Category: COVID-19

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COVID-19 News and Updates

Justice Reform Advocates File Suit Against Allegheny County Judge Over Lack of Public Access to Court

Breaking! Lawsuit Filed! No to secret courts! We demand transparent public virtual access! Judge Mariani has denied us access to over 100 hearings! Quote from ALC Court Watch director Autumn Redcross. photo of Mariani and url of press release

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

CONTACT: Andy Hoover, ACLU of PA, media@aclupa.org
William Lukas, Abolitionist Law Center, wjlukas@alcenter.org
Jonathan de Jong, Institute for Constitutional Advocacy & Protection, reachICAP@georgetown.edu

PITTSBURGH – An Allegheny County judge is facing a federal constitutional lawsuit filed today by Abolitionist Law Center after the judge’s refusal to allow virtual access to his court proceedings. Judge Anthony Mariani has repeatedly denied online access to volunteers with ALC’s Court Watch program and has only allowed the public to observe his court’s hearings in person at the county courthouse, despite a directive from both the court administration and the state Supreme Court that judges should provide online access to the public as a COVID-19 mitigation strategy.

Represented by the American Civil Liberties Union of Pennsylvania and the Institute for Constitutional Advocacy and Protection at Georgetown University Law Center, ALC argues in its filing that public access to courts is a First Amendment right.

“A public court is not only foundational to democracy, but integral to addressing mass incarceration and keeping judges accountable for their decisions – many of which are racialized and have contributed to apartheid in Allegheny County,” said Autumn Redcross, the director of ALC’s Court Watch program. “In the midst of a year-long global pandemic that has disproportionately devastated Black and brown communities, it is not sufficient to say, ‘the courts are accessible,’ simply because the buildings are open.

“It is unethical to expect community members to risk their health and lives to show up in person to observe an alleged public hearing, when the judge can provide the public with remote access.”

Since January, ALC volunteers have requested access to more than 100 hearings, all of which have been denied by Mariani. Typically, those asking for access receive a form email that states that the public can observe hearings in the judge’s courtroom. But in February, Mariani’s chambers stopped replying to inquiries by ALC’s volunteers as to why they could not have virtual access.

Mariani is the only Allegheny County judge who has refused to grant access to hearings via online video conferencing, in all his cases without exception. In its complaint, ALC notes that nine court employees tested positive for COVID-19 between January 10 and February 10 and that all had visited court facilities, including one member of Mariani’s staff.

“We jump through all the hoops set up by the Fifth Judicial District for safe, remote access, but, instead of access, I get form emails denying me and telling me to attend in person,” said Erica Brusselars, the volunteer coordinator for ALC’s Court Watch program. “Judge Mariani is actively obstructing safe public access to his court. He is impeding transparency in a way that hurts public discourse, hurts our tradition of open courts, discourages an engaged citizenry, and blocks people from seeing our criminal legal system.”

“Courts operate openly, not in secret, and this judge cannot be allowed to escape scrutiny while refusing to implement common sense strategies to prevent the spread of COVID-19,” said Reggie Shuford, executive director of the ACLU of Pennsylvania.

“All courts must be open, and the stakes couldn’t be higher than in criminal court, where judges make critical decisions that impact people’s liberty and freedom,” said Nicolas Riley, senior counsel at the Institute for Constitutional Advocacy and Protection.

In its filing, ALC is asking the federal court to require virtual access to Mariani’s proceedings, for a ruling that his behavior is in violation of the First Amendment, and for attorneys’ fees and costs.

The lawsuit, Abolitionist Law Center v. Judge Anthony M. Mariani, has been filed in the United States District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania. ALC is represented by Witold J. Walczak and Sara J. Rose of the ACLU of Pennsylvania and Nicolas Y. Riley, Robert D. Friedman, and Jennifer Safstrom of the Institute for Constitutional Advocacy and Protection at Georgetown University Law Center.

A copy of the complaint filed today is available for download below and also available at aclupa.org/ALC.

alc_w.d._pa._-_complaint_with_exhibits_3-2-2021_finalDownload
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COVID-19

Court Watch Reflections: “Our community has been completely deprived of our constitutional access since March.”

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

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COVID-19

There are children in jail.

by Autumn Redcross, with Dolly Prabhu. Introduction and edits by William Lukas.

Popular media journalists and militant abolitionists have framed the importance of releasing “high risk” vulnerable people from prison amidst the COVID-19 pandemic. The messaging almost always centers the voices of incarcerated elders and adults with underlying medical conditions. But what about the voices of children and young people locked up behind bars?

