What 24 Hours Looks Like in Three Prisons
Reading Time: 9 minutesWe asked incarcerated people in Texas, New York, and Ohio to keep track of all the ways they used technology in a day—and how much it cost., 24 hours in prison: What technology incarcerated people really have access to.
This is part of Time, Online, a Future Tense series on how technology is changing prisons.
We asked people in three states to keep 24-hour tech-use diaries. Their responses have been edited for length and clarity.
My name is Sara Kielly, and I’m incarcerated at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women in New York’s Hudson Valley. I live in the earned housing unit, which requires residents to exhibit positive behavior. On the EHU, I’m permitted access to a unit toaster and microwave and a personally purchased 13-inch flat-screen TV in my cell. Our unit also has a shared washer/dryer, a day room TV, three phones, and a JPay kiosk for downloading emails, movies, and music to my state-issued JPay tablet, which has educational videos, e-books, movies for rent, and a music store, and can receive secure emails with photos and videos from people outside. I’m paid 25 cents an hour for my job as a photographer in the prison visitation room.
My name is Heather C. Jarvis, and I’m incarcerated in Ohio, where I live in a recently built housing unit typically designated for people who are serving long sentences. As I write this, I am 29 days away from completing my 10-year prison sentence. This living unit has common areas with large mounted TVs that play local channels. We also have personal tablets provided by Global Tel Link, which recently rebranded as ViaPath. Our institution is finishing a transition from JPay (Securus) to ViaPath; there are lots of access issues and kinks still being worked out. Besides my tablet, in my cell I have a television, headphones, two electric fans, an alarm clock, and a surge protector. I’m paid $20 a month for my prison job leading group support sessions.
My name is Kwaneta Harris, and I’m incarcerated in Texas, where I’ve been in solitary confinement for eight of my 17 years here. We have personal tablets provided by Securus/JPay. Initially, people in solitary confinement could purchase six months of access to TV shows, movies, and games from Securus. Educational and mental health podcasts were also freely available. Then, they removed those features for people in solitary. We aren’t permitted video visits, music apps (only an FM station), or AP news subscriptions. The only video available for me to watch is through Pando, a Christian app with sermons. Although KA Lite is listed as an educational app from Khan Academy, most topics displayed aren’t available for downloading. A new rule requires all our snail mail to be scanned onto our tablet. Unlike other states, Texas doesn’t permit incarcerated people to purchase their own TVs. If we have sufficient staffing, I’m allowed TV daily during indoor recreation for one hour.
I await transfer to the hospital for a carpal tunnel appointment. I was notified four hours ago to get ready. I wear a gown because I will have to submit to a strip search before leaving my cell and again before departing the prison. It’s cold; the new temporary air conditioning intermittently works. My travel-sized blow dryer is on high while I use it as a heater. My newly purchased headphones are already cracked. I applied the sticky label from my deodorant to reinforce the chord. I can create a makeshift speaker by placing the headphones over a roll of toilet paper, which echoes the BBC across my cell. The radio is AM/FM, but the AM stations haven’t worked in years. I’m thirsty, but I don’t drink anything because the van ride is five to six hours each way without a bathroom break. Struggling to stay awake, I turn on my clip-on lamp to read the New Yorker until I drift off to sleep.
Blow dryer, $25; headphones, $7; radio, $20; lamp, $12 (plus bulb, $4.50)
My alarm clock for breakfast goes off. I complete my hygiene routine and ask a guard if I’m still scheduled for my appointment. He ignores me, but his partner announces they are short staffed and breakfast will be a few hours late. I down two bottles of water and return to bed.
Alarm clock, $7.50
I wake up to a symphony of alarm clocks going off all at once in my cell. I stare at the clock, waiting for the officer to complete 4 a.m. head count so the race to the laundry room can begin. We are down two washers, so it is a struggle among the 110 women to get a laundry spot. I live upstairs, and the stampede of women pushing me down the stairs puts me on edge every time. I manage to get a spot despite the chaos.
