Tag Archives: jail

The New Price of Freedom: $40 (Bail Blog #2)

freeimage-4692086-webYou can read more on the problems of the bail system here: Guilty Until Proven Innocent

Last Saturday evening I woman I’ve come to know – I’ll call her Ginger — called me up in tears. She was at the police station in my suburban home town and she needed $40 (cash only) for bail. Homeless and disabled since her teenage years, she didn’t know anyone who had money or a car to drive to the suburban station. Feeling desperate, she called me, explaining that because of the long Memorial Day weekend she would be held in jail until Tuesday if she couldn’t come up with bail.

At the station a cordial police offer asked to see the cash and then told me to sit and relax on chairs in the station vestibule while waiting for the clerk to come. After about an hour the clerk arrived and, still in the vestibule, I handed over the $40 in a transaction that seemed weirdly informal. (I’ve never bailed anyone out before, but this is not what expected from years of watching Law and Order.) Half an hour later the police officer beckoned me to come inside and said, “There’s a problem.” It turns out that my friend didn’t have any identification on her so there was no way of knowing if Ginger was indeed Ginger. He asked if I could vouch for Ginger. I said yes. He asked how I know Ginger. I said I’m a Suffolk University professor and that for the past six years Ginger has been in a study I’ve been conducting among homeless and criminalized women. He jotted a few words down on a piece of scrap paper and then asked if there are other ways I can verify Ginger’s identity. Puzzled that my university credentials and a six year relationship were not sufficient, I managed to come up with that I was introduced to Ginger by a caseworker at a Boston shelter.

That seemed to do the trick and ten minutes later Ginger emerged from jail. She was shaking. My first thought was that it was a bit chilly out so I gave her my jacket, but she continued trembling so hard that she was unable to walk or talk. For a few minutes I couldn’t figure out why she was so upset. Ginger had been arrested before, she knew the drill, and all in all this suburban police station was relatively pleasant. Then, I looked at the paperwork she had in her hand and realized (part of) what was going on: The form telling her to come to Court on Tuesday morning listed her name as George. Though I knew that what she calls her “government name” is George, I’d forgotten how frightening it is for her to be “George” inside of a jail.

How It All Started

Born into one of the working-class Irish neighborhoods in the 1970s, Ginger knew, in her words, that “I was not a regular boy” since age five or six. Like many children who are different from their peers, George was the target of abuse. In neighborhoods like hers people who broke the gender code were beaten up. Ginger recalls that her mother’s house was repeatedly spray painted with the word “faggot,” rocks were thrown through the window, and her family was threatened with violence and ostracism. When she was thirteen, her stepfather, who also beat her mother, molested her. After a few stints in psychiatric hospitals where she was treated for PTSD, her psychiatrists signed the documentation for her to be classified as meeting Social Security’s criteria for disability (SSI) when she was fifteen. After a few particularly horrific attacks she left home in order to protect her family from further violence. She had heard that New York is the place to be “for girls like me,” and so that is where she headed. Young and petite, Ginger quickly found a job in a drag show, was introduced to crack, and started working the streets.

Like Ginger, many transgender women are forced to leave school in the wake of abuse and find it difficult to obtain employment in a society that often is not comfortable with gender diversity. Close to two thirds of transgender women having a history of incarceration, and transgender women are so frequently perceived to be sex workers by the police that the term ‘walking while trans’ was coined. Open and even chatty about almost all parts of her life, Ginger never talks about her experiences in men’s prisons. However, according to national studies over half of LGBT prisoners report having been sexually assaulted in prison – a rate 15 times higher than the general population. In the hypermasculine cauldrons that are men’s prisons, transgender women are particularly likely to be targets of rape. The night I picked Ginger up at the police station her trembling body gave proof to the terror and pain she had experienced in the past.

As Ginger and I sat in my car with the heater blasting she smoked a few cigarettes, the focus came back into her eyes, her slim body quieted down, and eventually she was able to tell me what happened.

After years of homelessness she had been placed by her caseworker into a room in a long-term shelter for men where she shares the bathrooms, kitchen and living room with approximately twenty men, some of whom have lived there for over a decade. Her caseworker told her that if she stays in the shelter, pays her rent on time and doesn’t make any trouble she’ll likely be eligible for a low-income apartment in two years or so.

On the night before the visit to the police station Ginger had made popcorn in the microwave in the communal kitchen. It burned and set off a fire alarm. On Saturday evening a shelter resident who had been harassing her since she moved in (for example, he often stands outside the bathroom and takes pictures of her coming out of the shower) burst into the living room and started screaming at her for waking him up the previous night. “He said he’s going to smash my head, ‘yours and your nigger boyfriend.’” (Ginger is white, her boyfriend is African American. He does not live at the shelter.) As the tirade went on Ginger did two things: She spit at him and she called the police because of the threats he had made.

