, who hanged himself eight hours after being locked in an isolation cell for getting into a fight.

Or Nicole Davis, 24, who was found hanging after asking for medical help all night; she was depressed and detoxing, alone in her cell.

Or Nelson Rodriguez, 26 and mentally retarded, who killed himself in MCI-Cedar Junction's dungeon-like "10-Block" wing, despite warnings by the mental health staff that solitary confinement would likely harm him. New rules put in place after his death have proved far from foolproof: In July, a mentally ill man killed himself in 10-Block, prompting the US Marshals Service to investigate and to remove some federal detainees from the Walpole prison.

Case study in disaster

Anthony Garafolo is a case study in how a difficult situation can turn to disaster at the Department of Correction.

The 46-year-old Ludlow native, admitted to MCI-Shirley in June of 2006, had spent a third of his life behind bars, convicted time and again of stealing to support a drug habit. In one 1990 robbery, he took a bullet in the back that left him paralyzed from the waist down.

He was an angry man in prison, and often hard to handle.

Garafolo had been emotionally broken since being abused by a notorious priest at age 15. And he was depressed at the disability that left him using a wheelchair and made basic bodily functions a difficult chore. Over the years, he racked up a stack of disciplinary reports for breaking rules and verbally abusing prison staff. He had twice before tried to kill himself in prison, once while in isolation.

On June 19 last year, he was caught in a downward spiral that was steep and violent. It was 90 degrees outside the walls of the prison that day, and behind the thick, locked door of Garafolo's prison infirmary room, it felt even hotter.

A wound had reopened after a recent surgery - an ulcerated sore from sitting long hours in a wheelchair. He had a fever and kept asking for pain medication, records show. He couldn't reach the sink for water. He was filthy and needed to bathe, but the shower in the corner of his room wasn't wheelchair-accessible.

And he wasn't making his care any easier, angrily banging on his door, shouting and cursing at the staff.

No doubt, the recent change in his prison circumstances had also inflamed him. Garafolo had gone from an unshackled interlude at UMass Memorial Medical Center for surgery - a comparatively happy time with family visits and a birthday celebration - to a stopover in the locked-down wing of the Lemuel Shattuck Hospital in Boston, to the infirmary at Shirley.

And for reasons top department officials cannot explain, at Shirley he was being held in segregation - the prison regime for troublemakers - meaning he was in isolation for 23 hours a day with no basic privileges, no phone calls, no TV. And, it seemed to Garafolo, no air. Despite his pleas, the officers on duty would not unlock the food trap in his door, about the size of a large mail slot, according to his cell-block neighbor, Miguel Perez, who said he was allowed the small bit of ventilation.

When Garafolo's mother visited, she had to talk to him through a glass window - a punishment reserved for segregated prisoners.

"I couldn't touch him," said Lorraine J. Jaillet, who last saw her son three days before his death. "He was crying. I've never seen so many tears."

Virtually every safety measure that might have helped Garafolo in the last six days of his life failed, prison records show.

First, the booking officer at Shirley looked up Garafolo's suicide-attempt history but did not tell the mental health staff what he found. Second, his prison records didn't arrive with him that night, so the intake nurse never examined them. She relied on Garafolo to say if he had any mental health issues, and he said no.

Third, the medical staff failed to alert mental health clinicians that Garafolo had been prescribed psychiatric medication at the hospital. MCI-Shirley's mental health director, Merleen Mills, told department investigators she was away when Garafolo arrived and didn't know he was there until his fifth day. Records show that no one from her staff went to see him.

That was particularly troubling, given the dangerous confusion over Garafolo's segregation status. Reports filed by correction officers say he was being protected from inmate enemies. But that was not reflected in the official prison record. As a result, Garafolo was never seen by a mental health clinician, as required when an inmate is segregated, to ensure he can handle the psychic strains of isolation.

It seemed everyone knew Garafolo was in crisis except the jailers and medical staff charged with his care. His half-brother, Dennis, also incarcerated at Shirley at the time, heard Anthony was in trouble and managed to visit him briefly. A sympathetic officer unlocked the slot in the door, Dennis Garafolo recalled, so he could reach his arm through it. Anthony just held his hand and cried.

"The way I saw that room, it was like being in the hole," Dennis Garafolo said, using prison slang for isolation.

For the last 20 hours of his life, Anthony Garafolo lashed out at staff members and beat on his door. He threatened to harm the wife and children of a sergeant, and demanded to be sent to another prison. When Garafolo smashed his cell window, his neighbor, Perez, feared for him.

The commotion stretched into the early-morning hours, but no one called the mental health staff, records show. Not the captain who threatened Garafolo with four-point restraints. Not the nurses, who had to have him shackled to give him care. Not the officers who had him locked down in segregation.

At 5:56 a.m. on June 20, Garafolo was found hanging from a sheet tied to the shower knob - a long reach from his wheelchair.

A handwritten letter by his bed said: "I can't fight any longer. . . . I going crazy just being in here this long. Don't let this happen to nobody again."

To this day, Lorraine Jaillet insists her son did not kill himself and plans to sue the Department of Correction. Family and friends say Garafolo would not have ended his life without writing to his mother. A pastor who visited Garafolo several times, Paul Suckling of the United Church of God in Worcester, was stunned. "There was frustration, sometimes depression, but nothing close to suicide," Suckling said.

His brother Dennis said, "Either my brother was pushed to that, or he felt doomed."

Desperation in isolation

Emotional desperation is common among those in isolation. It makes even healthy people sick and has a disastrous effect on people with mental illness, according to psychiatrists familiar with the effects of solitary confinement.

