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ACJ Pays $350K for Shotguns, Bullets, and Deadly Riot Training

An anonymous Court Watch volunteer reports on the Allegheny County Jail’s deeply troubling new contracts

If you didn’t know better, you might think STL Joseph Garcia is a Navy SEAL. That’s certainly the look he and his business, Corrections Special Applications Unit (C-SAU), are going for.

Joseph Garcia’s Facebook profile shows him posing in front of a helicopter with a gun slung across his chest and a pit bull at his feet. His personal Instagram account offers an array of pictures of himself looking tough, for example leaning casually against a brick wall dressed in a tight shirt tucked into blue jeans, flanked by a pair of Giant Schnauzers. He describes himself (and his K9s) as “battle-tested,” and the honorific “STL” could lead a person to believe that he’s attained some kind of military rank.

But as official as it sounds, I haven’t been able to figure out what STL stands for–perhaps “Strike Team Leader”? But in fact, no one seems to know of any particular qualifications Joseph Garcia might have. When his training methods caused a scandal at Rikers, he disappeared. When a court solicitor investigated him, she quickly found that “his credibility is in question.” In a civil suit filed last year against a Colorado jail, the plaintiff alleged that Garcia uses “a variety of shell companies” to do business. His business, by the way, is developing “new and different approaches to handling inmate riots.

Put bluntly, he is a charlatan who specializes in teaching prison guards to shoot incarcerated people with 12-gauge shotguns at close range. And none of that stopped Allegheny County, Pennsylvania from giving Mr. Garcia almost $350,000 to pay a visit to our county jail.

Charleston County, South Carolina

In December 2009, the Charleston Post and Courier ran a story on a training at the Charleston County Detention Center. The Detention Center, also known as the Sheriff Al Cannon Detention Center (SACDC), had invited a corrections expert to help bring the jail into the 21st century. This expert, “Lieutenant” Joseph Garcia, is described in the piece as the “lead instructor for U.S. Corrections, a government contractor.”

Garcia tells the reporter about one of the compliance techniques he teaches in his classes: pointing a “less lethal” shotgun at an incarcerated person while blinding them with a laser pointer. He teaches that if an incarcerated person remains noncompliant after being blinded, the officer should load the shotgun. “Once we do that, the inmate knows we are not playing,” Garcia says. If that still doesn’t work, the officer should simply shoot the incarcerated person with rubber rounds “until the pain convinces them to comply.”

The reporter observes wryly that thanks to this state of the art training, any “unruly inmates” at the jail are sure to be “greeted by a new kind of correctional officer, one who can be very persuasive.”

Officers Walters, Hood, Simmons, and Shaw “demonstrated one of the highest levels of force used by the new Special Operations Group” (Post and Courier, File/Wade Spees/Staff)

In May 2015, another story appeared in local Charleston media about an exciting new training at SACDC led by Joseph Garcia. The reporter seems under the impression, troublingly, that Mr. Garcia’s company (operating at this point as US Corrections Special Operations Group, or US C-SOG) is a “government based agency.” She tells us breathlessly that Garcia’s program is “the gold standard in the corrections special operations community” and refers to Garcia as “Captain,” though neither the Post and Courier nor herself elaborate on any kind of military experience he may have. Both note that Garcia is based out of Virginia, gently suggesting affiliation with the federal government.

But Mr. Garcia is not a government employee, nor does he appear to have served in the military. And as of January 5th, 2021, his “persuasive” methods have contributed to at least one death.

Jamal Sutherland


Photo of Jamal Sutherland, provided to media by his family

On January 5 of this year, a young man named Jamal Sutherland was killed by corrections officers at SACDC. Mr. Sutherland was 31 years old and had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. He sometimes experienced visual and auditory hallucinations and was attempting to cope with these symptoms when he checked himself into a psychiatric hospital on New Year’s Eve. He was arrested at the hospital less than a week later when he tried to break up a fight between two other patients. Even though Sutherland had not participated in the fight himself, and even though medical staff knew that he was struggling with psychotic hallucinations and delusions, the facility chose to call the police and have him taken to jail. As this thoughtful piece puts it simply: “He died trying to get help.”