Listening to Ginger’s account of the evening, I struggled with understanding why she called the police. Quite a few of the homeless and criminalized women I know have been locked up in the wake of turning to the police for help. In this era of mass criminalization, it is not uncommon for women (and men) to have outstanding warrants for a variety of technical reasons. Elizabeth, a rather weepy middle-aged woman whom both Ginger and I know, called the police because a motel she stayed at for a few nights wouldn’t return her room deposit ($50) in a timely manner. When the police came they looked at her ID, saw she owed court fees, and put her in jail for three days over a long weekend.

Aware that both of us know how often this sort of thing occurs – especially to homeless and to transgender people, as well as to sex workers and people of color – I asked her why she called the police. She was truly afraid for herself and for her boyfriend, she said, and she assumed that threatening to smash someone’s head is illegal. However, as it turns out, she explained, when the police came they told her that threatening is not against the law but spitting is.

The police took Ginger to the station in her slippers, t shirt, and draw string pajama bottoms; they cut the string off her pajamas at the jail. That is what she was wearing when I came to pick her up.

The estimated cost to the taxpayers for holding Ginger in jail for three days while waiting for a judge to come to court: $375.

The price of freedom: $40, which seems to be the current going rate for this kind of thing.

It’s time to reform the system.

You can read Part II of my adventures with Ginger here: The Courtroom Was a Circus

More of Ginger’s story appears in my forthcoming book Can’t Catch a Break: Gender, Jail, Drugs, and the Limits of Personal Responsibility.

 

 

Guilty Until Proven Innocent

You can read more about the problems of bail here.

A few days ago I ran into a friend of mine – I’ll call her Joy – whom I hadn’t seen for a while. In fact, she’d pretty much disappeared; she hadn’t picked up her phone or returned calls and I hadn’t received the Christmas or Mother’s Day cards she’d been sending me for the past six years. “Susan, I’ve been locked up,” she told me. “Why didn’t you call me from jail,” I asked her. “You know I would have come to visit.” “They took my phone so I didn’t have your number,” Joy explained. “You could have written – I would have come,” I continued. “Well, she said, I thought I was just going to be there for a few days so by the time you got the letter I’d be out.”

Here is what happened: “I caught a prostitution charge. I was in what they [police] call a bad neighborhood and a cop – he was from the gang unit — stopped me and ID’d me [asked to see her I.D.]. Then he arrested me for prostitution.” “Were you working the streets?” I asked (in the past she has worked in prostitution.) “No! I wasn’t. I’m not looking to go to jail. I told him [the cop] that, and I told him that there’s no way he could have seen me soliciting anyone – I hadn’t even talked to anyone. He said, ‘I’m a policeman and you’re a criminal. Who do you think the judge is going to believe?’”

“He brought me to the station and they told me I needed to pay $40 to bail myself out. I didn’t have $40. So they kept me in jail. Then, a few days later I saw the judge and he set $250 bail. I didn’t have that. So they sent me to MCI [state prison]. I was there for a month. Susan, I had to get out of there, so I told my lawyer to plead [guilty]. They let me plead for time served, so I got out.”

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Like most incarcerated women, Joy is no violent, hardened criminal. Rather, she has, in her words, “the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She was first locked up when she ran away from a juvenile treatment center to which she had been sent when she “acted out” after having been molested by a friend of the family. By the time she was twenty she was deemed disabled and qualified for SSI (Supplemental Security Income for disabled, poor Americans). Her medical challenges and diagnoses include impaired hearing, bi-polar disorder, PTSD, diabetes, insomnia, Hepatitis C, addiction, chronic hip and shoulder pain, lumps in several lymph nodes, and neuropathy in her feet. During the time I have known her the monthly SSI check has been approximately $740. That is her only source of income. Often homeless, Joy is vulnerable both to violent men and to overly zealous police and court officers.

Joy has been locked up at least a dozen times over the past fifteen years. However, to the best of her memory there was only one time that she was incarcerated as a direct outcome of a trial and sentencing. All of the other times she was locked up while awaiting trial or because she had violated the terms of her probation. In fact, among the criminalized women I have come to know the single most common reason for being locked up is for violating the conditions of probation. Typically these violations consisted of failing to attend AA meetings, missing an appointment with a PO, or being stopped by the police on a petty charge such as loitering. In other words, the initial offense was deemed by a judge to be too minor to require incarceration but the woman ended up serving time anyway.