"It leaves you alone with your own delusions," said Dr. Matthew P. Dumont, a Cambridge psychiatrist. "It is actually the stupidest and most dysfunctional thing to do to a mentally ill prisoner."

And yet it remains a common form of discipline. In October, there were 345 inmates segregated in Massachusetts prisons, not including those held in other isolated settings, like Garafolo's infirmary room. Nationally, there were 80,870 segregation beds in 2000, following a political push, begun in the mid-1990s, for harder time for convicts and more maximum security cells, according to the Vera Institute of Justice, a research group.

But the Spotlight investigation found that, even as the suicide rate climbed, the prison system continued to rely on this dangerous tool, saying it had no alternative for violent inmates. Nine of the Massachusetts's suicides since 2005 have involved inmates held in isolation.

Dr. Robert B. Diener, a psychiatrist and medical director at Bridgewater State Hospital, regularly sees men who have been in isolation at Walpole, kept in a 9-by-6-foot cell 23 hours a day. He said it is psychologically unhealthy for inmates to be confined that way for long periods.

"They're deprived of normal life experiences," he said. "They can become outrageous."

Even a short period of isolation can be too much for some. It was for Miguel Velasquez.

He was not a convict but rather a federal detainee awaiting trial on gun possession charges when he arrived at MCI-Cedar Junction, the maximum security facility in Walpole, just over a year ago. He had a history of mental illness for which he was being treated, and his behavior behind bars had been generally good.

But then in July he punched another inmate. The price for that would be steep: a trip to the infamous 10-Block isolation unit, home to some of the system's most difficult prisoners. Facing that prospect, Velasquez snapped, records show. He resisted a mandatory strip search, then angrily refused to put his clothes back on. And so he was shackled and marched naked down the hallway to a tiny, windowless cell, according to written reports of the incident.

An officer locked the door with bars, and then, as punishment, shut the outer, solid door as well. Velasquez, 33, was dead three hours later, having hanged himself with a piece of the shirt he wouldn't wear. He was the third inmate in two years to take his life behind a solid door in 10-Block.

The last hours of Velasquez's life were marked by two critical failures by prison and medical staff, the department's preliminary suicide report says.

The nurse who cleared Velasquez for isolation did not examine his mental health records, according to the report. Then, the officer who closed the solid door of his cell door did so without telling his commander or ensuring that mental health clinicians were notified, as department rules require.

His death alarmed Miriam Conrad, the lawyer in the federal defender's office who had represented Velasquez. "Pretrial detainees have a basic right, as well as a constitutional right, to be treated humanely," she said.

The US Marshals Service was paying the Department of Correction $90 a day for Velasquez's "housing, safekeeping, and subsistence." Yvonne Bonner, the acting US Marshal in Boston, said Velasquez's assignment to the state's bleakest prison was purely by chance.

"It's an old facility. It's a depressing site," Bonner said. But, she observed, "I would think being in segregation would be the safest place they could be."

When first contacted by the Globe, Bonner said her office had no plan to probe Velasquez's death beyond a cursory review of the Department of Correction's report. But after learning from the Globe of the errors reflected in prison documents, Bonner reopened the investigation. She said that no federal detainees would be placed at Cedar Junction until the investigation was completed. Several detainees with known mental health issues have since been moved to other prisons.

James R. Bender, the Department of Correction's deputy commissioner, said staff members who failed to follow protocol in the Velasquez case could be disciplined.

A man unraveling

Glen Bourgeois lasted four months in 10-Block.

He landed at Walpole in August 2006 after getting caught in a relationship with a female employee at Old Colony Correctional Center and for having a hacksaw and other contraband in his cell. At 44, he had served 21 years for his role in a murder during a robbery, and he had allegedly been planning to escape. Bourgeois had recently lost hope about his appeal attempts, according to a friend of his and correction officers, and was grappling with the life sentence ahead of him.

In letters to his brother, Bourgeois complained about the oppressive boredom of "the hole." He read books and newspapers, and wrote letters to a pen pal.

For the most part, Bourgeois didn't give correction officers trouble in his final months. But the preliminary prison report on his suicide describes a man falling apart.

Bourgeois complained of panic attacks soon after arriving at 10-Block, saying the noise made him want to bash his head against a wall. But when a clinician came to see him, he said he was "all set."

Twice Bourgeois refused orders to allow the solid door of his cell to be closed, once sticking his arm through the bars to block it. For that he was to receive further punishment: No radio until mid-December and no telephone calls until Jan. 21, 2007, a date he wouldn't live to see.

By October, Bourgeois had been suffering from migraine headaches for two months. He was prescribed Prozac for stress.

In November, Bourgeois went on a hunger strike, but records show he wasn't seen by mental health, as required. They did finally visit him on Nov. 16, for the 90-day mental status checkup required for all inmates in segregation.

On Dec. 27, Bourgeois was found hanging at 4:34 a.m. No one could see him do it because his solid door was closed. Prison officials say he asked for it to be shut, for quiet.

Bourgeois's brother, Michael Hook-DiMarino, was disturbed when he saw the text of his brother's suicide note, a note he said prison officials had told him did not exist. "Consider my sentence paid in full," it said. "I did the only thing I felt I could do to stop my headaches. I have plan this for almost a month, there was no one I could ask for help without being put in worse living conditions than I am in already."

With Bourgeois's death, Hook-DiMarino lost the last member of his immediate family. He said of his brother: "You have to pay for your crime. But you're still human."

A sentence without a crime

The warning signs are often obvious. But prison staff, hardened by what they consider inmates' manipulative behavior, can be blind to them.

