The cost of communication — and the price of denying it
By: More Than Our Crimes
Tags: Communication, Prison Reform, Prison, Justice, Psychology

This post was planned to be a two-way conversation between Rob and I (Pam Bailey, his editor and collaborator) about the increasing importance of our communication to each of us personally — and to our fledgling project — as well as the rapidly escalating financial cost of that “privilege.” Then, without any advance warning, Rob was transferred out of Virginia’s Northern Neck Regional Jail on the next leg of his journey to U.S. Penitentiary Coleman in the tiny community of Wildwood, Florida.

(Trivia: USP Coleman also is “home” to Leonard Peltier, a prominent activist in the American Indian Movement, and Larry Nassar, former USA Gymnastics team physician.) I don’t expect to hear anything from Rob for the next 10 days to 2 weeks, as he quarantines in Oklahoma mid-way. But because we believe our work together is so vital, I proceeded with this post in his honor, as I know he would desire.

Several weeks ago, Rob and I authored a post about the financial exploitation of incarcerated individuals and their families by prisons, jails and the private companies with which they partner. We cited a 2014 survey showing that 1 in 3 families with incarcerated members go into debt to pay the costs of staying connected through calls, emails and visits. “Families are often forced to choose between supporting their incarcerated loved ones and paying for the basic needs of family members who live outside,” the report concluded.

At the time, I found that statistic interesting and startling, but I didn’t personally relate to it. Until I did, that is. Last month, I lost my job, joining the thousands of COVID-19 refugees. (I love that euphemism, “lost.” Like I mislaid my job and don’t know where it is.) Suddenly, it became imperative for me to understand every penny of my spending. And that’s when I made a shocking discovery: I was spending, on average, about $600 a month for electronic stamps, phone calls and video visits. Just to do the math for you, that’s $7,200 a year. That very personal statistic hit home: To maintain our connection and communication, so essential to our nascent nonprofit More Than Our Crimes, I’d have to go into debt too!

Human connection and communication are essential, which is why so many of us struggle with the social distancing at the heart of the COVID-19 restrictions — particularly as we enter the holiday season. But people behind bars, like Rob and the others I’ve gotten to know, have been deprived of most physical contact with family members and friends for decades. And yet the alternatives are either offered at extortionist prices (as at Northern Neck Regional Jail) or selectively withheld as collective punishment (as in the “feds” — the federal Bureau of Prisons to which D.C. residents sent).

Rob was torn about whether to wish for a continued delay in his departure for the feds: He knew that once he arrived at Coleman, he’d be “locked down,” unable to make calls or email, 50% or more of the time. One of my other incarcerated correspondents recently came out of 21 days of quarantine for COVID-19, which he described as “just like the ‘hole’ (solitary confinement) — confinement to my cell 24/7.” Then he was transferred to a different prison, in Louisiana, where two stabbings occurred in the first two weeks and he’s been told to expect to be locked down eight to nine months out of the year.

Reading his description, I was reminded of a chapter in Christine Montross’ book, “Waiting for an Echo: The Madness of American Incarceration.” The psychiatrist writes that when she contrasts the approach to dealing with volatile individuals in the hospital to what is typical in prisons, she is “convinced that correctional environments exacerbate and even foster aggression rather than diminish it…These institutions, meant to prioritize and protect safety, are among the most dangerous environments in our country.”

In contrast, at the Northern Neck jail, lockdowns were far less common and video visits via the comfort of family members’ mobile phones were even possible (albeit often staticky in quality). Rob was eagerly looking forward to virtually joining his mother and girlfriend for their Thanksgiving meal, even for just the allotted 20 minutes.

The flip side to those communications channels, however, is the cost. Securus, the company used by the feds to manage phone calling between those inside the system and out, has faced multiple class-action lawsuits documenting that the company charges between $9.99 and $14.99 for one 15-minute call. No wonder that the 69% of respondents to the survey cited above listed the cost of phone calls as the most onerous burden.

The price gouging has finally attracted attention at the highest levels. In his platform, the team for President-Elect Joe Biden writes: “Biden will make eliminating private prisons and all other methods of profiteering off of incarceration a requirement for a new state and local prevention-grant program. [And he] will support the passage of legislation cracking down on the practice of private companies charging incarcerated individuals and their families outrageously high fees to make calls.”

[Trivia: A female voice I’ve named Harriet helpfully warns you when you have one minute left of the 15 allotted. And if someone’s calling from the feds, she interrupts periodically to remind you that you’re talking to a prison inmate. Like, you’re not aware of that? At the beginning of the call, you have to wait through a lengthy disclaimer.]

In October, I spent $380 talking to Rob. That same amount of money could have bought my groceries for the month. But what other choice did we have? Securus also offers an email system (without the ability to send links or documents), but that costs too of course. I spent $223 on digital stamps in October.

And then there are remote video visits available in some jails like Northern Neck, albeit the quality is often poor. The cost: $7.37 (including taxes) for 20 minutes. Those cost me $170 in October.

Communicate less, you say? Stop and think for a minute. What if you were in isolation due to COVID-19 (unable to leave your home at all due to illness) and were unable to call or email friends or relatives? Or could do so only once per week, even? Just what is connection worth to you, to humans as a species? Montross writes in her book about the research of psychoanalyst Heinz Kohut, who documented that human connection is a critical need that must be met at every stage of life to maintain the health and stability of “the self.”

“The essence of self-psychology,” she explains, “is the idea that we exist only in relation to others…Human beings will go to great lengths of discomfort and risk in order to reach out to one another. To hear from another. To be heard by another. To wait for an echo. They are trying desperately not to go through [the harrowing experience of incarceration] all alone.”

Of course, there are always letters. Or not. One of our mutual best friends, Donnie, is serving life without parole. (Think about that: At least Rob has the hope of being released sooner or later. What if you were confined to a place that Montross has described as one in which “men must become predators, lest they become prey”? And were told there was no hope of anything different, no matter how much you changed or how well you behaved?) Due to COVID restrictions, he’s allowed out of his cell in Kentucky for only one hour every three days — and that has to be enough time for calls, emails and showers, for dozens of men at a time. He rarely gets a spot at the computer of phone to call me. (Even when he is able to call, there’s another restriction, in addition to the 15-minut limit: The guys in the prison are allowed only 300 minutes per month.) So, letters are it. But I hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Finally, I received a message written on the backs of my previous letters.

He explained:

“They don’t sell writing paper or envelopes in commissary here, so we have to depend on them (the COs) to pass some out. They usually issue us one writing tablet per cell. Now, there are only 50 sheets of paper per tablet, so that’s only 24 sheets of paper per person and we’re fortunate if they pass out writing pads once a month! I’ve never been in the general population of a prison that is as restricted as this one is when it comes to communicating with people in the world.

“On top of that, we can only receive five pages per letter (written on one side) and all communications and pictures are copied — so we can’t see them in their real colors. We can’t receive greeting cards or postcards*. It’s like they want to cut us off from the real world as much as they can.”

Communication is a basic human need, and right. We must let the incoming Biden-Harris administration, as well as our national, state and municipal/county representatives, know that it’s not acceptable to turn it into a profit-making enterprise.