The following article is the good work of my friend Vikki Law, who edits the zine Tenacious, which is by and for women in prison. She wrote the book on women's resistance in prison - literally. Vikki's pretty prolific, and covers a lot of issues re: prisoners, crime and punishment - find links to her other articles here.
Info about the AZ DOC revised (OCT 15, 2014) money policy is here:
https://corrections.az.gov/electronic-payments
here's the director's instruction, modifying the existing policy:
https://corrections.az.gov/sites/default/files/policies/DI/di_322.pdf
Saturday, 01 November 2014 09:39
By Victoria Law, Truthout | Report
When her daughter was first incarcerated in Arizona's Perryville State
Prison, "Rae" sent her money orders bought at the local cash-checking
place or from Walmart. But those took too long to clear, leaving her
daughter without needed supplies, so she began driving to the post
office to buy money orders. Throughout her daughter's four years in
prison, Rae has sent her money twice a month - $100 on the first of the
month and whatever she can afford (usually $50 or less) on the 15th of
the month.
"When she first got there, she was issued two pairs of
underwear, which had been worn by someone else," Rae told Truthout. So
Rae sent her daughter money to buy her own underwear, bras and socks as
well as tennis shoes and a TV set. "It was $300 for the TV," she
recalled.
Her daughter earns 35 cents an hour cleaning inside the
prison. Although the prison supplies some necessities, like one roll of
toilet paper each week and a limited number of tampons or pads, Rae's
daughter relies on the money from home to get her through each week.
These money orders enable her to buy the additional toilet paper and
feminine hygiene supplies she needs each month. It also enables her to
buy Tylenol and cold medicine as well as pay the $4 co-pay on each
medical visit. "Occasionally she can splurge and buy herself a candy
bar, but that's rare," Rae said.
Services that had previously
been provided by the jail or prison, such as medical care,
transportation, phone and communication services, food, and even money
exchanges, are increasingly handled by private companies.
On
October 15, 2014, however, Arizona changed the way family members like
Rae can send money. Now, instead of paying $1.25 for a money order at
the post office, Rae must use one of three companies - JPay, Global
TelLink or Keefe - to send her daughter money. To send $50 through
Keefe, Rae also needs to pay a $4.75 internet transaction fee. Families
without internet access can deposit money by phone - for a fee of $5.75 -
or in a storefront transaction for $5.95. (Global TelLink and JPay have
different fee structures.)
Despite the added cost, Rae is
determined to send her daughter the same amount of money. "I'm going to
have to eat the fees and make up the money somewhere else," she said.
"I'll have to give something up. So will my husband." The couple has
already had to sell their camper to cover the cost of visiting their
daughter once a month. They've cut down on going out and other
activities that cost money. On occasion, they've also had to choose
between sending money to their daughter in prison or helping their son,
who is not. "I feel bad that I can't help him because all our money is
going to his sister," Rae said.
Only 8 percent of the nation's
prison population is held in private prisons. But, as Rae's experience
and recent news stories have demonstrated, private companies have found
other ways to profit from bodies in government-run prisons. Services
that had previously been provided by the jail or prison, such as medical
care, transportation, phone and communication services, food, and even
money exchanges, are increasingly handled by private companies.
Sending in Money Costs MoneyAs
Rae's story shows, prison systems have contracted with private
companies to handle money sent by family members to their loved ones
inside. In the federal prison system, the contract was awarded to Bank
of America. In 32 state systems, the contract belongs to private company
JPay.
In February 2014, New Jersey prisons began utilizing JPay
to handle these monetary transactions. "Before, it would only cost a
stamp and the cost of the money order," said "Pam," currently
incarcerated at the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women. "Now, it
cost our families or friends $4.95 in addition to whatever amount they
send us." Loved ones also have the option of mailing a money order to
JPay, but the money takes seven to 10 days to be credited to a woman's
account. Pam's mother balked at paying an additional $7 and mailed a
money order. The money was not credited to Pam for 14 days.
At
Edna Mahan, commissary - or the prison store - is only available every
other week. For women like "Pam" whose family chooses to save money and
mail money orders, the delay means missing the chance to buy
necessities, such as shampoo and feminine hygiene supplies.
"If a
person owes restitution, the prison takes 55 percent of whatever money
he receives," a mother told Truthout. Thus, to put $56 in his prison
account so that he can buy food, she had to send $125.