Last December, Nicole Davis was sent for detox to MCI-Framingham, the state women's prison, for 30 days. She was not serving a sentence for a crime.

Her family had filed court papers to have Davis civilly committed, to help her shake the drugs she had been addicted to for years - and to head off the arrest warrants she was facing for several open theft cases, and for using a credit card her boyfriend had stolen.

Her parents had hoped to commit her to a private facility. And Davis's lawyer argued to send her to a New Bedford treatment center used by the state as an alternative to prison for women in detox. But Judge Robert G. Harbour at Taunton District Court felt she should be sent to a "secure facility."

"The judge told us she'd be safe at Framingham," said Nicole's mother, Rosamond.

But that was not to be. Judge Harbour told the Globe, "It's something that I'll never forget."

The detox regime was primitive. Coming down off heroin, the antianxiety drug Klonopin, and possibly other substances, Davis was locked in a room at night, with correction officers periodically watching her door. She told a mental health clinician that she had been depressed since the death of her baby boy, Nathan, in foster care seven months earlier.

She denied feeling suicidal, according to prison records. But her parents said they saw real distress on their visit Dec. 19, the day after Davis's 24th birthday. Davis begged them not to leave.

"She said, 'I want you to stay because if you don't stay, I have to go back up in the hole,' " her mother recalled. Davis hated to be alone, her father said.

That night, Davis was left alone in a spartan cement cell in the infirmary. She was kept there after alleging that a male officer had groped her. It was a claim the officials doubted, according to the investigative report of her death.

Around midnight, Robert and Rosamond Davis were awakened by police at their Norton home. They called MCI-Framingham, as directed, and soon heard prison Superintendent Lynn M. Bissonnette tell them their daughter had died in a "bizarre incident," Robert Davis recalls.

Throughout her last evening alive, Nicole Davis repeatedly asked for medical care, Dr. Philip DeChavez said in the department's suicide review. The staff checked on her but thought she was just seeking drugs or attention. At 10:29 p.m., an officer found her, sitting on the cell floor with a sheet around her neck.

Clinicians and staff members involved in Davis's suicide review mulled some fundamental questions. Might inmates undergoing drug or alcohol withdrawal be at risk to themselves once they're sober? Should they have a new mental health check-up after detoxing?

The panel members decided such assessments would not help. However, Bissonnette, the superintendent, did propose that women no longer be left alone. According to the report, she was concerned that heightened feelings of isolation could "result in an increase risk of self-harm."

"The women," Bissonnette told the Globe, "can't tolerate it."

At great risk

Sean Turner was another left to fight through detox on his own.

Turner was alone in a cell at MCI-Concord, withdrawing from daily intravenous heroin use without proper medical oversight on the day he took his life.

According to the Department of Correction's own procedures, Turner should not have been admitted to Concord at all on July 11, 2005. At that time, the old prison on Route 2 had no beds for inmates going through withdrawal. The department's review of Turner's suicide says, "MCI Concord does not have detox protocols in place and all detox patients are transferred to infirmary sites or the local hospital for care." But, it goes on to say, "Mr. Turner was released to population," meaning to an ordinary cell.

When Turner, 47, arrived at Concord that night - awaiting trial on motor vehicle and drug charges - he was experiencing nausea from withdrawal. A physician reviewed his intake report, and the nurse ordered detox medication, according to the department's reports. But she did not write a progress note or notify the on-call physician of the detox plan.

Over the next two days, Turner was quiet, according to inmates interviewed by the department. He sat alone in the chow hall, played dominoes, and went to the library, they said, but he was depressed and fearing a long prison term.

On the morning of July 13, Turner went to the medication line at 8 a.m., an inmate said, but was turned away. He took a shower about 10:30 a.m., went to lunch, and was seen lying on his bunk at 1:45 p.m. An inmate says he asked Turner for stamps at 2:10 p.m.

At 2:30 p.m., when most inmates were out in the yard and his cellmate was away at court, Turner was found hanging from a sheet attached to a wall vent. He'd had plenty of time to do it: Two correction officers on duty failed to make their scheduled hourly rounds that afternoon, according to department investigators' review of a prison videotape. The officers lied in the investigative interview, claiming they had made the rounds. They received 30-day suspensions.

"I just can't imagine that they would put anyone in his circumstance into a room and just leave them," Turner's mother, Dianne Hawkes, said of her eldest child, a smart student with a knack for mechanics, woodworking, and photography. "I think they were completely negligent."

Aside from the physical dangers, psychiatrists and prison officials say detoxing can bring on severe depression. For some inmates, it's the first time they've been sober in months or years, and they find themselves suddenly facing the reality of incarceration, said Karin T. Bergeron, superintendent at Bridgewater State Hospital.

"Many of these men are at great risk for suicidality," she said.

Falling through the cracks

That was certainly the case for Jarred Aranda. By the time he arrived at Bridgewater last spring, he'd been at the Bristol County jail in North Dartmouth for three months.

Aranda was in the midst of the longest stretch of sobriety he'd experienced in recent memory, he told a Bridgewater psychiatrist, and he was feeling poorly. He had all but forgotten the comforts of his youth: the house with the big lawn, the swimming pool, the dinners in his grandmother's kitchen. He hadn't wanted his mother or sister to see him at Bristol County, where he stole a correction officer's lunchbox and fought with him. He tried to hang himself with shoelaces, then cut his wrist with a plastic knife.

Days later he spent his first night at Bridgewater, alone in a treatment unit, but under frequent watch. The next day, he was removed from seclusion but kept under close observation. Two days later, he was sent to a less restrictive area.

That's when Aranda fell through the cracks. No one took responsibility for him for nearly two weeks, according to the department's records.