As of May 18, there are over four hundred reported incarcerated youth across U.S. juvenile facilities who’ve been diagnosed with COVID-19. There are undoubtedly more cases of incarcerated children with COVID-19, since many young people are held alongside adults in local jails, ICE detention centers, and other facilities (there are over 40,000 youth confined in criminal justice-related facilities in this country). Additionally, reporting on accessible and accurate testing of child and adult prisoners remains unattainable as wardens, policymakers, and even health officials, act aloof during public hearings – falling back on arguments of limited testing kits, austerity measures, or simply “needing to know more about mass testing”, while simultaneously providing thousands of testing kits to family health centers and nursing homes.

In this piece, ALC Court Watch takes us to the darkest corners of children’s jail cells in Allegheny County – and the legislation, courtroom practices, and cultural mythologies that make caging children possible and commonplace. While working as a caseworker for a youth re-entry program in San Francisco, I was always taken aback by the interiors of the city’s youth detention center: the floor tiles, the furniture, the lighting, the prison guard’s panopticon desk which was set up to look like a teacher’s. It was unclear where I was – if I was in a school building classroom or in a prison unit. But this is exactly the purpose of incarcerating children: to normalize the State’s control and punishment. To conflate housing, education, and imprisonment as one. “To get them used to a lifetime in prison” a correctional officer casually said to me after I finished helping a 13-year-old with his homework.

We share this article with you as part of the eighth annual National Week of Action Against Incarcerating Youth and in conjunction with the ongoing fight to #FreeTheVulnerable. We celebrate Cyntoia Brown and all survivors of child imprisonment and the youth we have lost at the hands of the State. We honor youth activists helping us connect the dots between the school-to-prison pipeline and the white supremacists policing of social-distancing: Black and brown youth on the stoops of their homes are brutally beaten by cops, arrested and jailed, while groups of white young professionals picnicking are given facemasks by cops.

As more youth experience lethal toxic shock syndrome brought on by COVID-19, abolitionists are reminded that children are high risk too and that young people’s voices – and futures – must be incorporated in the movement to #FreeTheVulnerable and beyond.

There are children in jail.

As of today, May 19, there are sixteen youth – people ages 18 and under – detained at the Allegheny County Jail (ACJ). The ACJ was built in 1995 with an original occupation capacity of 1,850. However, recent statistics reflect an average daily population of 2,400 over the last three years. Since the state-sanctioned shut-down and subsequent March 16 order to the courts, the jail population has drastically reduced – yet the number of children detained there has largely remained the same. ACJ currently holds 1,686 people.

Children warehoused in adult jails and prisons is commonplace in Pennsylvania. Depending on the nature of the criminal charges, it is possible for minors to be tried as adults given the outcome of waivers and, or exclusions. A waiver occurs when a juvenile court judge transfers the case from juvenile to adult court. Waivers help determine the course of legal proceedings regarding the charges a child in Pennsylvania may face.

Waivers for cases involving teens are sometimes issued where there is a history of offenses, or when the current alleged offenses are particularly egregious. A ‘discretionary waiver’ is provided in the interest of the public. A ‘presumptive waiver’ is issued when there is the use of a deadly weapon and commits a serious offense. In that case, there is a presumption that the public will be better served with the minor facing adult criminal prosecution. Finally, ‘statutory exclusions’ are charges where a minor will always be charged as an adult.

ACT 33 and “THE SUPERPREDATOR” MYTH

In 1995, the Pennsylvania Legislature passed Act 33, determining that teenagers between ages 15 and 17, charged with particular felonies that met certain conditions, be charged in adult court. “Prior to Act 33, criminal homicide was the only charge ranking above infractions like traffic tickets that automatically pulled people younger than 18 into adult court,” as written in the Sentinal.

Despite the fact that state policy does not allow children in the same age group to vote, buy cigarettes, consume alcohol, enlist in the military, the law has determined that children are fit to undergo damning the measures of the court and penal sentencing. In 2010, the Supreme Court Ruling of Graham v. Florida established that young people’s brains “lack of maturity and an underdeveloped sense of responsibility.” Yet, children are still held to the measure of the law put forth, adopted, and implemented for adults. According to the Sentinel, the criminal justice system is “holding them accountable for behavior that doesn’t actually reflect where they are in life.”

Act 33 was passed during the ‘90s culture wars, in which “progressive” and conservative pundits adopted and promoted John DiIulio’s “superpredator” theory. The anti-Black superpredator euphemism defined a generation of Black youth living in cities as the most dangerous than any group of children and teens that had existed before.

