Category: COVID-19

by Ines Borges and Maple Maloney 

I N E S

Before joining the ALC Court Watch program, I was naive; I believed that courtrooms weren’t meant to be observed by anyone other than judicial officials. The legal system is devoted to upholding “principles of justice” – or so it is publicly perceived. Why would individuals who hold these influential positions need to be monitored?  The judicial system has this superior and confidential impression on society, allowing its activities and developments to go about undisclosed from the public. Immediately after becoming involved with Court Watch, it was clear to me that not only is it critical for our communities that local courtrooms be observed – but more so, it is our fundamental First Amendment right to observe them.

Before the Allegheny County court closures due to COVID-19, I attended my first in-person arraignments with my fellow court watcher, Maple. Inside an appearance or hearing, you quickly realize that there are not many individuals present during these cases. Those who are present are typically judicial officials, the defense and prosecution, and family members from both sides. Court watchers can act as unbiased observers to these cases. Maple is our first and most knowledgeable in-person court watcher and reflects on her time in the courts before the pandemic

M A P L E

I started going to the Allegheny County Criminal Courthouse in January of this year. The goal was to take notes on the demographics and ambiance of the courtrooms. After a few visits, I found that responses from the judges, clerks, and attorneys were skewed. Some were open to our presence and observation, while others expressed how uncomfortable they were. 

Most of my time observing the players of the courtroom was spent looking at how individuals were being treated by members of the authority. I was able to sit in on a homicide trial where the room watched a video of the defendant meeting with his relative while incarcerated. Everyone in the courtroom watched the screen for 45 minutes with no sound. The family of the victim was present, and the attorneys, as well as police officers, treated them with respect and sympathy. The officers didn’t have much interaction with us, besides warning graphic images to be played on the screen. I walked away that day with no notes of disappointment or distress from the players of the courtroom, which is what we were told to look for as our focus.

While most observations came and went with nothing too notable, there were a few I found unacceptable. I had a chance to sit in on a few sentence hearings in Tranquili’s courtroom. This was one of my first experiences in a courtroom, and it was negative. I did not feel comfortable, nor did I feel like everyone in the room was being respected. I had no interaction with anyone except the clerk, who just seemed annoyed at our presence. 

The goal of our in-person court watch for the first months was to hold the players accountable for how they treat others in the courtroom. We were able to achieve that by sitting in the ‘audience’ – as members of society who are invested in seeing equivalent justice served with respect and acknowledgment.

During the months Pennsylvania and the rest of the country were on lockdown, court proceedings continued through virtual and telecommunications. Many states and cities allowed for the public to gain access to the courts through live YouTube feeds or streaming via Microsoft Teams. Allegheny County did not provide any means for the public to practice their first amendment right to attend and access hearings. After many unreturned voicemails from judges chambers and several letters left unresponded, weeks had gone by without any insight to the ongoings of the courtrooms. 

After the initial stages of the COVID-19 quarantine, we decided it was time to get back into the courtrooms with in-person eyes. The first time the administration let us back in, we weren’t actually able to see any hearings, arraignments, or trials. When walking into the courtroom, the clerk asked us what case we were here for. We stated we were just here to observe, and the clerk then said (appearing pretty annoyed) that they might not have space for us. We said we would leave if more than 25 people came into the room (25 was the maximum to adhere to social distancing regulations). After a few minutes, defendants and their attorneys continued to file in, so we had to leave. We then found another room where we could observe a meeting between multiple attorneys and a judge discussing when a case would be ready to go to a jury trial. The judge stated it would most likely take until next year to get people in for a jury. The following week the court shut down once again, and we were not allowed in. 

Our community has been completely deprived of our constitutional access since March. With no virtual admittance available, one month turned to two, and two turned to three. Later in June, when courts were briefly open, there was no room for the public – contrary to what was promised. As we enter August and the summer comes to a rapid close, when will transparency of our local judicial systems become available? Will we be forced to speculate and predict the clandestine undertakings of the Allegheny County criminal courts?

WHO WILL KEEP COURTS ACCOUNT

by Autumn Redcross, edited by William Lukas

“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us to temporarily beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.” 