On May 14th, a little over five months after Sutherland’s death, the body cam footage of his death was made available to the public. I have not watched it and I will not post it here, but be aware that most stories on his death have the video embedded.  Here is a description of the video from the Associated Press:

“In newly released video of the January death of a South Carolina inmate with a history of mental health issues, deputies are seen deploying stun guns repeatedly and kneeling on the man’s neck and back before he stops moving.”

“Protesters call for justice for Jamal Sutherland at Marion Square on May 17 in Charleston, S.C.” (Sean Rayford, Getty Images)

On May 18th, following renewed public outcry and multiple protests, the Solicitor for South Carolina’s Ninth Circuit assured the public that her Office was hard at work conducting an investigation. She added that she herself had been haunted by the body cam footage since seeing it shortly after Sutherland’s death– “I have lived with its sights and sounds for months.” A week later the city of Charleston paid out a $10 million dollar settlement to Jamal Sutherland’s family. Finally, on July 26th, the Solicitor’s Office released the results of their months-long investigation.

They found that Joseph Garcia’s training directly contributed to Sutherland’s death.

“Amy Sutherland, her husband, James Sutherland Sr., and their son, Jamar, stand with photos of their son and brother, Jamal, at their home on June 23, 2021 in Goose Creek.” (Gavin McIntyre, Post and Courier)

The Reports

There are two reports: the official Ninth Circuit Solicitor Office’s Report and The Raney Report, a Use of Force Analysis commissioned by the Solicitor’s Office.

From the Solicitor’s Office report:

  • “[Joseph] Garcia conducted the SACDC Special Operations Group (SOG) training from around 2008 through 2019” and “much of the substance of what Garcia taught is still used to train SOG operatives”
  • In first hiring Garcia and then continuing to use his methods, SACDC leadership “sanctioned training that preferred the use of force over avoidance and de-escalation techniques”
  • The officers that killed Mr. Sutherland “were negligent but they also complied with much of their training,” and so, accordingly “training at the detention center must change.” (emphasis mine)

The Raney Report, written by a former Sheriff named Gary Raney, declines to name Joseph Garcia outright but there is no doubt to whom it refers in describing a “vendor who taught highly aggressive tactics.”

  • In 2008, the jail “contracted with a private vendor, to redesign the training and tactics for the SACDC tactical response team”
  • “The vendor began teaching aggressive tactics, emphasizing the use of weapons and physical force”
  • The SACDC “adopted a practice, unheard of in most jails, that the SOG members routinely carried tactical 12- gauge shotguns loaded with less lethal munitions, regardless of whether there was an immediate need for them or not.”
  • “There was no evidence of meaningful de-escalation or avoidance training in the SOG training”
  • “SACDC sanctioned and continued rogue practices with the SOG training and failed to address policy violations and poor practices. This is indefensible and a fundamental cause of why the events unfolded prior to Sutherland’s death.” (emphasis mine)

These reports confirm Garcia and SACDC’s consistent pattern of sadistic violence against incarcerated people (to say nothing of his bilking of prison administrations) stretching from Rikers Island to Weld, Colorado to York County, Pennsylvania–and now to Allegheny County.

Allegheny County

As Sheriff Raney and the Ninth Circuit Solicitor’s Office were finalizing their reports, Allegheny County, Pennsylvania was approving a contract worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to bring Garcia’s training methods to ACJ. There would be no opportune moment for a visit from Mr. Garcia, but the timing of this purchase is deeply troubling.

At last month’s Jail Oversight Board meeting, ACJ’s Warden Orlando Harper was asked to explain his plan to implement the jail-related ballot initiative that passed in May. He snapped that the changes will take time because the new law removes some of the Jail’s most important “tools” from their “toolbox.”

The initiative’s central feature is that it bans the use of solitary confinement, but it contains another really important provision: It bans the use of restraint chairs, chemical agents, and leg shackles within the Jail.

Chart from Juliette Rihl’s piece with Public Source

Allegheny County Jail is one of the least transparent in the state, but what little information manages to escape its walls is often shocking– For example, the fact that ACJ subjected incarcerated people to the restraint chair on 339 separate occasions in 2019. Warden Harper and his staff have demonstrated a willingness to use the restraint chair and other forms of inflicting severe pain at a rate that far exceeds every other jail in the Commonwealth.

