Opinion | I Was In Prison During the Coronavirus Pandemic


We were permitted to send “kites” — letters to various departments within the prison — with questions or complaints. But the system was overwhelmed. It took weeks for kites to the law library or the public defenders to get answered, if they were answered at all. The Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction disputed this, telling The Times that the average response time was faster. But from what I saw, inmates in the middle of appeals were left in the dark (with the exception of the few who were able to afford a lawyer). Parole hearings were delayed, then delayed again.

During this time, new inmates were still being admitted — we could see the lines of guys with sacks of prison-issued clothing and blankets slung over their shoulders. No one knew if “ride outs” (what we called being transferred to your parent institution) were still happening. And still more inmates were coming in.

After 10 days (instead of 14) we were transferred to a longer-term house — 10A. We got to watch some TV, including some of Gov. Mike DeWine’s press briefings. We were let out on “indoor rec” a few days a week for an hour. We could get a few minutes on the email system, take a shower, use the microwave. Once a week, we got outside for two hours.

Three times a day, well into April, we continued to go to the cafeteria, all 150 to 160 of us, shoulder to shoulder. But then officials made a stark change in protocol. We were going to go to two meals a day. We would get “brunch” (which was basically just lunch — a sandwich or a noodle casserole — with a milk and coffee added to it) and then dinner. Sometimes brunch was as early as 8 a.m., with dinner as late as 8 p.m. Soon after, another change was made. They staggered our meals, sending only a third of us at a time. Eventually, all trips to the cafeteria ceased. They started bringing the meals to us.

In mid-April the number of porters — inmates responsible for cleaning — went up from four to 12 or more. They disinfected surfaces constantly. The facility was no longer accepting new inmates. We were receiving temperature checks every day. At night they had us all sleep head to toe so that our faces would be as far apart as possible. The officers rolled their eyes, but they insisted on it — pointing up to the cameras, indicating that “the higher-ups” would be checking.

We were all issued masks, but the corrections officers I saw, who came in and out of the prison, still didn’t wear them. One said to all of us, “When you see me wearing a mask, that’s when you know they are actually concerned.” A week later, she was wearing one.

They had finally done everything they could. Everything except release prisoners.

There were prisoners who still didn’t know why they were there, prisoners who were due for release soon, prisoners who had done nothing violent. There were prisoners with chronic medical conditions. Older prisoners. There were so many, like myself, who were there on probation violations that weren’t based on a new case or charge.



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