– Audre Lorde, 1984

There are approximately 45,000 people in Pennsylvania’s Department of Corrections. While the DOC regularly releases about 20,000 people each year, there is a reluctance to accelerate their time in service to the state and end their prison sentences early. Even in the face of a global public health crisis. As abolitionists, it may feel contradictory to lionize the radical potentials of parole, reprieve, and commutation – some of the “master’s tools” that reinforce compliance with carceral logics. Yet these existing instruments of criminal law have the capacity to save thousands of lives during this pandemic and beyond. In this article, we amplify arguments for parole, reprieve and commutation under COVID-19, not as a blueprint for dismantling the master’s house, but as a strategic call in the fight to #FreeTheVulnerable and protect public health.

PAROLE

Parole is a continued form of sentence outside of prison. On parole, a person is released to the community while under state surveillance. As a privilege, and not a right, parole can be granted for not more than 50% of the maximum time of the sentence(s). Parole is considered by an administrative board once a person meets the minimum of their sentence requirements. The person on parole must operate according to the terms of their release, otherwise they will be at risk of being apprehended and again detained. People can be (and are) sent back to prison for technical parole violations that do not involve the commission of new criminal acts.

According to the Pennsylvania Board of Probation and Parole, “Of the offenders discharged in 2018, 74.8 percent, or 78,947 offenders, were successfully discharged and of those, 4,381 offenders had their supervision terminated early.” Over 100,000 people on parole were in circulation over all and about 20,000 are released from the DOC every year.

Mass decarceration occurs on a regular basis: with close to half of the DOC prison population being released yearly, parole enables reentry into society for great numbers of the formerly incarcerated. Parole becomes an alternative to a system of warehousing that promotes punishment and aging, rather than behavioral correction or personal transformation.

REPRIEVE

In matters of high concern or crisis, reprieves can be granted by the governor. A reprieve is a temporary suspension of a criminal sentence. Whereas the Governor of Pennsylvania has the power “to remit fines and forfeitures, to grant reprieves, commutation of sentences and pardons,” only the reprieve power does not require the recommendation of a majority or unanimous votes of the Board of Pardons, as required for pardons and commutations. The ability to temporarily suspend punishment is an exclusive power of the Governor in Pennsylvania. Governor Wolf can – and has – unilaterally suspended the imposition of a sentence, whether to avert an irrevocable sentence of death or to reduce the prison population in order to respond to a pandemic  

On April 10, the Governor used his reprieve authority in response to COVID-19, creating a reprieve program to be administered by the DOC. The Governor estimated that 1,500-1,800 candidates from the more than 45,000 people held captive in DOC custody would be eligible for reprieve under the program. However, only a meager 111 have been granted reprieve nearly a month into the program. Both the proposed limited eligibility for reprieve (1,500 and 1,800 prisoners) and the realized practice of reprieve (111 prisoners) flies in the face of public health, logic, and of mercy.

For Wolf, “Vulnerable inmates will include inmates aged 65 or older; anyone with an autoimmune disorder; pregnant inmates; anyone with a serious, chronic medical condition such as heart disease, diabetes, chronic respiratory disease, bone marrow or organ transplantation, severe obesity, kidney disease, liver disease,[and] cancer; or another medical condition that places them at higher risk for complications of coronavirus as defined by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention”, as reported on the newsroom page of his website. However, as COVID-19 overtakes prisons at a frightening pace, this is insufficient. We seek more releases and actual justice.

Essentially all sentences are death sentences even pre COVID-19. Governments have refused to take required actions to prevent the deadly outbreaks inside its penal fortresses. And time charged does not excuse the cruel circumstances of being contained during moments of war and disaster.

COMMUTATION

Robert “Saleem” Holbrook, ALC’s Director of Community Organizing and co-founder of the Human Rights Coalition, advocates for the release of our elders and loved ones. Speaking with fierce love and urgency at the #FreeTheVulnerable Virtual Town Hall on April 21, Saleem noted that “Seniors constitute the least threat to public safety.” Age renders them particularly vulnerable to contracting COVID-19 and succumbing to the virus’s complications. 

