Jailbreaking in a Broken Jail
Reading Time: 5 minutesThere’s a Prison Black Market Dedicated to Jailbreaking Tablets. It’s a Window Into a Much Deeper Problem., Tinkering with state-issued tablets to get internet access is common in prisons. Many people do it because they’re desperate for connection., There’
This is part of Time, Online, a Future Tense series on how technology is changing prison.
The first and only time I used a jailbroken tablet while I was in prison, I almost got caught.
When I was incarcerated in Florida for a property crime I committed to support my addiction, the only thing that separated the holidays from any other day was being able to talk to my family. Without that, the maelstrom of prison overshadowed any nostalgia I might have otherwise held on to.
So when I couldn’t use the phones one Thanksgiving because they were malfunctioning, a very common problem, I was despondent. I never missed my 15-minute call home on the holidays, and they were expecting me. They looked forward to passing the phone around as my dad carved the turkey and the kids ran around the house, laughing; I needed to hear the merry chaos of a large family get-together, if only to keep me going another day.
With no other options, I borrowed my friend’s jailbroken tablet to get on the internet and used WhatsApp to call my family, violating a major prison rule and putting myself at risk for disciplinary action.
Since around 2016, telecommunications companies like ViaPath (formerly GTL) and Securus (which owns JPay) have issued thousands of tablets in prisons and jails nationwide. These devices are populated with prison-approved content and can’t connect to the internet unless they are hacked and updated with software, a process otherwise known as jailbreaking, or rooting.
Personal tablets are intended for communication, entertainment, and education. They usually come preinstalled with programs that allow users to call or message contacts on the outside—if they have money to do so. But many prisoners also pay under the table to have their tablets modified so they can use social media, make free phone calls, and access information online.
Jailbreaking a tablet can cost up to $300, and the reasons for doing it vary. Sure, some people just want to watch porn. But most incarcerated users are more interested in staving off boredom and loneliness and avoiding the high cost of prison communications.
‘Nobody I know uses their broken tablet for nefarious things,’ a man incarcerated in Florida, whom I’ll call Ethan to protect his identity, told me. ‘Mostly, they just talk to family and go on Facebook so they can stay connected to the world. A lot of times, the phone systems are down, so that’s our only way to communicate with our loved ones.’
Jailbreaking tablets is a business venture: A tech-savvy prisoner uses a contraband cellphone or an already jailbroken tablet to search online chatrooms like Quora or Reddit for a user who will sell a software update for a specific model of tablet; they pay the user for the source code (I’ve heard up to $1,000), then turn around and charge incarcerated residents to modify their device.
‘You would think that a device used by inmates would be highly secure, employing a superior level of cybersecurity protocols,’ one Quora user wrote in a forum. ‘In reality, JPay tablets run on significantly outdated versions of the Android operating system that can be exploited for full unlocking.’
But the jailbroken tablets are essentially expensive paperweights without a Wi-Fi mobile hot spot to connect to the internet. Since it’s extremely difficult for incarcerated residents to get a hot spot on their own, correctional officers and staff bring the contraband inside and sell it at a steep price. A $25 T-Mobile hot spot on Amazon can fetch around $250 on the prison black market—officers often accept Venmo or other cash apps.
Most jailbreakers and corrupt officers get caught only if a disgruntled customer snitches on them to the administration. Even then, it’s difficult to prove who is jailbreaking devices or bringing in hot spots if they aren’t caught in the act.
Although most people use their tablets for what they are intended—communication, education, and entertainment—prison officials and opponents of tech inside prison have used jailbreaking as an excuse to terminate personal electronic devices altogether.
Their concerns are understandable: They cite the risk of cyberstalking, tax fraud, child pornography, and other immoral or illegal uses of the internet that could be adopted by prisoners as reasons to take away the privilege for good.
But the dilemma with jailbroken tablets is a challenge that governs a lot of policies in prison. When prison officials use bad behavior from a few as an excuse to take away technology access more broadly, they’re generalizing malicious intent and governing from the lowest common denominator. That’s not an effective way to prepare people for life on the outside, and runs contrary to any rehabilitative end prison might serve.
In my experience and those of the incarcerated people I spoke to, web misconduct doesn’t happen often: I vividly remember seeing a group of men sitting around the rec yard with a jailbroken tablet doing job searches for a soon-to-be-released friend. I’ve seen peer-education tutors look up difficult math problems; some viewed YouTube tutorials on construction and automotive repair. Others just liked watching funny TikToks.
But by far the most common use of jailbroken tablets inside prison is to get on social media and talk to friends and family—nurturing the external social support networks that research has shown reduce future criminal activity, among other positive outcomes.
‘Sometimes we need to go online just to feel like we’re still a part of society,’ another man incarcerated in Florida, whom I’ll call Jack, told me. ‘We’re limited by the phones and emails not working like they’re supposed to, and the internet opens up a world beyond the brick walls. I need to talk to my people.’
Even when the phones and email systems are active, some prisoners and their families simply can’t afford the high costs of communication. The private companies that contract with prisons charge anywhere from 20 cents to $5.70 per 15-minute call, and emails range from 5 to 50 cents. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, prison phone calls cost families nearly $1 billion a year; in comparison, a jailbroken tablet can make unlimited free internet calls.
Prison officials could fight the jailbreaking problem at its root by expanding access to permitted communications—for example, offering free messaging or some restricted access to social media. More simply, they could invest in making sure the phones work consistently.
Instead, they’re effectively playing whack-a-mole.
A spokesperson for the Florida Department of Corrections told me in an email that the department ‘uses every tool at its disposal to mitigate contraband and illegal activity.’ In practice, this means confiscating jailbroken tablets through a system designed to isolate tampered devices. Every incarcerated resident in Florida receives a free tablet that they must sync to a kiosk every 30 days or it becomes disabled. Because syncing a jailbroken tablet wipes it clean, anyone who doesn’t sync their tablet after 30 days is investigated.
In one instance at the Everglades Correctional Institution in 2021, I watched prison officials seize more than 200 jailbroken tablets in one day. Supervisors also often walk through cellblocks with a phone, searching for a Wi-Fi signal, checking to see if a mobile hot spot is available and in use. Once a signal is detected, the officer will lock the cells down and conduct a search for the source. (Ironically, the mobile hot spots seized during these shakedowns were brought inside by a fellow officer or staff member.)
If caught with a modified tablet, incarcerated users risk indefinite loss of privileges and solitary confinement, along with a disciplinary report that will affect parole and prison transfers. Still, many of the men I talked to felt the risk of getting caught was worth the reward of connecting with people at home.
‘I want to experience normalcy and be a part of the online community,’ Ethan said. ‘Yeah, I could get in trouble, but all I’m doing is talking to my mom and looking up new movies. It’s my little taste of freedom.’
When I was forced to use WhatsApp to call my family on Thanksgiving, I too was willing to break the rules to hear their voices that day. As I talked into my headphones, an officer walked by. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore the infraction.
In an email, a spokesperson from Securus, which owns JPay, said the company works closely with prisons to bridge the digital divide while ‘ensuring facilities have the tools they need to monitor, detect, and respond when the technology is misused.’ ViaPath did not respond to a request for comment.
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