On his last full day alive, Aranda told a psychiatrist his depression was getting worse. On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being worst), he felt like a seven or eight. The doctor prescribed Lithium and Seroquel for Aranda's bipolar symptoms and Wellbutrin for depression. It's unclear if Aranda took the medication; he had refused it since arriving at the hospital.

Just a few days before, Aranda's father and stepmother had visited him. They said he talked about the future, about changing his life. He didn't complain; he never wanted his family to worry.

But on the night of March 30, prison records show, Aranda took the laces out of his roommate's sneakers. And headed for the shower.

Left in uncertain hands, a haunted life ends tragically

December 10, 2007

Second of three parts

This story was reported by Globe Spotlight Team members Francie Latour, Michael Rezendes, Beth Healy, Jonathan Saltzman, and editor Thomas Farragher. It was written by Latour.

To the teen mother who struggled to raise him, he was slow, abnormal, and often out of control.

To the counselors who tried to steer him from trouble in Springfield, he was a child trapped in the body of a pudgy young man, the charmer who couldn't count the change in his own pocket.

And to prison clinicians who knew him behind bars, he was, above all, a "frequent flier," their code for inmates who require the constant attention of the mental health staff.

By the time Nelson Rodriguez walked through the heavy metal doors of state prison in 2004, convicted in a stabbing case, he had long since been diagnosed as mentally retarded and mentally ill - a man unable to grasp even the most basic concepts.

But as an inmate, the 26-year-old Rodriguez was routinely punished for acting out in ways he could not control. Time and again, his jailers used the same blunt tools - isolation and loss of basic privileges - to deal with him.

The discipline never improved his behavior; in fact, he got worse. It ran directly against warnings by prison clinicians. But it kept coming - for him as for many of the mentally ill who have overwhelmed the prison system.

During 18 months in state custody, the young man with the lazy eye and troubled mind spent a quarter of his time - about 145 days - in solitary confinement.

On Dec. 20, 2005, five days after his last transfer into the forbidding Walpole prison unit known as 10-Block, Rodriguez's isolation was pressed to the extreme. Officers shut an outer solid door over the bars of his cell and walked away.

Sometime in the next four hours, Rodriguez tied a strip of bed sheet to the metal cover around his cell's smoke detector. He wrapped the other end around his neck, and hanged himself.

When it comes to suicide behind bars, it is impossible to expect total prevention, state Department of Correction officials say. With some determined inmates, Associate Commissioner Veronica Madden said, "It seems that they really wanted to die."

But the death of Nelson Rodriguez in cell 49 is not that kind of story. Rather, his is the story of the kind of inmate now flooding the corrections system: the mentally ill for whom prison is increasingly the asylum of last resort. The Globe Spotlight team dwelled in depth on his short life and sorry end as a way to understand why men like Rodriguez wind up behind bars and why too many die there.

Rodriguez was a man-child with a hard-wired inability to learn at the mercy of a system where punishment and more punishment is often the only real response to inmates with little or no ability to control their behavior.

It is a practice that amounts, in some cases, to an invitation to give up on life.

"He is someone who definitely should not have been put in isolation because of his condition. There's no question about that," said Terry Kupers, a national specialist on mental illness in prisons, who reviewed Rodriguez's records. "Putting [mentally ill inmates] in segregation and then closing the solid door to their cell is like asking them to commit suicide."

Madden told the Globe that Rodriguez's suicide was a tragedy, for him, his family, and for her department.

"This was a deeply troubled young man presenting with a very complex set of circumstances in a very noncomplex system that we run," she said.

Madden also said that she had not known that Rodriguez was mentally retarded.

"We hear now that he was mentally retarded," she said. "I don't have any documentation on that. Did that come up in court? Where was that prior?"

In fact, court records and internal reports are peppered with references to Rodriguez's mental retardation. Those records include a 2006 suicide review in which Madden herself was an observer. They stretch back to Rodriguez's first contact with the Department of Correction in 2003, and among those who treated him it was anything but a secret.

"You could talk to him about skills and ways to cope and strategies, but he wouldn't retain it," said one of Rodriguez's former clinicians, who treated him for about a year and who asked not to be named because of department policies that forbid discussing inmates. "He didn't have the skills to say, 'If I'm good for three more days, I'll be out of [solitary confinement].' He just couldn't do that."

Instead, Rodriguez lashed out - and fell apart.

Yet he wasn't on the radar screen of the mental health staff as a high-risk inmate, according to one internal Correction Department review obtained by the Globe.

At Walpole, no one in charge seemed to know anything about a doctor's warning that placing Rodriguez in solitary confinement posed a serious danger to his mental state, and to his safety.

Instead, after he cut his arms and throat, he was sent to one of the most restricted and bleak holding units Walpole had to offer: 10-Block.

"He'd never make it there," Rodriguez's former clinician said of Rodriguez's transfer. "I mean, he didn't make it there, obviously."

A troubled child

When he was a little boy, Nelson Rodriguez was haunted by a monster. It tormented his dreams and lurked around corners.

At age 10, he told a psychologist that the monster would kill his friends, eat his mother, and throw him into water burning with fire. Naturally, he gave the monster a name: Freddy, as in Freddy Krueger, the horror movie serial killer.

If Rodriguez's fantasy world was horrific, his boyhood reality was filled with frustration and pain.

His IQ was well below normal. He had a seizure disorder, and tests strongly suggested some form of brain damage. As he approached his 11th birthday, he still wet his bed. And he had no friends. Instead, his peers taunted him mercilessly.

All the while, the mother he dreamed that Freddy would devour was at once the focus of all the boy's devotion, and his rage.