“The young thugs across this Commonwealth who have held people hostage in their homes and in their streets and in their neighborhoods will come to an end” stated Sen. Michael Fisher, on the state Senate floor in 1995. “Hopefully, it will be somewhat abated by the passage of this legislation,” he said, introducing the bill that became Act 33. Yet, the peak of youth crime had already occurred four years earlier. It has been falling ever since.

But the legacy of Act 33 continues to haunt our county jails and courts. 

“On any given day, dozens of children ages 14-17 are housed in adult jails in counties across Pennsylvania while facing charges in adult court. Most will see their cases dismissed or moved to juvenile proceedings, but not before they spend weeks, months, or even years locked up with adults,” the Sentinel reports.

CHILDREN TRAPPED INSIDE ACJ:

Prison labor, roaches, strip searches and “the hole”

This has been the experience for youth currently in ACJ. Children in Pittsburgh’s downtown jail are separate from the adults. “They have their own pod,” explains Dolly Prabhu, a recent graduate of Pittsburgh Law School and legal intern for the Abolitionist Law Center. Dolly notes, “People assume that everyone who is a kid ends up at Shuman or something.” The Shuman Center is the juvenile detention center in Allegheny County. Dolly’s externship allowed her several hours visiting with the children at the ACJ.What she has seen and heard from her young clients is disturbing.

Jail pods are open floor plans which contain tables, chairs, and the Correction Officer’s (CO’s) bench. The single cells that the children are assigned to are cramped, sterile, and ugly little enclosures. There is the customary cot, a sink, and a steel toilet in each cell. And they are cold. Minors detained at ACJ report needing to clothe themselves in both of their issued uniforms and get under the covers to have some type of warmth.

Yet, they do not have normal blankets, pillows, or bed sheets – only suicide blankets and bedding furnish the room.

Certain children are designated as “cleaners,” on the unit. Although the cleaners may earn advantages, such as extra time in the game room, the teens may also be subjected to harsh discipline. “Cleaners” may be expected to clean excessively to meet the standard of expectation. At times they are addressed by their room numbers rather than their names. They are never paid in their role as a “cleaner.”

“I feel like it’s prison labor, and that they are exploiting the fact that they are children desperate for stimulation and acceptance”, Dolly explains.

Being called by their inmate numbers – and not their names – is another tragic aspect of the children’s time in jail. The food is said to be awful, which is only worsened by the CO’s laughter when serving particularly “gross” meals. Dolly was told that roaches (dead and alive) are sometimes found on their meal trays.

Strip searches and shakedowns are part of safety regulations at jails and prisons. Although these sanctioned searches of cell and property are designed to discover and remove contraband, the teens believe these strip searches and shakedowns are used to humiliate them. There are times when the CO’s have taken legal work from the youth, tossed their property and personal hygiene products around in the room. The CO’s are often crass in demeanor and use profanity and name-calling.

As a means of discipline, children at the ACJ are put into “the hole”, Dolly writes. When placed in solitary confinement, teens cannot be released until they have met with the sergeant within 7-10 business days. The meeting, between the youth and the sergeant, takes place somewhere on the pod. If the teen does not return from solitary within 10 days, “COs take all your stuff and throw it out,” as told by some teens at ACJ.

For adults in prison, solitary confinement imprisons the imprisoned. “Prisoners in [the hole]  are locked down at least 23 hours a day in cells as small as 80 square feet – the size of an average home bathroom.” The extreme isolation allows for only one hour out for recreation time in the “gym.

“The hole” is mentally taxing for adults and stands to exacerbate mental illness. Children confined like this, “get depressed, angry, and don’t know how to handle it,” says Dolly. The youth’s visits often do not pan out and they’re deprived of the use of the phone and are not allowed commissary. Dolly notes, “what often causes them to be thrown in ‘the hole’ results from boredom.”

Although there is a gym on the pod with a pull-up/bench press machine, and possibly a basketball hoop, the children are in school for five to six hours a day. But they are not allowed to be in school if they are in the hole, and they cannot play in the gym if they are not in school. Some teens report that they do not have access to their mental health care providers even after asking and many children do not get the medications that they are in need of. 