Saleem states, “Right now the DOC houses 700 lifers who are over the age of 65. There are 303 senior offenders who are over the age of 65 and have served half of their minimum sentence.” They should receive parole or expedited reprieve.

“There are over 2,000 people who are within nine to twelve months of the end of their minimum sentence” and also age 65 or older. “There is no way they” shouldn’t be released by parole or reprieve. Right now, 27% of the Department Of Corrections population are seniors.” They should receive parole or expedited reprieve.

During the #FreeTheVulnerable Town Hall, Saleem noted that  “three lifers who are over 65 and have not had letters of commutation signed” by the Governor despite being recommended by the Board of Pardons for commutation. These people are our loved ones whom we want to bring home.

Prisons function as incubators of COVID-19. Not only does this impact those subjected to the violences of the courts and criminal justice system, but it also pours over and emanates through sociogenic aspects of our environment and the wellness of its people. The system of criminal injustice obliges the state to turn a blind eye to the humanity of individuals behind prison walls. At the same time, the system perpetually harms our communities. Both ultimately illustrate, with grim clarity, why we must continually push against the walls that imprison.

As Saleem had described, “this is a failed state.” Yet as abolitionists, we challenge the carceral system to utilize its own mechanisms in the interest of public health. Our demand is to #FreeTheVulnerable and at no time do we accept any proposition that situates our loved ones to become martyrs of the state in service to time. Not on our watch.

by Autumn Redcross with Quinn Cozzens

New statistics reveal that the populations of Allegheny County Jails (ACJ) and its alternative housing have declined sharply since Pennsylvania shut down. The Pittsburgh Post Gazette reported yesterday that “Since March 16, 1,095 inmates have been released from jail as a part of a collaborative effort and then judges, court staff, the district attorney’s office, defense attorneys and the jail to reduce the population.”

However, there have been no concerted efforts by magisterial districts to disengage the arrest culture and arraignment processes of Pittsburgh and Allegheny County. People are still being cycled into the prison system by way of police despite the dangers of COVID-19. 

While the ACJ population reduction reflects about a 30% decrease, 342 people have been arrested since March 16. Unfortunately, arrests often lead to jailing.

Unlike prisons, jails theoretically detain people as a precaution for public safety, or to ensure offender attendance in court. But in reality, there are no specific rules dictating either of those possibilities. 

ALC Staff Attorney Quinn Cozzens writes, “The system is not up to ensure either of these outcomes. Judges have broad discretion in deciding whether someone will remain in jail and they, along with prosecutor and probation offices, often rely on metrics that function to keep people of color and poor people incarcerated.” 

In other words, there are innocent people at ACJ – people who have not been adjudicated or convicted of any crime. Twenty-one percent of people at ACJ are held pretrial while the largest cohort (42%) of incarcerated at ACJ, are people held on probation detainers due to “technical violations”. Technical violations vary in form and can include: missing a meeting with a probation officer; testing positive for cannabis on a drug test; or changing housing without approval (i.e eviction or inability to pay rent thus forcing you onto somebody’s couch).

ACJ imprisons those sentenced to 23 months or less, as well as people in federal holding. According to the county site, 1% of the 1,600 people held at ACJ are children – people ages 18 and under. This reflects the archaic legislation of the 1990s that recognized children as adults, despite children lacking the maturity, sense of responsibility, and developmental capacity of adults – research that has been widely cited in Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. Supreme Court (2012) and other cases decrying the use of death by incarceration sentences on young people.

The number of children at ACJ mirrors the number of elders – people ages 65 and above – who are also subjected to jail incarceration without apparent consideration for their vulnerability to the disease. A larger number of people (6%) ages 55-64 are currently held at ACJ.

The population numbers at ACJ increase daily with the imprisonment of people charged with petty crimes and those unable to post bail, thus exacerbating structural poverty and systemic racism. Bail allows for release pending trial. Yet bail is not always monetary. Sometimes people are released on a JRS-coordinated mental health treatment program and compliance with its conditions. But when money is the court’s ask, many people don’t have the financial resources to readily post bail.