Mildred DeJesus, 18 years old when she gave birth to Rodriguez, couldn't handle her son's violent outbursts, or any of the burdens of raising a child who, in her words, "was not normal." After Rodriguez began exhibiting strange, hypersexual behavior - exposing himself and preying on his toddler stepbrothers - DeJesus grew desperate. Ultimately, she signed over custody of her son to the state.

To his relatives in Springfield, it was clear what had happened. In an interview, Rodriguez's aunt, his grandmother, and his youngest half-brother described young Nelson as a torment, even as they acknowledged that his disability and mental illness were to blame.

"You wanted to trust him," said Dezi Rodriguez, who at 20 has just begun to forgive the brother who once menaced him. "You wanted to give him a chance, but you couldn't."

When told that Rodriguez would speak of his mother with longing to almost anyone he would meet, all three looked up, stared, and fell silent. "Believe me," Mary DeJesus, Rodriguez's aunt, said finally of her sister, who died of AIDS in 1999. "She would try so hard to love that kid."

As Nelson grew into adolescence, little changed. Clinicians still saw traits bordering on psychosis. At 17, he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for six weeks. He bounced erratically between foster families and group homes.

And in a system already awash with unwanted children who soon grow into unwanted teenagers, Rodriguez became his own worst enemy: He was just smart enough to know he did not want to be labeled "retarded," and just verbal enough to try to convince people that he wasn't.

Jim Nash, a Springfield-area advocate for the disabled, was one of several counselors who took Rodriguez in for short periods of time as a young adult. Rodriguez was 18 at the time, but, with his goofy grin and impossible naiveté, he struck Nash as more like his own two toddlers than as a young man.

"He was able to posture and hold himself and look like some regular dude walking down the street," Nash said. "But in reality, there was nothing below the surface. There was no good framework for how to face the world."

At a critical period, between the ages of 18 and 22, Rodriguez's posturing fooled many of those charged with determining his future. In 1999, clinicians and the courts deemed him competent to care for himself without a guardian.

To the frustration of advocates, Rodriguez was in a social services limbo. He was too old for DSS services and would not ordinarily be eligible for services from the Department of Mental Retardation until age 22, although local DMR caseworkers tried to intervene.

At the same time, no one could force him to accept help. That was key, because Rodriguez was fed up with services, rules, and restrictions.

Jason Nelson, a part-time counselor and Comcast worker who lives in Chicopee, was one of the last people to help Rodriguez, and one of the most determined. In the year he spent as Rodriguez's guardian, he faithfully drove him to his night job washing dishes at a local restaurant and coaxed him to take the medications Rodriguez hated.

But after a year of hostile, unexplained outbursts from Rodriguez, Jason Nelson found himself hitting the same brick wall Rodriguez's mother had reached years earlier.

"I was at my wit's end," he said. "I was emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted from it."

Rodriguez was spiraling. Between 1997 and 2002, he was in and out of coun ty jail on various misdemeanors - petty larceny, breaking and entering, property damage.

Inexorably, he was slipping into the growing ranks of the wandering mentally ill, whose outbursts and episodes eventually lead to arrest, prosecution, and prison.

A changing diagnosis

For years, Rodriguez had been fascinated by Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Something about a cartoon team of mutant reptiles, isolated from society and trained as warriors, clearly spoke to him. And he obsessed over martial arts. One day in the early summer of 2003, while living at a Springfield homeless shelter, he began taking kung fu classes. Then he bought a sword at a local pawn shop.

The next day, Rodriguez used the sword to stab another homeless man in the stomach inside the shelter's bathroom. It's unclear how the conflict began, but, according to police and witnesses, the scene was bloody. The victim, 29-year-old Marcus Roberts, arrived at the hospital holding in his intestines with a towel.

Roberts recovered fully. But despite an unusually passionate appeal by a court-appointed lawyer, this would not be another misdemeanor for Rodriguez. "He wasn't crazy, but he was retarded," said David Burgess of Concord, who asked the judge to send his client to a county jail instead of prison. "He's not as culpable as I would be, or you would be, if we pulled a knife on somebody."

Still, even Burgess could not argue with the judge's bottom line: A person should be able to enter a shelter and not have to worry about being stabbed. The court sentenced Rodriguez to four to seven years.

He was now in the hands of a prison system that struggles to adequately treat or even track mentally ill prisoners and has little capacity to deal with the mentally retarded.

"We don't have enough expertise," said Dr. Kenneth L. Appelbaum, the former mental health director for the UMass Correctional Health, which served the prison population until this summer. "And we don't have the services that those people need in the system. It is, in my opinion, a significant unmet need."

In Rodriguez's case, it was worse than that.

An internal staff review of his death, obtained by the Globe, said clinicians focused far too much on whether Rodriguez was really mentally ill, instead of realizing the danger he posed to himself.

"Despite the fact that his entire mental health history was well documented within the medical record," the report said, "the mental health clinicians at MCI-Cedar Junction seemed to either underemphasize, or simply be unaware of, some of the more critical information contained within his record."

That record, one of distress and breakdown, began even before Rodriguez had been officially sentenced to serve state time.

In November 2003, while still awaiting trial in a county jail in Ludlow, he tried to hang himself, an incident that landed him at Bridgewater State Hospital, the prison system's facility for the mentally ill.

The doctor who evaluated him concluded that while Rodriguez was not profoundly mentally ill, he was a danger to himself. Using italics in her report to stress her point, she noted that clinical staff and correction officers should be aware of the "very real, very substantial" risk of self-harm.