Freeing our youth in the fight to #FreeTheVulnerable

Observations of these conditions occurred pre-COVID-19. Since the shutdown, children like adults in ACJ are not allowed physical visitation of any kind and are no longer attending school. Children are potentially put into solitary confinement – under the guise of “quarantine”. The Allegheny Intermediate Unit sends in schoolwork packets that the children are expected to complete and send back, as reported at the Jail Oversight Committee meeting

How is community trauma perpetuated by the court’s incessant charging of children as adults? By the county jail’s heartless conditions and vicious practices? Can we imagine justice and creative alternatives for care of our young people – alternatives like rehabilitation, therapy, tutoring, community-based programs, wellness and social-emotional learning, arts and sports enrichments, career and college readiness projects – that go beyond carceral optics and hellish tools of confinement?

The words of anti-apartheid revolutionary and political prisoner Nelson Mandela remind us, “There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” There are children in jail and we fight for their rights in the movement to #FreeTheVulnerable.

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COVID-19

Renewal Halfway House: Pittsburgh’s De Facto Private Prison

by Sofia Huang

Renewal halfway house has become a de facto private prison in the wake of COVID-19

Renewal, Inc., a private company contracted by the Department of Corrections (DOC), has been keeping individuals in lockdown in cramped quarters that do not conform to social distancing standards, stripping them of basic rights, and denying them medical attention. Individuals in the halfway house are essentially being treated as prisoners despite being reentrants reintegrating into society.

According to the CDC, America’s jails and prisons have become hotspots for coronavirus outbreaks[1]. However, this issue is not only affecting those incarcerated in county, state, and federal facilities. Individuals released from correctional facilities to halfway houses are also at increased risk. Halfway houses, community-based organizations where individuals can normally expect to be able to enter and leave during the day in order to work jobs to prepare for reintegration into society, have become increasingly dangerous environments for reentrants in the wake of COVID-19.

This is true in our own backyard. Renewal Inc., a private, non-profit “community corrections organization” that houses 627 individuals in two facilities in Pittsburgh[2], has been subjecting individuals to overcrowded conditions and stripping them of their rights, to the point where they are suffering worse conditions than many incarcerated in prison. According to several individuals currently housed at Renewal, the facility has been on lockdown for about 50 days, with no news of when lockdown will end. With no access to the outside world, stuck in windowless conditions and bunked up 12 people per room with no space for social distancing, some feel like they are losing their minds. Individuals report developing rashes, dry skin, and red splotches due to a lack of sun and fresh air. Furthermore, the fact that people are not being let out for work means many are worried that they will be homeless and jobless upon reentry.

In light of the fact that Renewal is a private company, it makes sense that the abuses of power outrival those in public prisons and jails. As Federal government reports have shown[3], private companies contracted by the government lack oversight and accountability and, as a result, incur more safety and security incidents such as increased lockdowns, confiscations, inmate discipline, and monitoring and surveillance. These reports of abuse are echoed by Renewal’s current residents in lockdown: being trapped inside has led to a lack of proper medical attention and care, as well as increased surveillance that violates basic rights of the individuals inside.

A major concern, according to several people on the inside, is that many folks needing medical attention are unable to get the care they need. Individuals are allowed to see doctors only on an arbitrary, case-by-case basis. According to those inside, the facility staff are not allowing some who need emergency attention to seek care. If individuals leave for unofficially sanctioned appointments, they are threatened with a 14-day quarantine upon reentry. This stands in contrast to the constant stream of employees and new intakes moving into the building who could be exposing those already inside to heightened risk. Therefore, as one individual inside mentioned, the lockdown is not for their own safety, but instead prioritizes the health of staff. Those residing in Renewal are treated as second class citizens, stripped of health protections and deprived of basic rights to care.

Renewal is also flouting oversight and accountability in stripping individuals of basic rights.

Some report Renewal’s overuse of strip searches, which one reentrant, Mike Henry, reports as “out of control” and “humiliating,” despite the fact that “we’re not inmates in jail.”

Furthermore, individuals inside are required to open all mail in front of facility staff despite the fact that unlike public prisons, as a non-governmental, community corrections organization Renewal does not have the right to monitor individuals’ correspondences [4]. If individuals do not comply, they are threatened with having all mail and packages delivered back to the sender. These threats are especially cruel because the facility is not supplying adequate hygiene products. Therefore, the only way individuals currently on lockdown can get basic hygiene products is if their loved ones send items in the mail. 

As a private company, Renewal is responsible for setting its own policies and practices in the wake of COVID-19 [5]. The DOC is not responsible for enforcing lockdown at privately contracted sites. As such, we need to hold Renewal accountable for its abuse of power and demand justice for those being held in inhumane lockdown conditions in their facilities. In stark contrast their organization’s purported goals of safety, empowerment, and rehabilitation[6], we need to call the situation what it is:

Renewal has become a de facto private prison.