The cycle of structural violence begins with the arrest. Then detention at the jail. Unable to pay your way out by posting bail, you lose your job. Then maybe your housing. All while accumulating judicial debt.

Today, our loved ones and neighbors are not only held indefinitely in jails and prisons but are actively hunted, pursued and jailed as part of this “invisible war.”

People on the inside and outside, and everyone caught in the grey zones of re-entry, parole, postponed hearings, and technical violations must navigate the catastrophic consequences of COVID-19. Cozzens notes, “In the midst of a pandemic, where the conditions inside of jails and prisons prevent people from taking the most important measures to protect themselves” we call on our county officials and community leaders to move away from arrests and jailing and move towards transformative justice and collective liberation.

Inside ACJ, the conditions are unthinkable. There are reports of rationing toilet paper and soap which are inadequate for daily hygiene. Protective measures to prevent the spread of coronavirus are horrendously insufficient. In the overcrowded shared spaces of jail, where social distancing is impossible, where jail staff cycle in and out, prison systems have become hotspots for contraction and contamination.

Allegheny County’s responsibility for the people they cage and warehouse continues to be disregarded. We must hold the county courts and local magistrates accountable. Who will answer the call – to put human lives ahead of the state’s desire for jailed bodies and merciless bail?

an interview with Alexander “Big Lou” Lewis

by Autumn Redcross

Life under COVID-19 has so many of us approaching life in ways that feels restrictive and unfamiliar. The threat of contracting the virus – or worse, carrying it to others unknowingly – has governments requiring us to stay put and distance ourselves from others as much as possible. And this is difficult. The isolation is intense. The stress wraps you like a blanket. 

It could be worse. It is for some. Others know of a time that feels lower, deeper, and more enclosed. Imagine being imprisoned during a pandemic. “Prison has a way of breaking you down,” says Alexander Lewis of Pittsburgh, PA. Friends and colleagues call him Big Lou.

“Constant pressure,” he says. Do you feel it? In prison, Lou adds “you’re used to functioning under constant pressure. You can handle some pressure, here or there, but constant?” This stint, what we’re living now, is no joke. Neither was his. 

Big Lou is characterized as a violent offender. In legal terms, violence involves the threat or actual harm to others, Lou robbed banks and knew his actions were dangerous. Yet, Lou challenges the definition of violence. “Violence can be not having food to eat. Violence can be the tear in a mother’s eye. Violence can be a resistance to oppression.” Violence is not always physical.

“…Violence was something that was in the air at all times,” Lou notes. After all, “this country was built on violence.”

Lou considered his offenses to be a confrontation with life and death. “If I was going to fight, I’m taking it to the extreme.” However, his aggression was always targeted. For Lou, Robbing banks in the late 60’s and early 70’s was a means to an end. It was about “liberating and repossessing.” Big Lou was interested in building his community, not hurting it. However he “didn’t see the penitentiary around the corner.”

Big Lou spent 37 years behind bars. He attributed his survival to his experiences on the streets prior to prison. “I knew how to deal with racism because I came from a racist town.” Referring to the correctional officers and guards who failed to protect him in prison, Luo noted “I probably busted more cops than I did people on the street.” His resistance to state violence was born from the “love for [his] people and mankind.”

“I grew up with a love for my community, our elders, and the women who held up our community – and when I say up, I mean up!”

In the Homewood neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Lou recalls that everyone had a place and purpose, and that all roles of community members functioned together. Homewood is 98% Black/African-American and as higher unemployment and poverty rates than other Pittsburgh neighborhoods. “Even the hustlers were included. That’s what made us rich when we were poor because we looked out for one another. I never forgot the magic of the family working together. I took that with me.”

He explains, “Life has us going through trying to be the best individual. You are who you are, but if you’re not interacting with anyone else, it takes from the essence of what you are meant to be.” Believing that learning is achieved through self-discipline, Lou had made himself something akin to a vision board on the walls of his cell. He called it his “Wall of Reality,” and used it to judge himself against the things he placed on the wall. This way he could monitor himself, in order to craft his destiny. 