Locked-up Awaiting Trial

Joy is one of thousands of women who spend time during any given year in the Awaiting Trial Unit at MCI-Framingham – the only state prison for women in Massachusetts. In fact, on a typical day forty-three percent of the women held at MCI-Framingham are in the Awaiting Trial Unit.  To be clear, that means that they have not been convicted of a crime. They are awaiting trial in prison because they could not afford to pay bail. Women often are held for substantial periods of time: The average length of pre-trial detention at MCI-Framingham is about 77 days.

Though far more men than women are incarcerated around the country, pre-trial incarceration has a disproportionately negative impact on women. In Massachusetts, while women comprise only 7% of state prisoners they comprise 33% of pretrial detainees held by the MA Department of Corrections. This disparity reflects the lower rates of major and violent crimes committed by women (fewer women are convicted and sentenced to long prison terms) and substantially higher rates of poverty among women. Women incarcerated in pre-trial status typically have been arrested for non-violent crimes and are too poor to pay even minimal bail fees. As Francesca, another woman who has been held pre-trial explains, “There are lots of women who are $10 short on bail. They can pay most of it but not all so they are kept in jail which costs the State a lot more.”

Francesca is right. According to the Massachusetts Bail Fund it costs the state around $125 per day to hold individuals awaiting trial. For a fraction of the cost to taxpayers to incarcerate people like Joy awaiting trial, money could be invested in community-based, community-run services that would help keep people out of jail. The costs to the accused individuals are even steeper: While sitting in jail waiting to be tried they stand to lose their jobs, their housing, their health care and the ability to care for their children.

According to the Justice Policy Institute, people who await trial in jail rather than out on bail are disproportionately poor and Black or Brown. And, people who are held during the pretrial period are more likely to be convicted and receive harsher sentences than those who are released on bail. This makes sense. If you can go home, fix your hair, clean yourself up and come back to court dressed in your best skirt and blouse you’re going to make a better impression on the judge than if you are brought to the courtroom in a prison bus, frightened and exhausted from nights in jail.

Bail Out

A variety of alternatives to monetary bail are being discussed and tried out around the country. And while I am in favor of most moves that keep women like Joy out of jail while awaiting trial, I think we need to be cautious about replacing monetary bail with other onerous or punitive policies. A few weeks ago Joy was picked up on a charge of distributing drugs. The “drugs” in question were a legitimate prescription that she had picked up at a local pharmacy for her own use. She needed this prescription and had no intention of selling it. A policeman arrested her as she left the pharmacy with an acquaintance she happened to run into. The pharmacy’s security camera recorded her purchase and subsequent interactions: No packages or money exchanged hands; she and her acquaintance had simply chatted. Because of the security camera’s tape Joy knows she will not be convicted. Bail was set at a couple of hundred dollars and Joy managed to bail herself out. However, as a condition of her bail she has been required to go to a “holding facility”  to wait for a bed in a rehabilitation program. This facility is located at a considerable distance from her family and friends, and it offers no programming or opportunities for women to earn money. She was told that she would be held for an indefinite amount of time and that it could be months before a bed would become available in a rehabilitation program. All in all, Joy says, it’s not really different from prison. She made the decision not to go. As a consequence, she assumes, she will be sent back to jail the next time she is stopped by a cop or sets foot in a courthouse.

Better Alternatives

Like most Americans, I had taken for granted that bail is the sensible way to make sure that criminals show up in court and do not flee before they can stand trial and pay their dues to society. But when I began to think about Joy and other women I know, I realized two things:

One: These women are not fleeing anywhere. They have children, they have families. They are not violent criminals. They are facing fairly short sentences. Bail serves no purpose in terms of ensuring that they show up in court.

Two: Several women I know (Joy is one of them) have been assaulted by men who were arrested for a violent crime but had the money to afford bail. In other words, bail did not prevent them from beating up women.

This simply does not make sense.

Nationally there is a recent surge of interest in developing rational tools for assessing whether or not an individual accused of breaking the law is violent and / or a flight risk. In states where these tools have been adopted, the rate of pre-trial incarceration declined and there has been no increase in criminal activity carried out by individuals awaiting trial at home rather than in a jail or prison. So yes, there are good economic and criminological arguments for overhauling or even abolishing the monetary bail system. And I’ll repeat those arguments to anyone who will listen. But that is not the whole story.