By June 2004, and convicted of the crime, he was an inmate at the Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center, the state's modern maximum-security facility in Shirley. There, his outbursts triggered escalating punishment. He broke his food tray, exposed himself, and repeatedly attacked officers. As a result, he was kept in isolation.

By October 2004, Rodriguez was back for further observation at Bridgewater, where, his relatives say, prison officials should have recognized the severity of his illness and kept him for treatment indefinitely. And for a moment, it looked like that might happen.

In a report correction officials themselves say was crucial, the doctor who evaluated Rodriguez, David W. Holtzen, found that Rodriguez was hallucinating, had thoughts of suicide, was suffering from major depression, and was losing his grip on reality. Holtzen not only wanted Rodriguez admitted, he also wanted a court order to force Rodriguez to take antipsychotic medications.

Then something changed.

About two weeks later, Holtzen evaluated Rodriguez again and deemed him no longer seriously mentally ill but rather "antisocial" and "bored." According to an internal review of Rodriguez's suicide, Holtzen changed his mind after members of Rodriguez's treatment team said they believed Rodriguez was improving.

But Bridgewater's own records show that Rodriguez was still deeply unwell. Shortly after the reevaluation, officers at Bridgewater reported he was punching the cell walls and acting out of control. Despite those warning signs, Rodriguez was back in prison 72 hours after the new diagnosis. And his disciplinary record worsened again.

Through representatives of UMass Correctional Health, Holtzen declined to comment about the change in diagnosis, citing privacy laws of patients. A UMass spokesman called Holtzen's assessment "reasoned."

Even though Holtzen's interpretation of Rodriguez's behavior had changed radically, the doctor did warn that if Rodriguez was placed in conditions akin to solitary confinement, his mental health would be in jeopardy.

"[Holtzen] clearly puts in the chart: Watch this guy, he's a serious suicide risk," said Terry Kupers, the national specialist on mental illness in prisons. "From that moment on, this is a person who should have been tracked."

Instead, the Department of Correction kept losing track of Nelson Rodriguez.

Off the radar screen

By the spring of 2005, Rodriguez began bracing himself for life inside the state's toughest prison: MCI-Cedar Junction in Walpole.

The clinicians at Souza-Baranowski understood his problems and even found him likeable. But prison officials transferred him after finding themselves overwhelmed by his chronic misconduct.

His state of mind was clear in a letter he wrote to his grandmother, Elsie "Bita" Miranda, and his brother Lorenzo Rodriguez. Using almost no punctuation, he wrote: "I'm trying really hard to survive in jail. . . . My tears been rolling down my cheekbone like crazy. . . . Look I'm gonna be moving to another jail is called Walpole. . . . Pray for me please."

At Walpole, he quickly slipped off the radar screen. His name never appeared on the prison's risk list. And his lengthy mental health history did not catch the attention of the two people at Walpole most responsible for his mental health care: his assigned clinician and her boss, Erika Grandberg, MCI-Cedar Junction's mental health director.

Grandberg would later tell investigators that she knew nothing about the prior warnings that more isolation could hurt Rodriguez or should, at least, trigger more vigilant care. She also defended Rodriguez's absence from the risk list, saying, "At the time, he wasn't somebody who we considered high risk."

But in two months at Walpole, Rodriguez just couldn't follow the rules. He was cited for various outbursts.

Still reasoning like a child, Rodriguez tried to appeal the punishments in the only way he knew how. In November, a month before his suicide, he pleaded to have his television, telephone, and visitation privileges restored. "They don't understand that I'm mildly mentally retarded," records say he told a clinician. "I got a dangerous mind. I can cut myself, hang myself." But nothing came of the appeals.

Rodriguez was 19 months into his prison sentence. He was due for an update on his treatment plan, but the deadline came and went without one, according to the department's review. Rodriguez's clinician told investigators that she had updated it, but that the plan "was not in his chart and she does not know where it went."

In early December, Rodriguez cut his arms and throat, triggering an emergency medical call. He spit on responding officers and bit one of them, records show, and was shackled by his arms and legs. Two days later, he was put on a 15-minute interval watch - a clear sign that he was a high risk for suicide.

And then prison officials decided to send Rodriguez to 10-Block. The prospect led him to further unravel.

On Dec. 14, 2005, a prison psychiatrist discontinued two medications Rodriguez was taking - Remeron, an antidepressant, and Seroquel, an antipsychotic drug - while upping his dosage of a third drug, a mood stabilizer. Department records reviewed by the Globe provide no explanation for the adjustment. The very next day, Rodriguez entered Cell 49 in 10-Block, a foreboding 60-bed, two-story unit where inmates are confined to closet-size cells 23 hours a day.

His brief time in custody had been as volatile as any inmate's. But when Rodriguez underwent a routine assessment as 10-Block's newest guest, the clinician's words had the uneventful tone of a weather report. "Stable, no evidence of psychosis, delusions, or hallucinations. Monitor [patient] per Treatment Plan, [as needed]."

Five days later, officers sounded an alert - Code 99, inmate hanging. They entered Cell 49 and removed the ligature from around Rodriguez's neck. They carried his body down the tier to a landing on the second floor. Chest compressions were begun. An ambulance was called. A Walpole rescue team responded.

He was pronounced dead at 4:44 p.m.

Investigators would later conclude that there were 22 officers assigned to patrol 10-Block that day; 11 of them were responsible for the upper tiers that included Rodriguez's cell. But no one made the required half-hour checks on Rodriguez for four hours, even though the log book for that day contained entries indicating the proper rounds had been made.

And in its review of his suicide, officials seemed to struggle to explain how an inmate like Rodriguez - mentally retarded with a well-chronicled history of dangerous misconduct - could be described as an inmate "not on the radar screen."