So why hire Garcia now? The Jail will no longer be able to (legally) mace inmates in the face and strap them into the chair for 12 hours, and Harper is scrambling to find new ways to terrorize ACJ’s “residents.”

“De-Escalation”

The $347,770.00 C-SAU training isn’t the only ask Warden Harper made to the County. The request for Garcia’s services came accompanied by requests for $28,552 of Kel-Tec firearms and $95,000 worth of Lightfield “less lethal” ammunition.

The County is taking away the pepper spray, so the Warden is buying bullets.

County Councilperson Bethany Hallam asked the Warden about these contracts at the August meeting of the Jail Oversight Board. She reminded him that earlier in that very meeting, Board Members Moss, Korinski, and herself had proposed contracting with a “de-escalation education” firm called Verbal Judo to train staff. Seemingly caught off-guard by Hallam’s familiarity with the contracts, Harper made the dubious claim that C-SAU would also teach de-escalation tactics.

This begged the question (voiced by an incredulous Hallam): “Your plan is to use shotguns and bean bags to de-escalate?”

The Warden declined to comment further.

Frank Smart

Frank Smart, Jr. and his daughter on the day of her college graduation

Just after midnight on January 5, 2015, a man named Frank Smart, Jr. was declared dead at Pittsburgh’s UPMC Mercy Hospital. In much the same way that Sutherland would be killed exactly six years later, Smart was physically restrained by corrections officers who refused to recognize (or simply did not care) that he was in crisis.

Smart had a seizure disorder and was prescribed a twice-daily medication to manage it, but the medical staff provided by for-profit healthcare provider Corizon Health failed to give it to him. He was arrested on the morning of January 4th and was stricken with a grand mal seizure sometime in the afternoon, falling to the ground in his cell and hitting his head twice.

Corrections officers did not notice his distress until the seizure was already ending and Smart was transitioning into the postictal state. As he regained awareness and tried to re-orient himself, the officers who had come to check on him perceived his behavior as threatening. Some of them apparently believed that even as he lay on the floor of his cell, blood at the corners of his mouth, his movements indicated that was trying to assault them. Officers shackled him and “restrained” him, placing him in a chokehold and kneeling on his body.

Like Jamal Sutherland (and Eric Garner, and George Floyd, and so many other Black men murdered by law enforcement officers), some of Frank Smart, Jr.’s last words were “I can’t breathe.”

Allegheny County Jail does not need any help figuring out how to be “persuasive,” or whatever euphemism one prefers in place of cruel or vicious.

We cannot give these sadists shotguns. People will die.

Explore the Contracts

[googleapps domain=”drive” dir=”file/d/1ouozqUVvTNZraakFMnjZkDG7sRT2Zm_n/preview” query=”” width=”640″ height=”480″ /]
Lightfield Less Lethal Research Contract with Allegheny County Jail by Allegheny JOB Watch on Scribd
Kel Tec Shotguns Contract by Allegheny JOB Watch on Scribd

This article originally appeared in Allegheny County JOB Watch
Categories
News and Updates

Disconnected Connections: Reflections on Remote Court Watching

Court Watch volunteer Dheeksha Senthur shares her experiences observing court remotely during the winter of 2020 through the summer of 2021.

by Dheeksha Senthur

“Can you hear me?”

The screen flickered momentarily and a blurry image of a person dressed in an orange jumpsuit came into focus. The clang of the door shutting behind him, the orange jumpsuit against the sapphire-blue paper wall crystallized, the graininess emerging into the silhouette of a person. I watched as the man on the screen placed the headset over his ears, gazing at the monitor with widened eyes.

“Can you hear me?”

His voice echoed through the 14 devices of the 14 participants on the call before dissipating.

This was my first time attending court as a volunteer court watcher and I hadn’t quite known what to expect. I had envisioned a polished, wood-paneled courtroom presided over by a stern-faced judge; then the defense and prosecution would heatedly debate the case. I expected a game of legal jargon, one which I had to capture and transform into writing. The day before, I had prepared for this game of Motions Court, looking through the docket sheets for each one of my cases. It was in one of the docket sheets, next to his name, that I saw a date of birth in inked black letters: his year of birth was close to mine. A heavy charge was printed beneath his name.