When a third of people who are locked up have not been convicted in a court of law, the story is about how we’ve flipped the core principle of American justice – innocent until proven guilty – on its head. The story is about a system in which people who can pay can get out of jail – even if they have been accused of violent crimes, while those who can’t pay are locked up – even if all they’ve done is steal some food.

The story is about freedom as a commodity that can be bought and sold.

For more on this issue check out The Pretrial Working Group. and the Massachusetts Women’s Justice Network.

You can read more about Joy in my new book Can’t Catch a Break: Gender, Jail, Drugs and the Limits of Personal Responsibility – available through University of California Press, Amazon and other bookstores.

 

Sex, race and prison’s violent double standard: Incarcerating men hurts women, too

This piece originally appeared in Salon in April, 2014

When I first met Gloria, over five years ago, she was in what she and others sometimes call “the homeless life.” That is, she circulated through a variety of homeless shelters, relatives’ couches, and apartments of men with whom she informally exchanged sex and domestic chores for a place to stay. Like other women in similar circumstances whom I met as part of a long-term project involving marginalized Boston-area women, Gloria (a pseudonym) was always concerned about lack of housing. Knowing that she would not survive on the homeless circuit much longer, she turned to a social service agency that placed her into a subsidized room in a “single room occupancy” (SRO), what used to be called a boarding house.

As is typical in SROs, she was not permitted to have overnight guests in her room. However, when her boyfriend was released from jail, he had nowhere else to go. For a while she snuck him into the building, a situation that humiliated both of them when she stood guard outside the communal bathroom door to make sure that no one saw him enter or leave.

Within less than two months he locked her in her room, destroyed her telephone, raped her and beat her up. Gloria was afraid to call in the police. She had learned through past experiences that women who report sexual violence may become vulnerable to negative repercussions from a variety of state agencies. In fact, a survey conducted by the National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty found that at least 11 percent of evictions from public housing and Section VIII (subsidized) residences targeted women because they experienced domestic violence. In some cases, women were evicted for defending themselves. In other cases they were evicted simply because the violence created a “public disturbance.”

* * *

Gloria’s dilemma will soon be faced by many, many more American women.

Despite the well-publicized fact that the United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world, there is good news: America’s race to incarcerate may be slowing down. California, the state with the largest number of people behind bars, has been ordered by a panel of federal judges to reduce the state’s prison population by approximately 10,000 to deal with prison overcrowding. (After several appeals, the court extended the deadline for compliance to February 2016.) Nationally, incarceration rates are going down for Black men and women and for White men (not for White women). Declining incarceration rates can be attributed to a variety of factors, including changing social attitudes regarding drugs (particularly marijuana); large numbers of inmates finishing the lengthy mandatory sentences they were ordered to serve at the height of the war on drugs in the 1980s and 1990s; budgetary constraints including rising cost of prison healthcare as prisoners age; and the ongoing advocacy work of community and prisoners’ rights organizations.

American men remain incarcerated at 20 times the rate of women. And as Gloria knows well, the legacy of their imprisonment continues to play out in the lives of their families and communities long after their release. In a large-scale Oregon study, Margaret Braun found that at least 25 percent of male ex-prisoners engaged in acts of violence against wives and girlfriends within the first several years post-release.  The impetus for this violence simmers during confinement. In focus groups conducted by researchers from the Vera Institute of Justice and the Institute on Domestic Violence in the African-American Community, currently and recently incarcerated men stressed their demands that wives and girlfriends demonstrate loyalty to them while in prison, running errands for them, putting money into their prison account, and – above all – avoiding even a suspicion of new romantic interests.

Loyalty often was framed in terms of control. As one man explained, “One view of women is they just there to do what I want them to do. Slaves … somebody to be there at your every beck and call.” And in the words of another man, “I’ve seen over and over since I’ve been here [in prison], guys will get on the phone and they’ll accuse their wives or girlfriends of cheating with someone else. I mean, it’s never just a regular conversation.”

More broadly, prison culture amplifies the sexist attitudes and gender violence of so-called free society. Young men thrown into overcrowded jails often learn that in order to survive they have to become tough, numb to the pain of others; they learn to be the aggressor in order not to be the victim. This dynamic is deeply gendered. Criminologist Donald Sabo and his coauthors write, “Rape-based relationships between [same-sex male]  prisoners are often described as relationships between ‘men’ and ‘girls’ who are, in effect, thought of as ‘master’ and ‘slave,’ victor and vanquished.”