The answer, they concluded, may lie in Cedar Junction's operating ethos.

"Due to the overall culture of the institution, mental health staff at MCI-Cedar Junction have a rather high threshold for how they assess and address an inmate's acting-out behaviors and overall mental health status," the confidential internal review concluded.

Conclusions like that ring hollow for people who still remember Rodriguez as the child trapped in a man's body, the inmate who could never learn the rules.

"He never had a chance to have a childhood," Jason Nelson, his former guardian, told state lawmakers three months after his death. "To place a man in a maximum-security prison that is not equipped or staffed to help or even understand the type of mental illness Nelson was plagued with is beyond my understanding."

Part 3
BREAKDOWN THE PRISON SUICIDE CRISIS
Guards, inmates a volatile dynamic

December 11, 2007

Last of three parts

This story was reported by Globe Spotlight Team members Jonathan Saltzman, Michael Rezendes, Beth Healy, Francie Latour, and editor Thomas Farragher.

It was written by Saltzman and Farragher.

On a damp Saturday last fall, Scott A. Flaherty collected a stack of papers and notebooks that chronicled his decade as a state correction officer and set them ablaze in a cemetery near his home in Randolph.

Flaherty had liked his first eight years at MCI-Cedar Junction in Walpole, but his last two had turned hellish. He hoped the graveyard bonfire would exorcise memories of his work behind the walls of the state's toughest prison.

Especially his memory of what happened there one night in late 2000.

Shortly before 10 that November night, a deeply disruptive inmate lay shackled to a concrete slab in a cramped cell. As Sergeant Flaherty stood watch, a captain and three other officers swept in, the captain grabbing, as he went by, a foam cup that Flaherty had been using to catch tobacco juice and sunflower seeds.

Flaherty said he watched as the captain tilted the cup over the mouth of the prisoner. Sickened, he turned away. But he could hear the parting admonition to the 33-year-old inmate, Hakeem Obba: If you don't behave, my officers will pour [excrement] down your throat.

"Because I can do anything I want to you," Captain Ronald R. Picard told Obba, according to a four-page complaint Flaherty filed with supervisors.

Two months later, Obba hanged himself with elastic from his underpants and bed sheets.

Flaherty, now an investigator for the State Police in Bristol County, said it would be wrong to draw a straight line from the alleged abuse of Obba - which Picard was punished for, but denies - to his suicide. But the larger point was hard to miss: Some correction officers, he said, are unfit to deal with the mentally ill or deeply troubled inmates who are increasingly their charge. The result is an incendiary dynamic between inmates and officers, a climate ripe for abuse.

"The inmate was restrained. He had no way to defend himself," said Flaherty, 37, one of two officers who reported the incident. "It would be akin to a police officer raping somebody. There's no gray area there."

The treatment of Obba - who was in four-point restraints for nearly 40 hours over four days - is one of the most flagrant of the cases examined by the Globe of abuse of inmates whom prison officials or prisoner advocates say had acute mental problems.

But it is hardly an isolated example. A Spotlight Team investigation into a recent surge in prison suicides and suicide attempts found other cases in which correction officers, with scant training in how to handle the burgeoning number of mentally ill in prison, brutalized, mistreated, or neglected inmates.

Indeed, as prisons increasingly become the asylum of last resort for the mentally ill - with the closure of state hospitals and the deinstitutionalization of their residents - desperation, frustration, and violence are rising on both sides of the cell door.

About 50 times a month, according to department statistics, members of its staff are assaulted by inmates. And, at the same time, the correction department has disciplined scores of officers for assault and other misconduct involving inmates.

As the number of inmate suicides has soared to roughly three times the national rate, prison officials say correction officers deserve credit for saving dozens of inmates who attempt suicide. Still, it is not hard to find cases where officers abused mentally ill prisoners.

In a 2004 episode at MCI-Cedar Junction, a correction officer twice punched a handcuffed inmate in the head as the prisoner lay face-down on the floor, giving him a bloody eye. The incident was captured on videotape, and the state fired the correction officer. But a civil service panel reduced the punishment to a 90-day suspension, in part because the prison superintendent was merely demoted for using excessive force in an unrelated incident. The prison system is appealing the reduced punishment in the courts.

In September 2006, prison officials sustained a complaint by an inmate that correction officers at the Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center locked him in a shower cell overnight in 2004 and shoved feces and urine into the stall with a mop. The prisoner -who suffers from panic disorder, depression, and possible bipolar disorder, according to medical records - has cut his own Achilles tendon and repeatedly swallowed razor blades, batteries, and push pins.

"I understand that when people do bad things, they have to go and pay for them," said Amelia Bargoot, the sister of the inmate, Eric R. Bargoot, a convicted bank robber. "But there's a difference between torture and rehabilitation."

Well-trained correction officers are crucial for recognizing suicidal inmates and preventing many deaths, according to Lindsay M. Hayes, a national specialist in prison suicide prevention hired by the state in 2000 to study Bridgewater State Hospital. Because many suicides take place at night and on weekends, when mental health clinicians have gone home, correction officers are the only ones who can intervene.

However, when Hayes returned to the prisons late last year for a follow-up study, he found that the state had ignored his recommendation to increase suicide-prevention training for new officers from two and a half to eight hours. Prison officials said they have since complied.

Still, the volcanic cellblock dynamic scares relatives and friends of prisoners.

"Between mental illness and the fact that these people have committed crimes, they're going to throw them away," said Kathleen Connolly, who worries that her boyfriend and father of her two children, mentally ill inmate John Nowell, will never make it out of Walpole alive.