About the Author: Sofia Huang is a rising second year doctoral candidate in Clinical Psychology at Duquesne University. She has conducted research related to mental and behavioral health in the juvenile justice system in New York State and is currently researching, writing, and practicing at the intersection of radical mental health, homelessness services, and housing, racial, and economic justice.

Notes

[1] https://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/volumes/69/wr/mm6919e1.htm?s_cid=mm6919e1_w

[2] https://renewalinc.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/Dec-13-2018-19-Renewal-Inc-Annual-Report.pdf

[3] https://oig.justice.gov/reports/2016/e1606.pdf

[4] https://www.aclu.org/know-your-rights/prisoners-rights/

[5] https://renewalinc.com/about/overview/

[6] The local director of Pittsburgh Community Corrections confirmed that they don’t have oversight over Renewal. However, efforts to contact the regional director of the bureau of community corrections in PA (Region 3 which includes Allegheny) related to the relationship between DOC oversight and Renewal, failed.  

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COVID-19

PERIOD. END OF SENTENCE. Parole, Reprieve and Commutation in the Failed State

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.

Categories
COVID-19

A Case Against Arrest Culture and Jail Time

A Case Against Arrest Culture and Jail Time

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?

Categories
COVID-19

Made for This: Transcending Isolation with BIG LOU

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.

Categories
COVID-19

He ought to be the last

by Autumn Redcross

Richard Lenhart was 49 years old when he died last weekend at the Allegheny County Jail (ACJ). Authorities deny that his death was related to COVID-19, nor that it appeared “suspicious,” though this information is impossible to assess, since the jail has not announced the cause of death. What is not questioned, however, is the fact that Lenhart died in custody. He was said to be unresponsive when called for dinner at the ACJ.

Lenhart was charged with burglary, trespassing, receiving stolen property, access device fraud, theft, and traffic violations on August 28th, 2019. Failing to post bail, he was forced to stay nearly a month until his bail was reduced to $0. Lenhart returned to the courts on March 4th and was sentenced to six-twelve months in jail, plus two years’ probation. He was ordered to pay $5,000 in fines and fees.

Lenhart had served almost two months, about four months away from probation. In proceedings lead by Judge Alexander Bickett, Lenhart had taken a plea deal that included a Justice Related Services plan and mental health evaluation. JRS seeks to provide an array of behavioral, mental and physical health services rather than incarceration resulting in over-population of both jails and prison. However, Lenhart didn’t make it that far.

ACJ officials do not believe Lenhart’s death to be “suspicious” nor related to the coronavirus. “The jail continues to follow the guidance of the Allegheny County Health Department as it relates to the safety of employees and inmates during the COVID-19 pandemic,” wrote Warden Orlando Harper. However, at last count, there were three positive COVID-19 cases among the inmate population of ACJ.

The Warden and County officials have failed to prioritize public health and safety by refusing to release enough people which could have radically altered conditions of confinement within the ACJ. This wholly underscores the relationship of this pandemic has with mass incarceration and deaths en masse. At this moment, one inevitably leads to another. These are not mutually exclusive. Moreover, the fact that this man died in custody, leaves no space for suspicion – he died in the hands of the ACJ.

Lenhart’s crimes amounted to a trip to Walmart in a car he stole from a mechanic’s servicing bay, the purchase of electronics with cash taken from a chamber of commerce office and the failed attempt to purchase both soda and lottery tickets with a stolen credit card. He did not make use of two Chuckie Cheese coins among the stash he had made off with before he was stopped and arrested by the police last summer. 

On the day of his death, Lenhart was one among few inmates serving a sentence. The ACJ, jails people pre-trial, on probation detainers, parole violations, violations of court orders and detainers from other jurisdictions. In other words, a jail is designed to hold people until their matter can be brought before the court and is never a place for people to die.

Population count at the ACJ reflects a 26% decrease since the original declaration of judicial emergency in tandem with the state’s response to COVID-19. The remaining 1,753 people currently held at the Allegheny County Jail each have their own story and account of what happened to lead them there. Their stories intersect with that of a justice system that applies the punitive measure of revoking liberty as a means of social control and punishment – even to the point of death.

COVID-19 related or not, the loss of Richard Lenhart’s life represents the implicit, ongoing harm and ultimate violence designed by the justice system and the ACJ. No one should die in jail. Lenhart was the first to fall during this pandemic and he ought to be the last!