Alarm clock, $15.95
My watch alarm goes off for showers. Teeth brushed and face washed, I wait at my cell door. Shift change is at 6 a.m., and if I’m not standing at my door between 6 and 7 with my light on to request a shower and/or rec, I will not receive either.
Watch, $19.50
Breakfast is served three hours late as guards announce no showers or rec due to staff shortages. I fall back into bed.
My hearing-impaired ‘shake-awake’ alarm wakes me up by vibrating on the top of my cell’s metal lockers. I walk out to the officer’s bubble and ask him to open my best friend’s cell. She asked me to wake her up at 7 to get ready to move to the gym, where we have to spend the day because our housing unit is being rewired for better television reception.
Alarm batteries, 65 cents
I pack up what I need, including my JVC headphones; coffee, creamer, and sugar; my clear, plug-in West Bend hot pot to make my coffee; school books; my memoir folder and drafts; the facility-issued JPay tablet; and other odds and ends. I unplug my cell TV so it doesn’t risk being affected by a power surge while they work on the unit.
I then log on to our unit JPay kiosk to check emails and see if I’ve been refunded the $5.99 I paid to rent the movie Charlie St. Cloud, which was unwatchable because it had no audio. I log out without a refund.
Headphones, $35; hot pot, $22.69; cell TV, $166
Put a strawberry Pop-Tart in the unit toaster.
After the laundry chaos, I had fallen back asleep. I am now late to pick up my medication at the infirmary. I check my tablet for messages. It has 3 percent charge and didn’t charge at all last night, despite being plugged in. I’m immediately frustrated. A new charger is around $18. I don’t have $18 for a charger.
Put my laundry in and showered. I’m annoyed that I can’t listen to music while I get ready like usual, because the tablet’s low on charge. I finesse the charger until it seems to offer a little juice.
I arrive at the gym and set up my stuff for the morning. I make coffee with the hot pot. The sweet taste of my first cup of caffeine on a cold, damp morning while displaced from the comfort of my room is priceless.
I listen to music with headphones and then watch half an hour of the movie Love, Simon.
Hot pot, $22.69; headphones, $35; music: $1.99 per song, 241 songs, $479.59 total for music library; movie rental: $5.99, 30 days to watch, 48 hours to finish once I start watching
I finally have enough charge to check my messages, but there’s nothing from my friends or family outside, adding to my frustration this morning. I send two outgoing good-morning messages.
Messages, 5 cents each
The radio alarm wakes me up, and I begin my routine of cleaning my cell floor using sanitary pads to sweep and mop. I hand-wash my sheets and undergarments in my small sink. I follow up by jumping rope using the cord from a broken fan, then wash my beach ball–sized curly Afro in the small sink. I use a clothesline made of four shoelaces and aim my three fans to dry everything. I check my tablet inbox and spend more than an hour replying to messages.
Radio alarm, $20; fans, $23 each; messages: 47 cents each, $6.63 total
I facilitate a group session for the treatment transfer program. I’m a trained peer supporter, and this is my job at the institution. I sweet-talk the program aide into making me copies for my next group. This is a blessing. The copy machine is a coveted resource in here, and access is nearly impossible.
Listen to music on my tablet while doing college homework.
Music: $1.99 per song, 241 songs, $479.59 total for music library
We’re served a cold lunch of mushy casserole consisting of ground pork with overcooked pasta floating in grease and cornbread. I can’t eat it; it looks like vomit. Placing my blow dryer in a hole at the bottom of a paper bag, I ‘fry’ packaged chicken coated with crushed chips and dill pickles on cardboard for a couple of hours.
Blow dryer, $25
I call my significant other. Every Monday, we get three free phone calls. It is the only good thing left over from the pandemic. He answers just to say that it’s not a good time to talk, thus wasting one of my free calls.
I’m called to the case manager’s office to sign my prerelease paperwork. I ask her to send an email to a reentry resource I want to get connected with. Surprisingly, she’s eager to do it. A lot of staff will not send emails or reach out to places on our behalf. Instead, they tell us to write a letter, which is often overlooked or never reaches its destination. The mood of a staff member can make or break our access to the outside world.
I leave the gym and go to College Bound, a learning center/computer lab for enrolled college students.