These attitudes do not suddenly evaporate upon release. Over the past decades, both the incidence and intensity of violence against women has risen in communities with high rates of incarceration. Indeed, Beth Richie, author of “Arrested Justice: Black Women, Violence, and America’s Prison Nation,” links the rising rates of brutal sexual violence carried out against black women to the disproportionately high rates of incarceration of black men during the regime of what law professor Michelle Alexander calls the “New Jim Crow.”

Tonya, an African-American woman in her 30s who has had abundant experience with men in prison (her child’s father was incarcerated shortly before he was born; she spent a great deal of time, energy and effort visiting her man while he was in prison; and now that he has been released he has moved into her house), helped me understand the links among mass incarceration, prison culture and violence against women. “I believe that there is a level of violence and anger in any person, that anger can be increased … depending on … how much time was given for the crime, and the level of violence that the individual has to deal with in the correctional facility. Do I believe that violence can trickle out into the community? Yes and no. Some men have the ability to take traumatizing experiences and utilize it to teach others about the violence, homosexuality and verbal abuse from state officials and correctional officers they have to deal with on an everyday basis … [But] this type is atypical … In my opinion men who are typical … have displayed behaviors of cheating, lying, stealing, manipulation of women and people who don’t know any better … Males only have so much patience before snapping and reliving what they view as an attack on them.”

Tonya explains that for men, “It can easily go both ways depending on what kind of support you do have when you get out of jail, what resources are available to you, and what is not available. See, it’s a cycle,  ‘I don’t have an education, so I can’t get the job I want, I can’t pay child support because no job and no education, my girlfriend or wife is stressing because I got a record which is stopping me from working and paying child support, which if you don’t  pay child support they take your licenses and you go back to jail, so I have to go back to robbing someone or selling drugs, because there’s no food in the house for the kids, which is making me feel less of a man, so I become angry which leads to violence on my women, my kids, and anyone else that is coming at me in what I view is negative.”

* * *

Structural barriers created by misguided policies add fuel to the fire. Many men exit prison to find themselves barred from ever obtaining employment in the legal economy, unable to afford stable housing, and unable to support their families. When men leave jail they compete with women for the limited number of (typically low-paying) jobs available in low-income communities that already experience high unemployment rates. Barriers to employment for former prisoners are driven by social stigma and lack of work experience, and by laws permitting or even mandating criminal background checks, a practice that puts men (who are more likely than women to have a criminal record) at a disadvantage.

Throughout the country, low-income Americans are especially likely to be incarcerated. As a consequence, prisons and welfare offices often “serve” demographically similar populations – except in regard to gender. Welfare eligibility tends to be limited to poor women with children; and nearly all Section VIII subsidized housing vouchers (housing subsidies for low-income households) go to female-headed households. Because laws exclude individuals holding criminal records from eligibility for public and subsidized housing, people released from prison (again, more likely men than women given the demographics of incarceration) often find that they are dependent upon women for a roof over their heads.

However, the same housing laws allow (and sometimes require) law-abiding citizens to be evicted if a former prisoner or someone who commits a crime is caught staying in their house. In fact, women like Gloria risk losing not only their housing but also their welfare and food stamps or even custody of their children when a man – even the child’s father in some cases– is “caught” living in “her” apartment. Yet a low-income man who has to pay his own rent may not be able to pay child support. And failure to pay child support, in turn, can be used by the courts as a reason to send a parent to jail.

* * *

As I have come to know Gloria and other women in similar situations I have become aware of ways in which gender-based violence is reinforced by economic policies and welfare laws that pit women and men against one another. These policies set up poor and marginalized women to become the targets for the fury, confusion and exaggerated machismo that are nurtured in prison. And while these policies may seem irrational, there is, in fact, a deep logic behind them. The promotion of  competition and conflict along gender lines shifts attention away from harmful public policies to the wrongs committed by individual members of the “opposite sex.” Taking a step back, we see that throughout history ruling elites have fostered animosity between ethnic groups, between the very poor and the working class, the young and the old, immigrants and non-immigrants – between groups whose solidarity could threaten the wealth, status and power of the privileged few. Gloria’s conflict with her boyfriend is just the latest chapter in that history.

Large-scale prison release is imperative if we wish to rebuild a democratic society. But while we are opening prison doors we need to institute policies that prevent the violence of prison culture from spilling over into communities. These policies must include eliminating structural barriers to housing and employment for formerly incarcerated people, investing in jobs and housing, expanding eligibility for welfare and other social services, facilitating reunification of families and households destroyed by decades of mass incarceration, and developing programs of restorative justice that provide men with the resources to develop more positive ways of responding to the women and other men in their lives.

Follow this link for more on gender and incarceration: Marissa Alexander and the Shot Not Heard Around the World