At this moment, looking up from my desk, it was surreal to see the man from the docket sheet before me. The screen then flipped over to Judge Lazzara who appeared to be in her own home. She greeted everyone with a sunny “Good morning” and a gentle smile, apologizing for the delay caused by a prior status hearing. The screen flickered to the clerk in a mahogany courtroom with his right hand raised as the man in the motions court case was sworn in. The words rang out like the strike of a gavel as my laptop’s screen melted away into the courtroom proceedings.

Judge Lazzara began promptly with a series of questions: whether the individual consented to the lack of face-to-face interaction, to having his due process carried out remotely, etc. The man replied with “Yes ma’ams” during the questioning, but now, he asked a question himself. The screen lit up with a blue B icon as his video materialized; he asked whether future proceedings would take place over video call. Judge Lazzara smiled and said it was a good question and reassured him that continuing with the video call was “just for today.”

The defense attorney brought up the first of seven motions, a motion to sever, stating that the jury could be prejudiced during the two separate trials required by two different charges brought against the defendant. The attorneys went back and forth before Judge Lazzara denied the motion to sever but assured that there would be precautions in place and reminders to the jury so prejudice wouldn’t hold. As the proceedings continued, the room was filled only with the voices of the judge, defense, and commonwealth attorneys. The man in the orange jumpsuit seemed like a silent spectator.

Behind a light-blue surgical mask, he gazed at the screen; sometimes his eyes would wander off to the side and sometimes they would glaze over. The voices of the courtroom buzzed, but he never spoke. Loud beeping sounds from the jail began punctuating the din of legal arguments; eventually, the beeping became so disruptive that he had to be muted. That was the last time I saw him.

The hearing soon came to an end and the defense attorney brought up the question of a trial date. Judge Lazzara said she would look further into it but could not guarantee an exact one. The judge then said goodbye to everyone, including the muted defendant, whose headset, she jokingly noted, was already on the table.

I logged out of the call, examining all the nondescript terms in my notebook on the man I saw only in flashes, the “motions in limine” and “discovery motions.” I had witnessed my first ever hearing where a human being’s fate would be determined—and I would witness more.

The days passed by in a blur and I adjusted to the routines of remote court watching to the point where I could identify who was presiding simply by distinguishing the camera angle, the soft humming of background noise, and the mannerisms of the masked judge behind the sheets of plexiglass. I grew attuned to the ambiance of the courts as I sat at the desk beside my snow-banked window. The snow soon melted to a warm spring, and court officials became more adept at managing technical difficulties. As hearings passed by, I began pinpointing notable moments and conversations rather than focusing on keeping up with the formalities of the proceedings.

During a probation violation hearing, a defendant called into the meeting through his phone. His public defender described for the judge a number of unimaginably difficult circumstances the defendant was going through in his life. Despite these challenges, the defendant’s voice was bright with optimism and laughter as he spoke, never alluding to any of these struggles himself. He was determined, despite them, to try his best to pay his restitution.

Other cases were more obviously suffused with suffering and not just that of the people incarcerated at ACJ. Witnesses were brought forth, friends and family members, who would convey their pain to the judge. When I heard their voices crack as they appealed for justice within this system, I realized I was privy to a delicate, far-reaching vulnerability. They reminded me that what happened in these courtrooms, themselves an extension of the prisons where so many were held, had an impact beyond the person whose name was listed on the docket sheet. Hundreds of people away from my screen were experiencing the system’s influence on their lives, including the moments when I was absorbed in writing about just one.

Recently I noticed there was now a trial date set for the man whose hearing I observed during my very first court watching shift. Like all the hearings I observed, we’d only been connected once by the blue of our screens, but now he’d be alone in his orange-branded jumpsuit at the jail, awaiting a trial with countless others who had also sat in front of the blue wall of the jail, the thin table of the Pittsburgh Municipal Court, awaiting their fates. Now, there would only be waiting until his trial approached, waiting until this series of oblique connections through computer screens and courtrooms might begin to look like change.