“The grind was hard, but it was worth it… to be there!” For Lou, “the biggest hope and dream” was discovered by and manifested for him. In the DOC, he found friendship, conviction, and solidarity in the gospel of African Communalism. Lou found himself at the front lines of militant struggle for global solidarity against U.S. and Western imperialism – with members of the Black Panther Party, The Black Liberation Army, The San Francisco Brothers (SF8), The Weather Underground, and the Republic of New Africa. “We had sit-ins, marches, riots…but my deepest struggle was my [own] rage.”

“I had to change before I came out. The violence was part of my piece, but I was going to have to control part of my emotions and feelings. I had to come out of and learn how to handle it if I was to become a vital part of our community.” So, he did in 2004.

In 2017, the United States Sentencing Commission published a report detailing the effects of aging on recidivism among federal offenders. Amber Epps, author, professor and member of the Elsinore-Bennu Think Tank for Restorative Justice, has noted this report while reading to groups in prison. Amber’s brother is currently incarcerated and she reflects on this in her introduction to Life Sentences: Writings from Inside an American Prison (2019). Epps states that it is more likely that a person without a record would commit a so-called violent crime, than it would be for someone who’s been incarcerated for decades to re-offend.

In February 2020, at a conference celebrating the commutation of Robert “Faruq” Widman, Secretary of Corrections, John Wetzel cited the US Sentencing Commision’s report. Wetzel stated that re-offense and recidivism substantially decrease in people over the age of 40. Faruq expressed his belief in building community with the help of returning citizens in this simple statement: “We need them.” 

Our incarcerated elders have amassed a wealth of wisdom, professional skills, and understanding of human relationships, allowing them to improve the neighborhoods and communities that they’ve been barred from for so long. As Amber Epps suggests, in their communities “[elders] could continue to teach, rebuild, mentor, and offer support as they do for fellow inmates, but on the outside. I can’t stop imagining the impact they could have.”

Big Lou agrees, “These people are able to reach levels of understanding that help them to commit fully.” In prison, he says, “our voices had never been able to get over the wall.” Lou believes that “the institution does not want to shine the light on us.” Seemingly invisible to the outside population, many people choose to self-educate and increase their self-knowledge during their time inside prison. “Double life, long, long time but didn’t stop the work that they did.”

As a Pittsburgh native and returning citizen, Big Lou contends, “I didn’t miss my calling.” After all, he is not alone. Big Lou grounds work in meaningful conversations, teachings and lessons  with others affected by state violence and prison. In this way, he sees to it that “no one is left behind,” especially those who’ve remained incarcerated after his release. “When I’m walking with them, then I can’t go wrong.”

Big Lou is currently leading an initiative to educate and support his neighbors in McKeesport, Pennsylvania’s senior high-rises. His project provides resources and information and is supported by the Elsinore-Bennu Think Tank and a sociology class he takes at Duquesne University. This work is an act of community engagement rooted in restorative justice. “We’re about helping to save lives and to bring about a better life.”

Some reentering citizens are like brothers to Big Lou, and are equally committed to building community. Faruq, Foster, and T-Boo are among those formerly incarcerated elders among us who share ambitions steeped in restorative justice. Having experienced imprisonment, they are now  “trying to uplift and give something back to our communities. We knew we had to work on giving back,” Lou explains.

Big Lou wants to build community by “helping people mentally, physically and spiritually.” He is developing the infrastructure for the “betterment of our communities. Raising of others’ souls.” He knows that with his experience, he “can tap into that piece where others cannot reach. We can talk to people coming out of the penitentiary.”

“Prison is something we went through where we had to have tactics and strategies to cope. Learning the art of being able to handle a situation – even though you are in a bad situation.” Lou was made for this.

“I had an armor when I went into the belly of the beast” which is how Big Lou survived.

The pandemic now surrounds us like a beast. The shutdowns and lockdowns amidst COVID-19 are restrictive and unfamiliar. You may feel imprisoned and you may feel its pressure. Big Lou knows how to transcend confinement and because of this, can help us find our way.