#wegrieve

#letthevulnerablego

#onedeathisonetoomany

Sources

Categories
COVID-19

Pandemic, Black Pittsburgh and ACJ

by Autumn Redcross

Black people in the United States are contracting and dying from complications due to coronavirus at disproportionately high rates.

This is reflective of historical inequalities attributed to underlying medical conditions – emerging from embodied racism, anti-Black policies, and socioeconomic systems. The increased likelihood of Black people to work in the category of “essential workers”, along with a greater need to use public transportation, have more frequent store trips, and have elders living in in multigenerational households, means greater chance of exposure to COVID-19[1]. Black people are also at increased risk because their symptoms are often ignored by medical industry professionals or even themselves. Due to lack of health insurance, mischaracterization of disease, or spiritual belief, we, as Black people, may even ignore or downplay our own symptoms. Widespread myths and conspiracies alluding that Black people have a natural immunity to the virus have also been circulated through and by my community.

However, Black and Latinx people are dying at twice the rate of their white counterparts in New York City. Forty percent of those lost due to the coronavirus in Illinois and Michigan have been African American, although they only account for 15% and 14% of the populations. Black people make up thirty percent of the of Louisiana’s population, yet make up 70% of those in the state who have died from complications associated with coronavirus. Surely the trend persists, but most states have not yet released numbers concerning the racial demographics of those tested, diagnosed, or deceased from complications of the virus. Pennsylvania is one of those states.

The majority of Pennsylvania’s coronavirus cases are situated in the Philadelphia area, Harrisburg, State College and the counties of Montgomery and Allegheny. In an attempt to discern the proportion of the overall population to coronavirus patients, The Tribune Review published an article listing the neighborhoods of Pittsburgh and the surrounding townships where testing results were positive, noting that Black neighborhoods were not among them. Yet the Tribune’s statistics do not account for the jail population which is situated in downtown Pittsburgh.

Allegheny County Jail (ACJ) detains 1,778 men, women, queer and trans people, and children. Although the jail population has dropped some 28% because of public health concerns in lieu of coronavirus, the number of people still constitutes a small town, in which 59% are Black. On Wednesday April 8, the Allegheny County Department of Health confirmed the first case of COVID-19 in ACJ. In the same week, SCI Phoenix confirmed its first case. As of April 9th, there are 8 confirmed cases at Phoenix.

Twenty-five prisons across the state of Pennsylvania house 44,299 people. Approximately 46% of those inmates are Black, while 10% are Latinx. Subjected to unsanitary conditions and without access to adequate health resources, the high risk of aging and medically vulnerable Black prisoners go beyond the already elevated risk of being Black in Pennsylvania, and more specifically, being Black in Pittsburgh.

This past fall, researchers at the University of Pittsburgh published a damning study on the city’s inequality across gender and race. The report illuminated that “Black women and men in other cities have better health, income, employment and educational outcomes than Pittsburgh’s Black residents.” Compared to white Pittsburghers, Black residents were found to have higher rates of maternal mortality, unemployment, poverty, occupational segregation, homicide, cancer and cardiovascular disease . The gruesome density of Black and Brown people warehoused by the Department of Corrections exacerbates these already dire realities and racial disparities of health and justice in Black Pittsburgh.

COVID-19 poses a threat to souls around the globe. It’s a pandemic, which means it is what it does. As for the souls of Black folks, the record will show, if not in numbers, surely in our narratives, the consequences of being Black in America, and being Black in Pittsburgh. The fact is, we’re closer to death and dying in America’s “most livable city”. And so much closer, while in her jails and prisons.

This is what systemic racism looks like.

Edits and graphics by William Lukas

Notes:

[1] Information gathered and presented on by Dr. Cathleen Appelt from conversations with Black scholars, medical doctors and public health professionals, at the behest of a community engagement project initiated by reentering citizen Lewis Alexander.

[2} “What this means is that if Black residents got up today and left and moved to the majority of any other cities in the U.S., automatically by just moving their life expectancy would go up, their income would go up, their educational opportunities for their children would go up as well as their employment,” – Junia Howell, assistant professor of sociology at the University of Pittsburgh.

Howell, Junia, Sara Goodkind, Leah Jacobs, Dominique Branson and Elizabeth Miller. 2019. “Pittsburgh’s Inequality across Gender and Race.” Gender Analysis White Papers. City of Pittsburgh’s Gender Equity Commission

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