"Gwen" has
also experienced delays of up to four weeks when her family mails a
money order to JPay. She told Truthout that, while women can order from
commissary every two weeks, certain items, such as photos, clothing and
beauty supplies, are only available once a month. In addition, many
women rely on food items at commissary to supplement the prison's meals,
which she described as "truly inedible."
Daily wages at Edna
Mahan range from $5 at the top-paying commissary job to $2.40 for
working in the kitchen or cleaning housing units. If a woman is sick or
unable to work, as in Gwen's case, she must either learn to go without
supplies or rely on money from family. "It isn't a lot of money, but $28
can mean a whole commissary for me," Gwen explained.
California
is another state that has instituted JPay to handle money sent to
prisoners. But the fees make sending money an exorbitant expense for
many family members. "Samantha," for instance, must send her son twice
the amount of money that he needs. "If a person owes restitution, the
prison takes 55 percent of whatever money he receives," she told
Truthout. Thus, to put $56 in his prison account so that he can buy
food, she had to send $125. And that's not including JPay's service
fees, which vary depending on the amount of money sent. "There's no
readily available list of charges," she told Truthout. "I literally had
to call and hunt down how much would be charged."
"If you put
money in a couple of times a month, you pay that fee a couple of times a
month. Families with the least amount of money get hit the hardest."
JPay
provides money transfers to more than 1.7 million people or nearly 70
percent of the US prison population. It charges state prison systems
nothing for handling payments and, for every payment processed, it sends
between 50 cents and $2.50 back to the prison. According to an
exposé in Time, JPay sent approximately $4,000 each month to the Illinois
Department of Corrections in 2013.
"Jill"'s daughter has less
than two years on her sentence at Arizona's Perryville prison. When
Arizona announced the switch to electronic money transfers, Jill decided
to skip the fees and send a money order for the total amount her
daughter would need during her last year behind bars. But, she told
Truthout, many of the family members she has met cannot afford that
option. "Many families have to budget in order to send money," she said.
"If you put money in a couple of times a month, you pay that fee a
couple of times a month. Families with the least amount of money get hit
the hardest."
The Kick-Out Fee - and the Fees That Go With ItA
person leaving the Arizona prison system for the first time is given
$100 upon her release. The money, saved from the wages earned at prison
jobs, is called the "kick-out fee."
Until 2013, people released
from Arizona's prisons were given the kick-out fee in the form of a
check. However, banks often refused to cash the check with a prison ID,
usually the only form of identification many women have after years in
prison. Thus, accessing their only $100 first required a trip to the
Department of Motor Vehicles for identification or finding a friend
willing to deposit the check for them.
Now,
they are issued a debit card through Bank of America. "If women are
coming out after a long time, they don't know how to use debit cards,"
Jill explained. "They're scared to death about using them." In addition,
Bank of America charges a $1.50 monthly maintenance fee and, like many
other banks, charges a $1.50 withdrawal fee if a person uses a non-Bank
of America ATM and a 25 cent point-of-sale fee for every transaction.
No
staff member explains the various fee structures, which means that
people are unaware that they deplete their funds each time they use the
card. If a person chooses to withdraw the entire amount from her debit
card, she is charged a $5 fee.
In addition, if she loses the
card, no replacement is issued. Her money is simply gone. For a woman in
a halfway house, shelter or other temporary living situation, this
means sleeping with the card tucked into her bra or panties.
Arizona
is not alone in utilizing this new method. The
Center for Public Integrity recently reported on Bank of America's contract with the
Federal Bureau of Prisons to issue debit cards to people upon release.
Under that contract, they've issued cards to nearly 50,000 people. The
Center's report has spurred a government audit into the contract.
Privatizing Health Care - But at What Cost?
"We live by violence, but we die by neglect."
Handling
prisoner accounts is not the only service that has been privatized.
Across the country, jails and prisons have been contracting with
private, for-profit companies to provide medical services to people
inside.
Cecily McMillan experienced this firsthand during her 58
days on Rikers Island, New York City's island jail complex. When she
arrived, she was denied her prescribed medications for mild anxiety and
ADHD. Instead, jail medical staff gave her BuSpar, the same medication,
McMillan says, that every woman was prescribed regardless of her actual
needs. After three weeks of fighting for her proper medication, a fight
that included help from sympathetic city council members, McMillan had
her medications reinstated. But that was not the only medical horror she
encountered.