I use a College Bound computer to type homework for my professional writing and Psych 101 classes. I also type up some nonfiction writing for submission to the college’s literary review.
Check my messages—still nothing. I feel very out of sight, out of mind for those I love.
Daily phone access on our tablets begins around 2 p.m. and lasts until 8 p.m. The Wi-Fi is infamous for dropping calls. I call four times back to back before I’m able to talk for five minutes clearly. Only one of the tablet earbuds works. A long time ago, I ordered a replacement, but the Securus rep still blames supply chain issues for the wait.
It’s getting hot in here. The air conditioning is off, and windows are nailed shut. All my electrical items are plugged into a multi-outlet. I make a cup of coffee using the electric teapot as I talk on the phone for a few hours. Then, I read a book and take notes.
Replacement earbuds, $21; multi-outlet, $9; electric teapot, $24.50; phone calls: 6 cents per minute, $12 total
I use my second free phone call to call a friend. Her emotional support is uplifting; we talk for the whole 30 minutes allotted. I immediately call her back and use my last phone call to finish our conversation. She tells me the GettingOut app isn’t letting her log in, which is why she hasn’t messaged.
I check my messages (again, nothing), turn on Stingray Music, and relax until 4 p.m. head count. I invested in the better-quality earbuds offered here. They were $19.80 compared to the cheaper $3.79, but they’ve lasted much longer and allow me to escape the noise of prison. They also have a better quality of microphone for phone calls. It was a very good investment.
30-day music subscription, $8; earbuds, $19.80
I scroll on the news feed for about 25 minutes. I like seeing the few advertisements for clothes and sales. It has helped me a lot with visualizing my future and keeping up on trends. I can’t help but keep up with the Kardashians, since their every movement dominates the limited feed. I also enjoy the articles from Entrepreneur.
30-day news feed access, 99 cents
I return to my unit from College Bound. I check my messages on the JPay kiosk and see that the JPay representative who responded to my request for a refund on Charlie St. Cloud has denied my request. The rep says their system shows that I watched the movie and therefore cannot be refunded, and then goes on to explain that I should reboot my tablet and check to make sure that my headphones are working correctly. I’ve already done these things, and the issue is neither my tablet nor my headphones. The movie has now expired without me being able to actually watch it.
I submit a new request for a refund.
$5.99 lost to a movie I never got to watch except to see Zac Efron silently running around shirtless
I wake up from a nap and immediately check my messages; I have two. Reply to one.
I then send out some writing stuff I was working on via multiple messages. It takes a while to type out. Imagine typing an essay, 1,500 characters at a time, on a screen that resembles a text message. I often write pieces that are more than 2,000 words long.
Messages: 5 cents per message, four messages, 20 cents total
I help a roommate with her homework. She is in her first semester at Sinclair College here at the Ohio Reformatory for Women, and she is doubting herself. As a recent graduate, I understand and relate. As a friend, I know she can do it and am doing everything I can to help.
I’ve contemplated putting on my résumé the fact that I got my degree without Google access. I think that’s an accomplishment on its own.
I sit in the unit rec room working on transcribing the final day’s log of tech encounters while listening to music on the tablet radio. The Philadelphia Eagles vs. Tampa Bay game is playing in the background on the communal TV.
My hand aches, so I decide to switch to my typewriter for notes while I read. Soon after, I perform my bedtime hygiene routine, set my alarms, and go to bed.
Typewriter, $360, plus $7.25 per ribbon
I wait in line for 35 minutes to microwave some ramen noodles. We currently have one microwave for 110 women. It’s hot to the touch from nonstop use.
Lock in cell for the night and watch ’90s sitcoms until 12 a.m.
Cell TV, $166
Check my messages one last time. I send two more messages regarding writing stuff. Play Candy Crush to wind down until I use all my lives.
Messages, 5 cents each; game subscription, $2.99 per year
Turn on fans to drown out noise, set my alarm clock, and lie down for bed.
Alarm clock, $15.95; fans, $19 each
Reference: https://slate.com/technology/2023/12/prison-tech-diaries-texas-ohio-new-york.html
Ref: slate
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