"We'll take his dead body out of there," she said. "He's not going to make it. He does not belong in there. Either someone is going to kill him or he's going to kill himself."

The DDU

The place where Hakeem Obba died and where John Nowell now lives, sits at the extreme end of the gone-to-seed Walpole complex, just minutes and a world away from Gillette Stadium, the gleaming home of the New England Patriots.

It is a walled-off, cinder block bunker where inmates are locked up 23 hours a day. From a glass-paneled, high-tech silo at its inner core, correction officers monitor the inmates' every move on video screens. Prisoners can leave their cells for an hour of exercise in cages that are the human equivalent of small, fenced-in dog runs.

Prison officials call the bunker the Departmental Disciplinary Unit, or DDU for short.

The solitary confinement inmates who live there have a nickname for it, too: the hole.

Its 124 cells are reserved for "the worst of the worst," inmates who earn their spot in the system's most secure unit by assaulting correction officers or other inmates, or by committing other serious misconduct. It is a place, some officers say, where inmates feel they have nothing to lose by lashing out, because there is no place worse to go.

Correction officers who spoke to the Globe under the condition of anonymity, citing department rules that restrict their ability to speak to the media without permission, said a thick emotional callous is a virtual job prerequisite.

"It's a survival tool," one officer said. "That's exactly what it is."

But the officers did not hesitate to confirm what many maximum-security prisoners in solitary confinement told the Globe: Sometimes, in anger and frustration, they taunt inmates who threaten to kill themselves, telling them: "Hang it up!"

"You can't help it, it just comes out," said one Walpole officer who guards prisoners in an isolation block. His message to inmates he feels are using threats of suicide to gain leverage? "You know what? Do it!"

Or, said a Cedar Junction colleague assigned to a segregation unit where some of the toughest cases are confined, frustrated officers will respond to a threat of imminent suicide this way: "I'll be back in 10 minutes. Twenty maybe."

The officers, three 20-year veterans from a medium-security facility in Bridgewater and two relative rookies who work at MCI-Cedar Junction, said they are easy scapegoats when something goes wrong. They said they have become marginalized by mental health clinicians who no longer listen to what they have to say. They do stressful work that, they said, almost nobody wants.

"Morale has never been this low," one veteran officer said in an interview. "I've never seen guys despise coming to work. . . . They treat you like you're a guard at a mall."

A good night at Walpole, they said, is when everyone on the cellblock is breathing when they walk in, and everyone is breathing when they walk out.

Given the frustrations and dangers the correction officers confront, there is little reservoir of empathy for inmates who arrive with or descend into psychosis.

"We do have a lot of frequent fliers who swallow nails, spikes, glass," said Steve Kenneway, president of the 5,000-member Massachusetts Correction Officers Federated Union. "If you leave a light bulb laying around, they'll eat that, too. I mean they will just put everything in their system and then they'll tell you because it's their way of manipulating where they're going to be housed. There are definitely some inmates who are crazy, and they need help. They need treatment."

But treatment is not the responsibility of Kenneway's union members. They are trained to maintain safety and security.

"Let's think about why the person's sitting in the cell for 23 hours a day locked down," he said. "Because he murdered somebody. Stabbed an officer. Did something so egregious inside the prison system that now he has to be locked away even from the inmate population. So I'm never going to sympathize with the inmate. That's not my job."

Lack of sympathy is one thing. Urging self-destruction is something else.

Prison officials said such conduct is not tolerated and would be met with swift discipline if substantiated. Staff members have been suspended for making "derogatory comments" to inmates, they said. But the department could not supply an instance in which action was taken against an officer for encouraging an inmate's suicide or expressing glee after a hanging.

Correction officials say they do want to know who posted a jubilant message on a website used by MCI-Cedar Junction officers after a former inmate was found dead of a drug overdose shortly after he left prison earlier this year.

"Released last Thursday and found dead in Somerville Saturday. Hooray!" the Aug. 14 anonymous message read.

Prison management has disciplined staff for a wide array of other offenses.

From January 2003 to June 2007, the prison system's Office of Investigative Services investigated 1,126 allegations of serious misconduct by employees, some of which remain open cases, department statistics show.

Most of the cases involved correction officers. The alleged offenses ranged from 73 assaults - on inmates, employees, and civilians - to 98 cases of sexual misconduct with inmates, female and male.

Prison investigators sustained 312 allegations, more than a quarter of the 1,126. Because of the gravity of the offenses, the vast majority of those cases then went to hearings before the commissioner, who has the authority to issue significant punishments, ranging from an unpaid suspension of more than a week to termination.

The prison system ultimately fired 112 correction officers from January 2003 to June 2007, according to department statistics. But correction officers often appeal firings to the state Civil Service Commission or arbitrators - and some win back their jobs.

Sometimes correction officers have been found to be neglectful rather than abusive.

In 2005, for example, prison investigators found that correction officers failed to make required checks on three inmates who killed themselves at prisons in Walpole, Concord, and Shirley. Two of the inmates were severely mentally ill, and the third was undergoing withdrawal from a heroin addiction.

In two of the deaths, officers said they had made required checks but were contradicted by prison videotapes.

One of the suicides was that of Andrew Armstrong, who was serving 15 years for assault with intent to murder after a home invasion, and who had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He had made two previous suicide attempts and was discharged from Bridgewater State Hospital four days before his death.

Before he hanged himself, he used a bar of soap to scrawl a message near the stainless steel mirror in his cell.

"Dust in the wind," it read.

'I'm not an animal'

No episode more starkly illustrates the toxic relationship between seriously troubled inmates and correction officers than the encounter between Obba and Picard.

And none more boldly underscores what can happen when the officer