She recalled making an appointment to see a
gynecologist. Warned that the jail's male gynecologist was "kind of
handsy," she requested to see the jail's female gynecologist only to be
told that she wasn't available for six weeks. When she saw the doctor,
he informed her that she needed to undergo a gynecological scrape even
though McMillan had had a check-up before entering Rikers. "He scraped
me until I was bleeding," she recalled. When he finished, McMillan
realized that his fly had been open the whole time.
During her 58
days on the island, McMillan also saw how medical care could be deadly:
Judith had been prescribed low-dose methadone pills for back pain,
McMillan recalled. But when Judith arrived at Rikers, the doctors
insisted that she take methadone in high-dose liquid form. Taking higher
dosages of methadone induced intense vomiting in Judith, who had
hepatitis C. McMillan recalls seeing her friend vomit blood and what she
described as "chunks of her liver." The women in the housing unit
demanded that the officers call the doctor. When medical staff failed to
respond, they physically carried Judith to the clinic. Days later,
Judith was dead.
Judith's death is only one of a string of recent
deaths on Rikers Island. In 2013, 19-year-old Andy Henriquez died from a
tear in his aorta after his pleas for medical attention were ignored.
That same year, 46-year-old Carlos Mercado and 39-year-old Bradley
Ballard died after their medications were withheld. The families of all
three men are suing Corizon, the private medical provider that has held
the contract for medical services at Rikers since 2003. However,
according to DNAinfo, Corizon's contract with New York City stipulates
that the city will represent the firm in lawsuits arising from its care.
It also ensures that the city will cover costs arising from medical
malpractice or civil rights violations.
New York is not alone in
turning to privatized health care for people behind bars. In 2011,
Florida governor Rick Scott contracted with Corizon to provide medical
care in its state prison system for $1.2 billion. Corizon took complete
control in 2013. According to an investigation by The Palm Beach Post,
three months later the number of deaths "shot to a 10-year high," with
30 deaths in four of the past seven months.
Corizon currently
holds contracts in 27 states with approximately 345,000 people under
their care. (In October 2013, Therese Brumfeld, vice president of
Corizon's provider operations and purchasing, stated that Corizon had
contracts in 29 states with over 400,000 people.) From 2008 to 2013,
Corizon has been sued 660 times for malpractice.
In Alabama, the
Southern Poverty Law Center filed a federal suit against the state's
prison system for ignoring the medical and mental health needs of its
prisoners. (Corizon provides medical care only. MHM, another private
company, holds the contract for mental health care.) Unlike its contract
with New York City, Corizon's 34-month, $224 million contract with
Alabama requires it to pay for any legal work in the event of a lawsuit,
even if it is not named in the suit.
Arizona recently settled
class-action suit
Parsons v. Ryan. The suit, filed by the American Civil
Liberties Union (ACLU) in 2012, charged that the state ignored the
basic needs, including medical needs, of people in its prison system for
years. Corizon took over the state prison's health care system in March
2013 after the state terminated its contract with private health care
provider Wexford following multiple deaths and accusations of medical
neglect.
However, medical care did not improve under Corizon and
the ACLU continued its suit. On October 14, 2014, Arizona settled the
suit, agreeing to meet more than 100 health care performance measures,
including monitoring people with chronic conditions, such as diabetes
and hypertension as well as improving pregnancy and dental care.
Before
the court decides whether to approve the settlement, however, each of
the 33,000 people in Arizona state prisons must receive notice of the
settlement and an opportunity to submit comments to the court. David
Fathi, director of the ACLU National Prison Project and co-lead counsel
on Parsons, estimated that the process would probably take two months.
The settlement does not become effective until the court grants its
approval.
In the meantime, health care needs continue to go
unaddressed. The day after the settlement was announced, Jill spoke with
her daughter who told her that her yard had no health needs request
forms, which every person must fill out to start the process of
receiving medical attention.
"We live by violence, but we die by neglect," a woman told McMillan when she entered Rikers.
After
hearing stories from her daughter, Jill doesn't dispute this. She
recalls her daughter telling her about a woman on her yard whose
complaints about bleeding and pain were ignored. She was finally taken
to the hospital where she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She died in
her 30s.
"My daughter went in a very healthy 25-year-old," Jill
said. "She was not given a life sentence or death. She should be given
enough medical care so that when she comes out, she can resume living a
normal life."
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